The Shelf Adventure Part I

Dear Readers, you are coming in on the end of an adventure.

A couple of months ago I was standing in my kitchen, probably half-heartedly doing the dishes. I want you to know that I feel like I am always doing dishes. I live alone and find myself consistently frustrated by the realization that there are always dirty dishes in the sink and that there is no one to blame but myself.

So on this particular winter day, while washing my dishes, I was looking over at the shoddy easy-folding bookshelves I had for storage space in my kitchen. I had recently acquired some rather large new kitchen appliances—gifts from the winter celebration of our savior’s birth (Note: I am Unitarian, that is tongue in cheek)—and wondering where the hell I was going to store them.

The space in question takes up about half of my tiny kitchen. About a minute after moving in, I had thought that a long counter-like shelf, sturdy in nature, would be incredibly useful for this space. Two and a half years after moving in, as I was scrubbing dinner plates, I realized again the dire need of doing something to remedy the shelf situation. I picked up my phone and called my friend Becky, who is not only a 8th-grade math teacher, but is extremely handy with tools, and boasts some serious carpentry skills. She had recently built some very sexy shelves in her apartment that I had a mad crush on. I decided to solicit her assistance for my kitchen.

“Hey Becky,” I said, “I was wondering if you could help me build a shelf.”

Becky came over for a quick consultation on the shelf plan.

“Do you want a free standing table or a shelf built into the wall?” she asked, and there it began.

This “quick consultation” turned into a long consultation and resulted in a couple of drawings in my journal, including a flip-up side board for extra counter space, height specifications, many exact measurements, board width estimates and details of what the counter/table would look like and how it would function.

To be brief, there have been many trips to the hardware store (multiple hardware stores in fact) to obtain wood, screws, plugs, stain, varnish, sandpaper, hinges, and again to change our minds about types of screws and wood.

Honest hardworking weeks lapsed in between spurts of Becky and I working on this project. I promise you that had I possessed a blog at the time you would have been included in a detailed play by play. It has been a trying process.

Last week, while enjoying Happy Hour with Debbie, I ran into Becky on her bike. She asked me point blank if I had finished varnishing the wood yet. I had not even started, and Becky urged me that if I could have it varnished, we could construct on Sunday. But if I could not get my act together by then, it might be a couple more weeks before we would both have a free day.

So this Saturday past, I varnished happily while Debbie sat on my couch and painted romantic pensive women on toilet seats. Saturday evening I called Becky. “Guess what I did all day” I said proudly. “You varnished all day didn’t you?” Becky knew. I will freely admit I was feeling pretty proud of my pieces of wood. They were looking beautiful in their shiny lacquered coats.

To be continued…

Love, Kristin

The Bidding War for Baby Jesus

One pleasant afternoon in Tucson about six months ago, Debbie’s phone rang. It was, of course, Kristin, inquiring as to what Debbie was up to. Debbie explained that she was sitting on the curb in front of her house Googling the cost of toilet seats.

(Note: Debbie cannot afford regular Internet service and must resort to “borrowing” an open signal from someone named Ted. The signal, being a bit weak, normally manages to stretch itself across Simpson Street, but most of the time is unable to clear the sidewalk. Despite this minor inconvenience, Debbie wholeheartedly thanks Ted and the underappreciated population of people who choose to keep their wireless accounts open. Someday, providing she has hurdled the post-collegiate swamp of financial stress, she will reciprocate).

“Oh,” Kristin said. “Is your toilet seat broken?” It was a logical question.

“No, I want to paint one. I got the idea from my neighbor. Wanna come over and paint toilet seats with me?”

Kristin first laughed and made fun of Debbie. Then she asked a couple of logistical questions. What kinds of things would we be painting on the toilet seats? What kind of paint would be appropriate for such an endeavor? Would we be painting the part you sit on? Or just the lids? In the end, it took a full thirty seconds for Kristin to get on board with the project. And this is one of the many reasons why we are friends.

Home Depot sells a basic Bemis Value toilet seat (round and approximately 16.5” long) for $4.77. This is the cheapest we have found, and definitely the best bang for its buck. The Bemis Value “R” is a handsome toilet seat, made of solid materials. It is not made of lame plastic on the verge of buckling. Indeed, a grown person could stand on the Bemis Value “R” without any fear at all of breaking it.

