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!

Mental gristle

Not a pretty picture, that subject line. Yet, that is what I feel I can offer to you today: Some thick, tough matters to chew on in your mind.

In a surprisingly helpful, public-minded move, Google's home page today is featuring a link to a voter registration URL. Are you currently registered? Are you certain? The deadline is coming up in the next week or two. If you've moved recently and have not yet updated your driver's license, then you are not registered in your new location—thus rendering you unable to cast a vote. Now, if you'd moved here illegally from across the border? That probably wouldn't be a problem...

On Saturday, I took my son to get his hair cut. He sat very still and looked so cute afterward that I treated him to a bagel at Panera. We sat at a table, inhaling the wonderful aromas, enjoying our buttery, bread-y delight, and we couldn't help noticing the older gentleman next to us. His posture was amazingly upright. When we we leaving, we stopped to tell him that we'd been admiring his posture. The fellow explained that he'd spent time in the military, and good posture had been ingrained in him then. The kind, obviously blind fellow then informed me that he admired my beauty. (No, I'm not kidding.) I burst out laughing, and reminded the poor guy that there were many more beautiful sights all around him; the restaurant was practically crawling with lovely young things. We walked out the door, and I experienced a revelation: Every charming old, white-haired man you see was potentially a girl-crazy, inappropriate pervert. I'll never know what those elegant elders were like when they were young, unrestrained upstarts.

It gives you pause, doesn't it?

We made yet another purchase from craigslist recently—a loft bed for my son's tiny bedroom. (I keep trying to make space in my life where there truly is none.) But my one-ness with craigslist and all things scrounged and secondhand often makes me think that my epitaph should read, "She knew how to make do." Perhaps it will. I could put that in my will.

Which, by the way, needs to be updated. One of the witnesses to our will died a few years ago, and although my lawyer friend says it will hold water anyway, I feel funny about it. Plus, it needs to be notarized to be really tight; we didn't do that because in Pennsylvania, technically the notarization isn't necessary. But.

Even if we don't touch the will, my husband and I both need to appoint each other as Power of Attorney. Did you know that isn't an automatic thing? This is important stuff, people. Do you have your affairs in order? I won't even go into the whole living will, although that's strongly recommended as well.

Better to address these things, right now, than to risk the fraught-with-disaster alternative—someone else addressing them when you're either gone from this earth or not able to do so for yourself.

See what I mean? Mental gristle. I wasn't kidding.

NOTE: I just noticed this is post #400. Wow! Hurray for me!

Our tiny, cozy city

So, you already know I'm a craigslist addict, as I've detailed my little problem here.

I found a huge blanket chest on craigslist. I mean huge. Immense. Monstrous. Voluminous. D) All of the above. I loved it. It was too expensive for me to justify to myself and to my husband, to whom I am always delivering sermons on thriftiness.

I emailed the seller. I explained that I could use the giant chest, but could not spare the full expense of said chest. I explained that I am an artist. I sent her some snapshots of my work. (Digital, of course.)

The kind, kind woman took the bait. She lived nearby. I made a plan to stop by with selected paintings. And then, lo and behold, she turned out to be—wait for it—my blogging friend's sister.

Seriously.

How weird is that? My very own blogroll buddy has a sister who's selling a behemoth blanket chest, and she is actually interested in bartering for my paintings.

It gets better, people.

We made a deal, and my husband picked up the chest and brought it to our home. I arranged to take the final painting choices to the chest lady's house, so she could select her favorite. I took them there this morning. And whom should I see as I exited this lovely woman's even more lovely home? Why, an old pal from my choir days at church. She happens to live next door.

Now, how weird is that? Honestly? That we're all so strangely, inextricably connected? I know that Pittsburgh is no super-metropolitan area, but still... There are a few hundred thousand people hanging around this general region. So how come I keep bumping into familiar faces? Familiar names? Why are we all experiencing six degrees of Mel, here?

It's part of the reason that I love Pittsburgh, but also part of the reason that it freaks me out a tad. I moved here for anonymity, following a very damaging period of years spent under surveillance in a small, northwestern PA town that was so bored it investigated its single teachers to determine whom they were dating. And now, just as I'm feeling safe and unnoticed in my bigger hometown, I realize that I'm actually living in a large, clear bubble... I'm starting to see what's up. Guess I'd still better watch my back, eh?

Why I love second-hand

My most recent craigslist purchase was a small, skinny little stereo. (I have already confessed my addition to craigslist, as explained in agonizing detail here.) The stereo was quite cute, much smaller and simpler than my decade-old Aiwa system (although that Aiwa had much better speakers—3-ways, totally superior to the newbies). Anyway. The little stereo popped up one morning on my monitor, and I wrote the seller and expressed my admiration for the item. I was the first to respond, and so the next evening I found myself happily driving to the Strip District with my not-so-crisp $20 bill in my coat pocket.

(On a side note, my craigslist habit has actually served me quite well, in that it’s forced me to explore parts of the city I would otherwise avoid. That Strip District foray was certainly not my first trip to our fair city’s own market district, but it was my first venture onto Railroad Street in quite some time—and my first look at some swank little lofts in an old factory that’s been converted… There are some really interesting and inviting city-living options these days.)

