Category Archives: … at Being (Slightly) Domestic
If you couldn’t tell from the abundance of PSLs, Ugg boots, and “I’m so glad I live in a world with Octobers” Instagram posts, it’s fall in New England. Yay! (No, I don’t care for pumpkin spice, despite the fact that I am a semi-basic white girl after all.)
It’s a little challenging to get into the autumn spirit when you live in a.) a place where fall temperatures keep fluctuating between balmy and frigid, and b.) a studio apartment with very few areas to fill with tiny gourds.
But that didn’t stop us from trying! This weekend, we ventured to Bartlett’s Farm in search of some fall fun, because pumpkins and pumpkin adjacent vegetables were 50% off, and you know girlfriend can’t resist a sale.
Okay, I may have gone a little gourd-crazy, but I kept finding so many cute ones of all sorts of shapes and sizes, and I couldn’t resist. But like I said, CLEARANCE! Also they were running this promotion and Steve and I each got one of ours free for correctly guessing the weight of our pumpkins. It legitimately felt like I had won on the slot machines at Foxwoods. There was shouting, high fives – I think I speak for the three people that were shopping there at that time that it was quite the experience to be a part of.
I ended up with about fifteen pumpkins total, partially because they were so darn cute but also because I have a legit but undiagnosed shopping problem. Again these are to be displayed in one room.
A few of my friends and I were talking about how much money we’ve spent lately traveling, going out, you know, all of the things Nantucketers suddenly have time for now that our schedules have plateaued a bit. Plus Saturday’s weather was a downright nasty woman and it seemed a wise decision to stay inside. We decided to do a little dinner and decorating to entertain ourselves, free of charge (minus you know, the hords of gourds).
Molly made these gorgeous apple florets and brought over some of Nantucket Vineyards hard apple cider. #applesonapplesonapples
Unfortunately, none of us gave these plans more than one hour of thought, and we quickly realized we had no supplies. I’m talking no paint, brushes, glitter – nothing. And Nantucket’s not exactly one of those places you can run out to a craft store at 6 PM on a Saturday night. I mean, I had scoured Pinterest and found the most amazing pumpkin decorating ideas, only to find we had nothing to execute any of them (my particular favorites are these ones, this, and also this… you know, you might as well check out the whole board here). Once again, Steve to the rescue. He cut up sponges and DIYd brushes out of skewers, and found all of our paint samples from however many accent walls we’ve experimented with in our various apartments. We were in business!
Did I mention that all of this effort was just to satisfy my personal pumpkin decorating thirst? Everyone else wanted to carve… even Steve, with his oddly shaped gourd. Me? I hate any activity that requires me to get gunk under my fingernails. I’ll stick with my intensely thick latex wall paint, thank you very much.
Um, Steve also made us dinner. He’s a keeper, I KNOW. You don’t have to keep telling me so on Snapchat, I am very much aware of his talents.
I clearly didn’t have any letters or stencils to work with, but I had found these awesome “pun-kins” from Studio DIY last year, and I encouraged the other girls that weren’t obsessed with painting the perfect pumpkin as I was to utilize some of these witty Halloween sayings.
Sometimes, all a girl needs is some red wine and a Sharpie.
I had no part in these. But aren’t they awesome? I think my favorite is Molly’s “sassy” cat on the left. She’s really serving up some Beyonce style realness with that pose over there.
I still haven’t photographed my pumpkins yet, due to my ambitious double coats of paint that required a full twenty-four hours for them to not smudge, because you know, it’s meant to go on drywall. Also my home isn’t exactly Pinterest-ready right now for me to artfully arrange my gourds.
Overall, I’m super happy with my final designs, although I would love to know my true pumpkin painting capabilities when equipped with the appropriate tools. Like GLITTER.
Anyone else do anything crafty this year? Personally I’m loving all the different shades of pumpkins that seem to be everywhere now. Orange never really was my color.
Stay scary friends,
~L
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…
 |
| why, santa, why? |
…I’m a moron.
There’s obviously a story as to how we got to this place (again). As usual, I’m going to need a little time to compose myself. If you’re new around these parts or just want to relive a good old fashioned Christmas nightmare, you can do so here, here and here.
If you’re looking for me, I’ll be the girl crying on the floor, covered in pine needles.
~L
There are all kinds of moms. Fun ones, crazy ones, fun crazy ones, and million more. But one thing they have in common is that they would do anything for their children. Now, not all of these things they do are right (see Tanning Mom), but deep down they want what’s best for their kids (even if it’s not the best for their skin/self esteem/social development). So in honor of Mother’s Day, I have compiled a list of some of my favorite moms.
Claire Dunphy (Julie Bowen) on Modern Family:
The thing I love about Claire is she is just a hair away from crazy, which is how I can picture myself being as a mother someday. While she wants to give her kids the world, she also wants to be right always and is never okay with losing. Somehow Julie Bowen makes a character that could be super naggy and annoying really endearing, especially when she looks like this:
Holly from Dance Moms:
So yes, the majority of these ladies fall under the “Worst Moms Ever” category, and should probably stop paying Abby Lee Miller so much because they’re going to need to save some dinero for all the hours of therapy that their kids are going to need later, but Holly is just one step above the rest. First of all, she’s educated, which seems to be one skill that many of the Moms are lacking in. Second, she has an actual job, and although that puts her last on the pyramid in Abby’s eyes, I give her credit for showing her daughter Nia what it’s like to have a job outside of watching children dance for eight hours a day and Sewing Rhinestones 101. Third, she’s one of the few that actually brings up to Abby that 90% of her dances are inappropriate. Of course, there’s no follow through as Nia always ends up dancing in them anyway, but at least she’s not afraid to throw raspy-throated Abby a curveball every once in a while.
Amanda from MODG:
There’s an abundance of “mom blogs” on the Internet. I don’t frequent a lot of them because I don’t have a kid or anything, and do not yet need to educate myself about all of the benefits of cloth diapering. However I came across MODG (short for Martinis or Diaper Genies) a while ago and was immediately hooked, going all the way back to her first blogs and reading every entry in order. One of the things I liked about her was that she started her blog when she was trying to decide whether or not it was time she and her husband had a baby. But she also wrote about Suri Cruise, the importance of putting together a good Halloween costume, and all the wonderful things the Bravo channel has to offer. She’s one of the non-schmultzy blogs that is very real about what it’s like to be a half-hippie, half-J. Crew obsessed mother in 2012. And she’s damn funny.
Rosie Pope from Pregnant in Heels:
As mentioned before, I will eat anything Bravo serves me on a big old silver platter. Basically if you have a profession, Bravo will give you an hour long series and I will watch it. I love Rosie purely because she is so ridiculous. Her title is “maternity concierge,” which sounds like her job is to deliver babies in hotel lobbies. She caters only to the wealthiest of preggos and indulges them by performing such important tasks as hiring an entire focus group to help a set of overzealous parents choose the perfect name to ensure the success of their spawn. Also I find her speech impediment… I mean British accent… totally adorable.
