The no-fuss, easy-peasy way to finding your space and enjoying your own little bit of happy. Not to be corny, but writing isn't something I do, it's something I feel. Paragraphs pop into my head at random times - they ask to be brought to life, and, strangely enough, if I ignore them they become even louder and more demanding, taking up far too much of my emotional space. A bit like annoying children, they become less polite, acting out. and causing trouble until I stop, listen, and give them some kind of attention. Which is what is happening this week - my mind is filled with topics, questions and observations, that need a voice and want to be heard. Some things, you would never want to know, but other thoughts I'm more than happy to share. Like right now - I'm sitting in my sun-room (because my home office has become, ironically, a real, working home office) sipping coffee with gorgeously, noisy rain falling onto the skylights above me. Privileged doesn't even begin to describe this moment. The sun-room is at its most magical when it rains; defying the weather with its windows and warmth, I will go in there just for the sheer bliss of closing my eyes and listening to the sounds. Now, if it's warm and rainy that's even better, but right now it's a bit chilly, so I have a small heater on. Yet, even without this blissful room, I have more spots around my house where I can easily escape to when I need a few moments to be alone. Because I truly do think, regardless of who we are, that we all need our little bits of space (both physical and emotional). Quiet spots where we know we can go to think and dream, or perhaps just to take a breath, be silent for a moment, and enjoy the wonderful, absolute joy of nothingness. As you know, I'm a big believer in dreams (and never forgetting to have them) so anything (no matter how large or small) that nurtures, nudges and helps us to grow our own dreams is always a good thing. But I think where some of us get lost, is in thinking that dreaming is for the flighty and frivolous among us (which it isn't) and a space of our own must be planned, grand and perfectly decorated (but it doesn't). Two opposite thoughts really, that have learned to serve us very poorly in the current world that we live in. In my design work, so many people tell me that they'd be that much happier "if only" they had a room of their own, or a larger house. This would surely, finally, give them the time they needed to plan and dream. And while these are both nice-to-have's, most of us have more than enough, and wishing for something else is just a complete and utter waste of precious time and energy. And, it also means we're missing out on all sorts of wonderful moments, because the most beautiful spaces, like life, are almost accidental, and certainly never perfect. In fact, some of them are just "good enough". If you're someone who finds yourself waiting for the designer room, a bigger home, or the perfect time to sit down and relax, please stop. You may already have missed so many moments, and all I ask is that you take just a few minutes (maybe even ten or fifteen) to rediscover what you already have. Before I came downstairs, I lay on my bed looking outside for about fifteen minutes - watching the clouds and wondering what the heck I was doing with me and myself on this cloud-filled Saturday. It was brief, and I have to say a tad worrisome, but also extremely peaceful - just me and the sky. You see, a long time ago, I moved my bed to a very odd angle, just because I wanted to be able to look out the window when I went to sleep at night, and when I woke up in the morning. It brings me peace, and I never draw the curtains, because I want the sky to be there whenever I need it. It's one of my places to go, and that fifteen minutes of cloud-watching, recharges my emotional, happiness batteries in a way that is blissfully indescribable. Finding your bliss isn't about extravagance or perfection, it's simply about looking around, and finding your space....

Have you ever hugged a curvy girl in spanx? Yes, they serve their purpose for making us feel better about ourselves in a fancy dress, but, as they work to smooth and soften the appearance of what we think are too many curves, their actual construction makes our bodies feel unusually firm, and, well, to be honest, a lot less welcoming to the touch. You might be wondering what this has to do with our home? Well, you see, homes need softness and curves too. Too many hard lines, firm surfaces, and calculated symmetry, also make a space feel unwelcoming. At first glance, it may look quite perfect, but, like spanx, as soon as you move in and get closer, the more you want to rip off the illusion and relax into something that feels warm, cozy and inviting. As odd as it may seem, this comparison came to me as I began to try on wedding dresses; no matter your size, there’s a shaper for you – something that hides underneath, holds you in, pushes you out, and molds everything into the perfect, girly shape. Because a wedding dress is all about the illusion, the perfect photo-op, and nowhere does anyone ever presume (or even suggest) that a wedding dress should be comfortable, and the bride be remotely huggable. Which made me really begin to think about illusions and reality. Would I be disappointed (frightened even) if I went au natural in my wedding dress, or, was it better to embrace the bridal illusion, turn myself over to the fantasy of it all, and wrangle my curves into a much more pleasing shape? Honestly, I’m still not sure, but I do know that one of the nicest compliments I have ever had was when a friend said that one of her favorite things in life was whenever I gave her a hug! Hugs aside (and contrary to what you may have been thinking after reading the opening paragraph) a curvy home doesn’t need to be pleasingly plump, lovingly eclectic, and filled with oversized, squishy pillows, but, it does need certain elements to help soften the edges, and give it that quintessential, relaxing, Sunday afternoon feeling. Because, regardless of style, I’ve never heard anyone say that they would like their home to feel less welcoming and even more uptight. It just doesn’t happen - even the most formal of homes need to relax a bit and bring in a few curves to join the party and play nicely next to all of that carefully, curated beauty. A curvy sofa, or an oversized, circle of decorated mirror above the fireplace brings life to a structured space and immediately balances out the boring. In the world of design, circles and curves create a sense of completeness and movement – a continuous energy that gives a feminine moment to a space, and, in the more spiritual sense, circles represent the infinite circle of life. So, it makes sense that curves are a good thing for your home, but does this mean you have to redecorate your entire home to reap the benefits of a circular life? No, not at all. It just means, that if your beautifully decorated room still seems to be missing that certain something, it might be time to embrace its imperfections, add some comfy softness .....and check for curves!

