I live in a pretty basic apartment. When I picked up the key it was about as generic as they come...beige carpet, white walls, boring linoleum. The only notable thing about it, really, was the wallpaper in the kitchen and bathrooms...and it was only notable for it's early 90s hunter green/navy/burgundy awfulness. Thankfully my landlord was perfectly OK with my intent to paint over all of it, so my parents (an unstoppable wall painting duo-seriously, they're like a well-oiled machine) set to work covering the walls in the colors I'd selected: a pale gray blue in the living room, a light and minty robin's egg blue in the kitchen and bedrooms, and a warm light peachy pink in my bathroom.
My mother and I have been on something of a mission ever since. After reading countless decorating blog stories featuring characterless apartments and homes that have been transformed into gorgeous, charming abodes, I decided that I might as well try it myself. Since I don't exactly have loads of disposable income for the project, I'm lucky to have a mother who can turn a twenty minute trip to Hobby Lobby into a one-of-a-kind coffee table. Or curtains. Or a lamp. Or headboards. In just a few months my place has already grown significantly cozier and more chic than the blank canvas I moved into. The only challenge is getting a little inspiration for projects to come.
That's where Lonny comes to the rescue. Lonny is (so far) my favorite of the online shelter magazines popping up everywhere on the internet. This is mainly because of its awesome collection of archived images, organized by room. I could spend hours sifting through them (OK, so maybe I have), so maybe some of you would like to as well.
Check it out here!
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
an average day.
January 14.
As an adult, snow loses it's appeal the moment you're required to go back to a functioning normal life in it. This is true even in Mississippi, where the mere suggestion of flurries is enough to send even the most jaded adults into fits of euphoria...myself included. I'd spent my two snow days off work with my nose practically plastered to the windows, drinking coffee and giddily watching the untouched white winterscape become pocked with footprints, spiked with snowmen, slashed with the tracks of makeshift sleds.
I was feeling anything but euphoria as I gingerly picked my way through the sheet of ice, slush and snow surrounding my car outside my place. Rain boots on my feet, suede ankle boots in my hand, scowl on my face because I was late for work and hadn't yet packed for the weekend as I'd intended. It didn't help that I had a staff meeting commencing as I walked in the door, but I grabbed a handful of walnuts from the stash in my office and decided to make the best of it.
Thankfully my place of business always provides ample material for it. On this particular day, someone from the Office of the Dean of Students called over claiming that he had spoken with the mother of a student or prospective student whose name was spelled as "La-a" and who was concerned over the mispronunciation of her child's name. (Let me break here to clarify that I'm relatively certain this is a joke and that said individual is NOT actually enrolled at Ole Miss.) Within a few minutes most of our office was participating in a debate over how we would pronounce the name. Leia? Lei? No one hit on the correct answer, which was...LaDasha. Upon hearing this there was a chorus of groans and laughs, but it wasn't nearly as intense of a reaction as one might expect. After all, in our line of work we are constantly exposed to bizarre names (two of the best I've come across are Aqua'Netta and Tequila Sunrise). However, after the groans and laughs there was a thoughtful pause as my colleague Brad experienced a minor epiphany and then said "Wait. That's not her name."
I looked at the name scrawled on a slip of paper resting on the counter and then: "Oooooh...." I looked back up at Brad in understanding. "Yeah," he said. "I'm not calling her that. That's not her name. That's not a dash, it's a HYPHEN. Her name is technically LaHyphena." Just another day in Financial Aid.
After work I scrambled to throw a random assortment of clothes and shoes into my weekend bag and hit the road for Florence to attend my sister's baby shower, enjoying the cut of gray highway across landscapes still white with snow, and counting the never-ending procession of melting zombie-like snowmen. Upon arrival at my parents' place, my mother informed me that she had a few errands to run and that her car wouldn't start, could we take mine? I considered this. "I'm not really sure I can get us down the driveway, Mom, it's still REALLY icy..." Vicki didn't see this as an issue. "Oh, it's fine, all you have to do is put it in reverse and just sliiiide on down the hill." I stared at her. "Yeah. You're driving then." Moments later I was gripping the door handle and watching in simultaneous horror and awe as my mother executed a perfectly controlled slide down and out onto the street.
