One of the more perpetually hilarious/depressing things about looking at apartments in New York is seeing the ways that landlords try to get creative when renovating and preparing a unit for the next tenant. I recently got an email from a reader who uncovered a beautiful original hardwood door in her Harlem apartment, which at some point had been covered with a piece of 70s wood paneling. When my friend moved into her apartment near me, the trim had all been painted alternating shades of fleshy pink-beige and baby-poop-brown. Of course, there was my last apartment with the pink laminate cabinets and the pink-ish laminate countertops and the pink-ish faux-marble ceramic floor, but that wasn’t so bad. At least it was all pink?

It’s cute, when you think about it. Why not just go the easy route and pick stuff that’s totally neutral? Because landlords are people, too, with creative impulses that cannot be tamed by worrying about what any other sane person might possibly want to live with. They like to experiment. They like having some room to play. It’s very adorable and very frustrating to live with the consequences.

Pretty much my single biggest gripe with my apartment has always been the kitchen floor. What a terrible piece of shit.

Let me count the ways:

1. Stupid design with the black edge and big black square in the middle. Why? Just because.

2. White ceramic in a kitchen. You guys, I’m a clean dude. But a white ceramic floor in a small kitchen is just not a great idea if you don’t want to be mopping every 4 seconds. No matter how often I cleaned this floor, it ALWAYS looked filthy.

3. Cracked and chipped tiles. Everywhere. ‘nuf said.

4. So, so uneven. Yes, the floors all over our apartment are uneven, and that’s OK. But this kitchen floor was so bad because this tiling job is so terrible that none of the tiles themselves are at all level. This means that cleaning the floor essentially amounted to all the gunk getting stuck on protruding edges of errant tiles. Pretty traumatic stuff.

5. Grout. I actually always assumed these huge grout lines were dark grey, but once I started really scrubbing some of the lines, I realized it was actually originally white. I think. EW. But there’s only SO MUCH bleach and baking soda and a toothbrush and my willpower can accomplish, so it never really cleaned up beyond a piss yellow. Which was worse than the “dark grey” (dirt), in my opinion.

I thought maybe I would just live with this tile because I otherwise love my apartment and could maybe just concede on this one thing. It could probably be worse, right?  And besides, what do you do about a tile floor? There is just no way that I’m going to demo and replace a ceramic floor in a rental apartment. As this blog has proven many times over, I’m a lunatic, but I’m not, like, completely unhinged. Give me some credit.

Then, I had an epiphany. I didn’t actually have to alter the floor in any major way to get rid of it. What Dean at My Little Apartment did in her bathroom years ago popped up in my mind (holy cow, that was back in 2007. am I the Rain Man of home blogs?), so I thought maybe I could do something similar. Rubber was the answer to my prayers (/incessant whining).

I ended up buying my rubber from a company with the catchy name of Rubber Flooring Inc. Most of the companies I found only sold this style of rubber in 4-foot wide sheets, but I was nervous about how a big seam running up the middle of my floor would look/function over time. I really just wanted one BIG sheet, like a beautiful black sea of gorgeous hospital-y rubber. Luckily, the Rubber Flooring Inc. roll is 7.5 feet by 17 feet, which is almost the exact dimensions of my kitchen.

I love you, Rubber Flooring Inc. I love you and your straightforward, no-nonsense, branding and your sale that allowed me to get free shipping and a brand new kitchen floor for $250. It’s not chump change, but after living with this floor for a year and a half and figuring I might well live with it for another 5 or 10, this seemed like my best option.

I accidentally deleted the process photos off of my camera, but here are a couple I snapped with my iPhone. The whole thing was very straightforward, I just drew up a diagram of my floor plan and where I needed to make the cuts, unrolled the whole thing in my living room, and hacked it up accordingly.

I should probably take a moment to note that this roll of rubber, which looked fairly modest in size, was very literally the heaviest thing I have ever attempted to carry in my life. I still have no idea how Max and I manhandled it up to the 5th floor, but I do recall almost breaking an arm in the process.

SHAZAM, new floor.

I love this floor. It’s so, so easy to keep clean, it feels nice underfoot, and it magically evens out the whole wonky tile business underneath. I can forget about the bad tile situation and move on with my new life. I’m very happy with it.

As per the manufacturer’s instructions, I stuck down the edges with double-sided carpet tape. For a few days, this worked great, but it soon became unstuck from the tile underneath. The rubber is heavy enough that it’s till OK, but I really want to find a solution to keep it stuck down better. I tried hot glue, which was a massive fail, and now I’m thinking maybe rubber cement? I don’t know. I don’t want to damage the tile floor, but I want this thing to sit as flat as humanly possible. This would have been a non-issue if I had had the foresight to do this BEFORE installing new cabinets and baseboards, but I didn’t, and now I must suffer the consequences.

ANYWAY. Enough about that.

Hey, look! I installed new white toe-kicks on the old wood cabinets. Doors and drawer fronts to follow, finally, if it kills me. I will have matching cabinets it it’s the last thing I do on this earth.

The DAY after I put down the new floor, I was hanging out and thrifting with my friend on the Upper West Side and we went in this little tiny very fancy looking antiques store, filled with gorgeous expensive furniture. Now, I usually don’t even go in places like this, and when I do, I immediately look at the ceiling and the floor. That’s where the bargains are. Sometimes. Maybe.

“Is this for sale?” I asked, pointing at a very dirty, perfectly beat-up oriental rug under a bunch of stuff.
“I don’t know, I guess it could be? You really don’t want that rug though, it’s filthy. We’ve just been using it in the store forever.”
“OK, so how much could it be for sale for?”
“Say $125?”
“Could you do $100?”

We took the rug outside and laid it on the sidewalk, where the owner proceeded to tell me how much I did not want to buy this ratty piece of crap rug. Assuring him I did, he assured me it wasn’t worth that much, and decided without further urging to sell it to me for $45. Then he put it in a garbage bag and I was on my way.

Like magic! I love this rug. It’s the perfect size for the space, and I love having a rug like this in the kitchen. Antique orientals aren’t too precious because they’ve already taken a lot of wear and abuse, so it’s perfect. Upper West Side. Who would have thought?

A sale’s a sale, folks. It never hurts to ask.

Mekko also seems to appreciate the transformation, which is really all that counts anyway.

I am really not one of those people—the people who get sick a million times every winter and spend the rest of the year dreading the cold months with a palpable sense of terror and despair. I generally weather the winter months just fine, save for three years ago when I contracted Swine Flu and was quarantined to my dorm room with little more than a box of Kleenex, a few DVDs, and some cough syrup with codeine. Which really just ended up being kind of a fun vacation, at least the parts I remember.

