In a green leather album marked 1981 there is a photo with rounded edges. It is slightly overexposed and beginning to yellow with time. Three women and a baby are seated on an overstuffed floral couch. Underneath the photo reads the caption “Four Generations”.

I am this infant, six months old, surrounded and protected by my mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother. I am sitting on my mother’s lap, my beautiful mother with her honey colored hair and deep brown eyes. She is looking down at me and smiling. To her left is her mother, petite and lovely, her blue blouse ironed and perfect. She is looking at my mother and her eyes twinkle. And to her left sits my great-grandmother, wrinkled with time and hard work, the only one looking at the camera with her Mona Lisa smile. Her dress is floral like the couch.

I love this photo. I MARVEL at this photo. The rareness of having four generations together, alive, on a couch. Thirty years later, my mother and I are the only surviving members of this photo.

At that point in my life I also had four generations alive on my father’s side. And, as we expect from life, the generations have been peeled away, sometimes in order, sometimes not. With the passing of my grandmother on 2/4/12, we are all gone now - except for me. When I think of this – that I would be alone on that generational couch - it makes me sad. Sad, lonely, and even a little scared. Because with those layers peeled away and gone, there I am, exposed to the world. I’m next up at bat. I can no longer hide behind an older generation to get it right, to do it first, to fix the problem. It is my turn to step up to the plate. It is my turn to be the oldest of the generations, to be wizened by hard work and reality and time. It is my turn to get up off the couch and be the woman, the possibility – of everything that I was born to be. And I rise up, despite the loneliness at being left behind and the fear of navigating the uncharted waters of life and adulthood. I rise up and accept the challenge that every one who ever came before me accepted. I accept the challenge of the certainty that we will all come and go, that we will all exist and then not exist, and that the only things that can truly be left behind are those intangible things like love and wisdom and knowledge that can’t be photographed on a couch. But if they could be - if they were visible to the eye and I could take them out - these qualities of my ancestors - and set them down next to me on that couch, it would be apparent that they have not left me behind at all, and are, in fact, alive and well. Living in me, living in you, and living in all of us who walk this earth in search of love and peace.

No, this blog post isn't in reference to Dr. Dre's 1992 solo debut album (even though I have much love for 'Nothing but a G-Thang'). Nor is it a shout-out to one of my all-time favorite SNL digital shorts ('Lazy Sunday', anyone?) I'm talking about chronic pain. Yeah. THAT type of chronic.

For about ten years I've dealt with chronic abdominal pain. It comes and goes, the way chronic pain can, but it never goes away forever. It's never far. The good news? Nothing bad is wrong with me. And I know that because I've gone through a litany of tests, seen multiple doctors/specialists over the years, and have tried everything from acupuncture to Chinese Herbs. The bad news? I have nerves that misfire. And in case you're interested, misfiring nerves means chronic pain, for no apparent reason.

Since there's nothing really bad wrong with me, there's no cure. Just pain management. And I have come so, so far in the past ten years in managing it. But sometimes - sometimes, I feel like it manages me.

Feeling betrayed by your body and unable to control how you feel is incredibly frustrating. Feeling like your body and its symptoms has you on a leash, at its mercy, is maddening. I quickly realized that feeling mad, angry, and frustrated was not going to lead to my body feeling better. In fact, it would probaly make me feel quite worse.

So how to get out of this cycle of physical pain = emotional turmoil? It's a toughie, for those of you who have experienced chronic, recurrent pain. And for me, I found that outlet in yoga.

Yoga made me feel strong and capable not only in my body, but in my mind as well. The breathing taught me that I could - literally - breathe through the hard parts and that understanding of the power of breath built mental and physical tenacity. It has also brought me a whole new livelihood.

So, one would say that if I didn't have this chronic pain, I would never have found the joy that is yoga, a practice that has become more than that: it has now become my life as I teach and manage at a lovely, amazing studio in downtown Seattle. Isn't that the truth of everything? That the prettiest of flowers can grow even in the darkest of places? This journey has also taught me the lessons that I do think we all learn eventually if we live long enough: life is not easy or fair, your happiness is not a guarantee, and that while you can't always control what happens to you, you can certainly control how you deal with it.

