Home yoga

I’ve been doing home yoga these past few days, using a YouTube tutorial on our TV. It hasn’t been pretty.

I can hear my cartilage tearing.

I can hear my cartilage tearing.

There’s a huge difference between taking a yoga class and doing yoga in your living room. I have to move furniture. There is no statue of the Buddha. No gentle music. I’m not used to the teachers on YouTube…I’ve been with John, my beloved yoga teacher, for years now, so I don’t even have to open my eyes to know what to do. I don’t wear my glasses with John, but I have to with home yoga. On the TV, the lithe young teachers press their foreheads to their locked knees. In my living room, my glasses fall the floor as I bend and grunt.

Lady, go home and stop shaming the rest of us.

Lady, go home and stop shaming the rest of us.

That’s another thing. The noises, which I’m capable of suppressing in class due to shame, come out of me at full volume. I groan. I gasp. I growl. I wonder if I’m in the final stages of life. Agonist breathing, they call it. It sounds about right. I hop to keep my balance, then clutch the armchair for balance. Am I just really bad at yoga, and John is too nice to point it out? After all, I was asked to leave the very first session of a class called Salsa for Beginners. “But…this is a beginner’s class,” I said after the warm-up period, where we were to learn the one-two-three-snap, five-six-seven-pause.

“Yeah,” the teacher said, not bothering to make eye contact. “Just…practice at home, and maybe you can come back someday.” We both knew that wasn’t going to happen. I gave him a disapproving look and went out for a cheeseburger.

Is anyone else thinking about mosquitoes?

Is anyone else thinking about mosquitoes?

Every time I’ve taken a yoga class out in the world, I’ve been the worst one in the room. The teachers come to correct me. I silently resent them. Leave me alone with my humiliation, I think. Go help that other person levitate, okay?

John knows I have balance issues, so we don’t do a lot of stuff that makes me fall. The YouTube people have no such empathy. “Put your left foot on your right thigh, raise yourself to your tiptoes and bend your knee till you’re at the floor.”

Sure. Once I master that, I think, I’ll cure cancer. I attempt eagle pose, which is where you stand on one foot and wrap your extremities around each other in a complicated pretzel pattern. I fall into the coffee table.

I notice later in the day that I have scrapes on my knuckles. Rug burns, I think. It makes me look like I’ve been bare-fisted brawling. “Were in a fight?” I imagine someone asking, gazing at my bloody hands. “No,” I’d say. “Yoga.”

Beware the cats.

Beware the cats.

My dogs love when I do home yoga. Hooray! they think. Mommy’s on the floor to play with us! As I hold plank position, Luther licks my ears. Willow barks and sometimes jumps on my back, as McIrish has tried to teach her how to give me a massage if I’m lying on the floor. Huck the Cat molests my arm, and if I try to free it, he starts biting and scratching me, so I have to stay still and let him gnaw on my fingers. Follow your breath, I’ll think as he wrestles me, as Luther moves onto licking my chin, as Willow’s sharp barking makes me wince. Empty your mind. I spit out dog hair and try.

Sorry if I let you down, Buddha.

Sorry if I let you down, Buddha.

Something is better than nothing, John tells me when I describe my home yoga attempts. Good for you. Is it, though? I almost set my hair on fire yesterday because I tried to recreate the peaceful atmosphere of the studio. Igniting myself would be bad for McIrish’s career. “Your wife did what?” I picture his fellow firefighters saying, guffawing. They have little mercy for idiot moves. “Poor Mommy,” the Princess would say in that lovely yet condescending way graceful people have toward those of us who lumber. “Do you have a video of it?” Dearest Son would ask. I get it. I’d watch that, too.

It’s all about the journey, the literature says. Do the best you can. You’ll keep getting better. I have to take that last one on faith.

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Dear Brides~

bouquetSweethearts! We are so happy for you, because you are taking this big, important step, and really, we adore him/her and think it’s all wonderful. You bet we’re coming to your wedding! We can’t wait!

