danapop

When we bought our house, between signing the closing papers and moving in, a bird’s nest had been assembled in the corner of one of the pillars on our front porch. I had a lot of time on my hands then. I was going through this tough transitional period in my career post-leaving cable news, but pre-making a go at writing full-time. This nine-month period was both incredibly difficult, but rewarding in the long run. I didn’t trust myself enough yet to actually feel and act like a writer (no solid work on the horizon), but I knew in my gut it was what I left a bustling newsroom to do. But to write what and for whom, I had no idea, and instead of gaining confidence with each passing day, I got weaker, filled with self-doubt and sank into quite a funk. We really are our own worst enemies, aren’t we?

Buying this bungalow was a fresh start. We were out of our one-bedroom apartment in Midtown that was cramped and overflowing with wedding gifts still in boxes and into something that was ours. The move and purchase of the house felt very adult and like there was no going back to our carefree ways of stumbling home from a pub in Midtown, and because we could, walking up to a patio bar the next day to begin day drinking with brunch.

I was intrigued by the nest and would watch it each afternoon while sitting on the porch swing, getting fresh air, waiting for my husband to come home from work, anxious to have someone to talk to besides the blank computer screen reminding me of all the stories I’d yet to write. All the articles I’d yet to publish. The momma bird let me sit and watch her. We sort of built an unspoken understanding that I was just going to observe, never disturb, whatever she was guarding in that sturdy nest she’d built.

Then, there were babies. Out of nowhere four teeny baby birds with mashed down fuzzy fine little feathers and beaks so small–but with so much to say–appeared, peaking out over the nest. Chirping all the time for food. It was the most incredible sound, those baby birds at mealtime anxious for whatever the momma gathered for them. She worked tirelessly to feed them all, and it never seemed like enough. Their little baby bird bellies were bottomless pits. Each day, outside on the front porch, I watched it all and they let me.

Then, just as soon as they arrived, they left. I watched it happen with one, the first to leave the nest. He puffed up his little chest, started flapping his wings with all his might (flap, flap, flap) and just when I thought he’d give up from exhaustion, he carried himself up out of that nest and landed just a few inches away. He stood, perched, looking around at his remaining siblings still in the nest in awe of what had just happened; then, he took off for good. Never looking back. I bawled watching that bird leave the nest. Knowing I’d seen something so special and miraculous at once. It took a couple of tries, but he flew the coop. The others soon followed, but I missed all that, and the momma left soon after the last of her babies did.

And now, six years later, on the opposite side of the front porch, we have another bird’s nest. This one is much harder to keep tabs on, the momma won’t even let me so much as open my curtain to take a peak before flying off, leaving her babies hungry, chirping for food. Mostly, I try to leave them in peace. They say a bird pooping on you is a good omen. I think these things are made up to make you feel less bad about it happening, kind of like it raining on your wedding day. I’d like to believe that the temporary home this bird family made on our front porch can only mean good things are to follow for all of us that live both inside and outside this dwelling on Ormewood Avenue.

This time around, I didn’t pay as much attention to the babies, not because I didn’t want to, but because I know they need their space. And it’s also because here, six years later, I have a life of my own. The first brood I was so enthralled and mesmerized with, these, not as much. It’s beautiful watching a living thing develop, but only they can get strong enough to flap those wings. I can’t do it for them. Just like no one else could give me the courage to actually start my own business and write full time. I suppose, I left the nest this time around. Between then and now I grew enough of a voice to actually venture out.

As promised, here are the before and after of the gorgeous terrarium my friend Kenn whipped up. We picked out the plants together at a wholesale spot he knows, and he graciously assembled it all for my kitchen/dining room table. I really wish I had better lighting in here because the photographs do not do it justice, really.

It is amazing how much life these succulents add to this room.

Each February, around this time I get in a slight funk. The holiday season, full of bustle and hope is long gone, work projects I seemed excited to tackle in January appear now more paycheck than passion, and there’s a huge space of reality between now and the next time I’ll see anyone in my family. But, mostly, I think it’s because this is the week my father died.

