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Yesterday's merchandise return could conceivably involve a bit of "foreshadowing" as described by Wild Bill, my high school lit teacher. Amidst a ceiling fan installation, stripping the top of a bar, digesting 60 pages of deposition testimony, picking up dry cleaning, moving two twin beds to another room and relocating 10 bins of books, I managed to drop by my local import store with an unused mango candle holder and its receipt. Mind you, I purchased this months before I travelled to the country where it was manufactured, but the back of the receipt indicated store credit would be issued after 60 days. The gentle employ of persuasion skills on the manager having yielded a successful result, I tried to soften the associate's irritation by explaining I was essentially going to exchange the candle holder for chocolate. From the look on her face you'd think I'd said I was fencing stereo equipment for crack.
I've been buying chocolate all over town since Saturday. It's mostly been a casual affair, just a "well, since it's here by the cash register", although yesterday's jaunt turned into a full-on quest for an apparently extinct brand of chili-infused dark cocoa. Warning bells should have sounded somewhere, but even if they had, I was too busy to hear them.
Things like this catch up eventually, and today I found it lurking in my personal e-mail. There it was, a copy of my grant proposal, now minus my name and heavy two roman numerals, on its way to the U.S. Embassy. I glanced through the language and something started to gnaw. Damn, that was good writing. It even sounds like I knew what I was going on about. Huh. That's a pretty big issue I was trying to help solve. Hmmmm. A look around at the basement room piled with boxes bursting with retaliatory drivel...
What the F*** am I doing here?
I grabbed my purse and got the dickens out. My compass pointed me to a bookstore a girlfriend and I had haunted while in law school. My thoughts finally started to crystallize as I tried to navigate into a narrow parking space. It's not that I want to sell plasma for a plane ticket back, it's just other than my wonderful husband's impending return, our scruffy found pup and some administrative matters of the home, there isn't a damn thing that's got me on fire about being here. Filling up my time by working on things I care little about is sucking my soul bone dry. Before anyone says I should be happy that I have a job, let me disclose that this is a favor and I'm not getting paid.
The little voice in my head rattling off pirate slang, I got a coffee and cake in an effort to find some sense in the discord. Staring at the smiley face drawn on my plate in caramel syrup didn't make the voice any happier, so I looked at my coffee lid instead. I know I need a job in DC. Working on that. Want my love in the same place I am. Okay, it's gonna happen. Soon. AHA, says the voice. You want to do something meaningful with your life again. So, seeing your words makes you happy? Why don't you get off your ass and go look at the books about writing? Pushy, that voice.
My coffee cup was empty by the time I made it across the store. If anyone saw a vacant-eyed blond woman chewing on her coffee lid's spout, that was me. I hope I provided you with some amusement. Despite my preoccupation I managed to find the section I was looking for fairly quickly, although the selection threw me for a loop. Dear lord, does the world really need books where the words "writing" and "dummies" appear on the same spine? And what is all this about writing memoirs? My thoughts flickered to some of the greats, and I briefly wondered if they had consulted such works for guidance.
Shoving aside my wandering wit, I dutifully reached for a reasonably-sized tome, Shimmering Images by Lisa Dale Norton. Shortly after I began flipping pages I landed on these words: "So I say to you: save, save, save." No, she's not talking about saving money so the starving writer can afford to stock his or her garbage bag of ramen. She's talking about stuff. Norton advocates for those who want to write memoirs to become and/or remain pack rats. What better way is there to trigger a memory to write about than to keep everything, including but not limited to old hair products? I may have a 6 year old bottle of Paul Mitchell hairspray hanging out under my sink, but bullocks, I guess my current project rules out this line of work.
My resolve refining itself into something a little different than what I had walked in with, I picked up a copy of British Vogue and Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (now with 30% more zombies!!!). The young guy behind the register found a discount coupon for me, saying he was happy to do it for great books. Oh, and had I heard about Jane Bites Back? It's Pride and Prejudice but Austen's a vampire and she's been trying to get the same book published for, like, 200 years.
A warning?
