Category Archives: Home Improvement

Running from Caulk, Sawdust and Badassery

So, it’s been a month since I last posted on this blog—although in internet time, that’s at least a minor eternity. Why the drought? Well, you can refer to my previous post about my MRI results, but the gist is: nothing clarifies your outlook quite like a suddenly definite road sign on the horizon. Once you know what’s waiting for you at the end (whether it’s a marathon finish line or a knee with the structural integrity of overcooked pasta), every step on the journey becomes infinitely weirder. And maybe a bit more precious. Or at least, less likely to involve taking up parkour.

In the meantime, I’ve been on a quest that rivals anything in The Lord of the Rings, except with more existential navel-gazing and less elf hair: becoming a “better person.” Spoiler alert—this is hard. Nearly impossible, in fact, if you are starting from square one on the “being chill with yourself” board game.

Enter the self-help book. I am currently listening to Jen Sincero’s You Are a Badass, which feels a lot like being gently, repeatedly slapped with a glittery affirmation pillow. Credit where credit is due—it’s a breezy, friendly listen. But, as with most books in this genre, it eventually rolls to a halt at the crossroads of “trust the Universe,” “trust God,” and “trust your Spirit Guide (now available in fun holographic collectible form!).”

This is where I, as a timeworn skeptic, bristle a little. What if I don’t want to trust anything? What if I’m just not religious? I used to be, in the way that teenagers are usually religious because their grandma bakes them brownies to bring to Bible study. But that ended when I was essentially benched from the community for prioritizing volleyball over church. Which, frankly, still seems less heretical than missing church for, say, competitive taxidermy. And honestly, if God didn’t want people to play sports on Sundays, the NFL would have been smitten years ago. You cannot convince me that whatever is in charge of the universe didn’t have at least a modest hand in the Immaculate Reception.

In short: Self-help is not universal truth. If “trust the Universe” works for you, great. If you prefer to put your faith in your dog, or a really well-made grilled cheese, go for it.

Me? I put my trust in woodwork—actual, sawdust-laden, knuckle-busting home improvement. I redid my entire bathroom: cutting, caulking, painting, and discovering that bathtub caulk is essentially the universe’s way of teaching us patience. For those precious hours, I wasn’t worrying about my cosmic purpose. I had a concrete (or, more accurately, tile-and-grout) assignment—to make something better, one squint-eyed line of paint at a time.

So that’s the real moral here: Find your purpose, however fleeting or piecemeal. Keep it until it doesn’t fit anymore, then look for a new one. Purpose is like running shoes. You’ll need different ones for different terrains—just make sure something gets you out the door.

And with that, I promise not to wait another eternity to check in. Unless, of course, I get really into retiling the kitchen. In which case, all bets—and possibly all counters—are off.

Running from DIY Delusion

If you’ve ever found yourself scrolling through Pinterest, you’ll know it’s a bit like wandering into a bakery after a juice cleanse—everything looks so easy, so achievable, so… not at all like your actual life. Pinterest, with its glossy photos and endless scroll, is the internet’s way of whispering, “You could do this. You really could.” And like a moth to a flame, I believed it.

For months, I’ve been nurturing the idea of installing a board and batten wall. Not just any wall, mind you, but the perfect wall. The sort of wall that, if it could talk, would say, “I was born for this.” I had the time, the motivation, and, after a recent cardiac adventure that left me feeling like a deflated pool float, an urgent need to prove I could still accomplish something more ambitious than folding laundry.

Enter: the nail gun. A tool I’d dreamed of owning, right up there with a self-cleaning oven and a Roomba that doesn’t get stuck on socks. Three months ago, I bought one. I read the directions (twice!); I watched YouTube tutorials; I even made a playlist called “Nail Gun Anthems.” And then, like any responsible adult, I let it sit in the corner for ninety days, gathering dust and silently judging me.

Eventually, the lure of Pinterest perfection proved too strong. I rallied Chas and the kids for a family outing to the lumber yard, which, if you’ve never been, is like IKEA for people who think splinters are a badge of honor. There, I agonized over wood choices, grain patterns, and whether I could pull off flannel in June. Supplies purchased, I returned home, ready to embark on my first real project with power tools that weren’t a drill.

How did it go? Let’s just say it was a rousing success—if you define “success” as “the wall is still standing and most of my fingers remain attached.” I did cut a few boards too short, but I’m convinced the wall is crooked, not my measuring tape. This is the story I’m sticking with, and I dare anyone to prove otherwise.

Like running (which, let’s be honest, is mostly just running from my own questionable decisions), DIY is a marathon, not a sprint. The first training cycle is always the hardest, mostly because you have no idea what you’re doing, and the internet is full of liars. But for a first attempt, I’m calling it a win. I enjoyed the process, I learned a lot, and I only swore in front of the children twice. Progress!

My summer to-do list is still longer than a CVS receipt, but my goal is simple: add value to my grandma’s house (our current rental) and, perhaps, convince my family that I am, in fact, a useful human being. After years of asking for help, it feels good to give something back—even if that something is a slightly uneven wall.

So here’s to another trip to the lumber yard, another project, and another day with all ten fingers. May your Pinterest dreams be slightly more achievable than mine—and may your nail gun always be pointed away from your toes.

Running from Little Green Men

As a self-proclaimed Walt Disney World expert—meaning I can tell you the exact number of churros you can eat before you lose the will to live—one of my favorite corners of the parks is Toy Story Land. Nestled in Disney’s Hollywood Studios (which, let’s be honest, will always be MGM Studios to those of us who remember the Backlot Tour and the inexplicable presence of a Golden Girls house), this is the place where you get to be a toy for the day. It’s all giant building blocks, oversized board game pieces, and a healthy dose of nostalgia. It’s like stepping into your childhood, only with more sunscreen and slightly more expensive snacks.

