Archive for: November, 2011

Face. Yo. Fears.

Posted: Nov 18 · Comments: 123

Formally trained at The Martha Stewart Academy, Max had a difficult time moving in with somebody like me. He was disturbed by so many things in my apartment—the plain white linens, the lack of throw pillows, my surfaces clear of homey knickknacks. Where were all my throw blankets? Didn’t I own a few more table lamps I could set up? Why didn’t it smell persistently like flowers or fresh laundry? These were the habits of a barbarian, and I suppose I should count myself lucky that he has since spent months attempting to reform my bachelor ways. It was uncomfortable at first, but I’ve decided to be courageous and look at it less like an assault and more like a challenge to move beyond my comfort zone. One that involves a crazy, never-ending roller coaster ride of emotional turmoil.

I don’t mean to sing my own praises here, but I’d say I have an above-average olfactory sense, a gift that tends to be more curse than blessing in the city of New York. My apartment didn’t smell bad, but rather didn’t really smell like anything, which is how I like it. I tend to find scented rooms a little uncomfortable, to be honest. Why does your 6th floor East Village apartment always smell like a garden center full of hydrangeas? What are you trying to cover up? Do you have terrible gas? Are you growing pot in your coat closet? Do you have a rotting carcass fetish?  There are no flowers around, it doesn’t make sense. Context is everything.

All of this changed with Max.

Face your fears.

By my count, we have 2 plug-ins, 2 reed diffusers, 2 oil burners, and a vast assortment of tiny vials of variously scented oils, much like a witch doctor. Bear in mind that our apartment is about 600 square feet. Max used to have a third oil burner before I think I urged him to throw it away, and I’ve put my foot solidly down against the concept of tiny bowls of potpourri strewn about the place, but I know it’s probably only a matter of time. I know he’s just waiting for that right potpourri.

At one point shortly after he moved in, he purchased a third reed diffuser and put it on the mantle. It was the sort of thing that gave me the nervous eye twitch, but hey, I thought, he’s new here, let the boy have it. It wasn’t until it fell to the floor, diffusing its contents all over my rug and the couch, that tacit frustration boiled over into rage. “THESE THINGS ARE ARE MADE BY THE MEDDLING HANDS OF THE DEVIL,” I recall yelling. I sulked for days, pretending that it was the oil spill all over my antique rug (which is gone now… just cover it with cornstarch and vacuum later! Thanks, Martha!) that bothered me, not that my apartment smelled like a funeral parlor. That smell could linger for days, but possibly forever, and eventually I’d have to move, telling people, “Oh, it was a great apartment, but I got tired of smelling Savon’s Sandlewood oil. It was time to move on.”

All of our many new fragrances were easy to accept with a kind of passive compliance, but things got more distressing when Max zeroed in on the throw pillow situation.

All I heard about was throw pillows. I had purchased some fabric that I had planned to make into throw pillows, but a combination of laziness and a crippling fear of my sewing machine had delayed the process for about a year. Max thought this fabric was “too manly” anyway (“but we are men, Sugar Tits!”), so what followed was weeks of bickering over which pillows. Max would threaten me with some semi-contemporary trellis pattern thing and I’d get all weepy about the vintage kilim pillow he made me donate to Goodwill (gone, but not forgotten) and that would go on for a while until we’d realize we were actually fighting about throw pillows and then we’d explode into a pile of rainbows and glitter paint.

Eventually I presented Max with a single option, which he took: the Coco Pillow from CB2. Neither of us loved them, neither of us hated them, which was a big improvement over everything else we’d presented each other. Stalemate pillows, if you will. We bought two. Drama, ended.

But two pillows wasn’t enough to satiate Max’s undying thirst for throw pillows. So, desperate to finally end this whole debacle, I walked into the Marimekko shop at Crate & Barrel and bought a yard of fabric.

And then I FACED MY FEARS.

I looked up some instructions online. I broke out that sewing machine. I made some fucking pillows. I watched the pilot episode of that Terra Nova show and was disappointed. Talk about a packed afternoon.

