A Hot Glue Gun Mess Read online

  Dedication

  This book contains personal, inspiring, sad, weird, crazy, downright mad, and hilarious stories that I’ve mined from my crazy-ass life that will make you LOL and PEE (as in urinate in your pants) in a good way, and show you that your next creative project can be sparked from any life experience. I’ve burned myself with a glue gun so many fucking times I’ve lost count . . . of my scars. Do these projects without fear. Failure is totally an option and it might happen, but it could also be an epically beautiful failure. Dare to surprise yourself. Dare to delight in yourself—because, why not!

  Epigraph

  I think one of the most important things following your blog has done for me is help me to embrace the moment and free my spirit. I am very Type A, and I need a reminder every once in a while that it sometimes takes making a mess to create something beautiful.

  —comment posted on the Mr. Kate blog

  Contents

  Dedication

  Warning: This Is Not a Normal Craft Book

  Epigraph

  Introduction: Mr. Kate?

  1. Cult of the Carbohydrate DIY Mercury Glass Coffee Table

  2. Hooker with a Head of Gold DIY Beachy Waves Spray

  3. It Smells Like Raisins DIY Watercolor Curtains

  4. Party Shoes DIY Metal-Embellished Shoes—Two Ways

  5. Lady Humpalot DIY Royal Animal Rings

  6. Soul Mates on Movie Sets DIY Cupid’s Arrows Jewelry Box

  7. Prelude to the Prepubescent DIY Ironic Art

  8. Tom Hanks Is My Boyfriend DIY Crushed Velvet Pillows

  9. Teenage Saint DIY Chain Headpiece

  10. A Hole in One DIY Ping-Pong Marquee Letters

  11. Make-Believe Bullies DIY Pretty and Prickly Cactus

  12. Pomegranates and Porn DIY Pom-Pom Chair

  13. A Tribe Called Tampon DIY Cruelty-Free Feather Crown

  14. A Bunk Built for Two DIY Bow Heels

  15. Open Casket Crazy DIY Sandpaper Art

  16. PB&J on a Yacht DIY Peekaboo Sweatshirt

  17. I Used to Babysit My Stepmom DIY Beyond Nude Nail Art—Two Ways

  18. Vintage Fantasy DIY Big and Beautiful Hair

  19. Playing Doctor DIY Jean Butt Clutch

  20. Julia Caesar DIY Wire Scroll Jewelry

  21. Cocaine on the Carpet DIY Bold Brows

  22. The Kindergarten’s on Fire! DIY Burnt Paper Art

  23. Meeting Leo DIY Dalmatian-Print Nails

  24. Wash Down Your Lipitor with a Doughnut DIY Soda Bottle–Stamped Pants

  25. I Went to Hogwarts DIY Found Objects Headboard

  26. A Belly Full of Lip Balm DIY Lip Balm Locket

  27. Lesbi Honest DIY Faux Bob Hairdo

  28. Chiffon Saved My Life DIY Ruffled Chiffon Purse

  29. Keeping Up with the Kardashians DIY Horseshoe Necklace

  30. Pack Your Bags and Weave DIY Braid Crown

  31. Hell in Paradise DIY Basket Canopy

  32. Santa’s on Retainer DIY Barrette Epaulettes

  33. Millionaire Motel DIY Mosaic Lamp

  34. My Big Gay Family DIY Faux Bois

  35. Fairy Freak-Out DIY Gold Fairy-Dust Eye Makeup

  36. Two Boy-Banders and a Bimbo DIY Bleached Feather-Print Scarf

  37. Sloppy Sashimi DIY Cracked-Marble Tray

  38. House Prom DIY Constellation Lanterns

  39. My Mom the Manatee DIY Easy Makeup Contouring

  40. Poop in the Bathtub DIY Pre-Poo Spray

  41. My Grandma the Bitch DIY Granny Chic Doily Skirt

  42. Billionaire Bust DIY Malachite Dresser

  43. Killing Ghosts with Blow-Dryers DIY Fighting Time Wall Clock

  44. Cleansing Bachelorettes DIY Vintage Rhinestone Body Chain

  45. Aunt Cray-Cray DIY Chain Dress and Back That Bow Up Sweater

  46. Therapy in the City DIY Gold Gecko Shoes

  47. One Flew into the Cuckoo’s Nest DIY Deconstructed Cuckoo Clock

  48. Earthquakes and Breast Buds DIY Crystal-Inlaid Side Table

  49. I Barf on Vacation DIY Exotic Head Wrap

  50. Get Me to the Court on Time DIY No-Sew Tutu

  Resources

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  INTRODUCTION: MR. KATE?

  My name is Kate, I go by Mr. Kate. And no, I don’t have a penis.

