It's been like that for most of this move-in process. He conquered the major projects like fresh white paint on the doors, frames, baseboards, and ever other surface that was covered in "almond" like it was 1988. He set up each of the rooms with solid faux-mosexual effort. And stocked the wine bar for my arrival and I love him for that. I showed up to a damn-near perfect house. And I started to feel guilty that I just skimmed through this move. I sat my ass in California for a happy 6 weeks while he tortured through a full unpack. So naturally I had to make up projects that NEEDED TO GET DONE. We need to paint the walls, we need a new rug in the guest room, we need to freshen up the paint on ______, we need to rearrange those pictures (these requests really drive him nuts).
But finally those projects are coming to a close and I can focus back on work. Because working from home is very difficult. I have to wake up and walk 20 feet to work. My commute is torturous. There may be flight boots in my path.