I painted something that isn't a wall

This is a straight-up rip off of a wallpaper print that I fell in love with done by a studio in North Adams, MA. I have a link to NAMA Rococo.

Mine! It's all MINE!

It has been a year today since I took possession of Alder Street. Not to seem possessive and greedy, but ever since I was a wee child, my fantasy was to possess my own space. 

At ages 5-10, to have a bed that was not attached to another's was my yearning, as bunkbeds were de rigueur. Yes, visiting friends thought B-beds were exciting and exotic. They actually thought the the top bunk was the choicest sleeping spot! Amateurs...

My pre-teen years revolved around competing for personal space with my brother Yogi. After it was determined that a 11 year old boy shouldn't have to share a room with 2 infants in cribs, the parents decided to build what was essentially a book-shelf through the center of a 11'x10' room, thereby creating two 5.5' x 10' "bedrooms" (thankfully, the closet was on my side) for the aforementioned boy and his older-by-11-months sister- me.

The next creative solution for configuring humane living space for 6 children, 2 adults and assorted pets with only 850 sq. feet, was to convert a section of the cellar (that's what we call a "basement" in Olde New England) into 2 bedrooms and a bathroom.

The 'cellar' of this post-WWII tract house had originally been tricked-out with knotty-pine panelling, a fake fireplace, a bar, and swinging, cowboy-style doors! This was the setting in which I first observed "grown-up parties."

My first recollection was when I was around 3 or 4 years old. I was wearing a pale blue nightgown with a puppy applique and was graciously mixing drinks for the amusing grown-ups who seemed completely enraptured by anything I said or did. My bar back was Yogi. Afterall, he was just 11 months younger, so he was just as qualified as I was to make drinks and entertain.

My father's best friend was this guy Herbie. Yogi and I thought Herbie was the greatest thing ever. I really don't know why when I look back. I suspect it may be because my parents got so excited when anticipating one of Herbie's infrequent visits. I recall he lived an exciting, faraway place called "Ohio." In retrospect, I bet he was one of those guys who, after getting all his mates whipped up about his upcoming visit and all the riotous fun that would be had, would flake out. I think Yogi and I got caught up in it all of the excitement and anticipation. 

Years later my mother told me how Herbie would coax and cajole me into telling escalating tales of tragedies and injustices that were inflicted upon me, reducing me to a whining, sobbing, toddler tragedy. Yeah...that sounds really fun...

On this particular night I remember Herbie bellying up to the bar upon which Yogi and I were perched. Giddy from all the attention we were receiving and the fact that it was probably hours after our bedtime, Yogi and I concocted a drink for Herbie consisting of: left over booze from various abandoned glasses, maraschino cherries, ice, and...cigarette butts. Hey, this was 1965, and everyone smoked. We simply emptied an ashtray into a highball glass and presented it to a very drunk Herbie. 

He took a nice, big, gulp. Then did a reverse gulp. Ewwwwww.

Next thing I know I'm waking up in my bed the next morning. As I enter the kitchen looking for breakfast, I see my mother looking apprehensive. I then turn to climb into my 'youth' chair (not really a high chair; more like a bar stool for children) and immediately notice the foot rest- essential to boosting my toddler body into the seat- is completely sheared off. Only slivers of splintered wood remain. My lip starts quavering and tears well up.

"Herbie sat in your chair and broke the footrest", my mother tried to explain. Being an emotional child, I just looked at her and started bawling. The Lady looked annoyed (though I now understand she must have been totally hungover) and emphasized that it "was an accident."

So now, years later, I'm going to have my very own bedroom in the basement! Woo-hoo! I knew the bar would have to go, but I'm thinking- fake fireplace! My parents had promised me this space since I had started puberty, and it was finally going to happen. I was 14 years old.

Hold on. Change of plans. Yogi is going to get the bedroom. 

Why? He's never here. He never talks or interacts with the family. I know he is just biding his time until her can escape (as am I) but he doesn't give a crap about this house. All he cares about is hanging out with his friends, torturing teachers that are dumber than him (which means most of them) and smoking pot. Fuck. Sure, my family engagement consists of screaming and fighting, but at least I talk to them. I, too, am just biding my time until I can get away and all I care about is my friends and smoking pot. But I also really, sincerely, cherish a room that I can call my own. I'm 14 and I need a place for my clothes and my shoes and my journals, and my mental solitude. All Yogi needs is a bed to chain his bicycle to so someone in the family won't steal it.