Some years, his birthday, or my parents’ anniversary, or the anniversary of his death might roll right on by, and several days later I’ll slap my forehead and remember. Other years, I dread it until it comes, worry myself into a panic, and allow it to pass fairly uneventfully since I’ve gotten myself into such a tizzy beforehand.

Either way, it’s strange to miss someone and both try to forget because it hurts, yet want to remember because it’s the only thing you have left.

I had this moment a few weeks ago in the hammam (essentially a Turkish bath) at my gym. This marble chamber is usually so peaceful and I like to pop in before or after yoga if time permits. More often than not I’m the only one in the room, soaking up the silence. I feel sort of close to my father there, since his early career in journalism was so steeped in Middle Eastern affairs and covering conflict there. But, particularly this day, it was because there was music playing softly. I’m certain it was supposed to be tranquil, flutes in unison set to mimic the wind or something, but I found it grating in the hammam, almost echoing louder and louder in a place normally reserved for strict silence.

This reminded me so much of my father because he had such an aversion to loud noises, which is ironic because his idea of a sick joke was to wake us to the Rolling Stones or Elton John or the Beatles blaring through the Bose speakers in the living room.

Babies crying, temper tantrums, anything uncontrollable and hysterical really, my father couldn’t handle. He said it reminded him of Vietnam and we all respected that explanation. As I age, I notice myself annoyed with the volume level at which our world operates. From television shows with people yelling at and talking over each other to the fact that every other person you encounter these days feels the need to talk on a mobile phone at crazy decibels like no one else is around. I wonder what he would’ve done with the noise factor now. I think it would’ve driven him mad.

I tend to think, especially now that he’s gone, that white noise happens to distract us and throw us off course a bit. To dip into something that’s not essential in our day. Because unfortunately, I learned just after my father died that most of us turn small conversations into something much bigger than they need to be–I just didn’t know it at the time. Unfortunately, when I was 24 and my father was 54, the only noise that mattered was the oddly calm conversation coming from the other end of the telephone on a random Saturday morning that had me hours later arriving home and confronting my father’s death and the chaos that surrounded it.

I often wonder what kind of a man he would’ve been today, at 65, instead of never making it past that last week in February. While I cannot predict what he’d be listening to right now, I know I hear things differently and likely will for the rest of my life.

I can’t be trusted with plants, and I’ve known this from an early age. For a long time when I was growing up my chore list every other week was to water the plants in my parents’ atrium. Well, if it wasn’t for my mother sneaking in a misting behind me, I’m certain everything would’ve been dead by the time I graduated high school. Miraculously, that room, to this day still looks like a jungle of ferns, cactus, succulents, and the most gorgeous blossoms basking in the sunlight.

My current home has a dining room table in the kitchen, so I look at it daily and love nothing more than fresh cut flowers on it. When I don’t get those, I at least try to keep something alive on the table at all times, even if it’s just a bowl of fresh fruit. Lately I want something a bit more permanent. Something I can tend to and enjoy every day. But I know my limits. I mean, my brother’s family recently sent me the loveliest white orchid. Shortly thereafter, it had a burial ceremony complete with a proper humming of Taps to accompany its journey to the trash bin. I need help.

In a lot of Eastern cultures, plants balance the energy of a home. But, if we’re being honest, I feel like ever since I threw out the lucky bamboo that basically completely violated an innocent vase, our fortune has actually changed for the better. At any rate, I’ve commissioned a good friend who is an expert in flower arranging (he’s trusted with some of the top restaurants and retail storefronts in the city) to do something with this space on my table. If he can’t help me pull together something I can’t manage to murder, I don’t know who can. I’ll report back with the after-arrangement.

Image: Courtesy of Brian Woodcock

I entered 2011 with two tiny goals (I wish sarcasm were better projected through a website) of a book and a baby. While neither are happening the way I expected, both are likely teaching me more than if they had come easier.