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Feb. 7, 2010 Fitzgerald's socks
There is an art to choosing the evening's reading material. It's best performed when in possession of more than 300 books that simply cannot be parted with, having the kind of day lesser or equal to sitting in a car repair shop for 5.75 hours only to have the replaced part fracture immediately and perusing laden shelves white-knuckling a glass of wine. Employing this finely-tuned procedure ensures that books nearly leap into my hands as if selecting me through carefully weighed consideration.
Tonight's choice was the aptly titled The Crack Up, a selection of short stories, unpublished works and letters of F. Scott Fitzgerald. This ratty '56 copy came from a backpacker book swap shop I found when working in Vientiane and was trucked back to the States in 150lbs of luggage, unread. His personal story is full of the ups and downs on a scale that most of us mere mortals won't ever experience. However, for all his talent and whirlwind of a social life, Fitzgerald is quite relatable in his quirkiness and nostalgic tendencies.
His essay Auction - Model 1934 was co-written with his wife Zelda and relays their desire to pare down by using everything up only to have all plans go awry when faced with belongings of times and travels past. They both write with a frankness, humor and tone that I can only wish I possessed. Alas, I fear the only thing I can share with the writer of The Great Gatsby and his spouse is the special kind of anguish born from the process of deciding whether or not treasured Gargantuan wool socks from England are worth having repaired. His problem seems to have been similar to mine- the curse of being able to remember where and when something was procured and the story behind it.
Take, for instance, two wooden items of note from my grams' home. Alas, only one of the treasures has a happy ending, but I recall their stories nonetheless. The first piece of potential kindling is a section of a maple tree formed into a butcher block by the esteemed Texas Mfg. Co. sometime in the early 20th century. It was apparently purchased by a great uncle who owned a butcher shop, then passed on to my grandparent's home, where it was covered with contact paper and used as a plant stand for about 40 years. Knowing that it was likely a goner and still reeling from personal loss, I salvaged it from a sad fate with some other "heirlooms" and carted it home. I lovingly cleaned and oiled the block, bringing back what I could of the little piece of family history. It was enjoyed right up to the point where I realized just how dark the center was. I now think I understand why my grams covered it, and a quick "ad" on Facebook found a new home for the block.
Lingering guilt assuaged by the knowledge that the block stays in the family and that I won't ever have to face a flock of ghost chickens in my kitchen.
The second wooden heirloom of note was the family potty chair. Yes folks, generations of teeny E_'s learned very important life lessons while sitting on that hard wooden seat. I had no intention of taking this little gem home with me, but I was caught in the crossfire of a family feud and got dragged in as the only one in the room still capable of bearing children. Someone got the brilliant idea that my little ones could learn that everyone poops on the same pot that the rest of us sat on. While I admired the tactics used to keep yet another item from my Aunt S_'s back seat, I was not appreciative of the broken chair or the other crap that arose relating to my childbearing potential at the ripe old age of 29. Mind you, I tried to dodge this weighty possession as I was on crutches at the time, but someone generously carried that and the family Ouija board out to my car. Poof to the potty chair last week, sans guilt.
I got off pretty easy with these two pieces in the grand scheme of this divesting process. There are other items, some made of yarn not entirely unlike Fitzgerald's socks, that still torment me. He had an attic and storage units for his holey footwear and other personal flotsam. As I have neither, I need to keep moving along with my project. At least I'm in esteemed company.
Tonight's choice was the aptly titled The Crack Up, a selection of short stories, unpublished works and letters of F. Scott Fitzgerald. This ratty '56 copy came from a backpacker book swap shop I found when working in Vientiane and was trucked back to the States in 150lbs of luggage, unread. His personal story is full of the ups and downs on a scale that most of us mere mortals won't ever experience. However, for all his talent and whirlwind of a social life, Fitzgerald is quite relatable in his quirkiness and nostalgic tendencies.
His essay Auction - Model 1934 was co-written with his wife Zelda and relays their desire to pare down by using everything up only to have all plans go awry when faced with belongings of times and travels past. They both write with a frankness, humor and tone that I can only wish I possessed. Alas, I fear the only thing I can share with the writer of The Great Gatsby and his spouse is the special kind of anguish born from the process of deciding whether or not treasured Gargantuan wool socks from England are worth having repaired. His problem seems to have been similar to mine- the curse of being able to remember where and when something was procured and the story behind it.