Now, as a parent, my mission is to bring a little of that magic home, specifically, to the boys’ bathroom. Yes, you heard me: I am attempting to transform the most utilitarian room in the house into a Toy Story-themed wonderland. I have plans. Big plans. Beadboard! Wallpaper! Window coverings! Hanging monkeys! (The plastic kind, not the real ones. I’m not that ambitious.) I want it to be colorful, kid-friendly, and the kind of place where you half-expect Woody to pop out from behind the shower curtain and remind you to wash your hands.

But here’s the thing: the only thing standing between me and this Pixar-inspired paradise is, well, me. And a lack of power tools. And possibly a healthy fear of accidentally nailing my own foot to the floor.

What I really want—what I yearn for—is a mitre saw. And a jigsaw. And a nail gun. I want to be the kind of person who uses phrases like “orbital sander” in casual conversation and actually knows what it means. I want home projects to be my hobby, not just something I watch on YouTube with a mixture of awe and mild terror.

But here’s the secret Disney never tells you: learning something new, whether it’s how to wield a nail gun or how to navigate Genie+, is a lot like training for a marathon.

Stay with me here. When you decide to run a marathon (or, in my case, when you decide to run away from everything and end up in a marathon by accident), you don’t just lace up your shoes and jog 26.2 miles. You start small. You run a block. You wheeze. You Google “can you die from running?” You keep going. Over time, you get a little stronger, a little faster, and a little more confident that you won’t collapse in a heap by mile two.

Learning a new skill—like transforming a bathroom into Andy’s room, or figuring out how to use a mitre saw without losing a finger—is the same way. It’s about taking baby steps. You watch a video. You read an article. You buy a tool and stare at it for a week, wondering if you need a permit just to plug it in. You make mistakes. You learn. You get a little better. Eventually, you’re not just surviving—you’re thriving. Or at least you’re not actively endangering yourself or others.

So, as I stand in the doorway of the boys’ bathroom, armed with nothing but enthusiasm and a vague idea of how wallpaper works, I remind myself: this is my marathon. There will be setbacks. There will be questionable design choices. There will almost certainly be paint on the ceiling. But with each small step, I’m getting closer to creating a space that’s as magical as Toy Story Land—minus the crowds and the $6 sodas.

And who knows? Maybe someday I’ll be the kind of person who can say “orbital sander” with confidence. Or at least with fewer power tool-related injuries.

Until then, I’ll keep running from everything—except my dreams of a Toy Story bathroom.

Have you tackled a Disney-inspired home project? Or survived a marathon (literal or metaphorical)? Share your stories below! And if you have tips for using a mitre saw, please send help.

Running from Design

I have big dreams for my home. Not the kind of dreams that involve marble countertops or a kitchen island the size of an aircraft carrier, but the sort that, if achieved, would allow me to walk into my living room and not immediately trip over a pile of shoes, a sticky patch of mystery goo, or a rogue action figure. My interior design style, much like my running pace, varies wildly depending on the day, the weather, and whether or not I’ve had coffee. But I don’t think it’s bad. And besides, the only person who visits with any regularity is my mom, and she’s legally obligated to say nice things.

Recently, my parents’ friends—who, judging by the amount of furniture I’ve inherited, must be living in an empty box by now—offered me a rug. It’s colorful. Very colorful. The kind of colorful that makes you question whether your brown couch (also from said friends) will ever recover from the shock. After two hours of rearranging furniture, which, by the way, is the closest I’ve come to cross-training in months, the rug was down. And, to my surprise, it looked… good. Not “featured in a magazine” good, but “I won’t trip over it in the dark” good.

This minor victory inspired a cascade of home improvement ambitions. I ordered artwork. I mapped out a board and batten wall. I even dusted off the nail gun I bought four months ago—still in its box, like a race medal I haven’t quite earned yet. There are, of course, a few obstacles:

  1. Power Tools: I have never operated anything more complicated than a blender. And that was only because I needed a post-run smoothie.
  2. Blood Thinners: When your blood is basically water, the prospect of wielding a nail gun becomes a high-stakes game of “Will it blend?”
  3. Spousal Support: My husband, bless him, is many things. Handy is not one of them. As my 3-year-old says, “They’re mommy’s tools!” He got the sports gene, not the construction gene.

I know the hardware store will cut boards for me, but the idea of asking for help makes me break out in a cold sweat. I can run a marathon, but apparently, I cannot ask a stranger to cut a piece of wood without fearing I’ll be mistaken for someone making a Pinterest craft gone wrong. (Not today, sir. Not today.)

Why am I doing this? Because, much like running, home improvement is a marathon, not a sprint. It’s a slow, steady process that involves planning, perseverance, and the occasional detour through the land of “What was I thinking?” My living room is rarely clean enough to be proud of—three boys see to that—but I want to create a space that makes me feel accomplished, even if the soundtrack is Phineas and Ferb singing about ‘S’winter’ and the floor is a minefield of Legos.

I’m thinking of documenting the process, because if running has taught me anything, it’s that progress is worth recording. Every training run, every new mile, every tiny improvement adds up. So too with home projects: getting the rug, moving the couch, and planning out the board and batten wall is, by my estimation, about 27% of the project. (Give or take. Len Testa would probably have a spreadsheet for this. Who am I kidding? I have a spreadsheet for this!)

We all have to start somewhere. Whether it’s the first mile of a marathon or the first nail in a wall, the important thing is to keep moving forward—preferably without stepping on anything sticky.

Sometimes, what you’re running from is just a living room in desperate need of a makeover. And sometimes, you run right into a home you’re proud of.