furniture

Where’s the stick?

/ wvfurandroot / 13 Comments

I didn’t get the house cleaning/furniture moving gene. Or the vacuuming one.

No pictures. Are you kidding? Let you see the mess I have wrought with one good foot, a bad back, and a Loratab fog?

Last year's Little Tree that started this monstrous horrible mess.

As my father would say, Where’s the stick? [You’re supposed to ask, What stick? And then he says, The stick you stirred this mess up with.]

It’s a flippin’ mess. I can’t imagine what I was thinking. Well, yes, I can. It went something like this.

Mom is coming up eventually to wallpaper the ceiling in the cow bathroom.

While she’s here I should ask her to get the little tree out of the closet for me.

There’s no place for the little tree.

There is a place if I move the sofa forward a couple of feet.

Ah, but, now there’s no room for the desk. [I’d rather die than do without the desk. I love desks.]

OK. If I move the Evil Sewing Machine, I can slide the desk down 10 feet and Voila! room for the tree.

Can’t move the desk. It’s too heavy, I have one foot, and my back already hurts.

Take the drawers out.

Push.

One inch at a time.

Gaze in horror at the mess behind the desk. [I found Willy’s toad, may he rest in peace.]

Drag out the vacuum cleaner. [I’d rather clean the cat box with my tongue than vacuum, but sometimes you just gotta break down.]

Oh No!!!!!!!!! Where do I go with all the crap on the desk and the walls.

Connie wrings her hands in panic and considers another Loratab.

At present, the Evil Demon of Fabric Manipulation is in the middle of the floor as are the vacuum and the carpet cleaner. There’s a toad carcass, a forest worth of dried leaves, several acorns, and a letter I never mailed on the floor where the desk was.

The puppies are wild with consternation.

I never move furniture. I never vacuum. And Willy is mourning the toad.

It’s my mother’s fault.

My mother sewed, vacuumed and moved furniture the way some women buy shoes or bake. It was a great comfort to her to stir everything up (Where’s the stick?) and then re-assemble it in a completely different pattern – often using the Torture Implement of Bobbinhood to whip up some curtains or table runners along the way. When she’s stressed, she vacuums. Vacuums when she’s happy. Vacuums when she’s sad. Vacuums because she needs to and vacuums because there is nothing else to do. At any one time, she owns three or four vacuum cleaners. She lusts over them in stores like I do desks (and shoes).

I spent my formative years listening to the drone of the vacuum cleaner and bruising my shins in the middle of the night.

I only move furniture around until I have found the exact perfect configuration. I’ll move it round and round for some months, maybe years, and then I find the one setup that works and there it remains until it disintegrates into a dust heap. I term it finding the spot the universe wants that piece in. The family room and the Christmas tree are always a battle. The exact perfect configuration does not accommodate the tree.  I was not happy with last year’s arrangement and so here I sit.  Completely demoralized as I lose this battle.

And. So. Here I sit. The family room is in complete disarray. I’m completely out of oomph. My foot hurts. My back hurts. And there is a dead toad lying on the carpet.

I hate being a grown-up.  I have to clean this up whether I want to or not.  And it’s going to involve the vacuum cleaner.  And I have to touch [shudder] the Beelzebub of Thread to keep from bruising my shins in the middle of the night as I stumble down here to guzzle Coca Cola.  (I never drink soda, but Loratabs provoke a need for massive quanities of Classic Coke.)

Ancestors

/ wvfurandroot / 2 Comments
I think I'll name her Emily.

I think I'll name her Emily.

Since it is Memorial Day weekend, I am introducing my Ancestors.

Memorial Day, formerly known as Decoration Day, is a U.S. federal holiday set aside to honor those who died in combat. In the southern states, and Appalachia in particular, the holiday has expanded as a time to remember all of one’s relatives who have passed on.

Because my dad was in the military and for a host of other reasons, I grew up without an extended family – without ancestors, so to speak. My immediate family does not have a cemetery that we can go to this weekend and decorate. We will not be attending any Homecomings (family reunions often held at churches or cemeteries).

While I’m not really all that keen on the idea of spending Monday at a cemetery eating potato salad, I do miss knowing the people that make up the furthest branches of my family tree.

