it was such a sad story in there, i feel like it should have had its own medieval bard singing the tale. the song would begin with a couple verses about how the entryway started off Brown, Brown, Brown. the trim, walls, door, closet curtain, floor, light switch, heat register and even ceiling were Brown.
and then the bard would lilt on about how it wasn't just any Brown, but the exact color of a kid's boogers after said kid hath playeth in the sand.
then the bard would do some kind of bridge where he'd tell, sadly, of the many, many, many darker Brown marks from where shoes had scuffed the walls, and how the (i-suspect-original-to-the-house) light switch was chock full of old other-people's-hand-grime.
this is where the bard would have you in tears and you'd buy him an ale just to keep him going, hoping that all was not lost.
but, lo! 'twas not all lost!
first, the floor got refinished, and the trim and ceiling got painted bright white, and the sun started shining a little in there.
and then! - and this is where the bard would start singing a little faster, perhaps a bit higher, maybe bust out his recorder or a little jangly bracelet for accompaniment - and then! the local shopkeeper, the Outfitter of Urban, came to the entryway's immediate aid with a rug!
o, most valiant and chivalrous shopkeeper! o, true defender of entryways everywhere, and dire enemy of Brown! how can we but thank you for your generous free shipping and colorful inventory?
and then the bard would get really quiet, and sing darkly that, though we loved the rug dearly, we were at an impasse: what color would we paint the walls? coral? mint? teal? purple? should we wallpaper it? how doth one decide?! and so we spent many months laboring, and waffling, and paint-mixing, and finding our wallpaper sold out, and hanging our heads in defeat. it was, after all, the first thing one would see upon entering our manor, and Brown was now freckled with failed color swatches. it was as though our very hearts echoed the dismay and disorder of the room itself. what would become of the House of Van Voorst? did an ugly, splotchy destiny lay immovably fixed before us?
then verily, the bard would brighten, and he would slam his pewter mug down on the table, and he'd start singing, all throaty and awkwardly victorious, like medieval cher slaying a dragon!, about how i (the lady of the manor) could no longer take the ugliness! the shame! the indecision! so i traversed to the depths of the cellar to retrieve the leftover paint from the living and dining halls, and got to work painting all that Brown.
but then the bard would retreat into his song again (wow, this is a really turbulent story; i'm really sorry to have reeled you into such extreme emotional highs and lows with no forewarning) and sing of how i only had enough paint to paint but one wall! so then the Master Van Voorst and i, along with our dear children, trekked all the way to waterloo to buy more of the color-i-settled-for paint.
but in the end, hope springs eternal, and the bard can end on a happy note, and maybe earn some good tips, because the entryway is no longer a drama. it is painted, and swatchless, though i do still have to change out the light switch, and though i did step on and break the glass of the frame hanging in there, and though the previously-discontinued wallpaper is now available again...
but anyway. all that to say, any more changes in there should not require a bard. which is good. those guys are really expensive. i'm not going to even tell you how much the bid came in for this blog post, which is why it's just all typed out and not actually sung to you. who am i, MoneyBags?
