How to Hand Paint Wallpaper or DIY Mural Your Walls

I have a lot of bare walls since I just moved into a new house. They are crying out for paint and patterns so I got my paints out and started filling them up! I look up patterns and prints and pictures I like and then use those as my inspiration. Then I just start going for it. I will show you how it looks along the way- as you can see I make a LOT of changes as I go and I have a lot of fun too.

Okay, so this is the before:

There is this little hallway area between the kitchen and the bedrooms that has the cutest telephone table insert!

So first I painted the inside like a little painting with a black and white tree branch. And then did some flowers on the wall.

But the more I looked at it the more I hated it, so I painted over it! And started to do more flowers on the wall.

Then it was getting too dark so I added white…

But something about this was looking a little off even when I tried to jazz it up with some flowers.

So then I decided to make some purple and paint some big flowers and leaves all over.

 

And I painted over the insert yet again!

But even when I added some flowers to try and jazz it up…

Something just wasn’t right!

So I went to bed.

 

I started with pink on the wall next to the purple wall as an experiment.

Then I started adding some color…

But the pink didn’t really match the other wall so I painted the background purple-ish.

Then I outlined everything with a thin brush and some watery black paint.

So it looked pretty good but it didn’t match the other side really.

So… I decided to add some color!!!

And then I decided to fix up the color a bit and do all the rest of the walls.

 

 

And added a little more flair to the insert too 🙂

I still have to add some yellow but it’s mostly finished.

Then I noticed I could see the mural from the front door!! Don’t mind the chair, I was using that to stand on. 🙂

That made me so happy!!!

That Time When I Slept Through Disney World

Ah, the early ’90s. Best three years of my life. For those of you who don’t know me well, 1992 was the year I peaked. And in just a second you will see why. It had a little to do with my hair, and a lot to do with my attitude. Both were in full effect when my mom, my Gramma, my sister, Linda, and I all went to Florida 4 awesome days in 1992.

We had scored a trip to Orlando where I was competing in an Irish Step Dancing competition. (No big deal.) The trip was off to a spectacular start when we were so late to the airport the only seats left on the plane were in….FIRST CLASS!

Yes, we got to fly from Connecticut to Florida in FIRST CLASS. I don’t really remember this journey but I think we had ice cream on the plane.

Now, back to the best trip of our lives: Disney. I was in 8th grade and Linda was in 7th. It was always my dream to go to Disney even though I never saw any movies or shows and knew nothing about it. But I knew I was really lucky to be going there!

Hence my face in every photo taken on the trip.

I can honestly say, and Lin confirms, we had an extremely good time. The trip goes down as magical.

We loved waiting in line, we had so much fun meeting people and goofing around. And we laughed so much with our Gramma and our mom. But we were in middle school and well, we had to look cool at all times. Which of course meant a satin, bright orange scrunchy which by the way had zero elastic in it.

A friend titled this one, “Chillin’ at the guillotine” and that says it all. Please notice the knee pop.

We stayed so late at the park one night, there was no where to eat so we ended up at a waffle house on a dark stretch of highway. Long story short, we saw on the news the next day some bad stuff went down at that Waffle House later that evening! Boy were we lucky we didn’t stay for dessert, let’s just say that!

All in all, a fantastic trip and one of the best vacations I have ever been on. When Disney opens again I highly recommend the Hall of Presidents for a good nap.

 

 

 

 

The Night Shift

I climbed up the pile of milk crates carrying three boxes of Special K and placed them carefully on the top shelf.   All was quiet except for the Cranberries belting out their early 90s hit for the fifth time that night over the PA. My stomach grumbled, a loud indication lunchtime was around the corner.  I glanced at the clock next to the manager’s window up in the corner of the second level of the store. 3 o’clock. I hopped down off my milk crate tower and bounced down my cereal and peanut butter aisle.  

 

“Hey where you goin?  We’re not done!” Tom, an old-timer in short cut off jean shorts beckoned after me.  I pretended not to hear him and continued on my way to the canned meats aisle.

