One night back in 2004 I attempted to make my area of a shared bedroom appear less cramped and ugly then was possible. At the time I was sharing a two bedroom apartment with approximately seven people. We were all performers for the same touring group, so not everyone was living there at the same time. People would ebb and flow out of the apartment as they made it on tour, or were left behind to join the resident cast with the other "not-good-enoughs" (like *ahem* myself). At the time my corner of the bedroom consisted of an Ikea twin sized mattress on the floor which we lovingly referred to as my "rice paddy." I also had a set of interchangeable shelving blocks that were used as a dividing wall between my rice paddy and my Pot-smoking Petite Oklahoman roommate's bed. That night I decided that my three-foot by four-foot area needed a little more pizazz. In an attempt to transform my area into a Canopied Moroccan Oasis, I tried to hang some blue tooling from a square made of PVC pipes suspended from the ceiling. And I failed miserably. I remember wobbling on a stool with my Hot-tempered Singing Nebraskan roommate and trying time after time to get the stupid thing to hang from the ceiling. Time and time again it fell onto my rice paddy until my roommate and I had to lay down because we were laughing so hard. It is one of the only projects I've ever given up on totally. And that is probably a good thing. That night we kept singing the lyrics to some forgotten rap song that goes "keeping it ghetto, (echo voice) ghetttttooooooooooo." From then on whenever my roommates would catch me doing something that was patched together, instead of done the right way, they would sing those lyrics to me.
Like all the times I stapled my pants instead of hemming them, or used safety pins on the inside of my ballet shoes, or repaired my black leotard with white thread and then used a black marker to color in the line- the list goes on and on.
To this day I find myself singing those lyrics to myself when I know that I might be pushing the limits between creative and crappy.
And on that note- I can't stop buying vintage suitcases! And I never know what to do with them once I own them. Last week I had an eureka moment when I was sick of trying to fit my son's books and toys into our small living room toy box. I decided to leave the toys in the box and use one of my suitcases as a make-shift book shelf. I keep trying to keep the kid-stuff at bay in my living room. His belongings continue to spawn and grow in size and number until we had to move the kitchen table to make room for them all. So any attempts to disguise or hide the fact that a small child lives with me are imparative.
So what do you think? Creative? or Ghetto?
Or is it stranger to have a random suitcase hanging around, as opposed to books all over the floor?