Every Ending is a New Beginning

Parables are among the best stories.

If I simply said that I was ready to put this year behind me, I would be missing an important opportunity to recognize the growth that I have experienced in this last, most interesting of years. I listened to a parable while meditating a few days ago. I’m not a practiced meditator, I’m flawed, my thoughts racing by, raging fire engine red machines snaking their way through the streets of Monaco. My brain is a frenetic place to house a calm guest, but I work at welcoming them anyway. This parable struck me, as they are intended to do, and I thought I would share it with you. – A farmer woke to discover that during the night his horse had run off. His neighbors said to him: “What misfortune to have lost your only horse.” Maybe the farmer replied. A few days later the horse returned, bringing with him three wild stallions. “What good fortune”, remarked the neighbors. “Maybe” replied the farmer. The farmers only son was riding one of the wild stallions and was thrown from the horse, shattering his leg, forever leaving him with a limp. “What bad luck remarked the neighbors..” “Maybe” replied the farmer. Soon after, his country was embroiled in war, and soldiers made their way through his village, identifying all able bodied boys to enlist them in the army. When the soldiers arrived at the farmers home, and saw that his only son walked with a limp, they moved on. “What good fortune” his neighbors proclaimed. “Maybe” replied the farmer.

This little parable got me to thinking about examining the coin more closely. So many of you believe that head’s up is the way to bet. I’ve always gone for the underdog, tails. More than a pretty face, a tail can wag and control a situation, it can distract, entertain, and in the end it has just as good a chance of landing on the “right” side as the other. Which is the point. Heads or tails, we can all even our odds by changing the perspective in which we view the events that happen – remembering that they are not happening “to us” – they are just happening.

The events in my little corner of the universe included my very first joint venture flip. This project like all the others I have done to date was purchased in one year, but will not be sold until the following spring. What good fortune, many have remarked. You found a home in Chatham for under a million dollars, an in town location, a walk to the beach. This little three bedroom Cape has expressed its dissatisfaction with its decades of neglect, again and again. It absorbing cash at the rate of a roll, or two of Hefty paper towels, which I am not begrudging the old gal. She deserves to be cleaned up, put to rights, but I did so want to adorn her in accessories that made her sparkle, and instead, the majority of the budget will be spent behind her walls, under her foundation, a ventilation system that will allow her to breath free and easy, winter or summer, spring or fall, and she’ll have new steps to ensure no one does trip and fall, which we can all agree is very important. I know I do, and felt a little bad that I was asked to do more with less for the portion of the project that is mine to make shine. Then I remembered all I’ve done with paint in the past, and it made me perk up a bit. Cape’s weren’t born into the upper class, attending premiers, and walking the red carpet at The Met Ball. No, she is happiest when she can throw a log on the fire, open her high gloss coral colored front door to the neighbors, serve them a nice bottle of wine that she found at Trader Joe’s – laugh not, the selection is incredible and very affordable. Welcoming, comfortable, cheeky, that’s what she of Apres Sea will be. Maybe it’s just what needed to happen.

And what of my main manse, my little condo on Lawrence Street in Boston’s South End? To say she was in rough shape when I found her in December of 2018 is an understatement. Hidden under her floor boards and behind the walls, was all manner of malfeasance. Like me, she was forced to undergo an operation, no little facelift for this gal. I had to rip her insides out and rebuild her, the best way I knew how, and now she is strong and thriving, but the market for little condos in the South End is not. Bad luck some of you have said, to have had her ready for sale during a pandemic. Too bad you couldn’t have put her on the market in summer, or the previous spring, when we all still believed this would end sooner, rather than later. I agreed, I felt sorry, I worried, I lamented, and then I thought, maybe it wasn’t the worst thing in the world that could have happened. I thought just maybe, there is something that I have yet to have predicted that will come of this. Maybe. We will see. Whatever will be, will be.

