Internet, I have a confession – I’ve always wanted to emulate those glittering DIY fashionistas like Two Twenty One and HonestyWTF, but I’m lacking in style, creativity, savvy, and essentially every other quality.
However, I came across two short lengths of heavy duty chain whilst in Canada, and as my Papear has a pretty heavy duty workshop in his garage, I decided to take a whack at crafting.
Converting the two smallish lengths of chain into a slightly longer length of chain required a table vice, a heavy pair of pliers, and a hammer. I didn’t manage to take pictures of that part, which is a shame, because it was the only remotely exciting part. I could re-enact it, but it would be a lie (also I’m too lazy).
So after I did the cool part, I assembled my ingredients.
This is essentially what I wanted to happen:
As soon as you look at that photo it becomes pretty immediately apparently I have only one of the things used to make that bracelet. Yet we persevere.
First I decided to be fancy and sew some of the lace looking stuff onto the ends and make a bow:
That didn’t turn out so good, so I decided to use a thinner ribbon instead:
Then my mom made me this:
And so I did this:
And this is what I ended up with!
So Mi Madre decided to remodel our yoga studio a little while ago, internet, and today was Paint Day.
Before Paint Day, I thought that I was pretty good at painting.
I thought wrong.
We had Mamma Mia, my Padre, my roommate Varenka, another studio employee, and Bob the Builder (the remodeling guy) in to help with stage one of the painting. Varenka and I were assigned a new set of shelving to prime for painting, while the rest of the crew were spackling, taping, and painting the rest of the space.
Varenka and I looked at each other.
Shelving? we thought. Easy peasy.
We were so wrong.
It turns out that Varenka and I are horribly inept at painting, which is funny, because I have a degree in Studio Art and I SPENT MOST OF THAT TIME PAINTING.
However, Art painting and painting painting are apparently not at all alike.
Art painting you can splash some contrasting colors on a ripped canvas smothered in a mixture of baby oil and chicken feathers and call it a day.
Painting painting you have to actually pay attention to.
Varenka and I spend a whole hour with our entire torsos shoved into these shelving units poking around with paintbrushes while everyone else in the room apparently magicked the paint flawlessly onto the walls.
After about two hours of this, at which point Varenka and I had essentially finished nothing and the rest of the room was essentially done, Bob the Builder took pity on us and casually mentioned that we could use a paint roller.
It still took us another hour to finish the damn thing.
But we finished.
It then took both of us another hour to clean off the paint which had bonded with our skin at a subatomic level. I still have paint clinging to me in places I do not care to mention.
I guess at the end of the day we both felt that us being in the studio that day was slightly more helpful then us not being in the studio, which is something.
Okay internet. I have no time to write a blog today. So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m giving myself exactly twenty minutes to write, and at the end I’m cutting it off, no matter where I end up. If there’s story left over, I’ll finish it tomorrow. Here goes nothing.
So I cater part-time for a really awesome local catering place here, and two weeks ago they sent me to run a reception for the creative writing program up at the swanky university here in town. If you follow my blog you may remember me mentioning this program before- I was recently rejected from it.
Cut to this Thursday.
This is what my schedule looked like – teach a yoga class, run home, shower, run to work, cater another reception for the program I was just denied from, run back to the yoga studio for a 40 days meeting, run back home, change, run downtown, play a music gig, and then go out of my friend Scarlett O’Hara’s birthday. Oh, also write a blog post at some point. Yeesh.
As anticipated, the day went just about as well as expected. First off, I woke up to house construction drilling its way into my skull. Then we were out of non-decaf coffee Keurig cups. Great start. I ended up gerry-rigging a fillable Keurig thingy while the construction guys yelled at each other across my kitchen.
I had a crazy full noon class at the studio (14 people!!!) WHICH I TOTALLY ROCKED. So that made up for the morning.