But this year has been so different! Head colds here! Sinus infections there! I am a walking cesspool of virus and disease! Over the course of the past week, I have demolished entire jumbo boxes of Puff’s tissues with ease, spent more hours in bed than I previously thought possible, barely showered, and asked in earnest ”what’s a credit card?” during a bout of fever. I am so done with this bullshit.

This got me thinking about the last time I was sick, which, as it happens, was only a few weeks ago. I remember this time vividly because I chose the opposite recovery strategy: instead of lying low, biding my time, and staying hydrated, I decided to live large. Nothing would hold me back. It was time to tile my kitchen’s backsplash, and neither searing headache nor minor fever would hold me back.

I don’t know if it was the tile or just a much, much less miserable virus, but distracting myself with tiling while also feeling generally terrible turned out to be an OK strategy. There were no bowls of steaming soup or cups of tea, but there were headachey trips to Home Depot and then Lowe’s looking for a simple saw (later ordered on Amazon anyway), and some fun coughing fits while hauling a 50-pound bag of thinset powder down a street and up five flights of stairs.

The important question isn’t why I got myself into this, but what I got out of it, which was basically not feeling totally useless and hopeless. Which, after the past week of feeling nothing but despair and misery, I can say is worth a lot.

I talked about tiling my kitchen backsplash a while ago, and mentioned that it was proving difficult to find white 4″x4″ tile to match the existing tile that the landlords installed about a decade ago. In theory, matching this tile seemed like a pretty simple proposition, but there are many different brands of tiles, each of which boast a range of different whites. Added to that is that even the same white may vary between dye lots. Oh, and glazes tend to change slightly over years of exposure to sunlight. So yeah—100% matching tile, not happening. Like ever.

I know a lot of people had strong, valid opinions and ideas regarding this very important topic. There were ideas about doing something different behind the stove to break it up, about using a different material entirely, about ripping down the existing tile and replacing it entirely, but ultimately it all seemed like too much. Backsplash tile is supposed to be utilitarian and functional, and that’s all I really wanted. Tearing down the existing tile seemed just a little over the top for a rental (EVEN for me), and would probably lead to a whole mess of drama of replacing the drywall, discovering mold/monsters in the walls, dying, etc.

So ultimately I just decided to match the tile as closely as possible and move on with my life. This is, after all, a Brooklyn rental apartment, and that’s kind of how it goes here—things don’t always match, nothing is perfect, and that’s OK. Hell, most of the NYC subway stations are tiled with white 4×4, and it’s all a crazy patchwork of different whites. Look at that picture! There are at least 4 different whites there. But it’s fine. It’s whatever. It’s New York. Deal with it or GTFO.

So, my backsplash! It’s not perfect, and I’m fine with it. And I really think that once the kitchen is finished, the mis-matched tile will be hardly noticeable.

My beautiful tile-happy friend, Anna, came over to teach me how to tile since this was my first time, and I’m super grateful. There was a LOT I didn’t know, and I now realize that my plan to “kind of wing it?” was severely stupid and I’m so lucky to have an Anna in my life. If you don’t have an Anna, I will try my best to teach you my limited knowledge of tiling now.

Firstly, supplies! I really should have taken these pictures before I used everything and mucked it all up, but you’ll definitely want:

1. Tiles. Duh. Don’t be stupid. I used U.S. Ceramics brand Bright White tiles, which are $20 per box (each box covers 10 square feet).

2. A couple of big-ish buckets.

3. Thinset mortar. I actually used a mix of pre-mixed thinset and powdered thinset during this project, and to me they seem to work the same, although powdered is supposed to be stronger. Thinset comes in either a grey-ish color or white—I’d recommend white but it doesn’t really matter with solid ceramic tiles.

4. A box of disposable latex gloves. Tiling is MESSY and you’re doing yourself a HUGE favor if you can just periodically remove your gloves and toss them. It seems wasteful, but it’s really kind of necessary.

5. Notched trowel for applying the thinset. Try to take care to wipe this thing down FREQUENTLY. Or be like me, let a hard cast of thinset completely dry around the handle, and learn the meaning of real shame when Anna asks to borrow it a few weeks later and says when you hand it over, “oh, you don’t take care of your tools, do you?”

6. Rubber float for keeping the tiles even and applying grout.

7. Nippers. If you have to make any small cuts to work around irregular stuff or remove spacers or whatever, you need these.

8. Sponge.

9. Score and snap tile cutter. This handy tool is very easy to use and only about $20, and way less scary than a wet-saw.

10. A level! You really need to make sure your tile is staying level, so this one is important.

First, you need to prep the space. For me, this meant removing the shelf and patching the holes in the wall, removing the last column of existing tiles (it had a plastic trim piece at the end, which is installed under the last row of tiles, so the tiles needed to come down to remove it), and painting the wall where the old thinset took the outermost layer of drywall with it. Because thinset is water-soluble, the surface it’s being affixed to should always be painted—never tile directly over unpainted drywall or joint compound. At the same time, thinset won’t adhere as well to glossy paints, so either rough up the surface a bit with sandpaper or scrub with TSP, depending on how glossy the paint is. I’m really not an expert on this.

Next, Anna and I mounted a piece of wood to the wall to support the bottom row of tiles. Tiles will move with gravity while the thinset is wet, so they need a solid surface to sit on while they’re drying.

Mixing directions will be on the back of the thinset bag, but it should be about the consistency of mashed potatoes or peanut butter when mixed. It’s important to get the consistency right—thinset that’s too watery is bad news. Make sure the grooves stay rigid after being applied with the trowel and it should be OK.

Obviously, putting ANY amount of thinset down your drain is a terrible idea, so this is where the buckets come in. Mix the thinset in one bucket and fill the other with water, which you’ll use to wet your sponge and keep tools clean throughout the job. Later, when you’re finished, use the bucket to give your tools a cleaning and dump it outside, where it won’t fuck anything up. If you have access to an outdoor hose, you are SO LUCKY.

We decided to back-butter these tiles, applying thinset to the tiles themselves instead of directly on the wall. This allows for greater precision, which was important because the new tile is butting up to existing tile, so it was really important to constantly make sure things were level and looking OK.

When applying thinset, it’s important that it be multi-directional (the grooves act like suction, so using multiple directions improves adhesion…or something). Each tile needs to be pushed gently into the wall, and it’s a good practice to use your finger to remove any thinset that might come out from around the edges after every tile. This keeps the job clean and orderly instead of chaotic and nightmarish. You’ll also thank yourself later on when you don’t have to scrape your grout lines before grouting.

Every five tiles, Anna recommends using a lightly damp sponge to clean the surface of the tiles, the grout lines, and around the edges of the row. Again, this keeps things feeling clean and manageable and makes clean-up at the end much, much easier.

