Dear Kardashians: I'm So Glad I Could Help!

I received the award on the right in an anonymous email, but I think I know where it came from.

And I would never want to be accused of exaggeration or hyperbole, but please allow me to indulge myself for a minute.

Thanks in part to me and my blog, the Kardashian sisters have hit what some may call the pinnacle of success.

They have arrived.

Before, they were just rich, beautiful, cleavage-y celebutantes with a reality show.

Then, after allegations that one or more was involved in an affair with my poor, innocent husband, they suddenly achieved the creme de la creme of retail deals.

I refer, of course, to the new line of home decor merchandise being purveyed by the pouty, touseled trio via that edgiest, trendiest, coolest of mercantile giants,

Yes, Sears! Where the Brady Bunch went to celebrate after saving Hawaii from a shark invasion! Or was that the Partridge Family celebrating after playing Carnegie Hall? I'm confused. I think therefore I digress.

Anyway, those Kardashians are on the path to respectability with this enviable design/endorsement deal. From stodgy old Sears, they stand to gain much-needed stodginess, while Sears may just become the place to get sheets and towels with that tousled look I've been trying to achieve since Joan Collins and "Dynasty" first introduced the mussed bed.

Gentle reader, I write for myself and my own fulfillment. I don't look for fame or money or even guest spots on local radio. This is an altruistic endeavor and I don't mind being totally unknown, unloved and unrecognized.

So imagine my surprise and delight when, glancing at the Sunday circulars, I saw the unmistakable blur of eyes, lips and hair that, after closer study, turned out to be a Kardashian grouping. These girls, with no discernible intelligence or talent, have developed a following and created a brand that is inescapable. I don't begrudge them for achieving celebrity, and I can only assume they don't begrudge me whatever attention I can gain by using their name a minimum of 8 times per 500 words for maximum search engine optimization.  It's a win-win, right?

But I am somewhat upset about one aspect of this laudable achievement on the part of these girls. Their name, Kardashian, has become their brand. They've all got first names that begin with "K," which ups the "exoticness-per-syllable" quotient. Kim, Khloe and Kourtney realized they could kapitalize on the kuteness of their brand if they kept with the "K" motif. Herein lies my complaint.  This is the logo for their new Sears merchandise:

Yes, America, the kombined marketing/branding geniuses at Team Kardashian/Sears decided that kitschy kommerce trumps korrect spelling in the battle for your clothing and home decor dollar.  My milk glass, your stamps, your kid's Beanie Babies - those are collections. But correct spelling isn't good enough for the Diva Klass - they have to have a "Kollection." I fault them for turning their teachable moment into another konquest for kapitalizm. But I do wish them success in their endeavor.


EXTRA! EXTRA! I hope you are sitting down for this news flash. While over at the Sears website to copy the above logo, I discovered that they have officially named this "Kardashian Week." Why am I only just now hearing about this? If I mail a card today, will they get it in time?

(I should clarify: their clothing line was launched in 2011. This home line is what is "new" and deserving of its own special week.)

I'm wondering how this partnership between the beautiful young trendsetters and the once-great retailer will fare. According to my fashionista neighbor, the venture is off to a slow start. As she said, "It will take more than trashy clothes to get me to shop at Sears." But some celebrity-retail alliances bear long-term fruit: I'm thinking Jaclyn Smith and KMart, I'm thinking George Strait and Tractor Supply Company, and ... many others that I don't have time to think of. So how do the experts see it?

Well, I tried to do some online research, but got so distracted by the stories of the girls and their men that I completely lost track of the original articles on Investors Business Daily and The Motley Fool. Suffice to say that experts espouse the dire prediction that Sears is a retail dinosaur and the Kardashians can't stop them from going the way of T-Rex and becoming a fossil in the near future.

Now I do shop at Sears. I get replacement vacuum cleaner bags and filters for my old canister there, once every year or so. And because Sears is strategically located in my local mall, I park in their empty parking lot and look at stuff on clearance as I pass through on my way to somewhere else in the mall.  I am usually one of the youngest people in the store whenever I go to Sears, and most of us shoppers are alone rather than with kids or teens. When I see a couple shopping there, the wife is usually holding the broken lawnmower part so the husband can manage his walker. Even with a Land's End shop inside the Sears store 2 miles from me, I still sometimes have trouble spending a $300 gift card there.

But now that the Kardashians signed on, Sears is gonna ROCK!

Wait until Eric sees what the Kardashian sisters suggest for our room:

And who among you would not be bursting with pride to think you'd played a part, however small, in bringing this scrap of frippery to market? 

This may be just the thing to get your hubby/man/sig-o interested in shopping, ladies.

Well, I just had to toot my horn, since I know Kourtney, Khloe and Kim are much too busy being billionaires to toot it for me. Speaking of which, I'd better get busy myself. Errands to run, a house to clean, dogs to walk...I may not live the chic and komfortable life of a Kardashian, but I'm rich in the ways that count. And tonight I have a special outing planned with my husband. Not a glitzy, glamorous evening on the town a la K, K and K, but one befitting the suburban matron that I am: dinner at Golden Corral, followed by a romantic walk through the intimates department at Sears.

Keeping a Roof Over My Head

I try to make a point of not dwelling on the weather here.  Given that I live near Lake Michigan in northern Indiana, it's kind of pointless to whine about the cold.  I actually love the climate here - four distinct seasons, not too hot or humid in the summer.  But I'd like to mention one feature of the weather that is a mixed blessing - it's windy around here!

