Love and Money

Like most girls (of this or any other era), the first paying job I ever had was babysitting. Unlike girls today, however, I started when I was nine. For twenty-five cents an hour I would watch my neighbor's son while she went grocery shopping. He was a breeze - four years old, kind of a bookworm, he and I had already bonded over Curious George so it was no big deal.

Three years later, I was earning one-fifty an hour - triple the going rate - because I had a few ... special powers.

I had only one stipulation - I didn't do babies. I did once, or tried to. Boring little things. Poured all kinds of liquids out of both ends. When that happened, I called my sister and threatened her with dismemberment unless she came over and changed the diaper for me. No, seriously, the first one I ever changed was my daughter's, and only under protest. (Geez, that really explains a lot about my kids, huh?)

Anyway, my bread-and-butter were "problem" kids, the Disneyesque brats whose specialty was making other sitters run screaming out of the house. Not me. Every single time I sat, the parents came home to polite or sleeping children, a tidy house, and the savory aroma of garlic and onions and olive oil wafting on the breeze.

What did I do? Nothing. Not a damned thing. I watched a lot of TV. I read. I made real mac and cheese or pasta sauce from scratch. Truly, I did. No, it wasn’t the food (not all of it anyway) and I didn't have some mesmeric power. All I had to do with a child, or even five (yes, five!) was to let them try.

Try what? Everything.

They tried snakes, lizards, tarantulas – which I petted and let run into my long hair and over my shoulders. They tried to creep up behind me, wherever I was, and loop ropes around me, then tie and tighten en chorus – ropes that magically fell away the moment they stepped away (alas, a talent that vanished when my breasts reached critical mass). They tried to fight me - fairly or oh-so-"accidentally" swinging at my midsection - and though I never threw a punch, I was great at “helping” them past (and occasionally taking one to the gut, but I ignored the pain until the bruises showed up). They tried to plot and plan and scheme and conspire, but thanks to lots of swimming (water in my ears makes for equisitely sensitive hearing) and an abundance of nice, shiny picture frames (thank you, tacky 70's designers!), I saw and heard everything, well ahead of the rush or sneak attack. They even tried the old "hide and seek" con (you know, hide the little sister somewhere I "could never find her"), but I could track a five-year-old through a concrete storm drain on a dry day. And I laughed like a night mare when I "worked."

What? You didn't have a grandfather who was a Navy welterweight champ? (Yep, knots and knocks all in one package.) You didn't obsessively read about (and secretly want to be) Davy Crockett or Kit Carson? You didn't have a crazy cousin who aspired to be the next Houdini? You mean you, too, weren't 5' 8" at twelve? Mary Poppins meets The Terminator, that was me. I wore them out, then carb-loaded the little hellions, then told them really gross stories – Grimm’s Fairy tales, usually, in their original form. Nice and gory - and cautionary. What fabulous minds those boys had.

Oh, yeah, I also cleaned away all evidence of their forays into intimidation, racketeering, and mayhem.

Parents loved me because their children were quiescent. Kids loved me because I didn’t tattle (and I’d let them try again next time, every time - they didn't, in general, unless they'd been practicing). Plus, I told a really great tale. It was a blast.

These days, most of the students I see are average - wonderfully funny and touching and wise - teenagers. But I still love working with the problem cases, the kids who have profound learning disabilities (physical or emotional), or the ones who think they do (because they’ve been pigeonholed into those neat little cubbies at a parent’s request, whether they need it or not). Sometimes it’s just the kids who are at nearly perfect test scores (or the other end) and who dare me to “make” them go higher.

I just do what I've always done – I let them take their best shot. And I “help” them toward wherever they need to go at that moment. Then I let them try again, for real. And, usually, they find out what they really want is to succeed – but for them, not their parents. I get to see it, that moment when they decide. It’s still a blast.

So let's just say I’m not quitting my current job for a “real” one.

This is already about as real as it gets.

