If I ever, ever enjoyed cold slate table tops or stark patterns (on the floor and/or the walls)- I simply don't anymore and have no idea how I ever did. They say the apple falls close to the tree but if you compared my taste in housing decor and fashion as of late to mother's, you'd say heck, she never fell out of the tree at all. She has completely converted me to a believer in the stylish perfection of the romantic shabby chic look. And it's much more than a style friends. It's a completely beautiful outlook on life and I will tell you why I'm so obsessed later. Gorgeously charming chandeliers. Drapes that scream "I am gentle and soft-love me." Beds and walls of earthy tones, dusty and blended calmly as if by an artist's finger. Wood soft and distressed- like myself most days. Withering away with a grace yet upholding warmly in the sunlight. Their birch-like shavings holding the remnants of last night's dreams. And teacups and flowers of course. Pearls and peonies drooping out of tea-cups, sitting on an aged vanity with a mirror-tray upon which to place a bottle of coco Chanel mademoiselle. With only one whiff, the world just seems better and your face opens its petals to the breeze coming in from a beachside balcony. Lilacs and hyacinths also hang somewhere in nasal space. They illuminate the scene, their scent making an entrance memorable, engraining it into your space for precious moments, like the first time you stepped into that little antique shop by the bay. Breathing out, you are taken in by the light that draws you inside a Parisian corner cafe. Such light hangs heavy on your eyes, pushing the lids down so that the enchantment does not swallow you hole. So that you may stay tender and in love. Your hands up on hers, upon the lace that hugs the table.