But here’s the thing. We don’t want you to stress. We don’t want or need you to give a year of your life to planning this one short day (half-day, really, or evening). We’re there to see you start your marriage, which hopefully will last for decades. We want you to enjoy this time, not bleed over it.

We don’t care about your save-the-dates except to say “Aw!” at your picture and then write down the date on our calendars. We don’t care which font you use in your invitations. You don’t need to hire a designer to create a website dedicated to your coupledom (honestly, we’re only using it to see where you’re registered).

dressYou don’t need to try on a hundred wedding dresses in front of a judgmental posse. Wear something comfy so you don’t faint or break a rib if you laugh. We want you laughing. We want your ribs intact. Oh, your engagement and wedding rings? Very pretty. We don’t care how big or small the sparklies are, or if there are any sparklies, really. It’s not about jewelry.

We don’t care about your wedding aesthetic. We actually don’t even know what that means. If your bridesmaids’ dresses are ugly, well, that’s actually kind of fun for us. We don’t care what flowers are in your bouquet, because all flowers are pretty. We don’t need flowersyou to get your makeup done by a professional—look like you, honey. We love you. We love your face. We don’t want you looking like a Kardashian. Ditto, your hair. It’s gonna look gorgeous no matter what, up, down, half up, curled, straight, doesn’t matter. You don’t need eyelash extensions, and even if you get them, we probably won’t notice. We won’t care about your manicure.

We don’t care how many bridesmaids you do or don’t have. Be surrounded by people who love you…not people who compete with you, or people you feel obligated to include. Go easy on those bridesmaids and be understanding if they don’t have the time and money for all the festivities you may want thrown in your honor. Getting married is great! But it’s not the social event of the century, and you are not the future queen of a nation (probably). You’re just a woman marrying the person she loves, and that is truly lovely. Don’t exhaust your friends with demands and events and duties. It’s supposed to be fun…for everyone.

Please don’t lose weight just to be a small size that day. If you’re trying to eat healthier or whatever, great, but don’t do it to look thinner on that one day. We love you just as you are, and honestly, we probably won’t notice if you’ve lost 20 pounds. You are beautiful right this minute, especially to us.

cakeListen, honey. We’re not going to remember your decorations, the shade of the petals your flower girl drops, the dress your future mother-in-law wears. We don’t care about how tall the candelabras are. We don’t care what flavor your cake is, or your groom’s cake, or the cupcakes. We’re sure they’ll be yummy.

We want to see your happiness. Your smile matters so much more than all those details you worry over. We want to feel you made a great choice, and so did your honey, and that when you say your vows, you’ll mean them.

As guests, here’s what we’re hoping for: some tasty food (but our hopes aren’t high, so don’t fret). A few cute little kids dancing. Maybe we’ll see some old friends, or those cousins we haven’t seen since we can’t remember when. We’d probably like to dance ourselves, since we don’t do that enough. We definitely want the chance to hug you and wish you the best.

cutest coupleSome brides think the day is all about them. It’s not. It’s about your people, watching you and your betrothed become legally wed. It’s about two families. It’s about a community who wants the best for you. We hope that 25 years from now, we’ll look back on your wedding with some vague and blurry memories and say, “They were so in love. How wonderful that they still are!”

My darlings, I give you this wedding wish: may your wedding day not be the happiest day of your life. May those be the simple days, the ordinary days when the sky looks so pretty, or your baby smiles at you, or your spouse laughs at your joke, and your heart is filled with simple and pure contentment. And may those days number in the thousands.

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So bad it’s great

missed opportunity

What might have been

I really, really wanted to see Cats as a family this past Christmas break. Not for the singing or the makeup, but for the sheer horror of what was called the worst movie of all time. So bad it’s good, you know? Dearest Son was immoveable, alas—the lad has a will of iron, so we missed our chance to bond over laughter. We have already planned to tie Dearest to a chair when he comes home next and boot this movie up on Netflix.

matthew from downton abbey

He crazy.

