Booyah.
You like?
(No, the flange is not attached to the attic access panel.)
(Most accurate wall color representation above.)
I made it myself.
(Details soon.)
It’s Like Someone Injected Me With Speed This Weekend and I Can’t. Come. Down.
You know how I kind of sort of have a nasty habit of starting projects and never — ever — finishing them?
Like when I declared I was going to clean out the garage or organize my office or build storage for the master closet or decorate our bedroom?
Well.
I have news.
And try not to spit out your coffee when I tell you.
Here goes.
I’m actually making progress on two of those…
Valspar’s “Gypsy Teal”
Click photo for curtain panel source.
Click above photo for duvet cover source.
DIY Chalk Paint Dresser (tutorial coming soon)
Click above photo for reading lamp source.
Click above photo for more information about light fixture.
Closet and bedroom.
Also, I baked cookies. And I only ate like six. Or seven. The rest of these puppies are going to Afghanistan. Click photo for recipe.
Yep. That’s right. You only get the crappy Instagrammed sneak peek. Because between the painting and the decorating and the domesticating and the cold I’ve somehow managed to develop, I’m too tired and full of cookie dough to give you more.
Also, I still have some finishing touches I need to complete.
By the way — those of you all caught up in these various body cleansing diets that are currently all the rage, here’s a tip: Consuming exorbitant amounts of raw cookie dough will also do the trick.
Just so you know.
In All Seriousness, I’m Not Sure If I Bought Enough Nipples.
Okay. To those of you thinking of building yourselves a closet organizer made of plumbing pipes, because people do that all of the time, I have one piece of advice for you:
Don’t.
It’s only 8:30 in the morning, and already I’ve used up my math cache for the entire week.
Yep. See, I only have a limited cache of math skills. It’s so limited, in fact, that I’m forced to dole out math-related problem solving brain cells in carefully regimented quantities throughout the week so that I don’t run out before they have a chance to replenish.
And this project is using them all.
Even if you’re great at math, I would still not advise you to take on this project, unless you want Home Depot employees to run screaming for the exits every time you enter the store out of fear that you ask one of them to spend 2 hours — two hours! — custom cutting and threading galvanized pipe to your specifications in order to save a little moolah.
Obviously, I’m not above that.
And I’m going back today.
Crap.
I probably shouldn’t publicly warn them on the internet.
Because I’m sure they read this blog, just to see if the crazy woman with graph paper and an extensive plumbing fitting vocabulary plans on coming back.
That’s right — due to my extensive research, I can talk flanges and elbows and tee fittings and nipples with the best of ’em.
I can even say “nipples” to a male Home Depot employee named Kelly without cracking a smile.
I’m that good.
So.
My point?
Unless you have beyond stellar math and 3-dimensional planning skills and an extensive knowledge of pipe fittings and absolutely no fear of possible retaliation from disgruntled Home Depot employees, you probably don’t want to make a closet organizer from plumbing pipes.
But if you do, I’ll have the instructions for you eventually.
Unless the HD peeps slash my tires and start sending threats to my family.
Wish me luck.
The Best Kind of Progress Isn’t Something You See. It’s Something You Feel.
Okay, so it might be because I ate approximately 80,000 calories worth of crusty, cheesy fried-then-baked eggplant parmesan, leftover spinach feta quiche, and German pancakes drizzled with a homemade sugary syrup yesterday.
Check out that Dutch Baby, baby. And please ignore my filthy oven.
Or it might be because I just ordered 26 galvanized malleable floor flanges from Amazon before having even one sip off coffee this morning. Or it might be because I spent the entire day yesterday, aside from a 2-mile walk with the dogs and shoving approximately 80,000 calories worth of delicious, artery-jamming crap into my system, sketching out a design for a closet organizer made entirely out of plumbing fixtures and pine boards.
It might be one of those things.
But whatever it is, I’m feeling mighty accomplished this morning.
Fat, but accomplished.
On second thought, none of these things are the reason I feel accomplished.
They’re most certainly the reason I feel fat, but not the reason I feel accomplished.
I know exactly what it is.
But first, I need to take you back to Saturday.
Saturday, my friends, is the day I made an important and disturbing discovery about the person with whom I’ve chosen to live (aka. my husband).
