i leave you a little something.

Jordan and I are headed to Savannah for the weekend, but I wanted to leave you with this little something beautiful:

They just don't make children's book like they used to, do they? Books that tell us there is a little adventure in all of us... A little wild thing if we dig a little deep.

Husband, will you take me to see this? Pretty please? 

bright ideas.

I have a problem.

I have ideas.

Too many ideas, actually.

And I love sharing my ideas.

But, more often than not,

I submit my idea to someone

And it gets rejected

Shot down

Thrown away

Or ignored.

It's not really appreciated

Because it probably was never asked for.

I have got to get over myself.

I think I can run the planet

Be Superwoman

Or something.

And for some unknown reason, I think people want to hear what I have to say.

(Mom and Dad, I blame you. You always listened to what I had to say. You ruined me.)

So I’m fixing to keep my mouth shut.

No more ideas

At least no more ideas about things that have nothing to do with me.

I’m going to start taking my nose out of other people’s business.

Going to keep my ideas to myself

Or at least limit the distribution of my ideas to things I can control.

Things I’m actually responsible for.

Like work.

Or my blog.

Or my apartment.

It’s time to remember that history term

Laissez-faire.

Hands-off.

Time to let go.

If an event I attend is poorly run:

None of my business.

If a class I don’t teach is out-of-control:

None of my business.

If an activity I participate in goes awry:

None of my business.

I mean, really

Don’t I have enough to worry about?

So it’s about to be all laissez-faire up in here.

Get ready.

the map.

I'm a planner.

You probably could have guessed that from just reading this blog.

I like to know what's coming.

Or, more accurately:

I like to plan what's coming.

I like to be in charge.

So on Sunday, when our class began to talk about our life's plans and whether or not God had changed them, I had to laugh.

Change them?

I think He started from scratch.

We talked about how some of life's greatest blessings come out of sadness.

Hurt.

Disappointment.

Frustrations.

No-good-really-bad days.

I couldn't agree more.

And as I look over my life's original plan

I realize that God's is better.

Even though I don't always understand it

Even though I'm not where I thought I'd be

Even though it sometimes hurts

Father knows best.

Because if my life had gone according to my plan,

I would have gone to Nashville, Tennessee for school.

Interned at Southern Living.

Secured a job as a magazine writer in the big city of my dreams.

Earned a master's degree.

Remained unmarried until at least 25.

Traveled the world.

And lived happily ever after.

Instead, I went to school in Montgomery, Alabama.

Met my best friend.

Interned at Coastal Living.

Moved back home.

Found a satisfactory job in communications.

Married my best friend.

And remained in my hometown. A place I didn't think I'd come back to for a while.

All because:

I didn't get the ACT score I wanted.

Massive layoffs occurred right as my internship was ending. (In other words, journalism died, and with it, all job opportunities.)

Jordan moved to Macon for law school.

I couldn't find a job I loved.

So here I am.

Right where God wants me to be.

I serve a God who honors my dreams

My ambitions

My goals

But I also serve a God who knows significantly more than I do

So here I am.

Finding my place on a new map.

A map He created for me.

From scratch.

*Food for thought: what does your life's map look like? Was it what you originally planned? How did God change your plans for the better?

homelessness.

As I drove to dinner this evening, I began to notice...

One...

Two...

Three, four...

Five...

Six...

And the numbers kept going. 

So many people. 

Sleeping on benches. 

Holding up signs. 

Walking the streets, slowly. No destination in mind. 

And I don't know if it's because these times have more people lost, hopeless, turning to soup kitchens and shelters

Or if my eyes are just opening.

But everywhere I turn, I see hungry people. 

Tired people. 

Thirsty people. 

People with addictions.

Mental illness.

People who are lost. 

And it hit me today, as I was driving, watching.

Just how many homes I have. 

And how so many people don't even have one. 

How I've always had a bed. 

At mom and dad's. 

Away at school.

At my in-laws.

At my grandparents.

I've never once had to worry about a place to lay my head. 

And even though these people have addictions

Illnesses

Demons

Struggles

That I can't understand

I can understand this: 

When I'm tired

Too hot or too cold

Lost

Frustrated

I get to go home. 

And these people can't. 

That's hard to swallow. 

So I do what I can

Some change

A sandwich

A bottle of water. 

