lay off me, i've been nesting.

So I've finally managed to lay off the lazy sauce long enough to upload some picturess. And by lazy sauce I mean I've been nonstop reading every chance I get. It's summer, what else should I be doing?

 I BOUGHT THE COUCH. After three visits it was just getting pathetic, so I finally made my move. We couldn't be happier together. Talk about a harmonious relationship. I know I've been hyping it up like crazy, but eat your heart out.

This is where the couch lives now. In my bedroom. Someday I'll have an impressive domicile in which I'll display this impressive-ass couch in a way that will do it justice. Mark my words.

I'm going to go ahead and apologize now for taking all of these pictures on my phone and also for thinking I was cool enough to use the Hipstamatic app. Everything looks better with angles and weird lenses, right? Whatever. That's how it is and I can't help it.

Antique luxury meets college dorm crate style. I'd prefer to be called a visionary.

Still in the store. A diamond in the rough.

This is a close-up of the fabric. I'm really psyched on having a patterned couch and I feel like it's not too loud to go out of style. Basic pattern. classic. Plus it's like sitting on a cloud.

Not a blemish or loose string to speak of. Perfect upholstery job. This is the stuff that sets my pulse racing. I'm one of a kind.

The other day we were in the car and Manfriend jokingly asked, "So are you going to let people eat or drink on the couch?"


This is seriously not a laughing matter for me.


My reply was simple and dead serious "Clear liquids only."


And no sticky-ass fingers either.

Bitch, I'm crazy. I'll cut you. Spill/smear/stain ANYTHING on my couch and I will end your motherfucking life. That's a promise.



All of my shit needed to get off the kitchen table and into the walls, we'll see if I still like the placement in a few days. This stuff is currently hanging over The Couch.  


Anyway, now that I have a couch to decorate my entire life around, I'm really antsy to get on with it. Which is why being anything less than obscenely rich is really annoying. I'm not kidding I almost had a meltdown in the car last week over the fact that I can't afford everything I have ideas for.  Which is why I've been thrifting like crazy and painting the shit out of stuff. Most of the stuff hanging I already had, though.

Some more of the stuff hanging over my beloved couch.

Okay here's where I just start throwing up pictures of some of the other stuff around the house.

Half-assed attempt at the window treatment.

Please don't judge the bedding. I'm working on it.

I'll probably start hiding my valuables up there.

knicky knacky.



Kitchen poster and freshly painted mirrors. Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.



I'm kind of obsessed with birds.

Manfriend likes decorations too. Just not the same kind that I do.

THIS IS MANFRIEND'S CONTRIBUTION TO HOME DECORATING STYLE. He's into black frames with white mattes. This is something I can definitely work with. He's also into autographed pictures of sport's stars... which I guess I can deal with too, which is why he does have some prime real-estate wall space in the living room to display his man-art.  What can I say? The man plays into my soft-spot with nightly back-rubs and a Netflix account. Which can also partially account for why he won this battle:










I haven't named him yet, but trust me, I will.

 That's right. There's a carcass hanging from the wall of my own home. Wonders never cease. Remind me to tell you about my first hunting trip sometime. A gem among gems. 

I mean, it was his house first, after all. I just brought in all my crap and a really stubborn disposition and started bossing everyone around. Luckily, Manfriend lets me.  Plus when it comes down to it, I'm really no better at the whole home-decor  side of things than he is. I still end up occasionally with walls that look like this:

Not my most shining achievement.

A wall of total disarray that looks like a junk shop puked all over it.

And then I have to toss and turn in my sleep until I come up with some better idea that involves putting 2893748374 more holes in the wall. Trial and error. But in the end, having a place I feel comfortable living in and okay with showing off to my guests is the goal. Such as my smallest brother, below. Manfriend lets him play zombie killing games on the interactive media outlet, so he likes him the best, naturally.

They're killing zombies. Or something. Whatever, this picture is to illustrate the fact that we're AT HOME. You know, lounging in the lap of luxury and comfortable and stuff. WITH GUESTS EVEN.