Hunting in Foreign Parts

I hate to shop - I love to hunt. This week, I did both. But I found that there's a certain cache to doing even things I dislike, as long as I'm not at home. For, you see, within days of the Extravaganza, I headed out to visit my sister in Texas.

Texas - what a beautiful country! Good food, great people, unique architecture, and they even speak English! What more could a girl ask for? The cost of living is a miracle,too! I could actually live on my salary in Texas – their nighttime movie tickets are the same price our matinee, for heaven’s sake! Sigh. It must be nice, living in a foreign place.

Okay, so I’m exaggerating, but sometimes I forget what the rest of the country is like. I was born in California, spent high school in the Midwest, and I’ve lived all over this country and in two others. Every place is different, even within the U.S. - especially in the U.S. Mostly it's regional, but some cities are micro-countries in and of themselves. There’s nothing micro about Texas, however.

I didn’t go hunting right away. For one thing, I needed clothes (outlet mall - also huge!). I also wanted to spend time with my sister (and her girls) and my mom, relax, veg out a bit – okay, I didn't want to be rude. That lasted less than twenty-four hours. The day after I arrived, I opened the Yellow Pages and started looking for targets. Since few towns in Texas are consolidated in one place I tried to narrow my hunt to places that someone had a map for. If you get lost anywhere in Texas, you could drive for hours without seeing a single person. UFOs have trouble finding abductees. Miles pass with nothing more than scrub and cattle and really big flies visible on the horizon.

But by Thursday night I was itching. The papers told me that Fridays were yard sale days, but Friday was the day we went clothes shopping. (I hate good manners.) My sister saw where my eyes went as we drove, so she laughingly gave me keys to one of the cars. (I love good manners.) I got up at dawn on Saturday, and didn't plan to be back until I ran out of either gas or stamina.

Only one garage sale in the paper used the word “jewelry” so I went there first. Nice house, big sale, lots of stuff, but I restrained myself (I would have to take this home, remember) and bought only a bottle opener for the Big Lug, a sterling and CZ pendant (gilded, so I guess they missed the 925 mark), an American Eagle Outfitter watch (for me, just needs a battery), a really cool toucan pin (pot metal, but adorable), and a cool little necklace for Head Trip (to match a bracelet I gave her months ago). All in all I spent $3 there. I accidentally put back a rhinestone tennis bracelet, but only regretted it for a couple of hours.

After six more sales but only one more buy (a carved bat of some kind, one that sort of matches one that we bought years ago), I headed north.

Three of my shop addresses were in the Old Town area of one place. They were setting up for some kind of festival, and in Texas that means one of two things, chili or steak. Let’s just say I nearly fainted from the heady perfume that wafted to me on the breeze – there is nothing I love more than the aroma of mesquite and grilled beef - but it was only 10 am, so that meant even the ticket booths weren’t open yet (damn). I went to the thrift shop on the main drag (in the Midwest it would be a town square, but in Texas it’s straight and wide and goes forever). The outside was unprepossessing (as befits a charity shop) but someone was already hauling in donations. That’s always a good sign. I went in … and fell in love.

Two older women were in charge, and nicer ladies I have never met. The jewelry was right up front (are they smart, or are they smart?) in three shiny cases. I spent over an hour there, spent $17, and came out with a pair of Mexican silver earrings, a sterling and onyx bracelet (that I later gave to my sister – so it’s not in the photo), a some-kind-of-blue-stone rough-cut pendant, and the sterling cross set with (I think) fire opals (fluoresced brown). The three of us (plus various wandering women) talked the whole time, about our kids, our husbands, Texas ... and jewelry, all the while trying things on and admiring ourselves in the beveled mirror. I was enchanted by them (and giddy from the BBQ). Another minute and I would have exchanged pot roast recipes and addresses for Christmas cards. Why can’t the whole world be that friendly – and that interesting?

