Yesterday, in a fit of determination, my husband cleared a low mound of "stuff" that had been piled against a wall since it first came off the moving truck. Of course, said "stuff" did include the toolbox, so I had to track it down this morning for the utility knife and duct tape.
(Given nobody ever sees the metal legs of the bed frame, I have been constructing ugly and effective toe-savers: lengths of foam pipe insulation, with the utility knife providing cutouts where stringers come out one side, secured with a length of duct tape. I'm sure there's an expensive solution somewhere, but when I rammed a foot into one while making the bed today, it was annoying instead of followed by hopping, clutching the injured appendage, and making lots of whimpery noises. It'll do.)
After the wall was clear, I brought out a fine art print that I've had for going on fifteen years, and the studfinder, and we hung it on the wall. Hanging art is not exactly a giant undertaking, but once I had it up, I felt ridiculously pleased, as though I'd passed a mental milestone for "I live here" right up there with the bookshelves being unpacked.
Tonight, I tested out the fireplace with a firelog. The dampers do work, as does the firescreen (If I can keep a kitten from batting at the metal pull handles and biting the mesh.) Soon, I will acquire firewood so I can have bigger, better fires - but between books, art, and fire, this house is feeling like a truly relaxing home.
Life is good.