I'm awake at 7am on a Saturday because my living room chairs are being delivered "bright and early," on the heels of my coffee table, end tables, and cute mini-dining room set. After these chairs arrive I will have acquired all essential furniture. Then I can start on phase two: storage of books and DVDs.
But during phase two I'll be considering...artwork. What to hang on my huge bare walls? I don't want to go and buy anonymous mass-produced prints simply because they're the right size and colour. I want to have things that MEAN something to me.
I'm looking forward to this puzzle, actually, because having something to hang above my couch isn't essential to my happiness, so it could take YEARS for me to find the right thing. Years of finally having a reason to buy the pieces produced by artist friends, I hope.
Oh, so many options!
Showing posts with label decorating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label decorating. Show all posts
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Monday, December 03, 2007
Active Weekend Reflection (NOT "Weekend Acid Reflux")
On Saturday my mother and I ventured out to buy me a Christmas tree. I'd hoped for something about five feet high, but fake trees apparently come in only two sizes: miniscule or enormous. Fortunately, "miniscule" plus "end table" equals "medium," and the darn thing even has tasteful white lights on it. Some pictures (and nostalgic reflections) soon!
That night, I slogged through the first half of the next "mini-drag show" video. The "Monkeys" video involved just three setups and five scenes; this one has eleven setups and twenty-six scenes, which is a bit much to squeeze between "getting into drag" and "going to the bar." Hopefully I can film the rest of the scenes next weekend.
To make the process more efficient and rewarding I've learned to repeat scenes several times and pick out the best version, reducing how often I need to jump up and down to turn the camera on and off. For that reason I have some pretty strange raw footage. Here's a brief snippet of a Saturday-night repetition, to confuse you, tantalize you, and to prove that I really AM doing something, even if it's creepy:
After that: Club Abstract for drinkin', dancin', and socializin'. Since we were effectively trapped in the bar due to a terrible snowstorm, many of the hornier patrons were palpably desperate, which was entertaining to watch. Best of all: meeting DJ Jeff, briefly back from Japan. Jeff was the "goth night" DJ for many years (long ago), and whenever I hear Front 242 I think of him. Love you, Jeff!
For a few relevant pictures (and a few more "Zsa Zsa Collector's Photos"), plus a shot from Guelph's "Kink 2" night, go to Flickr.
(For those concerned with my emotional wellbeing, you'll be happy to hear that I think my foundation issues are licked. I'm still working out how much powder I can get away with -- and as a result I look a bit spotty by 2am -- but it's all uphill from here).
Speaking of uphill at 2am: there were no cabs available when the bar let out (basically because there were no roads anymore). I stomped my way home through the frozen, blowing snow, buffeted by gusts and confined to the tire tracks of the few adventurous cars.
Far from being a chore, this was beautiful. No vehicles, nobody outside, no traffic rules. With the snow baffling all the sound, the only things I could hear were the trees bending over in the wind and my own crackling footsteps.
I took a video of my walk but you don't want to see it; it doesn't capture the spirit of the thing and you can mostly just hear me snorting back my cold-weather snot. Some things are best experienced first-hand.
That night, I slogged through the first half of the next "mini-drag show" video. The "Monkeys" video involved just three setups and five scenes; this one has eleven setups and twenty-six scenes, which is a bit much to squeeze between "getting into drag" and "going to the bar." Hopefully I can film the rest of the scenes next weekend.
To make the process more efficient and rewarding I've learned to repeat scenes several times and pick out the best version, reducing how often I need to jump up and down to turn the camera on and off. For that reason I have some pretty strange raw footage. Here's a brief snippet of a Saturday-night repetition, to confuse you, tantalize you, and to prove that I really AM doing something, even if it's creepy:
After that: Club Abstract for drinkin', dancin', and socializin'. Since we were effectively trapped in the bar due to a terrible snowstorm, many of the hornier patrons were palpably desperate, which was entertaining to watch. Best of all: meeting DJ Jeff, briefly back from Japan. Jeff was the "goth night" DJ for many years (long ago), and whenever I hear Front 242 I think of him. Love you, Jeff!
For a few relevant pictures (and a few more "Zsa Zsa Collector's Photos"), plus a shot from Guelph's "Kink 2" night, go to Flickr.
(For those concerned with my emotional wellbeing, you'll be happy to hear that I think my foundation issues are licked. I'm still working out how much powder I can get away with -- and as a result I look a bit spotty by 2am -- but it's all uphill from here).
Speaking of uphill at 2am: there were no cabs available when the bar let out (basically because there were no roads anymore). I stomped my way home through the frozen, blowing snow, buffeted by gusts and confined to the tire tracks of the few adventurous cars.