Now that the little ones are back in college and grad school, McIrish and I have been watching some real crap. The other night, it was Apostle, starring Matthew from Downton Abbey. He’s a drug-addicted former missionary rich guy from historical England who must save his kidnapped sister and her bad hair from a religious cult where there’s a freaky old woman who is also a goddess and she’s tied to a tree in a barn and is force-fed human blood so the harvest will be plentiful. Just sit with that a minute. It must be noted that I admitted to McIrish that I’d been picking a bunch of losers lately. He picked Apostle.

sorry, sissy

To my sister: I’m sorry.

I quite enjoyed 47 Meters Down, starring the mom from This Is Us. It delivered on all elements I love in a movie: sisters, pretty summer dresses, great white sharks eating people, being stuck underwater. The big black moment comes when the mom from This Is Us must drag a fresh air tank toward her. She is trapped at the bottom of the ocean, running out of air, you see, and her sister is bleeding to death because of a shark bite. Our heroine must snag the fresh tank, drag it toward her and reattach her scuba hose to the tank, then find her sister, despite the shark cage pinning her leg. This is where my believability stopped. She can hold her breath AND figure out hoses and valves? I clearly would’ve died. I have trouble putting a battery in the remote. I’d like to think that, were my sister counting on me to save her, I’d come through, but I think Hilary and I both know it wouldn’t have ended well.

I fell asleep on In the Tall Grass, in which people wander around in a field and can’t find each other but stumble upon corpses. It was too much like real life, in which McIrish is working outside and I call him and call him because the cat has killed something, but he’s too engrossed in soil filtering or plant relocation and doesn’t hear me.

action hero supreme

Quality entertainment.

Any action movie with Gerard Butler will entertain me. I like his bad American accent and rugged face. Whether or not he’s saving various heads of state or their kids or killing bad guys from a prison cell or running around with a spear whilst scantily clad…I’m in. Did I watch Gods of Egypt? Yes, I did, and I’m only a little ashamed. (Note: I just found a movie of his I haven’t seen called Machine Gun Preacher, so we know what I’ll be doing this weekend.) It’s Gerard Butler, people! What’s not to love?

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This mortal coil


I’ve been reading a lot of books about death lately. I don’t know why. I’ve always been a bit maudlin, which I think is part of my Hungarian-Catholic upbringing. We’re wary of being too happy, always waiting for God to notice and strike us down (see Book of Job).

orleansMost on my mind these days is burial. I’m kind of against it for myself…it takes up too much land and feels so unnatural: embalmed in a casket with a cement-lined vault. I do like cemeteries, though, and especially old cemeteries. My good dog Luther and I recently took a walk through a really pretty one on the Cape and happened upon cluster of gravestones for a Higgins family. My people, maybe, from generations ago. Luther was super excited in the cemetery; he has a bloodhound’s nose, and I had to stop him from digging more than once. I imagined being caught by the cemetery guard: “Oh, it’s nothing! My dog is just digging up one of my ancestors…it’s fine! Thanks!”

arrowsAfter listening to Smoke Gets in Your Eyes by Caitlin Doughty, cremation holds a lot of appeal. I just don’t like the industrial part of that…if a crematory was prettier—like a Japanese Zen garden, for example—I’d be all in. But going to what looks like a Costco warehouse for my body’s final moments…nah. I’d rather go out on a pyre on a lake, you know? One of my future grandkids shooting a flaming arrow…wicked. I wonder if that’s legal.

jae rhim leeThere are other options I quite like—a black cat suit imbued with mushroom spores. You get buried looking super chic, and mushrooms break down your body, filtering out all the bad stuff. Eventually, you’re high-grade compost. McIrish could use me on the dahlias we both love. (Such a suit was invented by Jae Rhim Lee; I watched her TED talk and was enthralled. Enthralled, I tell you.) Luke Perry, one of my fiercest celebrity crushes, was buried in such a suit, so if it was good enough for Luke…I told my mom about these mushroom suits, and she screamed, then gagged. Not for everyone, I guess.

