Monthly Archives: October 2011

Happy home.

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It didn’t occur to me until recently how important it is to have a home you love. (It’s sad how ignorant that makes me feel, but the truth is that I just haven’t historically spent much time at home. I’m always out and about.) Home is the place you return to each day after scrambling through the chaos of work and traffic and errands and whatever else you’ve encountered. It’s in this place that you should be able to feel peaceful and at ease. Or energized and ambitious, depending on the day.

I should feel more me at home than anywhere else. I should be able to sit cross-legged on the kitchen countertop with my MacBook as I cook. Or blare music and dance with my vacuum while cleaning. Maybe stay in on a Saturday night and watch a movie, consuming an entire bag of potato chips in the process.

For the last few semesters of college, I rented an apartment all to myself. There was no one else to tell me how things should be. It was all mine. All the cheap IKEA furniture, outlet-priced couch and mattress, and handed-down items. I had maybe one pot and one pan. (I did even less cooking then than I do now.) But I was a college student. A nontraditional, living-off-campus, fulltime employed college student. But a college student nonetheless.

When you’ve been in your first “real” job for some time and you’ve surpassed the age of 25, the last thing you want to do is downgrade your lifestyle. This was the time I envisioned moving up in the world. I was supposed to be riding the success train. The one with the happiness caboose.

I don’t know if I missed the train or got the wrong ticket, but I’m 25 and I’m still just barely chugging along. But I’m not one to settle. When I want something, I usually find the means to get it. I’m not going to just sit around my apartment surrounded by IKEA furniture. I’m going to furnish like a grown-up.

Being my frugally minded self, I started with Craigslist. Until now I’ve been only a seller on Craigslist, never a buyer. I had my heart set on a chaise lounge, having bought and returned a new one years back because I just couldn’t stomach the price at the time. It was patterned with squares in all sorts of earthy toned colors. Green and khaki and burgundy squares. It was shaped like a horizontal semi-flattened ‘S’ – very contemporary. I loved it. So much so that it was still engrained in my memory five years later.

I typed “chaise” into the Craigslist search bar. I started clicking through the results, unimpressed by the lack of information sellers provide and even more so by images in their listings. If you’re trying to sell me something, please post a picture, and if you do, try using a decent camera. Most of the furniture I browsed through wouldn’t even appeal to a house pet. They’d take one sniff, look up at you and think, You can’t be serious. Several pitiful posts down, I found it. Some woman was selling the exact chaise lounge I’d bought and returned and had been imagining ever since! I must have called her four times, from two different phone numbers. I was borderline stalking this woman about a damn chair. And it worked. When I finally spoke with her, she told me that I’d better come quickly because she “had some other people interested.” Little did she know the other person was my fiancé whom I begged to join me in my chaise pursuit. Regardless, come quickly I did.

From the outside, her apartment community looked nice. It seemed this chaise lounge had a good home and hadn’t been left in a dirty basement to collect dust and weird liquids from leaky pipes (which is apparently my vision of all Craigslist furniture). When I walked into her apartment, the strong smell of incense reminded me of high school and slightly burned my eyes. This should have struck me as odd at the time, but I was too excited to see that chaise in the corner of the room. It was just as I remembered.

This woman had listed it for $150. I had $148 on me. Thinking that $2 wouldn’t make a difference to any normal person, I offered her the $148. I came to find that she was far from normal.

She looked at my fiancé and asked, “Do you have two dollars?”

When he replied no with a bit of laughter in his voice, she shook her head and stared at the ground in disappointment for what seemed like minutes.

“Oh, no. You need to work with me here. I am a single mom and I’m moving out of state. You know what I paid for this new.”

What I should have said was, “Look, lady, it’s a difference of two dollars. Two. Dollars. Are you really so broke that you’re going to shake your head at me over the equivalent of a pack of Trident? I have tens of thousands of dollars in student loan debt and I’m not telling you about it. And, guess what, you’re not the only single parent in the world and I bet the rest of them aren’t arguing with 25-year-olds over two dollars for their used furniture. That’s right, used furniture. What you paid for it at the store is irrelevant after you’ve spent years dropping your dead skin cells and who knows what else on this thing.”

But I didn’t say that. I gave her a blank stare for a few moments. I had another $20 that I didn’t think I would need. But I gave in. “Okay. I have $160.”

She took it with a smile and didn’t offer change. We carried the chaise out of the apartment as quickly as we could to escape the uncomfortable encounter.

It wasn’t until we lifted it in the truck that I smelled it. It reeked of cigarette smoke. No wonder she’d lit incense. To cover the smell of her disgusting habit. Needless to say, I put that thing right back on Craigslist and got rid of it. No amount of professional cleaning could make me keep it in my living and breathing space.

Officially turned off from Craigslist, I began furniture shopping the foolproof way. It’s a shame that most furniture salespeople are paid on commission. They’d probably be pleasant people if they weren’t compensated for being pushy. Okay, some of them aren’t so bad. But you know the real reason they want to help you and it takes the sincerity out of the situation.

