Mabel’s House: Thoughts on Cocoons and an “Old Life”


Over ten years ago I started a blog called Mabel’s House. It was my reason to wake up in the morning. I took photos, and decorated my house, and wrote. I had an outlet, a place I could be happy and funnel all my creative energy into one spot. I had a dog I adored. Her name was Mabel. She was a schnauzer-mix, a pushy, loving, hilarious, loud-barking, stranger-hating, couch-squishing baby. She was the queen of the house, so it was only fitting that she was queen of my blog as well.

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Pantone’s Color of the Year 2018: Ultra Violet (For the Record, We’ve Been Purple-ing in This House For A While)


When Pantone announced their new color of the year, I avidly read some of my favorite design websites. It was startling how much violet shade got throw around. The word Barney was used. A lot. Interior designers were all, “This is great for, um, accents.” Emily Henderson, one of my favorites, got a little tacky and said, “If you’re really into school mascots or graduation gowns, this shade of purple is going to make you very excited.”

But I have my own opinions. It’s no secret which side of the aubergine fence I’m standing on, or sitting in, given the color of my office walls.

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Beating the Winter Blues: Creating Art With Your Child


The other morning I left our house wearing my biggest coat that zips up to my nose and drapes down below my knees. I was wearing a hat, sunglasses, and giant boots. I looked like a cross between Frosty the Snowman and the Michelin Man, all hint of womanhood completely hidden (unless you count the Kate Spade sunglasses, which when it’s the only scrap of femininity left in your ensemble, I do). But dang-it, I was prepared for those 15 degree temps.

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Thrifting: The Most Affordable Way to Decorate Your Home, Unless the Objects Talk to You, and Then it Gets Confusing


I have a lot of puffy-heart feelings about New Jersey, but her antique and thrift stores are life-giving. Living in New York nearly killed me, not because on any given day a tiny old man might hock up a big snot ball and spit it onto my boot (that really happened to me), but because there weren’t any good thrift stores. A vintage plate in an NYC Goodwill might cost $20. To add insult to thrift injury, I couldn’t bring home curb-side finds because not only were they few and far between, and not only did my arm muscles prove to be weak and incapable of dragging furniture half a mile (that happened once), but those curb-side treasures were likely hosting a multi-generational housing complex of bed bugs ready and willing to party all over our apartment (that also happened and my eye still twitches when I think about it).

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