I do feel slightly guilty putting my visions for 2012 out there, honestly. I don’t want for anything. I have a career that stimulates and challenges me, a loving and supportive family, friends that not only have my back but also make me belly laugh until it hurts, and a husband I was lucky enough to snag a decade ago. So, this year’s vision board is done in the spirit of putting it out there, a fresh start, a new year, or as Oprah says, “Another chance for us to get it right.”

I had an article all planned to write this week. It was about holiday hairstyles featuring a funny story about how growing up, for special occasions, I always begged (err bribed) my twin sister into fixing my hair, and she’d always royally mess it up, not looking at all like I’d pictured: I’d walk off in a huff and we’d end up not speaking for several hours until I’d apologize for being such an a-hole and we’d be friends again.

There was going to be some great metaphor about family and friends and looking ones best, but instead, I’m buried in deadlines and just trying to peel myself out of yoga pants long enough to attend a restaurant opening on top of a holiday party I already RSVP’d to when all I really want to do is curl up on the couch, listen to the song below all day, and not worry about what I look like.

This year has been filled with plenty to keep me warm, and I’m so very grateful for it all. It’s all beyond what any person could ever hope for. I’ll be back with fresh content January 4; until then, here’s a year-end video … the best my eyes have seen in 2011. Happy holidays, everyone.

We just bought our plane tickets to head to my family’s house for the holidays, which got me reflecting a bit on the spirit of the season. When I was younger my family had a phrase—one to grow on—that little extra push could set us apart, which could be applied to many things (but I remember it the most with sports, regarding a few more sit-ups or another lap around the track). I find myself thinking about all those things family and friends teach us along the way. Here are my top 10 (plus one to grown on) words of wisdom (or just plain actions I’ve admired) from the loved ones in my life; some, I wish, were still around to continue teaching me. These are my one to grow on moments pushing me to be better.

Everything in moderation
Who: My paternal grandmother
I remember gorging myself on a gigantic hunk of cheddar cheese at my grandparents’ house when I was a teenager. My grandmother told me I could have it, but to be mindful of my portions. Guilted, I put the cheese back in the refrigerator (but it was so good!). This is also the same woman who drank exactly one beer (straight out of the can) every Independence Day. What will power. Eat the slice, but not the whole block! In the same vein, my other grandmother, my Grammy, has a similar story one I’ve dubbed “A lady doesn’t need all that meat at lunch.” Once used to explain the petite 4 oz. portion of filet mignon she likes to special order from her country club. PS – That story’s title makes you think she was talking about something entirely different. Ew.

Call a cab
Who: My brother
Everyone in my family likes a good cocktail or two. And once, my brother explained to me the importance of calling a cab instead of getting behind the wheel, even when you think you’re okay to drive. He reasoned that the money you spend on the taxi and the ordeal to retrieve your car the next day far outweighs the price of a potential DUI, court expenses, lawyer fees, or worse. Agreed and spoken like a true accountant. Pay now or pay later.

Pack efficiently
Who: My father
To my parents’ credit, all four of us kids got the gift of understanding the world through travel. But you’ll never catch any of us dragging more than one suitcase through an airport. Which is achieved, I’m certain, by all of us practicing the art of smart packing taught by our father. The military man in him had a very efficient way of packing for a trip. His tight-roll method for slacks and shirts I still use to this day, and I am always surprised how much I can fit in a suitcase. He pushed for streamlining items and wearing staples like jeans a few times. He also stressed the importance of not wearing clothes in a foreign country that scream, “Hey y’all, I’m an obnoxious American!” Very useful.

Put on lipstick
Who: My Grammy (see also “Everything in Moderation”)
Well, maybe not lipstick, per se, but at least put a little effort into it if you’re stepping out the front door. It only takes one time of bumping into an ex-boyfriend at Target sporting greasy hair held by a Hello Kitty barrette paired with raccoon smudged eye makeup from the night before while wearing too-tight yoga pants and a graphics tee shirt that says something terrible like “My favorite color is yellow” before you realize that Grammy, in fact, might know a thing or two.

