The Golden Ticket

During the fall and winter, Jon applied to seven graduate programs for Film Studies. For a while now, we've known the outcome of six of those applications: Rejected by five schools and waitlisted at one. Things weren't looking too good, but we were holding out hope that the last school -- also his #1 choice -- would bring us good news.

Then last week he was alerted that the final decision had been mailed. Every other school had told him their decision via email, but not this one. It would take about a week for the letter to arrive through the post. This school is so cruel.

So it was a waiting game. I was so nervous. For the first time ever, I actually checked the mailbox every day (I'm notoriously bad about doing this -- I'd never get the mail if I lived alone), and went day-to-day with tapping feet and twiddling thumbs, waiting for news.

Then finally, with Jon at work and no one around but a menagerie of animals, a letter arrived.

And then it sat on my desk for two hours. Taunting me.

I could do nothing but stare at it while I waited for Jon to respond to my frantic Come home right now! text message. Well, actually, I man-handled that envelope within an inch of its life -- holding it up to the light and slamming it around -- but couldn't make out the most important part: Yes or No. I'd promised him I wouldn't open it, especially if it were a small envelope, which, of course, it was. Small envelopes usually mean "rejection" while a large envelope or packet usually signifies "acceptance", but I still wasn't sure. But I understood: he wanted to be the one to see if it was a rejection, not someone else.

Well, he didn't come home, but he did eventually call, to which I told him that, yes, it was a small envelope but I still had a good feeling about it; the words I could make out didn't sound like one on a rejection letter. So -- with his permission -- I opened his mail.

ACCEPTED!

Then I proceeded to lose my mind with excitement. All of Jon's hard work had paid off. We finally knew where we were going to be living come fall of this year. We finally had been set on course with a plan.

It felt so good, and still does.

Today, Jon mailed in his acceptance of their offer for admission into a two-year M.A. program for Film Studies at Dodge College of Film and Media Arts at Chapman University in Orange, California. It is the college where my sister received her undergraduate degree in Film Studies and Screenwriting, and it is the program we felt was most in alignment with Jon's interests in film genre and history, as well as a great start to his plan on becoming a university professor.

We could not be more thrilled or more relieved, and I'm actually looking forward to exploring a new place and being around friends I've hardly had the chance to see over the last several years. And, after eight years, I'll finally be living within 1 1/2 hours of my sister. 

Now, onto the next challenge: Finding an apartment in Southern California on a single-income/student budget. Luckily, though, we have a little bit of time to relax.

A Homemade Life — Molly Wizenberg

Molly Wizenberg's blog, Orangette, is my favorite on the internet. She is my favorite writer writing online today. She is also co-owner of one of my favorite restaurants. This is probably the dozenth time I've mentioned her over the last five years. All that said, I'm embarrassed to admit that I've only just this recently finished reading her first book, A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table.

I didn't even buy the book with my own money, you guys; I received it at Christmas from my dear friend, Kait, who devoured it on her trip to Belize in November. Despite two straight years of walking past its seemingly-permanent home on the pretty cookbook table at Elliott Bay Books  (near the café, in the back!) and thinking, It really would be cheaper for me to buy it on Amazon... I still never followed through. I really am a terrible fan. And I'm ashamed.

All my personal guilt aside, let me tell you just two things, followed (naturally) by many other things:

1. Read this book.
2. Don't be afraid to buy it, from that local bookstore you like, at full price.

I'm drinking wine now, and it's late in the evening. I wish that I had some chocolate Winning Hearts and Winning Minds cake—a recipe that Molly shares at the end of her heartwarming book—to round out my Wednesday night. In addition to craving multiple sweet and savory recipes, her personal stories continue to linger in my mind, weeks later. They're told so naturally, it feels as though this is your closest friend telling you the story of their life on your back porch over grassy-green tea and lemon-laced cookies. The sun is just starting to set and there's a cool breeze. The dogs smell like dirt and a cat jumps lithely onto your lap.