Don’t pretend you’re not impressed. FYI, made them about an inch smaller than the insert, which keeps them from getting too droopy. You know, pro tip.

Totally sewed them with an envelop back, too! This allowed me to skip the whole zipper issue, seeing as who the hell am I kidding here? I can’t sew a zipper.

But then, because my pillows were such a wild success, I showed them to a friend at a party and we got to talking about whether I could make cushions for our friend Emily’s couch for her birthday.

Vintage teak Danish sofa. No cushions. Foam, dacron, spray adhesive, fabric, sewing machine, zippers. “Yes!” drunk Daniel said, “I would love to do that! When do we start?” And then sober Daniel had a panic attack.

FACE.

YOUR.

FEARS.

I basically followed this awesome dude’s instructions for the foam, which I purchased at Canal Rubber. They’re WONDERFUL there, by the way. If you go in, give Lee a holler for me.

Then, using these advanced tools… (indeed, those are children’s scissors from IKEA. Our kitchen scissors were inexplicably lost so the other option was cuticle scissors.)

And a hefty amount of figuring it the fuck out…

I made this sexy tweedy thing. And another one for the back.

Which turned into these sexy tweedy things.

So people could do shit like this on them.

Sometimes people tell me, “oh, Daniel, you are so gifted and crafty!” And I say to them, “I swear, I don’t have any special skills.”  This is basically true, save for one caveat: I am just a naturally gifted DIY superhero who can do anything. ANYTHING. I even learned how to thread a bobbin during this whole sofa cushion thing. And watched the entire first season of Walking Dead. As I said: ANYTHING.

Face your fears.

As it’s getting dark so early, it’s cold outside, and Max was getting a little too comfortable, I decided I really wanted some house plants.

Max has this thing about houseplants. He hates them. Sometimes I think about why this might be, seeing as a good houseplant is loyal, and alive, and filters your air, and needs very little maintenance. Is it because sometimes the leaves collect dust? Is it because they have soil, which is traditionally home to bugs? Is it because they photosynthesize for energy, which is basically eating the sun? Is it because they grow, like silent, perpetually still zombie children waiting around in corners of your house?

FACE.

YO.

MOTHERFUCKING.

FEARS.

I already had this one. Bought it at Morton-Williams, 82nd & 1st Ave. (can I hear a whut-whut?!). I do not know what it’s called, but I do know that it lived through the move and just keeps growing. So, so proud.

And what? What did I do? Went and bought a Fabian Aralia from some guy on Craigslist? Like a crazy plant person? Who talked about plants with me while I pet his dog? Sure did.

Then just to be an asshole I bought this little lovely at Trader Joe’s for a couple bucks. Planted her in a weird sized vase I had and water her every once in a while. She’s alright.

I recognize that buying houseplants as a form of passive aggression is about the gayest thing imaginable (I can say that, you can’t). It just feels so right.

I wasn’t really prepared for this, though. Seasonal decorating.

Gourds. Everywhere there are gourds. Gourds, pumpkins, glass pumpkins, more gourds.

These cropped up shortly before Halloween and have been slowly rotting on most of the surfaces in our apartment ever since. Max says they’re a “slightly pre-Halloween up until and including Thanksgiving” thing. He is disposing of them piecemeal—we’ll come home, something will smell funky, and he’ll find the offending gourd and toss it.

It’s not a horrible smell, just something a little bitter in the air. It might be worse, but, you see, we have these air fresheners.

Until next time: FACE. YO. FEARS.

I Like All Colors That are Black or White.

Posted: Nov 10 · Comments: 130

If you follow me on Instagram, you’ve probably already gathered that I painted my living room! I’m bad at keeping secrets when provided with so many social networking outlets. Oopsie!

Before:

AFTER!

I like it! I don’t LOVE it, to be honest—the color’s a little bluer than I was expecting—but I do like it a lot. WAY better than the red, even if I end up repainting it eventually.

