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On Being a Seasoned Decorator: Who Cares about Trends?

July 26, 2013 at 9:23 am by Claudia

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Orange and pink look pretty good together, don’t they?

I was thinking about the ubiquitous phrase ‘trends in decorating’ yesterday. I see it everywhere; certainly all over blogland. The design industry, whether it be for the home or fashion, is driven by ‘trends.’ Everything, including Twitter, seems to be driven by trends. (If I hear one more newscaster use the words, “Trending on Twitter” I’ll scream). I understand that. It’s all about marketing. Color of the year. The dreaded chevron. Mid-century modern. Burlap. Geometrical shapes. White. These are just a few of the many hot fads in design and design blogging. I know I’m missing several. Feel free to add more in your comments.

When I was younger, a whole lot younger, I followed the fads. That’s part of the pack mentality of being young and easily influenced by others, of wanting to belong. Nothing wrong with that. I’d venture to say it is expected. It’s the rare young person that can buck the crowd and follow his/her particular likes and not give a dang about what others think. They’re out there, however, those young people that march to the beat of a different drummer. I find that enormously comforting.

I’m a ‘seasoned’ adult now. I’m more comfortable in my skin. And I don’t give a dang about what is trendy. I can look at photos of white rooms and admire them, but I know in my heart that particular trend is not for me. I like color. I can admire the lines of a room full of mid-century modern furniture, but since I grew up in a house with that look, it’s not appealing to me. It’s simply been done.

Ever since I hit my twenties, I have been that someone who, when told that ‘everyone is doing it,’ makes a U-turn and goes the other way. I never did drugs. I didn’t care how many of my dorm friends were smoking marijuana – I didn’t like the smell. And when my friend in grad school tried to get me to try cocaine because ‘everyone loves it, trust me’ I left the room. All it took was hearing the words: everyone is doing it. Bye bye.

“If everyone jumped off the Empire State Building, would you?” My mother asked me this frequently as I slogged my way through my teens. I bet most parents ask that question in some form. Congratulations, Mom. It took.

That’s my own particular sensibility. If you tell me that this or that is ‘in,’ chances are I will be making that U-turn. I’m a stubborn girl and telling me that something is in and I should partaking in it because it is in just makes me dig my heels further into the ground. We Hill girls are stubborn. Ask my dad. Or my husband.

One of the benefits of growing older is not caring anymore what others think. I no longer feel it necessary to follow the rules. Certainly my decorating style has evolved over the years as I have evolved. I decorate with the things I love, with as many colors as I want, with comfort and a dash of funkiness. I mix patterns. I have a lot of stuff. If I love something, it goes in the room. And if I truly love it, no matter what it is, it will work.

As I look at blogs and decorating books and magazines, my favorite rooms have always been those that are unique. That don’t follow the trends. That are a reflection of the person that lives, breathes, eats and daydreams in that room. That are funky and individual and full of surprises. That throw orange and pink together, thank you very much, and make it work. That look real. And, apologies to designers everywhere, that aren’t done by a designer. Because I can see that in a room from a mile away.

Being a seasoned decorator is a good thing. It’s freeing, don’t you think? We can do whatever we like. We’ve been through all the needing to belong stuff; we left that behind years ago. We don’t care about trends. We decorate for our needs, for our sensibilities. Isn’t that wonderful?

And by the way, the sensibilities of a seasoned decorator are not necessarily entirely defined by age. There’s a dash of ‘who cares?’ in there that I’ve seen in every age.

Thank goodness.

Happy Friday.

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Embarrassing Stories: The Skunk Streak

July 19, 2013 at 8:07 am by Claudia

beeonpurpleconeflower

A long time ago, in the galaxy that was my hometown, I was living back at home with my parents after college. I had just graduated, with a teaching degree and a major in Drama & Speech with a minor in English Language and Literature. Where was I working? Nowhere. I couldn’t find a job. I was in a play. That’s about it.

Bored, living at my parents’ house with very little cash on hand, I needed a change. As is often the case with me, ‘boredom’ equals ‘time for a change.’ Not a drastic change, because my nickname was Cautious Claudia, just a wee one. In those days I got my hair cut at a salon called, of all things, Foxy Lady. Oy.

Frosted hair was very in at the time. Do you remember those days? Women loved getting their hair frosted. I saw it everywhere and it got me to thinking. Maybe I should try it. Not for me the fully frosted look, but….what about some subtle highlights around the face? Some very subtle golden streaks? The word ‘subtle’ was playing over and over again in my brain.

Yes, subtle.

So, I made an appointment at the aforementioned Foxy Lady. I was going for it. The day of the appointment dawned. When I arrived, I spoke about what I wanted.

“Some very subtle frosting around my face. So subtle that it looks natural. Not too much, just a little. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

“Absolutely! Of course!”

I sat back in the chair, convinced I was in good hands. Time passed. I read some magazines. Finally the moment arrived. Time for the unveiling. Completely sure that I would see the look I had dreamed of, I eagerly awaited the results.

I had a single 3 inch wide streak of platinum hair. Right above my forehead.

I looked like a skunk.

Horrified doesn’t begin to describe my feelings. All the ladies who worked there gathered round, oohing and aahing over my new look. They were thrilled! I was not.