Take, for instance, two wooden items of note from my grams' home. Alas, only one of the treasures has a happy ending, but I recall their stories nonetheless. The first piece of potential kindling is a section of a maple tree formed into a butcher block by the esteemed Texas Mfg. Co. sometime in the early 20th century. It was apparently purchased by a great uncle who owned a butcher shop, then passed on to my grandparent's home, where it was covered with contact paper and used as a plant stand for about 40 years. Knowing that it was likely a goner and still reeling from personal loss, I salvaged it from a sad fate with some other "heirlooms" and carted it home. I lovingly cleaned and oiled the block, bringing back what I could of the little piece of family history. It was enjoyed right up to the point where I realized just how dark the center was. I now think I understand why my grams covered it, and a quick "ad" on Facebook found a new home for the block.
Lingering guilt assuaged by the knowledge that the block stays in the family and that I won't ever have to face a flock of ghost chickens in my kitchen.
The second wooden heirloom of note was the family potty chair. Yes folks, generations of teeny E_'s learned very important life lessons while sitting on that hard wooden seat. I had no intention of taking this little gem home with me, but I was caught in the crossfire of a family feud and got dragged in as the only one in the room still capable of bearing children. Someone got the brilliant idea that my little ones could learn that everyone poops on the same pot that the rest of us sat on. While I admired the tactics used to keep yet another item from my Aunt S_'s back seat, I was not appreciative of the broken chair or the other crap that arose relating to my childbearing potential at the ripe old age of 29. Mind you, I tried to dodge this weighty possession as I was on crutches at the time, but someone generously carried that and the family Ouija board out to my car. Poof to the potty chair last week, sans guilt.
I got off pretty easy with these two pieces in the grand scheme of this divesting process. There are other items, some made of yarn not entirely unlike Fitzgerald's socks, that still torment me. He had an attic and storage units for his holey footwear and other personal flotsam. As I have neither, I need to keep moving along with my project. At least I'm in esteemed company.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Feb. 4, 2010 You will be visited by...
Do you believe in coincidences? Today, perhaps by serendipity, I stumbled upon three living, breathing people who unknowingly took me down an odd little path of enlightenment. Am I any wiser or kinder for the encounters? Not sure, but they did bless me with the chance to focus on something other than meandering deposition testimony and overwhelming dejection felt upon entering a certain Dr.'s office. Huzzah!
The day started out like most- trying to dodge a dog who becomes more lovey dovey than usual the second I put on black anything. Went to work, left for a Dr. appt. The visit to the Dr.'s office was Not Fun, but I did meet a lovely woman who had married her husband right before seeing him off to a war zone. This would be my "living person of days past". Her eyes teared up when talking about many of the same frustrations I had encountered seven years ago, and for a brief moment it felt like I was looking in a window long since left behind. I let her talk without the "oh you poor thing" I had so despised (and still do) and it was, well, cathartic. For both of us.
Next up in today's cast of characters is a fellow who also spent time in Southeast Asia, albeit a little more than 30 years ago under much different circumstances. He co-runs an antique store in the adjoining small town I fled to in an effort to erase lingering ill feelings about my procedure. I really, really hate needles. Anyway, we spent some time talking about our home state and humanity in general, two things I've had on my mind quite a bit over the last few months. His grandmother was a wickedly devious pirate in Key West and he has a very long ponytail, so I'm not so sure how well he really fits as the "living person of days present", but to be faithful to the timeline, here he falls.
My mind split between imagining a little old lady luring cargo ships onto sandbars by flicking off the lighthouse switch and mulling over a gorgeous 40's post-Bakelite radio, I stepped into the shop next door. Behold the "living person of days yet to come", a nattily dressed lady with a shock of thick gray hair. The conversation started with the joys and pains of friends and evolved into exotic travels. She has lived around the world and was given the once-in-a-lifetime compliment of almost being sold for fifty camels. Even taking her exquisite taste in vintage bags aside, she is what I hope to be in thirty years. She's comfortable and generally amused with her surroundings, happily married and still up for an adventure.
