Burnt Orange vs. Toasted Orange. . .

Ive been hittin' the Craigslist Jackpot this week, both in selling and purchasing. . . the downsizing and reinventing continues . . . funny (not really), how f'n long it takes, to make 2300 square feet of stuff fit into 1200 square feet . . . what I'm saying there, peeps, is that 2300 square feet of stuff does not fit into 1200 square feet of space, no matter how much one tries to stuff, rearrange, push, shove, no matter how much a geometry genius one fashions oneself, no matter how f'n creative one believes one to be . . . the process of whittling down is a full-time job, in and of itself, added to the whole big heap of everything else that has to be reinvented, redefined, regrouped, redone. I can see how most people choose not to deal with this part of death and dying. Holy hell. Stress on hell. . . 

But, in the midst, I have also created more breathing room this week, by eliminating more CRAP from my life, though I can't be so arrogant or presumptuous or certain as to say that this is the sole reason for the breathing room . . . this week, this is what went out the door: a lovely, stylish TV stand, two gargantuan shag rugs (that looked FABULOUS out at Wrenwood, but took up waaaay too much space in my St. Paul digs—and c'mon—a turn-of-the-century duplex maybe, maybe, has aesthetic (though barely physical) room for one shag rug, but four??!! Dear lord—cue the porn music now—bow-chica-bow-booooowwww . . .), a love seat that matches the sofa I still have, but seriously have no room for both, no matter how much or how many times I push, pull, angle, twist, turn, tweak, twerk (SORRY! gratuitous pop culture reference, just to prove I'm not completely and utterly homebound) and a dog ramp—that last one was a "lucky strike extra," as Penny might call it—we've had this dog ramp forever, way back when, when Gaia was beginning to show signs of not being able to jump into the Jeep any more—long before Bob's cancer survivor body turned traitor on him—I'm almost certain we bought it even before we moved out to Wrenwood, though you'll have to trust me on that (as with most things), as he's not here to refute or support. Gaia never got used to the ramp, even at her worst; back when Bob was healthy, we indulged her obstinance—both of us could hoist her in to the back of the Jeep whenever, wherever we were going, and all was well. At the end of her life, when it was me, by myself, I enlisted the aid of a neighbor to help hoiste her into the Jeep to get to the emergency vet during an ice storm, and into the depths of the garage the ramp went. Outta sight, outta mind, like so much stuff. Until I had to move.

Back at Wrenwood, we had a 3-stall garage and a basement that had tons of storage spaces, into which we kept cramming and cramming and cramming crap, not even knowing how much crap we were cramming into it, the house and garage were that cavernous. Until Bob died. Honestly, this is the only time I ever get mad at Bob for up and dying on me—leaving me with the layersuponlayersuponlayers of crap to wade through. By myself. But, it is minor, in the grand scheme of what he has given me, continues to give me, so I suck it up, glare heavenward at him (he's totally cool about it, btw—he is in that place of pure peace and love, and "gets" that I'm just a sad, earth-bound soul, who is still trying to figure all this crap out), and plod on, like a surly teenager.

In this stage of the reinventing, I have a one stall in a garage that I still can't park in, because of all the crap still crammed into it,  in spite of all the crap that I've already given away, sold, donated, pitched, repurposed, torched. . . (okay, okay, I didn't actually torch anything. Yet.). This past week, I decided, I must park in my garage before snow falls, for the only reason to know that the Jeep even fits into the garage. If not, another phase of downsizing begins, in the form of a new vehicle (which I keep going back and forth about—the Jeep is paid for, still runs great, in spite of having over 200,000 miles on it, but it is a gas guzzler, but it has helped tremendously on the gas bill, to be in the city—round and round I go, with that one. . . ) But, there I go again digressing. Back to Craigslist.

Today, I procured the most beautiful stuffed chair, circa 1940, toasted orange upholstery, a few signs of wear and tear here and there, but solid as a shit brickhouse, vibrant as a fall sunset, comforting as a grandmothers arms, to replace the love seat I had no room for. It was advertised as "burnt orange," but I'm leaning more toward "toasted orange." Or perhaps "persimmon." It is a spicy little number, for sure, cozy as all get out. Now I need a "new" rug . . .

