How to heart February.

With the world in chaos, and our new neighbour to the south ripping up the welcome mat, it kind of makes me want to stay in bed with the covers pulled over my head. But then hate would trump love, and no one wants that, especially in February.

We are in the ‘glass half full’ side of winter now. Store shelves have flipped from sad Christmas leftovers to hopeful heart shapes – an easy, cheesey reminder to tell the people you love, exactly that.

But “roses are red, violets are blue” sometimes gets pushed aside for, 

“Do you have to wear those sweatpants ALL weekend!” And “Who used my toothbrush to clean the dirt clumps out of the football cleats?”

The mid-winter, spring is a long way off-blues, can even make your dream home feel like a nightmare on Elm Street. A soothing bath has you focusing on grout that needs replacing instead of the vintage taps you fell in love with.

In order for love to trump hate in all aspects of our lives – we have to send ourselves a daily Valentine that says, “Love the kitty, and the litter”… or “The house is a mess because it is full of people you love.” And love is messy.

February is for rekindling all kinds of romance.

Cover that crack in the plaster with framed kid’s art.

Pick up some low-odour paint and spice things up the bedroom.

Declutter your closets – there are people out there who would love a pair of slightly out-dated boots.

Light a candle, dim the lights, buy new towels, and be kind to your grout.

Be thankful for your drafty windows, hug your geriatric furnace, and be patient with your leaky roof – because that simply means you have one over your head.

Remember all of the reasons why you fell in love in the first place. Good bones. Perfect neighbourhood. Amazing potential. Great kisser.

And about those sweatpants. It's Superbowl season! Chili stains look WAY better on sweatpants than they do on your sofa. 

And ya gotta heart that.

Meg

We could all use a little hygge.

Every once in a while, a word comes along that pretty much sums up how I am feeling, and what I am working toward as I power through this little life of mine. And no, it’s not an expletive. Lately, that word is hygge.

Pronounced  'heu-gah', hygge is a Danish word that is at once a noun, a verb, an adjective, and an exclamation. Versatile as those darn Danes can be, hygge is also a feeling.

“When your heart swells with the general perfection of your world at that particular moment, you are hygge.” hyggelife.com

  

As I wind down my maple-syprupy sweet March break on the Quebec ski slopes, I am reminded that hygge “happens” when we stop and marvel at the moment. A perfect snowflake caught in my son’s eyelash. My family, squished together on a quad chairlift as we drift like a cloud. A shot of schnapps in my après ski hot chocolate.

Our unavoidable Canadian winter – that the collective “we” tend to complain about – is the perfect backdrop for hygge. Instead of jumping on the first Cuban charter flight out of here – maybe it’s time we all added a little more hygge to our busy, over-scheduled lives – and simply, ironically... “chill”.

Light a fire. Pull on dry, wool socks. Place a candle by the bathtub. Bake something from scratch. Curl up under a scratchy wool throw, that feels like cashmere if you give it a chance. 

Hygge is wind-burnt cheeks and the deliriously satisfying feeling after a day on the slopes. But is also the feeling one gets handing a hot coffee and a sandwich to someone down on their luck. Or receiving a postcard from a traveling friend, instead of a bill.

Hygge is an open smile.

As we move from winter toward spring, I’m not packing my hygge away with my woolies. I plan on sticking a crocus into an egg cup and placing it on my windowsill. I’ll add less sugar to my lemonade and pucker at the lemony loveliness of it all. And I’ll even roll with that first backyard mosquito bite that swells up like pride.

Hygge isn’t so much about what we have in life, it’s about not having. And I’m loving it.

Let's talk about unpronounceable blonde Swedish supermodels.