This is where our adventures in toilet seat painting begin—with a blank $4.77 porcelain canvas, nothing but a vision bubbling in some remote corner of our creative brains, and a weekend afternoon with nothing much to do.

Our first painted toilet seats were learning experiences. We experimented with different paints, different glues, and pictures on different kinds of paper, which we lacquered to the lids. Kristin’s first toilet seat is a remarkable depiction of the Greek goddess Artemis, fated with such beauty that men would hide in trees to watch her bathe. Artemis, however, was not a priss. She was a badass. And when she was finished bathing, she put on her toga, adjusted whatever it was that Greek goddesses wore on their heads in those days, and, by a magical power, turned those sleazy men into deer. Then she proceeded to bow hunt each and every one of them. Ahhh, Greek mythology, you are so rad.


Debbie’s first toilet seat took longer. She went with the Greek theme for a while, but it wasn’t working out. Then she discovered gold spray paint and the backs of Mexican Art Calendars, which all of the Mexican restaurants either sell or give away. The final product has since been installed in her bathroom and has paved the way for the beginning of a series of romantic pensive women lacquered to toilet lids.



It is no secret that Kristin and Debbie would prefer to spend fruitful days trash-picking, painting toilet seats, or creating found art, instead of working 9-5 at a desk in an office somewhere. We’ve entertained this idea several times, envisioning a studio and a storefront, where we can both make and sell our creations. We thought we’d start off small. Maybe with the toilet seats. That said, we have been unsure of how to measure demand for our hand painted toilet seats.

Until recently.

A few weeks ago, our lovely and well-connected friend Pam put the word out that she was looking for art to be donated to a Youth Awards event sponsored by her work. Kristin and Debbie both agreed that a painted toilet seat seemed an appropriate donation and a worthwhile experiment. In any case, we would be able to see how it was received.

Kristin was busy crafting a monocle out of plastic and sewing a top hat and a tutu for her fellow Ironworkers organizers and researchers (more on that later), so Debbie took the toilet seat project. The problem is that by early March, most of the Mexican Art calendars have been given away or sold, and there remains only a small selection of pictures from which to choose. Debbie went on a mission, finally stumbling upon a few at Hotel Congress, where the price had been lowered to $3 from $7. She scored another pensive-looking woman picture for her developing series. And Baby Jesus.

“Do you think it’s too sacreligious to put Jesus on a toilet seat?” Debbie wondered aloud to Kristin. Seeing as how neither of us consider ourselves to be religious, and both of us grew up (in varying degrees) Unitarian, when pondering the question of whether or not it is somehow inappropriate to put Jesus on a toilet—even in the name of Art—we came up short. We decided that being too politically correct is boring. So Debbie gave it a whirl.

It was a hit. Sacreligious art is apparently “in”. Everyone wanted Baby Jesus sitting upright in the arms of Mary on their toilets. It was the most popular item at the auction, and according to Pam, a fierce bidding war ensued. In the end, Robby (the 1988 Prom King—if you’re lucky, we’ll post some pictures of this event, especially since we fashioned the construction paper photo backdrop) took the cake. Twenty-one dollars later, Robby was the proud owner of the Baby Jesus toilet seat.



You too can be the proud owner of a Baby Jesus toilet seat. Or any of the other ones we're currently working on (see photos below). You can see that Kristin has moved into anti-war messages, and we expect to introduce more "radical" toilet seats in the future. We also have some excellent old movie posters that will become very fashionable toilet seats. Also, feel free to commission us with your favorite poster or picture (if you provide the picture, we'll give you a discount, as finding pictures is sometimes a bit difficult).






We will, of course, continue posting pictures of our toilet seats in progress. Let us know if you want to buy one. We estimate prices to be between $25 and $30, depending on time and materials.

Love,

Kristin and Debbie

The Waiting Room

This is a blog about creativity in all of its forms. We aren't fancy. Kristin and I often use the very cheapest of materials--dowel rods instead of curtain rods, fabric bought in bulk for $2.98 at Value Village, $5 toilet seats versus $15 dollar ones (we'll fill you in on this in another entry). There are some exceptions to this rule, but on principle, we're not afraid to do a bit of jerry-rigging, and we definitely aren't afraid to get messy.

