Vignettes
Late Sunday morning was so nice. I had to run an errand, and though it would take me nowhere near our downtown, I asked the Mister if he would mind if I left him with the (sick) boys while I walked around and looked at antiques. He just rolled his eyes and said, “Please. You don’t have to ask. Go and have fun. Just don’t do anything crazy, like shabby chic.”
I pointed out that I don’t like shabby chic interiors so it wasn’t a risk. He then claimed I once sent him an email with a picture of a thrifted dresser spray-painted and made to look “chippy.” Men remember the oddest things. “Don’t forget to buy blue cheese” goes in one ear and out the other, but an email from several years ago about a white dresser? That gets burned into the brain.
I walked around all my favorite shops–not one carrying Rachel Ashwell–and had such a wonderful time by myself. I’m normally with the boys, or on rare occasions, friends. It can be hard to shop with children, of course, but the same can be said of shopping with friends. It was nice to linger at my own pace, speaking to no one, and hover over displays I loved without worrying about dawdling or keeping someone else entertained.
When I went to Campy Mighty, Nicole and I later went shopping on the furniture strip in Palm Springs. We went into one store that had the most amazing candle burning. I would have bought one, but the store that carried them was closed on Sundays. I haven’t been able to find a candle I like as much since, though a part of me worries that the memory of this candle exceeds the reality. I was pretty excited about the Flora Exotica candle, above, with its alluring packaging of black and gold and floral, but no. It’s scent is primarily honeysuckle, a smell I loathe. And so the memory of the Palm Springs candle glows brightly. To my husband: the only way I could have been less subtle is if I had I printed out this post, wrapped it around an anvil, and dropped it on your head from a second story window. Mother’s Day is in May.
The takeaway from my window shopping, aside from honeysuckle and lilac remaining my least favorite scents, is that our home lacks vignetting. You walk into some of these stores, and you are pulled in by the most interesting displays. They unfold as if the store houses characters in a book. In this corner lives Ruth, who likes to read cookbooks in bed, prefers her hand soap to smell like rosemary, and collects crockery–always in cream. Magda is agnostic but adores religious folk art, Santos dolls, and lights a Saint Jude veladora before her weekend meditations because (1) it reminds her of her grandmother and (2) sometimes she feels her love life is a bit of a desperate case. Across the aisle stands Jane. She likes bright, pure colors (all of them), cooks semi-homemade, and throws the best parties because she never tries to make everything perfect.
It hit me, in that big store full of characters I would like to meet, that decorating is just another form of storytelling.
Unstyled Life
I’m going to try and return the Unstyled Life posts to the format I originally intended: unstyled images of beauty around the house and home with little accompanying text. It started as a way for me to not fret so much about the “work in progress” status of our home. Over time, the posts morphed into essays on life, both serious and frivolous. I will continue to write, I couldn’t possibly stop if I tried, but I won’t do it on Fridays. Right now, my heart says I am pushing myself too hard. Not the way professional working mothers must push themselves, since I bring it on myself as my own commandante. I don’t pretend to shoulder your demands, but I feel a hard shove from behind nonetheless. My hat’s off to you. I need to slow down and think and hear and see without attaching to it a to-do list. I’m doing a wonderful job at creating an intentional home. Now I need to be a little more intentional about how I live within those walls. It is possible to drown in a glass of water.
Yes, that is the new table. I took this from the sofa while I gave Mikey a practice spelling test. I thought the light was pretty, and it was only after I took the picture that I noticed I never put the candlestick back after lunch or shelved my 30 year-old copy of Jane Eyre after finding it the laundry room. I didn’t feel bad about it, either. I closed my eyes and dozed instead, for just a few minutes, before I got up to make dinner.
Too Much Storage
A welcome effect of living by the William Morris quote and creating an intentional home is that eventually you reach a point where you have too much storage. I know, crazy-talk, but unless you live in a home without closets, it is possible. Possible with sweat equity and capital, but possible nonetheless.
Take the Leksvik, for example. We kept this in our dining room to store many things. Last week we finally bought a dining room table (hurray!) and that meant there was no longer room for what officially became the clutter-catcher. No matter, since I already had it placed on Craigslist. I knew by looking through its cluttered glass doors that whatever it contained I could keep more organized somewhere else. I moved it to the back porch and hoped for the best. As luck would have it, someone offered to buy Leksvik only two days later. SOLD!
They gave me two hours notice on the coldest, windiest day of the season, but beggars can’t be choosers. I thought I could tackle the Great-Clutter Catcher Purge of 2012! before they arrived, but it was so cold and windy I was afraid all the loose photographs and paper would go flying.
Also, I didn’t feel like it. It looked like a lot of work.
I put everything inside an old laundry basket and placed it in the living room. Then I wiped everything down and gave Leksvik a quick polish. You so want to buy furniture off me on Craigslist. I pretty them up like they’re on their way to their first day of school.
The laundry basket of clutter stayed in my living room for only 24 hours before I sat down to toss/donate/keep.
[Pause. Wait for applause.]
I separated everything into groups, too. Both cookbooks went into a kitchen pile. I had an unusual amount of Christmas items, so those went into a pile, too.
