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Hygge decor: 7 ideas to help you forget your hatred of winter

February 1, 2017 by Suzanne 1 Comment

By Meryl Williams

I do not care for winter.

I do not care for it so much that I moved to a climate where I believed it would not touch me, but it turns out that the gray of the Pacific Northwest does worse for my mental health than snow. So now I’m back in my native Midwest! I have decided to embrace winter, and the hygge decor around my new apartment helps. (So has global warming and a very mild-weathered 2017, but that’s another story.)

If you’re feeling some cabin fever, hygge up your place with these decor ideas.

Fake fireplace cover:

The best-case scenario for a new place is that it comes with a working fireplace. The second-best case is that you get a really pretty non-working one. My apartment has the latter, so I like having a cover up against it to keep me from feeling sad about not actually being able to use it.

Tiny, white lights everywhere:

As we all know, tiny bright lights are for all of winter, not just the holidays. These ones I Scotch-taped to my fake fireplace are twee *and* offer a flattering soft lighting option. (Editor’s note from Suzanne: Bright Lab offers some cute ones!)

Cats on blankets:

So hygge. Go get you some cats.

Assorted coffee mugs, zero glassware:

Who needs gold-leaf-rimmed wine glasses when I have a perfectly good mug whose message leads people to believe I read more than I actually do? Coffee mugs make every beverage a winter beverage: Tea, LaCroix, root beer, you name it. Hygge. It. Up.

Stacks of books:

Speaking of literature, look at all these pretty library books I fully intend to read over winter, even though I know I’m just gonna end up re-reading all seven Harry Potter books instead! They make excellent decorations!

Cross stitches:

I did not make these! My talented sister-in-law did, and my apartment benefits from them. Not only are they adorable and politically in line with my views, but visitors constantly compliment them. (Editor’s note again: Here are two cute options to buy for your own home.)

Lots of dang foxes and birch trees:

Snow is terrible, but foxes attempting to dig through it are adorable. Pepper your home with IKEA birch tree branches and fox art, and you’ll forget how much you loathe January.

Have at it! May hygge get you through until spring!

Meryl Williams is a writer working on a collection of essays about learning to play roller derby. If you want to see more of her writing, sign up for The Sleeper Hit newsletter or find her on Twitter (@merylwilliams).

My books are the home I take with me

August 29, 2016 by Suzanne Leave a Comment

By Hannah Nersasian

International shipping isn’t cheap. You fill boxes, weigh them, use up the remainder of your overdraft in paying to have them wrapped and shipped 3,000 miles. The boxes travel slowly, meandering their way across the ocean, waiting in containers in ports with other boxes containing other lives, with other destinations. It takes time and money and effort to pack up and move, so it makes sense that you’d choose only the most precious possessions and that you’d weigh their value against their literal weight. You wouldn’t choose things that could be purchased again on the other side of the ocean for far less money than it’d take to ship them. You wouldn’t choose to take things you’ve already used and probably won’t use again. You wouldn’t choose things that are worn and old and probably have a resale value of about 20 cents. Except of course if you’re me, and those things are your books, and where you go, they go, no matter how inconvenient or irrational or expensive.

So when I moved to a suburb of Boston in 2010 (from London), I didn’t take furniture or dinnerware or even my good chef’s knife. I didn’t take my spice collection or some of the larger artwork that had hung on my walls since my teenage years. I didn’t take my stack of old love-notes and photographs. Some I’d pick up later, cramming what I could into overfilled suitcases and hoping my theory of ‘if I can lift it, it’s not too heavy’ would hold true. But most I’d leave behind in my parent’s house, dodging my mum’s comments of how once you’re married you really shouldn’t still be storing things in your parent’s attic.

