Every now and again, we do an overnighter at Lava Hot Springs, Idaho. We soak in the thermal pools, eat the best pizza in the world at The Royal Hotel, and play bingo at the local community center. It's about as satisfactory a week-end as one could hope to have.
We stay at a lovely bed and breakfast in town; it used to be an LDS chapel. The rooms are "themed," and we usually choose the "French Country" room, with its blue and white floral bed coverings and wall decorations. I like looking at other people's choice of decor because I'm so particular about what I hang on my own walls. There are two stand-out items for me in the "French Country" room. The first is a replica of the leg lamp that so delights Ralphie's dad in "A Christmas Story," one of my favorite seasonal movies:
I giggle every time I see it, turn it on to see the stockinged leg glow yellow and think I'd never display such an article in my home.
At the other end of the room, the television, which we never turn on, sits atop an antique wooden case for a treadle Singer sewing machine. The machine is tucked inside:
I lust after this sewing machine. I love the wooden case and the iron work, and I long to take the TV off to examine the machine inside. I want to bring it home so I can love it as a sewing machine and not just a TV stand. I've considered making an offer to buy it, but then I think, where would I put it? And, would I use it when I have two up-to-now Berninas already?
I suppose neither the lamp nor the sewing machine are really practical, but I shake my head over the one and desire the other.