Fortune Knocks Once

Is it really true that fortune knocks once on every man’s door? What about women? What about A woman – more specifically what about me, and the “we” of the Willow Bend three? There are really four of us in this endeavor, but “we” rhymes with “three”, and all I can think for four, is shut the door, and I certainly don’t want our door to be shut. I want to open the door, and have song birds, and sunshine accompanied by a seersucker slacked, blue blazered, butler carrying a silver tray of cut glass coupes filled with bubbly come bursting forth. I want the guests to hear the pop of the champagne cork as their Gucci clad loafer crunches down on the bleached seashell drive and think – a party? For me? Yes, I believe the front door can say all of that – minus maybe the butler, but wouldn’t he look sweet in that outfit. Would I be going to far if I asked him to wear a blue linen pillbox hat and a coral colored bow tie? He’d have my utmost respect.

I do think a door says a whole lot more than people give it credit for. It’s no wallflower, well maybe there are a few demure dames in the door derby, but a door can, and should be so much more. This is the point we are arguing, not arguing right now. No one really wants to replace the front door – money, oh the money honey, it all adds up so fast, but a few of us, two of us, were secretly hoping that the old gal would get put out to pasture, and as it turns out – horray – she really does need to retire. She stood valiantly for decades, with her cherry red lipsticked smile, greeting passers-by, and she’s tired. Now the question remains, whoever will replace her?

We’ve been interviewing candidates. Some have hundreds of years experience – oh they’ve been around the door business for generations. We lean toward those first. There are side lights to consider, transom windows over the door, paneled, glass lights, mullioned, clear, tripled glazed, and it goes on and on. Every candidate makes a case for why their looks and experience really are the best, and that’s before we even consider adorning with jewels. They probably won’t be wearing Harry Winston to the ball, but I have my fingers crossed that we can get a little fancier than Kay Jewelers – no offense Kay, but not even the throbbing pain from the weight of the Harry Winston wreath diamond earrings would deter me from saying anything but yes, yes, yes please and thank you – a door deserves a little hardware that’s not hard to wear and easy on the eyes.

I do want it to look good in a wreath and I am leaning toward a happy pop of a color for her gown, after all, she lives in Chatham.

Merry Perfection.

I Did it My Way…but what if you couldn’t?

I am flummoxed by my friend’s flip – a beautiful property in Franklin. He is a terribly talented craftsperson, the kind I dream about having on my jobs, and has already transformed the living room, which is an extension of the open concept kitchen, into a showpiece. With its 18 foot ceilings, and grand gas feature fireplace wall, it’s going to be a show stopper.

Here’s where I’ve helped in the past – color. While he continues to learn more and get educated on all the nuances of hue and light, finishes, and the complicated language of warms and colds, and rules, and the understanding that to break them, you have to be really, really good – I have only just learned how to turn on the table saw, and successfully saw a single board. This single girl is woefully behind her friend.

Sticking to what I was asked – paint colors that pair.

The challenge for me is that I want to go into this kitchen and rip out that granite countertop. I hate it. I’ve told Eddie this already. He didn’t install it in the first place, so I don’t think I have hurt his feelings in revealing my nose wrinkling distaste for brown, black and tan, but Eddie is practical and knows that if that granite goes, so too will the backsplash. Remember, the hip bones connected to the thigh bone? You can’t just decide to do one thing without it impacting something else, and those something else’s can really cost you.

Might I make a suggestion.

I want Eddie to use his money on the installation of the 12′ glass wall that will look out onto the home’s glorious 2 acre property with its far from the city forest of a backyard, not on my Vermont Imperial Danby stone countertop. To make it all work I’ll have to do some color gymnastics. It’s possible, but will require a serious warm up and some stretching. Which of these would you choose?

