We have pillows on the floor. I pick them up and place them on the couch. Next day, we have pillows on the floor. This has been going on since we moved here in March. And it’s strange because they’re always in the same spot on floor, to the side of the white ottoman, stacked neatly on top of one another, design patterns facing the ceiling. Obviously, hearing isn’t the only sense that can be selective because I don’t see the pattern here until T catches me putting the pillows on the couch where I think they belong. Apparently we have pillows designated for the floor. I like how it took seven months to solve this.
I have very little home decor skill and it became very evident when we were discussing this topic with friends who were recently over for dinner. “We love what you’ve done with the place” was the dialogue. We were asked how we we divided up our belongings and that’s the moment I realized that the only things left in this place from my bachelordom is a wooden cabinet that houses some electronics and five books stacked with the spines parallel to the floor. T thought they were interesting looking enough to keep around. The rest of my library of unread books has been shoved into plastic Rubbermaid bins and moved into a storage unit to grow musty.
So, it was bliss news when T said she was considering giving the bedroom a library theme and some of my books could come out of storage. Then I was informed that those books selected would each receive their own designer cover. Soon I’ll be able to pull a faceless book off the shelf and head to the porch where I will curl up with a nice pillow, or two. Because we have pillows there now, too. Or, so I’ve been told.