Lust for Trash

I have piles of work to do, mountainous piles, and yet I blog. I was consumed today by lust. It happened as I was out walking the dogs, and we were passing by Lincoln Center, or, at least, the back of it. Since there are so many productions at Lincoln Center, the back is filled with trash--not the ugly gross banana peel kind, but the ex-stage production kind. Odd shapes in plaster. Fake sets. Perfectly good mirros. Plywood as far as the eye can see. Oh, I lusted in my heart, the way that only an ex-theater major can lust, over the perfectly oval plywood that was just lying there, discarded, waiting to be turned into a perfect coffee table. One that has card-table like hinges and can fit smoothly under my couch when not in use. Decoupaged with Chinese newspaper advertisements and then varnished. I saw it all in my head, just as I saw those mirrors becoming the perfect Bright Lights Big City-esque side tables, the kind that they used to lines and lines of snow white coke on. Mine, of course, would only be used for spirited games of Risk, The Lord of the Rings edition, which I always lose because I keep conquering countries because they're pretty, or have nice beaches.

I lust after trash, I admit it. I walk by broken armchairs and think--just a little stuffing, a quick trip to P & S Upholstery Fabrics, and a glue gun...I long for those broken armoires, those stray bits of carpet, that odd chair that just needs some love and an extra leg. I am the girl to make it happen--well, if I had a mitre saw, I would.

I've always had a thrift-store gene in me--who wants to pay full price for faux-nostalgia when you can have the real stuff that we're nostalgic for? Why buy new? Breaking all the boundaries of good taste, I covered my ancient loveseat in white fur. I haven't bought a new coat in years. I use plumbing wire to make hair clips. But lumber--out of lumber could come the perfect litter box, one that would be high enough that the cats would shake their feet off in the box rather than out of it. Out of lumber could come the coffee table, that extra shelf, that magazine rack that I would attach to the walls like you see in offices, only mine would be bright red. And those fake stage trees. How I would love to live in a jungle of fake stage trees.

But alas, no mitre saw for the coffee table. And what can only be termed as extraordinarily limited space in my apartment. We have no room for glam 1980's side tables. My drill only has one bit. And I rent, which means that every nail-hole I don't spackle over will be deducted from my rent.

One day I will get enough money and renovate an old brownstone. Then I too can be one of those old lady New Yorkers, the kind that stand in front of me in the grocery store wearing a full-length brown mink and a hat to match and arguing that the cat food should be $1.29 rather than $1.59 per can. Oh, don't worry ladies, I have love for you too.