No my husband didn’t leave me. (Although circle back after this move). This is about my dumpster. I love my dumpster. Temporary dumpster, I should add.
Is there anyhing more freeing - and indulgent- than being able to let sail those annoying should-I-stay-or-should-I-go items straight into metal kingdom come? If everyone moving invested in a parked dumpster for a couple of days just outside their front door, we’d surely eliminate the excrutiating presence of those pods parked in people’s back yards. You know damn well if I knocked on their door with a clipboard they wouldn’t be able to name one thing that’s in there. Whomever invented Pods was one smart bastard, capitializing upon our greatest fear: “But what if Jimmy ever needs that sixth lunch box?!..”
The Pods inventor should be forced to sort through mismatch Tupperware til the end of time. Don’t people realize that purging- or donating- things like the plastic checkers set from that New Hampshire 1980 ski trip or the framed Monet poster you had in your dorm room is far more satisfying than any Gwenyth Paltrow cleanse diet?…
Yesterday I met an antiques dealer and my friend who is a top antiques consultant to review some pieces I knew I didn’t love enough to make the trip to the lake or storage.
When the dealer kindly said: “if there’s anything you’re on the fence about, don’t sell, I’d keep it.”
“No I’m positive,” I said. The thought of dark pods filled with furniture and low-slung cobwebs sent shivers up my spine.
Then my friend said: “You don’t understand. She wants the freedom to buy new stuff.”
Couldn’t have said it better myself.

In selling our Roxbury house, I find myself surprisingly past the emotional “my kids learned how to ride their bikes here!” to the nuts and bolts logistics of: “do we really need to bring that silver bowl your Aunt Clair gave us?” (The same we saw later in other homes: her standard wedding gift to everyone with the same card attached: “To the most beautiful couple!”). In order to move, I must assess each room’s emotional vignette, the multi-tiered layers of ten years at this house with a clinical eye. Over there is the still life drawing my son made in Kindergarten, next to a treasured stone from a Corsica beach scooped one family vacation, on top of an inherited Russian bureau on a pink and yellow oriental rug scored at an ABC Carpet warehouse sale after we signed the contract to buy house, but which deserves to continue to make the journey with us?…What was once treasure now must be considered flotsam for not everything can come nor do I want it to. Today I bought a stack of stickies and began to color code many of the pieces in each room: orange for what we definitely wanted, green for what the buyers wanted. Our current home is already filled, from silverware to bedside lamps, so the move is not simply a matter of transference of a sofa from point A to B, moreover it’s a kind of a furniture Sophie’s Choice. If Eric’s father’s antique dining chairs (which I’ve recovered in five different fabrics over the course of fifteen years) make it to the lake house then he can’t also bring the enormous framed drawing of Charlie Chaplain his sister made in fifth grade which we somehow own. My grandfather’s carved wood shaving stand? Absolutely (at least in my opinion) but I don’t know if I can also convince Eric of the importance of keeping the crazy six foot high bureau my father was more than excited to give us when we first moved in (which I then promptly painted white and added coral knobs to jazz it up). We just don’t have the room for everything, even with the addition we are planning. To further complicate matters, our beloved carpenter Carloman came with his wife to have a look. I handed him blue stickies hoping he’d want all the pieces we did not. After he left I scurried from room to room in search of blue: he’d bypassed the sofas and end tables and instead tagged a wastebasket I had bought in Soho, and a black urns filled with ostrich feathers. (Which I knew Eric would nix them making the journey). Soon the rooms were no longer cohesive scrapbooks of our lives: they had become tag sale destinations. And by the week’s end, they will start to be voided, as each piece is separated from its current partner and carried off and placed into new juxtapositions elsewhere. Some things I will have to let go despite the emotion of its origin and believe me, there is that with every single piece. I’ll look at a mirror and remember my mood when I bought it, what I felt like when I pulled it out of its box, how tricky it was to hang and what earrings I was wearing when I first gazed into my delightful purchase. But do I still want it? I have a different life now, a different wall. The earrings are forgotten or lost. I no longer have the head or physical space to call everything beloved. Someone once said you can never love a possession too much. I used to greedily cling to the idea of what filled my home. Now I think of Carloman and his wife and their rooms filled with the very things I once thought I could never part with. But instead of remorse I am filled with contentment.