Oddly enough, this introverted recluse who hates to socialize owns an obscene amount of party supplies. I like the idea of parties, or so it would seem.
That’s it! It took me less than an hour to place everything (haphazardly) in their new homes. This was good. I planned to tackle my wrapping paper storage issues, so I’m glad I was able to first uncover the last of the hidden supplies.
I can’t end the post with such a mediocre image, so I thought I’d share something else I found during the Great Clutter-Catcher Purge of 2012!
It’s a picture of the Mister when he was Nicholas’s age. I can really see the resemblance. People often say Nicholas looks like me, but I’ve never seen it. I’ve always thought he looks just like my husband.
Now it’s your turn! Feel free to share how you have lived according to the William Morris quote, “Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” Made a plan? Cleaned a drawer? Bought a sofa? Let’s hear it with a link or in the comments.
A few guidelines:
- Please link to a specific post, not a general blog address.
- No links to giveaways, please.
- A link back to this site is always appreciated. There are buttons to add to your post or sidebar, too, thanks to the lovely Alex, of Type A Calligraphy. Just copy the code and insert into your blog post or sidebar while in html mode.
- Let’s use this weekly link up as an opportunity to gather inspiration and motivation. Click links. Discover new people. Say hi and good job. I know I will.
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It was Tuesday
I woke up early but had breakfast late. Later, I ran a quick errand.We read Rikki Tikki Tavi, Too Many Toys, and a two year old Spider-Man book from dollar spot at Target.
We ate lunch. I had kale and chicken, leftovers. He nibbled at his sandwich and fruit, congested and uninterested. I anticipated this and only gave him half portions. I’m glad; I hate wasting food.
On the way home from school, Mikey asked if I knew the proper way to kill a vampire. That’s the game they were playing at recess and he wanted to make sure he had all his weaponry straight. I told him there is nothing wrong with kickball.
He did homework, I sold a buffet we had in the dining room. A couple from Craigslist promised to come over and they did. I’m close to getting that china cabinet I’ve had my eye on. I’m excited.
We had tofu fajitas for dinner. Mikey continued his campaign against the lowly soybean. Nico made up for his missed lunch. It was delicious, even for Mikey. He stuffed two corn tortillas to overflowing with peppers, onions, and guacamole, then ate more without a tortilla. Nico did the same, with the addition of tofu.
At 7:30 it felt like 10:30. I decided to read this book before Rules of Civility. I considered it for book club, but thought it was one most have already read.
It was a quiet day, one spent looking at the clouds. Bright and white and cold. It was nice. It was Tuesday.
Gentle Giant Octopus
A good book makes me think, learn, or research. That goes for any genre, any age group. Of course, I’ve loved books that have done none of the three for me. But, I’m not talking about those today. Today I’m talking about Gentle Giant Octopus. I’ve been thinking about these creatures ever since. I’m hoping this random post will finally get them out of my system.
I bought this book for Nicholas last year. He was obsessed with sea creatures, and I thought the nonfiction book about an octopus would be someone he liked. Oddly, it wasn’t until recently, when he was sick, that we decided to sit down and read about giant octopuses. Octopi. Octopodes. (More on that, later.)
Although the story is nonfiction, it’s written in story form. Nicholas and I followed the life of a mama octopus jetting through the shadows, huge like a spaceship. First fact I enjoyed and filed away in my extensive file of useless information: the tentacles of the largest giant octopus ever found were a heart stopping 15¾ feet long. I will never step foot in the ocean again.
The watercolor illustrations by Mike Bostock are incredible.
We learned how the mama octopus moves, feels, and protects herself.
But under a boulder, a Wolf eel is waiting. His mottled gray face darts from the shadows. His teeth strike like daggers. He rips off a tentacle. Then sinks like a nightmare deep into his den.
Not to be outdone by a Giant octopus, Nicholas’s eyes opened to 16¼ feet in diameter. Nightmare, indeed.
This is my favorite illustration of the book. The mama octopus finds an easily guarded cave she can squeeze into and uses her tentacles to pull in pebbles all around her. Once inside, she lays her eggs, which hang from the roof of the cave like grapes on a string. She lays as many as 60,000 tiny eggs! As you can imagine, no sooner did we finish the last page, I was off and googling Giant octopus eggs. Amazing.
This is Nicholas’s favorite illustration. The eggs grow for five months, and during that time the mama octopus never eats and never rests. She’s essentially the Italian/Latin mother of my childhood, but without the guilt trips and high-pitched screams to clean my room.
No, mama octopus doesn’t do guilt trips. She takes it to the next level and dies.
A mother Giant octopus rests in her cave den. She watches her babies swim up through the water. A gentle Giant octopus shrinks into the shadows. Her life is over as their lives begin.
Well played, mama octopus. Well played.
As for those baby octopuses, they get their own. Only two or three out of 60,000 will live to become adults.
Which brings me my first act of google after we finished reading the book. Octopuses? Octopi? Octopodes? I thought it was octopi, but the book said octopuses. So confused!
I love learning something new.