I'm about to get messy.

I ask you to bear with me while I digress to a fundamental question: can anxiety be good for creativity?

Lately life has felt like an enormous waiting room. Before I go any further, and in order to make this as dramatic as possible, I should acknowledge my absolute detest for anything resembling waiting. In fact, I feel nothing but abhorrence for it. And although I would imagine that most people with at least partial brain function do not enjoy waiting, I am also aware that my hatred of waiting goes beyond that of others, probably stemming from some evil combination of genetics (does anyone else find it futile to argue with the crapshoot of chromosomes? What's done is done, I say...)

I find out this week if I got into school.

It is exhausting to keep checking my phone. And my email. And driving home in the afternoons to check the mail. And wondering which pile my applications are in. Since I am also trying to refrain from looking at the unofficial MFA acceptance data base (which I just found today--damn you, Google!--and which allows anxiety-prone individuals such as myself to actually talk with each other, thereby feeding the entire nervous fire), I find it more productive to skip out on work and pour my anxiety into the mysterious black hole of the World Wide Web. Please be aware that this is a coping mechanism, and that I am using you not only for the distraction you facilitate, but for a personal experiment involving the use of anxiety as a catalyst for creativity.

Because I am writing this in the confines of my own personal waiting room hell, and since I am a person who is spatially-oriented and generally concerned with aesthetic and decor, it serves to ask: what does my personal waiting room hell look like? This is an attempt to funnel my anxiety into something more creative.

To start with, my personal waiting room hell has the most horrific wallpaper I have ever seen--a fantastically hideous brown plaid, lumpy in places with pen-holes stuck nervously through the air bubbles. In the section directly above the giant rainbow-colored floor abacus, a child has drawn a row of smiling stick people, all of whom seem completely unconcerned by their plaid surroundings. A teenage boy, clad in Pantera t-shirt and a deep scowl, whose sweat-pantsed mother is engrossed in the latest People magazine, has sneakily penned moustaches and male genetalia on each happy family member.

So here I am in my waiting room. Waiting. With strangers who are also waiting for something, be it a test grade, divorce papers, a long lost relative to finally pull into the driveway... Since I have already expressed my hatred for waiting, I will leave you to attribute my knuckle-cracking, ring-twisting, and teeth-clacking to high levels of anxiety. In my waiting room hell, I try and take deep breaths. I bounce my leg. I wiggle my toes inside their shoes. I try and find weird features on my phone that I have never noticed before. I grip the sides and bottom of my chair. Note: one should never grip the sides or bottom of a waiting room chair. Undoubtedly, gum is stuck in hardening orbs to the bottom of the seat, gum that I absently dig my fingernails into before I realize what it is.

My horrible waiting room chair is the kind of chair that can never be comfortable, no matter how you try and position yourself. It is low-backed, and the seat is covered in scratchy blue fabric. There are dried boogers on the arms. Its metal sides are welded to those of the chair next to it, so that if one is to shift nervously in her seat, the rest of the chairs in the row will jerk suddenly in a violent train effect. The woman reading People will look up, annoyed.

In my waiting room hell, I am looking for something to DO. I enjoy creating things, painting, cooking, baking, arranging found alley treasures in my garden, hauling heavy items around my house, etc... But, since I am waiting to hear from writing school, I find it appropriate to write. I also really enjoy writing about disgusting decor whenever possible. And people in sweat pants.


Cross your fingers, kids...the waiting will be over soon. Or so I tell myself.

Love,
Debbie

My Whiskey Barrel is not quite full

Welcome to Adventures in Container Gardening! Narrated by your host Kristin.

OK, So I happen to live in a concrete jungle, contributing to the urban heat effect that manages to make this desert of ours even more unbearable come summer time. I live in a little apartment renovated from the back of a house. If you don't mind a little concrete, the courtyard is lovely. It is quiet and private (with the exception of my crazy neighbors- some of whom I think are a bit unhinged) and has little islands of garden with cacti, orange and grapefruit trees and other native plants decoratively bordering the easy upkeep concrete paving that dominates the space.

