We recently made the decision that we’d be staying in this house for at least another year, thus revamping my interest in home decor–it doesn’t make sense to pound a bunch of holes in the wall if they’re just going to be more work to fill in a couple of months. But since we now have time and the inclination, we’ve gone on a furniture buying orgy, replacing the dresser with the middle drawer that wouldn’t open and the bottom drawer that wouldn’t shut (I am now going to attempt to fix and finish it in an exciting manner for guest bedroom storage purposes), ordering a new gliding, reclining loveseat couch to replace the couch with the annoying cushions that we hate, getting a new bookcase to store all of the books that have been piling up around the old one (and to prop up the old one and keep it from falling over because it had a “leaning tower” effect going on), purchasing a slightly banged-up demo dining room table for me to strip and finish to my heart’s delight (chairs are next), and one completely frivolous, useless thing.

We were drawn into the store by its assortment of kitschy crap–puma clocks, rattlesnakes poised to strike coiled around treasure chests, blinking jesus pictures–stuff that would be fun to give as gifts so long as you could see the recipient try to make an appreciative, thankful face after opening it.

And then I saw it, and knew it must be mine.

Playing it cool, I asked the shopkeeper if the price listed was his best price for that t-rex up on the wall, you know, whatever, and he knocked off another twenty dollars.

It was mine AND it was a bargain.

We could hardly fit it in the car.

It adds a certain touch of majesty to our home, does it not?