Hanging up my Apron

My first kiss was sprung on me by a boy I'd pined after my entire senior year of high school. We were saying goodbye before leaving for our respective colleges in the morning, and all of a sudden his mouth came out of nowhere, leaving me feeling both terrified and confused.

I did not appreciate it. At all.

My second kiss came from an older gentleman who was watching a Syracuse sporting event from one of the upper-level suites of the Carrier Dome, where I was stationed as the Suite Manager/Suite Liaison/Suite Bitch/whatever they called it. I was in charge of getting the food and drinks to the suite at the right times, and just generally making sure everyone had a good time and that the buffalo wings weren't cold.

It soon became clear that my duties also included making polite small talk with guests who couldn't care less about the game and just wanted to hang out by the bar the whole time. So I did. And when the game was over and the stadium began to empty out, this man walked over, bade me goodbye, laid an efficient smack on my lips, and pressed a $70 tip into the palm of my hand.

This, at least, I appreciated.

It makes sense that the food service industry has played a part in some of the more formative experiences in my life: I've held jobs ranging from bored hostess to harried bartender at various points in my life from the time I was 17.

It all started with a part-time hostessing gig at an Italian restaurant franchise in my town, something to fill my summer days and then, when school started again, the odd evening or two each week. I was in charge of walking patrons to their tables, pre-slicing endless loaves of crusty bed, and telling every group — no matter how small or large, no matter how busy we were or weren't — that it would probably be no more than a 15-minute wait. Okay, if we were really busy, then maybe I'd predict a 20-minute wait. Max.

First lesson of the food service industry: hostesses are full of shit. At least, the teenaged ones making only $7.75 an hour are.

Second lesson of the food service industry: be wary of restaurant owners whose idea of appropriate business attire is a quarter-zip fleece pullover that fully exposes their yeti-like chest hair. Give your two weeks' notice the second said owner tells you that you're "looking foxy today."

The summer after my sophomore year of college, I graduated to a waitressing gig at a Middle Eastern place in the middle of our downtown. Its central proximity didn't do much for its popularity, though; when friends and former classmates learned where I was working, their first response was usually "Where? Never heard of it." That should have been my first hint that I would be making no money that summer.

At the time, it had the look of a dingy cafe — nothing terrible, but nothing particularly appealing, either. The menu options averaged $9 and there was no liquor license, so I quickly realized that I would essentially be making only $2.75 an hour. My "tips" were like puddles in the desert: juuuuust enough to keep me going.

I was also the only person working there who didn't speak Lebanese, something the assistant manager — a tiny, somewhat shriveled old lady with a permanent frown — seemed to hold against me, if her constant glare and muttering whenever I asked a question were any indication.

The restaurant has since acquired a liquor license and undergone a full renovation, turning it into a swanky-looking place that's packed every time I've driven by during visits home. 

I bet the tips are amazing now.

I curse its name every time I see it.

In college, I worked a variety of odd jobs, but the one that stuck all four years was slaving away for the Carrier Dome's catering department. I started out as a runner, literally running giant platters of food from the kitchen to the suites just before the mad rush of halftime. I then worked the hotdog concession stands on the lawn before football games, waking up Saturday mornings while it was just barely light out and walking to the Dome through grass that had begun to frost over during the night. When it switched to basketball season, I mastered the cash register at the Italian Stand, handing over endless subpar chicken parm sandwiches and overpriced meatball subs.

I soon graduated to Suite Master, and then some sort of vague senior role during my final two years due mostly to the fact that I was reliable and had been around long enough to know the ins and outs of most of the jobs. I started working during the week, managing the meals for the different sports teams after practices or helping with special event dinners. I stocked the suites in between games, riding pallet carts filled with cases of beer down the empty halls of the stadium and having endless pointless conversations with my coworkers about how much homework we had, how we longed for the free time our peers wasted, which events we hated working the most.

It was expected to bitch about the job, but I wouldn't have had it any other way. There was something eerie and exciting about working in that giant space when no one else was around, and I secretly loved it. My meals were more often than not provided by the events I worked, or simply care of the friendly kitchen staff who would feed us leftovers even on days when there was nothing going on. If I could change anything about my college experience, I wouldn't have worked less — I would have chosen to simply study less.

