Eh, I Give Up, pt. 2: Outdoor Grill Frankenstein

Sometimes, I see an object on the curb and get a Victor Frankenstein Genius Idea for a project. I lug it home, brag about it on Facebook, get to it, and then slowly realize how completely and utterly I am out of my depth. Then, I hang my head in shame. Thus, my Halloween confession begins...

Not our 1960s grill, but you get the idea.

When my family hosts a backyard BBQ, we use the classic 1960s charcoal grill left behind by the last owner.

It is hardly a fancy object, but it does a fine job, which is what first drew my attention to the curbed gas grills.

I believe that this grill made its debut in the 60s
TV classic Lost In Space.

I pass at least one a week, year-round. Each time, I feel a pang of dismay—are these handsome, brushed steel behemoths so poorly crafted that Westchester folks have no choice but to cast them aside to rust upon our trash heaps? Compostable, they undoubtedly are not.

One fine garbage day in early summer, I passed one such grill, just around the corner from my home. It struck me as delicate and...um...cute, which I do realize is a non-standard adjective for a grill. I decided to make it mine and give it an entirely new life.







I hauled it in to the back end of Snowflake, our esteemed minivan, and made my first discovery: without the gas tank, these grills are surprisingly light.

Some few minutes later, we returned home, and as I removed the grill from Snowflake, I made my second discovery: blackened, dried BBQ fat is well-disguised by black enamel paint; also, there is no way to disguise blackened, dried BBQ fat that has smooshed out on beige minivan carpet.



Ice chest under the lid, shelves with supplies underneath...
can't you see it for what It could be?

Undaunted, I meditated on the disemboweled body—umm, gas grill—for some days. My soul was torn.

"Should I make it into a sewing machine desk?" I asked my dearest husband.


"It's too tall for a sewing machine. And you don’t sew! And you have a perfectly good sewing machine desk in the basement! Plus it'd need a lever to drop the machine down because the top isn't high enough--" he kept going, pointing out the obvious flaws in my rash proposal. Thank the heavens for this engineer in my life. An English tutor without friendly direction is indeed a lost soul.

Then, as if by divine communication, my path became clear—I would Frankenstein this gas grill into a permanent outdoor ice chest, server, and storage spot for plastic cups and dishes.

I praised myself for this idea, so clever and unexpected for a gas grill, yet utterly appropriate for its outdoor habitat. Arrogantly, I envisioned the innumerable Pinterest reposts of my unique creature--oh, I meant accomplishment.

Emboldened by my plan, I began in earnest the task of cleaning the filthy body. Tearing out its useless, dangling tubes and inflexible, thin metal ribs (oops, grill) proved to be the easiest part of my endeavor.

Scouring off the infinite layers of charred fat, however, drove me near to madness. Muscles aching, skin scratched and bloodied with my near-useless efforts, I finally sought, buried deep within the kitchen sink cabinet, the alluring path of ease: Easy Off.

Three thorough coatings and my task neared its finish. Smooth, shining black enamel was revealed. My eyes were delighted, but my hands, particularly my fingertips and nails, felt frankly weird.

Then came sudden and shocking recognition of my haste and self-admiring dreams! I had not read the directions on Easy Off can. Thus, I did not wear gloves during my operation, as plainly directed on the can.



Ruefully, I realized that once again... I Did It Wrong.

Some weeks away from my resurrected grill were required to heal. My nails, though clipped nearly to the quick, continued to pull away from their fleshy bases. Internally, I felt no better from this misadventure; I was, in short, freaked out.

My loving husband, too, was genuinely irritated and worried about my recklessness. “What were you thinking? You have to wear gloves with Easy Off! It says so all over the can! It’s unhealthy—it’s dangerous—not to!”

I feared pointing out a truth so raw that I could not speak it aloud: I had always prodded my husband to clean the oven and thus knew nothing of the actual labors of oven-cleaning.

My ardor for working with metal waned with each week. I returned to my first passion, woodwork, and felt a healthy resurgence of my confidence (well, yes, there are toxic paint stripper and oil-based products to contend with, but at least I know to put on the gloves now).