Far from being a chore, this was beautiful. No vehicles, nobody outside, no traffic rules. With the snow baffling all the sound, the only things I could hear were the trees bending over in the wind and my own crackling footsteps.
I took a video of my walk but you don't want to see it; it doesn't capture the spirit of the thing and you can mostly just hear me snorting back my cold-weather snot. Some things are best experienced first-hand.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
In Fact Actually Sicko
I know I said a few weekends ago that it was time for me to get sick, but somehow the moment didn't arrive until last night. Lethargy, runny nose, headache, desire to be away from humanity. So tonight I'm at home watching Michael Palin's "Pole to Pole" and looking forward to a bath.
Earlier, my mother dropped by to enact her peerless "mom-shui," this time with a rug for the bathroom door, a much-needed family heirloom footstool, and...the oddest craft I've ever seen: a woman's face made of wire for hanging jewelry on. It's just this side of ugly, to the point where it becomes fascinating, appropriate, and suddenly beautiful.
So me and my (as yet nameless) wire roommate will share a cozy night of reading. Feet up, snuggled in, only slightly missing the rest of the human race and the joy of dancing.
Earlier, my mother dropped by to enact her peerless "mom-shui," this time with a rug for the bathroom door, a much-needed family heirloom footstool, and...the oddest craft I've ever seen: a woman's face made of wire for hanging jewelry on. It's just this side of ugly, to the point where it becomes fascinating, appropriate, and suddenly beautiful.
So me and my (as yet nameless) wire roommate will share a cozy night of reading. Feet up, snuggled in, only slightly missing the rest of the human race and the joy of dancing.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
If Bathtub Wishes Were Bathtub Fishes...
Oh, for a long, deep, brand-new bathtub. With a place to put my head, and another place to put my feet. Sloping down at just the right angle so I can lie back and not get an awful crick in my neck. A bathtub for reading in, relaxing in, and -- oh yes -- bathing in.
At "The Grey Yonder" (my first home away from home), the bathtub was chipped and scoured. One of my roommates ("The Bunnykiller") decided to spruce it up by painting it with regular wall paint. Within days the paint began to peel in long strips, clogging up the drain. Eventually the tub floor became slimy. It was not a good bathtub.
At "Amrita-ta-ta" (my second-last home), the bathtub had a small, dime-sized chip in the enamel. Twice, over the seven years I lived there, I'd wake up to a sudden shattering noise in the night, and discover in the morning that the hole had gotten bigger, spraying enamel shards all over the bathroom. I think that the metal underneath was slowly rusting, and when the pressure of the rust hit a certain level the enamel around the hole would explode.
Here (in "Little Lemuria"), the bathtub is in awful shape. When I first moved in it was thickly grimed with a mixture of dirt and water-mineral residue. Every morning I'd spray CLR over some particularly grody spot. When I returned from work I'd get a sponge and scrub and scrub and scrub. It's better now -- the dirt is gone at least -- but I have little motivation to clean the "ring around the tub" when the whole thing looks like something you'd find in a junkyard.
Oh, for a nice bathtub...just once!
At "The Grey Yonder" (my first home away from home), the bathtub was chipped and scoured. One of my roommates ("The Bunnykiller") decided to spruce it up by painting it with regular wall paint. Within days the paint began to peel in long strips, clogging up the drain. Eventually the tub floor became slimy. It was not a good bathtub.
At "Amrita-ta-ta" (my second-last home), the bathtub had a small, dime-sized chip in the enamel. Twice, over the seven years I lived there, I'd wake up to a sudden shattering noise in the night, and discover in the morning that the hole had gotten bigger, spraying enamel shards all over the bathroom. I think that the metal underneath was slowly rusting, and when the pressure of the rust hit a certain level the enamel around the hole would explode.
Here (in "Little Lemuria"), the bathtub is in awful shape. When I first moved in it was thickly grimed with a mixture of dirt and water-mineral residue. Every morning I'd spray CLR over some particularly grody spot. When I returned from work I'd get a sponge and scrub and scrub and scrub. It's better now -- the dirt is gone at least -- but I have little motivation to clean the "ring around the tub" when the whole thing looks like something you'd find in a junkyard.
Oh, for a nice bathtub...just once!
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Basement Carnage
Big Daddy Sly lives behind my mop bucket, and he catches bugs.
A crumbling 1920s foundation is bound to have insects in the basement, and I really don’t mind them being there (sans rent) as long as they don’t get in my way. Insects are apparently a vital part of the ecosystem, and that ecosystem includes drainpipes, furnace ducts, and whatever goes on underneath the water heater when I'm not around.