At Belk's department store I patiently talked Vicki out of a series of entirely too clunky and vaguely sporty black "dress" shoes before giving up and going to try on the pair of black patent peep-toe platform heels I'd been trying to ignore. Mom was already in the process of purchasing her own shoes when I walked up to the register, and was deep in animated conversation with the sunny and petite woman behind the register, whose shining black hair was perfectly and smoothly pulled back to show off flawless chocolate skin. Beside her stood a younger guy who towered over here and was about three times as wide. A high school linebacker uncomfortable in the khakis and preppy navy and red striped sweater required for his part time job. Me and the linebacker exchanged a dismayed Look as the conversation between my mother and the saleswoman turned to hot flashes, although secretly I was fascinated by how laughingly and cheerfully these two women were covering such a topic. When it veered toward aging and dead parents with equal enthusiasm I interrupted with a polite reminder of all we had to do. The linebacker glanced at me in shy relief and appreciation.
After Belk we trekked into Walmart in the manner us Tompkins women always do...with laser focused determination on the mission, as if we're a swat team with a very precise amount of time to rescue someone trapped amongst any number of bombs and landmines. We hate Walmart. We hate the throngs of people in their Alabama, Auburn, and Tennessee tee shirts who lazily amble down the aisles in the manner of patrons at an art gallery, and the constant movement of products from one place to another to ensure that one has to traverse virtually every single aisle in order to find everything she needs, and most of all we hate the fact that we are by birth cursed with the ability to ALWAYS wind up in a checkout line behind someone with 65 coupons, or 65 questions about a product, or 65 items mysteriously missing a price tag or scan code. At least the Walmart in Florence sells wine.
I went to bed that evening full of perhaps one too many glasses of said wine, new stories, and girly pleasure over new shoes...not too bad for an average day.
As an adult, snow loses it's appeal the moment you're required to go back to a functioning normal life in it. This is true even in Mississippi, where the mere suggestion of flurries is enough to send even the most jaded adults into fits of euphoria...myself included. I'd spent my two snow days off work with my nose practically plastered to the windows, drinking coffee and giddily watching the untouched white winterscape become pocked with footprints, spiked with snowmen, slashed with the tracks of makeshift sleds.
I was feeling anything but euphoria as I gingerly picked my way through the sheet of ice, slush and snow surrounding my car outside my place. Rain boots on my feet, suede ankle boots in my hand, scowl on my face because I was late for work and hadn't yet packed for the weekend as I'd intended. It didn't help that I had a staff meeting commencing as I walked in the door, but I grabbed a handful of walnuts from the stash in my office and decided to make the best of it.
Thankfully my place of business always provides ample material for it. On this particular day, someone from the Office of the Dean of Students called over claiming that he had spoken with the mother of a student or prospective student whose name was spelled as "La-a" and who was concerned over the mispronunciation of her child's name. (Let me break here to clarify that I'm relatively certain this is a joke and that said individual is NOT actually enrolled at Ole Miss.) Within a few minutes most of our office was participating in a debate over how we would pronounce the name. Leia? Lei? No one hit on the correct answer, which was...LaDasha. Upon hearing this there was a chorus of groans and laughs, but it wasn't nearly as intense of a reaction as one might expect. After all, in our line of work we are constantly exposed to bizarre names (two of the best I've come across are Aqua'Netta and Tequila Sunrise). However, after the groans and laughs there was a thoughtful pause as my colleague Brad experienced a minor epiphany and then said "Wait. That's not her name."
I looked at the name scrawled on a slip of paper resting on the counter and then: "Oooooh...." I looked back up at Brad in understanding. "Yeah," he said. "I'm not calling her that. That's not her name. That's not a dash, it's a HYPHEN. Her name is technically LaHyphena." Just another day in Financial Aid.
