Authentic

I'd like to speak a word to all the fashion bloggers who go to the city parks and fields of flowers to take their photographs ...
I love y'all, I do.  And I dig your inspiration too.  After all, you're probably the (mostly) whole reason that I'm wearing (p)leather pants and studded butt-stompers and a so-fresh-so-clean cardigan and some version of a tartan scarf if not the winning one*.

Oh, and plaid in general, duh.

And I'm inspired to do this blogging thing too.  It's just that over here, what I have is table tops and ceiling views, toddler socks and knock-offs.

Oh, and bad photography, duh.


I have little to offer, really, that's actually and truly, so-fresh-so-clean-so-hasn't-been-done-before.  No portending here that what I have, nobody else has except for one thing, really, and that's my story.

We all have that, you know ~ a life that can't be duplicated.  I hope very much that each of you is inspired by the beauty that's around you, that you learn from those with talent and wisdom to offer, that you copy what you can.  But then never be anything other than your real and genuine self, no matter how "im-picture-perfect."

(And those who do actually have picture-perfect stuff to show, please keep doing that too!  It's how I know what to wear when I leave the house.)



*If you're a pinterester, and even remotely follow fashion, and I say, "tartan scarf," you've got it, right?  In your mind, there's a picture of a particular plaid that's winning the pins.  Right?

Say Something Nice

It's Monday morning so, you know, I'm supposed to be working.

However, I came to my desk with a draft in mind ~ several, in fact ~ the first and most pressing one being on the subject of encouragement.  I had this whole thing to say about how, here, at the Christmas season especially, we oughta go out of our way to say kind words to one another, encourage one another, build and hold one another up.

However, again... when I got to my desk, there was an envelope propped here, something the man left  for me after rifling through the mail.  It's something mass-mailed from a local entity, but someone hand-wrote a note on the envelope ~ a personal note just for me, to encourage me regarding this very thing you're reading.  (And signed it.  This wasn't my man trying to keep me going.  :) )

Ummmm...I'm not crying or anything.  That would be way too super girly, but can I just tell you that my eye sockets are swelling and I might find it difficult to speak at the moment?!

So obviously, this thing just changed course just a bit!  Rather than share now what I think might be a great gift idea, I'm straight up telling you something that I know to be true:  encouraging words are a gift to the soul.

So consider for a moment how regularly you hear complaints/negativity versus encouragement (regardless of the target.)  How regularly do you share one or the other with those around you?  How easy is it to affect someone's entire day with your words?  Why not say something nice?

Complaining and grumbling:  that's ordinary, everyday material.
Let's put that aside and gift one another with something extraordinary.
T'is the season, now especially!
Pour out tidings of joy, I say!
Good tidings of great joy!

Spread It 'Round

I'm a crappy crafter, no denyin' it.  

But please, by all means, y'all do better!

For days and days, I've been looking for the perfect diy project:  

Christmas gifts crafted from those things regularly spilling over at our shop.  

Here, what we usually have more than we know what to do with are things such as 

plates, cups, socks...  

(That we have too many ladies' clothes might go without saying.)

I can find projects, sure ~ sock monkeys, paint a plate, put some candy in a cup.

But I wanted something to convey a message, and I knew that, were it up to me,

I'd convey joy. 

Not finding any pinterest projects that met my goals, I decided to just do it myself.

So, I started with a picture frame, one of those Most Abundant, 

nobody-seems-to-know-what-to-do-with-them kind of things, 

and then scavenged from my thrift and hold pile.

Painted the frame 

(and later screwed it up, leading to some pretty serious disappointment.)
*Take your time.

Wrapped the mat.

Like a boss.

Not.

Determined my layout.

And voila!

This, I like.

But, truth in telling,
because I hurried, it looks like this:

Told y'all I'm bad at this!
Oh, well.  I've enjoyed myself and hopefully made my point:

We have picture frames!

Just kidding.

Obviously, you can't buy joy, but if you're in a gifting mood,

then I propose that joy is a great gift to convey.
And there are some really creative

(and inexpensive)

ways to do it!

So, y'all get busy!

Do a better a job than I have done

and

Merry Christmas To Ya!

Fade To Black

I looked up to see a teenage girl in the street, bags scattered around her, her pacing and watching nervously until a vehicle came around the corner, and she threw her things into it and rode away.  Several hours passed before it occurred to me that she was probably somebody else's zombie daughter and that I might have made a difference in that life somehow.  I might have just opened the door, stepped out into the yard, and asked her, "babe, are you about to make a regrettable choice?" Instead, I'd just watched the whole thing as if in a stupor.  

It's the same thing I do most days. 

Regrettable choices.  How many have there been now?
I'd ask who's counting as if to imply that nobody's counting but somebody is.
Somebody's always keeping score, at least in the game that I'm not even playing.
I'm losing, by the way.
Even though I have the most points.

I saw the girl through the window as I was sitting and staring, wondering what it's like to become a zombie, in fact.  Is it a slow fade?  Do you snap into it the same way that people snap out of things?

Like, I don't know ... denial, maybe.  Sometimes you snap out of that and what you get is a bite of red-hot reality.  I'm not really in denial.  I just really like the way that last bit sounds and sometimes I say things just because I like the sound of it.

But the real truth is that some parts of reality bite and I am regularly watching in stupefied wonder.  There are some situations still not getting better, some people still not coming home.  There are some places that I would bleed out if I thought it would make things better but I know better.  Knowing better might be making me bitter.  Just a bit.

I'm obviously writing mainly for myself now.  Except for the others like me.  I do know you're out there.  I saw your daughter yesterday in front of my house.  I'm sorry, so sincerely, that I didn't help her.

Call It What It Is

why oh why
my tiny heart cries
oh why can't i be a poet?

were i to be gifted with lyric and rhyme
perhaps i'd live better in difficult times

blech

maybe on those days that i wake up wrong
knowing better than to start the day
but having to do so anyway
and doing so
finding my foe
,anger,
hot on my heels
chasing me down
attempting to steal
you know...

maybe then i'd lose the urge
to drink dark liquor
to smoke and purge
to curse at the ceiling
like a mad woman.

i don't do any of these things
well, most any of these things
but i do wish i had a big stick
to beat the dog that's biting at my heels

Envy Schmenvy

So.

We've just finished a lovely, happy little series about the seven deadlies.  Coulda, woulda, shoulda written about each of them in turn as I struggle relatively with each.  I am a person, after all.

In case they're unfamiliar to you, and to clarify what I just said:

Mother, Mother

i have no shot at a career in writing. 
okay, i’m okay with that.


but were i even to try,
i’m pretty sure there’s no 
novel,
memoir,
screenplay,
or poem
that could tell it better for me 
than to just string together a series of 
song lyrics,
movie clips,
bits of art,
an occasional sound byte.

my story’s already been told.


mother, mother. are you listening?