Since my cat isn’t much of a bug-eater, Big Daddy Sly is at the top of the food chain down there. Over the past year he has spun elaborate webs between the bookshelf, wall, and sump pump, and from those webs dangle the desiccated bodies of sowbugs. When he gets tired of the current arrangement of cocoons, Sly drops the bodies to the floor where I’m unable to fetch them without disrupting his habitat. Some of the bodies appear to be strung together like bunches of sticky grapes. The reduced lighting makes the corpses twinkle and sparkle.
I see this gruesome display as a sort of warning to basement buggery: "go elsewhere or you will die." It’s like having a natural “beware of dog” sign, decorated with the skeletons of all the past burglars. But I do wish that Big Daddy Sly had a more humane method of feeding – free-range sowbugs, for example, dispatched with a quick blow to the head – and he could learn lessons from my Mennonite ancestors about wastage…Sly would look great with a hat and coat made out of fly wings. But he lacks that sort of initiative.
How long do spiders live? I don’t know, but I hope he sticks around. Sly and I are a good team and I’m happy to give him shelter.
A crumbling 1920s foundation is bound to have insects in the basement, and I really don’t mind them being there (sans rent) as long as they don’t get in my way. Insects are apparently a vital part of the ecosystem, and that ecosystem includes drainpipes, furnace ducts, and whatever goes on underneath the water heater when I'm not around.
Since my cat isn’t much of a bug-eater, Big Daddy Sly is at the top of the food chain down there. Over the past year he has spun elaborate webs between the bookshelf, wall, and sump pump, and from those webs dangle the desiccated bodies of sowbugs. When he gets tired of the current arrangement of cocoons, Sly drops the bodies to the floor where I’m unable to fetch them without disrupting his habitat. Some of the bodies appear to be strung together like bunches of sticky grapes. The reduced lighting makes the corpses twinkle and sparkle.
I see this gruesome display as a sort of warning to basement buggery: "go elsewhere or you will die." It’s like having a natural “beware of dog” sign, decorated with the skeletons of all the past burglars. But I do wish that Big Daddy Sly had a more humane method of feeding – free-range sowbugs, for example, dispatched with a quick blow to the head – and he could learn lessons from my Mennonite ancestors about wastage…Sly would look great with a hat and coat made out of fly wings. But he lacks that sort of initiative.
How long do spiders live? I don’t know, but I hope he sticks around. Sly and I are a good team and I’m happy to give him shelter.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
My New Digs: Fancy Couch
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I would LOVE to decorate with animal prints but I know from simply decorating my OWN body that it's difficult -- if not impossible -- to do it in a classy way without going all out. And it's extremely hard to coordinate.
So my mom and I spent an hour hunting for futon covers. Ever since I inherited this gorgeous futon couch/bed from Vanilla I've been making do with a white sheet for a cover. Now I finally have a leopardy -- but not EXACTLY leopard -- couch cover that greets the visitor (and me) with a hearty "how-do!"
I would LOVE to decorate with animal prints but I know from simply decorating my OWN body that it's difficult -- if not impossible -- to do it in a classy way without going all out. And it's extremely hard to coordinate.
So my mom and I spent an hour hunting for futon covers. Ever since I inherited this gorgeous futon couch/bed from Vanilla I've been making do with a white sheet for a cover. Now I finally have a leopardy -- but not EXACTLY leopard -- couch cover that greets the visitor (and me) with a hearty "how-do!"
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
The Roly-Poly Smokador
No, he's not rubbing a lit cigarette against this woman's wooden leg...he's using the Smokador, a product terminally advertised in the pages of The New Yorker! It's a tall ashtray with weighted bottom...tall enough for easy cigarette-snubbing, but balanced so it won't fall over when your guests bump into it (which happens a lot when they're drinking illegally-imported rubbing alcohol with a label on it that says "scotch.")Even better you can place the Smokador in the center of a group of rebellious flappers, and they can easily tip it towards each other when they want to deposit their ashes. Not to mention that the column of the Smokador is hollow, so the ashes drop down into the base, supposedly creating a less smokey environment (or, I suspect, an environment in which the smoke just puffs out of the ashtray in a more stale and concentrated form).
A few weeks ago Vanilla commented that advertisements used to be wordier. As far as I can tell this was the case until the mid '60s, which was probably when advertisers realized that people really DO buy stuff ONLY because of the pretty girl, and not because of the overblown, deceptive hyperbole in the ads. This Smokador article is a prime example of wordy advertisements, telling us not just the exact composition the metal but also repeating -- several times -- where the unit is most conveniently paced (they do not, sadly, mention Madagascar as a placement option).
The advert is FAR too long to quote, but I do need to mention that the Smokador has a "patented roly-poly 'Rock-a-by' base."
Gimme one in Chinese Red, please!
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