The new house is a story-and-a-half. We're down; they're up. One room is just at the top of the stairs and the other is around the corner down this terrifying - terrifying - hallway. (It is actually not the door that you see, which is to the attic, but rather just at the end to the left. It is doubly terrifying because the door to the attic is right there. I think.)
With the light on is only slightly, well, worse. Eerier somehow. I practically skip down it. None of the boys have mentioned that they think it is scary, but I very nearly had to medicate the night I painted the room by myself while the house was still empty.
And while they haven't seen The Shining,
they have seen Harry Potter and, goodness knows, nothing good every happens in a long stretch of hallway like this. At least in the movies.
And, to finish off this series (and you have been incredibly game this week) here is my kitchen sink. It's lovely. The entire kitchen is lovely, if not exactly as I would have designed it, really lovely. Nothing to complain about. Yet, I never fully realized how much I need, and love (yes, love) my sprayer until I didn't have one.
Now, I can see myself as the kind of girl who would say, "I'd rather have a clean counter. No sprayer. They're silly."
But what I'm finding during clean-up is that I am chasing things around this increasingly large bowl.
The flow of the faucet and the slope of the sink are insufficiently corralling the ick (the same stuff that was delicious just five minutes before) and I am left chasing it around with cups of water. Pouring and sloshing first this side, then that side. For what seems like minutes, at least.
Hmmm..? Use my hand? Well, yes, I could, but, you see, I don't like to get my hands messy (maybe this is why I don't like to cook or garden) and, I hate to get wet.
Go ahead, Dr. Freud, and draw all the conclusions you want. Harken back to the shower post if you must, but these are just the facts, Jack.