I hit two antique stores after that, and though it was fun, it was pretty much same-old, same-old. By this time, too, the heat was on – and the ticket lines were already around the block! – so when I was finished (coming out with a pair of fake - good fakes - square-cut ruby earrings, five Nursery Rhyme Wade figurines, and two pipes for the Big Lug) I drove off to lunch somewhere else, late. Then I headed back, to go out to a movie and dinner (and another movie) with my sister and her best friend.

Sunday we headed to yet another town with another friend, but most of the places were closed. We spoke with some shop keepers, who said the landlords keep raising the rent, yet sales are way down – eBay, the economy, speculators, or all three are killing many of these places, especially the smaller ones. Of course, the prices are not low, which doesn't help (rent is rising, remember?) but I found a beautiful pair of vintage sterling lotus-blossom (with red stone) screw-backs, and the day was done. I flew home yesterday.

It was a wonderful trip, a great vacation. Of course I loved (LOVED) spending time with my family, but more than that – this is the first time I really stepped out of the box to hunt. I visit places all the time, and stick only to the “safe” things – established malls, etc. Not this time, and never again. All I really need for hunting in foreign parts is a newspaper, a good street map, a positive attitude, and a pocketful of small bills. The rest usually follows.

I’m going to Indianapolis in July. I think I’ll order the map now.

Work It!

Earning money, for me, has always been more unconventional than normal. I've never had what most people would call a "real job" - full-time, yes, but never regular hours, not for more than short bursts, anyway. I have been an operator, a clerk, a waitress, a factory worker, a college professor, a director (and theater supervisor), a teacher, a tutor, and a writer ... and those were just the paying jobs. Factor in parenting, running the household, and volunteer work, I have a Mulligan stew of overtime and late nights and satisfaction. For the last thirteen years, I've worked for the same company, doing the same job, with the same schedule.

Now, that stretch of time is, in itself, a miracle. Because I moved every three months to four years during my life, once we bought this house (fifteen years ago), I compulsively moved the furniture around every once in awhile, just to give the illusion of change. It's probably why I collected so much, too, so that I could continuously rotate the decor. Change was all I knew. For me to last this long is a good thing.

However, like the furniture, twice a year - right on schedule after my busiest times - I get the "what if?" itch.

What if ...

... I actually had a job with promotion potential?

... I worked regular hours?

... I got evenings and weekends free?

... I received paid vacation time, sick leave, benefits - so I could take off whenever I wanted, to wherever I wanted?

... I had a "real" job, with a "real" title?

I'll think about it and get back to you ... once I get back from my vacation.

Extravaganza!

The big day dawned cool, but humid. I know. I was up at dawn, trying to write in my morning pages. All I could think about was the amount of work yet to be done, so I just dove right in.

It didn't exactly go as planned. For example, I figured if I'm out in the yard unloading tables at 6 a.m., when everything from ads to posters say I start at 8 a.m., I could at least get eight tables out of the trailer before the first person arrived.

Nope. She didn't get out of her car, but she watched me like a sea eagle watches a mackerel. That's okay. I knew Acid Trip and Hippie chick would be there soon.

The call came at 6:30 a.m. They were running late. No problem. I am strong and lithe after losing my weight, and the promise of found money is a powerful spur. I began pulling boxes and cartons out of the house. Sea Eagle watched.

By the time the babysitter arrived (right at 7 a.m.) I was already on my way to the mess you see here, but all in boxes, understand. (I thought I got a more detailed shot from the side, but me and cameras mix like zebras and monkeys ... it's a long driveway!) Sea Eagle feinted toward the door, but sensed no threat from the babysitter's mother, and settled back.

Babysitter went in to grab some boxes, and Mom turned toward the tables (to help, as I thought), just as another car pulled up and a gentleman - clearly a picker or dealer - got out. Sea Eagle spotted him, Mom turned a gimlet eye to both, and the race was on.

