I wish I were the kind of girlfriend who would spend the afternoon at a spa, lounging around in fluffy white robes. But the truth is…I can’t sit still that long.

I also wish I were the kind of girlfriend who would linger over cocktails at the hotel bar, swapping old stories until midnight. But the truth is…I’m in recovery, and the really good stories are protected by an NDA.

I am, objectively, not very good at traditional girls’ trips.

But antiquing our way across London? Following a trail of charity shops, peeking into tiny antiques dealers and debating whether we can fit one more ridiculous treasure into our suitcases?

That, my dear, is where I shine. For that, I am absolutely your girl.

The whole thing started innocently enough.

For my birthday in March, my husband gave me a trip across the Pond to see the Queen’s Wardrobe exhibition.

WITHOUT. HIM. OR. THE. KIDS.

Romance is alive and well.

For those of you who don’t know, I am a Royal Family ENTHUSIAST. I know more about them than I do members of my own family, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

Naturally, I called Maggie, my Minister of British Nonsense who took about a half second of convincing to tag along. Flights booked. Hotel booked. General visions of royal splendor dancing in our heads.

There was just one tiny problem.

Like an idiot, I never actually checked to see if there were tickets to the Queen’s Wardrobe exhibition.

Sold out until December.

And so, in a devastating turn of events, our culturally enriching trip to study royal fashion was forced to become…a shopping trip.

Except, thanks to my chosen profession, I get to call it “sourcing.” A tax-deductible tragedy, really.

Here is where we stayed, ate, shopped and generally behaved as though the exchange rate were none of our business.

STAY

St. Ermin’s Hotel

Absolutely precious and in a fantastic Central London location. Charming, very British and exactly the sort of place that makes you feel like you should be coming downstairs for dinner rather than merely wandering through the lobby looking for an Uber.

Would absolutely stay again.

EAT

Maggie Jones’s

One of my FAVORITE places in London.

Tucked away in Kensington and named for Princess Margaret, it is said to have been one of her favorite spots. Which is really all the convincing I personally require.

It feels like someone crammed every wonderful thing about an old English country house into a restaurant. Baskets hanging from the ceiling. Old plates. Wood everywhere. Delightfully crowded.

And the sausage and mash? Out of this world.

Lilibet’s

This was Maggie’s pick, and she nailed it.

A bit of a splurge, but worth every penny—or pound, as it were.

The restaurant is in the building where Queen Elizabeth II was born and serves mainly seafood. The food was outstanding, but naturally, we were there for the décor.

Think cozy British meets French antiques.

We spent a completely reasonable amount of time staring at the walls, furniture and lighting instead of speaking to one another.

Make a reservation. Go hungry. And prepare to come home wanting to redecorate something.

SHOP

Now for the actual purpose of the trip.

Portobello Road Market

I think it is very important to distinguish between a treasure and a deal.

Portobello had treasures GALORE.

Deals? Less so.

That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go. You absolutely should. Just don’t arrive thinking you’re going to casually uncover a priceless piece of porcelain for £12 because no one else noticed it.

They noticed it. And they priced it accordingly.

Charity Shops

We dedicated an entire morning to charity shops, which involved mapping them out on Google Maps and then marching across London like two women with a very specific military objective.

HIGHLY recommend.

Most of the shops leaned heavily toward clothes, and the prices were all over the place, but that’s part of the fun. You have to dig.

And I am nothing if not willing to dig for a tureen.

Alice Palmer

A complete feast for the eyes.

We went mad over the lampshades, candles and all the little bits and bobs. The sort of shop where you walk in thinking, “I’ll just have a look,” and immediately begin mentally rearranging your house.

Dangerous.

Pentreath & Hall

The quintessential British design moment.

I am currently going with a bit of a “Grand Tour” situation for MailCrest Manor, so naturally I bought them out of gorgeous intaglios.

Was this necessary? No.

Did necessity enter into the conversation? Also no.

Jubilee Market

Absolutely worth the visit.

This was much closer to the flea-market pricing I had been hoping to find, with stalls ranging wildly in both merchandise and treasure potential.

Which, in my opinion, is exactly how an antiques market should be.

