On Nostalgia

A while back, I was perusing an antique store nearby when I was assailed by a pleasant scent. My nose recognized it before my mind did. I looked around until I found the source: an old powder cache. I was transported back to my childhood in an instant. Memories of my grandmother’s vanity tray flashed through my mind, and how she would let us powder our faces and pretend to be grown up. After prettifying ourselves, we would go out to the sala and climb a small stepstool and sing songs for our grandma.

Coty Airspun powder, the standard for women for decades. She had a vanity mirror tray that looked like it was wrapped with gold lace, and on it were her preciouses: the powder, a bottle of Chanel No. 19, a lipstick in a rose pink, and a jar of Pond’s face cream. She replaced every item with the same things as they were used up, save the perfume. That bottle she treasured and was only donned for special occasions. I think I have it somewhere, the alcohol evaporated long ago leaving the oil base dark and pungent laying on the bottom of that iconic bottle. She also had a bottle of Chanel No. 22 which she had purchased back in the 1930s and was SACRED and kept in the drawer under lock and key and away from sunlight.

Once the memory floodgates were opened, impulse took over. I found myself at the drugstore, perusing the aisles for the Airspun powder. I saw it sitting on a shelf, looking shy and quiet among the flashier offerings. But the round orange container with its happy little poufs scattered on the lid beckoned to me, tugging at my heartstrings. And so I indulged in a memory, smiling as the young cashier asked me if the powder was nice. “It was wonderful when I was five years old,” I replied. I hurried home and opened that little cache and proceeded to powder my nose just like my grandmother taught me.

And in those few minutes, I was young and pretty and singing again. ❤

Linearity

Funny thing about parallel lines. They never meet, but can enjoy gazing upon each other as they travel, content to mimic each other and satisfied on their common grounds.

Skew lines, though….

Skew lines have that brief moment where they pass each other, one brilliant but brief glimpse into each other’s lives before everything is lost as they travel in different directions.

I do wonder if skew lines can feel regret.

In the Eyes of the Beholding Thrift Shop

I was running errands today, enjoying the 1,675% humidity courtesy of the light rain shower this morning. It’s Wednesday, which means local thrift stores have pulled all their hauls from the weekend for sale. Usually I can find something fun like a pretty glass or tea cup. Those items are pretty easy to recognize. But sometimes I am flabbergasted at how some stuff gets identified.

I was perusing a beautiful dry sink (identified as a “table with drawer”) that was way out of my price range when my eyes alighted on the item inside the bottom shelf.

Pretty, no? And I bet most of you can tell it is a chamber pot. To be precise, an antique Staffordshire porcelain chamber pot in almost perfect condition. No chips, no cracks, and the gilt is almost like new with very few exceptions.

I have a thing for orchids* and I loved the design. You can’t really tell, but the design is outlined in brown and filled in with gold. It hardly had any scratches inside. It was immaculate!

I took it to the front desk to check out and the lady running the register remarked on it. Hilarity ensued.

Cashier: Oh, so happy someone is taking this bowl home. It’s so pretty.

Me: Bowl?

Cashier: Yes, the owner called it a fruit and salad bowl.

Me: A salad bowl??

Cashier: Yes….why?

Me: This is a chamber pot.

Cashier: ………….

Me: ………….

*both of us burst out laughing*

So you see, it’s always a question of angles. One person saw the item in a different way, for a different use. And interpretation, like beauty, is always in the eye of the beholder.

I just hope the previous owner never served food in it. To anyone 😀

*I have a thing for most flowers, really, but orchids remind me of home.

Cole Portering Over Velvet

One of my favorite songs is I’ve Got You Under My Skin, by Cole Porter. It tends to describe me well when it comes to……well, me going to the thrift store. I see something all dusty and in disrepair and it gets under my skin until I bring my vision to life. Y’all have seen my other blog, Junk and Glue, and know what I mean.

