The other day I was telling DBF that even though we’ve been our new apartment for a full month now, I still don’t really feel like I live here. I feel like I have to go back to the old 806 apartment still. It’s an odd feeling. It’s not like I feel when I’m in a hotel, and I feel slightly disoriented every time I walk in the door; it’s more subtle.
I can’t put my finger on why this is. Maybe it’s because we still have some boxes that aren’t totally unpacked. We’re about 85 percent unpacked, but a mixture of forces have prevented us from unpacking the rest. These forces mostly include waiting for the building storage unit to open up so we can stick all the stuff we had in storage into this storage. (I know it’s not good to squirrel away stuff just for the sake of keeping it, and I did throw out a good amount of stuff before we moved, but it’s hard. Dear God, it’s hard.) We’re also just holding off on purchasing the last few items of furniture. The big one still remaining is getting something to store all of my bags in (yes, I have that many). And shoes. Uh. Love having so many; hate having to store all of it. Shoes, shoes, shoes.
Shoes, shoes, shoes.
It took about three hours, and I came away from the class without any injuries. I think if I can learn to hem my own pants successfully, and even make some basic pieces of clothing, and perhaps a superhero cape for George, it will have been a $95 well spent.
Everyone has the right to free speech. 
This year’s Atlantic Antic street fair was less interesting than in previous years. Maybe I have a rose-colored recollection of past Antics, but this year was just filled with crappy street food vendors and cheap jewelry vendors (the kind of stuff you can get any day in SoHo or Union Square). I love mozzarepas (basically two arepas sandwiching a layer of and mozzarella cheese) as much as the next person, but what’s the point of a local festival if I can get food there that I can get at any dang street festival in the country?