Strive for something
Who: My older sister
There’s no one else in my life that goes after something quite like my older sister; I both love and admire her for it. Whether it’s breaking college swimming records, running a half-marathon, getting a Ph.D., raising children, or earning a promotion at work, the girl sets a goal and gets it done.

Do what you say
Who: Two of my closest friends
It’s interesting how through the years we have relationships with people at different phases of our life that might be very similar. My best friend from college and my best friend in Atlanta are very alike in how they go about life. And by gosh, these two walk the talk. If they say they’ll be somewhere, count on it. If either of them sets the alarm for a 6 a.m. run, well, you better believe they are pounding the pavement before the sun comes up. They say it and it’s done. These two are also the same sort who will bring over a batch of homemade soup when you’re sick and remember to send a card every year on your birthday. Salt of the Earth.

Clean up after a dinner party before going to bed
Who: My mother
My parents were social butterflies who threw legendary parties (with an endless supply of vodka gimlets) but somehow always managed to wash the dishes before going to bed. No matter how late. I remembered this sage advice one incredibly slow-moving morning following a ridiculously raucous dinner party my husband and I hosted. I was stuck tossing out beaucoup of half-empty bottles of wine that seemed to be fermenting further with each passing minute and grody remains of a cheese plate while on the cusp of vomiting the entire time. That said, my rough guess on how many wine glasses my parents must’ve shattered in their lifetime with this bit of advice is in the hundreds.

Stand up for yourself
Who: My twin sister
It’s funny that growing up I was the more outgoing twin—a chatterbox who was curious and daring while my sister was shy and quiet for years. By the time we got to high school she didn’t march to that drummer any longer. She was outspoken, opinionated, and was not afraid to back up her own ideas to our parents, peers, or teachers. All in a respectful way of course, but her persuasion also allowed her to live a little and gave her space to experiment and take risks. I mean, years later, that same girl would drive from Baltimore, Maryland to Santa Cruz, California and camp out in the Badlands, all by herself, all because she took a stand.

Get to the root of it
Who: My husband (and family)
Growing up, my family mostly dealt with difficult issues or a crisis like a live grenade being thrown in the middle of a locked and crowded room. Freak out. While my husband’s side is a family of quietly effective problem-solvers. My husband (and his family) taught me that sometimes it’s better to leave it unsaid, or at least wait a bit to figure out the guts of what you’re really upset about instead of dropping bombs. This takes a bit of practice, but I’ve found it a very nice (and healthy) alternative to the wreckage to which I’m accustomed.

Bad news doesn’t get better over time
Who: My father
Oh, this is a DRH-standard all the way around, and it’s one of my favorite unsolicited relics of advice I ever received from my father. It’s the one I use most often and apply to practically any situation. I love it too because it’s sort of the opposite of what’s usually represented with “time healing all things” and just “giving things their due time.” In this case, I’d say he’s right on the money with this nugget. Wishing it away won’t work. Buck up, tell the truth, and move on.

Don’t let it get cold (one to grow on)
Who: My maternal grandfather (see photograph)
Obviously if a plate of food is in front of you, despite a photograph being taken, by all means, eat.

Nestled in my mom’s lap at my grandparents’ house circa 1980-something. Boy, those cats had the run of the living/dining room, didn’t they? Also, my mom’s loungewear from Korea rocks—I would wear those in an instant, right about now.

My mom said: To take the week off and spend time with her while she visited me last week in Atlanta, so I did. I’ll be back next week with new content. Until then, I’m relishing in all the sweet doting and tight hugs from her that will carry me through to December, when I see her next.

Image: Courtesy of Korean Air

In this economy many people are looking to fallback plans for their careers. The New York Times has a great piece all about it, which you can read here. Do you have one? You know, that option B, the in case of emergency contingency plan. That career path you’d have in another life. Or maybe even your life right now.

