Blog Olympics: Legos Beat Kardashians

I haven't been blogging much lately, for reasons that wouldn't interest anyone but the terminally bored. I've been involved in the normal range of activities that most people find manageable, but I, for some reason, don't. I've got the usual number of piles and projects deposited around the house in varying states of incompleteness, attesting to the fact that blogging hasn't lost out to productivity just yet.

I can't blame "not blogging" on the Olympics, either. I'm apparently a lousy American, because I barely watched 10 minutes total. And I followed the preparations in London like the sad Anglophile I am, thinking I'd finally watch "The Games" this year. I always think that, but then the coverage actually commences and I find I'm not interested. I watch highlights and recaps with the sound off, but beyond that, I'm content to look at Wheaties boxes to find out who won.

The competitive activity I've been glued to is the statistical analysis of my neglected blog. I have been trying to look at what I'm writing that "works," and what I post that falls flat. Blogger, the Google blogging platform I publish through, makes it very easy to analyze the impact of my writing. Studying my statistics, sparse as they are, is usually a pretty dull experience. As regular readers know, some months ago I attempted to build my readership by invoking the most trendy word I could think of: Kardashian. I used the name multiple times in a blog to see if the Google search insects would calculate that, based on the frequent appearance of such an important word (Kardashian), my article must be important and should therefore be featured high on any keyword search.

At least this is how savvy bloggers claim to get more traffic - choose trending keywords and execute careful keyword placement. So I gave it a go a few months back, writing not one, but two articles about the Kardashian phenomenon and how it has personally affected my family. If you missed them, the one about Eric's notorious extramarital affair with one or more Kardashians is here, while the recap of my blog's influence on the Kardashian's endorsement deal with Sears is covered here. Feel free to go back and read them, since you are really not missing much here.

Aaaaanyway, it was fun, and I'm sure a few random teenage girls stumbled on my blog before hurriedly clicking the "back" button, but other than a brief spike in hits on the day I published those two, I detected no lasting increase in traffic. I decided to let the Kardashians to go find another housewife to do their publicity. I was clearly not cut out for such a glamorous assignment.

So I went back to the tried-and-true philosophy of "Write What You Know," cranked out a few articles that were probably examples of better writing, but still my same predictable housewife schtick. Google Analytics showed very steady, undramatic charts and graphs to indicate a small dedicated readership, with only the occasional "Kardashian" search.

Real life continued to get in the way of meaningful writing, spring turned to summer, and one day I decided to look at my stats again, to see who or what was going on behind the scenes at "Polite Ravings" while I was ignoring it.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that a different Registered Trademark had overtaken the Kardashians in keyword search frequency in my traffic analytics? I'd always hoped the gushing odes to my Keurig or Dyson would finally draw in some random readers (or advertisers), but the magic product that attracted so much attention was one I don't even own:

Legos.

I wrote about my introduction to today's microscopic building sets in a fun blog you can find rat-cheer. The post was really about how much I enjoyed the job of babysitting a charming 5 year old, owner of enough Legos to construct a mid-sized strip mall. Looking back, I'd have to say I was writing about how Legos brought this little boy and I closer. The catalyst could have been confusing baseball cards or a violent video game, but fortunately, we bonded over wholesome building blocks.

Legos, and their ninja subsidiary, Ninjagos, have propelled me to the highest number of search hits in my 2.5 year blogging history. If you include my favorite Ninjago character, Kai, in the keyword search data, the collective impact of Legos on my blog traffic is a staggering three times the total of the Kardashians!

I now see which side my bread is buttered on.

Oh, the Kardashians haven't heard the last of me - I'm sure they are shaking in their stilettoes as they read that promise. I browsed their trashy, poorly-made Klearance racks while at Sears yesterday. Not surprisingly, there were more Kardashian Kollection fashions on Klearance than there were new product. I could have left that store with four complete slutty outfits and a scarf for under $100, which is not a bad bit of shopping by my standards. But the stuff is hideous. That's just an opinion, but the racks echo my sentiment. It warms my heart to think that there are more sleazy clothes than sleazy people to buy them. I'm sure I'll be forced to bring up the Kardashians from time to time, just to keep them on their toes.