Bring cash. Bring patience. Bring a friend who will tell you that yes, obviously, you need it.

Joanna Wood

The lampshades haunt me.

I picked them up. Put them down. Picked them up again. Walked away.

I regret this.

There were also several other things I went back and forth over and did not buy, which only proves my longstanding theory that restraint is almost always punished.

A VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: When planning your own shopping pilgrimage, check opening days carefully. A surprising number of London shops are closed Sunday and/or Monday.

Do not learn this while standing hopefully outside a locked shop window.

DO

Tea at Fortnum & Mason

Obviously, this had to be checked off the list.

But the real discovery for me was sparkling tea.

As someone in recovery, one of the little things I miss is having something that feels genuinely celebratory for a toast or fancy occasion. Sparkling water does the job, technically, but no one has ever popped open a San Pellegrino and caused the room to erupt in applause.

Sparkling tea, though? Bubbles. Beautiful bottle. Proper sense of occasion.

I was DELIGHTED.

Tour Buckingham Palace

I have watched The Crown so many times that I was able to identify rooms, statues and corners of the Palace from scenes in the show.

Was I insufferable about this? Almost certainly.

Touring Buckingham Palace was basically a dream come true.

The State Rooms are traditionally open to visitors during the summer, when the monarch is away. With King Charles reportedly not planning to use Buckingham Palace as his primary residence in quite the same way as past monarchs, I’ll be very curious to see how public access to the Palace evolves.

In the meantime, if you’re in London during the summer season and share even 10% of my completely reasonable fascination with the Royal Family, GO.

By the end of the trip, our suitcases were heavier, our bank accounts were lighter, and “Will this fit in my carry-on?” had become our guiding principle.

In other words, it was perfect.

And are Maggie and I already discussing another trip across the Pond?

You bet we are.

Because apparently I am good at girls’ trips.

I just require fewer spa robes and more antiques.

Dramatically Yours,

Stacy

Ladies and gentlemen of impeccable taste,

I hereby call this meeting of the Caftan Committee to order.

If you’re joining us for the first time, welcome. The Committee exists for one very important purpose: settling life’s delightfully unnecessary questions with entirely too much thought and absolutely no shame.

Each week, I present a matter of great importance. You weigh in with your opinions, recommendations, strong convictions, and the occasional passionate disagreement. The following week, I return with the official Committee Meeting Notes.

After all, no debate is too trivial if it has the potential to make life a little lovelier.

Now then…

The Matter Before the Committee: Chocolate Chip Cookies

You may remember that a few weeks ago I confessed one of my many unrealistic fantasies: becoming the sort of woman who casually delivers homemade chocolate chip cookies with a beautifully calligraphed note signed simply, “Love, Stacy.”

Naturally, before I can become that woman, I need to know one very important thing.

Whose recipe deserves the honor?

So I posed the question to the Caftan Committee:

Who makes the very best chocolate chip cookie?

The Committee did not disappoint. Here are the official findings:

CAKE MIX CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES : Apparently, the secret ingredient is… a box of yellow cake mix. I have questions, but I also have zero self-control around anything involving cake mix. This may be the easiest recipe on the list, which means it has already moved suspiciously high in my rankings.

Click Here for Recipe

BROWN BUTTER CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES: I should have known America’s Test Kitchen would make our list. That show. I swear. I can watch it for hours and walk away fully convinced I, too, am capable of deboning a turkey, tempering chocolate, and making laminated pastry from scratch. They are dangerously persuasive.

Click Here for Recipe

NEIMAN MARCUS CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE: A forever classic. No notes.

Click Here for Recipe

MAMA KELCE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES: Several members of the Committee have informed me that this recipe is so good it’s going to make me lose my religion.

A bold claim. I will, of course, be investigating immediately.

Click Here for Recipe

BARBARA BUSH’S CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE: According to one Committee member, the oats make these practically a health food.

And frankly, I don’t see any reason to challenge that logic.

Click Here for Recipe

MARTHA VS INA: It was close but Martha pulled it out in the end with winning the most votes.