Whenever I see home stuff I crave but don’t need - be it a French settee upholstered in orange velvet or a Belgian crystal sphere chandelier, I think: “oh, that’s for my alternative universe house” and I then carefully place it inside my Scottish castle, Nantucket salt box or Barcelona loft- next to the other phantom pieces I’ve lustifully accumulated after all these years. Our real floor plans may be limited but the spaces in our heads- at least mine- are boundless and without budget. And it isn’t all about grandeur or aspiration. Sometimes it’s just the opportunity to imagine another threshold to cross- what color you’d paint the door and what kind kind of entry hall would be waiting to receive you.
There’s a strange carriage house perched on a corner of a little street I pass each day after dropping my son off at school. I am enchanted by it’s factory-like shape: the way there are more windows than walls and the ivy that crawls hungrily along the outer brick. I slow each time I pass it, trying to imagine the abundant sun light that must stream in and then myself a professor, coming home after teaching art class, parking my bike in the miniature driveway and then being welcomed by a cat and cheerful geraniums lined along the kitchen counter. I’d kick off my shoes and drape myself down upon the settee and wonder about my upcoming date for Saturday night. After dinner by candlelight at a long wooden table, would we eventually travel upstairs via the metal spiral staircase and lie down on the enormous bed bathed in all that moonlight streaming through the warped window panes? In these alternate universes there are no bills or heart break or Tuesday nights with nothing to do but pick up a remote. There is only the romance of possibilty of all that the rooms can contain. I can see my furniture there in great clarity but I have to squint very hard to put my actual being inside those brick walls. For a moment, I shimmer to life there but quickly disappear, coming back to focus inside my real rooms, ultimately preferring where I already am. Electric bill included.

I always thought I kept a tidy home until we went to Sweden to visit my husband’s family several years ago. While the Swedes lack the “build the American Dream” political landscape to erect uber McMansions, they keep up with the Anderssons by making sure that every square inch of their identical homes are in apple pie order, to the point where you could bounce a Euro off of any lawn or bedspread, whether it belonged to the mayor or mail man.
So while in America we can see rusted swing sets and water fountains coexist within the same block, in Sweden there’s a patriotic fever to presenting curb side appealed that would kick any naysayer to the curb who did not adhere. Gardens burst with flowers and vegetables too perfect to pick. Grass is tightly trimmed, shudders freshly painted, door knobs shine, curtains dusted and tea sets ready to serve. A Swedish flag always blows at high mast, cheerfully inviting rather than finger wagging. You feel like a SWAT team could pull into any driveway at two in the morning and home made cookies would be presented and a fresh-swept hearth lit to welcome your arrival. As Eric and I burrowed under layers of freshly ironed downed quilts at night, my head swirled with nightmare-ish visions of our house back home: every detail down to the light switches now suddenly seemed neglected, dirty and insufficient. I’d impatiently nudge Eric- no doubt dreaming of herring carefully arranged on a sparking china plate being offered to him and whisper- so that no doubt everyone within 5 kilometers could hear-”We need to redo the garden.”
“Hmmm?….” he murmured.
“The garden! AS SOON AS OUR PLANE LANDS!” Of course our garden seemed perfectly lovely to me before we left for Sweden. Now, knowing that carefully preened rows of roses and radishes lay gleaming in the moonlight just outside where my head lay, provoked a hologram of its American cousin as being nothing more than tangled weeds and vines, unfit to be viewed by anything except a bored slug. As enchanting as Sweden was, its enchantment was killing me.
“Eric!”
“What?!” he sat up, as though being called to douse out a sudden house fire. (OK, in my midnight delusions, it had crossed my mind).
“And paint the doors! We…must…paint..every…door!”
