The Honey - Don't List

LAW: For those out there who haven’t read your book yet, how did you get your start?

Melissa Tripp: As a couple, we met at a party during our first week of college. Early on we knew we wanted to work together, in some capacity. So we opened the furniture store in Jackson, Comb+Honey. The name is a play on structure, plus the function inside. The store was set up like a series of rooms—where Rusty built most of the furniture, and I would find amazing pieces to accentuate the design. After we were featured in the local paper, the LA Times did a story on our business in the weekend magazine, HGTV found us, and the rest is history.

LAW: When did you first know you’d done something big?

Rusty Tripp: I remember coming back from lunch one day and seeing a whole slew of news vans parked outside the store. I had to work my way past the crowd all standing in front of the display—I remember it so clearly, it was this living room display with silver accents and a sapphire-blue midcentury-style piece I’d built—I’d had this gorgeous walnut from a guy up in Billings, and never knew what to do with it until—

MT: [laughing] Honey. Stay on target.

RT: See? She keeps this train running. Anyway, the room display was breathtaking. Melly had created a waterfall feature on the wall using some river rocks from our trip to Laramie. The blues all shimmered together in this totally otherworldly way, and the people with cameras around their necks all just stood there, staring. Not even taking pictures, just staring like they’d never seen anything like it before. That was when I knew.

MT: We’d already been featured in the Casper Star-Tribune by that point—

RT: Right, so this was just before everything exploded. After the LA Times feature, everything changed. But that moment was when I knew it would.

LAW: I have to ask: What’s it like working with your spouse?

MT: Honestly? It’s amazing. I can’t imagine another life.

RT: She keeps me grounded, keeps me on task—you’ve already seen that [they laugh], and it’s true: we’re two halves of a whole.

LAW: It’s amazing how many people want to know:

Do you ever argue?

MT: You mean, how often do we negotiate? [laughs] We have disagreements, sure, but they’re the same kind of mild together-all-the-time moments that every couple has. When it comes to our business, we don’t argue. We’re in this together, and stronger when we’re a team.

LAW: So what can we expect next?

RT: Now, that we can’t tell you quite yet. But trust me, later this week y’all are in for a doozy.

Well, Rusty, as a fan of all things Tripp, I can’t wait.

Submitted by staff writer Leilani Tyler

I meet Carey in the hotel lobby at five thirty the next morning, both relieved and a little disappointed that she now seems to be dressing the part on tour. Honestly, I liked the Dolly shirt, especially when she told me about the concert where she got it, and used the phrase three sheets to the wind to explain that she was so drunk, buying the shirt is the only part she remembers. Instead she’s in a pink skirt and a white tank top … which I make an effort to not study too closely.

Pop culture would have us believe that men look at women and immediately imagine them naked. That is not always the case, actually. As far as my job is concerned, I have generally been too busy and frazzled and worried about keeping it to think about Carey as a warm-blooded woman with responsive body parts. This morning is an exception. To be fair, though, the hotel does have the air conditioning on pretty high.

Hotel. Incorrect. We are most definitely staying at a motel—a Motel 6, to be specific, and I realize I ought to be grateful for the four hours of sleep I managed on the hard, creaky mattress. The pillows were roughly as thick and supportive as construction paper; the blankets as soft and warm as rucksacks.

Carey, holding a leather notebook and a steaming Styrofoam cup, seems to correctly interpret the deep blue circles under my eyes. “Don’t blame me,” she says by way of greeting. “This trip has been booked for months. The Ritz was full, and I had, like, two hours to find something else.”

“One might assume something exists in the space between Motel 6 and the Ritz.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” she says with a sarcastically sweet smile. The sarcasm breaks and she hikes a shoulder skyward, admitting, “I was in denial and then full-fledged panic.”

“It’s Los Angeles,” I remind her. “There are approximately one billion hotel rooms.”

“Jim.” She rubs her eyes with the back of one hand and then takes a sip of coffee. “It’s too early to argue. Add me to your ‘negotiation’ spreadsheet for later.”