Click Here for Recipe

As for me, I plan to spend the next few weeks baking my way through the Committee’s recommendations in the name of journalism.

I’ll report back with my findings.

Before we adjourn, may I ask one small favor?

If you’ve been enjoying The Chit Chat, would you share it with a friend? Every new member makes the Caftan Committee a little wiser, a little funnier, and considerably more qualified to settle life’s delightfully unnecessary questions.

Share

Until then, the Committee stands adjourned and will reconvene next week to consider a new question for the good of the order.

Dramatically yours,

Stacy

Before we begin, I feel it’s important to disclose the following:

• My children fought and whined with remarkable consistency.

• These photos do not begin to capture the level of heat, perspiration, or general exhaustion.

• And yet…I’d still rather parent in Europe than at home.

Madrid

Now, for what may be the snootiest thing I’ve ever admitted publicly.

I think I’m a little…over the big European city.

(With the notable exception of London, which, in my opinion, can do no wrong.)

Maybe it’s just me, but so many of them are starting to feel a bit homogeneous. Don’t misunderstand me—I will happily spend a few days wandering Rome or Paris. But if I were choosing a destination from scratch? I’m not sure they’d make the list anymore.

It’s difficult to feel transported by another culture when you’re standing outside a Five Guys staring at two thousand years of history.

Perhaps this is simply the inevitable side effect of globalization. Or perhaps my inner socialite has become insufferably particular.

Either way, Madrid and I never quite clicked.

_{(The House of Harvie never met an audio guide we didn’t love)}

To be fair, we stayed in a very tourist-heavy part of the city, and I suspect that colored my opinion. If I were planning another visit, I’d skip the center entirely and stay in Salamanca instead.

That’s where Madrid finally felt like itself.

The kind of neighborhood where people seem to stroll simply because it’s a pleasant thing to do. It’s polished without feeling precious, and houses El Retiro Park and the Prado—two places I absolutely loved.

If Madrid gets a second chance from me, Salamanca will be getting the reservation.

A few very notable highlights from our time in Madrid:

• Palacio Real de Madrid and the Royal Collection Gallery next door are absolutely worth your time. The collection is extraordinary, from centuries-old silks and tapestries to royal carriages and decorative arts. I was especially fascinated by the incredible paint techniques throughout the palace, and, naturally, the chandeliers. You all know I wasn’t walking past those without stopping.

  

• We also booked this kid-friendly Tapas Tour, and it may have been my favorite thing we did in Madrid. Beyond eating very well (always a priority), it was fascinating to hear a local explain not just what Spaniards eat, but how meals fit into everyday life and why the traditions matter. I would recommend it without hesitation.

• As we do on every trip, we also booked a one-hour session with Flytographer. They are definitely an investment, but here’s my philosophy: someday my children will look back at these photos and remember our adventures together. I’ll look back and remember that I was once skinny in beautiful European cities with excellent lighting. We all have our priorities.

  

  

  _{(These candids the photographer got of me and the kids obsessing over the massive magnolias will FOREVER be a favorite of mine)}

• El Rastro Market (Sundays): I desperately wanted to love it. After all, who doesn’t enjoy wandering a bustling European market pretending they’re about to stumble upon a forgotten masterpiece for €12?

  Unfortunately, I found it to be a crowded, open-air disappointment. Yes, it’s enormous, but booth after booth seemed to be selling the same block-printed dresses, mass-produced souvenirs, and the kind of trinkets you could find in just about any tourist market.

  The real treasures, in my opinion, are the shops lining the surrounding streets. That’s where we found a handful of interesting antiques and vintage pieces, and while there weren’t many screaming bargains, the shopping there more than redeemed the trip. If you go, I’d spend less time weaving through the market stalls and more time ducking into the permanent shops nearby.

• And finally, my favorite travel tradition I shared on Instagram: I always buy a fragrance at the beginning of a trip and wear it every single day while I’m there. Then I bring it home. Months later, I’ll spray it on an otherwise ordinary day, and suddenly I’m back wandering cobblestone streets, eating tapas far too late, and wondering whether I really need another antique market. Scent has a remarkable way of preserving memories, and it’s become my favorite souvenir to bring home. The oldest pharmacy in Madrid was a perfect place to get this treasure.