But what I think 

Might mean the most

Is a look in the eyes

A smile

A nod

Acknowledging that we all just want to go home.

i'd rather be...

New York City, summer 2008

Thank goodness Jordan and I will be on a much-needed vacation this time next week. We're not headed to New York (flights are just out of our budget right now), but we are using some of our returned security deposit to spend a weekend in Savannah. I couldn't be more ready.

In the meantime, though, I'm looking forward to the weekend. No matter how busy they are, they're still good to have in between these working days.

Happy weekend to you!

check it.

Maybe this has already made its way around the blogosphere, but if not...

{via A Cup of Jo}

dear movie maker...

To Whom It May Concern:

It is with great sadness and frustration that I question your movie adaptation of the bestselling Jodi Picoult novel, "My Sister's Keeper."

My biggest question is actually pretty simple: Did you read the book?

I know you Hollywood types are really busy, hanging out with Steve Spielburg and keeping your eyes on Jon and Kate, but really, your latest attempt at a dramatization of a book was downright pathetic.

I'll forgive you for casting Cameron Diaz in a role that probably should have gone to someone a tad more matronly. I'll even give you a little credit for seeing potential there that I didn't see.

And I actually understand that movies can't be identical to the books they're recreating. That's fine. As a lover of books, I don't expect movies to fulfill the role of bound paper in my hands.

But when a movie claims to be a retelling of the book-- complete with the same title and premise-- I expect more than just similarities. I'm expecting something comparable (with some details removed for the sake of time).

Imagine my surprise as I sit in the theatre and find the characters dry and void of personality. Key parts of the story wiped away.

Imagine by utter astonishment as I watch an ending that bares no resemblance to the book I'd read not months earlier.

I don't know how much you paid off Jodi Picoult, but both of you should be ashamed.

And don't bother telling me about focus groups and ratings.

If you wanted to completely revamp the story, the title (My Sister's Keeper) and tagline (Based on the novel by Jodi Picoult) should have been changed.

That way book lovers like myself could have saved the cash and gone to see Harry Potter.

Because clearly, it is possible to create a movie adaptation of a book.

You just don't know how.

Sincerely,

A disappointed viewer

things i want {anthro}

I know.

I want too many things.

But like I've said before: it's all about the purging process.

And to mix it up a little, all the items on this week's wish list are from the Anthropologie sales section.

Because really, who can afford to pay full-price at that place? Certainly not me. Probably not you either.

So here are some fun sale items that won't break your bank (too much).

iced coffee sandals {$54.95}

hieroglyph skirt {$39.95... no longer in my size}

double buckled sandals {$39.95}

blissful days dress {$59.95}

sea drift dress {$69.95}

isfahan bag {$39.95}

scarf scene tote {$39.95}

Whew! And at the end of my little purging process, the only item I'm really tempted to actually purchase are the double buckled sandals. I can feel them on my feet now...

investing.

In college, I was voted most likely to succeed.

On graduation day, I was one of three valedictorians.

But all it takes to make me look like an idiot is the mention of the word "investment."

I begin to stare blankly into oblivion, wondering why a girl who graduated with a 4.0 can't seem to grasp the whole saving-money-for-retirement thing.

I blame it on my education. I mean, shouldn't they teach you this stuff? Isn't it slightly more important than say, Aristotelian logic?

Yes. Yes, it is.

At least the real world thinks so.

Odd, because I could go on and on about Aristotelian logic.

How unfortunate for me.

So today I met with my investment advisor.

A nice fellow named Greg.*

Greg wanted to know what I knew about investing. Our conversation went something like this:

"Hi, Annie. I'm going to help you switch your investment portfolio from Fidelity to Merrill Lynch. How long have you been employed here?"

"A year and a half." I say, only wincing slightly.

"And how much are you currently investing?"

Uh... "I'm not sure."

Greg proceeds to look at me like the idiot I apparently am (kindly, though, and with a hint of pity). "Well, your employer matches any 2% contribution with 2%, so I assume you're giving at least that much."

I nod and smile. "Sure."

"And if you contribute more than 2%, your employer matches it by 15%."

Um, okay. Are we talking 2% of my income? Because, maybe I shouldn't be giving that much. I mean, that's a lot. Isn't it? As I'm thinking this, the blank stare arrives, scaring Greg, and my naivete immediately provokes the inevitable question. "How old are you, Annie?"

