...

Toe to Toe, Heel to Heal.

My very Lady Like new shoes.
Kate Spade Leslie Heel.

I did something bad...

I said sheepishly, holding up the shopping bag that now carried my new pair of Italian crafted, gold heeled pumps. These are shoes I have no business buying, but did so anyway.

He laughed.

You know, I think that if you see a pair of shoes you want, you should have them. 

I mean that. 

This time I laughed.

I'm going to remind you of that later, when I fall madly in love with a pair of twelve hundred dollar Swarovski encrusted Louboutins.

The next day, we are stopped at a gas station and I am about to run in and get some essentials.
Jim hands me his Visa and tells me to 'Get him a soda and whatever it was I was going to grab...' 
I pop out of the car, and just as I'm shutting the door behind me I hear, in feigned panic,

'They don't sell Louboutins in there do they?!?'

Sometimes I admit, these days, I do feel a bit like Cinderella.

My Malibu Bad Ass.

A good friend can talk you off any ledge, 

even if its just a sidewalk's. 

Soooo... I accidentally stumbled across some ancient facebook fodder on an old picture, between my boyfriend and his ex. It was a surprise, to see this mystery woman's face for the first time, and to get tangible (or at least, sort of tangible) evidence of what I already knew was, at some point,real.

So a little shaken and a lot in need of someone to remind me that it is just an old (old old) post on the 'book, I rang my Malibu (by way of Long Beach and sometimes Denver) Bad Ass.

Hi. What are you doing?

Uuuuhhh... Watching Gossip Girl.

Oh... Well, I came across ---yaddayadda--- and need you to remind me that it's nothing, over a year old and that Jim loves me.

And without skipping a beat, she replied,

It's nothing. Its over a year old. And Jim loves you. Jeez. The man can't keep his eyes off you. If he wanted to be with her, he would. But he doesn't. He's with you. Stop looking at it.

And just like that, I felt better. 

And just like that, the conversation veered away from shaken, and towards scored Michael Kors booties and photo shoots. 

Not that I was worried or anything, I was just... Surprised.

Funny, what I took away from the entire half an hour, was less about running into uninvited words and more about how good it feels to have Good Friends. 

So, off the ledge of that sidewalk I walked, and instead hopped into the shower to restart my day.

Out With the Old & In With the New.

'I can think of ten different times, just on the drive home, that I thought... I should pinch myself. What we have... You and I...'  

He trailed off, once we were home from our (ammmahzing) retreat to Central California.

I spent yesterday reorganizing the minutiae of the house; the things that I hadn't dared touch because this was Jim's Place. I had gotten flustered a few days ago, because yes - I decorated this space & I have drawers in the dresser and a whole side of the closet, but still -  underneath the surface, it did still feel like His. 

So, I started with the bathroom cabinets - the medicine cabinet & the drawers - under the guise of 'Well he uses my face stuff as much, if not more, than I do, so I'm just going to organize.' 

I'll just be right here. I don't want to 'disturb' anything.

I had been (self)relegated to a single drawer while the rest of them where poorly dispersed with dermologica samples and random combs. So, once I was done, and my nail polishes were organized in the medicine cabinet right along next to his hair mud or whatever its called, and he came home, I gave him a tour. 

He loved the organization of it - I may or may not have made some labels - and when we got to the medicine cabinets, my Essies and my Sally Hansens standing proud next to his nose hair trimmer, he smiled and said,

I like that our stuff is together now. 

Later, on the patio, I explained to him exactly what I'm explaining to you - the realization that even though I've been living here for months essentially, I have been walking on eggshells regarding his stuff. His cabinets are his cabinets, his drawers are his, and I don't want to... I don't even know... Be nosy? Cross the Line?

But he stopped me, and said,

No more eggshells. I want this to be Ours. Rearrange and organize all you want, it's your home too. I want it to be that way. It's not even that things will really change all that much, I'm just happy it will be more, I dunno... Official. I'm just happy that its Ours.