I have been a huge fan of Craigslist since I discovered it, and I can't even tell you when that was—I'm trying to think of the very first thing(s) I ever bought or sold on Craigslist, and come up with fuzzy recollections, at best. . . it must have been when I started my salon, trying to furnish it on the proverbial shoestring budget, constantly trying to find fun, funky and functional furnishings for the shop (tremendously successful, in all accounts!), as well as dump stuff that just didn't work . . .  I have reduced, reused and recycled for as long as I have memories, truly. I know I got that from my parents, who got that from their parents. I hate throwing stuff away, but I'm also not a hoarder (seriously fine line, peeps). My unofficial motto: keep things that are essential to my being, but whatever I can't or don't want to use any more, find a good home: donate, sell, give to family (my mom and I were laughing the other day—virtually her entire apartment is furnished with my stuff! It does make me happy to know a family member is using something I simply don't have room for any more). What I absolutely cannot sell or give away, I eventually end up tossing, but usually not before exhausting all other options. Waste of time, some may say, but I get a tremendous amount of satisfaction, in the process.

Once in a while, someone will say, "My God, you have a lot of stuff! (or shit, or crap, or whatever)." Heard that a lot in the past few years, when I moved three times. Yes, moving certainly brings to light just how much shit a person has (and let's be real, most of what we all have squirreled away in closets, garages, attics and basements is just that. Shit. That's why it ends up in closets, garages, attics and basements . . .). and I have to remind others that, "Remember, this is not all my stuff. I'm just the lucky sucker who ended up having to deal with it." Then I ask, "Imagine, for a moment, if the person you lived with, died. Or (not to be mean or morbid and all), let's say you died." Or, if that's too hard to imagine, how about if you lost your job, or divorced, or whatever, and were forced to downsize? How much stuff, or shit or crap would you be left with, or your loved ones be left with, to deal with? Usually stops a person dead (no pun intended) in their tracks, to ponder that, gets a person thinking about how much crap we all have, all this crap that just keeps accumulating, stuff we have to have, that we can't get rid of, that we can't live without, ironically becomes the stuff that we can't live with. At least that's how it's been for me. Guess I can't speak for everyone.There are infinite ways of dealing with the crap left behind, I'm just sharing my way of dealing.

I find it funny, how freaked out some get about Craigslist. My sister freaks when she hears that I've gone to someone's home alone. "Take someone with you!" she scolds me. She seems to forget that that's easier said than done.  If I sat around waiting for someone to escort me in everything I do, I'd never leave the house! Yes, like anything, Craigslist has developed a dark, warty underbelly—killers, stalkers, wackos, blah, blah, blah. But, hey, so have our public schools, so have our work places, so have our very own homes. Like anything, that is still the scant minority of transactions, and like anything, there are wise ways to approach it, and like anything, there are no guarantees. The odds are—like anything—you will not end up hacked into bits, portioned off into Hefty bags and dumped in various and sundry rivers. Yes, I have as active imagination as anyone, and yes, fear is as much a part of my life as anyone's. But I try not to let it dictate my life, whether it's Craigslist transaction (I've done enough of them to know which transactions are legit, and which ones are possible nut-jobs. I meet in public places. I call a family member and give an address to where I'm going. I call when the transaction is complete. If I feel something's not on the up'n'up, I don't follow through with the transaction. Craigslist is a fab resource for getting rid of crap, and for procuring crap to take the place of the crap you've just gotten rid of (that's where that "recycling" part comes in! An endless cycle, if one isn't careful!), but I'm not so desperate that I'd take a careless chance, just to score a deal or make a few bucks.

I "get" the concerns of others, I really do—yes, there are "wackos in the world," that no, you can't "trust just anyone," that others are still, understandably, "overly protective" of this "delicate, vulnerable widow" . . . but I operate under some new rules that may be a bit unconventional to others, rules that might seem a bit skewed—I like to think clarified—by death, depends on what side of that coin you stand. I don't take unwise chances, but I am also learning to not pass up chances based on unrealistic fears, whether it's a Craigslist steal or other aspects of my life. We all may as well stop doing anything, if we live by such fear. The world is a scary place, no doubt. But it's scarier to me, to life a fear-based life. That's not really living at all. Okay, lecture over, kids. Now get out there, and score some deals!! Peace out!!

xxoo

Pumpkin Festivals ROCK!!

Gorgeous fall day for a pumpkin festival, in spite of the furious wind, once again (though in my mind,  fall and wind, kind of just go together, like—well, like anything else that goes together . . .). My sister Gretchen and I joined our other sis, Jill, and her kidlets, Amelia and Otto, for the 17th Annual Kelly Avenue Pumpkin Festival in Golden Valley (I'm sure I butchered the name of the festival, just typing on the fly here—it WAS in Golden Valley, it WAS on Kelly Avenue, and the central focus IS pumpkins, but as for the official name, well, I'm too lazy to Google it right now!).