Mom should have had the advantage, but she had manners and an armful of box, so she had to set it down before she could start the search ... it was Sea Eagle, Mom, the Gentleman, Sea Eagle, the Gentleman, Mom ... Sea Eagle won by a nose, but only because the Gentleman spotted the collector books and a piece of McCoy pottery, and swerved to his left, directly in front of Mom - foul! - cutting her off from her target (a 60's chip and dip double bowl set).

Just then Acid Trip and Hippie Chick drove up, turned Electric Kid loose (always a gamble), and grabbed anything that wasn't nailed down while I negotiated and found for the three customers (an hour before I even opened). Head Trip arrived moments later, with Princess in tow, and Babysitter threw me a grateful smile as I took her box and handed her the children's leashes.

8:15 rolled around and the rush was over. I took pictures of what was left, which had begun as something organized and well-thought-out but had turned into a tangled mess of fabric and pottery and knick-knacks. But my first $100. was under my belt, and I thought we had it made.

Two hours later, my friends turned up with some more stuff. I was sunburned (though I didn't know it) and frustrated, because though I'd had Acid Trip put up a bigger sign before he had to leave to teach a class (at a customer's suggestion), I had fewer people arrive, and they bought little. I was glad of the diversion. Even more glad for the two more hours they stayed, especially since they sold almost nothing in that time.

By now, we had about $300. in the kitty, it was 90 degrees in the shade, and I was ready to give up. When the scheduled time was finished, I was, too.

There were a couple of great moments, however, and some ... very frustrating ones. First was the plant stand - something I had curbside shopped about four years ago, multi-branched, once was cream-colored, now rusted. A project I had intended to finish. A last-minute addition that Acid Trip dogged me into. ("It's disgusting, Mom! And rusted!") Defiantly, I tossed a $2. sticker on it and watched as he rolled his eyes and shook his head. It was the first thing Sea Eagle grabbed, one of the first things we sold. He gave me an open-mouthed look. I just smiled.

Next was the neighborhood girls - my best customers. They made at least nine forays into the growing quicksand mess, and bought $1. to $5. worth of stuff every time. Where they kept getting the money, I don't know, but I took it (and talked them out of some of the more ... tasteless items).

Then there was the couple - or were they sisters? - one who loved the kitch (she bought several of the American and English Hobnail pieces) and one who loved the vintage figurines (she bought the girl scout figurines and a book of Valentines). The kitchy one and I discussed her plans for a den, and my plans for my bedroom, and both the vintage woman and both Head and Hippie rolled eyes and said "don't encourage her" almost at the same moment. Kitch was dragged away while my girls laughed uproriously.

Then there was what one friend labelled the Bottom Feeder. He offered Hippie Chick $5. for a monitor that wasn't flat screen but had a label of $50. on it, and me 25 cents each for my Lefton birds, grabbing things and flinging money at me as if I were a carnival barker (or he was). When he offered $1. for 9 VHS tapes (all Disneys), then grabbed a 10th, and started loading them into his car even though HC told him $2. (she was selling them for 25 cents each), I stood, went to his car, reminded him she'd said $2., and when he didn't want to pay I smiled and told him I'd be happy to help him unload. He began to do so, then agreed to $2. I agreed to $1. ea for the Lefton birds (yesh, I know, but they were Grandma, not me), and other than a few insulting offers for things I pulled to give to friends, we all went away a bit happier and a lot wiser.

We started to clean up. We had our second rush. Two hours later (two hours after the reported end) I'd sold much more stuff for much less than I'd tagged for, which was fine with me. Big Lug returned from his road trip to help me load the heavy furniture and boxes, all to go to a local thrift shop (which stopped accepting donations at 4:15). Trouble is, people kept coming.

Four of the dining room chairs sold to a woman who slammed on her brakes and shrieked on her cell phone that they matched "exactly!" ... then agreed to my first, higher price ... then grabbed other things - $49. altogether - and asked me if I'd take a check (see the sign that says "cash only"?) but my heat exhaustion said "yes," ... then she said "why don't I round it to an even $40?" which my lobster-red ears didn't process until about twenty minutes later ... and I laughed because she probably thought she hustled me but I was willing to go $10. lower on the chairs so I was $1. ahead.

