I’d never heard of Anthropologie until my sister-in-law brought it up. And until I started reading design blogs with regularity, I certainly didn’t share in the general enthusiasm. Thank you, blog heroines, for saving me from my ignorance.
And in the nick of time, too. Friday is just 300,000 seconds away.
Granted, a lot of Anthro’s merchandise is decidedly bohemian — in other words, totally not me — but their simplest items are right up my alley. I’ve been drinking in the home section of their website in preparation for my first pilgrimage. I have no idea what they’ll stock — or what they have in stock by the time I make it in — but I’m finding plenty of eye candy in the meantime.
I want one. I don’t need one. I want one.
Is it ruching? Shirring? No. It’s love.
This bed calls my name. In Italian.
I live in a world where $1,300 for a dresser is an unconscionable extravagance. Damn it.
Love that reclaimed pine. Just “pining” away.
I wasn’t a big fan of cephalopods. Until now.
This lamp has such elegance. Gorgeous.
Did I mention my clinical obsession for industrial-inspired lighting?
Did I mention my clinical obsession for industrial-inspired lighting?
I did? Oh.
Anthro also has some beautiful wallpapers. Tons of them. But my favorite has to be this one:
Kitschy fun. I’m not sure why I like it, but I do.
I also like mirrors with a sense of humor. Like this one:
It would certainly compliment my houseful of existing broken stuff.
Zinc letters? Yes, please.
The color of the Lotus Dinnerware is stunning.
I’ve always wanted a set of Latte Bowls. (And a barista to go with them, but I’m flexible.)
And then, if there were no mortgage, no utilities, and no need to eat ever again, I would just buy hardware. But I can’t post pictures. I don’t have the bandwidth.
Are you an Anthropologie junky? What are your faves?
Tulsa, let the countdown begin.
Aimee says
there is a part of me that wishes i was an anthropologie girl. yearns to wear flowy floral tops and skinny jeans with funky vintage earrings. adores the 40s-inspired dresses and heels. wishes i didn’t mind paying $86 for a sleeveless top made out of cotton.
alas, to reverse julia roberts’ immortal words, “i am jello. jello can never be creme brulee.”