My Second Hand Life

’ve been ignoring this blog, much like many of my other blog children. I’ll try to remedy that now.

After consulting with some folks on a bicycle forum about painting metal, I came away with the idea that wet sanding was the way to go. Always before I was fine with spray, dry and spray again. I thought that wet sanding was for anal-retentive people who stayed up nights pondering if anal-retentive indeed had a hyphen. After seeing the results, I could be willing to stay up late consulting several dictionaries for an answer.

First comes prep, which a lot of people overlook in any sort of painting. But it’s far easier to waste some blue tape on masking off areas than it is to try and scrape or scrub overspray off something you don’t want coated.

Then comes primer.

At this point, I tried what is called wet sanding. Instead of simply using dry sandpaper, you spray a fine mist of water and then sand. The water and grit from the sandpaper makes a sort of slurry that doesn’t so much abrade the paint off as buff and polish it. You don’t use a very coarse grit (I used 400 grit wet-dry sandpaper, readily available from most hardware stores) and a superfine mist from a repurposed hair product bottle.

First coat.

Another sanding. I can’t describe how much better it feels after the paint has been sanded down and wiped dry. In terms of texture it’s the difference between feeling an orange skin and feeling a piece of polished marble. Both are relatively smooth, but the marble is a magnitude higher in smoothness.

I let the paint dry almost a week before putting a second coat on. I was warned by several people who used the wet sanding method that sanding too soon was almost as bad as not sanding at all. It lets the paint harden fully and is more willing to accept paint. Think of paint like bacon: fresh out of the package it’s soft and rubbery, but once it’s cooked (dried out) it becomes much more rigid and brittle.

The finish, even for a first time wet sanding attempt, is a huge leap from my previous attempts with a rattle can. The finish is buttery smooth and delightful to look at and touch.

One of my two crafty sisters now has the original upholstery and the new fabric (I won’t even begin to go into the debacle the fabric shopping was), so this project is on hold until I get that back.

Well, not entirely. The caster wheels are all but shredded and finding a suitable set of replacement wheels may cost me a small fortune. Hopefully, I can find a worthwhile and affordable solution.

unday. Somehow for me the very name of that day conjures up pancake breakfasts, reading the paper in bed, long lazy naps while sunlight streams through the windows of a beach cottage I cannot possibly afford. The reality is often rude awakenings, hastily prepared bagels, the mad rush to make it to church on time, the deflated sense that no matter how early you got up somehow half the day gets wasted before it even starts. Screw that, I thought. At least I’ll make some progress on this chair.

My basement shop leaves much to be desired (namely space, lighting, space, organization, and… oh, a little more space please), so the kitchen would have to do. It’s well lit, spacious and close to the food.

First task is removing the four screws holding the back support on.

Then, on to the three (one missing) bolts for the seat.

I made a point to label the top of the back support in case I forget and something doesn’t fit right.

When my kids were just babies, Gerber started putting their baby food into these awesome little containers. I salvaged dozens of them out of the recycling bin, washed them up and stored them away for later use.

They’re ideal for small projects like this. Easily identifiable, stackable and reuseable.

Minimalist chair or pricey sculpture? I’ll call MoMA tomorrow and see if they’re buying.

I removed the screw handle from beneath the chair (can’t stand looking at that naked bolt on the back of the seat).

Either I’ll use it on the back of the chair or find something that works better with the color scheme I/she want. Now, off to the hell that is… THE FABRIC STORE!

ast night was tough. We had just finished dinner when a vicious thunderstorm broke out. Hail pelted the house like someone had shot ice cubes out of a slingshot. Torrents of rain and heavy wind followed soon after. We got the kids into bed just in time to have the lights die, briefly return then power go out completely. This was the first time that the kids were without their nighttime music and lighting so it took them a while (and some of Samurai Mom’s cuddling) to finally get them asleep. Power returned about five hours later, so visions of cooking massive amounts of rapidly thawing food quickly dwindled.

Today broke bright and clear, the storm having done much to clear out the stifling humidity. I was temporarily banned from grocery shopping (apparently, I call too often to make sure I’m getting the right thing or bring home the wrong thing by not calling) so my plans were open. Then I say, let’s go thrifting!

First, a stop at DnD. Not a tradition, but we usually get something before we grocery shop and Little Miss Headstrong already had her day planned around a Boston Creme.

Behold the Captain America doughnut. It’s says everything about America: loaded with fat, dripping with sugar and only vaguely patriotic.

Dad fuel. Zombies cannot live on brains alone.

