Live, Laugh, Leave Town

Talking about all of this publicly isn’t an easy choice.

Goodbye my lover / Goodbye my friend / You have been the one for me

After I got the news, I took in the bedroom around me with an eerie sense of knowing: I just wouldn’t be there for much longer. The cloud-like curtains, the charming built-in bookcase, my favorite block-printed floral sheets — this wasn’t going to be my view.

The news was that I was being laid off. Again. Things might not have felt so dire if I hadn’t already been through this the year before, when I lost my role as editor-in-chief of a shelter publication. That time, I had over six months of severance. This time, I got two weeks.

We hoped things might turn around, but the financial runway was just too short. In the current media landscape, trying to find a job within a two-month deadline is like attempting to build IKEA furniture without instructions, tools, or hope.

We went through every possible scenario. Should we move to England and live with my husband’s family in a town where the median age is 70? Could we sell the house and buy something dirt-cheap in a questionable locale? Did we have a secret rich friend with a second home they never use that we could live in for free? (Nerp.)

We started prepping the house to rent, still clinging to the dream that some miracle might swoop in. My husband and I have a shared weakness for weird animal art, and when we spotted “Fluffy” — a 1960s era chalk drawing of an enormous white cat — at the Pasadena City College flea in June, we took it as a sign. We had to buy it. Fluffy would be our good luck charm. She would somehow, magically, save us.

Thanks for nothing, Fluffy.

Fluffy FAILED!

So, in the end, we faced the facts and committed to moving in with my parents in New York City. We found renters to take our place furnished. We’re leaving town next week. (And yes, we are very fortunate. We’re benefitting from having family to take us in, in a great city, no less.)

Talking about all of this with you hasn’t been an easy choice. I’ve battled with whether to cover up the whole situation (“Look at us! We’re taking a gap year in NYC just for fun so I can do more design stuff!”) and maintain appearances (“Maybe they’ll think I’m independently wealthy?”).

But then I’m reminded of the mission of this newsletter. Schmatta is a Yiddish word for a dirty, rag-like piece of clothing. And it’s a metaphor for how I view design, decor, and home: imperfect, a little messy, and better when we talk about it honestly.

I generally don’t subscribe to the whole “everything happens for a reason” philosophy. I’m a virgo. I’m practical. I don’t — much to the dismay of my positive-thinking pisces husband — put value in the “things will be okay” mantra.

But I’m choosing (albeit with some difficulty) to have faith that we’ll get back on our feet and manage to come back home to Pasadena…at some point.

[Pause for boring plug: If you need any editorial help, I’m a seasoned media person. I also do brand consulting as well as personal decorating. Here’s a list of things I can do for you. And here is my resume.]

And I’m aiming to look at this next chapter as something positive — a different cultural experience for my family, an opportunity to meet new people and make new connections. A chance to wear the 80% of my wardrobe that never sees the light of day.

While I have a deep, emotional attachment to this house — our home — I’m trying to loosen my grip a bit. I’m working on not feeling so sad about someone else living here, and also trying to accept that, for now, I won’t have much control over shaping our next physical space. (But there will be updates as we do our best to transform a chaotic bedroom at my folks’ place into something livable.)

Please send us your good thoughts as we try to get everything squared away and make it through a cross-country flight with a 4-year-old, an elderly cat, and a billion suitcases.

xxoo,

Leo