The Little Mundane Bits

Y’all know I’ve been spending more time at home.

And for one obvious reason.

So maybe that’s why I’ve been paying more attention to the mundane tasks that soak up 99% of my day. (Yes, even you gainfully employed folks spend an inordinate amount of time doing the daily grind.)

***

Now, I’ve had plenty of time to reflect on such things that fall on my daily “To Do” list. And even some of the tools that make corralling the tangible products of said tasks that much more manageable (and prettier).

But I’ve never really taken any real time to acknowledge a few bobbles and bits that keep me sane, clean, and in check. That I use in a mechanical, robotic way.

So, without further ado, here we go.

French Press: Thank you for being there. Without you, I probably would’ve been incarcerated long ago for smacking an a-whole, or someone of their ilk, upside their head.

Always pressed. Always loved.

Soap Dispenser: Even though you’re mass-produced and not super special, I enjoy how easy you are to use. Especially your patience in dealing with the bazillion pumps I must inflict upon you to quiet those OCD ticks. (Just don’t screw up like your cooler predecessor; otherwise, you’re kaput.)

Dispensed daily. But reliable.

Notepads. Whether you’re a pad permanently borrowed from an old office because the least they could’ve done was keep you constantly in our lives after such a horrible experience, or Post Its (oh, Post Its), you keep the crazy lists contained.

Your utility is noted.

Kitchen Stuff. Y’all are too numerous to thank individually. But I’ll throw the spotlight on a few. First and foremost, Fiestaware, we always talk about you because we love you. And use the bejesus out of you and your Riviera and Harlequin cousins.

Fiestaware, we love thee. And Riviera. And Harlequin.

Fiesta teacups, y’all get a special shout-out. Because evening tea time has become a tradition in our very non-traditional household.

Fiesta tea time!

But every now and then, we need something stronger than tea. So, Name Your Poison Glasses, we salute thee.

Name Your Poison. Daily or whenever the doctor prescribes it. And, lest we forget, the solid, possible zombie defense weapons: Cast Iron Cookware. You’re solid, sometimes finicky and labor intensive, always heavy, but so worth not ingesting all the lovely chemicals your modern counterparts contain. And you cook so evenly!

Sturdy standbys.Last, but certainly not least, the one, the only, Fiestaware Knife Set! I don’t care what they (meaning Julia Child) may say about stainless steel knives, because you’re lovely (and totally worth nearly taking out a curmudgeonly elderly woman standing between us).

Cutting to the fabulous bone.

Now, just a few more.

Like you, Fabulous Serpentine Deco Vanity Tray. Sure, you may have had a few lines sniffed off of you in the past. Now, though, all you have to worry about is looking pretty and supporting an entire tea service nightly.

Deco fabulousness is even better when it's used.

Or you, wonderfully useful Bedside Lamps that I’ve lacked for way too long. Even though Andy originally hated you both because y’all supposedly looked like you once graced a bordello, he warmed to you. Perhaps by force. Perhaps because he appreciates you now.

MCM lamps are quirky and fun. Even if they look like they may fit right in at a bordello.

Finally, we’re here.

The end.

Pointing out the things I use every single day, but usually take for granted to some degree, might be slightly annoying (especially if you stayed with me through this entire post). But I think it’s these little details that make little nooks in our home that much more functional and enjoyable.

Sure, who doesn’t have a soap dispenser in their bathroom? Or a favorite set of dishware?

The thing is, we’re often so driven by our stuff–and sometimes smothered by it–that we forget why we got it in the first place. Or why it’s followed us throughout our lives.

So even if it’s a go-to chopping knife, or a fun trinket you see every single day, remember to acknowledge the bit of oomph it gives you to go about your day.

A memory vehicle. During our massive cull, I saved one of my favorites. Because I pulled this out of the muck with my paternal grandfather, who'd taken me to a neighbor's drainage ditch filled with mostly buried toy cars (from a very destructive child who used to live nearby). We spent the entire day digging them all out and cleaning them.

