Great Wall of Paper

If you're ever really trying to rattle your landlord and ensure at least the partial loss of a security deposit, here's a fun idea: wallpaper your rental! Being a recent graduate in New York, I obviously rent in a small, not outstandingly managed apartment. As lovely as the particular shade of curdled rice pudding that covered every wall was, I wanted to add some kind of personal touch, if only for the sake of my own sanity and creative experimentation.
Relenting to the reality that I'd probably want at least a fighting chance at seeing some of the $1,200 I'd laid down as a security deposit, I opted for what seemed like the most harmless space: the plywood wall above my white brick fireplace (you know what they say about playing up your best assets -- this was by far the apartment's greatest). The surface measured about 5 ft. by 6 ft. and was bordered by the mantel's brick, which continued to the ceiling, so the margin for error seemed acceptably small for my first wallpaper job. One $15 roll of antique paper from Ebay, a pot of wallpaper glue, two brushes, a flattener, and one slightly sticky evening later, these were the results (note strategic hanging of large photograph to minimize terror of visible bumps):

Total cost: <$35. Bam! 

Leave it on the Floor!

Remember when you were younger and your parents told you not to leave your toys all over the floor? And then you got a bit older and they told you to “Stop leaving your s*** lying around everywhere!” (and perhaps then some non-parental figures in your life might have told you that while you shared living spaces)? Well, here’s a case for the opposite. I’ve been inspired lately by a growing trend of leaving your s*** on the floor. No, not your dirty laundry and takeout boxes, rather, the s*** in question (which really isn’t s*** at all, except in a few cases of exceptionally poor taste, or in the brilliant work of Chris Ofili), is art.

Photo via stylebyemilyhenderson.com

Girl Meets Deer: a classic love story

Once upon a post-grad Christmastime I cheerfully arrived home to my apartment and announced to my roommate that I was buying a deer. To which she, bless her little heart, merely responded “Where will it go?” (Details, details!). I guess she’d known me long enough that such a proclamation was unlikely to evoke more than a wary eye-roll.  I had found the deer, a life-sized, solid wood, turn of the century, hand carved Belgian deer, no less, at my place of work. This is less outrageous than it sounds; I was working at the time at ABC Home, the venerable furniture emporium and dealer in all things outrageously beautiful and depressingly priced. For the sake of my sanity and in hopes of my continued abstinence from shoplifting, I pray that this was my last job in which I want to cry no fewer than 8 times a day while surrounding myself with beautiful things I can’t afford. French ceramic bowl? A mere $285! Titanium shot glass? Simply sacrifice your weekly paycheck; it’s $1600 for a set of two!  Squandered paychecks and retail hustling aside, though, the job was an unparalleled source of inspiration and continues to be an invaluable mental sourcebook (as well as a comedic sourcebook; #shitcustomerslookingforamarbleBuddhasay would make a hell of a Twitter feed).

It was Christmastime in this furniture fantasyland when I first laid eyes on my beloved cervidae. Our eyes met one morning in early December, mine eagerly scanning the entryway for potential big spenders, his wooden ones staring, as they are wont to do, deadly at the glitter-covered floor (if you’ve ever been to ABC around Christmas you know exactly what I mean. If you’ve ever worked at ABC from the months of October to February, you especially know what I mean and probably still have some evidence of this in your scalp. Magical). From the moment we locked eyes/from across the room, I was enchanted. Perhaps it was his regal stance, perhaps the gentle curve of his antlers or the intricate carving along his rump. Perhaps the proud way he held his head high despite the array of feather-adorned ornaments hanging from it. In any case, I knew I had to have him.

Once I got around convincing the visual team to part with the star of their holiday tableaux, I faced the frustrating obstacle of transporting my beloved new pet home. While I’d like to think Prancer is magical enough to fly with the best of his sleigh-pulling siblings, alas this proved but a pipe dream and I faced more pedantic options: UPS or a Yellow Taxi. Since there was no way I was going to part with the sculpted creature while he tumbled unattended in the back of a delivery van, I was left to trusty New York transport. Several (dozen?) yards of bubble wrap, a very vocally skeptical cab driver, and much instructing of a slightly exasperated boyfriend later, Prancer was home.

While countless friends and houseguests scoff at the oversized and under-practical addition to my tiny apartment (especially given the frequency with which I am wont to complain about said apartment’s tininess), I maintain that Prancer is the best purchase I have ever made. Some things just speak to you (or rather, suggest to you with subtle eye signals achievable in wood). Through his steadfast wooden friendship, Prancer taught me that sometimes when you see something you love, you just have to go for it, concerns about door width and transportabilty be damned. Oh, and his antlers make the perfect drying rack, so hows that for practical, haters?