So, the following day, I took to editing, well, everything.
The pantry, the pots and pans, the drawer arrangement, the linen closet, the fridge.
To just organize them in a way that makes sense to me, that creates order and simply improve upon them. And, in doing that, I got to know the nooks and crannies that I had been trying not to pry upon; the weird mismatched sheets, the expired and unopened Juice Plus bottles.
I threw things out, folded them better, hung them up.
And its nice, because it gives me a better understanding of what is here and what is ours. What spices we have, what we're running low on. I gives me a greater sense of home, and of control, and of shared space.
Yesterday started with me, cross legged on the kitchen floor, iPad in hand - googling the differences between the 16 sauce pans in his cupboard and ended with the two of us eating Snickerdoodles in bed while watching Downton Abbey.
In between that, after being given the okay to toss things without worry, THIS happened too.
I know it may not seem like a big deal, the idea that underneath the surface it was all still his and my having the go ahead to change it, but it is a big deal to me.
That I didn't have to stare at the eleven jars of jalapenos anymore, or the drawer filled with toiletries lifted from various hotel rooms (oh you know you do it too). Sometimes I am so afraid over overstepping boundaries, or the idea that I've meddled too far or I don't know...
But it felt really good to know that I have free rein in our home together.
Or to quote Downton Abbey, I'm the Lady of the House.

You see, I've always been a good Homemaker, I know this. 

In my past relationship, that was the only thing I felt like was valued. 

I can cook and mend, and clean and entertain. 

I made sure that the Ex's friends all had cold beers during the game.

But to be fully accepted within that home, to be wholly loved and appreciated, to be told I'm smart, to be told I'm funny, to be told I'm beautiful all wrapped together with a look of sheer Love, is not something I've had since I was child. 

I show him the cabinets and that is all well and good, he's glad that I switched where the forks are kept, because we both - for months - have gone for the wrong drawer, and he's thrilled. 

But to follow that up with a dinner where he laughs at all my jokes and listens when I interrupt him, and tells me that he hopes that I always steal food from his plates and looks at me as though he's about to burst into an explosion of pure happiness, rainbows and all, is a new feeling for me. 

We took my eighteen year old cousin to dinner after her first week of college (actually, she is the first of my family to meet Jim) and to have him be so present at dinner, so engaging with my little cousin; to be so honestly interested in her syllabus and her yoga class, that was new to me. 

To be on the phone with my dad, and have him say,

'Well, your boyfriend sounds like a good Man. I look forward to meeting him.'

This is all new to me.

How odd is it, that for me, being in a relationship with a man who educates himself daily, and has an open mind and a warm heart is a new thing? 

That we can go to dinner, and I can spend the meal making him laugh with funny voices and silly quips, and then we can come home and just be. That we can spend ten hours in the car - switching from the Pandora station from stand up comedy to the audio book we bought to NPR and back to comedy. 

Talking and not talking for hours.

To be loved by a man not for what he wants me to be, but for who I am. 

This is all a new to me.

Back to the Future (Statements).

'Babe, we should
do that sometime.'
Yeeeeeahhh. Riiiight.

My disdain for 'Future Statements' in dating goes back... Well, really far.
How much Goldi and I hated those 'We should go _____ sometime' and 'When you meet __________' that men so casually throw around. They're just talking, and we're stuck overthinking.
We learned, like most women do, that such statements did not necessarily mean anything, and reading into 'what' was meant (boyfriendom? marriage? babies? forever sealed by the Mormon church?) by such statements was a waste of time and energy, and simply just a thought said outloud.
Nothing more.
For the most part, at least.

Jump forward - well, actually backward - to Jim and I sitting on the patio a few months ago, talking about the Hearst Castle.
We are not at this point even 'Exclusive', though we are, and he casually mentions 'We should go sometime.'
And my brain does what it's natural inclination is to do: Oh... 'We should go sometime' means he sees a future with me. A future with mini breaks. Boyfriendom. Marriage. Who will be my bridesmaides? Will peonies be overplayed by then, or still in style? Will I wear winter white or more of a soft, cream white? 
And then, as I'd trained myself to do, I reminded my uterus to stop being crazy.

Don't be insane, uterus. We're just having a casual conversation here. Go back about your business as usual.

Or at least, I didn't read too much into it.

Do these glasses make my Lady Parts look smarter?

Yep. Just like that.