I know there were some fans out there of the red, but I hated it. Hated it. Even if I had wanted to keep it, the walls were in R-O-U-G-H shape and it would have needed to be redone. Not that it matters, it made my head hurt and my eyes bleed. At no point ever in the entire time I’ve lived here did I think to myself, “Hey! Maybe I should keep this red. It’s so funky!” That, by the way, is a good example of something I would never say aloud, in case you were struggling to think of anything.

Something I would say? “I’m painting our living room Paper White by Benjamin Moore in matte. The ceiling will be White in eggshell, the moldings will be Super White in semi-gloss. The doors and fireplace mantle will be Onyx in Pearl.”

Something Max would say? “Do whatever you want, but please stop talking about it. What’s for dinner?” OMGYOUGUYZDREAMY.

Because I get questions in the comments and the occasional email regarding this very important and surprisingly mysterious concept, I’m going to tell you how to paint a room. Well, how I paint a room. You can do it however you want but my way will always be the right way.

PREP:

1. Locate, patch, and sand holes with spackle. Really sand, now. Don’t be a punk.

2. Move all your furniture and crap into the middle of the room, cover with a giant $2 plastic tarp.

3. Try to go inside your furniture fort, look around, pretend you’re in a quarantine chamber in a space ship.

4. Put drop cloths on floor around perimeter of room.

PAINT THAT SHIT:

1. STAY HYDRATED. Painting is hard work, don’t kid yourself. It will take you many hours, most of them standing, which is more physical activity than you’re generally comfortable with. That’s why I recommend you stay hydrated. I like to stay hydrated with a couple beers or glasses of wine because, let’s face it, painting’s the fucking worst. Worse than famine. Worse than natural disasters. Worse than Rick Perry. (Maybe not worse than Rick Perry.) The point is: loosen up, settle in for the long haul. So drink some booze, smoke some weed, whatever works for you.

2. Gather up your supplies. You will need: paint, a paint brush (or several), a paint tray, a roller (and pad, I always use “semi-smooth” for walls), and a ladder unless you’re a giant.

I like to use a 2″ angle brush, and because I was feeling a little crazy that day, I bought a stubby one without a handle. What am I, a leprechaun? I don’t know what came over me.

3. Start by cutting in the perimeter of the ceiling with your brush, since the roller can’t paint corners. ”Cutting in” is a fancy painterly term, and when you say it, you’ll sound like you know shit.

4. Paint the ceiling with a roller. Now, you might think you can skip painting the ceiling. “But it looks white,” your lazy ass says. YOU ARE WRONG. It is not white. When confronted with real white, it looks poopy and horrible. Like so:

PAINT YOUR CEILING. You won’t regret it.

5. Start by cutting in with your brush around moldings and up the corners of the room. This was a special pain in the ass because I also had to do it around all those fancy wall-moldings, too.

6. Prime, if you have to. You should really prime if you’re painting a light color over a dark color, or the other way around. For dark over light, ask your paint store if you should use a tinted primer. At this point, things will look terrible.

7. Cut in around the moldings and corners again, and paint another coat with your roller. Then do that again. You probably want two coats, maybe three depending on what paint you use. I used Benjamin Moore’s Regal Select, which is really nice stuff. I usually go with just the plain Regal (it’s a little cheaper and still very nice paint), but I really didn’t want to do three coats.

8. After you’re done with the walls, paint the moldings! Now, you might think you don’t need to paint your moldings. “They look white,” you say.

WRONG AGAIN, STUPID. You need to paint your trim. Just do it, you’ll feel better.

Now, this might shock you. DO NOT USE PAINTER’S TAPE. There is a time and a place for it, but it’s really not necessary in most cases, certainly not for painting most moldings and stuff. Normally, it just messes you up, since paint gets all up under the tape and ruins your clean lines. It also takes forever to apply, and really isn’t as fun as you think it is to rip off. You really just need your angle brush, a steady-ish hand, and about three minutes of practice to really get the hang of things. If you are going to use painter’s tape, please for the love of god use it right.