Back to the stereo: the seller showed me that it worked great, played CDs with ease, and took up a fraction of the space consumed by Old Stereo. I bought it and carried it to my car, flush with success. And then when I got it home, and we’d plugged in all the parts and hooked up all the wires, we were perplexed to learn that it buzzed. There was a strange electrical background noise that sang out insistently behind the music and voices. How odd. Todd gave me that look—the “you know you got scammed” look that he reserves for my unapproved craigslist purchases. I bit my tongue and pretended not to notice the annoying sound. In truth, it seemed to become less noticeable the longer the stereo was on. And honestly? For $20? I didn’t mind too much. I had a forgiving heart about that little slim little stereo.

Fast forward a day or two, and the kid and I were turning on the radio, noting (not for the first time) that odd buzzing noise. Even Marcus could hear it clearly. I sat on the floor, looking for the perfect CD to play, and while I perused I punched some random buttons on the front of the stereo. Lo and behold, toggling off the backlight button—in addition to turning off the backlight behind the display—caused the buzzing to cease. Hmmph.

And then I recalled a note in the seller’s ad about the backlight not working. I’d forgotten.

And the mystery was solved. When you turned the stereo on, you could either switch off the backlight, or simply wait for a minute or two, and that buzzing sound would stop. Why did this not annoy me? Why was I not frustrated with such a noticeable and intrusive idiosyncrasy? Because the stereo was used; my expectations were lower. Because I knew even before purchase that the item in question, although appealing, was also not new, not perfect, and therefore prone to system weaknesses and perhaps even failures.

And then it hit me: That is why I love craigslist, why I love used things. My last big craigs purchase? Our current couch. It’s a nice, comfy piece, Ethan Allen, it’s good quality and reliable… but the pattern on the seat cushions is slightly faded from contact with too many backsides, I suppose. The piping on those edges is a bit worn and thinning. Why was I not angry when I noticed this, after we’d purchased the piece and cleaned it? Because I knew there was a chance of that sort of imperfection. I knew, going in, that because the piece had been out there in the world, it couldn’t be perfect. I was getting a deal, but the deal had a catch: used goods have flaws. And I don’t mind, because I know that going in.

I must try harder to remember that my craigslist philosophy applies to us humans, too. We are none of us flawless. We’re out there, used, abused, we’ve been sat on too many times, our backlights are a little bit tired and we groan when someone asks us to brighten up for too long. I must remember to expect less from people. In the same way that craigslist is filled with good deals that are imperfect, my world of human contact is filled with good souls who have scratches, and dents, and are faded.

But oh, have you seen the difference in them if someone loves them again and gives them a second chance? What a deal you will find sometimes, when you acknowledge potential shortcomings up front. I am hoping that others do that for me.

Just buy it, already

Okay, so I should have called this site “malmoirs” because of all the maladies I’ve suffered since I began writing things here. But I didn’t. Aren’t you glad you can’t catch my germs over the internet? It has its own bugs—but none that you’ll contract from me.

So, this will be short since I’m only now beginning to feel remotely like myself.

Here are three inexpensive purchases that we should have made a loooooong time ago. I can’t even tell you why we didn’t. We just didn’t. And then we did. And now we are reaping the rewards exponentially.

• Kerosene heater. Every time the temperature dipped near freezing and strong winds or weird storm fronts came through, my heart would pitter-patter in a bad way, because in the back of my head was the realization that if the power went out for any length of time, we’d be forced from our home like refugees. I didn’t think about it until the dire forecasts were looming, and there I’d be shopping for milk and bread and toilet paper like all the other freaks who buy those things before a storm, and I’d be picturing us packing our important possessions and searching for a place to stay until the stupid electricity came on.

Enter craigslist, again. What a great thing that site is. I looked on it for a small kerosene heater, found a few, shared my great idea that we acquire one with Todd, and within two days we had one sitting in our basement, warming the place like a champ. $35.00. The couple selling it had no need (moving to AZ) and now it’s ours. They even threw in some kerosene. And why did this take us several years? Who knows.

• Extra garbage can. There we’d be, week after week, setting the garbage out and being forced to balance the extra bag on top of the stuffed garbage can, or worse, swapping out a bag or two from inside the can so that the smelliest food-filled bag would be safely encased, hidden from curious critters who rip the bag open and strew nastiness in their wake. And then, one week, we made it a priority; Todd picked another one up at the store and, lo and behold, we had enough room for all our crap to fit safely inside one of the locked containers. We’ve actually had this item for a few months; it’s just that I’m reminded what a good purchase it was every Thursday night when I’m getting the stuff together for that week’s trash pickup.

• Pencil sharpener. Todd has an awesome, huge box of colored pencils left over from his time as an art student at AIP. I’m a stamper—we try to make our own greeting cards, Christmas cards, and nametags and such—so I’ve pretty much taken possession of the box of pencils. But here’s the stupid thing: I’ve used them for years now, and when one of them would wear down to a nub, I’d whine and Todd would sharpen it with a pocket knife. Is that pathetic or what? So, finally, at a craft store last week, I made a point of finding a small, $2 pencil sharpener—one of those tiny metal ones that are just a silver square with two different sized holes—and buying the darned thing.

I cannot tell you the satisfaction I found later that day, sharpening one dull-tipped, bright-colored pencil after another. It really hit the spot. Of course, Marcus was using them too, and as fast as I could sharpen them, he wore them down with frantic scribbling. But I truly didn’t mind. At least not until my hand reformed into a permanent claw from overusing the sharpener...

So, that’s my story. Inexpensive but life-altering purchases that should have been made long before they were. Do you have any to share? Save me the wasted years and tell me what you took too long to buy.