She’s Crafty

And she’s just your type.

I’ve written before about my general dislike of any arts and crafts-esque project. The idea of scrapbooking gives me the willies, glitter is very strictly banned from our household and the idea of stepping inside Michael’s is enough to give me hives. Even as a child I shuddered anytime a teacher pulled out popsicle sticks, fuzzy puff balls and some Elmers. Oh sure, we bought a glue gun and constructed some of our own wedding décor, but that was really more of a necessary cost-cutting measure than it was a “fun project.” It’s just not my thing. I don’t enjoy homespun things – I just don’t. And I certainly don’t like crafting them myself.

But lately … I don’t know … something has possessed me. Perhaps I’m ill. A strange virus infestation maybe? Well, whatever it is, it’s compelled me to tackle a few home improvement projects that some would classify (myself included) as “crafts.” *Shudder*

It all started because GAR went to Austin a few months ago and brought me back an “Austin City Limits” t-shirt that is completely awesome but is, also, completely suffocatingly (yes spell check, I know it’s not a word, lighten up) tight on me. He tried to see if he could exchange it for a larger size to no avail. But I had an idea to frame it for our music themed home office, along with another concert t-shirt that’s too big on me (if only they could be combined into one perfect t-shirt!), and a simple Google search gave me several options for how best to do this. No biggie, right? I mean, framing something isn’t really a craft project. But ... I didn’t love the color of the frames I had so I decided to spray paint them ... which is really just "painting" ... which is totally NOT crafting. Nonetheless, the whole thing did feel a little like arts and crafts hour in Kingergarten. But I am pleased with the results, so that's fine ... just fine. (Although I do have a major problem actually hanging the items I frame - hence the leaning on the floor shot. Get used to this ... you might see a few similar type shots moving forward as well.)

But, okay, while I was Googling this little t-shirt framing project I might have also seen an idea for how to turn old t-shirts into pillows (no sewing required! Which is good, because home ec was a bad, bad time for me in 7th grade) and thought “Oh, I have another really cool concert t-shirt that I’ll never wear again and wouldn’t this be a nice thing to help cushion my office chair?” (I’m still working on this one though – photos to come.) And then, well, it just kind of spiraled out of control from there.

I was unhappy with the wall full of framed postcards I had in my bedroom. The idea had seemed good in my imagination but it never really looked as good in person as I would have hoped. So I Googled ideas for other ways to display my retro travel postcards in one frame and came up with an idea for a craft project that would look way more kick ass than my current display. And so I did it. All it took was an empty frame, some string and tape. Easy! (Plus I invested in a very manly staple gun - score! - to hold the strings in place. And some day I'll even hang this bad boy too.)

I also revised my fireplace mantle artwork using framed fabric, which meant I had to go a place even MORE evil than Michaels – Joann’s. (Though I can deny ever doing this one since I took it down for the holiday season and put up garland instead.) And then I created two additional pieces of artwork for our office. I took some of our many, many concert tickets and created this (yes, I do know how to use a hammer and nail - get off my back).

And then I Instagramed (yes spell check. I know, I know) photos from these concerts (and a few more we've attended) and created a modern montage of them in Photoshop (before everyone started hating Instagram and saying they're selling our souls, etc., etc.) All I need now is to frame it (and, yes, hang it. Picky, picky)!

Pretty much I’ll never need any more décor for my office again. Or anywhere for that matter because I also created this for our bedroom.

It’s “artwork” created out of a bunch of little paint swatches I had collected at my "favorite" (okay, maybe not "favorite" but most frequently visited) store – Home Depot. But I totally love how it looks like legit art. And the best part? This one is supposed to sit on my dresser and lean against the wall - ha ha! I did that on purpose!

Yeah, okay. I may have a crafting problem. Granted it’s mostly just framing stuff with a little bit of design work thrown in. It’s not like I’ve taken up knitting or anything. But it’s definitely out of my realm of comfort. For the love of Pete I even joined Pintrest – PINTREST! I have clearly been possessed. But I’ll be damned if ever put anything I created up on that site. I am too selfish for Pintrest. Because, while I’m more than willing to look at your ideas and maybe snag a few of them for my own projects, I sure as heck don’t want anyone stealing my ideas. They’re mine. MINE I tells ya. Mwahhahhahhah (evil laugh) … even if I did share them here with you today (because I’m nothing if not a complete and total braggart).