Looking out my window, it's safe to say we're a little premature to be talking about outdoor fire pits, container gardening, or those strappy sandals I saw downtown. 
Keeping it warm and indoors, let's talk about a few Swedish supermodels I've been dreaming about. Of course, I'm talking IKEA.
I know you may be saying, "But we don't have an IKEA" – not to worry! Thanks to a Halifax-based business myboxbuyer.com, ordering that beautiful blonde wood (table) you saw while online shopping at work, is easier than spelling "smörgåsbord". 
All you do is place an order through myboxbuyer, then they arrange the shipment and delivery. They also offer no-hassle returns and excellent customer service. Now if I could only get them to put it together for me.
So let's talk about IKEA kitchens! I have a sweet, West End bungalow for sale that is begging for an updated kitchen. But who has that kind of money after closing a starter home? 
Luckily, gone are the days of the high-end custom kitchen. Today, it's all about affordable style and function – mixed with high-end finishes. Take Ikea's new Sektion kitchen system. I can't say that I've ever felt drawn to dark wood cabinets before, but the warm chocolatey tone and thin-raised edge detail of Ekestad won me over. Take a look at the blonde Björket – a crisp Shaker profile. And lastly, there's the timeless perfection of the white door. Whoever makes up the names over there in Sweden calls it, Råsdal. The finish is a whitewash over white ash so you see the wood grain through the paint. It's dreamy... take a look online.
The IKEA systems are reasonably priced, and can be dressed up with higher-end countertop materials and back splashes. I like the IKEA price, and the simple, crisp style – very Vincent Van Duysen – contemporary and spacious in feel. Your home can be sophisticated, but also informal – with a focus on spaces for family life and entertaining. 
I recently toured a client's home – a traditional Victorian. The kitchen was renovated with IKEA cabinets, concrete counter tops and stainless steel back splash. The result is a feel of modern simplicity mixed with craftsman character. A dreamy combination!
Let's not forget the incredible storage options IKEA has for mudrooms, laundry rooms, and areas that double as offices and spare rooms. I show so many gracious older homes with no storage space or closets. Once again, my Swedish knight in shining armour to the rescue.
Keeping your home clutter free and organized makes room for creativity and flow in other areas of your life. It often feels that when my life is in disarray, so is my home. When I motivate myself to tidy up, things always fall back into order. I call it de-cluttering my mind.
Next time, hopefully we can talk about spring cleaning or moving your kitchen outdoors. Failing that, there's a gorgeous, sleek German I've had my eye on. The Miele vacuum.

Ringo, Paul, John and Georgian.

While most Haligonians slipped south to escape winter, I headed across the pond to continue my British obsession. 

Proudly flashing my shiny new British passport, I arrived at Heathrow, an authentic British citizen. Thanks to my father’s heritage and enough patience to navigate passport applications, I am able to enter the UK without the bother of long immigration lines. With this new sense of entitlement, I took the Tube instead of a cab into the heart of London to stay at the most stunning boutique hotel in Soho. But it wasn't easy.

What I learned is that my North American sized ‘case’ was far too Kardashian to navigate the many stairs and escalators leading to and from the tube station. If you've seen the movie Paddington, I was one duffel coat shy of looking that out of place. I resembled a very unsophisticated tourist – in heels. 

Everything about Britain is compact and understated. I’ve got to work on that. Oh and someday, I might not feel anxious about stepping off a curb as my head turns to the left making sure there aren’t any cars heading my way. Oops!

Arriving in Soho, just up from Leister Square, I dragged my bag through bustling city streets until I reached The Dean Street address, a small 39 room hotel with soft décor and stunning Georgian architecture. After some apologies about my oversized case (and a gin & tonic) I blended in quite nicely. Needless to say, I was in heaven. 

I love the many facades of London! From the grandeur of royal palaces to the everyday existence of railway stations. There’s something wildly romantic about London and something dark and dangerous – in a Jack the Ripper and British history way. 

London is dapper men in Saville Row suits. London is feeling like "the" Queen sipping tea at Fortnum & Mason. London is simultaneously all business – in a lush, green parks way. With a splash of Coronation Street wit thrown in, London is a melting pot. My melting pot.

When I am in London I feel I am at the centre of the world. Surrounded by incredible architecture, I marvel at the iconic Houses of Parliament and my idle, Big Ben. The history fascinates me. In this splendid city, rich in past, I love to witness the Changing of the Guards, or just stand and take in the views from the intersection of Horse Guard Avenue and Whitehall Ct. I don’t know exactly what is that captures my attention, but this is my favourite corner.

Every time I leave London, I take a piece of the experience with me. The West End theatres, Brixton High St, Camden’s bars, Harrow, Trafalgar Square, The Dorchester….I have stories to tell about them all.

But, a pint just doesn’t taste the same back here at home. Earl Grey out of a mug just doesn't cut it. So until next time, I’ll savour the little things – adding a bit of a British accent to my home. A shiny door knocker. A coat of paint. A Harrods tea cup.

And once this ice melts, I'll walk downtown and tip my hat to Halifax's Georgian architecture, working up a thirst for a Pimm's or a pint of local ale. Until then, cheerio!

Meghan

Still life.

Well, 2015 started off with a bang.

After a fun-filled finish to the Christmas holidays, I was driving home from the airport – sun shining, U2 cranked. I was excited to be home, and looking forward to a busy, prosperous new year. I took my eyes off the road for a split second and suddenly, it was as if I was watching my life through a GoPro camera... and not in a good way. 

As my car left the road there was an almost calming effect that took over. I knew I just had to go with it. Life went into slow motion. Then everything stopped.