I'm feeling a bit too lazy to do any real research, but I do remember reading that the average prevailing wind here is 10.5 mph out of the southwest, and that we average 4 days per year of 50+ mph winds. Otherwise, it's pretty breezy here on a normal day, even during the heat of summer, and I enjoy that aspect of our weather.

After some recent windstorms, however, I've begun to think of our pleasant cheek-caressing breezes as more a slap in this homeowners's face, when our roof began to decorate the yard.

Day one of the windstorm occurred, like most other hilarious domestic emergencies, when Eric was safely out of town.  Shingles blew hither and yon, cracking and crumbling on impact, with yours truly valiantly cleaning up the mess that was my yard. Of course, when I reported on the problem, his helpful response was, "I can't do anything about it right now."

Not my real roof

Never having had this particular type of damage, I was unsure what to do next.  What I did was wait, through what turned out to be another 5 days of high winds and lots of debris cleaning in the yard.  Helpful neighbors looked at the bare spots and pronounced that it would "probably not leak much unless we get snow or torrential rain."  Wow, what are the chances?  One fellow said I should tarp it as soon as possible, but I may want to figure out some way to anchor it besides nails, since that leads to leaks. As I said, helpful advice, and my thanks to my concerned neighbors.

There is just one problem.  I have all the grace and coordination of a week-old puppy, and fifty years of accidents and injuries have taught me that I don't belong on high structures or uneven footing, at least if I want to keep my basic skeletal integrity. This easy fix of "tarping" was not in my job description and I didn't need a fortune-teller to predict what would happen it I tried to learn this particular skill.  Eric said to wait until he got home, then we'd figure out what needed to be done. Fine by me!

Turns out Eric had some grandiose scheme to star in his own home improvement movie.  From the ground, it appeared that only a few shingles needed replacing, so he thought he'd do that himself. But with more nasty wind and rain in store, I was insistent that we call our insurance company and get the claim process going. Even though we knew we'd be pretty far back in line, since southern Indiana and several other states had suffered true devastation from tornadoes, we still needed to file a claim and get it inspected.

Someone else's roof

The Claims Adjuster got a bird's-eye view of things, and it turns out that the whole southern side (front) of the roof has got to be replaced. We quickly got a man out who put a tarp on, and started reviewing the damage estimate.  Eric seemed unnaturally gleeful about the prospect of a new roof. Turns out, he and a friend were discussing doing the job themselves to save some bucks. This discussion, not surprisingly, was conducted while drinking beer, away from the wives, which explains why it got beyond the fantasy stage.

Eric told me of his plans to tear-off and replace the roof with his buddy.

Him: "So I'll buy the materials with the insurance money, the me and Bubba will re-roof the front and pocket the extra cash. Bubba just needs a steady beer supply for hydration on the job, and a bottle of single-malt as a completion bonus. Genius, huh?"

Me: "Genius - yes! Before you start, will you go shopping with me for my funeral dress? I need to look extra nice as a widow, since we are woefully under-insured. Something veiled for the graveside, that can transition to a clingy sheath with a plunging neckline for the distraught scene back at the house."

Him: "What funeral? You didn't mention anyone dying..."

Me: "I'm planning your funeral, and I didn't mention it before because I didn't know you were planning to die."

Him: "I'm not following you. I was talking about the roof, you are talking about funerals."

Me: "If you and Bubba think you can roof our house, you are insane. It would be the death of one or both of you."

Him: "Why do you say that?  You are always bragging on my ability to fix things around the house. That's all I'm talking about."

Me: "No, what you are talking about is two middle-aged, flabby guys with desk jobs doing the work of young, experienced professionals. It's not happening."

Him: "I've replaced shingles before and there are plenty of middle-aged, flabby roofers, so I don't see your point."

Me: "My point is, you are the sole support for this family and you cannot be spared for some toughness contest on a high, uneven surface. If you are so confident in your roofing talent, and don't think it's too dangerous to risk the future financial security of this family, I have a little wager for you. Sign an agreement that says you want me to use the death benefit to buy an Jaguar XJR convertible and have a face lift and liposuction. I want to be an eye-catching man magnet to help me transition to my lonely future. If you are sure you won't die, then you have nothing to lose by signing."

Him: "Ha! As if. You know, Bubba's wife wouldn't forbid him from helping me. She has more faith in him than you have in me."

Me: "Are you kidding me?  Mrs. Bubba already bought the handcuffs and sedatives, the minute she got a whiff of Bubba's exciting plan for a virility contest at high elevation. She won't even let him do the bungee bounce at the mall! Why would she let him go to a 3-day keg party on our roof? Do you think she's any more capable of replacing her husband's income than I am? You doofuses are all that stands between we women and children and the homeless shelter. So stay off the roof, or start dreaming of me in my Jag."

Him:  "This is harsh. I was looking forward to the exercise, working outside in the nice weather, fraternizing with Bubba and some of the gang who wanted to help. You ruined my male-bonding fantasy. What else am I supposed to do until football season?"

Me: "Keep your shirt on, literally and figuratively. I've got plenty of projects you can do that don't involve heights or steep slopes. You can build some shelves in the sewing area, dig up the tree stump, replace the wood where we ripped out a cabinet or paint the kitchen.  Take your pick.  These jobs are so manly, I feel the Jag fantasy receding, being replaced by a painting fantasy.  And you are the star."

Needless to say, Eric and Bubba are disappointed that they were robbed of an opportunity to display their macho handyman talents for the neighborhood, all because of the silly worries of their nearest dependents. I, for one, am relieved to have resolved this matter, because I wouldn't have a roof over my head if it wasn't for Eric, and I'd like to keep him around awhile. And if we are forced to hire a crew of young, good-looking roofers who work shirtless and need lots of Gatorade and water delivered, well, that's just the price I'm willing to pay to keep Eric safe...and out of trouble.