To ease my mental state of affairs I took a breath, stepped away from the bedazzler, and decided to do a cosmetic enhancement that was just a little less "girly" (and I didn't even get hands-on with this one, I made GAR do it while I instructed him on how to do it correctly - natch) – hiding our television and electronic wires behind our new entertainment stand. This was no easy task given that our new stand has a completely open back to it. But I was just crafty enough (errrr ... I meant, intelligent enough) to figure out a way around that (basically it involved massive amount of electrical tape to hold everything into place. Viola!

This is the "BEFORE" shot (messy!):

And here is the "AFTER" (with GAR watching some crazy show about auctions - yawn). As you can see, we did a decent job of hiding the cords behind the shelves and then stuffing all plugs into that basket, which holds a power strip:

                                          

Okay, it’s all good. That last one was toooootttallllyy a macho, not too girly girl, type project. Perhaps I wasn’t a victim of body snatching. I am still “me” after all. Now I just need to find onnnneeee more frame for this uber cute Nirvana painting that GAR got me for Christmas. I'm sure I can find just a little more room on my wall for it ...

                                            

Eating Arachnids

You know how they say you eat some insane number of spiders each year in your sleep? Eight is the number I generally hear (*shudder*). How these disgusting creatures end up in one’s mouth, being chewed up, swallowed and digested, is generally not something I care to spend much time thinking about in my daily life. But, honestly, at this point I think that I’d be at least a little bit okay with the idea (provided I can still go on living in ignorant bliss that it ever occurred) if it means that the Hanks are finally extinguished from my abode for good.

If you don’t remember the “original” Hank, he was a giant, furry, nearly tarantula-esque type spider I found (like I find all evil things that take up residence in our home) one day while GAR was away … well over a year and a half ago. And then I lost him. Then found him again dead, weeks later (after many fearful, don’t touch anything before inspecting it for giant spiders first, moments), squished in the sliding door track. And then I found two of his buddies dead in our unused spare, spare bedroom – proving that he was not a one-time-only freak-of-nature occurrence. And, despite learning that they are actually not poisonous, I got an exterminator … who kindly also pointed out that we had black widows (and their eggs) living around the perimeter of our house (and, as we learned later, also living in our garage) ... and those bad boys are poisonous.

Here’s a photo of a Hank (a.k.a. Wolf Spider) just so you know the source of my nightmares more intimately (no, this is not a photo that we took. We are sane people who do not pick up and hold very scary spiders no matter how seemingly harmless their venom is known to be. However, I would like the man to come live with us since, clearly, he is much less frightened of Hanks than we are).


So, yeah, although I think it would be nearly impossible to chow down on one of those bad boys in my sleep without being aware of it, I would, perhaps, be willing to bite the bullet if I meant I never, ever, EVER had to see one again. But, come on, that would HAVE to count as my sleeping spider eating quotient for the next couple of years at least.

But there’s been no need for all that. We have been living blissfully free of Hank and his offspring for some time now. Oh sure, GAR found this crazy giant spider in the pool and when he tried to fish it out it formed a bubble around its entire body (what the???) and “paddled” away from him. And then another time he found some other spiders on the pool deck whose bodies appeared to be made of spiky, weaponized armor. But there weren’t any IN OUR HOUSE (unless I had accidentally eaten them, of course) and so it was fine … until GAR found a Hank in our master bathroom a few days back. And, yes, he killed him, but how can I ever rest easy again? HOW?