When it finally came time to hug our gracious cousins goodbye, I took one last look at their abundant window boxes. The geranium heads of soft pinks bobbed in the warm winds with a grace I could only interpret as meaning “So long…sucka!”
When we got home, a dinner invitation from some neighbors down the road beckoned like a lighthouse in the sea of mail. “Please join us for dinner,” it said in a hasty pen. “The house is a mess and the garden in shambles but come anyway.”
I couldn’t wait.

Four stakes in the lawn. That’s all it looks like now. For my husband they mark out a project he’s been longing to realize for years: creating a barn-like living space using vintage timbers and beams which will connect to our current abode. For me- now that we are deciding to stay at the lake for good and therefore need to increase its foot print dramatically- it’s an architectural blue print signaling sanity. The lake house-for its abundant charm and pleasures can seem a bit cramped with two active boys and a husband whose erratic work schedule (sleeping often during the day after a night shift) means no clean cut solo time for me to work and essentially just be. For all our maternal and nesting instincts- I think women like to be alone at home more than men. I’ll never forget that thrill when my youngest son was at school for the first time until 3 o’clock. I hugged him tearfully good bye at his classroom door- then drove home as fast as I could. I then spent the next six hours as follows: walking around the entire house in my underpants while eating celery dipped into a jar of peanut butter. Wrote without interruption for three hours in my office. Took a 15 minute miracle nap in the sun porch. Gossiped with my best friend while on the treadmill up in my husband’s office, examined childhood treasures in each of my boys’ rooms, made some brownies in the kitchen (via mix of course), ordered a new bedroom rug while on the computer in the library and dreamily sorted through mismatched mittens in the mud room. For me, time spent alone doesn’t get any better than that: enjoying every delicious nook and cranny in your home. But now the nooks and crannies are vastly reduced. It’s a bit like living on a boat: there is no leave-your-socks-on-the-floor luxury. Eric needs an office and a bunk room where he can sleep in peace (as my office is now in our bed room- the largest and sunniest room of the house with lake views) He just doesn’t need his own space, I need him to have his own space. I need to feel alone here when I want, love him as much as I do. With rare exceptions-husband and wives need to be in separate and distinct spaces during the week days. My Aunt and Uncle have lived decade after blissful decade both at home and, for the most part, without full-time be-at-the-office jobs. And they couldn’t be happier. I don’t know how they do it. Something about their relationship DNA or because that’s all they ever did- be together at home. They dropped out of Harvard in the Sixities and drove a VW van straight across the country to the Pacific Ocean and built a house on the prettiest spot outside their windshield. And they’ve been there ever since. Maybe they take turns eating peanut butter in their underpants alone in the house but I somehow doubt it. Meanwhile, my friend’s Grandmother, who had for years been a homemaker and raised their children while her husband worked, suddenly within weeks of his retirement, got a job as a dental assistant. And trust me, it wasn’t for the pay check. And even if I don’t ever set foot in that new spacious barn (it’ll mostly be a garage and office for Eric on the ground floor and media room/play area on the top,) just knowing that it’s there will be enough.

I was roaming through a design center before giving a talk the other day when I spied this black bedroom vignette and had to stop. Could it be possible that anyone could dream, much less sleep properly in such dark and vast overabundance? It appears that the stylist thought they were doing everyone a favor by prearranging the idea of a royal snooze down to the last silver grommet. I can only imagine what kind of tossing and turning- not to mention nightmares- would become of me if I attempted to lay myself between its blackened covers. I think of a trip to Mexico my family and I once took- it was to an amusement park, but the Mexican’s idea of one. Tropical birds lining an alee of trees greeted you as you arrived, not loud speakers. There wasn’t any plastic in sight: instead wooden signs thoughtfully pointed out nature’s wonders that lay along the coastline, rather than man-made rides. As my boys and husband submerged themselves in a scuba dive on a particularly scenic spot, I noticed that the park had thoughtfully strung simple rock hammocks amidst the palm trees to encourage people who were waiting their turn, to relax, even snooze. How could I not? Within minutes swaying in the warm breeze, I dozed dreamily and felt as though I, too, were part of the warm, buoyant ocean. Looking at this bedroom now and thinking of all the people in Haiti with nowhere safe to lie their heads, I can only think it fit for the dreams of Pat Robertson.