And of course, some real people made the list as well:
My Grandma:
Unfortunately, growing up in New Hampshire with all of my grandparents living quite a long distance away, I didn’t really get to know as many of them as I would have liked. But based on the memories I have and bits of information pieced together from other family members, I feel actually more of a connection to them now that I’m older than I did when I was a kid. My mom’s mother was kind of your ideal 50’s housewife, except she was also an artist. Just for fun, of course, although she originally wanted to be a fashion designer but thought it was too serious. I now have paper dolls that she drew of my sister and I framed in my apartment, and she unknowingly designed my wedding shower invite as well. My mother always described her as having a Lucy-like clumbsy-ness, which anyone who knows me knows that I definitely inherited that.
My Nana:
Everyone who has ever seen the picture below tells me that I get my looks from my dad’s mother. She was your typical Italian woman, who valued family more than anything, and also, feeding them. When I was a kid I was a really picky eater, and my least favorite food was lasagna, which of course was one of her specialties. I remember her being offended that I wouldn’t eat it, and my father talked in circles trying to explain to her that it wasn’t personal, but I was just an odd child (okay, well he probably didn’t say that in so many words). Everyone whom I’ve ever talked to that had met her speaks of her grace, elegance and style. In the photo of her and my father from his prom people questioned if she was his date instead of his mother. For some reason, she always reminded me of Audrey Hepburn, which is weird because Audrey Hepburn is from like, Belgium or something and my Nana was an Italian from Boston. I felt like they had similar inflections in their voices, and whenever I watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s I feel like I can remember exactly how she spoke.
My Mother-in-Law:
The term MIL seems to have kind of a negative connotation to it, but I have known nothing but niceness since I married my husband a little over a year ago. She’s a dance teacher, and the first time I met her was in college the day before her huge Christmas recital, so clearly, I was terrified. My MIL has a very strong personality, and she’s the type of person that gets things done. I like to think of her as a Coordinator of Chaos. When I first started at my job, I was commuting over an hour and I would often stay at Steve’s parents house. They always welcomed me like I was part of the family and not just eating their food, doing my laundry and just generally taking up space. This was all while she was going through her breast cancer treatment, and not once did I feel like a burden. In fact, when we found out she was sick, I remember my mother actually said, “I feel bad for the cancer!” We knew that she was that tough and would get through whatever life threw at her, and she did.
And of course, My Mom:
My mother and I have never ever been told that we looked alike. Some moms would be offended by this, but my mom always told me she was okay with it, because I have her personality and that’s what really counts. When I was a kid she tried to teach me fractions with measuring cups. While that method didn’t actually end up helping me as I am still terrible at math, she kept at it by trying to get me to use real life scenarios to figure things out, like making me figure out how much a top at the mall would be if it was 40% off. I know everyone says this, but she literally makes the best chocolate chip cookies in the entire world. She understands the importance of a good theme, like when she helped me throw a Sex & the City premiere party complete with “Mr. Big Shrimp” and “Chicken Carrie-aki.” She also followed me out of the movie theater when she saw that the police had escorted me out under suspicion of illegally videotaping the film (but that’s a story for another day). She spends about as much time online as I do, and has almost as much of a presence on Facebook as yours truly:
Don’t get me wrong- we also spend a lot of time discussing very important world issues:
But mainly she’s just easy to talk to and we always have fun together.
But of course, we can’t talk about our favorite moms without mentioning our not so favorites either:
– See previously mentioned Tanning Mom
– Also Octomom, Toddlers and Tiaras Mom(s) and any moms in general that pull major publicity stunts and prevent their kids from having a normal existence
– Kris Jenner
– Dina Lohan
– Basically any “Momager”
– Snooki (I know she’s not technically a mom yet, but really, it’s time to start coming to terms with this)
– Everyone on 16 & Pregnant (unless they carry over to Teen Mom, and then I’m obsessed)
So Happy Mother’s Day to my mom and all the other moms out there. The cool ones especially, but also the crazy ones too.
good moms force their kids to have memories to look back on,
no matter how traumatizing
~L
I’ve been married for a little over a year now and one thing I’ve learned is that compromise is the key to any successful relationship. Also, cutting up one of your husband’s socks for your sock bun is one of the fastest ways to make him not trust you and possibly lock up your laptop.
So a couple weeks ago ago when Steve prepared spaghetti and meatball dinner that I thought could stand to use a hint more salt, we got into one of our teensy marital spats when he ruthlessly accused me of spilling salt all over the clean baking pans on the counter. Ordinarily, I would be hurt by such an accusation, but it was partially true because only minutes before had I sprinkled an accidental hefty helping from one of those giant Morton salt containers out of the cabinet.
It was only after this that he once again reminded me that we still don’t have an actual set of salt and pepper shakers. I don’t know how this got overlooked in the process of moving in together and registering for gifts, but somehow we just never got around to it.
So what’s the hold up? Well, like anything else in life, I don’t want to be boring. I’d rather die than put out a set of those white cardboard shakers adorned with random vegetables on them. With that, I set out to find the perfect set of salt and pepper shakers that would represent our taste, style and personality as a couple. This is obviously an essential task, and unfortunately I had to put my search for World Peace on hold to tend to such a pressing issue.
In the past, this task may have been daunting. It might have taken me years of magazine clipping to even find one set of fun shakers, and probably would have taken me another year to locate the said clipping among my massive collection (and that’s just in the Decor section). But not anymore. Thanks to my trusty Pinterest, within ten minutes I had not only created an entire board dedicated to this crucial life decision, but had also posted a link on Facebook asking for opinions from my loyal followers who happen not to be sick of my constant barrage of Kardashian-related status updates.
So here’s a brief montage of what I deemed to be the most promising candidates to be Our First Shakers. Yes, it’s that important that the title needs to be capitalized.
Disclaimer: These pictures are clearly all from Pinterest as stated before. So don’t sue me. Trust me, I don’t have anything.
So for some reason, there are certain motifs that seem to be recurring when searching for salt and pepper shakers. Half of the ones I found were elephants:
$12.99 modcloth
$48 jonathan adler
Or birds:
$8 west elm
$9 z gallerie
Actually, animals are apparently HUGE in the shaker world. I don’t even like pugs, yet I still thought this set was totes adorbs:
$7 modcloth
Despite my utter discomfort in any woodsy our outdoor situation, I do sometimes like the look of nature-esque things, but only in small doses when appropriately mixed with modern pieces. Hence why I love this silver pinecone set. Also it reminds me of our wedding:
$18 west elm
These ones are uber nature-y, but yet I like them. Probably wouldn’t go with my Ralph Lauren Silk Ribbon Slate china set though. These are more of a basket-paper-plate-holder style set:
$13 modcloth
This set doesn’t match anything in our apartment, except for our bedroom and my half of the closet. Since we don’t eat dinner in there, this isn’t the most practical option, but I had to include it just because:
$64 takae
As much as I wanted my salt and pepper shakers to be cute and quirky and adorned, I also found something I liked in just a simple spherical design like these:
$32 etsy
$6 west elm
Which is weird, because I don’t even like eggs.
