a house is not a home

"In New York City, all you have is your apartment. Just a few hundred square feet to call your own."
— Uma Thurman in Prime

Horrible movie. Great quote.
And these days it feels especially true for me, given that I'm not quite a week into our new apartment. The BF and I are no longer Chelsea Boys. We've moved downtown (just a bit) to the West Village — making us, um, Village People?
The movers arrived at 10:30 a.m. on Thursday and by 2 p.m. it was all over, our life uprooted and tossed like Dorothy Gale's farmhouse into the technicolor wonders of a foreign land. We're a mere seven blocks from our former address, but it feels as different as Oz was to Kansas. I'm sure the new will wear off any second now, but so far we're loving the change of venue. I have to keep reminding myself it's the same city.

The things we lost:
• A view of the Empire State Building
• Our second bedroom (not really used unless guests were in town)
• Surly neighbors who didn't speak and cooked stinky dishes daily
• The asshole who kept stealing our Sunday paper (hopefully)
and most importantly
• Six flights of stairs

Gained:
• A much larger living room and bedroom
• An actual kitchen
• Friendly neighbors (and they said it didn't happen in NYC)
• More closets and built-in shelves
• Front row seats into nearby apartments (we've already seen some hetero sexplay — hot.)
• An elevator! (Praise Allah!)

A day after we moved, the Rock and KK arrived from D.C., and New Year's Evil soon set in.
No sooner had 2006 dawned, then the house guests left and even the BF abandoned me, fleeing town for a four-night business trip. So now I'm alone, exhausted and overwhelmed by the task of unpacking.
Still, it feels good to be home.