And if it doesn’t do that anymore, ask yourself if it’s time for it to find a home where it will be just that for someone else.

Because life’s too short to drown yourself in meaningless stuff.

So make sure everything that surrounds you–that creates that haven from work, from crazy social obligations, from the daily grind–helps balance you out.

So that your eyes can dance from one cherished, memory-rich piece to another.

So that you can absorb the good times wrapped up within those pieces.

So that the memories and the vehicles for them fuse to create something warm and inviting.

Andy loved this Deco frame immediately. I liked it. But now that we have something to go in it, I love it. And the memories associated with it. And the guy I'm standing beside.

Something that reminds you that you’re home.

In My Box I Trust

You know, I don’t usually like to talk about this.

Because, well, boxes are private matters.

But.

Y’all know full well that I don’t shy away from discussing personal matters.

That I’m a little crass.

Thankfully, this post has nothing the least bit crass in it.

Wait.

You thought I was going to talk about something other than a square-shaped container with four wooden sides?

You’re disgusting.

This isn’t high school.

Go wash your mind out with soap.

***

I love boxes.

They’re so functional.

And so often overlooked.

Because, well, they’re boxes.

Still.

We loved them as kids.

And you can glean a lot of historical information from boxes. Get a glimpse of what life was like back then. Which is probably why I love these ridiculously utilitarian things. Because, unlike so many other things marketed for mass consumption, these objects and their labels were rarely censored, their written content unblemished by those pesky social filters.

After all, they were just for carting things from here to there, storing them until use.

And while I don’t ever want a box–or anything–with racist imagery, such things are so telling of mainstream ideologies, and are much more subversively disturbing.

***

My fascination with boxes started early.

Whether it was used as a bank for a roadside lemonade stand or baked goods table, one simple little box proved its functionality time and time again.

My faithful box through the years.

And then it followed me to college. And grad school. And still has its place today.

It wasn’t until after graduate school that I really started collecting boxes.

(Mostly because I actually had time for a life. And antiquing.)

At first, I just collected them because each was cool in its own right.

My favorite Deco box. Which I stalked for four months.

But then, my parents moved from the childhood homestead, and I was determined to have everything that was mine under one roof–my roof. Which meant I needed more places to store things.

Store all the things!

(Sorry, I usually despise memes. But that Clean All The Things one cracks me up. As does the one with a puppy “booping” a displeased cat. But I digress.)

So, gradually, I started circulating these boxes back into use.

Pimento box turned drill bit box. This is one of my treasured boxes, because my paternal grandfather wrote the "Dril" scrawl. I found this after he died. And the other? Ever need a way to organize and easily transport those useful, but every so fussy, shot glasses? You're welcome.

And when Andy moved in, they became even more relevant. Because these two gays have a lot of shoes.

We love shoes.

Seriously, we do.

Seriously, that's all. I swear.

Because one fun thing about melding places is realizing how much hobby overlap you have with your partner.

Like, say, movies. (Although Andy’s DVD collection dwarfed mine.)

Finding a storage solution for a fraction of those DVDs that didn’t quite fit in the cabinets with the rest was another story entirely.

That is, until I realized I could make my soap box multi-functional, too.

I even made my soap box multi-functional!

So household melding became an exercise in maximizing each piece’s functionality. Including those containers I’d purchased solely for their “coolness” factor.

Not just for looks anymore! Now, it's one chic component of our mail system.

Because, really, we all have plenty of little things that make life a little easier on a daily basis, but just aren’t pretty.

So, why not house them in something that’s a bit easier on the eyes?

A little Deco never made differently styled coasters look so good, or cohesive. We pop this sucker open every single evening for dinner.

Little trinkets that'll never be tossed are easily organized in cool old boxes. Like the cool pyrography box from a dear friend, or this English pencil box for some little school kid (whose name also happened to be Matt). This massive Butter Krust box holds all of our cookbooks and paper towel rolls.  And this one from Cloverleaf Farms holds some pretty arty magazines.

