Halfway House

I feel it important you all know that as I begin writing this blog post, the lyrics "Ooooh, we're halfway there, oh OH living on a prayer!" are blasting in my head. That's what I get for trying to tell you the story about my weekend and how I only got halfway along on everything I started.

I think the problem is the dogs. Yes, we should certainly blame it on the dogs.

For one whole fun-filled week, we are watching Camper's friend, Carl Barks (yes, that is his full name.) Camper and Carl spend most of their time chewing on each other's teeth. It makes a horrible clanking sound, but they seem to find it fun. These two have gotten into more trouble together in one week than Camper has ever gotten into on his own. The first night we had Carl, he pooped on the floor. So naturally Camper did, too. I think it was a solidarity thing. They have broken out of their barricades, slept on our heads, chased squirrels to an inch of their lives, whined, cried, been tied up together outside of the fabric shop like a two-headed monster, and together, they managed to get an avocado off of the kitchen counter and eat the entire ripe contents by the time we got home. An hour later, I got off the phone with animal poison control (who informed me they would be a little sick but just fine). Thanks a lot, internet, for telling me they might DIE.

So I was a little off my game.

There were these sunflower seeds that I roasted. Do you know what a pain in the ass it is to roast your own sunflower seeds? Well let me tell you! After you cut the head off the sunflower, you have to go through and extract each individual seed with your fingertips. After a thorough cleaning (and an inspection for worms--GROSS), you then soak the seeds in salt water for 24 hours, then roast them for 30 minutes or so at 350. When they came out of the oven, I put them into a cute little bowl and saucer I made in pottery class. Guess what? MOST of the sunflower pods didn't even have seeds. We were just sitting there, chewing on these salty little shells, and every now and then you'd find a thin little sliver of sunflower seed goodness. I kept thinking, this would be the perfect diet food! You do all that work and get like 5 calories, but the salt makes you feel like you ate something.

Seriously, why do people do this?

Next up were two botched dress upgrades. The first was an attempt to dye a cute little white dress I bought at a thrift store. I was thinking indigo ombre. Doesn't that sound fabulous? All in all, it was a $14, one-hour-long failed experiment, so not a big deal. But let me just give you this word of advice: You absolutely cannot dye synthetic fibers with RIT dye. The box tells you that, and you may be tempted to not believe the box. But seriously, the box means it. So this little polyester Grecian goddess number? Yeah, it turned a color I'm going to call "silvery cream." It's fine. It's whatever. It is NOT ombre. And it is certainly not indigo. I would show you a photo of the "after," but it's, um, sort of the same.

Next up, I decided to do a little surgery on a vintage dress I bought online. The dress is so cute, but the sleeves were hideous and made me look boxy and frump-a-dump, so I decided to do a little hem at the shoulder and lop them off. The first sleeve went off just fine. The second, I don't know what happened. I think an evil spirit lives in the bobbin of my sewing machine. When I got around the entire armhole, I looked on the underside of the fabric to see the most hideous knot nest looping its wicked way all around the inside of the sleeve. It was so nasty looking that I just set the dress down and backed away slowly. In fact, we might just pretend that never happened.

There was, however, one bright shimmering project that went beyond the halfway point today--I potted this succulent. I had intended this pot and saucer to be a little planter, but the holes in the pot had partially filled with glaze (see: amateur potter). So after we threw out the stupid sunflower seeds, Robb drilled holes in the bottom of the pot through the glaze and I popped this little succulent in place. It took about three minutes, but it was deeply satisfying. With the help of Bon Jovi, I lived on the prayer that I would finish a single project this weekend, and my prayers were answered.