What I did take, packed tenderly into two cardboard boxes with reinforced sides, were my books. Books that I devoured during my teens, trying desperately to understand myself and the world and love; books I’d destroyed with highlighter during my undergraduate degree; books that had changed my life; and books I’d never read but always meant to. In a few instances I took two copies of the same book for different reasons: a cherished inscription, a favorite cover. And as they sauntered across the Atlantic, as I finished up a job and attended my own leaving parties, as I spent three misguided months couch surfing to save money and pay off the aforementioned overdraft fees, I felt them missing from me. Their weight and familiarity, wit and wisdom, temporarily boxed up, sealed and floating on a dark ocean without a track-your-package option.

They arrived in Boston before me, a chunk of my heart waiting (along with my fiancé) when I got off the plane, claiming space for me in an apartment that was bleakly utilitarian, male and overrun by mice. I hated that apartment. The kitchen floor seemed to be designed to look dirty and the linoleum tiles had tiny pock marks in them perfect for catching dirt and never letting it go. The bedroom was painted a dark mauve. Our upstairs neighbor was a big guy who ran on a treadmill right above our bedroom every morning and the whooshing sound below seemed reminiscent of the womb, except not in a good way. The basement was semi-finished and smelled of mildew and mice. I was glad to be in America and thrilled to be in the same country as my husband. I hated that apartment.

Moving countries comes with the longest and strangest to-do list you’ve ever encountered. I had to complete a series of HPV vaccine shots (because for a brief moment in time it was a visa requirement, until it wasn’t), learn to drive, sign up for a Social Security card in my maiden name and then switch it to my married name once my green card arrived. I had to find a volunteer role to keep my resume from stagnating and find friends to keep my spirit from stagnating.

But top of the list was a bookcase for my books. I knew if I had to live in that apartment, finding a space for them would allow at least a corner of it to feel like home. I was right. Once my books were unpacked I felt myself start to relax a little, as if they emitted a quiet calm energy just for me. I spent those early months stubbornly working my way through the to-do lists and buying more books, feeling as though each new acquisition grounded me more definitely into my new life and claimed more space for me in that hideous apartment.

We’ve now moved, thank goodness, and my books were the last things I packed and the first things I unpacked. Even in an empty house littered with boxes to be emptied and belongings to be found, a full bookshelf equals home to me. And placing books on shelves is a sacred ritual, weighing each one for a moment before sliding it onto the shelf, that helps me accept and embrace my new environment. Filling shelves with books is an immediate statement of home and a quiet-but-bold declaration of self. Like a tortoise with his shell, my books are the home I take with me, just a little more awkward and a lot more expensive to carry.

Hannah Nersasian is a first-time ‘mum’ from rural, southwest England, currently living in Framingham, Mass., with her American husband, son and cat. You can read more from Hannah on Boston Moms Blog and on her personal blog. Find her on Facebook, or follow her on twitter @Alien_Hans.

We’re asking some friends to share their answers to one question: What makes a house feel like a home? If you’d like to contribute to this series, email thesmartdomestic@gmail.com.

Don Quixote at home

August 22, 2016 by Suzanne Leave a Comment

By Katie Colt

As an adult, I’ve moved a lot. I don’t mean a couple of times—we’re talking ten moves in ten years. Ten moves from permanent dwelling to permanent dwelling, with “permanent” to me clearly meaning “temporary.” These moves do not include transitional stays at family members’ houses, in hotels, or a month’s summer study abroad program. My twenties were nomadic.

Though there have been good, compelling reasons for each move (Cohabitation! Bigger place! BATS!), the amount of mental, physical, and emotional schlepping required to complete each transition really takes its toll on my well-being. This is most likely why, no matter where I end up, the following art takes up residence on the wall of the most central room in my dwelling: Don Quixote at home

There he is: Don Quixote, naked, on a ghostly horse, in all his semi-cubist glory.

He’s quite the conversation starter. Why he is naked—and why my grandmother chose to paint him naked—is a mystery for the ages. But his presence in my home(s) has come to represent an appreciation for goofiness, familiarity, and a connection to family that allows every place I’ve lived to feel like I belong there.

My grandmother Miriam was many things: a college-educated woman at a time when many were not; a marriage and family therapist; a beloved mother and aunt; a talented cook, baker, and hostess; and a skilled artist, taking classes at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago during the mid-20th century. Having loved Picasso and cubism, she started painting and emulated him, later creating gorgeous and bright abstract collages, which hung proudly in her homes and in the homes of those she loved.