Maybe I'll wake up in the morning and buy a turkey, but it is far more likely that I will wake up and realize that I am one.
The day started out like most- trying to dodge a dog who becomes more lovey dovey than usual the second I put on black anything. Went to work, left for a Dr. appt. The visit to the Dr.'s office was Not Fun, but I did meet a lovely woman who had married her husband right before seeing him off to a war zone. This would be my "living person of days past". Her eyes teared up when talking about many of the same frustrations I had encountered seven years ago, and for a brief moment it felt like I was looking in a window long since left behind. I let her talk without the "oh you poor thing" I had so despised (and still do) and it was, well, cathartic. For both of us.
Next up in today's cast of characters is a fellow who also spent time in Southeast Asia, albeit a little more than 30 years ago under much different circumstances. He co-runs an antique store in the adjoining small town I fled to in an effort to erase lingering ill feelings about my procedure. I really, really hate needles. Anyway, we spent some time talking about our home state and humanity in general, two things I've had on my mind quite a bit over the last few months. His grandmother was a wickedly devious pirate in Key West and he has a very long ponytail, so I'm not so sure how well he really fits as the "living person of days present", but to be faithful to the timeline, here he falls.
My mind split between imagining a little old lady luring cargo ships onto sandbars by flicking off the lighthouse switch and mulling over a gorgeous 40's post-Bakelite radio, I stepped into the shop next door. Behold the "living person of days yet to come", a nattily dressed lady with a shock of thick gray hair. The conversation started with the joys and pains of friends and evolved into exotic travels. She has lived around the world and was given the once-in-a-lifetime compliment of almost being sold for fifty camels. Even taking her exquisite taste in vintage bags aside, she is what I hope to be in thirty years. She's comfortable and generally amused with her surroundings, happily married and still up for an adventure.
Maybe I'll wake up in the morning and buy a turkey, but it is far more likely that I will wake up and realize that I am one.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Jan. 27 in two minutes..Insomnia is (not) my friend...
In a girl scout kind of way I've decided to face this sleepless challenge head on, starting with modern herbal science. I just chased an "Easy-to-swallow tablet" of all natural Knock Out with a half gallon of water. Seriously considering contacting the manufacturer on this one- something designed to help you drift off to slumber land shouldn't taste like old gym shoes. How is that easy to swallow?? But I'm rambling. More to follow, especially if this pill kicks in asap.
Today I learned that if you need to get something moved along at my former gov't employer, in the "Special Counsel" vs. "Senior_" contest, "Special" kicks ass. I'll have to remember to ask my old boss what makes him so special, but whatever mojo he has got me back into the computer system and id'd within an hour. For anyone who has ever dealt with State government, this type of expediency is legend. In a blink I'm suddenly handed a motion and introduced to the newbies as an attorney who will be helping with x case. How the???
I would like to think that this means I'm hot stuff. In reality, this means someone is mildly frantic pre-trial, I'm not getting my old law school intern salary, and I will not have grounds to bitch about not having any direction for at least a month.
In other news, I have expanded on my reuse theme by picking up the copy of The Know-It-All that's been floating around the house since my law school days. This tome by A.J. Jacobs contains the swashbuckling tale of a gent who decided to read the Encyclopedia Britannica cover to cover, taking out the juiciest bits and passing them along to the eager reader as he went. This is delightful random knowledge at its best. I've put the book down for tonight at the reference to gymnasium, which apparently translates from the Greek into something like "room for naked exercise." He has recycled his knowledge to spare me the eye strain and I'm giggling. What's not to love?
More importantly, how have I gone on so long without such information? The author goes into his family's relationship with the imposing shelf of books, and I feel a little sad that I, too, was once granted the opportunity to indulge in such reading and shirked it. Grams had two collecting missions when it came to me: white china that strongly resembled the set she gave to my parents and the World Book Encyclopedia. She would find pieces of both at yard sales, flea markets and community swaps. I would get sections of culture and knowledge at a time, few if at all from the same pattern or year, but lovely nonetheless.
