Acknowledgments
I AM NOT an interior designer who also writes. I am a writer who has her nose pressed to the glass of that beautiful, elusive world of design. And I want in. For those who have cracked their windows, who have let me into their worlds and shared their views on living better, more beautifully, and more graciously, I am grateful, and so are my readers.
To each of my newspaper editors who continue to carry my column despite budget cuts, shrinking sections, and pressure from the top, I have heard from a reliable source that you each have a special place in heaven with all-down bedding.
Because writers, and I speak for myself, can be wayward and rudderless, I thank all those who have shepherded me, and corralled my instincts and musings into this book. House of Havoc would not have found its way between covers without my personal angel and agent, Faye Bender, and several wonderful editors: Wendy Francis, who helped me focus this book when I felt as if I were arm wrestling an octopus; Rene Sedliar, who so gracefully and deftly stepped in and offered a well-calibrated eye and a sure hand; Erica Truxler and Cisca Schreefel, who did an awful lot of heavy lifting behind the scenes. Finally, Im indebted to Matthew Lore for selecting my voice from among a surely raucous chorus, and declaring, before I even knew, Shes got more than one book in her. I feel so lucky. For bringing my work into the limelight, I thank the talented publicity team at Perseus, including Lissa Warren, Kate Burke, and Diane Mancher.
If it werent for Susan Beane, Tracy Beckman, and Stephanie Abarbanel, and their friendship, support, editorial opinions, and free therapy, I would require heavy medication. I am certain I cannot adequately express my appreciation for my parents, Neal and Nancy Jameson, who continue to teach me by their loving, tolerant, and morally centered example.
Finally, I am grateful for my long-suffering husband and children, who put up with a lot of crummy dinners while Im on deadline, and Im always on deadline, and who provide an endless stream of material and madness, havoc and humor, love and life.
Final Thought: Going Home
Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back.
PHILIP LARKIN, BRITISH POET
IM SITTING IN the living room of the home my dear parents, now in their eighties, have lived in since I was four. Its a single-story California ranch house. Theres not a window in it I havent crawled through. When I visit, I feel like Alice in the rabbit hole. Everything seems to have shrunk, as if Im seeing it from an airplane. As someone who left to make her own family home somewhere else, I certainly do see this once-upon-a-time home from a new perspective. I cant look at it without judgment and sentiment and humble pride.
Much of the house, for better or worse, is still original. My parents have always been more interested in tending to sick members of their congregation with prayers and Jell-O salad than in decorating, and who can argue with that?
So this day when Mom asked, If you were going to redo this living room, where would you start? I caught the question as if it were a hot potato.
My first thought, I would take the place back to the studs, but I know better than to say that. I start softly: It would be messy, but Id start by scraping the cottage-cheese coating off your ceilings and make them smooth.
Whats wrong with the ceiling?
Most people think cottage-cheese ceilings are out, I say. They prefer smooth ceilings.
I dont find them objectionable. Your father and I recently had them resprayed.
1987, Dad says from a nearby chair, where he pretends to be dozing.
Then leave them, I say, even though looking at them reminds me of those women at community pools who are all cellulite and no tan.
I try to change subjects, but Mom keeps going: What else?
Well, maybe we could paint the walls something besides white.
Whats wrong with white? she asks, then looks toward the window. And I suppose you would throw out the drapes.
Well, I search for a delicate answer while I survey the drapes, ivory damask over sheers, which were fine when new but now look like the balloons from last weeks party, when did you get them?
Wasnt that long ago, she says.
1972, Dad says, eyes still closed.
Ive always liked these drapes, she says.
They do go with the walls, I say, which is the nicest true thing I can think of.
Im not bothered that my parents dont mind my decorating advice. Just because I write a nationally syndicated home design column doesnt cancel out the fact that they scared the bogeyman out from under my bed. And while the room for improvement here is great and obvious, part of me likes this house just the way it is.
I park my suitcase in the guest room, my old room. It has the same yellow-flowered wallpaper, with matching bedspread, curtains, and lampshade, it had when I was a girl. From the window, I can still see straight into the neighbors kitchen, a vantage that gave me quite an education. In the closet is a box containing all the dresses I wore to school dances, and their corresponding flashbacks. I dont know why Mom saved them.
Later, as Im helping her put together a big family dinner, which she still does with enviable ease, I see her head out the side door to the garage.
Where are you going? I ask.
To get the stemware.
In the garage?
No room for it inside.
I think, Maybe if you purged one kitchen cabinet of all the fifty-cent flower vases youve amassed over four decades, youd have room, but I stifle my urge to redecorate and reorganize. I appreciate that my parents have created a home that works, and that is beautiful in its worn-in way. As I watch them go through the routine theyve perfected after sixty years of marriage, a routine where Dad gathers the laundry and Mom runs the washing machine, where he slices the bananas and she pours the cereal, I see how comfortable they are with where and how they live. Theyve arrived to a place we can only hope to arrive.
For all the advice dished out here, advice aimed at bridging the gap between real and ideal home life, what ultimately matters most is that our homes support, nurture, and sustain the lives within. That they create an environment where families can love and laugh and learn, make memories and build character. If a home can do that with beauty and order, thats even better.
As I watch my girls hang out in the same big backyard I played in, climb the same trees, and stand where I helped my brother (now an architect) build underground forts, I hope this time capsule of my childhood builds a bridge between my youth and theirs. I also hope that someday, they will get, like Im finally getting, the essence of home.
These are the days.
Havoc and I, We Have a Deal
I DIDNT REALIZE that havoc and I would become permanent roommates until Marissa, my youngest child, was in kindergarten. Until then, I thought the fact that my house looked chronically vandalized was just a phase, like teething or potty training.
See, before children, you could have dropped by any time and my house would have looked pulled together and company ready. But my first child arrived the way every baby does, like a small explosive: LaundryKaboom! DishesKerpow! ToysKablam! Soon, an orderly home became as common as a full nights sleep. And the chaos didnt end when the kids stopped spitting up and were out of diapers. It merely changed. Next I was dealing with mud on the stairs, bike tracks on the walls, candy in the carpet, and home birthday parties featuring Silly String contests and chocolate fountains.