I would be a flight attendant for an airline whose uniforms are adorable; those Korean Air attendants are so chic in white and turquoise, I die. Side note—does Kate Spade still design the uniforms for JetBlue? Does JetBlue even still exist? I’d even have a Plan B for my Plan B, a fallback for my fallback—a bartender in an interesting place like Key West or New Orleans because think of the stories you’d get! I should note, I’d predictably be one of the world’s worst flight attendants or bartenders for the same reason … just like in “Cocktail,” I’d cop a major attitude the second someone asks me to sling them a Cuba Libre. Oh they’d get the side eye for sure on that one.

My brother, who has a big, fancy word like “partner” in his present job title, once told me he would be a plumber. Seriously. Another time he told me he’d be a cross-country coach at a high school. My sister, who has a smarty pants Ph.D. next to her name, dreams of being a trash collector. No joke. She explains that the hours are conducive to her schedule (she’s an early riser) and since she’s not queasy at all, I personally think it’d be the perfect fit. Her husband’s answer—a NYC or Vegas cab driver, and boy would I like him driving me around! He’d be the coolest person to talk to, believe me, you’d never want to get out of the taxi. You’d be cracking up and likely exchanging numbers to buy the guy a beer after his shift.

A good friend from college while in graduate school decided she’d like to take a course to become a certified nail technician. Not sure if it was just because she wanted to become an expert on her own cuticles or as a fallback plan, like just in case the patent law career doesn’t pan out, I can always give a good manicure. My best friend in Atlanta, who is a marketing genius, would open a sandwich shop serving only the tastiest lunchtime staples around. My sister-in-law has told me that one of the best jobs she ever had was working at William’s Sonoma. She’s a wonderful cook, and I could see her thriving there, despite the law and MBA degrees.

My television writer and producer husband would be a butcher. Oh, to be the butcher’s wife. I’d be such a happy cow sausaging into my fabulous uniform with the best snacks on the flight. Here’s to fallbacks, and Plans A through C.

I recently wrote all about the tomato-red goodness that once were my kitchen countertops, here.

Well, that fun little (err not so fun and not so little) project is mostly done (aside from the caulk job that needs to happen). Home renovation projects always leave me a bit frazzled, mostly because everything is a bit out of whack and out of place (as I type this, I’m starring at a bowl of avocados in my office since it can’t live in its usual home on the kitchen counter).

Yes, I think avocados next to the computer classifies out of whack. Here’s the before & after in photo form.

Before the project began, I was more worried about what sealing the counters would entail. Little did I know how much scraping…

Scraping … and more scraping we had in store.

Time to call in the big guns (electric sander).

In times of crisis and projects that I’m particularly overwhelmed I generally have one of two reactions—cry or quit. I threw in the towel once during a meltdown at Home Depot, which in retrospect I’m shocked my husband stuck around long enough to actually give me a ride home.

Truth be told, the freak-out had something to do with the paint not coming off and the idea of us stuck with what were for a brief period, pink tinted counters.

It was about this time I was thinking of Plan B. I already had an alternate color of paint picked out in my head hudsonpaint.com (#25 royal bronze).

Getting the layers of paint off the concrete was the bulk of the job and took Friday night through Sunday to see what we were actually working with.

After three days of scraping and sanding, we finally used the Cheng method of non-toxic sealer on the unpainted surface. Helpful tip—old t-shirts (and okay, my husband’s old underwear) were a great application vessel for the sealer. No lint!

The lesson—projects always take longer than slated, cost more than estimated, but are totally worth it in the end. Helpful tip—Never wear flip-flops while working with power tools. My big toe looks like Mark Wahlberg’s face when he isn’t winning in, “The Fighter.”

