Down Time

Migraines are Mama Angel's way of saying "slow down."

Weekend was good: worked a little, hunted a little, loved on my granddaughter a lot. A road trip to the other town's flea market yielded three watches ($9 total) with a promise of some 14K gold vintage watches another time, a fabulous pipe ($3) for the Big Lug, and a sale of the excess gold bought at that yard sale some weeks ago - $58 in for my $40 out won't make me wealthy but it's definitely a way to finance my peacock impulses and indulge the Diva, especially since I didn't sell two pairs of earrings and two singles (for the Lug). Not a bad day. Didn't help my head throb.

But now I will. Ran a couple of errands, had a tutorial, but mostly I've been carb-loading, icing my head, and resting, resting, resting. It's okay. A few more catnaps and I might not barf.

Here's hoping.

Dirty Girl

I am one giant sweat ball. It's hot, humid, and buggy, but when I got up I couldn't take it any more - the edges of the sidewalk looked like high tide, and the tree rings were being swallowed by the lawn's amber-green waves of grass. Now, three hours of weed whacking later, at least the sidewalk is visible. My legs are covered with flecks of dirt and mulch, my face is streaked with salty mud, and my hands ache.

I love it.

About halfway through, when I was just getting to the finishing stroke (streetside), a lawn guy truck pulled up across the way. He opened his door. I glanced at him, then away, and turned my back, rehearsing what I'd say if he solicited his professional service.

"I could do that for you." he'd say.

"I'm almost done."

"Next time, then."

I'd give him a long look. "Do you use gas or electric equipment?"

"Well, gas but -"

"I prefer not to pollute the air." I'd pull a weed by hand to prove my point. "Oh, and I'd want you to do it for free."

"Excuse me?" he'd say (people are very polite around here). "Well, not free, of course. We usually charge $125 for this much edging, but I'm sure we can cut you a br -"

"Free," I'd say. "Because that's what it costs me."

"Your time is worth something, isn't it?"

"Of course. It's worth a lot. But it evens out."

"What evens out?"

"Well ..." I'd wipe my brow and look him straight in the eye. "I'm a tutor, so I actually charge more than you do for an hour of my time."

"See?"

"More than you do, I think. This took me two hours. That's two hours I'm not sitting on my butt watching TV. See, I've lost over 80 pounds in the last couple of years, and if I gain it back it would cost a fortune." I'd lean on the weed whacker. "A gym membership costs money - this is great exercise and actually accomplishes something. Do you know how many people I know who hire you guys then pay for Pilates and stair stepping?" Swipe stinging eyes on shoulder. "My allergies are blown away when I fight them head-on out here, too, so no more meds. And, by the way," a glance from beneath my brows, "type 2 diabetes and heart attacks and strokes don't just cost me money, but you, too, so really you should thank me for doing the work myself. I'm saving you a fortune in higher insurance rates."

"Uh ... but ..." He'd shrug and grin. "You have a point."

"Of course I do. We're both in tough businesses right now, huh?"

"Yep. But we'll both get through it." And he'd drive off, knowing there are still plenty of others, even in my neighborhood, who don't like to get dirty.

But he didn't ask, and I didn't pontificate (and that's not a bad thing). Instead, he sat under a tree across the street, taking what looked like a well-deserved break, and I finished the whacking, push-broomed the sidewalk, and bagged the weed-heads before coming in for scambled eggs, grapefruit, and a quick blog.

Time to run. The mower is calling - and I'm a bit too clean for my peace of mind.

Days Off

Friday was supposed to be a day off, but I had to catch up on the financials (I hadn't touched the checkbook or the bill-pay banking in way too long). After four hours (yes, four hours) I left it, but I didn't leave it behind. Not exactly.

All last week I'd looked forward to Friday, the day I was going to play with the new-to-me scientific scale (it weighs in Troy ounces, pennyweights, carats, and grams!) and separate what I wanted to sell from what I wanted to wear. I was going to start a story in one of the composition books I bought (5 for $1) at Staples during the back-to-school feeding frenzy, because I edit too much (and chicken out too much) when I create a story on my computer. I was going to take a deep, deep breath before the first weekend of fall classes began, because I knew it would be a goat rope. But I did my duty instead and paid the bills. Even when the Big Lug and I then went to play in a nearby town we ended up running errands instead of fun-hunting. And though I collapsed into bed Friday night I didn't fall asleep until after midnight, anticipating trouble during the weekend. (And, trust me, as bad as I'd thought it would be, I'd underestimated it; I'm blocking it from my mind forever.)