lutherI’ve also heard that the human body can decompose in just six weeks if you bury it in woodchips. Again, so simple, so close to nature. But then I picture the Luther trotting in from the field, something suspicious in his mouth. My survivors would be horrified, sitting there on the porch. “Luther!” Dearest Son would say as the Princess wept. “Drop Mommy’s leg! Drop it! Drop!” Luther would obey, but Willow would grab the extremity and race joyfully around the field, her barking muffled by my rotting leg. Hey. They’re dogs. They’re disgusting and will eat anything, maybe especially a loved one.

I’m an organ donor, so best case scenario is that I go out a hero, saving numerous lives via transplant. In case that doesn’t happen, the next best
thing would be to leave my body to science. I like thinking that I’d finally go barbieto medical school, fulfilling that dream. But then I learned that I could just as easily be used in experiments, such as “Let’s see what will happen if we drop this cadaver off a cliff.” No, thanks. Even in a med school, I could be akin to the Barbie Styling Head for some plastic surgeon wannabe who used me to perfect an eye-lift. No, thanks. If I can be used to, say, educate the one who will cure cancer, I’m all in. I draw the line at my mortal remains being used to help make women feel insecure about aging.

Well, hopefully I won’t die any time soon. But it never hurts to have a plan, just in case.

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Bittersweet memories

house in the snow

Little house in the big woods.

We’re taking down our Christmas decorations today. It’s especially bittersweet this year. McIrish and I are renovating our house this spring.

When we built our house 23 years ago, we living in a 600 square foot apartment with a baby and a cat. We slept on a futon couch with the Princess in a crib four feet away in a little alcove. Our table sat two; three with the high chair pulled up. A laundry basket held the Princess’s toys. There was one tiny closet. We didn’t mind.

view from the porch

Our porch will remain the same. Why tamper with perfection?

We had very little money, so McIrish acted as the general contractor on the new house and did much of the work himself. My dream had always been to live in a house with a front porch—my childhood home had a deck, but not a porch one could sit on. I wanted us to err on the side of too small, rather than too big. Three bedrooms, the master downstairs so we could grow old there and not have to worry about stairs. Two big bedrooms upstairs for the four children we hoped to have.


Our manger. Please note that one of the Wise Men brought Baby Jesus a Golden retriever.

Everything was done as inexpensively as possible. McIrish and his brother put in the tin ceiling and hardwood floors. We sunk footers for a deck we never built. Our 700-foot driveway was gravel and dirt (my first book advance paid for its paving…so glamorous!). We ran out of money before finishing the second bedroom upstairs; the floor was plywood covered by paper, and it would remain that way for six more years. The kids loved drawing on that paper while I sewed a lot of little dresses, vests and pajamas up there. Wrote my first book on an old Mac there, too.

When we moved in, the house, all of its 1800 square feet, seemed cavernous. We had closets! Lots of them! A pantry! A mudroom! A washer in that mudroom (the dryer would have to wait till we could afford it, so I mastered the art of hanging clothes out to dry, a chore I still love).

Fast forward twenty-plus years, and the house is cheerfully worn. The wood floors are scraped from kitchen chairs, and the walls still look a little dull from being scrubbed (sticky hands were the bane of my maternal existence). The cellar door never got around to being stained. The black-and-white tile floor in the kitchen and bathrooms is veined with cracks from when the house settled.

So…a renovation. McIrish deserves a nice kitchen. We love having people over, so a bit more room will be lovely. I’ll have a tiny study with lots of windows…a psychic once told me my father wanted me in a room full of windows. The house will be mostly the same, but shinier, you know? Much needed new paint and trim. Better windows, screens that aren’t punctuated by cat claws. A two-car garage so McIrish won’t have to scrape his truck every time it snows. All good.

villageAnd yet, this Christmas, our little house glowed with candles and colored lights. The little village over the cupboards looks so cozy. If it was crowded, well, no one ever complained. It was, and has always been, and will always be, a house full of love.

