I envision myself traveling by ocean liner to buy a huge collection of these pieces and then return home. On the way back “across the pond”, my traveling companions and I will sit in a small grouping of the furniture on the covered deck of the ship which was made by Dumond’s designs. We will smoke, drink, discuss literature, argue about politics, and remarkably discover the meaning of life.
The beginning of the school year does not bring on the deep desire to sniff crayons or markers. It does not make me yearn for sweaters and boots. I don’t even want the cooler weather to drop down too soon. Around our house, it simply means Mama’s got the bug to move furniture.
Last year it was the excitement and sadness of converting the young man’s room from a bunk bed setup into a double-twin-bed lounging paradise. We got him some new furniture on this site. It was a day fraught with tears for what seemed like the true end to the “kid” room and therefore childhood. At least that’s what I manifested it into.
This year – two days before the first day of school – the golden child’s desk moved from the kitchen to the room we labeled years ago “the playroom” due to its housing all the games, the toys and the air hockey table. His desk had been in the kitchen since the second grade when he and I started sharing a computer. The computer and he faced the wall so I could easily see the screen from any vantage point in the kitchen. Not on my watch was he going to accidentally dance with porn! No way!
The boy and his new desk.
The domino effect of house re-arranging is that it gave me the opportunity to tweak a few more things that needed change. It just stands to reason that, if he and I are no longer sharing a computer and a desk, we should both get new digs. So this boy’s mama moved a desk into her dressing room, and all has been bliss. I am safely nestled into the second floor of the house with a window for taking in Hyde Park vistas and with seashells on the sill for moral support. Right now I’m loving the sleekness of the desk surface, but I know that will change.
My new digs.
My move from the epicenter – our kitchen – is providing me with much-needed clarity for the writing I’ve been yearning to do. I am able to leave the hubbub after dinner and enter a little silence – which I still love to have pierced by my baby boy as he attacks his mountain of homework.
I am an organizational freak. I could spend days just organizing stuff. No joke. Ask anyone I know. I actually put my toothbrush back in the same exact spot everyday. This blessed gift (I am choosing to be positive about this quirk since it doesn’t warrant medication) comes with a love of hardware stores, art stores, office supply stores and paper warehouses. So last week, when these little wooden trays arrived at the store, I was short of breath all afternoon.
I even worked the staff into a dither last week with my uncontained joy.
Aren’t they cool? Don’t you just want a giant stack of them? Won’t they solve all your organizational needs? Won’t your neighbors and friends be amazed at your new sleek and tidy shelves, drawers, desktop and cabinets?
oohhhhhhh. ahhhhhhhh.
Okay, okay I am calming down…
Just one more for the road! It’s like organizational porn.
I am craving fish tacos. And, for the life of me I have never found a good recipe to make them at home. I need your help. If you have a great recipe or tips for homemade fish tacos I need it.
Because, the dishware we are putting out at the store is making my tummy growl.
I am in desperate need of bookshelves. My daughter and I have stacks of books everywhere. You can’t pass through the house with your arms full because you are guaranteed to fall over a stack of books. (Of course, if you did, you would at least have something to read while you waited for the ambulance.)
I have been searching for bookshelves I like AND can afford. This is the real challenge, since I have very expensive taste. I came across these images of color sorted bookshelves and love them.
The outside of my sister's amazing home, with two beaming children.
I am officially the mother of a teenager. The first day was flawless and full of special breakfast, a “cold” lunch, a special dinner, cards, singing, small gifts from friends, phone calls from family, and an overnight with his cousin in his own bunk beds.
The inside of my sister's home, as seen in the Kansas City Star.
I know all the days of my living with a teenager won’t be like this – for him or me. I won’t get cocky and think that the bad days will pass me by. Let’s be serious: a working mother like myself cannot be relied upon to make “cold” lunch every day. Why do these kids think hot lunch became a reality in schools? Because, all those years ago, mothers who work inside and outside of the home had vision for a life less hectic. Or, that’s my take on the situation.
What I miss the most as my child grows up is that with each passing day it seems the chance of his having one of those amazingly deep belly laughs diminishes. They’re not gone; they just don’t happen several times a week like they used to. We still laugh together, and he smiles all the time, but now I find myself rating the smiles like I used to rank the belly laughs.
And a few days ago my sister and her band of hooligans gave him a smile that came from so deep inside him I think it even surprised him.
You see, my sister has a concrete retaining wall on her property that faces a park. Yes she has fabulous views and an amazing home, but she also can be the victim of graffiti artists and their “tags”. Tags to me are cheap imitations of the true art that graffiti artists are capable of. Where is the art in painting your signature all over midtown? But I digress….
The morning of my son’s birthday, Casey was tagged. She found out about it via a phone call and immediately knew how to fix it. She became the graffiti artist she always knew she was and “fixed” what was clearly not art. Late in the afternoon, she formed what I will loosely call an “artist alliance” – her mom, her mom’s partner, her daughter, and another 5-year-old – and took her spray paint for a little walk around the block. They painted an amazing and happy masterpiece that celebrated my son’s birthday with a “D” and a “13”.
If you want to see a teenager be happy for a very long time, graffiti a wall in his honor. Hands down, it’s the best gift he’s ever received, and you can see it in his smile.
At work things get broken. Some break in the store, and others break in transit. A basic fact of retail life.
This angel, which you can’t see entirely, had a wing broken on the way to stuff. She holds a bird, and the base she is standing on is simply inscribed with the word “peace”. She was cast as one piece – wings and all – in all-weather resin. She stands almost 3 feet tall.
I seldom bring broken things home from stuff. Not because I don’t enjoy the things we sell – broken or whole – but because I am not crafty and don’t salvage broken things very well. I can re-purpose things beautifully however – pitchers as vases, wind turbines as sculpture, vintage soda boxes as recycling bins – and our house is full of those playful and useful twists.
But when I found this angel in two pieces in the shipping box, I knew she was going home for a little artistic triage. One wing was broken off, and right then I knew exactly what she would look like when I was done. I knew I could take a hacksaw to the other wing and, from there, fill the holes with twigs to make her fly again. The hacksaw part was easy. It was the twig part that took six months to achieve from the date of her second amputation.
My angel and her new wings at peace in the snow.
I wasn’t happy with my initial twig findings. I went looking but never found just what I was looking for – pretty much the case when you’re hunting for something specific that you have seen only in your mind’s eye. Then, on a walk with my dog on a still chilly spring morning, I found the trimmings from pruning in the little arboretum just south of the main shelter house at Loose Park. I knew they were perfect. I was also pretty sure I would not really be able to decide right them what few small pieces I needed, so I took the whole pile. My type A personality was in full bloom while I was wrapping them in a cotton sheet and delicately shoving them into my car. The dog didn’t even blink when I made him ride in the front seat with me so as to not hurt the trimmings.
When I got home, I chose well, snipped wisely, bundled the two sides carefully, and secured them in the two holes my angel was harboring with Spanish moss. My husband has lived through a few of my artistic and crafty endeavors, and he knew that chance of this ending well was slim. But what cracked him up was that I kept a small pile of “replacement twigs” for the future.
That was over a year ago. I keep my perfect angel where I can see her in all seasons. She makes me incredibly happy.
In this picture, you can see her in all her winter glory. Enjoy.
How extravagantly Bohemian eclectic.