This discovery wasn’t a complete surprise, mind you, since inklings of this issue’s existence have been cropping up, here and there, for the past 9 years.
But apparently I’ve been living in a protected shell of denial. Apparently I haven’t wanted to make this discovery, because then I’d have to admit that the issue exists.
But on Saturday, I could ignore it no longer.
While Justin was busy doing this:
I ventured out to The Shed.
The Shed is a wonkily assembled, pseudo mini building attached to the back of our house, presumably added by the previous owners. When we moved in 5 years ago, I quickly labeled the non-ventilated space as man territory, clearly, and have rarely ventured back since.
Until Saturday.
On Saturday, I walked into The Shed.
On Saturday, I saw this:
Actually, I should clarify. This is after I removed the lawn mower, a weed whacker, a small hand cart, and approximately 35 (or 6) large, assorted bags of garden soil.
That’s right.
My husband is a hoarder.
It turns out, every time I asked him to get rid of something — like the chicken wire we’d once used to line the inside of our fence to keep the pups from squeezing out — this is where he put it. Not only that, but this is also where he put project supplies that he bought but didn’t want to immediately tackle. So, it turns out, for years we’ve been storing oil-rubbed-bronze doorknobs (all of which we’ve since bought and replaced in the house), outdoor light fixtures (since bought and replaced), and giant bags of garden soil and mulch, all — you guessed it — re-bought and used multiple times over during the years that these things have sat, forlorn and neglected, in the bowls of The Shed.
I found bags of trash.
I found an unopened, unused seed starting kit.
I found a tupperware bowl I’d long – long – since given up finding. Unfortunately, it was filled with oil-soaked newspapers, but still. Finally discovering its fate brought me peace.
And so, my dears, did cleaning out that shed.
If the difference doesn’t look drastic to you, keep in mind that this “after” photo, as opposed to the “before,” now contains a lawn mower, hand cart, weed whacker, large rake, cylinder of propane (where is the best place to keep this, by the way?), and several garden tools and flower pots.
I would have carted out the 7 bags of concrete mix, but I found that moving one from the bookshelf in the back to the rest of the pile may have caused me permanent back damage (just kidding — I think), so there they will stay.
This discovery was important because it made me admit — finally — that while Justin is an out-of-sight, out-of-mind type of person, I’m most definitely an it-might-be-out-of-sight-but-it’s-still-right-there-in-mind-so-it’s-still-giving-me-an-eye-twitch type of person.
And also, call me crazy, but I like to be able to access things without wading through a pile of garbage.
But — and pay attention because this is important — if I can just accept the above statements as fact and realize that Justin is about as likely to change his habits as I’m likely to sit in a cubicle for the rest of my life, then we’re one step closer to reaching a symbiosis that actually… I don’t know… might allow us to get things done.
A partnership, if you will.
If I can keep the shed looking like this, despite his rat-pack hoarding ways, then I’m giving him the tools he needs to do things like this:
Photo taken, unfortunately, on a much drearier day.
What happened on Saturday is that I made a mental leap. One of acceptance, if not understanding.
And that, I think, is what we call accomplishment.
Fine. Here’s a Sneak Peek at my Bedroom. Pervs.
It feels a little intimate, this whole sharing of the bedroom.
I mean… when it looked like this, is was no big deal.
It was just a room. An uninteresting, plain yogurt, asexual cube of space.
But now?
It’s like she’s hiked her skirt up a little bit, and now I’m not sure how I feel about you looking at her.
Because you might judge her.
And you might not be into the kinds of things I’m into.
Like the charcoal gray walls or the S&M sex toy we’ve hung from the ceiling.
Oh, wait. That’s just my armillary antiqued silver chandelier.
You know, inspired by those awesome looking armillary spheres that depict the earth as the center of a cosmic system with various rings representing the circles of all of those floaty things up in the sky.
It’s kind of like this one from OurBoatHouse.com:
Except mine didn’t cost $1,080.
It’s this one, from Bellacor.com:
Solaris Olde Silver 3-light Chandelier by Chrystorama.
Except I didn’t spend $218, either.
I happened to luck upon finding an open item on their website, meaning someone else bought this beauty and returned it.
I can’t imagine why.
So, with Bellacor’s guarantee that the product had all of the pieces and was in brand new condition, I bit the non-returnable bullet and purchased this baby for $109.