But what does it mean, that more people search "Legos" than "Kardashians?" What does it portend for hopeless, imitative bloggers? Do I have a future in toy reviewing or babysitting? How can I capitalize on my unintended success with Lego shoppers? Is there some way to combine the concepts of chin hairs and toys for profit?

Yes, these questions provide ample opportunity to think more and do less, which may have become my personal motto by default. In the medal count, I may not get any gold for blogging, but I'm clearly a world-class procrastinator.

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.

Domestic Diva and some Drivel about Drudgery

I'd like to begin today's rant with a lesson in logic and syntax. Read and analyze these two sentences:

I cleaned my house.

My house is clean.

It seems to me that, if you "do" the first sentence, then the second sentence would be a true statement.  In logic, this rule is called "transposition." Doubtless you all remember this from classical logic, but just in case, here's the cheat sheet:

  transposition is the rule of inference that permits one to infer from the truth of "A implies B" the truth of "Not-B implies not-A", and conversely.

Or, to clarify,

(P → Q) ↔ (~Q → ~P)

Got it?


So why, if I just cleaned my house, is my house already a mess?  Logic dictates that, if I clean my house, my house should be clean. And maybe it is, for a minute, but therein lies the problem.  Time passes and the statement becomes false.  It seems illogical to engage in unpleasant behavior (housework) that yields such temporary and illusory results.


I've noticed this fallacy often occurs with organizing projects as well. After several junk explosions and a scary visit from the closet police, I discovered that closets were not supposed to be stuffed to the hinges with stuff, but should be nicely organized into boxes, totes, bags, racks, shelves and baskets of stuff. To achieve this lofty goal, I spent months on an organizational odyssey around my house.  "Sort, categorize, contain" became my mantra. Be an HGTV before and after success story, I told myself.


I worked so hard.  I wanted spaces to look like this:

But this is my craft desk:

Not a pretty sight, is it?

But back to logic and ipso facto and stuff.

I did pretty well with the kitchen pantry, the linen closet, the medicine cabinet and actually merged three junk drawers into one.  But my issue remains with the fleeting nature of such jobs. Just take a moment to consider the tragic nature of this statement:

                      I organized my pantry ≠ My pantry is organized

It only takes one teenager 3 minutes of foraging for an after-school snack to undo hours of organizing.  Thanks to one or more of my "helpers," while trying to pack lunches one recent morning, I discovered I had zero granola bars (helpers usually eat >3/day) but there were four kinds of cookies, all open, none in airtight containers, ready to blithely be eaten by the handful, right where the box of granola bars should be. 

Speaking of the fleeting nature of success, don't even get me started on the joy of mopping or steaming a hardwood floor.  Unless you are one of the highly intelligent people who don't own dogs or children, you already know where I'm going with this.  I love to see a freshly vacuumed and mopped wood floor more than almost any other completed task, but dog hair, crumbs, footprints, sloshed drinks, etc., appear in nanoseconds to kill the moment. It's a documented fact that when scientists need to measure the shortest length of time that a feeling can possibly exist, they watch the face a woman who has just mopped her floor.

It frustrates me that I can finish a job, but it's never "done." It makes laziness and procrastination such attractive and sensible lifestyle choices. I seem to do the same unpleasant jobs over and over, but they always reappear on next week's to-do list. That just seems wrong. Isn't Einstein credited with defining insanity as "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results"? Look at him, the smug genius - I'll bet he never cleaned a toilet in his life.








Yet here I go, off to the grocery store, where I'll read nutrition labels, compare costs per ounce of hundreds of items, juggle coupons and a calculator, try to resist buying junk, crap and non-essential, experience a sphincter spasm when the dollar total flashes on the screen, then come home and try to find a place for all the crap I had to buy. Seems like I just did that last week!