I went to furniture stores near and far. But not too far. A one-hour drive is my limit. In order to explain what I was looking for to each salesperson, I used hand motions to make the squished S-shape of the chaise lounge in the air. Trying to keep from laughing, most of them politely responded, “I’m not sure we have exactly that.” And they were right. They didn’t. With the exception of one, but they didn’t have it on display and I wasn’t fond of any of the few dozen fabrics they had to choose from. Call me picky, but if I’m spending $500 on a chair, it better be exactly what I want. While I was in search of only one item, I became easily distracted (as usual) and found other things to take home. Like oversized white throw pillows with inspiring, yet strange phrases printed on them in black script.

Since childhood, I’ve made it a point to collect unique things. Plaques with quotes I’m drawn to, unusual vases or candleholders, one-of-a-kind jewelry and scarves. But up until now, my furniture has been anything but unique. It’s been basic. Black, tan and white. My dad and brother always teased me about the plainness of my décor. I don’t know why it took me so long to listen.

It’s hard to resist a place with the tagline “furniture with a soul.” Nadeau is a store in Uptown Minneapolis with seemingly one-of-a-kind furniture. It might be mass-produced, but it doesn’t look it and that’s what I’m going for. It’s basically a casual version of Pottery Barn. I couldn’t help it. On my first visit, I left with two bedside tables, a coffee table, an end table and a picture frame. All made of wood and painted different colors, with the distressed finish that makes them seem antique. I’ve never been so excited about furniture. I felt like such an adult.

A few weeks later, I gave Craigslist a try again. But not for anything covered in fabric that can retain smells and all kinds of nasty stuff. I’d been browsing different blogs and sites like Etsy for “shabby chic” style furniture and thought, Hey, I can do that. Why pay someone for something I can do on my own? I was in need of a desk for my new reading/writing room and also a headboard and footboard for our bed. I found both within a few days and that weekend I went to work on them.

The desk was a truly vintage school desk. It has “Board of Education” printed on a metal plaque on the side. The owner said he was about to use it as firewood until his wife told him to try to find it a new home first. He said that once upon a time it had sat in the back room of a Baskin-Robbins his family had owned. I was sold. This ice cream store school desk must be mine. As I looked it over, I realized it was a bit more beat up than the picture had let on. So I made my first Craigslist negotiation. Listed at $75. I paid $60. That may not seem like a big difference, but to a girl with a problem not giving people what they want, it was a success.

The bed was a wooden sleigh bed listed for $80 in a city about an hour away from me. I went. I liked. I bought.

Next stop – paint store. Being an inexperienced painter, I bought gallons when quarts would have been more than enough. A gallon costs more than double what a quart costs. Idiot me. I feel like I say this to myself far too often, but I thought, Ok, you live and you learn. You can always buy more paint. You cannot, on the other hand, return unused paint. Nope. When you buy too much, you’re stuck with it.

I sanded. Repaired. Painted. And painted some more when the color of the first coat didn’t turn out as I’d hoped. Eventually, it dried and I had completed my first DIY project in a long, long time.

I think my apartment transformation is evidence of my new sense of adulthood. Surrounding yourself with things you love…things that tell a story, about you or the actual item, can make for a happy home. And a happy home makes for a happier you. That’s what I’m after.

Permanent inspiration.

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It’s one thing to surround yourself with inspiration. It’s another to permanently affix it to your body. Being an incessant editor of everything I do, I can’t commit to such permanence.

My younger brother, however, has no problem with this. Danny drafted his first tattoo in a sketchbook and has done the same with every one since. Before getting the inaugural tattoo, he thought about it for months. He even brought the sketch to my dad and told him what he planned to do. The placement was a statement in itself – wrapping around the wrist of his hand-shaking arm. The different elements creatively denote his birthdate and favorite number. Impressed by the thoughtfulness behind the mark, my dad became a supporter of permanent body ink that day.

Each subsequent tat is symbolic of something meaningful to my brother. Some are dedicated to our dad (one being his signature and date of birth). Some are reminders of how to live well (the newest reads: enjoy the little things). And one was done as a gift to me because he felt so strongly about the meaning behind it…

That’s my handwriting. I wrote it in his sketchbook.

Arms exposed, my brother is a walking inspiration before he ever says a word. And when he does start talking (or singing), he rarely stops. Dude has got a lot to say, and whatever it is, he always speaks with gusto. I’ve never met someone with a greater passion for each day. He epitomizes create happy.

A perfect day.

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We spend most of our days doing things out of necessity. We work, more than we probably should. We run errands. We spend too much time with technology. We sit in traffic. We cook dinner. We sleep. Our routines don’t allow much time for us to just be…us. To do the kinds of things that calm our spirits, help us discover how freeing laughter can be and remind us of all there is to enjoy in the world. To have good days. Even perfect days.

If I were to design the perfect day, it would start with waking to birds chatting back and forth – no unnatural alarm sounds. I look out an open window to golden beams of sunlight gleaming through branches swaying slightly with the breeze. Something straight from the first pages of a storybook.