Obviously, if I was a movie star/didn’t live with a boy I would have these. I don’t care how ridiculous they are, I just love them:
$23 z gallerie
I really was searching for a set to appeal to both of us, although I guess you wouldn’t know it by all the jewels and tiny animals. This seemed like a good neutral pair, but there’s just something so manly and industrial about them. Also, they seem like they’re made of lead, and I would like to be able to have children someday:
$19 pottery barn
Somehow in this process I discovered this site called Godinger.com. I’ve never heard of this, and immediately it looked like a bunch of overly fancy stuffy things that I could not afford. But after looking around, it seems like stuff that just looks fancy and is actually kind of inexpensive for what the stuff is. Anyway, their shaker section is ENORMOUS and I loved everything and pinned five of them immediately. They were just the perfect mix of fancy and interesting. Kind of like me. I mean, us.
$25 godinger
$20 godinger
$30 godinger
$30 godiner
$20 godinger
After doing all this research, I basically discovered that Jonathan Adler salt and pepper shakers are the BMW of condiment holders. Meaning that they are way overpriced and Steve is probably starting to break out in hives, because deep down something inside him knows that I looked at a pair of $48 shakers even for a second.
But seriously. I know these are ludicrous, and clearly I am not going to purchase them… but how GORGEOUS are these?!
$48 jonathan adler
So what do you think? Other than that I have clearly gone of the deep end if I have devoted this much time to finding the perfect set of salt and pepper shakers instead of seeking professional help for my bargain jewelry addiction. Does anyone else have fun shakers or am I the only person that deemed this to be a determining factor for the success all dinners to be had as a couple forevermore?
Also I haven’t shown any of these to Steve yet. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to figure out a way to record his reaction to each of my very well researched suggestions. And if you don’t hear anything… well then I guess it means we got divorced over $48 elephant shakers.
~L
Guess what I did today…
I MADE SOMETHING!
Not just something, food! I made something that people can eat. It was outrageous.
Well, it was outrageous for me. I am not a cook. I guess I’m what you’d call a microwaver. Which is like cooking, but faster. That’s the real thing I hate about cooking: it takes FOREVER. Maybe not for normal people, but for me, I literally cannot prepare a meal unless I have the entire day off, because the process of cooking is so foreign to me that it consumes my whole day.
Obviously, my husband is the cook. But this morning as I was doing my daily Pinterest cruise, I discovered a recipe that my friend Amy had pinned Easter themed cookies featuring Cadbury Mini Eggs (the chocolate ones with the shell, not miniature versions of the Creme variety). And I don’t know why, but all of a sudden I was like “hey, I can do that,” which is completely the opposite of the reaction I normally have to a recipe.
I checked the ingredients, and miraculously we had all of them. Well, except for the most important one:
Since I was heading to Walmart anyway to pick up a few other things, I figured I would just grab a bag of these while I was there. Unfortunately, Walmart had other plans for me and decided to carry every other Cadbury product on the market except for these. Not a good start.
After finally finding them at Target, I was able to take out my frustrations on eggs:
In retrospect, I probably should have gone about this a different way. The instructions said to coarsely chop them or something like that. How the hell do you chop a Cadbury Mini Egg? The shells are harder than actual eggs! Plus that sounded like it would take way too long, and my time is precious. So I figured I would just take a meat pounder to the bag. Unfortunately, I didn’t count on the fact that beating it with the sharp pointy side would puncture tiny holes in it, releasing the cracked shell dust all over my kitchen. Oh, well. Lesson learned.
Despite my incessant beating, I opened the bag and was horrified to the eggs had barely even broken! I couldn’t put those whole pieces in a cookie- someone would end up suing me for chipping their tooth or something.
So I grabbed my chopping board and cut those mini eggs like the pioneers used to do: with a knife. It took FOREVER.
I did realize that once the shells were broken a little bit, it was much easier to sink the knife into the chocolate to cut them in half.
Oh, did I mention while I was doing this, I was also cooking dough?! Well, not cooking it. Preparing it. Mixing it? Ah, whatever, it was being made.
This process was kind of a bitch because it turns out it’s very hard to pack 3/4 of a cup of brown sugar when it has somehow taking the form a millions of tiny brown sugar rocks even though you bought the stay fresh container from The Container Store to help it… stay fresh. Fortunately, Domino assumes that idiots like me will run into this predicament and printed special instructions on the bag of the bag on how to soften it. I had to heat it up in the microwave at 30 second intervals with two damp paper towels covering it, wrapped in cling wrap. In between these intervals, I had to take it out and break up the chunks with a fork, and repeat. And repeat. And… repeat. Eventually I decided that it was enough and just tossed it it. By the way, this is the first time I’ve ever used our KitchenAid. In case you were wondering what color it is if only to make sure you didn’t register for it by accident, it’s Persimmon.
While Persimmon did most of the heavy lifting, the recipe told me that I had to mix the chopped egg pieces in by hand. I don’t know why, maybe they assume that the recipe only tastes good if it has a tiny amount of sweat in it, but regardless, I’m glad I didn’t go to the gym today.
Next it was time to make the little dough balls (yes, I can hear you laughing because you just read “balls.” Get your mind out of the gutter please, I’m being domestic here). This is the hardest part for me because I always always ALWAYS make them too big and the cookies meld into each other to become a giant cookie blob. Which unless you’re going for a large cookie, is a fail.
I made like, four pans of these. All different sizes, just for good measure.
Also, cooking generally takes longer if you have to stop to take artsy photos in between every step. Just an FYI.
I have to say, my favorite part of the cooking process is watching stuff cook. I know, that sounds really weird because of my complaint about wasting time making food. But my favorite thing to do if I do happen to ever put anything in the oven is to turn on the oven light and watch it cook. It makes me feel like I accomplished something more than actually eating it. I don’t know why. Back in the olden days when we didn’t have an oven light, my mom used to yell at me for opening the oven too much. Apparently it’s counterproductive.
This is the part where I get nervous that they look terrible and not like cookies at all. But once I took them out of the oven (ten minutes for the first batch, nine for the second two), the little doughy pillows settled down a bit and started to look like something that people would eat. 
So I ended up with a billion cookies. Well it seemed like it, because there are way more than what’s in a Girl Scout box. And even though I was really full from the tortellini salad I treated myself to for lunch, I ate one just to make sure they weren’t poisonous or anything.
And they were pretty good! Although I have to say, I think I chopped the eggs so small that they almost just taste like regular chocolate chips. And the shell dust I think had pretty much baked in. I mean you could have practically snorted it out of that bag.
But all in all, a very successful experience in the kitchen.
And then I remembered why I really hate cooking:
ugh.
I had no idea when I composed my first tree post that it would be my most read blog entry EVER. Seeing as I am still relatively new to the (consistent) blogging world, I am hoping that this is just the beginning of a beautiful friendship with you, the readers. However, I am also faced with the fear that all my posts must now feature my arch rival, because that seems to be the thing that people really care about. Which means that I probably will have to live with this thing longer than I had hoped. Which is my Christmas nightmare realized.
