Dear James

Dear James,

It's time for our relationship to end. It has been nothing but unpleasant for me.

You probably don't have any idea that I exist, but I know a lot about you. And so far, none of it is good. Our most recent encounter was yesterday at Discount Tire when the man who was helping me typed my phone number into the computer and said "James?". No. James hasn't had this phone number for over three years.

We are like Doris Day and Rock Hudson in Pillow Talk, except you're probably not that good looking, this isn't a party line, and I'm not going to vengefully decorate your bachelor pad. Never mind, this is nothing like Pillow Talk.

Our relationship exists solely because of a shared phone number. You had the phone number I now own until sometime before I picked it up that fateful October day in 2010 at the AT&T store. At the time, I was an eager college graduate starting her first big girl job and buying her first smart phone. 

My whole life was ahead of me, but three-plus years of phone calls from angry debt collectors have left me jaded. I don't know how you got yourself into this mess, but you owe a lot of people all across the nation a lot of money. I'm sure that is a stressful thing to have following you around, so you skipped town and disconnected your number, never thinking about the stranger who would field these ire-filled phone calls for years to come.

"Hi, James?"
"No, this isn't his number anymore."
"I need his new number. That ********** took $50K from me and never built anything."
"I'm sorry. I have no idea who James is. I picked this number up from the phone company in 2010."
"Just tell me where I can find him."
"I don't know where to find him. I've never met him."
"Then why do you have his phone?"
"I don't have his phone. I have the number he disconnected sometime before October of 2010."
"I don't know why you're trying to protect him. He's a con artist."

You see, I feel bad for these victims. Your selfishness, or maybe really terrible math skills, left them with a debt problem of their own. $50K?! That's a lot of money to have disappear. I'd be upset if you conned me out of $50. 

About a year after that October day that forever changed my life, I got a call from a 10-year-old boy with a rural Mississippi area code.

"Hello?"
"Hi."
"Who is this?"
"Who is this?"
"Meredith...you called me."
"Meredith Jones?" (I don't remember the last name he said..)
"No, Meredith Collier."
"Oh."
"I think you have the wrong number."
"Oh. OK."

He called back two times before I answered again.

"Hey...you still have the wrong number."
"No...there's a bike in our garage with this number written on it."
"Oh. Do you know a James McGilicuddy?" (Last name changed to protect the innocent family of the not-innocent con man.)
"Yeah. He lives across the street."
"This used to be his number, so I guess that's his bike."

Maybe the boy told you that I knew your full name, and maybe it made you realize that your past was following me. Maybe you're slowly paying back the debt you created. Maybe you're continuing your con game in rural Mississippi.

There are a lot of maybes in our relationship, James, but I know one thing for sure. This needs to end.

It's not me, James. It's you.



Meredith

Full of Thanks

I just realized it's been two months since my last post. I guess when you write for a living, you don't tend to write when you get home, too. Do ENTs perform tonsillectomies when they leave work? Bad example..

But what better way to get back to it than to list what I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving! Well, most of what I'm thankful for. I'll spare my three faithful readers the full list that includes glitter, comfortable sweats, excellent nail polish top coats, and dental floss. 

Thanksgiving is a little different this year. I had the big feast with some coworkers/friends last night and am spending today decorating for Christmas and doing laundry before leaving for Missouri with the football team tomorrow.  

This is how I used to do Thanksgiving: Big meal in the "Rock House" with my dad's side of the family before the annual Collier Cousin Pageant. It's a good thing that none of us went into show biz. And two days later, we would go to the biggest block party America has never seen: Christmas in Comfort. With funnel cakes and a nighttime parade and carols in the town square, it's just as awesome as it sounds. Here's a photo of me and my cousins Sophie and Jessica at Christmas in Comfort in 1994 or so. How California is Sophie in those white boots?!

Here's what I'm thankful for this year:

[My family] I have two parents who have stuck together through good and bad, richer or poorer, Texas and the ghetto of the Florida everglades. They love each other and still have enough love to spread to the rest of us. My dad can become anyone's best friend if you give him a few minutes in any public place. My mom loves dancing to 60s and 70s music and exercising (sometimes simultaneously) and is a better decorator than every magazine that ends in "Living".