I walked away from that accident with minor injuries, and a firm belief that someone was there with me. 

In the days following, recovering from a concussion, I was told to remain quiet, to rest in a dark or dim room – no TV, no computer, no talking. For those who know me, 'quiet' is not who I am. I am the extrovert who loves to be around people, to talk, to tell stories, to laugh, and to live life with zest and passion. I tend to run, in fact I'm probably talking while running. Forced to lie in yoga-like stillness, my thoughts were spinning like a reel to reel, the accident playing over and over like a bad movie with a happy ending. 

Needless to say, it has been a week of reflection.

I think we are all running – distracting ourselves with whatever vice keeps us from truly 'feeling'. Stop running, and we feel guilty for stopping. As parents and business people, we have to be seen as 'busy', in order to be viewed as successful. Our children have to be over-scheduled in order for us to be viewed as 'good' parents. But are we, in turn, just teaching them how to run?

When you are forced to stop, and be still, the important things in life quickly surface. After the uncomfortable feeling of stillness settles – there is order that happens on a heart-felt level, and everything else just fades away. All the 'I have to's' and the 'I should do's' take a backseat to 'just breathe'.  

Zen by GoPro.

I am oddly thankful for my forced retreat. I feel grateful, revived/ and excited to start this new year. I have seen a strength in my children that was there all along. My sudden halt brought out the importance of life in their own little hearts.

My home has been my healing place. The saying 'Home is not a place, it is a feeling' has never rang so true. As a child, home was never about how much things cost, or how big the house was – it was always about the feeling it gave you. Creating that in my own home has always been paramount. In this big, busy world, I want my children to feel the sense of 'home'. Clean, crisp sheets, candles burning, dance parties in the living room, and nights around the dining room table complete with melt downs and who can burp the loudest – these are snippets of home and peace and love, that I hope will stick with them forever.

I know it's a lot to wish for, but I want HOME to feel like the safest place in the world – for my children, and for those less fortunate.

2015 took a turn for the crazy, but I am back on the road. And I've got work to do.

Meghan

Harvesting the City

I don’t know about you, but I love this time of year. And not just because I have an excuse to wear cream cashmere. For one thing, it’s so inspiring. I love the chance to swap out my planters and window boxes for something in deep rich colours and replace my cotton throws with cozy mohair and wool. A stroll through the park is invigorating; foliage above and a sweet rustic smell in the air. For homesellers, it’s a great time of year to put their best foot forward without breaking the bank. Who knew that a quaint arrangement of pumpkins, mums and greens could make a front door so welcoming? 

It's especially this time of year that I love to roam the city and hit my favourite spots for my Fall musts.

The Halifax Seaport Farmer’s Market is my stop for harvest fruits and veggies. I also love the idea of growing my own herbs.  

I will also pop by home stores like Attica and 31 Westgate for cozy updates like these.

And no Fall Friday evening would be complete without a sampling of Bishop’s Cellar’s best reds.

Happy Fall Nesting!

Hitting the Hay on Gottingen on Sept. 27th

As many of us casually make everyday decisions about feather or down, 300 or 600 thread count and queen or king, there are many in the city who are faced with the simple question of “where will I sleep tonight?”

This issue floats in and out of the headlines but as the winds howl and snow flies on a bitter winter night, this is a very real, everyday struggle for someone without a home...

On Sept. 27th  I will be joining my boys Noah and Fischer to raise awareness and money for Shelter Nova Scotia, a cause that supports 1500 people a year struggling with homelessness in our community.

I would love your support in this endeavour, even if it’s a contribution to the campaign instead of your daily latte!

You can find out more here:
My personal donation page is here: https://secure.e2rm.com/registrant/FundraisingPage.aspx?registrationID=2504453&langPref=en-CA&Referrer=%26Referrer%3dhttp%253a%252f%252fwww.shelternovascotia.com%252fcontribute%252fsleep-out-for-change

Watch my blog and Twitter for more developments. I’ll be posting plenty of updates as I near my fundraising goal of $2000. I am incredibly passionate about the cause and hope you will help me spread the word…because everyone deserves a place to call home.  

Coastal Retreating

Did you pack your Breton stripes?

There’s something magical about an orchestra of clanging masts, the smell of a salt air breeze and the view of an aged wharf on the ocean blue. This is Chester at its finest and this week this tony South Shore town will host the world’s biggest keel boat race.

The image of windblown sailors coming off the water after a day of racing, their bobbing yachts dotting the coastline, instantly brings to mind a Polo ad campaign. Although I have never raced in Chester Race Week (I’m more of a casual sailor – terribly adept at hanging over the rail and pouring dark and stormys) this is nautical at its best and is probably where I am most inspired for interiors.