Questioning men, who for their livelihoods worked with metal, regarding how to insert an ice chest where once only a grill had existed left me as baffled and uncertain of my next steps as I just felt while constructing this very sentence.

Through the early, brilliant days of autumn, the black metal carcass mocked my failure with its very presence.

And it took up space.

Finally, my husband intervened. “That thing should probably go back to the curb now. At least it’s really clean. The recycle guys can take it now.”

So, I watched from behind split curtains as my great dream was tossed unceremoniously into the back of the recycling truck.

And I, deeply chastened, thought savagely to myself, “Screw Pinterest.”
 

Copyright 2013, Tanya Monier

Eh, I give up, pt. 1: Dining Chair Bench Bamm-Bamm

Last year, one of my Santa Barbara friends--let's call her Mama Beja (Hey there, Mama!)--Facebook-posted a genius idea from Pinterest: garden benches made out of old dining chairs.



Audrey Rush, on Pinterest, has more great Garden Furniture pins!


 

Moments when the project still seemed doable

Thanks to my worst tenant ever, who left many vanloads of stuff behind when she finally moved out, I happened to have four busted wicker-seat dining chairs in the attic. One afternoon this summer, I got ambitious and broke down the chairs to use as a frame for the bench.

Despite old glue, this task was harder than I expected, so I pulled out a saw, a claw-head hammer, and a mallet to help me out.

Holy heck! I felt GREAT banging away at these chairs. I annoyed half the street with an hour or so of "Bang-bang! WHAM! Bang-craaaack-BAM!" I did not care. I finally understood how blissed out The Flinstones kid, Bamm-Bamm, feels when he's doing his noisy, aggravating thing.

 

Just imagine black, curly hair and add a tie-dye T-shirt and you'll be seeing me! (Image from fanpop.com.)

Then, a little too much like Bamm-Bamm, I got carried away and broke the frames to pieces.

I still thought I could do something involving a lot of glue to salvage the project, but I was in denial. A few weeks later, my husband shook his head in silent dismay. With the rest of the trash on the curb, he dropped the broken chair carcasses, which looked way worse than the pictures here. (I stopped taking photos after I cracked a couple legs.)

Guess I had a lot of lousy tenant anger to work out on those poor chairs.





But, worry not, Folks! This is Westchester, so I found three more fabulous chairs on the same day that I found Lady Giraffe.

 

I'll try not to go to town on these three....



 

 

 



 Copyright 2013, Tanya Monier

 

 

Let's Take a Field Trip!

Two weeks ago, I added one more job to my already weirdly diverse resume: Manhattan Door-to-Door Peddler.

There is no easy way to begin this story. Buckle up, Kids, we’re going all the way back to 1986.





Change a kid's life: Buy a Copy!

14 year old me—a disgruntled Death Rocker (think “Goth, but with a nastier attitude”) who wanted out of Sacramento—was already planning my post-graduation backpacking trip across Europe. To further my plan, I made good use of a French Club activity and signed up for a pen pal.

I intended to go to Greece because I’d been obsessed with Greek mythology since second grade, when I checked out D’Aulaire’s Book of Greek Myths.  

I got my Greek pen pal, along with a yummy chocolate croissant, at a club meeting one month later. After everyone was matched with their pen pals, there was still one name left on the table.

True to my nature, I picked it up, rather than let it go in the trash. “You never know,” I laughed. “I might go to Oktoberfest.”

The Greek pen pal was a flake. We only wrote twice.



Four years later, however, Sandra Frank, my Munich pen pal, retrieved me, my friend Hayley, and our backpacks from the Munchen Hauptbahnhof, just in time for Oktoberfest.

And we’ve been family ever since. Her home was our first stop during this April’s European trip, Playdate 2013.

 

Like a lot of moms, Sandra has her own business, Pony-Pek Dirndlhut, hand-crafting hair accessories for the festival crowd in Bavaria.

The catalog pictures—some of which feature her!—are wholeheartedly, hilariously Bavarian camp.

But when I held these headbands, I didn’t see “Bavarian Beer Drinker.”

 

 

I saw “Manhattan Club Kid.” Just not a vegetarian Club Kid, because yeah, those are real horns.

