tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3868141328144556812024-03-12T20:19:59.820-05:00SmalltropolisHome, garden, and life from a different perspective.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-25141383213013517762024-03-11T15:58:00.002-05:002024-03-11T15:58:41.963-05:00How to be happy<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCSz3apO7QRIObpGPciwmgkcwfRK6P6JNhHSx1IpGS8jzl6cX06hVZYUXHENO9Vsblr2-NGex95ctFM1qm97aXks81ADeJGF2-guEO71dPDTFSBMEm2LVQMURS21N0Mue74VuPeFO3skzB61yQB5rAabdIYtZB_19Xreo8ITolua40DXTXBv-hwDmZnyq/s640/IMG_1292.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCSz3apO7QRIObpGPciwmgkcwfRK6P6JNhHSx1IpGS8jzl6cX06hVZYUXHENO9Vsblr2-NGex95ctFM1qm97aXks81ADeJGF2-guEO71dPDTFSBMEm2LVQMURS21N0Mue74VuPeFO3skzB61yQB5rAabdIYtZB_19Xreo8ITolua40DXTXBv-hwDmZnyq/s320/IMG_1292.jpg"/></a></div>
Today’s assignment in my writing book is to write a story in which the protagonist does not get what she wants but nevertheless ends up happy. I’m drawing a blank. Crazy because, well, this seems like the absolute frickin’ theme of life. Actually, THAT’S what I want to write. I want to write about the assignment rather than writing the actual assignment. And is it just me and my sense of irony, or is that yet another way that I’m not getting what I want but ending up happy?
<br><br> Of course, lots of us don’t end up happy. But that’s the struggle, isn’t it? I’m tempted to say it’s the actual meaning of life, but I won’t. I’m still holding out on discovering something more profound. Or glittery.
<br><br> And there are people who get what they want. (Accumulated bitterness in my heart makes me think these people are rare.) And to be honest with you, I believe that most people, when it comes right down to it, don’t actually know what they want. So they have exactly no chance of getting it.
<br><br> Speaking of which, do I know what I want? Probably not. In fact, for an unreasonable amount of my life, the answer has been, ‘I don’t know what I want but it’s not this.’ To which you could oh-so-rightly accuse me of being an ingrate.
<br><br> But to be fair to myself, there have also been great swaths of my life when I was content, happy, hand-clapping joyous even. In fact, one could argue that these times outnumber the discontented times, both in number and duration.
<br><br> Huh! Maybe that’s it. When you’re grumbling how you never get what you want and it’s all just a big ol’ struggle, maybe the key to being happy is remembering that you often are. Maybe it’s about realizing that moods are just the weather. Gray skies will clear. (Drought, tornados, and ice storms are in the future too, but you get my point.)
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I realize a lot of what I’ve said is standard gratitude journal stuff. Be thankful for what you have. Hardly revelatory. But I will add that I’m convinced both positions of the pendulum are important. Without darkness, you’d have no measure of the light. Sadness helps us appreciate happiness. And don’t worry. I won’t be some super annoyingly chipper person and say, “See, by not getting what you want you get what you want!”
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Instead I’ll stick to, hopefully tomorrow you’ll get what you want and in the meantime, you have my permission to be pissed off. Like really ticked. You know, mad enough that your happiness meter tomorrow goes off the charts.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-84986846927604523512024-02-29T14:03:00.000-06:002024-02-29T14:03:47.000-06:00House showings and self knowings<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5LYHSeCsjRfHsMjGH3LNXiPjnc5FNP5xqMTeq3HdtgI_Py9bgE0fKzUEhDUlsYZGHmrnV09QjRM-dmWR2EvkoL4wvyVUn8BXX1IZ5KBE2tAUMyUtZHgBtWKxhDDu8YYz2y3iT0RM5rHdcz2mNKs6AImFv7sFo7lLnOmUUMDr9p37MpHJZ_LN8aIQd1yW/s640/IMG_1180.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5LYHSeCsjRfHsMjGH3LNXiPjnc5FNP5xqMTeq3HdtgI_Py9bgE0fKzUEhDUlsYZGHmrnV09QjRM-dmWR2EvkoL4wvyVUn8BXX1IZ5KBE2tAUMyUtZHgBtWKxhDDu8YYz2y3iT0RM5rHdcz2mNKs6AImFv7sFo7lLnOmUUMDr9p37MpHJZ_LN8aIQd1yW/s320/IMG_1180.jpg"/></a></div>We’re relisting. The house didn’t sell last fall so we’ve waited six months and now, here we go again.
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And I feel…I feel…I couldn’t put my finger on it as I sat across from M at lunch. He waited for a moment in silence and then said, “Like you’re standing out there naked.”
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Exactly! In fact, that’s precisely how I’ve felt all four times we’ve put a house up for sale. (The other two houses and this one twice.)
I was surprised that M felt it too, but maybe it’s just that obvious. You’re about to expose yourself, let one stranger after another come traipse through your home. They’ll rate your housekeeping skills and your taste in art. They’ll peek in your cabinets. Use your toilet. They’ll judge everything about your most private space and probably make assumptions about you to boot. They’re there to evaluate the house, sure, but how can you not feel, at least a little, that they’re judging you?
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Especially me. My identity is tied to my house. Even here, where we’ve lived just over a year. I haven’t had time to really make it mine. But that’s just it. I don’t make a house mine. The house is me. This is what I’ve come to realize, though I don’t know if I become the house or the house becomes me. When does it happen? How does it happen? Unclear. The feeling is weaker for this house and the last one. But my deep, seemingly never-ending grief for our first house, the house we were in for twenty years, is because I am still that house (or it is me?), even now, six years later.
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I’m writing this outside. The weather has been absolutely insane. It’s the end of February in Illinois and it’s 71 degrees. The daffodils and bulbs have been making themselves known for a week or so and today I noticed one of them has bloomed. It’s a burst of yellow, alone in the still mostly brown front bed.
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So I suppose if this house is me at all, that bold little flower has to be me as well, at least to some degree. Hard to fathom. It sometimes seems my fragility and uncertainty are all there is to me. I feel very little like a brave burst of sunniness and yet there it is. Accept it. I can push away the debris that’s in my way. I still know how to blossom. So, yeah, let them all come and look. I’m going to believe in my shine. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-51443126507730072812024-02-23T14:03:00.001-06:002024-02-23T14:05:57.745-06:00How to escape your problems.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSV3QwKL9GDIhHkfsRDxapDdpCm3vzLxvKIP_uOHpp23FrQsTyoWhdWw2cjWoewwVZdyDndOaG3kramg6L_YiYpVJ51KYTlFpA5b6i5f3PHViCwNg3_HJqydvOpv-SgfbaV2j_ap5-DIpFsYjVA1mPBA5vC1L0YGYVMr080VyRb8hut9_34hrdX52nYy9o/s640/IMG_0971.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSV3QwKL9GDIhHkfsRDxapDdpCm3vzLxvKIP_uOHpp23FrQsTyoWhdWw2cjWoewwVZdyDndOaG3kramg6L_YiYpVJ51KYTlFpA5b6i5f3PHViCwNg3_HJqydvOpv-SgfbaV2j_ap5-DIpFsYjVA1mPBA5vC1L0YGYVMr080VyRb8hut9_34hrdX52nYy9o/s320/IMG_0971.jpg"/></a></div>Sick of everything in your life? Easy. Get on a plane. Fly across the country to family or friends that you truly love. Don’t. Think. About. Home.