"23."

A relieved look comes over poor Greg's face. "Ah, well, at least your investing something. That's just great."

I immediately feel like I just got an A on a paper. "Great!"

"So, may I suggest that you increase your current contribution? The more you begin giving now, the more you'll have at retirement."

No, duh, Greg. I'm not a complete moron.

I don't say this. Instead, I just smile and nod.

"I'd recommend treating it just like a bill. Even if you just increase your contribution to 6%, we're talking about hundreds of thousands-- possibly millions-- of dollars by retirement."

I'd like to believe poor Greg. Really, I would. Only, here's my problem with this philosophy: I'll be almost dead by the time I retire. And really, who needs millions of dollars on their death bed? I'd rather get to buy the occasional carton of ice cream now. (This is a slight exaggeration. I do care about my future. Really, I do. Just sometimes, Baskin Robbins calls my name. And it tastes better than Merrill Lynch.)

My second issue with Greg's little philosophy? This blasted economy. I overhear adults talking all the time about their lost retirement funds. Um, where did they go? Does this mean mine are going somewhere? Because that doesn't seem fair. It is my money, after all. If I wanted it to disappear, I would have found a suitable place for it to disappear to.

As I'm thinking this, Greg is asking me to fill out paperwork. I gladly comply. Finally, something I can do without making a fool of myself. (And for now, I remain happily contributing 2%. I'll increase to 6%, Greg, when I'm not the primary breadwinner. How's that for a compromise?)

"Now, Annie, it looks like you're currently contributing to a portfolio in preparation for retirement in 2050."

He loses me there. 2050?!? For a girl still working in her first job, just thinking that far in advance is a little much. I mean, how old will I be in 2050? 64?!? I think I'm going to throw up.

"It's a pretty aggressive plan."

Aggressive? Why would I want an aggressive retirement plan? Especially if all my money is going to disappear anyway?

"You are welcome to stick to this plan, or we can disperse your funds into a variety of portfolios."

That seems like a mistake. I have pictures of George Bailey and Bedford Falls breaking into mayhem. Soup lines during the Depression. Dust bowls. Grapes of wrath.

"I think I'll just stick to the one."

"That's just fine. Just go with your original choice."

It's then I remember. My husband did all this. Just a few months ago. He filled out all the paperwork. I believe I had handed it all to him with these words: "Handle this. I don't understand a word."

Great. Some feminist I make.

I can hammer a nail.

Cook dinner in a crappy oven.

Drill a hole.

Paint a wall.

Keep up with the bills and manage our finances.

But I distinctly remember throwing my retirement plan into the hands of my capable husband.

That decision is haunting me now.

If for no other reason than Greg is looking at me like I've lost my marbles.

I just smile and nod.

And I almost inform him I was college valedictorian.

Like that means anything.

*Names protected.

thought i'd lighten things up...

I decided to delete my last post. 

I'm learning that just because other people are rude or mean, doesn't mean I have to be too. 

So let's change subjects. 

How about a quick poll? 

I'd like to invest a little cash in a new camera.

And since I don't have the funds right now (or the photography expertise) to get the kind of camera I ultimately want, I'm choosing between the Holga and Diana. 

I figured either one of these would bring some variety to my photographs. 

Thoughts? Details can be found by clicking the photos below.

{Thanks to Naomi for the camera inspiration.}

tragedy.

Life is full of just flat-out sad things, isn't it?

I got a little emotional reading this post.

And I got to thinking.

That sometimes, life is just sad.

And that's okay.

It's just life.

But that doesn't make it easy.

I was thinking about this woman and her ability to blog so honestly about her triumph over tragedy.

And even though it cannot possibly compare, my family is experiencing some sadness tonight.

A while ago, in another life, it almost seems (things do change so very fast), my family was praying for a dog we thought wouldn't get well.

And then she did. Kind of.

We were all happy. Even me.

But, before we really realized it, something not-so-good was happening to our other dog.

It's called old age, I think.

But man, doesn't it sneak up on you?

It reminds me of this one time

At Faulkner

When Jordan and I would visit a woman named Nina

And Nina was getting old.

Was old.

And we would sit and talk and laugh and share.