So that's how I ended up in Boston, nearly three years ago, applying to work for a catering temp service that hired out servers and bartenders to events that needed the extra help. That's how I worked my first wedding that was marked by a hysterical bride and three gigantic performing drag queens. That's how I slowly got to know each of the million universities within the city limits, serving re-heated bacon-wrapped scallops and mini quiche by the trayful to both alumni and prospective students. That's how I had my first visit to the Cape (summer wedding) and attended the very first Boston Calling concert (beer garden).

When I finally landed a real, full-time job, I continued to bartend on the weekends because I have never been one to turn down extra money. Time went by. Raises and bonuses happened for the first time in my life. I got another new job. And I finally realized a month ago, with a weird jolt, that I really didn't need to keep bartending.

Maybe, instead, I should, like, try to have a social life? We'll see.

Either way, it's time to hang up my apron for good; pack away my bow and bistro ties, my scuffed black wingtips, and my now-dingy white Oxford.

Goodbye, my friends. You served me well. Probably better than I served anyone else.

A few more friendly tips learned from the food service industry:

Lesson #3: When they put out coffee at the end of an evening event, it's all decaf — no matter what the sign says.

Lesson #4: If the hors d'ouevres look like the frozen stuff you can buy at Costco, they probably are.

Lesson #5: You can become — and remain — a bartender without knowing anything about mixing drinks as long as you're charming and hard-working.

Lesson #6: Everyone should work a food service job at least once in their life. At worst, it will teach you humility and appreciation for others. At best, it will bless you with endless crazy stories and experiences, as well as some impressive biceps courtesy of all the heavy trays, racks of glassware, and cases of beer.

Eating Our Way Through Boston

I distinctly remember having a conversation with my mom a couple years ago where she made this telling statement:

"That's what our family is all about: going to church and eating."

I'm not going to touch the first part of that declaration, but you'll get no argument from me about the latter half.

Meals are the major pillars that define my family's time spent together. Don't get the wrong idea; it's not like we're these skilled food connoisseurs looking to hit up all the "It" spots or dine on delicacies. For us, food has a more subtle, ingrained presence: my grandma making daily trips to Shop Rite every time we visit, even if just to replace the four bagels consumed that morning; lengthy discussions about the quality of this year's Jersey corn and tomatoes; debates over where to go for dinner based on the possession of strategic gift cards and coupons.

It's even more than that. Treasured memories always seem to take place around a dinner table or in the kitchen, and the first step to entering the ranks of the adult women in my mom's family is mastering the art of making Easter bread. (For my dad's family, it's spaghetti sauce — or "gravy," if you're talking to my aunt Rosie.)

So it only makes sense that when my parents visited last weekend, our time together was planned around food. It's the Lombardi way. 

• Rino's in East Boston was the perfect place to stop on the way back from the airport. My mom heard about it on Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives (not sure that it fits any of those three descriptors, but okay), and eating here was one of her two only requests for the visit (the other was visiting the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum; check and check). It easily stood up to my favorite Italian place in the North End, and the portions were massive, so my parents blessed me with the greatest gift of all: their leftovers.
   
• Saturday morning, we walked a few blocks from my apartment to The Paris Creperie for breakfast because my dad (1) hates eating too much "heavy" food and (2) turns into a hangry monster if he has to wait too long for his meal. I have yet to have a bad meal here, and they get bonus points for having a Liz Lemon-themed crepe! Word of warning: this place is always packed during peak hours, so be prepared to get your crepe to go if all the tables are taken.
   
• Post-museum, we took an ice cream break at FoMu in Allston. Each flavor is dairy-free, made with either coconut or some other nut-based milk and, more importantly, is ridiculously good. I'm not lactose intolerant or vegan, and I'd still pick this over other traditional ice cream joints in the area any day.
   
• The Publick House in Brookline was a place I'd heard good things about, and this was my chance to give it a shot. My grilled pork chop with maple chipotle glaze didn't disappoint, but the clear winner was my mom's soy braised short rib with asian pear risotto and napa cabbage slaw. I'll be getting that next time.
   
