We have been in the house for two weeks. In that time we have moved all our worldly possessions, sorted some, put a few away (fewer than I would care to admit), set up a Christmas tree, had visits from Santa and a few relatives and cooked some meals. Any and all remaining brain cells have been focused on trying to remember which of the one-thousand-and-one light switches turn on the one-thousand lights. The light switch, above, turns on these three spots in the living room.

But this switch, very close by and logically a candidate for the living room lights,

turns on these very small spots in the pseudo-hall which appear to do nearly nothing.

This switch in the hallway by the kitchen

turns on this can light.

While this switch at the other end of the three-foot hallway

turns on this can. Also, three feet away. Because, seriously, there might be a situation in which you would want one end of the three-foot passageway lit, but not the other.

These three switches control the lights in the powder room. Yes, three switches. In the powder room.

This week between Christmas and New Year’s always seems a little Twilight Zone-ish. Not this, not that, and we are all biding our time until the next day off, wandering the halls, not getting a whole lot accomplished. In honor of this, though the only halls I wander are my own, I am posting bizarre things about the new house.

We moved about ten days ago and a few times I have said, “I think I might love this house,” like we are on our third date. But there are quirky things about it. Like our shower. Our bathroom has no door and our shower has no door, and is open at the top on two sides. It’s chilly. It’s also amazingly, amusingly big.

The shower itself is five feet by four feet, ten inches, which is larger by about five square feet than one of my first apartment’s bathroom. It has, as you might have noticed, two shower heads. When we decided to make an offer on the house Mr. Blandings, standing just outside the shower non-door, said, “I am embarrassed for my mother to see this.” “Well. It’s not as if you designed it, then you really would be in a spot where you would be saying, ‘See what we like to do?’ This is just coincidence.”

Still, as I am standing, shivering, I am wondering the rationale behind the design. Honestly, it seems utilitarian above all as the water, even if aimed at the same spot, seems to hit about mid-calf. I wondered with Mrs. Grizwald if she thought it was really just a time saver, so two people could get ready simultaneously. She mused, “Really, in the hopes of maintaining any appeal, the last thing I’d want to be doing in front of Mr. Grizwald is daily maintenance.”

To another friend I said, “I could water my plants while I shower. Or do my hand-washing.” “Or you could have group sex,” she supplied. I could, I suppose, though in forty-five years I haven’t and it seems a little late to start. Plus, there would be all the towels to wash. It occurred to me that my children would likely beat me to it. And would be unlikely to wash the towels. Both thoughts were concerning.

I have, jokingly, said to friends that we could have coffee in there sometime. I set it up to see if this were, indeed, a possibility, and while it is, it seemed a little chilly. Wine and chintz and upholstery seemed a better solution; you’re welcome to join me anytime.

It has been a flurry of activity readying this white Christmas. The boys are placing their usual demands of cookies and Christmas Eve bowling (a Blandings family tradition) so things must seem even to them. My office, and the basement, are piled high with boxes, but no one seems to think piles of boxes of books are any different than rows of shelves of books, so all is well.

My husband, and our contractor friend, assure me that the click and rattle in the ducts is just the way they are responding to the heat and not the rodent infestation that I suspect (what house of mine would be complete without mythical mice?) and I am sleeping easy assuring myself that not a creature is stirring.

I am wishing you a season of joy.

I am very grateful for Room Temperature for sending me the image, above.

“Hi. There are packages of 50 and 100. Should I buy two?”

“I’m confused. Two what?”

“Two packages of lights.”

“Wait. Two hundred lights?”

“Yes.”

“Um. No,” and she considered telling him one-thousand, but knew that in relation to his assumption that two hundred would likely be more than enough that this would lead to a conversation for which neither one of them had the energy, “get eight hundred.”

“You’re kidding.”

“OK, six. Six hundred.”

And in the year of scaling back and not making a fuss, of only putting up the tree and hanging the stockings, it was fine. Though she knew, every evening at dusk, that two hundred more lights would have made all the difference.