In my morning reading, this caught my eye: 10 Great Cities for Young Adults. How could I not check it out, thinking about my own sons and where they might light in a few years, pursuing their opportunities?

I was also curious for myself. While not a young adult, in a year’s time, I’m (theoretically) free to move anywhere. Paris comes to mind immediately, but there are plenty of inconvénients in that arrangement, despite having lived in the City of Lights numerous times. Couldn’t there be cities to suit me in my own country?

Starting over

If you had to start over, do you know where you would go? Do you have a dream destination, factoring in your profession, your marital status, your age, your kids, your lifestyle preferences?

Sure, there’s the very first start – and fortunately, most of us get to do it with health and enthusiasm. We graduate college, embark with our sheepskin and vitality, and ideally, find our way to first amorous adventures, first jobs, perhaps marriage, first home, and children.

The recessionary economy has marred that simplistic scenario, but eventually we start, and it is the natural course of things (if we’re lucky) that the twenties and thirties give way to the forties and fifties. And that means more change – to how and where we live, reflecting evolving priorities.

Best cities for young adults

Whether you’re starting out or starting over, the article I cited relies on criteria such as population demographics, cost of living, average salaries, job opportunities, and thriving social scene. What ranks among the top for those setting out after college?

Texas does well – with Austin and Houston both high on the list. The Pacific Northwest is represented with Portland, Oregon. Washington, D.C. makes the cut, as do Chicago, Kansas City, and Salt Lake City. New York isn’t neglected, despite the cost of taking your bite out of the Big Apple.

Best cities for raising children

The economy has required flexibility when it comes to making moves. We follow the jobs because we must, leaving behind communities we may love. But when kids are on the scene, our priorities change. Commutes become concerning; we don’t have two hours to be a road warrior when we’re juggling carpool and play dates. The quality of schools is a key factor, whereas nightlife and even job opportunities may take a back seat.

Among the top contenders when you’re raising a family? According to a 2010 Forbes report on Yahoo, top locations for raising a family include Des Moines, Iowa, Syracuse, New York, Provo, Utah, and Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Another Forbes report, specifically addresses the needs of working moms, putting Pittsburgh and D.C. on their list, among other metropolitan areas that offer professional opportunity along with quality health care and schools.

Top towns for Empty Nesters

As for my next stage? Empty nest is looming. There’s much I love about where I reside, but as a single woman of a certain age, my options are limited here, both socially and professionally. So what’s next, especially when it’s more than an issue of downsizing?

I know Paris; it’s more than my French fantasy. I also have no illusions about the French, or what it’s like to live as a foreigner, albeit comfortably. But I want to consider all my options, especially as a parent, and because it’s harder changing everything about your life at 50 than it is at 30, or even 40.

Empty Nest is a tricky demographic

So what are the best cities for Empty Nesters? As I zipped around the internet in search of answers, there were none that seemed definitive. Some articles assume that this stage equates to retirement. Do you know anyone in this economy who can actually retire? I don’t – in their 50s, 60s, or older.

I found Portland, Oregon and Austin, Texas on one list. (It sounds like these are great cities for every stage!) I found San Francisco, Boston, San Diego and Boulder on other lists (despite high costs in the first three). Climate is more of a consideration when you’re older (a sorry state of affairs, but true).

So what are the best places to live for the 50+ crowd? And doesn’t it make a difference if you’re single and looking, versus married and moving à deux? Do you have a good list?

Embracing change starts with imagining change

My life has been a series of changes I’ve initiated, and many that have occurred which were beyond my control. I’ve reinvented myself more times than I can count, living in more than a half dozen urban centers, including abroad.

Why is it harder to imagine doing so again? Is my comfort zone holding me back, or my very real constraints – financial, professional, familial, and more?

If I can imagine another life in another location, is that the first step to making it happen?

• Could you up tear up roots, and start over alone, elsewhere?
• What’s your dream location for your current stage of life, or the next?
• Is managing change a woman’s issue, and her cross to bear?
• Do you believe that if you can imagine it, you can live it?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Yup. That’s about right.

But he asked politely, as usual. And first he hauled out bags of trash, asked what else he could do to help, and gave me a hug. Smart kid.

