danapop

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.

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.

L-R: me, twin sister, older sister, older brother

I’ve been in Atlanta for 11 years now (almost to the day as I moved here Memorial Day weekend in 2000). And mostly, this feels like home. That’s the interesting thing that happens when we’re adults and no longer dependent on our parents; when the home you grew up in isn’t home anymore. Last year we toyed with the idea of many other places becoming our home—our hometowns made the cut (Cincinnati, Kansas City), as did NYC, LA, and Chicago. Even Richmond and Boulder were in the mix because of potential job opportunities.

But, that wasn’t where we were supposed to be. We’re clearly, for now, meant to be here, in Atlanta. Though that doesn’t make the missing any less rough. Lately I’ve been incredibly homesick, and I’m not certain what it is that I’m missing. My mom? My sisters and brother? My nieces, nephews, and grandmother? The unrealistic notion that my family isn’t scattered throughout the country?

My first Thanksgiving in Atlanta my twin sister visited and brought along her college roommate with her son who was about four at the time. My twin also invited her on-again-off-again high-school boyfriend and we cooked the turkey with the bagged innards still inside the bird (whoops), watched half of “Fight Club” just before bed and I had an epiphany in the middle of the night, woke my twin up and asked her to tell me the truth, “Is Tyler Durden real?” But that’s a whole other article. Anyway, apparently when they left, my twin’s college roommate’s son (ahem–this story is really a friend of a friend, plus a cousin, isn’t it?) said, “I miss everyone.” Meaning the chaos and all the fools (myself included) at that Thanksgiving in my teeny apartment.

And that’s where I am, as profound as a child, “I miss everyone.”

The couch in all its glory--so comfy, yet so unattractive.

When we were just friends, I remember my husband missing a day of work because he had to have a couch delivered. I wondered what this couch that required a request-off-of work even looked like. I wondered what his apartment looked like … his bedroom. Shortly, I would find out that the apartment was minimal, at best. His bed had a black (or charcoal grey, I can’t remember which) duvet, and his bathroom a clear plastic inner liner working as a curtain–you get the picture of a guy just out of college, working really long hours and badly needing a woman in his life to make something of this blank (or clear plastic) canvas.

Interestingly enough, the only color to speak of came in the form of his couch a neutrally-hued sage green fabric with a black weave pattern throughout, which he paired with (gasp) black throw pillows. The fact that he even had throw pillows should say something, but wow, not pretty. In the couch’s defense, structurally, it’s really comfy and cozy and something you want to sink into, which is certainly criteria for a living room and TV-watching sofa. The practical man he is thought to buy a sleeper sofa, which to me says just as much as the throw pillows. We spent a lot of time on that couch. It’s since made two moves, from his old apartment to our first apartment together in Midtown, to our first house in Ormewood Park. It’s slept countless visitors and sometimes even us when I beg to do a slumber party in the living room and watch movies and let the dog hop up, or one of us feels awful and turns it into a makeshift hospital bed.

The dog gets it confused with his bed.

But, this couch, it’s not us. It’s a dude living in a barren apartment sofa. And I’ll just say it–it’s ugly and has been since its purchase ten years ago. Enter my friend, my savior, design guru Heather Hogan Roberts, one half of H&H Home. I’m obsessed with everything the girls at H&H do. I’ve written about H&H here and here. Anywhoo, my friend Heather offered to get me a quote on a custom slipcover for this eyesore, then kindly went with me to pick out fabrics, and even sweeter, let me use her trade discount for what turned out to be a really reasonable fix. And then, had the generosity to gift me the Ikat throw pillow beauties to boot, natch.

I can't believe I get to sit on this everyday.

The end result is this. I like the idea of still having that old, ratty, dependable thing under there, but surrounded in a sophisticated update. I’ve now fallen back in love with this couch and the boy who crashes on it. The before and after is pretty nice, yes?

Someone's not allowed up any longer.

