Confessions of a Christopher Lowell Addict

Dana Chrysler

It started innocently. Home from work one afternoon, I surfed TV stations, trying to take my mind off the five loads of laundry waiting to be folded. I switched channels aimlessly until I came upon a bearded guy in a tomato-red shirt, smoothing his hand over the contours of a plum, velvet sofa. "Is this FAB-u-lous? We love this! Now, don't go away, we'll be right back with more FAB-u-lous interiors here on the Christopher Lowell Show!"

My appetite was whetted (I've since learned--a dangerous sign). I put the remote down and waited for more. When he returned from the commercial break, I sat spellbound and slack-jawed as the crimson-clad fount of charisma bounded around the set, refinished furniture, and placed lush, potted plants in places I never imagined. I wanted more.

As he fluffed the last tapestry-covered pillow, I oohed and aahed with his appreciative audience. Finally, he turned to me and spoke earnestly, "You know, your home is an expression of yourself, a place to be completely you. All it takes is a little imagination, a little courage, and YOU CAN DO IT!" I know he looked directly into my eyes, but was I mistaken . . . or did he say my name?

I was hooked.

I began to look for every opportunity to see more of Christopher. I videotaped his daily shows, hastily preparing dinner for my family so I could be left undisturbed. Night after night, I sat mesmerized before the TV screen. I was inspired, humored, supported, and encouraged.

The changes were subtle at first. A vibrant, green fern replaced the artificial mauve roses in my living room. An uplight behind my fichus tree. Soon I was moving furniture and grouping art. I found myself humming while arranging candles and photos in new settings.

It was plain to see that I was becoming the woman I was truly meant to be. Why couldn't my family see it, too?

That Christmas, I gave 146 lace-trimmed sachets to everyone from my mother to the garbage man. It didn't matter that my husband had to pry the hot-glue gun from my paralyzed right hand; I had found my life's calling.

With disciple-like devotion, I memorized Christopher's "Seven Layers of Design" and began dispensing decorating advice with authority. While having my teeth cleaned, I informed the hygenist, "You should paint your waiting room 'Latte Lavender.' It has a calming effect." To my daughter's piano teacher, I counseled, "'Pumpkin Pie' would be a fabulous color for your dining room. It creates intimacy, you know."

Then came the fateful day my addiction caught up with me. I remember it well. I had painted and wallpapered the bedroom, draped tasseled curtains over the windows, and faux-finished the nightstands. My husband arrived home from work and found me in a fume-induced stupor, stumbling over the drop cloths. A tassel hanging from my left ear, I muttered, "Is the ceiling supposed to be two shades lighter or two shades darker than the walls?"

My bewildered husband, hand outstretched, moved slowly toward me as if I were a suicide bomber. Bug-eyed, I grabbed his shirt collar, pulled his terrified face within inches of mine, and wailed, "You don't understand! Christopher says 'no white ceilings'!"

The rest is pretty much a blur.

I'm in recovery now. Every week I meet with a group of women who--like myself--went over the Christopher-Lowell-edge. We try to find meaning from our bizarre experiences, knowing we will never be completely cured.

Every now and then, I smear my husband with a lovely shade of 'Steamed Oatmeal', drape a lace tablecloth over his head, and finish him off with crown moulding. Sweaty and shaking, I awake. Another Christopher Lowell nightmare.