Not a Hiatus

Okay, I haven't written a new post since the day I moved. That was September 29th and everything after that seems like I suddenly became Dorothy caught in a tornado. Her experience wasn't so bad, and neither was mine. I had scary moments and wondrous moments and only a few mundane moments. So it's difficult to know where to pick up. I will need to do this in segments. I will prepare you for each. They are as follow:

1) Closed and moved on September 29th. The moving company arrived at the new house around 3:30 pm.

2) I left for Italy on Oct. 1 at about 5:30 pm from the new home.

3) I returned from Italy on Oct. 13th at 12:30 am and didn't work the next day.

4) Friday I left for CT. The following day I went to Pennsylvania to pick up Ollie. The next day I drove back from CT.

5) One week later I left for San Francisco and returned last night.

So, is the house all settled? Some might say yes. I would say not close. Does it feel like home? It definitely will. Do I like it? Yes, I think I like it a lot. But I still haven't had the time I need to bond.

One happy event is that I had propane installed during my last absence so I came home to a beautiful new stove that I can't wait to utilize. Lots of cooking is going to happen this weekend which feels very far away.

New View and Last Details

This is the view from my new living room. Okay, the sailboat may not always be there, but there's water and things will come and go. Coast Guard cutters, wind surfers, who knows? It's not that I have settled in yet. No, I took this photo during the 3 hours I spent waiting utilities to be turned on. I was grateful for that boat.

It gave me a lot of time to rummage through the drawers of the new digs and read the warranty and care of various features in the house like the granite counter tops, the bamboo floor, the shower stall. If you walk away from something for a time and then come back to it, you realize you can indeed create a whole new scenario. For instance, I thought the kitchen floor was the same tile as the bathroom floors. No. It's bamboo just like the living and dining rooms. Now, here's the problem. I love wood floors in the kitchen, but the care instructions say, DO NOT USE WATER ON BAMBOO FLOORS! I'm sure no water will get on my bamboo floor in the kitchen. No sand will enter on Ollie's or my paws either.

Today the rain is torrential and the wind is really blowing. I had to venture out to meet a board member so I took that opportunity to go to the hardware store and spend more money that I don't have. I bought those little foot pads to place under furniture. I spent $12 or more on them and it doesn't come close to the amount of floor protectors I need. Then I followed my friend Kathryn's advice and bought the same shelf liner that she buys. Actually, I bet I didn't buy the same shelf liner she buys. One was more supple and more expensive. I bought the hard but still very costly ribbed shelf liner. I will let Kathryn and Francey line the shelves and drawers.

It's sweet to know that so many folks are going to show up to help on Tuesday. It really warms my heart and will warm my home. And it's supposed to be a cool, sunny day, perfect for moving. I'll figure out food and beverages for the crowd and light a fire in the fireplace as it grows dark. I hope to god it doesn't burn the house down. A lot of soot is falling out of that flue.

Today I've been trying to tie up the bits and pieces. I don't know why I think I have a lot of time. I have no time. I'm in the corner cupboard with the spices. This is a difficult and treacherous area of the house and split up. I have big jars of spices but not the mechanism to split them up. But what is more expensive: spices or furniture? So I'm not going to drive myself nuts over this. Every step of this packing, right down to now, is debilitating. I'm going through the motions but my entire being is feeling "no, no, no." I can't wait until Wed. (provided I close on Tues.). I want to wake up and not have the sad, emotional surroundings staring me in the face. I want to wake up in a yellow! bedroom and smile and say, "This is the beginning of my new life."

Another weird thing is that once I move in I will only be able to spend 14 days in my new house in October because of travel. And that doesn't even count the time away while I'm at work. There's not a lot of time to bond. And I must admit, I'm a bit apprehensive of having a puppy and floors that can't deal with moisture and brand new wall to wall carpeting. I'm hoping Ollie is as pliable and perfect as Maude and Harpo. They just snuggled into bed and were perfect little beings--except for a couple of shoe incidents with Maude. From what I see in the videos posted of him, he is a rough and tumble boy. He might be plump though that's impossible to tell with puppies. Maybe I should have named him Stan. Ollie might have been funny, but he was a brute.

I think it must have rained 6 inches today.

Tuesday and Moving Day # I

It's Tuesday. The ex closes on Thursday. I cannot close until a week from today. The movers come tomorrow. Comcast comes on Thursday morning. My mortgage person and realtor are trying to get me a use of occupancy agreement so that I can move in earlier than the closing. I'm praying this will happen. I've spent the afternoon sweating and coughing, trying to finish up and organize things for the movers. A ridiculous thought really. There's no place to move. They are on their own. Fortunately, they are really good at this stuff, so I might just close my eyes and let them have their way with it all.

Wednesday now... the movers are here. I feel as though I should be helping. They are young and strapping men. They lift 4 or 5 boxes at a time. I want to take a million photos of them but I feel as though I'm being invasive. So instead I'm sitting on the couch documenting as they labor away carrying all my fragile junk down a flight of stairs, onto a dolly, down the street to load it onto the big truck. I think even they were surprised by the number of boxes.

I realize now that I've done a poor job of marking the boxes. I have no idea what's in them. Except for books, books, books, cookbooks, cookbooks, cookbooks, then fragile, fragile, fragile. I don't know where I'm going to tell them to put the stuff when it gets delivered.

I don't know what I'll do if I have to wait until Tuesday to move. I can't imagine getting settled and flying to Italy 2 days later. I don't want to come back to a mass of disorganization. I don't think I packed well enough. I don't think I labeled things well enough. I'm starting to hyperventilate.

Hours later and I know more now then I did before. I will definitely NOT being moving in prior to Tuesday. They will unload, store, and reload the truck. I would weep, but I'm too tired to produce tears. Too frustrated to produce tears. It just feels unfair. The one thing I can say is that this house is much more spacious and feels so much better than it did. Kind of.

I still have clothes to pack, food, a little bits of this and that. I'm in relatively good shape, I think. And I'm not talking about my personal self.

It's too bad all the good things fell into the same month. Getting a new house is like getting the biggest new toy ever. And you want to play with it a lot until you get it just right. Getting a new puppy is like having a baby. You want to play with it forever, but you also want it to sleep through the night. Going to Italy for the first time will probably be magical. Spending Halloween in San Francisco will probably also be magical but in a much different way.

I don't think I will be playing with my house too much for a long time. Now it's 9 PM. The seller isn't all that interested in letting me move in early or renting. So, it's a waiting game. I will try not to resent his decision because I know that is what he is advised to do. But this really stinks..

It's odd here. It's spacious. I like it. If I had decided early on to live here with nothing or only the perfect handful of things and 5 perfect outfits and two sets of jeans, would I have been happier? No. Too much to give up at once. Just like now. Dragging it all with me because I don't want to lose anymore than I've lost already. The waiting continues. As for the photos above, I would never arrange them like this, but this blog application is limited. I think I need to do more investigating.