Next week, I’ll give you more information than you care for on Seville—the city that completely stole my heart and may have permanently ruined me for everywhere else.

I love errands. Like, love running errands. Hand me a list, let me map the most efficient route across town, and I’ll attack it with the precision of an air traffic controller. Peak productivity is my version of cocaine.

I spent part of this week making a list of all the little things I’ve been putting off, and I am genuinely excited to start crossing them off. Nothing glamorous. Just deeply satisfying. In case you need a little motivation to make your own list, here’s mine:

• Consign the dresses that no longer fit. They deserve someone with fewer late-night cookies.

• Find a laundry service to help keep up with bedding and towels. I am far too embarrassed to tell you how infrequently the sheets are changed around here. As Lady of the Manor, I feel this situation requires immediate intervention.

• Replace the lamp bases on a pair I found on Facebook Marketplace for an absolute song. They’re currently black, and it’s throwing off every lampshade I try. I have a sneaking suspicion a softer wood finish will solve the entire identity crisis.

• Get our Spain prints framed. We picked up a handful of charming posters and art prints on our trip, and they’ve been leaning against the wall waiting for their moment ever since.

I am practically foaming at the mouth just looking at this list. Nothing gives me quite the same thrill as turning a pile of lingering to-dos into a series of completed checkmarks.

• Obviously I’m going to need a new nightgown to properly enjoy lounging in my freshly laundered sheets. It would be irresponsible not to complete the experience.

• We started the latest season of The Bear this week (no spoilers, please!), and is it just me, or are Jeremy Allen White’s eyes somehow even bluer this season? I’m not complaining. I’m simply reporting my findings.

• I’m working on a little project that sent me down a delightful pen-and-stamp rabbit hole this week. Naturally, this resulted in ordering a few new pens and several pages of these fun birthday stamps. One can never be too prepared for correspondence.

Confession: I’ve been keeping a secret.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been working on a little collection of embroidered pillows, and I simply couldn’t wait any longer to share them.

I wanted The Chit Chat to have first access before I unleash them upon Instagram.

Whether you’re spending your Saturdays antiquing or firmly believe every respectable home should have a designated dog’s spot, I think these will make you smile.

They’re available on the website now. I hope they find their way onto the sofa of someone who appreciates a little good taste, good humor, and a healthy amount of ruffle.

Shop Now

Shop Now

As you may have seen in my last Substack or on Instagram, I’ve launched a little group called The Caftan Committee. Rather than one person pretending to have all the answers, we’re going to crowdsource the wisdom of delightfully tasteful people. Everyone is welcome to join.

Committee members, the floor is now open for discussion. Please submit your recommendations below, and I’ll return next week with the official Caftan Committee Meeting Notes—a completely unofficial document carrying absolutely no authority, yet somehow all the authority.

Start Survey

Wishing you all a fabulous weekend…

Dramatically yours,

Stacy

She’s the sort of person who casually arrives at your front door with a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies wrapped in crisp cellophane and tied with a satin ribbon. Tucked beneath the bow is an exquisitely hand-lettered gift tag that simply reads:

“With love, Stacy.”

The recipient gasps.

“Ohhhhh… how thoughtful!”

Then, after admiring the card for a suspiciously long time:

“And look at this handwriting! She must have attended finishing school in Switzerland.”

This, unfortunately, is the life I have constructed in my imagination.

So when Lowery’s Dial hosted a beginner lettering workshop taught by my friend Kate O’Connor, I naturally assumed I was one two-hour class away from becoming this woman.

Armed with the nectar of the gods, I took my seat, ready to acquire a whole new personality. Kate explained that beautiful lettering isn’t really about drawing pretty letters. It’s all in the pressure. Press firmly on the downstrokes. Ease up on the upstrokes. Simple enough… in theory.

We started by tracing strokes and practicing the basic shapes with before moving into individual letters.

The straight letters? We became acquainted.

The round letters? They filed a restraining order.

It turns out making a graceful lowercase “a” requires a level of coordination I apparently reserve for opening pickle jars.

