The hypnotic rhythm of Eastern music and the smell of incense engulfs me. In a voice like calm water, the instructor gently guides. My Ujjayi breathing empowers me to hold impossibly difficult and long poses.

The "It" Jean, Harem Joggers

The “It” Jean, Harem Joggers

Like a prayer, I silently chant, “I am one with the universe…I am one with the universe…I am one-dering what the ‘It’ jean for fall will be. Hmm..So many shapes, textures and colors for denim.” My mind drifts, but I don’t judge. I gently shift back to blank space and breath. “Wide leg distressed? Distressed cropped? High-rise straight leg? Relaxed skinny? Harem joggers?”  Thoughts swirl like a buzzing fly.  Before my mind drifts to the outer regions of this season’s must-have boots, I make a deal with myself. If I cease and resist superficial brain chatter immediately, I can swing by Barneys on my way home from yoga. My sales girls can set me straight. I settle back to serenity. It embraces me like a warm blanket.

“Remember this is never a competition. Be gentle and kind to your body and being. You do not have to take each pose to its fullest possible extent.  It matters not what your neighbor is doing,” The sonorous voice of my instructor prods.

“Like Hell it doesn’t matter!” I’m thinking, as I stare distractedly at my neighbor with the Gollum arms; striated muscle and veins popping. She performs a flawless split while balancing on two fingers.

I’m starting to get my blood up. If Gollum can do that Pranawana-whatcha-call-it-pose, so can I. My attempt fails miserably, but I pump out five perfect chatarungas pretending that was my intention all along.

It was easy for the Indus-Sarasvati civilization to remove ego and move toward enlightenment when

yoga pose

yoga pose

they developed yoga and recorded it on palm leaves 5,000 years ago. They were the ones that made up all this crazy shit and obviously had pretzel bodies and zero percent body fat. Could they have foreseen the modern day overachieving power professionals, executives, housewives, and mothers removing ego from their daily workout regime?

Why pretend we aren’t comparing ourselves to everyone else in the class? Why not be really honest? Deeply honest. Heck, why not start a competitive yoga league?  An American Ninja Warrior meets The Crossfit Games, and toss in a little rhythmic gymnastics for good measure.  The Yoga routines could be set to pulsating Avicii remixes or hip hop.  The costumes could be flamboyant; impossibly skimpy. (Didn’t Lululemon “accidentally” release see-through yoga pants?) All of America could gather around the flat screen every Sunday night and cheer on their favorite Yogi. Participants could take monikers like “Hulk Yogan” or “Shock Raw”.  The finale of each action packed routine would be Shavasana. These professionals would really bring it home with the stillness of corpse pose or happy baby.

A note from the author: While “researching” this post, I discovered that I violate eleven of the fourteen “Yoga Etiquette Tips” on a regular basis.  A few examples of my most blatant violations: (1) Be punctual. Are you kidding me? (2) Don’t talk during class. Not realistic if you’re me. (3) Stay to the end and silence during Shavasna. I don’t “do” Shavasna. It’s not because I’m so wound that I can’t relax or don’t want to take the time. I’m too good at it! I plunge into a deep sleep; punctuated by snoring and drooling.  Hey, at least I abide by the personal hygiene rule


cherry blossom

Cherry Blossoms

The joy of spring! Cherry blossoms explode in pink puff balls. Days get longer. Crocus push up from the cold ground to seek the sun, and Ahhhhchewww! Allergies. For those of us who suffer, spring brings renewal and life, and an excruciating inner ear, inner throat itch.  I find myself wanting to jam a sharp dental instrument deep in my ear to scratch the itch.

My husband calls me Felix Unger, and it is not because I am a neat freak. I make a strange honking noise while trying to eradicate the tickly fiery feeling in my ears and throat.  I thought I had tried every over and under the counter med, shot, Neti Pot, nasal spray and EpiPen® in the universe, with nominal results.