So, today was supposed to be a real day off. I dreamed about it - about buffing my Goodwill chest with wax and scrubbing the filthy copper hardware bright (finally), about calibrating my scale (weight provided) and bagging jewelry (and calculating potential profits), about starting the packing for a trip still two weeks away (dreaming and primping). Taking a long walk. Making a few phone calls. Having a relaxing day.

As I write this, my grandson is in the kitchen, trying very hard to sneak another cookie. Again. And I'm not regretting a moment of it.

Snuggles and book-reading, story-telling and dreamweaving, monster-acting and song-singing - it hasn't exactly been a traditional day off. And yet I feel more relaxed, more serene, than I have in a long time. Funny thing is, I remember when his father was little: I was so frustrated being "stuck" in the house with the kids - not working, not earning money, being a "leech" on my husband - when I could have had all this, this little slice of heaven. All it would've taken is a change in attitude.

By the way, I still got my scale calibrated, my chest buffed (shut up), and even some of the handles scrubbed - all (except for the copper poison) with the Electric Kid beside me. In between the lessons and the hugs and the attempt (and subsequent failure) at a walk, I also billed my boss (score!) and wrote this blog. I could get really depressed about the revelation, about the fun I'm having, but I'm much too happy to have found it at all, late as it is, to kick myself any more than I already have.

Tomorrow my schedule ramps up again, and then .. and then ... and then ... but that's just how I make a living. This is how I make a life.

Wannabeing

Last month, the county finally came by to inspect the panel upgrade (which was done in early March). Last week, the power company finally came by and changed out the box (which has hung like a demented octopus outside my bedroom window the whole time, preventing me from going forward with my gardening plans for that side of the house). And last night I finally realized that this house-to-home-in-a-year isn't the reason for my life right now.

I labelled this blog's theme for the first time last year - "Cleaning Up and Clearing Out," it was, and I did a lot of it, especially in our finances (so much so that even though I'm at about half of where I was this time last year, even though we've had two trips and put several grand into my IRA, we're still just fine). This year, January first, I put "Risk-Taking and Idiot-Proofing" up. I thought the risks were my decorating and building choices. But it's so much more than that, isn't it?

This is about what I want to be when I grow up.

Risk-taking: something I did instinctively in my childhood, something I've hidden from in my adulthood. I haven't made much progress on the house, have I? Deep down, I knew that was just a small part of the journey, I think, because instead of pulling out the rototiller I've been beefing up my resume - and actually sending it out. Instead of tearing up the kitchen floor I've been stepping out in more form-fitting clothing - just because the Lug's eyes light up when I do. Instead of damming up my money I've been building channels to let it flow - and irrigate a few parched fields. Instead of trying to control the world I've been daring it to knock me down - and accepting when it does. And instead of guarding my heart I've been forgiving and loving and showing it as if there's no tomorrow.

But there is a tomorrow, and it's terrifying and funny and prickly and wonderful.

This whole month, something has been niggling at me (gently, with a bit of a quack). I have a class of younger kids, middle-schoolers instead of high-schoolers, bright and quick and trying to work on their test scores so they can shine at our local magnet school. "Arcane" came up on a synonym practice set. Most of the students picked "magic" as the correct answer, but, of course, it was "mysterious." We got to talking about books, and I told them something of the world and characters who have been haunting me for over two decades. They listened, rapt, then asked where could they get this book. I told them it isn't written yet. "Why not?" they asked.

A simple question. Flattering, too, since they said it with a cry of "unfair." I started to make the usual excuses, the usual hemming and hawing ... but I couldn't do it.

"Why not?" I asked myself.

