A bit of history

Generally speaking, I don't care much for history. I took American History while I was in High School. It was taught by Suad Stratton. She was 4 ft nuthin' and from Pakistan. She made all of her "S's" look like kitty cats by adding ears and whiskers. She used to say things like "forward your papers to the back" and "even if your neighbor is bleeding in the neck during a test don't talk to him." I'm serious here. Suffice it to say I didn't embrace history.

Now movie history I can get into. I own the hardcover coffee table book about Gone with the Wind. I've read at least 100 times. I can tell you in great detail how Scarlett O'Hara was cast, but if you want any real world information about Pearl Harbor, the Constitution or Paul Revere, I can't help you. I am one of those poor pathetic American souls walking around who can't name all the members of the cabinet. But I can't tell who won the most Academy Awards. It was Walt Disney.

So it's fair to say I'm not big into the old and dead. Well...kind of. I've recently become somewhat of a trunk 'ho. My decline to 'ho-dom began with, of all things, Craigslist. If you're not familiar with Craigslist. It rules. It's like Ebay but cheaper. It's basically an online version of the local classified ads but without posting fees. I started dabbling in Craiglist trying to pawn off some unused trash and treasure on unsuspecting Madisonians. I'm all about purging. Through my posts I stumbled across a cedar chest. I've always wanted one but the current day cedar chests are these horrible chests that are glorified country style with swirls and spindles. That's not me. I'm more euro-contemporary and eclectic.

My Grandma had a a cedar chest that my sister took possesion of when she died. A lovely 1940's Lane waterfall art deco cedarchest. I got my Grandmothers really cool star shaped Christmas tree stand that need to be stripped sanded and repainted. It's been 17+ years since her death and it still needs to be stripped, sanded and repainted. Ho hum.

In any case - here on Craigslist in front of God and everyone was my Grandmothers cedar chest. Ok, not her cedar chest since that one is actually in San Francisco with my sister, but an exact replica. Pristine condition. Even BETTER then my Grandmas.

$425.00 later. It's mine. How happy am I? I am hooked. Hooked on craigslist. If I can find a cedar chest I can certainly find an old trunk. I've always wanted one of those too. BINGO! I find this old trunk for, uh $40. And it's rough. Real rough. It needs work. Real work. The kind of work that my fantasy of summer and fall spent in the garage lovingly restoring a really cool trunk promptly evaporated into the hard cold reality that I have bitten off more then I can chew with my $40 find. And so I do what any good girl does...

I Google. Trunk restoration. And a bunch of sites pop up. So I start sniffing around until I find EagleTrunks.com. And while I am deciding how I want my $40 trunk fixed up I buy one of Gary's trunks. Because, you know, I want a sure thing and if my $40 trunk turns out to be crap at least I'll have the totally cool 1870's wooden trunk with the original lock and key and the original REAL WOOD HANDLES! Wood handles. Honestly. I bought this trunk because of the handles. And then I buy another one for my son. I have a real problem here. I'm a trunk junkie. I am checking this guys website every couple of days. I'm figuring a trunk in each room. How cool would that be? My husband's head is spinning. And I've scared the nice guy at Eagletrunks with my babbling emails. Truly frightenend him. Crazy trunk 'ho on the loose. Menace to society. Lock up the kids. EEEEK!

I'm sure at this point, if you've hung in there this far, you are wondering where the alien space craft is that took the real "me" and left this trunk loving' ho. It smacks of history. Me doesn't like history.

Maybe because I'm on the precipice of turning 40 (can't stop it might as well embrace it - yeah, ok, I'm grasping here), but I admit there is a certain romance about an old trunk. What is the story behind my wooden trunk. What stories and treasures were kept inside?

My $40, soon to be $400 trunk (once I have it restored) has the original pink satin lining with a little tray and secret compartment. I imagine it was a ladies trunk. Maybe a young lady stored her love letters, poems, diary or dried up corsage in that secret compartment. I admit I patted down the interior lining just in case those old love letters were still there (I told you I watch ALOT of movies - but it would have been a great story if there was something there!) So it could be my, ahem, advancing maturity. A mid-life crisis disguised as a need for trunks. Or maybe it's something geeky and philisophical like the reality of my mortality that has turned a reasonably normal well-adjusted woman into a crazed trunk junkie. I think I just like trunks. They are just plain cool.