The origins of this festival is sofa king ;) awesome—many years ago,. a bunch of neighbors in a neighborhood were sitting around, sipping (that part is questionable, I'm thinking) cocktails and someone gets the crazy idea to start growing giant pumpkins, and have a neighborhood contest. Seventeen years later, this little neighborhood gathering draws hundreds of people to the cordoned off area of a quiet GV neighborhood adjacent to a park, where everyone DONATES time, efforts, whatever they can, to the cause.

I wish I had taken more photos, but Otto is at the age where he is a bloody handful right now (and I mean that more literally than you could ever imagine, and more than I could ever respectfully, in good conscience, post photos of. . . story to follow . . .); it was all we ALL (and I mean ALL three of us) could to, to keep track of him; hence, few photo ops to be had. You'll just have to trust my words to convey the awesomeness that was this event, in spite of the bloody ending . . . neighbors donate everything from food (hotdogs and bbq pork sandwiches, chips and an endless array of cookies, bars and other sweet treats, Surley beer for grownups, 1919 Root Beer and lemonade for kiddies), and entertainment (endless stations set up for kids—bean bag toss, face painting, relays, local fire department with new and vintage trucks on display, a DJ playing such FUN, eclectic music—Gangnam Style, Michale Jackson, Old Crow Medicine Show . . .), and overseeing contests—of course, the Giant Pumpkin contest (winning pumpkin was OVER THREE HUNDRED POUNDS, PEEPS!!! HOLY THANKSGIVING PIE, BATMAN!! AND NO, MY CAPS LOCK IS NOT STUCK, I'M STILL SHOUTING AT THE ABSOLUTE LITERAL ENORMITY OF THAT PUMPKIN!!!), and the Tallest Sunflower contest (I don't remember the height but I do remember that the winner was ELEVEN YEARS OLD!! YES! MORE SHOUTING OUT TO WINNERS!!), and a parade, complete with waving beauty queens and a local high school marching band. . . all contained within the confines of two city blocks . . . I know I'm forgetting things, there was so much going on . . . that's likely, in part, because I was so enveloped by the incredible sense of community, the beautiful rainbow blur that this event is steeped in, even as an interloper, I sensed this deeply . . . AND when the event was over, everyone in attendance was encouraged to take one of the pumpkins home (not one of the giant, hundreds+ pounds winning pumpkins; rather, from the endless pumpkin pyramids that were scattered about the festival).

At one point, Gretchen said, "I wish our neighborhood did something like this," and Miss Amelia, in her wise-beyond-her-years ways, looked up at Gretch and said, "Well, you could start one of your own, you know. . . " next weekend, Gretchen and her husband are having their own Halloween gathering in the backyard of their new home—who knows what might transpire around their bonfire, after a few cocktails . . . it reminded me of the wine parties Bob and I hosted at Wrenwood . . . anything in life worth pursing often begins with just one person . . .

The day ended, unfortunately, with Otto—long past the time for his afternoon nap and getting crazy-squirrelier by the second—launching himself off the edge of a curb on our walk back home in a perfect 10 swan-dive face-plant on the asphalt. It was a slow-motion horror scene to behold, yet happened so fast that no one could do anything to stop it. The little bugger stood, screaming with every cell of his being, blood pouring from God only knows where—his whole face was covered in blood. . . Jill scooped him up and began running for home, which was several blocks away. . . Gretch, Amelia and I were running behind them, pulling a wagon with three pumpkins, coats,  candy, shoes, empty tupperware containers for the homemade cookies Jill had contributed to the event, when I saw Jill slow as Otto was slipping from her grip.