The last people who painted my apartment apparently did not read the tape instruction manual and thought it would be easier to cut their tape off  the wall with an x-acto knife. This is not only wrong, but evil, because it leaves TEENY TINY slivers of painting tape that will slowly separate from the walls over time and drive the next painter totally fucking insane trying to peel off. It’s not right, it’s not fair, never do this ever or your karma will be in the shitter. And that’s a promise.

9. Clean up, put your furniture back, and you’re done!

Max bought that painting a couple weeks ago from his friend Matt Uebbing. We’re still deciding on art placement, so it’s not hung yet, but we’ll get to that.

I decided to paint the wall moldings with the ceiling paint, which is just off-the-shelf BM “White” in eggshell. It offsets nicely with the wall color without being SO in-your-face, and the finish is every-so-slightly glossier than the matte walls. I just used a 1″ brush, and it took forever.

Before:

AFTER!

Before:

We really need some art on the walls and to fix up that super sad stuff happening on top of the mantle. All in good time.

Obviously, I painted the fireplace the same BM Onyx as the doors, and I really love it. I used to totally hate the tiling work, but now I think I kind of like that too? I don’t know, for some reason now it seems kind of perfectly-antiquey-poopy-brownish-mustard. Masculine might be the word I’m looking for. Anyway. The new paint has really changed my views on them.

I am totally in love with my new lamp, by the way. Like, if I die, and I’m ever reincarnated as a lamp, I think it would look a lot like that.

Black Doors!

Posted: Nov 3 · Comments: 140

There are moments in a relationship when you realize you’ve gone and found yourself a good thing. Max came home from work one day back in August to a sweltering apartment and my small, crouched figure slumped on the floor. The trouble was that somebody had stuffed wads of newsprint inside the walls that conceal our pocket doors, thereby blocking their ability to open all the way. Because this was during my it’s-hotter-than-hell-outside-fuck-it-I’m-a-nudist phase, I was unshowered and wearing only underwear. And maybe socks, for modesty’s sake. Strewn about on the floor surrounding me was a collection of our household items—a set of tongs, a broom handle, an umbrella I’d broken—and the pile of old newspapers I had slowly persuaded out of the walls over the course of what was, realistically, a several hour long effort. This is behavior that I have come to recognize as the norm for Single-Daniel, but is probably better avoided during the fragile first six months of a relationship. Yet there I sat, dirty and frustrated, reappropriating our spatula as a sort of primitive tool, much like an ape.

While alone it’s easier to focus exclusively on the task at hand, but the presence of another person inspires a sort of quick self-inspection, followed by an assessment, followed by shame. Alright, you might think, he’s seen me. Play it cool. Do you look ridiculous? Yes. Do you have a compelling reason? Certainly. And when he opens his mouth to say something like “What in the fuck are you doing down there?” you need to explain yourself. Hurriedly, you try to come up with a reason why the doors sticking out a couple of inches instead of receding nicely into the walls is a pressing problem riddled with threatening functional implications. Further, one that can only be addressed while sweaty, dirty, and mostly naked. You decide to bypass the accusatorial interrogation and just skip to the explanation.

“Some asshole past tenant stuffed about a million newspapers into our walls, and that’s why the pocket doors won’t open all the way, which looks all weird and is probably why they keep skipping off their tracks and I’ve been trying to fish them out but they’re really stuck and I lost track of time and I’m really sorry but I broke your umbrella.”

“Which newspaper?” he replied. And there it was. Not angered, nor shocked and appalled, nor even slightly surprised that he might come home to find me in such a state, there was something immensely comforting about his apathy.

“Oh, just a bunch of horse racing schedules and statistics and stuff, from the mid-70s. Nothing interesting.”

“Oh, bummer.”

And then I went back to sticking my arms into the wall and he told me about his day at work. And it was good.