And I was struck again by how handsome he is. As it hit me last night. He’s shaved off the little wisps of below-the-lip hair. He’s taller, and at 18, he’s filling out. He seems relaxed and happy. Europe always does him good. He loves it there.

“I think I want to live in Europe,” he said to me this summer. And again yesterday, on the phone, while sitting in a Midwestern city on a long layover.

And I get it.

Of course, he woke me this morning, unintentionally; I’m unused to noise in the house. I wandered out to the kitchen, and though I know the kid is on European time, I was astonished that he looked so refreshed. His connecting flight was delayed. It had taken nearly 24 hours of travel to get home.

But when he walked through the door just before one in the morning, I saw the young man he is becoming. Comfortable in his skin. At ease anywhere. He smiled and hugged me. I said hello to the friend who picked him up at the airport. I pointed to chocolate cake in the fridge, then I went to bed. And slept for eight hours – for the first time in many months.

There’s something to be said for knowing where your children are.

There’s also relief – and amusement – when it comes to his younger brother. The phone rang last night, and out tumbled the story of the cell phone loss, almost entertaining enough to undo my annoyance over the situation.

Note, I said almost. Still – he recounted a tale of birds that attacked while he was eating lunch on the green – so Hitchcock – and he took off to get away from the marauding creatures. He lost his phone in the process.

“So how is it going?” I ask.

“It’s hard as fuck,” he replies.

I chuckle. It’s college after all, freshman architecture jammed into a six-week program. He’s being pushed to perform, exactly as I expected.

“Are you enjoying it?” I ask.

“It’s cool stuff,” he says. “But I’m in studio from 9:30 a.m. until 10 at night three days a week. In fact, I can only talk for a few minutes. I have a ton to prepare for Monday. We have to present and defend our designs.”

“You’re having some fun, right?”

“Sure,” he says. “And I like being able to manage my own time. I like the flexibility. And it’s beautiful here.”

I realize we’re having a conversation. A give-and-take that is flowing. This is the head-in-the-clouds art kid. My mystery. The one who doesn’t talk, at least, not with me.

We say our goodbyes. It may be Saturday night, but he has work to do and he’s on it.

I wonder if he senses how much he is changing. Lost phone aside, this experience is ideal for him in so many ways. He’s being asked to do more than create; he’s required to articulate the purpose and function of a design, to defend his ideas in front of other students and working architects. He’s acquiring communication skills that are critical for success in any field, and in life.

This morning, my elder son breezes out, then in again, then asks for the car for the rest of the day. He wants to meet friends and go swimming. I laugh and say yes, kiss him on both cheeks, and find myself alone in the house with boxes still to organize, coffee to sip, memories to sift through. Those car keys are going to be gone a great deal in the coming weeks.

But I’m smiling. The kids are alright. They’re better than alright.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

If there’s an effective panacea for parenting, I’ve yet to discover it – even after 18 years on the job. The mother job that is. And I’ve been hitting the Excedrin Migraine pretty hard these past hours. Good thing there’s plenty in the medicine cabinet, along with half a bottle of Pepto Bismol.

Yes, it’s one of those days. Just the usual stuff of parental worry, as Teen Number One is flying over the ocean following two months of summer internship – as a factory worker in Europe, and then in an office.

In order to utilize frequent flyer miles, his travel route is convoluted; he’ll be sitting in a US airport on layover for almost as long as it takes to cross the ocean. How to turn a long trip into a horribly long trip – but save more than a few bucks!

At 18, my elder son is resourceful and responsible. (This is why I didn’t worry when he was semi-out-of-touch, wandering France, Belgium, and the Netherlands these past two weeks.) Still, I’ll be on edge until he texts me when he lands, and again, until he arrives home quite late tonight.

Teen Traveler Number Two

As for Teen Number Two, he couldn’t be more different than his brother. At 17, he’s also away, in an academic program. However, it appears that the silence of the past 10 days have something to do with a pertinent fact. He lost his cell phone, which I found out yesterday afternoon, indirectly.

Did I say I was popping Excedrin Migraine?

Right. I’m trying to reach him through alternate means in order to make sure he has cash for the next two weeks, not to mention can print his airline ticket, has money to pay the baggage charges, money to ship home art and architectural models, and money in case of contingency. (Contingencies like losing a cell phone?)