  Supposedly I didn’t cry when I was born. My mom claims I just felt the air with my tiny hands, wiggling them in this new weird world. That was on June 4, 1983, and by now I’ve gotten my hands into a whole lot of weirdness.

  I’ve built a successful lifestyle and design business around the name Mr. Kate, where I inspire people to think outside the box and create our own unique identities through style and design. I think traditions that don’t sit well with you should be challenged and redefined to fit your lifestyle. “Because that’s how it’s done” doesn’t fly with me. . . . I like to do it myself, and I apply that philosophy to everything.

  The personalities who formed and nurtured me were my oddball, down-to-earth mother, who can make anything from a hand-sewn gown to custom furniture and is more into flannel than diamonds; my grandmother, a champion thrift-store shopper; and my father, who grew his career from struggling comedian to one of the most powerful people in Hollywood. The by-product of his success—money—became the gas that fueled a wildfire of craziness in my childhood, but amid the dysfunction of Hollywood, I’ve managed to separate myself from the penis cars and facelifts to define my own wacky life.

  Vintage found objects—my passion—and my own artwork decorate my walls, and my love of thrift stores and DIY projects helps fill my closet. I have a laugh- and love-filled relationship with my former boy-bander, hot-ass soul mate and business partner, Joey. My life is by no means perfect and it’s often messy, but armed with a glue gun, it’s uniquely mine.

  My yins and yangs are humor and intense ambition, prettiness and roughness, weird and real, rhinestones and dirt, feminine and masculine, Mr. and Kate.

  Come with me on a romp through life’s follies while wearing fabulous shoes, and celebrate your inner weirdness. Not the bad kind of weirdness—the best kind! The kind that makes you giggle with joy or take in a quick breath of delight. The feeling you get when you put together an outfit that makes you feel so “you” or see a room design that makes you gasp with wonder and say, “I want to live there!” It’s about making and doing and cultivating your artistic expression inspired by the beautiful details in this outlandish thing we call life.

  Because . . . #WhyNot.

  Chapter 1

  CULT OF THE CARBOHYDRATE

  Around the age of fifteen, my tummy had gone from prepubescent flat to looking like it had the slightest layer of padding, filling me out a nearly imperceptible amount. I showed my mom my stomach. “I feel like I might be getting fat,” I informed her, looking in the mirror and evaluating myself.

  She waved off my concern. “It’s adipose tissue,” she assured me, always a vocabulary snob. “Everyone stores a little extra fat after puberty. It’s normal!”

  “Normal” was becoming a foreign concept within our household, with my parents’ marriage hitting rock bottom. Our home life was tense, and I was always put in the middle of their arguments. I was like Switzerland, although my new post-puberty chunk was making me feel like the entire European continent. My parents would communicate to me and through me, but not to each other.

  “You can eat all the bacon you want,” my dad said, explaining the Atkins diet to me. “Carbohydrates are the real demon!”

  In the midst of a midlife crisis, my dad had doubled down on his efforts to get rid of his slight paunch of a belly by ex
ercising aggressively and increasing his intake of red meat. He held his wife and teenage daughter to his new standards of fitness.

  “So you only eat meat?” I asked my dad, suddenly starting to analyze my teenage eating habits, which were whole and balanced, thanks to my mom’s healthy home-cooked meals. But I guess the carbohydrate doesn’t fall far from the tree, because his intensity and focus made sense to me, and I was entranced.