And now, it’s all about velvet. But not just any velvet. Velvet used to be a very expensive fabric. Back in the Middle Ages, it was made solely from silk, which gave it a lustrous sheen and lasted forever. With the advent of industrialization, velvets were made from other fibers such as cotton. And then came synthetic fibers and nowadays velvet is something you can now find off the rack at Target™. Good quality velvet is usually made from a mix of rayon and silk. If you want all silk velvet, you will pay hundreds of dollars per yard. And I am neither rich nor insane, so that’s out. But you can’t compromise on the quality of velvet. Cheap velvet falls apart rather quickly, but the good stuff wears well over time, adapting a soft, rich sheen with age and use.

So, now that you have a primer on velvet, you are wondering why I even bring it up. Well, A) it’s my blog and I write the fluff I like, and 2) I want velvet in my life. And I don’t mean a jacket or a shirt, or even a pillow. I mean I want it ALL OVER THE PLACE: furniture, drapes, accessories, rugs, and PJs. I understand I can’t have everything in velvet. But I really, really want a sofa in soft, luxurious velvet, with some feather alternative-filled cushioning (real feathers are good and all, but I don’t want to trigger anyone’s allergies, nor do I want quills sticking my skin).

Isn’t she absolutely gorgeous?? Yes, that’s a pink velvet sofa and I want it with the burning power of twelve Betelgeuses. Look how plush it is. I want to be able to sink into the sofa, and the big plus with this is one solid cushion, nowhere for remote, socks, or change to slip between. I want to be Great Garbo and tell people I want to be let alone with my sofa and a cocktail and Netflix. In short, I am old enough to want to luxuriate while I watch “Flea Market Flip” and plan on upcycling a ratty old suitcase into a coffee table.

I am full of contradictions, I know. But I also know me, and I doubt I will ever have a sofa like this. It’s wonderful and classy and feminine, and impractical and  high-maintenance and over-the-top. So I will just admire her from afar, and dream of the dreams I could have enjoyed while napping upon such luxury.

But a velvet chair? Oh, yeah….That I can justify 😉

Paint Can + Fighting Dogs / Fuzzy Slippers = Giant Mess

There are days when a cup of coffee is enough to get me going. Of course, today was not one of those days. Two cups apparently were not enough, either. This is how my day developed….

I completed the coffee ritual and began to take stock of the mess on the kitchen table. I had recently finished making some pincushions and still had the accoutrements scattered around looking like an art exhibit from the MOMA. Anyway, I took some of the stuff out to the garage, and as I was passing the hall bathroom, I noticed the little accent table I had acquired for the nook in the bathroom. It was in need of a quick sanding, so I went back to the garage and gave it a once-over, and brought it back into the kitchen, along with a quart of French Linen chalk paint. I wiped it down and let it dry as I took the rest of the crap to the garage or to the study-slash-catchall room.

(Yes, I have a lot of crap in the study and garage and hopefully it will be out of the house once the vendor spot opens in mid November *sobs quietly*)

Moving on, I get the table set up on the floor and open the can, a full quart of the loveliest dun color ever. I set it on the lowest shelf and begin to paint. Meanwhile, my dogs wander over to see what I am doing, since the scent is different from dog food and leftovers and Sonic tatertots. As they jockey for position to get as close as possible to me without having to deal with the scent, Lenny the big dog steps on Ivy the little dog, which makes Ivy irate and forces her to strike back in the only manner she can: using her itty bitty canines and jump at Lenny’s throat. Well, Lenny does NOT like that and turns to snap back at Ivy, which makes Ivy jump more at Lenny and causes Lenny to swing her body around and hit the table, knocking the paint can to the floor.

“GOOD LORD!!! YOU DOGS!!! LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID!!! NO!!! GET AWAY!!! GO TO YOUR SPOTS NOW!!! STOP TRYING TO LICK THE PAINT, YOU IDIOTS!!! AND STOP TRYING TO LICK ME WITH THE PAINT!!!”

Yeah….so, I hurriedly shooed them out the backdoor and scooped up as much of the paint as I could. Thankfully is it relatively thick paint so I recovered quite a bit. And being one to not waste not, I simply used the rest of the spilled paint to finish painting the first coat. One thing about chalk paint: clean up is easy. I just wiped the floor clean with a wet rag and scrubbed the grout with a toothbrush. Once I was done, I washed the paint out of my clothes, and then went and showered again, because somehow I had paint in my hair. Aggie’s Axiom #18: no matter what I am painting, or how much I cover my hair, paint will eventually get on it and usually towards the back thus defying explanation.