Apparently, I wrote this story last August, but I didn't hit the publish button ha-ha Yesterday, I was spending some quality time with my geraniums. At over ten years old, their only real enemy is the bitter cold, so I wanted to gather them up and bring them inside before the temperature dropped too much. After spending most of the summer in the garden, I was looking forward to seeing them, and start to feel quite maternal towards them. Like a mom taking care of her children, I cleaned them up, tried my best to get rid of the bad bits, gave them something nourishing to eat, and got them comfy and settled into their favorite spot. As I turned the last geranium towards the window, the afternoon sun came through the trees and shone brightly on my hand. The sudden warmth surprised me, and I found myself feeling quite overcome at how lucky I was to be tending my flowers at that exact moment when the sun decided to reach through and touch them. But, I have to confess, my love affair with geraniums started later in life. Growing up, I never used to like them at all - the rigid shapes of them made me uncomfortable, and I have never enjoyed plants that grow so slowly that they almost look like they're not real. And when I first started to notice them, they were the darling of our neighborhood, and I just couldn't understand the appeal of these perfectly groomed, almost-identical, mostly-red geraniums. Every window-box had them, so I vowed then and there never to have one in my garden. Until, one day I was talking to my neighbor, and he said something about not liking flowers and not being a gardener. Surprised, I told him that he must be doing something right, because his geraniums (even in the middle of August) were still bright and vibrant. "Oh", he said, "Those? They're fake - the craft store had a sale on them in the spring!". I may be exaggerating a bit, but I remember my stomach turning, and feeling both tremendously horrified and overwhelmingly sad when he said those words. How could I not have known, and how could I have been so deceived by those meticulous, plastic bits of red. I have to say, my pride took over at that moment, and I was angry at myself and perhaps a wee bit angry at my neighbor. Of course, I told him how lovely they were, we finished our niceties, and I walked back to my house. But, if glaring at a geranium was a sport, I can tell you that I would easily have won the gold medal. Not to be deterred for long, life moved forward, and I squashed my disappointment until the following spring, when I happened to be wandering through the garden center. As I turned the corner, I came upon hundreds of small, spindly geraniums - all neatly lined up, taunting me with their imperfections and paintbox colors. I felt my pride struggle inside me, as I unkindly grabbed eight of the salmon colored geraniums and put them in my shopping cart. When I got home, I realized it wasn't their fault at all, so I took a deep breath, kindly removed them from their containers, and gave them a good look. Beatrix Potter came to mind, and I wondered what she would have done with them, As I added soil to the window-box, my fingers sifted through the dirt and I found myself deep in thought, embarrassed at how silly (and prideful) I had been over a flower. So, I decided to go full-on Peter Rabbit, and arrange them in the window-box with a mess of aged, haphazard terracotta pots; I wanted them to appear accidental and perhaps more than a little storybook-like. Now, over ten years later, my window-box and living room are filled with those very same geraniums - beautiful, imperfect.... and very much loved! :-)