I have gotten many request for “after” photos of the tree, so here they are. Better late then never, but there was a slight hold up, as my people had to work out an arrangement with The Tree’s legal team in order to be able to publish this post.
So without further ado, I give you… The Tree! And some other holiday decor from yours truly.
enough lights to guide the wise men
So after getting the tree in an upright position finally inside our apartment, I was so… shall we say, peeved, at what a monstrosity it was, that I spent the first few days of our relationship in a bitter standoff. I tried to avoid looking at it, but it was impossible seeing as you can see it no matter where you stand in our apartment. So instead, I avoided decorating it. However, Steve was nice enough to put the lights on so I could spend as minimal amount of time on it as possible. However, this process lasted for many days because every time it seemed like there were enough lights, he ended up right back at Walmart in need of additional strands. I think we ended up with like 4 total.
Finally, it was time to start decorating. Steve wanted to do the honors of placing the first ornament, so we had a small ceremony:
like raising the banner, only smaller. and with less toothless canadians
oh christmas b’s, oh christmas b’s
After that, we spent the next 4 hours trimming the rest of the tree. Fortunately, between the two of us, we have a plethora of ornaments. Steve’s mom gave him at least one Christmas ornament every year of his life, and I have a shopping problem/snowflake obsession that has resulted in my purchasing many ornaments as well as receiving every possible snowflake ornament that exists. Also, I inherited my grandmother’s precious Barbie collection, so we have a very random mix of things happening on The Tree. However, this was one time that my love of oversized decor came in handy, as I have many things like this:
not going to lie, i was a little worried the tree would think this was a triscuit
Like I said, hours later we finally had a (semi) covered tree.
i know, i’m worried about the open flames too
Now I realize that upon looking at this photo, this seems like a perfectly normal, nice, unsuspecting Christmas tree. Before you start to think that I am making a big deal about nothing, here’s another pic that helps to put everything in perspective:
the leaning tower of tree-sa
If we break this down into a numbers thing, you can clearly see that The Tree takes up ONE THIRD of the entire apartment. I had to stand on a chair in our makeshift “dining area” just to even capture this photo.
I think the thing that bothers me the most is not just that The Tree is genetically enhanced and taking over our home. Okay, that’s exactly what it is. You see, last year we had a very small, very chic purple couch from my single girl days (well not really “single,” just not living with a boy) and post-wedding, we upgraded to a larger, more comfortable but less fashionable sectional. Unfortunately, this is now how much room you have to get into our supposed dining area. If you can’t tell from this photo, it’s approximately 6 inches.
let the corner wearing on the couch begin. who needs children to ruin furniture?
Luckily, I eat all my meals at the coffee table anyway due to its proximity to my only friend in the apartment now, my television.
This is how much space there is when you enter the apartment to get to the living room. Not as bad as the latter, but not really anything to write home about either.
even the nativity scene looks miniature in comparison
This tree made me realize many things.
1. I hate trees.
2. We need a bigger tree topper.
sometimes, size does matter
I used to love my glittery snowflake topper that I scored at Walmart five years ago for $4. Sure, it’s not an heirloom or anything but it’s better than a giant lit up star or a scary angel (no offense to any of your tree toppers, religious or otherwise. I just think a lot of those angels resemble creepy porcelain dolls whose eyes are following you around the room). This thing is just so dinky now in comparison to Andre the Giant and I every time I look at it, I feel like I am being mocked by it’s small-ness.
Like I said, we have quite the mixed bag when it comes to ornaments. But unless your super rich or are dead inside, your Christmas tree is supposed to be a mix of things you collect over the years that mean something to you. And this is coming from me, who is so obsessed with things matching that I only let white hangers live in my closet, where they are concealed by a door… that is shut.
Last year, I gave Steve this gem in his stocking. Luckily, John is never lonely as he has many lovely ladies to hang out with around with.
the duke & the barbie. a forbidden love story
As for the rest of the apartment, I waited until Steve went to work before I really dug into my bag of Christmas tricks. As far as I’m concerned, this tree is his fault, so I get to decorate with as many silvery, pointed objects as I want.
oh deer
I am also taking advantage of the season and pretending that the red chairs/green wall combo in my dining area was on purpose, and not that I have been forbidden to buy my own chairs so we borrowed chairs from Uncle Peter that happen to be red and everything else in our place is green and purple. So basically it’s Christmas, all year long. But we’re going to say it’s intentional.
oh christmas chairs, oh christmas chairs?
this reindeer has been hanging for a month. steve noticed it today.
notice on the left, the tree trying to eek into the picture. sneaky treeSo there you have it. We’ve survived a month so far, and thankfully, The Tree is coming down before we leave for our 1st anniversary trip next week. I am sure the takedown alone will warrant it’s own post, so stay tuned. Eventually, I will triumph over this thing and get my life back. And then we can talk more about 2012 and resolutions and things of that nature. First on my list? Not to lose my longstanding battle with the flora of New England.
So by now you’ve all heard the beginning of the story of us picking out our first tree as man and wife. If you haven’t heard it, I guess we’re not really friends. If you would like to fix that and get back in my good graces again, you can catch up on it here.
When we last left, our heroine Lindsay had finally selected her perfect tree cutting ensemble. She thought this would be the most difficult part of an otherwise happy occasion. She would soon find out how easy she had it when the hardest thing she had to do was hunt down the perfect red flannel.
Ahhh I can’t write like that. Third person is not my friend. Anywho…
So Steve and I woke bright and early (um like 8:30- yikes) on Thursday morning so we could head up to New Hampshire to select our first fir. Why NH, you ask, when we live in Massachusetts and are completely surrounded by trees? Well I’ll tell you, my friends. Steve is something of a tree elitist. A treelitist, if you will. He has been picking out trees in the rolling forests of NH for years for his family, and has always considered them to be superior to all other New England trees. Being a NH born citizen myself, I completely understand viewing the state as a mecca of all things nature and mountainy, however it’s a slight inconvenience when you live an hour and ten minutes from even its most southern border (which Steve doesn’t even thing qualifies as “real” NH and refers to it as Northern MA). But this was going to be a special occasion- when else in our lives would we ever pick out our first tree? You know, other than the one we had last year. Our first married tree. Not that we’re marrying the tree. You get what I’m saying.
If I was going to be getting up that early on a day off and spending a majority of it outdoors traipsing around a farm, I was going to need some sort of compensation. Steve really had his heart set on a tree farm in Portsmouth and I knew immediately what my bargaining tool would be:
mmmmmmmmmmmmmm
The Friendly Toast is one of my favorite places. I got chocolate milk and cinnamon raisin French toast. I don’t remember what Steve had but he seemed happy about it, despite the fact it was cutting into our woodsy time.
doesn’t he look like he would fit in at a truck stop?