Going for the Gold – if I did it my way ūüôā

Demolition Derby: tales from the Willow Bend Flip

Scheme I

I’m not an Olympic Athlete, in case you were wondering. I wonder if it’s because I don’t love the pain of the challenge as much as the other gal. I can do it, do make myself do it, languish in the rewards of being on the other side of doing it. The sore muscles, the camaraderie, the sense of accomplishment, of doing something that someone else simply won’t do. I can do that, but I am old enough to know that I’ll never love it. Not like Michael Jordan, not like Billie Jean King, not like Danika, but hard work shows up in so many different ways, and I love and hate them all, and feel as neutral as a scoop of vanilla ice cream on a cold winter’s day, which is to say, I love ice cream anytime of the year, but I hate being cold. I like to celebrate my complexity like a rainbow.

Scheme II

This flip required 4 hard – like a hard rain’s gonna fall kind of hard – demolition. When you embark on a renovation project there really is something for every skill-set, age, and interested person to contribute. When I was really little I used to pick the nails up around the construction site. Later I striped wallpaper, and lead paint from the walls – check that box. Not being allowed to use power tools of any kind, I worked my way around the site (the homes that we lived in and my father renovated), hauling, cleaning, organizing, and staying out from underfoot and being very, very quiet. I’d work for a #6 Mason Jar sandwich – roast turkey breast with cranberry sauce, romaine lettuce, muenster cheese, mayo on a bulky roll with a half sour pickle – no chips or a drink, we were conserving money for the renovation.

Scheme III

As I peeled back the vines, the dilapidated wood picket fence, then the chain link, for which I was forced to cede my show of strength. I couldn’t even unearth a single concrete encrusted steel post from the ground, and there were many. I have nothing on Mother Nature – I bow to your beauty and strength.

Scheme I – II

Days 3 and 4 were all about the upstairs bath. Boy there are lots of parts and pieces to that structure. I’m reminded that the thigh bone is connected to the hip bone, the hip bones connected to the …. I had to dissect the connections to find the weak points and disassemble what someone or two, at times very thoughtfully, and later, quite lackadaisically with a scrap here, and an almost long enough board there, had carefully put into place those many decades before. It all gave me a run for my money, but as money is the point of this flip, and I am motivated by it, I refused to wave the flag until all the plaster and drywall – yes both, all the 2 x 4 – the real kind – the one’s that actually measured 2 x 4, all the offensive aesthetic elements were dispensed with – the vanity – holy ugly, the glass block window – holy heavy, the Italian blue ceramic tile, and the toilet – holy – holy. I stripped that baby bare. She’s as fresh as a new born entering the world, full of possibility. The sore muscles were worth it.

Scheme IV

Now I need your help. Long lead items are longer than they ever were before – oh Covid. The kitchen must be ordered and we cannot order the kitchen without a plan for the color scheme, and this Cape home will flow from one room to the next so we need to really LOVE the kitchen becaus all tides will rise with it, or fall, with crashing finality over the clashing disaster of colors. Which of these options would say to you – I’m ready to move in?

Joint Venture: Let the Female-led Flip Begin

27 Willow Bend . Look for the listing Spring 2021

I’ve been working since I was eleven years old. I know what hard work is, and still, as I sit here on – not my sofa- I am fully steeped in the meaning of the phrase “a hard days work”. I’m so tired from the effort of wedging, pulling, bending, breaking, berating the board, and the brick, and the bad ass bush that got in the way of my de-shuttering extravaganza, that I can barely command my fingers to lift and type – something they are very facile at doing, under normal circumstances.

Before the brush attack. It’s all gone now.

I’ve been a Chamber Maid, and only slightly elevated my standing in life when I became a pot washer of a different sort, before graduating to sandwich maker. I am proud of the fact that I could make those sandwiches faster than the sandwich wrapper could wrap them. I was accused of gaming the system by setting up six to eight sandwiches for construction at a time. I was always thinking of ways in which I could change the work, make the work more fun – make it a game, win, compete, exceed, proceed. At that young age I didn’t give much consideration to the ways in which the work changed me, but it did, it has, its impression so deeply ingrained that I feel certain that the camaraderie, the laughter, the sweat, and the five gallon plastic pickle barrels that I would haul from the walk-in out to the kitchen and open with the sharp end of a French knife before sinking my hand into the frigid briny liquid to retrieve the spears, will never leave me. Just as surely as I could recite very word of Cat Stevens Greatest Hits album which we played day after day, after long summer day on the old cassette player.

