Surrender the Green

Chili is simmering on the stove. The makings for a meat loaf are out and ready to be assembled and put in the oven on "delay bake." And a small pan of ham-and-bean soup is just finishing up for my lunch. I'm all domestic all the time today. I have to be. I've been a little ... difficult to live with recently.

Focus can be a dangerous thing. Hyperfocus, my laser-intensity, take-no-prisoners talent, can be deadly to relationships. I know. I've always been able to concentrate on a single task to the exclusion of all else. When the kids lived here, when they were my responsibility 24-7, I had to be aware of a hundred tiny things all at once so I used my superpower only during times of great stress, or great selfishness. But my flair for targeting the singular, my inability to multitask easily, is proving to be a bigger liability than a strength lately. I'm so intent on my mission that I can't seem to make room for anything - or anyone - else.

And I can't tell him why.

That's the part that kills me. If I could talk to the Big Lug, explain everything, it would make him stop looking at me as if I were a stranger, or worse, as an opponent. My oversimplified version - that I have projected our finances into the future and found our retirement plans inadequate - just isn't cutting it. I've invested and allocated our paychecks down to almost nothing twice this month, and I become positively maniacal if he colors outside the lines I've drawn. And since my bookings are way down for the this time of the year - tutoring and extra classes aren't usually weighed above food and shelter - I'm more than a little concerned for the short-term outcome of this quest.

So, in a perfectly logical turn of events, I'm walking away from all things money. I am not a Master of the Universe investment guru. I'm barely a stay-in-the-budget, don't-fall-deeper-into-the-red novice. I need to admit defeat, or at least a yield.

It's time to spotlight the Big Lug, to fix on things closer to home; time to quit the Dorothy routine, staring at the far horizon so much that I can't see what's in front of me. I want to shift focus, to explore what I have again, on what I can fix up, on what I can give away, on what I can sell. Not treasure hunting, but treasure salvaging. No more CNBC at 6am. No more fretting over bailouts and stimulus packages. No more ... well, okay, the jewelry is for me as much as anything, but no more schedules and quotas and straining to make everything fit my narrow plan. I have about as good a start as I'm going to get. I think I'll let it ride for awhile and have some real fun.

Because contrary to all appearances, I do remember what - and who - my real treasure is.

Growing Pains

Well, I did it - I changed the account through which all of our day-to-day money will funnel, leaving my paycheck for savings, investments, and outstanding loans. I knew it would be a big step for me. I didn't know I would hyperventilate when I took it.

Fear or not, the shift is necessary. I want the elves around here to be working for me, not the bad guys. I want any found treasure to help the Big Lug, not the corporate bottom line. I want - I need! - to give this gift without any strings, any catches, any quicksand already in place. That's going to hurt a little. Maybe a lot.

Which isn't a bad thing. I don't learn lessons with kindness, only with road rash and sweat and pain. "Bull-headed" is just one of the words used to describe me by anyone who's around for more than five minutes. "Stubborn" doesn't play well with "easy lesson." Hit me upside the head with a 2-by-4 and I just might listen, or give me a task with a tag line of "you can't do it" and I'll do my darndest to prove you wrong (no matter how hard I have to slam into that wall). But give me a gentle reminder - or, God forbid, a reward - and I look around for the hidden knife or the falling sky.

I know, it's stupid. What's worse is that I gave myself this crazy mission - I called the lightning from the sky and dared it to strike me - so I shouldn't snivel or quake because it's working, should I? Because it is. Despite the downturn, I've paid off four accounts and put several thousand dollars into an IRA I didn't even have before April. I've restructured what's left so that I could work part time at retail (if I have to) and still pay the minimums. I've found hundreds of dollars in gold and silver and stones for a fraction of their value. I've even taken a real vacation, and paid for it in cash! And I'm getting a panic attack? How nuts is that?

So, maybe this isn't anxiety after all, at least not the kind I'm used to. It's been awhile since I've stepped out of my comfortable box, and I've spent the past eight months discovering I don't have one but many boxes - nested like those Ukranian dolls - and I've spent most of that time leaping like a salmon up and out of those fragile and foolish boundaries. My weight dropping to within four pounds of that on my wedding day... setting and keeping my deadlines ... our cash flow redirected and moving without obstruction for the first time in our marriage ... travelling and fasting and reinventing and sampling and wanting and getting ...

Dang, I didn't call down the lightning, I reached for the moon. I really can't crab because the stardust is barbed (can I?) because (to me) sharp means learning - growing pains this time not road rash - and upward and outward means hurdle and pitch, charge and attack. I can do that. This Bunny has claws.

