DWELLINGS II

The response has been startling. I have talked to many of my friends about what their houses mean to them. My women friends have fierce ideas about house and home. It seems to me that women view houses from three perspectives: the DREAM, the HEADQUARTERS, and the HAVEN. In order to incorporate the wonderful thoughts of my friends, I have chosen one fictional representative of each perspective:

Women who don’t have houses of their own dream of them. Some women never achieve their fondest hope for a home for their families. Some are too poor, some too young, and some too unlucky. Among those women I know who dream of owning a home of their own is one I call Deb. Deb comes from a poor family. She grew up in an Appalachian region where work was scarce, men who earned good money were scarcer, and the most one could hope for in life was a double wide trailer and a paycheck. Deb dreams of someday having a real house made of brick. She thinks about it while mopping counters at the coffee shop where she hustles tips. In her mind, the ultimate, shining possession would be that brick house with a front porch.

Marty is a go-getter. She had her own business for years. She made quite a bit of money, and then got married to a good guy who wanted kids. With three active boys under the age of 12 and a baby on the way, Marty organizes her life within an INCH. Her house is “activity central,” and she has everything under control. Each child has a locker in the mudroom. There are baskets in each bedroom labeled “Schoolbooks,” “Soft Toys,” “Toys With Little Pieces,” and “Pieces of Little Toys.” There is a calendar of events posted on the refrigerator. Marty and the kids are ever loading themselves, other people’s children, and mounds of sporting equipment into the car and driving away. If you asked Marty what color her powder room is painted, she would most likely hazard a vague guess.

Beth is retired from working. Her children are raised, and she is satisfied with the result. She now has all sorts of time on her hands that was never there before. One day, Beth looked around and sized up her home. Like a whirlwind, Beth began to make changes. She cleaned out the attic, and gave the children their toys and books back. She got rid of all the camping equipment in the basement. She threw away the items that she thought she might put into a garage sale someday. She painted rooms. She rearranged, and even bought a brand new and comfortable sofa for the family room. She went antiquing. And she washed the windows. Then she twirled around, looked at everything with great satisfaction, and settled down to enjoy the lovely surroundings she had created. With no time pressures and the rest of her life before her, she was filled with delight and the realization that now she didn’t need to go someplace else for a “vacation.” Her house was her haven. Beth and I have a lot of girlfriends just like us.

I have had the dream, presided very efficiently at headquarters, but now I hurry back to the haven of the home I have always wanted. Thank you, all my friends, for helping me write this one!

DWELLINGS

It seems to me that some women wear their houses the way some men drive their cars. Success means a Ferrari or a McMansion. For other women, houses are havens. Some women just live in theirs. Artists drape and shape their homes. Women. Houses. I am obsessed with the idea of how we look at the places where we live.

I asked a bunch of my friends to characterize their “dream house.” What resulted ranged from cottage to villa. There were reveries about French doors, Agas, book lined rooms, and swimming pools. The more I talked with my friends, the more I wanted to write about women and their relationships with their houses.

When I was growing up, my mother subscribed to quite a few “decorating” magazines. I have no idea why, because we lived in a modest house, with green walls, matching green wall to wall carpeting, and a furniture arrangement that remained static for the entire time my parents lived in the house. Mom had good taste, but I never perceived her as a student of interior design. I, on the other hand, read all the decorating magazines from cover to cover each month, and developed a sense of “my own style” from reading them.

Part of my obsession with homes and their interiors comes from a deep sense of insecurity that I felt as a child. The currents of my life always seemed treacherous, and I clung to the idea of home as haven. I chose as my favorites books about safety within the walls. I loved the idea of Beatrix Potter, cozily creating her characters in the nursery, staying at home long after adulthood. Louisa May Alcott invented Jo and her sisters living such a delightful and soul satisfying life of “genteel poverty” in their lovely but shabby shuttered New England saltbox. “Anne of Green Gables” was my favorite and most re-read book. Anne Shirley and her beloved home and family soothed my fractious young soul.

