Wholly Crap!

This Saturday I held my first yard sale. The third floor of our house is unfinished. Since we moved in ten years ago, anything that can't find a place in the house gets put in the attic. A few years ago, I hired "The Garbageman" to come and help haul out the junk from the upstairs. It felt great. But then we just turned around and filled it with even more junk. It started to feel like I had all this crap hanging over my head, literally and figuratively, so I decided to deal with the attic once and for all. I read a great article about how to have a successful yard sale in the Saturday Evening Post (who knew this magazine was still in existence) while waiting in the doctor's office. I followed the main points of their plan:

1. Give each family member 3-4 boxes that they could fill with items to keep
2. All items leftover are tossed, sold, or donated
3. Hold your yard sale on the 15th or 30th of the month (around payday)

I was inspired. Labor Day weekend, I got up and headed to Target to buy 15-20 plastic bins. My husband and I spent the entire weekend hauling out and organizing the attic. My son and I handled the toys and athletic equipment. All and all, we put 20 full bags of trash out on the curb, with 3 dead televisions and a alarmingly large amount of styrofoam to be dealt with separately. I spent the next week cleaning and tagging all the items. Then, got some great ideas for advertising and sale day logistics from Yardsalequeen.com. The sale was set for Saturday, September 18, 9-2.

Yesterday was D-day. I added balloons to the signs by 6:30am and we started carrying everything out around 7am. By 8:20, I had just about everything out, organized by category and up on boxes or tables, as suggested by the Yard Sale Queen. The early birds started arriving around 8:15 and I made my first sale by 8:45: our first coffee table I bought at an outlet store for $99, which I thought was a real steal at the time. I sold it for $20. Other salewares included:

• a box of shoes at $2/pair
• the Jack Lalaine juicer used once at $10 (sold for $5 at 2:45p)
• endless toys
• lamps and tables
• various small tables
• prints and posters
• glass vases
• golf clubs and tennis rackets

and so much more.

At the sale's end, my neighbor came by and had the brilliant idea of hauling what didn't sell to the end of the driveway so it could get picked at and I'd had less to bag up up Sunday for trash day on Monday. (My town allows each household one garbage can of trash and anything else must be in special bags the town cells at $10/5 bags!)

Later that night, I headed over to Target to pick up laundry detergent. I usually enjoy a stroll through Target, but the idea of buying and bringing in another piece of stuff into my house made me physically sick. What it took to clean out 10 years of clutter was several hours of serious sweat, and at the end of the day, I had $232 to show for it. I've put the money into my SmartyPig savings account and setup recurring payments into the account to grow it. I haven't decided what we're going to do with the money once I've hit my savings goal, but I know it won't be towards buying a meaningless piece of nothing; and that's sure worth something!

Occam's Razor

I heard the most fascinating story on "This American Life" this afternoon. It was based on Occam's Razor which, boiled down to its essence, asserts that: Given a choice between two explanations, the simplest explanation is probably the right explanation.

The story was about a family who spent at least twenty years asserting that their first born son, was white, when in actuality, he was biracial. It was one of those classic NPR stories that is so compelling, I take the long way home and inevitably have to sit in the car to listen to the end. I was absolutely unable to comprehend so many different pieces of the story. How could this family live with such a big elephant in the room and never address it? Why, once the story got out, no one was angry, bitter, or betrayed? In fact, once the truth was out, the family felt relief. The son felt complete, both fathers felt equally a father to their son, the sisters could finally relax, and the mother was free. WTF???!!!

At so many different points throughout this family's life, when faced with an opportunity to face this unspoken truth, each family member, chose to go with the easier and simpler option. They did it because it was easier than facing the possibility of losing their center, their world, the idea of their perfect circle of love. But, it still didn't seem plausible to me. This kind of blindness is just not possible.

Then I thought about where I am in my personal journey. I've always seen myself as a creative person. I play an instrument, sew, knit, and pretty much enjoy any type of crafty venture. It's that second to last word that is my Occam's Razor solution. Given the choice between thinking of myself as crafty versus an artist, the simpler is explanation. I can answer yes to crafting, but an artist, no friggin' way. Artists create things. Artists have vision. Artists can see what is unseen and then express it through a given medium.

