stuff

The Evil Empire Strikes Again

/ wvfurandroot / 8 Comments
The Evil Empire Strikes Again
The Evil Empire Strikes Again

I hate Walmart. I hate this mega corporation for the standard reasons (the new millennium version of the company store), but I also hate it because I can’t seem to go in there and NOT spend a boat load of money. I’ll go in for one or two items and walk out with a car load of stuff that was deemed necessary while under the influence of the Walmart atmosphere.

In a 2008 New Year’s resolution, I resolved to quit watching Law & Order. Like too much news, L&O provoked apathy and/or despair. Uncharacteristically, I actually kept the resolution. I haven’t watched the show since a surprise snowstorm stranded me in a motel in a Cumberland Gap motel in early January of 2008.

Due to the success of that resolution, 2009 found me resolving not to shop at Walmart unless absolutely necessary. I’ve been successful. I quit doing my food shopping there. And even though they have my favorite off-brand shampoo, I’ve resisted and have run around with less than stellar hair.

Between January and May, I have made purchases at the Walmart exactly twice. Once for an emergency dog food run at midnight and once for corn tortillas (nobody else seems to carry them). [Note: I frequently have a strong compulsion for fried corn tortillas stuffed with sharp cheddar and slathered in salsa.] 

I wish it was a K-Mart blue light special.
I wish it was a K-Mart blue light special.

I have felt virtuous.

Then the masthead rose died.

The masthead, a Glamis Castle, was originally purchased at Walmart in 2008. I searched everywhere for a replacement and finally gave in and went to the Walmart. No luck. But they did have a plethora of plants on clearance that were healthy and borderline necessary for the white garden. I indulged and assuaged my feelings of guilt by telling myself that since the plants were deeply discounted, Walmart’s profit margin on my purchase was minimal. [Note: Smith & Hawken’s is shipping me a Glamis Castle rose sometime this week – I’m very excited.]

feeders
Hummingbird feeders.

Then yesterday there was the hummingbird feeder emergency. I searched everywhere for the small glass globes that I prefer. No luck. So I toddled off to the Walmart. No luck there either, but they did have these kick ass solar lights. For $4.

Oh my.

I love solar lights. I think they’re one of the truly great inventions. I’m particularly fond of the copper ones with the blue-white light. I have 8 large ones in the retaining wall bed and they’ve stood the test of the time. At present, the batteries are weakening and the light doesn’t last as long, but they are still a favorite feature in the garden. I’ve been looking for some more to place in the new beds.

And damn it all – Walmart has a nearly perfect solution at the affordable price of $4 each. They’re far smaller which will work quite well for the effect I want. I gave in and bought one. To my credit, I resisted buying the entire display until I verified that it was indeed a perfect solution.

They’re perfect. Damn it all.

Damn it all, they're perfect
Damn it all, they’re perfect.

I’m going to check Target, Lowe’s and Home Depot first (all three only marginally less offensive than Walmart, but less is less), but I suspect Walmart has a lock on them.

I have so few principles and the ones I do have are falling like dominoes. I really, really hate that I’m probably going to purchase a plethora of little $4 solar lights at the Evil Empire. When it comes to the garden (and shoes), I have little self-control.

Damn it all.

Feliz cumpleaños

/ wvfurandroot / 10 Comments
Casa Blanca

Casa Blanca

I’m turning 50 later this year and there are big plans in the making. I’m not privy to some of them, but it looks like I’ll be celebrating in West Virginia – my favorite place on the planet – with HM O’Keefe – my favorite man on the planet. (I still think of Chef Boy ‘R Mine as a boy – something he would vociferously debate, but I’m the mom and I said so.)

Until a few years ago, I didn’t do much to celebrate the yearly event. My family is low-keyed about birthdays. Once we left childhood, birthdays weren’t particularly a big deal. They were celebrated, oh yes, but not in any grand style or with much hoopla.

