An Introduction: Why I'm Crazy and How You Could Be, Too

Once upon a time, we bought a house. A 1922 yellow brick house that smelled like my grandparents: formaldehyde, mildew, and a touch of that musky, old cosmetics smell. They were really nice people, the couple who had lived there the previous 40 years, and had kept the previous owners' 1960s renovations in tip-top shape. The first time we saw it, we walked in and walked right out. My mind had moved on when, on a hunch, my husband suggested we give it one more looksie. He must have gotten a whiff of something he liked. By the second floor, we were in tears and knew this was where we would tuck our unborn children into bed, revive old family recipes, argue about window treatments, and generally make our home together.




"Generally make our home" meant first welcoming general contractors as our first guests. We had the original knob-and-tube wiring from when Pittsburgh first got electricity. They made the lights flicker, pop, and fizzle with one touch of a button. The carpet that felt simultaneously moist and chalky, was ripped out to discover the original hardwood, 1st, 2nd, and 3rd floor, all waiting to be loved anew. A few rooms of wallpaper were stripped immediately, layers of magenta magnolias layered between plaster and more frilly, foofy, wallpaper. One room had a yarn-like, woven wallpaper that had been "treated" with a lifted plaster finish (imagine taking mud, and with the flat side of a knife, pressing and lifting it straight off the wall - like making a stiff peak in a meringue) and it scraped me bloody when my shoulder brushed it during the open house. Two months later, we "officially" moved in, even though we had been living in our dining room and sleeping on a borrowed air mattress, having already spent tens of thousands of dollars on making our house livable.

I quickly began making myself at home with furniture, curtains, lighting, accessories, and all the seemingly innocent things that put your soul into a bunch of framed wood and plaster. The same bunch of rooms that could have been a funeral parlor was suddenly as fresh as spring bulbs, announcing new life after a long cold sleep. There were soft shoulder-friendly textures. Throw pillows as delightful as marshmallows in hot cocoa, bobbing around in sweetness. Curtains so high they felt like willow branches offering a hug. My mother's and grandmother's tea cups were on display. Light poured in as if to say, "Thank you for having me."

That was the beginning of my insanity.

I was sick of paying out big bucks to some contractor to do things that I could do, if I ever took the time to learn and was crazy enough to tackle it. I mean this as no offense to the many highly skilled contractors out there, but I took the attitude, "what did they know that I couldn't figure out?", and so why shouldn't I do it? It was a mantra for an intimidated housewife, newly graduated from Berkeley with and English degree, pregnant, and looking for a way to be creative, productive, and frugal. I had some seriously potent nesting hormones to jumpstart my momentum.

I started by stripping wallpaper, which as you may know, is a slow, tedious, messy process but by no means brainy. It took me 3 days to do one small bathroom, not to mention washing all the glue off and painting. I have since had to re-do that bathroom because in my inexperience, I did not thoroughly wash off the glue nor prime sufficiently and the steam from the shower caused the paint to peel. Lesson number one: Do it right the first time, or do it twice. And time and energy are scarce commodities for all mothers, new and experienced.

Years passed, projects became more ambitious, and before I knew it I was remodeling my entire basement from the ground up: framing, electrical, plumbing, insulating, drywalling, mudding, sanding, installing flooring, painting, making custom built-ins, toilets, vanities, faucets, fixtures, and many more. The guys at Lowe's not only know me and my daughter by name, but they know the details of each project I've done, and they check up on me. I hired the best contractors I could find - not to work - but to teach me, step by step, how to do each task. I clocked hundreds of hours on both the DIYNetwork and HGTV, sponging up every trick my porous little brain-nooks had room for.

I began putting aside Jane Eyre and Shakespeare for Interior design books. I would pick a room and draw detailed sketches of 10-12 different decorating options nightly. I stayed up late, riveted by design dilemmas like the following:
"Q: Damask pattern or modern graphic fabric on my transitional style kitchen?

A: Graphic damask.

Q: How do I indulge in glorious silk drapes and still protect against grubby baby hands?

A: 18" of patterned, detachable, washable fabric at the bottom.

Q: Custom built-ins or antique furniture piece?