Of course it doesn’t help matters that I’ve been home sick these past few days … which means I’ve spent some significant time alone in the house – which always seems to be prime time for terrifying creatures to make their appearance known to me. So, of course, I wake up this morning in a foggy, congested haze and head into said master bathroom where what to my sleep-caked eyes does appear is some large and possibly eight-legged creature making its way through my in-ground rock garden (I suspect this is why most people do not have rock gardens in the middle of their bathroom floor but, you know, they’re just not as lucky as I am I guess). Of course, I couldn’t be sure what I was seeing since I didn’t have my contacts in, but it was SOMETHING HUGE. But, naturally, by the time I located my glasses it could no longer be found. We even tossed around the rocks a bit in an effort to startle it out of hiding with no success. I crouched on the cold tile for 20 minutes afterwards just staring into the rocks, looking for it (while GAR stumbled back to bed), but it never reappeared. I know from past experience that when you dig down past all the rocks all that you find is dirt, not cement foundation, so it could be lurking somewhere on the earthy bottom of the “garden” (though, despite what my friend Katie believes, no creatures can actually burrow into – or out of - the bathroom through that dirt … this isn’t The Shawshank Redemption and the critter would have quite a long path to dig to freedom), but that means it’s still here … whatever it is … somewhere.

GAR believes it was just my delusion. With my sight impaired, my head in a weird NyQuil coma and visions of Hanks scampering in my head, he believes I dreamt the whole thing. But he is wrong. So very wrong.  I know it.

And so it’s decided – from now until the end of the month I am going to devote myself to finally finishing the New Year’s resolution I made on Dec. 31 (2010 … okay, yeah, I am a little late, I know) and get every nook and cranny of this house organized. I need to ensure that there are no little cubbyholes of clutter where critters could be lurking unnoticed. I will smoke Hank out of his hole. I MUST.

Really there are only a few stones (well, actually, there are still LOTS in the rock garden) left unturned. I organized the laundry room and linen closet last weekend … and I would have gotten farther if I hadn’t stubbed my toe so hard I thought it was broken (which it wasn’t … the only thing broken was my spirit … my spirit). So now all that’s left is the aforementioned spare, spare bedroom – which is where I found the dead Hanks before. And, yes, I’ll admit I’ve saved this room for last because I acknowledge that it’s the most likely to be the source of whatever it is I don’t want to uncover. But I’ve got to face my fears and go in there to finish filling the boxes I’ve stored there with stuff to drop off at the Salvation Army. And today I made that pile just a bit bigger when I tossed an old dish towel I don’t want any more on top … and a giant lizard leapt up and darted away. Of course. Sure. Lizards. Why not? Come and join the party.

But I did make GAR perform a “catch and release” with our new green scaly friend. Still, I can’t help but wonder if I made the right decision. After all, lizards are harmless. And from what I know of them they eat bugs … even big hairy spiders. Perhaps Mr. Lizard really was the lesser of two evils.

Dang it – now I’m going to have to be the one to eat Hank after all.

Tradition. Tradition. TRADITION!

You should be singing the title to this post Fiddler on the Roof style which, I know, is hard to translate into writing but, eh, whatcha gonna do?

Actually, I am not a gal who is so much into tradition. Not that I have anything against traditions, per se, I just think that one should leave herself open to doing whatever feels right in a situation, not simply doing things the way they’ve always been done “just because.” Our wedding was not full of customs that other weddings generally follow, for Thanksgiving we grilled out since I don’t eat meat (no turkey in the household), and next year we’ll probably do something different entirely, and we often celebrate what we call “Christmas” on a day other than Dec. 25, depending on our plans for that year (which always vary).

But, we are traditional when it comes to the holidays in some ways. We do always deck the halls (though I don’t have any balls of holly) – putting up a tree, hanging stockings and (usually, assuming I can convince GAR to do it) stringing up the lights on the front of the house – and we NEVER do it prior to Thanksgiving (that’s sacrilege in our house). We bake cookies, send out holiday cards featuring photos of us and the pups, and wrap presents – every year. And we likely watch a few holiday tv specials too. These are traditions I suppose, though we’re not insistent about how we do them or when … we could let one or two slide without much notice … but mostly they’re just things we do to feel “festive.” However we do have one main tradition in our house, and this tradition can NEVER be broken – our gift giving ritual.