 

Passing pasta, international foods and baking needs, I finally made it to my destination: canned meats.  There I found my sister, knee-deep in a sea of canned tuna, price gun clasped in her little hand, sweat on her brow.

 

“I’m hungry,” I whined, hoping she would accompany me to the deli counter.

 

“It’s not break yet.  I still gotta finish these tunas.”  Her aisle mate, Clay, a large muscle-y man from the West Indies in a super tight white tank top shouted from the pigs feet.  “You want some chips, Mary?”

 

“I want lunch!”

 

I wandered to the dried fruits and stuck my hand in the bin, pulling out some apricots and mangos.  This was not satisfying my growling stomach. Then, like a God from the sky, manager Johnny’s voice boomed across the PA, interrupting the Cranberries. “Lunch.”

 

The motley crew of night employees shuffled to the deserted deli area, where a few subs were waiting for us.  We stuffed the salty, soggy meat subs into our traps and sat in silence. Slave, a young boy from Slovenia offered everyone a damaged bag of chocolate wafer cookies.  I cracked the dry chalky wafers one by one into my mouth where they disintegrated like dust.

 

I looked out the front glass window into the parking lot. The lot was empty, except for the employee cars all lined up one by one.  Lunchtime was over and I wanted to crawl in my car and go to sleep. But instead I climbed back on my milk crates and faced the Kix on the top shelf, looking out into the sea of nothingness that was Stop and Shop at 4am on a warm summer night on Cape Cod.  As I placed the last orange box in the row, I could see lights in the front window. Was that the moonlight or just the sunrise?

How Much Does a Toilet Cost Anyways

I had no business working in a home and auto store.  I knew nothing about home and even less about auto. Still, the store was hiring and I was applying so the match was made in heaven so to speak.  And by heaven I mean the Mountview Plaza.

 

The Plaza.  One stop a day was necessary when you were part of the Lawson family.  The one-level, open concept shopping plaza had it all, until it all went out of business.  There was Aames, Stop and Shop, the dollar store and of course TJ Maxx. There was Carvel, a Chinese restaurant and then there was the Home and Auto Store known ‘round the valley for its overwhelming smell of manure, spices and grease.  It was a perfect fit for me, a high school sophomore with a flair for style and love of community theater. I lived and breathed spark plugs, so they hired me on the spot.

 

There were two shifts at the store, ringing register or working the floor.  I dreaded both. Ringing register was stressful because all the math was done in your head and making change was not my strong suit.  Working the floor was even worse because people wanted to know where things were and how to use them and I knew zero about engines, gas lines and home improvement.

 

A strong man approached my register with a toilet in hand.  He placed the porcelain bowl on my counter and I looked at the price tag.  It read $10. So I rung up $10, took his money and sent him on his merry way.  I continued with my line ringing people up for their keys, xxl sweatshirts, potting soil, and drain fixture products.

 

At the end of the night, my boss came down to the floor and approached me at the register.  Something wasn’t adding up on the daily receipts and the inventory. He asked me point-blank if I sold a toilet for ten dollars.  

 

“if it says I did then I did.  The price tag said ten dollars.”

 

With that I was done for the day.  I walked to the back, punched out and went to Taco Bell for a Mexican Pizza.  I showed up the next day and was working the floor.

Things You Might Find While Cleaning Motel Rooms

The Orleans Holiday Motel was old-fashioned and well priced.  It had a large pool in the middle of a parking lot surrounded by a chain linked fence.  It had views of the parking lot and of the adjacent busy highway like road. But most importantly, it was in Cape Cod.

 

My sister and I needed work for the summer and we only had one car.  Any job we got had to hire us both and we had very little experience.  I had rung register at a hardware store and she had been a bank teller.  Together we made a dynamite housekeeping team.

As beginners we got stuck on the first floor cleaning rooms from 8-10am.  I did the bathrooms, she did the beds, we both cleaned the rest, aka sprayed down the whole room with air freshener.  