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This is what I did all last week. It works, until it doesn’t, meaning until you have to return and the boiler still doesn’t work and the door still doesn’t lock and the insulation still needs replacing and a hundred other boring, mostly extremely expensive things need doing. Yup, while you were off ice skating and learning to make pasta, it all waited for you.
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Yippee.
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As we went straight from the airport to the new house to deal with the latest crisis, I felt unmitigated anger. Why are we doing this again? Why did we choose to buy this project house that I’m not even all that into?
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I thought I had worked past this, but the familiar feeling I’ve battled so many times over the past months rose up again. I don’t want to fix this house. I don’t want to move into it. I don’t want any of this.
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And then, just as familiar, the response. It doesn’t matter what I want. For a wide variety of reasons, we are moving into this house. (And fixing it up before, but also realistically long after we move in.) That is decided. My only choice is whether to move into the house kicking, screaming, and being miserable, or move into the house looking for the good, and feeling grateful. That’s the choice. That’s it.
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My situation may (or may not be) unique, or particularly intense, but it’s not uncommon. No matter what, even when you have no alternative in which action you’ll take, how you take it is always up to you.
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I was hoping the trip would cure me of my burnout but it didn’t. Even this gives me an option. Do I focus on the trip not being some kind of miracle, or do I remind myself how wonderful it was to get away and how grateful I am that M didn’t have a problem with me going while he stayed and held down the fort?
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After we’d put out the fire, we headed to our favorite restaurant. My irritation was still palpable enough that M turned to me and said, “Hey, you’re still on vacation until tomorrow.” It took a moment to sink in, but then I smiled. He was right. Why dwell on problems right now when I could be present, be loved and be happy?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-40937023796973645972024-02-08T13:46:00.001-06:002024-02-08T13:49:09.020-06:00Lessons from linoleum (or, how I’m removing and taking my Armstrong 5352 Heritage Brick)<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKL55BbAktHZJkBvVeu1bB7UttfLU-2KZe8H7qD0GBGK6S6t4NaNlPfVF5_b6iNDiv9KtvPStZa6TgAU3olK_HBc2sAI6s6odCNjX165XIGDMf9qOazUODGm26eYmmhxEIQeq8bYVzIPL2N44GDIFS1vxrA7E6IMOrFwb1lYod919_nNKwPVtAgFc5Sxj/s640/IMG_0909.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKL55BbAktHZJkBvVeu1bB7UttfLU-2KZe8H7qD0GBGK6S6t4NaNlPfVF5_b6iNDiv9KtvPStZa6TgAU3olK_HBc2sAI6s6odCNjX165XIGDMf9qOazUODGm26eYmmhxEIQeq8bYVzIPL2N44GDIFS1vxrA7E6IMOrFwb1lYod919_nNKwPVtAgFc5Sxj/s320/IMG_0909.jpg"/></a></div>Some people dig up all the landscaping before they move. Some take the window treatments, the light fixtures, the major appliances. Amateurs all, I say. I’m taking my linoleum floor.
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Some of you will understand this. You are my peeps, the ones who flood message boards wondering where oh where oh where you can buy this stuff. (Nowhere)
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And some of you will not understand. You are the people who flood the internet with advice on how to remove linoleum, and then dance on its grave after you have ripped it into little shreds and damned its soul. You will replace the linoleum with gray flooring. You’re not bad people. You’re just doing a bad thing.
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Anyway, linoleum can teach all of us something. And no, I’m not referring to what a comfortable, durable, environmentally friendly flooring solution it is. Or even how fun, colorful and joy inspiring in an otherwise drab gray world. (And by the way, I should make it clear I’m not talking about vinyl, which is often called linoleum but is really a petroleum product doppelgänger.)
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No, I argue linoleum (or at least trying to remove it in one piece to take to your new house) can teach us real life lessons, the stuff that comes with wrinkles and bruised hearts. The stuff you try to tell the youngers. The stuff that you wish stuck the first time around, but in reality always needs review. So shall we?
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMrtENrgnG6ubxVjEgp6nhihzMHpaGFdbTBNtVTB-cqM9rODlKR0hD4jxVNg-0JOYwk90o_sEq8e0BOJBpVztdxTdrJQY63j9e5thtJJzK0m_07wapQP2ii3MxyqHRFJUurOQiG2l9HfXHHnh8nZL7t6xAggkn6Pn20StBIygB-j0SpPonUzyyX7Ezd4Gz/s640/IMG_0879.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMrtENrgnG6ubxVjEgp6nhihzMHpaGFdbTBNtVTB-cqM9rODlKR0hD4jxVNg-0JOYwk90o_sEq8e0BOJBpVztdxTdrJQY63j9e5thtJJzK0m_07wapQP2ii3MxyqHRFJUurOQiG2l9HfXHHnh8nZL7t6xAggkn6Pn20StBIygB-j0SpPonUzyyX7Ezd4Gz/s320/IMG_0879.jpg"/></a></div>1. Know what you’re getting into.