Also every five tiles, run your rubber float over the tiles just to make sure that things are all on the same plane. Especially when back-buttering, it’s easy to have inconsistent thinset thicknesses between tiles, so it’s important to frequently check if everything is flat and even and make adjustments accordingly if they aren’t. You don’t have long to remove an odd tile and add more thinset, so consult with the float frequently.

I basically just went on like this for the entire wall, building from the bottom row up. Tiles likes this are self-spacing, so there’s no need to use spacers (you’ll have huge, sad grout lines if you do!). If I’m being honest, all of this took a lot of time and energy and overall was surprisingly torturous. Tiling is a weird thing that makes you feel miserable while it’s happening, and then for some reason hungry for more when you’re done or between sessions. I simultaneously want to tile all the things and never tile again ever.

And here’s the current status! I’m totally ashamed to say that I STILL haven’t grouted, which is why it all looks kind of dumb and unfinished. I know grouting shouldn’t be that difficult, but I really need to be able to set aside a few hours for it and I’ve just been either super busy or super sick and it just hasn’t happened. The main point of this post is to shame me into making sure it happens soon though.

SO. You can definitely see where the two different tiles come together. It’s not a great match. BUT. BUT. BUT. I really think that once everything is grouted (the old tiles will be re-grouted), the tiles will look much more unified. AND when I get around to mounting the second half of the ledge (it has to be cut down a bit first), the transition point will totally recede and nobody will even think about it. I think. I hope. If I keep saying it, it’ll definitely be true.

But I did, and I’m lucky that when Max and his mom got home from an exhausting day of non-stop exciting action to find me covered in grime with dresser drawers strewn about the apartment and the air reeking of furniture wax, they took the whole thing in stride. Those close to me have mostly developed a certain tolerance for this sort of thing by now. “Oh, there he goes again,” they say, rolling their eyes. “I guess we’ll just come back in a few hours when he comes down.”

So Max and I bought this dresser a few months ago, and I’ve just been too busy with school and work and procrastinating to devote any time to fixing it up. I mean, it’s a nice dresser—totally looks pretty nice and there’s nothing functionally wrong with it, so it wasn’t exactly first on my list of priorities. All I really did was wipe out the drawers before we started loading clothes into it, and Max threw a bunch of art books on top before I even had a chance to clean it off.

It’s hard to tell from the pictures, but it had a bunch of little nicks and scratches and bumps and bruises and chipped veneer and little bits of paint and cigarette burns and rings on the top. We did buy it for cheaps from a dead person’s house in Long Island, so.

Also, every time I did wipe it with any cleaning product, the towel would turn a shade of dark brown, which was a bit disconcerting. I love some nice rosewood, for sure, but decades of smoke and tinted furniture polish and wax and crap probably weren’t doing the wood a lot of favors at this point.

Here was the restoration supply kit, which is a little modified from how Morgan originally taught me at The Brick House, but using the same basic principles. Since there wasn’t any existing finish on it like varnish or polyurethane, I didn’t want to touch it with sandpaper, since it’s easy to get carried away and remove more than necessary. Since the drawer-fronts are veneer, that’s definitely something to think about. Instead, I opted for some fine steel wool and soapy water, which did double-duty of scrubbing the shit out of this thing and smoothing out some problem areas where the solid wood had noticeably chipped or scuffed.

That top image is the top of the dresser before, which kind of shows the surface damage and general sadness going on with this dresser. I started by unscrewing all the hardware, which I’ll get to shortly.

Then all I did was fill a bowl with a few tablespoons of Murphy’s Oil Soap and some hot water and went to work with the steel wool. This thing required a LOT of scrubbing to liberate the wood from so many years of general grime and horror, so I just kept dumping out and refilling my bowl so that I wasn’t totally just moving gross water around. It’s important to only scrub the wood WITH the grain (duhz), and I followed up with a few rags after scrubbing so that water wouldn’t sit on the surfaces long enough to penetrate and ruin anything. As all the old crap came off of the wood, it got noticeably lighter and the beautiful grain really started to show through, which was all very exciting. So I just rubbed my wood until it felt nice and soft and it didn’t seem like any more weird stuff was coming out of it. That came out all wrong.

(by the way, I’m basically making this up, but it worked for me so I guess it’s a good method totally worth emulating and basing your furniture restoration and entire life around)

Fast-forward a few hours, and my arm felt like it was going to fall off, a symptom that should persist no more than a few days. If it does, call your doctor.

Before I moved forward with messing around with my wood any more, I wanted to give my hand, wrist, and forearm a break. Damn it!

This is the part where this post might get controversial because I showed no mercy on the old brass hardware. This is a personal decision I made in a fit of “OMG SHINYYY!!!!!” but in retrospect it might have been better to use a less intense product and keep some of the patina on the brass. Brasso probably would have done the trick nicely, but I went all-out and scrubbed these things with Barkeeper’s Friend (also known as EVERYBODY’S GODSEND) and the rough side of a sponge until all the tarnish was gone and the brass glimmered like melted sunshine. I used an old toothbrush on the tricky inside-bits.

Yeah, I like my furniture to look its age and whatever, but brasssssssy. I couldn’t stop. I just couldn’t.

Diverting attention away from the wood to the hardware also gave the wood a chance to dry out, which is what you want before applying any type of finishing product. Trapping water in wood is not a good plan FYI.

So I went back to the dresser and the whole thing looked more or less like this. If you’re doing this sort of thing, this is the part where you might be tempted to panic because your wood will be so dry and hazy and sad looking that it seems like nothing will ever save it and you’ve ruined vintage rosewood and you should be put to death immediately. You are a very dramatic person and possibly need medication to get a handle on your feelings.

This is where the Danish Oil comes in. After using Danish oil, Teak oil, Tung oil, and Restore-a-Finish in the past, my favorites are definitely Danish and Teak. Tung tends to darken wood a bit (I think), and I don’t really trust Restore-a-Finish for a project like this because all you really want is the natural color of the wood to come out. There’s a time and a place for Restore-a-Finish, I’m sure, but it’s not when you’re dealing with rosewood or teak because it’s pigmented and that freaks me out.

After the oil (leave on about 15-20 minutes, wipe off excess, repeat if necessary), I finished off the whole thing with Howard’s Feed-N-Wax. This stuff is magic and smells terrific. Then I just screwed the hardware back on and…

Hello.

What’s your name? Can I get your number?

So I was kind of lukewarm on this dresser before because the drawers are kind of annoyingly shallow and it isn’t the most functional thing on four legs, but now I love it? I can never get rid of it?