Help! A Kardashian Stole My Husband!

At least I think she is a Kardashian.

And when I say she stole him, I don't mean it has actually happened yet.  But I'm worried that it will.

You see, infidelity is everywhere.  Broken marriages are the norm.  And celebrities are often a major  cause of these breakups.

Now when I say celebrities, it's not possible for me to be specific, because with only a few exceptions, I cannot tell celebrities apart.  But I know if they have a reality show, a clothing line or a cologne named after them, they are probably a homewrecker.

In case you think I'm being hard on today's celebrities, who probably work as hard at unearned fame as celebrities of previous generations, I'll harken back a few decades for the first celebrity scandal of which I have any memory.  Elizabeth Taylor was a husband-stealer from way back, and I can remember the grown-ups talking about her shameless immorality and homewrecking ways. I suppose even back then you could parlay your notoriety into profit.  It's not a new gimmick, and God only knows how much she made off that stinky "White Diamonds" scent, created after she ballooned up to 225 pounds, and left her 14th husband at rehab.  I know I'm speaking ill of a dead legend, and let me say that when it comes to her movies, I'm a huge fan.  But her morals and comportment left something to be desired, at least in her younger years.  (But I could say the same thing about myself, so...)

Still, for some celebrities, it's not enough that they have 6 million friends on Facebook, and fan clubs and stalkers and magazines with their picture on the cover.  What they really want for their very own is someone else's spouse.  Preferably someone also rich and famous, but so long as they are happily married to someone else, they are a potential love interest/headline grabber for the celebrity.

And I, as the ultimate head-in-the-sand expert on celebrities, have found the whole Kardashian phenomenon inescapable.  I watch news, weather and history on TV, but I still know about the 72 day (or was it 72 hour?) marriage that involved a Kardashian girl.  Without knowing where they came from or what they actually do, I cannot seem to go a full day without some mention of a Kardashian in my hearing.  Therefore they must love publicity.  And one of the best ways to get publicity is to steal someone else's husband.  Which is why I'm worried that one day my children and I will be interviewed by (*insert popular search name here*), sobbing about how whichever socialite/model/businesswoman stole my man, for spite and headlines.

Now that I've given this topic a thorough going over, without one single concrete example or peer-reviewed reference, I can share the real reason for my Kardashian concerns.  This quickly written, poorly edited essay is a test to see if the repeated use of the word "Kardashian" will increase traffic to my blog.  But just to keep things interesting, let me tell you the made-up stuff my husband is doing that makes me think he's a target for an illicit affair with a Kardashian:

1.  He got his hair cut without being told.
2.  He asked me to iron his nicest shirt two weeks in a row.
3.  He keeps saying he needs to get in shape.
4.  He's on the computer "working" at all hours of the night.
5.  He remembered to put the seat down.
6.  I found a plastic comb in the center console of his car.
7.  He looked up at the TV when the 1-800-FLOWERS commercial came on.

If you were me, wouldn't you be in agonies of suspicion?  I feel some detective work is in order.  I need to find out who these Kardashians really are, and figure out how they are messing with my husband.

According to Wikipedia, the final word on such matters, the surname Kardashian is Armenian and means "stone carver."  Only one family with that surname is featured, and in that family, there are three daughters who all seem to have the same jobs: socialite, model and businesswoman.  So it's going to be hard to tell them apart by their profession alone.  Wikipedia also warns that this family, while unusual, should not be confused with the Cardassians, an alien race from Star Trek.  That's helpful

But I'll need Google images to see who I'm really dealing with.  Here they are, the tramps:

From your left to right, that's Kourtney, Kim and Khloe.  Okay, they are cute and they airbrush nicely, but what right does that give any of them to propose a wild affair with my husband?  He's really busy, doesn't like to get dressed up and he's almost always broke.  Why can't this mystery sister chase someone else's husband?  There are plenty of celebrity men who seem to have no problems cheating on their devoted spouses - chase one of them!  I'm thinking Ashton Kutcher, I'm thinking Jesse James, in fact, I need a column to do justice to this list:
Jude Law
Eddie Murphy
Blake Shelton
Ethan Hawke
Kobe Bryant
Jack Nicholson
Usher
Randy Travis
Arnold Schwarzzenegger
Tiger Woods
Mel Gibson
Donald Trump
John Edwards

Not that women don't do their share of cheating - celebrities and otherwise.  I'm only focusing on the men because, if the Kardashians are looking for a married man with an demonstrable record of cheating, there is no shortage.  They have no need to come bothering nice husbands like yours and mine - you know, the terrified, conforming, henpecked kind.

 So if anyone sees any of these pathetic bimbos hanging around my town, let me know.  They shouldn't be hard to spot, since their cleavage seems to arrive at their destination a few seconds before the rest of them.  They are clearly not the kind of girls who make you think "Hoosier resident;" more like "hooters investment." Also, if you see a Kardashian of any description at any of Eric's  haunts, like Ace Hardware, Tractor Supply Store, Bass Pro Shop, or at the Pitt Stop in downtown Granger (Wednesday is $1 Bud night), notify me right away.  I'll whup all three of these stilettoed socialites to keep my Prince Charming safe from their immoral, yet exquisitely manicured clutches.  I'll strike out for common decency and family values, helping to keep everyone's Everyman husband safe from Hollywood hussies and their ilk.

