Stitchpop

First of all, I'd like to apologize for my web absence (the opposite of a web presence). It was unavoidable. As I foolishly ignored the squeaking of the weasel, part of the weasel actually corroded and fell off. (Poor fella.) It was tragic, but I think appropriate repairs have been made.

As you may or may not be aware, my wonderful husband and I have purchased a house. In the short term, the transition has robbed him of Internet access and the ability to remain connected to both business and blog. In the long term, it will provide our growing family with a large back yard of grass in which to roll and trees in which to climb, space in which to store household essentials, separate rooms in which the children can sleep, and more!

Oh yes, there's more.

Behind the garage is a secret room. Not exactly in the Lion/Witch/Wardrobe sense… in fact, the room is actually an addition to the garage which, until we took possession, was the workshop of an amateur auto mechanic-slash-car restoration guy. It held a stinky, dirty old car and oodles of tool-like things. Scary tools that spewed flame and spark, and hissed when strangers walked by. All I know is that it's gone now, and the above-mentioned wonderful husband has promised this room to ME.

You see, when first we walked through this house and discovered the workshop, husband looked at me and I looked at him. "This is your art studio," he said to me. "I love you," I replied. Faeries danced, roses bloomed, music swelled, and I was home. On our way out, I placed my palm against the cool, smooth, dirty wood paneling of that room and I whispered, "I will unburden you of this axel-greased, exhaust-fumed existence. I will return, and when I do, I will bring linen curtains, wood shelving, and proper drywall coated with cheerful paint! I will scrape tire tread from your floor and lay down soft, pile carpeting. Wait for me, and do not abandon hope!"

When we moved in, the room served as a staging area for unpacked boxes, but within a week husband was at work in the room – an entire Saturday devoted to stacking, storing, moving, and piling things out of my way. He carefully lined boxes of my art supplies along one of the walls. When he was done, I nearly wept with glee. "You see!" I whispered to the room. "You were meant to hold easels and acrylics. This is your true calling."

The room smiled.

I'm home.