Our new, concrete countertops in their natural state of gray. This is a project we’ve wanted to do for a while now and while it took a lot of sweat (no tears!), the payoff is nice. I’d be lying if I said they look exactly like what I pictured. But, I’m allowing myself time to get used to our kitchen looking like a freshly poured sidewalk. My husband’s already talking about calling someone to tile this sucker.

I’ve been buried in paint chips and concrete dust since Friday, but happy to report that the countertops are well on their way to cease yelling at me. The red dragon has almost been slayed. Before and after pictures coming soon … I promise.

I’m glad to be posting this on the last day of August. You see, this month, from the start, proved to be particularly challenging for me.

I went to a yoga class recently and the instructor talked about finding comfort even in uncomfortable situations—on the mat when holding poses you want to break out of, to off the mat when say you are on last minute flight to beat Hurricane Irene and you find yourself in Chicago while trying to get to Atlanta. No matter how hard it is making the moment semi-okay when it’s all the way not. Mastering the art of rolling with life and accepting whatever terminal the plane arrives in.

This month began with a massive writing project coming to a close and not at all the way I thought (or hoped) it would. This ending resulted in attorneys being called and me walking away after 18-months with nothing left to show for my work. All of which left me disappointed and sad, angry and hurt, and a whole lot of things I haven’t been able to process fully. Right now, I’m just trying to absorb everything and pick up the pieces from the wreckage. Take the good parts, learn from the bad and move forward. But, it’s hard.

To the personal—specifically, us having a baby. I’ve had several doctors’ appointments, tests and just loads of things I never knew we’d have to endure to expand our family. I’m trying to surrender to the process, to find comfortable spots in this stretch of very uncomfortable. I’m trying to take it easy and let everything unfold, as it should. But, right now it all hurts like hell, and I’m trying to get comfortable with this uncomfortable new road we’re walking.

All that pales in comparison to the last bit. While on his morning run, my brother-in-law was hit by a car. He’s fine (relatively speaking), not to belittle his injuries, but there’s no brain damage or spinal cord injuries. He’s getting stronger everyday post a collapsed lung and a ton of broken ribs, but the whole ordeal was terrifying to say the least. Within days, I found myself at my sister’s helping take care of him and their kids. Then, leaving a day early after being rerouted from a connection in Philly to make it back to Atlanta.

This last bit puts everything else in perspective. Life is about free will and choices. We are choosing to expand our family. I chose to walk away from a writing project. My brother-law-chose to go on a run. It’s what happens in the aftermath that gets tricky. But, I suppose without the turbulence, without the uncomfortable, you’d never fully appreciate it when things are simpler and the ride is comfortably smooth.

Our countertop in all its firey glory.

My husband and I are about to embark on another home improvement project. I wish I could put this in the same category as operation subway-tile-the-hell-out-of-the-shower, or slip-cover-the shite-out-of-the-sofa, but we’re biting off more than either of those combined. The big difference in this journey is that, well, there’s a gigantic margin of error, and in our case, this likely means we might truly make things worse than what we started with. Let’s back up.

When we bought our house, while we should’ve been scouring for structural damage and, say, trying to figure out why there were cracks in every wall likely associated with a shoddy foundation, instead we both peppered our realtor with questions about our kitchen countertops. They aren’t your run of the mill granite, marble, or tiled subjects. First, they are concrete, which we both happen to think makes us more incredibly hip and cool than we actually are, especially because our house is not a loft, but a 1940s bungalow. So, yes, it’s a juxtaposed look, which I’ve sort of come to terms with. Second, someone had the great idea to paint these suckers bright, flaming, tomato red. When we did the final walk-through I calculated in my head that besides every bedroom needing to be painted from the most depressing sage green I’d ever seen, those countertops should be added to my “blank canvas” list as well.