Is it still more than I’d like to admit spending?
Definitely.
But I think I might be in love. And the pattern it splays across the ceiling when it’s turned on is phenomenal.
You’ll just have to wait to see that, though.
A girl can’t reveal all of her secrets in a single day.
So this is where my bedroom makeover is so far: Painted trim, painted ceiling, painted walls, and new light.
I warned you before, and I’ll say it again — the room might not be everyone’s cup o’ tea, but it’s my cup o’ Tanqueray and tonic with a squeeze of lime.
So far it’s sexy and sultry with a splash of celestial.
Oh, and Justin likes it too.
My Indecision is Final.
Last night I slept 35 inches off of the ground.
I know that doesn’t sound like a lot, so I’m going to give you a minute to go and grab your trusty tape measure (if you’re like me, you keep it in the laundry room because it makes perfect sense, according to people like me and not people like Justin, to keep oft-used tools in the laundry room) to see how high you sleep every night.
It’s okay — I’ll wait.
…..waiting……
………….waiting………….
…waiting……….
Okay, I’m bored. If you didn’t go and measure, I’m happy to inform you that it’s likely you slept closer to 24 inches off of the ground than 35 inches. Unless you sleep in one of those crazy expensive grown-up beds that you need a step stool to get into, in which case I’m not even sure why you’re reading this blog.
But I’m glad you’re here. It makes me feel less alone.
Anyway.
If you still sleep in the second-hand bed frame you bought from friends who were moving to Hawaii and didn’t want to take their guest bedroom furniture overseas, and that bed frame happens to position you a comfortable 24 inches off the ground with a box spring, mattress, and cushy foam mattress pad, then that extra 11 inches feels like the difference between Base Camp and the summit of Everest.
Seriously.
I needed climbing ropes and a pick axe to get up there.
And once there, I was petrified of even moving because — well, we all know now that I’m prone to falling out.
Which really explains a lot, if you know me.
But the reason, my friends — the reason I was sleeping in thinner oxygen last night is intriguing because I’ve finally gotten over my fear of commitment when it comes to certain design and decor decisions around the house. And no, it’s not because I bought a super tall bed. But it is because we’re finally — finally — doing something with the one and only room in this 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom, 1 kitchen, 1 living room, 1 hallway home that has literally remained untouched since we moved in 4 1/2 years ago: Our Bedroom.
That’s right — we’ve completely remodeled the kitchen, gotten well on our way to finishing the living room, polished off the hallway bathroom, have a guest bedroom I’ve never told you about, and are slowly wading our way through office progress, but we’ve never done anything with the room where we spend probably the majority of our time at home.
How… sad.
So. Even though the smart thing to do would be to let funds replenish and then… I don’t know… take a trip to the Philippines, instead we’re spending money on bedroom stuff. Call me crazy, but it may be nice to create a bit of a sanctuary — albeit a thrifty one — before we move from this house.
And as you can see, a sanctuary it was not:
Hand-me-down furniture and thrifted, mismatched nightstands.
Decrepit vertical blinds and a television that was probably made in the early ’90’s just screams romance, does it not?
I seriously can’t believe I’m showing you this.
But despite the mild embarrassment, it has to be done.
Like shock therapy for the decorating-impaired.
Must. Look. Away.
Okay, had enough? Yep, me too. We’ve been sleeping in blandness for the past 4 1/2 years.
College dorm rooms have more character than this.
Andy Dufresne’s prison cell had more character than this.
So yesterday we cleared out the room. Apparently the thing about decorating is you can’t just get right into the good stuff. There’s a certain amount of prep work involved if you want it to look right in the end. Since new carpeting isn’t really in the budget right now, we’re going to pretend the floors look fantastic and move right on up to the ceiling. Yep. Popcorn. Just like every other room in this house, it had to come down.
But of course, there’s prep work for the prep work:
Trees!
I wasn’t sad to see these go.
Knowing this whole room decorating thing would be a bit of a process (c’mon, it’s us we’re talking about), we moved many of our worldly possessions — including the entire contents of our closet since that had popcorn too — to other locale’s around the house. And the guest bed, which isn’t designed to hold a box spring, got topped with our big ol’ box spring, plus our mattress, plus the foam pad, to form a veritable throne of a bed.