So Yogi gets the former 60's swinging party basement room with the fake fireplace and I get the other room. The room with the oil tank. The room that smells like petroleum. And mold. Yep. 

I think it is a testament to my popularity that until high school graduation I actually maintained friendships and had admirers even though my clothes, my skin, my books, bed sheets- everything I owned- was permeated with an oder that conveyed smelly men working in a garage while wearing old, moldering sneakers.

Since then, I've lived in some horror shows. But I almost always had my own room. And I never shared a room with an oil tank- ever.

But now I am here at Alder Street. One year in my very own house. I have 2 bedrooms to pick from- neither of which smells disgusting. When I get up in the morning, I find everything just the way I left it. (though, if I ever get a dog, that might not be the case). I have all I ever wanted. Some might think I should want for much more but they would be wrong. 

Crafty like a Foxy Crafter

Well over ten years ago, Tante H. found a pair of 1950's Danish, teak chairs that someone had placed in the street for trash collection. The cushions and upholstery were worn, but the chairs themselves were mint. This is the kind of find one would only encounter in CT, right? With PDX hipsters' penchant for all things mid-century I have had many people ask about purchasing them, but I think they are wonderful and don't plan on parting with them.

I finally bought new foam rubber cushions and had originally planned on having them professionally re-upholstered, but I really can't afford that after paying $100+ for the cushions and because of the economy. So, I decided my only option was DIY.

I wanted to add a coral-like color to the living room and found some fabric that was at least in the orange family that was approximately what I wanted. But since the color was off, I wanted something else to make the cushions more interesting.

I then took a photograph of my living room curtains (which are in fact shower curtains from Target; am I cheap or what?) which have a toile pattern and made fabric transfers from the details. 

Since I am a terrible seamstress and didn't work from a pattern, I'm pretty pleased with the results. I even have zippers for each.

What do you think? 

Am I ready for ApartmentTherapy?

Beast? Fish? Fowl? Republican?

'A' was ill and Christo-pee decided to stay home with her. So 'L', Betsy Ross and I headed for Yuki's- a good but not great Japanese restaurant that has become one of our comfortable favorites. 

Not long after we arrived a man in a wheelchair came in from the rain.He had longish, snow-white hair, a very prominent nose and enormous eyeglasses with thick, black frames. He was wearing a bohemian beret, tuxedo pants and a pair of orthopaedic shoes of which the right had a sole at least 3 inches thicker than the left. He appeared to be an "artsy" sort, perhaps a musician or poet.

 He wasn't a regular, as he was asking the waitress basic questions about the menu. He was very frail and had been recently ill, as there was a hospital bracelet hanging from the arm of his chair and I noticed a "dot" band-aid on the back of his right hand, just like the ones nurses apply after you've received an IV. I'm telling you, this was a made-for-Lifetime-TV movie in the making. 

This vignette was killing 'L.' Though she may come across as an unsentimental, emotionally hardened bitch, this was a scene that could reduce her to a soggy heap of weeping guilt and shame. I, too, felt for this man who was alone on Thanksgiving and probably every other day of the year as well.

We told the waitress that we would like to pick up his tab. It wasn't as if we thought he couldn't  afford his dinner; we were hoping that when he discovered our plan, it might determine wether we should invite him to join us or if it would be clear he wanted to be by himself. We also told the waitress to tell him  that we would like to buy him  a drink, dessert or anything else he would like.

After he had eaten his entree, the waitress told him we had taken care of the check. He turned to us and said, "But why?." 

I replied, "Because it's Thanksgiving!"

He accepted my explanation and later ordered a dessert, thinking that he would buy it himself. When the waitress informed him that we had taken care of that too, he turned to our table and asked,

"But why would you do that?"

He wasn't offended but rather perplexed by the idea that total strangers would pay for his meal. I told him that our Thanksgiving plans didn't exactly work out the way we planned so we thought we would try to extend our 'Giving of Thanks' to more than our party of three. He seemed satisfied with that explanation, thanked us warmly, and headed out into the gloomy, rainy, Portland night.

It was only after he pivoted his motorized chair towards the exit that I saw the bumper sticker applied to the back of his chair:

'VOTE REPUBLICAN'

God DAMMIT!

Vegan Schmegan

As Thanksgiving 2008 approached, it seems I heard more than the usual discourse on the ethics of food, and in particular, meat-eating. Maybe I am just more attuned to these discussions, as lately I've been doing a lot of examination of my food consumption and have been contemplating vegetarianism and even veganism. I then start adding back in animal based products that I don't want to live without, namely fish and cheese. God knows, there is probably a name for that kind of diet! If not, I'm open to suggestions.

