Sadly it was not a randy compliment for his hot, ageless wife; it was a link to something on eBay, a very important thing that we needed in the bathroom:

A vintage magazine rack – billed at auction as “Hollywood Regency Glam,” the popular category of mostly 1950s interiors that are deliciously white, tackily mirrored or just plain over the top.

He knew I’d like it, but I had my concerns. It was brass and mirrored, which just plain breaks my zero tolerance for two-tone metals. And there was already mirror galore in there.

Last but not least, the bathroom is also our storm shelter – and I’m starting to have nightmares in which we’re huddled on tornado day dodging flying broken mirror.

But, no shocker – it really looks great. Anything that reflects my floors and holds the New Yorkers I’ll never get to is okay with me.

And here is another magazine holder.

Meet the hillbilly cousin to the big-racked glamor girl downstairs.

Looks aside, this one has seniority, because my grandpa made it – and though it was built as a tool box, I know he’d be tickled to see it by Josie’s bed, keeping all her late-night reads close at hand.

My grandfather, Toby, was the kindest man. He was born to Rumanian immigrant parents in North Dakota – some of the first Jewish homesteaders in the territory – and they had bitterly hard farm days.

50 years later he was a retired Chicago auto-supply dealer. Far from the plains, he still lived by a self-reliant waste not credo and is still the only man in my family who’d attempt to fix anything.

A week before my wedding he told me “I’m building you guys a tool box, Mar.”

Not like we used tools, but whatever. Did he want me to buy the wood?

“I got wood,” he said, already heading out back, “wood in the garage.”

Every single Toby project was made from old crates, loose boards, stray pipes, basement bits. Eventually, Greg and I came to call any cobbled-on-the-fly creation an IGW – I Got Wood. And you know what?

IGW beats a nice rack any day.

We discovered these beauties – unknowns! – in a lucky sale find at Target. The vanity was dismissive – such a diva – but she soon realized they would soften her age and show her in her best light.

Needless to say, they’re an ensemble cast from now on.

Am I the only one who loves anything a whole bunch more once it’s mirrored?

If you threw art deco, Victorian, disco, and grandma’s bathroom in a blender….

…this is what you’d get.

These lovelies have allowed me to fully embrace a latent matchy-matchy side I never saw coming. Who knew?

They really provide drama in the bathroom. Good drama.

Not the kind of bathroom drama you get from, say, the French onion soup and bacon quiche you ate four hours ago.

Oh, I’m so sorry for that.

But look…still some left!

And it’s good cold, too!

That’s butter floating on top of that soup, people.

Butter Soup. Now that’s some drama for you.

We live in northeastern Kansas – tornado country. Not quite at the center and not quite as severe as our neighbors in the fabled “Tornado Alley” – but still, a place where tornado watches and warnings are as regular as the morning paper.

An old structure was torn down to build our house, and it had a slab foundation. Since that foundation was in good shape, it made sense to build on it. But that would mean no basement – and in Kansas, from May to September, a basement is key.

And so began our problem-solving education in building an interior storm room.

Perhaps you can tell from my tone that I am, in fact, not from Kansas – I’m a Chicago transplant. My comfort zone includes sub-zero temperatures and snow, but not tornadoes. It is also worth noting that I am – how shall we say this – a weather worrier. And also a paranoid fraidy cat.

Real Kansans sit on the porch and watch the tornadoes roll in. Real Kansans go out to movies, shop at the Gap, swim, sip iced tea and generally enjoy life right up to and long after the moment a tornado siren goes off.

Not me. If there is a siren going off, I am already in the basement. I am holding the dog by her collar, weather radio to my ear and one eye on the TV, awaiting the weather woman’s guidance and sure of our imminent demise.

I’ve never adjusted to these roller coaster seasons of waiting, watches, warnings. Unlike the nonplussed locals, I believe them when they say “take cover.” I do not continue shopping. I throw my bags on the counter and beg the Gap girls to show me the store basement.

uh-oh

So it was very, very important that we solve our no-basement problem. Here’s how we did it.

Greg, Builder Dan and I exchanged many ideas, most of which involved exterior concrete structures, and all of which I deemed safe but hideous. With thoughts of Dorothy running out to the cellar but not quite making it, we began researching how to build an interior storm room.

Most “interior safe room” plans we found online involved buying pre-manufactured storm rooms. But it took forever to get going with our region’s manufacturer reps, and we were dubious of the high cost and possible overkill. And then there was timing; if we were going to build an interior storm room, we needed to get it done while the house was being built.

We turned to the FEMA website and began reading about materials, cost, and construction methods for different types of safe rooms, and what’s right for your “wind zone” based on foundation, location, and threat level.

I took one look at this and, well, you can imagine.

I no longer wanted to build a storm shelter – I wanted to build a bomb shelter. Just seeing us sitting comfortably in “Zone IV” – the red zone, for pete’s sake – made me immediately want to (a) pour concrete over the entire house and (b) just up and move somewhere cold, but safe – Alaska, maybe.

Instead, we downloaded a FEMA plan to build our first floor half-bath into a unobtrusive storm room. Dan looked them over, we all sketched out a few FEMA-House combo plans, and slowly, so slowly, the work began to make our half-bath the safest powder room in town.

Framing involved a lot of extra bolting and anchoring…

…including using these. Specially graded for anchoring everything to the foundation…

…because I wouldn’t want the house to land on anyone, you know – unless I got their red shoes.

The first layer of extra-thick plywood went up, and then, my favorite…

…sheets of solid steel.

Cut to fit in a dramatic shower of sparks, I loved when these protective steel panels went up over the plywood.

For a while, the room felt like either a torture chamber or a very cool urban loft. But when the contents of my neighbor’s garage come flying at us, no lawnmower is getting through.

Then another layer of extra-thick plywood. Here, Greg makes sure that iced tea and coffee will properly survive the storm.

Finally, the sheetrock and a whole lot of drywall. With wide pine floors, paint, plumbing, a vintage mirror and one special sideboard-vanity, you’d never know that that this was a room in which you can hide from certain destruction.

The vanity has roomy storage, allowing me to keep my weather radio and a few gallons of water next to the extra guest towels and the TP. You never know.

When they cut a hole to install the light fixture, we got a great souvenir: a safe room cross-section.

I’d like to display it under glass like a rare sedimentary rock.

Before spring there is one last step – to panel the inside of the pine door with steel, too – one more layer of flying object protection. I hate to cover the beautiful door – but we’re working on a solution to, you know, make safety more pleasing to the eye.

May the Big T never hit us; but if it does, you won’t catch me sipping cappuccino in front of the Gap. I’ll be calmly reading magazines, using wi-fi, and arranging hand towels in my storm room.

Just two steps from the kitchen, it about the same security level as the pre-manufactured version at nearly half the cost. And if my family is not too busy mocking me and ignoring the National Weather Service, it has just enough room for two adults, one pre-teen girl, and a 70-lb black lab.