• Sunday morning was spent in the South End, getting brunch at The Gallows. We started with a shared blackberry lavender donut from The Gallows' sister shop Blackbird Doughnuts and admired the giant Ouiji board wall while waiting for our meals to arrive. I tried to offset the weekend of crazy eating by ordering the kale salad (with crispy ham and fried egg — I'm not dead) but was eyeing my mom's wild mushroom frittata the entire time.
   
• We had just enough time to wander around the SOWA market and share a snack from The Cookie Monstah before it was time to head to the airport. 

At the rate I'm going, I may have hit all the best food spots in Boston in, oh, let's say 100 years. 

Signs of Life

It's May, and that means that I've officially waited long enough to pretty up the balconies. Last year, I jumped the gun and put out the flower boxes before Easter, and they ended up frost-bitten, windblown, and then — if that weren't enough to survive — baked to a crisp in the hot summer sun. Sorry, guys.

I've been told May 1st is the all-clear date for spring planting, so last Sunday I got down and dirty. The front's shaping up nicely; I just need to revive my popcorn tin planter and fill it with some herbs, and refill Nathan's lonely feeder with some birdseed. The back is a bit of another story: the furniture I carefully (read: hastily) acquired from a series of Craigslist scores is looking a little worse for wear after sitting outside all winter.

In my defense, I huddled everything together under a tarp that was then weighed down with some bricks, so they weren't completely exposed to the elements. But the paint on the chair that sucked up so many hours of my life last summer is already starting to brush off, and those metal stacking tables have some serious rust edge. 

OH WELL. I'm happy to focus more on the little things: some replacement bulbs for all the ones I broke last year, a handful of legit outdoor pillows and cushions, and maaaaaaybe some hanging planters. Who knows. I've got three months of well-lit summer nights ahead of me to fill with tinkering and rearranging. 

Maybe I'll even invite people over to enjoy it. Stranger things have happened.

The Worst Game of Tag Ever

You may (I doubt it) have noticed that things have been decidedly quiet the past six (!) weeks around here. It's not because I've run out of things to fix around my apartment, or because I spontaneously won a trip to Australia (I wish). It's more just that I haven't had anything to talk about.

Or, more accurately, that I haven't had anything that I thought I could talk about.

This web site, and this blog, was created so I'd have some outlet to show my abilities for future career opportunities. And as a result, I felt like I could really only write about things that were professional (-ish); things that highlighted my strengths and interests. But the truth is that I've been dealing with one of my biggest weaknesses for the past couple months or so, and it's really tripping me up.

I've been playing tag with depression for more than half of my life at this point. I know the convention is to say that one "fights" depression or "struggles with" it, but I'm not really satisfied with either of those phrases. To fight suggests a level of courage and strength that I'm not worthy of. But to simply struggle makes me feel like a B-list horror movie actress, flailing to escape the grasp of her attacker.

No, depression is more like the most annoying, never-ending game of tag you've ever played. I never defeat depression. It is always with me, whether somewhere off in the distance or tapping me on the shoulder. It never really goes away; I just get better at outrunning and evading it.

I have no expectations that I could accurately convey to the inexperienced masses what this feels like (see Hyperbole and a Half's "Adventures in Depression" and "Depression Part Two" for the best examples I've ever come across). I keep going over it in my brain, and the best I can come up with to describe the experience is this:

Your life consists of you walking along an endless, floating dock. It rocks and moves, but it's fairly wide and a stable enough surface to stick to. When you add depression to the mix, whether because of a chemical imbalance or unfortunate life circumstances, that dock gets more and more narrow. And the water gets rougher. And it becomes more and more easy to fall off the edge.

No matter how good your balance is, it's only a matter of time before a swell knocks you overboard. And you can swim, but it takes everything from you — all of your concentration and energy. Meanwhile, life continues lobbing you with its expectations; there are responsibilities to juggle and people you don't want to let down. Everyone you talk to thinks they have the magical solution — oh, just do these five things, meet with these three complete strangers, relax and don't work so hard, work harder so things will change, go to the gym, go to church, fill out these forms A, D, and G. 

And all you can think is, "Can I stop drowning first?"

The day will come that you make it back to the dock, and that's when you realize that you're expected to pull yourself out, too. 

Anyone who's ever dove off the floating docks on the Charles River — and has as terrible upper body strength as I do — will understand the magnitude of this obstacle I'm talking about. It's really fucking hard to pull yourself back onto that dock, especially with the waves crashing over you, especially after you've been treading water for what feels like forever. So you just cling to the edge for a while, waiting to get back some of what you've lost. Waiting for the chance to pull yourself back up again.

