Yesterday, we closed on our new house. Should we hang on here for the next three decades, we can expect to pay about 303 grand for our modest abode, a figure belied by the reasonable 131 kilodollar asking price. As soon as we got the keys, we went to work. Christina scrubbed vigorously in order to make commodes that had sat fallow for months fit for her discerning tushie. The bathtubs will take a bit more work, she tells me. It's not so bad when it's your own crud, but when it's a stranger's schmutz, well, it shan't be tolerated. I became a walking advertisement for Leatherman brand multitools, using only my trusty Squirt S4 to rip up a room worth of unwanted berber carpet and take a dodgy door off it's hinges. Dashed manly, that. Next, I will remodel the closet using only a toothpick and some tweezers. The very nice ceiling fans use the ponty-type, odd-sized bulbs with tiny little bases that don't come in nouveau-vert compact flourescent varieties. They are, as I wrote, very nice, so we're opting to stick it to the earth in the name of home decor.

Speaking of the earth, our new patch of it is teeming with green things much larger than we'd like. There are red tips on each side in need of trimming, and mimosas in need of training. The front yard is shaggy, and the back yard is a jungle. I'm told that the previous owners cultivated tomatoes and habenaros against the house, and roses against the fence. I'm planning to continue the cultivation, although most of my recipies call for serranos instead of the evil orange pepper of doom. The yard work starts tonight, when I become the owner of a tree pruner and prune something or other with it.

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