Sunday

It's another warm, shiny day. I have a bouquet of cosmos, zinnia and dahlia in a vase on the coffee table, and a bunch of zinnia, a rose and a big fat french marigold on the side table next to the couch. Sounds lovely doesn't it. Now if one could only see them through the glut of moving debris.

Above is my second purchase from yesterday's Truro Treasures outing. Sweet! And this is why I'm surrounded by boxes. I read in a Home guide in the newspaper today that the trick to decorating was to keep things simple. In my head, I foresee simplicity. In my heart, there's going to be crap all over the place. I'm just moving my crap from one place to another. BUT there will be more places to hide my crap, and that is the beauty of my ever-evolving plot.

This afternoon I went back to the Truro Treasures flea market, not for me, but for friends from NM. I didn't expect or want to see anything I'd buy but I found this perfect, lovely painted framed, oval mirror. It's not old, but it does a darn good job of looking old. I thought, how Swedish and bought it! Not only that, I can't take the antique mirror from our bedroom. Well, I could but I'm being nice.

Another good day: tour of my new house, flea market, Thai food. End of the evening and as my friend Carolyn is driving me home, her friend Joe runs out with a bag of white and milk chocolate cookies. And they had nuts in them. And they were the size of plates but thin and chewy. And she shared! Sometimes we get pretty lucky.

Serenity

To Friend Jossie
March the 5, 1887

Who taught the bird to build her nest of wool and hay and moss
Who taught her how to weave her best and and lay her twigs across.
Manor Dale
Compliments of Ida E. Cline


I woke up this morning and realized that ultimately it doesn't matter what happens in the next week or so. I will get the house, I will move, I will go to Italy, I will be happy. Stop stressing already! It was probably one of the most beautiful weather days of the year. I sat outside for the first time for a little while this morning in dazzling sun with a dazzling bay in front of me.

Then Pat and I went to Truro Treasures. I could have purchased a bunch of stuff if I had money and if I knew where I was going to put it. Instead I bought a vintage white dish towel embroidered with the word china and drawings of cups in blue. And I bought, what I think is a page from a grade school autograph book from the 1800's that has a lovely drawing of two birds hovering over a nest of little birds and a hand-written poem from one schoolmate to another. It has another poem on the back. LOVE IT! My friends Rob & Dan showed up and Rob yelled, "Put that down. I've been in your house. You don't need another thing!" Well, technically speaking he is correct. But if that really meant something, I would have stopped buying things in 1987. Clearly he doesn't know what he's talking about.

Then I went to the farmers' market and bought the most expensive tomatoes on the planet. And a lovely bouquet from Len, my best flower friend. Then I went to return a pair of shoes that were too shiny for my trip to Italy and it took me over an hour to find a replacement. I love the shoes that I bought but it seems that they may be falling apart and I've only worn them for 3 blocks.

Then do you want to know what I did next, because I know this is riveting and you just can't wait to find out what is going to happen...I met friends for adult beverages at their new condo overlooking the harbor and then we went to dinner to celebrate Ellen's birthday. Home by 9. Boom. Swell day. Really a perfect day. We even made plans for tomorrow....my seller will probably throw another open house and I'll take folks over to see it and explain to him that it really is going to happen. And please keep liking me. And then we may go to the Truro Vineyard Grape Stomping because Laurie thinks she needs to experience this. I think I'd like to see it. I don't think I have the proper Italian garments for the job!

This has been a good weekend. Last night Carolyn and I went to an art opening at the Provincetown Museum and Art Association featuring a survey of work by my new friend Ciro Cozzi. I usually feel like a wallflower at these things. Not last night. Ciro gave me a big kiss and hug and Patty his wife was happy to see me and did the same. I don't know them well, but there is an immediate love fest with them. I made them dinner one night and it was such a special experience for me. And I loved Ciro's art. And I haven't been to an art opening since the breakup so I was able to see a lot of people I have missed for a long time. Lots of hugs and kisses, lots of shoulder raising and me responding with, "I know, there's nothing really to say." Instead of feeling lost, I felt found.

Endings

The ex was supposed to close today but didn't. Still no word on when that closing will take place, so that means no word on when mine will take place. My lawyer goes on vacation next week and is upset that I want the closing to take place then. I can't trust that my mortgage person won't work in her best interests as opposed to mine which means I will move in a day or two before leaving for Italy. I'm so anxiety-ridden, I took a sick day and walked around the house looking at the impossibility of any of this working out. But I know it will. I'll go back to saying I have faith that it will work out.

There is an unnerving consequence to splitting up property and moving on, not that I've ever done it before. It makes you very mercantile. Suddenly you need a new set of flatware, or a toaster oven, or rugs, or on and on. The problem is that it's the worst time to spend money. You know once you sit down in the lawyer's office and start signing your name and initials on 58 pages of mortgage documents that the vacuum has already been hooked up to your bank account and you can almost hear the sucking sound.

My son asked me for some financial help yesterday and I had to say no. And I had to say, my life has changed. I no longer live in a two income household. I caught myself off guard. That means I can't help my kids when they need help; it means I have to balance my checkbook, it means I must concentrate on saving as much money as I can before I'm able to retire at the age of 80. It means I can't fly to NM to see my granddaughter anytime I want (not that I've ever been able to). It means occasionally I may have to rely on a friend and that to me would be the most difficult. My self-sufficiency seems like one of my strongest traits. At least that is what I like to tell myself. I stay self-sufficient by staying home and minding my own business. If you threw me out of a plane in a foreign land, I'd probably curl up in a ball and die.

Even though I know the end is in sight, it still feels as though I will never move from here. It's my own little existential play. I live in a labyrinth with no exit.

To make matters worse, the ex and I are having email arguments. I know it's the tension of this week but it's more than that. It's making me reflect on the whole relationship, everything ever expected of me. What I did right, what I did wrong. What went wrong. It's giving me the strangest dreams, dreams of my life far back in time. I wake up exhausted and with a nervous stomach.

So the end is in sight. I know that. And it means more that just closing on a house and moving. To put a positive spin on it, it means creating something new. It means a life filled with opportunities. Bella Italia, Ollie, a new year that I am looking forward to with relish. Perhaps more new friends, creativity, an organized home, CLOSETS, beauty, company, lots of great meals, game night, knit night, laughter and maybe I'll even regain my sense of humor. It won't necessarily be Family Fun, just a new and different type of fun.

Faith & Closets

I don't want to be an alarmist but I woke up with morning with a feeling of doom and intense anxiety. The thought was, what if this all falls apart and we have to put the house on the market. What would I do? Would I unpack the boxes? Would I put everything in storage for an indefinite period of time?

I'm about to purchase the 5th piece of property I've owned as an adult. This has by far been the most trying and agonizing attempt at closing that I've ever been through. And it doesn't have anything to do with me. I'm still just waiting, biding my time, trying to keep faith that it will all work out.

Unfortunately, it clouds my brain. And I don't feel as though I can accomplish as much as I need to.

Okay, everyone hold on to your hats; just got an email from my mortgage person. She said we should be hearing something very soon and that she will contact me immediately. I told her that if I didn't have a closing date soon I was going to die. No pressure there. If drama gets me results, I'm all for it.

