Rightly Drowned

I should have flown 

out over the salty surf into the milky threads of clouds 

chasing the siren song of the dolphins,

enshrined in the scattery splash of the osprey's shallow dive.

I should have waltzed with fate

fluttering conspicuously close to the flinty eye of the shark

watching jaws dangling open for the fishy prize of her watery sprint.

But I remained on the shore

harbored

contented

in the halo of golden grains.

And where I thought was stillness and safety, 

a grenade churned from the heavens and earth 

and blew onto the beach.

It overcame me.

Cantaloupe over poppyseed.

Carnelian over obsidian.

House-a-fire over hot charred ashes.

And I rightly drowned. 

#mushroomtumbler

Day 22/30 : Things I Won't Be Buying Today

Well, it's August 1st and that means Halloween candy has officially taken over the seasonal aisle at the local grocery store. 

All the 'Beach, Please' and 'It's 5 O'Clock Somewhere' parrot and palm tree'd koozies are 75% off and smushed together unforgivingly into a dirty looking plastic box at the end of the aisle. They've been orphaned in favor of Fall. 

Because, you know, it's only 97 degrees today and my drink definitely won't be sweating, or requiring a koozie or anything. 

So, seriously. Candy and pails for candy collection on Halloween night are everywhere. Also, Halloween Peeps...shaped like pumpkins...which shouldn't even be a "thing". 

A PEEP is a BIRD SOUND, people, not a PUMPKIN SOUND. 

However, those folks who prefer their Peeps STALE A.F. will be thrilled to glimpse them this early on the shelves. By October they'll be bicuspid-breaking rocks. Here's a hint. Just say no to that stupid bird-name flat-assed marshmallow dunked in glittery orange sugar put upon the shelf today and pick up the 75 percent off marshmallows on the opposite end of the row, near the Hershey bars and the graham crackers - part of the summer clearance s'more sale. 

'Cause, ya know, it's AUGUST and I guess S'MORES are COMPLETELY DONE.

Even if I bought the Reeses Franken-Cups which caught my eye with their Swamp Thing-esque green bottoms they'd be a petri dish of muck in the back of my hatch by the time I got them home; gooing themselves all over my lawn chair and pool float that I haven't taken out of car and put away... 

BECAUSE IT'S SUMMER. 

SUMMMM 

MMMMMER.

So, enough of the 9-week Halloween preview before you cram the last three overly commercialized holidays of the year together into something we now call Hallothanksmas.  It's lunacy. 

Can you let us just enjoy summer while it's summer?

Two teachers looking over my shoulder at the candy display began making snorting noises like mating warthogs in aisle 4. They, too, apparently hate the idea of rushing summer in favor of Halloween candy, though presumably for an entirely different reason than I. The idea of flying through August at warp speed and starting school was flipping them both out. Like, flippin' FLIPping. In fact, their collective strife made one of them start yelling. 

"HALLOWEEN? It's AUGUST!" she howled. "AND I'm a teacher!!!!!!"

It'll be okay, Miss Crabtree. Just don't buy it. Instead, grab yourself an end of summer koozie on the way out. 75 percent off!

#mushroomtumbler

Day 21/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

I got a pop up ad for a Care Bears fanny pack cooler this morning. I have to admit, I clicked and admired it from all angles, captivated by the colorful ombre zipper and amusing rainbow print. 

My Moo Moo bought me a tan plush Care Bear with a heart on his belly when I was twelve. One of the original ten Care Bears, "Tenderheart Bear" was cute as all get out, however, I distinctly remember, upon opening him on Christmas, that I was too old for a new stuffed animal. 

I had a boyfriend. My favorite author was Stephen King. After softball practice, my friends and I would roam the woods looking for overgrown spots to squat and drink our Molson Goldens.  What was I supposed to do with a bear with a brown plastic heart for a nose?

But because my beloved Moo Moo gave him to me, (along with a Jordache purse and a mood lipstick that was Witch of the West green in the tube but changed to a beachy shade of coral on my pout) I put him on top of my pillow after I made my bed in the morning, sandwiched between Pooh and Paddington, my ratty old-time favorites.

I never saw a Care Bears television show, though I recall that being a thing. I don't remember ever doing anything particularly notable with that heart belly bear who reclined on my pillow, but every morning I'd plop him there and every night, I'd take him off and gently put him on the floor next to my yellow twin bed. 

And I'd look at that big red heart on his soft tawny belly and smile for a moment, thinking of my grandparents and how much they loved me. 

So, today the Care Bears fanny pack advertisement appealed to me like designer jeans and walking to middle school every morning with my good friend Missy from down the street and turning two from second base. The beer drinking twelve-year old me would have loved this, but pre-teen me is now getting on in years and Canadian beer tends to give me just ten minutes of pleasure followed by two hours of heartburn and the thirty dollars plus shipping that this fanny pack costs would be better spent putting gas in my tank, so I am going to pass. 

A difficult pass, it is. 

Nonetheless, if my Moo Moo were alive, and thinking of buying me a Christmas present, I would totally hope this this might be her choice for me. 

Throw a Molson in here and it'll stay cold in the dugout until we are ready.

#mushroomtumbler

Day 20/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

It's been a while since I wrote.

Quite obviously, I've been buying things.

Actually, I've been seriously uninspired and seriously lazy but today I had an experience which made me decide that I am not buying infant swimming lessons. 

And, I need to write about that. 

I don't have an infant but if I did, I would hold that little peanut and we'd get in a warm bathtub and we'd have soft lighting and some mellow tunes from a kinder decade. There would be supported floating and off-key singing and reassurance, along with eye contact, and head cradling. 

There would not be the boreal glow of florescent lights, the stinging bleach of chlorine, and glacial temperatures. There would not be an instructor holding my pumpkin beneath his armpits, facing him out into icy blue nothing, and submerging him without warning, his giant eyes stinging with disbelief and the tiny panicked 'o' of his mouth, upon being lifted to the surface, deafeningly breaking every mother's heart within earshot. 

