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This is my friend Ellen and her mom, Lynne. I've written about Ellen before. She throws great parties and serves fancy fizzy drinks in vintage glassware passed down by Lynne. Once, at a patio party, I was minding my own business when apropos of nothing, she hollered in my ear, "Mint green soup bowls!"
Ellen tosses out non-sequiturs faster than Yogi Berra behind home plate, but the woman is brilliant and I've learned that her odd thoughts always merit a follow-up.
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The last time I traveled to Washington D.C., I went for the Women's March. Hesitant to get political on my blog, I never posted those photos here. Last weekend, I returned to D.C. to visit my son. On Saturday night, we attended the Washington Nationals baseball game. As we rose for the National Anthem, the announcer asked for a moment of silence for the victims of the violence in Charlottesville. He expressed a rejection of racism and bigotry in all its forms, and in a very emotional response, the crowd roared its approval.
On Sunday, we toured the National Museum of African American History and Culture. We certainly didn't plan it that way, but the NMAAHC, or the Blacksonian, as it is affectionately nicknamed, seemed like the ideal place to spend the day after Saturday's events. I thought you might like to learn a little about the newest addition to the Smithsonian fleet of museums.
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I hosted a baby shower for a dear friend's expectant daughter last weekend. Those of you familiar with my fondness for Halloween will not be surprised that I wanted to create centerpieces with disjointed doll heads, arms, and legs. I asked my son what he thought of the idea, and his response illustrates the folly of seeking counsel on a baby shower from a nineteen-year-old male. He said, "You be you, Mom. It'll be great."
Never fear, the doll heads remained in my basement where they sit on the shelf, staring blankly into the darkness. One doll did make it upstairs. I painted his body to match the invites and the cookies and then attached him to the back of April the wicker giraffe. The parents-to-be took such a shine, I simply didn't have the heart to point out his lazy eye.
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Recently, my sister and I were shopping in a beautiful furniture store up in Door County, Wisconsin, and the weather turned nasty. With the shopkeeper's permission, we got comfortable on a couch to wait out the rainstorm by looking through our phones. At that moment, my sister got a text from her eighteen-year-old daughter about a horse mystery. And I got an email from my friend Ellen also about a horse mystery.
As we compared our horse mysteries, we looked up to see Mr. Ed eavesdropping (above).
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I have reclaimed the basement. It is mine. All mine.
Do I sound greedy? Territorial?
Look, it’s been four years since I started a business in our basement. My inventory, shipping supplies, and photography equipment competed for space with a drum kit, a weight bench, video game consoles, air soft guns, guitars, amps, a fooz-ball table, etc. I gazed upon walls covered with graffiti murals and family photos.
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Many years ago, we moved into a new neighborhood in suburban Chicago. As we were unloading the moving truck, a couple from down the street stopped in to welcome us.
After kindly extending a plate of freshly baked cookies, they got down to brass tacks. "Might I inquire which school the children will attend in the fall?" the gentleman asked. "Well, our realtor told us that this neighborhood's grade school is awesome," I replied. He cringed and leaned in. "You know," he whispered, "they teach trades in the public high school here. Perhaps a look at the Country Day School is in order."
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Today's post is a love letter to Linda McFadden, the elegant pirate in the photo above. She is the owner of Past Basket, an everything-you-could-possibly-want shop here in Milwaukee. Linda doesn't know this, but she formed my style. Those of you who have complimented my taste, who have purchased things from my shop, who like the way I set a table, let me just get this off my chest: all my best ideas are stolen from Linda.
Linda and her husband Dave opened Past Basket in Kohler, Wisconsin, in 1991, and I would ditch my four squirrelly boys to drive up and drool. Then, in 2001, the McFaddens opened their flagship store about two miles from my house. For goodness sake, you can imagine what that meant. I could jog over in a pinch.
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Beginning in 1995, I recorded the title, author, and short blurb of every book I read. The best books got stars. I was picky about awarding them.
This act of journaling corresponded with the start of my job at the local library where I was paid actual cash for the task of reading books and recommending them to others.
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Poor England. For eons, the island has suffered the world's scorn for its dubious culinary reputation. And yet, the very same culture that serves up mushy peas, spotted dick, and bangers and mash, has the market cornered on stunning yet simple kitchens. This kitchen, with its pale pink walls, emerald green tiles, and teal cabinetry, is the jaw-dropping new showplace of DeVOL Kitchens in the design district of London. Let's take a gander, shall we?
