In the past year, I have spent way too much time walking around my tiny house and noticing my less-than-perfect surroundings. Our home of over forty years has benefitted from a few updates and additions. As time passes, paint colors beg an update. Window treatments need an overhaul. Furniture could be rearranged. While I have lived with the current state of affairs for a while, my desire to change things up has roots in one of my many vices: a recent overdose of home decorating shows that has me jonesing for a redo.
My viewing preferences come in the form of one specific obsession–the Canadian designer, Sarah Richardson. Sarah is a big name and a bit of a brand up north. Her vintage shows–Sarah 101, Room Service, Design Inc–run daily on the Dabl channel. My sacred Sarah ritual causes me to stop whatever I’m doing and turn on the television promptly at 2 p.m. My dependence on Sarah grounds me in a quasi-schedule. It also causes me to take to the websites of Amazon, Wayfair, and Lowe’s to replicate her ideas, a habit that has become a costly hobby.
Even though some of the shows date back to the mid-2000’s, Sarah’s timeless style appeals to me. I watch in awe as she trolls through antique stores, pausing at some broken-down piece and imagining how she will breathe new life into the borderline junk. She always sees potential in someone else’s discards. Sarah repurposes old decrepit bureaus into bathroom vanities and refinishes chandeliers, well past their sell-by dates, into shiny, glittering fixtures. Like a magician, she transforms tiny, cramped spaces into seemingly spacious, usable rooms. Her innate sense of scale and texture translates into visual appeal that, in my humble and somewhat untrained opinion, is perfection.
I must confess the whole design obsession is not new for me. I refer to myself as untrained but, in a little known piece of Mami trivia, decades ago, I spent a year and a half in an Interior Design program at a local college. I studied Art History, Textiles, Color, and Drawing. I visited museums, admiring Caravaggios and Titians for their deep, rich tones and use of light. On field trips, I strolled through the collections at the Fashion Institute of Technology. I created mood boards–presentations juxtaposing swatches of fabric, paint chips, carpeting, wallpaper, and furniture ideas. I developed floor plans for imaginary clients. I never completed the degree but I learned enough to transform our own home, frequently. My long-suffering husband usually played along. Nonetheless, Tim was relieved when I changed career paths and studied school counseling in a Master’s program. I returned to non-design related work once our kids were older and I know his relief wasn’t based on additional income flow alone.
With my reawakened interest in home design, Sarah seeped into my psyche and before long, she invaded my dreams. After watching an episode of Sarah 101 where she constructed a baby’s changing table designed to fit over an old bureau, I found myself working on the same project in my sleep. I measured and mitered joints with my assistants, Barack and Michelle Obama. Besides watching too much t.v. I was also reading Becoming, Mish’s memoir. Worlds collided, a sure sign of a Sarah problem, an obsession with the former First Couple, and an overactive dream life.
My pandemic Sarah habit has inspired a few minor changes. Since last summer, we have repainted a few rooms and dissolved a dining room to create an office for Tim’s ‘work from home.’ With the completion of each tiny project, I anticipated my next conquest and Tim shrugged. Sarah’s ideas, teamed with my own modest knowledge, sparked more projects. Most of the time, I pondered silently, germinating an idea fully, so as not to rile up my husband prematurely. I knew he dreaded hearing “Hey, I was thinking…” He’s had a twenty year respite while I abandoned my home rearrangement in the interest of counseling America’s youth. But now, I’m retired and back home for good, rejuvenated and teeming with ideas inspired by my muse–my Candian idol.
Last week, when Tim walked into the house after a game of golf, I am sure he had a moment of PTSD. In the few hours while he was out, I had dismantled the living room. Tired of the arrangement, I covertly contemplated a change. With a clipboard in hand, I sketched out a few options. I removed all of the breakable items, leaving behind the heavy furniture. In the old days, when I deconstructed the rooms, I seldom required much help to shift the big stuff. I could usually get things back together before Tim returned from work. He tended to appreciate the final product, especially when I cut him out of the process.
This time was different. I am older now, and I hesitate to acknowledge it, weaker. Moving the piano by myself posed an impossible task but the monstrosity needed repositioning before anything else could slide into place. I stood in the middle of the room, helpless, dreading Tim’s gasp when he walked in the door. I suppressed my panic and practiced how I would frame my sudden need to rotate the seemingly static pieces. I readied myself for any reaction, knowing that his outrage would pass. My new arrangement would be worth the bother.
In the end, Tim helped me with my dilemma without much argument. Fortunately, our muscles remained unstrained and intact. Once everything was in place, I stepped back and absorbed the change, feeling a bit Sarah-ish. The result pleased me and fully vaccinated friends who have visited have given my efforts multiple, enthusiastic ‘thumbs up.’ On the other hand, Tim refers to the exercise as “rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.” I ignore him.
The time spent critiquing the inside of my home, combined with my friend Sarah’s inspiration, provided a diversion during these quiet months stuck in the house. Still, even though we can move about more freely, I know I’m far from finished changing things up. Today’s frontier: the upstairs shower curtain–which of course becomes drapes, rugs, towels, candles, and matching soaps. Lucky for Tim, you can’t move a toilet or a tub without a major demo. He’ll be glad to know he’s off the hook. For now.
Mami Knows Everything 