This, I'm quite certain, I would not do.

There would be a gentle and careful passing of baby from me to my spouse, who would take the quiet, puckered bundle and wrap him in a fluffed up towel, patting his back and congratulating him on his brave acceptance of a few quarter cups of water purposefully poured over his little noggin. There would be a clean onesie, a heated bottle and a soft flannel blankie.

There would not be trembling limbs and breaths full of water laden with the urine of the other fifteen kids in lane one. There would not be terror so dreadfully exhausting that placing baby on the poolside cement after (ding!) fifteen minutes are up causes him to gasp like a reeled-in walleye in the bottom of a rowboat, tucking his chin and trembling for fear that eye contact with an adult might get him another round. 

This, I'm quite certain, I would not do.

There would be bonding. There would be toothy smiles and exuberant praise and an opportunity to learn words like "tub" and "water" and "it's okay, baby, you're safe, you're safe."

There would not be a black-masked instructor, devoid of half her face due to pandemic protocol, dipping baby backward into an unfamiliar place as he tensed and arched and wailed. 

This, I'm quite certain, I would never do.

 

 

Author's Note:

The swim instructor was following a safe protocol which, I believe, she has used for years to introduce tiny babies to water. She is a kind teacher and never, ever, were these children in any danger. 

My personal feelings about swim lessons are informed by years of my own, sometimes rough, experiences at a tender age learning to feel comfortable in water; ironically, in the exact same community pool. 

The concerned and helpless faces of the young mothers on deck today combined with the shrieks of their babies echoing off the dingy tiled walls brought out a lot of emotion for me. I tend to release emotion by writing.

I've always believed that swim lessons, for a lot of families, are an excellent way to achieve greater water safety but, the overall vibe I picked up from those little ones made me reconsider my feelings on the subject, particularly for babies so small. 

This piece isn't meant to invoke criticism of the program nor the instructor. These are simply emotions, which bubbled to the surface and overflowed for me, the casual onlooker. 

#mushroomtumbler

Day 19/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

 

One of the less physical things we had to do in order to earn a merit badge in Girl Scouts was to "begin a collection". Now, this was the 1970s and some of my troopmates already had collections. They collected neon-haired troll dolls, Barbies, Lincoln wheat pennies, comic books, and miniature football helmets. One friend even collected unusual soda cans and she had them glued on to a tall shelf, made by her father, expressly for said purpose. She had a grape Nehi, cemented front and center, that I adored.

Me? I began collecting frogs. Not living and breathing frogs, of course, but little frogs made of ceramic and clay and glass. Frogs with crowns balanced upon their heads were special favorites. A family I babysat for gifted me their frog collection so that my own shelf grew from three to fifty frogs overnight, sort of like when tadpoles hatch in the early summer. 

My frog collection currently lives in my basement in an old banana box strewn with yellowed newspaper. I haven't looked through the box in thirty eight years. I don't want to get rid of them but I don't want to display them either. That's sort of how old stuff is.

As a teenager, I began collecting Laurel Burch goldtone and silvertone artfully enameled earrings. Laurel began selling her designs in the 1970s and finally caught on in my small town in the early 1980s, quickly becoming a sort of status symbol for the waspy and well-heeled in our community. I received my first pair as a gift and was immediately smitten. I loved everything about them; the colors, the weight, the sturdiness. My second pair, which I spent four weeks of hard earned babysitting money on, was stolen from my gym locker the very first day I wore them to school, and the girl who (I think) stole them wore them repeatedly, flaunting them beneath her Jane Wiedlin-style pixie cut as she sat, alphabetically, two seats over from me throughout all of our classes together. 

 

During the pandemic, I started looking for more pairs to supplement my small but distinctive collection. Every pair I owned held a merry story. Laurel uses a lot of nature, birds and cats. I find solace in nature, birds and cats and I found plenty of solace available on eBay and other resale sites. After selling a few things to justify my spending, I bought some vintage pairs and now have over a dozen. I do imagine that's enough, though, and have since pumped the brakes.

A week ago, a friend on Facebook, during a moment of nostalgia, asked where everyone bought Laurel Burch earrings back in the day. I was about to grab the ceramic box I store mine in, snap an exceptional photo and reply with great gusto until someone else replied and referred to them as "crap". Crap? Oh my gosh. My special collectible earrings? This crap is symbolic of my adolescence, almost as much as bonfires, football games, summertime at the lake and weaving daisy chains on the porch. When I wear them (which is a lot) I'm happy. I'm young. And when I catch my reflection and see a violet-hued bluebird hanging festively from my lobe, I exhale gladness, recalling a time before everything got crazy and depersonalized and tinged with snarky hostility. 

I will not be buying any Laurel Burch earrings, but I did select and retrieve ones shaped like doves within a heart from their safekeeping today. They happen to be pink and green, our preptastic color scheme of the '80s. I will wear them and love them and when complimented on them, as I so often am, I will use them as a jumping off point for conversation with a like-minded stranger about a time when they symbolized the height of what we thought of as middle class opulence.

 #mushroomtumbler

 

Day 18/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

I have a confession to make.

Even though the subject of my 30 day blog is 'Things I Won't Be Buying Today', I've been buying everything that isn't nailed down.

In observance of Lent, I decided to restrict my food intake, from Ash Wednesday until Easter Sunday, for the first two meals of each day. Wanting to be pious and at the same time lose some weight, Lent serves as a fine motivation for lots of Catholics. It's a jumping off point for better habits and more thoughtful consumption. 

Over the last two years, stress, cortisol and the pandemic have served as my regular excuses for the expansion of my waistline but if I'm being honest, I should be touting my fondness for tortilla chips, alcohol and abject laziness. The 'Lead me not into temptation' Lenten fasting was going well until about ten days in when I began panicking. I started overeating at night and I started buying things online to fill what was becoming a dark hollow inside of me.

