I can’t get the Ace hardware guy’s line out of my head: “Hit it with a little two-twenty grit.” This was in reference to advising me in sanding the sideboard. I’d told him that I used a course 60 grit to remove all the stain, and he said that before I re-stain it I should sand it down with a finer grit one more time.
I hit that thing, applied one coat of stain to the cabinet and two coats of paint to the drawer and door fronts. Every time I moved to a next step, I’d say to myself using the voice on the inside, “Gotta hit it with another coat of paint,” or “Time to hit it with some stain.”
The worst was when the phrase moved outside of furniture refinishing to the rest of my world, “Better hit that laundry,” and “Gotta hit the road and get E-Niner from therapy.” And then I realized that “Hit the road” is a popular and well-known phrase. Perhaps “hit the road” is the etemology of “hit it.” Although “hit it” and road means something completely different than “hit it” and grit.
Anyway. You can see how my mind devolved throughout much of the day. I’ll attribute that to the fumes.
Since my brain has degenerated to slow-mo, here’s a picture story:
drawers and doors after sanding
doors and drawers after two coats of paint
cabinet after sanding before stain
cabinet after one coat of stain
T783 catching me during a lunch break -- note that ziplock bag holds the coffee beans that he ground for me by hand while he was at school
Long story longer, the cabinet needs at least two more coats (if not more) of stain. It’s supposed to be an espresso color. The door and drawer fronts need probably only one more coat of paint.
The problem is these tasks must be accomplished while everyone is out of the house so that there is enough time to air things out. This being the week of Thanksgiving, it’s a short week for school and work. Plus, it’s supposed to rain off and on tomorrow through Thursday, which means no open windows or doors around here. My in-laws will be here through Sunday, after which the temperature is supposed to dip down into the 30s. It’s possible this table gets tabled until warmer weather. Oh, well.
I’ll post the (semi-) finished product. And to answer Lisa’s question from the comments in the last post: hell yeah, I’m using this to serve on Thanksgiving!
Lots to do this week, as is the case with everyone. Thanksgiving dinner is at my house this year — at the home of the one who cannot cook. Simplicity — meaning meals that require more assembly and less babying — is the name of the game around here.
THANKSGIVING DINNER MENU
Starters
Smoked salmon on toast points
Roast beef tea sandwiches with horseradish cream
Spinach dip served in an Hawaiian bread bowl
Entrees
Turkey (pre-cooked, from Whole Foods)
Vegan Roast (pre-made, from Whole Foods)
Side Courses
Green beans almondine
Acorn squash doused in butter and brown sugar
Stove top stuffing
Shitake mushroom gravy
Cranberry sauce from the can
Dessert
Steamed cranberry pudding with hard sauce
Coffee
The hardest part of the meal will be the cranberry pudding, but I’m up for the challenge. I saw Martha Stewart make it on her special this year, and it looked pretty easy. I just need to buy a mold for the pudding.
The day after Thanksgiving we’re going to visit family in the ‘burbs. I said I’d bring sandwiches. Hopefully my family won’t mind two rounds of the salmon and roast beef. I’m also planning on using the leftover turkey to make turkey, brie and cranberry sandwiches.
So. Lots of making (not so much cooking) ahead for the week.
That, and I’ve GOT to finish that sideboard. Off to get stain and paint…right now!
After two days of sanding, the sideboard is ground down as far as it’s going to get.
I started with a hand sander — like a scouring sponge but wrapped in sandpaper. It took me all of twenty minutes of burning triceps and very little progress to determine that power tools were an absolute must. A trip to Ace and additional half an hour of work got me this far:
It took an additional half an hour to do this:
I decided to change sandpaper at that point, which made all the difference. The first time, it wasn’t taut enough. It only took me about 10 minutes to sand what was left of the top of the cabinet.
Here’s a “self-portrait” of me wearing the appropriate nasal gear:
After I took that mug, T783 started playing with the camera. Here’s a picture he took of me on a break:
Today I got down to business and finished sanding.
There are still a few parts that needed to get roughed-up, but I figured when I douse that puppy in mineral spirits (paint thinner), I can work diligently on what remains. Maybe this is not a good decision. We’ll see.
That yarn that T783 is holding in the picture is going to be the color of the doors and drawers. Here’s a close-up of the yarn with a paint swatch:
Here’s me trying to eyeball it:
I’ve decided to stain the wood that I’ve sanded a dark espresso color to match the rest of our furniture. The orange pops better next to the dark stain than next to a lighter or even medium tone.
When all was sanded and done, it was time to clean up. This is when I switched into my french maid costume and went over every surface in the house with the swiffer duster, even the sander:
1. If you are sanding inside, having an air purifier makes things a whole lot better.
2. Making sure the sand paper is as taut as possible is key. If you’re using a sander with a vacuum attachment, be sure that after you punch holes in the sandpaper, you adjust its tautness.
3. A vacuum cleaner and every and all swiffer products are your friends. Use them.
4. It says this in the instructions, but dump out the filter on the vacuum attachment every five minutes. Makes a huge difference.