Then, we moved in. And here’s the weird thing—those countertops grew on us. They honestly worked for about three years of us living in the house (we’re now at year five). One day, in an über-popular move I’ve mastered called break-down-into-hysterics-over-something-minor, my husband came home from work to find me sobbing as I was cooking dinner with me dramatically pointing and crying, “I feel like they are yelling at me.” In my defense, if these countertops were a character in a play all they would do is let out blood-curdling screams. They really are that loud. And that doesn’t sit well with the muted tones that I so need in my life. Plus, they are chipping like crazy, and I for one don’t like eating paint sandwiches.

I’m not one of those people you see while watching reruns of MTV’s “Cribs” who has Sub Zero refrigerator’s stocked with Fiji water, Cristal, Gatorade, and Chinese takeaway cartons as far as the eye can see. I actually use my kitchen. Love to be in it, in fact. Adore hosting dinner parties where friends and family in the kitchen surround us. And our kitchen literally is at the center of our house (I think I can see every other room except the bathroom from the kitchen). So, there’s a gigantic reason for panic as it’s not like I can be all Mariah Carey about it and say, “Don’t mind the gaping hole from the acid wash I just tested on the concrete counter, let’s just use the guest house kitchen tonight, folks.”

The issue with concrete is this: while you’re pouring it, the options are endless. One can make patina-looking counters and almost replicate granite, or one can pour in a piece the shape of a kitchen sink so it appears continuous with no separate parts. It truly is stunning how much you can do with this inexpensive medium. But, in our case, the damage was already done, what’s poured is poured. I like projects like this. I like taking something that is so-so and making it something you love. I didn’t say I was good at this, I said I liked it. And perhaps only in theory because what I really like is calling someone to come do it for us.

Either of these outcomes would be a dream. Thanks for the images apartmenttherapy.com and jaaroncaststone.com.

There’s one part to this project I wouldn’t dream of paying someone to do … I’ve been waiting for two years to be let loose wielding a paint scraper. Just go to town. So, that part, I’m pretty sure I’ll endlessly enjoy. What gets tricky with this project is what you seal it up with. Basically this isn’t a concrete floor that can be sealed with any old thing. This is something that needs a little bit of thought and care because well, there’s the small detail that we prepare food on it. And everything we’ve found is of course toxic. Some guy at our local hardware store told us about something called Top Secret, and believe you me, he acted like he was giving us the vault code for Ft. Knox. Speaking in whispers like he could really get in trouble for even mentioning this stuff to us, it was created by the military and all. Pretty sure an open burner flame around that stuff would set our kitchen on fire, so that’s a no. Then, we stumbled across Cheng, a guy out of Canada with incredibly entertaining videos that show him pouring his own sealer across and working like a mad man (but oddly very Zen about it) before it sets. Watching the wax on and off peaceful state is pretty hilarious, but seems totally over our heads (and the amount of beach towels we own).

Of course I’ve covered the market on DIY blog reading and I’m up to my elbows in Apartment Therapy advice. We’re slated to start the demo in the new few weeks. Here’s hoping we won’t be eating out for the next month to fix this mess we’ve made.

Otis on canvas by Augusta Hyland Wilson

Summertime is the only time I feel sorry for Otis. It’s hot and he can’t handle it. And other than the stretch from June to August, that dog doesn’t have it so bad. Not in the slightest. But, boy, come June, you’d think he was dying from a heat stroke with the drama that ensues after he’s out back … he’ll throw himself under the ceiling fan in the living room like he’s dying, then go to our mudroom and dunk his entire face in his water dish, look up pitifully with water dripping down as if to say, “It’s so rough out there, you have no idea.”

I wanted a dog most of my life. I spent every birthday hoping for one, but it never came. When my brother (who’s the oldest) was a baby, my parents had Basset Hounds, Buck and Maggie, but they eventually had to put Buck down for violently biting my brother, and later, they gave Maggie away. I think the heartbreak from both was so devastating they never got another dog. But, that’s just my theory on the matter.

Instead we were a family who had cats. Angel, Lucy, Rose, KC, Spike, Martin, Java, Dolores, Rudy, Reagan, and Aggie have all clawed, hissed, and torn up and down the long hallway at my parent’s loft. Though Dolores and Reagan were my sisters’ cats and only there on college breaks, Aggie was mine from college, and it took several days before my father realized she was different from Spike because they looked so alike.