Sandra, seeing my excitement, asked me to take samples home and see what New York boutique retailers thought of her products.

I know literally nothing about the import-export business. In terms of retail, I only worked the register (oh my God, so poorly) at a print shop in 1991.

But, Sandra is my German sister, so I took the challenge—and a box of samples—across Europe and back home with us.

Then, that weird and wondrous thing called Life took over, and I let dust settle on the box for many months. So ashamed, I couldn’t bring myself to call her and admit that I was a flake.

This fall, both kids began attending school full-time. Suddenly, I rediscovered a thing so rare, I still put it in quotation marks: “Time To Myself.”

In Fact, It Was Time For a Field Trip to Manhattan (you thought we'd never go, didn't you?)

Armed with nothing more than a box of cuteness and some catalogs—and dressed exactly like a Westchester mom and nothing like the club kids I hoped to interest in Sandra’s handiwork—I jumped in the van at 9:00 am, heading south. I expected to have at least three hours to do my best door-to-door salesperson imitation.


Two hours of NYC weekday morning traffic left me seriously doubted the sanity of my plan.

At least I had a long time to admire a Keith Haring mural.

 

Finally, I made my way off the FDR and meandered up towards the Lower East Side. I found a street parking spot at 9^th Street and 2^nd Avenue, a miracle of sorts, for I was directly outside of Veselka’s Diner.
 

Sample box in tow, I decided that if I had to turn right around and go home to get the kids off the bus, I might as well eat some damned fine Ukrainian pierogi first.

 
Contrary to my expectations, though, the pierogi brought out the coward in me. Belly full, I wanted only to go home.

 








Walking out of Veselka’s, I slipped in to Dinosaur Hill, a toy store that I’d noticed but never before entered.

“My Little Pony stuff,” I replied to the two storekeepers’ query.


The older woman, scarf draped in a decidedly European fashion, shot back in a familiar clipped accent, “My God, is that Little Pony stuff back?”

I took a chance: “Ja, ja, ich weiß! Total Scheiße.…”


Doris from Darmstadt warmed up instantly. She appreciated my wares. We chatted for half an hour, and I took notes while she directed me to various stores in the area that would appreciate the funky cool that is Pony-Pek. More: I had my omen, and I girded my loins for battle.

 

For the next two hours, I shamelessly barged in to any shop that looked remotely interesting to club kids, flaunted the goodies, and left a catalog. Each place showed real interest in the headbands, and each kindly encouraged me to try this shop or that shop, too.

 
As it so often happens in life, my last stop was the best: Patricia Field.

 

It looks and smells exactly like my fond, 25-year-old memories of San Francisco’s very own Daljeets

 

The young red-head behind the counter was kind in a way that I’m sure I would not have been to a Lost Suburbanite when I was in The Scene.


Then she saw what was in the box and got genuinely excited. As she switched back and forth from the fuchsia headband to the orange clip-on, her colleague walked in. He wore calf-high, five-inch platform sneakers, two layers of torn fishnets, and skin-tight, black and hot pink leather short-shorts—which, I need to tell you, matched his lipstick perfectly.

Ta-DAAA! My dream market for Pony-Pek.

“Fresh! Unique! I love it!” He touched the feathers, turned her this way and that.

The red-head nodded emphatically. “I know!”

He, too, was so sweet when he learned more about my quest.

“I’ve just been raising kids for so many years that I am not sure what I can do to help my friend sell these….”

Deep sympathy in his eyes, for he had already taken in my Old Navy jeans and New Balance sneakers, he nodded: “Sooo, yesssss…you’ve been out of The Scene for a while…?”

I nodded, unable to voice the obvious truth: I was out of The Scene long before his parents met.

 

 

Copyright 2013, Tanya Monier      

The Happy Badger Wants to Dress You Up

I like dressy, high-end clothes...just not on me. I prefer my orthotic-friendly New Balance sneakers, jeans, and knit top, for The Iron is my enemy.