Hey. We live in 1,600 square feet. Compromises need to be made, and I can only tolerate one mattress (the old guest mattress) resting on the living room wall at a time, thankyouverymuch.
Then Justin got to work.
It’s a messy job, but somebody has to do it. Fortunately, that someone isn’t me. And no, I don’t know why the builders only partially vaulted our ceiling. Just one of our home’s many unintelligible quirks.
While Justin was on popcorn duty, I was assigned decor duty. The good news is that I was able to stay relatively focused because I knew I had a limited amount of time since we don’t want to be living in our guest room for the next 2 years.
That’s right, apparently I need boundaries in order to be functional.
First, I finally committed to a paint color. Sort-of. See, I was tired of having 8-million paint chips collecting dust on my dresser, so I finally just picked one, threw some splotches of it up on the walls, and said f*-it. Let’s get this puppy painted.
Of course, while Justin was off buying the full-size gallons the day before, I realized I didn’t care how my samples took on a taupey tone in the sunlight and would’ve switched something even more definitively gray, but the deed was already done and paint ain’t exactly cheap. I mean, when people talk about “liquid assets,” I’m pretty sure they’re not referring to Valspar’s Mountain Smoke in an Eggshell finish.
So he bought the paint.
And we didn’t stop there.
Kids, I bought a light.
Like… I got online, did some research, kind of stayed on topic (with minute segues into the realms of curtains and comforters), and bought a light.
That’s right — I committed to something. Two things. Talk about progress from the last time I tried to decorate.
And. Well. The fact is, I’m tired of purchasing everything for this house with resale in mind. Sometimes, you just have to get what you like, you know? And if there’s anywhere we’re doing that, it’s our bedroom. So. The light might not be everyone’s cup o’ tea, but it might just be the cup o’ Tanqueray and tonic with a splash of lime you’ve been looking for.
But it’s not here yet, so you’ll just have to wait and see.
Don’t you just loooove surprises? If not, have yourself another gin ‘n juice and learn to like them.
Because baby, I’m pretty sure surprises are the key to longevity.
So this is where we are right now:
Exciting stuff, huh? Today I will be painting the baseboards and trim, as well as puttying any holes in the walls to get ready for the Mountain Smoke.
At this rate, we should have a functioning bedroom again in… oh… 4-6 months.
Hah.
But the good news is that I’m making decisions. Me. The girl who takes a half hour to choose something from a restaurant menu.
Watch out, kids — this girl’s on a roll.
Yep. I Did That. And I’m Pretty Sure You Should Do It Too.
When I was a kid, my favorite thing in the world to do was to build forts.
Of course, “the world” consisted of my house, my neighborhood, and some woods behind my best friend’s house, so I didn’t know how many other non-fort related fun things there were to do in the world, the bigger world, the one beyond the realm of my own imagination.
So, forts it was.
Outside, the forts were limited to the selection of supplies the woods could provide and the ones my friend and I were brave enough to snake from our homes and stockpile among the branches and leaves and dirt. We had no hammers or nails, so our structures often consisted of precariously leaning logs and bent branches held to the ground with rocks and sometimes, just a maze of pathways and rooms raked through the leaves with nothing but imaginary doorways and walls. But it was enough.
Inside, we ran rampant. Huge blankets and sheets draped across furniture and lamps, tied to curtain rods and doorknobs, pinched tight inside closed drawers, and weighed down with books — massive behemoths that would fill entire rooms and sometimes stairwells, completely filled with pillows and stuffed animals and toy dishes and secret passages and all of the things necessary for a play house or a restaurant or a barber shop.
My friends always liked to get the fort built and get on with the game, because the set-up was just set-up, after all –not the fun part.
But for me, the creation was the fun part. I loved discovering that rubber bands could hold blankets to door knobs just fine and that curtains can actually be pulled away from the walls to create more coverage and that couch cushions made the sturdiest doorways. I loved convincing parents who thought they couldn’t get up the stairs that they could, in fact, crawl through the fort and experience for themselves the sheer awesomeness that can come with self-imposed confined spaces. I loved knowing which rooms were best for creating the most extensive structures, and I loved discovering new places to build and new ways to build them.
