So I had the house. Yellow walls, grandma furniture, carpet that had seen things. (If you missed Part 1: how I bought my first vacation rental in Indio, start there. It involves a Honda Element, Easter Sunday, and a real estate offer written in someone's living room.) Now I had to actually make it into something people would want to stay in.
What follows is the story of how I did that. Including the part where I made a lot of decisions, then hired someone to tell me which ones were wrong.
First: the bones.
Before any furniture, before any "aesthetic," there were the basics that separate a vacation rental from a haunted house. Painted the walls white, all of them. Ripped out the carpet and put in LVP (luxury vinyl plank, the desert host's best friend: durable, easy to clean, and it doesn't trap sand or judgment). Swapped every ceiling fan for a clean white modern one because nothing ages a room faster than a wobbly brown fan with a brass light kit from 1994. Got rid of the boob lights. (You know the ones. Every house built before 2005 has them. They're the round frosted glass globe fixtures that look like exactly what they sound like. They had to go.)
These are not glamorous changes. They don't make good Instagram content. But they're the foundation that makes everything else work. White walls, clean floors, modern light fixtures. Suddenly the house doesn't fight you anymore.
Before: yellow walls, grandma vibes, potential
Photo: Eann Tuan
The West Elm phase.
I knew what I wanted before I knew what I was doing. The desert, to me, meant mid-century modern: clean lines, warm woods, that Palm Springs hotel lobby energy. West Elm was my entire reference point. So that's where I started.
I bought couches from Interiors Made Eezy in Culver City. Beautiful, heavy, extremely not-designed-to-be-moved couches. I rented a U-Haul. I recruited a friend. We drove those couches from Culver City to Indio and I am here to tell you that friendship was tested that day. Those were some heavy couches. Worth it, but heavy.
Then came the Facebook Marketplace era. I was all over LA, picking up a $10 sound machine here (I now know that time is money, but at the time I was very proud of that $10 sound machine), cramming a West Elm dining table into my Honda Element there. (There has been nothing that car cannot fit. It remains one of its best qualities.) Garage sales. Marshalls. TJ Maxx. HomeGoods. Ross. I was on a mission to find the best deal on everything, one piece at a time.
The Honda Element: still fits everything, still the MVP
Photo: Eann Tuan
Part of the thrill was the hunt. Buying new with white glove delivery is easy. Finding a foosball table on Marketplace and figuring out how to get it home is a story. I had a lot of stories by the end of this phase. And a house full of furniture.
The foosball table. I will not explain what getting this in and out of my car involved.
Photo: Eann Tuan
The tchotchke problem.
Here's what nobody tells you about furnishing your first rental by yourself: at some point, you have too much stuff and none of it talks to each other.
I had West Elm pieces next to Facebook Marketplace finds next to TJ Maxx wall art next to a throw pillow I loved in isolation and couldn't figure out where to put. I had options for every surface and no clarity about which option was right. The house was starting to feel... busy. Scattered. Like a very enthusiastic person had been set loose in a home goods store with a credit card and no plan. (Accurate.)
I'd find myself standing in a room holding two pillows, completely unable to decide. Which one goes here? Do these colors work together? Is this too much? Not enough? I was deeply, completely overwhelmed, and the house showed it.
This is when I hired Dawn.
Enter Dawn Asher.
Dawn Asher of The Olive Jar came in and did something I didn't expect: she didn't just tell me which pillow to pick. She gave me a framework so I'd never have to ask the question again.
Six brand filters. Six words that would govern every single decision going forward: furniture, linens, wall art, the color of the throw blanket, all of it. She introduced me to "experiential hospitality" (her buzz words; I've since stolen them entirely) and the idea that every detail either adds to the experience or subtracts from it. There's no neutral. A dull knife subtracts. A good coffee bar adds. A boob light subtracts. (We'd already handled those, but still.)
She gave The Cozy Cactus its actual identity: turquoise, coral, pineapple yellow. Not safe beige. Not the generic "coastal grandmother" look every other desert rental was doing. Something that made you feel something the moment you walked in the door.
After Dawn: the bedroom that makes guests photograph the closet before they unpack
Photo: Third Wall Photography | Styling: The Olive Jar
Green bed. Pink wall with a hammock. Mustard pouf. Navy wallpaper. It's a lot, and it's completely intentional.
Photo: Third Wall Photography | Styling: The Olive Jar
Turns out she was right. Annoyingly, completely, repeatedly right. The house stopped feeling like a collection of things and started feeling like a place.
The family infrastructure nobody photographs.
The design gets the Instagram. What actually makes guests come back is the stuff that doesn't show up in photos.
I labeled everything. Every drawer, every cabinet, every shelf. Where the batteries are. Which drawer has the baby spoons. Where the Tupperware lids are, and the lids actually match the containers, which one guest called "unprecedented" in 10 years of Airbnb stays. She'd been to 40+ rentals. Forty. And matching Tupperware lids were unprecedented. (My own home is not this organized. My guests live better than I do.)
I bought a Stokke high chair instead of the wobbly plastic disaster from the clearance aisle. Sound machines in every bedroom. (I travel with my own. I am a grown adult. Zero shame.) Dawn curated a full Family Kit: bottle warmer, bottle brush, changing pad, diaper pail, cabinet locks, Keekaroo changing table. All the things you desperately need at 10pm on night one when you left yours at home.
The Family Kit: solving the 11pm panic message before it happens
Photo: Third Wall Photography | Styling: The Olive Jar
All the things, so you don't have to bring all the things
Photo: Third Wall Photography | Styling: The Olive Jar
What it became.
A family of five checked out and told me it was "the first time we have truly rested during our vacation with our 3 children." Not just visited a different location. Actually rested. That's the whole point.
I have repeat guests. Groups who come back for Coachella every year. Couples who stayed before they had kids, then came back with infants because they trusted the setup. Even adults with no children who just want a well-organized house, a good coffee bar, and a pool without suspicious floaties from the previous guests. (Always clean. Non-negotiable.)
The Cozy Cactus isn't baby-themed. It's thoughtfully designed for humans who notice when someone actually cared. It started as a backup plan for a Honda Element. It became something I'm genuinely proud of.
If that sounds like what you need, you know where to find us. And if you want the full origin story, the Easter Sunday purchase, the Facebook Marketplace era, all of it, read the complete story of how The Cozy Cactus came to be.