There were several stories aired on NPR regarding the vegetarians' dilemma during the holidays. I heard about people that were just as conflicted about what we choose to eat and how that food produced. 

We had decided to go out for sushi for the Thanksgiving. (As I write this, NPR is broadcasting a story about the threatened Atlantic Blue-fin Tuna, an impressive and beautiful fish that is a threatened species because of high demand for, um, sushi.) No birds were harmed in our holiday feast, however tuna, yellowtail, razor clams, shrimp and eel all suffered great carnage.

As both 'L' and I expected 'A' to be participating in our holiday plans, we both made vegan desserts. 'L' did her usual vegan pumpkin pie, which is damn good and almost indistinguishable from the kind made with animal fluids (mmmmm, fluuuuuuu-ids...). I, having only one dish to make, characteristically became very ambitious and decided to create a vegan version of one of PDX's dessert landmarks, the Pear Rosemary Tart from Pix Patisserie.

I made a pate sucree and added first a layer of almond cream. I placed sauteed pears second and topped the tart with a ganache made with Valrhona 70% chocolate infused with rosemary. I was fairly happy with it but next time want to make the ganache creamier.

I think I do not want to be a vegan, but want to be a vegan chef because of the challenge.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you..."

He looks better than Genocidal Jackson*, don't ya think?

My garbage and recycling are collected on Friday mornings. They arrive at 6AM, so I can usually bring in the bins as I head off to work.

Last Friday in the dim, pre-daytime savings dawn, I went to the curb and noticed something in the gutter next to the garbage can. It was a soggy $20 bill, folded in half and nestled in a pile of leaves. Picking it up I found it was actually $40. I put the money in my pocket, put away the bins and headed to work.

I kept thinking about the money and who lost it. Was it the garbage collection guy? Someone collecting bottles and cans from the recycling bin for the deposit money? As an absent-minded kid and a disorganized adult, losing money was something of which I have extensive experience and felt sympathy for whoever was cursing themselves, frantically pawing through every bag, pocket, sofa cushion, book, drawer and wallet they can find hoping to find their misplaced money.

I did check Craig's list and found no notices of missing money. By the next day I wasn't feeling as concerned and broke one of the bills at Ikea. I know, I know, of all places! At least it wasn't Starbuck's.

Tonight, Monday, it was a battle getting home. The evening was very dark and very rainy. There were power outages all over the east side rendering traffic lights useless. It took forever to even get close to my neighborhood. After getting a partial ride from a coworker, I managed to catch a bus the rest of the way and arrived home- wet, tired, hungry and oh-so-thankful to be in my cozy, comfortable house. Before I even took off my coat, the doorbell rang. Arrrgh. 

At the door were two high-school aged girls collecting bottles and cans for the Portland Rescue Mission, an organization that provides food and shelter to the homeless in Portland. On this evening these smiling, wholesome teenagers were going door to door collecting 5-cents a piece containers for the most desperate and under-served members of our community. Such a contrast to me- a grumpy, middle-aged frump concerned only with what I would have for dinner that night.

I told them I had nothing and that since our garbage collection was only 2 days ago, they might not find much in our neighborhood. They thanked me "so much for explaining that!", wished me "a terrific evening!" and went to the next house.

In an irrational, superstitious moment of illogical thinking, I made a quick deal with the universe, or God, whatever you want to call it. I felt that if I gave $20 to these kids, Barack Obama would win the election. I grabbed the bill and dashed back out into the rain and caught up with the girls.

They were a little astonished and I felt too embarrassed to give the impression that I was actually so generous, so I- maybe a little too emphatically- made it clear that I had found the money.

We all make deals. Promising, wheeling and dealing, thinking we can control the outcome of some event that was set into motion a fraction of a second before it careened completely out of our control. That's when most of us start praying. 

There are a lot of prayers being said these days. You can almost hear it every time you read a newspaper, watch the news and go to work, attend church. It is being chanted by those who have lost their jobs, their homes, their money, their freedom and their country.

Anne Lamott wrote that there are just two prayers in the world: "Help me, help me, help me..." and "Thank you, thank you, thank you...".

Hopefully, after tomorrow's election, most of us will be saying the second.

*Andrew Jackson is my second least-favorite president, after you-know-who. (Millard Fillmore was such a douche bag)  Sarah Vowell brilliantly describes Jackson's brutal slaughter of the Demoratic Cherokee Nation on This American Life.