Okay, first of all, let's pause and take the obligatory moment to make fun of the fact that my dreams contain things like side tables. Yes, I aspire to owning attractive side tables, so sue me. I aspire to other, more noble things as well, obviously—like owning an attractive coffee table, for instance, OKAY I'M JUST KIDDING—but I have, for the longest time, been fairly consumed with finding the perfect side tables. Some people may say that this is what is wrong with America today.

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This morning Sean and I went to the gym, an accomplishment which is really deserving of its own post—as well as a medal for the both of us for finally getting off our butts for the first time in eh, let's not go there—and on the way back, we detoured past a sign that said "Estate Sale" just a few blocks from our house. Now, I don't know about you, but there is nothing that gets my pulse quickening faster than a sign that says "Estate Sale," except maybe a sign that says "Estate sale!

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Not that I want this to turn into a DIY blog or anything, but can I just show you the super-easy, super-gorgeous, super-functional white board I made for my home office? I'm going to post some photos of the whole room makeover one of these days when I get my act together and finish off the 10% of it that still needs doing—nine of that ten percent is putting things away in drawers, hence the procrastination—but for now, here's a quick look at a little something I made over the weekend. 

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First of all, thank you so much for all the lovely compliments on our DIY stairwell makeover and the new gallery wall. Hoo boy, that is a sentence 19-year-old me could never have imagined typing, I'll tell you that. 19-year-old me would probably only have been able to imagine typing "thank you for all the lovely compliments on my DIY peroxide highlights and my new butterfly hair clips" or something.

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This weekend, I threw my first surprise party. Turns out, throwing a surprise party is pretty much like throwing a regular party, with the main difference being that you feel like a real asshole for a few weeks beforehand when you're talking to the person you're throwing it for. What am I doing on Friday? Uh....nothing! But yeah, I'm afraid I can't hang out. Why? Um, no reason. I'm definitely not cutting out eleven templates of your head and gluing them onto popsicle sticks or anything!

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Back when I worked in an office downtown, I would frequently pay eight dollars for what was, upon reflection, a fairly mediocre salad. Part of the reason for the mediocrity was my own panic-induced ordering (egg and mango: never again), but most of it really came down to that age-old arithmetic of convenience plus instant gratification plus a meeting in twenty minutes plus whoops, I forgot to pack my own lunch from home again. 

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First of all, you should know that I struggled with whether to call this post "How to Plant a Herb Garden for $18" or "How to Plant an Herb Garden for $18," the former being far more natural to us Brits, seeing as we actually pronounce the "h" in herb. Why do we pronounce the "h" in herb, you ask? Well, if you'll excuse my language, I'd like to paraphrase the great Eddie Izzard: because there's a fucking "h" in it.

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Do you like eggs? Do you like sausage? Do you like things that are fried? If you like eggs and you like sausage and you like things that are fried, I think you would like Scotch Eggs, if you have not already tried them, because a Scotch Egg is a wondrous, wondrous thing indeed. It's an egg, wrapped in sausage, coated in bread crumbs, and fried to within an inch of its life. I am afraid that it is basically the Turducken of the British culinary world.

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I know, I know. I think it's a disease.

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First of all, thank you so very much for all the lovely comments and compliments on our bedroom makeover. I read and relished every single one---even the one from the person who said it looked like a jail cell! Yes, even that one!---and it filled me with a particularly bubbly sort of glee that you were as delighted with the revamp as we were. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your enthusiasm. I'd invite you all over for a celebratory drink, but aside from the logistical difficulties---plus the offchance that one of you is actually a mass murderer---it would probably be rather awkward for you to have to ask for the time off work so you could fly across the country to clink glasses of champagne in the bedroom of an Internet person you've never met. I mean, right?

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