Shell Shocked

~What I Didn't Do On My Summer Vacation-Part III~

Recently while reading Robelyn's post on her 4 year blog anniversary, it occurred to me I should check out the date of my own maiden launch.  Lo and behold...would you believe it?  I've been sucking all the air outta a room for 4 years myself!  I did a trial post in June, but actually sat down, loaded photos and started talking July 12, 2008, and I haven't run outta words...yet.

I realize how lax I've become and find myself posting less and less with each passing year, but you know what?  Stumbling around blogland, I see I'm not the Lone Stranger.  Everyone seems to have the same problems finding the time to post when just last year...there was time a'plenty.

  Wha' happened?

Was there an outbreak of fits and starts while I wasn't looking?

I've got me a coupla theories and even though you didn't ask...I'm gonna share 'em with you in honor of all the words I've typed over the last 4 years.

Plain and simple...blogging has lost it's shiny.

Like kids with a new toy, we shook the box, took it out for a spin and loved it to pieces.  We played with it for hours on end, sometimes broke it when it didn't need fixing, then upon spotting something newer and shinier outta the corner of our eye...proceeded to chunk it in a closet.  Oh we intended to come back later when time allowed and play with it again, but much like Woody in Toy Story, we forgot it was there.  We were way too busy tilt-a-whilrling on our new playgrounds...dizzy with excitement.  We always intended to get back to it, but when we did, we I realized two weeks had passed since our my last post.

In our high-tech, high-speed world, we depend...nay we crave...instant gratification.  If we need inspiration...click...we've got Pinterest where inspiration abounds with no strings attached.  No commenting...no interaction...nada.  Nothing needed but a good pair of eyes, an itchy trigger finger, and a password.  Same goes for FaceBook.  Feel a need to make a little chit-chat?  Just type in the ol' password and commence visiting...or lurking...your call.

Blogging requires a certain amount of self-discipline, a myriad of thoughts, and a willingness to share.  Things all of us were anxious to do at the get-go, but now...mmmm...not so much.  Fact is...it was easier when it was new and exciting, but as the reality of all the work involved with posting set in, we realized Pinterest/FB was simpler and just like that...the honeymoon was over.  Where Blogger was our House of Smoke and Mirrors, we were craving the Fun-House with it's spinning Barrel o'Love and having our skirts blown up over our heads. 

Hmmm...speaking of reality.

I've been reading mumblings/grumblings of reality disappearing in blogging, but honestly folks...when...if ever...was there any?  I mean, let me ask y'all one question.  How many of y'all want to see Cat Daddy's dirty underwear sittin' in a laundry basket?  Really?  C'mon...y'all all know that basket is just outta camera range, but tell the truth...wouldn't you rather gaze at seashells and dream of packing for the beach?  Wouldn't you rather pretend you hear waves crashing and not a washer filling?   Do you really need a screen-shot of C.D.'s tidy whities to remind you of chores waiting to be tackled? 'Cause if you do folks...just say the magic words...and have I got some reality for you!

Another complaint I've read is the amount of marketing/ads in blogland these days.  It does seem a few blogs are just one big ol' giant commercial, but I don't necessarily see that as a bad thing.  Just because some enterprising folks were clever enough to find a way to take the guilt outta blogging by making a little jingle-jangle for themselves and their efforts...I ask you...what's wrong with that?  (I'd like to add there is a huge difference between being a blogger-for-hire and self-promotion, but let's table that discussion for another day...'kay?)  Believe you me...I would if I could, but who's kidding who?  I can't even manage to get a post up once a week...much less 3-4 times weekly.  These folks have committed to way more work than I'm willing to do. They have to blog on a regular basis...key word here regular...while I sit on my git-a-long needing expecting  wanting to be committed, but lacking the self-motivation.  Y'all want reality...I'll give you reality.  I applaud those who find a way to make a blog pay, but the reality is...am I a little jealous of their business acumen?  I ain't gonna lie...heck yeah.  Am I willing to make plans to change my M.O.?  Not just no...but heck no.  Not saying I won't ever change...I just don't like to.  I'm a creature of habit...and that is my reality.

Law...I'll tell you one thing that never changes here at the Casita de Trash.  I still love the sound of my own voice, but for those of y'all who didn't click off three paragraphs ago...I'll cut to the chase.

For the last 4 years...I thank you from the bottom of my heart for hanging around here.  Just think of me as your neighborhood pool hall.  Noisy as all-get-out, racking my brains while trying to chalk up thoughts to share, and from time to time...getting caught behind the eight ball.

Now...what say I put a caboose to this train of thought and in the continued spirit of keeping it real answer some unasked questions?