My main line of defense is napping. A lot of napping; bordering on hibernation. I recently discovered something elementary, that changed my allergy calculus; Sudafed®.  Not only does it dry my sinuses, but my energy level flies off the Richter Scale. Apparently it’s a stimulant. I pop one of those little red pills in the morning, and I am the most cheerful carpool mom on the road. When I go to the gym, I run the track like the Tasmanian Devil, on….um, Sudafed® . I run stairs, and execute mountain climbers and burpees like I’m starring in a fitness video. I tie weights to my wrists and ankles. I sing along with Eminem at the top of my lungs, “Shake that #$% for me!” But then a disturbing thought crosses my mind; am I addicted to Sudafed®?

As I am racing around the track for the fiftieth time, I imagine myself on celebrity rehab. Maybe they would throw me in as the ingenue from Seattle. The naiive, non-celebrity house wife with an over the counter pill problem.  I could be holed up in a luxurious manse in the Hollywood Hills, my days filled with lounging by the pool and self-indulgent therapy.

Mel Gibson Crazy

Mel Gibson Crazy

I can see myself brawling with Mel Gibson. “Too bad you can’t go to rehab for racism!” I yell.

I encourage Leif Garrett to get it together and make a comeback on the Indian Casino circuit.

I think I could help Chris Brown with his anger management issues. Every time he flies off the handle, I will hand him a picture of little kittens. When he’s built trust, I will provide real kittens that sweetly mew, and calm his frazzled nerves.

As for Crazy Town’s Shifty Shellshock, I will tell him to look on the bright side; he is highly employable at Champion’s Party Supply Store.


Shifty Shellshock


Cinco de MayoI’m a binge Facebook consumer. Weeks, maybe even months go by. Then I find myself sucked into the vortex as I endlessly scroll. There’s the cryptic “Thanks everyone for your support while I was sick,” posting. Hey, would you mind adding a little detail? Was it a common cold or Ebola? For those of us who weren’t there for you, it’s hard to know the level of guilt and alarm we should feel.

There are the far right, and the far left rants, which eerily sound like the same rhetoric. There are the inspirational quotes, that change your life, and even a few Bible passages. No offense to The Big Man and God Jr., but the more I try to understand these quotes, the more garbled they sound. I realize a few millenniums have passed since this all went down, and there have been many translations since. I suppose it’s a bit like a game of telephone, so I’m willing to let the obtuse language slide. I’ll leave the interpretation to those who are really in the know.

I’m a sucker for the random nostalgic postings. Over the weekend, a friend posted a grainy “Photomat finish” photo from Cinco de Mayo, year 2000, and it all came rushing back. This was not your average, run of the mill, “Taco Tuesday Party”. The dress code was come as your favorite Latin celebrity. Party goers embraced the theme. Latin lovers, coffee moguls, pop stars, and the requisite revolutionaries; Don Juan, Juan Veldez, J Lo, Che Gueverra, and Poncho Villa were represented. We had three Carmen Mirandas. (Or were they Chiquita Banana?) Chi Chi Rodriquez met his future wife at our party, and yes, they are still married.

margaritasTequila flowed like the Rio Grande. Someone I won’t mention, barfed in our hedges, and the police showed up not once, but twice. Fortunately my husband, in full Mr. Roarke-welcome-to-Fantasy–Island-white-suited-regalia assuaged them with his charm. Tatoo fetched them taquitos and refreshing beverages garnished with colorful umbrellas.


Typical Stay at Home Mom

Typical Stay at Home Mom

As a stay at home mom, I often find myself thinking of cockamamie inventions or careers that would allow me to stay home with my kids, cook dinner, keep the house relatively tidy, help with homework, work out, cart kids to and from sports, and of course, take a nap now and again.

So far, “The Bleeper” which bleeps out swear words around your children, “Sockmate”, a force field that keeps socks mated for life, and my toddler straight jacket inventions haven’t amounted to much.

