Through various turns of events, I found myself on a porch swing in the backyard next-door to my old backyard. John, age 3, was with me. He wanted me to swing higher, but a porch swing isn't the same as a playground swing. He didn't get that. I tried to make conversation, nodding my head toward our old house: "John, there's our old house. You were BORN there!"
And his reply: "How old was I?"
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
Plastered
The good news is that ALL of the inside projects we wanted to do in this new house are now complete. Anything else we do is like icing on the cake.
The bad news is that plastering the ceiling was WAY more difficult than I bargained for. Plastering, in and of itself, is pretty basic. It was made more difficult by yours truly - thanks to the Easter deadline I imposed, the "side projects" I had going simultaneously, and my perfectionism. Fortunately, when one grows increasingly desperate and anxious, the perfectionism starts to go out the window. Passers-by hear statements like: "I don't give a rat's @$$ anymore about the air bubbles! I just want this stupid project FINISHED!!!" (Sadly, for my husband, he is really the only passer-by.)
It all started with this:
You'll have to squint a little. See that pale spot just past the air vent? That was the former site of a truly ugly medallion which was screwed into the ceiling with many VERY LARGE screws. And a light fixture. But, since we removed the light fixture, Kevin patched the damaged drywall, etc. And that is where he stopped. He kept procrastinating the texture job. Partly because it's messy and partly because on any given weekend we already have 250,000 OTHER things on our to-do list. You understand.
I, the brilliant wife, had the economical idea to finish the ceiling with Venetian Plaster, which can be obtained at your local Home Depot. (You don't have to be even a little bit Italian. They just sold it to me!) Plastering would kill two birds with one stone - release Kevin from the pesky texturing job and accomplish re-painting which would be inevitable.
And here I insert a HUGE thank you to Neal Kellen for loaning us his scaffold, Tammy Kellen for posting a photo of their scaffold on facebook during their painting job (or else I never would have known anyone owned such a thing), and Kathy Litto and Kendra Green for coaching me (in person and on the phone) in the fine art of Venetian Plaster. I still didn't get it entirely right, but I think it looks pretty good, it accomplished my goal, and on days when my perfectionist beast is subdued, I live in happy satisfaction with a job done.
Here is the scaffold, which joined our family for a little less than a week. The kids loved it. They played on it, lunched on it, spilled juice on it... (whoops! didn't mention that to the Kellens!)
And here is the "after" picture.
Please do just enough squinting to appreciate the texture and the effect of the "burnishing." What is "burnishing?" you ask. Burnishing, loosely translated, means: to scrape a steel putty knife across endless square feet of ceiling surface to make it shiny and give it "depth" and color variations; it often results in sore arms and shoulders, plaster-dust in the eyes, vertigo (depending on the height of your ceiling) and a deep need to tell everyone you meet about the job you just did so they can pat you on the back and be impressed.
The bad news is that plastering the ceiling was WAY more difficult than I bargained for. Plastering, in and of itself, is pretty basic. It was made more difficult by yours truly - thanks to the Easter deadline I imposed, the "side projects" I had going simultaneously, and my perfectionism. Fortunately, when one grows increasingly desperate and anxious, the perfectionism starts to go out the window. Passers-by hear statements like: "I don't give a rat's @$$ anymore about the air bubbles! I just want this stupid project FINISHED!!!" (Sadly, for my husband, he is really the only passer-by.)
It all started with this:
I, the brilliant wife, had the economical idea to finish the ceiling with Venetian Plaster, which can be obtained at your local Home Depot. (You don't have to be even a little bit Italian. They just sold it to me!) Plastering would kill two birds with one stone - release Kevin from the pesky texturing job and accomplish re-painting which would be inevitable.
And here I insert a HUGE thank you to Neal Kellen for loaning us his scaffold, Tammy Kellen for posting a photo of their scaffold on facebook during their painting job (or else I never would have known anyone owned such a thing), and Kathy Litto and Kendra Green for coaching me (in person and on the phone) in the fine art of Venetian Plaster. I still didn't get it entirely right, but I think it looks pretty good, it accomplished my goal, and on days when my perfectionist beast is subdued, I live in happy satisfaction with a job done.
Here is the scaffold, which joined our family for a little less than a week. The kids loved it. They played on it, lunched on it, spilled juice on it... (whoops! didn't mention that to the Kellens!)
And here is the "after" picture.