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Merry Merry and see you soon!

Happy Christmas, Hannukah and Kwanzaa a little early, my friends!

christmas treeStarting December 12thand going through New Year’s Day, I’ll be taking a social media break for the first time ever.

I’m not one of those people whose phone is glued to her hand, but I’m on it often. I try to be really positive and entertaining—that’s my job, after all— and not use social media as a platform to complain, prosthelytize or gossip. Over the years, I’ve muted a few people who are too negative or upsetting, or who just post so much that they’re like that annoying relative who doesn’t let anyone else talk. But 99% of the time, I really enjoy it.

Interacting with readers, fellow writers and the world at large is something that brings me a lot of joy. But, as is the case with ice cream, sometimes you need to take a break. For the next three weeks, I’ll be focusing on my family, writing, baking, cooking, wrapping presents, snow-blowing, all that good stuff. And I’ll be thinking of you, dear readers and friends, and very grateful for you all.

If you want to reach me, my email is k.higgins@snet.net , and I will be checking that. Otherwise, see you in 2020! The very, very best to all of you. I hope the season will be filled with good friends, loving family members, good food, happy pets and memories that will last a lifetime.



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Being and doing

As has been well documented, I’m not a crafty person. I can bake really pretty things, but give me a pair of scissors, and injuries ensue. I can’t count the number of times I’ve glued my fingers together or burned myself with a glue gun. I’m still vacuuming up from two years ago, when I thought, “How hard can this be?” and tried to spray greenpainting! glitter on a styrofoam cone.

However…I’ve discovered that I like to paint. By “paint,” I mean move paint around on a surface, not actually create something that looks like something else. Stick figures are about as accurate as I ever got (very cute stick figures, mind you).

But paint is very forgiving. You can do abstracts…smears and globs, swishes and dots. Just about anything blue can be passed off as sky or ocean. Shades of red, orange and pink? It’s a sunset. The joy is really in colors. Recently, I smeared some purples and blues on a piece of paper. The Princess, being a faithful, kind and lovely person, gasped and said, “That’s beautiful! Can I have it?” She framed it and hung it in her apartment. (Dearest Son has not yet requested one of my pieces, which I’m chalking up to the fact that he lives in a dorm room. His day will come.)

The Princess’s joy gave me the idea of making paintings for Christmas presents. When I told this to my mother, she said, “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Everyone’s tastes are so different. You’d feel bad if you saw them in the trash.” (This is the same woman who told me I was too much of a klutz to take ballet lessons when I was five. But I digress.) Hey. I could be an artistic genius. They laughed at Van Gogh, too.

Undeterred by a lack of maternal enthusiasm, I’ve been painting. Since I know nothing about art, I don’t have a style, so I’ve been experimenting. Does that look like a boat, or an elephant? A lighthouse, or a phallus? Would a smear of red improve it? (Not unless I was painting a bris.)

heartThe best part of this painting-their-gift thing is this. The whole time I’m doing it, I’m happy. It’s fun to do something different. I think about the intended recipient and how much they mean to me. I’m not binge-eating Christmas cookies (yet), and I’m not on a device or watching TV. I’m just…being. Being and doing, with a heart full of love.

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Prayer for Thanksgiving

pieDear God, thank you for my family.

Guideth my hand, Lord, as I roll out the dough to make some sexy-ass pies, and forgiveth me for using the term sexy-ass in this prayer.

Please, dear Lord, use thy divine powers to keep the kids from bickering in the car. Granteth me deafness so that I do not leap from my seat onto the New Jersey Turnpike. Maketh my husband remember that he driveth his entire family in the car, and letteth him not tailgate or speed.