A cousin to measure twice, cut once, this is about doing your homework. I mean, sure, diving right in after a couple of beers can be fun at first but it usually leads to regret and unanswerable questions. Instead, peak under a corner, maybe under the fridge or a threshold. Is the glue dry and just aching to break free, or is it some evil precursor to Liquid Nails that will destroy you and everything around it before letting go? Try it in a way that lets you back out, no questions asked. And remember, I’m really talking about everything in life. Babysit before you get pregnant, that kind of thing.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt_nFCttLMV7Yo85JGPJk4cVSkVeAV9mFAPGUmXD8BiLCjmDMt-EFQRy2m9NmY5olc3Mch8uu9ZnxN_C5V2J3Zsc1v1K4qx6TfVxqKKnsHHrx39lt_TjlFHPyfP9gWVATBsa8JSUkAjuSob4Jcu1ylmaejCiDBwKYb1FcnMz5X59WKOJKPKQzDqz0iVRP6/s640/IMG_0882.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt_nFCttLMV7Yo85JGPJk4cVSkVeAV9mFAPGUmXD8BiLCjmDMt-EFQRy2m9NmY5olc3Mch8uu9ZnxN_C5V2J3Zsc1v1K4qx6TfVxqKKnsHHrx39lt_TjlFHPyfP9gWVATBsa8JSUkAjuSob4Jcu1ylmaejCiDBwKYb1FcnMz5X59WKOJKPKQzDqz0iVRP6/s320/IMG_0882.jpg"/></a></div>2. Use leverage
Whether it’s a broomstick or your father’s friend from Harvard, use whatever advantage you can. A paint scraper was all I needed to get my linoleum up, but it was slow. So I got one with a threaded end to make a long handled tool. Yup, a lever, which as the cool kids say, amplifies input force to produce greater output force, not to mention lickity split linoleum removal.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi359mo6PHYFzV0YTMvGMm2u7-8ROmADCrVChDuseI3ED4KV55kegd91af85hnQO3HBmyJ4927oRfj7k_JYH7O5dxdyDfO_i6GP64sPTh9DgrOfDpFFitN8FAwL8pUVVFqZLxZwUetuYoTbkbk9XZMm0raEssITdYv3qJYgu8KP_E6DOzUJ4b561_3eVZsJ/s640/IMG_0890.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi359mo6PHYFzV0YTMvGMm2u7-8ROmADCrVChDuseI3ED4KV55kegd91af85hnQO3HBmyJ4927oRfj7k_JYH7O5dxdyDfO_i6GP64sPTh9DgrOfDpFFitN8FAwL8pUVVFqZLxZwUetuYoTbkbk9XZMm0raEssITdYv3qJYgu8KP_E6DOzUJ4b561_3eVZsJ/s320/IMG_0890.jpg"/></a></div>3. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.
Sometimes, you don’t need to get clever; just roll with the obvious. In my case, quite literally. I was bound and determined to not create any cracks in my lino, so I tried all manner of crazy contortions to keep it flat. It was surprising to no one that I literally ran out of space and was forced to roll it up. It didn’t really cause any more splits and it made transporting it so much easier. So, if things are starting to get Byzantine, ask yourself, is there a more straightforward, obvious answer?
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgQtyL-G0IljSd4q73H9gGXTHGJ_VUXqBBe8A050NckVYOhfyZSNdceRYKbk8pIJ_P7wj6OfTXD5mxn6k9SbMQPfUicyaY__bV9vaqYV_u7NX79tUGpA2jRLFxTTn3Bp1kMrbeEAuF3R85S4j1cpM44ZhcX6GzwDz6abjnnVWMB7WHu57HlEItNoAJEsgC/s640/IMG_0886.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgQtyL-G0IljSd4q73H9gGXTHGJ_VUXqBBe8A050NckVYOhfyZSNdceRYKbk8pIJ_P7wj6OfTXD5mxn6k9SbMQPfUicyaY__bV9vaqYV_u7NX79tUGpA2jRLFxTTn3Bp1kMrbeEAuF3R85S4j1cpM44ZhcX6GzwDz6abjnnVWMB7WHu57HlEItNoAJEsgC/s320/IMG_0886.jpg"/></a></div>4. Focus on what you’re getting, not what you’re missing.
My gut told me to cut off the random edges of the linoleum and square it off. But I initially resisted. I wanted all of that lino, every last blessed inch of it. That didn’t work. Anything sticking out caught on stuff and created tears, making me lose more than if I had trimmed it to start with. This upset me until I remembered rule #4. You will never get everything. Sometimes you won’t get much at all. And even in your grandest successes, life has a cruel little way of guaranteeing that something will be lacking. Focus on what you’re getting, not what you’re missing. Find a way to be grateful. It will make you happy. Me and my rolled-up-slightly-cracked-but-totally-usable-unbelievably-awesome-impossible-to-buy-vintage linoleum guarantee it.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-22346619145630646862024-01-28T17:11:00.002-06:002024-01-30T12:36:26.742-06:00An imperfect path forward is still forward<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQC43WDUDGuzLM-XkF57pMYACfNuZfE4S2Au2J5v7nzShkdP-LDksX_zQJAO6PYUl1V2v1pcaw8bG5UABgs8fI8aMCbff8GMt5GX_I_rU83pVL0yuBTotPLTpRSWBLwVhG9-UXQLWlQos9tEcDLlem_KniBE2-5rf0H9bbq0Dv_lreSsXqe2w3UgI3_EMm/s640/Resized_Resized_20231213_093937.JPEG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQC43WDUDGuzLM-XkF57pMYACfNuZfE4S2Au2J5v7nzShkdP-LDksX_zQJAO6PYUl1V2v1pcaw8bG5UABgs8fI8aMCbff8GMt5GX_I_rU83pVL0yuBTotPLTpRSWBLwVhG9-UXQLWlQos9tEcDLlem_KniBE2-5rf0H9bbq0Dv_lreSsXqe2w3UgI3_EMm/s400/Resized_Resized_20231213_093937.JPEG"/></a></div>"There's more mouse crap than insulation up there," he said, grinning. He thought he was funny. He wasn’t. But then no one uttering these words to the owner of such a described space would be funny. I chuckled anyway. And although we should analyze why I sometimes prioritize the feelings and opinions of others over my own, instead, let’s focus on my current situation, that of preparing to move into a house with an R value of mouse poop.
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It’s been a long, twisty road, one that’s gone through a global pandemic, the death of two parents, job loss, community loss, actually who are we kidding? It’s just been a lot of loss, loss, loss. Oh, and four different addresses.
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See, other people got through the past few years by adopting a dog or learning to bake bread. M and I have done it by moving.
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In 2018, we left the home where we got married and had spent 20 years. Why? It’s hazy now. Something about the verdant ground cover in the suburbs.
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I’d known I would miss our house but deeply underestimated the gut punch of grief that subsumed me. And the new place was not all that. The basement flooded. (The week we closed.) The AC died. (The day we moved in.) The walls peeled. (No primer.) The cabinets joined in. (Ditto) The floor warped. (Heavy rain and/or angry gods.) And the neighbor with her multiple security cameras would frequently drop by to report what she’d seen on our property when reviewing the footage. Now, I’m not going to say she really was part of the Stasi, but she did have a pack of German shepherds. Anyway, the final straw was when the breakfast place three doors down turned into a five-night-a-week outdoor concert venue.
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So you see why I often say the pandemic lock down didn’t win the “Worst Thing” award. (Though M’s parents both dying in 2020 was a very strong contender!)
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Anyhoo, after the pancake place changed their slogan to “We will rock you,” M and I moved far, far into the suburbs. Oops. Too far. So, not even ten months in, we turned around, put the house up for sale….
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And bought this.
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Sigh.
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Why am I telling you all this? Well, I’ve ignored this poor little blog for a while and would like to start anew. But it seems disingenuous if not downright disconcerting to ignore the debris just behind me. So I’m drawing a map of where I’ve been. I’m locating myself, figuring out which way is forward.