When we moved back here in 1985 and bought “Frank’s old place,” I was often asked, “Who are your people?” That, or some more subtle variation, is a common question and one of the defining characteristics of Appalachian culture. Often the conversation begins with “Where are you from?” The questioner is expecting an answer that names a county or town with more descriptors identifying the family tree. We don’t particularly want to know your occupation (so forget the “so what do you do? question), we want to know who you connect to – how you fit into the quilt of our communities.

My mama's people - the infamous branch.

My mama's people - the infamous branch.

I explain that I’m not from anywhere as my dad was in the military, but that my great-grandparents were Appalachians who out-migrated around the turn of the century. Consequently, I grew up with hillbilly ways in non-hillbilly places. My people, the ones I’m related to by blood, are scattered around the country and due to different life circumstances, I don’t have a lot of information about the kinfolk much past a few generations. It’s kind of sad.

Dusty cardbox box of ancestors

Dusty cardboard box of ancestors

One day, while perusing stuff in an antique store, I found a bin of old photographs. I was enchanted and appalled. Who? Who, in their right mind, would get rid of old family photos? These people, their individuality permeating sepia, were languishing unloved and unappreciated in a dusty cardboard box in a junk store.  The indignity!  And then it dawned on me.  For $3, I bought the first portrait of my Ancestors. I’ve adopted many Ancestors since then.

The photo below is one of my favorites. I’ve named them the Kinton family and have decided that the photo is of a married couple, the vicious mother-in-law, and the sulking teenage son (who, as you may note, is trying to distance himself from the embarrassment of having to hang out with his parents).

The Kintons
The Kintons

I’m particularly fond of the noble steeds. Apparently, my extended family eschewed equestrian activities for burro-ian ones.  [Note:  Now we know where I got my innate sense of dignity in awkward situations.]  Of all the Ancestors, this family intrigues me the most and set the tone for my collection.  Not all, but many of my Ancestors, are quirky.  While I regret not knowing my real family well, I love the freedom of choosing people and creating biographies while simultaneously being pissed off that someone, anyone, would give up such precious photos.

I love the church pew - I'm strange that way.

I love the church pew - I'm strange that way.

The Ancestors have been languishing in a dusty cardboard box on my church pew for sometime now. I want a better life for them, buth such things take time and money – precious commodities in my life.  My goal is to have them all professionally framed so I can hang them above the church pew to be viewed (and remembered). I will be able to point to “my people” and, as soon as I finish writing biographies for each of them, explain where they lived, what they did and who they loved. [Note: I adore the church pew. Having been raised in a fundamentalist religious tradition, I take a certain amount of contrary pleasure in sitting on the church pew en flagrante déshabillé, smoking a cigarette and sipping wine.]

I’ve spent the morning digging through the ancestors as well as photos of my more immediate family. It’s been a bittersweet time. I’d like to go to a cemetery and sit in green grass and remember them – pull some weeds, plant a rose or two, admire the daisies growing on the hillside. Instead, I will spend this weekend working in the garden that includes many of the plants they gave me or I dug up from their yards after they passed.

Daisies - a really underappreciated flower.

Daisies - a really underappreciated flower.

We lost two of my dad’s sisters a couple of months ago.  Marvelous women, both of them, we are still grieving.  They died two hours and 900 miles apart, some what unexpectedly. I’m planning to go to the nursery and buy their favorite flowers to plant in my garden. I think that will encompass the spirit of things.

In memory of Kathy, and, in particular, Irene, who loved the absurd as much as I.  One after one, they endured some of the most horrible events life can offer, yet still managed to laugh.  I miss them both.

4 a.m.

/ wvfurandroot / 2 Comments
My former refuge.

My former refuge.

Menopause is a bitch.

It’s 4 a.m. I woke up because I was thirsty and now I can’t get back to sleep.

I have always been a champion sleeper.

Not these days.

majorette

Before it all began.

Menopause is puberty in reverse and upside down. I’m moody. I break-out. I’m hot. I’m cold. I don’t sleep well. My body is changing. I’m neurotic. (OK, I’ve mostly always been neurotic.)

Remember when you were a teenager and stayed up ‘til all hours of the night and slept all day? That wasn’t because you were special, it was a brain thing. The emerging research is all over teenagers and sleep patterns. I figure in a few years they’ll get around to menopausal women – women are always last.