We got Otis through a non-profit called Atlanta Lab Rescue about a year after Spike died. ALR brought two adorable puppies to our house—well three if you count the one who was already adopted out and just slept in the back of the truck the entire time—pretty sure he was thinking, “My job is done” and didn’t even bother waking up. The litter of five boys (three black and two chocolate) born on December 9 to a black Labrador who had the extreme good fortune of breaking through the basement window of a house whose owner happened to be involved in animal rescue.

The foster first brought out a chocolate boy named Lex that I had my eye on, and next, a whimpering black puppy named Wink. As she retrieved him from the truck, I asked, “Why is he here?” about Wink, and informed the foster all I wanted to see were chocolates. Well, after about ten minutes of solid humping and pinning Wink down aggressively by Lex, I still wasn’t swayed. Figuring my husband and I were in for a long debate on chocolate versus black, I went in to get the adoption paperwork, regardless of the color, I knew one of these boys was our dog. I walked outside and saw Wink sitting next to my husband with his little head cocked as they both watched Lex attempt to dig a hole to China in our backyard.

Our licorice-colored dog chose us. Calm, goofy, curious, a lover not a fighter, a wonderful boy from day one, and our family wouldn’t be complete without him. He’s one of the best decisions we’ve made, adding him into our life, and there isn’t a day or a walk that goes by that I’m not grateful for everything he’s brought with him. In all his sweetness, this is also the same being that barfed up a pair of my underwear on the couch the first night its custom slipcover was on it, acts like the bathtub is his for Pollack-style muddy paw marking, and passes gas so foul and loud it clears a room … he’ll seriously have the nerve to look at us like that sound came from one of us and like it surprised him that it even slipped out. Or there’s the time he had an allergic reaction to his tick medicine the night before we were supposed to leave on a week’s vacation, which led to us at the vet at 8 am, postponing getting on the road for a seven-hour drive. Or when he swatted at a bee who promptly stung him on his face, or when he ate an entire bar of soap like he was punishing himself for eating all his own poop in the backyard. I won’t even mention the psychedelic mushroom trip he took himself on from the wild ‘shrooms in our backyard, or the sheetrock wall and wood crown molding he noshed on with puppy teeth, nor do I bother to keep track of how many rolls of toilet paper he’s consumed or decorated our dining room with.

In case you were wondering—Labradors eat EVERYTHING. And the joke about you and your mangy dog? Well, he was one. Though I don’t like to recall the massive bout of mange he came into our house with, forcing all his fur to come out in clumps while we nursed him for months with dips and shots to rid him of the aliment passed from his mom while nursing (as best we know).

But, I love his orneriness just before he eats dinner; his witching hour when I might see him trot out of our bedroom carrying whatever was on the laundry drying rack in his mouth. Or when he throws himself down in my office, wanting to be a little closer to me (and the vent that blows straight on him), it’s that presence I’ll never tire of. My favorite time of the day is seeing the excitement he gets waiting for my husband to come home from work; he’ll stare out the French doors in anticipation of the slightest noise of his tires rounding up the drive. I like to pretend he’d speak in a British accent if he could talk like humans, this idea coming after his allergy vet (yes, of course he’s allergic to everything) told me she thought he wasn’t a mix, but actually a British Labrador, one of the rarer versions of the breed.

Tally-ho, good chap. Otis is a good chap, indeed.

Editor’s note–The irony is not lost on me that I caught Otis fishing this piece out of the wastebasket in my office just after I’d finished editing. He ate his own article. Of course he did.

Stepping away from the computer and replacing it with raw oysters, sweet corn, champagne, fireworks, the metronomic sound of ocean waves, hot and humid three-mile runs, and quality time with my husband. Independence Day (err seven day) bliss. See you next week.