We started this tradition a few years ago when we first bought our house. We wanted to keep our Christmas spending small while still getting each other thoughtful, meaningful tokens of affection. So we made some rules (traditions always have rules, which can sound limiting or oppressive but, somehow, we’ve made our “rules” into such a game that it’s completely fun … and challenging – in a good way).

Rule 1: There is a max spending limit of $100 (including tax and shipping for any items purchased – although GAR will often try to negotiate out of including one or the other of these add-ons in an effort to spend a few extra bucks)
Rule 2: Everything you purchase MUST fit inside the other person’s stocking (at least part of each item anyway, there can be some spillover at the top)

We also sometimes make a Rule 3 to challenge us further. Rule 3 includes specifics for the gift content. For example, this year we must have one gift that the other person can wear, one gift that you made and one gift that is symbolic of something we’ve done together as a couple (you could have three separate gifts to meet these criteria or you could have one or two gifts that serve double/triple duty – i.e. a scarf you knitted out of old vacation t-shirts). But we don’t always have a Rule 3 because, as I said, even our traditions have to be a little bit flexible.

I LOVE our gift giving tradition because we each have to think a lot about what it is that we want to get the other person most. We have to budget our money accordingly, shop wisely, get reeealllly creative about how to accomplish our mission, think strategically, and still manage to surprise and delight the other person with our craftiness and consideration. On numerous occasions I’ve seen GAR taking precise measurements of my stocking, plotting and planning what will fit inside. GAR’s stocking is all misshapen now – stretched out from me cramming as much as humanly possible in there in years past. We get crafty and cunning and downright sneaky about our purchases. And, best of all, we’re not blowing the bank with our perfect little presents. However, we do, frequently, blow each other’s minds with what we’re able to get each other on our tight budgets.

This year’s gifts are already starting to pop up. Every few days I look and there seems to be something new that’s appeared. Here’s where we stand today – Dec. 1. Only 24 more shopping days to go (or, since we’ll actually be celebrating Christmas on Dec. 23 this year, 22 shopping days really)!

I can’t wait to see what this year’s stocking madness brings.

Now if you’ll excuse me, GAR and I are off to do some shipping for another little (fiscally responsible) holiday tradition we have – The Dollar Store Christmas. Each year our friends all get together for a “Secret Santa” style party where the gift you give to your assigned recipient must come from the Dollar Store (or cost no more than $1 + tax, if purchased somewhere other than the Dollar Store). Again, you’d be surprised what you can get for a single buck. I used my $1 copy of Sanjaya’s memoir (from "American Idol" – didn’t you know he has his very own book?) to trap a snake in my house earlier this year, I have a $1 recording of the Michigan State (my alma mater) fight song on CD and, should the need ever arise, I can take a $1 pregnancy test (though I’m not sure I’d trust the results on that one).

So yeah, some traditions really are worth keeping around (as long as they don’t cost me too much moolah that is). Happy holidays!

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A Thanksgiving Ghost Story

GAR thinks our house is haunted.

But, then again, he thinks everywhere is haunted. He’s concocted some crazy story about how the husband of the woman we bought the house from electrocuted himself to death on some exposed wires on our pool filter box. He gleaned all this from when the woman told him at closing to “beware of the wires – you can get shocked pretty bad.” Obviously this meant that they had killed before. OBVIOUSLY.

I blame his overactive imagination on the various ghost hunting television programs he watches each week. They fill his brain with images of ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night (and, most recently, he’s also gotten hooked on zombies. If I hear him say “But what if we go to see ‘Skyfall’ and when we come out of the theater the zombie apocalypse has happened?” one more time…) He believes it and is terrified by it … but he also loves it. We’ve been ghost hunting in Savannah where, he believes, I had an encounter with an “orb” spirit. And we’ve been ghost hunting in Scotland where he very, very firmly believes that we not only encountered a famous ghost known as Mr. Boots in the underground vaults beneath the city, but that said ghost also followed us back to our hotel room where I dreamt of an evil creature chopping off GAR’s toes and, when he awoke the next morning, his feet were hurting so bad he thought he had broken every bone in them. Thankfully Mr. Boots couldn’t follow us all the way to Loch Ness where we totally saw Nessie (I'm waiting for my checks to roll in from the "National Enquirer" any day now) and GAR’s feet miraculously healed.



