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