Building Fences

Today we built fences. I feel like there should be a metaphor in that statement, but it's the truth. It was Sunday and we each ate breakfast-for-one (mine were two slender* slices of toast with peanut butter and a brulee cup filled with peaches, strawberries, yogurt, and Kashi GoLean Crunch; Robb got four fat slabs of bacon from the Brooklyn Meat Hook and fried them up, then wisely ate them as a BLT [*We only had one roll and I donated most of the bread to Robb's BLT cause.]) And so, after coffees and foods and pretty good nights of sleep, we headed out into the hot muggy yard. You couldn't pick a worse day for building fences. A layer of thick, wet heat hung around our heads. I pulled up weeds and discovered the birthplace of all mosquitoes ever. Robb set up his sawhorse and consistently misplaced his entirely see-through safety glasses. (My joke about them being like Wonder Woman's jet--invisible, and therefore hard to find on the runway--did not find great reception.) We measured and sliced our lattices into smart little pieces, stapled together the broken bits, drilled two-by-fours into the corners. Camper sulked at the kitchen window for hours before finally laying down on the cool tiles, where he continued to sulk in his sleep. You see, our fence is blocking him from his favorite hang-out--under the rhododenron bush is where he spies on the kittens that seem to have been born in the weeds of the neighbor's yard. He likes to lie in the cool dirt beneath the bush and watch for movement, barking at mysterious branches that bend in the wind, squirrels, birds, butterflies. And on very special occasions, kittens, who are not scared of him, mind you. They just stare at him blankly, knowing they are safe. 

While Camper has been enjoying a summer full of kitten chases across our vegetable beds, our lettuce crops, funny enough, never grew. If the life of a single lettuce plant ever began this summer, it was ended quickly under the paws of sweet Camper, who likely tore up their delicate roots in his impossibly futile kitten hunt. After a while, the weeds crept in and we felt too tired to figure out which (if any) were seedlings and which were weeds. And so we let the area grow over with a rampant vine called purple bells. It's a vine we planted on purpose years back, hoping to train them to climb our fences (which they did), but without knowing that the bells would find their way into every bed of dirt--even between the cracks on the walkway--and if you feel just weary enough from life, just tired enough to let go, the purple bells will take advantage of your malaise and literally grow up and over every plant and structure in your garden. (The year we got married, we came home to find our garden shellacked in the vine--even the cherry tree had long, twisting vines snaking around every branch.) 

But because we are the ones who decide if there will be arugula in our future, we have elected to take control of the situation. Yesterday, all of the purple bells came out (except the ones on the fence, because they will still always be pretty). We built the short lattice fence and re-tilled that area of the garden and started all over again, which feels very ballsy in the middle of July. It is called a mid-season crop in many gardening books. In my gardening book, I call it a do-over. And why not have a do-over? (And here, I will make a metaphor, because I believe this to be as true in life as in the garden.) It's just seeds and dirt. It's just sun and time and sweat. And when you come indoors, it's just air-conditioning, and a tall glass of bubbly water with a splash of cranberry, and a bowl of homemade salsa and tortilla chips, and the second half of the original 1976 version of The Bad News Bears (because the damned Netflix on-demand crapped out on us last night right as the Bears were making a comeback). There's a scrape on my arm from the raw edge of wood, but there was also a very good shower and a very good nap. But best of all, there is the feeling that we took back our garden today from forces that we felt were beyond our control. We said damn it, I want to eat a fancy salad of mesclun and arugula and beets, and I don't want to buy it at the farmer's market. I will grow it myself, thank you very much. And you know what? I do believe we will.

A final word on growing a successful garden. I am no expert, and I have (and continue to have) many failures, but I have come to realize that my most successful gardens are the ones that I look at every single day. Not from the back steps. I mean that you should take a tour of your garden every day. Visit with them all as you brush your teeth before work, and say hello when you come home later that day. See how the plants are doing. Take note of what is being nibbled on. Then worry about how you can fix it. Take pictures of the plants you're most proud of. Say prayers for your weaklings. Think about fertilizing, even if you don't do it. Pull the weeds as they pop up, and most importantly, at all costs, you have got to stay on top of those damned purple bells. (And now, if you feel like it, you may make the metaphor, for who knows what plague of vines haunt your yard, just waiting for your summer ennui to kick in so that they may run rampant.)

