swoon

I know it's cliche' these days to make over Anthropologie like they rule the world, but folks, I think I could drop dead in that shop and die a happy woman.

please check your stress at the door

I've been running from stress this week. In my mind stress looks like my third grade teacher, Mrs. Nexdorf. Backcombed beehive and polyester slacks. Liver spots and rigid spine. Oh, how I despised that woman.

She's dead now, but she still haunts me in times of stress. She digs her pointy fingernails into my shoulders and stands on my chest when I try to sleep. These past few days she has had me firmly by the hair. She is pulling, and I am trying to run, and it is causing a terrific headache.

I sat, criss-cross applesauce, on the floor of the nursery. The morning sun shone in. and I tried some deep breathing. I starred at the sharp shadow the shutters cast on the wall. Finn sat by my side, eyebrows twitching, tail waging, expecting something to happen. And, after a time, I knew what had to be done.

Mrs. Nexdorf isn't allowed in Anthropologie. The beauty of it makes her burst into flames.

And I needed a new hat.