A couple people have pointed out that this dresser sits verrrrry close to the old radiator, which is not generally a good idea. However, it’s probably an OK idea if your landlords are cheap and turn the boiler on about twice every winter, and your boyfriend keeps all the radiators turned off (and a window open, and a fan on) year-round anyway. You are also probably cold all the time and worry for the life of your plants.

At the very least, I’d like to paint this radiator white like the other one, but I also have fantasies of just removing the whole thing and capping the pipe. This project sounds difficult and scary and heavy, but it would open up an alternate room layout that I’ll admit to finding very exciting and enticing. I should be restrained is what I’m saying.

I’m out of things to say about this dresser.

Hear me out: Linus insists on sleeping in the bed, usually between us or on top of me, but Mekko likes her space. She’ll cuddle up with us until the actual moment when we’re definitely going to sleep, and then she’ll proudly stand up, shake off, and go sleep on the couch until morning. After her beauty sleep and only when she’s good and ready, she comes back to the bed for a morning cuddle session before our walk. It’s all very polite and ladylike. She’s a creature of habit, which is really adorable until a person needs to sleep on the sofa and she gets all sulky, hoping somebody will notice the injustice being dealt against her.

I knew she needed a proper bed of her own, the problem being that dog beds exist on two extremes: stupid expensive or ugly as shit. I don’t like either and I don’t stand for ugly things when it comes to my children. So I made my own, because I convince myself these things will be easy and fun, two delusions that pretty much fuel the entire existence of this blog.

This magical land that I like to call “Target” sells dog bed inserts for $9.99 a pop. They make a few different corresponding covers for them, but that would have been too easy, too common, and too unattractive for my perfect angels. Luckily, I am secretly a hoarder and have a whole overflowing enormous bin filled with fabrics that I either LOVE but haven’t used (yet), or fabrics that I have no use for but can’t get rid of because they’re perfectly good and might come in handy someday. I can feel your judgment through your computer monitor, by the way, and it totally stings so just cut it out.

(Yes, that’s some rad wool Pendleton you see at the bottom there that I bought 8 months ago in Portland for no other reason than because it was marked down and I loved it. HOARDER.)

The only problem with these dog bed inserts is that they’re pitifully under-stuffed and lack the necessary luxury that my faithful companions deserve. Luckily, the fancy polyester cases have a zipper, so I bought two so that I could just gut all the stuffing out of one and put it inside the other one, making one super-stuffed amazing bed that would convince my dogs that I am actually god.

Now THAT’S what I’m talking about, am I right? If you were a dog, you’d totally want to relax all day on that. You know you would.

Especially if it were covered with this. When Max and I were in Finland, we visited the Marimekko headquarters, which has its very own outlet store attached to it, inside of which is a magical remnant bin I sifted through like I was in the middle of a Survivor challenge. There were a lot of little scraps and bits and pieces of stuff, but then the heavens opened and my greedy paws landed on this big piece of hot pink and red Unikko, one of Marimekko’s most iconic textiles. Designed in 1964 by Maija Isola, the print was the first floral that Marimekko ever produced, after consciously avoiding floral patterns because they were too traditionally feminine, a precedent that the company sought to avoid with its bold, forward-thinking clothing and textiles.

Fun fact: originally, imperfections in Marimekko fabrics were considered a sign of quality, since they were evidence of the screen-printing process that produced them, but now most imperfections are weeded out by a worker who scans the entirety of each bolt for mistakes (I think they allow up to three imperfections per bolt, but I might be wrong about that). This piece didn’t make the cut for retail because it’s a mess (you can see where they dye is all runny and weird, particularly down the middle), but since the remnant bin charged some ridiculously low price by weight, I didn’t hesitate when throwing it into my basket. Along with some other little scraps I’m still hoarding for a rainy day.

Since there wasn’t enough Unikko to cover the whole thing, I wanted something a bit more heavy-duty for the back. Like most healthy, balanced people, turns out I kept my old shower curtain that shrunk too much in the wash but was still a nice thick cotton-bamboo blend.

I cut the Unikko fabric about the same size as the insert itself, when laid flat (I used the extra sans-stuffing cover as a guide). I do this when making pillowcases of any size, since the seam allowance actually makes the finished product smaller than the insert—meaning it will stay looking fluffy and sexy and awesome instead of loose and droopy.

Since I wanted the cover to be removable but am still avoiding learning how to properly sew a zipper, not that I have any zippers on hand anyway, I opted to make a simple envelope back. To do this, I added about 8-10 inches of width to the back and then cut it in half, giving me the necessary 3-4″ of overlap in the middle when the pillow is inserted.

Like so. Making sense? Ugh, sewing tutorials are difficult, particularly as I have no real idea how to sew and no real business giving advice.

Since I used a shower curtain, I used an existing seam for the outside of the pocket and sewed a new seam for the inside of the pocket, since that’s the one you’ll never really see anyway and I’m crappy at sewing even straight lines.

Then I just laid all the “right” sides of the fabric facing each other, and pinned the whole thing up on each side. When using a sewing machine, put the pins in perpendicular to the edge so that the needle can sew over them without breaking or causing catastrophe, mental breakdowns, or death. This is crafting, after all, and the risks are real.

The dogs, by the way—SUPER NOT HELPFUL. Here’s Linus being a little entitled jerk and demanding to literally sleep on top of my project.

Mekko, of course, sort of watched me judgmentally and with a palpable sense of pity before just falling asleep. “Look at this fucking putz,” she thought. “You can quit it with this bullshit right now, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

But I PERSEVERED. Little furry bullies will not drag down my crafting fervor. Nothing can extinguish the fire in my soul to make crap I should have just bought months ago. Except, like, death or something better to do.

Then it was just a matter of sewing all the outer edges together. I know there are fancier ways of doing this, but I don’t know what they are and I don’t really care because a single line of stitching is all I’m really capable of without feeling like I need to go somewhere and senselessly smash stuff for a while.

This is the part where you get to cut corners! Har-fucking-har.

Snip those corners off so when you turn the thing right-side-out, the extra fabric in the corners won’t make things wonky. Yes, in fact those are the best terms I can come up with to describe this.

Turn it right-side-out, and then from the inside, use a knitting needle or some other pointy object, like a chopstick or a fingernail if you’re a witch, to push the corner out. Basically it should look like a corner instead of a mess. I’m fading here.

I put a single big button in the middle of the back to keep the envelope closed. This helps keep the pillow shapely and nice, otherwise the insert will try to escape out the back and the cover will start to look weird.

I have no idea how to sew a button hole, so I just cut a slit a little smaller than the button and sewed a million stitches around the perimeter of it to keep the fabric from fraying around the hole. This is the part where I don’t really care what it looks like at all and just sit in front of the TV pretending to be talented, stitching and stitching for a while until it seems like the hole is never going to fall apart. You’ll know when you get to that point, then do some more stitches for good measure.