At nights when sleep eluded me, I chose a location, and then chose a house to live in there. In my mind’s eye, I first created the outside, and then furnished it inside. I then inhabited the home with whatever family suited it, and finally moved on to appropriate pets. I can recommend this activity highly. It is totally absorbing and completely satisfying.

I am going to share with you one of my house fantasies, and then for the next few weeks, some of the fantasies of some of my favorite women. These fictional women are also my creations, but laced liberally with the ideas and imaginings of my actual women friends.

MOLLY. She’s me! In actuality, I have two cherished house dreams. These two homes have been with me for at least forty years. They were created by the eight year old me, after lights out, when sleep eluded me. To avoid reader boredom, I will share my first house here, and save house two for later:

My urban fantasy revolves around a beautiful apartment in a big city, preferably New York, because I don’t speak French. This dwelling would be very high up. The exterior of the building would be old stone, and the architecture would most certainly include a gargoyle or two. This apartment would be for me and one little dog and two cats. No husband visible in this fantasy, for I am living by myself, it seems. The apartment would be on the corner of the building, so that I could have a large front terrace as well as a smaller terrace off the kitchen. The front terrace would have lovely leaded glass French doors opening onto it from the living room. This “”big” terrace would have high walls so that my cats and dog could scamper about safely.

Usually at this point in the fantasy, I would have to pause to name the cats and choose the dog. Two Siamese, “Parsnip,” and “Coyote.” The dog. Hummm. Yes, a Scottie, “Magnus.” In order to design the terraces, the pets would have to be present and accounted for.

Terraces. Brick herringbone. Large trees in pots. Areas of grass for Magnus to do his business. Beautiful table and chairs. Pillows. I think orange and dark red. Perennials in pots. Room for a Christmas tree in the front terrace. Kitchen terrace would be narrow, and full of different sized pots for herbs, tomatoes, zinnias, and a tiny shed for my gardening equipment. A tiny table for drinking coffee and reading the paper would be essential.

Inside, the only important rooms are the living room and the kitchen. Of course there would be a library, but those tend to take care of themselves with the books and the ladder thingy that rolls. In the living room would be a large wood burning fireplace. I picture some sort of antique mantel, deep enough for the paintings I would lean against it and the daubs and orbs I would put up there as well.

I don’t worry too much about furniture. It would be plentiful, tasteful, and comfortable. I see more in colors: there would be greens and blues, with tiny bits of pink. Persian rugs, of course. Antiques, probably not valuable ones.

Going this far in the dream house usually gets me to sleep. I look forward to finishing the project the next night, populating the house with friends, family, and my fictional reason to be living there in the first place.

Yes, it did the trick once again! I am sleepy. So next time? I’ll flesh things out a bit more. In the meantime, if my blog host is gracious enough to let you, leave me a comment with your ideas of the perfect abode!

SEARCHING FOR MR. HACKMAN

The view from our living room windows is pleasant, with trees, houses, and sidewalks. Apparently that is all I ever notice. It seems that I take everything out there for granted, and my eyes are truly unseeing. Agatha Christie would have never written about someone with my observational skills! THERE HAS BEEN A RED CAR PARKED OUTSIDE OUR HOUSE FOR THREE WEEKS.

My husband brought this to my attention yesterday. “That car has not moved in three weeks.”

ME: “What car?”

HIM: “That red one. Hasn’t moved.”

ME: “Well, call the police.”

HIM: “I did. It is from Michigan, and it belongs to someone named Hackman.”

At this point, I have to admit that I was a little intrigued. My husband, the detective. This started a lively conversation about said Mr. Hackman.

ME: “Are they going to tow this Hackman guy’s car away?”

HIM: “Well, I am concerned that maybe this Hackman guy is sick or something, and can’t come back for his car.”

ME: “SICK? What made you think of that? Why not DEAD?”

HIM: “The police would know if he were dead.”

ME: “So if you have his car towed, and he gets better, you are afraid he will be wandering the street in front of the house in his robe, looking for the car?”

HIM: “He wouldn’t be wearing a robe if he was better; that is just silly.”

ME: “Well, then, maybe you should go around the neighborhood, knocking on doors, asking if anyone is harboring the ailing Mr. Hackman from Michigan.”

