https://www.facebook.com/117160501382782/

Maya Gaming, (617) 361-1986 91 Safford Street Hyde Park, Massachusetts(MA), Los Angeles, CA (2026)

06/04/2026

We almost didn't make it this year, me and Glen. Twenty three years of marriage and somewhere around last fall it got so bad I was sleeping in the guest room and he was spending every evening in the garage not building anything just sitting there with the radio on staring at the wall. We stopped talking about anything real. Just logistics. Who's picking up the groceries, did you pay the electric bill, your mother called. Two people running a household like coworkers who don't particularly like each other.
Then his aunt Patsy mentioned she wanted a birdhouse for her garden. Simple request from a sweet 78 year old woman who still feeds every bird in her zip code. Glen said he'd build it and I watched him go out to the garage that night and for the first time in months I heard actual sawing and hammering instead of just silence and talk radio. A few days later he came inside with sawdust in his hair holding this beautiful rustic frame and he looked at me and said "it needs something, I don't know what." It was the most honest thing he'd said to me in weeks. He was asking for my help. That was a door and I walked through it.
I started adding the wood strip details, the white board and batten siding on the side. Found this gorgeous vintage style door plate with a crystal k**b from a hardware crafter on the Tedooo app and screwed it on under the entry hole because every home deserves a proper front door, even a bird's. I painted and distressed the whole thing while Glen held pieces steady for me and we didn't talk about us or the fighting or the guest room. We just worked. His hands holding the wood while mine brushed paint over it, our shoulders touching at the workbench for the first time in months.
Aunt Patsy cried when she unwrapped it. Said it looked like a little farmhouse from a storybook. She didn't know it was also the thing that made her nephew and his stubborn wife remember they're better together than apart. I've been selling custom birdhouses through my shop on the Tedooo app since then because it turns out people really want handmade garden pieces with character. Glen cuts the frames, I do the finishing. We're back in the same bedroom and the garage finally sounds like something's being built again.

06/04/2026

What do u think? I'm not thrilled, any suggestions?
My mom was a painter for 42 years before Parkinson's took away her steady hands last spring. These paint cans were sitting in her garage, waiting to be thrown away when I visited last month. I couldn't bear to see them go - each one holds memories of projects we worked on together, murals she painted in our childhood bedrooms, and the countless times I watched her transform blank walls into works of art.
So I brought them home and turned them into this little garden. The ladder was Dad's - he passed three years ago. Mom cried when she saw the photos of what I'd done with their things.
I'm not thrilled with how it turned out though. The plants aren't thriving like I hoped, and something feels off about the arrangement. I ordered some handmade wind chimes from this amazing artist on the Tedooo app to hang from the ladder, hoping they might add something special, but I'm still not sure.
Any suggestions on how to make this memorial garden feel more cohesive? I want to honor their creativity in a way that would make them both proud.

06/04/2026

My wedding dress didn't arrive in time and I completely lost it at 6am on my wedding day, sitting on my childhood bedroom floor in my underwear having what can only be described as a full breakdown. Three months of planning this backyard ceremony and the dress I ordered was stuck somewhere in Ohio with no delivery date. The ceremony started in four hours.
My mom found me like that and disappeared into her closet without saying anything. Came back holding this yellowed garment bag I'd never seen before. Inside was her wedding dress from 1967, cream-colored with the most incredible embroidered flowers down the front in colors that still looked vibrant. Bishop sleeves, simple cut, absolutely perfect. She said she'd been saving it for me since I was little but never wanted to push it on me.
When I tried it on it fit like it was made for me, except some of the embroidery had worn thin in spots and the shoulders were faded unevenly. My aunt reinforced the weak stitching in about twenty minutes, but we needed something for those shoulders. My cousin remembered she'd bought vintage floral patches on Tedooo app last month from someone who sells 1960s craft supplies, thinking she'd use them for a quilt. We stitched them onto the shoulders as accents and suddenly the dress looked intentional, not just old. Mom ordered a preservation kit later from another seller there so we can store it properly for whoever's next.
I wore my mother's dress with a flower crown from our garden, married my person under the oak tree in our backyard, and the whole day felt more authentic than anything I'd planned. When my original dress showed up four days later I returned it unopened, because what I really needed had been hanging in my mom's closet for sixty years waiting for me.