Then force your ungrateful diva of a dog to lie on it while you take pictures and try to entice her to do something—anything—to look even remotely excited or happy about the thing you just spent 3-4 hours making for her to enjoy and cherish.

Remind her that the whole internet will see these pictures and all of a sudden girl knows how to work her angles and model like a fucking pro. Jesus, I’m fucked.

Despite her initial hesitations, Mekko has warmed up to the idea and used it willingly several times over the course of the last few days, which I think means its a success?

Linus loves it, but that guy will sleep anywhere.

I love my apartment. I have no interest in moving any time soon. But recently I’ve been going through this disconcerting phase where I basically want to change everything. If I don’t want to get rid of the furniture, than at least I want to rearrange it or re-stain it or reupholster it or dunk it in a vat of bleach and call it artsy. I keep regretting all these decisions that I made a year ago and wondering why I didn’t think of things earlier, like maybe before I drilled 4,000 holes in a plaster wall or painted entire rooms. I toggle between wishing everything was just finished already and knowing it will probably never be finished because by the time things could be considered finished, I will just want to change them all over again. I’m like that. Some people call it indecisive. Some people call it charming. Max calls me a torturous asshole.* But really, who’s to say?

*Max never actually says that, he’s much too fearful.

The thing is, I guess I really feel about my apartment the same way I feel about my face: aside from a few “problem areas,” if I’m being honest with myself, I actually think it’s kind of pretty and most reasonable people would be OK with living inside it.

So since it ain’t exactly broke, I’m trying to refrain from breaking it with the sole purpose of  trying to fix something I really can’t afford to break in the first place. Which is just an idiotic way of saying I don’t have money and I don’t have time and I need to stop fantasizing about a new sofa.

In order to distract myself, I’ve been trying to tackle some long-avoided but low-cost projects that aren’t too labor-intensive, at least while I try to save up and carefully plot my next move. Which is why I decided to paint the radiator in the living room.

Get a load of this horror show. We actually have two very old, very heavy, very cast-iron radiators in our apartment (the other one is in the bedroom), but for some reason I always found this one uniquely gross. Maybe it was how the feet were all yellowed and weird? Maybe it was that the silver paint chipped and flaked and collected on the floor like a light dusting of toxic lead paint confetti? Maybe it was that the monsters who previously painted this room bright red managed to spill some paint on the radiator, smudge it around a little, and let it dry, like hateful demons?

I don’t know why. Maybe just because it’s big and vaguely silver but mostly a mess but had significant untapped potential to be pretty? Like, what is the function of an old radiator other than to be charming? Except for heat and whatever, smart ass.

I guess the reason I didn’t do this earlier is because part of me has a very hard time accepting that I can’t fix everything exactly how I would ideally fix it in a perfect world. I knew I could paint it, but what I really wanted was to do this beautiful old radiator right, which would involve having it sandblasted and powder-coated, which would really reveal the gorgeous Victorian scroll-y patterns and make it gleam like some tortured 19th century factory worker just died in the process of making it. I looked into that stuff, but obviously it’s pricey as fuck and just definitely not an option. I thought of trying to strip it myself, but even that just seemed incredibly intense and potentially hazardous for a radiator I don’t own. But still…adding another layer of paint and 100% accepting that a thorough restoration is just never going to happen took some time.

Once I talked myself through that little year-long bout of crazy, I was ready to go and armed myself with some supplies.

1. The first step was to use a wire brush and a spackle knife to chip away at any loose and flaking bits of old paint. A word about this: yes, I’m sure it was lead paint. No, I don’t freak out about shit like that. I don’t have babies crawling around and I kept the dogs away and everyone survived it. People ask me all the time about lead paint, what precautions to take against lead paint, whether looking in the direction of a lead paint-covered object will kill you, and to be honest, I am not the authority, or even an authority on things like this. But from the advanced research I’ve done on the Google machine, it seems like lead paint is more or less harmless as long as you just leave it alone. If it’s flaking, flake off the pieces and seal all that shit in by painting right over it. Remain calm, don’t start eating the flakes like a freak, clean up when you’re done, and chances are you’ll live to blog about it. Or whatever it is you do.

(All this said, if you’re a worrywart, I encourage you to do your own independent research and make your own decisions about what you’re comfortable with. I’m not here to pressure anyone. I’m just here to dance.)

2. After you’ve flaked all the loose paint off, it’s a good idea to give your radiator a good cleaning. Of course, it was my half-Swedish half-unicorn friend, Anna, who knew exactly how to clean an old cast-iron radiator and shared her secrets with me after I voiced my frustrations one day. That magic fuzzy wand you see above is a dryer vent brush. Fun, flexible, and stylish, this glorious thing perfectly gets into all the nooks and crannies of old, crusty radiators. If you have a radiator and have never known how to get to those tricky inside parts, and then you buy one of these brushes: BE NOT ALARMED. That first cleaning will be—how shall we say—enlightening. But so worth it. Wear gloves and consider protective eyewear and a mask.

After you’re done cleaning, sweep and vacuum any dust/dead insects/loose change/misplaced teeth up off the floor. Consider making a shadowbox, disregard the idea as vile.

3. I kind of skipped ahead with that first picture, but it’s a good idea to protect the area under your radiator, just in case of any paint drips. I’m only making note of this because it’s so very uncharacteristic of me to take the time to do something so precautionary, and I feel extra proud of myself for doing it.

4. You’re ready to paint! Now, I know a lot of people like to spray paint their radiators, which is great and all, but I did NOT feel like masking off everything in the general vicinity and dealing with fumes, or trying to detach the whole radiator and drag it up to the roof, so I opted to just use regular paint with a regular brush. I also know that some people use paints made specifically for high-heat applications, but I’d also read in several places that this really isn’t necessary, particularly depending upon how often the radiator is actually used. Given that our landlords turn our radiators on about three times every winter, I figured it would be safe to just go with what I had around.

I started off with a coat of oil-based primer (the can of Zinsser in the supply photo above). The primer helps seal in weirdness while also bonding really well to the old paint and giving your new paint a great surface to adhere strongly to, preventing future chips over time. When in doubt, prime.

5. After you’ve let the primer dry a few hours, it’s time to paint. For some reason I had a can of this stuff already, which was perfect. Oil-based enamel is kind of thin and smooth and really coated the radiator nicely without getting gloppy, and dried into a very hard, very shiny, very durable shell. It really is the next best thing to powder-coating, in my opinion.

I kind of freaked myself out during the painting that I couldn’t get my brush much past the outermost parts of the radiator and worried that it would end up looking crappy and unfinished, but that’s definitely not the case. If you stand really close and look between the sections, I guess you can kind-of-sort-of tell, but really—it looks good. Like really good.