However - and I have a feeling you can guess where this is going - however, Jim is not like other men I've dated. I know this because when I pulled up my lace shorts far over my belly button last night, and danced around the patio like an old timey boxer doing my best 'rolling fisticuffs + Clint Eastwood snarl' he still liked me. He laughed and maybe even still thought I was sexy. Maybe. Probably not. 
I also know Jim is not like other men I've dated because, well many reasons, but for the purpose of this post,  I know this because guess where we are going this weekend?!
Yes. Exactly where he said we'd go. (Shut it, uterus.)

See: Hearst Castle. 
See: Boutique Hotel on the Central Coast. 
See: Boyfriendom. 
See: Mini Breaks.

See: Shit. I have to pack.

'Autumnal' is One of My Favorite Words.

With happiness comes a certain level of monotony, I suppose.
This past week, I have been a happy girl - going about my day to day business of work & boy & friends without much thought. Well, thats not true, entirely. But when most of my thoughts include the following: 'how to make the most space useful out of our closet', 'what handbag do I get for Fall', 'what do I need for Fall', 'what kind of tile to put in the bathroom' & 'what day does the housekeeper come again?' it doesn't make for any sort of inspired blogposts.
So, in an attempt to do something creative (other than reorganizing my closet), here I am.
Type type typing.

Fall. It may be August, and 82 degrees out, but it is Fall in zee world of fashion.
And I'm ready for it. Elle Fashion Issue beside me, new aesthetic of new job slowly but surely creeping into my fashion psyche via osmosis, and a month of working with the same dozen pieces of a my closet while staying at Jim's, I'm ready for a new season, this one being more Gainsbourg's muse and less Rebel Ballerina than ever before. Its funny; clothing to me, getting dressed in the morning has always been like a costume change in the middle of the off-Broadway production of my life: I dress for the scene.
The Rebel Ballerina was rebelling against the Ex; she was not 'like everyone else' like he wanted - she was angry and happy and romantic and guarded. Now, appropriately, with a newish job guiding my eye, and a boyfriend who celebrates my creatively & intelligence, my dress has begun to reflect that. (That and probably my obsession with Meghan on Mad Men.)
Okay, enough windbagging, here is my Wish List for Fall. (Hel-lo it's called 'Style' and SR, right?!)

1. Pants.
I haaaaaaaaaaaaaaate jeans. I own three pairs: one white, one high waist denim & one floral pair for kicks and giggles. I am very very very excited about Pants being on this list. I know, it sounds weird, but we're not juuuuuust taking about pants. We're talking about Pants. Capital P. I already have a pair en route from wardrobing at work; high waisted navy silk, with tiny silver polka dots. Nipped in at the ankle, slightly pleated at the waist, I want to pair them with black pumps and a silk shell. Also, I love polka dots right now.

2. According to Elle, I need a leather shift dress. Perfect. I have one I've never worn and love very much.

Done.
Enough of a numerical list, it's too much pressure.
Also, on my list:
A folio clutch.
A lady like croc-embossed Doctor's bag.
The new Cat Eye sunglasses.
Other than that, I'm focusing on finding a tile to redo the bathroom with.
And a good way to maximize space in the closet.

Rough draft of closet interior.
This is what I do now.

Oh, all that ...And sending in my thirty day notice on my Tiny Room with a Kitchen Attached.

Connect Me To My Dear Friend, Charlie, Post Haste.

My dearest Little Sister,
I apologize for recommending that you find - and I quote - 

'Creative outlet... Like I did with Pinterest'. 

That was... Well, weird for one. And smug for two.
You're only 27. You don't have to have anything figured out. I swear. 
And as for the shit you are figuring out? You're doing a fine job at it.

You are!
Every time you laugh,
a fairy gets it's wings.

Better than fine. 
Hell, I'm thirty and I still say things like, 'Find a creative outlet like I did with Pinterest.'
(And I talk about it like it's a real thing; as though I've joined some existential MENSA book club. 
I had to spell check the word existential, forgodssakes.)
You know what advice I do have?
It's not even mine, but it made me feel better when I received it.
Last Autumn, when I was feeling entirely out of control, and having ups and downs like the Colorado Rockies have mountains, I went as far to write asking for the advice of advice guru E. Jean, of ELLE Magazine.
I'm not sure if I ever told anyone I did it, but I love her, and felt... Helpless at the time.
It was a mess of a letter, more personal than I ever had been to anyone with my name attached, but...
She wrote back. 
(And, I cried.)
And no, it's not the exact.same.situation, but her words are golden, and more eloquent than mine can be at times
(see: above comment from a-hole big sister).
Here is her response.
And It's damn good advice.
And it helped me.
A lot. 
And you're already doing it now, and that's the best you can do.