Recent events gave me my Eureka moment. My friend “Karen” suspected her daughter had lice. I found myself describing what to look for over the phone, providing consolation and advice; “Don’t walk, run to the nearest lice removal treatment center, find a chimpanzee, or a non-squeamish, very thorough friend who is willing to remove every nit from your child’s head. Call everyone your family has been in contact with in the last three weeks, purchase a hazmat suit, and start the abatement process in your home. And don’t be ashamed, trust me; almost everyone gets lice except the home schoolers. Most families get it several times.”

I fielded hundreds of texts from Karen in the next twenty-four hours, and stumbled upon the perfect career; A Lice Coach.  I can see myself at cocktail parties when people ask what I do for a living. No longer will I say, “stay at home  mom”, I will proudly declare myself “A Lice Coach,” and hand out my business card that reeks of tea tree oil.

“A Life Coach?”

“No, a LICE coach. You know those little brownish grey bugs that have become pervasive in modern family life.” They will likely scratch their head and walk away. So maybe it’s not the best cocktail fodder.

Total Annihilation

Total Annihilation

I could specialize in identifying and diagnosing, counseling, consoling, and providing a coherent course of action. I will advise where and how to get treatment, plus provide step-by-step home abatement action plans. I would offer a caring, conscientious and personalized approach. There is the take no prisoners, seek and destroy, total annihilation program, but this might not be right for everyone.

For the progressive Ghandi-esque among us, “compassionate coexistence” would be the protocol. This involves making peace with the little critters, and choosing not to treat. In essence, becoming lice farmers. These folks, while having big hearts, need to be willing to give up friends, family, schools and jobs.

Girl Scout Cookie Time

Girl Scout Cookie Time

My friend Anne’s daughter is embarking on the rite of passage known as Girl Scouts. She has inherited the craft and culinary skills from her mother, and now it’s time to test her sales skills with the annual Girl Scout cookie drive. The good news is that those darn cookies sell themselves.  Our family orders at least six boxes; three Thin Mints, three Tagalongs.  Emily is off to a roaring start after just one sales call. But wait a minute! The troop leader is capping each girl’s cookie sales at thirty boxes. That’s right, I’m not talking minimums and quotas, I’m talking no girl is allowed to sell even one more box over thirty. If I didn’t have proof of the veracity of this story, I would never believe it. It simply sounds too cliché of the trophy-distributing, helicoptering, let’s-create-legislation-to-promote-fairness-for-every-aspect-of-our-children’s-lives, parenting.

Apparently the ambitious Girl Scouts that sell hundreds of boxes make the other girl scouts feel bad.  Never mind that the legendary Girl Scout Cookie drive is the most important revenue-generating fundraiser. Forget that Girl Scouting is designed to form young women into self-starting, independent young women that are “always prepared.”  I’m interpreting the “always prepared” motto as preparing young women for the real world, not the pretend world of let’s protect our children from getting their feelings hurt.

Tagalongs or Thin Mints?

Tagalongs or Thin Mints?

Fast forward fifteen years when these former Girl Scouts are out in the real world, working at The Mediocrity Corporation. I can imagine the sales meeting now. “Olivia, do you realize you sold more than your quota this quarter, thereby embarrassing your colleagues, and hurting their self-esteem?! We’ve decided to spread your sales around to the rest of the team, and your commissions as well. Please don’t let this happen again. At our company, we strive to keep all employees on equal ground, on the lowest possible playing field.  It helps moral. We realize a year from now, this company won’t exist anymore because of dismal sales, but golly darn it, our sales force can hold their heads high, knowing they didn’t try very hard…”

Charlie Brown's Thanksgiving

Charlie Brown’s Thanksgiving

The perfect Thanksgiving feast was created by Snoopy and Woodstock. Popcorn, toast, pretzel sticks and ice cream sundaes. Hallelujah! The only thing missing was wine.

In my early twenties, my friend Paige and I were assigned the dressing for the Thanksgiving dinner her boyfriend was hosting. We showed up with a box of Stove Top Stuffing and a bottle of Wild Turkey. That was the sum total of my experience cooking a Thanksgiving dinner. In 2001, my number was up. It was my turn to cook Thanksgiving dinner. I invited sixteen friends and family members. After all, this is a scalable meal by design. My level of confidence was soaring.