Then I'll tackle some equally repetitive and unsatisfying tasks, like laundry, ironing and scrubbing the kitchen sink.  I hope you enjoyed my whining as much as I enjoyed the time I got to waste looking up Latin phrases and pictures of Einstein.  I guess this blog is my ultimate example of an unfinished task, because no matter what I say, or how redundant my ideas are, I never seem to run out of them.

Get your fake smile ready

I have once again run up against the old brick wall of words, and can't seem to wrap up any of the topics  I've been working on.  I have a long list of drafts, but they can't seem to get out of the gate.  Politically correct speech?  A minefield of potentially offensive observations.  Marriage advice?  I've fallen asleep in my chair 3 nights this week.  The Republican primaries?  What's the rush?...these guys will be blathering in our faces for 9 more months. New banking/mortgage/consumer protection programs?  A rant against asinine new government regulations when I haven't finished ranting about the deranged old government regulations I don't like seems premature.

No, I don't have my head on straight for any heavy topics these days.  Generally speaking, I'm worthless in February anyway.  Even with our unseasonably mild winter weather here in northern Indiana, the doldrums have set in and I'm sort of stuck in a state of yucky blahness.  I need a figurative feather to tickle my creative fancy.  Absent that, I'm prone to babble with no discernible purpose.

So that only leaves me one option:  post pictures of stuff.  And I just so happen to have been doing some sewing over the last few months - mostly tacky Christmas presents. So here I go, parading my charming homemade wares; you just plaster on that fake smile, nod at regular intervals, and let your mind wander to more fascinating matters - like the grooming habits of chipmunks, for example.



I love to cross-stitch, especially little novelties like this.  Here is a little plant stake I did for a friend who grows basil and is kind enough to share her bounty with neighbors like me.  (I'm currently working on the "parsley" stake; any takers?)

I've always wanted to make pajamas for Eric.  This year I got up the nerve.  Found a how-to online and bought some Colts fleece and voila`!  Pajama bottoms that fit like the baggy sweatpants I used for my template!  He likes them pretty well, although this year was not a good year to be a Colts fan.  Maybe next year I'll look for a happier print, like skull and crossbones.

 Here is Camille modelling her "letter sweater."  It was an ill-conceived notion, based on the idea that I was tired of keeping track of all the patches she's earned in middle school.  She didn't want a school jacket, so I found this gold sweater and thought I'd make a keepsake for her.  Like most keepsakes, this will end up in a box, but that's what I get for buying a sweater two sizes too big. (I personally think it looks cute, but I have no fashion clout in this house.)

Next up is one of those polar fleece clip-and-tie blankets that almost every Girl Scout has made.  These are quick and fun and Mary says she's much warmer under this than she was under her lightweight quilt.  I also made one for Camille, but (hold your applause) I forgot to take a picture of it.

The girls have been using their child-sized homemade hooded bath towels for way too long, so this year I bought some plush bath sheets and made big-girl sized towels to their color specifications.  In case you didn't know, teenage girls like black, white and gray, and they refer to these as "colors."  Whatever.












Here's a cross-stitch project I started more years ago than I care to admit, and finished in time to give it to Eric for Christmas.  This about sums up his philosophy on life.

 If this loveseat looks familiar, that's because it was featured in a recent blog relating to how to get new furniture and blame it on your dogs (click here if you need a refresher course).

It came with two very large pillows (in a print of ugly green circles that looked like Spanish olives without the pimento) that crowded the loveseat and left very little sitting room.  I bought some small pillow forms made these pillow covers and the table runner there so that all three dogs can fit on the loveseat without a helpful human removing pillows for them.

Now I'll share my secret to making friends:  tacky craft bribery.  Only the cruelest person who doesn't need friends will turn down the offer of a tacky homemade item as a friendship come-on.  One of my dear friends is a voracious reader.  I stitched this easy bookmark for her birthday last month - it says "You Can't Have Too Many Books."  I should design another one that says "You Can't Have Too Many Friends."