The dining room table I swore I would only give away, since it was a gift, sold (with one matching chair and two unmatching) to a couple who spoke little English (but both Acid and Head had no trouble). At this point, we had things boxed (not wrapped) and it was past 3 p.m. They were going to come back once they got more money and dropped off the high chair and other baby stuff they bought (they left a "deposit" to show good faith). The table was $40. We'd loaded the hutch and sideboard (and the display tables and some boxes) by the time they returned. When the Big Lug saw the size of their car, he said he'd deliver (they were down the street). Hippie Chick and I stayed back to finish the boxes, bring them forward, easier to load (Head Trip was in charge of the kids at this point).

Forty-five minutes later, thunder was rumbling, and the boys still hadn't returned. When they did, Big Lug told me they'd unloaded, too, and saw there was no furniture in the house ... you guessed it - all of the dining room pieces. Is it a wonder that I love the man?

We got the things into the trailer just as the first rain drops fell, but too late to take them anywhere. A deluge ten minutes later prevented me from removing signage, too. We ate Chinese food (all of us), extended the trailer for another day, and - after Hippie Chick counted the money, and everyone left - I collapsed and slept like the dead.

Sunday, after church, I took a nice walk and removed the sodden signs. (Yeah, they were really small.) We found a thrift store that took donations on Sunday then unloaded the tables to my storage locker, the stuff at the shop, and returned the trailer, all in about an hour's time. Total net on the whole day? $365. No driveway, but it will buy me a new dining room table.

And it did give me the incentive to clear the decks, big time. Compare these shots to the same areas in my previous post! Can you believe it! I have a mantel and a floor! (The boxed stuff is mostly for friends, things they'd admired in the past, or, in one case, a new donation box already ... only the Queen of the Unfinished Projects pillow stays for me, and only because I technically haven't finished them yet!) It's been an adventure, my first real one. And I learned a few lessons:

1. Invest in plywood signs, mounted on inexpensive sawhorses. People respond to HUGE much faster than just YARD SALE. Paint in waterproof neon colors.

2. No matter how many people come, group things according to type. I could have put up four big table groupings instead of one long one, even on my crappy driveway.

3. Which leads to this one - weed the yard, if applicable. You've seen my driveway. So could they. It's not prettier in person, trust me.

Did I enjoy myself? Yes, it was great to be with family and friends (and Acid Trip does not deserve Hippie Chick - she worked her ass off for me!).

Would I do it again? Nah. It's more fun from the finder's end.

It's what I live for.

Check it Twice

Stuff pulled from closets, shelves, attic, and bedrooms

(mostly for just the last week) - check.

Babysitter hired for Princess and Electric Kid so Head Trip and Hippie Chick can help out - check.
Ads put in major paper and craigslist - check.

Trailer rented - check.

Stuff priced, boxed, and put back in bedroom, living room, and dining room because there's nowhere else to put it - check.

Trailer picked up and tables from storage gotten - check.

First customer comes by as we pull into driveway with trailer full of tables - check.

She spends 50 cents - check.

Change (ones and fives) gotten - check.

Signs put up at major intersections with date, time, and address - check.

Splinters and blisters from said signs covered with antiseptic - check.

Last-minute finds (books from the Big Lug!) lumped with other things - check.

Take before pictures and post them - check.

Who cares if everything's priced, I just want a shower - check.

Go out to dinner and eat red meat - check.

Get camera ready for pictures (during and after) - check (ahead of time)
Plan for good night's sleep but understand it might not happen - check.

Smile because it's almost done - yes and yes and yes!

Happy hunting, wherever you are!

After the Beep

You have reached Bunny's messaging system. All my circuits are currently busy with the Extravanganza ... but I would love to share the treasures I found last weekend with you ...

Please leave a message, or simply return Friday to share in my meltdown ...