This whole week, I've been reading Fantasty & Science Fiction magazine, catching up on the issues I've let build up in my "to be read" box. Why did I hide them, box them away, when I love reading them so much? No clue. But as I'm losing myself in these fabulous, imaginary worlds, all I can think is, "I want that."

Then, just a few days ago, I met a fellow teacher and writing junkie at the local Starbucks. She told me she plans to write "seriously" when she retires, and I, the mentor and cheerleader extraordinaire, said, "why wait? Why not now?"

Cue echo chamber.

The final hammer fell yesterday, when I got my class schedule for the Fall - enough to pay the bills, but not enough to make me as crazed as I have been all of August. (Oh, and did I mention that the final summer paycheck will be just enough to sustain us, if I bank it, through the leaner Thanksgiving through New Year time?)

Could Mama Angel be any more obvious? And could I truly be that stupid not to have realized it before?

Maybe I did. Maybe I - myself - built up to this, the hardest leap of all. Maybe I subconsciously built a road I have to follow. And maybe by putting it out here, for the world to see, I will actually grow the pair of big, hairy ones I once had, write a story - any story, dammit! - and send it out to a publisher, just because I can.

I think I'm starting to figure out that the idiot I need to proof against is me. And that's a very liberating thing.

Money Matters

Saturday started well. I woke in plenty of time to do my morning pages (brain dump) and make it to a local community yard sale. (Once a month in the summer, elementary school parking lot, not usually great things but who knows?) Anyway, second spot was a nice, older woman selling off fabulous shoes and so-so jewelry, but one little (seriously tiny) thing caught my eye. I thought it was a stray earring, but it was a very small lapel pin (or tie tack?), in the shape of a bee. It's cute. I asked "how much," and she said, "ah, take it, from me to you." I thanked her enthusiastically (did I mention it's cute?) and helped her finish setting up. I looked for something else to buy, but the shoes were all size 8 - my Xena-Bunny boats are almost 10's. Ah well. Slipped the bee-thingie into my coin slot (empty) and moved on.

One sterling bracelet (for Head Trip's boyfriend) and a milk glass water dispenser (from a set) later, I headed to the car. Before I left, however, I pulled out my loupe and took another look at the bee. In baby letters, on the tiny stem, was "14K."

Uh-oh. I should pay, right? I should at least go back and tell her. But then what? How much? What was the weight? The aesthetic value? Neither of us even knew what it was (tack or pin?). Should I ... could I ... simply accept the gift?

Yeah, it's true what they say - Lutherans own guilt; Catholic and Jewish people just rent it. It took me two hours to first justify (it's not more than a dollar or two, anything I offer her now would be a cheat) then excuse (well, it's not as if it would pay the rent) and then, finally, accept what had been given to me freely, a magical gift of hope. My glimmer was now a full-blown anticipation-storm, and I asked Mama Angel to hang around the nice lady for awhile and let others see how special she - and her things - could be. (Yes, they really were fabulous shoes!)

The rest of the day went well. I ran across a scientific scale ($7) that weighs in just about any measure known to man (still haven't set it up), and, better, I found a woman selling off odds and ends from a failed shop, some of which was gold jewelry. The jury's still out on this stuff, especially since something in the cache turned the ammonia cleaning water yellow, but if it's all okay I spent $40 for about 7 grams of 14K (not counting the bee) - more singles than pairs (for the Big Lug), and lots of clutch-backs for spares. If it's not, well then, I've learned something - either way, I'm planning a trip to my jeweler friend to see if (if) I can get some extra cash for my trip to FL next month.

It says something about my new level of money maturity that I thanked my angel anyway, for either a $40 triple windfall or a $40 lesson. (Very Lutheran, huh?) But it says more that within a few hours I realized the Big Lug's wonderful plan to help stimulate the economy (since we have money and so many others don't) might be getting a little excessive, but I wouldn't know since I hadn't balanced the checkbook in over a week so I didn't know just how stimulating he'd been. (Breathe!) So, this morning, I spent my cereal time entering receipts ... add here, subtract there, is that a six or a zero? ... and let's just say I've not been terribly careful with the money this summer. Not in trouble, or anything, but not exactly ... plump in the pocket.