T-minus two weeks: I scurried around town acquiring extra chairs, linens, vases, candelabras, and candles. I cobbled together two dining room tables. I envisioned a table worthy of the Architectural Digest Holiday Issue.

T-minus one week: I made lists, created a color-coded Excel spreadsheet, and consulted my friend Annika, a trained chef. I wasn’t going to just cook a 20 lb. turkey; I was going to brine and stuff it.

The Perfect Thanksgiving Table

The Perfect Thanksgiving Table

The day of, I got up early. Every second was devoted to preparations: turkey in the oven, prepping side dishes, assembling appetizers, all the while basting the turkey at set intervals. Wisely I had outsourced the pies to my mother. Guests arrived at 6pm sharp, to the magical sound of champagne corks popping. My holiday music selection set a festive mood.

The turkey was scheduled to come out at 7 pm. I had done my calculations. Perhaps it was my 1979 Jenn-Air oven, perhaps that old bird was messing with me, but that turkey refused to yield. My meat thermometer was indicating something slightly warmer than turkey sushi. Like a baby insisting on an overdue arrival, this bad boy was not ready to come out. Apparently you can’t simply turn up the oven to rush things along. I considered finishing it off in my Amana Touchmatic Radarange, alas, the turkey was too big to fit. The only thing to do was wait it out and drink more champagne.

Appetizers ran low as the cocktail hour stretched for miles. I should have waited to cook the green beans. Luckily mashed potatoes can handle it, but they were getting cold, butter congealing, the gravy lumpy. Drink more wine. Finally the turkey was ready, but getting everything expedited to the table took another half hour. I felt as if I were wading through my own stiffened mashed potatoes to get this dinner off the ground. The “Olds” just sat and stared at me, wondering why we were eating at 10 pm.  This never happened in the forty years they cooked Thanksgiving dinner.

As we lifted our goblets, my toast went something like this, “Welcome to my Thanksgiving table. You have the dubious distinction of eating the very first Thanksgiving Dinner I have ever cooked, and this will be the last.” I didn’t remember saying this glib toast. My sister reminded me years later. Apparently my guests were amused. I think it was foreboding; more Jonestown then Jamestown. Perhaps foreshadowing the disaster to come…

After dinner a few brave and benevolent volunteers helped clear the table. We started the massive cleanup project. Many hands make light work. But what’s this? My sink not draining? The garbage disposal sputtered and gasped. Globs of uneaten mashed potatoes and turkey, trailed by pools of blood red cranberry floating in the sink. The eighty year old pipes simply gave up, like a glutton’s clogged arteries. Disbelief swept over me. Keen instincts told me this was beyond the capabilities of Liquid Plumber. No, this would require a flesh and blood, living and breathing, $200 an hour plumber. I looked up at the heavens, fist shaking, “Of all the days in the year for my kitchen pipes to clog, it has to be Thanksgiving?”

Just before the sink became an infinity pool, clean up came to a screeching halt. Every dish, pan, plate, fork, spoon, glass, knife, and bowl dirty. For a moment I considered moving the entire operation to the bathtub. I could form an assembly line of washing, rinsing, and drying, before any troublemakers could unionize.

My guests disbanded, feeling sheepish about the disaster, but grateful to leave it behind. Dishes were stacked precariously on every inch of counter space. The plumber’s bill was enormous. Clean up took the better part of a week.

I was true to my word. I have not cooked another Thanksgiving dinner since. To ensure that I never do, we leave town every year the week of Thanksgiving.  Now that is something to be thankful for, and a tradition I can truly uphold.

“Hey Deb, sorry I have to bail on book club tonight, I have too much homework.”

“Excuse me? You have homework?”

“I mean my daughter, I have to help her. Sixth grade, it’s intense. It’s really putting a damper on my social life. I can’t go out on weekdays anymore, and cocktail hour has been severely restricted. I need all my faculties of reason.”