After taking what felt like 4 years to get our check, we finally were on our way to Tonry’s Tree Farm where all of Steve’s Christmas dreams would be coming true. We had spent a little time in downtown Portsmouth, so by the time we got there it was almost 1:00. In my head I had hoped we’d be back by 1:00 so we could start decorating. However, if you know us you know that timing isn’t exactly one of our strong points as a couple. But I let it go, because there were acres and acres of tree farm to be combed and we essentially had the place to ourselves, because let’s face it- who else is going to hit up a tree farm at 1:00 on a Thursday?!
All the little areas of the farm had names. I was hoping our tree would come from this one:
this is where all the sexy trees hang out
But alas, it wasn’t happening for us in the Vixen Field. In fact, none of the trees in any of the 20 million fields were doing anything for us. Because all of the good ones were tagged. Tagged! December 1st! All the nice normal tree shaped trees had already been claimed by happy families just sitting at home while we were out in the trenches picking through their left overs. I started to get bitter. Steve just kept finding tree after tree that he thought was “perfect.” Like this one:
fat bottomed tree, you make the rocking world go round
Now I’m aware that people tag trees. We had this same issue last year when we slummed it picking out our tree in Rhode Island. But I really thought that was because we were so late getting one. I never imagined that in a place with this many trees that so many of them would already be claimed.
And not just claimed. Claimed and decorated. The tags I saw last year were just little red tickets with people’s last names on them. Apparently, in NH, they don’t mess around. I mean, they do live free or die. Apparently they live so free that they decorate trees that AREN’T EVEN ALL THE WAY THEIRS YET as you only need 10% down to claim your tree. Tree layaway, is what it is. Treeaway. I can’t believe none of these tree farmers have capitalized on any of these terms yet.
Some trees just had like, red tacky bows from the dollar store on them. Others went all out, with themes and everything. Like this one:
how embarassing
There were others that really wanted you to know how proud they were of their roots. GET IT?! Roots?
hey, I think this tree belongs to someone
By this point, I started to think awful thoughts.
Me: How much would I have to pay you to take off one of these tags?
Steve: Stop it. Karma will get you. And Christmas karma is worse.
Me: Whatever.
If you’ve ever gone shopping with my husband, you know ahead of time to set aside at least 5 hours or else you will end up having to cancel the rest of your plans that day. I knew it would be a long day, because he takes 2 hours to pick out a pair of sneakers, so I could only imagine how long it would take for something that we would have to look at every day in our home for a month. I still was not prepared to walk around every field of that damn tree farm twice.
The weather was deceivingly nice for December 1st- no clouds, blue skies, sunshine. Because of this I felt it unnecessary to bring gloves or a hat. During the first hour I was like “eh, there’s a slight nip in the air, but no biggie.” At first, I actually thought it was weird to be picking out a tree when it had been like 60 degrees the day before. But by hour two… I was dying. I instantly began to regret every decision I had made that day, starting with wearing my brown heeled books. I was sinking into the wet, mushy grass as I walked up and down the same hills four times because we had to revisit tree candidates that we weren’t sure about. I could barely keep the snot from dripping out of my nose and my eyes were watering so much, it looked like I had an emotional breakdown when I finally left the farm that day. But let’s get back to how we finally selected “the tree.”
Earlier in our travels, we had both spotted a tree that had somehow grown like 4 feet off the ground. We both commented on it’s nice shape and kept moving.
But later, as we were nearing the 3:00 mark, we walked by said tree again and started seriously considering this as a our potential tree. It was hard to tell exactly how big it was, giving that the actual tree part started so high and the cold had killed most of of my critical thinking abilities. Steve tried to measure the tree from the bottom of the branches up to see if it would fit.
an optical illusion…?
Since we had no idea how tall the ceilings were, we had to call the apartment complex to check. 9 feet exactly! Using the oldest measuring tape in the world, Steve deduced that the tree was about 8 feet tall. We started to think we were in business.
So after much deliberation we decided it was time to cut.
I wasn’t prepared to do any actual sawing, but still felt the need to stage a photo in my outfit and all:
take that, l.l.- bean, not cool j
But being a lady lumberjack is not all fun. It’s hard work too.
i’m not cut out for this
So Steve jumped in.
By this time I was starting to go a little cray cray in the brain. I was so overcome with emotion and hypothermia that I almost took it out on the tree:
this tree knows who is in charge
But then it was time to get the thing on top of the car. Fortunately, my husband spared me this and let me stay in the car with the heat on, sitting on my hands hoping to regain feeling in them again.
i pulled the rope. my only contribution to this part besides capturing it on film
Finally, it was time to head home. We said goodbye to the tree farm and I silently hoped to never return again.
note that is is now almost dark
Needless to say, we didn’t get home until almost 7:00. Also, I was so full from my breakfast that I hadn’t had anything else to eat that day. We left the tree on top of the car and relaxed for 2.2 seconds while we tried to figure out a plan of attack.
Steve had called his friend Mark on the way home to ask him to help us get the tree upstairs, because clearly I am of no use at all when it comes to lifting heavy things covered in sap.
Yet when we got home, Mark didn’t pick up his phone. After calling repeatedly, Steve was overcome with the desire to get the tree inside NOW. So for the second year in a row, he threw the tree on top of his back and carried it up 3 FLIGHTS OF STAIRS.
Finally Mark showed up and the men began to assess the situation. There may have been maps, blueprints and other specs to figure out where exactly the tree was going to go.
tool time
It wasn’t until the tree was inside that we really started to question the size of it. I mean, we knew it was tall, but how did it suddenly double in width? Had it grown on the way home?
We couldn’t really determine anything until we saw it standing up in the tree stand.
Did you know that Steve has trouble making decisions? All week he had been debating between two different stands that looked basically identical to me:
twinsies
As the guys had the tree finally standing upright in our 690 sq. ft apartment, it hit me.
This tree is too damn big.
I still don’t even feel like any of these pictures really show how much of a monstrosity this thing is. No matter where we put it, it’s in the middle of our apartment. It’s like we have a third roommate. Besides Mark.
A panic immediately began to set in for me. We were going to have to share our home with this thing for a month. Last year we had so many ornaments between the two of us that you could hardly see the tree anymore. Steve actually looked at this tree and told me, “I don’t think we have enough ornaments.”
Although I should have been happy that he was basically giving me permission to shop (wait, is that not what you got out of that comment?) instead I felt the making of a stroke looming inside me. How are we going to live like this? You have to turn sideways to get around it just to enter the living room, and then once you’re in there you have to do the same thing to get into the dining area. It’s going to shed everywhere. I have already found needles in parts of my apartment that are no where in the vicinity of this tree (although I guess everything in here is now technically in the vicinity of this thing). When Steve emptied the vacuum it looked as if a small baby tree had already formed inside of it.
He could tell I was freaking out.
Steve: I feel like you want to cry right now.
Me: Um, no. I’m fine.
Steve: I think you want to cry but you’re not doing it because Mark is here.
Me: False. I’m just thinking.
Steve: I can tell when you’re upset.
