Butterfly Dreams

When I was in high school, I had a giant paper butterfly floating in the corner of my bedroom. I loved her.

Somewhere in college, I decided I had outgrown her and took her down. I miss her.

While My Love still lived in Chicago, we spent an afternoon on the beach flying kites. Being my girly-girl self, I insisted on a butterfly kite. I loved it. My Love, on the other hand, had quite a bit of trouble keeping my kite in the air. After one particularly spectacular round of verbal abuse following more kite troubles, I scolded, "Hey! That's Miss Butterfly to you!"

See? Miss Butterfly in all her flying glory.

Sometime after that trip, My Love started calling me butterfly (among many other terms of endearment and muttered under breath curses). It stuck. I love it.

And now, I'm trying to talk myself out of this wickedly cool (and totally grown-up) butterfly mobile. I love it. I want it. But do I need it? Really?

I'm not ashamed to admit that this would look rockin' with my black, silver, and white decor.