And sometimes now, as an adult, and even though I have an entire house to play with, I just want to grab a big blanket, drape it across my computer desk and office chair, and crawl inside.
I’m pretty sure it would make a fantastic fort. I could bring in a lamp and maybe some christmas lights, a glass of wine and a good book.
Then, when Justin comes into the room to tell me it’s time to do grown-up things like submit queries or pay bills, I’ll pretend he can’t find me because I’m inside my fort, and forts pretty much make you invisible.
Maybe a fort would stir my imagination again, like it did as a kid, and all of the stagnant bits that have drifted and settled at the base of my skull would float to the surface in a jostled frenzy of inspiration and creativity.
The pressure of time wouldn’t exist.
Just like when we were kids.
Let Me Tell You About This Bird and How He Helped Me Get Over My Fear of Commitment.
You know that feeling you get when things just work out?
Like when friends come over to visit and they all want wine and you happen to have exactly the right number of unbroken wine glasses so no one’s forced to drink cab from a highball.
Like when you suddenly crave “Shit on a Shingle” for dinner and you just happen to have enough milk in your fridge and dried beef in your pantry to make it.
Like when you finally decide to wash your pillowcase and you’re so careful to set your pillow in a precise location so you can keep track of that special soft spot where your head always fits perfectly and then some reckless person (most likely yourself) thoughtlessly moves your pillow to another location and now usually there is no way to detect that spot until you actually lie on the pillow in every configuration imaginable and you know you’re in for a long night, except — wait! There it is. Your spot. And you got it perfect the first time.
It’s that feeling.
That feeling that comes when you think you’re in for an ordeal, but instead the process is relatively effortless and surprisingly stress-free.
And that is exactly what happened when I emailed my boss to decline is offer of a full-time position.
I thought he might be upset. Or worse, disappointed. But instead, his reaction was one of relief. See, as a small start-up business owner, he wanted to do what it took to keep a decent employee (one who actually shows up and does her work) on board. In my case, he thought that required offering me a full-time position. Even though, it turns out, he had the minor problem of not knowing whether he’d be able to afford me. So he was actually relieved when I declined, and he may have let slip a note of envy.
See, when I explained to him that a full-time position is no longer my primary goal because I’ve realized now I have more time to do some other things that I’m passionate about, he replied that one day he hopes to be in the same position.
Now.
Does anyone sense the irony here?
My boss is a self-made African-American male with a wife and 2 very young sons who runs a very successful small business, and he happens to be 2 years younger than me. And yet, for some reason, he thinks I’m the one in the position to which he should aspire.
Okay, not entirely.
He drives a very nice car. I drive a 12-year-old Tracker.
He wears very nice clothes. I still wear things I owned in high school.
He owns his own business. I work for an hourly rate.
He has 2 happy, healthy, and dare-I-say adorable kids. I have 2 dogs who once swallowed an entire bag of chicken bones and I had to feed them cotton balls to ease the sharp passage of shrapnel through their intestines. True story.
I’m sure he doesn’t go home at night and wish that he was me. But. There’s something here. An affirmation of sorts, that tells me I made the right decision. That tells me when I cut out the shoulds, good things can happen.
So this is good news, right? I celebrated by hanging item numbers 3, 4 and 5 on my walls.
If you recall, I’ve only had one thing hanging in my house for quite some time. In the laundry room. Where I maybe spend 0.00001% of my time. Makes sense, right?
I think it has something to do with my fear of commitment.
So, in light of my goals for the new year, I hung some stuff.
Three things, as a matter-of-fact.
I hung them in the guest bathroom. Approximately 6 feet away from the one other thing hanging in my house, and yet where I spend a significantly longer amount of time.
(Please ignore my unpainted trim. That’s still on the 2012 task list for this money and time-sucker of a house.)
Let me tell you about the bird. The bird is special. My friend Alaina’s mother, Jan Krebs, is an artist. She’s my adoptive mother from back in our college days, and one of the first people to teach me that life should be reserved for doing things you love.
I’ve always wanted a Jan Krebs original, and as of Christmas this year, that wish came true. It’s not a painting, but some type of carved ceramic that has a rough texture and looks fabulous in person. I knew that this couldn’t just be something I let sit around on my console table or propped up against my backsplash like so many other pieces of art I have around. Not this time. The bird would be the start of a movement.