This trunk was a garage sale find several years ago.  It's been at the foot of one or more beds in this house, but tended to get covered up with junk.  I cut up a tablecloth and stapled part of it to the top, then used the bound trim to wrap the base where some of the rattan was coming loose, and to make a loop for lifting the lid.  It now sits in my entryway below some coat hooks and our hats, gloves and scarves are stored inside.  It's functional, so it doesn't have to be beautiful.

This is the quilt I made so I could tell myself I could make a quilt.  When all was said and done, I decided to hand-knot it rather than quilt it properly, but I still love how it turned out.  The green back and sashing fabric were left over from the chair skirts I made for the dining room.  The gold print started out as a tablecloth I liked.  It was the wrong size for my dining room table, but I was so taken with it (and it was on clearance) that I bought it to save for some future use.  You saw the matching pillows and table runner a few pictures up the page.  Look below and you'll see its true purpose:

 It was made expressly to protect the back of the new loveseat, which is the doggie lookout perch!

Well, then - okay.  I think I've quenched my desire to undertake any more large projects for awhile.  I've still got several cross-stitch projects going - including a pre-quilted baby blanket for my new great-nephew - but I'm going to try to write a bit more, and sew a bit less, in the upcoming months.  Sticky topics await my next rant.

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.

Am I a Hoarder?

Dictionary.com defines hoard as

2. (v):to accumulate for preservation, future use, etc., in a hidden or carefully guarded place:; as, to hoard food during a shortage

Clearly, the negative connotation attached to the term "hoarder" is not inherent in the definition, but is a more of a cultural judgment in a time of plenty and/or excess.

According to the strict definition, I am, in fact, a hoarder.  But most of my hoarded goods are hidden, or more likely stored, unlike some of those poor folks on the reality show who cannot walk through their own home.


Although I don't watch the show, I've see enough footage in the commercials to get a feel for the level of hoarding necessary to be a candidate for that show.  I'm not there, not even close.  But I've been wondering if I'm more of a hoarder than I need to be.  Because clearly my friends and neighbors don't reuse or save some of the things that I do.  I know, because if I see something I like in their trash, I ask for it.  Creepy, huh?


Today I will probably solidify my status as a slightly addled girl fast on my way to becoming a very addled old lady.

You see, I mentioned in a blog that I am a "waste not, want not" type of person, which resulted in a few questions about that term, and at least one outright challenge to prove it.  So today I commit myself to making a list of the things I save, reuse, up-cycle, re-purpose and otherwise don't waste.  Prepare to be puzzled, amused and possibly horrified.

1.  Plastic and metal canisters.  If you received Christmas candy from me, you already know about this one.  When my children were younger, we'd use these (or oatmeal containers, or coffee cans) for craft projects.  Lots of family members received adorably decorated pencil cups which I am sure they are still using to this day - made with love by the Arnett girls.  I can't in good conscience throw out powdered drink containers that I use at the rate of 1 per week, so I began saving them.  Eric started threatening to throw them out, (the boat was just sitting there empty at the time - geez)...so I had to find a new place to collect them.  Anyway, I spent one tedious November afternoon covering 35 of them in wrapping paper so that they would make suitable candy gift holders.  Add homemade candy and voila! instant Christmas present.  I never wanted to compare the cost of making homemade candy and decorating cans to the cost of buying a similar (nicer) product at a store.  That would mean computing my labor cost, which would be too depressing. 

2.  Zippered plastic bags.  Please, please, please someone -  tell me I'm not alone!  I wash and reuse the gallon and quart sized bags, unless they contained raw meat or something that went nasty on me.  I've endured lectures and ridicule from people who've seen them in my dish drying rack.  The unit cost of those handy bags is too high to just toss them, after holding nothing more sinister than Oreos.