Then there’s figuring out how we’ll communicate over the next weeks, unless he somehow gets another phone.

• Absent-minded artist? Yes, he fits the bill.
• A struggle to teach him common sense? Yes, that, too.
• Do some kids learn the hard way? Yup.
• Concerned? Naturally.

I know my son. If losing a cell phone is the only thing that goes wrong with his summer, I’ll call it a win. Until then, I’ll wish I’d had the foresight to understand the real nature of parenting. I would’ve invested in Novartis, McNeil Labs, Bayer, and Procter & Gamble.

Meanwhile, please pass the Excedrin. It’s going to be a long day, and night.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

What about coffee? What if it’s the last of the coffee in the house, you had a terrible night’s sleep, and you desperately need the caffeine, the comforting heat of the cup, the aroma, the rich taste?

What if it spills all over papers, electronics, and more? Then can you cry? Whine? Whimper?

Not only did my mug take a tumble onto the floor this morning, but the coffee soaked my cloth purse, a pile of papers and folders stacked by the side of my bed, along with a flashlight and computer cables.

Surly sound-off (coffee crazy?)

Bleary-eyed and pissed, I wasn’t revved up for rapid response. But I scurried to the kitchen, grabbed a roll of paper towels, scooped up everything and began dabbing, wiping, and otherwise trying to clean up the mess.

Might I add that in this process of bending and lifting, sopping and mopping, I was all too keenly aware of the morning’s aches and pains?

Every fucking day it’s something.

It’s not a good sign when cosmic rains start before seven. Not only was I without food in the house again – that’s manageable – but I was without coffee. Not manageable. So any thoughts of putting off Starbucks and Target and Kroger for one more day went straight out the window. Or rather, into the garbage with the dripping, inky blur of article notes and to do lists that were beyond saving.

The bright side

On the bright side, I salvaged a good deal from the spill, which was hardly of BP proportions. My makeup inside the drenched black bag was intact, as were my business cards and my wallet. I dried the cables, and as for the files and folders that took a hit, one slightly stained page was something I needed and might not have found otherwise. Serendipity?

So I dressed, went out, did grocery shopping Part 1, picked up coffee, and even received a free cup, while woefully waiting for my French Roast to be ground. Part 2 of shopping will come later, after writing, after emails, and after the caffeine has worked its miracles.

Into every life a little rain must fall

When it rains it pours. Got it.

Into every life a little rain must fall. Got it.

Rain, rain, go away. I know – right?

Yeah, yeah. It’s only coffee. It was nothing. But when you’re inundated, “nothing” isn’t nothing. And I’m weary of carrying an umbrella at all times, ready for a drizzle here, a cloudburst there, and relentless thunderstorms, more often than not.

• Any aches and pains slowing you down?
• Weary of being the adult, constantly cleaning up?
• Do you feel like you live under a storm cloud, and the rains won’t stop?

Perspective (one of those “critical life skills”)

Sure, I even found something I needed as a result of this commonplace mishap. As for aches and pains, they’re a part of my life, and so I deal with it. Yet the rains keep coming. Another downpour earlier this week which I simply set aside for now, so I can continue with the tasks at hand. But it reminds me again that there is much we can control, and far more that we cannot. All we can control – to some extent – is how we handle ourselves in the midst of storm, and its aftermath.

So I’ll cry over spilled milk or spilled coffee. Then I’ll clean up, as best I can. Facing the reality that there is no life without spills, without stains, without incidents beyond our control. There is also no appreciation for the good days without the bad.

Could I do with fewer bad days? With help to get through them?

You bet. But I’m thankful to retain perspective, and to know the difference between torrential rains and daily drizzle.


© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

And I think of interventions. Of those that are intentional, when we stop, take stock, reorient. I think of those interventions initiated by others, when they observe that we are overdoing or nearing the danger zone in some way, interventions intended to prevent harm, to point out changes needed for our emotional or physical well-being.

Entertainment intervention?

I joke at times about needing an intervention. I recognize my tendency to overdo – to work excessively, to pour myself into activities to the point of exhaustion. To sacrifice sleep for whatever my children might need, not to mention for yet another Mad Men marathon, or my viewing habits when it comes to Reality TV.