My Dad used to say all the time that "life was having fun solving problems."  And when he said that I would scoff or roll my eyes and think about the impossibility of FUN + PROBLEM having anything in common. Well, in another instance of my parents being right yet again (that only hurt a little to admit) - they have everything in common. That if you can't find satisfaction in the solving of a problem or the finding of a solution, then you are going to have about Zero Fun in your life.

I don't talk about 'The Chronic' much. I don't believe in giving it more power by harping on it, talking about it, dwelling on it. Blah blah blah. We all got 99 Problems and the....(yeah, if you get my Jay-Z reference, you can finish the sentence for me). Also, it certainly does not define me and I don't want others to have it define me either. But it has given me the tools of yoga: patience, breathing, tenacity - and those are qualities that I hope are around for the rest of my life. I hope that they are qualities that ARE chronic, if you will. Because if I can get the good with the bad, then it's not all bad, right? In fact, perhaps - to quote my dad again - it's all good.

It's all good.

In July of 2005, my dad had brain surgery to remove two tumors. It was a risky surgery and there was the possibility he could die on the table. The night before his surgery, my dad went to bed early and I stayed up late. I had flown in that morning from New York, planning on staying for two weeks and having no idea what my life looked like after that. I was 24 and I was lost.

Late that night, so late that it was early morning, I went upstairs to go to bed. There was an envelope on my bed that simply said 'Elika', my Hawaiian name that my dad and only my dad used. When I would call the house and my dad answered the phone, his response to hearing my voice was always, "Elika DARLING!" He always sounded genuinely happy to hear from me, and it was those little things that I loved so much about him. He always had time for you, he was never too busy, and, most importantly, he believed that what you had to say mattered. You mattered.

I opened the envelope and there was a card with a little blue bird painted on it. I recognized it as my mother's stationery that my dad must've swiped from her desk.

I wondered why he had written me a note when I had been home all day. When he simply could have talked to me. And then I realized - he was saying good-bye. Just in case. Just in case he didn't make it.

When I realized why he had left me a note, I couldn't even bring myself to read it. I folded it back up and stared at it, realizing that whatever he had written in it, was what he wanted me to know for sure. Whether he was an oracle, a highly evolved human being, or simply someone who had learned a lot from life, my dad knew some things for sure. And if you were receptive to listening to him, he'd tell you.

I knew that what was in that note was what he wanted me to know for sure, even if I didn't believe him, or couldn't believe him, or wasn't ready to hear him yet, he wanted it written down so I could read it and re-read it later in my life and one day - hopefully one day - understand that what he knew for sure had become what I too knew for sure.

When I finally brought myself to read the note, he managed to capture in only a few short sentences what he had spent the past 24 years trying to drive into my head. And it was up to me to hear it. Because there was a chance that after the next day, he would never be able to tell me again.

I had a choice to make. I had a choice to either hear him, to believe him, to own it.  Or to disregard it and cast it aside.

I of course chose to believe him.

Living to the full expression of you is not easy. In fact, I struggle with it almost daily. But my father believed in the promise of my life. He believed in the promise of YOUR life. He believed that you were good, and smart, and kind, and tough. And if you were to meet him, he would tell you. But he is not here to tell you. But I am here to tell you.

You are good, you are smart, you are kind. You are worth it. And you are loved.

I have a big date coming up. I don't mean one where I get all dressed up with my hubby and go out on the town. I mean a big DATE, as in December 2. As in I am quitting my job. As in I am quitting corporate America. As in I never have to wear a pant suit again.

If you're jealous, don't be. I wouldn't wish the second half of this year on anyone. Sure, personally, I couldn't have been happier. I love being married and I would wish that happiness on anyone. But professionally, I have been absolutely miserable. Miserable and lost, I went from job A to job B to job C, from frying pan to fire to hellish inferno. I kept blaming it on external reasons: the company, the work itself, the people. I realized in mid-October that I wasn't looking at a major component: myself.

If I learned anything in Yoga teacher training, it was that truly looking inward and peeling off the layers to get a good look at YOU is a scary and uncomfortable process. And I don't like scary and uncomfortable processes. I like easy, I like calm, I like elastic waisted yoga pants and going barefoot. So imagine how scary it was to look inside and realize I was living a lie.