Out With the Icky

When I first moved to Brooklyn, I did not have even one solitary chair to sit my butt down in. I had two large bags and a guitar. The rest was being shipped. The only shoes I brought with me were a pair of flip-flops, a pair of sneakers, and a pair of cowboy boots. I had a knitting project I was working on, a book I was reading, and my laptop. I brought my teddy bear with me, and some bedding. That was it, folks. It was a weird time. (Incidentally, my first box to arrive came two weeks later and it contained nothing but hats and bathing suits...I was so bummed.)

The guy who had my room before me was kind enough to leave me a bed and a desk, and Arvi, my new roommate--a friend of a friend who I had met only once--gave me a chair. It was a simple wooden chair with shiny red vinyl on the seat. And it was one of the first things that started to make me feel like I had a home. Some time soon after I received the chair, it developed a small crack in the vinyl, and thousands of horoscopes later (yes, I was a horoscope writer when I first came to New York), I had turned that crack into a lightning-bolt shaped shred that ran from one end of the seat to the other. 

Five years passed in this manner, and each time I looked at the chair, I though yick. That looks terrible. But for some reason, the thought of fixing it never really crossed my mind. 

Which leads me to wonder, how many things do we look at in our lives each day and think, yick, that looks terrible, before we just move on? For me, that list is long. And honestly, if I took a good hard look around my home and asked a question as precocious as "what can I make better?" the answer would most likely be EVERYTHING. From the state of the junk drawer to a dusty lampshade in a corner to the overcrowded mini-trunk where we keep our hats to our couch cushions which have somehow revolted into unruly plump ovals. Individually, I don't really care about any of these things--I'm not going to lose sleep because we don't have enough hooks to hang our coats--so I am usually content to turn the other way. But cumulatively--like, when each room in your house has two or three of these eyesores, and your hair isn't looking all that good, and you realize that all of your favorite clothes are either missing buttons or are ripped--when looked at all together, these things can start to get you down. 

And so, I must say this: Don't underestimate the power of sewing on a button. You can't fix all of these things in one day--you just can't. And I literally just tried this weekend and it was miserable and I failed. But just one small improvement--not even every day! Just, like, one a week. Or one a month even! That one little improvement could be the thing that keeps you from slipping into the swamps of sadness. (Well, that's my opinion on the matter anyway.)

So about that chair. This week, I had a revelation. You see, I bought a bunch of upholstery fabric a couple months ago to make my Modern Carpet Bags, and much of it has just been sitting around. But then it hit me: one uses upholstery fabric to upholster things! Like...ripped chair seats!

This revelation occurred on a Tuesday night, while Robb and I were home in our pajamas. I held up three pieces of upholstery fabric before him, he picked the only option that wasn't hot pink (surprise surprise), and we flipped the chair over to start our reupholstering pajama party!

Robb got out his drill and removed the four screws that held the seat in place (though one could easily do this with a screwdriver.) We spent some time fiddling with the staples under the seat, using the back of a hammer, pliers, and various shivs to remove them. Then we realized we could just lift up on the vinyl and the staples popped right out. Voila!

We cut out fabric to fit the seat (plus a few extra inches just in case), and folded the fabric up and over the back of the seat, pulling it tight on opposite sides.

 And then we stapled it in place (Camper approved of our work.)

 Camper then helped me miter the corners. (Thanks, Camper!)

It's actually a little tricky to get the corners just right since you don't want the fabric to pucker on the side of the chair that will show. I found I could get a nice smooth corner if I folded little bits of fabric on top of each other in a fan-like fashion.

And then you staple-gun the bejesus out of it.

Once the fabric was pulled nice and tight and securely stapled, we trimmed away the extra fabric and screwed the seat back in place. All in all, about one hour's worth of work. One hour and five years, that is. Because that, sometimes, is how long it takes to realize that you can fix something. And that it might actually be easier than you think.

