Black paint is over.

And your apothecary chic is also dead. It's been decided.

Saturation point HERE.

Now that's a before and after.

HERE. Found via these always decornorific Desire to Inspire.

Wow.

Mitt Romney's offspring. Holy shit.

What kind of counters should she use?

This is my friend's kitchen. She needs counter recommendations asap.

Party time.

Earlier this year, my brother called to tell me that my dad had died. I was packing up my office. Our whole company was moving. It was a weird day. Everything was in boxes.

I rarely spoke to my brother. Hadn't spoken to my dad since I was 18. It was strange, this notification. It was like suddenly having two awkward reunions at once. First with my brother, and then with my dad, now dead.

Two strange feelings came over me. The first was that I didn't really have a right to feel bad since my dad and I were both winning (losing) an epic grudge match. The second was this: I stood in an empty elevator bay, waiting for it to take me to a meeting and I was suddenly overcome with the urge to have a kid. Biology is a strange motherfucker. I don't want kids, but something in my legs and stomach and brain and fidgety wrists and arms knew in that moment that this shit is real. This is really your life. It was my life. And I was suddenly, right now, a half-orphan. People were leaving me. A reunion I kept meaning to get to was never going to happen. And for some reason my body's response to the failures of my family history was this: START OVER. Make your own people.

Then in October my mom had a stroke. That's a long story. But I remember a few things. She spent 5 days in the hospital. I remember wearing the same outfit all those days (I had come to see her for the day... did not expect to stay in Portland overnight, much less 7 days). I remember a woman in the ICU waiting room who looked at me and asked, "How long have you been here?" and at that point I think I was only on day two. I joked, "Why... do I smell?" She replied, "A little." So that was awesome.

Later that night at the hospital I remembered that I had a full bottle of vodka in the trunk of my car. It was intended for consumption at a Jewish women's retreat the weekend prior but I had forgotten it. I went to the hospital cafeteria. It was about midnight. I asked for a big cup of ice. I bundled up, walked to my car in the huge hospital parking garage, popped the trunk, and mixed up a giant vodka soda in that flimsy blue paper Pepsi cup. I got in the car, turned it on, plugged in the iPhone, and cranked Frank Sinatra to full volume and proceeded to drink my face off. I was tailgating at the intensive care unit. It all seemed appropriate given the situation.

After my dad died, but before mom's stroke, my dog got cancer. The vet had to amputate a few toes. This was followed by radiation therapy. This was a real treat. Three days a week, for five weeks, driving to Edmonds, which depresses me, because any town smaller than Seattle or Portland depresses me. (This is the kind of asshole I have become.) My dog, being a dog, liked the trip there. I was trying to reason with him, like, "You shouldn't be so excited, man. You have CANCER. And I have to leave work early to drive in this rush-hour traffic because you get your treatment at a human facility, which means they can only radiate your shit after hours because they are running the cancer-curing equivalent of a back-alley abortion clinic, cash payments and everything..." But you can't reason with dogs in cars. They are too excited. Because the dog is in a car. And that's happiness for a dog.

2011 was sort of a piece of shit. I'm just gonna say it. I found a funny party hat with cellophane fringe in the basement and I wore it while mopping the floor tonight. I'm staying in for New Year's Eve. With less than two hours until 2012, I'm sure as hell not taking any chances by going out. I need to make it to next year in one piece. It can only go up from here.

Who makes these lamps? I have a need for a round squat silver lamp...

"It looks fantastic and I believe it will sell in the near future."

Yes, that sink is the AFTER.

HERE.

Makeover.

This:


...from this:


The bar got a swanky makeover:




And the outside got a facelift, too.



HERE.

Blog moment of the week:

"After the lighting was safe and sound back in the storage unit we popped a few muscle relaxers and went out to do some rug shopping."

Ha ha! That's the spirit. HERE.

Decorated by Domino.

...down to the Hicks paper in the dining room. Scioliari light, moody walls, graphic paper, parson's desk, ladylike Frenchie desk chair. Check, check, check! It's like a time machine of 2009! (And it's still a bazillion times better than my wreck, so....)

HERE for the listing and the slide show.

"Bring your own water for a fun retreat."

Ha, ha. Way to sell it. Ah, Vashon. Hippie Hamptons.

JJ - we can go halfsies on this.

A Rocio Romero prefab(ulous) right on Whidbey Island.

A 180 from the disaster I checked out today on Vashon, no?

Run, don't walk.

So amazing. Get it.

Celerie Kemble should fire her publisher.

Your book is available for pre-order, but there's no "Look Inside the Book" to help us browse the pages and see if we might want it? Who is in charge of marketing this title? They get an F.

THIS IS NOT HARD. Make it happen, someone. (This goes for you, too, Martyn, and all your new-book-releasing brethren.)


In other news, for those following along, Maison Le Tigre has an offer pending. It was a shit show. I toured it and oh my god, it was a disaster. And, as if to confirm my decision, as we exited the place my earlier "Wow, it smells here... not even like old people, but like shit," was validated when the realtor stepped in actual shit. There was A PILE OF ANIMAL SHIT on stairs. Feral cats? Maybe another realtor's stupid dog took a dump? Who knows. Just another sign from God that this house was just too much for me. Sad, but I have moved on.

That wallpaper, though, was glorious. Not even in an ironic hipster way. It was just so confident and bold and fun. And in great shape, too. I actually would have kept it.