Does that seem like an overly dramatic statement? Maybe. But it was the truth that I came to. I was not living a life that was true to my core values and the very essence of what I believed to be my spirit, and that wasn't acceptable to me. Living authentically is a huge deal to me - huge - it's what I preach to my yoga students and what I thought I was preaching to myself. But I wasn't practicing what I was preaching. I wasn't practicing my yoga off the mat. And I felt lost inside my own life.

For years, I've been trying to fit a square peg (me) into a round hole (corporate America). I mean, that's what success is, right? Success is climbing the corporate ladder and making money. Success is getting promoted and being well-liked and respected by your colleagues. Success is...a lot of bullshit. Professionally, I've felt like I've had my shoes on the wrong feet for the past year, and I've had no idea how to make it right. Until I realized - I can just take them off. I can just TAKE. OFF. the shoes. What the what!?

And that's what I'm doing. I'm leaving corporate America behind, and doing what is truly me. I will be managing a yoga and spinning studio in the heart of Seattle, and teaching eight classes a week. I will be doing everything that I love, connecting, teaching, wearing elastic-waisted pants, promoting something I truly and deeply believe in, and living from my truth.

Being lost in your own life is not something that I have enjoyed. I have not enjoyed questioning my choices and decisions, wondering why I couldn't 'get happy' in perfectly FINE jobs. What was WRONG with me?? I wanted to be like everyone else, I wanted my happiness to be fulfilled by pant suits and promotions and corporate ladders. I tried, I TRIED to jam that square peg into the round hole. And all that got me is deeper into the fire. But that being said, I could never ever have arrived where I am now if I hadn't traveled this path. If I hadn't made some mistakes, some bad decisions, some wrong turns. And that is something I am truly grateful for, that really, there are no wrong turns. That the wrong turns are leading you to the right turns, that you are never truly lost. And if I've learned nothing from yoga, I've learned this: those transitions, however awkward they may seem, are actually poses in themselves. Absolutely critical to get to where you're going, and if it wasn't for them, you would never get anywhere.

So off the mat and into the world I go, with a smile on my face, shoes on the right feet, and an appreciation for all those painful transitions that make the destination that much sweeter.

Steve Jobs died today. He was only 56. And of course, whenever I hear of a lovely man die from cancer in his fifties, I think of my own father. I think of my own father whom I adored and I think about how much he respected Steve Jobs. This memory - poignant even more so now - came to me tonight. I hadn't thought of it in years, but sharing it today of all days seems especially appropriate.

June 2005

I am visiting my family in North Carolina for the week, taking a respite from my busy life in New York City. We are going to the beach, and my mom picks me up from the airport. My dad is coming the next day with my sister and brother.

As I wait on the curb outside of RDU, I see my mom pull up, and, strangely, my dad right behind her.

He gets out of the car and gives me a giant hug.

"I thought you were coming to the beach tomorrow?" I ask, curious as to why he was at the airport.

He grins at me and says, "I couldn't wait that long to see you."

This is the essence of my dad, that he loves his children, he loves his family. I will always have a snapshot of how he looked, standing on that curb, smiling. I would never see him quite that way again. Past the smile, I see a fatigue, a tiredness that I can't quite explain, but the reason will become clear to all of us in two weeks time.

He tells me that he has something he wants me to read, but it can wait till tomorrow.

He is talking about a speech by Steve Jobs.

The next day, he gives me a newspaper article. It is Steve Jobs' Stanford commencement speech, dated June 12, 2005. And in typical Dad fashion, he reads bits of it aloud, trying to drive home points. He wanted us to not only hear it, but to OWN it. To know these words for always, when he - Dad - wouldn't be there to remind us. And Jobs as well.

Two weeks later, my father is rushed to the hospital. He is diagnosed with metastatic melanoma, and like Jobs, given only months to live. He lives for a year and a half before his death. Jobs lives for seven.

And in that interim from diagnosis to death, neither of them turned away from those who had come to expect great things from them. Great teachings, great products. Greatness. They did not leave those who had come to depend on them, nor did they go inward as the cancer spread. They looked outward, they looked forward, and I can only think that some of that speech stayed with my father in those 18 months, as it has stayed with me. Perhaps this is the true legacy of greatness; your words matter. Your words last.