This Columbia Baking Co bread tray is one of my favorites, mostly because I use it all of the time for toting food to monthly art show openings at our local LGBT Center of Raleigh.

This biscuit box holds photo frames and other little things, and the cool piece of luggage holds old newspaper clippings.

And while everyone knows everyone poops, you don't always have to be reminded of it when waltzing into a bathroom. TP storage has never been so cool.

And if storage containers can double as plant stands, double plus bonus.

A card catalog-looking feed container. The drawers actually pull out, and the interiors are metal sheeting. This holds my select design magazines (a few rolled up into each) from years past.

So, there you have it.

Boxes are fun!

They can be stylish.

They withstand more than flimsy new ones.

And they tell a story.

And, of all the reasons, that’s why I like them: They’re story-tellers.

Which is something so lacking in today’s mass-produced, disposable, now-now-now world.

Because these bits of history remind me that, regardless of how seemingly insignificant something can appear, it too has its own history.

It knows some secrets about time.

How to handle the weight and blows it brings.

And, above all else, how to weather it gracefully.

Therapy, Apartment: Party of Two

Andy hadn’t been in the door four minutes before he realized my latest furniture switch-a-roo while he was out of town.

“But we can’t have an in-progress project, like, out for people to see. It’ll look bad.”

“Well, uh, it’s not like this is a tiny piece. It’s going to have to be out. Plus, she’s dramatic, even if she’s not done. And it’s not like we haven’t already had the Apartment Therapy shoot.”

Ever since Andy and I and a fellow antiquing friend held our collective breath this past weekend as one of our mutual friends and co-owners of a crazy-awesome antique mall ushered us into a dark nook to peek at a gorgeous 1920’s rose-mirrored Deco vanity, I’ve playfully referred to her–mentally, or when I’m telling her jokes–as the Deco Diva, DeeDee for short. (She joins the bitchy trio of Ivanca, Marge, and Betty, and will have to tolerate Hamburgler: two awesome modern chairs, a modern sofa, and a Lafer loveseat, respectively.)

Betty the Borge Morgensen sofa, Ivanca (the far chair and hassock), and Hamburglar (the Percival Lafer loveseat). Because we don't have kids, or pets, so we name our furniture.

Because, really, she’s a bit overly fabulous for her own good.

(Plus, I like to think that one of the red stains in a top drawer is from some crazy-horrible-awesome-in-its-own-time makeup her owner spilled before a big opening act on Broadway. Probably after a few lines.)

The Deco Diva, in her temporary quarters. With Marge photo-bombing on the right.

Sure, she’s weathered some rough patches–hell, it’s not like the Roaring 20’s ended well, nor did the 30’s get off on a good foot–but she’s gorgeous in her own right, even now.

A little battered. But we'll fix'er up.

Plus, there’s some intoxicating ambiguity about her that I love. Especially since I can’t find another vanity like her, even though I know there have to be more out there.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Surprise!

***

DeeDee happened to pop into our design lives a few weeks after our friend Katie popped by to do a house tour for Apartment Therapy (and you should seriously like Katie’s blog, Domestiphobia, because it’s awesome and I have total blog envy). As did a few other ridiculously overdone Deco delights.

The same thing happened the first time I was on Apartment Therapy. In this same, but less nice looking, apartment: right after the shoot, I rearranged everything (and got control of my hair).

It was as though once the current design scheme was commemorated in a ridiculously awesome photographic montage, I felt more inclined to revamp the whole thing.

But this time, most everything stayed the same after Katie left.

Except for that dramatic DeeDee.

Still, as the future shifts and we find ourselves looking for other possible roosts, we’re so thrilled to have our household meld documented.

Especially since we’re both ADD-wired and probably couldn’t remember how we had things arranged, even though I overly Instagram every new tableau I arrange or piece we buy.

This time, though, there’s something more.