1.  Yes...I am lazy when it comes to posting.  There...I've said it.  No apologies...I y'am what I y'am!

2.  Yes...I love to talk and plan to go on blogging...until told to hush...or hit with a gag order.

3.  And yes...as I hold a seashell up to my ear to hear the waves...I hear instead God's voice instructing me to hold on tight.

Changes ARE on my horizon.

Whether I like it or not...

Planned or unplanned...

Big changes.

      

Y'all Are So Bustiere-d...I Mean Busted!

C'mon y'all.

Did y'all really think I laid down Cat Daddy's good money for that book?

If I'm gonna spend that kinda do-re-mi on anything besides bling...it's gonna be for Carolyn's new book Through The French Door.  I bet she can help me pick the right shade of gray!

("Who knew there were so many Pink Panthers prowling icognito in the fiction aisle of Barnes & Nobles?" she says with a Purr-r-r and a wiggle giggle!)

Besides...have y'all read me?

You know I detest exercise in any form or fashion.

The only times I feel the need to hyper-extend any of my body parts might be when my nose gets outta joint or I got me a crick in my neck from looking over my shoulder one to many times.

Besides...remember my mantra?

Don't exercise...accessorize.

AND

just so's ya know...

I don't care if they once belonged to Harry Houdini....

handcuffs will never be invited to any of my daily Arm Parties

...unless of course they are mink lined!

This Is Why I Should Never Be Left Unattended

~What I didn't do on my summer vacation...Part II~

Picked up a new book the other day thinking I'd get me some basic "how-to" pointers on color choices.  If y'all have ever had to deal with picking out paint colors, you know how the right shade of gray can be an ordeal.

Am I right...or am I right?

But now I'm wondering if I can get my money back.

See y'all...it's like this.

I've read and reread this thing three times and I've yet to see any paint swatches. Believe me...I've looked...and looked again!

Not.one.single.color.wheel!

Hmmph!

I'm beginning to think 50 Shades Of Grey has nothing at all to do with decorating whatsoever.

On the other hand...

I've never been this clean before and there's nary a hint of Junker's tan due to several...

I repeat...

SEVERAL...

unscheduled cold showers.

Hideouts and Hidy Holes

There are a number of people who were instrumental in developing my young mind to appreciate and love antiques.  A 7th grade history teacher, my great-aunt Alice, my mother, others, but because today is Father's Day, I'd like to talk a bit about my daddy and the influence he had on me to seek and preserve history.

Growing up in the 50's and 60's few people collected antiques.  When I think of all the lovely pieces that were traded in for "new" things at Johnson's Furniture Store, it almost makes me weep.  Delicate French sofas and chaises, complete Victorian bedroom sets, oak pedestal tables, all considered "second-hand" by the standards of the day, but that was where my parents chose to shop.  Imagine the hootin' and hollerin' at our house when my poor Daddy tried to explain the importance of having a French commode in the living room to three kids...all under the age of 11.  Shoot...we were just fine with our American porcelain one!

I was fortunate to grow up in a household that cherished and encouraged a love for things that bespoke timelessness.  One of Mother and Daddy's favorite things to do was to load us up in our '59 Ford station wagon and go looking for abandoned houses.

(While this might be considered B&E or trespassing now, I promise you up and down, it didn't begin a life of crime for us kids!  It wasn't like we were known around town as Joe's Juvies or the House Arrest Gang!)

I vividly remember to this day one house in particular.  It was as if the family just got up from the dinner table...and left.  Everything in that old two-story was from another time and covered in dust, including toys.  I always wondered what would it take...what form of tragedy...could make a family leave everything behind.  Seeing their things...imagining their lives...that may have been the catalyst for my over-active imagination.  Who knows?  What I do know is it fueled a need to seek out old rather than new because of the story each piece held trapped beneath the layers of dust and grime.  That, my friends, is a history lesson that can't be taught in a classroom.

After I grew up and married, Daddy continued to bring me treasures he would find here and there.  Being a simple country man (fact is, I'm only one generation out of overalls) he didn't know the difference between Rococo or Rocky Road, but man alive...he knew how to pick.  He would show up in the driveway, greet me with his familiar "Hidy, Hidy!", then proceed to pull something out of the back of his pickup he had found for me.  Maybe he'd come in for a glass of tea or bite to eat, but often as not, he'd be gone as quick as he pulled up....never saying goodbye.  He never said goodbye...kiss my foot...nada...not even on the phone.  He'd just hang up, leaving me talking to myself and it.drove.me.crazy, but that was Joe.  Now you see him, now you don't...an enigma.