Now juiced up with the power of fried dough and coffee, off we went to the thrift store. Sadly, there is only one locally that is worthy of viewing (the other is closer, but about the size of a postage stamp and relies heavily on women’s clothing). They were having a sale on chairs out front which is both good and bad (and worse): good in that you can score some great deal on chairs, bad in that it makes parking a bear and worse because I don’t need any more chairs no matter how cool or cheap they are. I did a quick walk around and noted about a half dozen that I would like to have (if I had the warehouse space of say, Cari Cucksey or even Goldman Sachs). The store recently moved into a DIY furniture store and someone made sure that everything, everything, now had a place. The old shop was a smattering of this and that, roughly corralled onto whatever available surfaces were available. Now, neat shelves and aisles were clearly labeled and made shopping a breeze. I found a nice percolator coffee pot (hoping to recreate this lamp one day) but it was in working condition and at $6 was above my shopping limit. We looked at everything else and started walking outside when I noticed this chair in the sale crowd:

Kid sized and reeking of AWESOME!

I’ve got a kid sized roll top desk that this would go perfect with, so I’m off to finish the desk now…

ook the kids to an estate sale early on Saturday, but neglected to grab my camera. And I should have.

It was held in a large concrete garage with a loading ramp. The industrial windows were pitched open an large fans kept the room moderately comfortable. This left plenty of space for the finds: large, well organized collections of tools, furniture, cameras and even some toys. The original ad hooked me with the idea of getting a metal lathe and I fully expected to find nothing but old tool hounds there, but every kind of kicker, picker, hack and chiseler were there. Prices were reasonable to high with a lot of items untagged. The Little Miss wandered through the toy section with detached interest while Enormo the Man-Toddler hung off my arm and played shy. She tried to get me to buy one of the innumerable cameras for sale, but I had to explain that these were film cameras and could only take a few pictures before sending the film off to be developed. I don’t think any invention has spurred the instant gratification mentality quite like a digital camera.

What I did find was this:

A stamped metal tractor seat for a fiver. It was encased in fossilized grease (Purple Power to the rescue!) but it’s the final component I’ve been looking for in a long lingering project of mine (photos coming soon).

I’m new to the estate sale scene and decided to call the auctioneer running it shortly after I left the sale. Turns out the number went directly to the lady running the door, so I played dumb (an easy part for me) and claimed I couldn’t make it this weekend but what would happen to all the items if they didn’t sell. Between discussing prices with potential buyers, she told me to call today (Monday) and ask if what I was looking for was still there. Off to the phones!

like found objects. They’re better than yard or garage sale finds because, while you seek out that certain something at a sale, found objects find you. A tiny but very important difference, and not without it’s own brand of magic.

Found this little guy at my daughter’s first soccer game of the season. While I know there is fortune and fame to be made teasing away rock and dirt from real dinosaur bones, I have neither the knees nor the patience to sit in the heat of South Dakota armed only with a paintbrush. These are the kinds of dinos I like to find: small, rubbery and in shades that would make the dominatrix of domesticity, Martha Stewart, squeal like a schoolgirl in an Anne Geddes gallery.

A visit to the in-laws, anyone’s in-laws, is often a mix of emotions: frustration, confusion, and often a good case of indigestion. One universal saving grace with my in-laws is that they live in one of the few remaining towns where nearly anything can be put to the curb for trash day, no questions asked. Power tools? Take your pick. Furniture? By the score. Dead hooker in a fraternity carpet? As long as you leave a twenty for the trash man. These guys came off a tall shelf-slash-drawer combination with a bit of a midcentury modern vibe to it. My basement is full of half restored furniture relics from all ages and styles, so I couldn’t take the waterlogged beast home. The hardware would have to do. Most of the brass plating is gone, but I suspect they’ll look awesome after some time at the buffer.

They tore down a neighbor’s house this week. I had purchased some tools and a homemade metal tool box from the owner a year or two before. He and the house looked the same: old, thin, sagging, in desperate need of some much needed rehabilitation. Just before the demo squad came in, I noticed a lime green lump in the flower bed. Despite the dog chews on the handle, this is pure 70’s coolness. Very torn between keeping this around the house and selling it off.

This last bunch was from a yard sale find this morning. I haven’t had much luck with garage sales and their kin of late: often things are priced atmospherically high or someone is hoping to make a buck off of what amounts to kindling. But the sign was simple (‘Yard Sale’, a small arrow and ‘Today’ on orange poster board), the proprietor friendly and welcoming and all the items neat and well organized.

I’ve seen wire filing baskets like these go for astronomical prices on places like Etsy, but these will find far more utilitarian pursuits organizing parts and tools in my shop. If I get desperate, I may hawk them at inflated prices to a hipster looking for irony and a place to keep their Metrocard.

Nothing says awesome to me like a home built tool caddy. The hammer hits lovingly varnished over, the drill outs for screwdrivers, the worn smoothness of the handle. Again, this will not be on a shelf and admired like some abstract connection to my blue collar roots, this will likely be used and abused as it was intended to be.

The mark of a good yard sale? Something for the kiddies. My daughter seems to have an inordinate fascination with horses (and which one doesn’t?), so she let out an audible gasp when she spied this at the sale. I was not keen on loading her room with yet another tchotchke, but the seller gave me the Universal Wave of Just Take It. You can’t say no to the Universal Wave…