So yes, that was my morning, and rest assured several lessons were learned here:

• Never rely on one cup of coffee
• Make sure to corral the dogs before starting to paint
• Avoid doggie drama and paint outside

Tomorrow is a new day, and I have a new bag of coffee waiting for me 😉

It’s My Pajama Party And I Cry If I Want To

This is no secret: I love pajamas. I mean, REALLY love pajamas. If I didn’t care about winding up on the People of Walmart site, I would wear them everywhere. Cotton, flannel, modal, fleece….. love them all. I do have my favorites, but they don’t seem to care. They are patient, awaiting their turn to be donned and appreciated.

Yes, those are wine bottles and glasses on the PJs. Don’t judge me. Anyway, one thing I have noticed is my overabundance of PJs. They are the one item of clothing I seem to overlook when cleaning out my closet and dresser. Ok…. I overlook it because I can’t bear to part with them. But when you are digging around for a set to wear, and find the sets from high school still in the drawer… you know it is time.

So today I will knuckle down, grab a box of tissues, and start to cull the PJ herd. It will hurt. Some of those babies have been my besties through the worst of times, and the best of times. There’s the set that spent time with me in isolation at the hospital, and the set that saw me through the next door neighbor’s fire, and the set that was with me when my brother was born….

He will be 33 this year.

I said don’t judge me!

I better go rip this Band-Aid™ off before I end up crying my eyes out in a pile of PJs like a crazy woma– never mind. It’s too late and y’all know better 😉

Turquoise Dresses….So Exciting!!!

As I live and breathe, I will never understand the evul that women do.

Sitting at the airport, I had the opportunity to be roped into a rather unconventional conversation. I was sitting there, minding my own business, when two lawyers begin to talk about upcoming nuptials. At first I thought they were talking about marrying each other, but no, one has a niece getting married and has been trying to talk sense into her to reign in expenses. From what I understood, the young woman wanted to have swans waddling around the reception area and a cake designed by Duff Goldman.

I’m pretty sure she watched Father of the Bride, and paid no attention to Steve Martin.

I smiled to myself, thinking of the havoc the swans would unleash on poor, unsuspecting guests, when the lady lawyer turned to me and asked out of the blue what I thought about spending several hundred dollars on a bridesmaid gown. I choked on my coffee and said, “Excuse me?”, which in turn released a floodgate of drama. The gal in question wanted her bridesmaids to wear gowns by Badgley Mischka, and shoes to match. I gaped at her. Badgley Mischka??? Number 24 on my List of Things to Do Before I Die is “Own a pair of Badgley Mischka shoes”. It’s on the list FOR A REASON!! (Oddly, on my List of 100, four of them involve shoes:#12- Louboutins, #24- Badgley Mischkas, #38- own a pair made by Daniel Day Lewis, and #87- own maroon Converse All-Stars. That’s the only shoe item I have thus far achieved scratching off my list). For those that are fashion unconscious, Badgley Mischka is a design house famous for their wedding and evening gowns. And by that, I mean one of their gowns can go for five figures. The shoes tend to be far more affordable, in the $300-600 range. So for this gal to ask her attendants to spend over four figures on a bridesmaid gown and shoes is a bit extravagant. Trying to quell the ire of the lady, I did mention that at least the gown could be used again for formal occasions, but then the gentleman lawyer broke in with the most important observation ever:

If women hate being caught in public in the same outfit, why would you subject your attendants to the same fate?