Now you've had a jank-ass tour of my home, which is really more than I can say for the majority of my friends and family, so you're welcome. Portal to my soul and all that.  Oh yeah, I forgot one main thing. You may be wondering why my dream couch is being kept in the bedroom where it's unlikely to be used. Um, duh. Although comfortable, I'm trying to keep it BEAUTIFUL. Actual use by anyone other than me is basically unnecessary. Just kidding. Kind of. Seriously though, I'm trying to protect my lovely new (to me) piece of furniture from the jaws of death and destruction. AKA Hally. 140 pounds of raw destruction:

This is how she looks about 85%  of the time. The other time is spent looking guilty for chewing something up, slime-ing you for the sole reason that she can tell you don't have time to change clothes,  or looking sad because she can tell you're about to leave.

 Hally isn't allowed in Manfriend and my bedroom because it's the one place in our home that I'm safe from dog hair and whatever other airborne allergens she has to offer. I keep trying to tell her it's boring in there anyway, but she rarely buys it. Anyway, the couch is in there and safe and I can read on it without dying. Win-win.



For me and the couch, anyway.



And with that, I leave you with a charming picture of me getting heavy-handed with my cocktail:


I hope my weekend looks like a heavy-handed pour. It's been a bastard of a week.

Cheers to Saturday and Sunday!

 
XO Sare

my budget is shot, but my hair looks FABULOUS

I'm relatively vain, like most women I know, so I spend time worrying about and spending copious amounts of money on fucking pointless things that aren't going to feed natural disaster victims.... like minimizing the size of my pores and fixing the split ends in my hair.


I wish it weren't so.




In fact, yesterday I bought a goddamn flat iron for my hair that put me back over a hundred bucks.
(But, it was definitely on sale for fifty dollars off, so I obviously HAD to make it mine. It's a CHI.  Plus, colorful paisley. Um, duh. While you will never catch me dead OR alive adorning my body in such a tacky pattern, yes, I will allow my haircare products to be embellished with whimsy and bright coloring.)

heinious hot-pink patent leather bag included.

I'm not a girly-girl. I stare with malice at any clothing item tainted with glitter or sequins. I won't even paint my nails with anything vaguely pearlescent. But, I'll empty my bank account for Michael Kors if he ever asks, I collect pricey perfume bottles and I'm a freak about facewash. Not to mention my unending quest for swimable mascara. If you've found it, please share.

When I walk into the doors of Ulta or Sephora, it's like sugarplum fairies are actually materializing in front of my face. Never mind the fact that I get the same feeling from a Half-Priced Books. It's magical. I'm dead fucking serious when I say that I will start humming along to the music in these stores and sauntering around like a star. It's sad to watch, and that's why I'm glad I'm me and I don't have to. I'm living in my FABULOUS little dream world where every problem I have with my appearance can be solved with a spray, lotion, gel, sprinkle of dust.

I WANT ALL OF IT.

I walk into cosmetic stores and I literally morph into that spoiled girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Veruca.



GIVE ME ALL OF THE GODDAMN THINGS!

 But, being that I'm actually a semi-intelligent woman, despite my tendency toward things that smell good and trick strangers into thinking I"m prettier, I developed a strategy that actually cut down on my cosmetic splurging.

I force Manfriend to come with me.


Having him there forces me to stay on task because of math. 


 Man + Make-up store = If-we're-in-here-for-long-I'm-going-to-become-a-total-grouch.

I could and would waste hours of my life and bajillions of my dollars (okay, I don't have bajillions of dollars, sue me.) trolling up and down those aisles, searching for the perfect remedy for something I didn't even know was wrong with me when I walked into the store if it weren't for Manfriend. Instead we get to spend precious moments of him secretly grabbing my ass between rows of conditioner while I quickly try to make a decision so we can get out of there before he gets caught groping me by some old lady. Win-Win!

So far my system is working. While I did spend over one hundred dollars at Ulta last night, it was premeditated, and I did manage to skip out of there without a seventy dollar two ounce bottle of moisturizer- and a whopping supply of buyers remorse. Plus Manfriend got to feel like he was being sneaky, and it's amazing how much men love that.

Plus, now I have oodles more time to worry about other things... like how to feed natural disaster victims. While straightening my hair.


Xo Sare