Crazy chair lady

My husband and son think I'm insane with my craigslist addiction, my need to scour the listings for things I must have. Our tiny home bursts at the seams, trying to hold all of my fantastic finds. Oh, for a storefront, to help other [literally] poor, wayward home-shoppers find just the right items to make them smile each time they gaze upon their own abode.

But it's the chairs that really break my heart, people. The chairs.

I am a crazy chair lady. I cannot pass the sad, abandoned pieces on the roadside without a deep sigh, or (if they look promising) a quick-as-I-can U-turn to further peruse the cast-off.

I cannot tell you (and would be too embarrassed to tell you, even if I could) the number of times I've tried to save homeless chairs. I truly cannot help myself; it is an illness. I acknowledge this. Our home has been an ongoing parade of ever-changing chairs, from my single days onward... But I can't leave them, alone and unused. It's a crime to me. Even if I merely play the part of deliverer, hoisting them into the trunk of the Honda, where they hang out halfway, bungie-corded into submission, whilst I drive them to the "chair rescue" (Goodwill)... I drop them off in hopes that someone else can finish the mission I've begun.

What is it about chairs? Especially small ones—those petite resting places, so hard to find in modern furniture stores, where the entire showroom floor is awash in gargantuan, overstuffed monsters that wouldn't fit through our front door. Those diminutive forms, the ones that hug you when you sit down? Those are my chairs. When they rock or swivel? I sigh with delight. The low profile styles are my favorite. Even sweet wood dining chairs, or stools, the precursors to poufs... All of them make my heart go pitter-pat.

And I am sickened when I think of them languishing in a landfill. Why?! Why do I care so much? They are not alive. They have no souls, no feelings. But it breaks me. Secondhand stores, flea markets, yard sales–in each one, there hides a sad assortment of haunch holders that have been left behind in the rush to clutter our homes with chairs-and-a-half. What body could possibly need more than a single chair? No one will sit with you in that spacious, oversized mockery! Even if they did, what would it matter? Real intimacy can only be found when close proximity is chosen within a tight space.

So, my life's work has been reduced to this: save the chair. The cute little boudoir chair, the darling mid-century slipper chair, the dear barrel chair, the unaccompanied desk chair... All alone, all still full of purpose, some with weary upholstery but sporting those fabulous bones, and begging for a bright new interpretation.

Won't you join me? Better yet, for cryin' out loud: won't you be my patron? My kingdom for a storefront!

Voting with your fork (and your dollar)

Here's a little painting I just finished last week. (This painting, like most of the paintings I've featured here, is for sale in my Etsy shop.) The subject of the painting is one of a bunch of awesome Berkshire pigs, which are owned by the fine folks who run North Woods Ranch. I featured this ranch once before, right here, after I had painted a different sow from their growing herd.

Their ranch is home not just to the Berks, but also to Scottish Highland cattle. All the animals at North Woods Ranch are privileged (in modern America, anyway) to live their creaturely lives in the traditional, humane way that was intended for such creatures. They roam freely, eating or rooting in grass, exploring small sections of field to which they're confined for a few days before being moved to another plot to exhaust that space, and so on. Their food is supplemented with natural, non-corn-based feeds. Nothing that goes into the animals is genetically modified, none of the critters require regular does of steroids or antibiotics (because they're not living nose to hind end in filthy quarters, eating food that makes them ill), and the animals are never caged or confined. As a result, the pigs and cows are healthier—and therefore, their meat is healthier in every way.

One of my favorite books of the last decade is The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. I recommend it to people who can handle the truth. (Remember A Few Good Men?) I have read and re-read it, and I'm more and more determined each time I revisit it to stay committed to the task of eating responsibly and with as much awareness as I can. It's not just about meat, though; it's all the food in our industrial system. What most of us are really eating, every day? Corn and petroleum. But I'll let you read it for yourself.

The copy I have right now (having lent a couple of others, and subsequently replaced them) seems to be a signed paperback. I found it at Half-Price Books (love that place) and it sure looks like Pollen's name in the front title page. Whomever it is urges the book's owner to "vote with your fork," and while I agree with that sentiment in an indirect way, I feel as if Americans grasp the idea of voting with dollars a little better. Where we spend is what we value.