And with any luck, maybe I'll get my picture in the paper, which should really help my blog traffic.

Just Crown Me Now

I've done few things of distinction in my life.  Other than marrying well and having amazing children, I don't have many accomplishments of which to brag.  My career years were unremarkable as far as achievements, and academically, I waited until late adulthood to become a serious student.

I'm not at all athletic.  I possess no amazing skills or technical know-how.  Almost anything I do know how to do, like sew, I do with a goal of acceptable mediocrity.

There is one exception:  I am a world-class bargain-hunter.

My shopping skills make one stop and say, "Egads, you're good."  Really, once, I was at an antique mall, and the cashier who tallied my purchases used the term "egads."  She counts as one.  I'd like to bring that phrase back, starting today.  Egads, it feels good to talk about something I do well.

The flip-side of this talent is that I have a tendency to brag endlessly and drop unasked-for information about item cost, original cost, coupons, expected savings, the price of the overpriced item someone else bought, etc., when describing my incredible deals, so that some people just say, "Egads" and walk away before I can finish my bragging. 

I'm prepared to demonstrate the truth of my amazing talent by taking you on a pictorial tour of my shopping treasures, complete with any particulars pertaining to price, savings, laws broken in the procurement of, etc.  Those of you who despise this kind of self-aggrandizing crap should bail right now.

And keep in mind, most of these aren't "restoration" projects (I have a ton of those, too).  These items went straight to work in my home with only minimal cleaning or repair.

I'll start with this beautiful chair.  Neighbors retiring to Florida just wanted to get rid of it.  It's a reproduction Rococo Revival with beautiful carving.  Toted it home for $35.

These counter-height chairs replaced standard stool which were not well-suited to Arnett body proportions.  We love these sturdy Windsor chairs, already painted black like my other kitchen accents, and unnamed family members usually leave them in the middle of the walkway rather than pushing them flush to the island - the better to admire them, I suppose.  A garage sale find for $10 for the set.

A couple of years ago, we began entertaining more, so I wanted to add more seating options to our porch and deck.  Our old black wrought-iron set only seats 4 and takes up lots of space.  Another neighborhood garage sale yielded this awesome lightweight set.  The table included an umbrella and stand, and there are 6 stacking chairs, so we got lots of seating which can be stored in the space of one chair.  The whole set sold for a measly $40!

We used to have a country hutch in this living room space, and stored liquor and glasses in it, but it was poorly suited to the task.  I prowled antique stores, flea markets and garage sales for two years, looking for the perfect replacement.  This retro Ethan Allen cabinet/bookshelf combo works perfectly!  It showed up at the Habitat for Humanity Restore, and with a handy coupon I netted this great piece for $35.

Now I know this isn't much to look at, but when you've got 4 visitors coming and you need more bedside storage, functionality trumps beauty.  Another retiree fleeing to Florida held an estate sale, and I got this heavy little guy for $10.

 The same estate sale had this beauty along with the matching china cabinet, table and 6 chairs for $1400 ("firm") the first day of the sale.  By the time I saw the set in person, someone had bought the table, chairs and cabinet (which I didn't need) and the buffet was priced at $400.  I had been looking for a piece like this since we moved into this house 5 years ago.  I went back twice over the weekend and his price steadily declined.  By Sunday morning he gave it to us for $100.  I probably love it a bit too much, since I've actually dreamed of carrying it out on my back during a house fire.

 This bread box is noteworthy because I was in need of a potato bin, but didn't have room for those big ones designed for potatoes and onions.  It slides in next to the dog food container on the floor of the pantry, holds 15 lbs. of potatoes, and set me back $3.

 This beautiful Tommy Hilfiger shirt is a garage sale find, and I knew when I saw it that Eric would look very dashing in it.  $4.

I don't wear heels.  In fact, when I do, accidents happen.  So I rarely shop for shoes like these.  But I happened to be at the St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Store, (home of some of the best clothing bargains ever), and saw these White House | Black Market shoes last summer.  I needed a look like this to set off a sundress I was planning to wear to an event, and the $5 price tag convinced me they were worth the risk.  Score!  I actually danced in these shoes (another form of risky behavior I normally avoid) and no one was injured.  Hoping for the chance to wear them again (hint, hint, Eric).

A friend with four small children decided to convert her formal living room into a more family-friendly space.  Her redesign is so smart and funky and perfect, but I feel like the real winner, since she sold me these chairs I'd been admiring for years.  They are tucked into a corner of my bedroom, flanking my favorite antique table, an awesome bargain brass lamp and a unique bookshelf where my beloved Keurig resides.  Weekend mornings are so nice in our cozy reading nook.  The chairs, which actually harmonize beautifully with my bedding and other furniture, were a steal at $100.

Have I used up all your patience and good humor?  I could add more, but I won't because I'm kinda over this subject myself.  It's been fun reminiscing about great bargains of the past.  I feel like I just need a title or a plaque to feel complete.

Because I've been reading about queens and royalty for years, I feel almost like I know some of them personally.  Eleanor, Mathilda, Isabella, Elizabeth, Mary, Katerina, Anna, Victoria - I want to be part of their realm.  So just crown me "Queen of the Bargains" and we can put my ego to bed for a while.

The Fire Pit that Wasn't Meant To Be

As a person who considers herself extremely blessed, I try not to covet the possessions or experiences of others.  Compared to 95% of the inhabitants of this planet, I've got it pretty good.  But because I'm just a empty-headed consumer who can be made to feel envy by the most innocent-looking advertisement, I found something totally impractical that I long for with every fiber of my being, mostly because I know I can't have one.