I have a gorgeous older sister who designs beautiful, functional, energy-efficient spaces AND she knows all the words to several dozen children's books, voices and all. I'm pretty lucky to have a best friend who shares my genes and loves me for who I am.

I have a brother who pledged his service to our country at age 18, has been on two deployments, and is now a Captain who trains other Marine Corps officers. Even with all of this, he thinks he's just an ordinary guy and would be embarrassed to see that I'm bragging about him. Good thing the Marines aren't known for reading girly blogs. 

I have a brother-in-law who is by far the quietest member of our family, but accepts us just the same. He loves hunting and fishing and playing with my niece, and works harder than anyone I know. 

And last, but certainly not least, I have the cutest niece in the world. She's a few days shy of 18-months-old and nothing makes me happier than the fact that she knows my name and asks for me on a regular basis. She knows all of her animals and has a fabulous wardrobe.

[My Job] Sometimes I forget to remember how great my job is. Without making my coworkers vomit, I'd just like to say that I have a great boss and great coworkers who are also my friends. Sometimes they even adopt me for holidays. Tear tear, I love y'all. 

[My Friends] I'm so thankful for all of the friends I've been blessed with, and have recently discovered that the best friends are people you would have thought were mean in middle school. They're not afraid to tell you that yellow shirts make your skin look green, or that they're not coming to your movie night because they don't feel like putting on pants. So while they may be brutally honest, they are also your friend because they like you, not because you're a convenient doormat. 

[My Country] While we're eating turkey and dressing, complaining about having to wear pants with zippers, there are Americans on the other side of the world wearing flak jackets and eating food that is made to mysteriously not parish after a year in the desert. And they chose to do that.

Since by now y'all are just reading the bolded words, here's the rest of the list

My cozy house
Piranha Fitness
Christmastime
Netflix
Shoes
A warm bed
Dancing
Sunshine
Milk
Chapstick that moisturizes and adds color
90s hip hop
Musicals
Lululemon pants
Texas

If you're wondering how I left my Lord and Savior off of this list, you've read it all wrong. None of this life would exist without Him, and He taught me to be thankful. 

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.

Can you read this?

Can you read this? 

Babushka (I think)

I hope so. I hope that someone took the time to teach you how to read, write, speak and understand English (assuming you're in a predominantly English-speaking country). 

I spent this morning at a local church, helping teach ESL (English as a Second Language) classes. I taught people who can't understand the dominant language of the country in which they live. Can you imagine moving to a place where everyone speaks a different language than you, where you couldn't even ask for help in the most basic way? My friend and student worker, Abby, and I talked about what it would be like to move to Russia. We discovered that we know exactly five words: da, Babushka, vodka, czar and niet. And I probably spelled all of those wrong. So basically I could (in very broken Russian) get drunk with a dictator-like grandma. [Or at least I think that's what those words mean.] So you can see how crucial a class like ESL can be to someone in that exact same boat.

But this class taught me something, too. 

I learned that English is a strange and illogical language...Teach:taught, reach:reached? Who decided on that? And why are some letters silent when put with other letters, but not all the time? One of our vocabulary words was knife. The woman who had that flashcard nailed it, but I'm sure it wasn't her first time seeing that one. And how do you explain the difference in the th sound in this and the th sound in Meredith? Neither of those sounds exist in Spanish - which is the native language of everyone in my group.

My new - and extremely brave - friend, Jessica, told me about this class that is put on through the Bryan Public Library. She leads a group, but was unable to make it today because of conflicts at work, so she shoved me in the deep end let me take over her group. Being the wuss that I am, I brought my security blanket Abby along.

From 10-noon each Saturday, about 12 groups of students - separated by proficiency level - meet in a small auditorium. Today we started off as a large group singing and doing hand motions to "If You're Happy and You Know It" and "This Little Light of Mine". It seems silly, but that's exactly how I began learning Spanish. At first I just belted out random sounds from the privacy of my own car, and eventually I would be able to pick out words and phrases that I had learned in my Spanish class.