A: Build the antiques into the wall for an antique look with custom storage.

Q: Carrara marble or quartz?

A: Durable quartz around the range but baking-friendly marble on the island.

Q: Oil-rubbed bronze or brushed nickel?

A: Glass knobs and a bronze chandelier.

Q: Place cards hiding in golden walnuts or hiding in a locket on the tree branch centerpiece?

A: Cards hiding in golden walnuts, dangling from the branches.

Q: Lavender White cake with crystallized pansies or Maple Buttercream Coffee cake with a sugar candy cage encasing it?

A: Lavender White Cake with crystallized pansies encased in a spun sugar cage." And somehow, I still wondered what I ought to do with my life.

I also wondered how I could keep this up without drugs. Crack maybe would have been helpful. Or even just caffine.

I was a mom by this time, sleep deprived and distracted. I worked one nap at a time, and long into the night. When she cried for a late night feeding, I'd wash the concrete off of my hands, nurse her, give her a good cuddle, and then go back to the subfloor I was installing, or the furniture I was building, or the rose petals I was baking. 2am...3am...

I was crazy. I am crazy. I feared people would tease me, either for being a woman in this manly world of remodeling or for "trying too hard" with the decorating, crafting, cooking stuff. As a professional dancer, I wouldn't say I look very masculine and it could have been easy to laugh at the little blonde with the table saw. On the domestic side, we women can be so competitive, and I didn't want friends to mistake my seemingly crack-infused Martha-esque kick as being competitive. But the men, though surprised, were impressed. And my girlfriends were asking me to show them how they, too, could make improvements to their home on a small budget or put lavender in a cake. It makes me feel great to share what I've learned and see a friend with a power tool in her hands, feeling fed by her home.

I, myself, feeling insecure and undoubtedly hormonal, wondered if these things were silly, meaningless, if I was kidding myself that I was doing anything important. It couldn't be that important! It's just a curtain! Why? Why do I spend every spare thought thinking about home improvement and decorating? Why does this mean so much to me? Why can't I just go to sleep!

Then I realized the most important thing in my life thus far.

Besides realizing that I wanted to marry Aaron, or that my daughter Hazel June was the most beautiful spirit alive, I realized that I am not just improving a house...I'm making a home. A lifestyle. An office. A temple. I'm being creative in a tangible way, versus the intrinsically rewarding creative experience of being a mother. The life and light and charm of my home creates a nurturing space for my family, too (Trying so hard not to sound 1950's wife-ish, but I don't think a 1950's wife is generally the one with the power tools). A home is a landscape for soulfulness. Your landscape can feed you, nourish you, or it can crumble and leave you comfortless, uninspired, chewing on husks.


My mission statement:
In my unavoidably, often embarrassingly candid style, I will share my "home-making" adventures with you and invite you to share yours. Tips, tricks, crafts, references, before-and-afters, recipes, questions, triumphs, disasters. All of it. I'll put together step-by-step, from me to you, instructions on home improvement projects without any condescension or assumed contractor lingo (so annoying and belittling). I'll offer up fun decorating ideas that are beautiful and you can do yourself, along with materials and resources you may not be aware of. I'll show you my crafts, and I'll love being inspired by yours. Together, we can be a community of women who understand the effect of a beautiful home and our power to beautify it, from the bones out to the jewelry. We can redefine the term "homemakers" and literally make a home to dream of and dream in.

In closing, I leave you with some of my beliefs to ponder until next time:

1. I believe wallpaper serves better as a body bag then a wall treatment, except in very rare and self-consciously stylish instances.
2. No room is prettier than the one you build, and the money you save smells sweeter, too.
3. A good book reads better in a beautifully decorated room. You can even become a character from your book, for a moment.
4. Crafts, sewing, tablescape, and so on, are not silly or frivolous. They are part of a long heritage of activities that encourage creativity and bond women.
5. Cakes taste better when you crystalize rose petals and sprinkle them over the top.
6. Hats, pearls, and eyelet dresses are a welcome addition to your everyday wardrobe, as are your slippers and bathrobe. Your choice. You're beautiful either way.
7. Power tools and frilly aprons are hot. Super hot.