  “Not just meat—you can eat dairy and vegetables,” my dad said, apparently wanting a partner in this diet adventure he was about to tear his canines into.

  “What’s wrong with bread and fruit?” I asked, aghast. “No pasta?”

  “Nope.” He shook his head resolutely. “They all make you fat.”

  With that one remark, I joined the ranks of other tortured souls on this lifelong, miserable path that is being obsessed with what you eat. I became consumed with counting carbohydrates, eating bacon, and, in general, not eating.

  My new diet consisted of:

  Breakfast: Black coffee and bacon

  Mid-morning snack: Diet Coke

  Lunch: A couple of bites of chicken breast and more Diet Coke

  Afternoon snack: Coffee

  Dinner: A few bites of steak and a tiny salad (no dressing!)

  Late night snack: A spoonful of sugar-free Cool Whip

  My mom was beside herself, furious that my dad had usurped her and was now dictating my eating plan.

  “You’re losing your cute butt,” she said, analyzing my quickly shrinking frame after I had declined her offer of brown rice stir-fry, which I used to love. “Your cheeks look gaunt,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t get obsessed, Kate!”

  Too late. I was the thinnest I’d been in my teenage years, and my dad kept telling me I looked “great!”

  Ironically, I had done an oral report on eating disorders in the eighth grade and had visited a treatment clinic to interview one of the counselors. I was actually very well informed about what I was doing psychologically with my “Miraculous Disappearance of Kate” project. I knew that I had become obsessed with food and my appearance in the mirror because they were the only things I could control in my crumbling family life. I knew this, but it didn’t make me stop.

  The annoying thing about not eating is, you get hungry.

  My severe calorie restriction worked for a couple of months, and then I started binge eating. I would not eat all day and then come home and have an entire tub of Cool Whip up in my room, or my favorite, decaf coffee with whole milk and dark chocolate Milano cookies.

  One night, I drank five cups of coffee and ate two entire bags of Milano cookies. I felt so bad about myself that I decided I had to barf it up. I remembered my research for my oral report; I’d learned that some girls gagged themselves with their toothbrush to make themselves throw up.

  I went into my bathroom and tried jamming my giant Sonicare electric toothbrush down my throat. It didn’t work. My throat was raw. Then I remembered that some bulimic girls used laxatives instead of making themselves throw up. This sounded way better to me than barfing, so I rooted through the medicine cabinet in my parents’ bathroom and found a bottle of Philips’ Milk of Magnesia. The dosage on the bottle was 1 to 3 teaspoons to relieve constipation, but I wanted extra-quick results, so I chugged half the bottle.

  What came next can only be described as hell. My tiny stomach, full of acidic coffee and sugary Milanos, was attacked by this milk of death. Rather than making me poo, it gave me the most intense cramps. I was doubled over in pain but couldn’t go to my mom because she’d demand to know how I’d gotten myself into this mess and blame it on my dad.

  That day, I learned that laxatives, taken in bulk swigs after eating two whole bags of Milano cookies, don’t make you poo—they make you throw up, violently.

  I guess I got what I’d hoped for, but the whole experience was beyond traumatizing, for me and my toothbrush. I started to cry, glaring at my tear-stained reflection in the mirror, and went to find the only person I thought I could confide in: my crabby grandma, who was visiting us at the time.

  I sat her down and confessed my sins. She patted me on the back, cussed out my parents for putting me through too much stress, and made me a comforting bowl of pasta.

  It took me a few years of fluctuating weight and weird eating before I decided to look in the mirror and get really real with myself.

  “Kate,” I said, staring at my naked reflection. “Pay attention! You’re not fat, you’re short. Boys tend to like you, but you don’t like yourself. Working out is good for you—it will save you from a heart attack later, so you should keep doing that—but this whole eating thing has to get under control. Stop obsessing, and please acknowledge that you’re not a supermodel and never will be. Your body wants to have some adipose tissue on your tummy and some cellulite on the backs of your upper thighs, and will never let go of that little bulge between your armpit and boob that puffs out just so when you’re wearing a tank top and bugs the shit out of you. This is your reality, now go love yourself.”