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A friend once told me that sometimes to get to a good place you have to travel bad roads. I may not like the rodent droppings just ahead but I know where I am now, and that means I also know where the shopvac is.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-7179550357057481642023-12-12T13:45:00.001-06:002023-12-12T13:45:48.382-06:00Questions to Ask Before Starting A Creative Project
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKCKYfYZTUOuvgcmw6-_tUJ5DKWJ5tqITeWWPoeeEyDej8P7xrFoxFnOL28TYJd7tSCdZ3w9yzwkppC5DWAq3e_sMwCq2RK9CBg4Cju4_0OF3O93AX5Lzq73OVrLLVuz6qXtyyyO-7o1HXfqBQiOPgNTuEC390G83-f2Uun6Dp13XMn11CMTFxFRRklb7/s640/IMG_0613.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKCKYfYZTUOuvgcmw6-_tUJ5DKWJ5tqITeWWPoeeEyDej8P7xrFoxFnOL28TYJd7tSCdZ3w9yzwkppC5DWAq3e_sMwCq2RK9CBg4Cju4_0OF3O93AX5Lzq73OVrLLVuz6qXtyyyO-7o1HXfqBQiOPgNTuEC390G83-f2Uun6Dp13XMn11CMTFxFRRklb7/s320/IMG_0613.jpg"/></a></div><br><br>
On our morning walk, we saw a bin of freshly cut arborvitae branches. My fam was due in for Thanksgiving in a couple of hours. I had no business starting a crafty project. But wow! “Wouldn’t they make an awesome wreath?!” M said nothing. I checked myself. “No, I don’t need to. I don’t have time. Don’t let me take those on our way back by.” M said nothing. But the whole walk I thought of nothing but the wreath and when we circled back to the bin, I announced, “I’m just taking a few.” Mark said, “I know.” I pulled out as many as I could carry, took them home, and, by the time the loved ones arrived, the festive item was hung on the door and all the mess swept up. (I added the awesome Trader Joe’s monster felt pinecones a few days later.)
<br><br>
So there, a happy little story of a successful creative project!
<br><br>
But it’s often not like this. I am a serial over-extender, interested in making EVERYTHING, but also over-invested, a total perfectionist with no concept of limitation in skills. I approach it all with the attitude “I can make that! How hard can it be?” (I tried to make a mattress once, for god’s sakes.) But then I get upset when my end product is not the flawless thing I imagined.
<br><br>
Not all projects go south, of course. But I’ve never really analyzed what separates the good ones from the bombs. And so I’ve been pondering why the wreath project worked. Why no lingering mess, no swearing, no tears? Why was my entire self worth and meaning of existence not tied up in this door decoration?
<br><br>
Could I be getting better at choosing and managing creative projects? Possibly, but there’s certainly more room for improvement. Therefore, to help myself (and maybe others), I’ve come up with a list of questions to ask before I begin to make my own cookie cutters or build a greenhouse. (Both things I’ve seriously considered.) And before you ask, yes, I did Google to see if anyone had come up with a checklist like this. They had, but I decided to do my own, because of course I did.
<br><br><br><br>
Questions to ask before you start making something.
1) Do you need this? If so, would it be better (cheaper, faster) to just buy a solution? Why do you have to make this? Be specific. And if you don’t need it, why do you want it? What will you do with it? And again, would it be better (cheaper, faster) to just buy it?
<br><br>
2) Have you ever done anything like this before? If so, how did it go? Did you enjoy the process? Were you satisfied with the results? If the answer to either of these last two questions is no, will this time really be different? How? Specifically. As in, really seriously, how is it going to be different? If you have never done anything at all like this before, what makes you think that this particular completely and utterly novel endeavor will not be the completely and utterly irritating and frustrating experience that novel endeavors are capable of being? Again, please be specific.
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3) How great an investment in time and material costs do you estimate this project will take? Multiple that by three. Are you willing to invest that much time and money to achieve this goal? Are you willing to invest that time and money even with the possibility of not finishing the project? And if necessary, would you be able to recognize when the project is no longer worth your time and/or resources and stop working on it? And if you do that, will you be able to reframe it into something positive rather than a “waste” or a “failure?”
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4) Are there other projects “in the hopper” that you would rather spend your time on? Why do you think you haven’t started those? Why does this one have more allure than those? Could you come back to this idea after finishing one of those? (In other words, after this one loses its shiny newness, will you really still want to do it?)
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5) If you decide to begin this project, would it be worthwhile imposing a deadline or other limitations to either ensure it gets finished and/or to limit your frustrations? And finally, how can you lower expectations of perfection in the finished result? How can you have more fun with this?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-61560127158190892452022-07-11T12:42:00.000-05:002022-07-11T12:42:27.972-05:00Another day, another contractorI'm not so good at hiring contractors. Firing them, though? I'm a whizz. (Does that say more about me or the applicant pool?)
Anyhoo, the electrician I had in last week was, um, good, as in nothing has caught fire yet. He sped through $800 of my list in three hours, partly because he didn't even turn off lights, let alone breakers. (Go live or go home, baby!!) Unfortunately, hanging vintage fixtures did not fit his ten minutes per task business model. But there's always some "whatever-I'll-just-do-it-myself" work left after a contractor leaves. (I do realize this is not normal, but I also realize that little about me is, so, yea, whatever.)
So, all in all, success!
Until I did laundry.
You know that moment (probably you don't...good for you) when you feel and hear the splash of your foot hitting what should be solid, dry VCT tile and two thoughts go through your brain. One, am I about to be electricuted? No, that probably would have happened instantaneously and I wouldn't be having this conversation in my head. And secondly, what are the chances that that water has some nasty, sewage-based pathogen that's going to wriggle its way into the skin on my feet and cause some chronic, debilitating, impossible to diagnose illness? High? Yea, based on the smell of this reflecting pool, I'm going with high.
The plumber came quickly. I called the dude I'd used in the kitchen. You know the one, the guy who used my hand towel dipped into toilet water to clean up excess caulk around the sink. That one. (He lives near by, okay? I knew he'd be quick.)
After $60 worth of plumber time (2 minutes), he realized the ejector pump outlet no longer worked. So when the washing machine dumped into the ejector pit, it had overflowed into the sewer line which then flowed up the floor drains. Yeah!!
The electrician came back and fixed what he assured me was someone else's mistake. Compensating me the $60 was not going on, and in fact, I should be grateful because he wasn't going to charge me for the return visit.
