Love Is All You Need

I bought this excellent LOVE poster from the Etsy shop, Made By Girl, last year. I’m a sucker for graphic prints and it was a steal, on sale for ten bucks. I chose this color – “Watermelon” – because it’s a cheerful pop of pink on our neutral walls; plus, I love it’s summery name. The poster is a sweet reminder that, while our apartment might be teensy, it’s filled with l-o-v-e.


Love You, Dad

Words cannot express how deeply I love this shot of my mom and dad. (Same thing goes for the two incredible people in it.)

It was taken in 1976, before they were spouses or parents or homeowners. I love their goofiness (totally inherited some of that). Their proto-hipster cool. Their closeness.

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Pretty Pink Peonies

Peonies are my favorite flowers for so many reasons: their fat, multi-petaled blooms, papery texture and perfume-y fragrance.

I really wanted peonies in my bridal bouquet but the florist said they might not be available by mid-April. I was so excited when she phoned and said she’d be able to get a few pink ones in time for our wedding. I splurged on a bouquet of pink blooms last week and love the way they pretty up the kitchen and make me smile every time I walk into the room.

My Feet Hurt!

Nothing tops spring and its long days, humidity-free warmth and alfresco dining.

Something I’m definitely not loving about spring right now, though, are my blistered, achy feet. My flats cause blisters herehereandhere while my sandals cause blisters therethereandthere, leaving the entire surface area of both feet swollen and bloodied. Ouch!

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Open Kitchen Shelving

Y’know those apartments that are spacious, located in the heart of a hip neighbourhood, have hardwood floors and tons of natural light, plus a cheap rental rate?

That’s the type of place Dave and I live in and it’s great. We love it. We’d raise a family here if it didn’t mean that our children would sleep in an uninsulated office off the kitchen. Not exactly ideal conditions for a kid’s bedroom.

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Essie’s “Poppy Razzi” Spring Collection

I still remember my first manicure. I was 10 years old and my mother took me to a salon on Wyandotte Street in Windsor on one of her weekly Saturday visits.

“How much is a child’s manicure?” she asked the receptionist, whose manicure was mesmerizing: Each fingernail depicted a Hawaiian sunset with a palm tree in the foreground.

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