HIM: “I thought of that. The sick thing is probably ridiculous, right? So maybe he is a victim of foul play.”

So there we stood, looking out the window, speculating about Mr. Hackman. Is he a criminal, who put his car there for a getaway vehicle after a robbery that is in the offing? Is he just somebody’s houseguest? Is he IN THE TRUNK of that car? Did the car just break down three weeks ago, and Hackman abandoned it? What if Mr. Hackman is an Alzheimer’s victim, aimlessly wandering the area, searching for his auto? IS he actually sick somewhere? It was fun for awhile, but soon we got bored with Mr. Hackman, and went back to our laptops.

It is still sitting there. If anyone out there knows this Hackman guy, will you tell him to move his car?

And tell him we hope he feels better soon...

A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

I live in a regular neighborhood. It’s full of regular people doing regular things. As a writer, I have often wondered what it would be like to have other writers living around me. Famous ones. I think block parties would be incredibly interesting, and borrowing cups of sugar could turn into epic conversations. What would carpools be like? Trick or treating?

If Nora Ephron lived next door, I would probably spend a lot of time hanging around at her house. I’ll never forget the article she wrote about being mystified as to how those of us in suburbia get anything accomplished, due to all the walking and driving required out here in the heartland. So having Nora next door and taking her to the mall would be hilarious. She would DIE at the size of the parking lot! We’d get makeovers and talk about our neck wrinkles. We would compare notes about menopause. I am sure she would love being my pal.

I would think that a romance novelist would make a great neighbor. My choices would be writers who write with a bit of edge and insight. Not that Danielle Steele would be unwelcome, but I would prefer Elizabeth Buchan. She can write about the spurned wife like no other. I bet her house would be very comfortable and that her bookshelves would cause me pangs of envy. And if we also had Joanna Trollope in the area, would the three of us get together and talk about our angst ridden children or the just how difficult our relatives are?

For some excitement, I would love having Elizabeth George in the vicinity. What kinds of mysteries might she concoct using the locals as inspiration? Would she craft a character around me? Would an accordion player get murdered and his wife be the main suspect? How fun! And if Sue Grafton was around, would she include ME in one of her alphabet mysteries?

I would be thrilled if Meghan Daum lived nearby. That would mean that our neighborhood is of a very high standard, indeed. Our property values would go up due directly to her decision to buy a house here. She and I would compare DIY projects and I would be very honest in advising her about paint colors.

If Craig Wilson were a neighbor, everyone would want to go over to his house during the holidays. His columns in USA Today evoke such charm. I am sure that his Christmas decorations would be inspired, and that we’d gather around the piano and sing Carols. There would be delicious food, punch, and mistletoe. He would regale us with stories of his fascinating life and travels.

I have a great neighborhood. There are doctors, lawyers, delightful children, lovable dogs, and women that I admire. We are a congenial group. But I can’t help thinking about what having Steig Larsson around the block might have been like. Dark. Would he have brooded at the block parties? Would he have given out "Swedish Fish" on Halloween?

But then again, if he lived around here, his book might have been called “The Girl with the Ladybug Tattoo.”

WOMAN, HOUSE, DOG

It is a common assumption that people come to resemble their dogs. I have not necessarily followed this line of reasoning, but then again, it might hold some truth. I am a firm believer, however, in the idea that one chooses one’s home for deep psychological reasons. Taking this just a bit further, if women are one with their homes, and resemble their dogs, somebody should write about it. I feel uniquely qualified, and I have categorized some “common” archetypes of female homeowners and their dogs.

HERMIONE. She lives in an upscale neighborhood in a large American city. Her flat, in an old brownstone, has wide planked hardwood floors and a non working fireplace. An Anglophile, Hermione drinks tea in the afternoons and has antique chintz draperies. Her overweight Pug, Dashiell, has access to the back garden, and prefers coddled eggs to processed dog food. Hermione has noticed a tendency to gain weight as she ages, and her facial wrinkles cause much worry. Hermione spends too much money on facial creams and exfoliators. Dashiell watches it all with amusement, and takes frequent naps.