Still, I absolutely loved it. There’s something wonderfully satisfying about slowing down long enough to practice a skill that serves absolutely no practical purpose whatsoever… except making ordinary things feel a little more beautiful.

I also learned something else.

The truly fancy ladies have probably been outsourcing this sort of thing for decades.

If you’ve ever considered taking a lettering class, I couldn’t recommend Kate’s enough. You’ll leave with a new appreciation for beautiful handwriting…

…and, if you’re anything like me, an overwhelming desire to hire her to address your Christmas cards.

Dramatically yours,

Stacy

The Caftan Committee is our delightfully opinionated panel of readers, gathered to crowdsource life’s most important questions!!

Last week about took me out.

The last week of school…the most hopeful week of the year for me. Every year, when I drive out of that carpool line for the first time, I tell myself, THIS is the summer we’re going to show all other summers WHO. IS. BOSS.

I’m talking about a damn Country Time Lemonade commercial kind of summer. Bikes with baskets. Catching lightning bugs. The kids helping me snap green beans we secured from a local farm stand while I carry them home in a perfect French straw tote.

Only one problem: I don’t like summer.

I, however, ADORE summering.

summering (SUHM-er-ing)
verb (socialite dialect)

1. The refined practice of temporarily relocating to a more glamorous destination for the season under the guise of “escaping the heat,” while dedicating oneself to long lunches, expertly avoiding direct sunlight, and insisting that natural fibers are non-negotiable.

2. To spend the summer exactly as one imagines a slightly dramatic heiress from 1963 might: wearing caftans before noon, maintaining that perspiration is fundamentally incompatible with elegance, and treating antique shopping as a cultural activity.

3. The art of avoiding unnecessary hardship during the warmest months of the year by replacing outdoor exertion with beautiful hotels, excellent pastries, and a well-timed afternoon rest.

Which is particularly convenient because we’re leaving for Spain this week. Madrid and Seville, to be exact. (Recommendations for any and all shopping and eating establishments are appreciated!)

Here is what I am mentally packing:

• Three caftans for every actual day of the trip.
  One for breakfast, one for sightseeing, and one in case the first two fail to communicate the appropriate level of Mediterranean glamour.

  

• A folding hand fan.
  Not because I expect to be hot. Because I deserve to punctuate conversations dramatically.

• A dedicated “souvenir allowance” tote bag.
  Reserved exclusively for antique finds, beautiful Spanish ceramics, and purchases I will later describe as “practically free considering the exchange rate.”

• A chic pill organizer containing mostly antacids and Advil.
  Because apparently, I have arrived at that stage of life.

• A wide-brimmed hat large enough to qualify as portable shade.

• A silk scarf for looking inexplicably chic while doing something profoundly unglamorous, like wiping flan off my 5-year-old’s chin.

Wishing you all a summer that feels less like survival and more like summering. May your hats be oversized, your lunches unhurried, and your perspiration minimal.

Before we go, a question for the Caftan Committee (which I have apparently decided is what we're calling ourselves): What completely unnecessary but deeply fabulous item are you packing for your own summering adventure?

The first call I made after we bought the house was to my friend and fabulous designer, Rachel Cobbs of Old Line Home.

Now, let’s address a few things right away.

I’m not entirely sure what this says about me, but I seem to have accumulated more friends on Instagram than I have in real life. So when I say “friend,” what I really mean is that I had been following Rachel’s work for years and was thrilled to finally move from “woman I…(ahem)… aggressively admire on Instagram” to “woman helping me spend alarming amounts of money.”

I’ve had quite a few people ask why I hired a designer, often suggesting that I could have done it myself.

I can pick wallpaper and fabric. I can style a bookshelf within an inch of its life. I can decorate a room.

What I cannot do is design a space.

I think it’s important to explain the difference.

Decorators make a room beautiful. Designers also make a room beautiful but also design how a home functions. They understand flow, scale, layouts, and how people move through a space. They have big thoughts about where electrical outlets should go and how lighting affects a room.

I, on the other hand, would happily live my entire life without ever having an opinion about electrical outlets. Ask me about fabric trim? I am your girl. Ask me where an outlet should go? I sincerely hope everyone involved makes the right choice.