Beeeeep

The Big Lug loved the bowl and the game. Favorite finds: Gucci bag ($3), sterling and (I think) rhodochroisite necklace ($10), and the earrings on Bunny - sterling with pink-red stones that fluoresce as rubies, pink sapphires, or spinel ($1.50!)

Little Things

This week has been a revelation. I now know exactly why I'm such a magpie, such an impulse girl! Now that I'm pulling everything out of closets and basement and boxes, it's so obvious!

I have no taste.

None. Nada. Zip.

What, you were expecting the secret of the universe? Maybe it is. I didn't say I have bad taste, after all, but I have no idea whatsoever of my decorating style, nor do I have a single clue on how to implement it even if I find out. I blame it all on the empty mantel.

Saying I have several things to sell is like saying the Atlantic has several fish. It's kitch, mostly - 50's things, metal shelves, bark cloth, ceramic figures, and chenille. Why did I buy it? Simple - it was all cheap and easy to find, what I could afford (and afford to lose to moves) while the Trips were small, and while my elves were busy with my money. Why did I keep it and keep buying it? That's more complicated.

My grandmother collected salt and pepper shakers and filled her home with them, and with milk glass (specifically English Hobnail). She had two mirrored niches flanking the front door in which she put her many Hummel figurines, bird ceramics, and (I think) thimbles. She had corner shelves in every room, covered with porcelain flowers and "smalls"- little pitchers and animals and doll-house furniture - with doilies (yes, doilies!) under everything. She moved into that house in 1923, and it showed.

Yep, I have many of those things - not hers, which went otherwhere after she passed on, but my own, things that I've been picking up even more so since we bought this house. I've been rediscovering it all week as I pulled for the yard sale. It has made me realize that I secretly want to recreate the only stable home I ever had. Grandma's. Ceramics and all.

Trouble is, I'm not Grandma - that's why it's in boxes, duh! And I'm not my mom, who loves formal crystal and statuary and gilt. And I'm not my aunt (history buff), nor am I my friends (not a single common thread), nor even what all of my 21 moves made me into (decorate on the cheap because things break). So what am I?

I honestly haven't the slightest idea any more.

Well, maybe one or two thoughts. I do love milk glass - mine is very different from Grandma's (figural boxes, mostly, not hobnail). And, yes, I have birds, but more Audubon and Spode than Lefton (though there are three). Few salt and peppers, except the lobsters (because I like lobsters). A bit of crystal, like Mom, but cake plates only - I love carnival glass more than crystal. History - not a bit of history, but historical things, things with a past, I love.

I also love Arts and Crafts homes. Filled with Newcomb pottery, Stickley furniture, Morris wall coverings, Van Erp Lamps, these bungalows - small, simple, and "green" by today's standards - are harmonious with nature, full of rock and polished wood and earth-toned glass, just stunning and amazingly warm.

Okay, I also love 30's and 40's glam. The Diva in me craves Venetian mirrors, and rhinestones or diamonds set in silver or platinum or gold, and bed hangings made of satin or lame. I love swing music, and chunky heels, and Rosie the Riveter. I love the tall doors that Myrna Loy swept through as Nora Charles in The Thin Man, anything Greta Garbo touched in Grand Hotel, the silk pajamas Carole Lombard wore in My Man Godfrey - even the furs (though I prefer faux) that Jean Hagen wore in Singing in the Rain.

Unfortunately, I live in a brick ranch ironically (because it's just boxes in boxes) called a "rambler," and I shop at J.C. Penny and the Home Depot. What am I supposed to do with all these images and emotions clamoring in my head?

Oh, I know the traditional wisdom - get a touch of what you adore, put a pop of this and an inch of that, give the "impression of" or the "hint of." I've been watching decorating shows for years. I even took a design quiz before I wrote this sentence. While fun to do, it told me I go for traditional (timeless, elegant) and, big surprise, that transitional and Arts and Crafts are my styles. (Where's Candace Olsen when you need her?)