Yes, I’m fascinated by the New York Housewives, by Top Chef and its spin-offs, by Bethenny’s Getting Married (most recently), and of course – there is Work of Art.

We do not process in a vacuum; naturally, my musings in recent days are interrelated. I’ve touched on the public face and the private self, on beauty and its advantages, on demystifying contemporary art, art being one of my passions. And so I’ve written about the pursuit of our passions.

Authenticity is an underlying theme in all of this, and certainly when talking about “buzz” – whether it enhances or obscures. Are our beautiful smiles genuine? Who are we, really? Is there a single self, or even a single self that evolves as time passes? Are some of us a jumble of multiple selves we delight in, whether others understand us or not?

How much is real? How much is spin? Can we tell the difference? Does it matter?

Language, assisting

I am drawn to the pleasure of language: I see the word invention, to be plucked from the confines of intervention. And I allow my mind to wander.

When we abuse substances, when we stretch our physical capacities beyond reason, when we border on obsession in an undertaking or pastime, do we know why?

• To what extent does excess serve some deep and private place that may enable us to better face the world, or ourselves? To be “authentic?”
• How do excesses facilitate our creative sides, for those of us who live and breathe the need to create? Do they open doors to invention, and reinvention?
• Is excess about escape, about anesthesia, about coping? Is it all about survival?

I reflect again on my own public face – or more specifically – the roles that any woman (or man) feels bound to play. And for women, there’s no question that beauty is a factor – whatever a culture deems beautiful. There is the fine line to walk – beauty as it assists professionally and personally. Beauty as it distracts in the very same circumstances. It becomes a painful subject as women age, as physical beauty fades, as opportunities and power lessen in the process.

I think again about the public faces we wear in our behaviors, some of which remain even with our most intimate partners. Isn’t some element of persona always present? Don’t we exercise filtering and editing skills based upon each situation?

I find nothing inauthentic in this; it is social necessity.

And as long as the public face retains its connection to some sort of authenticity? Whether you are a performer, an artist, a teacher, a lover, a writer, a motivational speaker – isn’t that as good as it gets? As long as we always know who we are in the process, and the whys and wherefores of what we are doing?

Intervention, reinvention

I feel no need for any intervention at present; invention and reinvention are much more on my mind these days. Ways to put my skills to use, to meld them into a means to make a living, to reduce the stress that is a constant in my daily life, to work from my passions, in yet another reinvention of myself, if necessary.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Burnt popcorn. And I wanted that popcorn for breakfast! Of course, it was nearly six in the evening when I tossed the package carelessly into the microwave. Yes, I’m running a little late today. Ten hours late to be exact.

It’s been a day of paperwork and priorities. Parenting paperwork, though not the sort you typically think of. Insurance, finances, research. The machinery that keeps a household going. The stuff of adulthood that our kids never see.

This morning, I needed to flip the switch and lock into auto-pilot. To get things done. Big things. Necessary things.

Responsibility, thy name is single motherhood

So I begin my daily writing later than usual, and sluggishly, after another day dedicated to the ongoing Whole House Organization project, that seemingly endless purgatory of emptying boxes, sorting files, revisiting legal papers, scanning financial documents. Discovering report cards in envelopes, and baby teeth wrapped in tissue.

None of this is for the sake of “cleaning.” It’s for my younger son. It’s what I owe him as a parent. As a mother. My best possible preparation so he may have his best possible shot at the future. So if I’m not feeling up to par? If the car needs to go in the shop? If the air conditioning craps out? Irrelevant. These activities of sorting and organizing are now top priority. And there’s a deadline, approaching fast.

Today, I reached a major milestone. A first leg in a long race.

Revisiting your life

Plowing through two decades of my life has been an odd journey. I’ve waded through boxes and stacks, wandered through my marriage, the births of my sons, the end of one career and the beginning of another, monumental celebrations, the devastation of divorce, debt, death, and other kinds of loss that shook my world, and continue to disrupt it on occasion. Yet here I am – still standing. Still parenting.

There’s nothing unusual in persisting through life’s challenges to raise children. We all sacrifice for our sons and daughters. We don’t think twice, often parenting on auto-pilot for years.

Single parenting?

Then there’s rarely a break in stress or pace. Parenting is the quintessential iceberg, after all. What anyone sees is the third that rises above the surface. The other two thirds? Sleeplessness. Details. Facilitating. And everything else.

