Watching Paint Dry

For the past month, I've blogged an awful lot about watching paint dry.
And I'm not done yet.

Yesterday my friend Annette more or less announced that she was coming to my new place to help me clean––bringing her top-of-the-line vacuum cleaner, recommended for asthma sufferers. (I don't have asthma, but I like a vacuum not pumping out dust.)
When would be a good time?

Are you kidding? 
"How 'bout now?" I wrote back.

She arrived––her hair in a bandana under a shower cap, and a dust mask on her face––pulled her canister vacuum into my bedroom, and shut the door.

(I'd just dumped all my belongings in the middle of my room when I moved in a couple weeks ago. I've been focusing on the shared living spaces since then, while Patti has continued with home repairs.)

I went out and bought a long-handled bristle brush and proceeded to scrub the wooden back deck with Borax.
With all the rain this year, the old wood is growing slippery pond scum.

Three hours later, I opened the door to my room.
It was like Mary Poppins had been.

 
Recently I'd been feeling as if I were stuck on a long trip and couldn't go home. I didn't want to move back to my old place, not at all, but I felt uncomfortably adrift.

Having my room set up for me gives me a base camp again, as well as making me feel cared for. (Thank you, Annette!!!)
I still pay attention to where I get off the bus, and do we have a Phillips screwdriver? (Yes.) 
But being in a new place is feeling like a fun adventure again.

This afternoon I took the light-rail train downtown. 
This is my train stop---across from block-long grain elevators.

The train approaches downtown in the opposite direction from my old place. [Awkward sentence--how to express this?]
Out the window I spotted a Starbucks I'd never seen before. I got off the train and that's where I am now--across the park from the new Vikings Stadium. I tried to take a photo, but it just looked like a big stupid building. Still, it's fun to be somewhere else.