My marriage survived a bathroom renovation.

Demolition Day

Let me rephrase–my marriage survived showering at the gym for a week with a cold the size of Texas taking up my chest, allowing a grown man who likes to be called Plug into my home to install a toilet, putting my contact lenses in at my kitchen table (since that’s where the contents of our medicine cabinet lived for the better part of a month), watching my father-in-law and husband install over-the-sink lighting and both live to talk about it, and blow-drying my hair in the dark while waiting for my husband to install those same vanity lights. Good times.

We live in a two bedroom, one bathroom 1940s bungalow that we bought just over four years ago. We love it, adore it even. Except for the one part … the bathroom.

Vanity lights that came with the house--one word: horrific.

I suppose the bathroom trouble really started at move in, so let’s back up. There were parts of it we liked … the pedestal sink, the vintage tiled floor, but the shower, my word, that was a different situation entirely. It had always been an eyesore, just awful to look at, let alone shower in. Moldy cracked tile which I made worse in an incident I try to not bring up, but I will here–I was shaving my legs with one propped on the tiled soap tray and it ripped off the wall. I blame it on the shoddy wall and cracked tile, not the weight of my gam, but, what ensued was my husband doing a tile patch job so horrific and non-matching that I never brought up a renovation again for fear of what the end result would be if he starting thinking laying tiles himself was a good idea.

Cracked moldy tile--the dog can't even look at it because it's so ugly.

But, the conversation did come back up. We decided that since I work from home and would spend a good deal of the summer and fall traveling, wouldn’t it be great to get that bathroom redone on one of my trips out of town? Fabulous. Now, my husband and I operate on very different speeds of the spectrum, which most the time meshes into a semi-sane person working at a semi-sane pace. During my first trip away, I believed I was leaving and coming home to a surprise new bathroom situation. Come to find out the phone call to suss out contractors hadn’t even been made. I’m not saying I would’ve been slinging the sledgehammer (more like I would’ve swung it once and sat in the mess I made crying hysterically wondering how to fix it all); yet something would’ve been done.

Two walls with subway tiles, one to go.

Clearly men and women look at very different things when doing any sort of renovation project. Ours went something like this:

Me–Trying to rationalize a $128 shower curtain purchase because it’s pretty and convincing him that the color scheme of blue, steel and yellow is the way to go. PS–the shower curtain for that price was a no-go.

Him–Wondering about plumbing pipes, caulking and sealing, toilet with eco-friendly flushing, and non-chemical paint.

Our lovely bathroom. New lighting, toilet, paint, and entire shower. Swoon.

So, here’s the before and after bathroom renovation. It should be noted that I’m certainly grateful I’m married to a man who’s strong enough to know when to call in reinforcement and not just scream frantically “shut off the water!” while I scurry for a stack of beach towels.

I read somewhere that most people tend to stick to their goals better if they can visualize them. My mind is apparently wired the same as the majority, because if I see it, it’s generally easier for me to achieve it. In lieu of the standard resolutions for this coming decade, here’s my vision. My creative board of what I’d like to happen and what inspires me to make it a reality. Universe, are you listening? Bueller?… Bueller?… So, what’s on your vision board?

All photos courtesy "Mudbug"

I didn’t write this week’s post. An old friend tracked down through the power of social networking did. He has graciously written an extraordinary piece for danapop in what I think captures the true essence of the holiday season.

Happy holidays all.

dp

When I was a kid, I used to watch the holiday messages made by troops stationed overseas.  I aspired to be like those soldiers on television.  I envied those who were off in some far away country, doing interesting things.  I wanted to give a big smile, a wave and tell everyone best wishes from somewhere nobody had ever heard of.  Of course, when I was growing up, we were not at war.

I recently had the opportunity to make just such a video.   You could record a holiday message in an area set aside in the morale tent.  I sat down on the stool, looked at the camera, started to say something, but nothing came out.  I looked at film tech and said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.”  I then grabbed my helmet and walked off to a meeting to talk about the latest insurgent tactics.