 

As the long hot summer wore on, we moved up in the world, literally to the top floor, the second floor.  There was no difference in rooms, just the fact you might now not get car exhaust billowing into your room.

 

We also had the treat of cleaning the family suite at the end of the corridor which included a kitchenette and the hopes of a big tip upwards of five dollars.  

 

The room was spacious with brick walls, one long thin horizontal window and two bedrooms, each with their own bathroom.  The kitchenette had a cooktop, a mini fridge and a camp-like sink. The perfect apartment-like setup for anyone willing to stay in a semi-clean spot near the beach.

 

With a kitchenette comes food, and with food comes leftovers, and with leftovers come interesting things left in strange places in the family suite. Dirty diaper in the fridge?  Yes. Steak dinner on the bed? Why not. Extra alcohol? We just went ahead and gave that to the long-term cleaning staff.

 

What we didn’t find in the room?  Tips.

How I learned my sister was afraid of Dogs

We pulled the camry up to a large white house on a private cul-de-sac in the ritzy part of Orleans, Cape Cod and I handed my sister a phone book from the back of the car.  

 

“I’ll keep the car running.”

 

She opened the door, jumped out and ran to the front door, her flip-flops clicking on the shells in the driveway.  I could see something moving in the bushes behind the deck alongside the house’s front porch so I put my foot on the gas.

 

A small terrier tore out from behind the house chasing my sister at full speed as she darted toward the car.  Her passenger side door still open, I started to drive away.

 

“Stop the car!”  She yelled, terrified of the little pooch clipping at her flops.

 

I hit the brakes and she jumped in.  The invisible fence stopped the pup in his own front yard.   As we delivered the rest of our telephone books, we heard him barking for the next ten houses.  My sister lost her trust in small creatures that day.

Why You Shouldn’t Smoke In The Trash Room

 

The super of my lower east side apartment was the type of guy who never let the cigarette leave his lips.  The unashed stick would flip and flop while he talked and follow him no matter where he went, whether smoking was allowed or not.  If he came in to fix the stove, my kitchen also had a drag. I knew if the drain was fixed in the bathroom because there were ashes in the sink.  

 

As a super the trash room was his domain.. well, his and the cockroaches and mice of course.  The trash room in this particular apartment I had with my sister in our early 20s was in the building on the first floor and always filled to the brim with overgrowing trash and recycling bags, and our super in there smoking.  

 

I first heard the sirens and then saw the fire engines approaching the building out my sister’s bedroom window, the only window in our two bedroom apartment that didn’t face a brick wall.  The other tenants were coming down the fire escape and telling us to get out, there was a fire in the building. I looked into the long apartment and saw smoke so I climbed out onto the fire escape.

 

The FDNY busted our door down and came marching in, I climbed back into the room.  “Why did you lock your door?” the fireman asked, annoyed. “I’m a new yorker!” I said back, equally annoyed.

 

There was a fire in the trash room and that was that.  No real damage, just the stairwell and then of course our door, which now we didn’t have.  And a nice smoky aroma in our apartment which stayed until we moved out.

 

My First Taste of Bouillabaisse

My First Taste of Bouillabaisse

 

The sweet taste of succulent shrimp.  The spicy aroma of old bay seasoning. Vine ripened tomatoes and sweet summer corn.  All these flavors combine elegantly and magically in a beautiful bouillabaisse. And what better way to experience such a seaside classic, than in an intimate setting, a party perhaps?

 

The chef spends all day letting the flavor complexities combine and simmer and then when the broth is ready and the scallops at the perfect softness, he presents his masterpiece.

 

Shall he serve it in a bread bowl?  In a dish made of china? Or how about in his dirty, old hand?

 

I looked up, my mouth full of seafood and tomato broth, most of which was now dripping down my tank top, and there was my sister, staring at me with disappointment.  “He’s the chef.” I said with eyes hoping for empathy. “It’s bouillabaisse.”

 

I had just eaten seafood from a stranger’s paw at a party. I couldn’t resist that aroma, and to be quite honest , this wasn’t the kind of party where spoons were readily available.  When a girl wants her shrimp, she’s gonna get her shrimp.

