One of the things I've always wanted in my house—and forgive me for my silly aspirations; you might want an original Saarinen but I aim a lot lower and dream a lot smaller, apparently—is a sunburst mirror.
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It is not, perhaps, my most noble goal, but one of the things I've always wanted to do is to throw a New Year's Eve party. I know, I know; some people have long-held dreams of running marathons and writing novels, but for me, it seems, the pinnacle of achievement is wearing a sparkly dress, hoisting aloft a bacon-wrapped date, and toasting the impending year underneath half a dozen handmade tissue pompoms.
What, it's not like I'm proud.
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Hey, do you remember when I found that bar cart at an estate sale for ten bucks and had my husband stand there with his hand on it—like those Keep Your Hand On The Car competitions they used to have at state fairs, except with fewer deep-fried Twinkies—so that I could run and find someone to give me a price on it before another bargain hunter bought it first?
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Thank you so much for all your lovely comments on my home office makeover! I was blown away by how kind you all were about the end result, and now I want to invite everybody over to work with me in there and I'll make us all pumpkin spice lattes* for our 4 o'clock treat. (What, you don't have a 4 o'clock treat? Why, sometimes I have a 4 o'clock treat and elevenses—which is, as you might expect, an 11am treat.)
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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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