That's kind of what this stage of depression feels like to me. You're not drowning, but you're not really living, either. It stops you from moving forward, and I've definitely felt stuck for the past few months.

For someone who thrives on taking action, accomplishing tasks, dreaming up projects, and just straight-up trying things, it's really jarring to lose any and all of my motivation. I've always had things that I didn't relish doing — hukking my laundry two blocks to the laundromat, cleaning the bathroom, writing networking emails — but they never felt both insurmountable and pointless at the same time. They were simply lines on my to-do list that I would inevitably check off and move past, nothing more. When depression tags me, everything feels impossible. I can barely function as a pleasant 28-year-old adult, much less tackle anything that's more than an absolute necessity.

So there have been no projects. Meals have gone from trying new recipes to heating up frozen trays of whatever in the microwave. I drag myself to the gym not for any sort of enjoyment, but with the hope that it will help me sleep better at night and maybe dissipate some of the frustration I feel about everything right now.

I don't want to end this on a downer note. Let me make one thing very clear: clinging to the edge of the dock is a lot better than just trying to keep your head above the water. And I make no guarantees, but I get the feeling that I will soon be able to haul myself up onto that dock — without an ounce of grace, I'm sure. Expect a lot of flopping.

See you soon.

Things!

Here's what I've been up to this winter:

1. Listening to the Pitch Perfect soundtrack on repeat. Sometimes it's the only thing getting me through the godawful commutes to and from work. Just try listening to this and not feeling happy. (Sequel's coming out in May. Who else is excited?)

2. Rearranging the built-in bookcase. Not much changed, but now everything fits in an orderly manner, which soothes me. Some people do yoga, I organize.

3. Learning how to make cheese and ketchup from scratch. (Really.) (I know.)

4. Eating way too much cheese.

5. Finally getting stuff up on the walls in the dining room. There are two camps of thought when it comes to hanging things. One states that you should carefully measure everything out and tape up paper templates and I think use toothpaste to help mark where the nail should go or something. The other is a more "just start hammering" mindset. (I'm with the latter — is anyone surprised? Our walls are in crappy condition to begin with, so I'm not too worried.)

As Andy put it, the ink blot posters are "a little Rorschach for our shack." I originally bought this pack of cards, then scanned my favorites and ordered prints from Snapfish. There was initially a mistake made with my order, and delivery was delayed by all the snow, but it worked out in the end (and props to Snapfish's customer service for helping me out, too).

6. Taking a Jamaican cooking class. I'm obsessed with the jerk chicken we made.

7. Using the hallway to showcase my postcard collection. The wall was looking a little too bare without the Christmas banner. Clothesline presentation FTW!

8. Treating the gym like a second home. It was one of the few things both open and accessible during all the blizzards, and I've reached the point where I feel weird if I don't go for more than two days in a row. Good for my body, bad for having any free time ever after work.

9. Enjoying having the apartment all to myself...for this week. Not gonna lie, if it wasn't winter and freezing, I'd probably be doing this. (There's been plenty of singing and bad dancing, though.)

10. Counting down the days until I escape to Florida. I'm in desperate need of a legitimate vacation, and this one will combine two of my favorite things: warm weather and Katie! What could be better?

Deep Thoughts (Brought to you by: Red Wine)

This winter has really been wearing on me, so I decided to escape Boston last weekend and went to see Adrienne and Dominik in NYC. While there, we had lunch with one of their friends who has lived in the city for about nine years — and she said she couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

Wait. Nine years? 

She didn't have a husband to stay put for. She didn't have kids (that I knew of). She had a job, but not one that she couldn't theoretically have elsewhere. She just...loved living in New York City.

I was baffled.

It's not that I can't imagine anyone loving New York City. It's more that I have a hard time imagining loving anywhere that much. Loving it enough to want to stay there, just because. It really got me thinking about the idea of home, and what it means to most people. What it means to me.