Luckily, a very nice woman named Meg let us (Abby and I) bring our group to join hers. Both of our groups were at the beginner level. Meg had planned a great lesson full of activities. We took statemements containing the "to be" verb and rearranged the words to turn them into questions. I was grateful to know some Spanish and to be able to translate where needed, until I remembered that in Spanish, a question and statement are the same sentence, just with different punctuation. [For example, in English: You are hungry./Are you hungry?; in Spanish: Tienes hambre./Tienes hambre?]

Needless to say, it was a difficult yet rewarding two hours. I was helping someone understand the world around them. I only hope that these students feel like they're getting somewhere on their way to truly understanding and being able to read/write English.

Learning another language is one of the accomplishments I'm the most proud of, and I was fortunate enough to dedicate eight years of formal education to it. And I am thrilled to be able to return the favor, even in a small way. 

The most rewarding part of the day was at the end when one of the men from the group came up to us and asked if there were more classes available. He said two hours, once a week, wasn't enough for him. [I agree. Five days per week was barely enough for me to learn Spanish...and that was with trained educators.] I promised him that I would contact the Bryan Library and see if we can add another class a couple of nights per week. 

I'm so excited to start paying it forward and to actually be able to use my Spanish. And I'm so thankful for all of my past Spanish teachers, for the incredible gift they've given me

Muchisisisímas gracias.

The Five People You Meet in [Thomas Park]

Like I said in my first post, I used to be a lifeguard. Since I never had to actually save a human life, lifeguarding meant that I got really good at observing people from behind my cheap sunglasses. Sometimes I made up stories about what their lives were like, and sometimes they told me about their lives firsthand got close enough for me to eavesdrop. [Don't worry, Red Cross, I was constantly scanning while spying on these innocent patrons.] 

I still can't figure out why I haven't been approached by the CIA with a very exciting job offer. Instead, I use my observant talents on the fair people of Thomas Park, or the Tom Parkers as I like to call them. 

Thomas Park is a scenic little area - about a mile in circumference - where I like to get some fresh air and exercise. It has everything an American park could need, except for a hotdog vendor and a cotton candy machine. I guess it's more of a European park or something, since it's all fitness-based activities and no junk food stands. TP has a swimming pool, two playground areas, basketball courts, tennis courts, pull-up bars, sidewalks and open fields. And a lot of interesting people. 

Just kidding ... this is Central Park.

These are the five people you'll meet at Thomas Park:

1...The Camp Counselor

The camp counselor can be seen in his or her natural habitat at the park, because the camp counselor thrives in the great outdoors...or the local park if no mountains are near. The camp counselor wears Chacos, Keens, Tivas, Toms, or Vans knock-offs. The male camp counselor likely sports a beard of biblical proportions and is probably sitting in the grass playing Chris Tomlin songs on his guitar. The female camp counselor swings in a woven hammock from a large oak tree, meditating on scripture whilst listening to male camp counselor's guitar playing. Sometimes the pair can be seen playing ultimate Frisbee in an open field.

I don't really fit into this category, but after two summers at a Christian youth camp, I am good friends with lots of these lovable hipsters.

2...The International Family

Since Thomas Park is in a college town, lots of international students partake in its humble splendor. Many of these students are from east Asia, the Middle East and India, and in Thomas Park they travel in adorable little families. Since a lot of the international students are getting their PhDs, and a little older than most college students, the ones that frequent Thomas Park have little kids who love to squeal on the playground equipment and swim at the pool when it's open.

I also don't fit into this category, though a little girl from one of these families once offered me a Cheeto. 

3...The Soccer Aficionado

On any given weeknight, in the largest field TP has to offer, you can find the soccer club. The soccer club is a group of guys in their 20s and 30s who meet at the park to prep for the World Cup. I've never figured out how they know who is on whose team since they are all wearing different pro teams' uniforms. Though none of them match each other, the soccer aficionados are always dressed to the nines. If one of them is wearing a Brasil jersey, he's wearing Brasil's colors on his shorts and socks, too. The soccer club is the also largest supporter of the hair gel aisle at HEB. I've learned that the amount of hair gel on a soccer player is directly related to his talent. The firmer/shinier/flashier the hair, the more goals he's going to score. Similarly, the defenders and goalies don't wear hair gel, because they're the blue-collared boys. 