But, oh God, do I want to be an artist. Just typing these words made my stomach flip flop. I want to be an artist. And it seems to me, that to make that happen, I have to abandon the idea of my perfect circle of self. And I realize that, like the family, it's the insistence of keeping the idea of my perfect circle of self, what's holding me back from being in the center of my freer, truer (not perfect) circle.

I have been encouraged by a mentor to start an Artists' Way circle. My first instinct was excitement, then came that naysayer voice who says I am no artist and no one will join and now is not the time, and besides, a lot of the readers on Amazon said it's corny and they're probably right.

So I have to ask myself: Given a choice between two explanations, is the simpler explanation the easier one or the safe one?

Words to live by...

I love the delicious irony

Saw the trailer for "The Social Network" this morning after Meet the Press. This cover of Radiohead's "Creep" by the all-women choir, Scala, is absolutely amazing. The original isone of my favorites because it so captures how we've all felt at one time or another:

When you were here before
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You're so very special

But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here

I don't care if it hurts
I want to have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul
I want you to notice when I'm not around
You're so f*()ing special
I wish I was special

But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell I'm doing here?
I don't belong here

She's running out again
She's running out
She runs runs runs

Whatever makes you happy
Whatever you want
You're so very special
I wish I was special

But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here
I don't belong here

Can't find it on iTunes yet, but I must have it. It reminds of the Langley School recordings, which are also not to be missed.

The Most Important Job in the World? You can take this job and SHOVE IT!

That's it. I quit. I hate being a mom today. This job sucks and sucks hard. I don't want to do the right thing. I don't want to do the hard thing. I want to fix it for him. I want to rush in and make it all better. I don't want to mean what I say. I want to take it back and bail him out of the jam he's put himself in.

I hate being Mom. I want to be the other kid's mom who's always more fun and interesting than I am. The other kid's mom gets the benefit of my kid's polite manners and his consideration. All the stuff I taught him when he insisted it wasn't necessary. The other kid's mom gets told the latest gossip. The other kid's mom is shown compassion when her kid tells her to shut it and go back into the house. How could friend treat his mom like that, my son asks in utter shock and disbelief, she's SOOOOOOO nice. I hate the other kids' mom.

I want to fast forward to the phone call I will get 20 years from now. The one where he apologizes for being selfish, rotten, and ungrateful. The one where he tells me he now understands the sacrifices made on his behalf. The one where he recalls (in detail) the times I made the hard choices and held my ground, and that he has a deep appreciation for how excruciatingly difficult that must have been for me. He knows because he's an adult, now, and not 15. He's learned some things the really hard way and he can see his own child heading down that same road and there's not a damn thing he can do about it. And that sucks and sucks hard.

But I'm not there yet and neither is he. I'm here, at my kitchen table, with my head pounding and sulking teenager sending death threats to me through the floor. But it will be a cold day in hell before I let that wish come true for him. And miss the phone call I've got come to me? Oh, hell no.

Welcome Back

Bless me, Blogger, for I have sinned. It has been 49 days since my last posting and these are my reasons:

• It's summer and I'm regular rhythm
• As it turns out, my life didn't seem as exciting or interesting as I thought
• I haven't had a chance to download the photos off my camera, so I can't write until that's done
• I've been sick
• Did I mention it's summer?

For these and all of my other lame excuses I've made throughout the summer (why my shorts don't fit as well now as they did in June, why I haven't finished any serious book I've started reading, why I choose ice cream over fresh fruit 8 times out of 10), I am truly sorry.

Mrs. Pettiford's Rule to Live by

I had an interesting conversation with a friend last week. At one point in her life, she felt it necessary to attend finishing school. She went faithfully, two time a week, to an upper society woman's home for several weeks. My friend, who I'll call Judy, said she went with a preconceived idea of who this woman (whom I'll call Mrs. Pettiford) was, what she was all about, and figured she'd just grit her teeth and get what she needed to get out of this situation. After a while, the other women in the class stopped coming regularly and often, Judy and Mrs. Pettiford had the three hours all to themselves to talk and get to know each other.