A long time ago, my grandparents moved from their picturesque town in the north of England to a bustling suburb just outside of London. It was an adventurous move for a couple that were well into their 80's (and I still don't know if I would have been quite so brave) but they faced it head on, and learned to adjust to endless streets of concrete and walking down the road to plant their own veggies and dig in the dirt. They created a comfortable home in a small, walk-up apartment, learned to navigate the busy streets, read the maps, and rediscovered the magic of finding something new. They found unexpected castles nearby, made friends at the local shops, and found that they could grow the world's sweetest strawberries in a busy, rented London garden. As my mum often says, "needs must", so they found what they needed, forged a new path, and never complained about what might have been missing But, every now and again I would get a call. I'd answer, not knowing who it was because it was from overseas, and my grandad would be on the other end of the line. "We just called to cheer you up!", he would say, then he and nana would take turns on the phone, telling me about their day and asking how we all were. The first time he said that they were just calling to cheer me up, I actually stopped and wondered if I was okay, and why did I need cheering up. Had I temporarily forgotten about some great sadness in my life, or was there some dreadful family secret that was about to unfold? But, as we talked, I realized that they just wanted to know what we'd been up to that week, and what we'd had for dinner. In turn, they told me stories about the nice man at the fish and chip shop and how nana had gotten lost coming home on the number 57 bus the day before. We talked about the weather, and if the tulips along the cracked pavement were going to grow again this year. Small little anecdotes about each of our lives - nothing exciting, and never for long, but these brief conversations always left me with a smile on my face. After a while, I would begin to call them more often. The roles had been reversed. My grandad would always answer, and I would tell him that I had just called to cheer them up! He would say a few hello's, then quickly passing the phone onto nana. Sometimes, she would get a little confused, and grandad would have to explain where I was, and why I couldn't come over that afternoon for a cup of tea and some cake. Phone calls became a little more difficult for grandad, as he tried over and over to explain who I was; nana would often pretend, and say she remembered me, but we all knew she didn't really. As time went on, the calls were shorter, but it didn't matter at all. It didn't matter if nana knew who I was from one week to the next, or if I answered the same questions every time. When grandad answered, I still told him that I was calling to cheer them up, and he still called nana to the phone. The sameness was what kept us connected, and after they were gone, deep down inside, the grown-up part of me knew that it was never really about them calling to cheer me up at all.

I was getting to know someone new the other day. We were sharing parts of our lives, and I was just saying how lucky I was, when she suddenly held up her hand, stopped me short and said, "Wait a minute - you're not lucky, you're deserving!". As I stumbled to correct her, explaining that it was in fact luck, and I was grateful to be the recipient of such a privileged life, she shook her head and stopped me from talking again. I won't go into the details of what this almost-stranger said to me, but it was a bit lengthy, very sincere, and her kind observations did make me stop and pause. I'm not saying that I was fully convinced of what she said, and I literally squirmed with discomfort as she continued to speak, but a secret part of me also wished that I could truly receive and accept those words into my heart more often. It's International Women's Day, and we should remind ourselves (and each other) that we do make our own luck - and every single one of us is deserving!

"Mom, a goal without a plan is just a wish!..." These words, from my daughter a few weeks ago, really resonated with me. Not that I didn't already know this, but to hear her say it out loud made me actually stop and think about where I was going (and why). As someone who maintains a steady diet of wishes and optimism, I have to admit that I was a little crushed, and the impact of her words still continue to bounce around in my head, taunting and challenging me when I least expect them. Later on, with my hundreds of wishes obviously in peril, I found myself reading some of the inspirational notes and poems that I have taped to the wall and frame of the window in my office (it doesn't open, so it's the perfect canvas for all my paper treasures). My favorite inspirational poem is up there (the always beautiful and powerful Desiderata by Max Ehrmann) but right above it is a copy of a letter that I wrote over ten years ago to the parents of the children that I used to teach at nursery school. In the letter, I wanted to thank them for welcoming me into the classroom and sharing their children with me, but also, to mention what I had learned from their children in the process. Without knowing it, each and every day their children reminded me of what was important, and how truly wonderful and surprising life can be. Now, years later, the nursery school children are grown, and my own daughter is now reminding me of how wonderful life can be (and, with a wisdom well beyond her years, telling me that my many wishes are great, but I may need a back-up plan :-) So, whether you have a back-up plan, live on wishes and wisdom, or just do the very best you can to be happy and kind, here's the ten precious life lessons that I learned from my former nursery school children.... 1. Be curious, ask questions. 2. Treat each day as a brand new one; don't be cranky with someone who poked you the day before. 3. Please and thank you will always get you more goldfish crackers :-) 4. We learn best by doing, not by being told what to do. 5. There is always time for silly dancing and silly faces. 6. Laugh at everything; make up your own jokes and laugh at them till your tummy aches. 7. We can never give (or receive) too many hugs. 8. Messy things are more fun! 9. Anything tastes better if you call it a picnic and sit on the floor or crawl into a tent. 10. To dream of being a superhero is a good way to begin your life!