Say good-bye to the dated kitchen.

It’s likely this early start, the experience of being around other people that also worked, that worked hard, that didn’t really understand hardly working, has given me the experience, or maybe it’s an understanding that I gave something to it, and in return it gives something to me. We might not be even. The scales tip in one direction, and then another, they vacillate in tiny dips and shudders, on that fulcrum of perfection, that represents sublime balance – if only for a moment. Those moments are worth the effort.

Don’t you love a little look back in time.

Today’s effort was the result of a full day’s demolition on my very first joint venture. A flip, which is my very favorite kind of real estate holding. Hard to get too precious over something you don’t plan to hold that long, and at the same time, I’ll do my best to take care of her, and so will my two female counter parts. It’s amazing to me that the women of ancient Egypt were allowed to acquire, own, and dispose of real property. How then did things get so off course for us. It wasn’t until 1855 in MA that women here reclaimed that right, but it’s woefully underutilized. I’m hoping I can change your mind about that. Nothing says real like real estate.

The Evolution of a Condo

It’s interesting to watch the ways in which different owners take the baton and run with it. 19 Milford Street, apt. 4, aka Flip #2 is once again on the market. When I bought the property in the late fall of 2013 it looked decidedly like a 1970’s ranch, inside a Phili-Duplex, in the city of Boston, and if I were to get even more granular, the Eight Streets District in the South End. It didn’t feel at all like a city apartment to me, and it felt even less like the glamorous apartment I had left in Charlestown.

I feel deeply connected to this idea of stewardship. I had a $40,000. budget from which to transform the property. That’s not a ton of money. It becomes even less when you consider the fact that it was revealed that the roof leaked, and the Southern Facade of the building was taking on water, and saturating the interior wall. My understanding of water infiltration increases with each unit that I own. While some lessons have been quick and relatively painless, others have been long-lived and ruthless in their pursuit of my financial and mental ruin.

Finding the source of that water at 19 Milford, and getting the building buttoned up was a challenge to say the least, but once – almost done, I was proud of what I had done to make that unit, and that building ready to take on another 50 years. I had redone all the electrical wiring that the previous owners had done – without a permit or a qualified electrician – and done it properly. This is important to the long term viability of a property. These brownstones are old and need love if they are going to be around for another 200 years or so —- and so I invest a significant amount in the infrastructure of the building, even though no one will ever see it.

I was proud of the design, but would have done more if my budget had allowed. In the end the new owner that purchased it was a bachelor and he hired an interior designer to bring a little grit to the girliness that I had so carefully imbued upstairs, downstairs, and throughout. He added back the breakfast bar that I had taken out – I can’t stand a breakfast bar, it makes me crazy. Who sits at it? He swapped out my beloved gray walls for a neutral cream, reworked the fireplace to include a wood surround atop my marble, tossed out my sea urchin chandelier (which was hugely expensive so I pray he didn’t throw it away) and painted my bridal rose bedroom a dark Hale Navyesque color.

I see some other touches that he left alone and while I feel nostalgic for the hard work that I put into the place, I got my price, and he got his roof deck. I guess we’re even.

Two Faced: What to do when your back is your front

Your front entry that is. I know what I am doing is considered rather unique. Not the flipping part. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry is a flipper these days. No disrespect to Tom, Dick or Harry and most certainly none intended to the Tomasia’s, Dorathea’s and/or Harriet’s that are forging their own path on the road to financial security – I salute you all. The point is, this is about me, the me that can’t seem to do anything normal, or easy, or in a way that I can just blend into the crowd. Sometimes blending is a welcome cloak against the condemnation that follows from the pitfalls of this business of being human – if you know what I mean.