Still, I love browsing through Vogue, Vanity Fair, and In Style, especially during the mind-numbing wait at the pediatrician's office. At some point during those foggy-brained, chaotic years of early motherhood, the names of designers and their take on trends started to stick. As a grad student and teacher, I could quote Sedgewick, Foucault, and Benjamin. As a newish mommy, I suddenly found myself able to recognize the difference between a McQueen, a Rodarte, and a Marchesa. There has to be a positive application for these skills, right?



McQueen, Marchesa (Jeez, lady, why so serious?), Rodarte.
Have I ever found one of these? NO! Would I tell you if I did? Heck yeah!

Of course, the only fashion stores I go to these days are Goodwill and other non-profit thrift stores like Alpha in Goleta, California. In a thrift store, I pride myself on two things:

1. My ability to flip back collars and read brand name tags faster than the average human
2. My eye for what looks good on the women I know

Yeah, I unnerved a few friends at the preschool when I sidled up to them and muttered, "You know, I found a dress that would look great on you." But then they tried them on, and they were astonished that I got it right.

I was as amazed by these gifts as anyone, especially my mother, who has impeccable taste and tailoring and who has long despaired that I lacked the fashion gene.

When I go into a store like Goodwill, I have at most an hour to spend and literally hundreds of items to puruse. I like that kind of challenge.

First up, I look for a sign indicating which category of items might have a further price reduction. Secondly, I take to the racks, sometimes with hands extended a la Tony Shalhoub's famous obsessive-compulsive detective, Monk, seeking out a print or fabric that says, "Quality."

Ah, "Mr. Monk and the Actor," classic.

It's not that easy to find the vintage Valentino, the BCBG, the Von Furstenburg squished between the Moschino for Target, the Old Navy, the Faded Glory. Every time I'm lured by a pretty print, only to discover a Dressbarn tag, I choke back a sob of despair that I will never get the hang of this game.

All in all, though, it's ridiculously fun to dress my friends in something fabulous on the seriously cheap. I was mighty pleased to see that Gina, a good mama friend and "In the Mouse House" blogger, wrote me up in a post.



Ah, another satisfied customer!

As I always say, Don't judge me by how I dress; judge me by how I dress you.

Vintage! Available to a good home!

Copyright 2013, Tanya Monier

Meet my friend, Craig

I'm not a Craigslist.org expert, but I am a big fan. The site is easy to use, so I won't bore you with a step-by-step tutorial.

I do, however, have more than a year's experience of dealing with Craigs sales, so I'll give you a few hints on what works for me.





Maintain an Account
If you have a lot of items to sell, this is the only sane way to track your posts and sales. You will need to provide an email address, which prospective buyers will not see, as Craigslist presents viewers with a one-use, anonymous address for each posting.

Try wikiHow to give a regular tutorial on setting up an account

You may want to create a separate email address through gmail to handle Craigslist replies. I use my regular email address as part of my account, and I have indeed gotten spammed because of my trusting nature. (No Viruses, though...yet?)

Like most of Craigslist, an account for sales is free, whoo-hoo!

Price It Right
I don't expect to get rich on a single sale, and the more I insist on a high sale price for an item, the longer the thing sits in my house. Buyers on Craigslist are usually willing to pay yard sale to 2x yard sale price. They want to pay "use value" price (ex: 10-20 bucks for an end table) for "brand value" items. Don't we all?

For me, the real question is not, "What is the legitimate resale value of this item?"
It's "What is the value of the space this item is taking up in my home?"

Before you post, check out retail prices and prices for similar items on Craigslist; if you want yours gone, gone, gone, drop your price by a 5-10 bucks.

Photos Sell Items
Let's face it: we live in a world of word and image. Be sure to include images of what you're trying to sell.
Nobody's asking for professional quality images. In fact, the more amateurish the photo, the more I trust the seller.
When I haven't, I get two responses from viewers:
1. "I'm really interested in your item. Do you have any pictures?"
2. ...Silence. Nada. Bummer.

Don't you love this? Mid-century sells!
 

Include the Essentials
After fielding the same questions from prospective buyers over and over, I now have a standard posting format:

1. Brand or materials description, including colors.
    Ex: This mid-century end table features genuine tan Formica tops!
2. Measurements (even necessary for lamps and children's toys, like bouncers)
3. If yours is a non-smoking and/or pet-free home, declare it!
4. Be honest, but not brutally so, about your item's condition


"Cash Only, Thanks"
Post this in your ad.
In no way should you entertain an offer to accept a check, money-order, or PayPal payment, especially if the buyer offers more than the asking price. That's a Phishing Scam, friends. Take that bait at your own peril.