Miss D! Miss D! Miss D!

*Pretend she's saying your name, okay?

You are so clever and marvelous and talented---- 

You DON'T HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING. 

JUST one tiny thing every day. 

One piece of mail, for instance..... 

Try it!
Tiny
Tiny
Tiny! 

Ravishing regards,
E. Jean

Gawd, she's amazing.
And more importantly, so are you.
You will land on your feet, I swear - whether it be during a charity marathon or a leisurely stroll. 
I promise.
And, I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere.

Kid, I've got your back.

I love you.
More than Pinterest.

The Lies We Tell Ourselves.

Text to Bijou:

Everytime I find myself looking at wedding shit on pinterest I fight to urge to shout, to no one in particular,

I swear, I'm just holding it for a friend!

Five Stars: A Recipe for a Perfect Weekend.

2 bunches, Tuberose and lillies purchased by the boyfriend on Thursday.
1 Housekeeper on Friday.
Generous amount of coffee, to taste.
1/2 jar, William's Sonoma Belgium Waffle Mix
2 tickets, Laguna Beach's Sawdust Festival for Saturday.
2 albums, recommend Nico's Chelsea Girl & Passion Pit's Gossamer (substitutions accepted)
2 tickets and a parking pass to Sigur Ros at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery for Sunday. (here)
2 servings each, prosciutto, salami, goat cheese & apricot preserves, crackers, balsamic marinated mozzarella, fresh basil, cashews, grapes, cut strawberries and a baguette separated into two large tupperware containers, with individual ingredients separated as necessary. (see: below)

The most uptight picnic ever.
Hell, no one's ever accused me of being
Easy Going. 

2 perfect margaritas*, served over ice in never been used Vera Wang hi ball tumblers.

*For Margaritas: 2 parts Patron Silver, 

1 part Rose's Sweet Lime Juice, 1 part contreau. Fresh cut limes to taste. 

Salt as desired.

Sprinkle all ingredients generously with the feeling of having all the time in the world.

I had the weekend off.
A weekend off, for No Reason other than it was a weekend.
A weekend to Be.
To buy art for the living room.
To listen to music.

To discover that, yes, I have in fact finally found a man that will dress up as Richie Tennenbaum to my Margot.
To do my hair and to be told I'm beautiful.
To learn that a Lazy Sunday is preferential to a Sunday Funday.
To make bad jokes and to sing unabashedly in the car.

To sit quietly on Pinterest, every once and a while calling him over to look at things of interest.
To just Be Together.

A weekend that makes you want for as many ways to say the word 'Love' as the Inuit have for 'Snow'.

I love him like fifty six words for snow.

The Big One. (or, Feels Like EarthQuake Weather).

You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack You may find yourself in another part of the world You may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile You may find yourself in a beautiful house with a beautiful wife You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?  

(that Talking Heads song you know you know the words to but not the name of.)

Them Heads really know how to Talk.

People like to ask in regards to any life altering moment,

When do you think it will hit you? When do you think it with settle in that (this) has happened?

With losing job, or gaining a boyfriend, or whatever I've always, in my adult life, answered,

I don't. I think that with most things, 'It' never hits you. It just comes to be, and then after time, you realize that things have changed - that It just Is. 

Things just become the way they are.
I still believe this.
I cannot pinpoint the exact moment I fell in love with Jim. It never hit me, justlikethat. Somewhere between 'This is Something' and 'I Love You', it simply became This Is Everything.
It was was, and is, and should be.
But tonight, sitting on "our" patio, looking in from the outside (quite literally - as I was peering into the front windows from the outside, at our new tuberose bouquet, at our light fixtures, at my Not My House Home), I realized that this is How It Is. That Home is my Home. My home is our house. His house is my Home.
How Did I Get Here?
I found myself thinking,

Gawd, if I could have only known.