Enough greenery can make anything look better.

When I selected No. 5 I didn’t give much thought to the fact that you enter through the back of the building. Not just because that’s the convenient way to get there, but because it’s the only actual way to get there, unless you want to crawl through the window. The window BTW is the intended exit route if there were a fire. It works, but nobody is worried about what they look like when the are escaping a fire…am I right?

This particular set of row houses (those intended for the servants) are pretty, in their simple, unfussy way. They certainly don’t look like the brownstones of the eight street district, or Beacon Hill, and the back of them – well, it’s the back. They are draped in wires, cables and cords. They are gated or fenced in from the street, but still can be viewed from the same. My gate is a thin barrier at best to the outside world, and yet, I am decidedly subconscious about the way it looks.

When you open the sage green gate (anyone that knows me well, knows that THAT color has to change), and are presented with a small wooden walk way leading to a few steps, a small outdoor deck and my back door. My back door is really a kitchen door. Three rows of divided lights sit atop two long vertical panels. It would be fine for a country home – even better if the top half opened to a grand back yard, and it were the fifties, but this is neither the country or that decade, and as for privacy, don’t think I haven’t noticed the next door neighbors, on floor two, peering down in at me. I’ve got my eyes on you too, and a stun gun, so beware. I also have a new front door sitting in my living room. I’ve always wanted my own front door. Condo living doesn’t really afford you a front door in the traditional, single family home sense of the word, and I have visions of a southern porch, inviting me down the boxwood bordered path on perfect pavers, to my glossy doored destination. If there is any solace in the selection of this soggy bottomed abode, it’s the back door – which of course I am going to turn into my very own front.

Wayfare . Metalic Galvanized Steel Coated Planter.

Due to the fact that a good deal of my entry is “common space”, for those of you that are unfamiliar, it’s like being married and having to negotiate with your partner for approval on purchases. Since the sale of the unit below is under negotiation, I can’t even being to hypnotize him into accepting that there is no other color in the world more perfect than gray. It’s a real drama for me, A. Because I am not married and don’t negotiate getting what I want with anyone, and B. I am totally impatient. So I just began painting. I painted everything that I “owned” and then started to slyly move down the corridor until I was made to stop. Well now it just looks silly, and will have to be painted, and since I never selected that detestable first color, I have no idea what it is. The logical thing to do of course is to continue on with my beautiful Benjamin Moore . Trout Gray.

I have a happy entry mat that says “HELLO” and I purchased some beautiful long, linear and tall black planters in which boxwood’s will be planted to hide the condenser, and the less then happy trellis that sits in front of it. I am going to trim the windows out in black, and hang large beautiful wreaths in them both. The piece de resistence? There is going to be a black and white striped canopy. I haven’t figured out how to do it just yet, but trust me when I tell you, when I am done with it all – my back is going to be the very best front you ever did see.

Happy Saturday.

Punch List: All that still needs doing

I think a punch list is aptly named. I would venture to guess that those who use it in popular construction parlance, don’t actually know its origin. Derived from the process of recording all those miscellaneous items that are yet to be complete, but ironically are not considered part of substantial completion, because I assume you, and all the governing agencies in your city or town – deem the property safe to live, and/or work in.

Fairly modern day punch. A little confusing, a lot messy.

The recording of the list doesn’t explain the punch. Now don’t go guessing, it’s not because you feel like punching your contractor out after a job should have been completed weeks, or ouch, months earlier than it was, no it’s that decidedly satisfying process (if you are actually the contractor) of punching a small hole in the page next to the item, once said egregious oversight was corrected. Thus the punch list was born.