Life skills, burnt out

My organizing tasks are far from done, but I think I’m through the worst of it, grateful for life skills that help: persistence, the ability to visualize the goal, an eye for detail, understanding dependencies, effective use of checklists.

As for the physical toll, I’m feeling bleary-eyed and burnt out, but motivated to continue. I’ll have to push hard to finish on time. But there’s light at the end of this particular tunnel.

Now if only I had more popcorn. It’s dinner time, and I’m hungry.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

That’s not a question I answer easily. I know my public face, and my private selves. I keep them fairly separate for a number of reasons. And I like it that way.

Who are you may seem like a simple question, but it isn’t something I respond to carelessly, or without considering the context.

I’ve been called extroverted, open, and gregarious. (I believe I am.) And, I’ve been called secretive, mysterious, complex. (I am amused by those descriptions.) Some people understand that life has taught me caution. To share what I choose when I choose, and as I deem it appropriate.

I recognize the need for a public face that maintains appearances as a parent, as one who seeks work, in social settings, and as a participant in specific communities.

And I certainly know not to tell all on the Internet.

Maintaining one’s privacy

As for the man who emailed me “who are you, really?”

That was a one-off exchange, a lingering contact from another time. I was surprised by it, and equally surprised at how little I had to say, or more precisely, how little I was willing to say to a stranger. And so I responded:

I am a mother. I am a writer. I am a face in the crowd you would never notice, though you might nod politely when passing, and then go on with your busy day. I am struggling to finish the job of parenting. Who are you?

I wasn’t being capricious, or contentious. Only matter-of-fact. My mask, in place. But his question got me thinking, especially after a night of dreaming myself strolling the tiny towns of the Riviera, and then in Paris. France is a place where  my public and private selves coexist more comfortably.

Don’t we all wear masks? In the workplace, as well as among friends and family? At times, aren’t we compelled to hide essential truths of our lives for fear of discrimination or judgment?

France?

Yesterday I was writing and speaking in French. No doubt that sparked my dreams. And sure, I have my fabulous French fantasy, knowing that real life is very different – anywhere. As for masks, mystery, guile, authenticity, pleasure, ease, freedom – there is no perfect fit for most of us, but there may be places of better fit.

“I don’t know where I belong,” I said to a friend recently.

“I see you in Paris,” he remarked.

Belonging

I think about that, and the year that remains until my younger son is launched. I think about the professional opportunities that no longer exist where I live. The type of men I am attracted to. My viability as a woman of a certain age in this youth-obsessed culture. I balance that with the fact that the weather is good for my health, and more importantly – this is “home” to my children. A place of belonging.

Yet what I crave does not exist here for me. So I maintain the public face to the extent that I must, until I can explore options that may fulfill my private selves.

• Do you live a public face and a private one?
• Do you do so to protect yourself, your children, your living?
• Do you do so out of deference to cultural, regional, or familial expectations?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

I am not looking forward to visiting the supermarket this morning. It is one of the activities that is most painful to the arm and back injuries from an auto accident, in particular carrying my purchases in from the car, and putting things away.

I am looking forward to the car actually starting – and I’m not accepting any other possibility as, well… possible.

I am looking forward to the return of Bug Guy later today, sometime, who was here for hours yesterday (with lots of good mojo, but not everything he needed).

I am looking forward to Work of Art on television tonight, and wildly excited that Mad Men Season 4 is just around the corner! And tomorrow evening I can enjoy Bethenny Getting Married as well, a show that always makes me laugh.

I am looking forward to eventually finishing this nasty organizing task – there are more than forty files spread across my house, labeled. Where I store them when I’m done? Haven’t figured that out yet. Two more mystery boxes to empty, and one last corner in the den. I think I can, I think I can, I know I can. And I will get it done!

I am looking forward to somehow finding a degree of greater healing for my body. And yes, for my mind. For tough times I’ve had to relive in going through these stacks of papers. Facing the reality that life isn’t fair, then moving on as best I can.

I am looking forward to my sons returning from their respective summer adventures – a very different experience for each – and while I’ve enjoyed this time alone, largely to tackle these difficult tasks, as aggravating as it is to parent teens, I miss my boys.