Maybe now I can return to fantasizing about the new abode. Or worrying about it. I'm wondering where I'm going to put all my bowls and pitchers and platters and small appliances, blah blah blah. Problems of luxury. I guess I will put them in one of the five, count them FIVE, 1,2,3,4,5 closets that I have on the first floor level of my new home. FIVE CLOSETS! I didn't even have 5 closets in my house in CT. And they are big closets. And every thing is accessible. I can open two doors and voila, I think I will reach for that or that or that. Nothing will fall over on me, I won't have to claw my way through coats, brooms, swiffers, and a pile of other junk. It will all be perfectly organized. In fact, the photo above was stolen from Martha Stewart's organizing tips. I think my closet will look nicer than Martha's closet, and bigger! To prove this, after I have moved and settled in, I will photograph my broom closet. You can be the judge. Yes, sir, this practically feels like rebirth.

Stasis

So I thought this was a cute exercise for a while. A way to vent my various feelings about packing, reviewing history, packing and getting on with my life. I never anticipated when I started this that I would still be settled in the same section of the couch surrounded by newspapers, boxes and dirt on September 13.

In a mere 20 days, I depart on a Lufthansa flight for Italy. At some point between now and then, I'm hoping this rat trap gets closed on and I am able to close on my pristine, new oasis. I just don't want that to be on September 30. I have had 3 closing dates already that have fallen through; I have had to postpone the turning on of utilities; I've had to postpone my movers who are storing a bunch of things in their warehouse and I will have to set all of these appointments again. Still with no closing date on the horizon.

In a rash moment of hope, I purchased four bags of different narcissus that I want to plant in front of my new home. I'd also like to plant the climbing rose my brother-in-law gave me before it dies or gets too cold to dig a hole. All these little indications of hope, on my part, dashed by another note from another attorney or mortgage person.

A darling friend keeps bringing me presents. This needs to stop. I don't want to pack anymore. At the same time, I keep buying things I know I will need for the phantom house. Or the trip for Italy. Or my new puppy, Ollie, whom I need to squeeze into this moving equation. To name a few of these purchases, a puppy crate, a cheetah print cozy bed to put inside of it, two feather pillows, a set of towels, dry measuring cups. That kind of thing. Could I live with one set of towels? Of course, but it doesn't seem right to have your guests bring their own.

I have survived the last of my very busy summer weeks. Hallelujah! Yesterday, I ran to the Swim for Life and hugged all my friends who were swimming; then I ran home and made a sign for the back of the car that read "H2B ROCKS" H2B being the Harbor to the Bay Bike Ride. I drove 25 miles to pick up sandwich platters for the riders and cheered them on as I drove the 25 miles back. I stood in the torrential rain and hooted and hollered as they made their way to the finish line. I felt like I had hypothermia so I can't imagine how the bikers and swimmers felt. Then I had my photo taken with the head of the Classic Car Club while they handed me a check for $450. My hair was soaking wet. They want me to get the photo in the newspaper. That ought to be a pretty sight. Finally I went home and put on the most comfortable clothes I had. I slept from 9 last night until 9 this morning.

I want the color palette of my new home to feel very clean and beachy. Hence, the color I have chosen for my new towels. I'm wondering if this is my favorite color. If it is my favorite color, why is it so accessible? Could it be that I saw this color often in last year's decorating magazines and I just think it's my favorite color. Possibly, but I've always been a sea foam kind of gal.

Labor Day

Labor Day. What do those two words conjure in you? I'm thinking grilling out, salads, friends or family, adult beverages. Instead I'm picking up and creating wider paths so that the bank appraiser can come and assess the place and I can get the hell out of here. There isn't supposed to be labor on labor day, that's the whole point.

Friends of mine from NY bought a condo a little way down the street. That makes me sad to leave here though I still am only a couple of miles away. And I think they will visit me. It's just strange. Every single little thing is strange. If I move out of town will I lose touch with everyone? That's preposterous. I don't think my pharmaceuticals are working as well as they once did.

So I'm going shopping, though I shouldn't buy anything. Then I'm visiting friends from CT on the beach and maybe share dinner and blender drinks with them. Okay, my prospects are sounding better.

Four days later...

It's not that I'm losing my interest in writing this blog, it's that there's not much to report when you come home to the same carton-ridden environment and you begin to wonder if you will ever leave this place. This is a sorry-ass place to reside. Last night I had a friend to dinner. I bought groceries; I prepared pasta salad, spare ribs and grilled squash. There was something humanizing about it. It's the antithesis of living like this. I feel homeless. I don't think I have anything left to write about until I move.

After this, who knows? Maybe I'll do a little grocery shopping so that I start making dinner again. And knitting. I'm going to start knitting again. Knitting season is here, I feel it in the air. I can finish those socks I started last December. If I set my mind to it, they'll be done by the end of the week and I can give them away.

Hunger

I've been noticing lately that I seem to have an insatiable hunger. There may be a good reason for this. There are so many boxes impeding my path that I can't get to the refrigerator or stove. This is compounded by the fact that I haven't grocery shopped in over a month. The last two days I sustained myself on 13 oz. of macadamian nuts that a friend brought back from Orleans upon my request. The nuts are gone.

In an hour and a half I'm going to an annual pre-Labor Day party. Usually I wouldn't be interested in this because it's a large social gathering, but this year I'm grateful because I'm so hungry. The food is always spectacular and by this point in my life, these friends and their entourage are practically family.

Last night I had bad dreams. My mother used to say that I had the collie-wobbles, which in my mother's definition meant bad dreams brought on by something you ate. I revisited my menu and only came up with macademian nuts. I think that diet would have me dreaming the hula in Hawaii. Instead, I had a series of tortured dreams about the soon-to-be divorcee. In the first, my spouse is earning a degree in psychology (you have no idea how far a stretch this is) and has to write a thesis, which she does on the disintegration of our marriage. I ask if I can read it hoping it might illuminate things for me. She says no and I break down crying. In a rare moment of sympathy, she says she will share everything her mother has written to her about our relationship. That makes me cry more and I wake up. (Nothing Freudian there.)

I fall back to sleep. In the next dream, my spouse informs me that I have signed papers that ensure that I will provide her with health insurance for life. (I must be reading too much about single payer insurance). I, in an eloquent retort say, "Did not!" She says "o yes you did, remember that blue form you signed," at which point I'm getting a little crazy and say, Wait till my lawyer has her way with this! And I burst out crying again and wake myself up.

I was very tired and very hungry this morning. I wanted to say to my soon-to-be-divorced spouse, let's go out to breakfast like we always do on Sundays. I wanted to say, do you want me to make popovers? The photo at the top displays some of my culinary skills. I think they look enticing but there's little use for them at the moment.

I want to stop feeling hungry for everything.

Dante's 7th Circle of Hell

Please feel free to stop by and kill me. It appears that someone needs to start their mortgage process all over. This morning the weather changed and I was freezing all day. I've already packed my sweaters. And by the time all the mortgage stuff is together, I will probably have to buy winter boots because they're packed too.