06/04/2026

I found this metal garden sculpture at an estate sale for twelve dollars and I can't stop crying every time I look at it.
The sale was last Saturday. I almost didn't go because estate sales feel like picking through someone's life when they can't say no anymore. But I've been trying to find things for my mother's memory garden, the one I'm building in my backyard from her saved seeds and plants.
She died four months ago. Cancer. The last thing she said to me was take care of my garden, like I was capable of keeping anything alive when I could barely keep myself standing.
I've been going to estate sales looking for garden decorations, things that feel like her. Saw this in the corner of someone's garage, all rusty metal and turquoise glass beads catching the light. The woman running the sale said it belonged to her mother who passed last year, that she'd made it herself from scrap metal and old jewelry.
I asked how much and she said twelve dollars, then started crying. Said her mother had spent thirty years collecting the beads, that she'd put this sculpture in her garden and would sit next to it every evening with her coffee.
I bought it and put it in my trunk and had to pull over two blocks away because I was sobbing so hard I couldn't see to drive.
It's in my mother's garden now, right next to the tulips I planted from her saved bulbs. The beads catch the morning light the same way my mother's eyes used to when she'd show me something beautiful she'd found.
Someone on Tedooo app messaged me asking if I knew where they could find something similar. Turns out there's this whole community of people who make memorial garden art from reclaimed materials there. I ended up commissioning a smaller piece from someone there, using beads from my mother's old jewelry box.
But this one, the estate sale find, this stays exactly where it is. It's not just mine. It belonged to someone else's mother first, someone who also loved gardens and made beautiful things and left behind people who didn't know what to do with all that beauty.
I'm keeping both mothers' gardens alive now, mine and this stranger's. Their sculptures standing together, their beads catching light, their daughters trying to figure out how to keep growing things when the people who taught us are gone

06/03/2026

My daughter announced her engagement last month, and when she mentioned a vintage garden wedding, my stomach dropped. We'd already maxed out the credit cards just keeping the lights on since my hours got cut at work.
Made this dress from a damaged vintage wall hanging originally bought in a second-hand shop in Bath, England and then bought by me from a de-stash site here in Oz. The fabric is the most beautiful quality delustred cotton sateen and the buckle is from my stash of vintage buckles and buttons.
I found this wall hanging listed for $15 on a destash group, water-stained and torn at the corner. The seller was clearing out her late mother's craft room, said she just wanted things to go to someone who'd appreciate them. When it arrived, I nearly cried - underneath the damage was this incredible hand-printed cotton from the 1950s, birds and flowers so detailed you could see individual feathers.
That night, I spread it across my kitchen table, moving my coffee mug around to find the best sections. My husband watched from the doorway, didn't say anything about the bills piled up next to my sewing machine. He knew what this meant to me. What it meant to her.
The buckle came from a lot I'd bought on Tedooo app months ago when I still had dreams of starting my own vintage clothing business. Funny how life gets in the way. I'd been reselling pieces here and there just to make ends meet, but this buckle - art deco, heavy brass - I'd kept it hidden in my special drawer.
Three weeks of sewing after my shifts, fingers cramping, back aching from hunching over my old Singer. Some nights I'd fall asleep at the machine, wake up with thread marks on my cheek. My daughter would bring me tea, rub my shoulders, never asking if I was sure about this.
When she tried it on yesterday, the morning light caught those metallic threads in the birds' wings. She stood there in our cluttered living room, transformed. "Mom," she whispered, "it's more beautiful than anything we looked at in the boutiques."
Her father cleared his throat, had to leave the room. Later I found him in the garage, looking at the photos from our own wedding thirty years ago. Me in my mother's altered dress, him in his borrowed suit. "She looks just like you did," he said quietly.
Sometimes love isn't about what you can afford. Sometimes it's about taking

06/03/2026

I bought my daughter's deathbed at an estate sale for $200 and I don't know if that makes me crazy or finally ready to heal.