What a guy. I kept the quiet part quiet, but he's fired.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-45401136726026860942022-03-22T14:00:00.000-05:002022-03-22T14:00:49.911-05:00The Copernican Principle applies to you. And your little hat too.<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9iLXgcnkbd2IbOo5fZExdKZJzTKfHl2P-jnWMLO2iWtEoE2rHfYMAjMUy0Hf1k2wS0-Y6usqk7w60J2EGjZEXhBXu3mBJBzdhfBN7rFSwCI2o4qVH77ZfcKm-YUsyxW6dA4mXdzEosNRhEDPjYzw2b4dPBn5iczfN0Sc_-DlovSLuLn9deoHpjHRXgg/s2583/IMG_4106~photo-full.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2583" data-original-width="2050" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9iLXgcnkbd2IbOo5fZExdKZJzTKfHl2P-jnWMLO2iWtEoE2rHfYMAjMUy0Hf1k2wS0-Y6usqk7w60J2EGjZEXhBXu3mBJBzdhfBN7rFSwCI2o4qVH77ZfcKm-YUsyxW6dA4mXdzEosNRhEDPjYzw2b4dPBn5iczfN0Sc_-DlovSLuLn9deoHpjHRXgg/s320/IMG_4106~photo-full.jpg"/></a></div><br><br>I made a hat. It isn't perfect. It's reasonably good but not perfect. Cue the self-loathing.
<br><br>
Two weeks ago, I didn't even know what millinery wire was, so what did I expect?
<br><br>
Duh? Flawless stunning art the likes of which have never been seen before. I mean, sure, all the other bums in the world require years and years to improve their skills. But I should get it in one.
<br><br>
Mm hmm. Us perfectionists always get it in one. Or not. And then we're blights upon the earth, consuming oxygen we don't deserve. We are either extraordinarily good or extraordinarily bad. But we are the exception.
<br><br>
Except that we're not.
<br><br>
Cosmologists have something called the Copernican Principle, which basically says nope, we're not the center of the universe. We're average. And this moment? It's unremarkable too. All the cool, amazing, and indeed, also horrifying stuff we're observing right now...it has happened before and it will happen again, in some other time and some other place. You ain't nothing special.
<br><br>
It's a humbling and useful concept that we often try to wriggle out of. The denial usually goes something like, "Humans can speak, play jazz, and remove their own ear wax! Surely that makes us better than dolphins?" Or, "This is my first time welding, but why wouldn't I be as good as Alexander Calder?"
<br><br>
Don't get me wrong. There is something beautiful and unique in each of us. My average is different than your average. Try as you might, you won't get the wrinkles in your brim exactly the way I did. Perfectionists need to learn from this, or even better, love from this. Be forgiving, to others, and to yourself. You're made out of the same exact stardust as everyone else, baby. But your twinkle? It's just the teeniest, tiniest, little bit different. Forget everything else and go celebrate that.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-42328647832255936932022-02-16T15:24:00.002-06:002022-02-16T15:27:02.634-06:00How to be free<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1vVh-QFWIsbczQZU_U6hHGqKGOK6CgqrgYHpxTGCPVQaKuTNi_jk1vYnUbO8IY_Tc1PLOXnZSwYeSGvka7RA86oZhPSsQJHZe4OJq6b2j-A72dt8K4B4SwWayi5Jh7OgNL6jMyW_4WP27bDbmZa7Bd8TgDtshXH_WOXxKafEkt4w8jmM-Bp9qQbmDBg=s3981" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="3981" data-original-width="2418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1vVh-QFWIsbczQZU_U6hHGqKGOK6CgqrgYHpxTGCPVQaKuTNi_jk1vYnUbO8IY_Tc1PLOXnZSwYeSGvka7RA86oZhPSsQJHZe4OJq6b2j-A72dt8K4B4SwWayi5Jh7OgNL6jMyW_4WP27bDbmZa7Bd8TgDtshXH_WOXxKafEkt4w8jmM-Bp9qQbmDBg=s320"/></a></div>You know the projects. The formerly shiny ones. The ones in paper bags, that elevate your blood pressure when you think of them. The ones that haven't seen forward progress in months. Or years.
<br><br>
Let them go. I'm officially giving you permission. You can grieve. Sure. Look at me. I'll never restore a vintage stove, even though it was my heart's desire for twenty years. As my big pandemic project, I finally bought one. Took it apart even. Then it sat. And sat. And sat.
<br><br>
I sold it this weekend, all 15 boxes of it. The tears I shed as the buyers drove away were partly because they seemed even less competent than me and partly because, well, you know, that whole remorse of failure crap.
<br><br>
Get over it, just like I did, when I walked down to the basement, looked at my work table, and saw...nothing. The work surface was bare. Free. Just like me.
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And now, the most deliciously, delightful question us makers can ever ask...what's my next project?
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-38691208797988485162021-07-31T15:21:00.003-05:002024-01-30T12:41:13.124-06:00I live with my ants<!-- wp:paragraph -->
<p>We only had ants at the other house a few times, always after heavy rainy periods. But when they came, they came in armies. At first I thought their mission was simply the capture of errant crumbs and I cleaned obsessively and used charming home remedies to intercept their intelligence. But I came to realize that these were hardened soldiers; they marched in disciplined files and their real objective was to overrun me. Peppermint oil wasn't going to do it. I needed to get aggressive and take the whole nest out. Nasty, yes, but I was up for it. </p>
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<p>The word "eusocial" combines the Greek prefix for good with the word social. Humans, who of course came up with the word, are "good social," as are honey bees, and, yeah, ants. Organisms that are eusocial express the highest level of sociality. They engage in complex behavior like group decision making, cooperative care of the young, and division of labor. And beings that are eusocial—good social—are able to do all kinds of things, including, ironically, wage war.</p>
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<p>The ants in my new house aren't eusocial and they don't wage much of anything. They're loners who stroll around seemingly pointlessly. They're not triggered by rain either. They're there in droughts. They're there in the winter. They're just there. Not a lot of them, just one here, one there. But they are always there, traipsing across the kitchen table, scurrying over my yoga mat. They don't really bother me, which is good because I wouldn't know how to fight them if they did. Maybe I'm too much like them, not anti-social, but no longer eusocial either. I do remember it, though, working well with others, having purpose, finding the drive to go on the offensive. I just feel different now. I see that life's path is more squiggly than straight. And that being unaccompanied can actually feel safe and comfortable. </p>
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<!-- wp:paragraph -->
<p>Whenever one of these tiny souls tickles across my arm or ends up in the cereal bowl, I wonder, is she also buffeted by heart ache? Unmoored by the pandemic? Or just made a bad decision and got lost? </p>
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<!-- wp:paragraph -->
<p>Oh, there's one now, meandering across the laptop screen. There are no comrades in sight. It's just the two of us here, together but alone. Alone but together. </p>
<!-- /wp:paragraph -->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-6931694278993067572021-06-06T15:27:00.016-05:002022-01-25T16:19:12.363-06:00Before and After<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0-tXCthCJqXRTZUFmGzMNpYNU-TPe7ndP9mZN0YcngyZ90mTjIthnGBA5Xyqbc2iicbnJB9HYCtLoCV_Lin92IXv7VhZFH8HHH0p0CtTjyfquRxXdU3WAlath4sVC94_pn1fOZhgOgA1OeVURAXfMinujK6js6vDqxQpJyiOLRtlrCNOw0YbpbzRXKg=s461" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="461" data-original-width="351" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0-tXCthCJqXRTZUFmGzMNpYNU-TPe7ndP9mZN0YcngyZ90mTjIthnGBA5Xyqbc2iicbnJB9HYCtLoCV_Lin92IXv7VhZFH8HHH0p0CtTjyfquRxXdU3WAlath4sVC94_pn1fOZhgOgA1OeVURAXfMinujK6js6vDqxQpJyiOLRtlrCNOw0YbpbzRXKg=s320"/></a></div>
<br><br>
That key is from a yoga studio I taught at. It's from before.