I bitched and carried on for months about what I thought was the fact that no one told me about the sleep thing. Hot flashes, sure. Night sweats, yup. Mood swings, check. Irregular periods, got it. Can’t sleep?

Not a word.

Or so I thought. A friend told me that she had indeed told me, but folks don’t seem to pick up on the sleep disorder part. It could be that we’re too horrified by the hot flash thing.

Note the sullen look. Puberty is also a bitch.

Note the sullen look. Puberty is also a bitch.

I haven’t really had a hot flash yet. The night sweats just started so, more ’n’ likely, they’re on the horizon, but I can’t imagine that anything is worse than this sleep thing. Or the morning sickness part.

Oh yeah, I’m one of the small percentage of women who are “morning sick” during menopause. I retch and gag, almost as if on cue, every morning that I manage to sleep until a decent hour.

Apparently, my body will inflict suffering one way or the other.

Sleep was my first form of refuge.

Naps. I love naps.

Long, lazy, drool on the pillow naps in afternoon light.

I love crawling into bed with a good book early in the evening and reading myself to sleep. Only now, some times, I’ll finish half the novel before sleep takes me. It didn’t used to be this way.

In one of Stephen King’s novels, I think, there is a line something like “I have become an old woman who doesn’t sleep in the night.”

I have become an old woman. . . 

Who doesn’t sleep in the night.

Menopause is a bitch.

The Well-Appointed Vanity (or Necessities for Feisty Girly Girls) has always

/ wvfurandroot / 10 Comments
Possibly my favorite piece of furniture.

Possibly my favorite piece of furniture.

I believe it’s a basic truth that everyone over the age of 12 needs their own desk. I also believe it’s a basic truth that every woman over the age of 12 needs a well-appointed dressing table.

I’m a girly girl. Get over it. (I’m also reasonably smart and getting really good at basic home repair.)

One of my early memories is of my father building me a dressing table/desk. I don’t think it had anything to do with his recognition of these basic truths. I’m pretty sure he was having an attack of need-to-play-with-tools-and-wood manly-man-itis. I was about 6 or 7. In terms of aesthetics, the dressing table/desk left a lot to be desired. In short, it was a piece of plywood on pre-fabricated legs painted white with a border of gold paint along the top edges of the table. I can remember us discussing the “fancy” line of gold. I loved it, though I don’t remember what happened to the table. More than likely it was discarded during one of our moves.

At the age of 11 or so, my mother went on a tear and “did” my bedroom in Sears French Provincial with hot pink, glue-down carpet squares, jungle green walls, and a lime green canopy. It was my first coordinated furniture and, um, stunning. Mom is colorful.

A couple of years later, when I began wearing makeup, I turned the nightstand into a dressing table with the help of a bean bag chair. From the beginning, I’ve had issues with standing in a bathroom trying to apply eye shadow. It’s not comfortable, the lighting is usually horrible, and, well, it’s just wrong. I suppose there is something very amusing about a young, wannabe hippy sitting amidst faux French Provincial furniture on a faux fur beanbag chair in front of a daisy-shaped, lighted makeup mirror and experimenting with tres chic lip gloss as well as green mascara. And reeking of Wind Song. With a well-thumbed copy of Siddhartha on the nightstand.

After the death of the French provincial, in the midst of the Disco Era, I resorted to sitting on the bed with a basket and a mirror. The room was decorated in Early Attic with touches of brass and a fair amount of wicker. The makeup had expanded to include glitter eyeliner, concealer, and vivid lipstick.

In the late 80s, my antique phase, I acquired a late 40’s table. It was designed to be covered completely in lots of gaudy fabric with a 3-panel mirror, but mine had no fabric or mirror. I stripped it, stained it, hung a mirror on the wall, and added an ice cream chair. It was quirky. It was functional. It was cheap. It was a lot of flippin’ work.

Sitting at the table, my thoughts on the necessity of a dressing table began to coalesce. It was nice having a place dedicated to the morning ritual of coffee, makeup, and staring out the window. It had a drawer, far-too-small, into which went the understated and ridiculously expensive makeup of a young woman on the move. The top of it, far too small, was littered with baskets to hold the stuff that wouldn’t fit in the drawer.

In what was probably Not A Good Idea Financially, but never regretted, I cashed out a little more of the house equity to decorate the master bedroom when buying out the ex. In all our years of barn remodeling drama, the master bedroom kept getting pushed to the end of the list (and it was a very long list). It was a horror story (the décor, that is). Delighted to be sleeping alone, I wanted the room to be comfortable and decadent. I started looking at bedroom furniture.

