Life is a Banquet

The Reluctant Yuppie

Saturday Night Freak and I watched Hotel Rwanda. Few movies have ever moved me more or made me feel so utterly helpless. Not to mention ashamed beyond belief at my status as a white, American female. For me, some of the most haunting images were those of the orphans, their little faces pressed together, holding hands, their gangly limbs betraying their vulnerability. I often make light of my unending desire to have a “United Nations Family” (Angelina, wench, I had the idea first. Mine. Mine. Mine. Oh, and P.S. please send me Brad Pitt too.). But, this movie unearthed emotions much more powerful than just “oh, wouldn’t it be cool.”

Why DINK's should not be allowed out on Weekends . . .

Freak and I should not be trusted to make rational decisions on weekends. It’s that simple really. All of our pets were acquired on a weekend. Most, if not all, of our biggest fights have happened on a weekend. We have come perilously close to buying houses we could not afford in sketchy neighborhoods in distant cities on weekends. Dubious items of furniture and garage-sale refugees have joined our household on weekends. Many, many ill-advised meals have been eaten on weekends. And this weekend, we came within FEET of buying an RV.

I'm in Love

I fell in love with a BANG! yesterday afternoon.  The kind of love that leaves you slack-jawed and mumbling incoherently and unable to see anything other than the object of your affection.   

The Internet can rest easily, as my new love is neither another pet, nor is it Raul my sexy-but-imaginary boyfriend.   It is this fine specimen of speed and mega pixels, this sexy little black package of hot potential and quick responsiveness.   Minolta Dimage Z3,  my one true love, until Mr. SLR comes to steal my heart away (and brings a way to pay for his love with him). 

Of course, Wavybrains the bargain hunter, got a much better deal than what Amazon and other retailers are selling this camera for.   I've spent the last . . . oh, TWO YEARS salivating for a new camera, more mega pixels, better color, better anti-shake technology, but being the good little Luddite that I am, I resolved to wait until Freak's camera (the Cannon S-40 2 mega pixel) bit the dust. 

Luckily, Tragically, somewhere between the Fourth of July and Reno, Freak's camera died a slow, drawn-out death that culminated in a $160 repair estimate for the mere possibility of turning on again.  I swear that I never MEANT to hurl it from a moving carousel (It is all Freak's fault, of course), that my dog didn't intentionally bury the camera in the sand, and that all those minor falls and abuses had NOTHING to do with the camera's demise.   

Freak was in no big hurry to rush out and drop a grand on the object of my obsession--the Nikon D70, oh how I want you, Baby.  But, then I had an epiphany where in I realized that if I settled for Mr. Quite-Tasty-but-not-a-D70, I could actually finance a new camera MYSELF.  With money earned from the articles I sold last month.   I actually PAID for a MAJOR INVESTMENT (ok, ok, ok, TOY) with money earned from writing.  How cool is that? 

Freak financed the two-year extended warranty.  Because, you know, in our safe household, there is absolutely no chance of a puppy eating it, it tumbling from a hammock, free-falling into a tub, or being consumed by that pesky plague of locusts.   Oh, and the coolest part, seeing as a I am remedial nerd who needs much help in operating the objects of her techie lust--I get 18 free photography classes.   Expect more pictures.   LOTS more pictures.  I will probably bore you all with pictures instead of just threatening them all the time.   

The only thing I possibly love more than this camera (which did NOT sleep next to me all night . . . ) is my local camera shop.   I heart small businesses. 

It's a Boy!

" Wavybrains and Freak proudly announce the newest addition to our household:  Roommate #2, hence force known as Zen.  Zen has returned from a nine month sojourn in China and will be joining Scientist in project pay-off Wavybrains' and Freak's mortgage.  Non-grandparents are not impressed."   

This explains my lack of posting in the last few days, as I've been cleaning like a mad banshee.  With each new addition to the household, I like to start on a positive, CLEAN note, as if we always live orderly lives and dishes always go in the sink.  I like to think that this encourages good behavior, not to mention makes the place more welcoming. 

Of course, Zen is returning with no furniture, and a bed would have probably been a tad more welcoming than clean carpet, but what can I say?  I had the nesting instinct.  I cleaned and fluffed, buffed and waxed, and that's just the living room.  Freak even got in on the act, using the weed-eater which last saw action sometime around the 4th . . . of July.   

We're excited because this moves us closer to the communal household of our dreams.  Of course, in MY dreams, there is MORE THAN ONE BATHROOM.  Clanna can't understand how I could even consider living with four adults and one bathroom.   Perhaps it has something to do with having grown up with FIVE people and one bathroom.   Or having been to countless conventions, dorms, and conferences where I've had to wait on a bathroom. 