I'm not part of this group either, but I know most of these guys by sight now. I even know what car some of them drive. [I never said I wasn't a creep.]

4...The True Athlete

The True Athlete can be seen running circuits on the tracks, doing suicide sprints on the basketball courts, and doing lunges across the large field. The True Athlete is also the only Tom Parker who uses the pull-up bars for actual strength exercises, and not just for leaning against while flirting with a prancing coed. The True Athlete's goal is the perfect physique, but he picks up a lot of stares, breaks a lot of hearts, and makes a lot of people suddenly self-aware along the way.

As much as I would love to think that I belong in this category, it just isn't even close to true. I do, however, fantasize about becoming one of these the most.

5...The Average Joe/Jane

The Average Joe or Jane can be a myriad of people. It can be a sorority girl who walks with a friend in a date party t-shirt and then calls it a month on the exercise front. It can be a mom who faithfully pushes a stroller around the track every morning. It can be the man who walks with a full cup of coffee in one hand and the leashes of five different dogs in the other. It can be the unicyclist in the bucket hat. It can be the woman who dreams of training for a half marathon, but is going to go for a 5K for now. It can be the awkwardly unathletic guy who plays pickup basketball with his flip flop-wearing friends. Or it can be a girl in her 20s who listens to oldies, reggaeton, Destiny's Child and Christmas music while silently judging everyone around her during her cardio routine. 

In case you didn't catch it, I'm part of this group. Namely, the last person listed. Consider yourself warned: I'm like the one-man neighborhood watch at Thomas Park.

Which one are you??

Weekend Wonderings

I have a lot of internal conversation with myself, and I almost never know the answers to my questions. So I'm going to ask them here. Maybe y'all can tell me the answers. 

                                                              Who decided to invent mascara?
I'm not complaining. My eyelashes are whiter than Doris Day in south Detroit. Without mascara I look like I've contracted the flu AND mono at the same time. But who thought it was a good idea to pick up a can of black shoe polish and brush it on their eyelashes? What was the thought process there? "This stuff will either blind me for life, or look really good until I start crying. I'll try it!"

Why do people give side-hugs?

I'm definitely complaining here. A hug is meant to show someone your love for them, not to make them feel like maybe they forgot to put deodorant on that morning. Any time someone gives me a side hug, visions of limp handshakes and Josh Duggar's proposal flash through my mind. If you side-hug me, I will turn you around and make you do it right.  And if you side-hug me after proposing, I will give the ring back.


What does a bearcat sound like?
A&M is playing the Sam Houston State Bearkats tomorrow and I realized earlier this week that I have no idea what a bearc/kat sounds like. Technically, there is no such thing as a bearKat, so they can sound like whatever they want to sound like. But a bearCat is a real animal. The little guy on the left is kind of cute, so he probably sounds like me squealing and trying to tickle his belly.

Love and Asian Jasmine

Were you expecting a sneak peek of Nicholas Sparks' next novel?

It's actually the love story between my gardener and me. OK, I don't really have a gardener. I just like saying that because it makes me feel like Katherine Hepburn in Philadelphia Story - lazing on a chaise lounge with a mint julep in hand. 

He's really one of the landscapers who works on the common grounds of my neighborhood and we're not in love. I don't even know his name. I'll call him Johann. (I'm also fairly certain he isn't German/Austrian/any kind of European.)

In my neighborhood, each house is within courtyard walls. I have a carport and a gate that both lead to my front door. It's my job to keep my carport clean and the plants within my courtyard alive and beautiful. (I'm terrible at the alive part.)

Every Monday, a landscaping crew comes to our little neighborhood and does some upkeep on the parts of the neighborhood that don't fall under the "within the courtyard walls" category. Johann is part of that crew. 

I usually see him blowing leaves off of the cul-de-sac as I leave for work. One day a couple of months ago, he even cleared my driveway and carport of debris after a storm. 