Because this apartment is the first place I will truly miss of all the places I’ve lived since moving to North Carolina seven years ago. It’s the first place I can look back at fondly and remember a lot of great times and wonderful memories. (And yes, even the stressful moments that happen when two households combine.)

Mostly because I think this is the first place that really, truly feels like home.

But still, the concept of home is a fluid thing.

And I think we’re both ready to embrace a little change.

Whenever it happens.

And wherever we may land.

A New Target? Because Gay Sexiness is so Passé.

Have y’all read the headlines lately?

Or have you had your Facebook news feeds inundated by gay marriage ads, the first lesbian couple to marry with Mickey and Goofy as witnesses, and young LGBT’s bringing class action lawsuits against their bigot-run schools?

Good. That means you’re supposed to be my Facebook friend.

Because those stories may mean that, sooner than many of us think, the large-scale disenfranchisement of LGBT’s nationwide will become a smarting blemish on our country’s history of civil rights violations.

(And yes, let’s go ahead and make that clear: LGBT inequality is a civil rights issue.

Don’t get me started about what skin color someone has to have to qualify as experiencing civil rights violations. LGBT’s experiencing inequality aren’t trying to uproot and appropriate the 60’s. Meaningful, long overdue strides were made then by incredibly talented, headstrong, and historically revered leaders; and they, and their cohorts, should be honored accordingly and their work appreciated.

LGBT’s have long endured inhuman equations to the lowest form of humanity. Whether starved and worked to death inside barbed-wire fences, dragged behind cars and lit ablaze, or tied to fence posts and left to die, LGBT’s have a history of having hate-centered violence directed at them.

So, let’s all stop the minority in-fighting and agree that hatred directed at anyone is wrong.

And anyone who stands against it is a pioneer in their own right.

Tangential rant over.)

***

With every new ad campaign, every high-profile celebrity that comes out or speaks out as an ally, every corporation that backs all of their employees, we all come a few steps closer to equality.

It won’t happen overnight, but it’s happening little by little.

But with so much happening so quickly, I’m left to wonder why.

Why now?

Is it because people are starting to see the light?

Is it because it’s trendy to back LGBT rights?

Is it because LGBT’s are pretty people?

Is it because it’s sexy to feature LGBT’s in ads?

In some ways, I think it’s a little bit of everything blended together.

Still, I think it’s odd that the sex-bent (ba dah bah!) ads are geared more to gay men than the rest of the LGBT community.

I know, I know.

Every advertising executive would respond with the whole “Not every ad can cater to every identity group.”

But I think corporations should try to diversify their LGBT ads.

Because, even now, much of mainstream society is getting many stereotypes reified with every hot, muscly gay couple happily traipsing down some exotic beach to a chuppah.

Not all gays are like that.

We don’t all shave our chests, have tons of money, work out non-stop, or eat 300 calories a day. I’m not trying to sound bitter–really, this time–because I know many gays who juggle crazy lives and have chiseled physiques; I’m just not one of them.

So, again, why the gay men?

In some ways, I think it comes down to some advertising-centric, decided on sexiness factor.

Because what sells ads?

Teddy bears and roses?

Nah.

But two muscle bears holding bouquets over their junk, the tagline reading, “Two bouquets for the price of one! He’ll be beary happy you did!”?

Perhaps.

For whatever reason, two men together ooze bizarre degrees of sexiness to some heterosexual demographics. Meaning: tweens staring at ripped abs (wishing their boyfriends had those, while said boyfriends are secretly wishing they had those, because then–then!–they might get to second base, whatever that is these days); and closeted men staring at those bouquets.

But, again, the proverbial WHY? of it all. Why would two guys be the most marketable of LGBT’s?

I think it’s because more heteros understand the mechanics of gay male sex.

Even if they think it’s ewwww, gross!

Even if they have problematic, subversively misogynistic thoughts like, “So, who’s the woman in all that?” (Clue: It’s two men. It’s nothing like heterosexual sex.) Or, secretly, “I bet they get less teeth.” (We do.)