Money matters. Keeping track of things seems so boring, but it's necessary, for mental health if nothing else. And, truthfully, money matters. It might be just a stream of electrons in a computer, not really anything solid but simply a transfer device, but it's important and should be treated with the respect it deserves - on some level because it can make or break us, but mostly because, well, I'm having too much fun with it.

I really don't want to stop.

But maybe I do need to ... yield a bit more often.

Especially since ... did I mention finding my first solid gold watch on Friday? ...

A Glimmer

"Nibbled by ducks" my ass - the Universe has been hurling hardballs for weeks, and I've been bobbing and weaving and ... okay, a little bit of crying. Illness (mom), horrible money issues (kids), job stress (me and the Lug), and job-hunting stress (me) are all just the tip of the iceberg. I was sick last Saturday, the only day I've had for any decent treasure hunting this month, the only day I could blow off steam the best way I know. The day was beautiful, too, perfect for yard sales: cool, dry (mostly), just a hint of a breeze ...

Ah, well, it didn't happen. Nothing like that happened. No treasures, no relief, not even yardwork - nothing! Yet somewhere in the last 24-hours things changed. Not with a whimper (though I was voicing plenty of those and, I think, plain got tired of them) and not with a bang (none of that, either, more's the pity) but with a shout.

No, not the quack of a duck but the earthy, angry voice of Lt. Dan (Forrest Gump) holding onto the top of the mast in the midst of a hurricane hollering "Is that all you've got?" to the winds. Yeah, that was me, blast it, maniacal laughter and all. And, this morning, the worst that happened is I spilled coffee on my favorite white blouse.

Coincidence?

Then, because I had the time to finally catch up on my, y'know, life I mixed the trip to the vet (prescription dog food for my 16-year-old Terrier) with a sidle into the thrift shop in the same complex (not the one I usually go to - this one's a consignment store). Anyway, I spent $30 and am now the proud owner of a pretty 14K cross (about 2g), and what I thought was just a cheap pair of smoky-quartz-like earrings with 14K backers, but, if I'm not mistaken, are the real thing. Not a fortune, to be sure, for my $30, but two or three times that just for the materials is a definite improvement.

Hardballs have turned into Nerf balls, and the darkness that's hung over my head like Pigpen's dirt cloud might just be lifting. It's not much, not a bonus check or a great novel or a two-dollar diamond or a visit from Desperate Landscapes. But these days, frankly, I'll take all the glimmers I can get. And I'll keep the GPS location of that hollering mast in my Nuvi.

Multitasking

I am not, by nature, organized. This week has been a sad trial to the little skill I have in that area. Yesterday, in fact, I sent a packet of much-needed paperwork to the corporate office - the old address of the corporate office. I was upset, but I am calm now, even though I'm simultaneously printing out copies for a tutorial later today, fixing lunch and snack (I'll eat out at dinner, thank you very much), and pulling coupons for Border's together for between people (desperately in need of Statistics for Dummies). You see, I went for a long, very fast, walk after my embarrassing mistake but before I began my mad romp through my weaker areas. Before the walk, I'd be losing my mind. As it is, I smell so bad it's distracting me from my lack of talent.

My world is fun, isn't it?

No time, no time ... just spent a week learning the language of resumes, especially government resumes. Still have to get the supplemental crap in, the stuff that tells them what I know - you know, the stuff that's already in the resume but that I have to lay out in plainer language because the words on the resume don't make any sense to a sane person.

Why, oh why, doesn't Rosetta Stone have "Fed-speak?"

Calculating

I had my first encounter with a purposely misleading piece last Saturday. No, that ring I picked up a few weeks back doesn't count - I haven't had it tested yet, so I don't know for sure. This tale is actually one of deliberate fabrication ... and an honest man.

I've lived in my house since 1993, and in all that time, though I'd seen a nearby civic association advertise periodic sales, I never went to one - it was only 13 miles away, but around here, 13 miles might as well be 13 million. I went to my first on Saturday. At 7 am it was already Hell soup, so, after finding a parking place (not easy!) on the street, I walked into the roped-off lot where they had it, saw 15 vendors or so, and figured I'd give it a quick circuit before trucking off to find whatever was really clogging up the streets with parked cars.