She's a vivid storyteller, and it's easy to imagine the city of Paris, where she studied as a junior in college and experienced an entirely new culture of food; the expanse of Oklahoma, where she grew up with a father, Burg, who loved to experiment in the kitchen; the rainy grayness of Seattle, where she now lives with her husband, Brandon. But it's her descriptions of food that leave your mouth watering as if you can see, smell, and taste it as you read. She makes cabbage sound delicious—on two occasions!—which is a true testament.

The stories flow well and progress naturally into a corresponding recipe. It doesn't rush, and never feels forced. She shares things that surprised me; I know that sharing heartbreak and weaknesses can be difficult and frightening, especially when you know strangers will read. But for Molly, she weaves through events in her life without ever falling into melodrama, yet you're kept wanting to know more. Maybe that's why she's the #1 food blog on the internet.

People initially click on the link to her site for personalized recipes, like how to tweak Marion Cunningham's fresh ginger muffins just right, but they stay for the honest stories, kind disposition (so much as writing can convey a disposition), and stunning amateur photography. With the exception of the photographs (Molly, won't you please include personal photos in your next book? Pretty please?), you'll find the same in A Homemade Life.

Much of the book centers on her father, who died when she was in her mid-twenties of cancer. (If you've read her blog, ever, you know this. I swear I'm not ruining anything.) He's complicated and a true character, and it was difficult to read about her personal account of watching him die. It's possibly one of the most honest things I've ever read. Conversely, the portion of the book which documents her starting her blog, meeting her now-husband through said blog, and getting married makes what might seem like a simple and common life into something of a fairy tale.

It was a pleasure to read, and it will be a pleasure to read again. Oh, and cook from, of course. A few favorites from the book, now on my to-make list:

• Banana Bread with Chocolate and Crystallized Ginger
• Hoosier Pie
• Coconut Macaroons with Chocolate Ganache
• Bread Salad with Cherries, Arugula, and Goat Cheese
• Cream-Braised Green Cabbage
• Slow-Roasted Tomatoes with Coriander
• Butternut Soup with Pear, Cider, and Vanilla Bean
• Chana Masala
• Pickled Grapes with Cinnamon and Black Pepper
• Little Corn Cakes with Bacon, Tomato, and Avocado

I know. I'm hungry, too.

****/*****

Signs of Life

Look.

See that half-barrel? The one full of dirt? For the past month, that big bowl o' dirt has been my pride and joy.

Why, you ask?

Well, back in February, Jon and I took an afternoon to wander around my new favorite meditation zone: Alden Lane Nursery in Livermore, CA. Two of my poor houseplants (Charlotte and Diana) bit the big one, so I wanted to find a new plant or two to pot. Well, what was meant as an hour-long errand turned into several hours of us wandering around, imagining having a yard large enough to plant blueberry bushes, peach trees, and grape vines. We looked at fountains and grasses, and discussed just how easy it would be to grow our own herbs and peppers.

Then, as I passed a display full of dahlia bulbs, I couldn't help myself. I bought 4 bulbs and a barrel. OK, a half-barrel. And lots and lots of soil. I planted them the moment I got home, and I followed the instructions carefully. I've kept the soil moist and I (meaning Jon) moved the hefty load to where it could get the most sun during the day.

And then I waited. I checked every day, getting more and more worried that I'd planted them wrong. But last week -- guess what!

Signs of life. I am one happy clam.

Distractions

Lately, my work space has consisted of a cushy chair and a tray table in the corner of the family room, right up against the new media stand. With the office project going on upstairs, I've had to retreat to a less paint fume-y location.

The problem with not working in the office (which has a door) is that I'm distracted much easier. Always, always, always there are distractions, usually in the form of four-legged fur balls.




What jerks.

Great progress is being made upstairs (no more red walls!), but I haven't had much time to work up there because of my actual work. I had to travel to Scottsdale for my job, which meant two full days away from the project. Then my grandfather came to visit, along with my boyfriend's mom and step-dad, to see a community theater play that Jon and my mother are doing together. A great weekend, full of good company, good food, and good wine, but no time for painting or cleaning.

Also, my sister arrives here tomorrow. So much to do, so little time. But that doesn't mean I can't offer you a sneak peak.

Good-bye red walls...




Primer up! It was amazing how immediate the change was -- it was so bright! I almost didn't want to add the new color to the walls; it was so strange and wonderful how much light came into that room without dark red walls sucking everything up. But white walls aren't part of the plan, so before we could add colorful paint, the ceiling and 'closet' were next...




This lovely sand color is "Cattail" by Eddie Bauer for Vaspar. I actually managed to convince my mother that it wouldn't ruin her life to paint the ceiling something other than white. And how pretty will the ceiling look when we add crown molding?

Lots to do before then, though.

For now, here's a sneak peak of our new wall color. And my feet.

More soon. Stay tuned.


* Images property of People Just Float

Let's Begin

I have several running checklists right now. Books, home improvement projects, recipes, workouts, TV shows to catch up on, restaurants to eat at, cocktails to make, stuff to sell... I'm drowning in to-do lists and, to be honest, I kind of like it that way. I'm not the most organized  person, but making to-do lists puts my priorities in perspective, all while reminding me that my time is not best spent watching "House Hunters: International" again. My boyfriend would eagerly testify that despite any on-going checklists, there is still far too much HGTV being watched on a nightly basis.

But hey, I consider it ultimately productive.

One big project we have coming up this weekend is painting my father's office. Or, for the time being, my office (since I'm working at home). Painting is the first step to a complete overhaul. It's easy to see why when, up until about two weeks ago, it was looking like this:

Yep. Those are red walls. But what you sadly don't see here (since Jon tore them down the moment I gave him the go-ahead) were the half dozen or so movie posters for Academy Award-winning greats from 1996 to 2003. This even includes the 3 Lord of the Rings posters which, due to lack of wall space, were unceremoniously stapled to the ceiling.

Oh yeah. You read that right: stapled. To the ceiling. We were classy teenagers.

Now I know what you're thinking: But Stacy! This room looks like total horse turdies! How can you even bare to admit this room exists?

Good question, friend. You see, I'm working on being less of a perfectionist and control freak, which means I need to admit when (and be OK with) things not being exactly how I want them. Showing the pitiful beginnings of a project I've had brewing for years now is the first step to actually, you know... finishing said project. Every room re-do starts somewhere, and even though it pains me to show you this messy clutter bucket (not to mention my terrible photography skills), it's the first step to transforming what you see above into something more like this:

via Apartment Therapy

... or this:

via Design*Sponge

... and maybe a little of this:

via Vogue

Or, you know, I don't know. Maybe it won't look anything like that. We'll see. The possibilities are endless!

When my family moved to this house in 2003, this bedroom acted as my sister's and my movie and computer room. (Hence the ever-changing selection of posters.) It was dark, it was moody, it had a big cushy futon, and it was perfect for watching movies or playing video games late at night when my parents were asleep. However, when we went off to college, this room was never used. No one slept in it when we returned from school, and as my parents transitioned to using laptops instead of their desktop computer, this room became nothing more than a catch-all for boxes of old books, filing and storage cabinets, printers and shredders, and an "overflow" area for my dad's insanely large library (most of which lives in the garage).

Frankly, it's a clutter nightmare.

It took some convincing to get my parents to agree that investing actual money into making a nice office space would eventually be worth every penny. My mom, usually my accomplice in anything "decor" related, doesn't really use the space, so it wasn't high on her priority list of things to change. My dad, though, doesn't care about decorating at all, and wasn't quite convinced that, even if it were a really nice space, he'd ever really use it.

But they did finally agree, probably because I pointed out the fact that my father has taken over the dining room table and claimed it as his office with piles of paper.

So we did what anyone in our position would do: we bought paint. Buying paint is a commitment and it's a great excuse to gut a room of all the crap it's accumulated over the years. Both of my parents came with us to Lowe's and we scoured the paint chips. Amazingly, my dad and I agreed on a paint color, which is a good sign. He trusts me.

So that's this weekend. Step 1 in revamping my parent's house.

I can't wait to show you how it turns out.

Order, Balance, Dresses, and Me

The other night, it was the site of this side of my bedroom that calmed me down. The lines between the pictures, the white and purple, the soft pillows... I was upset, so I focused on the wall and what we'd done to decorate this little space with the few pieces we had unpacked. As it turns out, seeing something clean, organized, and balanced can actually bring my heart rate down. Who knew?

Maybe I should bring you up to speed on my current mindset. Last year, I wrote about motivation and weight loss, coming to the conclusion that I simply didn't have the answer to getting myself on track and in shape. Looking at photos of beautiful and fit women doesn't get me off the couch like it should, and knowing that next week's weigh-in could be another colossal disappointment doesn't make turning down those Tacos al Pastor any easier.

Up until this week, things haven't changed much. To be honest with you, it's been a rough couple of months.

Since my post last year, I've gained another 10 lbs. Actually, since I moved away from Seattle in November I've gained 10 lbs. A lot of it was the holidays; a lot might have to do with unknown medical issues that may or may not be affecting my metabolism. (Birth control, perhaps?) Stress could also be a factor. What this means, though, is that whatever the factor has left me feeling deflated, frustrated, and helpless.

Naturally, finding motivation from those feelings is difficult, if not impossible.

So I asked myself again: What is the key? What is the thing that makes this lack of weight loss so hard to bear? It's not about finding a boyfriend (like it once was) or being physically weaker (if anything, my body is stronger) or seeing all those gorgeous ladies on Pinterest day-in and day-out. As these weeks since January 1st have passed with lots of work but nothing to show for it, my mood and patience has been tested.

I haven't been pleasant to be around. I pity my boyfriend and my family, often.

The other night, though, I had a breakthrough. It was a particularly terrible night, and Jon was doing his best to make me feel better, to no avail. I didn't know what to do, and I didn't know how to make losing weight work for me without spending hundreds of dollars on dietitians and personal trainers (not an option). Atkins was a total bust (3 weeks with zero results = ridiculous) and another 3 weeks on Weight Watchers proved to be a bit too lenient to get myself motivated and my metabolism boosted. And Medifast, while a sure-fire success option, is so strict and so unappetizing that I wasn't sure I'd be able to succeed like I did in college when I dropped from 183 lbs. to 154 lbs. in the course of just a few months.

So I panicked. In a big and scary way. This anxiety attack was so severe that I nearly passed out, and the panic came and went, then came and went again and again for hours. And it was during this midnight panic that I stared at my bedroom wall, calmed myself down, and came to this realization:

The memory of myself, 4 years ago, is my motivation. The memory of how good I felt is what will -- what must -- inspire me to change. The memory of once having control means it's possible to find it again.

It was clear to me that this memory is what was causing me so much pain. It wasn't other skinny girls, or seeing friends lose weight successfully when I couldn't. It was remembering how hard I worked, how happy I was, and how good I looked that made my rise back to 185 lbs. so unbearable.

It hasn't been about being "fat" (I'm not) or being "ugly" (I'm not that either) -- even though, in my less refined moments, it is what I think. What it came down to was disappointment in myself. I knew better. I have known the right ways to eat, the right ways to indulge, the right ways to move to the groove and stay active. I know how to cook healthy food.

Four years ago, I loved the person I became. The girl who spent the month of January reading 11 books, writing a one-act play that was then produced, and losing 20 lbs. to boot! The girl who spent spring 2008 walking everywhere, being productive, shopping for jeans and dresses with confidence, and indulging while always staying in control. Since then, I've lost her and that loss has been the most unbearable part of this weight gain. I've lost that control and that balance. It made me strong. Losing it has made me weak and that is, now, totally unacceptable.

So that's it. That's my motivation to get back to work and make the sacrifices I need to make. I want to see that person again, and feel how I once did: productive, happy, and in control of my body.

I want to fit into the sparkly and girly motivation dress I bought from Free People -- the one that is several sizes too small. The one that would have fit the girl from 4 years ago who worked so hard to get where she was. I want to fit into all the dresses, jeans, and jackets that constantly remind me what a huge difference 25 lbs. can make.

That is worth more than slices of pizza, sugary cocktails, and Mexican food. I can find my way back to a healthy life.

I will.

I will, I will, I will.

When You Are Engulfed in Books

There's a stack of books on my bedside table nearly one foot high. When I look at them, my heart quickens a little. It's been a long time... a long, long time since I tackled a stack of books like that. Two or three books would be a worthy starting point, but I decided to start big.

Three weeks ago, I finished reading my first book since the middle of October. Prior to that, I hadn’t finished a book in over a year.

One. Year. No books.

I can’t explain it. All I can say is that there have been other things on my mind. Even when I did finish a book in the last three years, they were few and far between. Compare that with this time four years ago, when I actually read a whopping 11 books in the month of January alone. There were even reviews that I wrote and posted like an organized, responsible writer! I was on top of my literary growth senior year of college, and then things went downhill. I’ll chock it up to my post-grad aimlessness and “near poverty” status. I just couldn't find the interest or energy to finish anything I started.

And that goes beyond books. 

From Kaitlin

So while finishing something has proved difficult, starting a book is a regular occurrence for me; I feel like I’m always beginning a new one. (Probably because I'm always buying a new one. Chronic Book Buying = actual sickness.) The feeling of diving into a brand new story is unrivaled for me. In a way, it's like starting a new diet: Things go so well at the beginning, and it feels wonderful to be motivated. It's great to feel like I'm doing something healthy for myself. But then something happens that derails me, and there are some days or weeks where I just don't eat healthy anymore. And the longer I stay away from those smart choices, the harder it is to pick it up again.

The Girl Who Played With Fire

Now, though, I am engulfed in books. I have friends who are constantly reading, and it inspires me. I feel good when I read, and I like feeling good. I like learning new things. I like feeling challenged.

And with a dad like mine, with his breadth of literary knowledge and library of enlightening classics and non-fiction masterpieces, I don't have an excuse.

My father's book with Doris Kearns Goodwin's autograph. A gift from my mother.

This is my promise to take advantage of every opportunity to let myself be engulfed, enraptured, and entranced by new stories and histories. I promise to spend less time watching "House Hunters International" and "Property Brothers" and "Diners, Drive-ins & Dives" and instead loose myself in Krakauer or Ishiguro or Larsson.

Variety is key.

Been sitting on my bedside table for far too long.

I think of books the way I think of movies: there are so few atrocious and unbearable ones—relative to the number of enjoyable ones, that is. And even when they are atrocious, they can still be fun and worth the read. There is no "right way" to write a story, which is why I love to read a little bit of everything. Biography, teen fiction, modern award winners, memoirs, classics, trashy romance... It keeps me on my toes. Life is too short to stick to one genre or style of writing, and I'm simply not smart enough to stick exclusively with Dickens, though I'm sure my dad would suggest I try my damnedest. 

Are any of you chronic book buyers like I am? Do you read books often and easily, or do you feel like you're always flaking on your own promise to read more? Oh, and because I think recommendations can't be beat...

What books top your list of favorites? Which ones are "must reads" for fun / enlightenment / knowledge / romance / whatever else you find awesome?

Simply put: I can't get enough right now. Help a girl out. I have an addiction to feed.


* Images property of People Just Float

When a Baby Meets the Sea

I'm in love with a baby. Really. He's not even mine, but I love him so much I could just smoosh his face all day forever. It's like when I see how cute my dogs and cat are -- but friends, he is not a dog or cat, he is a baby. A human baby with human tendencies and a brain that learns things and a mouth that says words in English and two legs that work [almost] just like mine do to get from one place to another.

I'm in awe of my nephew, Henry, like he's the first baby I have ever seen. I look at him and I'm amazed. Even after a year, I am amazed that he is a person who breathes and laughs and moves and thinks.

I am amazed that he is the creation of the love my two best friends share. They're in him -- his fingers, his ears, his squinty grin. When I'm with them, I admit, I will just sit and stare and can't believe he was grown in my friend Cassie's belly. Like a vegetable, only not. But kind of.

It's weird.

Sometimes I laugh at the level of awe I feel, as though I've just found out babies aren't delivered by storks.

In all honesty, this amazement with life stops me in my tracks quite often. Life is amazing; it is incredible that we are here, and even more incredible that we can communicate with one another the way we do, and feel what we feel -- good and bad; that we can live in peace with animals, who are also miraculously here, astounds me even still. That we eat food, which also grows or lives and comes from nothing, but now nourishes us.

To quote Louis C.K.: "I'm still amazed at the shit in my life."

So many people my age have babies now (thanks to Facebook, it's easy to keep track). I knew babies growing up. I was a baby at some point forever ago. But with Henry, it's different. He's the first of his kind:

Babies that actually mean something to me.

I've spent very little time with babies -- or kids, even. Growing up, my friends would always babysit, and were easy-going around babies; it was 2nd nature to them, and they were naturals by the time they reached adulthood. But me? I'm pretty sure I didn't change a diaper until I was in my early-20's, and even then, I was scared to death. And grossed out.

Babies were not my jam.

But Henry and his growth is a learning experience for me, and I don't take the opportunity lightly. His milestones excite me, his joys make me squeal, and his cries challenge me.



So when I was invited to join Matt and Cassie in Half Moon Bay at Poplar Beach for Henry's first visit with the ocean, I couldn't pass it up.

And something strange happened.

It was as though I was seeing the ocean for the first time, too. Watching a young child look at the ocean and feel sand/salt water against his feet without really understanding what it all means, where it all comes from made me think...



... just how grateful I really am. Oh, how long I've taken the ocean for granted! It has been my neighbor for my entire life and seeing the wonder/confusion/excitement in Henry's eyes reminded me that it truly is spectacular.

Can I ever really appreciate it, though, being as used to it as I am?

It reminds me of a line from one of my favorite movies, The Legend of 1900. The main character, 1900, grew up on a ship and has never stepped foot on land; the ocean is his home. He sees thousands of people a year stand in awe of and communicating with the ocean, yet he cannot.

"It's like a big scream, telling you that life is immense. Once you've finally heard it, then you really know what you have to do to go on living. I can't stay here forever. The ocean would never tell me a thing. But if I get off, live on land for a couple of years, then I'll be normal, just like the others. And then maybe one day, I'll make it to the coast, look up, see the ocean, and hear it's scream."



I can never really know what it's like to see the ocean for the first time. In some ways, I envy adults who get to experience that. Perhaps they've lived in the Mid-West their entire lives and seeing the vast, open sea is the event of a lifetime. Sounds, smells, air they've never experienced. Unrivaled.

Imagine that.

Experiencing the beach with Henry was meditative for all of us. We've all grown up here, a mere hour from this place. Henry will, too. He'll never remember what it's like to see the ocean for the first time; his summers and friend's birthdays will be spent splashing in its waves and building castles in its sands. The roar of the waves will be familiar and friendly, not foreign and frightening.

He won't remember his first time, but we will.




* Images property of Stacy, The Sleepy Peach

Adventures in Building: Herringbone Daybed

I built something. Back in December. Wood and nails and glue and paint came together to make something that's actually functional. Oh, and it looks good too.

When I visited my sister in LA, I insisted we spend one day with her former college roommate and my new building soul mate, Shane, who just-so-happens to provide the delicious designs and furniture plans for her Web site, Old Paint Design.

On this lovely Sunday, Kim and Shane's husband, Brad, drank wine and relaxed with puppies by the fire. Shane and I built this daybed.

Ever since discovering Ana White over a year ago, I talked about building something -- anything -- once I had the space to work. If only I had the tools, if only I had an open garage, I kept thinking. But now, with Shane's enthusiasm and offer to let me join her anytime for building, I have no more excuses.

(For the full plans, head over to Shane's site to see how the Stacy Daybed came together. To read about my experience, well... stay where you are.)

When Jon and I returned to California from Seattle, we moved our 650 sq. ft. apartment into my parent's house. This included our bed, dressers, couch, television stand, and much more. They gave us free reign to create our own "home" with the space we were given. (I'm almost certain we have more space in my parent's house than we did in our little apartment, which is pretty significant.)

As our stuff moved in, much of what was already there had to be moved around. Our queen bed replaced a full bed and the full bed had to be moved to the guest room, replacing two twin beds. Without a room for the twin beds, I suggested moving them to the living room, where my parents had just gotten rid of an old set of couches and were not quite ready to replace them. I insisted that with a little love, and a hefty sprinkling of pillows, they would work great as make-shift couches. "Daybeds are perfectly sensible furniture, mom. Trust me."