The best part about a morning that starts in such a way is knowing the day is yours to make of what you will. The best attire for an open agenda – an unagenda, let’s call it – is comfy jeans and a plain white cotton tee dressed up with a wispy scarf. Ready-for-whatever wear.

Windows down, stereo up. Shortly after I press my foot to the gas pedal, I sing and dance like a tone-deaf adolescent monkey all the way to my favorite lunch destination, Great Harvest Bread Company in Minnetonka.  First introduced to this delightful place by my dad, I’ve been a regular enjoyer for years. Each sandwich is made to a self-completed order form, first name at the top. While you wait, you can try bits of any or all of the freshly baked breads of the day. No place else have I had a fresher tasting sandwich and friendlier service. There’s one lady in particular who always recognizes me and gives me a just baked pull-apart oatmeal cookie with speckles of cinnamon and chocolate pieces at no charge. As tempting as it is to start with dessert, I first finish my sandwich, which is a treat in itself. The honey whole wheat has a soft, grainy feel that only baked-that-day bread can have. Two slices surround thinly sliced turkey and provolone cheese, sliced minutes before, and leafy green lettuce. Each bite tastes straight-from-the-farm fresh.

No day could possibly be perfect in my mind without time to write. Aside from my favorite people, it is what makes me happiest. Days like this bring out the best of ideas. Good moods lend themselves well to good writing. A good place to do it is also necessary. It somehow came to be that a coffee shop is one of the only public places, aside from the library, where it’s socially acceptable to sit alone for as long as you’d like. I’d bet they’d let you stay even if you didn’t order anything. Just like the library. Well, except better because there are caffeinated drinks and snacks of some kind. I love snacks. I even love the word snack. Snack. Snaaaaaaack. Once I have my drink and snack in hand, I meander through the table maze to the mini-sofa placed in that space for people like me. No, not people who’ve barely surpassed 5 feet and can comfortably spread their legs out across small furniture. People who’ve come in search of a spot conducive to free-flowing thoughts and escapable distractions. And there I sit. I write. I toss my head back a few times as if that’s a recharge mechanism for ideas. I unconsciously stroke the sides of my short blonde hair until the next word comes to me. I leave feeling accomplished, even if I’ve only written a few paragraphs. I’ve done something. And it was for me. No one but me.

As I said, the happiest of things is talking with my favorite people. Good, good people are rare. And I’ve found the best way to live a full life is to surround yourself with them. I can count them on about a hand and a half. My favorite people have a way of making me feel better about the world, and better about me. They bring out the best in me. I feel elated, albeit to different degrees, every time I talk with one of them. Serious or ridiculous, our conversations are energizing. Not in a pink bunny pounding a drum kind of way. It’s a kind of strength fueled by a restoration of faith in the potential of people to affect you and your capacity for affecting them. We have conversations every day, but usually they are simply that – everyday. It’s a special day when you can have the kind that makes you better than you were before it.

Next up, dinner. Destination: Green Mill in Uptown. There are 28 Green Mill locations in the Midwest, but this was one of the first. The outdated décor gives it a classic charm. The warm, dark wood of the older booths and the bar deserve to be preserved, not renovated. The multi-colored light fixtures are probably the newest addition and even they are a bit behind the times. But that’s why I love it. That and the food. The food is as pleasantly anomalous as the atmosphere. I order the same thing every time, and every time it’s a little different. French dressing. Pasta sauce. Garlic butter. Chicken wing sauce. Whatever the dish, it’s made from scratch each day.  This place is an unsuspected gem. It keeps me coming back week after week. There’s something special about being a regular somewhere. I’m recognized and welcomed with a “How have you been?” Reserved for familiar patrons, this greeting is far more heartwarming than the “How are you?” heard by the newcomers and occasional visitors. When you don’t need a menu and your server doesn’t need an order because she already knows what you like, that’s when you’ve found a home away from home.

My usual Green Mill order is only made better when followed by some type of sweet treat. Not just any one will do, either. Perfect days call for near perfect dessert. Sebastian Joe’s ice cream holds a special place among my taste buds. It’s dense, yet penetrable by plastic spoon. Each spoonful that’s pulled from the naturally flavored mounds of chocolate and vanilla draws a lace of cold, velvety frozen dessert from dish to spoon until it gets so thin it breaks away, curling up to the spoon. I’ve eaten a lot of ice cream in my lifetime and only homemade ice cream does this. This is good stuff, people.  

During the short part of the year when the sun stays out well past dinnertime, post-dessert activities can take place outside. It wasn’t until I started to travel more often, that I developed such a strong appreciation for the access I have to water as a Minnesotan. Lakes, rivers, falls, streams, ponds – it’s everywhere. I love it. There is nothing as calming as water. The way it glistens in the sun and rushes against its shoreline and ripples away from a fishing lure, rock, or footsteps. A waterfront view of the sunset is my idea of a storybook ending to a perfect day.