I love the seaside simplicity of whitewashed walls, ruff hewn barn boards, whimsical folk art, a stone fireplace, an overstuffed white Montauk sofa, crisp white table linens and a fresh cut wildflower bouquet. This, to me, is perfect casual, nautical style.

So here's to white canvas slipcovers, glass votives, sisal rugs, colourful spinnakers, and French stripes, to get inspired to create your seaside retreat, at home.

For some real inspiration, visit Chester design gurus, Ken and Colin at 31 Westgate (41 Queen Steet) and Deb Nelson at Deb Nelson Design or… enjoy the scenery from a red Adirondack at the Chester Yacht Club. Ahoy!

 

 

In a Branston pickle.

I'm homesick.

Don't get me wrong, I am home. But after spending a piece of the holidays in England, I find myself watching old episodes of Downton Abbey while craving fish 'n' chips (with a side of mushy peas) and long walks through rolling hills dotted with sheep.

Last night, I curled up with a cuppa tea and a glossy issue of House & Garden UK, wondering how much a flat in London, or a thatched roof cottage in Devon would set me back. (A girl's got to have a dream.)

North America's need for square footage is such a contrast to the traditional British cottage lifestyle. Lately, I've been spending my days (and evenings) showing gorgeous homes with sweeping lines and cathedral ceilings – longing for cozy spaces and well-worn "settees".

This pining for British charm and dusty, tasseled cushions is a sharp contrast to the modern, creamy walls and white sofas in my own "sitting room". So I will snap out of it. Eventually.

But as the Dowager Countess of Grantham (aka Maggie Smith) would say. "I'm a woman, Mary. I can be as contrary as I choose."

This week, as I run my hand along 'must have' granite countertops, I think of how massive stainless steel appliances would completely take over a Devon cottage kitchen. Quaint spaces  – lacking the storage space for big box Costco-style shopping – require thoughtful menu planning, and daily outings to the local grocer.

And while British cottages are traditionally pint size, on postage stamp plots of land, you will always find a well-stocked pantry and a garden of some sort – herbs, jam-worthy berries, or climbing roses – all keeping calm and carrying on toward the sunlight.

Can I wag the Union Jack long enough to at least start a British-style urban garden? My green thumb isn't exactly green, but I'd love to see my kids getting their hands dirty – growing fresh herbs, and smelling the roses. Although, I can already see them, rolling their eyes in unison. Maybe I'll start with one hearty variety tomato plant.

But urban farming is on the rise, despite Halifax council battling over the right to own a backyard chicken. And the rebirth of the "butler's" pantry could be the next housing trend. Picture a big walk-in affair full of port, muddy Wellies, and, sigh, jars of Branston pickle.

So as this "bleeding" Canadian winter continues to turn fluffy white snowbanks into black puddles – and back to ice – I will flip though British gardening magazines and inspirational websites like Square Foot Gardening.

And I will no longer see a nook or bonus room as "not big enough for a spacious home office". I will sell it as a cozy living area with potential for a window seat – perfect for curling up with a copy of Pride and Prejudice. The Colin Firth edition.

meghanlaing@domus.ns.ca

Tangled up in blue spruce.

Love this tangled lights cupcake idea from I Am Baker!

I'm not sure if it was the first chocolate from the advent calendar, or the mild weather that forced me into the crawl space to haul out the holiday bling.

Oh, let's face it – it was sheer peer pressure from the gorgeous display of lights popping up all around my neighbourhood. A few keeners even had lights up in November! I had some work to do.

Like cutlery etiquette, I decorate from the outside in. The large tree in my front yard is the appetizer.

The first order of business (after mixing an egg nog) was detangling the lights that – I swear – went into the crawl space in neat coils.

Managing to break a few bulbs (and a sweat) in the process, I was halfway up the tree and ready for the next string when I realized I had the wrong end in my hand. I'd strung them up backwards so they couldn't plug in. #@$&!@

It was about this time that my neighbour wandered over to offer a helping hand. It seems we both had pole envy from watching our other neighbour run his lights high up into his tree effortlessly – with a golf ball retriever. Genius!

Naturally, we borrowed the telescopic pole, and it wasn't long before I had 3 sets of lights running all the way to the top. I detangled the extension cord just enough so it would reach the tree and hollered for the kids – who suddenly had "homework" – leaving me with the neighbours to witness yet another Christmas miracle.

I plugged in the lights and – of course – the second string of lights were completely dead, leaving a gap like a missing tooth. It looked like another trip to Canadian Tire.

By nightfall, and thanks to my neighbours, I had an almost fully-lit tree outside – and a warm glow inside.