This massive brass canopy bed with ornate posts reaching toward the ceiling like a castle from a fairy tale. The kind a little girl dreams about, the kind my daughter begged for every birthday from age six until leukemia took her at thirteen.

We couldn't afford it then. Single mom working retail, barely keeping lights on, telling her "someday honey, when things are better" while she showed me magazine pictures of princess beds she'd never sleep in. She died in a hospital bed with metal rails and bleach-smell sheets, and I held her hand promising heaven would have the most beautiful bed ever.

That was eight years ago. I saw this at an estate sale last weekend and something broke in my chest. It was hers. Not literally, but it was every bed she'd wanted, every "someday" I couldn't give her, sitting in a warehouse waiting for me to make things right.

Bought it with savings I'd been hoarding for nothing. Hauled it to my tiny apartment where it takes up my entire bedroom. Set it up with white linens and the stuffed rabbit from her hospital room that somehow still smells like her.

My sister says it's morbid, weird to sleep in a bed I bought because my dead daughter wanted one. But I posted it in a grief group on Tedooo app and got 200 messages from parents who understood, who'd done similar things, who needed to know they weren't alone trying to give their dead children what they couldn't give them alive.

One mother runs a Tedooo shop creating memorial pieces from children's artwork. Another sells custom bedding, offered to make a canopy embroidered with my daughter's name. A father who lost his son bought his kid's dream car ten years later and drives it every Sunday to places they'd planned to go.

I'm sleeping in my daughter's dream bed at 46, trying to fill the hole she left by finally giving her what she wanted eight years too late. And somehow, under this ridiculous brass canopy, I'm crying less than I have in years.

She never got her princess bed. But I'm lying in it every night telling her about my day like I used to, and maybe that's enough. Maybe it's okay it took eight years to stop punishing myself by living in the emptiness.

My daughter died in a hospital wanting a fairy tale. I'm sleeping in her dream now, and it doesn't bring her back but it makes me feel closer to the life she should have had.

06/03/2026

444 pieces later, it's found its home in my kitchen door. My biggest so far. Love this craft!
I started counting glass pieces at three AM because I couldn't sleep and my therapist said I needed something to focus on besides the empty side of the bed.
Divorce at fifty-six means learning who you are when nobody's watching anymore. Means eating cereal for dinner and staying up until dawn thinking about all the things you were told you couldn't be.
My mother had peacocks in her garden when I was growing up. Not real ones, just statues and paintings, but she loved them. Said they represented transformation, showing your true colors even when people think you're too loud or too much. My ex hated them, said they were gaudy and tacky, so I stopped mentioning how much I missed seeing them.
After the divorce, I kept thinking about those peacocks. About how my mother never apologized for loving beautiful, bold things. How she died before I learned that lesson.
Found this woman on Tedooo app who does custom stained glass commissions. Sent her a message at two in the morning asking if she could make a peacock for my kitchen door. Something big and unapologetic and impossible to ignore. She wrote back an hour later saying her own mother had collected peacock figurines and she'd love to honor that.
Four hundred forty-four pieces of hand-cut glass. She sent me progress photos every week, asked my opinion on shades of blue, whether the tail feathers should curve or flow straight. Made me feel like I was part of creating something instead of just buying it.
The day it arrived, my daughter helped me install it. Said it was too much for a kitchen door, too fancy, too bold. That's exactly why I wanted it there. Because I'm done making myself smaller to fit into spaces that don't want me.
Morning light hits it around seven and throws blue shadows across my kitchen floor. I stand there with my coffee watching those colors move and I remember my mother's garden, remember who I was before I learned to dim myself.
Started my own small shop on Tedooo app last month, selling the watercolor paintings I used to hide in the closet. Nothing fancy yet, but people seem to like them.
My ex drove by last week, saw the peacock through the window. Texted saying it looked expensive.
Told him it was priceless. Didn't mention it cost less than one month of the therapy I needed after he left.

