Confessions

From left to right, the story of our home given to us by the prior owners, turn of the century love poems which were rolled inside of our rings and passed around a circle to be blessed by each of our guests during our wedding, a drawing given to me from M, a photo of Andrew and I, a photo of my brother next to a portrait of Dali, a note from my best friend's mother, a pressed flower from my father's funeral.

So tonight I'm sitting in our completely war torn and freshly painted Office (there WILL be an explanation soon since I know you're thinking, Whoa, you just finished that room, didn't you?), and I'm reading yet another email asking about our wall of frames. First of all, these are the kinds of stunts that you should be used to by now, things like me throwing up scribbled hands and piles of poetry and offering up little in the way of descriptions beyond vague threats to replace them with mirrored ceilings. Secondly, if you're emailing me to ask an opinion about your wall hanging and you purchased it from a section in a department store labeled Housewares or Home Decor or Artwork I will tell you that the most important thing is that it offers you joy and inspiration or that it holds some sort of meaning or symbolism that is sacred enough for you to look at each and every day. That's what I'll respond with. And I'll mean it. But what I'll WANT to write is that you might as well slap an unframed New Kids On The Block poster above your bed, because let's be honest, there's not really a difference.