I've launched my garden journal site: Anything But Pink. That's right, you'll no longer be tormented by entire entries weebling about plants and flowers. Okay, so not all of you were tormented, but I remember quite well how garden entries bored me before I became enamored of gardening myself. You're welcome.
We went over to our house this weekend, of course. Boy, is it white inside. Cream, too. And ivory. I would like very much to paint at least our bedroom before we move in, but I doubt it will happen. We've got too much going on with packing and arranging for all our services. I am making notes on what to change right away, what can wait for a month or two, and what I'd eventually like to replace or revise. Some of the light fixtures look like one of the tenants made them in Shop. The towel bar in the bathroom resembles a medieval torture device. The toilet roll holder is at a physically impossible to reach position behind you if you're sitting on the throne. However, the kitchen has adorable drawer pulls in the shape of knives, forks, and spoons.
My kitchen counters are lime green and white in a psychedelic swirl pattern. You know that's going to get old fast.
I'm not able to visualize anything for my garden design yet. I do want to set up some kind of barrier on the back stairs landing right away so I can leave my shade-loving astilbe, mousetail plant, hostas, and heuchera someplace where they won't get fried. There is no shade anywhere in the backyard once the sun has reached its zenith. It was too hot to sit out there after 2pm.
John looked at the house and said, "It looks smaller now that we've bought it." And I laughed, because I think it looks bigger now that I know I own it. I tend to play up the smallness in my head, and then the reality is a relief. It is small. I don't think any room is bigger than 12 feet by 12 feet. But it's ours, which makes all the difference in the world.
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