Now, that’s pure genius right there. Personally speaking, if I spy someone wearing the same outfit I am, I see it as a reflection of good taste, not a reason to freak out and hide and wonder if it’s not too late to go home and don a sack cloth. I understand the reason for that tradition (dress similar to confuse evil spirits), but it hardly fits in this day and age. I was a bridesmaid fifteen times, and with two exceptions, the dresses made me look like I was sticking out of the frosting on a cupcake. And every time we attendants absolutely and unequivocally loathed them. If I didn’t know any better, I would say the brides made us wear those ridiculous tulle-tufted, pastel-colored, stiff-necked, bouffant-sleeved taffeta atrocities because they hated us. I much prefer the more relaxed convention some brides take now, letting the bridesmaids choose any gown as long as it is in a specific color or style. This way the attendants can stand out and still be a recognizable group without being clones. It also lets the attendants stay within their own budget, and not at the mercy of a bridezilla whose only thought is to have people comment about her extravagant princess fantasy. A word of advice to would-be bridesmaids: always ask what the bride plans for your dress, and don’t be afraid to give her input. She is your friend, and she will pay attention to make sure the day is good for everyone.

Unless she hates you. Then get ready to look like a turquoise cupcake 😉

How I Stopped Fretting, and Learned to Love the MRI

Yesterday was a fun day for me. And by “fun”, I mean at least I didn’t cry.

Full disclosure: I have back issues. Last January, I managed to do something that aggravated my lower back, specifically my lumbar region (I was born with fused vertebrae in the lumbar region). I was in pain for a few days, and after it lessened, I discovered that my lower back now liked to crack like it was Knuckles Malone. My back now hurts more periodically than it used to, specifically when I bend or sleep in an awkward position. So, I made an appointment with my provider to be seen. He suggested I take a steroid (NO!), ibuprofen (CANDY!), and Lidocaine patch (…..wut?). I will say that patch does relieve the pain rather nicely. He also scheduled me for a back X-ray and…an MRI.

Sigh…. I am not a fan of certain enclosed spaces. I can hide in a closet just fine, but can’t wear a scuba mask. I knew there was a chance I could get the open MRI is there was no wait list. I called, begged, pleaded, and finally they told me they could fit me in.

In August.

That wasn’t going to work, so I chucked it up and made the appointment for the old-fashioned tunnel of despair. And so it began.

I get there with plenty of time to check in, only to be told they are running 30 minutes behind. No worries, that just gives me time to breathe deeply and not freak out. In what seemed like a few seconds but was actually 35 minutes, I was escorted out to the dressing area and asked questions about my affinity for metal. I told them I get my metal from Sirius XM. Satisfied, I am instructed to get into scrubs ten sizes too big and wait in the lounge area. Sooner than later, they walk me back to the gallows MRI. It looks like a tunnel to nowhere. I am given earplugs and a button to press in case I have issues with the procedure. As I lay down, I ask if I can have a bolster for my back, as I can’t lay straight without a considerable amount of pain. They tell me sorry, but no can do since that’s the area they need to scan. Fine….FINE!! They slide me inside the coffin, and the scanning begins.

BANG BANG BANG!!!! Sounds like some kid is hitting the outside of the machine with a hammer. I concentrate on counting the holes in the speaker so as to distract me from the fact that I am now a sardine. All goes quiet, and then I begin to pray my thanks to the Almighty God for the earplugs, because it begins to sound like my head is inside a semi truck’s engine while the trucker is blasting his horn.

Meanwhile, my back is beginning to let me know she is about to stab every single nerve. I am trying my damnedest to stay still when suddenly, I remember my ablation procedure and begin to panic because I HAVE COILS IN MY FALLOPIAN TUBES!!! I feel my heart thudding while I picture the coils being ripped out of my abdomen and sticking to the sardine can in bloody splatters. This is when I calm down enough to remember the freaking button in my hand and press it. Scan is stopped and I explain my dilemma. I hear the tech laugh and tell me that it’s ok, the X-ray shows it isn’t metal. Well,  of course it isn’t. Momentary lapse of reason due to panic. The adrenaline rush isn’t the only pain I am experiencing by now. And before I can stop myself, I move juuuuust a teeny, tiny, weensie, itty bitty bit. I’m talking micro-milli-meter here. I realize what I have done and pray the techs don’t notice.

Yes, I laughed too. After I got home and had taken a pill and drunk a margarita.