So, while the Culture Industry is making a buck off your gay boyfriend’s abs, and letting those questioning kids know that they’re not alone, I’m still standing there watching it all unfold, wondering, “Who’s the next target?”

Cynical?

A little.

But let’s be realistic.

Because when the whole taboo against discussing LGBT issues–sex, love, civil rights protections, adoption–falls by the wayside and becomes less edgy, some other minority has to get thrown under the Not-So-Magic American Disenfranchisement School Bus. (Which I imagine being driven by an amalgamation of DuhW and Pat Robertson with Ms. Frizzle’s hair.)

***

My hope is that once LGBT rights are more commonplace than not, not only will there be a little less hatred and misinformation floating around out there, but nationwide LGBT equality will be one of the last civil rights hurdles our country has to clear before getting with the program, catching up with progressive nations, and realizing how ass-backwards we’ve been for far too long.

Because, personally, I’d love to live in a nation where a billboard featuring a gay male couple is looked at as just that–a piece of wood sporting those sporting wood, rather than another attempt by the wicked gays to lead The Children into fiery damnation.

I guess I’m just waiting for gay male sexiness to have less of a charged air about it than it does now. (Maybe then Andy and I can be in a gay-centric toothpaste ad, like a friend suggested after I posted this photo from last year’s NC Pride.)

A future tame, gay-centric toothpaste add? Something like, "Even during a rain-soaked Pride, we're still proud of our smiles!"?

That, and for more representative LGBT imagery in the media.

Whenever that happens, I’ll welcome the chance to pass the goth hipsters of the future–wearing those oh-so-alternative 2000’s fashions and ruminating about Life and Death.

Especially when they pass a few old gays at a bistro table, roll their eyes, and mutter in their misunderstood way, “That whole being gay thing is so passé.”

Cold Reality

Sometimes, we all just need a day.

So I let my hair default to Chia Pet, blasted Silversun Pickups through defunct iPod earbuds, and ventured into a hand-numbingly cold, blustery day.

Oh, Chia Pet hair. How unwieldy ye are.

Because, sometimes, we just have to walk it out.

***

Reconciling unemployment with everything I’ve been conditioned to think about success has been harder than I thought.

Even though I thought I knew better, I’ve realized my default definition of success has involved a 9 to 5, 8 to 4–whatever. You know, the American way: working yourself to the bone, even if you hate what you do, because that’s just how it’s done.

Because you’re told to keep your head down, your nose to the grindstone.

Because your parents did it. And their parents. And their parents’ parents.

Because that’s just how you derive from life the things that make it worthwhile.

***

Life throws shit at you. And you step in it. And you drag it around with you, stinking up everything.

But there comes a time when you have to scrape it off your shoes with as much grace as possible and move on.

Get that mess off your mental shoes.

Because the people who matter know better. They remind you that you’re not useless. That your contributions don’t have a price tag, and don’t come with a pay stub. And they never have.

***

Self-worth in our society has long been measured by bank statements, rather than by the degree to which what we do impacts others.

That’s what really matters. Not who contributes what or how much.

These relatively simple realizations smacked me across the face with more punch than the freezing wind and snow flurries as I walked around Raleigh today.

As I looked for answers in battered facades.

Battered, but not yet beaten.

In signs.

Posted.

In street notes.

Priority mail for "Witch Kult Friends." You'd think they'd at least get the spelling right.

In unfinished portraits.

Unfinished body. But aren't we all?

In masks.

Masked temporarily. But the beauty underneath is what counts.

In inner-workings.

Inner-workings.

In emergency exits.

Escaping halfway.

In pops of color.

Pops of color.

Not in me.

But that’s where they are.

Locked away, layered with dust. Waiting for today.

When the pity party ends.

When I realize that I did this.

That I’m happier for it.

That I’ll be fine.

The Name Game

Call me crazy, but I never really got the whole change-your-last name business.

Probably because I never saw myself as the marrying kind–for multiple reasons–much less someone who’d actually be fortunate enough to snag someone genuinely wonderful in today’s ridiculously difficult dating pool.