It's like this: I used to be irrationally afraid of sleeping over at other people's houses. It's not particularly unique because, at around the time this happened (fifth grade or so), I was inexplicably panicked about everything: kids at school making fun of me, people thinking I was weird, people thinking I was fat, the fact that one day I would die, the fact that one day my parents would die — the list went on and on. When the time came that I actually did spend the night at someone else's house, I just wouldn't sleep. Easy as that.

Senior year of high school rolled around. I momentarily grew a backbone and decided to go to college at Syracuse University — the farthest away out of all the schools I'd been accepted to. I felt smug that I hadn't given in to my fears and enrolled at the University of Michigan, which was a mere 45 minutes away with perfect traffic conditions.

Needless to say, I didn't sleep for the first year.

Though I did not grow to love Syracuse and its city's post-apocalyptic charm, I did finally break the spell that kept me firmly tethered to Michigan and the house that I'd spent half a dozen years living in. From then on, when possible, I spent summers interning in other cities (D.C., Boston), studied abroad (London), and constantly dreamed of going anywhere but here.

I've lived in Ohio, Michigan, New York, D.C., England, Massachusetts, New Mexico, and Pennsylvania. But ever since I grew out of my parents' house, I have yet to find a place that really feels like home. And I worry that I will never find such a place — in fact, a small part of why I took a road trip around the U.S. four years ago was to surreptitiously scope out possible future living situations.

This is what I understand about the concept of home:

1. "It's where your heart is." To me, that's dumb, because your heart is in your chest, and your chest is wherever you happen to be (unless you've been involved in a terrible motor vehicle accident or equally awful bear attack). To most people, I think this probably means that the location encompasses or is adjacent to those that you love, romantically and/or emotionally.
2. It's where you feel most comfortable. 
3. It's where you feel at peace, content.
4. Dare I say, it's where you feel happy?

I actually Googled "what is home" and waded through some of the results, but it got a little too nebulous for me to accept. It's well and good to say that home is wherever your husband/lover/life partner is, but what if I don't have one of those? Next.

"Home is where I can take my bra off." If that's the case, then I've got a kingdom's worth of homes to choose from! (Just kidding, mom.)

"Home is where the rags of your life are turned into quilts, lemons become lemonade, and a few extra pounds are simply welcomed as more of you to love.” Good Lord, barf. Note to Self: stop consulting Real Simple for life advice.

Before I moved to Boston, I was back in my parent's house in Michigan, climbing the walls and itching to escape. Boston and D.C. seemed like the two most logical choices for a future home base, since both were fairly large cities and would likely have more job opportunities, and both were home to at least one person I could probably count on for emotional support. Honestly, it was pure luck that I ended up in Boston: Adrienne finished grad school and was looking to move into a place she could afford, and that meant getting a roommate. It was that Sign from the universe that I'm always looking for, and I grabbed on to it.

Two years later, I'm still in Boston and Adrienne has split. And lately (okay, for the past six months, at least), I can't help what wonder: what am I still doing here? I always figured that decent reasons to stay put included a mix of (1) your dream job, (2) good friends, (3) love, and (4) a great city/town/desert island. These days, I've got maybe one of those — and to be perfectly honest, it's hard to out-and-out love Boston right now, with this Winter of Discontent so firmly blanketing the city and no signs of it letting go. 

But it's not just the winter that's getting to me. It's that ever-present itch, that feeling that I'm missing out on something better just because I'm in the wrong place. I always assumed that I wouldn't feel that way anymore when I finally found the right place to be, but what if that never happens? What if I was just born with a heart filled with Wanderlust instead of the more easily remedied Regular Lust?

What if Boston is Home, but I just haven't found the Right People to make it so? How long do I wait around for that to happen? What if I find the Right Job, but it's in the Wrong City? What if every place I've lived was the Right One, but I left before it had a chance to be? (Scratch that last one, Pennsylvania was not, and never will be, the Right One.)

WHAT IF I'M JUST A TERRIBLE PERSON WHO IS NEVER SATISFIED WITH ANYTHING IN LIFE?

These are the things that I worry about, now that my nights aren't consumed with thoughts of boys making fun of me or my parent's funerals.