Allow me to explain by going back to the beginning, if there is such a thing in these stories.

We have a fire bowl.  A dear friend who knew I wanted one gave it to my husband for his 50th birthday.  Neat trick, eh?  It looks pretty much like this:

except that it's not clean or new and rarely had fires in it.

Of course, we've used it for parties, sleepovers and special outdoor evening events, but not nearly as often as we should have.  It takes planning to remember to have dry wood, fresh marshmallows and graham crackers on hand, to say nothing of the effort involved in keeping Hershey bars in the house for any length of time.  So when the night is right for a fire, we usually have wet logs or no s'more ingredients on hand, meaning the fire bowl sits leaned against the house, cold and dry, passed over instead for family movie night with popcorn and Snuggies.  Sad, isn't it?

Last year, a friend undertook a complete backyard remodel.  It was amazing to watch the progress as her deck was removed and a whole new patio and walkway, complete with multiple sunning and conversation areas, were added to her lovely pool area.  But the addition that captured my fancy was the propane fire pit.  Edged with a tile tabletop and surrounded by extremely comfortable furniture, to me this represented the ultimate in family comfort and decadence.  Here's the kind of cozy scene I'm talking about:

Does anyone know how to Photoshop a picture of me curled up on that loveseat with a cup of coffee?  Because this picture just has "property of Michele Arnett" written all over it.

Instead I just contented myself with hanging out at my friend's pool all summer.  Better to mooch than to covet, right?

Then, about a month ago, I was garage-sale-hopping with a friend, when I stumbled on a barely used propane fire pit for sale for $50.  I was a passenger in my friend's van, which gave her first dibs on trunk space, so after she bought a fabulous overstuffed chair and ottoman, there was no room left.  Also, clinging to my many years of training, I'd called to consult with Eric on the advisability of purchasing such an item.  The price tag was unquestionably not the problem, (although I usually let him know if I'm planning to spend $50 in unbudgeted funds), but the fact that it was large and would need manly attention, like maintenance, refills, storage, valves, etc. made me hesitate to buy it on the spot.  Eric, however, didn't answer his phone, so we left to drop off the chair and ottoman.  I was sure he'd return my call soon, then I could go back, pay for it and let him pick it up later in his SUV.

Eric didn't call back until quite a bit later, and though he gave the green-light to the fire pit purchase, the people having the sale had already closed for the day.  I rode back the next morning, but there was no activity and no one answered the door.  Same story that afternoon as well as Sunday morning.  Boy, was I feeling like an idiot for passing up that deal.

Sunday afternoon I made one more trip, and this time I found the owners at home.  It seems that late that Friday afternoon, their 2 year-old slipped on the wet garage floor and broke his collarbone.  Poor baby!  This accident occurred only minutes after some fast-acting, decisive man with a pickup truck and extra help bought that fire pit and begrudgingly won my title of "Best Deal of the Day Not Made by Me."

For several days after, that missed opportunity was like an itch in the back of my mind - I couldn't get past the idea that I'd hesitated and lost such an excellent bargain.  When I look back, I'm not sure what bothered me most:  the fact that I missed out on something I didn't need and wasn't even shopping for, at a ridiculously low price; or that someone else benefited from my hesitation.  But I'd almost gotten over it, until...

The following weekend found me mysteriously out at another neighborhood garage sale - who keeps making me go to those things? - and I stopped at a sale at the home of a friend.  I purchased several small items from her, and as I was paying for these, I noticed a poster on the wall behind her.  This poster was a simple white board, covered with photos of quite a few high-end pieces of furniture, and I realized that I recognized a few of the pieces.

Turns out, a neighbor who was having a moving sale several weeks before had not sold everything, and took advantage of this other big neighborhood sale to advertise the items she had left.  I stopped by when she was having her sale several weeks prior, and she showed me her antique pieces, since that was all I was really interested in.  I recognized those pieces on the poster, as well as several others I saw in her house and garage that day.  One item on the poster that I hadn't seen at her home was...you guessed it...a propane fire pit!

I called the phone number on the poster and reached the lady who was moving and trying to sell all her remaining stuff.  She remembered me and our antique discussion, so I launched into questions about her fire pit.  She had to interrupt me to break the news that it had sold earlier that very afternoon.   ARRGGHH!

How could that happen?  How could I let something I had absolutely no need for slip through my fingers a second time?  And she wouldn't say what she sold it for, just that she took less than $100.  What a travesty!  That highway robbery should have been committed by ME!

People who were witness to the great injustice I suffered - not once, but twice - shook their heads sympathetically and said completely unhelpful things, like, "It obviously just wasn't meant to be."  Well, chocolate-covered cockroaches aren't mean to be, but they exist...where's the logic in the "meant to be" statement?  But I gave little thought to the well-meaning comments of friends; I was busy stalking propane fire pits online.

Yes, after checking locally and finding that the moderately-priced propane fire pits look like something from a daycare playground, I became a little bit preoccupied with locating anonymous fire pit owners who were just trying to unload their high-end, mint-condition, in-the-way fire pit on ebay or craigslist.  For cheap.  It became a bit of an obsession.

I actually sat up very late one night reading every customer review of every moderately-priced fire pit on BizRate and Nextag.  Not technical specs, mind you - that would be useless.  I just wanted to know what others thought about theirs.  When Eric asked me how many BTUs I thought we needed on our small deck, I didn't have an informed answer for him.  But I knew I didn't want fake brick sides or an all-black unit.   Those were poorly reviewed.