I was admiring a house once in House & Garden magazine, a gorgeous cottage filled with pools of sunny lemon light, yummy dark wood, just-right white walls, and very little personal touches. The overall absence of any kind of frivolity made things feel impossibly serene and I felt dizzy with longing. I eagerly read the accompanying text: the two women owners were very steadfast on what they wanted: pure beauty in its simplest form. Right down to removing the Saran Wrap from its packaging and placing it in glass holders. In fact throughout the kitchen there was nary a color or label: things were poured or stacked into identical metal tins or glass. It was very seducing this idea (not to mention time consuming) of taking away commercial labels and allowing the simple contents speak for itself with nothing distracting the eye away from the homeowner’s intended style. I imagined their sheets of toilet paper stacked elegantly in Lucite boxes: (rolls seem so gauche) or maybe they had hummingbirds fly in through the bathroom window, little white squares clasped between their tiny beaks. Or maybe these women had found a way to eliminate eliminating. I was at a dear friend’s house this afternoon. She has five children and an ice pond which is social central on winter weekends. Her kitchen is a whirlwind of food, children, and mementos of whatever holiday or birthday is being celebrated. She manages to keep it always tidy, cosy, friendly and personal, despite a constant cacophony of food, animals, aspiring ballerinas and basketball players. Window ledges burst with plants, party streamers, bird feeders, paper snow flakes, school pictures, pebbles from beaches and tiny treasures only Marina knows why they are there. The Saran Wrap is kept squarely in its original box, thank you very much. It’s there for little hands to find if they need to wrap the homemade cookies for their teacher or tomorrow’s lunch box left overs. I try to envision the two women here on a Saturday afternoon. Would they be able to handle the noise? The refriderator jammed inside with food and a jostle of music lesson schedules and calenders taped across its front? I’m thinking that once they’d accept a cup of Marina’s hot chocolate, take a seat in one of the painted wooden chairs, they’d absorb this wonderful, clashing symphony of familial rituals and habits and, how I always feel, would want to stay a little longer.

I’ve always envied the Europeans’ Je ne sais quoi ability when it comes to fashion (ie: how come their old jeans and a scarf look so much chicer than any outfit I might try to assemble with money and forethought?) but when I saw it effortlessly turned to home design I started to get a little irked.
At a recent shoot at style icon Carolina Irving’s charming Manhattan apartment, the Paris-educated beauty of Venezuelan parents answered the door with the casual aplomb of someone who makes house slippers look like Manolo Blahniks. In fact, Carolina was wearing slippers but they were of a yummy tangerine leather variety that looked right at home with her slouchy yet flattering jeans, unadorned, beautiful face and tousled hair caught in a ponytail that made my blow dried do feel so overdone. When it went came time for her portrait, her dog (who was camera-ready without being pretentious) simply jumped next to her on the sofa and together, with their genuine smiles, they were cover-worthy. When Carolina realized she was wearing slippers, she worried they’d be in the shot. But of course, who didn’t want them in the shot? They embodied everything her home was about: adherence to what felt and looked great and glamour that came from innate confidence that never took life too seriously. It was in fact the opposite of “Je ne sais quoi” but instead: “I love this piece of red coral and if I want to suspend it from black ribbon and tack it next to a massive 18th century portrait framed in gold, then so be it.” If my husband came home and saw such antics, I would most likely be served with divorce papers. But with Carolina, inspiration never seemed forced for effect. This is after all, someone who is perfectly content to move piles of paper, paint and books away from her desk to make room for a seated dinner party. There wasn’t a lot of room in this apartment yet she had-through the use of her glorious textiles and whimsical details- made it feel as spacious as any castle. When we went to book a time to chat on the phone about the story, she encouraged me to call her anytime that was convenient to me over the holiday. I suggested one day and she said, “Great, I’ll be in Beirut.” The next day, it was Egypt. I had no idea where she kept her suitcases in that glorious space of hers but I knew that, whatever she’d pull out of them to help find whatever treasure caught her eye next, it would look perfectly rumpled, picture perfect and at home.