When one day, she looked at us, and said:

"I don't feel old."

And I thought I would cry right there.

One day, I will be old.

But will I feel like it?

Well, I just guess not.

Because, like Nina told us that day, you're still the same person.

That's really what she said.

"I'm still me. I think I can do the things I used to, but I just can't anymore."

Oh, the tears.

I saved them and cried them later.

Because, even at 21, I realized...

We all get old.

Even dogs who have been in the family for 14 years.

Oh my goodness.

That is a long time.

See, back when I was in 3rd grade, we finally got a dog.

A wiener dog.

(I hate when people say that, but if I say dachshund, you won't know what I mean.)

His name was weird. Like Rockwell of Trier or something.

A crazy name for a dog with the new last name of Butterworth.

So, brother and I named it.

After our favorite show.

Wishbone.

(Such a classic. Where did it go?)

And that dog was crazy.

He'd run around the house like a madman.

Sing along when I played the piano.

Follow my dad like he was the best thing since sliced bread.

And of course, he bonded with my brother.

Most dogs do.

But you know what? I think he even liked me.

We'd sit together and read.

He'd curl up like a cat, only better.

(I kind of hate cats.)

And good grief, that dog has just been around forever.

So when he went blind, I don't think we really noticed.

And when he went deaf, we just shrugged.

Our poor, pitiful Wishbone.

Getting older.

But lately...

Wishbone just really isn't the same.

And my parents had to make a tough decision

That truthfully, I don't like talking about.

(Thank goodness they're better grown-ups than I am.)

But it just boils down to this:

On Saturday, I will go to a funeral for our dog.

And I used to kind of snicker at people who did this sort of thing

I mean, really.

A dog?

But oh man. He's just more than that.

He's family.

And... I'm crying as I write this:

He's our childhood.

I'm probably being dramatic.

But that's what it feels like.

Just proves what Nina told me almost three years ago.

We all get old.

But we're still the same inside.

And Wishbone, I think deep down

He wants to run around the house

And sing with the piano

And follow Dad around at breakfast

But he can't do those things

Not here.

Not anymore.

So I think, even though I hate it,

That my parents are doing the right thing.

And you know what?

I watched this movie once

Called "All Dogs Go to Heaven"

And I kind of hate that movie

It scared me, but I can't remember why.

But anyway, I don't really care what theologians in the world might say

I think that movie (or at least the title) might be true.

So there.

just thinking.

The other night, the hubs and I had a theological discussion (of sorts) with my almost-16-year old cousin.

I loved every minute.

After two years away from my college campus, I’ve almost forgotten what it was like to sit around with friends and discuss the things we believe matter: the cross, redemption, our God’s unfailing love and the gift of His Word.

It was nice to stretch my brain, to dig deep, to remember why it is I believe what I do.

Incidentally, my cousin’s question was about women’s roles.

An issue both near and dear to my heart.

And while I don’t normally delve into topics like this on the blog (at risk of offending an unknown reader), our discussion led to some thoughts I’d love to throw out into cyberspace. I warn you, though, this is longer than the typical post; if you want to come back tomorrow, I’ll understand completely. If you do decide to stay, though, let me know what you think. I’d love to hear your thoughts on a tricky subject like this.

I believe that women are a powerful force. They always have been. And while Gloria Steinem thinks that she invented feminism, the truth is, our God did.

Our God was the founder of women’s rights. In the Old Testament, He set laws in place to protect the women of His nation from men who might harm or misunderstand them. He showed His grace and patience to women who society would have said didn’t deserve it.

He gave us Sarah, Ruth, Esther, Deborah, Naaman’s servant girl, Abigail, Rahab. He molded their lives, gave us their stories, set them up as examples of faithful living.

An old woman.

A widow.

A Jewish teen.

A counselor.

A servant girl.

A divorcee.

A prostitute.

Our God loves His daughters.

He created them in His image.

But it’s just a few verses in the New Testament that seem to take all that way. A few verses that seem to reduce our worth. Our God, the God who created us to be powerful forces of change, asks us to be silent. To submit. To humble ourselves. To respect those in authority over us. Namely, men.

Ouch.

Doesn’t our Lord contradict Himself here?

Isn’t this just a cultural recommendation? A command that died out along with head coverings?

I don’t think so.