In honor of Steve, and of my father, I have included a link to the full text of the speech, and pasted specific paragraphs that ring especially true to me. I hope you love it as much as I do, and if you take nothing from it, at least remember this, the last line of his speech: Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.

http://news.stanford.edu/news/2005/june15/jobs-061505.html

"No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.

Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."

Eddie died last Tuesday. He was hit by the #167 bus near the Montlake exit on the 520 bridge. The impact cracked the windshield, warped his little body. Broke his neck.

I had looked for him that morning as I drove to work, as I looked for him every day. For the first time in weeks, I didn't see him, and my heart sank. There was something about seeing that strong profile, that white head with the yellow hooked beak gazing serenely over Lake Washington that lifted my spirits. He was normally perched on a lamppost near my exit, and sometimes Sarah, his mate, was a few lampposts away. Just as beautiful, slightly smaller. Looking for their breakfast.

I had been lucky enough in recent weeks to see him two times a day, in the morning as I was heading to work, and in the evening as I drove home. I felt incredibly honored to see something so rare - so strikingly beautiful and natural - while I was doing something so mundane. Driving. To work. On a busy bridge. And while I noticed him, he never noticed me, or any of the commotion on the bridge. He was completely oblivious to the human hubbub below him, and that is why I loved him. He didn't need us.

But I needed him.

I started to expect to see him each day - I looked forward to it, in fact. For me, the sightings were bookends to my day, a day that was sometimes good, and sometimes bad. But when I saw Eddie, it didn't matter. It didn't matter because Eddie put me in my place. Seeing him reminded me that while humans could create jobs and problems and bridges and lampposts and cars and hate and crime and all these bad things in this world, that something as simple and perfect as Eddie could still exist. He could still exist despite it all.

And maybe - just maybe - if he could still exist despite it all, so could I. I'm not talking physical existence - I'm talking spirit. I'm talking about those parts of a person that we all have - the dreams, the hopes, those fragile but absolutely essential pieces that we hide away and sometimes lose if we don't bring them out every once in awhile and dust them off. Seeing Eddie, he reminded me that those parts who made me ME could still exist despite it all. That all those essential elements that gave me my humanity were perched on a figurative lamppost somewhere, above it all, serene, waiting. Waiting. Waiting for me to look inside and see them, unchanged and just as special as they always had been. Looking up and seeing Eddie every day was a reminder to me that dreams - just like eagles - could become endangered. And if neglected long enough, extinct.

I didn't see Eddie last Tuesday when I drove to work. And it was because just 30 minutes earlier, as he was flying low to feed, he was killed by a bus. I wept when I read it on the news later that morning, knowing I would never again see his brave little profile on the lamppost. Everything he had survived for so long - civilization, humans - it got him in the end. And for me, it meant that my days were going to be a little bit bleaker, and a little bit sadder, without him.

I'm not the only one who is mourning Eddie. His death made the news, with hundreds of people commenting on the loss. And I realized; we all needed him. We all needed that reminder that there is something rare and special in this life. Right over our heads on a lamppost, there was something immune to the rat race. And maybe - just maybe - there is something inside all of us that is immune to it too. And that - to me - is what hope's all about.

Long time no blog. I don't have much of an excuse, except for: getting married, completing my yoga teacher training, starting a new job, and being awesome. Other than that, not much to report.

Oh - I turned 30 yesterday.  That too.

THIRTY. Kind of like getting married, you know that marriage and turning 30 Might/Will Probably/Could Happen in your life. But part of you always thinks you'll just be frozen in time as an awkward 15 year old who will never grow up, turn 30, and get married. With two cats. But it happened. I got married, I turned 30, I am the (proud) owner of two felines. What the !?!?

I can't say that I'm sad to turn in my Twenties Badge. It was a decade with some high highs and some low lows, and to all of that insanity I'm happy just to say: sayonara. But while I reflected yesterday on all the good and the bad of my twenties, I remembered something that happened to me on my 4th birthday.