Robin Williams in "Dead Poets Society"

Robin Williams in “Dead Poets Society”

I don’t mention to Debbie my dissension into madness each night as we work through “our” homework. I start out like Robin Williams in Dead Poet’s Society; compassionate, funny,with a dreamy “I’m going to inspire you to greatness” look in my eye. As we grind through endless math problems (no calculators allowed), discuss states of matter, absolute entropy, and perform calculations of molecular and formula weight, I become Agatha Trunchbull. I rant, my daughter cries.

“When I was growing up, we were given a mathematical formula and solved the problem,” I scream. “We didn’t have to do each problem six ways!”

Agatha Trunchbull

Agatha Trunchbull in “Matilda”

“And chemistry? We did orbitals and atomic weight in high school.”

“When I was in middle school, I would go to a friend’s house after school. We would race each other to finish our homework in a half hour so we could watch Brady Bunch reruns.”

In the 1980’s, middle school was manageable for the average student and parents did not participate.  Singapore math was taught in Singapore, an island nation that publicly flogged children for chewing gum.

Should I regret not being a tiger mom? Have I caused my children irreparable damage with my Laissez-faire attitude? My children attended play-based preschool.  I didn’t drag my kids to Kumon so they could work ahead of grade level, or send them to math and science camp. They’ve clocked hours of Sponge Bob, Scooby Doo, and other banal programs in front of the TV.

It was all good and well until sixth grade. Now I compulsively go to Google Drive throughout the day to view “our” assignments. Have study guides and supporting materials been posted? Should I brush up on Kahn Academy before my daughter gets home? I have an overwhelming desire to attend her classes, to see if I can absorb what they are teaching during class time. My daughter lives in fear of me shadowing her through school.  I’m sure I would get carried away and raise my hand constantly, or just shout out the answers.  I want to take the tests too. Can I pass the 2014 version of sixth grade? Will they charge me tuition? Will I get arrested? Can I join the debate team?

Halloween is a magical time of year when children are allowed to wear polyester jumpsuits derived from petroleum, free base sugary candy, and stay up late harassing neighbors for treats. But let’s be honest, although we indulge our children in this strangest of holidays, Halloween is for grownups.  After you’ve ordered the overpriced polyester onesies for your children, and thrown a few spooky decorations around (the existing cob webs and dust in my home suffice), it’s time to contemplate your own Halloween costume.Here are some easy, inexpensive, and fun ideas, that will help you make the most of Halloween. If you are like me, you can simply dust off the “Costume Box” and cobble together the perfect kit.

My rule of thumb; capture the moment in pop culture. Flamboyant or scandalous pop stars, Hollywood train wrecks, athletes, designers, and politicos are great fodder. Memorable movie or TV characters from within the calendar year are also fun.

For Women:

  1. An uncanny resemblance

    An uncanny resemblance

    V. Stiviano and DonaldV. Stiviano: This is remarkably easy. Grab the long black wig from your costume box, get a giant sun visor, and wear something inappropriate. I found a plastic mask that made me a virtual doppelgänger of this class act. If your husband has an ape mask, he can throw it on and be Donald Sterling.

  2. Amanda Bynes: Because she likes to sport wigs and large sunglasses, Amanda at her bestthis is a particularly easy costume.  I recommend either the blue or disheveled platinum blonde wigs.  Just about any clothes you throw on will do, she doesn’t seem to be particularly discerning. Props include an iPhone for incriminating selfies, and a Super Big Gulp sized Starbucks cup.
  3. Mariah Carey:This will require some prosthetic body parts. Wear the shortest skirt you can find with the lowest neckline possible. Talk with a Jersey accent and act confused.


  1. Lance Armstrong: Biker gear and syringes pretty much make this one work. The plastic syringes you get at the drugstore to administer oral medication to kids work like a charm. Just scotch tape them to the inside of your elbow. This can easily be turned into a couples costume. Your partner can wear scrubs and carry vials of liquids and pills.