And while that answer is a little hard for my stubborn, 23-year-old, semi-feminist self to handle, it’s the one I believe.

Because just as our God loves women and honors them, He knows them.

He knows our weaknesses, what messes us up.

The same reason He asks us to respect our husbands is the reason He requests that we sometimes keep our mouths shut.

Because we’re not very good at it.

God knows it’s a challenge for women to truly respect the men in their lives. After all, we do everything so much better—or so we claim.

And our Father corrects our inadequacies by asking us not to love our husbands (that part is easy), but to respect them.

In the same way, women find it difficult to keep their mouths shut. We have opinions on anything and everything. And the mouth God gave us to bestow blessings and encouragement we use as a tool of destruction. Sarcasm. Hurt.

And again, our Father corrects our inadequacies; this time, by asking us to be quiet. To calm down. To humble ourselves and let others take control.

Women who choose not to listen to the command, by the way, are going nowhere fast. Because just as God gave us examples to follow, He gives us examples to flee.

Eve.

Jezebel.

Delilah.

Sapphira.

Women whose power went to their heads.

Whose urge to take over replaced their longing to be who God designed.

I understand these women, though, because deep down, I’ve been there.

I like to control.

(I’m good at it.)

Take charge.

Overrule.

And my Father knows I like it.

And He knows how quickly a desire for control can become out-of-control.

So He asks me not to.

Not to control.

Not to take charge.

But to be quiet.

To encourage men to fill the role He designed for them. Because otherwise, they won’t. They’ll think we have it covered. God knows this too.

So you see? He doesn’t ask us to do this whole “silent” thing because He’s an overbearing, old-fashioned, woman-hater.

He does it because He knows us better than we know ourselves. He knows who we are, who we can become, and what’s holding us back. And just as He designed a specific role for men to fill, He designed one for us.

A role full of passion. Boldness. Beauty.

That’s why I think He asks us to be quiet. He knows us and created something specific for us.

That doesn’t mean He wants us to hide behind men.

Quite the contrary.

He wants us to daringly, confidently fill a role created specifically for us. And sometimes, we’re going to have to be silent and submissive to fill it.

*Note: I do believe that there are two exceptions to the “women should be silent” concept. First, I do not believe it applies to prayer. Prayer is a communal activity of the church as a body. It is not a teaching tool, but an opportunity to join together, brothers and sisters alike, to talk to the One who created us. I think men are missing out if they don’t get the chance to hear a woman pray. It’s a daughter talking to her Dad, and it’s a pretty powerful thing. Second, I do not believe it applies when men fail to fulfill their role. The stories of Deborah and Abigail are proof that if men don’t accept their duty, someone else has to. And if it’s a woman, so be it.

things i want.

Trust me, you're going to be so glad that I use this blog as a purging mechanism. Feast your eyes on these beauties:

Any and all clothes from Tulle. (Their Sale section is amazing.)

I need a sleeve for my MacBook. I probably won't be geting this one, but a girl can dream!

I won a vintage chalkboard from this Etsy seller last week, and now I see she has my latest obsession... Vintage numbers!

I know I'm really behind on this trend, but I've wanted one of these Longschamp bags since we went to Newport for our honeymoon. Any idea where I can get a cheap knockoff?

And these shoes... Really, are there any words?

negative nellies.

Print found on Etsy.

When I was younger and girls were mean, I would often count the hours until I could sit on our front porch swing and vent to my mother. We would sit out there for however long it took; sometimes just a few minutes, other nights until dinner was ready. My mom would listen carefully, interjecting with her opinions on the situation. It didn’t take long for my mom to coin a phrase for the people in my life—and hers—who were ruining our days.

Joy robbers.

That’s what she called them. I don’t know where she heard it, or if she came up with it all on her very own, but wherever the phrase originated, it’s stuck with me.

Especially since there always seems to be quite an abundance of joy robbers everywhere I turn.

As I grow older, though, I’m learning that just as we often set our own boundaries, we frequently allow people to rob our joy. Before we know it, the smile on our face, the pleasant memories or feelings of accomplishment floating in our brains and in our hearts have disappeared. Someone took them.

And maybe, just maybe, we let them get away with it. Every day, every minute, every hour our joy is taken, we’ve allowed someone else to control our thoughts. To ruin our days. To get under our skin. To rob us of our joy.

