Home, Home on the Range

Things are almost back to normal. Stacey and I were well-oiled machines this past weekend, transforming the cardboard-and-carton-tape wonderland that was our new home into the masterpiece that it is today. All evening Friday, all day Saturday, and all day Sunday, our house was a flurry of activity, featuring a soundtrack of hammering, sawing, vacuuming, drilling, and the occasional bout of loud swearing. Drilling is my new destructive source of fun. There's something very relaxing about plugging things fulla holes. Plus it makes that angry growling noise. Pure bliss. But putting up shelving makes me swear and froth at the mouth, despite all the drilling involved.

We're so close to done, now. The living room and dining room are sorted out and decorated, and the furniture is all in place in our offices and the bedroom. All of our boxes are unpacked except for a handful up in the offices. A few more pictures need to go up on the walls and it'll be home sweet home. I think the new place is proof that no matter how nice your stuff is, it'll never look nearly as good as when it's in a house that's just as nice. Or when your furniture's in someone else's house in place of their furniture, just to freak them out a bit and think they're in the wrong house. Man, that'd rule.

I made my first evening-commute downtown to meet some friends on Saturday, and being out of taxi-homeable-range is a pain in the ass. I decided to leave the busing to a later date and drove downtown, and I guess I got used to being so close and being able to taxi, because I'm terrible at being the DD now. It was HARD. Everyone else was having a blast and getting bombed, and all I had was my little pack of gum....

Oh yeah, that's because I quit smoking. I threatened it way back when, and I went through with it, true to my word. Stacey and I have been smoke-free since October 1st. And that's HARD, too. It's the right thing to do, but being amongst all my smoking friends made it all the harder. If you're gonna be around me, be forewarned: I will call you "chimney boy" or "captain black-lung the pirate" or "Stinky McSmokerson" just to make myself feel better. At least for the first few weeks, that is. Quitting allows for a bit of hypocrisy, doesn't it?

Anyway, we went to the Dom, which I've mentioned before as being one of those places where it's really tough to be the sober one (yet, I managed, somehow). But there was a wicked band playing, very Strokes and Hives influenced, that I really enjoyed. Unfortunately, their name wasn't memorable enough, and I forgot it as soon as we left the bar. They're from Cambridge, Ontario, though, I know that much. They just looked like they were having such a good time on stage and it really clicked for me. The other people at the club didn't really seem to be paying attention, but I was. My hat's off to you, band-that-I-can't-remember-the-name-of!

Then we finished up the night with an impromptu trip to the dance floor at Zaphod's and an after-hours walking tour of downtown Ottawa with my friend who was very drunk and wasn't feeling too cheerful. We walked past restaurant after restaurant, and even got a menu at a few of them before leaving, but never could find one that my friend was happy with. I never did get my end-of-night poutine, but I was there for my friend, and that's what really matters.

Oh, and by the way, a big THANK-YOU to Jay for changing his para-psychadelic morphing blog template. Maybe now my retinas will have a chance to heal themselves. Oh, and if you'd like some friendly support for your self-improvement mission, drop me a line, since I'm doing the same kind of thing right now.