Because I always felt like that really hairy guy with floaties on who’d have to grab an oar, whack a guy upside his head, pull him poolside, and act all like I-saved-your-life-here’s-some-mouth-to-mouth-and-maybe-let’s-get-coffee-sometime.

You know, like a real lifeguard.

No?

But smack me across the face and call me Sally (don’t), I did find someone when I least expected it.

And, still, I can’t really fathom how he fell into my life.

He was like *poof* insta-boyfriend/companion/friend/confidant/partner-in-crime-and-life.

It just happened so quickly that I’m still waiting to wake up from some accidental Melatonin overdose and drive to my horrible former job and be back in my former life.

But, here I am: happily coupled, and unshackle…er, employed.

(Alright, one happy outcome out of two life-changers ain’t bad.)

The main thing is that I’m happy.

We’re happy.

Everyone’s happy.

Except that grumpy cat everyone keeps inserting into memes.

***

So when the auto technician came up to the waiting area this morning and called, “Matt Corbin,” I jumped up so quickly that I nearly launched my book across the room, smacking the employee arguing over the phone with a disoriented wrong number caller.

Was this some sort of ruse?

Was this a surprise proposal, and was I expected to walk down the ADA ramp like an aisle, clutching the license plate bracket I’d just bought like a bouquet, and meet Andy at the check-out counter, the service parts team members tossing tree air fresheners like rice?

No.

Which is probably why I got some weird looks when I started humming the wedding song on my way down the ramp.

Not really.

I mean, I’m prone to letting my imagination get away with me. But I know I’ll be the one proposing whenever the time comes. Because, really, we’ve talked about it: It’ll be safer for the general public if I have some means of knowing when to anticipate it.

So, yes, y’all should thank me for sparing you my accidental elbow-to-eye gouges, rogue flying dinner knives to restaurant patrons’ thighs, or decibel-breaking, eardrum-rupturing shrieks, all of which are likely should I ever be surprised. (That goes for parties, too.)

I aim to please.

Anyway.

So I got up, chatted with the technician, sat back down, and smiled to myself.

Because even though we plan to eventually hyphenate our last names, it’s still the unexpected reminders, slips of the tongue, that get me.

Because when two names collide, even with a hyphenated cushion, you know there’s a story tied with it.

Roses, bow ties, and photos--oh, my! The stories.

And I love stories.

Especially ours.

The Weird Factor

Humans are odd creatures.

I mean, this isn’t a noteworthy or earth-shattering realization. But I’m always intrigued by the degree to which some people exercise their weirdness.

Like the bizarrely huggy gal I met at a social event I organized last week. Who, quite seriously, hugged every single person she encountered, and then debated with me about the potato-ness of a particular bag of chips.

HG: “THESE ARE NOT POTATO CHIPS!”

Me: “Yes, yes they are.”

HG: “NO THEY ARE NOT.”

Me *in Yodaese*: “Chips, they are.”

Or a researcher who’s determined to follow through with a batshitcrazy study, despite push back from so many professionals, one of whom is a dear, dear friend.

DF: “And then, he’s going to ——– and have them use ——– to measure their ——– response to ——–.”

Me: “WHAAAAAAAAAT?!”

DF: “I know. It’s nasty.”

Me: “Are they at least going to clean it first?”

***

Still.

I can’t really talk.

I mean, I’m weird by nature.

Weirdness incarnate? Or a birthday wish to a friend? A little of both.

I have plenty of neuroses, of which all too many people are aware by sad happenstance.

Like being in the room when I spy an unopened jar of Nutella.

Or standing beside me when I botch French toast with the last of the eggs.

Or having a conversation with me when I see a differently abled dog puttering along on wheels or hopping on three legs. (And if there’s a bandana or a sweater. Watch. OUT.)

But it seems that unemployment has had an odd effect on my own neurotic weirdness factor. I mean, I figured that I’d be cleaning the floors every other day, or screaming down from the window at random passersby about no more goddamned wire hangars.