It seems that my car is often a catalyst for my thoughts. Not sure what it is, but whenever I'm driving or waiting for my car to be repaired, I begin to analyze my life - and I desperately want to write it all down. None of which is possible at these times, of course, but my mind seems to slow, clear and organize itself (without my permission) and I find myself eagerly looking forward to getting home, so that I can sort through the random debris of words, stories and ideas. Years ago, we were in Maine on vacation, and I spent an afternoon driving around by myself. Hours of not knowing where I was going; turning the car around when I thought I was getting too lost, or deciding to follow a sign that might lead me to an interesting town or beautiful view. When I got home and told my friend, Alice, she just shrugged and said, "Of course you did - that's what you do when you need to think!". To her, she was stating the obvious, but to me it was something I was completely unaware of. I still think of that moment. She was exactly right. So, as I sat waiting for my car to be repaired yesterday, I wasn't planning any soul-searching, but I do know that I was delighted to see a huge array of magazines on the table. That is rare nowadays (wow, I sound old) because everyone reads their phone while they wait. From the littlest to the oldest, we all clutch and curl up around our devices, keeping up with the world and connecting with friends and family. I'm not saying it's a bad thing (I can often be found late at night scrolling through Facebook or playing a mindless word game on my phone) but just that it's different now, and many waiting rooms have all but done away with magazines. So, I gave them the keys to my car, picked up a magazine and settled into my chair. It was Good Housekeeping, and I really wanted to see how to make the scrumptious-looking cake on the front cover. As I flipped through, looking for the recipe, I remembered how I would always read a magazine from beginning to end. I would never, ever go to my favorite article, or flip through to see the latest fashion trends. Part of it was about wanting to honor the writers and creative minds who spent their lives assembling this miniature book of art and information, but the other part was about me not wanting to miss a morsel of something wonderful! I would read it slowly and systematically, enjoying the process (and the surprises) that would arrive at the turn of each page. As I read yesterday, there was something very calming and nostalgic about taking my time and letting the magazine show itself to me. It was actually quite refreshing to have no idea what was coming up next, and I think it forced my brain to slow down and enjoy the experience. I found the cake recipe, finished the magazine, and picked up a Cosmopolitan. It had been years since I read one, and I have to confess that some of the slang (is it even called slang anymore?) was completely unknown to me, but it was amusing to see that even though the words had changed, the young women were still dealing with the same issues that had existed twenty years ago. Yes, they might be more dramatic and a bit (okay, a lot) extra in their delivery, but basically they are thinking about sex, money, fashion and beauty. Not too different really. Now and again, I have to confess that I covered an image or headline so that the person sitting next to me didn't get offended, but from horoscopes to hormones, it was so much fun to escape and tap into their younger vibe (I might even have learned a thing or two!). Just as I finished reading, my car was done, and the keys were waiting for me on the counter. The timing couldn't have been better - I put the magazines back, paid the bill, and started to drive home. My head was clear, I had a new cake recipe to try, and I had just enjoyed a blissful, one hour mini-break!