Please do just enough squinting to appreciate the texture and the effect of the "burnishing." What is "burnishing?" you ask. Burnishing, loosely translated, means: to scrape a steel putty knife across endless square feet of ceiling surface to make it shiny and give it "depth" and color variations; it often results in sore arms and shoulders, plaster-dust in the eyes, vertigo (depending on the height of your ceiling) and a deep need to tell everyone you meet about the job you just did so they can pat you on the back and be impressed.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Easter
Despite the craziness of Holy Week, brought on by my own decision to take on too many home improvement projects while the kids were off school, Easter was still a glorious day.
Easter began for us on Saturday night. Joseph wanted to attend the Easter Vigil again (it has become a tradition of sorts) and since Kevin went with him last year, I was elected to go this year. Kevin stayed home with the children who would implode if they stayed up til midnight and then spent the entire next day eating chocolate bunnies.
(I will eventually post a photo of) the fire that lit the Easter candle. We all gathered here with our candles to process into the church. I'd love to add photos of the baptismal font that Father John built, all 30 baptisms, Father Steve standing on a chair to light the candles behind the altar (we all laughed - the guy is already six foot eight!) and the joy I felt sitting through the Mass with Joseph and our young neighbors Christina and Maria. While we're at it, I wish cameras could capture how moving it is to hear Stephanie sing the litany of the saints. What a night! What a savior we have to celebrate!
After a midnight snack of sandwiches, shrimp, and delicious fruit, we all went home and went to bed with the resurrection on our hearts.
And woke up to Easter baskets!
I'm happy to say that I refrained from buying so much candy as to guarantee diabetes by summer. But there was enough, and the kids were all thrilled with their choco-bunnies, Mike & Ike's, and pool-themed gifts.
After I ran to the Mayers to hide the zillion eggs for the after-Mass hunt, we dressed up and took a family photo on the couch before Mass. At Mass, Joe had altar server duty and the girls both sang in the choir - it was bizarre to sit with just one child! (Though Grandma Noela joined us, too.)
After Mass, it was lots of kids and baskets in the Mayers backyard. Here's the whole group, minus John, who shies away from large group shots.
Back to our house for the potluck. Yummy ham, lots of marvelous side dishes, and, oh! - a wild and crazy confetti egg fight. This was compliments of my fabulous friend Andrea. The confetti eggs are a tradition in her family and she provided 36 of the well-decorated little suckers. The kids (and adults) had a blast breaking them over each other's heads. Here is Joe dashing out of the bathroom, where he had chased Christina and covered her and the entire commode in shiny confetti.
Here is a tiny sample of what my floor looked like at the end of the afternoon. The entire first floor of our house, minus the guest room looked like this. No joke. Praise the Lord for the broom and the vacuum cleaner!
To prove my cheery disposition despite the crazy confetti mess, and despite the fact that she broke an egg over my head right before this was taken, here is photographic evidence that Andrea and I are still friends.
It was fun to have a neighborhood lunch gathering to celebrate Jesus. And Easter season is just beginning. Happy Easter everyone!
Easter began for us on Saturday night. Joseph wanted to attend the Easter Vigil again (it has become a tradition of sorts) and since Kevin went with him last year, I was elected to go this year. Kevin stayed home with the children who would implode if they stayed up til midnight and then spent the entire next day eating chocolate bunnies.
(I will eventually post a photo of) the fire that lit the Easter candle. We all gathered here with our candles to process into the church. I'd love to add photos of the baptismal font that Father John built, all 30 baptisms, Father Steve standing on a chair to light the candles behind the altar (we all laughed - the guy is already six foot eight!) and the joy I felt sitting through the Mass with Joseph and our young neighbors Christina and Maria. While we're at it, I wish cameras could capture how moving it is to hear Stephanie sing the litany of the saints. What a night! What a savior we have to celebrate!
After a midnight snack of sandwiches, shrimp, and delicious fruit, we all went home and went to bed with the resurrection on our hearts.
And woke up to Easter baskets!
After I ran to the Mayers to hide the zillion eggs for the after-Mass hunt, we dressed up and took a family photo on the couch before Mass. At Mass, Joe had altar server duty and the girls both sang in the choir - it was bizarre to sit with just one child! (Though Grandma Noela joined us, too.)
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Holy Week Upholstery
Leading up to Easter, I didn't have enough to do with filling eggs for the big hunt, ironing Easter outfits, and cleaning the house for a party - so I figured it was a good time to reupholster our dining room chairs.
We bought these chairs in Hanford in 2004. I loved the white fabric, but purposely inspected their design for ease of reupholstering. At the time I had two children and knew the fabric wouldn't stay white for long. Call me a prophet.
Seven years later, these suckers were WAY overdue for a makeover.
I think the cran-grape juice stains make them especially lovely. If I were a guest, I'm not sure I'd even want to sit on a chair this disgusting. (No one needs to ask what kind of forward thinker would buy white chairs with children in the house. I have no answer. Except they were so pretty!)