It's a pattern one of my friends (a shopper beyond compare) and I talk about all the time. Why do we skimp in one area and then feel as though we need to splurge in another? Are we simply creatures craving balance or does it go deeper? 

For me, I think it's because perceived lack and I don't play well together. 

Here in my comfortable home I have what I need at any given moment, but there are some deeply sown seeds in me that make 'lack' almost unbearably uncomfortable, whether perceived or real. When I feel a deep emptiness, I overcompensate in other areas. Lately I have been overcompensating by shopping online. A spring jacket here, a craft project there, organic coffee here, a few books I've been wanting to read there. My mail carrier used to be able to simply put my mail in the box but the last few weeks she has been wearing down a path from her truck to my door, brown cardboard boxes balanced on both hips.

This consumption makes me feel bloated and gross. It is not pious. And I'm certainly not losing any weight.

Today, tortilla chips in hand because my Lenten eating plan lasted only two weeks, I'm cleaning out emails when a few pairs of high platform 70s style sandals come to my attention.

Be still my disco heart. These are my absolute favorite kind of footwear. And for a moment I forget about how my spending totally needs to be hog tied. I forget about Lent. I forget about Karen the mail carrier and her harried expression as she limps up my driveway laden with packages.

 

 

 

I begin picturing them lined up in my closet...in all three available colors. I picture skipping this month's car payment so that I may buy them all, painting my toenails bright coral and slipping into them to the funky sounds of KC and the Sunshine Band. I see myself boogieing out to the driveway in them and telling tired beleaguered Karen she's not going to be delivering any more packages. I have found Nirvana in these shoes. They are all I need.

But then I burp from the chips and wake myself up and ask, when am I ever going to wear these? 

Fifteen years ago I had sandals like this. I had them in four different hues and textures. Yes they were high but who cared? My balance was perfect. I was strong. I moved like a young and unencumbered woman. But now, I am indolent and my footwear reflects how boring I have become. I like sneakers, yes, I do. I like the walking variety that doesn't rub too hard on the backs of my soft heels. And I like clogs for the occasions when the sneakers betray me and I become bloody and blistered. I own lots of flip flops, but these days they have a supportive arch. I have a perfect pair of wool mules for when I am in the house, which, during the last twenty four months, has been an awful damn lot.

But these? Oh my God, these ivory platform Saturday Night Fever shoes are my siren song. I see myself in faded bell bottoms and a gray t-shirt sporting the faded name of a college I've never attended. I want to layer southwestern turquoise bracelets on my wrists and slide silver chunky rings on every finger. This is my look, right? I am most like me when wearing things like this, right? 

Let's be real. I haven't worn stuff like this in a couple of years. And I miss it. And that makes me really sad today.

Far too content in my black yoga pants, gray wool slippers and my ancient brown fleece jacket, I am not funkadellic. I'm not even presentable. And looking at these sandals, for the last five minutes, I ask myself why. Why have I decided that it's acceptable to feel less like me? Why have I decided that a cocoon spun of fleece, spandex and wool is my fate? It might be comfy but it's certainly not captivating.

So, I won't be buying these sandals today but I won't be buying tortilla chips either. What I will be investing in is myself and my well being. I'll take a long walk and listen to a motivational speaker, one who tells me I don't need more of anything to be satisfied. One who tells me what I am, who I am, and where I am, is enough. 

#mushroomtumbler

Day 17/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

 

This is what I won't be buying today, but I can't promise I won't buy it in the future. I'm thinking it might be in everyone's best interest to learn a few more languages.

60 percent off? That's appealing, considering everything else we are buying costs at least 60 percent more right now.

Have you ever learned a second or third language? Do you still enjoy speaking it? I took great pleasure in and grew pretty proficient at French, having taken 6 years of it in school. I even began dreaming in French, which, people say, is an indication that you are becoming "fluent"... or maybe it means that you have eaten too much creme brulee before bed. Who knows?

My first foray into French was a well meaning sixth grade teacher who gave us all French names and taught us a vocabulary of about ten words like porte, chat, chien, and bonjour. Then, junior high French class was basically a room of thirty pre-teens giggling for forty minutes every other day about words that sounded strange and dirty, or actually were strange and dirty. Merde, coque, defoncer, and my favorite word, fourchette. My four foot four, late bloomer of a seatmate used to whisper, "full [of] shit!" every time we had to say the word for fork, eyes darting side to side with his chin planted surreptitiously upon his chest, shoulders heaving up and down with the witty weight of his cleverness. Madame Certain would glare as we, seated left and right, tittered into our fists and elbows, tears welling in our eyes either because we were trying so hard not to squeal aloud at this munchkin child saying "shit" (it was a different time, swearing in class could get you thrown out or worse) or owing to the fact that we were sitting squarely on our heels planted in just the right spot so we didn't wet ourselves holding back belly laughs after having drunk multiple cartons of chocolate milk at lunch.

Either way, watery eyes. 

And good times.

As we moved into high school, the teachers got stricter and the lessons got harder. It was sentence structure, past, present and future tenses, thick-ass textbooks, and real conversations. But, it all sort of rolled off the tongue with me, without a lot of study time, almost like music. Remarkably, I was also excelling at Algebra and Geometry, and I began believing in the notion of left brain/right brain balance and stimulation.  And wouldn't you know? Once I stopped the "real" math in favor of a guidance counselor-recommended "how to work the computer" Math class, the French wasn't as easily grasped, either. Weird how that happens.

So, would you like to revisit French with me? Should we grab a few Russian lessons, too? I definitely need some Italian. I'd like to travel and order mortadella on an aereo without it sounding like more-duh-del-uh on an air-ee-o. 

And, because our world appears to be getting smaller it might be nice to have the ability to say, "We are all in this together" in a variety of ways.