Whether or not he thought I was on the verge of tears, Steve and Mark still deemed it a good time to reward themselves for all the work they did. And that reward was scotch (because you can’t make it home from NH without hitting up a highway liquor store) with a pine garnish. Steve claims the sap enhances the taste.
flannel, pine and scotch. does a man need anything else?
So now, cut to me, living in a forest, which if you know me, is that last place I want to be.
I’m still trying to come to terms with the tree. Steve has volunteered to remove it and try to give it to someone else, but after spending an entire day and $55 on this thing, I don’t feel like that is fair to any of us.
Steve often checks in on me and the tree to see if we are starting to form some sort of bond, as observed by this text just this morning.
Steve: Are you and the tree getting along?
Me: We’re working on our issues.
The tree is now it’s own entity, as if it is a giant person. Steve depicts it as a bully that we are forced to serve in fear of it’s wrath.
Steve: When I woke up in the middle of the night the tree pushed me against the wall and said, “Listen, I want a full sized chicken every night.”
Me: That’s not funny. This tree could kill us.
Steve: When I got home today, the tree was sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette.
Me: Dear God, please stop.
None of this would have happened if we had just gotten the tree that I wanted.
sigh. i miss you
So now my only hope is that somehow, decorations will help tone down the ginormous-ness of this thing in my living room. If you don’t hear form me for 8 days, it’s because I’m still decorating. Or the tree has swallowed me whole, Little Shop of Horrors-style.
omg. omg. omg.
We are in crisis mode in the Scouras household right now.
For you to truly understand where we are, you have to know how we got here.
This is where it all began…
Most men have particular values they they refuse to budge on, like only buying American made cars. Steve has many, but one of his biggest things is having a real live Christmas Tree. And not just any tree. Within 500 feet of our complex is a Home Depot selling tress for $30 and even a Boy Scout troop that have set up shop in the liquor store parking lot. He scoffs every time he drives by these “dead” trees and reminds me for the 200th time that he would never allow another person to cut down his Christmas tree. Ever.
Last year was our first Christmas living together so picking out the tree was a big deal. Since I like to pretend I have my own reality show, we even videotaped ourselves selecting the tree and subsequently cutting it down. We made a few mistakes though, that we were determined not to repeat this year.
1. We got the tree literally a week before Christmas. If you’ve never cut down your own tree before (which I hadn’t since I was like, 5) you know it’s a TON of work and not really worth rearranging your entire home for a week of enjoyment.
2. We had a wedding looming. Everything was on stress overload and getting a tree wasn’t high on the priority list until one day we were like “oh crap, we need a tree.”
3. When we got to the tree farm in Rhode Island, every single normal looking tree had already been tagged. We were left to choose from different shapes of shrubbery and Charlie Brown trees.
4. We bought the tree one random morning before both of us had to work. Steve had to drive to work and then home with the tree on the roof because we didn’t even have enough time to set it up that day.
Despite all of these things, we ended up with a nice little first tree.
sigh. i’m depressed now. also, now i miss my couch
So this year, we were going to do it the right way. Steve has been telling me for 6 months that we were going to get our tree from NH because “that’s where trees come from.” We picked a day that we were both off, which happened to be December 1st. Perfect tree date.
So of course, I had to start planning my outfit.
I knew right away I wanted to wear red flannel, because that’s what lumberjacks wear when they cut down trees and cutting down your Christmas tree is pretty much the closest you’ll ever come to being a lumberjack. The problem was I wanted to be like a cute lumberjack, and if you’ve ever seen a real lumberjack, it’s not a word that is often related. I should know, as I am forced to watch many shows that have the word “Logger” in the title.
The best place to buy flannel is clearly L.L. Bean. While I love all my outerwear from Maine’s finest export, I make a point not to buy clothes there, because everything is boxy and pleated. Total Mom jeans, all the way.
oh, hey guys.
So I braved the mall Black Friday weekend searching for the best fitting red flannel shirt money could buy. But not like real money, more like BF sale money, because I knew Steve would have a coronary if I spent an exorbitant amount on another themed article of clothing.
The first place I went to was the Land’s End shop at Sears. I was so disappointed in their flannel selection. Isn’t Land’s End supposed to be like in direct competition with the Bean? They had 2 women’s flannel shirts- one was orange, and one was blue. Not Christmas-y. I did appreciate however that they came in petite sizes, but I didn’t even try them on because who wants to look like a flannel traffic cone?!
Next I hit Hollister/Gilly Hicks/Aero/AE/A&F. While those may be separate stores, I hate them all equally so they get lumped together. 4 out of 5 of those places smell like last call at a skanky club and I’m convinced that you’re going to hear about them being investigated in a child pornography ring someday because all their employees are 14 and scantily clad to the point that I feel like I can’t look directly at them. Most of them had at least fake flannel shirts (you know, the ones that look like it but don’t feel like it- so basically, plaid shirts), but they were all in colors like pink, orange or turquoise and about 5 inches too short for me, which I’m guessing is their tactic for keeping the old farts out (i.e. people over the age of 20). I did actually find a pattern at Hollister that I liked and that was actually flannel but it was a “Dudes” shirt, which is their incredibly dumb way of saying it’s for men. Well, boys. Man boys. Given that Hollister stuff is miniature, I thought maybe I could rock a “Dudes S.” However, since it’s made for Dudes that look like this, it was straight up and down super boxy and not at all flattering. I was really disappointed, because the color and the feel of it was exactly what I was looking for. Also, I spent all my breaks that weekend knocking over tweens trying to get to these stupid shirts anyway.
I began to advertise my plight to coworkers and I was quickly told by them that Target definitely carries flannel shirts. Since I never need a reason to go to Target, I hustled over there and found a few shirts from their Mossimo brand that could have potential. I am normally a small, and I found it weird that the shirt kept gaping at the bust line because I am certainly not known for having a large chest. I grabbed a medium, and it was the same thing. Ick. Even for only $16, I couldn’t do it. Busting out is never a good look, not even for a lady lumberjack. Well probably especially not for them.
On Tuesday night I got a text from a coworker while I was trying on said shirt at Target informing me there were were some faux-flannel red shirts at Marshall’s. While I really didn’t want to forgo the warmth of actual flannel, at this point I felt like I had become desperate and the only thing that would make me feel better was to buy something. I know, not healthy but the pressure! Oh, the pressure.
I ended up finding 2 that I liked and of course, couldn’t decide. One was like a normal red flannel shirt with a green accents and the other one was slightly longer (more like a tunic) red flannel with black accents. One was $10, one was $12.99. What’s a girl to do?
I know what you’re thinking, and I also thought perhaps the answer was to buy both. Once again I reminded myself that this is something I will most likely wear once and that I was already way off the deep end for worrying this much about it. I settled on the $12.99 tunic because I felt like I could wear it with more things (in my head I was envisioning black leggings and riding boots… which I don’t currently have but are on my Christmas list) and it would cover the zipper on my skinny jeans that always manages to unzip itself. Listen. This is a judge free zone. I bought one pair of skinny jeans for $12 from Forever 21 three years ago. I refuse to spend more on that because I feel like the second I do, they will go completely out of style, which was my same reason three years ago for not investing in them in the first place. I guess I showed them seeing as I’m still wearing them.