06/03/2026

My husband just finished this wood job and he made me promise to share it because the people he showed it to ignored him or brushed it off. He's been working on it for three months. Hand carved, every single curve. I need you guys to see this because the people in his life mostly just... didn't respond when he showed them.
Here's the thing. Seven years. Seven years I watched the man I married disappear into depression so deep he couldn't get out of bed, lost his job, stopped really talking to our kids. His therapist finally said to find something to work with your hands. So he started. Some days all he did was sand one leg for an hour and call it enough. But he kept showing up to that garage.
He taught himself from videos and a few woodworking groups on the Tedooo app where people actually talked back, answered his questions, didn't make him feel dumb for asking. He bought a special wood finish from a crafter on Tedooo who ended up texting with him for two days about technique. A stranger. More generous than half the family.
Three months later, this is what came out of that garage. When he showed his brothers and old friends, they left him on read. Just nothing. So he asked me to post it here, because he said "maybe people who make things will understand what this actually is."
This bench isn't furniture. It's proof that a person can come back from somewhere very dark, one day at a time, one wood shaving at a time. And the man I married is finally, finally home.

06/03/2026

Six months I planned this kitchen renovation. Six months of saving every penny, watching YouTube tutorials until my eyes burned, measuring twice and cutting once like my dad always said. The epoxy countertops were going to be the crown jewel of the whole project. I had ordered all the supplies from this amazing crafter on the Tedooo app who specializes in resin work, spent hours reading reviews and asking questions in their shop. This was supposed to be my masterpiece.
I mixed that epoxy so carefully, leveled everything perfect, even put up barriers to keep dust out while it cured. Set my alarm for every two hours to check on it because the instructions said the first twelve hours were critical. Everything looked flawless. Smooth as glass, reflecting the kitchen lights like a mirror.
Then I made the mistake of running to the store for coffee filters. Twenty minutes, maybe thirty tops. When I walked back into the kitchen, there was Princess Whiskers sitting on my freshly poured countertop like she owned the place. Just sitting there, tail swishing, looking at me like "what?" while her little paw prints decorated my beautiful work like some kind of modern art installation I never asked for.
I stood there holding that bag of coffee filters, trying to decide if I should laugh or cry. All that planning, all that money, and my cat decided to leave her signature on my kitchen before I could even make my first cup of coffee on it. The epoxy was still soft enough that her prints went deep, no fixing this without starting completely over.
My neighbor came by later and saw me staring at the counter. She said it looked intentional, like I had paid extra for custom paw print detailing. Maybe she was right. Maybe Princess Whiskers was just making sure everyone who visits knows exactly who runs this house. Either way, I cannot bring myself to redo it. Those little prints are staying put, reminding me that sometimes the most beautiful things in life come with a few imperfections.

06/03/2026

My sister texted me this photo yesterday with zero context and I genuinely thought she'd lost her mind. Turns out she spent three entire weekends painting traffic bollards outside her elementary school to look like giant pencils because "the kids deserve whimsy on their way to standardized testing."
She teaches fourth grade and makes $43,000 a year. She bought all the outdoor paint herself, got permission from exactly nobody, and just showed up at 6 AM on a Saturday with brushes and determination. The principal drove by mid-project, rolled down his window, stared for a solid thirty seconds, then just said "make sure you do the erasers" and drove off.
Now parents are stopping to take pictures every morning and the crossing guard says drop-off takes twice as long because everyone's obsessed with the pencil bollards. My sister's already planning her next guerrilla art installation and has been ordering her supplies from small makers on the Tedooo app, where she's found everything from specialty outdoor paints to custom stencils at prices that don't destroy her teacher budget, since they just sold there old or extra materials.
The school district sent her a formal letter last week. I was terrified they were going to make her remove them or fine her or something. Nope. They want her to paint the ones by the middle school next. She's asking for yellow and green this time. The woman is unstoppable and I've never been more proud of anyone in my entire life.

Maya Gaming

06/04/2026

06/04/2026

06/04/2026

06/04/2026

06/03/2026

06/03/2026

06/03/2026

06/03/2026

06/03/2026

06/03/2026

Address

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Featured

Share