    Bruce Jenner Halloween Costume

    Bruce Jenner Halloween Costume

  2. Bruce Jenner: I found this clear plastic mask and I just couldn’t resist. It turns any face into a dead ringer of Bruce. If you can muster a tiny ponytail, this will be a nice touch. This costume works well for men or women.
  3. Charlie Sheen: His constant kerfuffles on Twitter keep him relevant. This is an easy one for those who want to participate, but can’t see themselves going all out; dark wig, weird sunglasses, imbibe copious amounts of alcohol, have your wife or girlfriend dress as a call-girl. It’s that simple.


Silver spray paint made an old lamp shade new

Before and After

It’s been almost two weeks since I deposited my daughter’s furniture at the crash shop. Apparently my DIY mess is difficult to undo. I created a sticky goo from my sanding, paint removing, re-painting frenzy that is impenetrable, and withstands sandblasting. I’m wondering if NASA might have a use for the chemical compound I created. Apparently their only choice is to remove the goo with a razor.  This sounds labor intensive. I’m afraid to ask how this new development will affect the cost.  My dear husband may soon regret not purchasing the Pottery Barn Teen dresser and bedside tables.

Incidentally, there are about 1,000 shades of white car paint. When you see a white car, it’s not actually white, its “Crystalline”, or “Sugar Silk”, or “Hanna”.  I did sweet talk Victor into letting me bring home his paint samples so I could match the

The perfect color of white

The perfect color of white

color to Camila’s bed. He was very nervous to let them go, but I assured him I would bring them back promptly. As I worked my way through the 1,000 whites, I was really hoping the natural choice would be Mercedes’ Arctic White, or Tesla’s “Pearl”.  No. The best match was “Sophia” from Mitsubishi.  For a moment, I hesitated. Let’s look at that Mercedes sample against Camila’s lacquered white bed one more time. I debated; pride was messing with my head. Darn it, I just can’t lie to myself, Mitsubishi it is.

As I wait in hopeful, somewhat weary anticipation for the furniture, I focus on other parts of her room that need attention. The curtains are ordered, she needs throw pillows, a desk chair, and new lamp shades. “Hey wait a minute! I can spray paint the dingy gold brocade lampshades silver!” I’m either setting myself up for one more miserable failure and closing the door on DIY forever, or just maybe, I will meet with triumph, and rebuild my shattered DIY self-esteem. Get ready Pinterest, this is going to be worthy!

Voila! This project was remarkably easy, and took all of about 10 minutes, start to finish.  I dare say, they look fantastic! They even met with my daughter’s approval. My pride intact, I wait for her furniture to emerge from the shop in its full Mitsubishi White glory!

DIY Redemption


It’s time to update my eleven-year-old daughter’s room from little girl pink. We start in earnest by purchasing a white lacquer bed, and rug on Overstock.  Her new bedding dictates the color scheme; gray, white, and Aquarius blue (in the 80’s we called it teal).

My Daughter's new bed and rugIt’s starting to take shape, slowly, very slowly. My daughter points out that when her friend Riley decided to update her room the project was initiated and complete in a week.  “Well honey, you know that’s not how I operate. Jamie has a full-time job, so she gets things done faster and more efficiently than I do.”

Next we tackle the hodge-podge of brown-varnished furniture.  We show my husband photos of the Pottery Barn Teen dresser and bedside tables Camila picked out.

“That’s nice dear, but I’m not sure why you’re showing me this. Her current furniture is perfectly fine.”

I know better than to try and convince him otherwise. “Well, Camila, I have no choice, Mumsy’s going to paint your furniture white.” Camila looks at me as if I said I was planning to climb Everest.

“What? You are going to paint my furniture?”

“Yes, of course, you know, DIY. It’s easy.”

“Mom, up until very recently you didn’t know what DIY meant.  I think it may be harder than you think.”

Determined, I head to Five Corner’s Hardware. I consult with Faye about my project. She provides expert advice, and loads me up with all the necessary supplies. I ready our deck off the main room, transforming it into “my workshop”.