Over Christmas time after college, a boyfriend hooked me up with Manhattan’s first star florist. I loved flowers and needed a job and as a favor to Peter, Marla hired me without even meeting me. Her tiny Upper East side shop was crowded with finches chirping inside faded Victorian cages, Oscar Wilde-worthy ferns, hundreds of paper whites, orchids and tulips. I was instantly enchanted but the fairy tale setting was soon shattered when its proprietress- part Blanche du Bois and part Fran Drescher- shouted from the back for someone to answer the god damn phone. I hadn’t been there more than 30 seconds but since no one stepped in, I picked it up and merrily exclaimed: “Marla’s Flowers!” “Toooo nice!” she called back. I hesitated and then realized what she meant was that I was already being too nice to the customers. “Hello?” purred a girlish yet aristocratic voice on the other end. “Is Marla there?..” Marla poked her head out, the stub of a joint clasped between her teeth and gestured for me to ask who it was.
“Who is calling?” I said in a tone which I hoped sounded less polite.
“Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.”
I tried not to drop the receiver as I mouthed dramatically who it was. To my awe, Marla refused to take the call. “Ask her what she wants.”
It turned out Jackie wanted some flowers for a party at her apartment. She wanted Marla but wanted to be sure “it didn’t cost more than a car.”
Marla reluctantly complied and the order was placed.
It wasn’t long before I witnessed the raw talent Marla possessed: she could make red carnations look sexy and, with one fell swoop of her sheers, cut thousand dollars of white tulips to the nub, plunking them effortlessly into a vase and never look back. We’d jump into the back of a van her model-gorgeous husband would drive and careen up Park Avenue to deliver to some of the poshest addresses in the city. I had never seen apartments like this: they stretched entire floors, had Titantic-sized staircases and at every turn, were anointed with sumptuous velvets, chintz, tassels, art work from my Art History 101 course, gleaming kitchens bustling with staff and hostesses the size of Twizzlers who greeted us in pressed jeans and Chanel jackets. We went to Trump Tower after a woman called - she had a read a profile on Marla in W- and asked if we’d come decorate her Christmas tree as a surprise for her husband when he came from work. I put my hand over the phone and whispered to Marla how much it would be. “Don’t DO Christmas trees!” she puffed back. But the woman wouldn’t take no for an answer and to get rid of her, Marla quoted $100,000 to “do” her tree. The woman accepted without a hesitation. The penthouse at the Trump Tower was like being inside a Lucite box. I felt dizzy surrounded by the thousands of refracted lights of the city and the tree and soon I couldn’t tell which was which. While the woman flirted with Marla’s husband, Marla and I just kept adding more strands of lights. Marla taught me that “more is more” and while I agree that $100,000 seems a bit high too decorate the tree, it certainly did look fabulous in the end. Once the word got out that Marla did trees, the phone didn’t stop ringing. She worked late into the nights hacking and stuffing flowers into arrangements that cost what I hoped to make in an entire year. We did a tree for a widow on Sutton Place ( I wished I had brought my roller blades to skate down her long, butter scotched-colored hallways) and, as the coup d’etat, wrapped her mink coat around the base.
By day- now shriveled with seasonal exhaustion and her daily dose of angst- Marla retreated into the smoky back shadows of the shop while the phone trilled like one of the finches. “I’m not heeeere!” she’d wailed. We went to a famous philanthropist’s apartment and filled it with dozens of arrangements that made the ones at the Metropolitan Museum seem like FTD. I snuck a peek at the calligraphed place cards in the dining room (which was twice the size of the entire apartment I shared with a roommate) to read: “Henry Kissinger” and “Nancy Regan.” Smells began wafting from the unseen kitchen and I touched the gilded tip of the chair and imagined it being held for me, while Nancy and Henry jockeyed for me to explain my senior thesis topic one more time. I longed to tuck a napkin the weight of a bedspread onto my lap, stare at the massive white lillies and be served.