In those days, my friends, I was not very assertive. I was shy. It was hard for me to speak up for myself.

So I never mentioned that I was stunned. I never asked them to ‘change it back!’ I simply paid, walked out to my car and sat there crying. When I walked in the door of my house, my mother gamely tried to mask her shock upon seeing the results. So did everyone else. They quickly assured me that I looked great, that it was daring and fun, that it would grow out anyway, not to worry.

I kept crying.

Eventually, since I was doing a play and had some latitude as to attire, I wore a bandana over my hair. Every single day. You know the look: bandana folded into a triangle and tied at the nape of the neck. Luckily, this was the in look at the time, so I was able to hide the dreaded skunk streak.

Months went by. Slowly the streak started growing out. It began to look a bit less startling. Brown hairs mixed with platinum and it did indeed become subtler. But I still hated it.

That Christmas, the boy I had a crush on all through junior high and high school, who went to my church and whose move to California at the beginning or our senior year in high school broke my young heart, came back for a visit. He came to church on Christmas Eve and came downstairs to the choir room to say hello. I hadn’t seen him in over five years. How did he see me after all this time?

With a skunk streak.

Ah well. By the way, that boy and I lost touch for many years – decades. He married and had twins. I married. He still lives in California. Eventually, we connected again via Facebook. That’s what I love Facebook for – reconnecting with old friends. I’m hoping that he doesn’t remember the skunk streak. But I sure do.

Did you have any hair horror stories?

Don’t forget my book review. Just scroll down one post to see it. The publisher has been very generous and I have up to 5 copies to giveaway. Leave a comment at the end of that post.

Happy Friday.

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As Is: Wandering the Kitchen

July 17, 2013 at 8:45 am by Claudia

Due to a reaction to the overabundance of staged home photos out there in blogland (as well as a lack of energy) I am more and more inclined to show my rooms ‘As Is.’ A healthy dose of reality never hurt anybody. Let’s wander the kitchen on this Wednesday morning.

kitchentablechairs

As usual lately, the table is covered in research, along with pottery and Riley’s Dish Garden. Don’s shoes are under the red bench. The mail is hidden on one of chair seats.

kitchenshoes

My shoes are right next to the door, under the pantry. No mudroom or entryway here. Open the door? Boom. You’re in the kitchen.

kitchenviewfromthetable

Not a fan of the black stove. But it came with the house and it works. So it stays. Not a fan of the black dishwasher, either. It doesn’t work and hasn’t for 8 years. That’s why you see dishes in the drainer. I’ll get it fixed someday. Or, maybe, I’ll just buy a white dishwasher, which is what I want anyway. Also not a fan of the huge black microwave. Again, it came with the house and it works. End of story.

kitchenstuffonchairs

My bag. I plopped it there when I returned from NYC on Sunday night. And there it sits.

kitchenbulletinboard

I don’t know if I’ve ever shown this corner. Standard refrigerator and the bulletin board, because that’s what it is really. I could give it a prettier name, but heck, it’s a bulletin board. Beautiful wooden bowl given to us by my parents. Inside that bowl is the hideous popcorn bowl that Don insists we keep. Photos of my handsome nephew David and my great-niece Emma with her brand new baby brother.

Let’s look at some photos.

kitchendogsihaveloved

I call this ‘Dogs I have loved.’ These photos are from the days when I actually had my photos developed at the neighborhood drug store. The black dog is Winston, the first dog that Don and I adopted from the shelter. We moved into our rental house and brought Winston home a week later. The golden retriever is Max, my nephew. His mom is my sister Meredith. And of course, Ms. Scout, reluctantly displaying her heart marking. Riley is represented elsewhere; he came into our lives in the era of digital cameras and iPhoto. That note is from my dad, written in his increasingly shaky handwriting, which touches my heart.

kitchendonmewinston

Look at these youngsters! Oh, wait, that’s Don and me. Yikes. We’re sitting on the steps of our Craftsman home in San Diego, having just bought our Christmas tree. That’s Winston nestled between us. Winston had a fearsome bark, hence the Beware of Dog sign in the window.

kitchenisland

The view from just inside the kitchen door. The lighting in the photo isn’t that great; I took it early this morning. As Is, remember?

kitchenshelf

It looks like we collect clothespins, doesn’t it? We use them to secure things that have been opened: bags of chips, bags of cookies, etc. Don’t ask me about the tile counters, which I truly detest. Someday: butcher block.

kitchencabinet

Morning sun shining on the hutch. Sort of grainy, sorry, but much of this shot was in shadow and I had to tweak it.

kitchenchalkboardjjacks

And we’re back to the kitchen door. That window on the left is double-paned, thank goodness. Because that crack you see is from an unfortunate mowing incident that took place as I mowed the grass just beyond that window and hit a rock, which flew up and cracked the window. Obviously, we have yet to get the glass replaced.

There you have it. I like ‘As Is’ shots. I also like pretty, staged shots. But this is the reality here and a good representation of our daily life as we live and work in our little cottage.

Happy Wednesday.

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On Being a Seasoned Decorator: Who Cares about Trends?

Embarrassing Stories: The Skunk Streak

As Is: Wandering the Kitchen

Lambs Like to Party

A Note

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