issue no. 3: on haunted houses
Living with the living dead.
The premiere volume of Love and Other Rugs is presented by Backdrop.
ghosting and goodbyes.
Have you ever left a chair on the sidewalk because it didn’t quite work, or you upgraded, or some wood splintered? Maybe you put a sign up that said “free” or “perfectly good, just needs a fresh coat of paint”. Does the chair in question wonder what happened as its previous seat warmer walks away, guilt-free? No semblance of a goodbye—just stashed next to last night's pizza boxes and a building's stack of black bags on garbage day. Wait, I imagine it yelling as a Subaru driver pulls up to jam it next to an empty dog crate and a 12-pack of spindrift, can you just tell me what happened? You know what they say, one man’s trash is another man’s trash.
In home furnishing, we call this stooping; in dating, we call this ghosting. There is a spectrum of specters, of course. And in my exhausting quest to furnish my apartment and find love, I have encountered two types of ghosts: the ones who leave without saying goodbye and the ones who don’t leave, even when you want them to. The latter haunt college reunions and mutual friends' weddings—they show up in your city and ask for a coffee or a drink to catch up. Friendly ghosts are still ghosts. Their imprints forever pressed into your direct-to-consumer mattresses.
The first type, however, the one that evaporates into thin air—the one we all know and maybe even could’ve loved—is the type I’m the most interested in discussing. You know, I had a whole issue planned about side tables—what we put in them (where our ahem fun things go)—but recent events called for a quick shift in topic. Plus, of course, nothing says the holidays quite like revisiting ghosts of martinis and apartments past. Think of this like A Christmas Carol—except this season, I’m just being haunted by the memories of everyone who I have or have thought about having sex with.
As it turns out, I quite love a ghost. When you own a dead mother, grief becomes your go-to, mourning is your modus operandi. Even on dates, even when I should be talking about less taboo topics, I simply cannot help myself. This is something I so desperately wish I was working to fix (but dear reader, I am not). Regardless, when you are a girl with a dead mom who sells sex toys for a living—you lean into the awkward (as my friend John would say), and plus there are not too many taboos left on the table.
Because of this, I’ve become used to living with ghosts—covering my walls with my mother’s art collection. Dragging her Bertoia chairs from apartment to apartment—a sherpa for the shit she (and in turn I) refused to throw away. It also means that a) I show up to each new date with a coffin-sized piece of baggage and b) dating is rarely flippant or surface-level—I do none of it lightly and this is where I get into trouble. A photographic memory, a habit of oversharing, and a wild need for closure. Maybe I need to come with a warning label.
In New York City I know the bars, the park benches—remembering while simultaneously ruining points on the city's best-of lists. Can I ever go back to Ten Bells or Nom Wah without seeing the ghosts of the comedians and magazine editors in the corner? This is perhaps a reason why we should let the men pick the bars—8/10 times the spots are just okay enough that you’d never need to return. Meanwhile, my house is haunted by the surfaces they touched, the books they picked up, and the art that they complimented. Maybe before we kick off 2023, it’s time for an exorcism—along with it they can take the peloton that everyone told me I wouldn’t use (LMK if anyone wants it, price negotiable).
I don’t know about you but I’m trying to leave my ghosts in 2022—all of them, not just the ones who didn’t reply to my texts after a handful of dates. But also the ones who I’ve spent years trying to resuscitate and redefine.
What if we could put all of these ghosts somewhere? We could tuck their spirits in some plot of land by the BQE and leave flowers or unopened bottles of Bud Light in remembrance. “The lawyer who took you to a Knicks game” the plaque would read. “October 2021-December 2021”, short but sweet. But alas, he ghosted me when I had Covid after vaguely asking about my New Years’ plans and if I could advise him on his furniture purchases.
While we have come to accept putting our old, used things on the sidewalk because they no longer work, in the tiring search for love—I find abandoning your recent connections with no semblance of a reason comes with a bit of laziness and even more cowardice. And while I’d like to think it was all an act—dating is not a sham, that’s just a fancy name for a pillow.