After work I scrambled to throw a random assortment of clothes and shoes into my weekend bag and hit the road for Florence to attend my sister's baby shower, enjoying the cut of gray highway across landscapes still white with snow, and counting the never-ending procession of melting zombie-like snowmen. Upon arrival at my parents' place, my mother informed me that she had a few errands to run and that her car wouldn't start, could we take mine? I considered this. "I'm not really sure I can get us down the driveway, Mom, it's still REALLY icy..." Vicki didn't see this as an issue. "Oh, it's fine, all you have to do is put it in reverse and just sliiiide on down the hill." I stared at her. "Yeah. You're driving then." Moments later I was gripping the door handle and watching in simultaneous horror and awe as my mother executed a perfectly controlled slide down and out onto the street.
At Belk's department store I patiently talked Vicki out of a series of entirely too clunky and vaguely sporty black "dress" shoes before giving up and going to try on the pair of black patent peep-toe platform heels I'd been trying to ignore. Mom was already in the process of purchasing her own shoes when I walked up to the register, and was deep in animated conversation with the sunny and petite woman behind the register, whose shining black hair was perfectly and smoothly pulled back to show off flawless chocolate skin. Beside her stood a younger guy who towered over here and was about three times as wide. A high school linebacker uncomfortable in the khakis and preppy navy and red striped sweater required for his part time job. Me and the linebacker exchanged a dismayed Look as the conversation between my mother and the saleswoman turned to hot flashes, although secretly I was fascinated by how laughingly and cheerfully these two women were covering such a topic. When it veered toward aging and dead parents with equal enthusiasm I interrupted with a polite reminder of all we had to do. The linebacker glanced at me in shy relief and appreciation.
After Belk we trekked into Walmart in the manner us Tompkins women always do...with laser focused determination on the mission, as if we're a swat team with a very precise amount of time to rescue someone trapped amongst any number of bombs and landmines. We hate Walmart. We hate the throngs of people in their Alabama, Auburn, and Tennessee tee shirts who lazily amble down the aisles in the manner of patrons at an art gallery, and the constant movement of products from one place to another to ensure that one has to traverse virtually every single aisle in order to find everything she needs, and most of all we hate the fact that we are by birth cursed with the ability to ALWAYS wind up in a checkout line behind someone with 65 coupons, or 65 questions about a product, or 65 items mysteriously missing a price tag or scan code. At least the Walmart in Florence sells wine.
I went to bed that evening full of perhaps one too many glasses of said wine, new stories, and girly pleasure over new shoes...not too bad for an average day.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
new years resolutions...a little late.
Every year one of my New Year’s resolutions is to stop procrastinating. Not surprising, given that in a typical year I don’t actually MAKE my resolutions until it’s nearly February.
This year, however, my first conversation of 2011 included the point blank question “so what are your New Years Resolutions?” If you know me, you probably know that I often require several minutes of what (to the untrained observer) might appear to be unfocused rambling before reaching an actual point or response. My conversation partner was thankfully kind enough to politely listen as I blathered my way through my thoughts in order to reach my final point…that I’m giving up on big, open-ended, vague, or unrealistic resolutions that you can never be sure whether you’ve kept or not. You know those…the ones where you commit to working out more, or getting up earlier, or watching less television. The ones where you set yourself up for failure. I’ve tried those resolutions for years, and at the end of every year I’m at best uncertain as to whether or not I achieved any of them. Does it count as “working out more” when you didn’t work out at all in the previous year and then went walking/running 5-10 times in 12 months? Probably not. And honestly, even when I was relatively certain that I’d at least moved in the right direction, I was somehow just left feeling even more acutely aware of the other big things I needed to tackle.
This year I’m trying something different. This year, it’s all about baby steps and the little things. Things like committing to hosting friends for dinner at my place, reading three to five books I’ve been meaning to read and haven’t, learning how to make my Nana’s biscuits, and FINALLY lugging the tons of clothes I haven’t worn in years out of my closet and off to the resale or thrift store or donation bin. For 2011, I’d prefer not to end the year frustrated by my inability to reach the lofty goals I set for myself. 2010 provided plenty of that, thank you very much. No, for 2011 I’m going to set the bar at a more realistic level. Nothing superhuman. My goal is to end the year feeling …satisfied to some extent. Productive. And, you know, to stop procrastinating…
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