After I bought my new flannel, the same coworker texted me:
“You know I have a Ralph Lauren Rugby flannel very festive primarily red but has green orange in it. I’ll bring it in tomorrow, you can borrow if for your pic tree outing so ur not spending $ on a shirt you don’t love for a one time use.”
If that didn’t put my crazy ass in perspective, I don’t know what would.
So I tried on her shirt. I immediately liked it because the tag said “slim fit” which meant I would be allowed to have a shape underneath. It also had a patch of brown suede on the front of one of the shoulders, which I enjoyed but was confused why it was only on one.
When I woke up today (tree day!) I was so excited. I put on my ghetto skinny jeans with my brown boots and tucked my borrowed flannel into my jeans with a brown belt. I even accessorized with a gold leaf necklace. It was Lindsay at her most outdoorsy-ness.
lumberjack barbie. saw sold separately
I thought Steve would be excited because flannel is one of his favorite things. In fact, we were flannel twins that day (mainly because I forced him to wear it as well, not that it took that much convincing). However, after I got dressed it seemed like a long amount of time had gone by and he had made zero comments about my outfit.
Me: You look woodsy.
Steve: Thank you.
*pause*
Me: Do I look woodsy?
Steve: No.
Me: Why not?
Steve: Because you just spent 20 minutes putting on makeup. Just because you’re wearing flannel doesn’t make you outdoorsy.
Busted.
Oh well. At least I got one picture of us together out of it.
flannel twins!
Needless to say, this is only part 1 of Steve and Lindsay’s Christmas Tree Saga. The memory of what happened today is just too traumatizing to relive so soon and I’m in a very fragile place at the moment.
Also it’s 12:30 and I walked around a tree farm for 3 hours today so I’m spent.
Since I know how incredibly difficult it’s going to be for all of you to wait, I will give you a hint as to how it ends:
it’s not pretty.
I consider myself pretty self-sufficient, despite the fact that I cannot cook, clean or launder without guidance from an expert. And by expert, I mean the Internet. Or my husband. Or my mom. Okay, so maybe I’m not as smarty and independent as I would like to be. You would think that I was one of those girls that went straight from living at Mommy and Daddy’s house to being taken care of by her husband, but that is far from the truth (besides the taken care of part, I mean, I do need to eat). I actually lived by myself (with a roommate) for almost 2 years (or 15 months) and survived (more like got parking tickets and ate Spaghettios a lot). I’m forever grateful for my “swinging apartment in the city” (Mom’s words, not mine), but I still feel like there were a lot of things that I never learned how to do myself and I’m not sure why.
And the weird thing is, is that now that I’m married, I constantly feel like I am straddling a fine line between being able to do things for myself at home and becoming a 1950’s housewife. If you’re a woman and you express that you want to become more advanced in the areas of cooking, cleaning or anything housewife-adjacent, immediately people think that you want to learn how to better serve your husband and your household. My feeling about this is that it’s 2011, and while I don’t have to throw on an apron and start vacuuming in pearls just because I’m married, I do need to learn how to do some things on my own so I don’t always have to ask my husband for help. So when I talk about becoming more domestic, don’t get all feminist trippy on me and say I’m sending women back 50 years. It’s not about becoming a housewife, we’re talking basic survival skills here. And let’s face it, between Steve and I we can clearly tell who the better housewife would be.
Lately I’ve been stumbling across little projects that I want to accomplish but haven’t gotten around to yet. Like the bag of clothes in my hallway labeled “Fix” (buttons, zippers, etc.). Or the basket of laundry in my room that specifically can only be hand washed (which I used to throw in with the regular laundry anyway but I am grown up now and therefore read the washing instructions).
One thing I stumbled upon while I was simply trying to unpack my weekend bag was a pair of white patent leather Jessica Simpson peep toes that I got for $40 at TJ Maxx. Now clearly, it is not white shoe season (as I was FORCED as a child not to wear white shoes past Labor Day even though I desperately wanted to) but it totally irks me that I have worn these shoes once and they were covered in black scuff marks.
Like many of my other household endeavors, I asked the Google gods to answer my query. And what do you know, they have an answer for everything! I found this and my shoe prayers were answered.
Now granted I wasn’t working on Loubs here, but let’s be real- $40 was really pushing the shoe budget for me. After all, you’ve heard my sneaker story. I was shocked to discover that the answer was as simple as:
Head to your local drugstore or Target/Wal-Mart and purchase the cheapest bottle of nail polish remover you can find. Dip a Q-tip in the remover and apply it to your scuff, gently rubbing the mark off.
First, I assessed the damage. Not cute.
ignore weird shoe lumpiness.
Next I armed myself with one of my favorite products- Walmart brand nail polish remover. I use this stuff to clean everything, especially my computer keys. I have probably killed a million brain cells scrubbing tiny objects with a Q-tip soaked in remover, but now they shiny. Oh so shiny… pretty… wait, what were we talking about?
Oh, right. Shoes.
scrubby scrub scrub
And miraculously, it worked! Well, sort of. It definitely took me a while to get in a rhythm with it. I found that if I scrubbed too much, it just smeared the scuff deeper into the shoe and stained it what appears to be permanently. Sad face. After a little bit of trial and error, I found it worked the best to use a new clean Q-tip on each scuff (I know, annoying, right?) and to lightly rub it in circles until the scuff came off. It was definitely an improvement for my Banished to the Closet Until Easter shoes, as they now look like this:
unfortunately, nail polish remover can’t rub off the cheapness of the shoe.
lumps forever.
I was pleased with the results, despite the face that I felt like I was murdering baby seals with the amount of Q-tips I used in the process.
pretty sure you can’t recycle these
Yes, I realize there is a giant hair on those Q-tips. I know, gross. Clearly it came from my head. I didn’t notice it in the photo until after I threw them all away, and I’m certainly not digging them out of the trash to re-photograph. Because do you know what’s in there? MORE HAIR. Yes, I am a shedder.
Like many projects I discover in lieu of finishing the existing project I was working on in the first place, I became obsessed with cleaning every pair of patent leather shoes I owned. Lucky for me, that is exactly 2. However, I was particularly obsessed with a certain pair of shoes that were in desperate need of cleaning just to see if I could conquer their mighty scuffs:
AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!
I know what you’re thinking. Lindsay, where did those FABULOUS shoes come from?! An amazing vintage store? An underground thrift shop? Picking with your husband? Okay, maybe you weren’t thinking any of those things. Maybe you’re like my mother and just thought, “interesting.” Regardless, these shoes are a zillion years old and they’re from Payless. YOU HEARD ME. The best part is I didn’t even BUY them- I found them discarded in my sister’s closet and took them when I needed to dress up like someone from The Depression at work. Don’t ask.
this look is coming back, promise
Needless to say, I have always thought they were cute in a vintage-y way, but could never think of what to wear them with, other than a costume. Plus, they were scuffed up to all hell. I tried my second favorite cleaning product, the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser (which I am convinced is going to make me barren or give my future children three heads or something because I don’t know what kind of chemicals are in that thing, all I know is that it WORKS) and it did nothing!