In the first booth, a woman was selling many household things, even a few nice prints, but only costume and silver jewelry. The second had sculptural pieces and some good men's stuff - not good enough for the Big Lug, though. But the third ... ah, the third had watches. Vintage watches. Mostly men's, but several women's, and lots of pieces (watches with no bands, bezel with just crystal, bands with no watches), all ten kinds of beat up, but with potential. Among them, tangled with my treasures, were chains, old earrings, even cuff links. Looked like someone had bought a box lot at an auction and was selling it "as found." I gathered several promising snippets, sorting and organizing as I went - a stud without a mate (wait, found!), a chain to hang on the lid (glance, 1/20 GF), a stray stem and crown, another chain (glance, 18K), half of a -

Hold the phone. 18K? 18 freaking karat? Yep - a filthy, s-link, nasty piece of work with a tag that said, "18K, Italy."

My hand shook. It was heavy. I glanced at the pair running the show - one was young and ingenuous, one old and busy with a loupe in the open door of their van, which was, as yet, not completely unpacked. So I indicated my pile (mostly women's pieces, one watch with no band for the Lug, and the chain sitting above it) and asked the younger, "how much for all?" and he said "twenty bucks." I pointed. "Including the chain?" His smooth brow puckered, and he held the item up for (I guess) Dad's okay. "That's base metal," he said without hesitation. I started to correct him, but he'd already gone back to his study, shutting me out, and the younger threw it in with the women's stuff. "The man's watch is an extra ten," he said apologetically.

I looked everything over, my brain churning. $20 for the watch bits (the better to mad scientist with) was fair, but the Gruen was a bit steep. Yet if the chain were gold, it would pay for the lot ... but not assuage my guilt ... unless I pulled out my blue plastic thingie and could tell them they were giving it away ...

What the heck. I left my loupe in my pants, said "yes" to the bits, and "yes" to the Lug's watch, too.

When I turned to go to the next booth, I was so astonished by the sudden, panoramic view of the rest of the vendors - I was on the top floor of parking garage with three more levels, and 50 or so per level - that my avarice and greed took a temporary hike. After all, I'd figure it out later; the Elysian Fields was just steps away!

I wandered, talked to vendors, even bought a few more things - another watch (which doesn't work, either, but it's fabulous), a pool cue, and an ashtray stand for the Lug. And I purposefully didn't look at the chain. But my math mind was beeping away independent of any potential morality play ...

The price of gold is $954.48 per ounce. (Troy ounces, of course, and jewelry is rarely a full ounce, so I think in grams.) 31.1 grams in a Troy ounce ... is that Panelled Grape? ... round it, divide it, call it 30 bucks a gram. (Okay, I looked up the price when I got home - lately it's always just 30 bucks a gram to me.) So if it's 18K that's 18/24 of pure gold which is ... common factor of 6 ... 3/4 ... and it's heavy, heavier than my bracelet, call it 12 grams ... wow, look at that woman's hat! ... no, 10 conservatively ... so if I sell it through my direct link to the foundry, I'd get ... 10 grams times .750 times $30 ... $225.00.

I didn't get palpitations, I swear, because I wasn't going to get myself worked up. He'd seemed so sure.

Anyway, I spent nearly 4 hours there instead of 30 minutes, fell in love with the feel of it and the spectacle of it (I love flea markets!) so I know I'll go back. Then the Big Lug and I went on a bit of a road trip to find a can of his favorite pipe tobacco, the bits and chain all in the back the whole way. (He told me the chain felt too light ... my greedy girl wanted to slap him.) Once home, however, I put the thing in some ammonia-water, scrubbed it all up, and found ...

A gold tag on a dull, steely chain. Yep, the stamped ID was gold, but nothing else was. And it was obviously put on after the fact by some devious, calculating creep out to cheat someone - probably the box lot person.

The man who sold it to me, however, wasn't that creep, nor anyone of his ilk. Dad could have pulled a con. Shoot, Son could've seen it a mile away and ignored Dad - I know for a fact I have no poker face - but they didn't. And now I have a memento, an object lesson, and a teaching tool, all in one.

It was a pretty good day.