My new Steve Madden lace-up boots, perfectly distressed and soft in a cognac-colored leather. I really do make an effort to avoid spewing too much information about where I buy things or how much they cost, thereby maintaining not only grace and style but an air of mystery, but who are we kidding, here. I got these at a certain department store where someone had accidentally marked them down to 49.99 from...a higher number. The universe wanted me to have these particular boots.
My third graders' latest paintings of birch trees in winter. They never fail to re-astound me with their built-in talents and individual stylings.
Singing. Not many people know that I can sing, I like to sing, I'm good at singing. It's in my bloodstream. I like to croon, to harmonize, to weave. I'd like to do more of it.
Finely- and deliciously-scented Italian soap given to me by Santa (via sister and brother) for Christmas. It's from a store called Peter Nappi, a place that's classing up our Nashville downtown, a place where we can afford nothing but soap (which, in turn, classes up my bathtub). But still, go pay a visit.
Red lips. Cover Girl 968, Ruby Rush, to be precise. It chases away the gloom.