Bring it on.

Changing Schedules

When I first began this blog, it was as much to see if I could stick to a self-imposed deadline as to tell you my tall tales. I chose Tuesdays and Fridays mostly because Mondays are usually empty-brain days - I pour everything I have into my weekend classes - and Thursday is too close to Tuesday for my mathematical, anal-retentive ideal of symmetry. I have, however, discovered a very large, thousand-legged bug in the plan: Tuesdays and Fridays are, and have always been, my busiest and/or most important days of the week. I need to reschedule my schedule.

This is a huge move for me. Mondays are still my "duh" kinds of days, and Thursdays are currently catch-up-in-the-house days. But Tuesdays are and will always be Weight Watchers. Yes, I tried moving to a different group, to a different day, but I love - and feel lifted and motivated - where and when I am, so don't look for me to shift to a new situation any time soon. Fridays are the only days I don't, and won't, work. It is, in fact, my personal Sabbath. I used to guard that with my life. Now I stress out over my postings when I should be puttering or writing just for fun or wandering in a garden surrounded by butterflies. (Yes, my imagination is running to the Disney these days.) That's the real reason I had my most recent meltdown, I think, and I refuse to let that happen again.

"But," you might say, "you could write your postings ahead of time." I tried that. Most of the time, what I have to say one day makes little sense the next, either because something happened (found a gold saxaphone charm, cursed all elected officials for a "rescue" - theirs, obviously, since it's an election year) or because my prose is at its snappiest when I'm under a bit of pressure. Obviously, if something hits me the day before, even the week before, and I really, really want to write it, I will do so (as I'm doing today - it's Sunday, and I'm between classes) but even then I still won't allow it to go online until it's rewritten. Probably heavily rewritten. And that's done the day of, not the day before, period.

Besides, much of my treasure hunting is done on Fridays, or it used to be before I started to stay home to obsess over my quest. Since most of my Friday stalking-the-wild-antique was done with the Big Lug because he works long hours for two weeks in order to have every other Friday off, this is the logical solution. I like the man, and I'm starting to miss him.

Obviously, I wrote last Friday. I'm still letting all those numbers sink in, trying to figure out how to do all the selling and transferring, and how to time it. But by Saturday I found the energy forage in both a neighborhood-wide yard sale and my favorite Salvation Army store, and then I even had a tutorial (new student!) at 10:30a.

Thanks to the former (sales), I have a new, really beautiful turquoise bracelet, a citrine earring and necklace set, a new chain for one of my great charms, some CZ earrings (vermeiled), and hoop earrings - all sterling, all $4 (total). I also bought a fabulous, signed, stained-glass panel for $15 (down from $20) and a small leather-covered rocking chair (and some books) for the grandkids ($5 together). Thanks to the latter (student), I will make bills with no real squeak factor and maybe even polish off another credit card.

The day ended with a marathon cooking spree and lots of snuggle time.

See? Mostly, nothing will change here. It's going to be a bit of philosophy, a bit of chronology, a bit of humor, a bit of reporting or ranting, all swirling around the occasional excitement of the hunt (if not the find). I still passionately believe that treasures of all kinds are just waiting out there for us to recognize, to put ourselves in the way of, to simply pick up. And I still vehemently believe - I know - that no matter our circumstances then or now, we all can be as wealthy as we want to be.

And even have a heck of a fun time getting there.

Weeding

I've been ill. Since Sunday, I've had a migraine (or maybe sinusitis) so bad I could barely function. So today, the first headache-free day I've had since it started, I really wanted to dig a deep hole in one of my treasure spots. It would have been funny, trust me, especially since we haven't had any rain in awhile and the ground is like concrete. Could you see me, rocking back and forth on the shovel, hoping for a cache of Confederate gold only to find a pocket of roofing nails?

It would have been sweet, but I didn't get that far. I was distracted by The Weeds - not just the evil chickweed that had grown up between the tight threads of lime thyme around the birdbath in front, or the pernicious spurge and noisome purslane that widens the cracks in the sidewalk and the driveway, though I wrestled with them, too (and won, at least for now). No, I'm talking about the weeds in the balance sheet.

Yeah, idiot me, when the headache finally cleared, did I continue resting (and watching last season's Smallville)? Did I chop a few olives and make pasta puttanesca? Of course not - I gave Angelus the vampire head-throb a gilt-edged invitation straight into my cranium. And why? Because I'm absolutely determined to live off the Big Lug's salary and use mine to further my insidious, secret plan, that's why! What a dope!

