I’m so not kidding when I say that the boxes in the masthead above are an exact representation of the state of my new home at this moment. I’m also not kidding when I say that my front yard is covered in as many empty boxes as full boxes inside the house, and that this makes me feel closer to my double-wide trailer living aunts and uncles more than anything else ever has, including the time I dyed my hair at home with a product I bought at Walmart.

I’m not kidding when I say that all I want to do is sleep all day and watch old episodes of “Changing Rooms” on the new Tivo box in the bedroom or old episodes of “Ground Force” on the other new Tivo box in the living room. I’m not kidding when I say that I cried maniacally for an hour when Tivo automatically recorded Operation Dumbo Drop because it thought I might like it, and when I couldn’t figure out how to tell it to NEVER RECORD ANYTHING starring Ray Liotta.

I’m so not kidding when I say that my dog is sitting on top of me as I write this, his head pressed desperately into my neck, and that this is not normal for a dog who usually disdains the act of cuddling. I’m not kidding when I say that not only has he not eaten breakfast for a week, but he has also shunned cured pigs ears and entire slices of banana, two of his favorite treats. I’m really not kidding when I say that he has begun growling at anything that comes within feet of our front yard, including the skinny UPS boy who delivered our multiple Tivo boxes and a belligerent bird who defiantly sits on the porch and tweets, that tweeting motherfucker.

I know it’s hard to believe and all, but I couldn’t be more serious and not kidding when I say that I am completely overwhelmed and on the verge of TOTALLY FREAKING OUT. And I’m not kidding when I say that homeownership, while thrilling and far better than living-with-the-stepfather-ship, makes me want to cry and crawl back into the womb where there were no lawns to mow or boxes to unpack or water bills or holes to drill for telephone wires or paint buckets or recycling bins to make sure are out by the curb on Tuesday morning far enough away from the car parked in front of the house so that the bastards WILL PICK IT UP THIS TIME.

And finally, I am so not kidding when I say that I am grumpy enough that the next time I hear someone pronounce “mountain” as “maaoow-in” I’m gonna beat them senseless with a miniature replica of the Salt Lake Mormon Temple.