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This week, a friend sent a link to a humor writing contest. Called the Royal Nonesuch Humor Writing Contest, it is sponsored by the Mark Twain Museum in Hartford, Connecticut. The deadline is next week, so click here to enter. Full disclosure, you have to pay $23 to submit, but I strongly encourage you to give it a try, as one of the prizes is a gift certificate to the Mark Twain store in Hartford, Connecticut. The "Cat in the Ruff" laminated bookmark is super cute.
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I traveled to Iowa recently to attend my niece's graduation. Over brunch, everyone was discussing a story in the news about some idiot kids who burned down one of those landmark Iowa covered bridges. They got caught when they posted photos of themselves standing at the bridge with a container of kerosene. Just despicable. We all tsk-tsked about the fall of civilization and how somewhere, Clint Eastwood and Meryl Streep were crying.
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Every week, I work hard to write witty posts for you people and I hit 'send' and I'm happy. Then you open the email and write me back. Or you post a comment on the blog. Or on Facebook or Instagram. And let me tell you, you're a bunch of memoir-reading, NPR-listening, SNL-watching, kombucha-sipping smarty pants. This is my teasing way of saying that your comments are wonderful! You seem to be a very well-rounded crowd. Interesting. Funny. Worldly.
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Last year at an estate sale up in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, the woman standing next to me remarked that this was the home of her deceased surgeon. "Sorry to hear that," I said. "Yeah," she replied, "Good thing my cleaning lady saw the obit. I was scheduled for a boob job that Tuesday."
Of course I immediately looked at her boobs. Couldn't have helped it if I tried. My glance answered my first question, which was whether she found a replacement surgeon. But the second question I asked myself went unanswered. Which was why. Why did this nice woman tell me, a perfect stranger, such a thing?
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I have a tiny powder room off the kitchen that I redid last summer in time for the wedding party we hosted. It is such a perfect little jewel box, I thought I'd share some photos.
The wallpaper is from the Brooklyn company, Flat Vernacular. Can you see the peacock pattern? They're arranged in mirror images so that they form a kind of chain link.
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It is time for a new profile pic. I'll tell you the reason in a moment. I saw the photo on the left and decided that this was the look I needed.
Renn, my most trusted photographer, said, "No, I don't think this is going to work."
"But I'm a sexy laaady," I said.
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A few years ago, I watched the Albert Mayles documentary on Iris Apfel, the self-described nonagenarian starlet. Have you seen it? She's quite a woman, a darling of the New York fashion industry who worked as an editor at Vogue Magazine, founded her own textile company, decorated homes of the rich and famous, and recently stars in national ad campaigns for Kate Spade and Alexis Bittar.
But only once does she touch upon one reason for her success. The director asks her about children and she says, "You can't have it all. I knew that."
Oh, did those words sting me.
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In my suburban town, the unwritten dress code for girls attending prom is straightforward: juniors wear long gowns and seniors wear cocktail dresses. Over the years, as four sons attended, and I went to various houses to take photos, I never witnessed anyone who challenged this rule. Except for Clare.
Clare wore a vintage sari to prom.
Look at her. Was she not most fair and lovely? And so open to the world.
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My friend Patrick has created the most cozy and welcoming guest room (womb) that no one in their right mind would ever want to leave. I met Patrick because our husbands work together. He and Ed live about a mile away from us, so after you've toured this room, you'll understand my problem -- how to finagle a situation where I would be forced to stay in this incredible space. Snowstorm? Tequila shots? Dead car battery? Poltergeist? Help me out here.
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One afternoon last summer, I fell asleep on the patio and dreamt that a deer walked up and licked me. I awoke with a start and there in the distance stood a doe, gazing at me, and — I am not making this up —her eyes were filled with longing.
No surprise, really, when one considers that I am perpetually covered in a thin sheen of salt, a side-effect of hot flashes. That day was no different. To the doe, I must have appeared a rounded-off salt lick.
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This week's post is nothing at all about antiques or design. But you guys like it when I veer off topic. I know this because Mailchimp tells me so.
Mailchimp is the platform I use for sending my newsletter every Friday. I love Mailchimp, and I'll tell you why in a moment. But first, let's talk about the worst email I ever sent you, performance-wise.
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