Well, not completly stupid. Weeding is necessary, and I've done far too little of it both last month (outside) and in our nearly thirty years of marriage (fiscal-side). Just today I found out that the pocket of Whole Life insurance we've been paying for since the kids were small is worth about $17K in cash but is costing us about $140 a month - nearly ten times what we pay for 50% more in Term through his job (that we can increase during the next open season). Once upon a time, when our balance sheet was hemorrhaging, we needed it. Now we're well into black territory.

Besides, it's just me, the dog, and the cat, and none of us will miss the cash as much as we'll miss him. (And did I mention it's with AIG?)

I also researched buying back his military service years to apply to his current retirement plan, made copies of survivor benefits for all-things-now-in-place so he won't protest me cashing him out (before the floundering economy does it for us - maybe without the cash), and figured out how much catch-up coinage we can afford next year (when we both turn 50).

Yeah, it was a laugh a minute today. Between the slice-and-dice purple sedgegrass and the intricacies of the IRS and social security systems, I'm pooped. Luckily, the headache was beaten back by some ice water and last Wednesday's Criminal Minds, but it was a close call. Now I need to start dinner because eating out is one of those wicked weeds (alongside cell phones, cable TV, and anything not on sale) that can be eradicated with a bit of desperation and a whole lot of resolution.

Those I have right now, in spades. Stamina, on the other hand, is in short supply. But that, too, shall pass.

Gold Digging

My name is Bunny, and I'm a gold digger. I "dig" in thrift stores and yard sales, in antique markets and discount malls - heck, I literally dig in my yard for it. I admit it. I revel in it. And I recommend it to everyone who wants to have a maximum amount of fun (and return) with just a little bit of education.

Gemstones are difficult. There are so many levels, so many nuances on each level - raw stones vs. cut, grading with acceptable and less-than-acceptable flaws, synthetics (man made) and from-the-earth gems. I'm learning, but it's a slow, sloooow process.

Gold is easy. From where it comes from (just about every state has or has had gold mines) to how it comes (flakes or "fine" vs. nuggets or "coarse") to purity in finished product (14K, 18K, etc.) to where to buy or at least invest in, it's a one-page primer. All I have to do is type "gold" into my search engine and I get almost a billion hits.

Yellow gold, white gold, rose gold ... gold wire, gold leaf, golden boys ... gold suspended inside quartz (rutile), incidents of gold found locally, legends in which gold plays a major part ... Gold is and has always been a major player in civilization's history. We decorate ourselves, our frames, and our houses with it. We even drink it!

I just like to find it. So far I've found a gold chain ($2 at Goodwill), a necklace and two pairs of earrings (in my own collection I didn't know I had), a white gold charm ($5 at a resale shop), 7 pairs of earrings (with real precious and semi-precious stones) for $8 to $12 ea, and ... a treat.

Saturday I went to my local Salvation Army and found a couple of nice sterling pieces as well as what looked like a silver charm on a crappy, base-metal chain. (I think I'd seen it in the case before, but just noticed that chain.) It had been marked down to 99 cents, so I asked to take a closer look. It was a fairly large (for a charm) saxophone, attached to the ugly necklace by a too-big circle of even crappier metal. Interesting. I took out my magnifying glass (2X) and saw some markings, but they were kind of rubbed off so I couldn't read them very well, though I did think I saw a "5".

Now, the necklace had been there long enough for the pickers to ignore it into mark-down purgatory, but what the heck, right? For 99 cents, I'd take the risk. I took it home, put it under my halogen lamp, pulled out my loupe (10X), turned it this way and that ... a "5," yes, but not "925" (sterling). This one read "585," and very faint (in shadow I saw it) was "14K."

White gold. In British standard ("585" = 58.5% gold content) and American, and it had waited for me to come and pick it up. I weighed it (after I tossed the chain) on my handy-dandy food scale - a bit over 1/10 of an ounce. At today's prices ... and 58.5% gold content ... that's about $60. Not bad for a quick trip to a thrift store.

I will continue to be on the lookout, and - maybe - this week I'll finally get started on the actual yard-digging. While I don't have any expectation of a ring or a coin, I know that gold is one of the few metals that survive, even underground - silver gets eaten by tarnish, iron by rust, but gold only loses a bit of its alloy, and then only sometimes. Anything is possible. I can definitely live in hope, right?

I am a gold digger, after all - and proud of it!