"Include Contact Phone Number With Reply, Please"
I always plug in this statement, too. Even so, I find that real people forget to include it, and I have to write back a polite demand to prove themselves human and not Scam Bot.
Never, ever offer your regular email address or your phone number first.

Learn The Lures
These are the two spams and scams that I see regularly:

Ex 1.

Hi, I Saw your advert on craigslist about the (Baby+Kid). Hope is still on sale?
Contact me on ... oliviadc6@gmail.com
Thanks

Guess what happens when you write to that address? That's right--PORN SPAM. I was enraged that I fell for this one. I sure didn't think that a Baby Bjorn ad would attract the smut dealers...

Ex. 2
HI like to buy it.is sale still open?

9 times out of 10, any variation of the ultra-brief "Still Available?" response has been a cheap scam. This is especially obvious when I get this response 5 minutes or so after I post the item in question. (I've been tempted to write back, "Why, YES, it's available. It's not a live auction!")

Note the typos in the automatic response above.

In my early days on Craigslist, when I replied to this kind of message, politely insisting on a contact phone number, I got a second, highly polished, very obvious phishing lure along these lines:

"Thank you for your prompt reply. I am out of town on very urgent business, but my personal assistant will be delighted to help you finish this sale. I will even include an extra $20 to make up for this inconvenience. To proceed, please send your home address and bank information to the following email address..."

While you may be tempted to take the bait if you are selling something of high value, remember this: I have gotten this scam for $150 steamer trunks and for $5 lamps, for diaper bins and for oak dining tables.

It's a scam, Folks, that's all it is.  

Craig Tries to Make Things Right--So Should You
If you get a scam, spam, or phish, report it. Each email reply generated from Craigslist will include this at the bottom:

Original craigslist post:
http://newyork.craigslist.org/wch/atq/4068XXX89.html
About craigslist mail:
http://craigslist.org/about/help/email-relay
Please flag unwanted messages (spam, scam, other):http://craigslist.org/mf/28b0778d96a3dcf9c1164bae8df864687a0a4a5a.2
 


Use that last link! It's the only way to regain control of the pile of nuttiness that you must climb over to make a real sale with a real person. 


Copyright 2013, Tanya Monier

A Tale of Two Giraffes

Before I began curb-shopping and trolling the yard sales of Westchester, I didn't recognize a key component of my identity: I am a Magical Badger. I always find what I'm asked for.

Friends ask me if I can find them high-end cast-offs: golf clubs, Kettler tricycles, wicker chairs. Not even a challenge--I usually cross paths with those things on a weekly basis.

But rarely, I get a really strange request, something so unlikely that I hesitate to commit myself to the quest. Of course, those requests come from my children.

Here's a story.

"Playdate 2013" led us to the doorsteps of many friends who fled Westchester for the more temperate lifestyles of Northern Europe. Steph, a dear friend from Webber Park in Sleepy Hollow, was planting roots in Ijburg, one of the newest, man-made islands of Amsterdam.

Photographer: Michiel van Raaij. He has a helpful blog entry about the recent creation
of this suburban Venice-meets-Bauhaus...the movement, not the Goth group.

We immediately understood why she loved her family's new home. 20 minutes on a clean commuter train dropped us in the heart of old Amsterdam, ready to explore.


Photo from the blog Utrip, which shares a nice plan for an Amsterdam weekend trip

There was nothing my kids didn't love about Amsterdam. It is the most welcoming city for children I have seen yet. Of course, global weirding weather helped--those first days of May, we enjoyed serene blue-skies and 70 degree Fahrenheit temperatures, a whole country deliciously in bloom.



My picture from Keukenhof

Anyway, back to Ijburg, which was itself a dreamland of playgrounds, cafes, and shops, all within easy walking distance of any apartment block.

While out searching for my bank's ATM, I made another discovery. These people curb Good Stuff, too. I felt a wave of glee: could I make a curb find sale while on a trip funded by curb find sales?