But I’m actually a bit more subdued than usual.

Sure, that doesn’t mean much when I’m still OCD-ADD fabulous every single day.

The floors are clean, things are in order. And I don’t accost passersby.

Still, it’s sort of interesting that I’m not freaking out to the excessive degree to which I supposed I would. I guess it’s because Andy and I have a few plans in the works, and we’re in limbo right now–waiting to see which one works out, or if one isn’t in the cards this time around.

I guess I’m strangely optimistic that, even if things don’t pan out according to our plans, we’ll still be fine. We’ll soldier on and still be fabulous.

Because if unemployment and the road to it have taught me anything, it’s that a little optimism can be spread far and wide.

Like new asphalt on a pothole-marked highway.

An Eclectic New Life By Design

I love stuff.

Most everything old and worn, vintage and quirky, tattered and treasured.

Still, I’ve had to make some decisions about stuff–what to keep and what to sell, what to give away and what to toss.

After all, design is an ever-changing field.

One day taxidermy is the new thing, the next week it’s those horrendous Keep Calm and Carry On posters adorning hipster sorority girls’ dorm rooms everywhere.

(Kidding! Sort of. Not really.)

***

Regardless of your style, it’s the people who stick with something–own it and make it work–that really pique my interest. You know, the friends whose places you love to visit to see what new thing they’ve incorporated, and what old tragic piece of crap they’ve discarded.

And while I’m no design expert, I do know what I love, and sprinkle that throughout our apartment. And even though I’m trying to be good and curb the antiquing a bit–oh, money, why must you constantly be so elusive?–sometimes you just have to eat rice and beans a few days more than you’d like.

Because certain things are just so cool, and dovetail so effortlessly with your aesthetic, that you must possess it.

Like a ridiculously dramatic mirrored Deco serving tray.

This baby is ready for some drinks...and maybe a Murder, She Wrote marathon

Or a ridiculously dramatic mirrored Deco vanity in need of some imagination and TLC (minus the whole chasing waterfalls bit).

Her rose-colored self is ready for a face-lift!

Sensing a theme?

I know, IKEA-Contemporary.

Kidding!

(By the way, go check out Sanford Antique Mall. You can get some beautiful pieces. But not this one.)

***

One of the most enjoyable things I’ve learned from melding households is snagging finds that speak to us both. In some instances, one of us sees the hidden potential, or realizes the way its lines–when juxtaposed with a completely different style of furniture–makes us both love other things that we have that much more.

Like pairing a beautifully simple, modern bookcase with an ornate, Downton Abbey-like mirror.

A touch of modern, and splash of Downton Abbey.

Individually, each is fine and functional and beautiful. But together, I love them.

Even the little things that you have squirreled away can be reborn. Like my grandfather’s vintage political buttons, now housed in this cool Catherineholm bowl.

Bowled over with fabulous. Pinned.

(And I’m still trying to figure out where to hang his two hats.)

We wear our politics on our...heads these days.

Plus, loving what you have makes everything more fun.

Like eating a healthier, cheaper apple in lieu of a $500 jar of Nutella. (Seriously, Nutella, why are you so expensive?)

Apple break on the Riviera. (Ba dah bah!)

Because why wouldn’t this cute Riviera plate not make you smile and help you forget that this apple is not chocolate-hazelnut spread?

***

When you love the things surrounding you, you’re better able to appreciate the little things that much more.

Like growing an apple tree. (Andy, I’m working on it.)

A tree has to start somewhere. And why not with a snack?

Or figuring out what to do with one of the 12 onions you may have.

Maybe it'll grow into a chariot! Oh, wait. That was a damn pumpkin.

Or realizing that you need to water your African Violet.

Dehydrated violet...

It’s all about balancing the things you love with the functional rigors of the daily grind. And when you’re able to meld lovely aesthetics with high functionality, double-plus bonus. Which is why I love our home even more now than ever before. Because everywhere I look, I see something we use and love.