3.  Plastic water bottles.  See explanation above, with similar caveats and not shared outside the family germ pool.

Since it is quickly becoming a time-sucking chore to find nice pictures of the trash I save, I'll just finish this out in list form:

4.  Miscellaneous fasteners and clips.  

5.  Slightly used pieces of aluminum foil.

6.  Cardboard and corrugated boxes.

7.  Nylon strapping.

8.  Sturdy paper and plastic shopping bags.

9.  Miscellaneous office supplies.  

10. Envelopes, bubble wrap, twist ties, rubber bands.

11. Lightly used tissue and wrapping paper and gift bags.

12. Zippered bags that linens, bedding, drapes and tablecloths       are sold in.

13. Cut glass decanters and jars.

14. Scrap fabric, ribbon and sewing notions.

15. Coffee grounds.

I always thought I was being a good steward of the Earth, recycling and upcycling my stuff.  I've been deeply influenced by relatives and friends who were reared during the Great Depression, many of whom have passed on their values as well as their reuse ideas to me.  It would be an insult to my beloved grandmother's memory to throw out an empty Tic-Tac container - they are so convenient for storing excess needles and straight pins!  Paper towel tubes protect artwork that my daughter Mary cannot bear to part with, but I don't wish to frame.  Ribbon and lace scraps make any shabbily wrapped gift look instantly less shabby - let someone else experience a guilt trip after throwing away perfectly good ribbon!

I knew my penchant for reusing had possibly reached the level of unreasonable when we had a plumbing disaster here last fall.  

I dumped some leftover pasta down the garbage disposal and ended up with the clog to end all clogs (warning: root word for pasta means "paste.")  Naturally, Eric was out of town, so after a day of trying all the physical, chemical, mechanical and mystical unclogging strategies the Internet has to offer, I accepted help from a neighbor and her husband.

Tom approached my problem as men are wont to do: he used large tools to make loud noises.  When that didn't work, he started taking things apart.  Gravity being the prevailing physical principle at work, the clog and all the water behind it began rushing toward the center of the earth, first stopping beneath my sink.  There was a bucket nearby, but not close enough, and a goodly quantity of indescribable sludge with chunks of pasta primavera drained onto the cabinet floor before we got the bucket in place.

It was a mess, and cleanup was a pain, but the telling moment came later, when I discovered the only item touched by the foul spillage was an unused strip of twist-ties.  I was halfway done wiping them off with a paper towel laced with hand sanitizer before I realized the utter madness of my actions.

I was trying to rescue twist-ties.  They are a cheap, useful, easily-replaceable commodity, and I was trying to wash and sanitize them!  Perhaps I was going a tad overboard?

Well, I threw out the nasty twist-ties, but I haven't exactly changed my hoarding ways.  In the full throes of cleaning and organizing during school spring break, I kept scouting around for new and better uses for all the empty cardboard shoeboxes I've amassed.  They seem too useful for the recycle bin just yet.

And I got to wondering if other people have as much trouble throwing things out as I do.  I confess, I've never watched the reality show about hoarders.  It's not because I'm afraid I'll see myself in some of those pitiful, ill individuals, but because I'm afraid I'll become inspired by their hoards!  Do any of those sickos ever seem to be onto a good idea?

Which leads me to my newest repurposing venture:  wire clothes hangers.  Some folks hate them, but I dislike the plastic ones, because they are breakable.  If a kid needs something off a hanger, the item gets jerked off the hanger, right?  No child in this house has ever removed the hanger from the closet rod, then removed the garment from the hanger.  It's just too exhausting.  So I'm constantly finding hangers with the top snapped off, or the cross piece broken when a pair of pants got yanked a little too hard.

Why buy more hangers when I have millions of the wire type laying around?  What to do, what to do?

Using a bunch of leftover potholder loops that never got as far as the loom, I make long fabric chains that I wrap around wire hangers to make them cushioned and secure for almost any garment.  They are colorful and tacky and I'm addicted to the process of making them, attractive or not.  I'm looking for a suitably wretched craft fair to try my hand at selling these poor, sad inventions of mine.  My grandmother (and many others) used yarn to knit or crochet hanger covers, but I've yet to master those needle arts, so mine aren't as pretty as some you'll see.

Here's a look at a few of my masterpieces:

Clearly, I have more time on my hands than talent or taste, but hey, I'm saving the planet, right?

If you want a case or two for your home, shoot me an email and we'll cut a deal.