I am not sure why I couldn’t say anything.  Maybe because it was September and it was 110 degrees.  Maybe because Christmas was the last thing I was thinking about.  Maybe because I didn’t want to make a video wishing everyone back home a Merry Christmas, when there was the possibility that I might be dead before the video even aired back home.  And when I tried to say Merry Christmas in September, it just sort of…died on my lips.

Time back home is marked by holidays and the passage of seasons.  The hands on the clock and the days on the calendar have meaning.  Around September, when the air first starts to get a chill, we pull our sweaters out of the closet and can’t help, but think that soon it will be Christmas.

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Leavenworth, Kansas circa 1800’s-Courtesy of the Command General Staff College of Ft. Leavenworth

When we visited Vancouver earlier this summer there was a chatty store owner talking to my mom, sister and I while we were shopping. She couldn’t fully comprehend how my sister could live in Maryland (she’s since moved to California), my mom in Kansas, and me in Georgia. None of it made sense to her. She kept asking why we didn’t live near each other–we all sort of struggled with an answer, but the easiest one was because of work. Which is true, but only partly.

There is something to be said about small towns. A quaint Main Street with boutiques, a past rich in history, where everyone knows your story. Leavenworth, Kansas, for me, is that place. Although we moved around quite a bit growing up, Leavenworth is (and likely will always be) home. It’s where my parents chose to set roots–where I attended school off of a military post for the first time, where I graduated high school, where friends I have known the longest live, and where my mother still is (with my brother and his family not too far either).

One of the oldest themes in everything from movies to music is the idea of leaving home. You know, putting the past town behind and starting fresh, in a new city. I did that. I left home almost a decade ago at 23 and haven’t returned much besides holiday visits and the occasional baby shower, hometown wedding, or milestone birthday celebration. I left my small town in Kansas in my rear view mirror for a job, which I’ve since also put in the rear view.

And while I look at my Leavenworth with fondness, I do feel a teeter-totter emotion of extreme complacency when I visit. When I go home I see the small town sadness and a desperation that is just not present in my life in Atlanta. Once I arrived here, I quickly came to the realization that I was a very small fish in a very large pond, especially compared to where I came from. I was nervous, scared shitless, excited and totally unprepared for the whirlwind of a life I would have here, those first few years.

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Almost spring – a time for cleaning out the cobwebs – both the real ones and the metaphorical ones. Clearing out a welcome in hopes of warmer, sunnier days to follow. A time for thinking about all things new and paradoxically, all things old, like home. When you’re an Army brat like me (man, I really dislike that term) growing up wherever the military sent you and with parents well past the typical age of first home buyers, where do you call home?

For me, it was the Boss’ house, a remarkable loft conversion warehouse in Leavenworth, Kansas. Remarkable not only because it was structurally unique but because my parents and us kids transformed it into our home with our own blood, sweat and tears. And it represented the culmination of everything my parents ever imagined they’d have in their dream home while chained to military housing in Panama, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Illinois, Kentucky and Hawaii.

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When I write, I tend to be more focused and inspired when I light a candle. So, it’s not uncommon for me to have one burning most of the day. The balance of scent is tricky…I never want something too strong in its note (too floral or fruity or one that makes me want to devour a plate of sugar cookies or an entire apple pie). So, finding that perfect line of candles is complex with a ton of fragrance induced headaches and mysterious food cravings.  I found my solution years ago though, when a friend gifted me a Paddywax candle.

From first match strike, I knew, this was the candle company for me. Hand poured, eco friendly, family owned and operated…I had to get an interview with its founders. So I did. David Duncan and I sat down for a chat about the company he founded with his wife Gretchen, Paddywax.

Also, a timely sidenote – Paddywax candles are on my wish list for stocking stuffers…and should be on yours too.

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