A Different Kind of Retail Therapy

If I had to pick a moment that perfectly encapsulated my adolescent awkwardness, it would be this: 

It's the seventh grade. Despite feeling the scarlet mark of "new girl" even after a full year in Michigan, I've managed to wrangle an invite to the most glamorous of middle school events: the bat mitzvah. I'm wearing black platform sandals, a shiny, spaghetti-strapped dress from Kohl's, and am rocking a flowering vine tattoo on my bicep, courtesy of the airbrush artist that's set up near the drinks table. I don't yet realize that I have curly hair, so my shoulder-length bob is brushed to maximum bushy capacity. Unfortunately, I'm still several years away from the magical straightening effects of my braces — which, coincidentally, color-coordinate with my blue dress! (On the plus side, I'm pretty sure I've at least graduated to contacts at this point.)

Awww yeah.

Most of the night has been spent dancing enthusiastically to the Backstreet Boys and N*Sync, but the DJ soon switches to the first slow song of the night. One by one, boys that are still several inches shorter than me ask some of the more popular girls to dance, and then just other girls, period.

I remain on the sidelines. And it sucks.

When shopping at places like The Goodwill Store, it's so tempting to be like those seventh grade boys and pass over anything that's less than perfect. You walk up and down the dirty, unswept aisles and wonder where your mint-condition MCM dresser is, where your $6 Tulip chair is to be found. (I don't know where one does find those things, but I'll tell you this: it's not at the Allston Goodwill.) You leave behind the endless array of novelty mugs, the assortment of grandmotherly baskets, and the small Dollar Store frames that come with black and white images of Girl Laughing To Herself or Perfect Family in Park.

But friends, you (we!) are missing out. Because some things just need a little help to reach their true potential. In my case, that involved prescription acne cream, copious amounts of mousse, and the self-awareness to finally, for the love of God, put down the stretchy choker.

As for these frames? All they required was a single can of quality gold spray paint.

(Sidenote: How great/awful is that plastic shower curtain I use as a dropcloth? When we moved in, our realtor gave us a care package that included this shower curtain, a sponge, some individually wrapped aspirin, and plastic hooks. I dare anyone to come up with a more random assortment of move-in goodies.)

During my original jaunt to Michael's a few weeks back, I selected a can of Krylon Metallic Gold, excited to pick up everything I needed in one place. Mistake! The Krylon came out as as greenish-gold, that shade you might see on furniture from the 70s or cheap earrings that have started to turn. I'm sure I'll find a use for it, but not for this project. So I went to Blick's and coughed up the couple extra bucks for a can of Montana Black in what turned out to be the perfect shade of gold. Lesson learned.

I laid out my dropcloth, opened the windows for as long as I dared to in the middle of January, and got to painting. First a couple thin coats of primer, then the gold. My strategy was to pick frames with an interesting shape or textures and try to ignore everything else that may have been hideous about them. It was hard. 

Really hard.

But I pressed on. I embodied the spirit of an enlightened 13-year-old boy, looking past superficial blemishes in favor of hidden beauty. 

And now I have this.

A nearly complete collection of interesting frames that will make some great wall décor in their own right. Don't get me wrong, I love art as much as the next person, but I'd rather collect stuff I like at my own pace than just splurge on a bunch of prints that are just so-so, all for the sake of filling the ginormous blank wall we have in the dining room.

A couple more frames (i'm hoping for one or two non-rectangular ones to balance out the mix), along with the completion of my other secret project, and we'll be good to go. Unless, of course, my progress is stalled again by yet ANOTHER blizzard.

Moving south is looking more and more appealing with every passing day.

My Reading List

Let's talk about inspiration. Let's talk about resources. Let's talk about what I waste approximately 20% of my day doing: reading design blogs.

My friend John just moved into a new apartment with his girlfriend and he's understandably pumped, but I think he also realizes that it's now time to up his interior game. He wants to make this new place look really great but, being a normal person who's been historically more interested in movies and sports than paint color trends and gallery walls, he doesn't really know where to start. In fact, his main source of interior design information seems to be me, which is terrifying.

So, this list is for him, and for anyone else interested in fixing up their place, getting free ideas, or just looking for something new to read.

Amazing Interior Design Blogs You'll Want to Read Almost Every Day
 

Apartment Therapy: The absolute mother lode of information about everything involving renting, renovating, decorating, and just plain living in an apartment (or house!). If you have something specific you're looking for info about, there's a good chance there's a post on AT about it. A personal warning from me: do your best not to get sucked into reading the comments section; AT offers a wealth of knowledge, but its vocal readers offer a wealth of cattiness that just messes with all the fun design vibes.