Onto my shameless plug for eagletrunks. This is of my own volition. If I like something I tell everybody and their brother...kind of like the pashmina website. I have 4 of those. :) He restores beautiful trunks. The owner has a good sense of humor and writing style. He was in the Navy and I have always had a weakness for military folks and the guy left his corporte job to do something creative. I am jealous of that. I am trying to do that with my little tye-dye gig but the sad reality is I need the healthcare. Frankly when it comes right down to it sucks to be the family benefit breadwinner.

So I'm going to wrap this all up now (you thought it would never get here). The nifty part of this trunk phase is that I am now part of the history of this really beautiful trunk with the wooden handles. And my soon-to-be-restored-as-soon-as-I-package-it-and-mail-it will contain my saved treasures. And then it's back to craigslist to see what other bit of history I can unearth.

And just like that...

There are moments as a parent that on the surface read as small as insignificant but in reality are bigger then I had ever imagined. These are not the traditional “milestones” of first tooth, first word or first day of school. I expected those. I was prepared for them. I waited for them and celebrated their occurrence with pomp and circumstance.

It’s the small subtle indicators that signal independence and growing up. Those are the curveballs that grab my attention by painfully smacking me upside the head.

My son started middle school 3 day ago. He’s spent a whole 28 hours of class time as a middle schooler. My labor lasted longer. What could possibly have transpired in those 28 hours that was so different from his 5th grade experiences? Oh the expectations are greater. He’s learning how to “take notes” and play different band instruments. He will now receive letter grades instead of elementary school number assessments. Okay. I knew that was coming. I am fine with all that.

We were heaped on the bed in my bedroom chatting about the day, discussing his new teachers and all the new stuff that’s been occurring. And then he says he’s tired and it’s time for bed and then it happens….

“I can tuck myself in.”

Ugh.

Rip my heart out and stomp on it.

And just like that his need from mom or dad to straighten covers and flip off the light has ended.

I am blindsided.

I didn’t see that coming.

I have a goose egg on my head from the curveball.

Did I actually think he would want us to tuck him in forever? Frankly I don’t know how to answer that.

In the blink of an eye we went from the center of his universe to still part of the universe but now he is defining his own parameters. I am not ready for it. Not by a long shot.

Random Bits of Nothingness Volume 2

I have writers block.

Let me rephrase. I have writers block for anything lengthy and cohesive. If you’re looking for disjointed garbled bits of content then I’m your gal.

Garbled Bit #1
The source of my block can be directly attributed to the stress I am feeling over my RENG 151 Research Paper writing course. 4 credits and $1252 dollars closer to that elusive bachelors degree. The angst of trying to select a topic, narrow it sufficiently, research it, write it, edit it and then pull together a cited works page AND an annotated bibliography in 7 weeks is staggering. Then toss in some random literary analysis of a Henry James novella (BO-ring) and I’m frankly surprised I can burble out any sentences at all.

Henry James. That’s a snooze fest. Literary analysis? Cripes! Frankly I think Henry James just wrote a story (a BO-ring story). End of discussion. Right? WRONG! All these over-puffed literary wanna-bes spent hours picking apart every word only to conclude the Governess didn’t really see ghosts but she is self-projecting her wanton latent sexually repressed self. Okay. Whatever. I’m not exactly sure how that conclusion was made. Smile and nod. Smile and nod.

Garbled Bit #2
Because my luck isn’t bad enough I am prone to regular reoccurring leg cramps during what should be peaceful slumber. Instead I have peaceful slumber punctuated by blistering pain of phenomenal proportions. I have had both labor pains and a kidney stone which both hurt like a bugger. A Charlie horse is tantamount to torture. Knee dropping, writhing, teeth clenching pain. Not discomfort. Pain. Owie. My calf is still sore.


Garbled Bit #3
Bonzai is still sporting a lampshade. But his nether-regions are healing nicely and we should only have one more week of lampshade fashion. Hurray for all.

Garbled Bit #4
I’ve finally, finally, finally gotten to a point where I can feed all three cats the same diet. This seems like it would be a no brainer. The rest of the world feeds their cats Purina Cat Chow. My cats on the other hand, as evidence by mention of vet bills in previous blogs, all required a special diet (read expensive). This of course led to feeding woes (yup – that’s already part of another blog). Now it’s one diet for all. This of course does nothing to eliminate their perception that what’s in the other dish is better then what's in their dish. Cue cake walk music. Musical feeding dishes. It still cracks me up.