Immediately, the really annoying voice of Respectability clawed its way to the forefront of my consciousness: "Thou shalt not bring Good Stuff into a friend's house wherein your family crashes." I sighed, relenting to the power of the super-ego. Also, I had to admit that it would be awkward to lug a dresser down Ijburg's alleys all by myself.

Then, I saw it: a carved wooden giraffe, dropped on top of a pile of black trash bags. The giraffe stood a meter high and looked mighty good, except for one broken horn, which gave it a rough-and-tumble, piratey charm.

I didn't take a photo of Pirate Giraffe. These are from Pier 1--$99 on sale?!
What IS money, I ask?

Dang it, I just couldn't leave that giraffe to be destroyed in the Trash Heap of Respectability. I carried it by its neck back to Steph, who cheerfully cussed me the way you cuss your cat when she brings something dead to your door. Her boys, however, loved it, which made my girls insane with jealousy.

They became genuinely weepy when the time came to leave Pirate Giraffe behind. My little one forced her hand: "When you find another giraffe, promise me you'll bring it to our home."

"Um, sure, I can promise that," I mumbled.

A month ago, looking through our photos of tulip fields, the little one suddenly demanded, "Did you see another wooden giraffe yet?"

"Nope," I said, thinking, But I probably will now.

Two weeks ago, on my way home from a Saturday tutoring appointment in Pleasantville, I passed several signs that shouted "Blazing Hot! Yard Sale!" I am robotically obedient to all yard sale signs, so I gave myself over to the power of this one, which featured hand-drawn chili peppers and bold, perfectly legible directions.

I trudged up the 1/4 mile long driveway (think about shoveling snow off of that thing, Californians: bleh) and saw It.

Giraffe #2. I'll never doubt my Magic Badger powers again.

Five minutes and $3 later, she--for undoubtedly, this one is a lady giraffe--came home with me to meet the kids.

And here she is, looking like someone painted her with Marshmallow Fluff...

So, ask me for something. I need a new challenge.



Copyright 2013, Tanya Monier

Something Blue: I Upcycled This, Too

For a project like this one, you will need the following:

 

A big vehicle

A patient partner

Space
Plumber's tape
A metal clipper

A brass wire brush

Bleach

Rustoleum spray paint

...and an utter lack of shame

 

 

Consider this beast of a patio rocking chair. I found it while driving home through Philipse Manor in Sleepy Hollow.

 

The houses in "The Manor" (as the neighborhood is known) unintentionally donated so
many items to the European Playdate 2013 Fund that I still feel I owe each one a Swiss chocolate
bar as a gesture of thanks.

I beheld the rust, the peeling paint, the busted vinyl, the crumbling wooden slats, and the black mold. Beyond all that, I saw what any good real estate agent will point out to a client staring in nose-wrinkled disgust at a tear-down junker: Potential.

 

 

First, I ripped off all the slats.
 

 

 For a week or so, I entertained the idea of cutting new pieces of wood and recovering each new slat with a killer piece of vinyl fabric--something "mod," maybe with red poppies.
Upon reflection, I had some problems with that plan:

1. I'm more likely than normal mortals to cut the heck out of myself--or break a saw--while making new slats.
2. Where does a normal mortal find vinyl fabric, anyway? I checked Sew What's New in Nyack, the only Real Fabric Store I know of in these parts. No dice.
I briefly considered using vinyl drawer liners, but I feared that the scented kind would have the best patterns, and I did not want my back end smelling like "Ocean Mist" every time I got off the rocker.
3. I just didn't want to.

As you can imagine, #3 was the biggest stumbling block.

In any case, I couldn't just leave the poor beast to release mold spores while I considered a lazy but acceptable way through this project. And my husband really hated this ugly space-sucker.

 

So, I dumped some bleach and laundry soap into a bucket, grabbed the nearest brass wire brush, totally neglected to put on gloves, and scrubbed the heck out of the rocker's skeleton.
 

See! Much, much better. Even the sun shines brightly upon my efforts.