<br><br>
Before, when we lived in the other house. The house we'd lived in for twenty years. The house ten miles and a universe away. The house I thought I was ready to leave but instead grieved like a dead friend.
<br><br>
It's from before, when my husband's parents were sick, but not that sick. Not sick in a way that breaks you, grueling and relentless. Sick in a way that makes M and I scream at each other because we're tired and scared and it's gotta come out somewhere. Sick in a way that when the interminable finally, at last, mercifully does actually terminate, you're relieved in a way that must always be the quiet part, because there is no grief, just shattered emptiness.
<br><br>
The key is also from before a world-wide pandemic (isn't this redundant?). It's from when the biggest hazard in teaching Pilates was being part of a joke about rich white women. When eating snacks from a giant bowl at a party seemed like a fine idea.
<br><br>
Before is really not that long ago. But waking up here, somewhat suddenly, in the after, I don't know how to get back. Sure, I've stopped stalking the other house. The in-laws are resting in their marble "condos." (I'm probably still unfilial but this is their joke, not mine.) And I'm fully vaccinated.
<br><br>
And yet...I still sit around the house in sweats with holes in the rear. I'm waiting...for something. I suspect it's bravery, the bravery of removing that key from the ring, going back out into the world, and looking for some new doors. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-83027595319637753632014-02-14T15:18:00.000-06:002014-02-14T15:27:06.093-06:00BlogHer killed my blog.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_f7bscmRf8w/Uv5_cd6iDMI/AAAAAAAAAGU/VOuj6YLtXTQ/s1600/WrenGardenWM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_f7bscmRf8w/Uv5_cd6iDMI/AAAAAAAAAGU/VOuj6YLtXTQ/s400/WrenGardenWM.jpg" /></a></div>
<br><br>
Wow! The last time you heard from me I was at the BlogHer convention, learning how to blog seriously, how to blog popularly, how to blog humorously, how to blog and make money at it...
<br><br>
That was six months ago.
<br><br>
What happened?
<br><br>
Good intentions happened. <br><br>
And then paving the road to you know where happened.
<br><br>
BTW, here's a really lovely picture of me. And what were we talking about?
<br><br> <br><br>
One day a friend told me about her sister who spends four hours a day in the garden.
<br><br>
Me: Blink. Blink.
<br><br>
Her: Four hours! In the garden! Every day!
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Me: (In my head) What's your point? (Out loud) THAT IS INSANE!
(In my head) Is that a long time to be in the garden?
<br><br>
Distractions! That's what I'm talking about. Distractions like my garden, where I have been known to spend all day. I mean days. But summer is short, right? I can cook, clean, bathe, make money, exercise, et cetera all winter.
<br><br>
Anyway, my point is, I'm back! I can't promise how long I'll stay on the blogging wagon, but at the moment, you have my full attention. Or at least part of it.
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Love,
<br>
Wren
<br><br>(P.S. Happy Valentine's day!)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-20494644726116418702013-08-04T20:05:00.000-05:002013-08-04T20:05:44.207-05:00Lessons from BlogHer '13<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/9408856801/" title="Wren at convention by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3713/9408856801_d2dc22e41a.jpg" width="500" height="358" alt="Wren at convention"></a>
<br><br>
BlogHer '13—my first blogging convention—was last weekend. And I learned a lot! For example:
<br><br>
#1 No Russians are reading my blog.
<br>
When I look at the statistics for who's looking at Smalltropolis, it's <i>very</i> impressive. For example, today I have 43 pageviews from Latvia. Switzerland is represented, as is France, Denmark, China. Just a world-wide appeal I have goin' on. (Gloat.) Thing is, as I learned at BlogHer, that's almost certainly because the analytics I'm looking at aren't very accurate. Lots of spam is included. To get the real numbers, I need to sign up for Google Analytics. Блин!
<br><br>
#2. Great photography doesn't come from the womb.
<br>
The kick-off keynote speaker was Ree Drummond. I'd certainly admired the beautiful photography on her blog, <a href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/">The Pioneer Woman</a> multiple times, so it was pretty enlightening when she showed some of her early photos. They were, quite simply, dreadful. It really drove home how good writing and good photography aren't talents people are born with. They take work, which gives me hope, because this blog certainly isn't where I want it to be yet. I mean, what is going on with the photo-shopped quality of the pic above? And if no Russians are reading this, how funny is it really to throw in a (mild) Russian swear word that few American readers will get? No question, I have a lot of work to do. (Блин!)
<br><br>
#3 Make the small feel big.
<br>
At the "Newbie Breakfast" we were given thoughts on how to network: Be curious about people, initiate conversation, be the one who notices those hovering on the edge of a group and invite them in. Make people feel important—it's good advice. I vowed to try it.
<br><br>
Towards the end of the day, I was walking down a fairly empty hall. Lisa Stone, one of the co-founders and CEO of BlogHer, was walking towards me. As we came closer to each other, she said hello. Nothing surprising there, except in the way she said it. It was as though she knew me, as though she cared, as though, well, as though I was <i>somebody</i>.
<br><br>
"That's why she's the CEO!" I thought to myself. I need to learn how to do that. "Hello!!" I said back to her.
<br><br>
She smiled. My technique wasn't quite there. I guess it's something else to work on. (Блин!)
<br><br>
Wren
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-81774393034022195392013-07-28T20:56:00.001-05:002013-07-28T20:56:09.314-05:00A blogging convention? You'll need business cards!<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/9387280157/" title="IMG_2716 by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7454/9387280157_1d813161df.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="IMG_2716"></a>
<br><br>
Blogher 2013 was this weekend. It was the first blogging convention I've ever attended (I'll post more reports in the coming days.) Though I was excited, I wasn't exactly at my best about getting ready. I knew I needed business cards for it but I waited until, oh, uh, the night before to make them. And then I was super tired, having gardened like a maniac all day. I woefully asked Jay to help me.