On about Wednesday night of Holy Week, Kevin unscrewed the seat cushions from the chair frame and I sat on the couch with a screwdriver and some pliers and got to work removing the old fabric from the chairs. Between the black "under-cover" (not sure what else to call it) and the fabric itself, there were roughly 150 staples per chair to be removed. And they didn't come easy. I had a cramped, blistered hand and very sore muscles by the end of the night, and was only half done. I spent about two or three hours the next morning finishing the job.
At this point, I thought the hard part was over. Now I got to use the fun staple gun and be done in a jiffy, right? I pulled out the staple gun we inherited from my step-dad and shot the first staple. It only went half way in to the wood seat. After a desperate and annoyed phone call to my husband, he reminded me that the gun was "about ninety years old" and suggested I hammer in the staples the rest of the way. No freaking way was I going to hammer 900 staples. So I called our neighbor Derryck, who has a very well-outfitted tool collection and works as a high school teacher, so he was home on Spring Break. He sent over his stapler. Shot the first staple. It only went half way in. You might think I was over-reacting if I told you I burst into tears and ran screaming into the closet where I suffered a full nervous breakdown. But what you might not know is that I was functioning on very little sleep since I was working nights on what I think I might start referring to as "The Great Ceiling Plaster Project of Holy Week 2011." Home improvement projects have a way of not going entirely right, so home improvement workers have a way of falling apart emotionally from time to time.
This is staple gun loser #1:
This is staple gun loser #2:
By a wonderful turn of events, my father stopped by shortly after my nervous breakdown and casually said, "Well, hey, I have a staple gun in my car. Let's try it."
The "Little Staple Gun That Could," despite it's size, accomplished the feat of shooting the staple through the fabric and into the solid wood seat. (And here we insert the Hallelujah chorus. It's not just for Easter.)
No longer did my stack of chair cushions look so daunting.
I used the old fabric swatch for a pattern and got to work.
Almost a thousand staples later, I had six beautiful new chairs, only a slightly arthritic hand, and huge respect for people who carry staple guns in their cars.
We bought these chairs in Hanford in 2004. I loved the white fabric, but purposely inspected their design for ease of reupholstering. At the time I had two children and knew the fabric wouldn't stay white for long. Call me a prophet.
Seven years later, these suckers were WAY overdue for a makeover.
On about Wednesday night of Holy Week, Kevin unscrewed the seat cushions from the chair frame and I sat on the couch with a screwdriver and some pliers and got to work removing the old fabric from the chairs. Between the black "under-cover" (not sure what else to call it) and the fabric itself, there were roughly 150 staples per chair to be removed. And they didn't come easy. I had a cramped, blistered hand and very sore muscles by the end of the night, and was only half done. I spent about two or three hours the next morning finishing the job.
At this point, I thought the hard part was over. Now I got to use the fun staple gun and be done in a jiffy, right? I pulled out the staple gun we inherited from my step-dad and shot the first staple. It only went half way in to the wood seat. After a desperate and annoyed phone call to my husband, he reminded me that the gun was "about ninety years old" and suggested I hammer in the staples the rest of the way. No freaking way was I going to hammer 900 staples. So I called our neighbor Derryck, who has a very well-outfitted tool collection and works as a high school teacher, so he was home on Spring Break. He sent over his stapler. Shot the first staple. It only went half way in. You might think I was over-reacting if I told you I burst into tears and ran screaming into the closet where I suffered a full nervous breakdown. But what you might not know is that I was functioning on very little sleep since I was working nights on what I think I might start referring to as "The Great Ceiling Plaster Project of Holy Week 2011." Home improvement projects have a way of not going entirely right, so home improvement workers have a way of falling apart emotionally from time to time.
This is staple gun loser #1:
This is staple gun loser #2:
The "Little Staple Gun That Could," despite it's size, accomplished the feat of shooting the staple through the fabric and into the solid wood seat. (And here we insert the Hallelujah chorus. It's not just for Easter.)
No longer did my stack of chair cushions look so daunting.
Almost a thousand staples later, I had six beautiful new chairs, only a slightly arthritic hand, and huge respect for people who carry staple guns in their cars.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Toy Stories
Following are some photos I took of my daughters' toys in various "situations." Sometimes I'll come across their play and I'm taken aback, to say the least. I wonder where they get these ideas at the same time that I laugh out loud. I've recently gotten smart enough to capture their "creativity" with my camera. What follows are the results. The toys and dolls are exactly as I found them. The captions are mine.
Rhinoplasty? At such a young age? What kind of mother....?