Eventually all volumes A-Z were present and accounted for, cream colored with gold lettering and packed with wonderful pictures and morsels of knowledge for my hungry mind. Unfortunately these came when I was about 11 or 12, a period when I had decided to bury myself in Stephen King's picture-less It, followed by Misery and Needful Things. I developed a strong distaste for clowns instead of learning that Daniel Fahrenheit was a moron. As a more enlightened adult who recognizes the movie version of The Shining as being nearly as great as the book, I can now move beyond King's nonsense and absorb almost entirely useless and fun knowledge in small, manageable bites. Perhaps there is a bit of intellectual redemption to be found in this delightfully thin book?
*crickets chirping*
Today I learned that if you need to get something moved along at my former gov't employer, in the "Special Counsel" vs. "Senior_" contest, "Special" kicks ass. I'll have to remember to ask my old boss what makes him so special, but whatever mojo he has got me back into the computer system and id'd within an hour. For anyone who has ever dealt with State government, this type of expediency is legend. In a blink I'm suddenly handed a motion and introduced to the newbies as an attorney who will be helping with x case. How the???
I would like to think that this means I'm hot stuff. In reality, this means someone is mildly frantic pre-trial, I'm not getting my old law school intern salary, and I will not have grounds to bitch about not having any direction for at least a month.
In other news, I have expanded on my reuse theme by picking up the copy of The Know-It-All that's been floating around the house since my law school days. This tome by A.J. Jacobs contains the swashbuckling tale of a gent who decided to read the Encyclopedia Britannica cover to cover, taking out the juiciest bits and passing them along to the eager reader as he went. This is delightful random knowledge at its best. I've put the book down for tonight at the reference to gymnasium, which apparently translates from the Greek into something like "room for naked exercise." He has recycled his knowledge to spare me the eye strain and I'm giggling. What's not to love?
More importantly, how have I gone on so long without such information? The author goes into his family's relationship with the imposing shelf of books, and I feel a little sad that I, too, was once granted the opportunity to indulge in such reading and shirked it. Grams had two collecting missions when it came to me: white china that strongly resembled the set she gave to my parents and the World Book Encyclopedia. She would find pieces of both at yard sales, flea markets and community swaps. I would get sections of culture and knowledge at a time, few if at all from the same pattern or year, but lovely nonetheless.
Eventually all volumes A-Z were present and accounted for, cream colored with gold lettering and packed with wonderful pictures and morsels of knowledge for my hungry mind. Unfortunately these came when I was about 11 or 12, a period when I had decided to bury myself in Stephen King's picture-less It, followed by Misery and Needful Things. I developed a strong distaste for clowns instead of learning that Daniel Fahrenheit was a moron. As a more enlightened adult who recognizes the movie version of The Shining as being nearly as great as the book, I can now move beyond King's nonsense and absorb almost entirely useless and fun knowledge in small, manageable bites. Perhaps there is a bit of intellectual redemption to be found in this delightfully thin book?
*crickets chirping*
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Jan. 24, 2010 more musings on letting go
This steel-gray Sunday morning I woke up to a few non-spam emails, one of which was carmex to my chapped hide. You see, I'm not happy to be back in the States. Or, I didn't realize I was okay with being home until I read the aforementioned message. Before anyone gets their feathers in disarray, please realize I have only been able to visit a small but meaningful contingent of family and friends to date, a few of whom are walking emotional disasters that have since caused more agitation than almost missing my flight home. Himself is also still abroad and I'm not good at kicking around without much direction. Idle hands and all that. And, most of all, I still feel like an a-hole for leaving CM. Read on...
Before this trip I didn't fully comprehend just how much Maslow was on to something. It really sank in as I sat cross-legged on the floor of a Lao home and faced a proud mother who was scared that her son would lose his job and be forced to move to a neighboring country where so many of her friend's children had disappeared. I reassured her as best I could, but her desire to meet basic needs we often assume as a given in the West wrenched my heart. La mer and others like her furthered my resolve to keep working, despite the difficulties of the environment.
And then I left.
Well, it was actually several months after that, but sooner than expected. Cue soul-gnawing distress and guilt.
This morning's wondrous, glorious email soothed by simply saying things where my old job was located are moving along beautifully. It included a few pats on the back and warm fuzzies, but hearing someone in the know say that what I built upon is moving on without me is a relief. It may sound arrogant of me to fear otherwise, but in a region where needs are great, individuals and smaller projects can slip between the cracks through no one's bad intentions. It just happens.