I am looking forward to the hidden and unexpected laughter that is part and parcel of every life. It’s healing. It’s energizing. It’s there. Always.

I am looking forward to better days, because I insist on believing in better days. Stubbornly. And that belief has gotten me through a good deal, and I count on it to continue doing so.

What are you looking forward to?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

He used to send love letters. I hadn’t seen them in years – not since the last time I was searching  in my dresser and came across the small sheaf of envelopes tucked under photographs and scarves. I could never bear to throw them all away, even after I had married someone else.

And there they were. Two of them.

He was old school, and a romantic. He took pleasure in small gestures, in sending flowers to my office for no reason at all, in choosing restaurants thoughtfully, in stopping by my apartment on cold winter mornings with a steaming cup of take out coffee. And he wrote me letters.

Does anyone take to pen and paper anymore? What ever happened to the love letter?

Terms of Endearment

Sure, we communicate through tapping texts and emails on our mobile devices. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for communication of any sort. But I adore rereading the few letters I have from men I loved. Letters written by hand.

My grandparents exchanged letters during World War II, over the course of more than a year. My grandfather was stationed in the Pacific, while my grandmother held up the home front, taking care of three young children. Those letters form part of my family history. They’re fragile, tangible, and treasure.

What is evocative about abbreviations on an LED screen?

Cards, Notes, Histories

I’ve written by hand when I could – the birthday note with love, the letter brimming with emotion. Yet most of the men in my life have not done so, and I think that’s a shame.

Has the art of the love letter been lost? Are we so busy and so hooked on technology that we can’t construct a few sentimental sentences with paper and pen?

• Do men and women still write each other by hand?
• Do you have love letters from the past you’ve kept?
• Do you write letters with more care than you do emails or text?
• If we wrote by hand, would we be more thoughtful in our communications?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

For days and nights I have been shuffling boxes and opening storage containers, sifting through files and unearthing photographs, throwing out magazines, tossing ripped clothing, processing, processing, processing. And doing laundry.

Lately, I dream interiors: my mother’s spacious dining room, its bay windows and patterned wallpaper, the copper bucket filled with logs by the fireplace, the large portrait of my grandmother over the mantel. There are images from my old home as well – its neatly organized office, the foyer filled with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, a kitchen with cabinetry I can actually reach.

I am trying to effect positive change by organizing my environment. Preparing for the future, and determined to do it.

The task at hand is imposing – six years of accumulation and disarray. But worse, there is grieving to be done. Letting go of dreams, of people I loved, of the woman I thought I was, the life I do not lead. And so I’ve been doing it, bit by bit, day by day, for more than a month.

My small space

There’s nothing unusual in downsizing after divorce, nor after layoff. What is unusual is the onslaught of injuries, rendering everything about settling into a home more challenging.

Carrying things up to the hot attic? Sure, my boys can do that. Sift through the post-divorce, post-accident paperwork? Organizing research and writing? Going through photographs and objects from my mother’s passing? No. These are my necessary steps, my obstacles, my present that I need to put in the past.

So I work my way through cartons, containers, files that were once in a home office, and enough books to open a library. Everything is stacked, leaned, heaped or piled. There’s only so much I can do before I must stop.

If my living space could speak? It would say this: I am buried, I am overwhelmed, I am going under. But I am a parent. I cannot go under.

Transforming interiors

In the past week I have filled eight giant trash bags, tackled painful memories, and I see progress. The transformation is slow, but I hope that if I can change my living space, my psychological interiors will follow suit. My mood. My sense of well-being.

For now, my home reflects the presence of teenagers, the reality of jumbled emotions, the instability of freelance work, the suggestion of physical limitations, and equally, the presence of explicit passions – books and art. Thankfully, I possess an orderly mind, which has allowed me to work effectively no matter what. But I expect that I will feel lighter, more relaxed, and more capable – if I can accomplish this makeover mission.

What does your living space say about you?

By the time we’re adults, our environments tell a story, whether we create that narrative, pay a decorator to design its public face, or it unfolds as we tumble through our hectic lives.

• Does your living space reflect your crazy life?
• Does it mirror your emotional state?
• Does it reflect your stage in life?
• If you could change anything about your interiors, what would it be?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy