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Earlier this week, I went to the Habitat for Humanity ReStore after reading about it on a design blog. I heard that they stocked a variety of items that people chuck when remodeling their homes, so I wanted to see for myself. My goal was to find an inexpensive piece of furniture I wouldn’t mind ruining before I slopped paint on what I already own. I found a hideously stained coffee table, but it had decent lines and was made of solid wood. And at twenty-five bucks, the price was right. I was willing to take the loss, but I figured on the off chance that this worked, I could use this table instead of
waiting for Pottery Barn to finally, finally restock the Carolina Blue one I’d been saving for/lusting after.

With Martha on the radio, I travel to buy the paint, double-checking that the lid is on tightly before I drive home. As anal as Fletch is about not eating in the car, I can’t imagine his reaction if I accidentally dumped a hundred and fifty square feet of paint all over it.

I bring my supplies down to the basement, which, to this point, has been entirely Fletch’s domain. He’s nice enough to set me up with my own workbench, yet not so benevolent that he doesn’t immediately begin to second-guess the process.

“Why aren’t you sanding?” he asks, hovering behind me like he’s my boss and I’m a ditzy teenager on my first day behind the register at Dairy Queen.

“Because I don’t have to, according to the label.”

“That doesn’t sound right. You’re not priming, either? The paint’s never going to stick.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it will. The paint’s supposed to be miraculous. Look, it says right here, ‘It’s paint for girls but boys can use it, too.’ I realize that sounds sexist, but I don’t care if it means I can avoid the boring, labor-intensive parts.” After a vigorous shaking, I pry open the lid. The color is that perfect bluish-purple of the sky on a cloudless July day. I brush on a section and step back, already delighted with the results.

“You should really try to paint with the grain,” he says.

“The instructions say it’s fine to go in all directions,” I reply. “If you had your way, you’d spend six incredibly exacting weeks to do what Annie Sloan promises will take an afternoon.”

“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 assume is an affirmation. As he walks away, I opt to play some music to muffle 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 shift 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 basement 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 basement, 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 basement, 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 mass-produced at places like Pottery Barn. With some digging, I can find solid cherry or mahogany furnishing 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 basement 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.

11.

I
TALIAN FOR
D
OUCHE
B
AGS

“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 damn 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.”