Judy learned that Mrs. Pettiford, was, in fact, no shrinking violet. She had built quite a power structure within her formidable world by knowing the rules and Judy was putting herself in a very good position by learning the rules from her. Mrs. Pettiford shared the secret to feeling secure within yourself in any situation: Know The Rules. If you Know The Rules, then, and only then, can you break The Rules.

I thought a lot about my conversation with Judy. It seems to me that there are two kinds of women. Women who Know The Rules in order to follow them and women who Know the Rules in order to live life tossing them aside. I have been a rule follower. I follow the recipe, the pattern, the map. But as I said to Judy, I'm pretty damn familiar with The Rules. I want to see what life is like outside The Rules, coloring outside of the lines, not playing well with others.

This should be interesting.

I'm Always Learning

Well, since I bought my new camera, I've decided that learning Photoshop Elements would be a good idea. Then I learned that there's this whole Digital Scrapbooking world. I had no idea! After much searching, I found a very reasonably priced tutorial at DesignerDigitals. For $25 I downloaded 7 video lessons with the accompanying PDF documents plus a folder full of digital papers and embellishments. I completed my first lesson this afternoon.

What fun!!

IC Clock Tower

I loved this photo I took on the Ithaca College campus this past weekend. I'm trying to learn Photoshop Elements 8 and Fotoflexer (free online) and used this image to play. I did this on Fotoflexer. Pretty cool, huh?!

IC Band Reunion Weekend

I just got home from a great weekend at my alma mater, Ithaca College. It the first IC Band Reunion Weekend. 187 alumni strong came (51 clarinets!). I was really looking forward to getting my clarinet out again. My mouth was shot by the end of rehersal on Friday, but it was a blast. I shared my stand with classmate, Sarah Winston. She's hysterical. She's teaching at a private girls school in the DC area. The girls are lucky to have her. She's a great teacher and has an obvious passion for the work.

I got to play for every conductor I had during my time at Ithaca and even had a chance to catch up with my clarinet professor, Dr. Michael Galvan. The best part of the weekend was getting to spend time with my college roommate, Laura. When we met 20 years ago, it was like meeting my sister. We hit it off from the word go. I've never had a friend like her who gets me so well and is so accepting of me. I could burn down the town and she would have no judgement against me. I wish we lived closer so I could spend more time with her and her girls. But the distance make the time we do spend together so much sweeter. I guess that's the way it is sometimes.

First Day Photos

First Day with New Camera

I took the plunge and bought myself a brand new camera. I'd been saving a little money over the last few weeks and decided to use for this special purchase. I haven't been this excited about an electronic device since my father took me to Value House and I put my first CD player on layaway. If I might quote our Vice President: "This is a big f&*@ing deal."

I'm headed to Ithaca, NY this weekend for a Wind Ensemble Reunion and I can't wait to use it while I'm there. Ithaca is filled with incredible gorges, so I'm thinking I'll have some pretty good stuff to shoot. Today, I took some starter shots out in the backyard to get a hang of things. Truth be told, the very first photos I took were of my friend Susan who owns the nail salon under my Pilates studio and my feet. I got a pedicure this afternoon and used the time to read through the Owner's Manual (Good Girl alter-ego insisted).

Look out Annie Leibowitz, there's a new girl in town.

Visit to Jane & Paul's Farm

I bought some lovely strawberries and other goodies at Jane & Paul's Farm today. I love this time of the year. "Keep it Local".

The Medium & the Muse

I've been reading Oriah's book What We Ache For about creativity. I've always considered myself to be a creative person, but in a very prescribed way. I'm a rule follower, so I thrive on patterns, recipes, classes and workshops. My creative endeavors have included music, sewing, machine embroidery and other small craft projects. I've never faced a blank canvas and challenged myself to create something from nothing. Recently, I've challenged myself to do just that.

