My beloved and I, while affianced, are not married. And yet we are moving in together. Living in sin. Not buying the cow because one can get the milk for free. And other euphemisms as well.
I think, by now, that this is not a sore point for most of our family. We’re engaged, we’ve been together for 8 years (eight years!), and we’re about as in love and committed as you can get. We did encounter some hand-wringing and near-crises in the past, but we’ve all grown up (those concerned family members included) and are mature and can handle such things with grace and poise. Mm-hmm.
Now we’re moving his things into my current apartment which, when all is done, will be our new apartment. It’s fun, sort of. He’s much more organized than I, which is great; he’s got good ideas about kitchen arrangement (love it!); he’s the get-it-done type; he even respects the yarn stash (though he does cast anxious glances at it from across the room and hopes to hide it in the “office”). Fabulous. Everything is going smoothly so far, except for one thing:
I can’t handle the book arrangement. It’s perfectly logical and sound, but I don’t like it. It’s alphabetical by author. What’s wrong with this situation, you may well ask. Well, though I am not a librarian, I work in a library and I am completely and wholeheartedly a genre kind of girl. I don’t remember authors, really. Not with non-fiction (and that makes up the bulk of the book stash). Things must be done. Things will be done. When he comes home from Chicago, he may not recognize the living room. Ha! Genre will triumph!
At some point–soon, I hope–I will have pictures of my current crochet WIPs. Maybe. There are lots of them. I’m working on a cotton shopping bag, a cotton sun hat, a baby blanket, an afghan … I’ve probably forgotten a few. Hundred.
But it’s a healthy addiction, right?