"Moving day" is always a misnomer. Sure, there's usually a day and time when all of your worldly possessions are transferred from one location to another with much blood, sweat, and tears (although some people choose to prolong the agony and do the migration in stages, something I've done on multiple occasions and sworn I'd never do again), but the actual moving hardly ends there. Various odds and ends always need tidying up, even if you're fortunate enough to have movers doing the heavy lifting, as my wife and I did this time around - on our former landlord's tab, no less, a rare act of generosity from a mostly despicable cross-section of humanity. And the little things you didn't want to bother the professionals with often take more time to gather up and transport than the bed, the dressers, and the oversized Rubbermaid containers egregiously overloaded with kitchen "essentials". Our movers were done, paid, and off to their next gig by one o'clock in the afternoon last Tuesday, but we were still hauling bags of random bits of three years' habitation down the stairs and cramming them into the hatchback of our tiny but tireless 1994 Ford Aspire until the late, late hour of 10 p.m., when the old apartment had finally been scoured of our presence, more or less. Then we had to unpack. Our new home has a lot going for it, but despite the fact that it has an upstairs and a downstairs as well as a second bedroom (and two bathrooms!), I think it may actually be smaller than our previous residence, and it remains an ongoing effort to try and find space for everything in the new digs, especially our combined collection of book, which made up at least half of our moving bulk, if not more. There are emotional and psychic dimensions to changing your address as well. But that's another story. Right now I have some more of my life to unpack.