It’s not that I’ve never had strange encounters before. Growing up I believed there was a man who lived in my closet. He would come out at night if I forgot to shut the doors and hover over me in my bed. He terrified me but I knew he was simply a long-standing delusion of mine. Until, one time in high school, a friend spent the night and upon waking the next morning told me that she saw a man come out of my closet the night before. Okay, yeah, it was a strange coincidence. But I’m a skeptic and, as such, I refuse to blindly believe there’s more to it than that.

And so I indulge GAR with his ghost hunts and his fantasy hauntings and politely busy myself with other activities while he watches “Ghost Adventurers.” And, hey, when a Groupon came up for a “ghost hunt” in an old town just outside of Orlando I even said “Why don’t we do that? It could be fun!” (Spoiler alert: It was not.)

Let me paint a picture of our evening for you: It’s a cold night and we meet up with other “ghost trackers” in front of an ice cream shop (if only I had gotten the ice cream, despite the cold weather. I’m sure it would have been the highlight of the night). If you don’t know this, GAR is a professor and, naturally, we unexpectedly run into one of his students there. No, of course she’s not there for the ghost hunt, but she quickly learns that we are – I figure this knocks GAR’s credibility down quite a few notches in her book. At last our guide arrives. He makes a few jokes in poor taste and doles out some neon yellow vests that he tells the ladies (and only the ladies) that we "have" to wear – sexy. And then he starts (incredibly slowly) handing out some very cheap looking “ghost tracking” equipment that is very obviously nothing but a box with a blinky light on it. Here is GAR with his supposed "K2" device (which looks a heck of a lot like our ceiling fan remote).



Things are not going well for Mr. Ghost Tracker (or “GT” as he calls himself). But then something miraculous happens – GT gets “recognized” by some fans. These girls come up to him in a tizzy screaming “Is it you? Are you the Ghost Tracker?” And suddenly I’m intrigued. This guy is for real? He has fans? But how? GT explains that he has a national ghost hunting television show. What, we haven’t seen it? He’s shocked. After all, it airs at 2:30 a.m. on Sundays. Ah, okay, right. (After I got home that night I searched the tv channels for any sign of his show without avail. I may have to call shenanigans on the whole thing and say he paid these "screaming fans" to pretend to recognize him. My DVR doesn't lie.)

It’s at this point that we get to hear GT’s back story – his “superhero origin story” if you will. In other words, we get to hear about how it is that he came to have a supernatural ability to “track” spirits who are trapped here on Earth. As a young boy GT was in a terrible car accident that caused half of his brain function to shut down. To try to revive the dormant areas of his brain the doctors performed some sort of electric shock therapy on him by prodding his brain with metal rods. This electrocution opened up a portal to the afterworld that allows him to see, hear and communicate with ghosts. You got all that? Good. And, of course, he “proved” his abilities to us by showing us photos of alleged “spirits” caught on film (or digital “film” anyway) that looked like nothing (maybe a vague shadow at the very, very best) and saying “I know you can’t see it, but to me I can make it the whole figure … even what she’s wearing" (which was, shocker, "period clothing." Just once I'd like to see a ghost rocking a Flock of Seagulls haircut and some Hammer pants). "It’s my curse,” he would continuously say (it's also the name of his "book" - I'll be rushing right out to buy that one). Ah yes, the ghost that only you can see … because of your special powers … this should be a fascinating tour …

And that’s pretty much how it went all evening. He told stories about the time he went to the former site of the World Trade Center towers and all he could hear was the voices of the dead and the sound was so overwhelming that blood shot out of his eyes and his cameraman made him leave and find somewhere "safer" (Question: You had a cameraman? He caught this blood shooting out of your eye sockets on film?? Why has this footage not made serious national news ... or at least become a YouTube sensation?) And he showed us a house he bought that was the site of a vicious murder/suicide and how he was planning to restore the home to its former glory so that the spirits of those who were killed there can be set free (How? That part was unclear) and that he would "handle" the ghost of the murderer "in his own way" (no one even asked how on that one). And when his phone would ring he would shurg and say "Fox. They're always calling me." (Yes. I bet they are). But mostly he just showed us random things around town and gave us a history lesson. It wasn't so much a "ghost tour" as it was a "wandering around town and looking at literal eagles’ nests tour."