I wonder if we don’t value our joy enough. Maybe we lump it together with happiness. Something that is defined by what we have, what we do, where we are, instead of defining joy as a perpetual gift. A state of being. A gift from the Father. A way of life.

It’s praise instead of pain.

It’s rejoicing over rejection.

It’s finding the rainbow after the storm.

Joy runs deeper. And if we allow it to be taken from us, we’re letting the bad guys win. We’re giving others permission to get inside our heads, to tamper with our testimony.

Perhaps it’s time to stop listening to the noise. To become joy givers, even to those who continually seek to take ours away.

parentals.

Both sets of the Joneses.

Better late than never, I always say.

A huge THANK YOU to Jordan's parents for spending their long 4th of July weekend painting, replacing light fixtures, and fixing leaky toilets. Their handiwork can be seen in some of the "after" shots in previous posts (and in posts to come).

We really couldn't have moved into this new place without the help of our families and friends. We owe you guys big time.

Perhaps a "thank you" cookout is in order... Who wants to help clean up the patio?

no boundaries.

Print from {Etsy}

Do you ever just have one of those days?

The kind where things fall apart.

Where you wonder what exactly it is you do every day.

And why.

Well, I’ve had one of those days.

And as I drove to lunch this afternoon, I found myself thinking:

If I had no boundaries*, what would I do?

And I think I came up with a pretty accurate list.

If I could, I would:

- Live in Italy for six months to a year

- Quit my job and go back to school for my grad degree

- Research, write, and edit stories

- Take a photography class

- Buy fresh fruit and vegetables from the farmer’s market

- Eat gelato every day

- Explore the world of graphic design further

- Re-enter the magazine world, which I miss more than I’d like to admit

- Put flowers in every vase I own

- Learn Italian

- Buy handmade everything

- Write, write, write

- Watch all the movies on my list

- Read, read, read

- Travel cross country

- Use pretty stationery

- Make friends with people who will return my friendship

- Remove from my life those who rob me of my joy

- Find a job where I can do what I really love

- Teach English and the love of reading to someone who needs it

- Say no to the commitments I don't want to make

- Spend more one-on-one time with my Father

In all actuality, I could be accomplishing some of these things right now. And honestly, those that I can't do right now I could easily plan to do in the future. I've got boundaries-- we all do-- but I think we're only bound by what we allow to bind us.

Does that make sense?

Without boundaries and commitments, what would you do? If you thought really hard, could you begin accomplishing those dreams now?

I think I could.

We have the power to make things happen. Why do I so easily forget that?

The boundaries I’m referring to include, but are not limited to: finances, jobs, my husband’s schooling, the apartment we just began renting... The list goes on and on.

lessons in humility.

I think God sometimes teaches us that life isn't about us. 

That He's in control. 

That Father knows best. 

That His timing is perfect. 

Last night, I watched as a friend of mine chose to put on Christ, to become His child. 

Her decision was a culmination of hours of prayer and study, of patience and perseverance by those that love her. It was a joyous moment to share with the Father's family. 

Unfortunately, even in times of great joy and celebration, our Enemy is at work. 

And lately, it seems he has been trying extra hard to get under my skin. 

To invade my thoughts with doubt. 

And selfishness.

And pride. 

And jealousy.

As much it hurts to confess these grotesque thoughts, it feels good and right to get it out.

To purge myself of these thoughts that plague and trip me up. 

To admit that ten years after my own spiritual decision I'm still struggling. I'm imperfect. I'm full of pride and arrogance and all the things that make one ugly.

But I have a Savior. 

And just as my friend is forgiven of her sins each and every time she fails, I too am forgiven of mine. 

Her decision last night was a beautiful reminder that all of my life boils down to one thing: It's not about me. 

This life is not about my words, my works, or even my prayers. 

It's about Him.

It's about what He does with the words He's given me. How He is at work. How He answers my prayers. 

He is responsible for the good. The beautiful. The lovely. The pure. 

The decisions that bring one joy. 

I can't take credit for any of it. Not one little bit. 

Because it's not about me. 

It's about Him. 

And every time I look at the cross, I know it's true. 

And I am forever grateful. 

For His goodness. 

And His grace. 

the master.