So, I've been scouring the book, craft, and fabric stores for some jumping off points. I was urged by a creative mentor not to spend a lot of money getting started. Just invest in a few good tools and supplies, and then use what I already have. Fat chance. I LOVE book stores and craft stores and hardware stores and fabric stores. Oh, the possibilities. I wander the aisles, waiting for something to inspire me. To jog a memory (Oh yeah, I've always wanted to try that...).

I found these clear tiles at Joann's over the holiday weekend. Wasn't sure what I was going to do with them and started prowling around Etsy, Jim Holtz' website, and got some inspiration. When I sat down to "play" tonight, I had such anxiety. I don't know what makes me think I can pull this off. I am NOT an artist. But Oriah talks about the importance of going to the journal, the canvas, the "medium" as a regular practice. Inspired or not. Ideas or not. Just go to the medium and see what comes up. And lo and behold, after a while, I got some good stuff out.

So, here's to meeting "the medium" and hoping the muse might peer over my shoulder and whisper one sweet, small "yes".

The Storyteller

by Breean Cox

I don't know what story I want to tell...

Wee Folk

Finally finished my first two Felt Wee Folk this morning. I found this book, Felt Wee Folk by Salley Mavor, at a local antique store (Nothing's New in Norfolk, MA). They were really quick to make and a lot of fun. Got to try out some hand embroidery and get a little creative with their outfits. I enjoyed sewing little bunnies, etc. years ago, so I thought I'd try my hand at these. Amazing what a little felt, embroidery floss, and a few pipe cleaners can do!

Memorial Day Weekend

It was an absolutely beautiful day in my backyard yesterday. I love when these bloom. Felt blessed, rested, safe and content.

The Devil Works at Nordstroms

I saw the devil today. She works at Nordstroms. Specifically in the Ladies Undies department. Eyes forward, I chant to myself. The cases gleam. The enormous cocktail rings twinkle under the spot lighting and wink flirtatiously at me.  "Hello, gorgeous," they cat growl. Eyes forward. Eyes forward. The doorway is in site. Fifty more steps and I'm free. The Hanky Panky display is immaculate. I can't help myself. A quick touch of the fabric won't hurt. The nylon burns my fingertips. "Nice, right?" she says, all long hair and twinkling eyes. Why does everything twinkle in here? "Um, yes," I quickly pull my fingers away from the butterflied pair. "You should get some." She's right. I should get some. "Well, I heard they were coming out with a cotton line and I don't see them here," I'm rubbing my fingers together, remembering the silky feel of the cloth. "They're over here to the back," and she's off like a cruise missile. I follow. Blindly. "And they're a great price, too," she gestures casually to the wall sign "I like the printed ones better," I say, clasping my hands behind my back just in case I can't control my urge to molest the fabric. "Too bad they don't have those in cotton." We share a laugh. "Thanks, though." "Come back again," she smiles and I'm pretty sure she's seen into my soul. "Okay, yes, I will," I stammer. Still rubbing my fingers together as I push through the doors, "Satan, get thee behind me."

I will bless you doublefold

What if I told you that I believed that I had been chosen. Chosen to be special. To live a life so extraordinary. Would you think I was crazy? And why not me. It's happened before. Ordinary people chosen for extraordinary things. Noah. The Buddha. Oprah.

What if I told you, that this call was so strong, so persistent, it haunts me in my dreams. Angels speak to me. Tell me things. Special things. I see amazing places. I fly over canyons. I visit sepia cities and travel in cars with no drivers. Tornadoes swirl around me and leave me whole. Still stand. Would you laugh nervously? Gather up your bag and have to go?

What if I told you, that the desire for me to leave ordinary behind was so insistent, that when ignored, she pounds my head until I have to no choice but to take to my bed and submit to her will. Every minute not lived in "the new way" knots my muscles so tightly that I am unable to get out of bed to waste time in a farcical fantasyland. The anger I feel that she won't leave me alone is so dark, so deep that I am afraid to let it out. So I turn it inward and suffer in silence, lest anyone feel my wrath. It's easier. It's just safer that way.