I do think that the sleepless nights are over, so long as I steer clear of the java after 3:00 and don't choose to indulge in a Friends marathon. It makes a big difference to be able to read into someone's message that the project I worked on is truly sustainable, and that something I've penned may very well bring in real m-o-n-e-y. Maybe, just maybe, I'm now ready to let go of some of the angst I have at leaving early and start handling things head-on over on this side of the world. Like those bins on top of the closet. Eek.
Before this trip I didn't fully comprehend just how much Maslow was on to something. It really sank in as I sat cross-legged on the floor of a Lao home and faced a proud mother who was scared that her son would lose his job and be forced to move to a neighboring country where so many of her friend's children had disappeared. I reassured her as best I could, but her desire to meet basic needs we often assume as a given in the West wrenched my heart. La mer and others like her furthered my resolve to keep working, despite the difficulties of the environment.
And then I left.
Well, it was actually several months after that, but sooner than expected. Cue soul-gnawing distress and guilt.
This morning's wondrous, glorious email soothed by simply saying things where my old job was located are moving along beautifully. It included a few pats on the back and warm fuzzies, but hearing someone in the know say that what I built upon is moving on without me is a relief. It may sound arrogant of me to fear otherwise, but in a region where needs are great, individuals and smaller projects can slip between the cracks through no one's bad intentions. It just happens.
I do think that the sleepless nights are over, so long as I steer clear of the java after 3:00 and don't choose to indulge in a Friends marathon. It makes a big difference to be able to read into someone's message that the project I worked on is truly sustainable, and that something I've penned may very well bring in real m-o-n-e-y. Maybe, just maybe, I'm now ready to let go of some of the angst I have at leaving early and start handling things head-on over on this side of the world. Like those bins on top of the closet. Eek.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Jan. 22, 2010 Lists are Fuuun
The much-anticipated query arose last night during the nightly phone chat with Himself, "So, how much stuff did you take to Goodwill?" The question was slipped in among routine but always charming conversation and asked in a tone that belied his curiosity. Question mark hanging in the air, I responded in a similar tone that I hadn't yet dropped off anything at the shop because I was still adding to the pile.
Truthful response, yes, but I didn't admit that I was scared to drop off the flotsam on the same day I packed it all up. Out of the foggy recesses of my brain I can pull out a memory of packing up a few items of clothing and casually tossing in a small brass and black metal Grecian urn looking thing that was, undoubtedly, made in India. I dropped off the box before class, and while sitting through Gratuitous Transfers my semi-nimble mind landed on a memory of the odd little vase. As I thought about it the small stirs of panic began to set in. Wasn't that the vase that my dad had said was purchased by he and my mother? The same one I plucked out of a garage sale later held by my stepmother? She, ahem, most certainly didn't know the provenance of such a fine little oddity, but I could not claim such ignorance. How could I toss out something that my broke but in love parents had cherished during their brief romance? Was I so heartless?
I rushed back to the shop as soon as classes were over, frantically scouring the shelves topping the clothing racks for the distinctive little urn. I was scanning the last section, the one apparently reserved for misfit junk, when my eyes fell upon the vase. At least three green $4.99 stickers were randomly plastered on top of the metal, but I rushed it to the checkout counter without hesitation. Breathlessly I told the woman what had happened, and she said it was very lucky that I had found it, although the look on her face upon further appraisal of what she was wrapping said otherwise. In the eye of the beholder I guess...
