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Everyone must take time to sit and watch the leaves turn.
                                                                            

                                                                                   -Elizabeth Lawrence

The Process

I have read that to be a successful writer, you must pay attention to the world around you so that you can write with detail and accuracy.  I have taken this advice to heart and make it a point to start my day observing nature and my neighborhood on a daily walk with the dog.  It is while walking that I think about improving what I have been writing or find inspiration for a new subject.

Mornings have always been the best time for me to write, as these things are easier when one is fresh.  Not to compare the two, but it also happens to be the time of day that I schedule mammograms, root canals and colonoscopies.  After walking and making a writing plan, I eat breakfast; throw some laundry in the washing machine and get down to business.  I turn on the computer but first must check my email, current news, bank account, faux jobs on Craigslist, and a dress on Ebay.  After that, I am ready to begin the writing process.  I can’t remember if I put the toaster away and so I head to the kitchen to take care of that and the phone rings.  It’s my sister and it takes us an hour to discuss emails, news, bank accounts, the dress I want on Ebay and the shoes she loves on Zappos.   When the conversation ends I return to the job at hand.  I head back upstairs and the first order of business is to pick out a font and letter size that is compatible with my subject.  This takes time and some test runs before I delve into my writing.   A woodpecker is tapping on the side of the house and interrupts the flow of my first sentence and I am distracted.  I remember that I didn’t take my calcium and the women in my family have a long history of osteoporosis and this is nothing to fool around with so I head to the kitchen.  I need to eat something as well since calcium can be hard on the stomach and I don’t want to feel poorly while I am writing.  A handful of granola and a banana suddenly trigger a burst of creativity and I run upstairs with a purpose to this writing business.  I can barely type as fast as my mind is racing with sentences.  When my surge is over, I read what I’ve written so far.  I read it again and then one more time for confirmation.  Sheesh, I’m not much of a writer.

I knew I should have been a nurse.  My mom told me that was a stable income, but I didn’t listen.  Well, I listened, but The Big Daddy said I nurse like Miss Ratchett from “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” and it would be best if I let someone who was more suited to that work fulfill their dream.  I head out to the porch and pray that the Writing Gods will descend upon me and spark my imagination.  They seem to always be tending to Stephen King and Danielle Steele, and so I trudge back upstairs to the scene of the crime. Staring at me, mocking me is a cursor that seems to be blinking, “You suck” over and over.  I begin again, add, delete and use a thesaurus too many times for 500 lousy words.   I read over this version and it seems less crappy, or maybe I’ve lost the ability to discern crap from brilliance.

Lunchtime arrives and it’s time to throw in the towel on this writing day and move on to other things.  I have spent the entire morning thinking about writing, minutes actually doing it, and far too much time beating myself up over it than is mentally healthy.  If I am very, very lucky, though, I will wade through it all tomorrow and find one sweetly crafted sentence that will cause my little beating heart to go pitter-patter, and after coffee, a load of laundry, a phone call or two, a bid on a dress, 500mg of calcium and a wayward woodpecker, I will sit down and do it all over again.

Saturday Mornings

We moved to Maryland when Teacher Girl was a mere Baby Teacher Girl.  The Big Daddy got a job and we moved from Illinois when our wee, little one was just a few weeks old.  We were a new family, and as such, The Big Daddy thought that he and his baby girl should bond.  Every Saturday morning, he would sit with her next to him and turn on the t.v. to see this…..

Her little head would be hanging all crooked, while The Big Daddy cracked up at Pee Wee and Miss Yvonne.  I’d tell him to straighten her head up, and he’d prop her up until she tipped over again.

Since Day One, we’ve made up this parenting thing as we went.  Sometimes with spectacular results, but often with incredible fails.  Always, though, the ability to shake it off, move ahead, and respect the Pee Wee.   

Getting The Goods: Part Two

I hit my friendly thrift store to see what great vintage goods I could find and it did not disappoint.  Burgundy candle holders, $2.99.  Not old, but great for the holidays.  Small cloche, $2.99.  Good for putting a wee, little feather Christmas tree under.  Two small vintage plates, $1.99.  Just plain good.  Two strawberry serving pieces, $2.99.  Thinking ahead, great for next summer.

All told, I was pretty pleased with myself, and brought everything home to clean up.  Burgundy candle holders.  Original price tag still on under thrift store tag, $.99.  Ripped off for $2.00.  Times two.  Small cloche.  Couldn’t get the adhesive off so I sprayed it with Goo Gone.  Left a film that won’t come off.  Looks like the feather tree is in foggy weather.  Strawberry serving pieces.  Realized they were part of a set.  Left the rest of the set on the shelf.

Painted a wood cabinet I scored at a flea market for $2.00.  Used an “oops” paint from Wal-Mart that was half off the regular price.  Put three coats on.  Hated it.  Loathed it.  Wanted it out of my driveway.  Put it on the curb with a free sign.  No takers.  Looked at the receipt from Wal-Mart.  Charged full-price for the paint.  Oops.  Gave up.  Weekend over.