Not too long after, I received a nice chunk of birthday money from a couple of people (you know who you are).  My first thought was that I was going to run right out and get a gas fire pit from the local DIY store.  No more chasing used crap on Internet classifieds - I'd just go get a brand-new one and commence sitting next to a cozy fire, sipping Bailey's and coffee, reading and napping, looking for all the world like a photo shoot from "House Beautiful."  That's how these things work, right?

But then my small, normally dormant rational side emerged from wherever it usually hides, and I was forced to think about the purchase logically.  My rational side sounds a lot like Eric, and my immature side doesn't appreciate the questions that my rational side asks.  My inner conversation went something like this:

Rational Me: Why do you want to buy a propane fire pit?

Immature Me:  I just want it.  I will use it.  I have the money. You're not the boss of me.

RM: Why do you want it?

IM:  It's pretty; it's trendy; my friend has one; I could have the coolest marshmallow roasts on the block with it.   

RM:  Do you often roast marshmallows?

IM:  Not very often...

RM:  But you would if you had a fire pit -?

IM:  I already have a fire pit, but if I had an automatic fire pit, I'd use it more.

RM:  To roast marshmallows?

IM:  No, silly!  I don't even like roasted marshmallows, unless they are disguised between two graham crackers and an oversized chunk of a Hershey bar.  My kids would have marshmallow roasts, though.  And I'd use it on cool nights to stay warm while I sit on the deck reading.

RM:  Do you often sit on the deck reading?

IM:  No, but I sit on the screened porch reading all the time.

RM:  But you can't use a fire pit on the screened porch.  Will you stop using your screened porch when you have a beautiful new fire pit?

IM:  Unthinkable!  I would never give up falling asleep at 11pm in my wicker chair, with a cold cup of decaf and Baileys and an open book on my chest for all the fire pits on the Internet!  How dare you suggest such a thing!

RM:  So, are you still planning to spend all that money on a propane fire pit?

IM:  Oh, go crawl under a fat roll and leave me alone.

So I didn't get a propane fire pit.  Once I had time to think it over, I don't even know where we'd put one.  Our small deck has two grills, a dining table and 6 chairs; there's no extra space. We'd have to cultivate a new area out in the yard somewhere, and put down stone or pour concrete, then we'd have to plant a couple of trees and shrubs for some privacy and do some other landscaping, plus we'd need a walkway and some edging to make it easy to mow around...

Hmmm...

Yoo-hoo, Eric!  Grab some graph paper and come here, please, my sweet, brilliant, creative husband...I have a design challenge for you!

Readers Wanted; Apply Within

In the past few years, I've tried several different ways to earn some income.  Staying home when the girls were young made sense, but once they were both in school all day, it seemed that I needed to be contributing to household expenses rather than just creating more costs.  I've felt as if it is my duty, as an educated, experienced adult, to add something to the bank account on a semi-regular basis.

Over the years I've been a teacher's aide, worked in special education, taught remedial writing and math to adults returning to college, tutored algebra, substituted in elementary and middle school classrooms and even had a stint as a cafeteria lady.  I've explored school-based career possibilities pretty thoroughly.

I tried my hand at having an antique booth, which mostly gave me a place to store my personal surplus of furniture and bric-a-brac.  I'm glad I gave it a shot, but I'm no businesswoman and I really can't afford the pieces I truly appreciate.  Evidently, I'm just meant to browse, not to buy and sell. 

I came to the conclusion that I needed to get a job somewhere that I already liked to go, so I applied for a position at Kohl's.  I worked there for 8 months or so, and was able to retire that "never say never..." saying about working in retail.  I've done it.  It's like waitressing to me.  It's something I can do, and am pretty good at, but I devoutly hope I'm never called upon to do it again.

Which brings me to last fall, when I took a job babysitting for a neighbor's school-aged kids.  I loved the idea of regular hours, nights, weekends and holidays off, and the chance to work one-on-one with kids on their schoolwork.  It was a great experience and I think we all got something out of it (the kids found out what a really mean nanny is like), but they needed more than I could provide and now have a young, sweet, chipper nanny to replace my tired old self.

Looking for another part-time position to make up for my babysitting income, I discovered a friend with a successful home-based Internet business was looking for clerical help.  After some discussion about the wisdom of hiring a friend, she decided to give me a try.  I was instantly captivated by her enthusiasm and vision - she has an understanding of the potential for using the Internet that surpasses anyone I've talked to before.  I figured I could probably learn a great deal from her, as well as contribute some of my own old-school experience to her one-woman futuristic enterprise.  Well, at least I was right about one thing.

One day when I was preparing to leave, my friend/employer and I somehow got on the subject of blogging.  When she discovered I enjoy writing, she mentioned that she may need some articles written for her website - was I interested?  What started as a minor question on her part ended up being a pivotal moment for me.  I eventually confessed that I'd rather be a writer than keep doing oddjobs, but that I felt obligated to contribute some income to the household, blah, blah, blah.  My friend challenged my premise:  did Eric actually expect me to work for the sake of a tiny paycheck?  Had I ever asked him point-blank about trying to write for a living?

Ouch.  For months I'd felt a void where my sense of accomplishment should be.  Just doing a job for the sake of a paycheck wasn't very fulfilling.  I mean, I would dig ditches and serve mud soup every day, if my family's well-being required that of me.  But our life is arranged such that the lost time and inconvenience of me holding down a low-wage job usually outweighs the modest financial gain.  I manage the household and get our girls almost everywhere they need to go, with everything they need with them.  Eric supports us with his salary and I try to do my job without adding to his burden.  So when he had to add hours of driving, shopping and cooking to his already full day, just so I could have a job and a paycheck, the imbalance of the situation was obvious.  But how to find fulfillment, creative or financial, without sacrificing the comforts and routines of home and family life that we'd all come to appreciate?