A Beautiful Mess: This site will not be for everyone, but if you love Zooey Deschanel, ultra-bright pops of color, and dorky wordplay, you might be a Beautiful Mess reader. Decorating tips and projects are mixed in with recipes, crafts projects, and fashion posts, so beware that there will be some wading involved if you're focused solely on the former. They've recently started mixing in some more ambitious projects (i.e. they involve trips to Home Depot and use power tools), but there are still plenty of easy fixes and craft ideas for the less handy, as well.

Manhattan Nest: I've expounded on the virtues of Daniel and his blog in the past, and even now that it's become more renovation- and construction-focused, I still enjoy it. Sometimes you read things for the practical information and sometimes you read things for sheer pleasure. If you're looking for more approachable ideas (not all of us own two historic houses in varying states of disrepair), venture back to the early days of the blog when he was just a lowly college apartment dweller. There's a good mix of instruction and inspiration.

Design*Sponge: If you've never heard of Design*Sponge, this is obviously your first foray into the world of design. Although this site isn't limited to interior design, it does comprise a bulk of the posts and there are hundreds of house tours and sneak peeks to check out if you're into that kind of porn. There are also some great project how-tos, basic skill instructions, and design history information.

Yellow Brick Home: Confession: I went back and read this blog from the very beginning (because that's what I do) when I first saw it being mentioned, and I was not impressed. I wasn't into their style and the writing was still a little awkward and too-PC (again with the weird lack of swearing in the interior design sphere of the Web). BUT. I followed the progression of the blog, and with it, their style, and this is now a favorite that I look forward to. Think of this not as a source of project instructions but as a source of inspiration to get off your butt and go thrifting, paint something, or finally get those frames up on the wall.

Vintage Revivals: Typos and scary enthusiasm aside, this blog is one that most frequently makes me think "Man, I want to try that." (The Himmeli wreath in our living room has this blog to thank.) Eye candy is nice and all, but it's also fun to see project ideas that are so innovative, you actually do them.

Go Haus Go: "Refreshingly approachable," is the phrase I keep coming back to. Not 100% vintage or 100% IKEA or 100%...anything, really. A normal person who lives in — gasp! — not New York or California and is just trying to make her house look awesome. I dig.

Brooklyn to West: Nowadays, the writer is selling handmade projects from her wood shop, but for something really, insanely impressive, check out all the posts from when she was helping design and build a restaurant in California — using primarily salvaged materials. (Click "Il Vecchio" on the side menu.)

Emily Henderson: Former HGTV show host, current professional stylist. Not a particularly practical source of information since she has rich clients to pay for everything, but man, there's something pretty stuff to look at.

I could go on, but I'll stop myself there. Any suggestions I didn't list? I'm always looking for more to add to my feedly! (Seriously. I am.)

Thrift Store Impulse Buys and Other Saturday Adventures

As part of my New Year's resolution to stop over-thinking everything, I got up bright and early last Saturday and left the apartment on a mission. My first stop was Winmil Fabrics, in the Chinatown/Downtown Crossing area.

(Does anyone other than ambitious tourists actually venture downtown before noon on the weekends? It was eerily deserted at 11 a.m.)

My thorough research showed that Boston has basically one fabric store within the city limits (i.e. accessible to us carless people), and this is it. I'm sorry to report that it was as dingy and unimpressive as the outside suggested. To be fair, it had the kind of selection that fourth-grade-sewing-class-Lisa would have been all over: cotton/polyester with busy patterns in bright colors — pretty much everything you'd want for that reversible vest that you definitely wore in public on several separate occasions.

Ahem. Unfortunately, this did not fit present-day-Lisa's needs. Disappointing. This strike-out pretty much solidified what I had feared: I was going to have to order my fabric online.

Ordinarily, I prefer to do my shopping online. However, as someone who works in the online retail industry, I know firsthand just how unreliable product photographs can be, and fabric is especially finicky. But I was reading Rosa Beltran's blog when she mentioned that she buys a lot of the fabric for her projects from Fabric.com because they offer free returns within 30 days of purchase, so it's essentially a risk-free way to try a bunch of different options.