Am I right or am I right?

I mean, yeah, it would be nicer if it were stripped down and restored all fancy-like. But for a few hours and a couple coats of paint? Big improvement. And since I already had all the supplies, it was free. I like free.

I moved everything out of the corner so you could get a full view. Take it all in.

And this is a picture of my dogs because deal with it.

I don’t give a shit. I’m full of controversy. Just chock-fucking-full of it.

Take my credenza. Yes, I call it a credenza because I’m fancy. Some people call these bureaus? Buffets? They’re not as fancy as I am, evidently. Ignore the horrible red paint situation and the weird temporary collection of crap I threw on top.

I got this thing for $90 in a thrift store, and spent about 10 minutes cleaning it up and trying to disguise some of the scratches and gauges in the wood veneer with Minwax touch-up pens. It’s never been my favorite thing, but it’s well-made and good-looking enough, holds a ton of stuff (including all of our electronic bits and bobs, it’s like a space station behind those tambour doors), and is perfectly sized for that space next to the fireplace.

Still, I found myself daydreaming about finding something better at some point, but nicer credenzas can get really expensive and they’re a total pain in the ass to move. So, given that the kind of credenzas I really want aren’t exactly falling from the sky in my price range, my crazy brain thought to itself hey, you can fix this. 

The problem mostly had to do with the legs. For starters, it always felt too high given that we use it to hold a TV and as a buffet or bar when we have parties. Also, the back leg had broken during my move from Manhattan. Oh, and too many goddamn tapered mid-century wooden legs happening in this room.

So what’d I go and do? I hacked that shit off. I think I saved the legs because I’m a hoarder and they’re small. But the point is, they’re no longer on this piece of furniture.

DEAL. WITH. IT.

How’d I do that?

Magic.

Also, IKEA.

Now, for a while IKEA made this snazzy chrome underframe for their KARLSTAD series of sofas and armchairs, but now I can’t find them on their US website? WTF, IKEA? Why dost thou giveth, only to taketh away? Surely there’s some logical explanation for this.

I chose the underframe made for the chaise lounge, since it was the closest in size to my credenza. Obviously it wasn’t going to be an exact match, but I figured—hey, this is IKEA. Everything comes in pieces.

Sorry for these laughably illegible “process” shots, apparently I was playing fast and loose that day and just not giving a shit about anything, including how I would later blog about this. My b.

After cutting the pieces down with my chop saw (this could potentially just be done with a hacksaw, but it wouldn’t be nearly so fast-paced and exciting, which is how I like to roll), I drilled a couple new holes in each corner brace for the screws and just attached the whole thing to the bottom of the cabinet.

Done-zo.

Oh what’s that now? Look at that credenza. Take it in.

Lowering the whole thing has really made all the difference with making it feel like an integrated part of the room and scaled properly with that big fireplace right next door. Also, because I was in the mood to really customize the crap out of it, I made the back legs a full 3/4″ shorter than the front to account for the slope in our floor (120 year old building, y’all), and now it actually sits level, like a proper credenza should. It’s a credenza miracle.

Don’t think I didn’t see you eyeing my jacks, you sick sonofabitch. Vintage George Nelson Jacks bookends. Very fake, I think. eBay. I’d been eyeing these babes forever and finally found a pair that weren’t a million dollars. God, my life is thrilling.

NOW, ON TO BUSINESS.

Apartment Therapy is currently hosting a little something called the Small Cool Contest. And you know I entered my ass in that. 

Now, I know the Homie Awards wound is still fresh and all. So why am I exposing myself to more potential momentary anguish and quickly dissipating heartbreak? What am I, some kind of masochist freak?

No I am not. But unlike the Homie’s, Small Cool pays. It pays fucking $5,000; that’s how much it pays.

Please give it to me. I will tile my kitchen for your reading enjoyment and also fix my windows and show you how? And more! Please? I’m not too big on talking about *personal finances*, but let’s just say that a few recent changes in circumstances have made that money look really good right about now. Pity me.

Right now it’s the semi-finals round, and if we can make it to the top of my category (“Little”), we’ll move into the finals. Winning the finals is where the money magic happens, duh.

SO PLEASE, GO OVER TO APARTMENT THERAPY AND FAVORITE ME. There are new pictures of the apartment (taken by Max!) , including lots of things I haven’t talked about on the blog yet!

You might have to make an account. Do it, you’ll feel better, as explained by this formula I made up on Twitter: More Money = More Projects = More Blogging = Happier YOU. Live it, love it, learn it.

VOTE.

I’ve gone back and forth a lot about what to do with the five original cabinets in the kitchen (six if you count the corner base cabinet, which is really just a face-frame tacked onto the two surrounding cabinets). I could paint them, but then I’d be left with mis-matched white finishes (even if I got the IKEA doors color-matched, they’d still never look quite right), not to mention the horrible routed bevel “detail” on the doors. I don’t know who designs these cabinets, but I would vote in favor of having them sent to an island populated only by their own monstrous design creations. We’ll see who’s laughing then.

Of course, replacing the cabinets is kind-of-sort-of an option, but that can get pricey really fast.

In search of some kind of happy medium solution, I’ve spent a lot of time staring at these cabinets. Pondering. Becoming acquainted. Taking measurements. Stroking them softly such that they might surrender and decide to play nice. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that the original base cabinet to the left of the stove was essentially the exact same dimensions as the one I added to the right side of the stove. And that got me thinking: what if I just took off the doors and the drawer front, and replaced them with matching IKEA doors/drawer front?

Having nothing to lose and everything to gain, I carted my ass to IKEA and got 2 doors, a new drawer front, and four hinges. Which is really half the battle.

Of course, the face frame of the cabinets is very different than the IKEA ones, meaning that I had to cut away sections on the sides to accommodate the hidden IKEA hinges. I just measured where they had to go and used a regular handsaw to make two horizontal cuts, and a sharp chisel to bang out the vertical cut. BAM. DONE. SEXY DOORS HERE WE GO.

Of course, the cabinet was still a little wide, so I mounted the hinges on 1/4″-ish pieces of shims, and just used longer screws to secure them to the cabinets.

The drawer was super easy, I just unscrewed the existing front and put the new one on, very carefully making sure that it was centered.

PROGRESS! I still need to affix matching hardware, and I’ll take everything off at some point just to paint the face-frame white. It’s so hidden anyway, but it’ll make a difference in making it look nice and polished.

Check it out! They match! Fuck yes!

Of course, that’s one out of six. But it was super easy and shouldn’t be too hard to replicate with a couple of the other cabinets—and combined with a couple of new cabinets, we should be able to get everything matching without totally ripping out and scrapping everything.