<br><br>
For a few minutes we silently sat cutting. (Well, OK, I was lying on the floor. What can I say, I'm pretty adept with sharp objects.) Finally (irritated) Jay said, "How many did you make?"
<br><br>
"200"
<br><br>
"You're not going to need 200 business cards!"
<br><br>
"Alright. This stack will make 100. We'll stop there."
<br><br>
"I think that will be plenty."
<br><br>
"And I could take my scissors and cut up the rest while I'm there."
<br><br>
He stared at me for a moment, then—adopting a fake voice—"Yea, there was this really weird woman who sat in the corner all day, cutting up business cards."
<br><br>
<br><br>
Ah, the funniest lines cut so close to the bone, don't they? I mean sitting in the corner, cutting something up is...well, this wouldn't be a precedent.
<br><br>
<br><br>
So the next morning I headed to the convention center with my hand-cut, mildly-embarrassing but perfectly serviceable, xeroxed business cards. And no scissors.
<br><br>
Wren.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-10645887187398489182013-07-16T10:10:00.000-05:002013-07-16T10:10:13.806-05:00Garden project: strawberry bed!A better return on investment that tech stocks in the '90s, the six 50¢ strawberry plants I purchased five years ago have yielded probably a hundred pounds of strawberries.
<br><br>They've also created a wild, unpickable bed.
<br><br>In the photo below, you can see the bed in 2009. The strawberries are just above where it says "Smalltropolis".<br><br>
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/9301703266/" title="Strawberries 2009 by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3703/9301703266_30b83cc288.jpg" width="500" height="334" alt="Strawberries 2009"></a>
<br><br>
Here's what the bed turned into:
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/9197520942/" title="IMG_2618 by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2875/9197520942_104fe1506f.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="IMG_2618"></a>
<br><br>
Time to show these things who's boss! I'm reigning this mess in, and and adding some paths for access!
<br><br>
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/9197523506/" title="IMG_2619 by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2881/9197523506_2fb9062d32.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="IMG_2619"></a>
Day One:
<br><br>
I mark out the borders of the bed and where the paths will go. I clear the first section. It kills me to throw perfectly good strawberry plants away but I have a bazillion of them and trying to move them or give them to neighbors will make a big job even more monumental.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/9194731611/" title="IMG_2620 by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5498/9194731611_d9791abc72.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="IMG_2620"></a>
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Globe arborvitae will make a little hedge in the back section, which will mirror the boxwood hedge at the front of this bed (not shown in this picture.) I mark out where the plants will go.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/9197520320/" title="IMG_2621 by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7391/9197520320_a0b0c6279d.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="IMG_2621"></a>
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By the time I get them in the ground, it's way past lunch and I'm exhausted.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/9197524246/" title="IMG_2622 by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7378/9197524246_6988ea60e6.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="IMG_2622"></a>
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I come back after lunch, mulch them in, take the tags off, and I'm done for the day!
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/9197522712/" title="IMG_2623 by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3810/9197522712_8970334637.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="IMG_2623"></a>
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Day Two:
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I get the bottle edging put in and add more mulch.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/9197526698/" title="IMG_2626 by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5335/9197526698_f26987c208.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="IMG_2626"></a>
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Day Three:
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I get the second section cleared.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/9194735437/" title="IMG_2627 by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7425/9194735437_ffed77c1c7.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="IMG_2627"></a>
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More bottle edging. More mulch.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/9197525006/" title="IMG_2628 by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7346/9197525006_d84a67fb67.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="IMG_2628"></a>
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Flagstone pavers go in and Elfin Thyme ground cover.
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So, that's as far as things are at the moment. I'll post more updates as it gets further along.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-814968387114709842013-06-14T19:53:00.000-05:002013-06-14T19:53:24.625-05:00Are we there yet?<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/9044500327/" title="Fledgling by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3818/9044500327_0231990335.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="Fledgling"></a>
<br><br>
There are three robin fledglings in the garden. When Jay and I noticed them (probably one of their first days out of the nest), they were each hiding in a different shrub. The mother was nearby, making a very loud, very high-pitched sound, over and over.
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It was the highest alert sound for a robin—what they use when a predator flies overhead. Jay was quite amused that we were on par with a hawk, but to me it was interesting that the sound clearly meant: "Be very still!" And the little fledglings did exactly that.
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Perhaps it was how motionless they were, but they seemed terrified. So small, so fragile, they were both beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time.
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That was only a few days ago. Now they fly up into the giant tree in our neighbor's yard and come back to land on the telephone wire with a whoa-oa-oa…as it swings back and forth. It's funny to see them, frantically flapping their wings, trying to keep their balance. They've come so far, and yet they clearly have a few things to learn.
<br><br>
I can relate. Last year I decided to become a fitness instructor. After six months of aerobics teacher training and studying for the certification test, I still feel, well, ridiculous. I'm too old. I'm not athletic enough. I feel horribly insecure about it all. Maybe I'll just stay right here in my little spot and hope nobody sees me.
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But that's not how it works, does it? At some point, you have to make your move...even if you're not ready. Or as Jay tells me, "You've got to give yourself room to be bad for a while."
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I don't like that. I want to be a great teacher. I want to be confidant. I want to fly to the treetops and then land gracefully! And I want it now.
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Isn't that the worst part of learning something new? The time it takes, the patience it forces? Ugh.
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With hard work and perseverance, I know I can be a good teacher. Just not today, little bird. Just not today.
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WrenUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-81783304824535133972013-06-06T15:34:00.000-05:002013-06-06T15:34:11.483-05:00It's my blog and I'll post if I want to. <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8971489585/" title="Wren helps with a post by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7411/8971489585_410b6b7430.jpg" width="341" height="500" alt="Wren helps with a post"></a>
<br><br>
Over two years now I've been blogging. No, that's not right. Over two years now they've been blogging: the dolls, the puppets, the opinionated inanimate objects that populate my world. That's how I set up the "rules" of Smalltropolis. Readers never see or hear from me. It's all them: <a href="http://smalltropolis.blogspot.com/2011/02/see-your-footprint.html">their diatribes on pollution</a>, <a href="http://smalltropolis.blogspot.com/2011/02/what-to-do-with-sour-milk.html">their how-tos on baking</a>, their musings on the world at small.
<br><br>
But now, increasingly, I want to speak. It seems some of the most interesting, funny, even enlightening thoughts are not from them, they're about them. Or maybe they're about me. Or maybe I'd just like to think I'm at least as interesting as a tiny version of myself!
<br><br>
But what about my readers? Will they be confused? I mean, all along we've been pretending there are no adults home, there's no meta in my micro, right? Why the sudden shift? Will it put people off?
<br><br>
My husband, (you'll know him as "Jay") got an earful of this over breakfast: "I'm starting to have followers! It's not into double digits or anything but there are people out there, reading what I write. And some of them aren't even related to me! So is it wrong to change my "rules?" Maybe I should start a new blog. But would dolls post on it too, or just humans? "
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"What's Rule Number One?" he sighed.