Anyway, these shoes were covered in scuff marks. Like every time I thought I got rid of the last one, three more grew in its place. But I persevered, and after many minutes of gentle Q Tip scrubbing, I ended up with this:
be careful- you may need sunglasses
And the clouds opened up and the Hallelujah chorus rang out from above, as I now have another pair of functional shoes.
But no outfits to go with them.
If you wish to contribute to the cause, you may purchase me any item from here.
Or if you’re on a budget, here.
Happy Shopping!
~L
PS- If you’re looking for other tips/deals/shopping guides, check out the rest of Budget Fashionista. I especially liked the How To Shop section. As if I needed help in that area.
One of the hardest things about cohabiting with a member of the opposite sex is merging your decorating styles together. Personally, my style is very girly, modern, light. Recently, I was flipping through a Pottery Barn catalogue and this photo made my heart stop:
there’s a gift-wrapping station. *swoon*
Unfortunately, Steve’s idea of the ultimate home office may differ slightly compared to mine:
you’re welcome, Pottery Barn
Needless to say, our decorating styles couldn’t be more different. I like clean lines and he likes a color palate of black and gold and/or things that look like they’re from 1853.
So when we finally moved in together, it took FOREVER to decide on a theme for our bedroom. The hardest thing to figure out is how you can color palate that works for masculine and feminine, and how you can merge things with a whole other person and still retain parts of yourself.
Originally we were leaning towards a light blue tone, which in my brain was accented with white and silver. For him, not so much. I don’t know how it happened, but when we were in Home Depot one day trying to choose between colors like Blue Cascade or Crystal Water, Steve turned to me and said, “what about navy?” And somehow, it just clicked.
Once we figured out that a nautical theme was the best way for both of us to be happy in our abode, we registered for things that would compliment our newly agreed upon motif.
However living in a 700 square foot offers up its own set of decorating challenges, as you’re not so much focused on feng shui as you are feng “what can I use to hide all this crap.” It’s been over a year since we lived here, and I’m finally starting to feel like it’s an actual bedroom and not a staging area for things that don’t fit in the living room.
I had 2 days off in a row this week which was a total shock to my system. I decided I was going to use that time wisely to try to complete projects that I have never actually started. And let me tell you, I was a lean, mean, cleaning washing organizing dusting decorating machine. And since my room has never looked so good, I figured what better time to take really nice photos of it with my new camera to show off… I mean share… with all 17 of you?!
these are actually super annoying because they always clack against each other, but HOW CUTE?!
yes, I live in fear of that ship wheel… but it looks good so it’s totally worth it
A few things going on here you need to know about (yes, NEED!).
– The navy coverlet and shams are from Crate and Barrel. Clearly nothing I could ever afford on my own, but who needs money when you have an Uncle Peter?
– The duvet is my first and only purchase from Pottery Barn. It was ON SALE for $79. That one hurt a little bit.
– The picture over by the window is a painting of a boat near a dock next to a barn or something in the winter. This is one of the finds scored by Steve and Mark on one of their “picking” excursions (i.e. yardsale).
– The ship wheel clearly completes the room, but not without a price, namely my sanity. The backstory on that is that Steve and I discovered this gem at Home Goods when we were “picking” (or just you know, shopping regularly) for nautical items for the room. It was some crazy price like $140, which is higher than I think I’ve ever spent on all the items I’ve purchased at Home Goods ever in my entire life. We knew it was way over our budget, but continued to visit said HG about once a week essentially stalking the item. One day I came home and Steve surprised me with it, a STEAL for $80 on clearance. In purchasing it though, we discovered just how damn heavy it is. Steve and Mark got it up on the wall somehow, but when I got home they didn’t seem like they were exactly confident in their handywork. Cut to me and Steve sleeping at the foot of our bed for 4 days so that I could be positive it wasn’t going to fall on our heads and kill us. My theory was that if fell on our feet, the worst that would happen is that we would break our ankles or something. If it fell on our heads, we’d either be dead or brain damaged, and I just felt it was really early on in our marriage to be testing that whole “for better or for worse” thing. But it’s still up, so… victory!
my nightstand
One of my favorite things that I registered for was that bedside carafe. Why? I don’t know. It just makes me feel fancy. Chelsea Handler and remotes? Less fancy, but necessary.
Steve’s nightstand
So what’s wrong this picture? Historical books, check. Nautical bowling pin looking thing, check. Picture of your wife when when she was 14 years old?! Yep, you read correctly- that is a school photo of yours truly when she was a freshman in high school, complete with braces and an uneven haircut that I swear was supposed to look like Christina Aguilera (pre-Dirrty days). You may think this is super creepy, and you’re totally right. Steve always used to laugh at this picture at my parent’s house because he claims that I closely resemble the youngest Hanson brother. So this year my mother framed it, wrapped it, and GAVE it to him for Easter! Like as a gift! And now he keeps it on his beside table just to bug me.
I don’t know if my nerves can take hanging one more heavy thing on the wall
Steve scored these buoys from his uncle and I am determined to use them but I have no idea how. So for now they are serving the very important role of doorstop.
my dresser- where the girly things still live
I’m a big believer in that if you have pretty accessories, you should act like they are part of your decor and display them. I have more jewelry than I could wear in a year. If I didn’t show it in my room, I would never see it. And that collection is worth tens of dollars.
too much? okay I swear I’m done with the jewelry
I lied! suckaaahs
I’ve been storing my earrings like this for years, because I frankly just don’t know what else to do with them. I keep all my earrings on the cards they came on and hang them on tacks. Same with long necklaces.
This is my first ever walk in closet. Although it is getting increasingly difficult to actually walk in there because I keep filling it with stuff. Did I mention that this a shared closet with my husband? I did give him two drawers in that dresser. The smaller ones.
headbands are like tiaras for poor peopleI have all my headbands in cylindrical clear vase for storage/display. I got the idea for this after I saw an article in People about the costume designer for Gossip Girl. If it’s good enough for the gay guy that gets to dress Blair Waldorf, it’s good enough for me.
you never know when inspiration will strike
I want to keep everything I have in lucite. It just makes every thing look better. Right now I only have this rectangle holder for my perfume from The Container Store. I really want to upgrade and get some for my makeup too. All I need is one bajillion dollars.
And last but not least, I leave you with… the dress closet.
hello, girls
no wire hangers! only white, always
The dress closet is one of my favorite purchases of all time. I picked up this baby on sale at Ikea for $36. That’s right, three-six. Unfortunately, it is practically made of paper and suffered an injury during the move. Steve has already started warning me that it will not make it through another move as it is balancing on three legs right now. I plan on throwing myself on top of it and refusing to leave it, like Kate and Leo in Titanic. I’ll never let go…
Get Snappy
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