In June of 1985 I turned four. I had cut my own bangs 2x by then which had resulted in an odd asymmetrical page-boy haircut, was obsessed with Barbies, and wore lots of overalls. Oh, and I still sucked a pacifier. I had nicknamed it 'Dot' and took it everywhere. (Later my parents deduced that 'Dot' really was Toddler-speak for 'That' as I would point to the pacifier and shout demandingly: 'DOT! I WANT DOT!').

The morning of my fourth birthday my mom sits down with me on the top of the stairs. I have Dot in hand, and my mom has a wicker wastebasket in hers. The tone is solemn.

"Tess," mom says. "What is today?"

"My birthday," I reply.

"And a four year old is a big girl, isn't it."

"Yes," I say quietly.

"Do big girls have dots?"

"No," I whisper.

"And are you a big girl today?"

A nod. Mom extends the wastebasket in front of me and I place it delicately on the bottom. I'm not sad, because I had known this was coming. Mom and I had had an agreement that on my fourth birthday I would do what (I assumed) everyone had to do on their fourth birthday: Give up Dot.

Not to say I didn't regress. I had a back-up Dot stashed in my room, that I would break out like a a smoker and take a few drags and then quickly snub it out before anyone noticed. Unfortunately mom caught on to my back-up Dot and that too went into the trash. But that's life right? We all have our pacifiers, our crutches that we depend on that we think we need to get by. We all have garbage that masquerades as something we need. We all have our Dots to give up.

So on my 30th birthday I am giving up some Dots. I'm turning in self-doubt. I'm turning in the lie that I'm not good enough. I'm turning in the lie that I don't work hard enough. I am OWNING my goodness, my ability to do whatever I set my mind to, and to my dreams I've always had: the time is now.

And now is all there is, isn't it. Just now. Just that. Or should I say: Just 'dot'.

There's a lot I want to say, to write, to express right now. I have so much going on in my life, in my heart, and in my mind. But a blog is not a diary, and this is not the place to try and sort out my life, or complain about X, Y, and Z. But I will say this: the first two weeks of January kill me. January 12th marks the fourth anniversary of my father's death. I was with him when he died, holding his hand. It changed my life forever, and every year, the beginning of January...my heart is heavy.

It is only four years later that I've been able to finally read the last email exchange my Dad and I had. January 6, 2007 - six days before he died. He had given me some "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff, It's All Small Stuff" cards, which I keep on my desk at work. My Dad was really big on trying to keep the 'main thing the main thing' - and not getting tangled up in your underpants on all the little stuff. (Like, say, WEDDING CENTERPIECES, SEATING CHARTS, ETC!!) Even though I was staying with my parents at the time, I emailed him because sometimes writing was easier to say what I needed to say.

	From: Tess Tabor <tesstabor@yahoo.com> 
To:	Stan Tabor <AlohaNC@aol.com>

Hi Dad (probably Good Morning, Dad) because it will be morning when you read this!

I'm about to head to bed but I decided to flip my cards that you gave me for Christmas and I really liked the new one.

It reads: "Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and annoys the pig."

Thanks again for that present. I will treasure them always---they are sitting here right at my desk! I am looking forward to the "don't sweat the small stuff; it's all small stuff" card. I need to really internalize that one!! Especially when it seems like so much BIG stuff is going on right now. Sometimes it seems really hard to separate the big from the small. And that when it looks like you're going backwards you are really going forwards.

Anyways, I love you so much. You are the Ultimate Dadness!!! When I grow up will you adopt me????

I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :)

Elika J

His response:

I love you always and forever.  You are the real deal, and I am so proud of you.  You have this knocked!

Dadness

*********

So, four years later. I'm still trying not to overreact, trying to keep the main thing the main thing, and, of course, not sweating the small stuff. I'm still learning, to live in the 'now'. But sometimes, the first two weeks of January, I drop the balloon. I overreact. And you know what....who the eff cares. It's all small stuff anyways.

I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas! I am currently in Chapel Hill, North Carolina enjoying the SNOW! There hasn't been a white Christmas here since 1947 so it's quite the event.

