Part 8 (2/2)
”I prefer to do a job right.”
”Uh-huh.” Ignoring him, I continue to cover the awful table with quick dabs while Fletch continues to supervise.
”You realize this violates every single rule I ever learned in high school shop.”
I finally set down my brush and face him. ”Hey, Hank Hill, are you going to let me do this myself or not?”
He makes a low, flat humming sound, which I a.s.sume is an affirmation. As he walks away, I opt to play some music to m.u.f.fle his almost palpable wariness. I'm about to pull up my usual eighties pop/new wave gym mix, but reconsider, deciding I want to try something different. After all, I've been meaning to cultivate a new playlist, so I begin to thumb through the stations on Sirius. I see that Kool Moe Dee's ”Wild Wild West” is playing on BackSpin, an old-school hip-hop station. I've never been much of a rap fan, save for Fletch's NWA and Public Enemy downloads that somehow got mixed into my playlist. However, this particular tune comes with so many fun memories attached. The second I hear the opening notes, I'm immediately taken back to when I waitressed in a college bar and didn't even have to report for my s.h.i.+ft until eleven thirty p.m. When I close my eyes, I can practically smell the intoxicating combination of Aqua Net, Budweiser, and Polo. I can't remember how I felt about the song back then, but it's definitely hitting the spot right now.
I paint in time with the music, pleased at how energized I feel.
Next up is Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock with ”It Takes Two.” Again, not something I'd have normally picked, but I'd forgotten how this was a Breakfast Club anthem, which was when the Purdue bars would open at six a.m. on home football game days.
Worst Idea Ever or Best Idea Ever?
As I recall, it was both.
Memories of swilling fuzzy navels out of a giant pitcher while dancing on a table in my bathrobe rush back as the song hits the chorus. I wonder what College Jen would think of me now, opting to paint in the bas.e.m.e.nt in lieu of chugging margaritas poolside?
LL Cool J goes back to Cali next, and he's followed by a Run-DMC song called ”Down with the King,” which I've never heard but I instantly love.
At this point, Fletch wanders over. ”Since when do you have decent taste in music?”
I bob my head in time. ”This is good, right?”
”Yes,” he confirms. ”Turn it up.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon working on our projects and listening to BackSpin, which is only made a thousand times better at four p.m. when I discover the Ed Lover Show on this channel! Party music makes the time fly by and before I know it, I've not only painted the whole table, but also aged and distressed it with wax and sandpaper.
I can't get over the results.
I call Fletch over to inspect my handiwork.
”Am I biased, or does this look professional?”
He walks around my whole workbench, turning the table this way and that way, running a fingertip over the glossy finish. He finally says, ”This shouldn't have worked. This is all wrong. This goes against every principle of woodcraft.”
I'll take that as a yes.
At some point over the next month, inexpensively rehabbing furniture becomes less about proving Martha wrong and more about hanging out in my bas.e.m.e.nt, spinning the kind of old-school tunes that are entirely new to me. How did I exist in the decade this music helped define and never pay attention to any of it?
Every time I find myself inadvertently tuning in to my usual playlist, I realize I can't ”Melt with You” or ”Take on Me” one more time and switch back to BackSpin. Much as I adore the whole channel, Ed Lover's Show is my favorite. I adore him. I do. I thought he was great on MTV, but I have so much more respect for him now. He hit hard times after he peaked with Yo! MTV Raps Today and he's honest about them. Now he's working as a DJ again and he's both happy and humble, so listening to his show is a true pleasure.
When we were in Savannah, Trenna complained about my choice of the eighties channel in the car. She said, ”I did the eighties once. I have no desire to do 'em again.” At the time, Joanna, Kathleen, and I were all, ”Blasphemy!” but now I finally grasp what she was saying. Loving something during my formative years doesn't obligate me to keep carrying that same torch my whole life. I'm not disavowing my own past by moving on.
The day I realize I recognize a very young Lil Wayne's voice performing with Hot Boys is the day I cross the discover new music entry off my list.
Because I'm not currently on deadline, I have a break in my schedule for the first time in a couple of years. I write a television pilot called This Is Why We Don't Have Kids. In retrospect, I should have called it This Is Why You Won't Sell a Screenplay. But I believe you're not a ”real writer” until you have a failure stuffed in your desk drawer, so . . . congratulations to me?
However, my reward for meeting my day's page count has been to spend the evening in the bas.e.m.e.nt, working on new pieces. Or should I say old pieces, because I'm bringing home some real junk. I'm talking water stains, chips, scratches, and flat-out breakage.