"I can't hold him any more!" she cried. I dropped everything (which might have been nothing, I have no recollection) and tag-teamed with her, scooping Otto in my arms as he turned his bloodied face into my very artfully tied scarf and brand-new sweater, sobbing into my chest, "hold me, Jenny, hold me, hold me. . ." and then, "Where's my candy? Where's my candy? My candy . . ." I took off running with this little brute (who literally is about half my size), my heart nearly seizing from my chest with the effort, but feeling the adrenaline lifting my feet, assisting my arms . . . long story short, we made it home, Otto was cleaned up, and other than a very scraped up face (and swelling nose—I told Jill he could go as W.C Fields for Halloween. . . sorry, very bad taste, but still, kind of funny, if you'd been there . . .), he seemed to be back to his goofy self in time, though I wouldn't be surprised if he ended up with a black eye. Maybe two . . . at one point, he broke out into a 2-year old rendition of "Call Me, Maybe": "but here's my mumber, caw me maybe. . ." (don't know who sings that, refuse to Google it, for fear Miley Cyrus's photo will appear on my computer screen), punctuated with "where's my candy? wheeeere's my caaaaandyyyyy?!" referring to the candy he'd procured from the parade, which none of us could produce. We surmised it must have been dropped in the street as we ran for home, which didn't placate him one bit . . .

later . . . I went home, took one of my patented 10 Minute PowerNaps, then headed out for my evening walk with Rocco. On our final stretch for home, we ran into a woman who was dog-sitting for a 5 month old Golden Doodle (sorry, as cute as this dog is, those "designer dogs" are still every bit as mutt as Rocco is, in my opine. But no one asked me. . .) who, at five months old, is really is the cutest thing on legs—I swear, that doggie—Miles is his name!—how cute is that??!!—has springs for feet, he literally—and I don't mean that figuratively—bounds vertically, with every step, it's soooo fun and funny to watch, like Tigger! Anyhow, this woman was lovely, we spent a good 20 minutes condensing our life stories, ended up exchanging phone numbers, making plans to meet for coffee, and her parting words were that this neighborhood is the best place I could possibly be, right now, to reinvent . . . the slowing of handfuls of hair loss (and new growth that is finally appearing!!!) is but one piece of evidence of this. . . when I got home, I emptied my purse, to clean it out of the day's events. And found Otto's fistful of candy at the bottom . . .

Here's to community, peeps. Love your neighbors . . . xxoo

Be happy for no reason . . .

When I resurrected this blog several weeks back, I had every intention of writing on it regularly, but c'est la vie. . . that means "that's life," or something like that, in French. Because yes, ummm, yes! That's it! That's why I haven't written—bcause I've been learning French . . .

Or not. One of endless lessons I am learning is that—guess what??!! We have endless "do-overs" in life! How cool is that?! No one's keeping score! No one's going to punish us for starting over, RIGHT NOW. And we can do that till infinity! Overandoverandover, againandagainandagain, till we get it right. Or till we never get it right! Who cares, as long as we're trying, right??!! . . . So, in the spirit of that, let's just "do over" this blog, once again!

So, how 'bout that weather? Sure was windy today, wasn't it? (Where else in Beautiful Minnesota can weather be a seriously engaging topic of conversation?) Mid-October day, temps in the mid 70s, sun at least part of the day—but holy hell, the wind! My hair was violently wound around my head many times over, in every direction, at the same time, againandagainandagain, on my walk with Rocco this morning and then again this evening. . . when I got home tonight, I discovered that the front porch of my duplex had turned into a giant terrarium, as a big gust of wind, at some point, had toppled every plant stand lined along the porch railings, along with the plants standing atop them. I would have taken a picture of the mayhem, but I was so overcome with this immense sense that my plants were literally choking and suffocating under the mounds of soil and upturned pots, that I dropped my phone and began digging, as though on a rescue mission in the Alps. . .

Almost an hour later, all of my plants were upright, back in their pots (only one terra cotta casualty), all of us breathing much easier. I'm hoping for at least another few weeks of plants on the patio, but I'll take what we can get at this point, because even in her fury, Ma Nature is a wonder to behold. . .

I'll be honest, a huge part of me wants to just DUMP on this blog tonight, try to fill in all the missing spaces since I last wrote, because it's been so long and I have so much to say, so much time to make up, but good God! A girl's also gotta sleep sometime, doesn't she? And I do need to be kind and spare y'all the theatrics. . . As such, I will reign it in, with the hope that, instead of being daunted about the enormous prospect of DUMPING everything into one blog entry (and as a result, not write anything), that I'll just take it step by step. Bird by bird (a nod to Anne Lammott. . . ). And try to just show up every day. . .

With that, I will leave you with this little gem that flashed across my internet pan today: "Be happy for no reason. Like a child. If you're happy for a reason, then you're in trouble. Because that reason can be taken from you." ~ Deepak Chopra . . . wish someone had shared that one with me many, many years ago. But hey! Do-over, right??!!

Hopefully, more later. . . xxoo j