Will free-range, homegrown foods of all kinds cost more? Yes. Is it a deliberate choice about where you put your money? About which system you support? You bet. All that inexpensive food in the markets has a different price, really, but you'll never see it because the real cost is under-cut by our government. The people who help keep the sick, limping, oil-dependent system in place. Those people (as if I need to tell you this) don't care about your welfare. They talk a good talk, but in the end, when you need them to explain how all that corn syrup and corn-fed beef and steroids and antibiotic-resistant bacteria got into your and your children's bodies, you won't get any answers—they'll be on vacation in Hawaii, likely. So.

Inform yourself. I'll stop ranting now, but I encourage you, implore you, beseech you to learn more. To become a food radical. Your body will thank you. You'll be doing something meaningful, making a statement (however small). People don't need meat every day, at every meal. It's only possible because of a twisted means of bringing it to you in bulk for very little money. And when the animals suffer, so does your health. It's all related.

In the meantime? Go here and read about North Woods Ranch. Support it, and also other people who are trying to do it right. Community Supported Agriculture buy-ins are another great means of helping the little guys, as are farmer's markets. Or heck, grow your own food! Victory gardens are a fantastic idea all the time, not just in wartime. And stop buying tomatoes in winter, and asparagus in fall. Buy what's in season, from people nearby that you know, if you can. It's better for everyone.

Okay, done now.

Pondering my potential comeback...or lack thereof

I apologize for my absence. Just in case you noticed I’ve been absent.

I’ve been turning over some heavy subjects, not the least of which concerns whether I will have to return to work sooner than planned. (And pretty much anytime is sooner than planned, since I had cherished the hope that I’d simply be adored and supported comfortably by my patrons for the rest of my life. Don’t laugh; you know you hope for that, too.)

Now, please don’t misread my statement. I am not in a complete panic about the possibility of returning to work. There’s a not-so-small part of me that would embrace an opportunity to work outside of the home again. To work for pay again. To work for recognition again. To work at something I’ve studied and practiced and feel somewhat competent while performing. To be acknowledged by the rest of the working world. No, those aspects or returning to work don’t sound too daunting. My concerns run much deeper than that.

I fear that all the time and effort I’ve invested in my son will be lost. Suppose my investment should fade, those memories we’ve made become lost. Suppose his wild boy instincts are nurtured aggressively by an alternative caregiver, and my sensitive little sweetheart who loves to read and make his stuffed animals talk suddenly becomes a rough-and-tumble bruiser who thinks I’m a sissy neatnik. I know that will likely happen anyway… But does it have to happen already? So soon? I gave up a lot for this kid—and now he probably won’t even remember the bulk of my commitment, if it is to end at this point.

I also shudder when I consider that perhaps, no one will want to hire me. Why should they? What have I to offer? A frumpy housewife who’s been out of the workforce for over 4 years… My work experiences of late are probably not so useful to a potential employer. Yeah, I know there are lots of people out there touting the returning-to-work SAHM and how much common sense and no-nonsense attitude she brings to the office, but honestly, most of the folks spouting that opinion are—you guessed it—other SAHMs who are trying to return to work outside the home. The minute they see I’m not on LinkedIn, they’ll toss my skimpy resume aside like last week’s Us magazine. (Although, in honesty, isn’t LinkedIn just a work version of Facebook? “Connections,” “friends,” whatever you want to call ‘em—it’s all sort of high schoolish to me.)

And the biggest fear of all? That if I somehow can overcome everything, market myself successfully, iron a shirt and wear lipstick for a change, slough off the old homemaker/mom dinginess, and be a valuable commodity again, that it won’t be enough. Because, you see, it won’t be just me pulling myself up by my bootstraps and hitting the street, will it? No sir, it’ll be me…and thousands of other people who live quite near to me. Of which possibly hundreds are qualified to do the same sort of work I am seeking.

So, you can see why I haven’t had much to say of late. I’ve been thinking way more than I’d like to. Sometimes, it really does stink to be a realist.

Maybe next time, I can write something light and funny about my boy. I hate to milk him for amusing anecdotes like that, but I’m just not seeing much else worthy of sharing right now.

Stay tuned. And thanks for checking in.