My daddy has been gone 24 years this November and writing to capture my memories of him just gave me some insight into his sometimes quirky ways.  His last day in this world, he had called Mother to say he wasn't feeling well.  (This may not seem like a big deal to many of y'all, but my Daddy was never ill and certainly not one to call for help.  Give him a can of Campbell's Clam Chowder and he was good to go.)  Warning bells must have been ringing in my Mother's head as she called me to go get him at his lake cabin...quickly.  Danny and I drove in the middle of a huge thunder storm, at one point actually behind a tornado, to reach him.  I was hearing the bells too and all the while in the back of my mind thinking "Wait for me Daddy.  I'm coming...please wait."

Turning the corner of his gravel road, I saw rather than heard the ambulance and the paramedics truck.  Staring at the blinking red lights, I felt the air leave my lungs.  A dream sequence, almost an out-of-body experience, began as Danny stepped out of our truck, turned to me and said "Don't move".

Watching him climb the steps to Daddy's big front porch.  Trying to read his and the paramedic's lips.  Feeling my heart pounding, holding my breath and desperately wanting to reach for the door handle.

Seeing my husband's dear face try to hold it together.  Waiting as he, head held low, slowly descended the steps. Then me...collapsing on the front seat in tears...knowing my daddy was gone.  He didn't wait....not even to say goodbye.

For a long time, I was angry with him.  He knew I was coming.  Why didn't he wait?

After all these years, the answer comes in the memories of life with Daddy.

I get it.

I finally see with my heart what my eyes, blurred by tears, couldn't.

My sweet Daddy never did like to say goodbye.

Not to the past...or even me.

Daddy, I know you're listening.  Forever...Hidy, Hidy.

 

Life Can Be A Beach

Do y'all remember going back to school after Labor Day and the first assignment was to write an essay on "What I did this summer."?

That's what I've been working on lately...only with a twist.

Mine will be more like an essay titled "What I didn't do this summer". 

To begin with...I haven't done this.

Instead of getting wet in the ocean...where it's cool and relaxing,

I'm getting sweaty cleaning out the barn...where it's hotter than whodathoughtit.

(Oh there's salt on my hair and skin all right.

Just not the smell-good kind...if you catch my drift.

Come any closer...and you will!)

Instead of walking along the shoreline gathering my thoughts and these...

I'm running up and down the highways...my gitalong parked in the poodle seat... gathering this.

Some would argue it's more fun than a barrel of monkeys to ferret out hidden treasures on the back roads of Texas and in the colder months I'd agree...

BUT...

this summer, seems I got me a real hankerin' to walk barefoot on the sand...

sportin' a fresh French pedicure,

bedecked in my new white eyelet dress,

while flashin' a smile and this.

Sadly my Happy-Birthday-To-Me bracelet and my chance to return starfish to the ocean are temporarily beached.

These days the only things I'm sportin' around the Casita de Trash are a junker's tan, raggedy jeans, and grocery store feet...

and the only sand in my hands is attached to 100-grit paper.

(I keep tellin' myself at least it's not in my underwear, but self replies it's willin' to risk being sawed in half for the smell of salt spray instead of dust!)

SIGH!

~Galveston, oh Galveston.  I still hear your sea waves crashing.~Jimmy Webb

(btw...IS SANDY SHORES ANY KIN TO DINAH?)

TBC

Crisp and Fresh

K.C.
Battle Creek, Michigan

May 27, 2012

Dear Decorators, Design Stars of Tomorrow and current Reality Stars et al.:

Recently we have noticed a trend that is creating a chasm in our current working relationship.  We have worked together for over 80 years with no major arguments, but as one of us has recently achieved super star status (thanks to being mentioned often) we feel a rift is is on the horizon.

Case in point:

A POP of color for fun.
I'll POP for that.
Makes a room really POP.

Really?  That's the first and only word that comes to mind?

We request a change to correct this oversight and stem any possibility of the disbanding of our trio.  At this time, we are prepared to provide two good reasons for a change in wording...beyond the obvious one of Pop being overtly prosaic.

1.  We are the Grape Nuts of decorating...guaranteed to move your business with minimal strain and maximum results.

2.  We're beginning to feel neglected, ignored and under appreciated...much like a couple of redheaded step-kids.

We respectfully submit our work request for your consideration.  Until that end, we quietly await your approval with our promise to start talking...just as soon as the milk of your kindness pours over us.

Sincerely,

Snap and Crackle

I Don't Want To Miss A Thing

To my bluest eyes in Texas...or anywhere else in the world...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY DARLIN' GRAYCIE!

You have bewitched me body and soul...

and I love...

I love...

I love you.

XOXO

Nana