Here's the thing, though-even trashed, a lot of what I run across in thrift stores is a thousand times better made than what's brand-new and ma.s.s-produced at places like Pottery Barn. With some digging, I can find solid cherry or mahogany furnis.h.i.+ng with dovetail joints, fine lines, and brilliant details like antique toe caps. Plus, I hate the idea of these pieces ending up in a landfill. So, with time, elbow grease, and creativity, I've been able to create the kind of furniture I bet that college kid would kill to have in her apartment.
As no one loves a makeover more than I do, I'm having the time of my life with the hunt for inexpensive items. Wisconsin is my new favorite place on Earth because they practically give you a rickety dresser for free the moment you cross the state line. Not kidding.
Painting furniture definitely counts as my new hobby. Although I'm pleased to check this off my list, what's so much fun is breathing new life into what had been garbage. As it turns out, my author friend Beth Harbison is equally enamored with chalk painting. Her theory is that as creative people with a very long production schedule, writers naturally love being able to take a project from start to finish in a matter of days.
Fletch is so pleased about my new hobby that he's ceded half the bas.e.m.e.nt to me and built me a tiered set of shelves for my cans of paint. Of course, both our work areas are getting squished due to all my finished pieces because I don't actually have anywhere to put them upstairs. But I'll figure out something to do with them.
For now, I've completed two items on my list, I own more end tables than I'll ever need, I have music that keeps me stimulated and a hobby that keeps me moving, plus I've discovered the smug sense of satisfaction of having finally, finally gotten one up on Martha.
And that's a great thing.
ITALIAN FOR DOUCHE BAGS.
”How goes the list?” Stacey asks.
Fletch and I are out to dinner with Stacey and her doting husband, Bill. Bill's a real Southern gentleman, always opening doors and pulling out chairs for her. He's exactly the kind of man you hope your friend will marry, even if you're more of an ”I can open the d.a.m.n door myself, thanks” kind of gal. Stacey quickly got used to being spoiled and once in a while when we ride somewhere together, I have to poke my head back in the car to say, ”Let yourself out, princess.”
Stacey and Bill spend most weekends at her family's home up north, which isn't that far from us, so we've met up at a nice restaurant in Libertyville, a town that's halfway between the two places.
I reply, ”Considering we're always talking about having dinner here, but this is the first time in almost three years that we've actually done so, I'd say pretty good.”
I recently added say yes to friend face-to-face time to my bucket list when it dawned on me that I was allowing social media to take the place of a social life. All of the tweets/Facebook/Instagram/Tumblr/etc. can make it feel like I'm among pals, and the give-and-take can be amusing and engaging, but I've come to realize this isn't ”real” and there's no subst.i.tute for actual interaction. The difference between social media and a social life is the difference between eating a marshmallow Peep and dining on a tomahawk-cut rib eye: one is substantial and nutritious; the other is just a momentarily satisfying puff of sweetened air, offering no long-term benefits. I can enjoy the fluff, but I can't subsist on it.
Back in Chicago, Stacey and I lived within walking distance for four years. Our long-standing joke was that we never actually walked to each other's house, but we appreciated having the option. I used to see her all the time, like if one of us was running to the grocery store, we'd call the other to tag along. Plus, we had weekly luncheons with the girls and our usual Wednesday night Bravo date, where we'd get together to watch housewives or hairdressers or chefs yell at one another, depending on which show was on. The best part was, she was always up for an adventure. Sometimes our adventures entailed going to the cobbler to have a pair of boots reheeled or dropping off dry cleaning, but still.
Stacey and I grew so close because we were in each other's house almost every day, whether she was bringing over an extra piece of banana cake or I was stopping by to return her meat thermometer. Couple proximity with zero children and a million shared interests and, bam!
Best friends forever.
It's not that I don't equally adore all my friends who have kids, but it's a challenge to book time with them because they're so busy. Spontaneity flies out the window the minute one buys their first car seat.
Now my home is twenty-five miles north of Stacey, which means sometimes I can be at her house in half an hour, unless there's traffic, in which case it takes an hour and a half. I've gone from seeing her almost every day to once a month if I'm lucky.
I miss Stacey, and sitting here across from her, I can't imagine why I'd ever have taken a pa.s.s on getting together.
”Well, then, cheers to your yesses!” She raises her gla.s.s of wine and we all toast.
”Cheers to this not being Irish dancing,” I say.
A few weeks ago, right when I began to Say Yes, Joanna mentioned that she was heading up to Milwaukee for her daughter's Irish dancing compet.i.tion. She was sure I'd decline, but figured since she had to drive past my house anyway, she'd extend the invite.
When I told her I wasn't allowed to say no, she was delighted. Did I want to spend my Sat.u.r.day surrounded by little girls with oddly curled wigs and way too much red lipstick? No, but neither did Joanna. The most important part of friends.h.i.+p is being there during the times that are boring, annoying, or hard.
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