"Yes, they're a little large... but they keep me warm up to my thighs."
The student body is sufficiently diverse. They even have a grizzly bear.
"I always feel so smiley when I've been to see Jesus!"
In urban areas, it's often hard to find a good saddle shop. In a pinch, masking tape will do fine. Just have the stable boy be the one to remove it.
Dolphins are terrible drivers. Even if it's a shoe car... just don't let them behind the wheel at all if you can help it.
Efanie was soooooooo glad to not be the only one in second grade with an unusual name.
While the Infant Stunt-Riding course is less than popular, there is the occasional newborn who knocks your socks off with her talent.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Still on the Floor
Star Reporter: Much time has passed since your last blog post. Are you still sleeping on the floor?
Me: Yes.
Star Reporter: And how's that goin'?
Me: It hasn't been as difficult as anticipated. A few weeks ago, I removed the memory foam topper I was using and replaced it with a sleeping bag. Much less comfortable, but it beats a bed of nails. If there has been any lesson, it is that I can get by with less than I have. Nice to be reminded of that. We'll be sleeping on the floor at my brother and sister-in-law's during an upcoming visit, and that's just fine and dandy. Couple months ago, I might have been nervous about my comfort and annoyed at not having my bed with me.
Star Reporter: Excited to approach the end of Lent?
Me: Yes and no. Of course I look forward to the joy and celebration of the resurrection of Jesus. But this has been a VERY rich spiritual time for me. Thankfully, that doesn't have to end when Lent does, and many of the disciplines I've attempted will continue. Hooray for that!
Star Reporter: What has been most fruitful?
Me: I can't answer that. Jesus could. Let me know if He clues you in. But I certainly have gained a lot from my reading of the Diary of St. Faustina. Man oh man, that woman loved Jesus. Every word I read of hers brings out a strong desire in my whole heart to love Jesus more. I'll do anything. Well, almost anything. The theme of suffering is STRONG in the life of St. Faustina (and in the lives of all the saints I've read about) and I am daily trying to understand what that looks like for little old me. I resist the level of suffering that Faustina endured, and yet I can hear a call...
Star Reporter: Speaking of suffering...
Me: It is all around me, but mine is so minimal. So I can pray a lot, praise God for that. This very day, I have news of a friend beginning chemo for stomach cancer; my god-daughter desperately needs a new liver; and another friend is suffering through severe emotional turmoil. Still, in the midst of it all, there is the light of the Lord of Lords, and it is the most amazing light. I pray so hard for that light to shine in their darkness. (I suspect, actually, that they might see the light more brilliantly than I do right now.)
Star Reporter: So... you haven't been blogging, but things are okay?
Me: Yes. Jesus is alive and He is the hope of the world and of my life.
Me: Yes.
Star Reporter: And how's that goin'?
Me: It hasn't been as difficult as anticipated. A few weeks ago, I removed the memory foam topper I was using and replaced it with a sleeping bag. Much less comfortable, but it beats a bed of nails. If there has been any lesson, it is that I can get by with less than I have. Nice to be reminded of that. We'll be sleeping on the floor at my brother and sister-in-law's during an upcoming visit, and that's just fine and dandy. Couple months ago, I might have been nervous about my comfort and annoyed at not having my bed with me.
Star Reporter: Excited to approach the end of Lent?
Me: Yes and no. Of course I look forward to the joy and celebration of the resurrection of Jesus. But this has been a VERY rich spiritual time for me. Thankfully, that doesn't have to end when Lent does, and many of the disciplines I've attempted will continue. Hooray for that!
Star Reporter: What has been most fruitful?
Me: I can't answer that. Jesus could. Let me know if He clues you in. But I certainly have gained a lot from my reading of the Diary of St. Faustina. Man oh man, that woman loved Jesus. Every word I read of hers brings out a strong desire in my whole heart to love Jesus more. I'll do anything. Well, almost anything. The theme of suffering is STRONG in the life of St. Faustina (and in the lives of all the saints I've read about) and I am daily trying to understand what that looks like for little old me. I resist the level of suffering that Faustina endured, and yet I can hear a call...
Star Reporter: Speaking of suffering...
Me: It is all around me, but mine is so minimal. So I can pray a lot, praise God for that. This very day, I have news of a friend beginning chemo for stomach cancer; my god-daughter desperately needs a new liver; and another friend is suffering through severe emotional turmoil. Still, in the midst of it all, there is the light of the Lord of Lords, and it is the most amazing light. I pray so hard for that light to shine in their darkness. (I suspect, actually, that they might see the light more brilliantly than I do right now.)