Due to my slight movement, I had to repeat the procedure. This time I begged for a bolster under my knees to help with the pain. The obliged, and even though it was a small bolster, at least it was something. Second time was the charm, and finally I was able to go upstairs to wait fifteen minutes for a CD of the scan to take to my provider, who as we all know can’t read it, but whatever. I’m just glad it’s over for now. I can stop fretting over it and move on to fretting over more important things.

Like wondering when the rain will stop 😉

Top Shelf

Anyone who is familiar with me in real life, and even just on the internet, knows I am rather an odd duck. I like to melt Peeps, I want to collect certain skulls*, and I own voodoo dolls. Those are a few of my Sithy likes. I’m sure I am not the only one with a like of melting Peeps around here, though the other stuff is questionable.

Look, I am not the only weirdo on the planet.

Anyway, one of my new wants is a shelf of my favorite peeps. The best booze is top shelf, and I figure the best people should be, too. Your mileage may vary, but these are my favorite shelf sitters.

• Ed Sheeran– I can sit and just look at that beautiful red hair and listen to that beautiful voice forever.
• Politibunny– I really don’t have to explain this one. She is just amazing.
• Bruce Willis– those green eyes and shiny pate for the win.
• Jun Tanaka— Of all the chefs that have appeared on Chopped, he is still my favorite.
• Nicole Russell— Wonderful writer at The Federalist, covering the everyday and making it awesome.
• Dan Joseph— The absolute BEST Man on the Street snark, evah.
• Lara Spencer– Talk about design on a dime, she is the queen of the flea market flip.
• Jay Caruso— Politics and the art of sarcasm, occasionally with a side order of groovy music.

These are just a few of the many I wish to put on my shelf. Now, some of y’all may think I have secret fantasies involving some of these personalities. Rest assured I do not. I just want them up on a shelf where I can just admire them. That’s it. I don’t ask for much. But just in case men show up with a white jacket for me, make sure someone arranges for Twitter access in my padded cell, m’kay? 😉

*No, not really. I just like to map skulls anthropologically. Sheesh…

A PSA From TSA

Last week, I traveled to Washington, D.C. Though I was there only a few days, we managed to see a lot of stuff, mostly drive-bys with the intent of scoping out the territory, so to speak.

But this is not about the trip.

This is about the pre-trip part of the journey.

One of the things I do is pack lightly. I am a master at packing. I can manage to pack for five days in a carry-on and still have room for any shopping I wish to do. I am also cognizant of all travel restrictions so I avoid packing any liquids or fragile items. Also, I dress accordingly: no bulky jackets, no boots, no extra bling, no hair clips. Still, due to the fact that I have a rather unconventional hobby, I am bound to be flagged for swabbing or for a thorough search consisting of a pat down by Guido the Supervisor.

But not this time. This time I was sent through TSA Pre and walked right through the X-ray machine with no incident. I was one happy gal. Until I noticed my bag wasn’t coming through the conveyor belt. The agent took it out and re-ran it through, twice. And the third time she called the supervisor over.

Ok, now I was sweating a bit. I reviewed where the bag had been before. No, not the range (wrong bag for that), and no one had borrowed it. Nope, never left my home unless it was with me. The supervisor signaled me over and asked a few questions, specifically if there was anything in the bag that could cut him or physically harm him in any way. Uh, no, unless you think the mascara wand can be hostile. He swabs the inside and proceeds to test it, honing in on the area that sets off the alarm. He begins to dig through my clothing. I am painfully aware of other people watching as he takes out my undies and places them aside. Why the hell didn’t he move the jacket and shirts?? Finally, the culprit was found.

That’s right. The package of Thin Mints was setting off the TSA alarm.

The supervisor took them out and scanned just in case, and turns to me and says, “You know, we like these cookies…”. And with a smile I replied, “And so do I.” He had the good grace to laugh and let me repack my bag. My mortification was further enhanced when the young girl next to a lady piped up and said, “Mom, she has the same panties you do”. I smiled and nodded to the outed Soma™ addict in commiseration, grabbed my bag and ran to my gate.

The moral of the story: never take cookies in your carry-on, and always pack your undies under everything else. It could have been worse, though. I could have been carrying haggis 🙂