Aside from what is now obvious (that Eugene Tombs was nesting in our apartment), all of our doors had an exciting laundry list of things wrong with them. The paint was chipping off the pocket doors. The bedroom and bathroom doors didn’t close. All the hardware had been painted over by careless landlords and tenants for years, and was not only ugly but also didn’t work. Poor doors. So abused.

When I first moved into this apartment, during the brief period that it was still technically just my apartment and I could be as big of an asswipe as I wanted to be, I told Max that I was going to paint all the doors black. I told other people this, too, all of whom expressed deep concern. “Really? Black? Like, black-black?” FUCK YES, BLACK. But let me just say:

Before:

After:

Yeah. They’re rad. I love my black doors. The color is Onyx by Benjamin Moore, in Pearl finish. It’s basically the perfect, perfect black. I want to live in a world of Benjamin Moore Onyx.

All the doors in the apartment (there are only three other ones, including the front door) are getting the Onyx treatment too, and I love it. Bedroom door before:

And AFTER!

I love them. Love them. You can tell me anything. Tell me they’re ugly. See if I care. I do not care. You know why? Because I love them.

LOVE.

My affection isn’t just a paint fetish thing, though. It’s also the hardware. I’m so happy with how the hardware turned out. Because it had been painted over so many, many times, it all had to be carefully cut and scraped and stripped away from the doors. Here’s a fancy close-up image I made by cropping a much wider image I had, because I took no proper before pictures. My blogging fanciness knows no bounds.

Stripping paint off stuff is one of those intensely tedious, endlessly satisfying tasks that just keeps you coming back for more. Once I got it all detached from the doors, I stuck it in a pot of boiling water (and a little dish soap), and let it simmer like a delicious hardware stew for a while. Like so:

No, I do not still cook food in that pot. Luckily, it was from a thrift store and I don’t feel too bad about it.

After a bunch of the paint has boiled off, it’s time to move this party to the sink, where you’ll scrub and pick at the stragglers while burning your hands through latex gloves beneath scalding running water. It’s fun! Let your kid do it, he/she will have a phenomenal time.

All kidding aside, it’s really kind of amazing to restore something like this—probably well over a century old—to an original, functioning condition. Hearing that door click! closed for the first time was super rewarding, and using the doorknob everyday feels like such an awesome privilege that I totally fucking deserve. 

Aside from that, I think we can all agree that the mix of the black door, the white trim, and the brass/pewter-y hardware is pretty dope. It’s all J.Crew-Men’s-Shop-Yale-Club-Old-New-England-Classic-Fancy up in here. All of those associations make perfect sense to me.

The pocket door hardware was slightly more challenging because it’s not actually very old, so the brass was super shiny and new and weird looking when I stripped the paint off them. I found something online that told me to wet them with vinegar and stick them in a hot oven for a few minutes, which would help age the brass. Usually I’m not a fan of trying to obtain faux-old finishes, but this was tiny and subtle and totally worked and I love them now.

Best for last? Okay. Best for last.

The bathroom door was a whole crazy mess of gloppy old paint and filthy and sadness.

Like, gag me with a spoon, as my father would say. But you know I’m all about that black porcelain knob.

Insert some boiling water, some taking the door off its hinges, sanding and sanding and sanding down the bottom so it would close, a few coats of paint later, and…

Here’s the outside. The wood handle makes my heart sing. I just rubbed on a couple coats of Danish oil after it dried out from the boiling and it’s so pretty.

On the inside of the door, under all the paint was this super cool lock. In case you can’t make it out, it reads: “New York City 1883 Make.” EIGHTEEN FUCKING EIGHTY THREE. That shit is old, and awesome. It had a petrified cockroach carcass inside of it. That’s history. I think it was painted black originally but the boiling took off all the paint and I ended up liking the raw metal, so I spray painted it with a matte clear coat protection so it wouldn’t rust in a steamy bathroom.

Wider angles to come, when I get my act together and photograph the bathroom. Things are looking a little different in there! (See what I did there? I love to play the tease.)

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