Just not today, friends. Today we buy groceries and gasoline...and we make charitable donations if we can and where we're able, to those who are feeling the pinch even greater than ourselves. 

Au revoir. Ostavat'sya v bezopasnosti. Alla prossima!

#mushroomtumbler

Day 16/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

With the way this world is right now, I haven't been able to think of a single shitty thing I wouldn't be buying in the last week or so. But today, I saw this and decided this is the single shitty thing I won't be buying today.

Pun intended.

 

#mushroomtumbler

Day 15/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

 

"We share the same biology, regardless of ideology. What might save us, me and you, is if the Russians love their children too." (Russians, 1985.)

 

I'm not buying Dream of the Blue Turtles today but I've been playing the album a lot since Russian forces started surrounding Ukraine last Fall. The military strategies, the rhetoric, the frantic diplomatic efforts, the threat. It all reminded me of when Reagan and Gorbachev and Thatcher were part of our daily kitchen table conversations and permeated the smog of uncertainty which I walked through during my childhood; raised in a household where I was included in all political conversations during a time of significant geopolitical tension. 

 

 

DOTBT is my favorite Sting album. My father got it for me for my birthday in 1985 and when something was said on the news or words were spoken by my adult relatives that I didn't quite understand, like glasnost and perestroika, and INF treaty, I'd play the song "Russians" for some comfort. We didn't have the internet to quickly reference current events. We also only had three television channels. It's not the most uplifting tune, but it does offer a little resistance-type hope. Resistance-type hope might be all we have some days.

 

I still have and cherish my original copy of DOTBT and I humbly suggest you buy one if you don't.  There's some fantastic music on there.

 

 

 

This morning as I listened, I mused, 'Wouldn't it be interesting if STING remade his song, "Russians" today, appropriate for 2022, sold it for 99 cents a download and gave the money to legitimate Ukrainian charities?'

 

I'd download the hell out of that.

 

Just a thought.

 #mushroomtumbler

Day 14/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

 

When I was thinking of items for my list of 30 things I won't be buying today, menthols immediately sprung to mind, which is weird because I am not a smoker of cigarettes, but the FDA's proposed ban on menthols a while back really tweaked my sensibilities. Smoking is a choice (apparently about 15 percent of adults in the US smoke) and although it's not a healthy choice, take a look around. How many people in this country are choosing wisely from day to day? 

We're hearing, either on the news or firsthand, about new or worsening addictions of all kinds, whether it be alcohol, sex, electronics, social media, food, opioids, gambling, or gross consumption (online shopping). Most people I know, especially after being cooped up for 2 years, are riding in at least one car on the hot mess express. 

And it's not the minty fresh menthol car. 

Seriously.

So, although I won't be buying menthol cigarettes today I can one hundred percent promise you there are cigrapreneurs out there who are buying them by the carton and stuffing them in chest freezers in anticipation of a "run" on these popular nic sticks. 

And whatever...this is what happens when things people want and have always been allowed to possess suddenly become banned in this country. 

But, hey, as long as we're proposing a ban on ingestible substances that aren't great for us, I have some ideas for the FDA. Can we please ban farm raised salmon with its red dye, rBST and rBGH laden dairy products, flame retardants in our soda (take a look at BVO if you aren't familiar), the chlorine wash our chicken gets during processing, hormone injections in our beef to make them leaner and faster growing, whitening agents in our bread, preservatives like BHA and BHT, soybean oil in our coffee creamer, genetically engineered foods, fake fats, and high fructose corn syrup? 

Should I continue?

I'd really, really like to tell you I won't be buying any of those franken-foods today either, but, like most Americans just trying to get through the day, I probably will. 

#mushroomtumbler

Day 13/30 Things I Won't Be Buying Today

 www.hoponhome.org

I won't be buying a rabbit but I also won't be buying what I went to get at the Wilton Mall in Saratoga today because we swiftly and willingly gave my spending money to a rabbit rescue sanctuary called Hop On Home. 

Hop on Home operates in a mall store. They provide shelter and care to abandoned, relinquished, aged and ill rabbits. 

The competent, kind, and rightfully cautious person in charge let us in and once we were there a bit, showed us plans on paper for a freestanding barn style facility in the works that will allow this amazing rescue organization to continue to operate in an even greater capacity. 

If you go to the link at the top of this entry you can browse the adoptable rabbits, orphaned but warm and fed, thanks to these good people. You can also make a donation or buy a tshirt. As cliche' as it sounds, every little bit helps. If you have the capacity to offer volunteer hours, they need those, too. 

There is information at the end of this entry which will allow you to select Hop on Home as an entity permitted to receive charity from your Amazon (Smile Amazon) purchases. Again, every little bit will offer them some hope.

I can't tell you how much of a sobering experience this was for us and how much of a shoestring budget this group appears to be working from. It was the kind of visit where I kept focusing on my breath as I sat on the floor speaking softly to some of the more social among the approximately 50 rabbits in their cages. Breath work is hard for me but worthwhile for moments like this otherwise I would have completely lost my shit and wept uncontrollably. 

They have 10 more rabbits coming in tonight and they are driving around the state to rescue 30 more this weekend. 

My heart breaks for the animals and for the rescuers. Please share this blog or the link on your Facebook pages if you can. I pray we can raise some money for the dozens upon dozens of needy critters in their care.  

Lastly, and in keeping with the giving nature of this place, there are yoga classes offered there on Tuesday mornings and early evenings.  A class is 20 dollars and half the cost of the class is donated back to the sanctuary. The benevolent yoga teacher's name is Jamie and she can be reached at yogafromtheyinside.com (broken down that is 'yoga from the yin side') for exact times. 

I played the lottery on the way home today (I needed the help of the clerk behind the gas station counter because I had no idea how to do this). If by some miracle I win, that barn will be my first mission. 