Well, I guess you could say things are getting serious because today I opened my front door to find that not only was my entire courtyard leaf-free (it was completely covered last night), the Asian Jasmine that had begun its slow takeover of my patio was trimmed back perfectly to the edge of the sidewalk. And there was Johann, just outside my courtyard wall, slowly blowing leaves off of the street in front of my house.

This is Asian Jasmine. It's a type of ground cover that covers ground pretty quickly.

That is love. Being paid to only maintain the common grounds, but clearing a stranger's courtyard in 95-degree heat just because it needed done.

Lately I've been growing more-and-more impatient now that the students are back in town and traffic has increased tenfold. Johann's selfless gift this morning made me think about my actions and my words. 

Maybe these people I'm being short with have something else going on in their lives. Maybe it's a freshman who just stopped at a green light because he's trying to find his class. Maybe he's just left his parents for the first time and is afraid to admit that he feels like he's in over his head. 

Maybe that woman who just cut in front of me at HEB is about to send her first child off to kindergarten and she's too overwhelmed with emotion to notice what's going on around her. 

Maybe the house with the unruly Asian Jasmine belongs to someone who hasn't had time to really notice that it needed trimming. 

The beginning of fall seems to be a stressful, busy time for everyone. This year, I'm going to try to be a little more like Johann.

Help me I'm poor..

I'm not really poor. I just love that part in Bridesmaids. Kristen Wiig is a comedic genius.

I'm not poor, but I AM on a strict budget. "Yeah, yeah we're all on a budget," you say. No - I'm really on a budget. I'm on the type of budget where you cringe when people ask you to go out to eat...where you want to throw a fit in the ground beef section of HEB because a pound of hamburger meat is $3 and you were hoping it was fifty cents...the kind of budget that makes you wonder which of your organs are actually vital, and how much you could get for the non-vital ones. I'm fresh-out-of-college-and-recovering-from-shopaholism poor. 

It's true - I'm a recovering shopaholic. I'm the girl with a walk-in closet overflowing with clothes that I never really loved and never really looked great on me...plus there are four Rubbermaid bins full in the hall closet. Luckily, I was taught at a very young age that credit cards are the worst kind of addictive drug, so instead of going into debt, I just lived beyond my means and scrambled to make ends meet at the end of the month. 

And now I'm paying for it. (No pun intended.) I'm growing up and realizing what's worth it and what's not. I really want to travel and see the world, but I can't afford a trip to London with my friend Allison AND a new wardrobe every season, so I'm learning to compromise. Texas doesn't have seasons anyway. My 4-year-old pea coat will do just fine for those 10 cold days - good thing I bought a classic one!

When I look back at my New Year's resolutions, they all come down to one thing: growing up. Living life the way it was meant to be lived, and not the way People Magazine tells me it could be lived. I'm not a reality show star, so I need to stop living like it! (Those people all go bankrupt at least once anyway.)

Here are some steps I've taken to grow up financially:

• Get rid of cable. It sounds crazy, I know. How will I know what happens between the Gorgas and the Giudices on Real Housewives of New Jersey?! What will become of the relationship between Kris Jenner and her kids on Keeping up with the Kardashians?! (Don't act like you don't have embarrassing shows you love.) The truth is, I was just wasting time - I don't care to keep up with the Kardashians. And when I do, there's always the Internet and hysterical recaps by Ashley at Pink, Blonde, Texas. And the Giudices are one of those bankrupt reality families, according to People Mag. For the rest, I have Netflix and a lot of really good books.
• Save for what you need and then see what you want. This one sounds so elementary when I type it, but I was in the habit of buying the five pairs of new heels that I've worn maybe once and THEN worrying about how to pay the electricity bill. Now, I have a strict budget set aside for the necessities (tithe, bills, rent, car payment, car insurance, etc.) and anything extra at the end of the month goes into savings and a travel fund. That way when the time comes for the big London trip, I won't have to worry about how poor it's going to make me. 
• Budget groceries. You know what's hard? Being on a grocery budget AND trying to eat healthy AND being allergic to everything. I would love to live off of 10 cent peanut butter sandwiches, but that probably wouldn't be healthy and I can't eat gluten. How much does your milk cost? $2? $3 for a gallon? Mine is $6. So grocery shopping on a budget is a real challenge for me. I go to the store with a list of 15 things and sometimes I only leave with five of them. I have to prioritize. I have to find food that will go a long way. I can't buy bleu cheese and whatever specialty nuts I want anymore. But it's possible and it's kind of fun. (So if you see me at HEB with a confused look on my face, I'm not lost. I'm trying to do math in my head.)
• Use cash. Dave Ramsey says this all the time. Buy with cash. I withdraw $50 per week to be used on gas and groceries. (Yes, total.) It's a lot harder for me to overspend when I can look in my wallet and see how much I actually have left to spend. 
• Plan. Think about what you have coming up! Does your oil need changed soon? Do you have a long drive in the near future that will require a lot of gas money? Are there birthdays or special events in the next month? Most gift-giving events aren't a surprise. I've already done most of my Christmas shopping for my family and now I won't have one huge bill in December. Space your buying out over the year. The same goes for meals and clothing. Will you need a dress for a friend's wedding in three months? Start looking now - chances are you'll be less likely to make an impulse buy on an ugly, overpriced taffeta sack if you know you have plenty of time to find something better.
• Get creative. My parents gave me a sewing machine for my birthday last year and I'm finally getting acquainted with it. I've already done some hunting for discount fabrics and am planning some custom pieces that will combine my love of fashion with my slim clothing budget. Creativity can also help my cashflow in the kitchen. It's a new challenge to concoct something from what is already in my fridge and pantry.

I'm part of what I call the "complaineration": a generation of whiners.  So rather than join the masses who bemoan their situation, their jobs, their coworkers, etc., I'm going to rejoice in my blessings and take on (and defeat!) the challenge that my hardships bring. It's time to grow up.

One girl's medieval is another girl's treasure

I'm a rescuer by nature. I was always the kid who brought home stray kittens, and I was a lifeguard in high school. Actually, I once brought home a box of kittens from my job as a lifeguard, but that's a story for another day. 

This time, I rescued chairs. Not just any chairs. I rescued what were arguably the Collier family's worst heirlooms: the faded, cheesy "throne chairs" from Oma and Opa's house in San Antonio. 

Aren't they just fit for a (has-been) queen?!

I'm not sure where these fairytale beasts came from, though we think they were purchased when my grandparents still lived in Alvin. Of course when I was little, I thought they were magical, velvet-covered (it's probably velour) status symbols that proved that somewhere in the Collier line was royal blood. (There isn't, unless you include my sister's and my reign as Comfort, Texas, royalty on the town court...)

So when my Oma had passed away and it was time for my Opa to move out of their house several years ago, our family went through their belongings to decide what went where. Oma's China and several pieces of furniture were divvied up between the three kids and their offspring, but nobody wanted the throne chairs. When my mom told me that they were going to the neighbors or Salvation Army, I convinced her that a little elbow grease, some paint and some new fabric could take the thrones from the girl at the beginning of She's All That to the girl at the end of She's All That. (Seriously though, how did Freddie Prinze, Jr. NOT see that she just needed to lose the glasses and get a haircut?) It should be noted that I never would have made that suggestion were I not the daughter of an interior-decorating genius. 

So off went the throne chairs to live in my parents' storage unit for about six years. Originally, there were going to go in my parents' new house, but these babies are giant, solid works of art that need their own special place. Also, my mom is a chair hoarder so it was just overkill.

The decision was made a few months ago that the medieval monsters would take another trip, this time south to my house. They again sat in a storage shed while my mom and I plotted and planned and mustered the courage to get the party started. We wanted to paint them white or off-white, and recover them in a navy or coral-colored, textured animal print. Alas, none was to be found, so we decided to go with a white, distressed look on the wood and this blue cabana stripe on the cushions, along with a blue ticking, to give the feel of a Nantucket cottage. 