  Easier said than done, but currently I’m at ease with my body, I don’t eat bacon, and I can’t even look at a fucking Milano cookie.

  #WhyNot Stop judging your reflection in the mirror and instead eat off it. Put a pretty plate of hors d’oeuvres on your elegant DIY Mercury Glass Coffee Table.

  DIY Mercury Glass Coffee Table

  PREP IT

  Glass-topped coffee table (make sure the glass can be separated from the base)—I found mine at the thrift store

  Drop cloth

  3 cans Krylon Looking Glass spray paint

  Spray bottle, filled with half water and half white vinegar

  Paper towels

  DO IT!

  1. Remove the glass top from the coffee table. Lay the glass on the drop cloth with the underside facing up. Spray a layer of the Looking Glass paint evenly over the glass and let it dry (it will take only a few minutes).

  2. Spray the vinegar-and-water mixture over the spray-painted glass. Use a paper towel to blot and wipe up the drops of vinegar-water. Tip: When blotting, vary your rubbing pressure to leave more or less paint in areas for a natural look.

  3. Repeat steps 1 and 2 with multiple coats of spray paint and blotted vinegar water until you have your desired aged effect. I used five coats of spray paint.

  4. Flip your glass over and place it back on the table base so the painted area is on the underside. This will give it that mercury glass effect and protect your paint from wear and tear.

  DO IT Elsewhere! Create a mercury glass vase by using the same technique on the inside of a clear vase. Make sure the paint is fully cured before you add water for your flowers.

  Chapter 2

  HOOKER WITH A HEAD OF GOLD

  My early twenties were a mess. My best friend was a high-priced hooker. She was introduced to me as twenty-six-year-old Alex, who worked in fashion. I didn’t know her true profession until after our friendship ended years later, when I found out she also had a fake name and was six years older than she claimed. Alex was lovely—funny and charming, with a laid-back beauty—and we would laugh nonstop together.

  Alex had this amazing laugh—a loud and genuine cackle. It was the laugh of a girl who didn’t give a shit what people thought of her. Her signature look was her long blond hair, which she wore in messy, beachy waves. She drove a Mercedes and had a realistic-looking boob job and lithe friends, which should have raised a red flag to her actual profession, but to naive, twenty-year-old me, she was an intriguing and fantastic friend. At the time, I was acting (a.k.a. auditioning once in a while) and living in Los Angeles while also making my way through undergrad as a part-time film production student. My flexible schedule allowed me to accompany Alex, who split her time between New York and Chicago, on some of her various adventures around the country. She told me that her apartments, fancy cars, racks of designer clothes, and frequent stays at the Four Seasons were funded by an inheritance from her wealthy grandfather.
Being a well-off girl from the land of La La and subsidized children, I didn’t think twice. I was happy to eat lemon ricotta pancakes and indulge in the beautiful dream that was her life.

  My adventures with Alex brought me to places I’d never been before, like Mallorca, Spain, and the time we went to St. Thomas to celebrate my twenty-first birthday. One adventure found us in Arizona staying at Canyon Ranch, a health retreat where you take workout classes all day, eat vegetables, and wear your hair in messy buns. Alex and I took to bribing the waitstaff for larger portions and smuggling coveted oranges to our room for late-night bingeing (I know, it’s a sorry excuse for a late-night snack but when you’re starving in the desert, in a $1,000-per-night resort, shit is tough). Everything we did was hilarious; we could get the giggles anywhere, especially in an interpretive dance class taught by a man in a loincloth. Alex and I would laugh so hard we couldn’t look at each other for fear of a laugh-induced (and calorie-reduced) heart attack. (She also let me feel her saline boob implants, to see what they felt like—they felt pretty real, although I was dissuaded from getting my own by the odd ripples that appeared when she leaned forward—that, and the fact that I’m a pint-size human and adding to my body in any horizontal direction is a “no, thank you!”)