 

 AMAZON SMILE

Want to help make a difference while you shop in the Amazon app, at no extra cost to you? Simply follow the instructions below to select "Hop On Home Rabbit Sanctuary Inc" as your charity and activate AmazonSmile in the app. They'll donate a portion of your eligible mobile app purchases to Hop on Home.

How it works:
1. Open the Amazon app on your phone
2. Select the main menu (=) & tap on "AmazonSmile" within Programs & Features
3. Select "Hop On Home Rabbit Sanctuary Inc" as your charity
4. Follow the on-screen instructions to activate AmazonSmile in the mobile app

 

#mushroomtumbler 

Day 12/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

 

I won't be buying this Scooby Doo sweatshirt today, even though it comes complete with a decal of the Mystery Machine (such a dreamy vehicle), Daphne, Fred, Velma, Shaggy and Scooby along with some really neat retro flowers, not because I don't love it, but because it is only available in TODDLER sizes.

Unisex toddler, BTW.

Come ON...what unisex toddler in 2022 knows anything about Scooby Doo?

I think the world is in need of a designer of affordable clothing outfitting middle aged women who would rather dress like eleven year olds. Well, like eleven year olds dressed back in the '70s. Eleven year olds today dress like I did at age twenty-six only they are slightly more provocative than I was at age twenty-six. For example, I never painted the word "juicy" on my butt. 

Gross. 

Maybe I should go to design school. There just has to be a middle aged market for these kids of things.

Is there anything made for kids that you wish you could find in your adult size?

 

 

#mushroomtumbler

Day 11/30 Things I Won't Be Buying Today

"What if your home, what if your family, what if your dope was on fire?"

 Now, the only reason I won't be buying this is because I don't have a sewing machine.

Or patterns.

Or sewing skills. 

"Could you describe the ruckus, sir?" 

It is quite possibly the most awesome fabric I have ever laid eyes on.

It's called Breakfast Club Detention Dance Pop Culture Cotton Fabric and I got this little teaser from Joann's Fabric (in case you have skills and need to buy this yourself today.)

 

 

 "Screws fall out all the time. The world's an imperfect place."

I would do so many things with this. I'd make curtains for my office, a pillowcase for one of the four pillows I sleep with so I'd know which was which as I flip them around in the night, a skirt two sizes too small which would inspire me to lose a few pounds, and I'd make a cool do-rag 'cause having hair down to your waistline can be bothersome sometimes. 

"I'm a fucking idiot because I can't make a lamp?" "No, you're a genius because you can't make a lamp."

What can you imagine being crafted from this fabric?

"Does Barry Manilow know you raid his wardrobe?" 

I need to learn to sew. 

#mushroomtumbler

Day 10/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

I have only recently, as a result of our lockdowns and fears of contagion, become an Amazon shopper. I get what we need but also do my fair share of browsing and "adding to list" even though I am not "adding to cart". Every time I bop over to the big A, intending to get my cocoa butter discs or my favorite dish detergent pods, their analytics and anticipatory predictors show me things they feel I should "explore". 

Explore? 

I'm not some crevice-crawling spelunker of shopping but feel free use whatever verbiage you like, big A. 

Anyway, this morning, I was encouraged to "explore" this nifty kitchen item: 

A two sided (not sure why that is important) 12-inch tortilla warmer!**

Now, I do happen to have a fat opened package of corn tortillas in my refrigerator right now! How does the big A know that? Never mind that they've been there for 3 weeks, having only needed four for what we ate back in January. The remaining twenty-one are hanging out, apparently waiting to be stuffed into this multicolored sleeping bag for food.

So, let's break down four of the finer points:

1.) It has sugar skulls on it! I have sugar skull socks, a sugar skull doormat, sugar skull temporary tattoos (a gag gift that has proven surprisingly useful), and I had sugar skull rubber clogs until I wore them so often they uncerimoniously fell apart while I was walking the dog in the rain one night. But a sugar skull tortilla warmer? This I've never even considered.

2.) You can put waffles and pancakes in it and they stay warm for an hour! Ok, so I can't imagine why I would need my waffle to stay warm for an hour, unless my friend Joelle calls me, which she oftentimes does at the 7:00 am breakfast hour, and we yack for a bit. I suppose I could shove a waffle in there until we are done; but then again, Joelle is accustomed to me shoving food into my mouth while we converse, so I guess that waffle isn't going anywhere but in my belly. 

3.) It's BPA free! It's for the "health-conscious home"! Oh man, the ol' h-c gets me every time. I think of all the plastic I have unintentionally ingested over the years and the letters B, P, and A strike fear into my bisphenol-coated heart. If this sugar skull taco blanket is free of that carcinogenic substance, and I put a pancake in it, I'm on my way to being healthy, right? Woo hoo!

4.) It's good for Taco Tuesday and Cinco de Mayo! Regrettably, we've never celebrated either in my home. Number one, I can't get my husband to even sniff, much less drink a margarita after the "unfortunate tequila incident of 1998" which left him supine on the bathroom floor for multiple hours (and we only had one toilet and a house full of Day of the Dead party goers back then so you can imagine the horror); and number two, I'd rather go out for Mexican food because all I can manage in my own kitchen is tacos from the Old El Paso kit. I'm not knocking that little dinner assembly set, as it seemed to be the pinnacle of multicultural eating back in the 1970s, but now I'm afraid I'm going to break a tooth on those shells, likely coated with some sort of chemical lacquer to keep them bug-free for as long as they sit on the grocery store shelf. Also, number three, I want to order a chimichanga just so I can say "chimichanga" out loud. 

I don't see anywhere that it's recommended for fajitas, but since it's easy to handwash, why not? I used to work with a wonderful woman who would stop at McDonald's in the morning and grab a coffee and a "faJEETa". Knowing full well what she had ordered (as it was just about every day), I couldn't help but josh her a bit by asking "What is that? It smells so good." And she'd holler out, with a mouth full of spicy onions, "chicken faJEETa!". If I were still working at the desk next to hers and it was time for our holiday gift exchange, I'd probably grab this so she could keep her breakfast cozy on the way to the office. I wonder if they have one with roosters on it. She loved roosters. 