So, to prove that I am letting go of a "few" things, may I present an inventory of our household's rejects to date, soon to grace several abodes near me:
2 A-Z silver bookends that vaguely reminded me of erector sets
1 wobbly Samsonite rolling bag that has flipped over in more domestic and international airports than I care to remember
1 silver-plated footed iced tea pitcher with awful proportions
1 antique glass frog with no base, used for arranging flowers
6 white odd Ikea ceramic shot glass looking things that cook your fingers if you use them as espresso cups
1 unused magazine rack
3 wall-mounted candle racks
1 vintage glass dish
2 unused weathered-wood picture frames
1 slightly scuffed millefiore bottle stopper I purchased in Italy
1 really horrible Fossil purse- brown and black should never be put together like THAT, yeck
3 pairs of lightly used flip-flops
1 pair of pleather boots styled for a dominitrix that I bought on eBay- oops
1 vintage straw and lace hat that time has not been kind to
1 green table lamp purchased in a small Florida town with my Gram's encouragement, then given to her, then returned to me shortly before she passed- except I have no place for it and won't unless I open a country themed bed-and-breakfast in 30 years
1 pair of are they brown, are they purple? suede heels
4 belts, 3 of which are mine and one of Himself's that is more appropriate on a scruffy frat boy than my hunky husband
2 chipped marble dishes
1 giant antique Atlas jar
Phew.
Truthful response, yes, but I didn't admit that I was scared to drop off the flotsam on the same day I packed it all up. Out of the foggy recesses of my brain I can pull out a memory of packing up a few items of clothing and casually tossing in a small brass and black metal Grecian urn looking thing that was, undoubtedly, made in India. I dropped off the box before class, and while sitting through Gratuitous Transfers my semi-nimble mind landed on a memory of the odd little vase. As I thought about it the small stirs of panic began to set in. Wasn't that the vase that my dad had said was purchased by he and my mother? The same one I plucked out of a garage sale later held by my stepmother? She, ahem, most certainly didn't know the provenance of such a fine little oddity, but I could not claim such ignorance. How could I toss out something that my broke but in love parents had cherished during their brief romance? Was I so heartless?
I rushed back to the shop as soon as classes were over, frantically scouring the shelves topping the clothing racks for the distinctive little urn. I was scanning the last section, the one apparently reserved for misfit junk, when my eyes fell upon the vase. At least three green $4.99 stickers were randomly plastered on top of the metal, but I rushed it to the checkout counter without hesitation. Breathlessly I told the woman what had happened, and she said it was very lucky that I had found it, although the look on her face upon further appraisal of what she was wrapping said otherwise. In the eye of the beholder I guess...
So, to prove that I am letting go of a "few" things, may I present an inventory of our household's rejects to date, soon to grace several abodes near me:
2 A-Z silver bookends that vaguely reminded me of erector sets
1 wobbly Samsonite rolling bag that has flipped over in more domestic and international airports than I care to remember
1 silver-plated footed iced tea pitcher with awful proportions
1 antique glass frog with no base, used for arranging flowers
6 white odd Ikea ceramic shot glass looking things that cook your fingers if you use them as espresso cups
1 unused magazine rack
3 wall-mounted candle racks
1 vintage glass dish
2 unused weathered-wood picture frames
1 slightly scuffed millefiore bottle stopper I purchased in Italy
1 really horrible Fossil purse- brown and black should never be put together like THAT, yeck
3 pairs of lightly used flip-flops
1 pair of pleather boots styled for a dominitrix that I bought on eBay- oops
1 vintage straw and lace hat that time has not been kind to
1 green table lamp purchased in a small Florida town with my Gram's encouragement, then given to her, then returned to me shortly before she passed- except I have no place for it and won't unless I open a country themed bed-and-breakfast in 30 years
1 pair of are they brown, are they purple? suede heels
4 belts, 3 of which are mine and one of Himself's that is more appropriate on a scruffy frat boy than my hunky husband
2 chipped marble dishes
1 giant antique Atlas jar
Phew.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Jan. 20, 2010
I have a second-hand life. Hand-me-down, reused, recycled- however you phrase it, my whole life has been marked by thriftiness and repurposing. And it didn’t start out from any intention to be green. After all, becoming your grandparent’s 6th child isn’t due to anyone hugging a tree. Much of what followed has been born out of necessity, chance and a bit of really fantastic fortune.
Throughout my childhood black leaf bags bursting with donations from my uncle’s church were always a cause for celebration. The thin-walled smelly plastic held heaps of amazing and slightly scary clothing styles to choose from. Weekend trips to flea markets and thrift shops also yielded great treasures, so long as everyone kept their patience and a .40 can of Coke in hand.