Help me remember, Father God, to wear stretchy pants and a bulky sweater so that I may partake of all the stuffing.

juice cleanseHeavenly Father, I implore you keep relatives from detailing their health deficits, procedures and bowel habits while we eat. Let my father-in-law refrain from lecturing my children about any subject but most especially about healthcare and cleanses. Indeed, sweet, blessed Lord, let the word cleanse falleth from no one’s lips. Ever.

Grant us strength, oh God, to not discuss politics, since rage and frustration is antithetical to all that Charlie Brown hath taught me about Thanksgiving.

Lord my God, giveth me self-control to say no to a fourth slice of pie. Alloweth my sister-in-law to accept my offer to clean up after dinner so I am not a lazy, four-slices-of-pie kind of person and guilty of the sin of gluttony (and then cut me some slack when I am).

hedgiePlease, Lord, let there be babies at this dinner, wherein I can commandeer them and snuggleth with them, giving their parents a chance to eat and me a chance to sniffeth their little heads. If thou canst giveth me a baby, Lord, please granteth me a hedgehog instead (as long as I’m here, dear Lord, I figured I’d ask).

Grant me happy conversation with elders, pleasantries with strangers and the fortitude not to eat all the stuffing myself.

And Lord, please accept my sincerest gratitude at the bounty thee hath granteth me.




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Stupid things ex-husbands say


wedding ringIn the past three years, sixteen couples in my friend group have gotten a divorce. Sixteen! Granted, I know many people, but that does seem like a lot. Statistics say 50% of marriages end in divorce, and sometimes, it’s the absolute right choice.

But this blog is for my friends who’ve been betrayed by the spouses they loved and supported. It’s for the women and men who have been blindsided, whose lives have been ripped to shreds because their partners sucker-punched them in the heart. Hint: there might be a bit of this in my upcoming book, so I’ve been thinking about it a lot.

In the case of the couples I know, the cheating spouses have been male, but of course, women can cheat, too. Substitute pronouns as fits.

If you’ve divorced with kindness and grace—as one couple in my friend group has—God bless, and good for you.

And now, on with the show.

“I haven’t been happy for years.” Translation: I’m bored and tired of myself, so I’ll have an affair, rather than admit that I need to get off my ass. Mister, if you really haven’t been happy for years (and that’s not true, is it?), why didn’t you say something? Do something? Get counseling? Nope. Instead you chose an affair, Monsieur Cliché. How unoriginal.

musician“You have stifled my dreams.” Translation: I want to be irresponsible, ignore the kids, become an Artist with a capital A because yes, I am that talented. Also, I will create an Empire, now that I am rid of you, thou killer of my awesome potential. Yeah, sure, buddy. She supported you through grad school. She moved six times for your career. She signed a mortgage on the house to finance your “dreams.” She worked two jobs. She raised your children. She put your career before hers. She helped you every step of the way. Stifled, my ass.

smiley face“I can’t talk to you anymore.” Translation: I’ve found a woman who kisses my ass and agrees with every word out of my mouth. She thinks you’re rich, doesn’t she? And hey! You might be! Prepare to lose everything when she divorces you a couple years from now. Hint: She has at least one ex-husband in her rear-view window.

“We can stay friends, because I wish you well.” Translation: I’m not going to take any responsibility for your heartbreak, fear, financial struggles, loneliness because I am a Good Guy, and you can tell this because I just said we can stay friends. Sorry, bub. You’re not going to be friends. You are not worthy of her friendship.

sad kid“I deserve to be happy.” Translation: Everyone else can suffer—our kids, grandkids and certainly you, former wife of mine, because I am the most important person in the world, and my happiness is all that matters. If our kid is sobbing into her pillow, I don’t want to hear it. She’ll get over it because I am happy and this will make her happy, because the world rotates based on my happiness. Jeez louise. The hubris. You want to think every parent would put his or her kids’ happiness first, and of course, we’re wrong. It’s amazing how people can justify the worst behavior because of what they think they’re owed. 