Turning 50 is not particularly bothering me, but it does seem like a time to be reflective. First and foremost, it’s mind bending to think I can be that old. The essential me doesn’t feel any older than I did at 25. At 13, I felt older than 10. At 25, I felt older than 18. From then on, it’s as if mind and spirit quit aging. (The body is in rapid decline, but we needn’t talk about that. Today, for example, my knees feel like they’re 72.) I’ve gained wisdom and experience since then (presumably), but I don’t feel as old as my birth certificate would indicate. Of course, there are almost 5 months between now and then, so maybe in August I’ll wake up with some dramatically different perspective. I don’t think so, but I’m wrong about half the time.

HM O’Keefe is largely responsible for the hedonistic bacchanals that are now my birthday celebrations. I’ve come to appreciate his point of view – birthdays are special days and should be not just be feted, but should be set aside and celebrated to their core.

I caught on pretty quick, hedonist that I am. The day became a week. The week became a month. One cycle of the moon should be enough for anyone, but we’ll see.

Today is his birthday.

While we haven’t always been together on his birthday, we’ve managed to see one another within a few weeks of it. Not this year. I can’t get to Boston and I won’t let him come here. (And he’s disappointed with me about that, but it’s a long story and rational people would agree with me.)

So, I’ve been thinking about his birthday and how to celebrate it. And damnation, if it hasn’t had me stumped. The man is impossible. This year, it’s like he’s going out of his way to make it even harder. Plan A fell apart. Plan B was far-fetched at best. Plan C was just dumb. Plan G seemed workable, but then the man who has a deep abiding belief that birthdays should be celebrated and honored made his own damn plans.

Five Star Meals.

Five Star Meals.

Plan A was to take him to Mexico – one of his favorite spots on the planet. He celebrated his 50th there. Mexico is my second most favorite spot on the planet, so it wasn’t like I was being all passive aggressive or something. But the lawyers and the doctors and the economy all conspired against us.

From there on in, it was downhill.

The next best thing to Mexico is a great gift, right? A thing of some sort. Ah.

I pondered. I mused. I thought really hard. I even made a brainstorming list. I’m anti-stuff these days, but I don’t think that’s it. He’s just really, really difficult to buy for.

In truth, he’s impossible.

Books. You would think books would be a good idea. I had more books than anybody I know and then I met him. I’ve got a 1/100th of a shot of getting him a book he doesn’t already have. Scratch that idea.

Orange blossoms! There we go. First of all, he likes getting flowers. Second, during our courtship and his convincing of me to celebrate birthdays with wild abandon, he told me how growing up in Southern California his birthday was always scented by the spring blossoming of the orange groves. It’s a fond memory for him.

It seems that orange growers can’t be convinced to lop off future fruit and mail it to Boston. I asked. I pleaded. I groveled. They said no. Often rudely. (I’ve been calling florists, orange groves, and fruit exchanges for a few years now. I’m getting good at groveling and they’re getting better at saying no.)

Clothes. Well, that’s another problem. Don’t ask – definitely too much information. Scratch wardrobe enhancing.

Isla de Mujueres

Isla de Mujueres

He really likes Mexican talavera. West Virginia isn’t exactly bursting at the seams with Mexican pottery -or orange blossoms, for that matter. Choosing something online is daunting especially when they tack on “item shipped may not look exactly as pictured due to artistic variations.” I’m fussy. Ask anyone. He’s worse.

I think he’d like a super-duper camera – you know – the kind that would make all the camera geeks drool. But, um, well, I’m poor.

He’d like more time with his daughter. I’d like more time with my son. You raise your kids to be independent, responsible, and fully engaged in life and damned if they don’t up and do it. Some of them sooner than later. Besides, I can just picture that phone call. “Listen, hon, I need you stop what you’re doing, get on a plane and go spend your dad’s birthday with him. It’s the only thing I can think of to give him for his birthday. . .What?. . Oh. . . A visit from you.. . . Am I paying for what?. . . Um. No.”

So you see what I’m up against. It’s even worse than all that. He’s very talented at gift giving. It’s always perfect and often it’s something I didn’t know I wanted until he gave it to me.

some place warm

some place warm

So, there is this – a love letter of sorts. The guy is wired nine ways to Sunday, so between the Blackberry, the laptop, portable hard drives, thumb drives, and the desktops, he can read it anytime he wants, anywhere he goes. Web 2.0 has gotten out of hand. It’s only fitting. Really.