Unfortunately, I failed to take before pictures of the master bedroom (hindsight is 20/20). But if you just picture a flesh-colored box with falling closet doors, you'd have it about right.

The breakdown?

Bedroom color: Wish, by Benjamin Moore (these photos don't do it justice!)

White comforter: Target brand, $29.99

Pillows: All Target and Dwell Studio for Target, ranging from $14.99-$24.99

Bedskirt: Wal-mart, $7

Curtains: Thomas O'Brien for Target, $24.99 for both panels

Dress: Goodwill hand-me-down from a friend

Bedside table: My grandmother's

Jordan's bedside table: His mom's

Armoire: Jordan's from his bedroom back home

Print: Letterpress purchased at the HOW Design conference

Bedside lamp: Target

Print of Mary Tyler Moore: Vintage from my aunt

Our bedroom is on the second floor and is burning up (thank goodness for ceiling fans), so a new, lighter comforter for the summer was in order. I'm absolutely thrilled with the space, and even though I don't have the "before" photos to prove it, I promise this was a pretty dramatic transformation!

(And see that blank wall next to the bed? Two 16" x 20" pictures of our trip to Italy will soon be hanging there. I can't wait!)

the kitchen.

May it never be said that the Joneses don't take care of their rentals.

Below, a glimpse into our little kitchen that was. I believe it hadn't been updated since the 70s. Except the wallpaper. Which, believe it or not, was "new." Right.

It's amazing what a few new ceiling tiles, a gallon of paint, and a window treatment will do. Here's the breakdown:

Paint: Buxton Blue by Benjamin Moore (mixed at Lowe's)

Curtains: Waverly fabric, sewn by mi madre

Ceiling tiles: Lowe's, purchased by the homeowner and my parents

Shade: Lowe's, purchased for the previous apartment

Knobs: Lowe's, purchased for the previous apartment

Bottles: Marshalls, $7.50 and $5.50

Print: "Give Us This Day" by Persimmon and Pink (a housewarming gift from my dear friend Amanda)

Would you like another look? I thought so...

Want some more details?

Spice rack: Wedding gift, Macy's

Cookbook holder: Target

Tea Kettle: Wedding gift, Macy's

Canisters: Vintage from my mom

Silver crock: Target

Based on our purchases, I'd say it cost $75 for the total "transformation." And even though we're still renting, this is our home. It needs to look and feel like ours. With the help of friends and family, we're well on our way! What do you think?

a cure for the mondays.

I’ve had a monstrous headache all day. Just call it a 4^th of July weekend hangover.

Keeping in mind that I do not drink.

But I do have a tendency to over-commit myself to the point of nausea.

Anyway, pretty much all that’s getting me through today is a) this can of Coke, and b) Regina Spektor.

Hers is the first CD I’ve bought in ages (thank you, Jordan, for working this summer), and it was worth every penny.

Go get it.

And, if you’re looking for other recommendations, these artists are currently atop my list of iTunes-I-need-to-purchase-now: Camera Obscura, Belle and Sebastian, Adele, and She & Him.

Enjoy. And be on the lookout for a weekend update/before and after pictures of the new place.

Happy Monday!

if only.

Lately, I find myself wondering what life would be like if I didn’t care about my home.

Maybe I wouldn’t mind if the toilet leaked and put big, brown, threatening stains in the ceiling.

Maybe I wouldn’t demand so much of my useless maintenance man.

Maybe I wouldn’t spend hundreds of dollars at Lowe’s and Target trying to make it perfect.

Maybe I wouldn’t browse the internet looking for the perfect headboard/bedroom art/ DIY project.

Maybe wires sticking out from the TV wouldn’t bug me.

Maybe leaky faucets and swinging screen doors would have zero effect on my blood pressure.

Maybe vintage ovens that cook so s-l-o-w would just make me grin.

Maybe I’d have time to shop for new clothes or shoes or bags.

Maybe I’d go on vacation and not make a list of things to do when I got back.

Maybe books would go unshelved and studies would remain unstudious.

Maybe my back wouldn’t be sore.

Maybe mirrors would hang where they were supposed to, and if they didn’t, I wouldn’t notice.

Maybe I wouldn’t stub my toes or step on something sticky or cry out in frustration.

Maybe, though, just maybe…

I’d be bored.

{pictures of home renovations to come}