5. Watch out to keep corners at 90 degrees and not round them — unless, of course, you want them rounded.
6. Wear the proper mask — not just any mask.
Whoever invented the power sander deserves a place in heaven.
I’m none of those, but you could call me a singer, a knitter, a furniture restorer.
I took my first private vocal jazz lesson yesterday and had a blast! I’m still learning, but thought I’d share a recording: Gee baby.mp3
Listening to myself sing, which feels really comfortable unlike listening to a recording of myself talking, got me to thinking about all sorts of jazz singers whose voices I love. A little girl, when asked what she thought Ella Fitzgerald voice sounded like, said that The First Lady of Song’s voice sounded like diamonds dipped in chocolate. Every since I’ve heard that quite apt description, I can’t separate that visual from Ella’s voice.
For me, Billie Holiday, one of my favorite songbirds, always sounds a bit out of her element and little bit tipsy — but in a good way. You want to follow as she sings because at least to me it always sounds like one false move, and she’s tripped up. When she makes it through a tune, you look back on it and think, wow. That was incredible that she made it all the way through singing like that. I’ve listened to Billie hours upon hours, and have never felt at ease though I’ve enjoyed every teetering minute.
I happen to love, love, love Fantasia Barrino. Do you remember who she is? She won American Idol a few years ago. Whatever happened to her? I thought to myself that if I had the ability to “produce” her, I would put her with the best jazz vocal coach I could find and school her like nobody’s business. That lady has raw talent (maybe less raw now than when she won…I don’t know), and it’s too bad she didn’t go that direction. I have no idea what happened to her, but her rendition of Summertime beats out anyone I’ve heard — including Billie and Ella.
I’d describe Eva Cassidy’s voice with one word: magic. I can’t get through half her songs without sobbing no matter how many times I hear them.
What makes each of these singers my favorites is that aside from the givens of being on pitch, on time, and technically sold — in Ella’s case, a technical genius and a marvel — it’s some quality of their voice that makes me want to keep listening to them. I think that quality, the extra attribute that can’t be measured, is what separates out all the really talented singers from the best of the bunch.
This is foreign to me. When you play the piano, the quality of the sound resonates from the instrument. It’s something you as the pianist can’t control, but can certainly try to caress. If you’re playing on a junkie piano, you’re playing on a junkie piano. But this voice thing, wow. Musical brilliance will only bring you so far as a vocalist. At least, that’s what I’m coming to think.
Okay, next. Knitter. This one’s a quickie:
Not sure yet what I’m doing with this or the other 5×5 inch squares I’m swatching. But I like it. I’ve been writing down some of the passing thoughts I’ve had while I’ve been knitting. It’s been meditative, which I guess I’ve needed.
Last, furniture restorer. This is so fun. Last year, I came upon a store called White Attic and it totally inspired me. Here’s a glimpse of their storefront today so you can see why:
In case the big, orange letters with the restored desk sitting underneath it don’t describe it enough, White Attic takes old furniture and updates them with funky colors. Love it.
Last year, they inspired me to buy a dresser from 1982 and refinish it so it looked like this:
This year, I was inspired by a mid-century modern piece they had inside the store. Unfortunately, when I took the picture, the store was closed so the picture could be clearer:
I like how they refinished the wood to a warm matte color. Anyway, I shopped around at a local thrift store and found this, which I considered restoring:
I loved the bungalow feel of this sideboard; thought the mirror, though needing to be re-silvered, was pretty awesome; but the floor of the piece was cracked. I also wondered what the deal was with the casters at the bottom. It was more work than I thought I could handle and I couldn’t haggle the owners down to my price point.
Next, I found this contender:
This one was in pretty good shape — nothing a good cleaning and a little wood filler couldn’t fix. Plus, it had a glass top, so the wood beneath that was in very good condition. I’m not into the frilly scroll work, but this had too much character not to consider.
In the end, I ended up buying this:
Hmm…look familiar? It’s the sister to the one they had for (cough) six hundred dollars more across the street. I’m betting that for less than a hundred bucks, I can get this thing spiffed up myself — and in the color I want.
The tie breaker was T783, whose green hood makes a cameo in the shot above. He had decided that it would be more fun to store his toys stored in drawers than in doors. Afterall, that’s what I’m going to use this for: more toy storage. Christmas is coming folks, I’m planning ahead!
Long story short, things have been quite busy around here.
A heartfelt thank you to all of you who chimed in on that last post about claiming myself. Every single comment has kept me thinking and added much wisdom to my search. Thank you.
Jasper Fforde is the best-selling author of the Thursday Next and Nursery Crime books. He has been writing for twenty years, but only published for ten.
That was part of a message that graced my inbox earlier this month, and I liked it. “Writing for twenty years, but only published for ten.” Here’s a guy who was tenacious and gave himself space, or at least that’s what I’d like to imagine.