Oh, but the "equipment" he gave us? Some voice recorders that he told us to turn on but never played back the results for us, and an iPad app that "detects" ghosts in the area (which GAR also has on his iPhone .... he got it for free) - not so helpful. At one point GT asked the ghost of a homeless man who was murdered at a now abandoned bank to say the name of one of the people in our group (ghosts know our names?) and we heard nothing. But, of course, GT heard a name ... but did he tell us what it was? No. Instead he made everyone tell him our names and then at one point said "You said your name is Mike? That's what he said! Mike!" And THIS was the big conclusion to the evening. The giant ta-da! The definitive proof that ghosts exist and that GT can communicate with them.

Well you got me. I've never been more sure of anything in my life. You, GT, are telling the absolute truth (about one thing anyway) – you really DID lose half of your brain function, didn't you?

Thankfully the money from this tour goes to "charity" (don't ask which one, just "charity" – that's all GT would say). But I doubt we're done hunting for the dearly departed just yet. Why? Because even if we don't have special powers that allow us to communicate with the dead, GAR is still convinced that this is Mr. Boot’s face behind the gate in this photo (in Scotland), and that proves to him that some spirits ARE real. And if you don't see the face don't worry, GAR can. And if GT's logic holds up, if one person can see it then it must be true!

Cool As A Nuked Cuke

When I was younger, more immature and, let’s face it, just less in control of my emotions I was known to fly off the handle a time or two (or 100). I like to say that I was simply passionate. That I believed so strongly in right vs. wrong and fought things that I saw as an injustice with a sharp tongue. But in truth I was really just kind of an asshole. I blamed others whenever anything didn’t go exactly my way instead of ever turning that finger around to point at myself. I see this same behavior in some youngsters now (as well as Hollywood starlets, a surprisingly large number of corporate execs - I'm talking to you DONALD TRUMP - and assorted manchild-esque adults) and I find it deplorable and, yet, I know I used to be that much in denial myself. Ahhh … memories.

Of course now I’ve chilled out a bit. I’ve matured (a little anyway, let’s not get too crazy). I’ve found peace and happiness in life. I’ve acknowledged that it’s only me and my attitude and my actions that are responsible for my life. And really very little phases me and gets me riled up like it used to – at least not the little things anyway. I’m the proverbial cucumber that others say they are as cool as.

But God damn it did I lose my shit this week. And though it happens so very rarely in my life anymore, I did what most people do when they blow a fuse – I exploded all over the thing that is very nearest and dearest to me: GAR. (You always hurt the ones you love the most. See, I do it out of love baby. LOVE.)

I should note that last week was simply wretched. And I’m sure the fact that I also decided to pick this week as the time to definitively give up my serious caffeine addiction had nothing to do with my sour mood. NOTHING. AT. ALL. And I had to hobble around work one day with a broken shoe on one foot when the sole fell off … and my skirt flew up over my head in the parking lot and my whole office building got to see my naked thighs and my underpants that say “Sasstastic” across the rear end … and my current book club read is all feminist angst aimed at why men are the root of all evil, etc. etc. But let’s not make excuses here – I am responsible for my own actions … and my own actions led me to completely rip GAR’s head off, eat it for breakfast and then stomp on his heart for dessert.

Or I just got snarky with him a little and blamed him for something that (if I’m being honest here) is kind of his fault. But it felt MUCH more dramatic in my mind (like the time in high school I got in such a impassioned fight with my parents about why I do not believe the television program “America’s Funniest Home Videos” is even remotely funny that ended with me storming out of the house and “running away from home” … because this is how I used to roll when I got angry about something).