yoga teacher“The kids will love her.” Translation: Lalalala! I don’t want to hear anything that will interfere with my New Self and This Exciting Time because I am a New Man! My piece on the side and/or new wife is super nice, so the fact that I was cheating on my children’s mother doesn’t matter. She is a yoga instructor/rides horses/surfs/is an Artist and/or Great Thinker, like me, and everyone will get along just fine. Dude. You are pathetic. A cliché. Also, your kids hate her. No, they do. If they pretend not to, it’s because they still love the person they thought you were and are clinging to the shred of hope that their father isn’t an ass. But you are an ass, and they will find out.

lonelinessSomeday, Cheating Spouse Wrapped in Your Own Selfishness, this will all come back to bite you. You’ll be alone, divorced again. Your kids and grandkids will merely tolerate you, and your former spouse is truly happy now, having built a full life on the ashes you left her. You’ll remember the time when you threw everything away because you were lazy and bored, entitled and self-involved. You’ll shake your head at your stupidity for leaving a good woman because you thought there was something shinier out there. You’ll call your kids, but they’re very busy and can’t talk, let alone visit.

So you’ll have plenty of time to remember the life you tossed out the window. That life was pretty damn good, wasn’t it? Too bad, idiot. You don’t get to go back.

To everyone suffering from a betrayal, who’s struggling to get back on their feet after a divorce or separation, hang in there. Better days are ahead.

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The lies of HGTV


Good at buying stuff: check.

Good at buying stuff: check.

McIrish, my sister and I have spent a lot of time at our little house on Cape Cod this past month, doing something Joss Dey calls zhoozhing. I was totally into it…at first. HomeGoods and I are well acquainted and in fact, deeply in love. I bought throw pillows and soft blankets, a shelf with hooks, a new bedspread. I could be an interior decorator, probably! This would be easy-peasy. I loved zhoozhing!

Then came the lies of the DIY world, of HGTV, of talented, coordinated people.


  1. “A new coat of paint will make that look gorgeous!” Lie. Painting is way harder than it looks. The drips, blobs, dog hair that ends up on what previously seemed like a pristine blanket of snow. The splotches on the ceiling from when your roller slipped. You missed a spot. No matter what you think, smarty-pants, you missed a spot. And it takes three coats. And you still missed a spot.
  2. "You know what would be so helpful, hon? If you put these tissue boxes on the shelf. Good girl!"

    “You know what would be so helpful, hon? If you put these tissue boxes on the shelf. Good girl!”

    “Let’s pull out this cabinet and put in a new—” Nope. Not gonna happen, because that old cabinet? It covered a pipe, and the new cabinet won’t fit, and you have to cut the wall, then patch it, then patch it again, then let it dry, then smooth it out, but it won’t be smooth, you naïve fool, you. But you won’t be able to tell till you paint it. Also, you missed a spot.

  3. “Don’t throw away that old table! You can repurpose it with some lace and crap!” It took three days for the super glue to wear off my fingertips. Enough said.
  4. “If you measure twice, you only have to cut once.” Said who? Huh? Because I measured FOUR times, and I had to cut five. Old furniture is not straight.


"Here, honey! You like to peel stuff! This is a great job for you!"

“Here, honey! You like to peel stuff! This is a great job for you!”

We soon discovered that I was really best at the “step and fetch” kind of jobs as Hilary and McIrish did the harder work that required…you know…skill. I bought pretty things and organized cupboards. I scuttled back and forth to Ace Hardware so often that the resident dog would leap to greet me and the guys would say, “We missed you! It’s been, what? Three hours?”

I tore out and screwed in small things that didn’t require too much accuracy…the idiot jobs, as my sister fondly called them (or me). I whipped out my credit card, soothed McIrish as he cursed when something didn’t go right and insisted that we go out for a nice dinner. I bought wine. When all was done, I sent my husband and sister home and cleaned that house till it glowed.

We all have our strengths.

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