And if no one is interested, well, you can guess what I'll be giving out this Christmas!

In which I illustrate why I'm not blogging

Some blogs are brief and make high impact with few words and meaningful pictures.  Usually, my blogs are the opposite.  I'm a lousy photographer and I am wordy as hell, so a brief blog is a rare treat from me.

However, I thought I'd briefly share some photos to illustrate just how badly I've let my projects get out of hand.  That gives me an excuse to blog, which I need to do for my mental well-being, without taking too much time away from my aforementioned tasks.

 The first project is time sensitive.  A few friends and I are sewing stockings for a local charity that has a Christmas Shoppe (to be held later this week) for people in financial straits every year.  The mission will stuff the stockings; all we are doing is sewing.  But since I'm only a mediocre seamstress whose seams wouldn't pass inspection at the School for the Blind, this is a tall order for me:

This is the stack of 25 or so completed stockings.  I did not try to make them photogenic...this is just the finished pile.  Now have a look at the pile to be finished, ahem, today, if possible:

The photo makes it difficult to appreciate the size of this pile, but there may be somewhere on the order of 125 stockings, to be pinned and sewn.  It's sad to be a person who doesn't know their own limits (all together now:  "Poor Michele.")  And just to make sure that the psychological torture gets handed down to the next generation, have a look at Christmas Craft Central, formerly the dining room, where the girls and I are making some lovely gifts that will likely garner admiration for the remainder of 2010, until they end up in a drawer:

 

When you see all of this, you may think, "Well, she's finished with her shopping and wrapping and decorating, so why not do homemade crafts and sew for the less fortunate?"  But you would be dead wrong to think this.  Here is our tree:

Pretty, of course, but quite bare at the moment.  Gotta get on that.


Here are the Christmas presents I've bought:

hiding in the corner of my bedroom, unwrapped.  There are a few more scattered about, but I have a long way to go to be done with presents.


Then we have the Thanksgiving decorations that haven't managed to get put away.  They are waiting for the arrival of the empty Rubbermaid tubs, which I cannot find in all this mess!  I would have taken pictures of the boxes of Christmas decorations, but they are in the attic and that's just too much like work, so just use your imagination.

Would it surprise you to know that I've offered to host not one, but two, parties in this delightful mess of a house in the coming weeks?  Clearly, I need intense therapy.  Or a personal assistant.

I've rested my eyes long enough.  I've got to get back to the sewing machine and the messiest Christmas stockings ever.  Whichever misguided person originally espoused the idea that "homemade is better" should proceed directly to my house for some "ho-ho-hos" of rather uncharitable mirth - my craftiness is so bad, it's funny.  Then I will shoot that person, and blog about it from jail.


And to top it off, I still wasn't brief, was I?

Today's Rants: My (Long) Short List

Since this is destined to be one of my busiest days in a life full of impossibly busy days, I thought I'd take a break first and clear my head with more coffee while I type out a brain dump.  I have a lot on my mind today.

I'm disturbed that I'm not more motivated to decorate for Christmas.  My neighborhood is already a twinkly feast for the eyes.  My front door looks so stark and fallish, with my pitiful turning-leaves wreath that I just put up last week.  I'm sticking to my guns, though, and waiting until sometime next week to fold to the peer pressure and drag out the red and green.


I'm concerned that my heretofore roomy jeans have become very snug.  It's clearly a problem with my outdated laundry appliances.  My washer opens from the top, for Pete's sake!  Plus I've been told there is a connection between old dryers and sudden shrinkage.  I'd better not complain too loudly, or I may get appliances instead of diamonds and spa treatments for Christmas. 


I'm bothered by the fact that, despite my sincerest intentions, there are still random unfinished projects scattered all over the house.  Since Eric's been gone the last two nights, I thought it only sensible to drag a few piles and boxes of stuff into the family room (and dining room) (and living room), so that I'd have the necessary visual cues to help me remember to work on them.  So far I've started five projects and completed one, which leaves three untouched.  Even I must admit the "visual cues" system is not working anymore.  The lure of online Christmas shopping, the occasional Scramble challenge and therapeutic blogging means I'm spending most of my time with my back to the piles and boxes.  Clearly it is time to hire a personal assistant.