 

How I Learned to Make Iced Coffee

I wiped down my counter, staring out the plate glass window into the summer.  Cars filled with families wait at the traffic light outside debating to turn right into the National Seashore or turn left for a quick ice cream cone or lobster boat before they hit the waves.  Those who took a right, headed to one of the most glorious cliffside and dune shadowed beaches of the eastern seaboard. Those who turned left tumbled into a seaside bar and grill lost in time complete with outdated healthcode practices which I got a chance to view first hand when I was a waitress there on Cape Cod in the summer of 1998.

 

On a particularly steamy summer afternoon a particularly sweaty lady came in and asked for an iced coffee.  Now, this was long before there was a Starbucks on every corner and the Dunkin Donuts was a good two towns over.  The iced coffee rage of the early 2000s was still in the coolatta phase so serving coffee on ice was not on the summer drinks menu.  

 

It was my first week on the job and I was learning the ropes.  Luckily a ringer was on deck to show me the way to the complicated caffeine concoction.  He had been a waiter for many many summers prior and, though no longer employed at the establishment, was regularly just stopping by to hang out with the new string of summer time employees.  I appreciated his wisdom and was excited to see how to add ice to coffee.

 

“First you pour the hot coffee into this cup.”  He dumped the boiling hot broth into a large mug.

 

“Then fill this with ice.”  He leaned over the ice bin and filled up a paper cup.  The woman who ordered the drink, watching the whole time, I assumed was picking up tips so she could make this at home.

 

“Then you pour the coffee over the ice.”  He poured the mug of scalding hot coffee into the ice cup and the ice immediately melted.

 

“Then get another cup of ice.”  He filled up another paper cup of ice.  Now what happened next was what really separates this iced coffee from the rest.  

 

“Then you just do this, until it’s cold.”  He proceeded to pour the coffee from one cup to the next, through his fingers, over the ice.  Who needs a proper strainer when you have your own hand?

 

He then put some more ice in the paper cup and voila!  Just cold enough!

 

He looked at the woman who placed the order.

 

“Did you want milk and sugar?”

 

Today I’m Gonna Party Like it’s 1989!

It’s been a long time since we partied like it was 1999.  And when we actually did get around to partying in 1999 like it was 1999, it was kind of a letdown because of the end of world looming, or at least the bank not working ‘cuz of Y2k.  Does anyone even remember that?  The millennium was sooooo last decade.  Everyone knows the 90s are what is in style now.  So why not take two steps back like good ol’ Paula Abdul and M.C. Scat Cat and go all the way back to 1989?  It was a terrific year.  Am I right? What’s that?  You need a refresher course? Well, I’d be happy to take you on a guided tour.

We all wait in line for “Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing”. The only game we had

The Lawson household got an Apple Computer.  Here it is in all its glory.  And yes, here we are, my sister Linda and I with our friends lined up to use it.  Notice there is no chair at the table.  Nope.  No chair needed, my friends!  It is standing room only in this house!  Because your 2 minute turn at the computer will be so intense, you won’t even have time to sit!

My frizz almost does not fit in the photo

And don’t think I would have neglected to mention this little travesty of style.  Yes, 1989 also brought to the Lawson household a little thing I like to call “The Decade of the Home Perm”  My hair is as wide as it is long, and that ain’t natural.  Sidenote: That is Bullwinkle on Linda’s XL T-Shirt.  Obviously something my mom picked up for free from someone, as Linda hated both Bullwinkle and Uncle Joey’s impression on Full House.

On the very day of January 10th, 1989, I was in the 5th grade.  Ah, the times we had! Solar System, my first taste of graffiti and of course the time I peed my pantswhile wearingmy favorite outfit of all time…in class…did I mention it was a skirt?  This skirt.