We met online.

If you’re still here, y’all can quit reading now.

Te amo, Dragonman.. Next year, Mexico (or West Virginia, I’ll probably still be poor).

Stuff

/ wvfurandroot / 8 Comments
Cobalt blue glass
in the morning sun makes me happy.

It’s slow going, but I’m on a mission to transform the barn from a repository of all the stuff I’ve ever owned to just stuff I love.

I’m never going to be a minimalist – cultural artifacts interest me far too much and I’m far too sentimental.  I shocked myself when I began giving away and tossing stuff I’ve schlepped from house to house, city to city, and state to state during the nomadic period of my misspent youth.   Out went the ugly side table I’ve hung onto from the early it-doesn’t-matter-how-ugly-it-is-if-it’s-cheap-enough days of home decorating.  I’ve moved that thing 11 times because I might need it someday.  Out went the jello molds.  I don’t even like jello.  Out went the bedspread that made me frown every time I crawled into bed.  Out went the George Foreman grill that my son, now known as Chef Boy ‘R Mine, would be embarrassed about.  He gave it to me for Christmas one year.  I didn’t use it but kept it for sentimental reasons.   Now that he’s into haute cuisine, I was able to keep the memory and KO George without hurt feelings.  I did keep, and still treasure, the old Campbell’s soup can transformed into a pencil holder through the application of bits of tissue paper, glitter, and glue by Chef Boy ‘R Mine when he was a first-grader.
 
The hurt feeling thing’s a complicated issue.  We’ve all got that stuff hanging around that we don’t like, don’t want, don’t use, but can’t get rid of because Great Aunt Gertrude will ask, on her next visit, “Where’s the plastic canvas needlepoint tissue holder I gave you last year?”  I don’t have an answer to that except to say that I’m getting old enough now that the Great Aunt Gertrudes of my life are so old that visits involve my going to a personal care facility or seances.  As for friends and their gifts, we’ve all seemed to reach this developmental stage at roughly the same time.  And I do think it’s a developmental stage – at least for women.  It seems to begin when the kids (or husbands) start leaving home.  After a suitable mourning (or celebratory) period, we put our hands on our hips, survey the kingdom, and announce to ourselves “Well, that can go.”   Sometimes it begins when we trip over the stupid cement goose that’s still decorated for Easter on the Fourth of July for the 85th time that day.  (Not that I’ve ever owned a cement goose, but I know people.)  I have a friend who every time someone brings something into her house, she makes them take something out.  (I tried to take the candelabra that hangs over her dining room table, but evidently, not everything in her house is up for grabs.)
 
Once I got going on giving and pitching, I decided to continue until every single thing in my 2400 sq. ft. of home was here because I love it or use it.  I was making great progress until I hit the Closets-I-Am-Afraid-Of.
 
When the barn was being remodeled, we built a closet 16 x 8 to compensate for not having an attic, basement or barn.  We knew it was woefully inadequate from the start, but it was better than nothing.  When that filled up, the coat/furnace closet was doubled in size.  By the time that filled up, I had hit the developmental stage.  I tackled the smaller coat closet early on, but a lot of the crap went into the other closet.  I am now terrified to even open the door.
 
I can’t progress much further until I conquer this fear.  There’s stuff in this house scattered about that I need or use, but am tired of tripping over that could go into that closet if the circa 1970 fan, algebra notebooks, broken lamps, cross stitch patterns, deflated basketball, threadbare sheets, egregious holiday ornaments, transistor radio, and other sheer junk was removed – not to mention the stuff that Has-Promise-And-I-Can-Do-Something-To-Which-Will-Involve-Great-Quantities-Of-Time-And-Effort-And-Money-That-I’m-Never-Going-To-Actually-Do.  And that’s just the crap i can see.  I haven’t seen the back of the closet since 1992.
 
If I ever do conquer that closet, I can start on the books – hundreds and hundreds of books.  I still have not one, but two copies of my high school trig textbook as well as tomes that I wouldn’t read a second time even on a dare.