Sometimes you get a great deal, and sometimes you don’t.  Sometimes you need to walk away, and sometimes you need to just light a match.


Getting the Goods: Part One

Nancy and I are now in the full-fledged vintage business, with a rented space and sales twice a month.  With this new space comes the pressure to change it up, keep it fresh, and add new merchandise.  And to be on the hunt all the time.

I hit some sales over the weekend with a big ‘ol dollar in my pocket.  Un huh, real business like.  I was on my way to Wal-Mart when the signs started calling me……stop here, good stuff, cheap.  1st stop was a garage sale with vintage Boy Scout stuff.  Sniff, sniff, give me a boogie wipe…..I think I hit Vintage Lotto.  With a dollar.  I did some batting of my non-mascared eyes, and I no longer have eyebrows so that didn’t work out for me like it did back in the day.  Oh please, oh please can you hold these for me while I go get some money, I pleaded.  Mr. Old Codger said it’s been his experience that people who want you to hold stuff never come back for it unless you have something of theirs.  How ’bout you give me your wedding ring?   For some Boy Scout patches?  You’ve got to be kidding me.   We settled on some mints I dug out of my purse.  New in package, never been opened.  The mints were in mint condition.

I was on my way back from the ATM when I came across an estate sale.  The dearly deceased loved dolls.  Thousands and thousands of dolls.  On shelves, in boxes, in the closet, on the beds, lining the windowsills.  I’ve never been watched so intently by inanimate objects in my life.  And. It. Creeped. Me. Out.  I ran into a friend and after a few minutes of chatting, told her I had to get out of there.  Psssst…….these dolls are listening to everything we say.

I made it back to the Hostage Mint Taker and got my bootie.   It’s rough out there, and without a wad of small bills, you either have a pile of vintage or a pile of disappointment.  When the stars do align?  Oh, happy day.

The Doctor

When The Big Daddy and I got married, he was a graduate student and I was a loan processor for the local bank.  Four years into said marriage, The Big Daddy received the Big Diploma.

From that point on, he became an expert on everything.  On and on he’d spout about any subject, until one time he got up into my business one too many times with his pontificating.  So I said, “Ever since you got that degree you think you know everything.  You’re being a real asshole.” 

To which he replied, “That’s Dr. Asshole.”

Up until that point, I could throw him a snark bomb, and he’d kind of kick it around and not do much about it.  This time, he pulled the pin and lobbed it right back at me.  The Man had definitely graduated.

The Week In Pictures

Oh, I’ve been in a real funk lately.  I just can’t put my finger on what’s wrong.

I got to thinking about those years of dating The Big Daddy.  Those were real special.  Why, we were like two peas in a knitted pod.

Seems like the romance and the conditioner had gone out of our marriage once Sissy…..or is that Junior…….came along.

Source: awkward



I wondered who I should call about this problem, and then it came to me.

They said we needed exorcise the Fat Ghosts, and The Big Daddy got right to work on working out.  Lord have mercy, when he put those weights down and came up from the basement, I about had a heart attack.

Well, I needed to spend a date night with that hunk-a-burnin-love.  He loves when I put my hair up, so I gave it a zip and put a fancy dress on.

And The Big Daddy got extra handsome, too.

We went on our date and it was as special as could be.  You could say it was magical.

Since then, The Big Daddy and I have been inseparable.  A little older, but still like peas in some kind of wrinkled, hail-damaged, sagging pod.

Source: google.ca via

Once in a great while, this boy tries to sneak into my dreams, and I say, “Ben Whofleck, you go home to that pregnant wife of yours…………….

I don’t need you showing up here.  Why, I’m married to Eye Candy.” 

And we were so happy for so long until the warrants came-a-knocking.

The Hob Lob

I am a crafter, sewer, hot gun gluer, spray painter, framer, scrapbooker, creative person.  If that’s how you roll and Hobby Lobby happens to be ten minutes away, you could find yourself there at least twice a week.

I loathe The Hob Lob. 

Much as I’ve frequented the place over the years, I’ve never had a single employee acknowledge me.  Not, “Oh back again.  What did you forget?  New project in the works?”  Nothing.  Not one word.  Debit or credit, and do not question if we forgot to give you 50% off on that frame.  We don’t do that.  Ever.  Hey, have you guys ever heard of a scanner?  It’s this thing that beeps and automatically charges the sale price.  You should give it some thought since they’ve only been around about 40 years.  All the while, the faint tinkling of a piano playing “Jesus Loves The Little Children” is playing on the loudspeaker because they’re a Christian company, don’t you know?  That’s why they’re not open on Sunday.  For worship.

I can understand why you would need to take a day off when you bulk sell Christianity.  Considering that the majority of Hob Lob’s merchandise is mass-produced products from China, including the Christmas trees that come out in July to celebrate His birth, the 7th day must be a much needed opportunity to cleanse the tainted, commercialized soul.

Source: google.com via Shay on Pinterest