MADELINE. A graduate of a prestigious Ivy League College, Maddie, as she is known to her friends, is an attorney. Recently married to a dermatologist, Maddie and her husband own a lovely Tudor cottage in an old suburb of Chicago. Maddie is allergic to cats, and her husband likes big dogs. Fred is a Borzoi, whose grace and charm have won Maddie’s heart. Fred and Maddie spend inordinate amounts of time in the garden outside the cottage, where Maddie is growing climbing roses and lavender, and where Fred’s flowing white tresses contrast nicely with the herbaceous borders and Maddie’s black braids.

SMUT. Of dubious parentage, Smut spent the formative weeks of his life in a cage at a kill shelter. Black and white, and slightly bowlegged, Smut was often passed over for more attractive pups. The day Sheila walked in, it seemed like Kismet. Sheila, who had angry chicken pox at age six, has always felt inferior to her coworkers at the fashion magazine where she is a copywriter. With coarse hair and uneven facial terrain, Sheila is single and lonely. Sheila and Smut live in a small loft in Soho, where they often gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows and dream. Their loft is sparsely furnished, and what is there is primarily from the thrift store. Their prized possession is a roomy, overstuffed plaid sofa, where they spend Sunday mornings dozing and reading The New York Times. Smut often persuades Sheila to buy croissants, which they share.

BETHANY. She’s busy. She has four children under the age of ten. Her husband is a successful corporate type, and they live in a gated community in a house with all master bedrooms, an unused back yard, and a media room. Bethany is WAY too busy for a pet, and so she rarely pays much attention to their two ill mannered Labrador Retrievers, Chloe and Pepper. As a result, the new suede sectional has major tears. The children complain that the dogs knock them down. Somebody peed in the mud room yesterday. The electric collars are somewhere in the back of the junk drawer, and Chloe was last seen running down the street after the mail carrier. Bethany was unavailable at the time, as it was her day for her golf lesson and Bikram yoga class.

CARLETON. He is a very distinguished eight year old Dachshund, of the smooth coat variety. He has impeccable manners and a very soft spot in his heart for his mistress, Mrs. Duncan, who returns his adoration. They live in an old, Victorian house, full of antiques and Persian rugs. Mr. Duncan, who was a lovely man, died soon after Carleton was adopted. So Carleton and Mrs. Duncan rattle around together in the old house, sharing memories and tidbits while sitting by the fire. Carleton loves his walks, and he and his mistress can be seen strolling through the leafy streets in all weathers. When it is cold, Carleton wears a plaid jacket. When it rains, Mrs. Duncan carries an old Burberry umbrella. Mrs. Duncan is very soft spoken, and Carleton rarely barks.

There are, of course, as many types of dogs out there as there are women and their houses. But I would venture to say that our choice of canine is reflective of our true selves. Take me, for example: I am bossy. I live in an old house with lots of breakables. I have a dog who knows her place, has impeccable manners around my good china, and who knows that I am the pack leader. I love cats, and she pretends to. It’s a match made in heaven. But wait. Our dog doesn’t resemble me at all! Oh my gosh.

She’s the spitting image of my husband…

WITH THIS RING

I thought I was done. The children are both paying their own bills now, and I just assumed that once that happened, the parenting part was over. I thought that after offspring finish college, parents get to look forward to dandling grandchildren on their knees, and that’s it. I was not prepared for the next stage of parenting.

The needs of adult children, as it turns out, take a big bite out of the empty nester’s schedule. I didn’t realize that our children would need advice on their retirement plans, whether or not they should buy houses now before the economic downturn ends, or if it is a good idea to get dental coverage. And I forgot all about weddings!

Within the next twelve months, there will be two weddings in our family. As parents of brides, we suddenly realized the enormity of what looms before us. Did you know that there are companies out there who specialize in LIGHTING for weddings? Apparently, these days, weddings include special effects. One of our daughters wants to get married in a barn in front of a horse, and the other will be tying the knot in a winery. It’s complicated.

The disappearance of dowries, which generated sighs of relief for parents all over the world, has not benefited my generation of parents. Back then, all it took to marry a girl off was a respectably put together hope chest. I would love to send both girls out with a few sheep and some chickens. I would even throw in a few pots and pans. Instead, we have to grapple with wedding planners, musicians, decorative hay bales for the barn wedding, and large wheels of cheese at the winery. Decisions about guest lists and bridal parties must be made, and save the date postcards sent out.