I hope my ace mortgage person can help move this new mortgage application along like f------ JPMorganCHASE would not. All the banks have merged and were rewarded in the process. Okay, I'm getting redundant and want to purge all over them again. Enough!

I spent a good portion of the day hauling art from one floor of our agency's building to another. Our big auction happens this weekend and I am praying that we make some money. Please please god, let us make some money. And don't let it be me helping that happen. If the stress I'm dealing with merely had me getting divorced and buying a new home, that is almost manageable, but having to maintain my job, provide support to staff, make sure we don't lose money, keep a balanced budget in the midst of the biggest "recession" since the Great Depression (talk about great depression), and it becomes surreal. I feel as if I have one foot in quick sand and the other on a banana peel. And the worst part, if that statement were reality and not a metaphor, I'd be a bit more optimistic than I am now.

Downstairs, from my soon not-to-be-mine-condo, the new gallery owner, is hammering yet more nails into the walls for a new installation. I just heard someone yell, "F---!" They don't know how easy they have it.

Holding Pattern

If there's one thing I can't abide, it's waiting. I hated it when I was young and I still hate it. Waiting means you can't control the outcome. Waiting means someone else has power. Waiting means anything can happen in the meantime. Anticipating that I would be in a new home in two days, I did the smart thing, I packed. Now I can sleep on the couch surrounded by boxes, or I can sleep in the bed surrounded by boxes. The choice is irrelevant. Boxes can wreck a good night's sleep. You feel them looming. Above is a view from my bed.

It's strange to think that years from now I may look back at these photos and think, I lived there. That was my home. That was my bed. That was where my family (of two) resided, where we fed our friends, where we watched tv, where we unpacked our groceries, where we slept one night out on the back deck to wake up in front of the water... I wonder how that will make me feel. Sad? Sadder than I am now? Well, that's not possible. Will it feel like a dream, like a time that never happened? Will it feel like just one of the many lives I've lived in this lifetime?

I wrote a poem once about a locket my children gave me. They had put photos of themselves in it from when they were young. I opened the locket while standing at the kitchen sink and I thought, what happened to these sweet little children who I loved so much? Where did they disappear to? I miss them so much. Those same children became teenagers who bought me the locket, but they felt so different. I still felt passionately about them but they had become different people. They were living a different life and so was I.

I figure this will be much the same. Where did that life go? How did it slip through my fingers? I know for sure that I will deeply miss the cabinet beyond the boxes in this bedroom photo. Nicest cabinet I ever owned.

Tradition

Blue & Cream Tattersall Cotton Rug

After another poor night's sleep, I woke up this morning and thought of the little antique settee I owned when I lived in an antique carriage house in Hartford. It was a simple design covered in a robin's egg blue nubby fabric with silver threads running through it. In front of the settee was an oval shaped leather topped coffee table. At the time, I appreciated neither of these things. I wanted some contemporary cheap couch destined to last 3 years. Now I would love to own both the settee and the coffee table, especially because of its oval shape. I remember bringing my daughter home from the hospital and laying her down beside me on that little sofa. I remember how I felt looking down on her on the beautiful sunny spring day with her perfect complexion and her rose petal lips.

Here is what happened to the couch. I had a tag sale. It was a bunch of junk, now forgotten, that I had dragged out into the yard. It was a fairly successful tag sale, or it seemed that way to someone as poor as I was at the time. I was almost giddy as things were carried away. Nearing the end, a woman asked if I had anything in the house I wanted to sell. Silly me, I brought her inside. I sold her the settee, I sold her the oval table, I sold her a gorgeous, antique mahogany bedroom set with beautifully carved bedposts, (the one I watched Julia make chicken cannelloni from) a large dresser and mirror, nightstands. For all of this, she may have given me $200. I thought I was rich.

I have been through many houses worth of furniture. I miss it all. I am different in my packrat habits than my sister was. Her house was arranged a certain way and it stayed that way; when her favorite couch's upholstery wore out, she had it reupholstered; it was perfect in its design so there was no reason to change it. I on the other hand went through phases and I always needed change. There was the art nouveau period, the Empire period (highly uncomfortable, don't recommend it), the Victorian period (notice how I don't stray to far from an era), and then early American, which I continue to yearn for but can't quite afford. I also have deep appreciation for an antique Swedish aesthetic referred to earlier. All of these styles have been given away to family and friends.

One of the joys of living in a house with walls is that you can always change the furniture around and create a whole new look. It's an easy way to clean as well. But I so admired my sister's steadfastness. It was as important as the traditions she kept alive in the family. I think my desire for change was a reflection on my personal life where I departed from the traditional Irish/Italian Catholic upright family member to being one of the first divorced and single mothers. Ultimately I think my sister and I shared admiration for each other's choices, as different as they were. I also think that now that I am older, I'm more interested in tradition, steadfastness, and the belief that you can create just the right home for yourself. That's what I'm picturing. The rug at the top is made by Dash & Albert. I will have an 8 x 10 to go under my dining room table which can seat 10. It will be surrounded by 10 different antique chairs. It will stay like that for a long, long time.

Catastrophe Strikes

Above is the living room of my new digs with someone else's furniture. Call off the movers. The other's mortgage seems to have fallen through. At the last minute of the day I had to decide whether I should let them take my stuff and put it in storage or live in the labyrinth of boxes and newsprint for the indeterminate future. I was advised to call off the movers because it could be weeks. Or we might have to put the house on the market and wait months before someone is interested. This just gives me more time to pack. I needed a little more time.

A friend wrote to remind me that moving is on that top 5 list of stresses along with death (lost 2 family members this year), divorce (yup, working on that), and public speaking. (see Brini and Me). Well, let's throw into this mix that the refrigerator decided to turn into a freezer in the last two days. Things have actually blown up in there. All the fruit, the vegetables, water, water dispenser, everything is frozen. It is also completely full.

Now add on to that, the strong possibility that we will have hurricane force winds and rain starting tomorrow night and I need to bring the deck furniture into a house that one can't turn around in and I think I have a mighty fine weekend staring me in the face. There was a time when weekends used to be fun. That seems to have disappeared around 8 years ago and I hope it changes as soon as I get off this island. Okay, I'm not leaving the island, but you catch my drift.

I have to work really hard to not look at other real estate. I am obsessed with real estate. In fact, you might say I'm addicted to it. I'm always on the prowl. The grass is always greener... I have been trying to look at this purchase in a very pragmatic way: what are my needs, what can I afford, how important is a view, will I be happy 5 or 10 years from now, will it increase in value given that I'm buying in a buyer's market, is it the house of my dreams. To answer these questions, I can say, it's not the house of my dreams, it probably won't increase much in value, I think I will be happy in it 5 or 10 years from now, it has lovely views--not the views I currently enjoy--but I'm blessed to live at the beach! How many people can do that full time? I can afford it because it's cheaper than what I'm paying now. It meets my needs. The short list of pros and cons. And it's in my favorite area of the Outer Cape. I need to center on this house. The house that will be a comfortable dwelling for the foreseeable future.