This seems like a super purchase for a pancake loving bunch or a family who is tired of cold stacks of tortillas, but for me, today, it's just the thing I WON'T be buying. 

Maybe. 

**And now that I've clicked on it more than once for the purpose of writing this, I'm sure I will be shown a hundred more ways to keep my tortillas warm. 

#mushroomtumbler 

Day 9/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

My mother always enjoyed buying Valentine's Day presents. 

My father did, too. 

When I was a child, my mother and I each received a vase of beautiful flowers on Valentine's Day, courtesy of my father and delivered from our town's local florist. I could always count on seeing Dad's big loopy signature along with an X and and O, festooned like he was signing a very important document on a small rectangular card tucked into its clear plastic pick. It was such an extravagant gesture, especially during a time of great inflation when the cost of ordering flowers was so exhaustively high and my mother was reusing tin foil and patching (and re-patching) all the knees in our jeans to make them last just a few weeks longer. 

My senior year of high school, I photographed my very last red rose bouquet from my father atop my dresser, unintentionally surrounded by an array of 80s hair products. It's a snap in time and I am very grateful to have that picture.

One of the other Valentine's Days I often reflect upon has, at its core, the item that I won't be buying today...it's Englebert Humperdinck's After the Lovin' record album.

My mother purchased this popular album for my Nana and my Papa in February 1977 and on Sunday the 13th, we jumped in the car and drove it to their home. Up past all of our bedtimes the evening before, Mom traced and cut out pink paper hearts and taped them to the album's cellophane covering. In her careful, deliberate, upper case penmanship, Mom wrote cute candy heart sayings like TRUE LOVE and BE MINE. With Englebert's features peeking through the pink paper hearts, the whole presentation was fun and visually gratifying. I was excited when Mom asked me to hold it in the car and I recall repeatedly flipping it over, reading the tracks, and finger-tracing the zippy script of the Epic logo. The anticipation of giving this gift to my grandparents made our ride seem extra long.

Nana opened the door and Mom gleefully presented her with the record. A big fan of Englebert, Nana smiled broadly, looking as pleased as I felt! We ambled into the house, all the adults professing love for the way he sang. At seven years old, I said his name aloud, stretching out the syllables and giggling to myself under the din.

After appreciating all of the handmade hearts, Nana swiftly turned down the television, sliced the cover open with her metal nail file, lifted the lid of the record player, and, with both hands, placed the album carefully onto the turntable. After The Lovin', began, with its swelling orchestra, and pinging xylophone. Nana had the volume generously high and she stood next to the record as it spun 'round and 'round. Her smile was sassy, like she was hiding a secret, and the corners of her eyes crinkled with delight. She moved her arms from side to side and sashayed her slippered feet to the mellow groove singing the words she knew out loud. Papa, from his chair, watched and grinned, his gold capped teeth glinting from the gentle backlight of the nightly news and their amber hobnail table lamp. My parents listened from the couch, enjoying Nana's little impromptu recital and I settled on the floor, my perpetual spot at any relative's house, with my legs bent in angles behind me on the braided oval rug, patched denim knees front and center. The smells from our Polish dinner of kielbasa and sauerkraut filled the room and our collective joy bubbled over, supported by a popular love song played on a simple hi fi that probably cost less than the bag of groceries I bought last night. 

Replaying this scene is important to me because moments like this are the greatest gift my family ever gave me, and if I were buying this album today, dropping that needle on the vinyl would bring me right back to that living room and a time where a perfect evening could be borne of something so simple.

So tonight, when you are picking a syrupy love song for your Valentine and you, maybe you'll consider dialing up one of Englebert's serenades. I hope the music feels as sweet for you as it did for me, back on that night in February 1977.

 

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Day 8/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

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My friend John stated that the "Things I Won't Be Buying Today" series, with the concept started by him and borrowed by me for this month-long writing exercise, is an ongoing list of "perpetual materialistic longings". Aptly put, dear sir.

So, although I immediately rattled off, 8 days ago on an envelope, 30 items I wouldn't be buying and am hen-picking one each day, this list could really go on into perpetuity.  

PERPETUITY.

I apologize in advance. 

But here we are on Day 8. You might not have felt any particular kinship with the other 7 things I've posted about but maybe today, on day 8, in the spirit of the upcoming holiday, you might experience a nostalgic ping in your heart for this little fella. Today is about a short, bald cartoon man with a dog named Fuzz and an outlook that alternates between sweetly positive with rainbows and sunshine to sourly pessimistic with quips about Mondays and rain and coffee that brews way too slowly. 

You guessed it, it's little pink-domed, u-nosed, beady-eyed Ziggy. 

And today I won't be buying him. 

 

Back in the 70s and 80s, Ziggy was insanely popular. He found himself on greeting cards and calendars; birthday party decorations and clothing. There were plush Ziggys, Ziggy jewelry, Ziggy lap desks, Ziggy trays and Ziggy cork boards. And if that weren't enough, you could buy a Ziggy mug, Ziggy beer glasses and a Ziggy poster. 

My mother and I used to make homemade valentines for my elementary school classmates out of red cardstock and white paper doilies; that is, until Ziggy valentines showed up in the local stationery store and we retired our scissors and glue and bought those instead. 

I mean how could we resist? He is so darn cute (and he rarely wears pants!). Now, you see, Ziggy had this habit of SWAKing everything. Do you remember that? S.W.A.K., or "sealed with a kiss", was this non-threatening pre-teen way of being lovey-dovey without invading your crush's personal space or getting weird.

So, after a couple years of buying and delivering Ziggy valentines to the desks of my classmates, and seeing the Zigster all over the mall in his various and sundry iterations, I dreamed I'd someday have a boyfriend who would gift me a Ziggy item (preferably SWAK-printed) for Valentine's Day. You know, like this:

Or this:

 

Or this:

 

All of which are on eBay right now.