At weddings I have attended recently, there have been singing brides, indoor fireworks, multi media presentations, stand up comedians, gluten free wedding cakes, signature cocktails, and multi lingual ceremonies. Not to mention wedding singers, disc jockeys, vegan entrees, and cake balls.

As I recall, my wedding was very simple and inexpensive. We had a few people in a little chapel, I had a very attractive off the rack dress, and my mother planned a very nice luncheon afterwards. The whole thing probably set my parents back a couple of grand. These days, weddings have become extravaganzas. During this next year, I will be talking with florists, caterers, and seating planners. I will be sampling sushi and cake balls. There will be meetings, long distance phone calls, and dancing lessons. It sounds exhausting, expensive, and a little exhilarating.


It takes a village. To plan a wedding.

MISS MANNERS

I was appalled. Yes, there were three children in a shopping cart. And yes, they were very active. But letting them hurl cereal in the aisle, take their shirts off, and use the F word caused at least a dozen elderly shoppers to have near-coronaries. I was among them. It seems that it is again time for me to put on my “Emily Post hat” and give all you young whippersnappers out there some of the finer points of daily etiquette.

CHILDREN ARE REALLY BETTER SEEN AND NOT HEARD. Is Dr. Spock no longer in vogue? Who is giving out advice to young parents these days? Believe me, it won’t hurt their forming psyches one bit to learn how to keep their little mouths shut in adult company. I have yet to meet a toddler who has anything REALLY interesting to say!

ALL PANTS SHOULD BE KEPT ON IN PUBLIC. I must admit that there are pictures in our family archive of naked children pushing shopping carts, but it was in the privacy of our own home. And once they hit the age of two, nude toddlers are no longer charming to the general public. Those little tushes should be encased in something during outings.

TEENAGERS MUST SPIT OUT THAT GUM. I know that teens lack self confidence, and that the teen years can be brutal. But I am lost as to how chewing gum 24/7 helps ease the transition into adulthood. And summer jobs are scarce. Gum chewing during job interviews does not endear you to any employer that I am aware of.

I UNDERSTAND THE LURE OF TATTOOS. BUT BE SO VERY CAREFUL WHERE YOU PUT THEM. The Baby Boomer generation still associates tattoos with drunken sailors. I realize that every single one of my grown children’s friends has at least five tattoos. But please don’t get one across the bridge of your nose! I really think you will regret that one. And for those of you out there who have uncivil words anywhere on your body, think of how you are going to explain them to YOUR children!

PUT YOUR NAPKIN IN YOUR LAP. Perhaps eating while sitting at a table is a lost habit, what with all those soccer games and dancing recitals, but honestly, all children must learn table manners. Forks, not fingers. Straws for drinking, and not shooting coke at your sister. No slurping. Elbows are still unwelcome on the table, no matter how comfortable that is. And for heaven’s sake, sit up straight in your chair and stop kicking your fellow diners under the table!

PLEASE AND THANK YOU ARE STILL IN THE LEXICON. There seems to be a bit of a sense of entitlement going on out there. Just a reminder, here, that gracious people get a lot further in life than their counterparts.

WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY? Are there any words that are considered taboo these days? Scatological terminology and sexual descriptives are everywhere. Does it really help to loudly use the “F” word when frustrated, say, at the mall? Is it ok to call women and girls “bitches?” I blame rap music for this. I blame rap music for a lot of things. As a matter of fact, just this morning, when I stubbed my toe, the word that came flying out of my mouth was directly due to the worldwide influence of rap music.

FINALLY, ALL CHILDREN OVER THE AGE OF TWENTY FIVE SHOULD GET MARRIED AND HAVE CHILDREN. It is only good manners to award your parents with grandchildren before those parents are in nursing homes. This practice of having careers, living together for extended periods, and THEN tuning in to the biological clock is creating an entire generation of diaper wearing GRANDPARENTS.

I want to thank you for reading this. Please come again.