What if I told you that I've surrendered? Would think I'm weak? I'm so sure you would know me to be crazy. Surrender to what? What makes you think you are so special? What are you going to do in your small town, in your small life? Are you going to change world? Foolish indulgence. Prophet and priestess. Yes, there it is. Crown her with many crowns: Fool, Dreamer, Prophet, Priestess, Free.

Mother, May I

Remember the game: Mother, May I? One child was selected to be "The Mom". The other kids lined up at a pretty good distance from her. Mom would pick a player at random and say: "Karen, you may take X steps." She would respond: "Mother, may I?" and it was up to the Mom to grant the request or not. If the player forgot to ask permission, she must go back to the starting line. The first person to touch Mom wins.

Seems like a pretty straightforward game. All you have to do is remember to ask for permission and you're all set. How hard could it be to remember 3 simple words in order to win?

On one sunny day, Mother is a kind, benevolent soul. She has a heart for fairness and wants everyone to win. Mom goes out of her way to make sure she picks each girl at least once, and chooses the shyest ones twice. Mother says: Nikki, you may take 6 giant steps forward. Mother, may I, I call out in respond. Yes, you may and I throw myself forward, lunging as far forward I can possibly go without ripping my pants apart at the seams. Maria, Mother beams, you may take TEN giant steps forward. Mother, may I, asks Maria in utter disbelief. YES YOU MAY cries back Mother, barely able to stand still at her post. At step eight, he realizes he's actually going to win. A slight hesitation at step 10, making sure this isn't some sick joke. Step 10 and he's the first to Mother. She has won Mother's favor. I'm close enough to see her pure ,gapped-toothed joy, and Mother's self-satisfying glow, too. I don't even mind losing, after all, Maria's life is an uphill battle. I know things. She gets extra help for reading. There are whispers of "social services". She's on the hot lunch plan. There will be other days to win. I don't mind. I really don't. I really don't mind.

Another peach of a day brings me back to the same playground. I stand in line with a dozen other girls. "Nikki, you may take 5 regular steps forward." I've been called first and take this as a good sign. "Mother, may I?" "No, you may not. Jennifer, you can take 5 regular steps forward." "Mother, may I?" winks Jennifer. "Yes, you may," Mother sing songs back. It goes on like this. Jennifer goes by, then Moira, Missy, Natalie. I stand in my spot, praying to get the call. "Nikki, you may take 10 giant steps forward." Bingo! and off I go landing smack in the middle of the pack. "You forgot to say Mother, may I" growls Mother and back I go, standing alone near the starting line, smiling on the outside because this is not bothering me, dying on the inside. As the game comes to a close, Mother is surrounded. The girls are standing so close, I'm certain she can smell the flavor of each of their lip glosses. She prolongs her pleasure and tortures her subjects with the skills of a long-practice dominatrix.

"Mother, may I. Mother, may I. Mother, may, I," I silently chant, far away from the maddening crowd, but still clinging to hope. "You can stop playing," says Maria from the sideline. "Don't you get it? You have no chance to win. This game isn't about you. It's all about her." And I know Maria is right. So we leave, holding hands the way girls do in order to show the world that we are together. Off to find a better way to spend our time.

The New Math

I've never been good at math. I remember my parents making a teacher give me extra math assignments so I could practice more. Hours and hours of sitting at the kitchen table with my father. I do a problem, and he'd ask me how I'd solved it. Most of time, it felt like dumb work. He'd look at me and say: "You have to understand the process." And I'd do the problem again. I'd start out fairly confident, but then around step 3 or 4, things would inevitably break down. I didn't know what to do next. I'd have a vague gut feeling and go with it. Sometimes it would get me the right answer, oftentimes, it wouldn't. But we'd stay at it. Failure didn't not seem to be an option. Looking back, I'm not sure why there was an insistence for me to "get math". The most valuable thing I learned was that it is in fact important to understand why I do what I do. This may be why I have always valued and sought out therapy.