We do plan to add a second bathroom, because while I CAN wait, I'm just a bit crabby doing so.  But, in his six months with us, Zen will tackling numerous remodeling projects.  Just as soon as we find the poor guy a bed.

Piles of Stuff

My little will writing exercise has me thinking differently about the nature of possessions.  Stuff is inherently transitory in my world to begin with, but this puts a different sort of spin on my thinking. 

Clothes get stained, books loose their relevance, appliances break, decorating tastes change, and things get eaten.  I'm not a Vanderbilt and that is actually a very good thing.  I don't really have the mentality for heirlooms.  I USE tables, chairs, and couches, slipcovers, and books. 

I identify with what Scott over at Home Sweet Road said about how you get something new, and you are convinced that this time WILL BE DIFFERENT.  This time you'll be neat, and organized, and you'll keep it looking new . . . .

But "this time" is NEVER different.  I'm coming to accept some basic truths about myself.  One of which is that I care more about living in the moment than I do about protecting my stuff.  I give lip service to wanting a clean sofa, and pristine bed, but I still eat on both.  And I love clothes, but I also love rolling in the grass, playing with the puppy, eating drippy foods, tossing things in the dryer,  wiping my hands while cooking and a hundred other little actions that demonstrate my lack of regard for my clothing. 

I do not think about my progeny when I use a hot glue gun at the dining room table.  I do not give a wit about my heirs when I use a "good" cereal bowl to feed the dog.  What is here, is here for me. 

I resist any urges to "collect."  I have a deep aversion to knickknacks.  To me collections = clutter, and I'm a strong believer in getting rid of that which I do not find useful or beautiful or both.  Collections, no matter how nicely displayed are clutter, and should be limited. 

And when we're gone, what will it matter anyway?  This stuff--the pieces of life that we accumulate?  Will our collections, our purchases, our stuff be anything other than a burden on those we leave behind?  I actually found myself pitying my "heirs," reluctant to saddle them with my detritus, because I know that that which is important to me, probably isn't important to anyone else. 

I've tried renouncing materialism,  attempting to live a monastic life, but that simply isn't me.  I'm bargains and color, and shoes, and pots and pans, and picture frames.  I'm skirts and dresses and beauty products.  And I'm not sure I want to do any of it different--other than continue to be mindful of what I bring in, what is needed, what is needed, and what is destined to become clutter. 

In a way, asking whether something is something which I would leave to others is another way of saying, should I do this just to please myself or with a mind to others?  And the answer so often, is that I should do something just to please myself.  No one else cares what kind of book light I have.  My sheets and bedding are unlikely to be coveted by others. 

But that which I *would* like to leave behind, IS worth preserving, is worth working on--my scrapbooks, my writings, my paintings.  Certain pieces of furniture that I want to symbolize "Family" are worth the investment. That which would mean so much to me, that I would use it constantly, that it would come to be a treasured possession (oh say, a Kitchen Aid mixer) IS worth getting, worth the investment. 

In the end, my life is for me to live, and if my "stuff" lacks meaning for me, it is unlikely to HAVE meaning for anyone else.

The Bargain Queen Finds Her Kingdom

I turned my life upside down, got divorced, and moved out to Oregon for one reason: Bargains.  That's right.  The thrill of the hunt had worn off in St. Louis, and besides, I had an apartment full of lovely furniture and accessories that I hand-picked, and no real driving need to bring my skills to the next level.  However, beginning a new life with nothing more than the degree in your suitcase and a bank balance that perpetually hovers near financial ruin  is an excellent opportunity to start your training for the clearance Olympics. 

The Lottery Game

Do you ever play the “lottery game?”  You know, the one where you speculate what you would do if you won $5,000, or $100,000 or a $1 million or the whole $121 million dollar jackpot? Freak and I play this game on a not-all-together infrequent basis. Usually after I’ve been worrying about the present money situation. Which is smart. Really. Because, you know, I have a greater chance of being struck by lightening than of winning the lottery. And so, being a rational, reasonable woman, laying around and speculating about what I would do with my largesse would beyond silly.

Only, I do it. Which, incidentally, does not, in any way, relieve my present money worries. And, actually, playing the lottery game creates a whole host of new problems as it reminds me of all the things I would like to have.

Wearing Someone Else's Clothes

My style is an interesting jumble of misfires and bad choices, tentative steps forwards, and falls backwards towards blandness and practicality. When I was 15, I knew how I’d look at 25, a mixture of my Aunt Laurie and Auntie Mame, with a closet filled with thrift store finds and bargains from Filennes, and I would never be ordinary again.