Rusty Rims, Meet Coca-Cola

Fixin' brakes and stuff.

This last weekend was a crafty one. VERY crafty. Much craftier than usual, in fact. There was sugar-scrub making, late-night skirt sewing, broccoli roasting followed by banana-bread baking, there was turban crocheting, man-sweater knitting. And finally, there was bike maintenencing. A new realm for me! Tools and stuff!

I should probably explain.

So I'm working on a big DIY book right now. And I mean BIG. It covers pretty much every possible thing that you can do yourself. Wanna give yourself a beehive? Now you can. Care to create a terrarium? Why I'd love to. Want to make like 1000 crafts? Sure! One of the things that this book covers is how to do basic repairs on your bike. We had the photo shoot last week (see above!), and in order to get our how-to-fix-the-damn-bike shots, we pulled in a real life NYC bike messenger girl, and she was kind enough to demonstrate how to swap out brake pads, fix your flat, or lube your chain (to name a few).

Rusty rims.

Over lunch, I asked the kind bike messenger lady what she does if her rims get rusty. She said to me, definitively, "I've never had rusty rims." And boy did I feel like an a-hole. Cuz this here photo above is what my rims looked like after it had been chained up in front of my house all winter. (Please disregard toilet in background of photo.)

I'd read somewhere that rust can be removed with Coca-Cola. It's one of those thing you hear and you don't even know if it's true, like how Twinkies are supposed to be eternal or something. But who has the time (literally, in the case of a Twinkie) to find these things out? Well, apparently I do. I had a frank talk with myself this last weekend about how my bike was going to no longer be functional if I let the rusty rim situation get any worse. So I bought a liter of Coke (and a bottle of CLR in case the Coke theory failed) and set about my task. In the kitchen of course. Because that's where it's totally appropriate to do super messy gross sticky dirty work.

Wow!

This is how it went down: I first tried the Coca-Cola, scrubbing at my rims with an old toothbrush. It did, quite literally, nothing. I gave up and tried the same thing with the CLR. Again. Nothing! I then went online and learned the magic trick. Are you ready? Here it is: crumple up a piece of tin foil, dip it in the Coke, then scrub away at the rust. 

OMG. It was magic! Completely addictive. It was like being in a Sham-Wow Infomercial!

I'm sure like half of the people reading this already know this trick and are judging me for being so not-in-the-know (or are judging me for being so inappropriately excited about this...or are judging me for letting my rims get so rusty in the first place. OK, everyone is judging me at this point. Let's just move on.) Around the time I finished the worst spots on the back wheel, I also realized that winter is not yet over. Meaning, I have to put my bike back outside. So, I stopped where I was and decided I'm gonna really have at it with the Coke-and-foil on the first warm day of spring, when I can slop around outside and then actually take my shiny new wheels for a spin. Wheeeeeeee....! At any rate, if you've got a rusty mess on your hands like I did last weekend, you now know what to do.

*sparkle*

Crotch Shots Part Deux

So remember back in April when I was the smarty-pants who figured out how to repair a rip in the crotch of her jeans by ironing a patch onto the inside of them? Well, guess what. That didn't work. I mean it did, sort of. Like, until I WASHED them. And then the patch started to peel away from the jeans, and this stiff, gluey patch fabric was then poking my inner thigh every time I walked until it managed to work its way through the hole in the jeans, hanging out of the flap like a little crotch flag. Did this keep me from wearing the jeans? Hell no! They are my favorite pair of jeans, after all. Consequently, the tear got worse. And not only that...another rip was forming on the other side! It was a triage situation, clearly. And so the time came to present to you...Crotch Shots Part Deux: the second crotch repair.

This time I wasn't gonna mess around. This time, the fix was gonna last. So instead of going with some cheesy iron-on denim, I reached for heavyweight khaki fabric to make a pair of long-lasting crotch patches.


