Two years ago, it seemed obvious that this paper shop would by now be a multi-million dollar enterprise. After all, the first step in any sound business plan is to throw logic and rational thought out the window. Remembering our first week in business - it was mostly spent planning an early retirement on a beach in South America - I notice that some things have changed. Though we love this shop and we have no regrets, I think back to how it all began and can't help but wonder how exactly we got this far...

"Ellie ate a cell phone." I offered this to my accountant as explanation for why dogs should be tax deductible. If I recall, his rebuttal included both the words "creative" and "idiotic". At the time, my business savvy consisted entirely of what I remembered from certain episodes of the Brady Bunch, so I welcomed this as constructive criticism.

"Not only that, I think her intestine may have called an out-of-network gall bladder and used up all the minutes." Sure, it was an exaggeration, if not a shameless misinterpretation of tax law. But on some level this conversation served as an appropriate metaphor for our entire business venture. Somewhere in between creative and idiotic lay the groundwork for our paper shop, a dream realized in equal parts determination, fate, delusion and caffeine.

The idea developed slowly over time. Well, in reality, it developed slowly over breakfast. We somehow got from eggs to incorporated in a matter of minutes, thankfully without allowing things like prudence and forethought to intercede. When it comes to decisions that could affect the rest of our lives, we tend to react with impulse and rash indiscretion. This, in part, explains Ellie whom we adopted mainly for her ability to match the living room. Incidentally, anyone considering welcoming a weimaraner into their home should plan on never again sitting alone on the sofa. (No, it's cute when a terrier does it - ninety-pound lap dog is somewhat of an oxymoron).

The concept was simple: create a one-of-a-kind paperie for the fashionably modern stationery addict, offering a wide variety of products not yet available in the area. In this case, the area was Syracuse, New York, our beloved hometown. Insert tired weather joke here, something like... at the request of the Weather Channel, Syracuse is now officially spelled with a silent snowflake in the middle.

We had recently returned home after nearly a decade in Boston. For those of you who don't know, Massachusetts is a Native American word that translates loosely as "thirty dollars to park", so we were anxious to begin our new life amid a lower cost of living. Upon our homecoming however, the job hunt had elucidated exactly how unmarketable my skills were. Never one for rejection, I jumped at my wife's suggestion that we open our own store. I don't recall my exact words but they were along the lines of "you want to do what?"

"It'll be liberating", she insisted. By this, she meant that for the mere price of start-up costs, some gray hairs and my sanity, I could forever surrender the comforts of having a fixed salary.

Still, the dream persisted. The shop had existed for years as a vision in my wife's head, a place where invitations became an understated but cherished art form, a place where every baby announcement was certain to illicit a few tears, a place where no wrapping paper suffered the horrendous burden of mismatched ribbon. Imagine Willie Wonka with a paper shop and you're halfway there.

So, once you have your idea (which - though no one else has ever tried it - you're certain is absolute gold), you take it to a bank loan officer who tells you that business loans are only given to people who either have substantial capital or an existing business. In other words, they only give money to people who already have money. The start-up business loan is somewhat of a myth.

But never fear, there are other ways of securing an investment. Which brings me back to Ellie who has two platinum cards and a substantial line of credit at Pottery Barn. She's really into picture frames and bedding, but just went through a tableware phase. For a dog, she has exquisite taste.

Anyway, two years later, we are still here. I could write volumes on how not to run a business. Someday I'll compile these thoughts into a poorly written book and perhaps collapse a publishing house. Until then, we continue to grow, at least in the philosophical sense. Where once I had measured success like everyone else, in the number of cheeseburgers served, I have come to believe that the true meaning of success is simply doing what you love. Just don't tell my accountant.