NOW, back to business. I know I’ve been relentless about the Apartment Therapy Homie Awards, but I swear, I’m done after this. Because voting ends TODAY AT 3 PM.

That’s two hours from now. I never thought I could actually win this thing (on the heels of giants like Remodelista, Design*Sponge, and Young House Love), but I’m only about 300 votes behind the lead and…LET’S GO PEOPLE. If you voted in the nominations round last week, but not in the finals, go vote again!

So Let’s pull an upset. Let’s make home design blog history. Together. GO VOTE YOUR SEXY LITTLE HEART OUT.

Is that even what I’m doing? Remodeling? Redecorating? Remecorating? Oh hey, Merriam-Webster.

This is what I do. I walk into the kitchen. I pull out a measuring tape. I measure a piece of countertop, or a cabinet, or walls, or distances to outlets. Then I step back, shut one eye, put my hand on my chin, and stare at something like I’m thinking. Then I realize I’m just using “measuring” as an excuse to stand around and have fret sessions over the fact that I want to tear my entire kitchen apart. This happens probably 1-4 times a day.

But we’ve already improved the kitchen’s functionality so much by adding all that cabinet space and counter space, and we just haven’t had the time recently to implement some of the other kick-ass changes I have planned for down the line in here. I know it’s going to go slow, but I really just want it to go right. I plan to live here for a long time, and I want to love my kitchen. I have these delusions that, if my kitchen is better—more orderly, easier to keep clean, bright and happy—that I might be better, too. Also, I might be more into cooking. The fancier I can feel, the more into it I will be.

I’m really growing to like the little dining area that’s occupying the space by the window and stretches the entire width of the room. It’s a small space, about 7.5′ x 4.5′, but it’s cozy and I’m so glad that it’s just big enough for a Stendig Calendar. We’ve actually started eating at the kitchen table, and I have to admit it’s pretty nice and civilized. It only took us nine months, too! This feels on-par with my Bar Mitzvah in terms of feeling like an adult.

Max bought those two prints from this Etsy shop, and we just put them in some IKEA RIBBA frames. We might need to put something else here eventually because these seem kind of awkwardly tall, but for now they’re nice.

And I finally finished painting the moldings! It still needs some touch-up on the inside of the frame, but the salvaged 120 year old moldings look super amazing all white. Yeah! I painted all that old wood! I am saying this while I’m in an Apartment Therapy competition! I am going to get shot!

In the other corner, I finally got around to moving the security gate thing back towards the window (the frame is about 6 inches deep, and it was mounted way at the front), which gave me a few inches to hang an IKEA ENJE shade which is re-cut and reused my old apartment. The shade is pretty translucent, so it doesn’t block the light and you can definitely still see the security gate behind it, but it softens it a lot. It’s nice, I swear. Well, as nice as it can really be with a massive metal accordion door.

In our house, there is constant bickering about lighting: Max likes no overhead light but instead just a delicate spattering of gentle lamplight, whereas I wonder if I’m going blind when I walk into a room he’s been in. The best thing ever, as far as I’m concerned, is the Patrick Townsend String Light from Areaware, which I bought on Fab.com. It’s kind of amazing, right? It’s on a dimmer, so Max can brood in the dark or whatever it is he does, and I can actually see what I’m eating. It’s such a great light source and is really beautiful lit up, but unfortunately exceedingly difficult to photograph. I feel like I have failed it.

It’s come a long way since I moved in, this little space. Damn it used to be so ugly.

In other news, I got around to putting a cover panel at the end of the base cabinet of the new kitchen built-in, which covers the huge gaping hole that was there before. Progress! I still need to put a bead of caulk down the side to make it legit.

I also installed these 6″ pine boards on the “completed” walls in the room, and now I can’t decide to paint them or not? I’m going to see how everything comes together and then decide.

And because I know how much it was killing everyone, I painted the buzzer! I just used the same wall paint, and probably did about 5 super thin coats so I wouldn’t gum anything up. It still works just as well and looks so much better. And check it out! I finally fulfilled one of my lifelong dreams to buy a label maker! I’m not really a huge fan of the new snazzy LED-screen print-out do-hickeys, but I love those “old-fashioned” ones that embosses each individual letter on that weird plastic tape stuff. I want to label everything in my life.

In other news: see this look? The one that Mekko is giving you? It’s concern. It’s sadness. It’s her saying, “please, tell me everything will be okay.”

You know why?

Here’s why. I am getting my ass spanked in the Apartment Therapy Homie Awards. My bare, white, pale naked ass is just getting the fuck pummeled out of it. Last week was nominations, when we came in first (WHAT WHAT THANKS ERRYBODY!), but this week is the finals…and just look at that. Take it all in.

This is a problem, because I WANT TO WIN. My inner competitive side will mourn for probably entire minutes if I lose this thing. And is that what you want? You want to cause me pain? Oh, I see how it is.

Voting ends THIS FRIDAY, so we need to up our efforts. Letter-writing campaign! Posters! Call your congressman! Send a letter to the President of the internet! Oh, it’s not that hard?

Plan B: go vote, you. Seriously, get your gorgeous self over to Apartment Therapy and vote for me. Maybe you need to register an account to vote? Easy, just click here!

So go on. Make me a winner. I’ll never know without the beautiful affirmation of a golden Homie Award.

Mekko wants to be happy. Make her happy. GO VOTE.

“Can I take your coat?” a Mobile Lounge attendant might ask gently, while slipping a cocktail into your hand. From there, you’d be led through smoke-filled air to a private table, where plush velvet-upholstered benches would be waiting to accommodate your buttocks. “Just let me know if you need anything,” she’d offer before slipping away to greet the next set of guests, her sporty little uniform disappearing into the crowd. A tinkling of jazz would emanate from the corner, while people chatted quietly at the bar on the starboard side. Ah, the Mobile Lounge, where the drinks flow like water from a natural spring and the music is always right. The message is clear. Take a load off, it says. Relax. Where the Mobile Lounge is concerned, it’s about the journey, not the destination.

Of course, the Mobile Lounge bespeaks a kind of dignity and sophistication that is unambiguously betrayed by the lived experience of actually traveling on it. In reality, the people are packed in like sardines, only after which the driver enters and slowly makes his way through the length of the train to the front, tripping over carry-ons and strollers on the way. A promotional recording plays during the trip, cheerily informing you that the Mobile Lounge is not only innovative, but also comfortable and a fabulous opportunity to witness the advanced workings of a thriving international airport. This might be true, if you are lucky enough to have a view of the windows or are remotely interested in that sort of thing. But as it is, the announcement reads mostly as desperation. Like me, the Mobile Lounge cries. I’m really wonderful if you’d just give me a chance. 