Inexplicably, I did not want antiques or quirky. While I love those things, as my home will attest, I wanted something different for the master bedroom. I kept returning to what the designers refer to as traditional. And I wanted it all to match. And I wanted a dressing table.

The dressing table proved to be a problem. In the past couple of years, dressing tables have begun making a comeback and more and more manufacturers are including them with bedroom suites, but at the time I was on the forefront of an emerging trend. The only ones I could find, precious few, were in high-end lines of furniture. I may be a hedonist and financially imprudent, but I am not stupid. Twenty-five thousand dollars for bedroom furniture is not just stupid, but possibly criminal. However, I had found exactly what I wanted and the dressing table was breathtaking.

I knew the markup on furniture was insane and after months of searching, online and off, I found a discount distributor who could get it to me for less than 25% of retail. Woo Hoo! It was all perfectly legal and proof that the markup on furniture borders on criminal.

The delivery of the furniture was high drama due only in part to having to hoist it up to the second floor and angle it through the silly French doors that lead to nowhere. A good deal of the drama was centered on the fact that I had never seen the furniture up close and personal. I found it online and, after much dithering and hand-wringing, special ordered it. No refund, no return.

It was (is) magnificent and perfect. The dressing table is beyond wonderful. Even after a few years, I marvel at it. It is freakin’ awesome.

Lacquer Box (Memento).

Lacquer Box (Memento).

Being in possession of the best dressing table on the planet, I feel qualified to list the absolute necessities of the proper dressing table.

It must have drawers.

It must have surface space.

It must have comfortable seating.

It must be well-appointed.

The well-appointed thing probably varies, but I think there are basics.

Mirror – one large and one smaller magnified one. The large one is required so you can double-check that no one is sneaking up on you when you’re pretending to be a chanteuse of remarkable talent and singing into your deodorant/microphone. It’s best if it’s mounted on the wall. A magnifying mirror helps keep eyeliner on the eyes and lipstick on the mouth and is really helpful in eradicating unibrows and menopausal mustaches.

Hairbrush – a good hairbrush is critical. You can’t sit at a dressing table and not brush your hair. It would be bad form and get you thrown out of the Diva Hall of Fame. If you insist on keeping the deodorant in the bathroom, the hairbrush can serve as a microphone.

Clock – ornamental and battery-powered. If you’re like me, you may lose time sitting at the dressing table first thing in the morning. It’s good to have a reality check that isn’t too disconcerting. Digital is out. So are cords.

Lighting – flattering, but realistic. This is the trickiest one, but crucial. While you don’t need reality (especially first thing in the morning), you do need enough representativeness that you don’t end up looking like Heath Ledger’s Joker portrayal. You also need morning light – it’s cheerful, refreshing, and inspiring.

Geegaws – not too many. I am on a de-cluttering, anti-junk binge, but that doesn’t mean that ornamental mementos and somewhat useless crap are completely verboten. A dressing table practically begs for it. The rule is that you must absolutely love it and that it be tied to some memory that makes you smile.

Perfume – in a pleasing bottle.. I rarely wear perfume as I work with many folks with allergies and/or asthma. However, I do have a signature perfume that I’ve been wearing exclusively since the Wind Song ran out. (Lord! How I hate that term signature fill-in-the-blank.) Nonetheless, perfume that’s been chosen for its personal appeal and not because it’s been heavily marketed or has a nice bottle is required. I wear perfume for special occasions, so just simply smelling it brings back good times. I don’t particularly like the bottle that my perfume comes in, so I’m on the lookout for an antique or reproduction spray bottle – you know, the kind with the little rubber squishy sprayer thingie.

Makeup – using the term loosely. I don’t always wear makeup. But I do always sit at the dressing table. Whether it’s just moisturizer or body lotion, applying something is a good way to re-link the inner and the outer after a night where body and mind go their separate ways.

Tranquility – No bills. No junk. No clutter. Don’t use the dressing table as a desk except, possibly, journaling.

Black Silk Pajamas – While not absolutely necessary for the dressing table, every woman should own a pair. Just because. (A Beloved Robe goes without saying.)

And there you have it – the well-appointed dressing table.