I'm relieved that the House Republicans are finally earning their reputation of logjammers who say "NO!"  Hey, Congress: get the current tax rates extended, deal with the question of unemployment benefits and insist on tabling all but the most critical spending bills until the new congress convenes.  Our currency is nearing collapse, inflation in consumer goods is getting downright scary and I can't find one single piece of news that points to stabilization.  So forget about a new, improved START treaty, "don't ask, don't tell," and the 2012 elections for the moment.  Congress, do your @^#$%*& job!


Okay, I'm feeling much better now.  And I'm about to take my very own excellent advice and do my jobs here at home.  Because I'm once again putting a moratorium on further blogging until I complete these tasks - the critical ones, at least.  And I'm working on a timely and meaningful holiday blog about how to tell the difference between small electronic devices without showing my ignorance.  It will be helpful to anyone out there who, like me, has tried to answer a phonecall on the remote.


See y'all when the piles are gone.

Domestic Diva or Defeated Dingbat?

If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, I should have arrived there weeks ago.  I've been planning, strategizing and preparing to get some major household projects completed for quite a while.  I have come up with excuses for today's lack of progress that go back weeks in history, but the truth is, I've made almost no headway on any projects in or around my house.

Years ago I was in a club for stay-at-home mothers.  It was the support system I needed, raising small children with no family nearby.  One of the women from that club became a very dear friend, and we talked on the phone daily, while we cleaned the kitchen after breakfast, and worked on the first load of laundry of the day.  We always got to hear PBSKids programming in stereo, since both sets of children watched the same morning shows.  We tried to be both motivator and sympathizer for each other, which wasn't always possible.

I'll never forget the day she coined a phrase that made my blood run cold.  "Michele," she said, "I am defeated by my house."  And I knew in an instant what that meant.  For this lady was a very meticulous housekeeper, a germphobe, a person who enjoyed cleaning out closets and organizing junk drawers.  I called her a toothbrush cleaner - no job too small.  The main areas of her house always looked very nice to me - clean and tidy.  But somehow, the parts I never saw got the best of her, and one day it all became too much one day and she decided to let the house win.


The concept disturbed me so because, up until that time, I'd always assumed that at some point I'd get into the "maintenance mode," and from that time on I'd just stay on top of things.  From my perspective, my friend appeared to be in maintenance mode, just whipping out her toothbrush to freshen up the grout because she was bored and her kids monopolized the TV.  I didn't realize that her to-do list was as long as mine, and she never got to any of her "real" projects because laundry, dishes, cooking, vacuuming, shopping, bill-paying, mending, chauffeuring and being an irresistible sexpot after 9pm does consume every waking hour of every day for many years (although the sexpot part is the first job to get sacrificed).

That day, I realized that the maintenance mode doesn't exist.  It is a mythical place, like Atlantis; no one ever gets there, and those who say they've been there are assumed to be insane.  And if it was possible for my friend to be defeated by her house, maybe one day it would happen to me.  Maybe one day I'd look around and say, "Okay, house, you win.  I give up, because I can't beat you."  But with the innocence and optimism that has never characterized any of my thoughts or actions, I mused:  "That will never happen to me.  I'll never let a stupid messy house beat me.  I'll always try to keep things presentable."


Well, today the house won a decisive match.  The longer I looked at stuff, the more it mocked me.  I tried the clipboard approach, walking from room to room, making notes and prioritizing jobs, which generally revs my motivation.  All that came from that effort was 1) I felt crunching in my carpet, which is never good; and 2) I think I own the world-champion dog hair tumbleweed...I can't wait to put that monster on the postal scale. 