One of my best selfies

One of my best selfies

In full regalia; safety goggles, respirator, pink rubber gloves, and a do-rag for just the right Rosie-the-Riveter-meets-Tupac-effect, I set to work. Sanding away, brown dust flying, sweat beading on my brow. I begin to feel alive, my forearms fatiguing, my back aching.

I start the first layer of white paint. The drawers take on a slightly pinkish hue. Perhaps I didn’t wipe them down enough? Now to the bedside table; the paint mysteriously does not adhere. I’m undaunted.

My husband comes home that night. “What the heck happened to our porch?”

Classic "Do Rag"

Classic “Do-Rag”

“That’s my workshop. I’m painting Camila’s bedroom furniture to match her new bed.”

“What? Why? Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“Of course, you know, DIY — Do It Yourself.  I’m saving you so much money. I could’ve gone out and bought all new furnishings. I’m so resourceful, plus, I’m reusing and recycling, saving the environment. It’s going to look great!”

“How can you be saving me money? I had no intention of buying her new furniture. Her dresser and tables looked just fine before. And when am I getting my deck back (AKA: Sacred Sanctuary)”?

I sigh; there is no point in explaining. His brain can’t possibly comprehend why an eleven-year-old girl wants matching white bedroom furniture.

The next day the paint is still not adhering to the bedside tables. The dresser drawers appear to be white when I brush on paint, but dry in a distinctly pinkish hue. It’s back to the hardware store, leaving with a chemical to strip off the stubborn varnish. I slather on the gelatinous paint remover. The fumes make me  light-headed.  So much for saving the environment…

I work like a madman, possessed.  “DIY or Die, DIY or Die!” The words running through my brain in a circular motion like a hamster on a habitrail. I glance at my watch. Oh crumb, time to get the kids from school. But I can’t stop. Just one more coat of paint on the drawers, a few more scrapes with my scraper. I’m officially late. I run out of the house, my hands, jeans, and boots, splattered in white paint and a disturbing brown goop.

Days turn into weeks. Seven trips to the hardware store, a deck destroyed, two pairs of shoes and jeans ruined. My family continues to discourage, but nothing breaks my DIY spirit. Maybe I need to buy a blow torch? Perhaps I can fashion a pulley system to the roof-line of the deck and lift the furniture into a vat of paint, submerging it. I keep expecting “Pinterest worthy” furniture to emerge from the rubble, like Pygmalion’s statue from the stone.

I continue down the rat hole. My family starts planning my intervention. Fortunately my husband and I have a dinner scheduled with friends at a delicious restaurant. It’s been on the books for months. I reluctantly shower and make myself presentable. I am relieved for the dim lighting in the room. Hopefully no one will notice my stained hands and fingernails.

I mention my DIY project during cocktail hour, expecting a chorus of DIY horror stories. This will be a cathartic time to commiserate.

“When I updated my daughter’s room, I found a guy to shellac her furniture white. It looks amazing and he only charged me $200”, Mandy pipes up.

“Why not just take it to the local auto body repair shop?” suggests another of my pals who’s in the know. “They can spray it down for you in seconds. And think about it. It’s car paint; practically bullet proof.”

I go from sipping my wine to taking large gulps, as I feel my entire reality shifting. Everything I’ve known and believed in for weeks has been a lie. I’m a fool. I drink my dinner.

The next morning I wake up, my mouth is gummy, my head pounding. I see a note I scrawled for myself the night before on my nightstand.  It’s in lip liner. “Call Werner’s Crash Shop”.  Fortunately I have a poor enough driving record to have a few friends at Werner’s. I talk to Jenna, “Oh yah, just bring your furniture down. Victor can spray it in between jobs.”

I throw pride aside and ask my husband to help me load my Jeep. The dresser and two bedside tables just barely fit. I drop them off first thing Monday morning. P.T.G.I.D. Pay To Get It Done!






© 2016 Napadaisical
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