It seemed my inner struggle was being dragged into the open by a woman, an entrepreneur, who had already tackled these arguments in her marriage and family, and found her own path to happiness and fulfillment.  She helped me to see that I had to meet her challenge - I had to confront Eric with my desire to pursue writing as a career.  Never mind that I had no prospects, no recent body of work besides this blog.  I had to go to bat for myself and my belief in my ability to write well and write stuff that people like to read.  How and where to find an audience, a job, a writing assignment, that was a topic for another day.  My fragile ego could only handle one  life-changing question at a time.

Fast forward a few weeks and here I am, parked at the computer, working on my blog for the first time in ages.  In May I was working two part-time jobs, and since the beginning of June I've had family in town and some big events going on.  Right after our guests flew home, we left for family vacation, which is where I am now.  In the ensuing weeks I've applied for writing jobs, submitted articles to websites seeking fresh-sounding stories on pre-selected topics, and I've begun making notes for a story.  Needless to say, Eric gave me his blessing.  It turns out he has always wanted me to pursue a writing career, he just never mentioned it in my hearing.  He ascribes to the theory that if you do something you love, and do it well, you'll probably find a way to get compensated for the effort.  Who knew?

So attention job-seekers:  I'm hiring!  Readers needed for long-term assignment.  Reading opportunities provided with virtually no advance notice and on no particular schedule.  Benefits:  laughter, tears and possibly a deep thought or two.  Compensation:  This is a volunteer position.  Absolute no money will change hands.  To apply, become a follower and encourage others to do the same.  If you or someone you know likes to read, I WANT YOU!

The Gift that was Mother's Day

I'm a bit of a cynic when it comes to the recent onslaught of made up days for gift-giving.  Even when I've been on the receiving end, whether it was Secretary's Day, Sweetest Day, Teacher Appreciation Week, Dumb Blonde Month (Wednesday), I didn't like the contrived nature of forced gratitude.  I've always envisioned a dark-paneled, smoke-filled board room, filled with executives from Hallmark, FTD, Russell Stover, Honey-Baked Ham, DeBeers and WalMart, brainstorming about the next invented "special" day to foist on the unsuspecting but ever-willing shopping-obsessed public.  With Mother's and Father's Days a cultural standard, and Grandparent's Day the new guilt-inducing day to "oops" about, it can't be long before we begin celebrating Cousin's Day, Brothers-In-Law Day, Pool-Boy Day. (Note to self:  find a job designing those cards.)

In keeping with the "attitude of gratitude" that inspired this entry, I should refrain from any more sardonic wit concerning our card-and-gift-giving mentality.  Especially since I had an exceptionally lovely Mother's Day.

I love getting gifts, and even I try to think of suggestions for gift-giving occasions  like Mother's Day (mostly to steer my children away from the candy aisle).  My idea of a good gift is very broad, because I like almost anything, the older and tackier the better, and if I don't like it, I'll regift it.  The price of an item is not important, because (for me), a well-chosen cheap gift trumps an expensive ugly sweater  or bottle of perfume any day.

Plus I love used stuff, especially if it comes from an antique store, flea market, garage sale, or some other place where you get to look through other people's castoffs and see what they didn't need but you do.  My taste, so-called, is pretty simple.  Two categories covers it:  I like "stuff" and  I love "things."  If you wrap it in paper or shove it in a gift bag, chances are I'll be charmed.  ("Stuff and Things" is also the name of the new cologne created by noted unicorn artist and late-night talk-show host Greg Gutfeld, but keep that on the down low for now.)

In addition to the gifts, Mother's Day is always pleasant, because the girls make breakfast, people are always refilling my coffee unasked, I usually get to talk on the phone to my mother and sisters, and we ordinarily have my mother-in-law over for dinner, with Eric doing the cooking.  And it always falls on a Sunday...why can't the Calendar Czars arrange that for Dumb Blonde Month?

But seriously, this Mother's Day was special.  I received some very nice gifts, and that was part of what made it so nice.  But from the beautiful sunrise to the goodnight kisses, this Mother's Day gave me joy.

Some of my Mother's Day gifts:

A new flower bed for my scarlet peony, excavated by my wonderful husband after our lovely four-mile walk.  He always does some kind of outdoor project for me on Mother's Day weekend.







A new hummingbird feeder.  Words to live by:  "You can never have too many birdfeeders."














The dvd of   "The King's Speech ."  Colin plays a reluctant king who suffers a terrible stammer whenever he attempts to speak without using profanity.  See it if you haven't already - it's a sublime, intelligent film.

 

A breakfast of scrambled eggs with ham, a side of yogurt with sliced strawberries and a fresh sprig of garden sage, courtesy of Chef Mary Kathleen.

(I was too busy eating to think of taking a picture.  It looked much tastier than this dish.)

Kitchen shears to replace the kitchen shears which became garden shears:

Dinner at Bonefish Grill.  Bang-Bang Shrimp - need I say more?

Spring concert by the South Bend Youth Symphony, including a fabulous performance of "The Sorcerer's Apprentice," featuring a certain bassonist carrying the eerie melody of the enchanted brooms

fetching a bit too much water:

 


 A Baltimore oriole visited my for the first time that I'm aware of.  It was such a brilliant orange, it almost hurt my eyes: 

What a treat -- but alas, this is just a google image.  Stay tuned - I intend to lure him back with fruit and jelly.