But, as I'm sure you have figured out, I never received a Ziggy for Valentine's Day. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining, 'cause I've been lucky in the Valentine department, but I can't help but wonder if all the people selling their SWAKY ol' Ziggys have lovely pre-teen love stories about how they came to acquire them. 

I'll bet they do.

So Happy VD from me and the Zig man. Now, go plant a kiss and watch love grow. 

 

Day 7/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

If you have been reading me a while, you know I am a child of the 70s and feel most comfortable in surroundings that are retro, antique and vintage. My retro fascination applies heavily to kitchens (though admittedly, I do enjoy the conveniences of my modern dishwasher, new refrigerator and new-ish stove, so appliances don't count); but as far as decor goes, please give me some old school Butterfly Gold Corelle dinnerware with the kitschy trim around the edge, some avocado-colored Pyrex mixing bowls and please please please give me this Merry Mushroom set.

Between 1970 and 1987 (which, incidentally, is exactly my favorite 'era' for just about everything on this planet) retail giant SEARS developed over 250 items for its Merry Mushroom line of kitchen coordinates. It's such a popular collectible, even now, because almost everyone in my demographic knew someone who had and loved at least one piece of this set.

According to the merrymushrooms.com website, which I just discovered today and will be visiting at length when I have more time, Merry Mushrooms was one of the largest and most successful lines in all of Sears' retail history.

So, although I won't be buying this today, I plan, someday, when I have the money, the space, the time and the energy, to decorate and properly outfit a retro kitchen with this and the aforementioned Corelle and Pyrex that I love so dearly. 

It just feels like home to me...and a feeling of "home" is very important to my day to day happiness. 

Do you have any special or vintage kitchen items? What are they and why do you love them so?

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Day 6/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

Were you lucky enough to have a parent who enjoyed and encouraged arts and crafts?

One of my favorite art activities to engage in, with Mom's help back in the 70s, was Makit & Bakit "stained glass" ornaments.  

So today, although it looks like it would be great fun, I won't be buying these, though there are quite a few to choose among on eBay. I'll just be reminiscing with you and hoping you have stories to share about Makit & Bakits, too. 

We'd place the crystals in the frames on an old baking sheet, reserved for this purpose (and probably Shrinky Dinks, too), using tweezers and a steady hand. 

We made the frog, the mallard duck, the butterfly, and the unicorn. I also recall making a few Christmas themed ones though detail-wise, I can't remember what they were. Santa, maybe? Did they hang in the window or on the tree? Those specifics escape my normally on-point recall.

I found my completed unicorn one about 5 years ago, white body and rainbow mane, and threw it in a box destined for the Salvation Army. I sincerely regret that move to this day. 

Do you remember these kits and which ones did you make? (I see on the packaging that they were made in Quincy, Mass. so this might have been an East Coast 'thing'.)

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Day 5/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

"O Captain, My Captain!"

Today I was strolling through the market and came upon a dear Facebook friend. You know her, she's the one who routinely posts her healthy, spinach-filled smoothies. Her newly adopted non-toxic lifestyle is seriously admirable and her dedication is fantastic. 

The last time I read one of her posts, I was drinking my sixth cup of coffee, after unsuccessfully hunting for an old, half eaten bag of chocolate chips in the back of the pantry. Admittedly, I feel like her healthy breakfast ideas speak directly to me, reminding me I can do better. 

I can definitely do better.

So when I saw her, I gave my grocery items a quick sweeping glance thinking, "Oh shit." It was like running into an AA group leader with my head in the beer cooler, but thankfully all I had was fruit and the ingredients to make a lasagna. 

But hey! What was that in her cart? A family-sized box of Cap'N Crunch?

Yeah, it sure was. And honestly, I'm kind of relieved that she is she is still occasionally eating junk like the rest of us.

'Cause who doesn't love a great big box of children's cereal? I mean, really, what was better on a Saturday morning as a kid than sitting in front of cartoons with a bowl of the Cap'N? My best friend had a pantry full of fun cereals at her house. On Friday nights, we'd stay up late, trying on her mom's makeup, splashing too much Jean Nate, giggling about boys and acting generally goofy. Then, in the morning, lo and behold, we'd wake up and sweet Jesus, there he was on the kitchen table with his naval sword hoisted over a bowl of nuggets that "stayed crunchy, even in milk!" O Captain, My Captain!

We'd have two bowls each while we watched Captain Caveman as long as her mom wasn't paying attention, and we knew we'd be spending the rest of the day with sore mouths because those crunchberries tore up our palates something fierce. 

Then we'd go listen to the Captain and Tenille while we brushed our hair and got dressed for the day. 

Now that's a triple captain morning. 

So, although Cap'N Crunch cereal is one of the things I won't be buying today, I feel like if you are particularly nostalgic for childhood, in the wake of all that we've gone through these last two years, you might want to stop shaming your choices and go get yourself some 1970s cereal, have a sleepover and a dance party and dial up some YouTube cartoons. 

I won't blame you one bit.

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Day 4/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

There are well-meaning folks who decisively declare that the best two days of boat ownership are 'the day it's bought and the day it's sold', but their sardonic stance has never dulled my desire for this particular beauty. 

It's the item I won't be buying today: the 1937 twenty-five foot Chris Craft Triple Cockpit Runabout.

Some want a party barge. 

Some want a fishing boat. 

Some want a luxury yacht. 

But me, I want a mahogany girl with copper fuel lines and flame red leather seats. I want double flags and chrome gauges and a rumbling engine that sounds like the purring ambassador of a bygone era. I've wanted the sound and smell of a boat like this since having been introduced to one at the age of fifteen by some affluent friends; friends that included me, much to my middle-classed delight, in their highfalutin', moneyed adventures.