My favorite bubble skirt ruined by urine

Good times.  No, great times.  But, I’m not here to talk about peeing the floor at age 11; no, I’m here to talk about one of the best parties I ever went to in the 5th grade.  That party happened to be at my house because…drum roll please…

  It was my very own Hawaiian Themed Birthday Party!  I will give you a moment to catch your breath.  I know, it’s a pretty “out there” concept for Naugatuck circa 1989.  Well, between my mom and my 3 sisters, the possibilities were endless!

As evidenced by these amazing images, all captured by what looks like some type of toy camera operated by our cat Mame, the party was a perfect combination of shoeless dancing and whining. Our outfits really were the cat’s pajamas.  Gotta give the credit to my sister Nad for the brilliance on that one.  Also I love that even though I am the birthday girl I still manage to have both an enormous hole and run in my tights.  I never really cared about the little stuff, like quality.

Hand made leis, leotards and fabric skirts.  So cute.  Even my friends who came in sweaters looked festive in their leis!  It was January after all.  And did I mention my dad insisted on NOT putting the heat on in our house? Why do you think there was so much dancing?  We were trying to keep warm!

The table setting would have made Martha Stewart envious.  Streamers, punch in a bowl, little pineapples and palm trees made out of construction paper?  I guess it comes as no surprise that my mom was a 1st grade teacher.  My sisters and I even made what at the time seemed like life-sized palm trees to put around the house.  I found one in the attic recently, it was about five inches high.  Hey, I had barely been to the other side of Naugatuck in 1989, what the heck did I know about Palm trees?

mmmmmmm….looks delicious!

The cake: a tour de force of confectionery pleasures.  In the shape of a pineapple and in the taste of a pineapple.  How did my motherdo it?  I may never know.

Back in 1989 they didn’t have such things as pineapple-shaped cake tins.  It was a sight to behold.  Unfortunately this crude photo, if you can even call it that, is the only remaining image of this magical sugary dream.  As you can see, Linda could barely contain her excitement as the candles were blown out.

Linda’s thinking, “When the heck is it MY birthday?”

What a way to spend a birthday! Partying the way the Lord intended us to!  In leotards and neon headbands, lip-syncing to Cyndi Lauper and probably ending the day in tears.   And maybe, if we’re lucky, peeing our pants in public.

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I’m 35 Today, but I’d Rather Be 12…Maybe

Today I turned 25.  I mean 35.

I know, I know.  It’s a really big deal.  Oh?  It’s not?  I’m just another member of the human race, lucky to be alive?  Okay then.  Glad we got that out of the way.  Do I still have to start using words like buns and fanny to describe men’s butts? Yes?  THANK GOD because I already started.

Ah, to be young again!  Like really young.  Like 12.

In 5th grade I had it all.

Killer style and a cutting edge haircut.  I mean what 5th grade girl had a modified mullet.

I had a party in the front AND the back. 

Terrific dining behavior:

A knowledge of the world that surpassed my peers:

And get this: FREE PIZZA HUT JUST FOR READING.

Best of all, I threw killer parties.  My famous “Inside Out ” Party.  Wow.  Can you imagine something as fun as wearing your clothes inside out and backwards in 1988?  TO A PARTY AT SOMEONE’S HOUSE??

And man was it a day to remember.  So much so that there are a total of 2- count them 2- photos to commemorate the event!  We were so crazy you guys.  We put cups on our mouths!! Can you believe us?

My mullet was growing out into a classy, yet still unattractive, middle part shag (notice my classy hands folded like a proper lady) and Lin’s boyish bob was growing out into a longer yet still boyish bob.  Side note: our turtle necks weren’t helping matters.

As I hit the early 90s I was on the cutting edge of all things pop culture.

My scrapbook proves it!  I will just show you a few pages and let them speak for themselves…

Yes, a scrapbook of 90210 and Ross Perot.  I was a very strange child. Maybe I don’t want to go back to being an early adolescent.  That was a weird time for everyone involved, let’s be honest.  From the mullet to the obsession with free Pizza Hut,  to say I was in a downward spiral would be an understatement.  I think I have a bit more clarity at 35.  At least now I can say that both Luke Perry AND Ross Perot have great buns.