It's the day before Thanksgiving, and there's such a sense of urgency in the air that it is starting to feel a bit unpleasant... As we scramble to claim our free turkey at the supermarket, we find ourselves glaring at the boxes of Christmas lights, piled precariously high next to us, holding our breath, and trying not to swear at the person who just rammed their shopping cart into the back of our ankles. We're extremely lucky, even privileged, to have these kind of problems, yet this time of year brings out the best and the worst in all of us (and, it really does hurt when someone hits your ankles with their shopping cart). Seemingly normal people take leave of their senses, and agonize over the best way to set the table, and what type of pie is their favorite. Should we really adhere to the one pound per person way of buying our turkey? And, if I have three people, should I buy a three pound pigeon instead? These types of conundrums are what ties our stomachs in knots, but it doesn't have to be this way. With less than 24 hours to go until Thanksgiving, here's a quick guide to getting organized, getting things done, and enjoying tomorrow... p.s. If you're really strapped for time, and starting to panic, skip to the last idea and play the Either/Or game :-) Make a list of absolutely everything you would like to do before tomorrow. Regardless of how long that list is or how silly it seems (eg, plan what you're wearing, peel the carrots, take the dog to the kennel, vacuum, wipe the front door down, pay your mortgage, tweeze your eyebrows, have a shower etc.). Take a minute, and ruthlessly cross off anything that really can wait until Friday. Look at the rest, and find things that have a specific timeline attached to them and group those together (eg. does the dog have to go to the kennels by 2 pm, the pie in the oven by 8 pm, and the mortgage paid by 5 pm?). Organize what's left into two groups - chores that take you outside; driving to a place or running an errand, and the others that can be done at home (inside household chores, baking, cleaning etc). Plan your day according to the above lists, ending up with the household chores being at the very end of the day when you're home for the night. If you find yourself getting stuck for time, adjust your plans, and remember that a little bit of compromise makes a big difference. Decide to have fun with your time crunch and make choices with the "Either/Or" game - vacuum or dust, store-bought or homemade, paper plates or china, faux or real, Brussels sprouts or green beans, pie or cake... Really, when you think about it, it's impossible to do it all, and even less possible to do it all perfectly, so what are we really striving for? If what we truly want is a day of great food, family and friends, then we should adjust our process to meet our goals. Let's do less, do it as well as we can, and spend the day celebrating and being thankful for all that we have!

There's a stunningly elegant historic home near us - one of those houses that could easily moonlight as a romantic bed and breakfast, or perhaps a cheerful place for a whimsical character in a Tim Burton movie. But, this is not at all how it used to look... A few short years ago, it still had character, but while it had always piqued my interest, the colors were drab and it looked more tired than inspired. I don't know what happened (perhaps it was bought by someone new, or the owner's won the lottery) but whatever it was, there came a day when I noticed that changes were happening. At first, there was that dreadful stage when it was crawling with ladders and scaffolding. I had no idea what was happening, but my initial fear that it was being torn down, was quickly replaced with anticipation, as I watched it slowly transform into a beautiful, old-fashioned painted lady. Within months, every spindle and step had been painted a different color, and over-sized, glorious baskets of giant ferns began to adorn the front porch. I would find myself deliberately detouring by the house, just to watch their progress and delight in seeing it all unfold. When it was finally finished, I really wished it was mine, and I dreamed of coming home every night to a little piece of flamboyant, Victorian elegance in the middle of suburban New Jersey. But, of course, it wasn't mine, so I needed to accept that and move on to Plan B - if I couldn't have it, then perhaps I could make it my muse and borrow the colors for my own home. So, armed with a joyful dose of envy (and a sincere need to tell them how much I loved their newly decorated home) I went to visit them. With all kinds of anticipation and good thoughts dancing around in my head, I knocked on the door. A young woman opened it, and I started to tell her why I was there. She looked at me as if I had two heads, then asked me to wait a minute as she closed the door on me. I stood on the step, still cheerful, and waited for her to come back. Shortly after, a man came to the door, clearly bewildered, and I started to tell my story again. I told him how wonderful the house looked, and asked him if he would mind sharing the paint colors with me. From the look on his face, he also thought I was some sort of middle-aged lunatic, and not only did he not know the paint colors, but he didn't even seem aware that it had recently been painted. This encounter made me sad. Not because I didn't get the paint colors, but because he didn't seem to care about the house at all. Perhaps it wasn't even his, and he thought I was a brazen, chubby burglar, or maybe he was in the middle of cooking a lasagna, but whatever the reason, my love for this house had suddenly became tinged with just a tiny wee bit of ugh. I think I stomped home (well, I actually drove my car, but I stomped in my mind) feeling a bit angry and very disappointed at their reception. Within a few minutes, I was back in my own home, taking off my shoes and filling the kettle with water for a cup of tea. As I sipped my tea, I thought about what had happened, and decided that I had no right at all to be mad at them. They weren't responsible for my inspirations, and, lucky for me, appreciating something beautiful doesn't need words, money, or someone else's approval :-)