The rocker's skeleton was all clean, shiny, and paint flake-free, but I still couln't figure out my next move to make the thing work as a chair. So, I did the next best thing--I went to my stash of Rustoleum spray paint.

First, I took a house poll. The kids wanted yellow. The Man wanted apple green. I ignored them all and chose the high-intensity turquoise.

I count Spray Paint among my Upcycling Frenemies. This time, however, it didn't let me down, maybe because the rocker's frame had such narrow pieces that color consistency was easy to achieve.

Hot-cha-cha-cha!

 

On to the next problem: Structural Support.

The skeleton has metal straps in the seat, but none in the back. I still didn't want to cut new slats and deal with drilling lead holes or whatever to secure nuts and bolts. And wouldn't bolts show in the front and uglify my efforts, or worse--snag our clothes?

"Maybe I should lace the back with ropes and put a big cushion to hide the whole seat...?" I queried my Man.

He didn't shoot the idea down; instead, he sat back silently and let me realize that I've seen enough hostage-taking scenes in movies to know that ropes get cut through after enough back-and-forth friction, like, say, rocking in a rocking chair.


Finally, Inspiration swatted feebly: I needed to make new, unshredable back supports out of metal.

The Man instantly came up with a great, cheap solution: Plumber's Tape. It's only "tape" as we know it in the sense that it comes in a roll, so the user can cut off any desired length. Plumber's Tape also comes stamped with a pattern of holes, so no drilling into metal!

I used one length from the original frame as my template and trimmed six new slats with one of these prehistoric things that was left behind when we bought our house:
 

Thanks for saving me from taking my own photo, www.popscreen.com!

 

 

 

I took sample screws and nuts to Tarrytown's own Goldberg Hardware for help finding appropriate stuff for the new slats. Goldberg's is the Anti Home Depot. I love these guys because they had me ready to roll in ten minutes, with stainless steel pieces that resist rust--something I would not have considered without them.

Goldberg's total: $4.50. Good deal and good advice. Plus, I got to skip a trip to the Home Despot and thus a bout of hating human civilization.

And now...
The frame is finished! It sat on this table for more than three weeks while I contemplated how to make or otherwise acquire an appropriate cushion for next to nothing.

A solution presented itself this past weekend at an otherwise self-indulgently overpriced yard sale in Pleasantville:

Almost three yards of very orange weatherproof Sunbrella fabric. Price: $10.

An orange and turquoise patio rocker? Why, Badger, why?
Because I have no shame.

After I'm done with this critter, you may want to keep your shades on when you come to the backyard, even at night.



Copyright 2013, Tanya Monier

 

Why I Am Not An Accountant

 

First of all, I feel the need to confess something.

 

Folks may be thinking that "Playdate 2013," our family's springtime trip to Europe, was a 5-star experience. In fact, it was the equivalent of Couch Surfing For Four.

 

I did keep records of how much I sold--enough for airfare and car rental.  

 

I did not keep records of how much I spent--on gas, time...and the loss of our minivan, God Bless America.

There'll never be another like her, I swear.
If you missed the story of her demise, read "Landfill" for a laugh.

If I did, I am sure that I'd discover the bitter truth: I probably lost way more than $10,000, which is actually just the out-of-pocket we had to pay for our "new" minivan, Snowflake.

Snowflake has not been not a worry-free vehicle.
You can still follow her June Explosion oil trail around Tarrytown.

So, learn this lesson, now, potential Curb Shoppers:

 

Accounting has no place in the Curb-Shopping Game. 

 

If you heed the Call of The Curb, good on ya. There are worse addictions--I mean vocations--than finding functional, curbed items a new home.

 

 

Go on--tell me you wouldn't love to be the one to make a young couple like this one smile.

And if you want to go on a trip, make it happen. It's more important to spoil ourselves with experiences than with things.

I gotta deliver bags of clothes to Goodwill and Christ Episcopal Church before my kid gets home.

Oh, and hit the bank. I might be the only citizen in Westchester who is delighted by a $120 Jury Duty payment.

That pretty little check will pay for a couple modest family dinners in Cornwall during Playdate 2014.

Dinner! Cornish Pasty

Small steps, small steps....


Copyright 2013, Tanya Monier