We brought home a gorgeous buffet, which completed my antique furniture wish list for the foreseeable future:

These amazing daughters are irreplaceable gifts:

Camille and Mary Kathleen

I have a wonderful mother-in-law who exemplifies generosity and kindness:

Eve Arnett

And the woman who gave me life, reared me well and is still my biggest cheerleader and fairest critic -  my mother:

Carole Jones

Sometimes, the question of why I am so blessed when others suffer makes me crazy with wonder.

But this Mother's Day, I just enjoyed my many, many gifts and offered up a silent prayer of thanks for the people, the love and the great good fortune that fills my life.

Atlas Shrugged; Eric Merely Stomped His Mighty Foot

When the mythical Atlas found the burden of carrying this heavy planet and all its thankless, lazy inhabitants to be too great, he gave Earth the old heave-ho.   And who can blame him?  His brother Prometheus was off playing with fire, and we all know what the rest of the Greek gods were usually up to - why did Atlas have to work so hard for no thanks?  (Obviously, he'd never hung out with a group of stay-at-home mothers, or he'd have been informed that the lowly Earth woman transformed her "unthanked" status to martyrdom in a few short decades.)

The timeless symbol of Atlas carrying his spherical burden was adopted by the author/philosopher Ayn Rand to symbolize the silent struggles of the producers and creators in society, the people who carry the slackers, suckers, users, takers and various other lazy types on the back of their productive efforts.  She named this magnum opus of her philosophical vision Atlas Shrugged.  For most readers, it is either a life-changing piece of work or the worst book you've ever not finished.  I fall into the first category.

My aunt Jan recommended I read Ayn Rand's works of fiction in the order they were written, so I did.  I liked Anthem, loved The Fountainhead, and became inspired by Atlas Shrugged.  Her work informed many of the opinions I hold today, and in the 30 years since reading them, I've never seen a time when her predictions and observations were more relevant.  I re-read Atlas Shrugged last summer, mostly to make sure that I wasn't just imagining all the political and cultural similarities between her dystopic story from the 1950s and my evening newscasts.  I wasn't.  She was spot-on with her predictions.

Talk of a movie has been bantered about at least since I read the book in the early 1980s.  I gave up on seeing it actually happen long ago.  When The Brangelina were discussed as leads and producers, I figured I'd never be willing to see it, even if it did get made.  (That casting was all wrong, IMHO.)

 But lo and behold, in February the announcement came that the film (without Brad and Ang) had not only been made, but was being done in three parts, with part one premiering on "Tax Day" of this year - April 15th.  (Read all about the amazing struggle to bring this story to the screen here.) However, because of limited studio backing and no big stars to drive publicity, the film was originally only slated to open in five cities.  One of those cities was Chicago, so back in February I informed Eric that I'd be driving there to see Atlas Shrugged on opening day.

Eric, who did read the book and takes an engineer's view that it says in 1000+ pages what he could have said in 150, was interested that a movie was on the way, but not ECSTATIC about it, like me.

"You can wait until it comes to South Bend," he blandly intoned, as he attentively watched what appeared to be miniature EKGs all over his laptop screen.

"You are joking, of course," I said, with a nervous giggle.  Surely he couldn't believe this was one of the rare occasions on which I'd accept "no" as an answer.

"No, I'm not joking," he dangerously responded.  "There's no reason you have to see it on opening day."

As if I needed a reason.

This very conversation occurred late last year as well, regarding another obscure movie I'd been waiting to see, called "The King's Speech."  It opened on December 10th, as I recall, in limited release.  I'd wanted to ride to Chicago for the opening, but Sargent. Moneypincher of the Delayed Gratification Police cleverly used my own profound lectures against me.  Because I'm not a small child, his words were infuriating, but since I've managed to teach our girls a few lessons in the wisdom of not spending money impulsively, I sucked it up and figured I could wait until after Christmas, at least.

But he should really, really know better than to mess with me where Colin is involved.

 I finally did get to see "The King's Speech" on January 21.  It still wasn't showing in South Bend at that time, but I was fortunately in another town (Podunk, Alabama), where it had been playing for several weeks.  Just to make sure I registered my displeasure, I saw it 3 more times once it finally premiered here in Bedrock (in February).  I made sure to splurge on large popcorn and all the trimmings at each visit.  I estimate I spent an extra $50 by not seeing it in Chicago opening weekend, so I made my point.  Or so I thought.

"You've waited 30 years to see Atlas Shrugged made into a movie, what's a couple more weeks?"

Now Eric is undoubtedly brilliant, but you'd have to agree, he's not too bright.  I immediately went into my special patented seething/pouty mode:
too tired to cook, forgetting his good shirts in the dryer for days, staying up late and falling asleep on furniture, loudly stumbling into bed at 3 am and greeting him with icy toes on the back of his shins.  I had 2 girls' nights out this week.  Just to make sure I was getting my point across, on Thursday, when he was expecting a nice, home-cooked meal, we had hot dogs.  When it comes to Eric, nothing says, "I don't give a rat's fanny what you eat," as well as hot dogs.  They are only loosely defined as "food" in his book, and he has yet to find a wine pairing that works.  If he was being forced to eat hot dogs, he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

I was granted his blessing to buy tickets online that very night, and all four of us are heading to Kalamazoo, Michigan to see the 2:55pm showing today.

I hate to have to resort to such underhanded schemes to get my way, but hey, "Who is John Galt?"

Link to the movie's homepage at www.atlas-shrugged-movie.com .