It's not like we watch our old chairs' lives on Instagram stories, settling into their new homes. And we are not at risk of running into them at parties. Instead, we just go on dating other people’s ghosts and filling our apartments with things we find and then leave on the street. Imagine the alternative—a new out-of-the-box man. What would that be like? Perhaps akin to a new out-of-the-box grey couch. I don’t think I want that either.
if you are looking to find or expel ghosts
Keep an eye out for curb alerts—this was my mother’s trick: no matter the city, if you search for curb alerts on craigslist, people will tell you when they're putting stuff on the curb for you to come sift through. If you are in New York, there is a more advanced version of this called in the form of an Instagram account called stoopingnyc.
Burning the candles at both ends—should you decide to host a seance or exorcism, you’ll need candles like this overpriced one from Loewe or tapers from my favorite party store Big Night. I also love to go to the bodega and buy $1 tall colorful candles or these crazy cheap ones from Ikea.
Take a visit to the cemetery—god no one mourns relationships quite like Sophie Calle. Her books are odes to past loves, featuring letters and poems, among other collected objects. She also has an amazing interactive installation at the Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn where you can leave secrets in an open slot in a tombstone. Sounds like an ideal second date to me.
sloppy secondhand: slowing my pace
Each week I’ll pick a favorite vintage spot & a local watering hole—maybe you’ll find a new-to-you sofa or a new-to-you man. All I can promise is perhaps some promiscuity and a little credit card debt. Adding the ones I can to an Instagram guide here and will update as we go.
Since we last spoke, I’ve had two memorable martinis and saw a remarkable sofa that I almost bought. I’ve decidedly slowed my roll on dating, mostly because I’ve been reflecting on ghosts and trying to end the year without covid. Today’s pairing of date spots and deals is the perfect mix of hi-fi and low:
Honeycomb—Park Slope now has a Japanese-listening-room-inspired bar. When I told the bartender I wanted a martini to taste like the sea, he told me he captained ships in the Hudson in the warmer months. Hot. Honorable mention to Cafe Select in Soho, nothing quite cuts up a frigid day of last-minute holiday shopping like a giant burger and a dirty martini at 2:30 PM.
Trailer Park—Just blocks from Honeycomb is Trailer Park, a place I’ve only ever accidentally bumped into on my walk from Prospect Park to Cobble Hill. It feels like the midwest, it sounds like the midwest, and it's everything from your grandma’s house in Missouri that you know you don't need. The last time I was there I bought a book called The Housewives Guide to Antiques, in case I ever end up in the ‘burbs.
5 things on my mind or in my cart.
At Domino, we had a column called 10 things where we asked cool people to curate beautiful things, places, inspirations. I’m giving you 5.
Paint!—in January, will be pulling the trigger and painting my bedroom in this perfect dusty color called Jawbreaker with a moody trim in either Lobby Scene or Self-Portrait. Inspiration from Hotel Ulysses (their slogan is literally soft beds and strong drinks).
My OG moodboard for “bitches who picnic”. A Wall Street Journal shoutout—when Lane Florsheim calls and asks you to talk about moodboards, you do it. In the same article I professed my love for them, Lauren Santo Domingo called moodboards tragic. It seems like maybe Moda Operandi’s empress and I are in a fight on the internet. Listen, I will stand strong—bitches who picnic is a good theme.
Party Supplies—speaking of parties, the greatest New Years’ Eve I’ve ever spent was when my best friend and I wore every outfit we couldn’t wear in 2020 on a singular night. We got Chinese food and had a cheese board and I baked an Alison Roman apple cake in the dress I wore to prom. The one thing missing was Big Night’s curation of tinned fish and new/antique stems. Anything Katherine touches is gold, I cleaned up for hostess gifts here—from Ichendorf glassware to Ghia’s take on Nutella to a chic peeler for myself.
I love a lumpy couch that comes in multiple pieces, what can I say? Another couch—the sofa search continues, I found a wild good couch from my dear friends at Renewfinds. I think it was too purple for my space but boy was she a beaut.
New spots—I was at a party this week at west village home decor store Lahn, put it on your list! Her curation is amazing, I will be returning for this eye mask.
Talk in the new year.
x
loved it. thank you!
Paint reveal! Love it