And, I know, that like with anything, with everything, I may be peering right back into my own Tiny Room with a Kitchen Attached in three months time thinking the exact same thought.
But I hope, with all my heart, I am not*.

*Unless it's when a U-Haul is parked outside with its hazards on

 and I am packing my shit into it and 

getting the hell out of that Safe House of a studio apartment.

I never fell for the when-you-know-you-know BS. 

I spent a loooooooottttttttt of time ducking those proverbial hits. 

It took learning about Me to be able to be open and honest and loving enough to fall for someone without everything else that used to be attached to falling at all.

I was so fearful of hitting something I couldn't even walk to the ledge for fear of falling. 

'Fearful' is not the right word. 

'Afraid' is better. 

Like being afraid to speak, or to be a grown up, or any other of the Fears I've had.

For the most part, they've dissipated. 

I drink less. I smile more. 

I believe him when he tells me, earnestly, that everything will be okay.

Even when I know that in life, there is no assurance of that.

Apt F taught me that I am lovable.

Or in his words, 'I love you even though you're crazy'. 

Apt F also taught me that I don't want to - nor do I (or you or anyone else) deserve - such a caveat.

My Dutchman taught me that I am lovable, if only for a second. 

Lovable, even with only a glimpse. A spark. A sparkle.

My Ex of Five Years taught me I can accept a loving man, a loving family, and with maturity and age, be a devoted wife  er girlfriend. 

Actually, I mentioned to someone yesterday that I had moved in with a boy after three months at age 23 and we were together for five years and her response was,

Oh. Man. You probably thought you were going to marry him.

I did. 

In my head, I was. 

My Australian gave me own glimpse. 

A glimpse into a Whole New Woooooorrrrlllldddddd of adult dating.

So peering into my own window tonight, like Tiny Tim did in A Christmas Carol, and thinking How Did I Get Here like the Talking Heads... It Hit Me: I got here by knowing I deserve to be here. 

And, Itoldyaso, It didn't Hit. It just Is.

Man oh man, I deserve this Love. 

I deserve a Love Like This.

I want this Love. 

How good did it felt to say,
'Dad, He really Loves me.'

And its been a learning process, an imperfect process. 

But with all I've learnt, and all my imperfections, at this moment, 

Everything is perfect.

Perfect. 

Perfection with no end date, no transcontinental upstairs neighbor captain of the basketball team mumbojumbo to deal with.

I've learned that I deserve This Kind of Love.

And I believe I give it right back in return. Fuck, I sure hope I do.

And when, two nights ago, I was catatonic with stress, and nothing was perfect, and I was laying quiet and still on the couch trying to breathe - fearful of the Mail, for lack of a better explanation - when two nights ago, he gingerly crawled behind me, squeezed himself between my body and the couchback, and simply just held me as tightly as humanly possible - without saying a word, just gripping me tightly, as though I may fly away if he didn't; then, I was only reassured of what Is.

Or, as my dearest Flame put it, I Willed This Love.

It never Hit me, because It with Us always Was.

This is It.

Caveat: Or at least I sure hope so. 

Otherwise, I have no sense of anything and should be diagnosed as delusional and/or lick my finger and stick it in the wind prior to making any decision because the wind would be as equally as good of a indicator as my own sense of direction. And I'll be real sad.

Parental Meeting 101.

Stay away from sex, religion & politics.
And - ya know - probably save my vintage leather dress for another occasion.

Never Ever Will I Ever.

You will find that it is necessary to let things go; simply for the reason that they are heavy.

C. JoyBell C.

I want to write but I have been up since eight this morning and for some reason my eyes won't focus or even all the way open even though I am on my third cup of coffee.

Lids heavy, I'm perched on the couch, mentally and physically exhausted. 

I've tried caffeine. Sugar. A bagel. String cheese. I can't wake up. 

I want to make you laugh, I want to make you think, I want to put something on the page that will make me feel better. Not that I feel bad, I just feel. Happy, sad, stressed, tired.