Beyond that, I desperately needed a project manager—someone to keep both me and an entire team of professionals moving in the same direction. I am doing exceptionally well if everyone in this house is fed and no one needs a permission slip signed. Managing a renovation team was simply beyond what my brain could handle.

Lastly—and perhaps most importantly—if I'm going to #BankruptBruce, I prefer to do so under expert supervision. If the man is going to sit at the kitchen island reviewing our credit card statements with the thousand-yard stare of a war veteran, I would at least like beautiful millwork, excellent lighting, and a highly functional floor plan to show for it.

I recognize what an incredible luxury this is, and I don’t take it for granted. Having someone hold your hand and guide you through one of the largest investments you’ll ever make is perhaps the ultimate form of self-care. Apparently, middle age is realizing that having someone manage your renovation is more exciting than a spa day.

Bruce and I knew when we bought the house that the kitchen would need attention fairly quickly. While it’s generously sized, the layout was awkward and didn’t quite support the kind of entertaining home we both envisioned.

Rachel immediately got to work, presenting ideas and possibilities that somehow managed to translate the jumbled collection of thoughts in my head into actual plans. Her concepts were exactly what I had hoped for.

I am telling you, this woman is the Fairy Godmother of Design. It's like finding the world's most patient big sister—someone who rubs your back, tells you your ideas are wonderful, and occasionally has to explain that one of them will absolutely kill your husband. Honestly, what more could a girl want?

By the end of 2025, we had a plan. Or at least what felt like a plan.

The kitchen was taking shape on paper. We knew what we wanted. We knew what needed to change. We had Pinterest boards, floor plans, and enough fabric samples to upholster a small nation.

What we didn’t have was any idea whether our vision was structurally possible, financially responsible, or likely to send Bruce into cardiac arrest.

Which is where the architect came in.

And that, dear readers, is when things started getting really expensive.

Please and Thank You…

I am convinced "good bones" has become the decorating world's emotional support phrase. Every chipped dresser, every wobbly side table, every questionable Facebook Marketplace find apparently has good bones. At this point, if a piece of furniture has four legs and remains mostly upright, someone will describe it as having good bones.

So I'd like to formally retire the phrase. Going forward, furniture may be elegant, well-built, beautifully proportioned, or structurally blessed. But "good bones" has served its sentence and is free to go.

If You Ask Me…

I’ve spent this week thinking about marbled lampshades with the intensity most people reserve for retirement planning.

Part of the reason is that they’re among the first things I listed on the website I finally finished building. There is now an actual place on the internet where actual people can buy actual things from me, which feels like a significant achievement for someone whose professional expertise is primarily antique shopping.

To those of you who regularly use words like “domain forwarding” and “payment processing,” this may not seem particularly impressive. To me, it feels like I’ve successfully launched a space shuttle.

If you've enjoyed hearing me carry on about these lampshades, you can now see what all the fuss is about.

Shop Lampshades Here

Out and About…

• I can't decide whether I like Widow's Bay. Every time I finish an episode I think, "Well, that was odd." Then I sit right back down and watch another one. At this point, I may not be a fan so much as a participant in an ongoing experiment.

• I want to say a quiet prayer to God and a shout out to whoever brought matching sets back. There are days when coordinating separates feels unnecessarily ambitious. I noticed a few cute sets here.

The Caftan Committee

At the end of each week’s newsletter, I will be calling the Caftan Committee to order.

The idea is simple: rather than one person sharing her favorite things, we’re going to crowdsource the collective wisdom of a group of fabulous women with strong opinions and excellent taste. Each week, I’ll ask a question. The following week, I’ll report back with the official Caftan Committee Meeting Notes.

And if you need a quick reminder from our opening charter, this is a judgment-free zone. Whether your favorite bed linens come from a luxury hotel collection or aisle seven at Target, we welcome all recommendations.

So let’s begin.

Caftan Committee Question #1: What are your favorite bed linens?

Brands, sheets, pillowcases, duvets, secret sources, wildly strong opinions—I want to hear all of it in captions!!!