As the butler handed me my Gap coat with a definite push out the door, I wanted to suddenly call out that I had been a debutante. It was a fact I never told anyone- thinking it particularly silly and old fashioned- but now the desperate gesture would perhaps bide me time to linger here as a guest rather than a flower girl. I didn’t expect to graduate college and feel like I didn’t belong. I certainly didn’t want to become a woman who paid to have her Christmas tree decorated nor would I ever want to have a butler even if I could afford one. I knew I had been lucky enough to grow up with enough money and education that no matter how unsuccessful I was, I wouldn’t ever have to work in someone’s house creasing their jeans or place cards. But still, racing in between such dizzying plateaus and displays of wealth and power, I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to be heading.
Walking home and looking up at the glowing lights of duplexes, I suddenly knew I’d never own one. But I was determined to have a place of my own someday that I could fill with flowers I’d arrange myself. Maybe a few finches. Have a few people over to stop and smell the delicious scents and hear the songs. For now, that seemed like enough.

To me, the busiest room isn’t always the kitchen but the downstairs powder room.
Between house guests, visiting play dates told to wash their hands before a snack and family members too lazy to head upstairs to their own “real” bathrooms, this one, always adjacent to the house’s entrance remains on heavy rotation 24-7. This is where we dart in to do a last minute checks on ourselves before we dash out into the real world or let it in.
It’s where- as guests in other powder rooms- we poke around a little to get a sense of who lives here when we don’t know our hostesses well enough to visit rooms other than the dining room.
What can these little alcoves tell us about the owners in the sliver of time between cocktail hour and dinner?
These puny spaces can pack an identity punch and I always wonder why so many choose to forgo the getting to know you opportunity and instead offer a Motel 6 style- albeit helpful - facade to the world instead?
I’m always let down by the inevitable basic waste basket and drab towel rack or window treatment.
I know the options are limited here but why not live a little and peel the protective cover off the family seal? Why not paint a color here you’d never dare in other rooms? Go ahead and hang things on the wall too quirky for your living room. (I have framed and hung illustrated postcards from every family vacation on my slanted little wall practically from floor to ceiling). Never found the right place for those ridiculously old fashioned velvet curtains your Aunt insisted you take? Well for Pete’s sake, here’s the place, right next to the modern white toilet. Everything should count here but nothing should be taken too seriously.
A friend of mine has covered her guest bathroom walls with a potpourri of prestigious awards, diplomas and photographs she and her husband have received over decades. I look forward to every party she throws in order to duck in and silently ponder another snapshot of their layered lives and I appreciate her offering it to me in this friendly, off handed way.
The other day I suddenly opened the cabinet our own guest powder room - just because it had been awhile- and was horrified that my husband had put a large bottle of saline solution on the main shelf, the kind you use to flush out stuffed noses when you’re close to suffocating. I immediately removed it. Yes, we had space for it here and none in our own bathroom but that wasn’t the point. This bathroom should not be about storage, it was about receiving. A bottle of Advil, some fancy hand cream someone had re-gifted to me, a lovely bar of soap and hand towels I made sure were pressed weekly. This was a place that said, come in, we will take care of you. But we are not a hospital.
My favorite place to park in the city has an employee bathroom I once had to use in an emergency. The men kindly showed me into a tiny space with peeling paint, battered black lockers and exposed water pipes. This is all they had as far as a break room and they were happy to share it with me, no apologies for its appearance.
A worn circular mirror someone had probably found on the street was hung above the sink. A hook on the door afforded me a place to hang my pocket book and outside the city waited.
Despite its bleak nature, its safe four walls afforded me a temporary haven- a way station- between where I had come from and where I was about to go and I was grateful. After all, isn’t that what hospitality is all about?