Last night, after explaining my thoughts to Jim on realizing that part of growing up is moving on, and that part of moving on is change, and that parts of change can be uncomfortable or different, he complimented my ability to wholly think about a situation, and articulate it, and to express it. God, I love this man.

See, I've made so many declarative statements in the past few years.

See: I'll never move in with someone again! Unless we're engaged.  

See: I'll never give up My Life for a man again!

See: I'll never let someone in enough to change my life for them. 

Okay, maybe I never said that last one directly, but I surely thought it, however indirectly.

(Okay, maybe the sugar from the Capri Sun I just drank is kicking in.) Now, don't misunderstand; I have not technically moved in with the man, but I am here now, as he is work. I have been here for weeks, at this point barely going home once a week (more like once a month). We went back to my tiny town yesterday as I finally had a weekend day off and I didn't even grab the key to my own apartment (subconsciously, I suppose). 

We brunched and beached with my friends, and there in my tiny town, I realized that things have changed. 

I have changed. 

People also out and about noticed I have not been 'around', and people asked 'where have you been?' But there, boyfriend and besties in tow, I felt separate from what was once My Town. My Niche. My Home.

Even with Goldi and Beauty; things were different. They've had a whole summer there; whereas I've been working and less mobile than summers past, and I have been with Jim. And, I have been beating myself up for feeling as though I have eschewed my friendships for a boy after everything that happened with the Ex of 5 Years (who I saw, albeit so briefly through a doorway, yesterday) I need to realize that that is not the case.  I'm allowed to Grow Up.

My friends are wonderful, and they know me better than anyone else, but there is nothing wrong with growing out of that Tiny Town. That a move towards a partnership with Jim, a move to a job with different hours and locale, a move towards a more comfortable existence, is not eschewing my friendships for boy. Granted I'm not perfect, I've never claimed to be, but even if my balance is not exact, the change and the awareness of the change are almost as important. But, I have to let go of this thought that change is in inherently negative, or that I'm doing it to the detriment of other things, or wrong altogether.

It's growing up. Its moving forward. 

I'm not 'choosing' my boyfriend over my friends; I have to let that idea/fear go.

I'm choosing to be forward moving over my own propensity towards stagnation. 

Growing up an moving on and outgrowing and moving forward are all Good Things. 

Goldi and I may not talk forty times a day like we used to, Beauty and I may not spend every Sunday sitting on a sun soaked patio sipping champagne anymore, but that doesn't mean that something is awry. It just means that we are growing up. That's all Goldi and I wanted when we formed our Classy Pact; we wanted to become Adults. I did feel a little, for lack of a better phrase, left out yesterday, but I do believe that was more of my own insecurities' creation, and less of an actual thing. I have to remember that I can have both; a healthy relationship as well as many friendships. And that I am complete because I have both. And that I don't have to be 100% submerged in either for them to work. Because....

I have to realize that, like people and relationships, friendships change too. 

And that's okay. 

Its okay that I don't lean on Goldi as a psuedoboyfriend anymore. 

Or the F for that matter. 

My friends are growing and changing and I am too. 

And I have to remember that, and not beat myself up over not being entrenched in my Tiny Town. 

Its okay that I have faux-moved to suburbia. 

Its okay that one day, I may even really move to suburbia. 

It's okay that I may go back on my own words. 

I forgive myself for that. 

I sound like Stuart Smallies.

Because, it's not the same as it was before; I said that far reaching 'Never Ever Again!' statement in direct reference to my relationship of five years. When I should have been saying, 'I will never make the same mistake again' I was instead making far reaching statements like, 'I'll never do A, B or C again!' 

But Jim is not Liam. I am not 23. I have done the 'research' this time (a la the list, paper planes, dating, making up and breaking up, knowing what I want and need) and with everything I have learned in the last plus or minus seven years, I believe that being with Jim is the best decision I can possibly make when it comes to finding a partner for life. 

To grow up with, to (hopefully) grow old with. 

For God's Sake, this is the first man in my entire adult life I can truly see as a husband. 

In the 'when you find it you'll know' sense that I have for so long doubted.

I believe that sitting on this couch, type type typing away while trying to wake up is the best possible place for me to be.