It is imperative to note the origin of these crotch patches. They came from none other than the "seahorse pants"--an amazing discovery in cousin-in-law Tara's giveaway clothing pile years ago. I was going through her old clothes, which were a goldmine of awesome finds, when I stumbled upon these pants and proceeded to laugh for the next three months. Tara couldn't quite explain how these pants came into her possession and swears she never wore them. (The tags are still on the pants to prove it.) I took the pants thinking someday, somehow, I will want to include an embroidered seahorse motif on something. I'm thinking it will be on the back of a denim jacket...when I'm in the "seahorse gang" (or something). In the meantime, the khaki was used for crotch patches.

I sewed those puppies on around all of the edges using a zigzag stitch, which allows the fabric to stretch a little without tearing the stitches. And for a person who insists on quoting Sally O'Mally about once a week, flexibility is a must. ("I can KICK, I can STREEEETCH....and I'm 50!")


I then turned the jeans right side out and did another zigzag stitch right along the rip, going back and forth a few times, so now the two sides of the tear are bonded together by the strength of a wide zigzag!

Around this time I realized I probably shouldn't have used brown thread. In my defense, I didn't have any blue thread laying around and the notions shop is just too far away. I know, I know, it was a beautiful day and I should have rode my bike, but I didn't. Instead...I opted to use a blue pen and color in the stitches. Trashy, I know! First, I colored in the faded spots and patch fabric with a light blue marker.

Then I went over the brown stitches with a blue ball-point pen. This will probably fade completely the next time I throw the jeans in the washer, and at that point I'll either buy a sharpie or decide I don't care.

When it was all said and done, I must say, I was quite impressed with the crotch repair. And as long as the patches don't fall out, rip, or otherwise fail, I don't think anyone will even notice them!

Unless you're looking at me from this angle. Which you shouldn't.

Crotch Shot (with a Side of Daffodils)

So you know what's a bummer? When you discover that you are wearing a hole into the crotch of your favorite pair of jeans. You know what else is a bummer? When you discover that your second favorite pair of jeans is also getting a hole in the crotch at the exact same rate of deterioration!

This is what I came to discover in a fit of rage and horror a couple of weeks ago. In a panic I ran out and bought another pair of jeans. Which, for the record, I do not like nearly as much as the two pairs that immediately went into ICU (or rather, my mending pile.) The injured jeans then sat there for a while as I pondered my options. How best to repair? Simply tossing them out was NOT an option. I decided to take a traditional path--a good old iron-on denim repair kit.

I suspect that one is supposed to cut out a tiny piece of denim "repair kit" material and iron it onto the outside of the jeans. But how lame is that? I instead opted to apply this stiff, gluey fabric to the inside of my jeans and iron the crap out of it until it stayed firmly in place (no chafing, please!). And here is the montage of how it's done!

About three minutes later, both pairs of jeans were saved! Hallelujah. You can still see the worn down part on the outside of the jeans, but no longer any exposed flesh. (Which I'm sure we're all happy about.)

And most importantly, the patch will keep the worn down area from spreading, giving my jeans at least another six months to live. And maybe, just maybe, giving me enough time to find a new denim love before these pairs leave me to go on to a better place.

I would also like to take a moment to note how weird it is that both pairs of jeans were worn down in the exact same way. I mean, is one of my thighs bigger than the other? Is the flesh of one thigh made of sandpaper or perhaps sharp pebbles? Is my stride really so lopsided that, over time, my repetitive hunker can wear away one of the world's sturdiest fibers much like the Colorado River created the Grand Canyon? Guess so!

Finally, because it is somewhat tasteless to write an entire post about repairing the crotch of my jeans, I thought I'd fancy it up a little bit by sharing some photos of the springtime action in my garden. And so I leave you with some lovely images taken by my man, Robb--daffodils and wild tulips. Enjoy!