This morning—I’m writing this on Monday night—I looked at my stat counter and was shocked to see that although it was barely 7 a.m., I already had a couple hundred hits on this here blog. Scott looked amused and pointed out that it was TEN a.m. on the East Coast, DUH, and all those hits were my morning-coffee readers and I’d given them nada. And you know here at ClubMom we are committed to posting at least five times a week. Five times—ha! I could write about fifteen posts a week for the next month and I probably still wouldn’t have told all the stories from our trip. But then, Steve the LlamaButcher says I should just turn it into a novel. He’s probably right. So much to tell! And new stuff every day, that’s the thing, I just need a pause button to get caught up.
I like our little bungalow more and more each day. Mostly I just like saying bungalow. I’m not even sure it IS officially a bungalow, but it sure seems bungalicious to me. The front part of the house is all unpacked now, although technically it’s more like the right half of the house—it’s like a square split in half and one half is slid back a ways. That half has the living room, the kitchen, and another room whose name we keep changing.
I think we’re a little weird about room names, the bonny clan and I. In our Virginia house, the bedrooms all had names: the Blue Room (the girls’ room, which our great pal Dave painted blue for us as a housewarming gift—Benjamin Moore "Summer Blue," which is such a scrumptious color that Scott painted the girls’ room in it HERE as a surprise for them, and boy did that go over big!! but I digress); the Pooh Room (I know, I know, so silly, but see, when we moved in there was a border strip of Winnie the Pooh wallpaper around the top of the room, and we never got around to taking it down, so the room was always the Pooh Room even after it became Wonderboy’s and would have been called Wonderboy’s Room by normal people) (except normal people probably wouldn’t call their son Wonderboy); the Train Room (really the dining room, but we don’t have a dining set, and we DO have a large Brio train table inherited from Scott’s sister); and the Loom Room. Yes, the Loom Room. See, I have a loom. I have actually woven three fabrics on it in my life. One of them is the swatch of woolen cloth that serves as the background on Bonny Glen, and yes I’ve been waiting for a solid YEAR for someone to ask me about that lovely woven background. (Lissa blushes modestly: Why yes, I did weave it myself. Oh, go on, you’re far too kind. It’s just a little thing I threw together. Stop, you’re embarrassing me!)
When we moved into the Virginia house, we put my loom in the extra bedroom and immediately christened the room The Loom Room. The Loom Room it remained for five years, despite the fact that no weaving ever took place within its walls. The loom loomed in the corner, a homey, inviting, faintly reproachful presence, sort of like Marian Cunningham. Even when we moved the loom OUT of that room three years ago, we kept on calling it the Loom Room. Later we moved the loom back into its old familiar corner. I stored my stack of special Christmas-themed picture books under it, untidily and for no sensible reason.
Anyway. Here we are in a new house and the loom is in pieces. (Sob! The darn movers, they didn’t ask me, they just unscrewed!! As if I know how to put it back together! Oh sure, there’s a manufacturer’s website but it’s in SWEDISH. I highly doubt Babelfish is up to the challenge. But we’ll tackle that puzzle another day.)
So no loom room here. But the rooms here are already growing their own names. For example, there’s the Mystery Room, so named because we haven’t decided what to do with it. It’s the only unassigned room in the house and will probably be our Fun Learning Stuff room or maybe my office? We dunno.
And then there’s this room, the Patio. Except there’s a real patio right outside. This is sort of an enclosed patio/sunroom/family room space, and the owners call it the patio room, and we started off that way but now we’re wondering if that suits it best. Scott wants to call it the Salon, with a snooty faux-French pronunciation. I was thinking Sunroom, but Sal-O makes me laugh.
Of course, we stuck the old train table in here, and today I heard one of the girls calling it the Train Room, even though we haven’t unpacked the actual trains yet. Huh.
Oh, brother, my apologies to those of you reading this incoherent rambling over your morning coffee. You probably needed a second cup to get through it. Forgive me; I haven’t yet unpacked the box with my brain in it.
Goodbye, Almost Heaven–Hello, West Virginia
Moving is Like Childbirth, and I Have a Book to Prove It
T Minus a 12-Pack
Look, No Exclamation Points