So the boxes and newspaper still crowd the living room.  Hundreds of pieces of glassware, china, lamps, bric-a-brac and crap that need to be re-wrapped and re-boxed still cover 95% of the floor space (read: walking area) of the room.  I guess it won't mind waiting one more day for me to get the job done.  I guess I'll eventually run out of excuses - or will I?  I guess the fact that I'm hosting bunco on Thursday means that I have to quit blogging about being defeated and start actually fighting in this war!


No more blogs until the glassware is safely in the attic!  Goodbye, world!

 

Domestic Diva Revisited

When we last saw our heroine, she had just taken a break from a major upstairs cleaning project to indulge in a little celebratory blogging.  Self-congratulation was followed by self-deprecation, which was followed by requests for self-motivation.  Let's check in with her now to see how her projects turned out and what new challenges she is tackling today:

Devoted Reader:  Hello there.  How is it going today?


Michele: Great, but I'm very busy.  What do you need?


DR:  Well, we were just wondering about all those hours of cleaning and organizing upstairs.  Did everything turn out the way you hoped it would?


M:  Huh?


DR:  Your daughters' bedrooms...you spent hours one day recently working on getting them clean, organized, throwing out junk, making space for new junk, swapping summer clothes for fall, stuff like that. 


M:  I did?  


DR:  Yes, and you wrote about it during a brief break in your labors.  Your blog called "Halfway There" talked about all your hard work and the great plans you had for finishing the job.


M:  I wrote about that?  That was pretty stupid.


DR:  Why?


M:  Because I never did finish the job.  Daughter #1's room is just like I left it - empty bookshelves, piles that need to be sorted, boxes and bins of stuff I sorted but she needs to find a place for.  Of course, she's added a week's worth of dirty clothes and another pile of sketches that we can never part with, but otherwise it looks just like it did when I took a break that day.  

DR:  What happened?

M:  I'm not really sure.  I think I got distracted.

DR:  For a week?  Did you at least finish in Daughter #2's room? 

M:  Daughter #2 finished what I started by putting everything that was sitting out into any drawer with space.  Pencils went in the sock drawer, spare retainer cases in the jewelry box, books under the dresser, lip gloss in the pencil drawer, clean laundry on top of the 3" pile of unframed  pictures and certificates on the desk.  But she can walk around in there now.


DR:  But you had such good intentions!  You were so motivated!   You seemed committed to getting those rooms done, once and for all.  You even did some embarrassingly public soul-searching and admitted that avoidance was your strategy, because you said you cannot look at an unfinished job and leave it undone.


M:  Hmmm...well, I lied.  Ninety-five percent space in my home is devoted to unfinished jobs; the other 5% is taken up by people and dogs.  Come on, if I told the truth about my housekeeping philosophy, not only would it not be funny, no one would want to read about it.  It makes a better blog if I pretend to care about my "job," but am prevented from achieving my noble goals by "unforeseen emergencies."* I prefer to be thought of as a tragic heroine of housework, tirelessly working for the good of others while hoping for that rare moment of self-indulgence with a fat-free, no-sugar-added mocha latte.


DR:  If that's all it would take to help you finish your project and feel good about yourself, I'll bring you that mocha latte.


M:  Don't bother.  Coffee without sweetener and milkfat reeks of communism.  If you gave it to me I'd be compelled to call you "Comrade Reader."  I was referring to those calm-looking women who drink General Foods International Coffee and watch Colin Firth movies while soaking in a jetted tub full of Calgon bubbles. 

DR:  But after you finish a project, that's when you indulge in a "Colin coffee/bath." 

M:  You don't get it!  Obviously I don't need more pampering - I need negative consequences for my inaction. But as the High Priestess of the Household, there's no one to deliver that punishment.  Besides, there is nothing you can say that I can't turn into an excuse not to get things done.  It's called "rationalizing," root word "rational," therefore it is a good thing.  It's my special gift.


DR:  So how much longer are you going to sit at the computer, putting off the projects you were so passionately devoted to last week?


M:  At least until you go away and quit bothering me, so I can concentrate on writing a new blog.


DR:  Goodbye.




*shameless plug for my blog entitled "Ironic sarcasm and other repetitive redundancies."