Reluctantly, my skeptical mother agreed.

With that, I promised to build her a daybed. I consulted with Shane, originally saying I need two frames (turns out, one was enough for the space), and we looked through multiple options on Ana's site, including this one and this one. Finally, we settled on a marriage of that last daybed and a herringbone design of Shane's creation.

This was my first building project, and I can tell you right now: it was way too hard for a first-timer like me. Even Shane, a seasoned pro, found the angled herringbone cuts difficult to get perfect. Had we been able to build for one full weekend, or even two, it may not have seemed so hard, but one day was all we had. So we barreled on through; we couldn't afford to second guess our building choices.

Despite the challenge, I had the most fun building with Shane in her workshop. I was nervous about picking up tools after so long, but I was pleasantly surprised to find myself adapting without a problem. Measuring each piece, using a circular saw, learning how to use a drill press... it was easy, and within an hour, I was moving around this project like it was my 10th build. I soaked up everything Shane had to teach me.

And it's true: the kreg jig is as amazing as everyone says.

After working all day, and the bed finally built, we did our best to sand, prime, and paint as much as we could. But this bed was a beast, and it still needed to be dismantled, shoved into my car, transported to Santa Barbara and then finally back to the Bay Area. A handful of empty spray paint cans later, I realized the rest would have to be completed once I returned home.

With no functional work space in the garage, blustery winds in the backyard, and a full-time job to attend to, it took me two weeks to re-sand, re-paint and re-built the daybed. It must have taken 10 cans of spray paint to get full coverage, with the wind blowing a little bit away with every squirt.

Just in time for Christmas, and before the cold rolled in, it was finished.

My first building project.

I'm simply thrilled.

More importantly, though:

My parents seem thrilled too.


* Images property of People Just Float and Old Paint Design

More

"Jeffrey was fed up" by Marc Johns

I don't know how I feel about New Year's resolutions. Every year, I make one or six and I'm motivated... at the beginning. I plan everything; I eat better, move better, get more things done. By February or March, things teeter off and I'm lucky if I've kept any weight off or finished a single one of the 5 books I started. It always makes me nervous going into another year of resolutions, knowing how easily I lose sight of what I want. Yet despite having broken so many promises to myself over the years, I always try again.

But that's necessary, right?

This time, though, I think I will be less specific. Specificity is maybe the key to my failure. Sure, I want to lose 40 lbs (an absolute necessity after this gluttonous holiday season -- 20 lbs gained.... seriously), but that kind of resolution doesn't do anything for improvement of life; it's just a number. Plus, if I don't meet that exact goal, I'll feel as though I failed. Then what?

Making major improvements to my life is all I really want for myself, and what this year will be about. So with this list, I hope to guide myself into a 2012 full of health, happiness, productivity, and fun. This means focusing on the positive things, and doing more of them, and putting less energy into all of the negative things that get me down come December.

Stacy's 2012 Enrichment Goals

More walking with my dogs
More vegetables / water / tea
More experimenting in the kitchen
More reading
More writing / blog posts
More crafts / home improvement projects / building
More organization
More investing in beautiful clothing
More letter writing
More date nights
More early mornings
More gardening
More traveling
More museums
More money saved
More photography
More friends and family
More balance

So far, I've started my "diet" and am down a few pounds in just two days. (Seriously, people, it got bad this holiday season for me and my relationship with carbs. The temporary restraining order was necessary.) But I still have lots of changes to make in order to get out of my post-move funk, and it'll require a lot of inner motivation. Plus, working from home means there's always work I could be doing, which means my brain is always flipped to "work mode"... even when I'm not. This means getting more done during the day and leaving less to do in the evening.

Staying productive while being surrounded by distraction is still a learning process for me.

With that, I bid adieu to 2011 -- a year that was so good to me and proved to be a learning process beyond anything I could have imagined. Here's hoping that 2012 is a year of growth, love, and adventure!

::clink!::