BUT THEN my crafty cousin Kelly over at Life in the Middle sent me a photo of some dusty blue leopard print from Fabric.com. That fabric was too muted for what we were looking for, but it inspired us to look at something a little more funky. After all, I'm 25 and single and one day I will be married to someone who will channel Kelly's husband, Kevin, in asking me why I "can't just buy a stripe".

After a little perusing, my mom discovered this fabulous, bright, salmon-colored flamingo print.

(This photo makes the color look much more orange than it truly is. The photos of the finished product are better representations.)

It made me want to sing Copa Cabana at the top of my lungs, so it was the obvious, adult choice. Six yards of flamingo fabric were ordered and there was no turning back. 

Manu Ginobili wasn't impressed with my find, but she's a cat and I don't care what she thinks.

 

Apparently the gimp was originally the same color as the fabric, but had faded to a cream color except where covered by nailhead trim. I got to work ripping the old, shedding "velvet" off of the chairs ... I'm sure I'll be vacuuming red fuzz for months ... and discovered a lovely padding substance that reminded me of a mangy sheep underneath. When I peeled that back, I was expecting to see a thin piece of wood that formed the back of the chair, but it was actually burlap.

When all of the fabric was gone, I started taking staples out with needle-nose pliers. Let's just say I couldn't make a fist for a few days when that was done, and my right forearm has taken up Popeye proportions. 

Then the brains of the operation (Mama Collier) stepped in to finish the job. Over the course of a couple of weeks, we finished these suckers.

Some of the decorations on the arm rests had come off, so we popped the rest off with a screwdriver and sanded the chairs down. Then they got a thorough wiping with a damp cloth and were ready to paint.

Before and after a coat of white spray paint.

After painting the chairs white, we rubbed them back with a soft sandpaper to make them less stark. Most of my furniture is a little distressed. After sanding, we wiped them clean again and clear-coated them. 

The guest room became Mama C's workshop, where she used her magical powers to create templates and patterns. She also used a staple gun and air compressor to affix the fabric to the base of the chair after a layer of batting was added on. (I was in my air-conditioned office most of this time. Did I mention I'm the youngest child?) 

Mama C would like to let everyone know that despite her extreme natural ability as an interior decorator, she does not want to help you with your projects.

A few layers of batting on the front and back of the chair backs were glued on before the fabric was pinned in place and stapled around the edges. (The fabric is also not hot pink, as shown in this photo.)

When it came time to add the gimp, the white trim looked too sparkly like a little girl's room. Mama C tried to return it to the fabric store but they wouldn't give her even a partial refund (on 40 feet of gimp!!) because she had cut a small area off where the trim was stretched. So like a true mastermind, she dyed it in a pot of tea. I kid you not. Mama C went Little House on the Prairie on that gimp. (Fun fact: Mama C and I both pronounce gimp "giyump", but say limp and pimp like normal human beings. Also, Mama C wants to know why I would ever say "pimp". She needs to get with the times..."cool beans" is out, "pimp" and "swag" are in.)

The original cushions were actually in pretty good shape and just needed some extra batting, so while Mama C sewed the flamingo fabric into a box cushion, I fattened up the old seats. As you can see from these photos, I was a little over zealous, but the cushions will even out and flatten down after a little use.

My other jobs were to glue on the freshly-dyed gimp and tack on the nailhead trim. I obviously got the easiest tasks in this project. Again: youngest child, talented Mama, lucky me.




The finished product turned out better than I could have imagined. I'm so excited to show off my "new" chairs this fall! And I can't wait to pass them down to my kids - they're already three generations old and sturdy as can be! I won't be offended when they hate the flamingos and want to change the fabric.

The rest of the family abdicated, so we're claiming our thrones! (Mama C always dresses to match her furniture...and yes - I'm really wearing my Miss Comfort Princess sash.)

Mama C in all her color-coordinated glory. I'm so lucky to be your daughter!!

 

Papa C was thrilled to be included in the photo shoot. Aren't my parents precious?! (Mama C wants to point out that since she's wearing the tiara, she's obviously the one in power...which makes Papa C Prince Phillip.)

These former eyesores look perfect in their new spot in the world.

Photobomb! Manu approves.

Here are some parting shots...

 Before...

 ...and after!

 It's good to be queen.