Fortunate to have grown up when and where I did, I know what poor looks like. I know what middle class looks like. And man, do I know what rich looks like. Being around the well-to-do as much as I was as a young teenager made an indelible impression on me. You know how baby ducks imprint on whatever is around them at birth? Well, I am pretty sure I unwittingly imprinted upon things like Mercedes Benzes and antique Chris Crafts when I was hitting my hormonal stride. My taste preferences for cars and boats have always been above my budget and, yes, I know precisely from where those preferences come.

Today's case in point: I had friend whose family was chummy with a New York State Senator, and damn if he didn't have the nicest restored prewar beauty, which he entered yearly into summer shows. My friend and I scored an invitation to a show that summer and were directed to sit in the senator's boat and answer whatever questions we could (while also discouraging any boat defacers) as he walked about, hobnobbing, perusing, and socializing with other big money boat owners. 

In my madras shorts and docks with no socks, my legs were mid-July tan and my collar was half-popped in that lazy "Yes, I just wandered in from prep school" way. I gelled my hair into a ballet dancer's bun and, with my pearl earrings and Tom Cruise Wayfarers, looked like any other teenager lucky enough to be from a family with an antique wooden masterpiece stored in their boathouse on the lake. Except I wasn't. I was just along for the ride in this upper class world, acting as though I belonged there, blase' in my appearance while discussing things like the best options for charitable giving and Peter Gabriel's Biko album.

Walking around that afternoon, I encountered my most favorite, to this day, wooden motorboat. Running my hands back and forth over the thickness of the varnish, I hovered, I suppose, too long, stunned at the luxuriousness of it all; so sleek and powerful, with its marbleized banjo-style steering wheel, and flawless bench seats heating up in the midday sun. Stupefied, and frozen in place, I felt the vibrations of all the years that this boat had been owned and prized, its history rolling up my legs from the floorboards. I saw myself in the water with the hull splitting the reedy grass of the shallows, and I knew in my bones I belonged on it. But, as I grew uneasy in the owners' collective gaze, I also knew I'd probably never have one. Families with money will act like something is no big deal even though they are showing you something that is a very big deal.  

Me: gesturing about the 1937 Chris Craft, "I love your boat."

Rich Guy: "This boat? Oh (chortle) Gooby ordered this from Algonac in 1937 when he graduated from Brown and had it delivered all the way to Rhode Island. You know, all soooorts of water in Rhode Island! The perrrrrrfect spot for a tool around the bay! Econometrics, right, Lovey?"

Rich Guy's Wife: "Old Gooby! Yes, Econometrics from Broowwwn. Gooby was the best, darling, simply the best."

Family members aboard the boat: (clinking Waterford flutes) "Three cheers for Gooby!"

As I stepped away, I remember committing to memory, specifically, 1937. Specifically, the triple cockpit. Specifically, those red leather seats. Maybe I could have one someday.

Well, here we are, well past 'someday' and I'm not buying one, though I do love thinking about it. The desire got lodged in my developing brain where it sits, occasionally kindled back to life when I spot one of these classics either in person or online. I suppose there's no harm in letting that desire remain there.

If you were lucky enough to have a Gooby who bought, and maybe even left you one of these, I raise my glass.

Cheers to Gooby. Simply the best.

 

 

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Day 3/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

Today I won't be buying a Trapper Keeper, even though they are sold, in an updated form and fashion at Walmart and Amazon. 

I also won't be paying eighty five dollars for an original one, dug out of someone's basement junk pile and posted on ebay.

But, I do love a good school supply and this one was the best.

I bought my Trapper Keeper with my babysitting money and it lasted me through all of middle school and high school. Each September my friends and I would go to Schatz Stationery store in our local mall, buy new multicolored Mead files and reams of loose leaf paper, wipe our Trappers down with a little soap and water and the things were like brand new.

Did you have a Trapper Keeper? I sure hope so. Was yours plain, like mine, which was cobalt blue and white, or did you have one of the more decorative ones with rainbows and unicorns or glossy animal photographs?

One of my favorite sounds back then was the satisfying rip of the closure. When the entire class tore them open at once it was like a beautiful Velcro symphony. 

Do you remember that fat white plastic paper clip, sort of fashioned like a clipboard? It was super helpful for holding homework papers...and secret notes from friends. 

The original commercial, from 1980 and still circulating on YouTube, is cute, with a simple 60 second conversation between classmates. The more I re-watch it, the more I feel my original desire to have one.

 

 

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Day 2/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

Today, I will not be buying a Mercedes-Benz Classic Car, in particular, this perfect 300SD from the year 1980. 

I became infatuated with Mercedes Benz at the age of twelve when a friend of mine, whose father was a bank president and whose mother was an interior decorator, had a Mercedes wagon; specifically in which to drive their female golden retriever around because the dog was so hairy and stinky. 

Although I am admittedly hairy (but hardly ever stinky), I too, feel like it's probably time I exercise my right to own a car I have coveted for almost 4 decades. 

'Cause that's a whole lotta coveting.

In addition to this being my absolute most favorite Mercedes paint color, Manganese Brown, a rich and spicy root beer hue, it also sports the wood trim I associate with reading rooms and Chris Craft boats and horse barns and old money. It's looks like a rolling library of honey colored leather. 

Might you have any Grey Poupon?  

 

The fact that it has a cassette deck is no problem, musically, as I still have my cassette collection, minus a few that have snapped due to a combination of brittleness and overplay throughout the years...sort of like my body.

But because a bag of groceries cost us 48 dollars today (navel oranges, tangelos, dog treats, apples, bread, a frozen pizza and two bottles of juice) I will be eschewing this Long Island-based Mercedes. 

Okay, let's be honest, I wasn't going to buy it even if those groceries were free. I will, however, keep it in mind if we ever rescue a golden retriever because God knows that hairy stinky thing is definitely going to look great in this.

 

 

 

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