I returned from Egypt on Sunday night and have since been drawing inspiration from the Dulles Airport Mobile Lounges with a little invention I like to call the Jet Lag Lounge. Catering to the extremely tired and erratic sleeper, a Jet Lag Lounge is, put simply, any place that looks comfortable enough to doze off for a short spell, regardless of location or time of day. Sleep on me, they call out. Just for a minute, nobody will notice. The living room sofa could be one such lounge, but why stop there, especially when the floor is calling? The shower is a perfectly acceptable place whether or not the water is running, and of course the toilet is always fair game. The real beauty of a Jet Lag Lounge is its ambiguity: anywhere can be a lounge if you squint hard enough. Communal tables at the coffee shop, movie theater seats, park benches—the options are virtually boundless.

Jet Lag never used to bother me, but it’s been several years since I did any sort of serious international travel, and the intervening years have brought me to my early 20s, rendering my body broken-down and fragile. My sleep schedule has never been a terribly reliable thing, much like that friend you had in college who you thought just liked to have fun and then turned out to be an alcoholic. If I’ve given the impression that all I’ve been doing for the last few days is sleeping, that couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s more an issue of when: the sudden and unpredictable onset of extreme fatigue, followed by the unavoidable nap, followed by intense, manic energy when I should be sleeping. If I didn’t know any better, I might think I was sick or losing my mind, but I’d prefer to just go with it. Ride out the trip. Let my body sort itself out. In the meantime, I think I’ll just go ahead and take advantage of my fucked up circadian rhythms and take care of some things.

The remainder of Sunday and Monday passed by in a complete haze, but roundabout 11 pm Monday night? Why, I think I’ll just start in on painting the kitchen! No better time than the present, really. Sleep a couple hours, and Home Depot and IKEA start calling my name on Tuesday. Don’t mind if I do! Then, crash. And so on.

By last night, we had gone from this:

To this:

One of the things I’m learning about living with Max is that we’re both totally crazy and obsessive in our own quaint little ways, which makes us a highly effective team if you’re into working until it feels like your bones might fall apart and you’re liable to die of starvation. I tend to worry endlessly about little things going awry over the course of a project, but Max just wants to get it done. I’ll admit, I like the process of making a project happen, whereas in Max’s world, the disorder that comes along with something like this is extraordinarily stressful.

The key, I’ve discovered, is taking advantage of his chaos-anxiety and channeling it into something productive, like assembling IKEA cabinets. And didn’t he do a wonderful job? I’m so proud of my boy.

So here’s how it all went down. It started with this advanced plan that I drew on graph paper and everything, the bulk of which was in my head because I can’t draw for shit. But you get the idea.

Basically, I wanted the bottom cabinets and the tall cabinet on the side to protrude from the wall about 16 inches, which is a little over three inches deeper than standard IKEA wall cabinets sit when hung flush with the wall.

I’m quite positive that there’s a better/smarter/more efficient way to go about this, but I’m not that smart and decided to just go ahead an build a platform for the cabinets to mount to, which is screwed into the studs in the wall. It’s not entirely glamorous, but it works. All it took was 2×4′s, my chop saw, some 2.5″ screws, and my drill. Pretty simple.

The bottom cabinets are IKEA  30″ x 30″ wall cabinets. The platform bumps them up 5.5 inches, so with the addition of the 1″ thick countertop, they sit at standard countertop height. That board lying on the ground is going to become the baseboard molding for the entire room, which will wrap perfectly over the base of the cabinets and hide the 2×4 ugliness. They’re just 1×6 pine boards (but the 6″ is actually 5.5″, because wood is weird.).

Now, you might recall that I already had a big PAX wardrobe from IKEA, which moved with me from my last apartment, was in the bedroom for a while here before I moved it to the kitchen, where it sat awkwardly next to the fridge, like so:

The PAX was about 2 feet deep, which was too deep for this, so I broke out my circular saw and got to work.

Totally chopped the thing in half. It was a little crazy and precarious and I wasn’t sure if it would work, but it’s totally fine!  I also chopped off the three or so inches that form the base on the bottom so that all the cabinets would look uniform and sit on the same level.

Here’s a process shot of building the little platform base for under the PAX, which I screwed into the other base for the bottom cabinets. Are you following? The PAX just sits on top of this, and I screwed the bottom of the PAX into this base and then attached it to the wall at the top with some small L-Brackets that I added to the inside to keep it from falling forward for any reason. It’s also screwed into all the cabinets, so it’s not going anywhere.

The next step was cutting the countertop. We chose the NUMERAR double-sided countertop, which is white laminate on one side and grey on the other, with an aluminum edging. Cutting was fairly straightforward—just draw a straight line and go to it with the circular saw. Easy-peesy. We’re not going to screw down the countertop, so if at some point the white side gets beaten up or we get bored of it, we can always just flip it over.

The next step was hanging the upper cabinets (30″x39″), which basically could not be easier. They hang off a steel suspension rail, so it’s important to make sure that’s VERY SECURE to the wall. I used about 8 big toggle anchors in addition to finding three studs, so the chances of these things falling are pretty slim. Max took this super flattering action shot of me, wherein I decided to dress like a lumberjack.

After cleaning for approximately forever, here’s where we stand! I’m pretty ridiculously happy with it. It holds a ton, gives us five (FIVE!!!) extra feet of counter space that we didn’t have before (we had been operating off four feet, which makes for some tricky cooking), and I think already looks pretty great despite the necessary finishing touches. By the way, that adorable clock on the wall was Max’s Christmas present to me. I LOVE it. I’ll take a better picture of it for the next post. It’s a sphere.

Anyway. Obviously this is a problem. IKEA sells cover panels for the sides of cabinets, so I need to go pick one up and cut it to the proper size. Soon! We also still have to:

1. Cut and install baseboards.
2. Install cabinet hardware.
3. Glue strip of aluminum trim to the cut side of the countertop.
4. Organize all my tools and fit them into the bottom cabinet on the right.
5. Paint the window molding (it’s primed in these photos, not painted).
6. Paint the other half of the ceiling.

The microwave is concealed in a cabinet! I am so pleased that I don’t have to look at it. As you can see, we left the backs of the base cabinets open, which lets us take advantage of the added depth, run cords through it, and provide more than enough ventilation for the microwave to function without being a hazard. It’s not pretty, but who cares? Not me.

Mostly, I think I’m just thrilled that I have a proper, fancy coffee station. I even bought Illy to celebrate, which means I’m probably never buying inferior coffee ever again.

Phew. Kitchen. Things are finally moving. I’d love to talk longer, but my new countertop is looking like a mighty fine place for a nap right now.

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.