Now if I can move. I canceled the movers. I canceled tv, internet and telephone service today. Am I more bitter than I was 6 months ago? Perhaps.

Food & Friends

Sometimes you have to lose something to gain something. In my case, I've gained a new friend who is not only fun to spend time with, but who is very thoughtful when a thought means just about everything. To wit, last night's lobster dinner. Two lb. lobsters, steamers, fresh corn on the cob, delivered to my door. Of course, she had to leave when I put them in the pot so she couldn't hear the screaming (I swear, they didn't scream, though I did a little) at which point she walked to a South African restaurant down the street and bought cole slaw to cleanse our palates.

We ate out on the back deck, not because it was a beautiful summer night, although it was, but primarily because there is no longer anywhere to eat in the house. To ease my misery, I was given this feast. Food is sacred. It heals many wounds. You can make someone very happy when you cook for them. I thought I learned that very late in life, but a friend of mine from 30 years ago said he remembers me being a good cook back then. Who knew? I thought I only made phony macaroni (Kraft macaroni and cheese) and hot dogs for the kids.

I did make a mean Chicken Cannelloni using a recipe I wrote down in bed one morning watching Julia Child make it. I remember the moment clearly: the bed, the dresser, the tv, the drool that ran down my chin when I saw her ladling the sauce over the rolled, stuffed, cooked chicken breast. It was the drool that made me leap for pad and pencil. I immediately bastardized the recipe because I don't eat mushrooms, and in the past year have updated it to be a little fresher. But it still can bring a crowd to their knees. Back then you had to de-bone the chicken breast yourself, a task I wasn't too fond of. Herbs came only out of a jar-- unless you lived on a farm and it was the right season--so I don't think Julia would be upset with my changes.

So I've gained a friend and a few pounds. Just proof that life always finds a way to keep you moving forward and satisfied, at least for a moment, or a meal.

Phantom Limbs

Isn't this sad? This used to be a quasi-heart shaped ivy topiary in a Guy Wolf pot. Guy Wolf, by the way is a very nice man, doing some very nice things with clay around the world to help indigenous peoples. That being said I had the opportunity to buy some pots from him which I treasure. Unfortunately I can't say I do the same for what I put in them. I thought it was going to storm one day (it's been threatening for a week) and closed the windows and doors. It probably reached 120 in here and the sun from the skylights took this plant out in an afternoon. It might look full and healthy in the photo, but it's not. It's brown and crispy.

It's still hotter than hell and a hurricane-turned-bad-storm is heading our way. Someone will probably find me dead and withered sprawled among my many boxes. I can't imagine having to close the doors and windows like I did on that ivy.

I've done four loads of laundry, all linens, have stripped two beds, packed a few more boxes, but I need to sit down every 10 minutes or I'll suffer heat stroke. I haven't slept in days. It's been incredibly loud outside at night (not going to miss that) and my temperature fluctuates between sweating and freezing, the former probably resulting in the latter. In my efforts to fall asleep, all I can see is boxes. It's like playing solitaire too long. You close your eyes and all you see are the eight of diamonds, or the 4 of clubs, or the queen of hearts.

I just ate a tomato and cucumber sandwich and now I can return to the box brigade or read the front page story of the Times on protecting prize pigs from the Swine flu. I like pigs....

Another load of laundry. Folded all the other loads of linens separating out what I'm taking and what I'm leaving. Bedding. I love bedding. And that reminds me of bed. Every morning I still wake up and think the other is there. The other is long gone, almost a year, but you can't convince my morning brain of that. I even think the dogs are in bed. This is how our imagination can work against us. 17 years is a long time. If I got in an accident today and my arm was ripped off, from all I've read, I would believe it was still attached tomorrow morning. Phantom limb. Phantom marriage. I think it takes a long time to come to terms with loss.

Carnival Week

As promised, here is the NOW famous photo of me & Brini. I had to do some serious cropping of this photo because she is much thinner than I. Brini was our Carnival Week fund raiser. I think we made $25 after expenses. But she was very generous with her time.
I like to call them the Blondettes. They had some of the best music and got more attention than some of the floats. I didn't realize until the end of the parade that they were my neighbors.

The theme this year was "Peace, Love and Go-Go Boots," and never was there a more appropriate theme for this town. In fact, it should always be the theme. What was particularly good about this year's Carnival was that everyone in town got dressed up whether they were in the parade or not. Lots of Afros, tie-dye, head scarves and yes, go-go boots.

What was particularly bad about this year's Carnival parade was that I watched it alone. I didn't have to. I just needed to get through another one of those rituals that is enjoyed together, not singularly. I was going to be a baby and not watch the parade at all, but the music started and I couldn't resist. I didn't think I would take one more carnival photo--they start to blend--but this year was exceptional. Like one big flashback! But not of Carnival week.

Now it's Friday. One week from today, the moving truck arrives. So, it didn't come on Carnival Week. And it's not Labor Day weekend. That's good. They will drive away with my belongings and I will live in this house until Sept. 1 when I will either close on the new house, or pay the current owner rent, taxes and whatever until I do close.

I travel back and forth on a very slow train that stops at excitement, sadness and fear and then back again. The excitement and sadness are understandable. The fear? I think I'm afraid I will be even more remote and removed from the world then I already am. I was just getting to the point where folks would stop me and chat with me on the street as I walked to work. Now, there will be no one. During the summer months I will be living across the street from people who are renting beach cottages. During the winter, it will be me and Ollie.

I need more friends. How am I going to get them? Maybe I'll start knit night again, or a cooking club, that would be fun. I could run an ad in the personal column: Fun loving cook, looking for same to start cooking club. I don't think it would be fair to call myself fun-loving. That might be misleading. Miserable good cook looking for fun-loving good cook to start dining club. Why do all of my friends have to live so far away? Whine. Time to return to packing.

Brini, Boxes, and Me

Today I returned to work after 4 days of packing. I was looking forward to it as relief from the oppressive last few days. When I woke up I realized that I was supposed to make deviled eggs for a fund raiser we are having tonight (see www.brinimaxwell.com ). So I boiled the eggs and decided to do the deviled part on my lunch break.

When I got in the office you could cut the tension with a knife. This happens every August. We call it Augustitus here. Everyone cries, yells, swears, threatens to quit. It's a charming work environment. We do too much in the summer. Too many unpredictable fund raisers, too many complicated fund raisers and not enough money generated for the pain they are. Suddenly, the house of boxes didn't look so bad.

As predicted the day started off with crying. It was about 100 degrees, humidity at about 80%, running around and a lot of misery. I updated the agency website and completely screwed it up. I am the agency's executive director and default IT person. Come to think of it, I'm the default executive director too. I confess, I know nothing about IT. But everyone else knows far less, therefore I'm called upon to fix people's computers.