Recently I came to the decision to stop seeing my therapist. I decided, just before the start of lent, that I needed to once and for all, start a grown up relationship with money. Ever since my first checking account, it's been one disaster after another. The CEO of Bank of America probably has a small bathroom in his house named in my honor, financed of my overdraft fees. I'd heard a financial expert on NPR touting her 21 day financial freedom plan. I bought the book, and jumped right in. (Head first) In order to complete her plan, I went on a 21 day financial fast, stopping any non-essential spending, and completing one task a day to lay the groundwork for financial freedom.

Day 7 involved the creation of a budget. My husband has our budget on his laptop on an Excel spreadsheet. Every so often, he brings the laptop home in order to go over the finances, either by my request of his insistence. He'd show me where we were spending our money and the areas where we overspent. I always took the overspending as solely my responsibility. I received a sum of money each month. It's for groceries, household expenses, things for our son, the pets, etc. Any money leftover was for me to use anyway I wanted to. Without fail, I was always left with more month than money. I'd always need to borrow from the main checking account in order to make it to the end of the month. A lot of times, even that didn't work. I would overdraw my checking account and get whacked with $35 overdraft fees on end.

These money talks, meant to be informational and empowering, always left me with a deep sense of shame. I'd vow that this time, I would do better. I'd download an app so I could track my expenses. I'd make up a spreadsheet of my own so I would know what I was doing. I closed the account and reopened another so I'd have a fresh start and there would no way I could go wrong. It would go well for a while, but it never lasted. The checks bounced, the spending continued, as did the recriminations, the self-flagellation, the fear, and the shame.

Shame had a running buddy. Hate. I pride myself on being a very capable and competent woman. I pride myself on being beyond capable, driving myself achieve the absolute best in whatever it was I was doing. I can not, for the life of my, understand my blind spot with money. My relationship with money is beyond dysfunctional.

things you should know before metamorphing

Last spring I heard a fascinating story on NPR. It was about the memory of caterpillars after metamorphosis. The scientist interviewed described how her researched uncovered the fact that caterpillars have the ability to remember things even after they have become transformed into moths. That was not the most interesting part of the story for me. She said that caterpillars don't just "put on a change of clothes" to become butterflies, but rather they go through a "biological meltdown that reduces them to soup".  The caterpillar parts are totally rearranged and the unneeded pieces are discarded in order to achieve butterflydom. NPR Story

I've always thought of the metamorphic process with the emphasis on the beautiful creature that emerges at the end of the process. I imagine the time in the chrysalis (the cocoon) in more gentle, even mystical terms. This story completely changed that for me. The caterpillar is reduced to soup. Now I've made a few soups and stews in my day and I know that reduction requires a rapid boil on a high heat. This challenges my whole idea of caterpillar going into a sleep-like state and the transformation happens without really disturbing it. And that's just what goes on in the chrysalis.

Before the caterpillar can get to this stage, she:

• Is born and sheds her skin 5 times to accommodate for her growth


• Crawls 30-40 feet (which has to feel like forever) away from her home to find a safe place to pupate. Once found she has to hang from her last 2 legs in a j-shape for one day.


• Sheds her skin one last time to reveal the chrysalis that was under her skin the entire time. Her temporary home is about an inch in size and is soft at first, but hardens over time so it can keep her safe for the next stage.


• Reduces to soup and her old parts are used for new purposes


• Emerges, after 9-14 days, as a butterfly, her wings wet, small, and crumpled leaving her unable to fly and quite vulnerable to predators,not to mention the elements around her.


• Dries after an hour or so, ready to fly and start the process for another by mating and laying eggs

January is when we hear the classic battle-cry: "New Year, New You!". The NPR story reminds me that transformation is not a mystical experience. It is hard work. It is messy work. And most important, it is mindful work. So before I go tearing off to make a new me, there are questions that need to be considered:

• Am I shedding skin? Is the the first time, third time, or final time?


• Am I in a safe place? Am I ready to move in order to be in that place?


• Do I have a solid chrysalis around me?


• Am I really ready to melt?


• Am I up the the challenge of asking my old parts to do new things?

and last but not least...

Am I ready to fly?