A more organized accounting of what went undone. Think – where did all the electrical switch plates disappear to? Why doesn’t the disposal work? and didn’t I just have the place painted??

This is the process that I am in, which will run in conjunction with another construction term known as – DAY 2. Day 2 work makes less sense to me, though perhaps is more satisfying, save the additional expense associated with it. This is all the work that you decided you needed, but didn’t include in the original scope of work, or that once in place you decided you hated, and were forced to question what you were thinking, and now simply can’t live with yourself if you don’t make it right. That work.

The only photo I am willing to show. This is Day 2…actually, the second day that I had my personal belongings there. One always feels better once a piece of art has been hung, don’t you think?

Now I realize that all my readers are perfect, which might really bug a lesser person, but makes me very proud. You can ignore Day 2, but even a perfect person is going to be subjected to punch list, because that’s simply out of your control. As a straight haired brunette who is often wrong, but seldom in doubt at the time of the decision-making, Day 2 is a regular part of my existence.

The good news is, despite my trigger happy decision making mechanism, I do learn from my mistakes. This my friends is called progress. So this past weekend, I progressed from the couch to my own bed, in the home that I have owned for 134 days. Now that might not seem like a long construction period to you, but I beg you to imagine for even a moment, what your life might look like without your own bed, or your seasonal wardrobe – now remember, it gets super cold here in the winter, and then it turns around and gets super hot. What will you choose to carry with you? Oh bother, it’s all a lot to deal with, and if you misplace your mascara during the whole darn process you just might break down and cry. If there is a silver lining in it all, your face won’t be streaked in black.

Cheers to No. 5. I’m halfway through with you.

Reflections Of….

Is it too late to take a look back at 2018?  I have been so sick, I clear missed the end, and the new beginning.  I hate not saying a proper good-bye.  Despite so many friends and relatives saying sayonara with nothing less than gusto, I had lots for which to be grateful.

Left is Hanson Street Living Room After the Renovation. Right is before.

I like listing the accomplishments and the milestones.¬† I’m one of those people that adds things onto the list, just so I can cross them off.¬† You know the kind, don’t you?¬† Well sometimes I get to adding things to my list at such a dizzying rate I think my head is going to spin clear off, but them I go and get it all done, and there my head is still, so there’s not much of a case for slowing down.

This year I sold a house, bought a house, started a renovation, finished the biggest interiors project I had ever undertaken, built a deck, landscaped a yard, tore down a chimney, and spent an inordinate amount of time at Stonewood Products in Dennis, MA.¬† If you think sawdust is great you are going to love this place.¬† I had a “round” milestone birthday, celebrated in Mexico, and then London, visited Seaside Florida a new urbanist development that to me, is perfection, and took a ferry ride to Nantucket with my friends for a week.

Refurbished furniture for The Manse.  A little can of paint will do you.  Right side photo: Dan Cutrona @cutrona

I remembered how much I respect and admire the work of Dorothy Parker – I mean who else could possibly come up with poems as acerbic and sharp-witted as quips like:¬† “It serves me right for having put all my eggs into one bastard”?¬† Brilliant.¬†¬†

I couldn’t resist.¬† Lawrence Street at time of purchase on the left and now….

I reaffirmed my affection for the color gray and more specifically, Ben Moore’s Mineral Ice.¬† It’s such a serene and calming gray.¬† I’m going to paint No. 5 gray too.¬† And there was so much more; introductions to new and amazing people like Jill Rosenwald a hip pottery maker, and Tillett Textiles – allowing you to select your pattern, and color palette, and finally find the perfect combo to go with your grandmother’s Bergere chair.¬† Magic.

Yes, 2018 was a pretty good year.  Hope it was for you too.

Getting Hammered: Debunking the flip

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See those Galbraith and Paul curtains hanging on the Lux Hold Ups Rods custom made in Brooklyn by female artisans – no normal flipper would ever buy those. ¬†The cost a quarter of most flippers total renovation budget. ¬†Don’t you just love them?