In the midst of destroying our website, I also signed a buy-out agreement crafted and reviewed by a huge team of lawyers, had a store redirect a delivery of furniture to my moving company because I couldn't put it in the house I'm buying, sent my most recent bank statement and signed commitment letter to the mortgage company, talked to another lawyer about tax issues, and listened to the distant but persistent sound of ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching. I could buy a small condo with what I'm being charged by lawyers and movers who are moving me 2.5 miles down the street.

I need to go back to the deviled eggs. I come home at lunch, walk in my door, and found the painter hired by the condo association in my kitchen washing out brushes in my kitchen sink. I don't think I've mentioned that I am not laid back about company. I need advance notice. I need things to be very put together. I need hors d'oeuvres or something inviting. Catch me off guard and it isn't pretty. (This is an inherited trait too). But I mean this about friends. You can imagine how I feel about it when it's a stranger popping in uninvited.

5:30 I've been sent home to change my dress because my bra shows all over the place. The show starts in an hour and a half. I'm welcoming the audience, so we thought it only appropriate that I not embarrass the organization. Deviled eggs, wardrobe changes, these are the things I do when I'm not packing boxes. And very odd things to do for my job.

10:30 Home from the fund raiser. It worked out very well that I changed my dress. I put on pearls, a rare moment indeed. When I got up to address the audience, a guy in the third row yelled out, nice dress, you look great. (He was clearly high on something and made a scene thrugh the entire show). I curtsied and welcomed everyone. Show was long. Went to the reception for VIPs and schmoozed, got my photo taken with Brini to be posted later, then went in the kitchen to wash dishes. I felt as though I was staggering on the way home but we served only a nice, refreshing, light and not too sweet non-alcoholic fruit punch. My legs were just wobbly from exhaustion.

Boxed In

I'm having a box crisis. First, there are too many of them to get around; second, I don't have enough of them for the remaining stuff. There's a bunch from the wine store, but they're not big enough to really hold anything. I can't keep anything organized. Once I've laid it down, it's lost.

Today is my mother's birthday. I forgot to send her a card. Instead I sent her a bouquet of flowers. But I called the florist prior to unearthing my wallet. Not smart. The florist man just wanted to hang on and chat with me while I looked for it. We talked about the weather and the humidity, and his trip to Myrtle Beach and my brother-in-law leaving for MB yesterday, and his daughter in Newport and where I am moving; still can't find the freaking wallet. I realize that he's making me too nervous to concentrate on where it could possibly be residing. Finally, I say, What's your name? He says Bill. I say Bill, I gotta call you back after I find my wallet.

I've been praying for people to call me all day just to interrupt this hideous activity. The original premise of this blog was to have others decide what I should and should not keep. Did you notice how quickly that went by the wayside? Again, the packrat mentality. I'll probably store it all in my perfectly clean garage. I'm filled with self-loathing.

If one wanted to create the "perfect storm" for obtaining a mortgage, this time in history would be the perfect storm. The banks have been bailed out by the government and the banks don't want to lend money. It doesn't matter how many hundreds of thousands you are putting down on property or how many hundreds of thousands it's worth, they are requiring paperwork going back to the turn of the millennium and it's still not enough. By the time our mortgages are approved I am sure they will have asked us for DNA samples.

When Life Hands You Lemons

I am sitting on the couch. I drank coffee this morning. It did not agree with me. It is 98 degrees out. The humidity is 65%. I need to go back upstairs, clean out under the bed. Try to make room for the movers to come and remove furnishings from up there. You can't walk up there right now. I am out of boxes because nothing really gets delivered on Sunday. Now what am I going to do? I could fantasize some more but it's a bit counterproductive given the scope of work that I need to do.

Instead, I made myself my usual breakfast, made a couple of phone calls, read three sections of the the NY Times, fell asleep, woke up and made myself a bbq chicken sandwich with sliced tomato and left over potato salad, which is always better on day two because you don't have to make it, it's just there. Still not motivated. I think I'm dog tired.

What am I going to miss about living here? The view. Absolutely, the view of the harbor, Eddie's orange dory, the old fishing boats coming and going. But then, I can walk to the pier every day from work and I won't really have to miss the view. I will miss being able to cook dinner in the kitchen and still being able to see the view. I will miss my pot rack. The ceiling in my new kitchen isn't high enough to accommodate one. I will miss being able to walk to work and running into people who are just beginning to recognize me. I will miss my dogs and my marriage.

What I won't miss. The street sweepers and garbage trucks outside the bedroom window at 4 AM. The crowds getting out of the bars drunk at 1 - 2 in the morning. The lack of air conditioning on a day like today. Having to walk up a flight of stairs with 8 bags of groceries and the car temporarily parked, then trying to find a parking space. Maintaining the deck and stairs that are completely peeling and moldy. The baby birds that I find dead on the last step of the house because their stupid parents keep building upside down nests in the telephone/electrical/cable fixture attached to the top of the house. The ever cracking tiles in the kitchen. The fact that there is some electrical problem going on which keeps popping the circuits breakers. The lack of closets, the lack of closets, the lack of closets. Not being able to use my ice cream maker because the freezer won't freeze the insert. The inability to have my own garden. Struggling to trust my spouse. All of these seem sufficient reasons for change.

So now that it's been forced upon me, I'm packing my lemons. Once moved I'm unpacking a pitcher and a squeezer, first thing. Stop over for a glass. Just call me first. I want everything to be picture perfect.

Ollie

I think I've lost my sense of humor. It's 14 million degrees, humidity is 200% and I am moving through the house on a six inch path. The boxes are now above my head and every one of them (except for the 25 cartons of books) says fragile. I've run out of boxes and out of steam.

I didn't eat lunch. I am now making potato salad and will chop up some tomatoes and basil for bruschetta and make some barbequed chicken, maybe a salad, corn on the cob. I'd make dessert but I just don't have it in me. And this is boring as hell. It may be time to move away from reality and into the fantasy life that has been propelling me forward.

This is how I envision my future. I have a library in my home. I love libraries. If I were really wealthy, or a little wealthy I would have built-in shelving everywhere in my house. Some for china, but many for books. So I'm going to have a library. I will put my small tv in there (I know, this doesn't sound like dream life but reality--this just means my fantasy is possible) and I have ordered a very cozy chaise with a pink slip cover. The room is painted a sage green. I didn't pick the color but I don't hate the color. I will find a carpet that will pull the two together. I have a small green table beside the chaise. Here I will sit in the evening after coming home from work, me, my books, my new puppy Ollie, and read poetry. Perhaps I will begin to write poetry again, there in my new life, which would be the best thing ever.

When Ollie needs to go out, we will run across the street, down the wooden walkway, through the beach grass to the beach and be beach bums together for a bit of time. (The winter version of the scene isn't so idyllic). In the summer, dinner can be on the back screened in porch where I might be able to have a heavenly hammock as well as dining area. There are so many possibilities for a rich and happy life. Ollie is going to be very happy regardless of sun, or wind, or rain, or snow. He's just going to love our life. So will I.