I received some thoughtful and fabulous gifts yesterday, one of which I can't wait to put to use:

This is a beautiful book that I've been eyeing at Anthropologie for months. Domino was a fantastic decorating magazine that closed a year or two ago so this book is a condensed version of their decorating tidbits. Speaking of Anthropologie.... Ryan and I braved the Christmas Eve eve crowds to 'pop in' to Anthropologie to pick up a few gifts for my mom. Of course, these darling juice glasses and cloth-covered letters caught RYAN'S eye! I think they're absolutely adorable but what was more exciting is that I'm marrying someone who gets my decorating aesthetic. WIN! Also, these juice glasses would make a great gift for someone who you knows goes for that 'vintage look' - they're only $4 a pop.

Hopefully the New Year will bring time for some fun DIY decorating projects that I will of course share with you all. In the meantime, I will leave you with a simple, quick, and fun project I whipped up right before I left Seattle.

I've had this metal decorative bowl for the past two years, and I haven't really known what to do with it. I got it at Target and it's started to look kind of sad:

I was about to toss it out when I thought I would try and SPRAY PAINT it. Yup. So I went to Fred Meyer, picked up a can of baby blue spray paint, and Voila - a totally new bowl:

So there you have it, friends. A spay-painted Christmas miracle.

In the late '80s, my mom redecorated our house. The kitchen got completely remodeled, and the living room, dining room and den got a major face lift - and new furniture.

I like to remember myself as a kid that was pretty well-behaved when taken on errands - I had a vivid imagination and could entertain myself for hours. When shopping for furniture with my mom, I pretended I was shopping for my OWN house - that the mock bedroom was my bedroom and the sample kitchen was mine. A few years later, when my parents decided to move to North Carolina, I flipped through house decorating magazines and cut out photos of decor I liked and how I wanted my new room to look. I kept them in a folder and would show them to my mom. I think she was surprised that at the age of 14 I actually knew what crown-molding was.

Needless to say, I still love interior decorating and look forward to the day when I have a house of my own where I can paint the walls the color I want, etc. We're still renting, but that certainly hasn't stopped me from trying to put together a cute house. The one problem being, of course, is that I am not rolling in the dough. Far from it. And, if I have 'fun money', I can't really justify spending it on a bajillion dollar lamp from Pottery Barn or swanky throw pillows from West Elm.

But here's the fun part - bargain-shopping and DIY. I definitely haven't let money stop me from having a well put-together house - in fact, I've relished the challenge of trying to find great deals and do-it-myself projects. Some of my favorite places to look: IKEA, Target, CB2, Craigslist, flea markets, antique stores, Etsy, & WalMart. Craigslist especially is a treasure trove if you have the patience to really sort through a lot of the crap on there. You also have to be willing to roll your sleeves up and use a little elbow-grease to fix up some of the furniture.

For example, I bought this coffee table this summer for $60. It was pretty dinged up but the glass was in good condition. I was new to the whole painting furniture thing, so I went to maybe my favorite blog EVER for a tutorial: www.younghouselove.com.

After a bunch of sanding, a coat of primer, 3 coats of paint (thanks to a freak summer rainstorm that ruined my first coat of paint - God I need a garage!), this was the finished product:

Voila!! I was so pleased with the outcome, I decided to paint this bookcase that had been languishing in our house for awhile. It was something I picked up on clearance at Target:

I really liked the shape of the bookcase, but the color didn't go at all with anything in our living room. Having learned what happens when painting outside (Seattle weather + wet paint = disaster), I lugged (well, okay, RYAN lugged) the bookcase into the spider-ridden basement for me to sand, prime, and repaint. Here's the repainted bookcase:

So as you can see, I've developed a hobby! Unfortunately I don't have the time to repaint every little thing I come across, so, yes, occasionally I *do* have to buy things. We really needed a rug for our entry way, but rugs - well, non-hideous-looking rugs - aren't exactly cheap. And the selection on Craigslist is shady to say the least. So you can imagine how thrilled I was when I came across this gem at IKEA:

Um, and did I mention that it was $49.99?? In the world of rugs, that is freaking CHEAP. I snatched it up (along with a few other things - hell, if I'm going all the way to Kent to battle the insanity that is IKEA, you can bet that I'm making it a worthwhile trip) and planted it right in our entry way.

I have a few at-home projects I have up my sleeve, so you'll just have to stay tuned to see what my little hobby will churn up next. In the meantime, I'll leave you with this darling yellow chair that is HALF OFF (selling now for $79.95) at CB2. You're welcome.