As I was preparing for a big real estate summit that’s coming to the city I came across some interesting sessions on social media, streaming, video production and branding for business. ¬†All things that are important to me. ¬†I should say – this is a corporate real estate summit, not a residential one, and it’s for my full time job, not my side hack. ¬†Still, by design, these worlds collide, and I learn so much from my personal ventures that contribute meaningfully to my work, and vice versa, that it seems perfectly simpatico. ¬†This research led to me googling myself, and to the discovery of a blog post for which I was the subject. ¬†Or, as I prefer to think of it… the STAR.

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Farrow and Ball Wallcovering costs a fortune. ¬†It’s really art that I leave behind. ¬†I know not everyone will appreciate it. ¬†I did it for me.

Jon Gorey, the author of House and Hammer, took to debunking my junk in his article and making me look like more of a hasbin than a starlet.  Hum!  Using me as a cautionary tale to all those wannabe flippers out there, he suggested that my efforts (and yours by the way) would have been better spent sitting around on the sofa for the next 10 or 30 years and cashing in at the end, having foregone the hassle, and the hustle associated with my high cost renovations.

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TV may make it seem sexy but it’s hard work. ¬†Even Chip is sweating there. ¬†A lot of sweet goes into it.

I must say that I have an appreciation for his style of writing, his clear understanding of the numbers, the risks associated with real estate ventures, and for his love of homes. ¬†Pay close attention to all that because it’s true! ¬†He says flipping is sexy – not true and that marble and Parisian chandeliers are not what the South End needs, or buyers necessarily want. ¬†That I suppose is simply a matter of opinion.

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I spy a chandelier that still makes me smile.

I like saying “for the record” and “setting the record straight” but the truth is, the truth changes. ¬†My truth at this moment, and as I have recorded it, has always been this…to date that is, I am flipping homes ¬†– for me. ¬†Not for anyone else. ¬†Yes I want to sell them. ¬†Yes I want to make a profit. ¬†Yes I hope to use that profit to get ahead before I retire, but imbedded in those truths is something fundamentally more important that is driving me to renovate these properties. ¬†It’s my love of design and architecture and travel.

3 ACK

Travel inspiration.

What Jon doesn’t know is that were it not for the sweat, and hives, and the sawdust, I would not have traveled to Paris every other year, a place that is so sublime to me it fills my heart with happiness. ¬†I would not have been to Croatia, Bosnia, Switzerland, Italy, Nantucket, Mexico, and on and on to so many amazing places where people of different cultures open ones mind to both how big, and small, our world is, and art and beauty sit side by side the dirt and grit of our realities.

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Croatia.  Look at that limestone.

Jon doesn’t know that I carefully plan each property based on a design vision that is like none I have done before. ¬†While I certainly learn things along the way, a trick here or there to make the process a bit more easy, or visually more appealing, this is not PS101. ¬†That Parisian chandelier was purchased for me, and boy does it have a good story. ¬†If I were only in this for the money, I would use granite, not marble. ¬†I would paint everything beige, not one of the dozens of refined and/or wild hues that my boyfriend Benjamin Moore has to offer. ¬†I would use Home Depot fixtures, make only cosmetic changes not improvements to the infrastructure (many flippers – though not all – like to keep there money right where they can see it – and that’s not behind the walls). ¬†There are so many things I would do differently if the only thing I was in this for was the bottom line. ¬†Bottom lines are boring. ¬†I never wanted to be a suit.

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Thanks to No. 3 Venice is now part of me.

I’m as pleased as punch that someone wrote about me. ¬†As I said, I think Jon offers some very sound advice. ¬†Being covered in sawdust isn’t for everyone. ¬†You have to love it. ¬†If you are considering making a foray into the adventures of flipping, it’s important to go in with eyes wide open. ¬†Me, I grew up thinking everyone lived like this – you have a choice. Choose wisely.