There is more to my dream. I will finally have a very large dining room. I will make it perfectly Scandinavian. I have the rug picked out. The table is simple though new. The dining chairs are all different and antique. There will be dinner parties and pot-lucks, and Ollie will be properly trained in the world of meeting and greeting and entertaining new canines and humans. of course, but that goes without saying for Bedlingtons.

I have a lot to look forward too.

Another Fine Example

Hum, what have we here? A fine example of collectible Cape Cod kitsch. Doesn't every household need a pair of weathered, peeling, vintage lobster claw salt & pepper shakers? I thought these were a keeper for sure. They were given to us by a fabulous poet and friend, Mark Doty, who is an inveterate collector himself. So there was a bit of a sentimental attachment to them until I decided, hey, Mark got rid of them, so can I. Notice how the left hand one is leaking juices. I washed them before I decided to get rid of them. That's how tentative I was.

I'm packing with a vengeance now. Reinforcements are coming in the form of a friend and her dog. Poor dog. He doesn't know what he's in for. I'm wondering where we will all sleep tonight as most of the floor surfaces, sitting surfaces and 1 bed are completely covered.

I'm taking vacation time to do this. Precious vacation time. And I'm not getting paid to do this. Something is wrong with this picture. Painfully wrong. I'm so tired of packing I just want to leave everything else. That would require buying a new wardrobe, which, in principle, sounds like a fun idea, but I'm broke beyond broke. So I have to pack the clothes.

It's another beautiful summer day, gentle, cool breezes, lots of sun and everyone outside my door sounds ecstatic. In here, things get more and more bizarre. I've been saving newspapers for the past month or more. Suddenly, I bend down to pick up two sheets and someone has died all over again. I wasn't prepared to see that Walter Cronkite is dead, again. Two days ago Eunice Shriver died. Pretty soon there will be no one left.

The other weird thing is how I'm beginning to match things up. I just discovered that the distressed cherub blowing a metal horn that my friends Rob and Dan gave me fits perfectly inside the Bennington pottery casserole that my sister gave me. Different rooms are merging indiscriminately into the same boxes. This is going to make things a little more interesting at the end of this adventure, but I think I can live with it.

And that's the way it is, on Friday, August 14, 2009.

love and loss

We have a nice collection of Milagros picked up in Mexico, New Mexico, New York and Provincetown. These probably haven't been thought of as one of the argumentative points of property dissolution, but while I'm here, I see them everyday and know there will be some contention. I don't want contention, but I want some Milagros. In my line of thinking, my heart's broken, I want the hearts. But, to be fair, everyone's heart is broken. The Milagros should be divided in some kind and thoughtful way. Just like Solomon with the baby.

Moving is a Herculean endurance test, both physically and emotionally. I'm trying to survive it but I'm bruised and achy and ready to jump ship. I have sorted through 17 years of photos documenting everything from hearts written on our sleeves to total sorrow. I've unearthed 17 years of birthday cards and love notes, sympathy cards and tear-stained notes. It's an unnerving trip down memory lane. I didn't ask for it, didn't want it, but I have to maneuver down it. It is worse than the spiral staircase and just as treacherous.

Am I taking the love letters with me? Absolutely. Will I ever look at them again? I don't know. Perhaps if there is a time in my life when I need to remind myself that I once had true love. Right now, they just impede the packing process. They are enervating.

I recently read this book by Louise DeSalvo called On Moving: A Writer's Mediation on New Houses, Old Haunts and Finding Home Again. I thought it might help explain my last 8 years-- my struggle with not feeling at home despite that this is the place I always wanted to be. And the book did help a bit. The challenge in moving is that you need to create community all over again. If you don't have community, you become far too dependent on the other and the other might want you to get over it. You miss people, you miss the tree in the back yard, you miss the farm where you go to pick your own strawberries, you miss that paper delivery, you even miss the crack in the sidewalk leading to your front door, you miss just the feeling of knowing you are home. You fall into a pit of despair. It's obvious that not everybody feels this way; I was glad to know that someone else did--that someone else being Louise. Don't run out and buy the book; you can borrow mine.

So I've never felt settled and now I'm moving again. The house I'm moving to has a bit of the feeling of my old house. I don't know why. They weren't built at the same time, the layout is completely different, the yards are not remotely similar. It's just the feeling. What is similar is the surprise I felt when I walked into both houses. I expected to detest them. They weren't what I was looking for but they turned out to be right. I am clinging to that sensation because I could easily second guess myself and fall into added years of despair. I don't think that going to happen though. I think I will eventually fall into comfort. Into feeling like I am, indeed, home again.

Sustenance

Just because you're living in hell

doesn't mean you have to give up on aesthetics and sustenance. Surviving packing requires having one space you can turn to for solace. In my case, it's a pitcher of Casablanca lilies and wild sweet peas. The view outside isn't bad either.

Another requirement in preparing for a move is sustenance. It's imperative to keep up your strength, especially when it's 120 degrees in the attic. My regimen for several days has been starting my morning off with a half of bagel smeared with Neufchatel (it has 1/3 less calories than cream cheese) and sliced, fresh garden tomatoes picked up at the farmer's market. Then I sprinkle a little kosher salt on top and it's a dazzling way to start the day.

If you can find the kitchen in the photos, note the watermelon on the counter. I have single-handedly polished off two previous whole watermelons this summer. For some reason, I've given up coffee. I was a six-cups-a-day gal prior to this. Just didn't want coffee anymore I discovered one morning. Coffee has been replaced by an unquenchable thirst. So ice water and watermelon have become my mainstays. Food, in general, is very important to me; especially the preparation thereof. Have I let this chaos slow down my entertaining? Mais non! Last night I served perfectly grilled filet mignon, a pasta salad dressed in a basil, lemon, yogurt dressing and summer squash and onions steamed in butter. Perhaps forgotten today, but well received last night.

Which brings me to today. I have spent a good deal of it in what my ex and I tenderly referred to as "the hole." We'd both whine, "I don't want to go in the hole, you go in the hole." The hole is where things like Christmas ornaments and out of season clothes are kept. Today, on August 10, I have just taken out my summer clothes and Christmas ornaments I might add. What have I been wearing, you might ask. Good question. I ripped the top off that tupperware tub, found the flimsiest garment possible, peeled off my sticky clothes and put on a skimpy dress.

The hole is more Viet Cong torture tunnel than attic crawl space. When you are in there you believe you'll never get out. You hyperventilate and sweat. You are on all fours and your knees are screaming. Then, in the dark, you have to grab a BIG bucket and drag it out backwards. Once out you believe the media should arrive to take photos of this incredible save, like going down a well and pulling up a two year old who fell in. Alas, no media (grateful for that) but, also, no one here to say, thanks, good job.