Conversely, I also saw my newly-wed Flame Haired Favorite, and not a beat was skipped. It was so good to see her and her husband, and know that they too are proud of my steps forward, as well as their own. Never do I doubt how she will accept a faux move, or make me feel like I've somehow made a choice of B over A. Not that Goldi or Beauty do either, but I perhaps just feel more sensitive about that with them. 

My girlfriends all know me so well, in different ways. And, as elementary as it may sound, each friend I have serves a different purpose, each woman is a separate sounding board.  And each relationship is always changing, growing and evolving. That isn't a necessarily a bad thing, nor is it something to fear. 

Or beat myself up over. 

I just have to accept that I am changing. 

We are changing. 

Things change.

And I have to remind myself that that is okay.

That is a good thing. 

I want to move. Now there's a declarative sentence for ya.

Out of my tiny Roanoke apartment and into the place I now call Home.

Even though I said I never would again. 

Even though I haven't been asked to.

I want to really come Home.

An Oprah Moment.

Full Disclosure.

The MMM hasn't a mustache any more.
Nor does he drive an M series, its something else by Beamer, an 'S' series something.
Though, he's still a bit mysterious.
So, the MMM isn't really fitting, now is it?
His name is Jim.

My Not My House Home.

So, I'm lounging here, with hot coffee in a mug and Bon Iver playing on my itunes, reading recaps and pinning pins, and I feel so... Comfortable.
I'm at home. Even though it is not technically mine, I would much rather be here, with a couch and a bed, and the energy that has built up in this newish condo in suburban Irvine between me and M. Here, we are happy.
Here, we lounge watching Our Shows, with Our Cats, and Our Vera Wang hi ball tumblers that we found at Home Goods together for $4 a piece. Here, we has quite literally created a space that is just that, Ours.
And though we have not been together long, and though I still (and will) have my own place far away at the beach, this space have become a combination of both our tastes.
Modern and new, mixed with vintage and old. The whimsy of a boy who spent some time in college staring at lava lamps and listening to Jimi Handrix, with the hints of a girl with likes to decorate with books and flowers, and has done so since college. I mean it's his place, so it is reflective of both his grown up tastes (that light fixture, dark woods) & and his boyish good nature (Math Art! Lime Green! Psuedopsychedelic prints), but its come together well.

Remember his old place?
When I walked in, and thought 'This guy needs a girlfriend.'
Well... He has one now.
This is my Not My House Home.
And I love it.
So, I snapped some pictures. Bear in mind, I'm in Irvine.
And its not done.
And I am no magician.
I arrived at a shell: a couch, a coffee table and a dining room table.
Oh, and a God awful brass light fixture over the dining room table.
We've done everything as a team, together.
Next up: the closet and then the bathroom.
Though, I did ask if he still wanted to do his orginal (teal/Casbah-inspired) idea for the bathroom last night and he looked at me and sweetly said, 'No. Do whatever you want.'

The Living Room (I originally wrote: The Loving Room, which was a mistake, but Hmmm...)

Mug, coffee filled.
Pillows, Restoration Hardware.
Shelf, Ikea - with findings from life, Ikea, Anthro.
Wine crate, gift from my old shop.
One of my favorite things ever.

Coffee Table book purchased on our way home from Palm Springs,
at the James Perse outlet.
It is not, in fact, by James Perse but only
JP-Approved.
Kate Spade 5 Burroughs coaster.

Why yes, that is a First Edition book of Poems.
Yes, M has read them aloud to me.

Over the Fireplace.

Behind the front door.
This is the sconce that prompted the balance conversation.
Anthro, for like thirty two bucks.

Vintage Bar Cart, also from the old shop.
Now serving as a valet stand & bookcase by the front door.
Yes, I have moved some of my furniture in.

Dining Area.

He gets flowers every weekend while I am at work.
The checkers always ask if he is trying to 'get out of the doghouse?'
'No, I just like fresh flowers...'

Dining area. That light fixture is what started it all.
Yes, those are 'Math' paintings.
Left to his own devices on Etsy.

Bedroom.

Kat Moss' new digs.
Johnathon Adler lamps.
(We have since moved the picture up about five inches.)

So its colorful, its a little irreverent (?)
...and it finally feels like people live here.
Because, they do.
Happily.
With two cats.