And I didn’t stop there.
The tea light holders were purchases I made on a trip I took to Europe in 2004. I bought them in a tiny shop in Strasbourg, France.
Well? What do you think of my progress?
First, the bathroom was a paisley-infested crime scene:
Then, it was naked:
And now, we have life:
Yep, I now have bathroom art.
This must be what it means to feel grown-up.
THIS is what Christmas is All About.
I think maybe my last post was a little long. It scared me away for a few days, and I apologize for that.
Also, my little sister is in town, and she keeps me busy doing stuff like cooking. And then eating. And then cooking again.
And I have a cold.
And what I originally intended to become our every-other-year small dinner gathering of Christmas misfits — an intimate dinner served family style with wine and board games for those who aren’t traveling “home” this year — is now turning into a full-blown party of sorts, and I’m kind of stuck wondering how the girl who doesn’t like throwing parties (that would be me, in case you’re new here) keeps ending up throwing parties.
Not that I totally mind.
I mean, the idea that people who have no where else to go this holiday are willing to settle for our little ol’ house that can barely squeeze a comfortable gathering of 6 is kind of a heartwarming thought. I just hope they all don’t mind confined spaces. And a really strange medley of food. And not moving. Like, at all.
Other than that, it should be fun.
And the good news is, they will have a floor to stand on.
Yeah… so please ignore the unpainted door trim, odd green tinge I can’t seem to get rid of and unfinished shoe molding, and just look at the floors.
Yes, that’s a giant gear.
I’m working on my style.
Don’t judge.
We still have a long way to go, but I’m thinking the floors are a step in the right direction, no?
If you’re not convinced, here’s a closer look:
Yes, I’d definitely say we’ve improved.
Apparently My Design Genes Have Been Replaced With Wine.
It occurred to me that I’ve never showed you our living room.
I mean, aside from this picture from move-in day:
And, while it’s far from finished, I think it’s come a long way since then.
This is slightly embarrassing. This is a photo I quickly snapped when the room was clean for about 4 seconds. It’s especially embarrassing after recently publishing photos of my friend Matt’s ridiculously awesome home on Re-Nest. I wish I could replace everything in my house with his delicious, paint-peely, story-filled furniture, but alas. New furniture — even old new furniture — is just not in the cards right now. Which is why, dear readers, it’s important to collect things you love slowly over time.
A lesson I still clearly need to learn.
Anyway. Looking at the above photo, it’s obvious I like things cozy, and, as determined by that style quiz of yore, I’m into a room with craftsman style that’s apparently filled with booze.
Hey, that’s the quiz talkin’– not me.
But it’s also me,
The overstuffed sofas have seen better days, as I’ve mentioned before. They’re too big for the room and happen to be the first new furniture Justin and I bought together… seven years ago.
Everything else is way too matchy-matchy — my entertainment console on the left, which I’ve had for 9 years, used to be blonde wood laminate that I’ve since disassembled and painted dark. Then apparently I went on a dark wood kick, because the Target bookshelf, end tables, and sofa table (not pictured), are also all dark wood. Matching dark wood.
And finally, the carpet.
That carpet is nasty.
Like, installed-in-1994-and-survived-years-of-renters nasty.
And I use the term “survived” loosely. As in, it’s still there. Mostly.
And this, my friends, is next on the list. We’re getting ready to order some laminate floors.
Why laminate?
Well, we’re set on a DIY install to save some much-needed moolah, and wood requires a lot more work (nailing, gluing, etc.). Also, while we’re getting a really nice laminate, the material is less expensive than wood. Also, we’ve really already spent too much money on this house for its price point, so we really shouldn’t expect to recoup anything else we spend. Higher end laminate will look just as nice as wood floors, and while it doesn’t have the classic longevity, frankly, we’re not going to be here long enough to care. Plus, with the warranty, this laminate should last much — much — longer than carpet.
This is what we’ve been eyeballin’. In the Cosmopolitan color. Yes, it’s high gloss, which worries me, too.
Anyway. I’ll share more details on that when we actually order.
I just thought you should know.
Any strong opinions out there on laminate vs. hardwood? Are we making a horrible mistake? Should we just abandon the house and move now to a yurt in northern California?
Actually, the yurt thing doesn’t sound like a bad backup plan.
What say you?