The holes (yes, there are two of them), and the upstairs altogther have been the part of the move I've been most fearing. You have a big tub that you need to wrestle around a very tight spiral staircase. You can't see in front of you so you must ever so slowly wend your way down to the main level of the house. By that point, I'm usually shaking and have to sit down and calm myself for a few minutes. The upstairs is also the repository for all things we never wanted to look at but someday might need: paper supplies, craft items, extra bedding, stacks of art, knitting supplies, bags of bags (my problem), cast-aside electronics, jewelry trunk, on and on. Judge for yourself in photo number 4. Okay, if it looks bad it's because it is bad. Really bad. I can barely stand up in the space, I'm trying to separate out my stuff from the ex's stuff and have no where to put it. I need a professional organizer for this job.

I'm promising myself that I will have a giant tag sale after I move. (Condo rules do not permit tag sales here. My new house is the perfect place for a tag sale). But will I? That would require talking to strangers and haggling. I'm an intense introvert and I hate haggling. Maybe I can hire one of those estate companies to come in and unburden me. But will I? Do I want to part with the silverplate antique tea set my mother gave me? Do I want to part with the lovely, soft paste, sprigware tea set that once belonged to Mr. Swift, whom I never met, but whose taste in all things was perfection? I don't think so. I could give up the gaudy dutch cup and saucer, the Limoges cups and saucers with violets on them, the Chinese tea set with the "thousand faces" pattern on it. There are things I can part with. But will I? Well, we'll see.

Excuse My Sand

Did I Mention I Live at the Beach?

For those of us with the fortune of living by the water, and for those of us with the misfortune of having a packrat mentality, the beach poses an especially dangerous risk--detritus--or in the minds of collectors, gifts from the sea. Above are a couple of examples worth voting on. The first is a glass urn filled with my favorite colors of sea glass. Though it's not shown, I have two of these. I place votive candles inside and they look quite lovely at night. The second and third photo is of a large (maybe 15 inches) horseshoe crab. It's cracked. I have others and seasonally they appear all over the beach. Parked in various places around the house are many more boxes and jars of sea glass and a variety of shells. I have one glass urn that is about 2 feet tall filled with shells of all types. Do I pack it or do I start over?

The problem with all of these things is that they collect dust. You can't dust off an urn of sea glass. You have to empty it out, wash the sea glass, wash the urn, try to dry everything off as best as you can and then put it all back in. That takes up a good part of a sunny beach day.

I've read on various design sites that shells are the new hot decorating idea. Then on other sites, I've read that shells are passe. Okay, explain this to me...how does something natural become passe? Excuse me, but you really should get those trees out of the yard; they're not in style anymore! Away away with the flower arrangements; flowers are out. Not getting it.

Right now, out on the deck is a plastic bag full of shells that my 7 year old granddaughter gathered while we were walking on the beach. Children are indiscriminate when it comes to collecting things in the wild. The bag is full of seaweed and sand-encrusted broken shells, broken crabs, a piece of a lobster claw. If you suggest to them that they should hold out for something very special or whole, they quickly inform you that whatever they have in their gritty paw is very special and therefore must go into the bag. I don't know if that's because children can see the wonder in things that we dismiss as adults or that they are afraid they may never find something special or whole. I think it's the former. This is not me building a case for why I should drag my granddaughter's shells to the new house, but I confess I have an emotional attachment to that grocery bag that's collecting flies out there.

So I live at the beach. When I move, I will live at the beach. Do I take the sea glass and shells or leave the sea glass and shells? These are the serious questions of our times. Or my time anyway. Perhaps now that I am an adult, I fear I will never find anything special or whole again.

More About Packrats

I didn't wake up one day and decide to start collecting things. Oh no, this disease is hereditary. My mother was an antique dealer. She would sell a chair right from under us if someone wanted to pay the price. BUT, if they didn't pay what she thought it was worth, it was sealed in the tomb of "I'm not selling it because it's worth something." She did a fine job of instilling this notion in our heads, but we reinterpreted it to mean, "If it's worth something to me, anything to me, I should keep it." When I say "we," I mean me and my sister. My brother had his own problems.

Lynn and I seemed to have caught the same fever. The difference between us was resources and patience. Lynn was able to really go to town. I loved her taste, her generosity and envied the support she got from her husband. We both loved books, bowls, sets of plates, pottery, antiques, cooking utensils, bedding...I could go on. But there was no competing with Lynn in this regard. She was the winner. Her husband, Joe, was not only patient, but did a fabulous job of creating the perfect storage space for most of this stuff. On the other hand, I had to equip visitors with ladders and repelling gear to get over my stacks. But I developed a particular knack for filling every crevice, which is why this moving adventure has become more difficult than the last.

Our mother is now 85. She would not hesitate to go to a tag sale or to hold a tag sale. It doesn't get better than finding a good buy or selling a good buy for 20 cents more than you paid for it. It's intriguing to me. She has a non-attachment to these items that I immediately fall in love with. Growing up, one week there would be French Provincial furniture in the living room that we couldn't sit on (and I'd love it) and the next week there would be Italianate furnishings (which I'd fall in love with and couldn't sit on) and then something "normal." I wanted to keep it all. I wanted to sit in it all. I wish those living rooms, set in a small early 1900's farmhouse, were captured in photos. I'd share those here in a heartbeat. I got stuck in an antique weir.

Which leads me to say that I can't be held responsible for any of the hanging-on that I do. And I can probably extend this, metaphorically, to my marriage. I like the commitment of longevity. Let's find it; let's keep it. Let's sit on it. I guess furniture and hearts aren't so very different.

Take this bowl. Please take this bowl. Is this gorgeous or what. I think it's Japanese. It has a nice drawing on the bottom that I'd share, but posting these photos has been onerous. I never use this bowl. I don't display this bowl. I never take it out of the cabinet. But I love this bowl. Do I pack it and move it? Or is it time to let it go? I should point out that this was one of those pieces that I inherited with a chunk taken out. I didn't mess this one up. You don't really have to vote on this bowl. I already packed it.

Packrat

packrat
noun
1.	a collector of miscellaneous useless objects
2.	any of several bushy-tailed rodents of the genus Neotoma of western North America; hoards food and other objects As I've already mentioned, I am a packrat. Except for the bushy-tailed rodent part, both definitions of the word fit me. My cupboards, closets, crawl spaces and refrigerator are all equally overwhelmed with what I can't throw or give away. For instance, I decide I want to teach myself how to make dosa, an Indian snack made with rice and urad flours. (They are a snack in Indian; here they are a 3 lb. meal). I live far from an ethnic grocery so I buy three bags of each. Three years later, one of each is in the refrigerator and two of each are in the freezer. I've made dosa maybe three times. I'm going to pack it though and move it 2.5 miles up the road. My other problem is that I have a lot of beautiful things that are broken--cracked, chipped, nicked or otherwise damaged. I either inherited them that way or if they were in perfect condition when acquired, I managed to take a chunk out of them. I don't even feel as though I'm clumsy. These things happen mysteriously when I am out of sight, but I still hang on to the collectibles. Someone else should be the judge of that. I think you all might agree that the following is an example of something best bestowed on a local thrift shop. I picked it up free at work from a friend who was moving to CA. I hear she might come back this way. Perhaps I should give it back. But that would require moving it. So the first vote on this blog is yea or nay for the chipped, faux majolica appetizer tray.