But let’s get to the point already, okay? Here’s what happened: Remember our labor intensive door refinishing project? Remember the hours we poured into making those old crappy doors look beautiful again? The blood (or at the very least, some paint splattered clothing)? The sweat? The tears? Well it all went down the drain when I realized that, despite all our best efforts, during the sanding process GAR had managed to also sand the glass in the door, irreparably damaging it with scratches. I hadn’t noticed before because the doors were so dusty from the sanding but now that they’re cleaned it’s clear that they’re ruined. I’M RUINED! Because, let’s face it, we spent weeks repairing those doors … and now we’re back at square one.

Now I know that as novice DIYers we’re apt to make some errors like this. Nonetheless I could help but not-so-calmly explain to GAR that he should have known that paper made out of SAND would scratch glass. But I digress … Let me take a moment to breathe … Settle down … And reach my happy place again. Ah yes, there it is – whew!

Okay, so how are we going to solve this little problem of ours? Well, we’re not. I mean, not unless you have any ideas. Please? I mean, I would love to hear them. LOVE. But until then there’s really only one thing we can do – pretend it never happened. It’s what’s best for our sanity really.

Instead GAR has thrust himself into a new DIY project that he also knows nothing about, is much more complicated than door refinishing and is once again, in our typical spirit of self-reliance, not even Googling directions on how to do properly because, of course, we can figure this out on our own – constructing wainscoting for the dining room. It’s a project that is well beyond our original scope of work for the house, is in no way necessary and generally requires the help of professional millworkers to accomplish (FunFact: My Dad was a millworker by trade for many years. Of course, GAR is starting this project this weekend and Dad will be in Michigan until January and is, therefore, of no help to us so it’s not so much of a “fun” fact as much as it’s just a “fact” that in no way assists us in getting this incredibly ambitious project completed) – what could possibly go wrong?

But damn, I do love me some nice wainscoting … so I’m just going to let him do it and see how this one plays out. And I’ll try to keep my temperature that of refrigerated produce from here on out.

Here's the look we're going for. I'll be sure to post photos of how it actually turns out.

50 Shades Of Grey (Or, In My Case, Brown)

F@$&(@! S&$&%@&!! C&$@)&*$!!!

That pretty much sums up my feelings towards my home at the moment (I mean, my house is not underwater and I have power and all that, so I do have things in perspective here. But still ... not currently a fan of the place nonetheless). Why? Because I’ve spent every freakin’ moment of the past – how many months? Or has it been years now? – painting gawd forsaken doors, the trim to go around said doors and, worst of all, the baseboards throughout the entire house. And we’re STILL not done. So, yeah, I hate those mother $(@&%($&ers!

In retrospect it would have TOTALLY been worth it to hire this work out. But we’ve come too far, done too much, to turn back now. And we’re stubborn as Hell so, you know, we’ll just keep on keeping on … and hating every second of it.

It’s all part of our “do everything we can possibly do on our own ourselves” motto we’ve been following these past 2.5 years of home ownership in an effort to save up our construction dollars for things we really need professionals to do for us – like plumbing and electrical. And it really is a good plan. After all, we’re not made of money here. But, even though I sort of love feeling like Tim Taylor while I’m doing it – grunting and beating my chest with (wo)manly pride – there are some times that I kind of hate doing all this work … especially when it comes to the “non-sexy” parts of home renovations – like installing baseboards. Oh sure, I’ll gladly take a sledgehammer to a hideous bathroom vanity and install a new one because, you know, it’s pretty. But new doors? YAWN! I mean, I want them, and they do improve the overall look of the house, but they just don’t have the pizazz … the panache … that, say, some gorgeous glass tile brings to our kitchen back splash.

Nonetheless, when it comes to painting, cutting and installing trim, sexy or not, it’s something we’re more than capable of handing on our own. We have to do it ourselves. I mean, we HAVE to. It’s not in our nature to hire that type of work out. It’s like hiring a maid – we’d be paying for something we can do ourselves (but that doesn’t stop me from wanting a maid either – desperately).