As I sit here typing, a glance down at my brown and black stained fingers tell me that while I’ve moved far from 2144 Peach Drive, some things will never change. My discolored digits give away the fact that I just finished re-dying a lovely estate Ferragamo bag and a cute little brown (authentic) Coach purse I picked up last night at the local Goodwill. Can I afford to buy these things at full price? Perhaps. Do I want to? Not really.
I haven’t always appreciated the gift for thrift that my grandparent’s meager income and Depression-era values instilled in me. As a teenager I had the unexpected privilege of attending a fairly well-to-do private school, all the while living between a trailer and my grandparent’s two bedroom post-WWII asbestos-shingled house. Uniforms blurred the income lines between my classmates and me, but my penchant for thrift soon drew a horrified reaction from a pair of classmates that would help to firmly place me in the realm of “other” for the rest of high school. It had something to do with a road trip, junk shops and my explaining how to mend a hole in a t-shirt.
Cruising through Goodwill last night I realized that while my standards have changed (just because you appreciate the value of McCoy pottery does not mean you have to buy it), in this period of recession I’m no longer an oddity. No more am I young woman standing shoulder-to-shoulder with only little white-haired ladies telling me how they repurpose shoe racks for planters. In the aisles I now also smile at fashionable-looking women looking at furniture and teenagers ooing and aahing over DKNY jeans that look brand new and ring up for $5 a pair.
My Goodwill trip last night was an odd way to mark my return to my residence from Southeast Asia, but for some as yet undiscovered reason it felt like the right thing to do, although it may have just been a symptom of procrastination. Now that I’ve returned to my home I have to face the thrilling task of packing up for a move to the District. Unfortunately I’m finding that my treasure-seeking habits, while now fairly refined, have led to some clutter blunders. Over the next few weeks I’ll be clearing out my old life to make room for the new. My husband of seven years and I will finally be living in the same country after 3 years apart and we really, really need the space. Wish me luck!
Throughout my childhood black leaf bags bursting with donations from my uncle’s church were always a cause for celebration. The thin-walled smelly plastic held heaps of amazing and slightly scary clothing styles to choose from. Weekend trips to flea markets and thrift shops also yielded great treasures, so long as everyone kept their patience and a .40 can of Coke in hand.
As I sit here typing, a glance down at my brown and black stained fingers tell me that while I’ve moved far from 2144 Peach Drive, some things will never change. My discolored digits give away the fact that I just finished re-dying a lovely estate Ferragamo bag and a cute little brown (authentic) Coach purse I picked up last night at the local Goodwill. Can I afford to buy these things at full price? Perhaps. Do I want to? Not really.
I haven’t always appreciated the gift for thrift that my grandparent’s meager income and Depression-era values instilled in me. As a teenager I had the unexpected privilege of attending a fairly well-to-do private school, all the while living between a trailer and my grandparent’s two bedroom post-WWII asbestos-shingled house. Uniforms blurred the income lines between my classmates and me, but my penchant for thrift soon drew a horrified reaction from a pair of classmates that would help to firmly place me in the realm of “other” for the rest of high school. It had something to do with a road trip, junk shops and my explaining how to mend a hole in a t-shirt.
Cruising through Goodwill last night I realized that while my standards have changed (just because you appreciate the value of McCoy pottery does not mean you have to buy it), in this period of recession I’m no longer an oddity. No more am I young woman standing shoulder-to-shoulder with only little white-haired ladies telling me how they repurpose shoe racks for planters. In the aisles I now also smile at fashionable-looking women looking at furniture and teenagers ooing and aahing over DKNY jeans that look brand new and ring up for $5 a pair.
My Goodwill trip last night was an odd way to mark my return to my residence from Southeast Asia, but for some as yet undiscovered reason it felt like the right thing to do, although it may have just been a symptom of procrastination. Now that I’ve returned to my home I have to face the thrilling task of packing up for a move to the District. Unfortunately I’m finding that my treasure-seeking habits, while now fairly refined, have led to some clutter blunders. Over the next few weeks I’ll be clearing out my old life to make room for the new. My husband of seven years and I will finally be living in the same country after 3 years apart and we really, really need the space. Wish me luck!
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