During the last couple of years, watching my friends ever more exciting back yard gardens and becoming increasingly impassioned about plants... my determination for a garden of my own has grown and grown (about the only thing that has).

I have had some spectacular failures, including attempted herbs and other plants both inside and out that just didn't make it. I do not have a green thumb. Some I have killed, I suspect, by over watering, some by under watering... some don't get enough sun and others I have fried by leaving them in the summer sun on my coffee table. So needless to say it has been a slow and frustrating process and all of it container bound.

Newly inspired by a gift of many pots and some flowers to plant by a dear friend who is moving, my concrete garden experiment has recently taken off. Now, instead of one or two dying plants I have about twenty in different stages of life or death--

With that brief background I introduce to you my newest challenge: Whiskey Barrel grown Bottle Gourd.

I bought this lovely little Bottle Gourd at the Tucson Organic Gardeners' sale last Sunday. It was an impulse buy, I had no previous desire for a bottle gourd plant. It was, you know, near the register. And of course I had no idea how to grow one.

So now, a few days later- I find my self with a large whiskey barrel (not false advertising- the sweet aroma of whiskey filled the air when I was drilling holes in the bottom) that I have been on repeated trips to find more dirt for... still not quite full.

To companion my gourd experiment I have planted some native seeds of a couple herbs advertised as similar to dill and marigold. In some nice Google-obtained theory these might keep bugs away from my theoretical gourds.

Feel free to take bets on gourd production, I am sure you will all be at the edge of your seats, like we were when waiting for Matt's chickens to start laying blue eggs.

From the back alleys of chance...

Today is a special day. Not only are we blogging for the very first time, but the Tucson Organic Gardeners' plant sale coincided with Brush and Bulky day in the very same neighborhood! So we bought some plants (Bottle Gourd for Kristin's container garden -very "in" and urban friendly- and a Patty Pan Squash for Debbie's backyard garden). It felt simply delightful to be wandering in the 75 degree weather among beds of rainbow chard and red cabbage, children perched on chairs getting their faces painted, and a pollinators bean bag toss. There were local water harvesting experts in dorky hats behind their information tables, homemade posters describing desert composting techniques, and grass-fed beef sizzling in burger-form on the grill. Even Debbie, the vegetarian, was salivating.

We arrived at the plant sale slightly late. Most of the plants had been picked over by the early birds, and we were slightly disappointed by our luck. But, as Kristin pointed out, we still had Brush and Bulky to look forward to...

And now, for non-Tucsonans, the importance of Brush and Bulky. This is the day for each neighborhood when you can leave large unwanted crap on your curbside or ally and the city will collect it. For scavengers it can be a great opportunity to find broken furniture, window frames, rotting couches....

Confession: Kristin and Debbie cannot pass up a Brush and Bulky filled ally without a good drive by.

We had a couple quick scores: a tomato cage, the side of an old red bench, a plastic chair for Debbie's backyard and some eroding furniture, which we sadly passed up for lack of storage space (someday...).

After driving past ranch-style house after ranch-style house and curbsides piled high with cactus guts, wooden pallets, broken chairs, buckets of nails, etc, the real score came as we drove down yet another unsuspecting suburban street. On the other side of a beat-up Suburban selling for $950, Debbie spotted something a wonderful shade of purple.

"Beautiful purple dresser! Beautiful purple dresser! Kristin pull over!"

And Kristin did.

Behold the purple dresser, interesting in color, yet more attractive from inside the car. We got out anyways to take a look. The back was kind of falling off. The general state of the dresser was "shaky"to say the least.. it was almost such a great find. We consoled each other. It wouldn't have fit inside Kristin's car anyways. But, like all good trash pickers and furniture scavengers, we gave it a good inspection none-the-less before leaving it for the Brush and Bulky people.

Kristin opened the middle drawer. Debbie took the one on the right. Empty you ask? If you call someone's entire ancient (but well-used) VHS tape collection "empty".

We took one quick glance at a few of the titles and proceeded to run back to the car in hysterics. Then we came back with the camera.

We think the pictures speak for themselves.

(the one underneath "My Dirty Little Thoughts" is entitled "Extreme Hardcore")

...until next Brush and Bulky day...

Love,

Kristin and Debbie

P.S. Welcome to our awesome blog.