With this chore crossed off my long holiday list, I was one step closer to the first of many annual neighbourhood holiday parties. I am blessed with the history we share with our children, and the laughs that go along with years of familiarity.

Finding the perfect neighbourhood is as important as finding the perfect home.They become one.

So now, I have presents to buy. Deals to close before the holidays. A trip to Lunenburg for a tree. Christmas pageants. And holiday baking.

And while it all seems overwhelming at the moment, the list detangles and things eventually fall brilliantly into place.

meghanlaing@domus.ns.ca

It's a boy!

Yes, I've neglected my blog... for nine months. (But who's counting?)

This has been a particularly hectic time in our household. There was the usual mayhem that comes with three kids; playing matchmaker in a listing-dense real estate market; and a long, hot summer trying to hold it all together without cracking a sweat.

And, speaking of sweat, I have a delightful new addition to my family!

Relax, it's not what you think.

My Dad has moved in!

Like at least 28% of Canadians, I find myself looking after a parent – although my Dad would send me to my room if he knew I was suggesting he was anything other than a free-spirited (and available) 'Silver Fox'.

My handsome, active, independent Dad is dealing with a medical issue – so, after a great deal of debate and coaxing, it was simply easier for him – geographically – to move in with us. But where to put my little excuse for not blogging?

Having grown up with a pristine, under-utilized "guest room" that we kids were not allowed to step foot in – I've seen the rise and fall of the traditional guest room.

Today's busy families usually turn that extra room into a home office, or a gym. The other scenario are the empty nesters who downside – quite possibly to eliminate any chance of having the kids move back in.

The extra room – if you are lucky enough to have one – can be a real multi-tasker. Add a day bed or pull-out sofa to a home office, and voilà! ... a guest room. But let's not have our friends and relatives waking up with their head on the fax machine. A little effort, decent linens, and creative storage make for a good night's sleep. (And let's not forget a clean stack of towels and a night light.)

In my case, there simply wasn't an extra room for dear ol' Dad. Add to this, my fear of even a nice Murphy bed (pictured below) snapping shut in the middle of the night.

I had to improvise, and there was nowhere to go but down.

So, while it isn't your traditional guest room – our once messy family/rumpus/TV room in the basement – is now a cozy in-law suite complete with separate entrance and private washroom. It isn't perfect, but it's comforting to know my Dad is at home with us. (I guess you could say I have a Manny!)

Our family room is now truly a room for family.

I wonder what the next nine months will bring?

meghanlaing@domus.ns.ca

One hand clapping.

I lost my right hand last year.

No, it wasn't an unfortunate workplace accident. I lost my gal Friday. My walking Rolodex. The peanut butter to my jelly. I lost my Madeleine.

This explains long gaps in blog posts. It also explains why my Christmas cards never got sent, why my daughter's Valentines won't be handmade, why I missed several hair appointments, and why there's a pile of dry cleaning that will soon need a postal code, taking over the corner of my office.

Madeleine was my personal assistant. My proof reader. My Word perfect. Madeleine knew I liked spring flowers and vanilla scented candles at Open Houses. She knew Excel, that I like lots of cream in my coffee, and how I'm a sucker for warm cinnamon buns. Madeleine knew my kids' birth dates, play dates, and dental appointments. She knew my clients, and my clients' addresses – alphabetically. Madeleine made me feel like Wonder Woman. But she was also my friend.

Madeleine got an offer she couldn't refuse, and (with plenty of notice) she left me. It was an excellent career move, with saner hours – and I was thrilled for her. But hers would be big shoes to fill. It's hard to improve on perfection.

Real Estate is a full time job. It requires weekend work. Evening work. Holiday work. And tons of paperwork. Real Estate is physical. Last week I shovelled and sanded sidewalks – in heels. I called a plumber to unfreeze some pipes. I almost knocked myself out with an attic hatch. I picked up a dead mouse with a pair of oven mitts. I took greasy fingerprints off a stainless steel fridge with the hem of my sweater. I dumped kitty litter. And – on at least a dozen occasions – I started to call Madeleine.

I can get keys cut. I can "broom clean" a basement. I can plunge a toilet. And I can pick out the perfect house closing gift. What I can't do is craft the perfect bow. I miss the extra (perfectly manicured) hand. The hand that knew exactly when to place her finger on the ribbon – holding the knot firmly in place as I simultaneously talked on the phone and fumbled with loose ends.

It may be a little late – and she may not be able to hear – but I'd like to put my two hands together and give Madeleine a big round of applause.

It would have come sooner, but I've been busy.

meghanlaing@domus.ns.ca