Star Reporter: So... you haven't been blogging, but things are okay?
Me: Yes. Jesus is alive and He is the hope of the world and of my life.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Little Pink House
Here is the house I came home to when I was born, in 1970. This photo was taken near Christmas-time, judging from the lights still hanging around the roof.
Can you tell from the photo that the house was pale pink? I wonder if the color of one's childhood home contributes to her personality in any way.
Strain your eyes a little and behold the red-carpeted front step, and the cactus beside the door. Who puts a cactus right by the front door? Welcome mat, no... cactus, yes.
It was 1970, as I said, so stepping inside, you would see the white carpet, gold sofas, and dark wood wall paneling. Not to mention my mom's five-foot high painting of a Spanish bullfighter in blues and greens.
The backyard was huge by Vegas standards. My dad built a two-story playhouse back there for my brother and I, complete with a balcony. Through the years, we had three dogs, three cats, a rabbit and a couple tortoises back there. Additionally, my father found the skulls of cattle on desert hikes and wired them to the back fence for decoration. There was also a tire swing. And a pool table, at one point. And morning glories. And a patio table with Dad's arrowhead collection displayed on the top. My tenth birthday singing telegram came to that backyard. Most of my ballet recital photos were posed there. And our doberman, Tia, once cornered me in the sideyard. (All the good memories blend in with the not-so-good.)
Inside, once the white living room carpet was replaced with dark brown, Dad and I would watch NOVA on PBS while eating ice cream out of glasses. The macrame plant holders that Mom made still hung nearby, but Mom lived elsewhere. Not until halfway through tenth grade did I walk out of that house for the last time. As an adolescent, I wasn't sad to leave behind my bright blue room, the cockroach problem, or memories that balanced precariously between good and bad. I had always wanted a front window in the living room, where we could set up the Christmas tree, and we had that in the next house.
All these years later, I still drive by my old house from time to time. I want to make sure it's still there, and see how it's doing. I can't get away with staring for long, but it only takes a second for the memories to rush in anyway.
I was shocked to see the pink house painted yellow on my most recent visit. There is also a broken window, an unfamiliar car in the driveway, trash and junk furniture near the driveway, and a different front door. Plus no cactus on the front step. But I can tour the floorplan in my imagination. I can see the red and pink carpet in the bathroom. Remember the new kitchen phone with its ten-foot cord. Help a couple of Dad's girlfriends move in, then out. Celebrate another birthday, another Christmas, another Easter. Then I drive away.
Can you tell from the photo that the house was pale pink? I wonder if the color of one's childhood home contributes to her personality in any way.
Strain your eyes a little and behold the red-carpeted front step, and the cactus beside the door. Who puts a cactus right by the front door? Welcome mat, no... cactus, yes.
It was 1970, as I said, so stepping inside, you would see the white carpet, gold sofas, and dark wood wall paneling. Not to mention my mom's five-foot high painting of a Spanish bullfighter in blues and greens.
The backyard was huge by Vegas standards. My dad built a two-story playhouse back there for my brother and I, complete with a balcony. Through the years, we had three dogs, three cats, a rabbit and a couple tortoises back there. Additionally, my father found the skulls of cattle on desert hikes and wired them to the back fence for decoration. There was also a tire swing. And a pool table, at one point. And morning glories. And a patio table with Dad's arrowhead collection displayed on the top. My tenth birthday singing telegram came to that backyard. Most of my ballet recital photos were posed there. And our doberman, Tia, once cornered me in the sideyard. (All the good memories blend in with the not-so-good.)
Inside, once the white living room carpet was replaced with dark brown, Dad and I would watch NOVA on PBS while eating ice cream out of glasses. The macrame plant holders that Mom made still hung nearby, but Mom lived elsewhere. Not until halfway through tenth grade did I walk out of that house for the last time. As an adolescent, I wasn't sad to leave behind my bright blue room, the cockroach problem, or memories that balanced precariously between good and bad. I had always wanted a front window in the living room, where we could set up the Christmas tree, and we had that in the next house.
All these years later, I still drive by my old house from time to time. I want to make sure it's still there, and see how it's doing. I can't get away with staring for long, but it only takes a second for the memories to rush in anyway.
I was shocked to see the pink house painted yellow on my most recent visit. There is also a broken window, an unfamiliar car in the driveway, trash and junk furniture near the driveway, and a different front door. Plus no cactus on the front step. But I can tour the floorplan in my imagination. I can see the red and pink carpet in the bathroom. Remember the new kitchen phone with its ten-foot cord. Help a couple of Dad's girlfriends move in, then out. Celebrate another birthday, another Christmas, another Easter. Then I drive away.
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