Since I've been working from home, I have delighted in taking advantage of my new schedule flexibility to do fun/boring things like: a) stare at all of my plants every morning for longer than is probably normal, followed by the neurotic deadheading of spent flowers; b) attend several of the many estate sales whose hours are super-random (1:00 - 4:00, Thursday only!!! (half-off on Sunday 10 am!!!)); and c) arrive at Lowe's early enough to beat the old ladies who like to fight dirty for the $5.00 ferns.
Plants. Coffee cup. Flowers. Sun. Check. PS. That is my kitchen table that now lives on my patio. It's also where knock-off mid-century furniture goes when I kick it out of my house. My plants again. I have a little problem with loving them, y'all.
When my mother was growing up in Bogalusa, Louisiana -- shout-out to the Bog! -- one of the street corners was home to a (crazy, but awesome) person named "Vic," who always wanted you to look at his new shoes, or whatever. Vic was obsessed with whatever new item he had acquired, and would stare at it incessantly until you noticed him, at which time he would call attention to the item. Like so:
"Hey, you seen my new shoes? I got new shoes. Hey, look at my shoes. New shoes. My shoes. They're pretty nice, huh? Hey, look at my shoes."
And so forth.
Well, this Vic can't stop looking at her new plants. "Hey, look at my plants. I got new plants. Look at 'em. They're pretty. I got new plants. Look. There's petunias. Look. I got new plants. There's some herbs. Look."
DON'T YOU SEE MY NEW PLANTS?
So, basically everything you see above came from a Monroe estate sale. The shells. The driftwood. The jars. The mirror. The person in the mirror. Just kidding. I sprung fully-formed from Kelly Wearstler's turban.
One day last week, my mother decided she didn't want some topiaries she had at her house anymore, and called me on the phone to say, "I don't want these topiaries anymore. I've put these topiaries in your yard." And so she had. I think they look pretty great with my five-dollar ferns back there. Y'all don't be jealous that I am a fern bargain-hunter.
In other news, my bestie Cher had a baby, and she brought him over the other night so that I could HOLD HIM FOREVER.
Oh, Jude. I took this picture of you and your hair while you were asleep on my sofa, and one day fifteen years from now I will embarrass you with it.
And finally, in blog housekeeping news: Although I am still available for online and/or in-person consultation, I can no longer accept advice column requests. I am sorry, y'all, but I am in the weeds. If I haven't answered you, please don't feel bad -- I will make it up to you somehow.
Vic wants you to look at that cute baby.