Garbled Bit #5
Attaching a picture of Boomer. He’s a naughty counter jumper. Bad kitty. But he does know how to relax and is especially fond of splaying out spread-eagled underneath the ceiling fan. He likes to air out his naughty bits. Either that or he's dreaming he's part of a bank heist. Reach for the sky.



Garbled Bit #6
The painter is finally coming. Yay. Of course I am not ready despite knowing about this paint job for 3 full months. I have managed to procrastinate removing the stuff off the capped closet and wiping up what I am sure is at least an inch of dust. So guess who had to race home this afternoon to take care of it. I am frankly giddy at the prospect of a freshly painted house. That’s completely lame. I’ve turned into one of those weird psycho people that gets excited about new bathroom towels, a front loading washing machine and new paint. “L” is for loser.

And so far I've retrieved 6 glitter kitty pom pom toys...2 from under the sofa and 4 from under the chair. We haven't even moved the fridge and stove yet. I'm sure it will be the motherlode...

Garbled Bit #7 (Last one I promise)
I applied for my first real craft show in Madison. Terrifying! What if I don’t get accepted? Worse yet…what if I do? Then I need to scramble about booth displays and fatten up my inventory. Upon casual glance around my office it looks like tye dye threw up so it appears I have inventory-a-plenty but I’m having big grandiose ideas of new items. Dresses and union suits and rompers, oh my. Then what if I make all this new stuff and sell nothing? Then I’ll have a gazillion tye dye rompers. What the heck do I do with that? What if I sell out. URGH! I could make myself crazy with this.

Time to wrap up this cohesive bit of nothingness and get cracking on that research paper. And Henry James awaits. Lucky me.

Solitude and the E Collar

You might be wondering how these things go together. Think of like a one of those movies like “Magnolia” or a Robert Altman film that is told is fits and starts but all comes together in the end. Or so I hope.

I am a big fan of solitude. I need my down time. Alone time. Me time. Whatever label you want to put on it is fine with me. It smacks of selfishness but it’s ultimately a good thing or else I’d be stark raving mad.

The family – dear spouse and son have headed north this labor day to the family farm. His family not mine. I’m a glorified city girl. A reality that after 17+ years of marriage still has his family reeling.

I needed some solitude. Specifically some additional purge time. The house is being painted next week and there is much to be done with removing things from the walls and moving the refrigerator to see what lurks underneath. I’m guessing there is at least enough cat hair to knit another cat and a minimum of 30 of those sparkly pom-pom kitty balls. We buy them by the gross. Ok – gross exaggeration (pardon my punny-ness). We should buy them by the gross. I buy them by the handful and then *poof* - they disappear to god knows where. Some big magical mystical place with lone socks, Tupperware lids and fuzzy glitter kitty toys.

Of course my family has been gone all day and I haven’t done one thing to prepare for painting. Naturally. I have spent plenty of time messing around with my website and managed to dye a few new shirts. But nothing even remotely related to painting preparation.

The other event that precluded my participation north to the farm was Bonzai, my cat. My sweet little 18 month kitty cat that has had the misfortune of having three surgeries in 2 months.

If you listen hard you can hear the sound of sirens going off at Citibank Mastercard (whoop whoop whoop).

I could go through a big long drawn out explanation of said surgery but lets just say it’s in a delicate area and as a result my kitty is begrudgingly sporting an e-collar. Let’s face it – it’s a clear plastic lampshade with a strip of Velcro to prevent inappropriate licking of said delicate area while healing. I think it cost $20. He looks like a martian. As a result of the e-collar and administering of kitty narcotics for pain management it was prudent for me to stay back home and keep care of my investment, uh, I mean pet. You’ll be happy to know he is comfortably high, the surgical site is healing well but I had to add a strip of duct tape to the collar because he has a nasty habit of trying to pull it off. Can you blame him? If I had a plastic lampshade on my head I would pull it off too.

Ok – now the part where I pull it all together. So the misfortune of my large vet bills and cat sporting an e-collar played into my need for solitude, which I have enjoyed until about 8am tomorrow when I need to get down to brass tacks and prep for the painter. No really I do.