And so we trudge on with it … for what seems like ages now. Because, frankly, the work never ends and there is just so, so much of it to get done. It’s like an episode of “Renovation Realities” (I realize as I type this that perhaps you are not familiar with this program because you watch actual television programs that are shown on networks other than HGTV, whereas that’s pretty much the only channel we watch. Well let me sum it up for you – people attempt home renovations. They usually do not go as planned) where you THINK something should only take a matter of days but everything drags out much, much longer than you ever imagined and slowly the project consumes your life. Seriously. This trim work IS my life right now. And, while I really wish I had a better project to show you, like a cool new fire pit in the backyard, or the swanky wallpaper I plan to attempt in the laundry room some day, or even a (more boring but functional nonetheless) shower handle to replace the one we have that’s broken despite the fact that we just installed it last week that replaced the we replaced earlier this year (did you follow all that? Basically we’re on our 4th shower handle install in the same year for the same shower) – but I don’t. All I have is some baseboard, trim and doors.

Here’s the latest project – our French doors that separate the front of the house (which we never use) from the back of the house. They’re totally not a necessary feature of the house and serve no real purpose, but we decided to paint them just for kicks (because that’s the kind of crazy, fun-loving people we are). Here’s the “before” shot of one of the scuffed up, cracked, poorly abused doors (the photo doesn't really show how beat up these are).

First we removed them from their hinges (which were brass and got immediately thrown away - the above shot was, of course, taken after they were already off their hinges) and fill all the old holes and cracks with wood putty.

Then we power sanded the patched holes and all of that shiny 80s gloss that covered the entire door. (Admittedly using the power sander does sort of make the whole project worthwhile. Damn, I love me some power tools. And, top of my list of favorite power tools is the sander - grunting Tim Taylor style some more as I type that.) And we taped all those little panes of glass – front and back.

Before applying approximately 1 bagillion (I’m rounding, of course) coats of paint to each side (that manly hand belongs to GAR not, me. I know, you're disappointed but, never fear, you'll see my model worthy hands coming up soon).

Before finally hanging them back in their rightful position in our house (using new, less offensive looking hardware). And we touched up any paint that got dinged up along the way. But, finally: Ta-da!

Aren't they simply a-door-able (see what I did there - eh?? Eh?? Funny, right? RIGHT?) - the doors and the dog, of course. And here's a shot of them closed (which they never, ever are. Remind me again why we spent weeks upon weeks redoing them? Is it because we're masochists? But they do look prettier this way - once we removed the blue painters tape, of course. Oh, and there is all this weird old yellowing glue on each window pane that we still need to exacto off - carefully - and then windex the whole thing to make it nice and clear so we're not really, really done yet. And then there's still the other door like this that separates the dining room from the kitchen ... and the one that's in the guest bedroom that leads out to the pool which we haven't even touched yet. But, see, we're so close! Relatively speaking I guess. Or, like I said before, we might just be masochists ... which, frankly, is seeming like the most plausible explanation right now).

Although we're still deciding if we should paint the front doors this same dark brown color or leave them white (and we'd love your feedback because GAR and I disagree on this issue. Correction: I would like your feedback because I think I'll win this argument because, clearly, I'm right - I just need you to back me up on this one).

So now all we have to do is the trim around these doors which is ... well, it's Hell. Picture the same process all over all again, but with 8 pieces of trim per door. But, hey, at least I get to spend some more QT (quality time) with my power sander (*grunt* *grunt* *grunt*).

And, even if once upon time I was "discovered" as America's Next Top Hand Model I sure won't be getting any gigs now that my hands perpetually look like they belong to a paint covered weathered old man.

Check out that HUGE life life on my hand (that's a thing, right? It's one of those lines I'm sure). I'll be living for a LONG time to come. Which is good, because I need about another 70 years to finish this work on my house.

But, of course, I also secretly love it. I really AM a masochist, aren't I (GAR could diagnose me sure)? But damn, it hurts so good!

So, if you need me anytime in the foreseeable future you know where I'll be (*grunt* *grunt* *grunt*).