Ah, well, I'll give it another shot. I'll pull all Grandma-ish things, and Mama-ish things, and see what kind of nothing I have left. Then I will fill it - I will buy what I'm drawn to and use what I buy. No more boxes, no more packrat, no more excuses, and no more little things.

Only love. And a whole lot of Windex.

The Hamster at the Wheel

When I was in the third grade, my best friend had a psychotic hamster named Tribble. When he wasn't biting us for trying to cuddle him, he would fill the house with the endless rhythm - squeak squeak squeak squeak - of his exercise wheel. I never understood why he did this, since running in place, always running but never going anywhere, seemed downright dense to all of us. Now, of course, we know the value of cardiovascular training, and it did give that sharp-toothed rat turbocharged speed on the three occasions he escaped his proto-Habitrail. (Third time was not the charm, by the way - he made it into the garage, but the neighbor's cat found him before my friend did. After the news spread, the other neighbor - the one nearer the cage - brought flowers and a nice, quiet snake to replace him.)

Point is, I'm starting to get it, the whole work without obvious results thing. For the last ten years, I've been such a perfectionist that if I couldn't get it right the first time, I wouldn't do it at all. I thought that was smart (smarter than the bumps and bruises I'd gotten in the years before). But what happened instead was ... nothing. Nothing at all. I didn't try new things, take any risks, or make much progress. It was safe, but it was stupid. Now, not only am I beginning to understand the toothy little bloodsucker - I think I want to be him when I grow up. Because though his spirit was more kamikaze than cockroach (survivor), at least he tried.

Did you notice how full April and May were? Supernovas, poltergeist expulsions, and gardening filled my physical and emotional dance card. I paid off my car, opened an IRA, and sent more money to debts in two months than I had in the last two years - plus set other wheels in motion to pay off the mortgage faster and earn more down the road. And I entered more contests and found more pretty things than I had in ... well, ever. Progress, not obvious. Trying, definitely.

One more what-the-heck leap (deep breath) - I took photos. In general, I'm a pretty lousy shot. Digital cameras usually magnify this anti-talent by glitching, ghosting, and running off the camera completely. Plus, they don't always want to bloom where I plant them on these posts but I can't show you what I've done without a picture or two, right?



On my screen, these would be labeled "bad," "better," and "best" (trust me, that's best). If they're out of order or flying around the page, blame my Kodak karma - it's pretty obvious which is which.

This is what I did in the front bit (and one side):



If the rosemary does as rosemary tends to do, that hole will be covered in two months, and the tarragon, oregano, basil, sage, thyme and cilantro will keep me in the kitchen all summer. The Big Lug will be pleased. (A storm washed some mulch away on the third pic, but that side is much better, too.)

We still have a long way to go for curb appeal overall ...



... but it's a start - and a few steps on the long march toward earning the equity boost we need. (Squeak, squeak.)

Finding it is more fun for me, as you know - and the weekend was good for that, too. Check out the sparkly things!



Sterling silver, mostly, plus several gold pieces I forgot I had - and what isn't silver or gold is costume, but signed. I'm getting all of the May finds together for a reunion tour - in between ravaging the bedrooms and basement for yard sale items (pictures soon)! When I have the shots, I'll bite the bullet and put them here.

Please note the evolving page, as well. I'm working on the cast of all the characters (my friends aren't up there yet) - and their code names, so the Big Lug won't figure it out even if he ever finds this place (unless, of course, he happens to recognize his own front yard - yeah, I got that). Plus, I've found some amazing web sites that I want to share! And I'm working on putting up what I'm reading (both to learn and to unwind) as well as watching (ditto).

It's a slow process. Computer gremlins don't behave for me. And no matter how I hard I run, I feel as if I'm still standing here with cedar shavings on my whiskers. But I know that even if it's one step forward and two back, I'm getting farther this year than I have in the last ten. All it takes is letting the hamster drive awhile.

Tribble would be pleased.

And then he'd bite me.