I am a big believer in the jinx. Absolutely a knocker of wood, a thrower of salt and I’d be a over-the-shoulder spitter, too, if I thought I’d miss my jacket.
Let’s just say that, in theory, this is where I could be living mid-December.
If it isn’t hit by a meteor, lightening or an earthquake. Which could happen. Well, it could. I plan for the worst and hope for the best.
I like the dark floors. I like the white walls. The light fixtures and fans? Not so much, which has the boys up in arms and they are lobbying heavily to keep their ceiling fans, “No one will see them but us!” Silly, young, naive things that they are, they think they have a chance. They do not.
I’m pushing furniture around in my head, of course, but sometimes I realize I’ve used the same chest twice or factored in tables that are mine only in fantasy.
Mr. Blandings has asked more than once, “Where will the Christmas tree go?” but that is too real, less dollhouse playing, so I just keep responding with, “Hmm…we’ll see.”
When we packed for the “in-between house” I told the boys to pack like they were going on a two-week vacation. Given these parameters Mr. Blandings stood, puzzled, looking at the stuff I was taking. “What’s all this?” “A dark dress in case there’s a funeral. A cocktail dress in case there’s a party. Three pairs of cowboy boots. Essentials.” He didn’t bother to ask about the file boxes of tear sheets.