As most of you know, my blog has been a bit absent (I say that kindly :-) over the last couple of years, but now I'm happy to say that it's up and running again. I'm not quite up to posting once a a week, but I'm well on the way - the creative voices are back (I'm never quite sure if that's good or bad ha-ha) and the words and paragraphs have started dancing around again in my head, jostling for some outside attention. So, with the global integration of certain browsers, and my old blogger app bringing us "exciting updates", which is code for "we're changing the format and deleting many of your favorite blogging features", I've decided to move my blog permanently from blogspot to it's own page, here, on the blue giraffe website . The previous site will remain for the time being, but I've also shared my old posts to their new blog home on the blue giraffe website (https://www.thebluegiraffe.com/blog). In hindsight, this is actually a great change, because it gives me more options, is much easier (and more fun, visually) to scroll through the posts, and it helps us connect all the blue giraffe dots :-) I've imported the subscriber contact lists, so hopefully the blog will continue appearing in your email in-box - the format's a bit different, but you still just click the link. Finger's crossed the transition is seamless, but if you have any questions, or something doesn't seem to work right, please feel free to email me and we'll figure it out together :-) Thanks for your patience, and we'll see you very soon in your in-box! - Wendy

Once, the door bell rang, and I hastily gathered up my mess (you know, those odds and ends that seem to multiply on your dining room table when you're not looking) and shoved them all into the dishwasher. I'm not especially proud of that moment, but it was someone I didn't know very well, I admit that I wanted to make a good impression, and, perhaps, I may even have wanted me and my home to seem just a tiny bit better than we actually were. In hindsight, it worked very well, and I keep telling myself that surely I'm not the first person to be caught unawares, shoving magazines, electric bills, and three dirty socks into their dishwasher. Because my home is usually fairly tidy (although it won't always pass the finger-dragged-through-the-dust test) but I can tell you with absolute confidence that when it does happen to be in disarray, is always the day when a friend will just happen to stop by and ring the doorbell. It's as if my household messiness grows up, packs its own bag, and sneaks out into the universe. Masquerading as a silent, yet inviting adversary, it delights in its own rebellion, and threatens to return home with onlookers and a generous dose of embarrassment. I know that if I don't act quickly, endless piles will magically begin to appear and multiply - independent gremlins of clutter and chaos seem to work efficiently throughout the night, creating a dismal sight for when I lazily stretch and open my eyes. You see, we all have more stuff than ever before, which means that there's even more to tidy, and much more to organize and donate or throw away. In essence, we've gone ahead and created our own messy monsters. But, I believe that we honestly can learn to live with (and dance around) the excess in our homes, it just takes time and a heck of a lot of discipline. So, that's what I do to keep the chaos gremlins away - I buy, I dance, I tidy up as I go along, and, when all else fails, I throw it all in the dishwasher, kiss the cat, and call it a night :-) p.s. Photo by 99 clicks from Pexels

Like so many of you, the thought of crawling into bed with a pair of freshly-laundered, soft, white cotton sheets at the end of the day makes my heart skip a beat. And, if those dream sheets just happen to be of the particularly indulgent kind, that also boast a high thread-count and exotic beginnings, then you know exactly what I mean. Actually, just writing about them makes my breath pause, then quicken, as I stop and do a mental happy dance in anticipation… But, the other day I was making the bed, and the current weather had me undecided on which sheets to use. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I have a linen closet filled with wonderful choices, but when the temperature at night has been going from 90F to 42F in the space of a week, it makes a seemingly dreary task take on some slight measure of importance. Not one to change my sheets very often, I love the blissful results when I do, but never the act itself.  So, with wacky weather on my mind, and not being quite ready to commit to my favorite, plaid flannel, I grabbed a cheerful, red geometric set that I spied at the bottom of the closet. As soon as I touched them, I remembered why they were sitting, neglected at the bottom, but the saturated colors and fun shapes danced in front of me, and convinced me to give the perky polyester another try.  As I easily wrapped the fitted sheet around the mattress, I found myself smiling at how pretty it all looked, and how the colors and shapes were still just as perfect as the day I had brought them home. Ridiculously inexpensive, they had been a random purchase (and a small dose of retail therapy) when I needed a quick boost.  Smoothing the sheets, I marveled at how I didn’t have to run from one corner of the bed to the other, doing the crazy diagonal dance, and trying to stretch the unstretchable, as each end ricocheted back on itself as soon as I moved across the room. I didn’t miss the dance at all, and I daren’t say that my bed looked like something from a magazine when I was finished, but I will say that I wouldn’t have minded one little bit if you’d have popped over that afternoon and felt inclined to take a photograph of it.  When I went to bed that night, I was once again struck by the beautiful design and gorgeous fit of the sheets, and I can say with complete honesty, that my (perhaps snobbish?) cotton-rich loyalty took a temporary back seat to my pretty, perky, polyester dreams… For more by Wendy and the Blue Giraffe, go to: http://www.thebluegiraffe.com/