If anyone tells you that place cards, or linen selection (or any other nitpicky detail that goes into planning the biggest party you'll ever have) are the chores that come with the biggest headaches, well... they're telling stories. Because as of right now, I'll tell you with complete confidence that dealing with your invitations is by far the most abominable task-- outranked only by putting together the guest list (and subsequent seating arrangement) that accompanies said invitations.

And to think there was a time when I thought it was outrageous to pay someone to do the dirty work and address your invitations for you. Tsk tsk.

Needless to say, as I looked down at the crooked chicken scratch on my otherwise pristine envelopes-- and as I momentarily contemplated chopping off my cramped right hand-- I began to second guess that once firmly-held opinion. Perhaps professional calligraphers... or any other person with half-decent penmanship, for that matter... really are worth the shocking amount of money they no doubt collect for their services.

But a couple of beers later, I had already finished the job myself-- and no doubt added that certain je ne sais quoi to the remainder of my now "charming and personalized" bits of stationary.

I'll consider myself lucky that choosing these invitations was a much more pleasant experience. Not but a few weeks ago, I made the well-advisd choice to visit Simply Noted-- a self-proclaimed "classic, chic paperie" nestled in Belvedere Square. Jer and I had completely dropped the ball on this one-- and a lot of shops would have laughed us out of their store when we told them we needed everything mailed out by the first week of April.

Hence, my stroke of luck. Making good on their promise, they had books full of chic collections to choose from. So naturally, Karron spent close to two hours graciously tolerating my indecisiveness (even as my far less patient mother balked and checked her watch every 15 seconds). Once the order was in, our invitations came in record time (barring an error from the manufacturer on half of them... totally not their fault, and they took care of it fast).

At the end of it, the only drawback was that-- at nearly $10 a piece-- the invitations were far from cheap. But then again, nothing with the word "wedding" attached to it is. (Oh, the stories I could tell.) Nevertheless, Mom picked up two boxes of shower invites at 50-percent off... which seemed to satisfy her unmet need for a deep discount, if only briefly.

So let me turn instead to the best part of this particular shopping experience: the hand-written, thank-you-for-your-business note that Karron sent in the mail a few days later... as if to say "There, there... my hand hurts too."

It was a smart and thoughtful gesture-- effective, too, because she'd have my business again in a heartbeat. Of course, next time, I'd insist she pay someone to write the note for her.

(Okay. So once again, I'm being a bit hyperbolic... but the point is, it was a really great chair.)

Suddenly, my entire home decorating plan flashed before my eyes: Have I made the right decision? Is this really how I envisioned my furniture setup being-- or have I squandered precious square footage with a pedestrian mish-mash of pieces in a desperate attempt to create an eclectic living space?

A wave of discontent and confusion washed over me. We continued walking to our lunch destination (the always delicious Golden West Cafe... more on that another time). And as I ate, laughed, and chatted with Greg about his travels and the many mini-dramas associated with planning my wedding, my mind continued to wander back to that unattainable chair.

You see, Jer and I are living lean these days. In a year of blown transmissions, radical job changes, and wedding expenditures galore, we sadly cannot spend money on the fun things in life-- which for me includes drapes, lamps, throw pillows... and yes, more furniture. (I'm a new homeowner-- don't judge.)

Instead, these luxurious amenities taunt me from storefronts-- and this particular storefront could be considered my greatest Achilles' heel. In case you haven't already guessed, I'm referring to Red Tree, the funky 36th Street furniture store opened by Ben Homola and his wife Carmen in 2006.

Ben and Carmen were our neighbors when we were still renters. We would discretely peek into their front door whenever it was open, and admire their impeccable taste. (Don't make that face... you know you've done it before too.) So neither Jer nor I were particularly surprised to find that they were opening this shop. In fact,  we made an express point of popping in to visit. And visit we did. Over, and over, and over again.

We bought our end tables there. I ravaged their rose hip display, with bowls now scattered throughout my house. And maybe one of our greatest finds was the Leather and Mahogany candle they sell. (Make the Anchor Man jokes if you must... I certainly did... but the fact remains, it's the best-smelling candle I've ever bought.)

Even as I write this, we're awaiting a buffet for our dining room, which we put on custom order. (It's been about six months now... Carmen warned us it would take a while.) It's in a distressed french cream finish, similar to our other purchases there-- causing my sister to marvel at the fact that people actually pay good money for furniture that looks beat up. (She's got a point.)

Still, the prices at Red Tree are exceedingly reasonable for a boutique of its kind. And each piece is crafted from solid wood (this is not Ikea, folks)-- meaning that, should we ever grow tired of the flea-market-find trend sweeping high-end furniture these days, a brand-new look is but a sand and stain away.

(A note for the eco-conscious: Red Tree participtes in a tree replanting program-- and it's also one of the handful of Hampden businesses to work with a clean energy provider that uses 100 percent wind power.)

But I digress. The bottom line is, seeing as how my shopping has been relegated to the window variety, I suppose I should be grateful for Red Tree's seductive displays. A little pining never killed anyone. Besides, love is the child of poverty and resource-- and who doesn't need more of that in their life?

One day, that chair will be mine. Until then, I still have this blog.

Hey, did I mention that they also sell bacon & eggs band-aids?

It drives Jeremiah crazy. He calls it "sipping my coffee"-- and for some reason, the fact that I can carry around one of those paper to-go cups for two hours before it's all gone makes his skin crawl. (But he's marrying me anyway-- it seems love truly is blind.) The truth is, though, I simply can't understand why anyone would guzzle down coffee, barring those exceptional (or maybe all-too-common) times when you have to mainline sludge just to get your caffeine fix.

On principle, I refuse to do that. Not when the world is rich with good coffee aplenty.

Of course, when I consider how difficult it can be to find said Holy Grail of Java, I start to understand why so few people take the time to enjoy it.  Fortunately, I don't suffer from this problem-- not least of all because Zeke's Coffee is mere blocks away from my house... er, office. Whatever.  

It's a family-owned, small-batch coffee roaster with their headquarters on Montebello Terrace, right off of Harford Road. They opened up shop in 2006, but Jer and I didn't discover them until they showed up at the Charles Village Eddie's a few months later.  It was a life-changing day for us. (Okay, so maybe that's not quite true. But seriously... this is good coffee.) We're snobs about this kind of thing. We have a grind-and-brew coffee maker-- with a french press for special days. And after the first sip of Zeke's Market Blend, we became fiercely loyal customers. Since then, we've switched to the lighter Herring Run Roast... an homage to our new "front yard." (With due thanks to Greg and Elizabeth for supplying it to us under the auspices of "The Best Housewarming Gift Ever.") 

Since that fateful day, I've seen Zeke's popping up left and right, replacing Key Coffee as the city's hot beverage of choice. So do yourself a favor and buy some. By the pound, or by the cup. Just make sure you take the time to enjoy it-- no matter who you annoy in the process.