WHAT. This is kind of mind-blowing, because when you order fabric yardage, you're making a cut in the bolt that can't be undone. So, unless someone else wants the exact same fabric for the exact same length or less, the store is pretty screwed trying to re-sell it. I don't know how Fabric.com functions with this policy, but it was enough to convince me to just go ahead and order something already. (2015! New year! Cut the crap!)

Next stop: Michael's, to burn through the shiny new gift card I got for Christmas. There's no better way to celebrate the birth of Christ than by purchasing multiple cans of spray paint, right?

On my way home, I made a stop at Cheap Chic, a thrift store in Allston. I think a more accurate name would be Sometimes Cheap, Rarely Chic, but it's one of Nathan's go-to places for apartment stuff, so I figured I would give it a try. I was originally on the lookout for a mirror but an accent table caught my eye instead.

Remember this? Furniture shame incarnate?

Oof.

Do not stare directly into its depths.

So, this table, down in the basement depths of Cheap Chic, caught my eye. It seemed like the right measurements for that corner of the living room, and there was something about the shape and details that I really dug. I'll admit, I waffled for a bit, walking endless circles around the piles of furniture while I had an inner debate.

No. Cut the crap. I bought it, and even haggled the price down a bit to make me feel better. I then proceeded to carry it home three-quarters of a mile. (Bet you didn't know that thrifting could be such a great arm workout.)

That's the angle that sold me on it. But it's not without its problem areas...

Part of the decorative molding was ripped off one side, which I hadn't noticed at the store. Perhaps I was too quick to pull the trigger? Oh, irony.

The top, I knew, sported the most damage. I'm not concerned about the middle portion, since that will be covered by the stereo and record player. But I'll have to try out a few things for the edges. So far, rubbing coffee grounds into the scuffs and scratches has not worked, and something tells me that the other at-home remedies I've seen won't make a difference either. Maybe a scratch correcting marker from the hardware store?

Or maybe I'll paint it. As much as I enjoy the little inlaid jazziness going on at the top, I'm tempted to cover the whole thing in a fresh coat of...deep navy? With faux brass end caps on the legs and the metalwork coated in brassy paint? Who knows. Weigh in with your thoughts, please.

For now, I've opted to just live with it, as is, and hold off on any paint-related solutions until it gets warmer out and I can once again use the balcony for my more fume-y projects. 

The cord situation kind of kills me, but it's not like it was much better before. Maybe I'll try wrapping that bundle in black electrical tape, just to wrangle and camouflage it a bit better.

Now. About that spray paint...

It's a Christmas Miracle!

Behold, let there be rug.

Just as I was psyching myself up to drop a hefty sum of money on a rug online, I received a text from Andy. While he was home for Thanksgiving, he spied a stash of rugs his mom had in the basement and, being the amazing roommate he is, asked if we might be able to take one off of her hands.

UM, YES PLEASE. Andy's mom is officially my fairy godmother of rugs. Seriously, who is this fabulous person?

Obligatory terrible-quality image to give you an idea of how big this thing is:

In a word, massive. It takes up nearly the entire room. And as soon as it was unrolled, the dining room immediately started to feel like a more hospitable place. Rug? Check.

So now I have no excuses to put off the upholstering project any longer (yes, I'm as sick of hearing about it as you). I've been obsessively scanning Joann Fabrics' web site, Etsy, Fabric.com, and the deep recesses of the web for something, anything, that might feel like The One. A big problem is that the patterns I gravitate toward aren't ones that are going to fit in the space — not with the chairs I have and the rug that I'm now working with.

(It's weird to try to separate what parts of the apartment are truly "my" taste, and what just organically came about because of the space and what we had to work with. That's not to say that I dislike how things are, just that if I had to start from scratch, things could easily go in a completely different direction. I like a little bit of every style, it seems.)

Another problem is the fact that I've become unbearably indecisive. About everything. And it's really slowing down my creative process. So I've decided — hello, 2015! — to cut the crap and stop spiraling into endless "What if?" circles every time I'm faced with a decision. As I told Adrienne during one of my many rants, "Failure IS an option. And that's okay."

No more worrying about the money. No more worrying about picking the wrong color, the wrong size, the wrong whatever. In the words of a famous multinational corporation, "Just do it."

On it.