Dramatically yours,

Stacy

“Absolutely not. I cannot stand that arched transom window above the front door.”

Those were my first words to Bruce when we pulled up to the house. Not exactly the glowing endorsement one hopes for when shopping for a forever home.

The problem was that I had a very specific vision. I was convinced our next house needed to be a center hall colonial built before the 1950s. The trouble? Around here, those houses come with a few challenges:

1. There aren’t many of them in the neighborhoods we wanted.

2. The ones we found had postage-sized backyards.

3. The ones with decent backyards often require a second mortgage and perhaps the sale of a kidney.

But a hard head is a hard head.

Despite checking nearly every box on our wish list, we walked away determined to find some mythical diamond in the rough.

The thing about secondhand shoppers, though, is that we’re trained to spot a bargain. We can smell potential from three zip codes away. So when the price dropped a few weeks later, we went back for another look.

Bruce, in what history will likely record as a moment of tremendous patience, looked at me and said:

“You’re going to have to get over yourself about the window. This house is perfect.”

To which I replied:

“Only if I can redo the entire first floor of the house and commission a custom pinch pleat chandelier for the foyer using the most expensive fabric I can find.”

“Sure.”

And that, unfortunately, was the moment I discovered my new favorite word: commission.

There is something deeply satisfying about saying you’re commissioning something. It sounds like you own a yacht and have strong opinions about thread count.

Before this house, I bought things. Now I commission them.

I have commissioned a chandelier. I have commissioned window treatments. At this rate, I am one Tuesday away from commissioning a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Bruce, please inform the kitchen I would like to commission lunch.”

Looking back, this should have been everyone’s first warning sign.

Because that conversation was not only how we bought the house but was also how I launched my one-woman campaign to #BankruptBruce.

(And before anyone feels sorry for him, let the record show that Bruce is fully in on the joke. In fact, he was downright delighted when a woman rolled down her car window after church one Sunday and yelled, “BANKRUPT BRUCE!” as we walked by. Y’all really are my people.)

We knew from day one that the house would need work. It was dated. Very dated.

To make it fit our family—and, more importantly, my extremely specific opinions—we were going to have to reimagine quite a few things. And so began the process of a renovation.

The house needed vision. I needed a chandelier. Bruce needed a stronger veto.

I am a joy to be married to, let me tell you.

But after several unnecessary emotional events, I finally landed on it:

The Chit Chat.

Because I wanted a place that feels less like a publication and more like chatting at the dining table long after the meal has ended. A conversation with your slightly unhinged best friend. The kind who romanticizes stationery, has very strong opinions about tablecloths, and believes life was more glamorous when women carried pocketbooks instead of crossbody bags full of receipts.

Around here, we will discuss the little rituals of yesterday…the things we inherited from our grandmothers. We will talk about hostess gowns and handwritten notes and why nobody keeps hard candies in crystal bowls anymore. We will mourn the death of good manners while simultaneously showing up ten minutes late with wet hair and a Diet Coke.

This is a judgment-free zone.

In fact, before we go any further, I feel it is important to establish the official House Rules of The Chit Chat.

1. We use the good china for no reason at all.

2. We do not apologize for caring deeply about beautiful, unnecessary things.

3. Tarnished silver is considered evidence of a life well lived.

4. A caftan counts as getting dressed.

5. We reserve the right to romanticize absolutely everything.

6. Nobody here is required to be cool, minimal, or emotionally detached.

7. We speak kindly to ourselves (even if we embark in a questionable bangs-cutting-moment).

8. Handwritten notes will always beat a text message.

9. Good stories are more important than spotless houses.

10. We fully support using antique stemware for Diet Coke.

11. Overhead lighting will only be used when searching for an earring back or a tax document.

12. We choose CHARM over PERFECTION.

So come on in. Ignore the pile of home decor magazines on the chair. The ice is clinking, the stories are waiting, and I already saved you a seat.

Dramatically Yours,

Stacy

(P.S. This will always be a free publication because charging admission to this level of unnecessary commentary just doesn’t feel right.)

This is Capitol Vintage Charm.

Subscribe now