In my new-found effort to reconnect with friends, yesterday I attended a baby shower for my college roommate. We’ve seen each other all of twice since graduation day twelve years ago, and that’s been a shame. She was one of my closest friends. It was delightful yet extraordinarily awkward to get back in touch with someone at such an intimate affair — filled with family and friends who were much more familiar with the more recent details of her life. I didn’t know she was pregnant until two weeks ago, and not until the shower yesterday did I find out she’s due in a month. I’m pretty sure most everyone else had at least this basic information about her tucked under their caps as they made their entrance.
Since college, my friend attended and graduated from a prestigious law school and currently practices at a highly regarded firm here in the city. My choice yesterday was to hang out with her friends from law school or her mother and aunts. I chose the population closer to my age but far removed from my lifestyle: the attorneys.
As they made the rounds with each other, discussing which areas were busier than others (apparently, lots going on in the areas of estate planning and finance) and what they were advising their mentees to do after they graduate (run and hide, there are no jobs for lawyers with experience, let alone new grads), the question came upon me: what do you do?
Gee, what do I do? My days feels full, though when I said, “I’m a mom,” my response hit the group like a balloon pffffting its air. Sorry folks, we’ve got nothing in common.
Or so I thought.
Strangely, one by one, each of them admitted to being a mom. It was weird. These women who were entrenched in conversing about the law and their jobs started coming clean. “I’m a mom, too. My son is 18 months,” and another, “I have a five-month old,” and yet someone else, “My baby was born 10 weeks ago.” And as it turned out, the one with the 18 month old is taking jobs on a contractual basis when they are available from her company; the one with the five-month old is rounding out her maternity leave; and the one with the 10 week old is on maternity leave, too.
It was as if each other them were “coming out of the closet” and admitting they were also mothers. It took me by surprise — weren’t we all just talking about business? Weren’t we just talking — in the active, very present voice — about doing business. Not that I think motherhood was something any of them were trying to hide or were ashamed to admit, but it was so obvious that they defined themselves by their jobs rather than by parenting.
Who are any of us, anyway? That’s the question that has become important to me recently, but that’s not where the conversation amidst the scones and fresh berries was headed.
What I wanted to say to them, since they were on the topic of profession, is that I’m a writer. But I haven’t been published in years, nor do I have some kind of burning desire to do so. I suppose that conversation wouldn’t have taken off any better:
“What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh, yeah? Where would I have seen your work?”
“Unless you’re one of the hundred or so people who read my blog on a daily basis, which I highly doubt, nowhere.”
I know that’s not entirely true. I also contribute to Hopeful Parents. I could have said, “I run a blog for parents of kids with special needs.” But that doesn’t feel like much of a profession since I don’t get paid for it.
Which brings me to the question of why do we define ourselves around what generates an income? I suppose if someone is willing to shell out money for some service you provide or a widget you make, it lends at least a little bit of credibility to your declaration. But does that mean that those of us who see not one cent for what they “do” don’t make the cut?
Can I call myself a writer or not?
That’s a question that gets tossed around the screenwriting community all the time. Go on to any screenwriting community, and you’ll hear people ask it all the time. Here they are slaving away at stories, sweating it out on their computers, only to get rejected (because let’s face it, a minutely small number of screenplays get picked-up a year) — yet, they’ve done something. They’ve made something. It may not be saleable, but that product now exists. If they’re at a dinner party (or a baby shower) and the question comes to them — what do you do? — how are they to respond? I’m a waiter. I’m a computer programmer. I’m a mom. Nobody recognizes them as a screenwriter, so they can’t say they are.
Anyway. All this to say that I really like that guy’s quote about writing. Including how long it took him to get to the point where other people saw him as a writer gives the rest of us non-published or not-recently-published writers a bit of a boost to our ever-questioning egos.
I’m just all over the place, aren’t I? Trying to write a novel, trying to knit. Now I’m going to try vocal jazz. My voice is definitely nothing to write home about, but I have loved the jazz standards since I first knew about them. I’ve always wanted to sing them and scat. So I’ve decided to find myself a coach. I’ll keep you posted…
I am usually the last person in the world to start raving about a telephone, but I’m feeling the opposite of buyer’s remorse about my new phone. What would that be? Buyer’s elation?
I’ve been thinking that these new smartphones are what Kitchen Aid mixers were to the 1950s. They made everyday life an order of magnitude easier. Now I can blog (seriously! there’s a WordPress app on my phone), catch up with my friends on Facebook, check e-mail and of course, use the phone. I’m still getting the hang of it all, but I see my life becoming a little more streamlined all because of a tiny computer that I can hold in my hand. Woo-hoo for the 21st century!
Which actually got me to thinking today…how freaking cool is it that while I’m sitting in my car waiting in line for the car wash, I can think about my friend in Dubai, and proceed to communicate with her all on this little tiny object no bigger than the size of my hand? This was blowing my mind today.
What will happen in the future? Will someone’s thoughts one day pop into another person’s inbox in their brain? Will we break the physical wall that divides us from the spiritual world? Will a robot clean my house like Rosie on the Jetsons?
My guess is that cave people never dreamed of the way we live now, but it sure is fun dreaming of how people will live in the distant future. That is, if we don’t destroy ourselves and the planet first.