More than that, though, I’m reminded of the memories embodied in each piece.

And these days, I’m all for remembering good times.

Especially as I cobble together a skill set here, tack it onto a passion there, and try to design a life that complements it all.

Quiet Things

Maybe I’ve been listening to “Brand New” a little too much.

Or, perhaps my mind is starting to re-tune itself to life, minus the initial detox it often needs after a life-changing move.

Either way, I’m starting to feel a bit more like myself. Taking pleasure in the little things, the quiet moments that would’ve normally been obliterated by a hasty Starbucks run to stave-off realizing a daydream of smacking McNutterpants upside her head, or a crazy-long work commute.

Just this and that.

Like roses drying in a kitchen warmed by a yellowed 1970s stove, the air filled with a hint of vanilla-bourbon and chocolate from cookies cooling on the farm table.

Like pops of color.

Pops of color, courtesy of our ever-expanding Fiestaware collection.

Like pulling together a recipe without instructions. Just flour, sugar, eggs, and butter. And, voila, cookies.

Baked happiness.

Like dreaming of being a writer, piling up some of my favorite authors’ books and hoping that, one day, I might have front and back covers with some pages sandwiched between them.

Author-atative inspiration...

Like realizing how fortunate I am to have Andy beside me when I wake from a horrendous nightmare.

Like receiving Andy’s unsolicited reassurance that I’m adding value when I’m feeling completely useless.

Like dreaming about the future, and planning a weekend getaway.

Quiet things that keep each us going.

Keep our glasses colored rose.

Even if it’s just around the rims.

The Glitter Incident

Do you ever think about your legacy?

If part of your life will be recorded in some, even arcane, historical tome?

Well.

I think I have my answer.

Because, according to my informa…friends, my grand bon voyage to my employed life on a military installation has been recorded and dubbed by the great, delusional McNutterpants.

Sparkly accomplices

And the name attributed to it?

“The Glitter Incident.”

Seriously.

I can’t make this stuff up.

I mean, I can almost envision the poor sap who, decades into the future, is combing through files, uploading reports into some grand database lorded over by robots. Or Clint Eastwood.

And then, right before lunch (which, in typical futuristic flair, will consist of a pill stamped “Lunch”), some, since forbidden, glimmer on the next file’s heading will catch their eye.

They’ll put down the pill.

Pull the file closer, out of view of the mechanical, cycloptic eye monitoring the enslaved humans bent prostrate, thumbing through the metal file cabinet catacombs.

And there on the heading, speckled with shimmering glitter, will be printed in bold, character-devoid lettering: “The Glitter Incident, 2013.”

Furtively scanning the details, penned in crazed chicken scratch, the peon will become emboldened by the originality and quiet execution of the plan contrived by Unknown Suspect X.

And then, taking the residual glitter from the file folder and dabbing it onto their brows, the wee peon will rally their surrounding cohorts, rail against the mechanical monsters, and bring about a time of peace and tranquility.

Too much?

Perhaps.

***

Sure, maybe my penchant for a flair-filled, dramatic exit won’t be remembered for posterity. But harmless antics like mine will at least create a moderate amount of confusion among the McNutters out there.

Because, really, the more you can screw with a horrendously awful person from afar, the better. And double-plus bonus if said McNutterpants doppelganger ends up turning her paranoid delusions on those surrounding her. Because then, maybe those too willfully ignorant of her cray cray operations will be forced to acknowledge the extent of her insanity.

And offer her her own, less grand exit.

But, really, that’s not the world we live in. The McNutters of the world will keep doing what they’re doing–driving competent people away in order to lord over their tragic anthill.

And you know what?

Each McNutter can have their crumbling kingdom.

Go ahead, let them have it. Find somewhere else to be–someplace you’ll actually be valued and treated with respect.

Or, take the time to become the person you’ve wanted to be. And be happy being that person.

Because, really, being happier than you were is the best revenge.

Someone who smiles and laughs far, far away.

Someone who sparkles.