Excitement in Bed

I moved into my four-car garage during the summer of 2002.

I didn't actually sleep out there, but I often saw the sun slide through what was supposed to be an airtight space, which the strip of cracked black rubber was meant to prevent cold and rain from entering. I had rigged about five radiant heaters to stop from freezing. I usually had a hot gun in my hands, but it was full of glue, and not bullets. I do not believe in violence, but I had recently discovered how one could easily be swayed.

MOST OF THE MAJOR EVENTS THAT HAVE SHAPED THE DIRECTION OF MY LIFE seem to have occurred by accident: my college drift from sociology into journalism; my son's insistence in making his way into the world; my novels' emergence because I was nosy and overly curious and ultimately perplexed that I had no answers as to why we do what we do to each other. And then there are the men I've loved, who all could have been the exact same person, save for a few variables, and who all should have come with a warning: "Hazardous to Your Health" or "Other Hidden Costs."

I DID NOT SET OUT TO BECOME A HIP, BLACK VERSION OF MARTHA STEWART, but long before I would ever touch a glue gun, or discover how to resurrect old sheets by dipping them into a bucket of dye, or press thousands of glass beads against the skin of lampshades, or thread copper pearls, or watch orange, purple and cobalt blue sand cascade through my fingers, it started with spray paint.

I was researching how the main character of a novel I had begun was making unorthodox and funky chandeliers. But, within pages, I realized that she would probably not be satisfied with just one kind of creation, so I had her pump up the volume on old hats by simply adding something new to something old. I let her perform surgery on homely pillows. Of course, I had never done any of the things I was describing, and it seemed like cheating or, at least, inauthentic. So I decided to take a little trip into Michaels.

I had never been in a craft store in my life. The word "craft" in and of itself sounded corny, and "store" right after it always made me think of little old ladies who made those quilted and ruffled scrapbooks that screamed "I'm bored out of my mind, and this is all I could think of to do!" At Michaels, a fake forest of dried flowers greeted me -- and gave me the creeps. There was too much of everything, and I did not know what I was looking for, but it wouldn't take long before I would be giving directions to clueless newcomers.

I WAS ABOUT TO EMBARK ON A MUCH-NEEDED SOJOURN away from home and husband, since I had recently discovered -- by accident -- that he had been stealing money from my personal checking account. This news had come at a very bad time. I had a fast-approaching deadline for my novel. My son was graduating from high school in less than a month. I was writing the commencement speech, which I had been talked into giving, and throwing a party for more than 200 seniors.

I decided to drive to a higher altitude to think clearly, 175 miles from the San Francisco Bay area up to my totally earthy, A-frame mountain home in Lake Tahoe, 6,500 feet above sea level. I needed an escape from other unpleasant issues: yet another increased adjustable mortgage payment; a giant weeping willow that had cracked in half and landed in the pool -- no one having a clue whom to call; two giant schnauzers for whom I had been chosen foster parent and then, unbeknownst to me, primary caregiver. Both treated the lawn furniture stuffing like Happy Meals and turned the back yard into a sea of white clouds. There was the walk-in aviary right outside the kitchen window, home to more than 60 lovebirds and big, fat parakeets whose feathers would float into my mouth while I talked on the phone or into my nostrils when I washed dishes. There were swelling doors and dual-paned windows fogging from apparent condensation, and a sprinkler system that had an underground leak "somewhere" that would cost $31,000 or $24,000 or $9,000, depending on how I wanted to "manage" it, and which was causing a rushing river along the curb down to the end of our block. All these problems were mine alone to resolve.

AT THE MOUNTAIN HOUSE, I noticed that years of strong sunlight had yellowed the plastic plates on just about every light switch, from the loft down two flights to what was referred to as the "game room," even though we had never played any down there. What had always been a beautiful mountain retreat now seemed to have a new, tacky component I never expected to see, which I suppose could be called wear and tear, but it felt more like decay. It seemed urgent.

Off to the hardware store I went.

Because the ceiling in the loft and "great room" were pine, I bought too many maple light plates to match but was told by a checker who looked like she was in high school that the oil from human fingers would stain the wood. "You should spray them with Varathane if you want to see the grain of the wood, or just paint over them," she advised.

" Paint over them? Who would ever think of doing that?"