As a child, Grandma Miriam toted me along to the Art Institute innumerable times, showing me Monet, Degas, Van Gogh, Cassatt, and Picasso. She took me to the theatre, painstakingly tried to teach me how to knit (it never quite stuck), and allowed me to practice all my ice skating jumps and spins on her parquet floors (as long as I didn’t crash-land into her glass coffee table or indigenous clay sculptures). Spending time with her proved to be the earliest, most immersive cultural and creative education I never intended to receive.

I’ve made choices that have taken me in multiple different directions, both in physical location and career path. Along the way, I’ve struggled to feel confident in my creative abilities, which were always at the center of my person. However my self-esteem has suffered, at least my sense of humor has not.

Every time I walk into my living room, whichever living room it may be at the time, I can’t help but smile at the painting’s colors, its boldness, and its brazen embrace of the absurd. And I think of Miriam, and her artistic vision, her priorities, her love, and the importance of pursuing creative expression. No matter how nomadic my future, it is comforting that Don Quixote will follow, nakedness and all.

Katie Colt is a daydreamer, a diaper-changer, a writer, a baby-wrangler, a composer, and a carry-out queen. You can follow her on Instagram and Twitter @katiebabyhorse for a mix of the magical and the mundane.

We’re asking some friends to share their answers to one question: What makes a house feel like a home? If you’d like to contribute to this series, email thesmartdomestic@gmail.com.

A home with a messy soul

July 31, 2016 by Suzanne Leave a Comment

For a period in my life, I read a ridiculous amount of home design blogs. They were mostly geared toward lifestyles similar to mine (apartment-living, urban, rental, small spaces). But then I had a baby; I moved across states; I changed jobs. I lost my fascination with design blogs about stylish apartments.

But I’m still drawn to some of the styles of those places, even if I live in a traditional, two-story suburban house. I like bright colors, weird art, open shelving, and funky vintage pieces.

We’ve been in our current house for about a year and a half, and it’s only felt like our space in the last few months. The old, blue carpet in the bedrooms has been ripped out; the vintage, floral wallpaper has been stripped. Now the floors are light hardwood, and the walls are painted in neutral white and grays. Art collected over several years hangs throughout the walls and halls, along with family pictures and vacation photos.

But more than that, we have a house where my husband and my son “camp out” in the living room for Friday night movies, where we make messy breakfasts on the weekends, where my son’s feet pitter-patter to our room in the mornings.

I like a house with a messy soul: crumbs from baked goods in the cracks of my chairs; red finger-paint smears on the walls of my basement stairs; piles of books on the cracked, roll-top desk my grandfather got in exchange for bartering an old Volkswagen (according to family legend).

I don’t need gleaming, white marble counters; plush, creamy rugs over wide planks of hardwood; ecru leather couches with beige throw pillows; ivory desks with shiny curios from trendy boutiques.

My son and I read books with my name scribbled inside by my much-younger hand, and our armchair is very comfortable for snuggling, even if the cat has scratched its arms to bits. No one will be taking a virtual tour of my living room for decor inspiration.

I want art that brings me joy, because I know the hands that painted it and I know the faces smiling at me from family photos.

I have a bedside table stacked high with books, waiting for me to read them. My laptop follows me from couch to kitchen table, where I putter on the internet, write blog posts, and read news stories. My husband has a desk surrounded by nerd memorabilia and computer equipment. My son crashes trains in the living room, eats his snacks at a low table often smeared with juice, and he runs in literal circles before demanding to wrestle with his dad.

This mess is mine. This history is ours. This house has a soul, and it is on display for the world to see. It is imperfect and messy, but it is full of love radiating in all directions from the people inside it.

This is home.

In the next few weeks, we’re asking some friends to share their answers to one question: What makes a house feel like a home?

If you’d like to contribute, email thesmartdomestic@gmail.com.