Fast forward to the event (ten minutes on the clock, I think I can do this post in under twenty). The event coordinator, recognizing me from the previous event when we discussed my application to and excitement about the program, immediately asked if I was accepted, and I had to tell her I was not. Awkward. I set everything up and wait for the students to come in, whereupon three others I’d had the same conversation with prior, asked me the same thing (still rejected, thanks guys).
And then I get to stand there invisibly in the corner listening to people workshop their current projects and talk about literature and eat canapés and occasionally come over to get refills on their flavored seltzer water. Fab.
By the time people are filling out of there, I’m so flustered that the event coordinator mentions something to me about a reception involving the poet Lynn Emanuel and I refer to her as a dude, which probably confirms for her my rejection from Cornell because how dare I not know every poet ever and their respective genders (is what I’m thinking, because that’s how my mind works).
So then I get to packed everything up and push this ridiculously full cart up a hill through the snow to the van, and things are dropping off the stupid thing and I’m huffing and puffing and wearing a freaking skirt and flats and someone asks if I need help and I almost bite their head off because THE SITUATION WAS UNDER CONTROL (not).
And then I pack up the van and cry and have a little hissy fit for about three minutes before heading back to the
How you doin’?
Probably because you likely aren’t listening to the intermittent squeals of a dying drill going through cement as two heavyset men who listen to Taylor Swift rip your house apart AGAIN.
AGAIN AS IN FOR THE BAZILLIONTH TIME IN THE PAST 4 YEARS.
I’m seriously sitting here listening to a noise that sounds like an enraged elephant with a head cold having a row with a triceratops in a failing variety band. PUT DOWN THE KAZOO CERA. YOU DON’T HAVE THE LUNG CAPACITY FOR A SKA SESSION TODAY.
So about 4 years ago when I went off to college, my parents had the brilliant idea to redo our kitchen, because I guess that’s what you do when your kids leave the house. Mom went all out with the design and all that jazz and it came out brilliantly, even though it took them ALMOST TWO YEARS to finish it.
So they finish it and we go yeyyy kitchen and shake their hands and the construction people go their merry ways and whatnot, and we get two beautiful years of no construction workers hanging around the house and a working kitchen and whatnot.
So then this year, about when I moved back in May, my parents decided to redo the porch / sunroom / whatever it’s called thingy bob doodle. They drew up all the plans and whatnot and all the construction began in September. They basically had to rip every apart and put in back together and plaster and do stonework and take a jackhammer to the floor and essentially MAKE EVERY LOUD NOISE THEY COULD POSSIBLY MAKE AT 7 IN THE MORNING WHEN NORMAL PEOPLE ARE ASLEEP (when I say “normal people” here, I’m of course referring to layabout college graduates like myself, not actual people). I’m pretty sure the work took about 2-3 months to complete aka 5 years in construction time. Seriously, I watch all these shows on T.V. with mi madre where these people rip apart someone’s house and build a new one in like a week, and somehow one porch took 2 and a half months to do. I’m calling shenanigans.
As this was happening, we noticed our upstairs bathroom that’s right over our kitchen was having some leaking issues, so we had a plumber come look at it and they realized that the bathroom floor had SUNK DOWN A FEW INCHES.
WHY IS THAT EVEN A THING.
WAY TO MAKE MY FEAR OF HEIGHTS SUDDENLY LEGITIMATE FLOOR.
So then my family was all like “umm WHAT” and they were all like “umm yeah so the pipes from your bathroom are leaking into the wooden support beam we incorrectly put into the ceiling of your new kitchen and the whole thing is coming down now so that’s not so good”. And then we were all like “YEAH EXCUSE US BUT UMMM HOW DO YOU FUCK THAT ONE UP THAT BAD”.
So then they had to rip our kitchen apart and fix the ceiling they screwed up.
Fast forward two months. They finally finish the kitchen. Again. We get our house to ourselves finally. We’re enjoying the use of our new porch. Everything is good.
Until Dad notices cracks in the wall of the stucco in the new room.
Apparently they did the porch wrong, so they have to come back and rip the porch apart and redo it.