Monday, September 22, 2014
From the time I graduated college, waaaay back in the way back machine, I've lived in apartments. Rooms in apartments, actually, with cruddy, with falling-apart staircases, and porches attached in the loosest sense of the word, and roommates.
Twelve months ago we moved into our house on campus at a the private school where Husb. teaches. Okay, we still pay rent. But we pay rent on a house! A house! It's the biggest and most elegant place I've ever lived in my whole life. The basement is finished. Like, with carpet.
I want to give it a name like "Fallingwater" or "Hemmersly," after the cove, an inlet of the Miles River on the Eastern Shore of Maryland where my grandparents had their farm, where they used to raise cows, and later, corn and soybeans, and my grandfather had stationery with "Hemmersly Farm" embossed and centered at the top that he kept in the pigeon holes of his giant tiger maple wood desk, and the paper smelled humid, salty, pulpy, and successful and made me think of everything I had to look forward to in becoming an adult.
Which brings me to interior design. I haven't the foggiest. I've been spending time in a completely new-to-me area of the Dewey Decimal system at the library -- Landscape and Design -- trying to figure it out. Using graph paper, and talking about "sight lines" and "softening walls." I wonder, with the mustard-colored tiles in the upstairs bathroom, What Would Frank Lloyd Wright Do?
Living in apartments with roommates for 20 plus years I haven't thought much beyond who moved my cheese? and stop having sex so loudly! and not at all about how a room "reads." The "flow." The "mood."
I'm in Barbie's Dream House and I'm Barbie and Husb. is the Ken doll and I'm all like, "Dang, Ken, we need some throw pillows."