<br><br>
"Do what you want."
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"And Rule Number Two?"
<br><br>
"Pay attention to Rule Number One."
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"OK, then." He got up to carry his bowl to the sink.
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"But-"
<br><br>
"Just pretend you're Wren and write a post about it."
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….and that, dear readers, is how Smalltropolis just got a little bit bigger.
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Jill HollyUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-15595733443072521732013-05-15T10:51:00.000-05:002013-05-15T10:51:40.712-05:00You are not a Jedi yet, young gardener <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8741524932/" title="Wren in the garden by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7282/8741524932_e7eaede9ca.jpg" width="465" height="500" alt="Wren in the garden"></a>
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Corner house + double lot + 10-foot parkways = whole lotta lawn. And that lawn had been ignored for years when we bought the house. Moving in, we admired the pretty white flowers covering the grass.
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Uhhh. Yea. Those would be bindweed flowers. Bindweed, nicknamed "Devil's Guts," is an invasive weed with roots 20 feet deep and 30 feet wide. Or more. Even the tiniest bit of root propagates a new plant. Not that that's necessary: the seeds are viable for 60 years.
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Once I realized what a monster it was, I knew I had to get rid of it. So, being a devout organic gardener, I tried heavy mulching, black-plastic solarization, clear-plastic solarization, hoeing, tilling, pepper spray, vinegar spray, weed torches, salt, soap, hand pulling, and ultimately hair pulling. I kept reading cheery accounts of how these methods worked on any weed, but my 7,500 square feet of heavy, well-established infestation gave not an inch.
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So I began reading up on chemicals.
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It's a classic tale of how one goes to the dark side. I was desperate and both 2,4-D and glyphosate, ingredients in common herbicides, lured me with magic bullets — they supposedly killed bindweed. So I dutifully researched what these chemicals do once released into the environment and decided it was OK; I could indeed bed down with Monsanto.
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One trip to the hardware store later, I was suiting up in full haz-mat gear. In the flower beds (I wasn't yet growing veggies), I delicately painted Round-up on bindweed leaves with a brush. The lawn I sprayed.
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Bindweed leaves started turning brown within hours. And, after a couple of applications, the plants died. They DIED. Jay dubbed Round-up "Die Mother F*%#@~*!," which I shortened to DMF.
<bR><br>
DMF became a big part of our lives, and our vocabulary. It could be a noun: "I need to buy more DMF." A verb: "I just DMF'ed that." An adjective: "The DMF'ed leaves are already brown." You get the drift. It got to the point where I forgot the actual name of the product. When friends asked how I was finally winning the war on bindweed, I just went blank. "My ally is the force and a powerful ally it is?"
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I started this fight over ten years ago. Almost all the bindweed is gone. Yea, "almost all." I don't think I'll ever be completely free of it and I don't think I'll ever be completely organic again. But I'm OK with that.
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Perhaps I'm older and more mellowed or perhaps I've learned that gardening, like life, offers little perfection. You get things as good as you can and you try to enjoy the process. You know, when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. And when life gives you bindweed, you get our your rubber gloves, your raggedy foam brush and your jar of DMF.
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WrenUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-28797238577965528302013-05-01T10:13:00.002-05:002013-05-01T10:13:35.389-05:00Michael Pollan lecture<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8696533152/" title="Wren with Michael Pollan by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8123/8696533152_168bd26d00.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="Wren with Michael Pollan"></a>
<br><br>
"Lean in!" That's the new catch phrase, isn't it? And here I am doing exactly that as Michael Pollen talks about his new book, "<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cooked-A-Natural-History-Transformation/dp/1594204217/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top">Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation</a></i>."
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I've long been a fan of Pollan's, starting with his very first book, which was about his discovery of gardening. Of course, once he got on the topic of food, he really had me, since it's one of my main interests.
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His new book, as the title suggests, is about cooking. I haven't read it yet, but in the lecture, he offered a few tidbits. The book covers some of the history of cooking and its effect on the development of human beings. It also talks about what impact cooking has on your health. He said whether or not you cook is more of an indicator of your overall health than the types of food you eat. He also said that, on average, Americans spend more time watching TV shows about cooking than actually cooking. Hm...interesting. And surprising. I can hardly wait to read the book!
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Wren
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-11010357236502740142013-02-15T15:35:00.001-06:002013-02-15T15:35:57.879-06:00Presidents' Day Party...decorations<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8476302305/" title="Presidents' Day party decor by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8370/8476302305_a8c16cde11.jpg" width="500" height="287" alt="Presidents' Day party decor"></a>
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The <a href="http://smalltropolis.blogspot.com/2013/01/presidents-day-partyinvitation.html">invitations</a>, the <a href="http://smalltropolis.blogspot.com/2013/02/presidents-day-partyfood.html">food</a>, the <a href="http://smalltropolis.blogspot.com/2013/02/presidents-day-partyfood-labels.html">food labels</a>, even the <a href="http://smalltropolis.blogspot.com/2013/02/presidents-day-partymore-food-labels.html">extra food labels</a> are all done. How about some decorations?
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In addition to red, white, and blue dishes and napkins, I've got balloons and streamers to put up. Maybe you'll even want some bunting for your table.
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Then, for extra fun, I searched the internet for presidential campaign posters, glued them to colored paper and strung them up on giant red rick rack. It was easy and you can find tons of posters on-line. <a href="https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B6RTAsH7RmvfU2xjUFIyY2NMeWc/edit?usp=sharing">Here are a few</a> to get you started.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-55830605088914987062013-02-14T16:26:00.002-06:002013-02-14T16:26:53.931-06:00Presidents' Day Party...more food labels!My RSVPs are coming in and fast and furious and people are offering to bring food! My food will all have fun, crazy <a href="http://smalltropolis.blogspot.com/2013/02/presidents-day-partyfood-labels.html">labels</a> on it. It just seems polite to have labels for what other folks bring.
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So, I've created a <a href="https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B6RTAsH7RmvfcGNSdjB4czJLWU0/edit?usp=sharing">few more general labels</a> to have ready for other dishes. These would also work if you have a favorite party dish you want to serve but it didn't fit in with any of the labels I gave you already.
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Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-16018903255166541722013-02-13T15:38:00.001-06:002013-02-13T15:38:40.146-06:00Presidents' Day party...food labels<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8472088252/" title="Presidents' day party food labels by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8505/8472088252_6190ee82a2_z.jpg" width="480" height="640" alt="Presidents' day party food labels"></a>
<br><br>
You've sent out the <a href="http://smalltropolis.blogspot.com/2013/01/presidents-day-partyinvitation.html">invitation</a>s and made all the <a href="http://smalltropolis.blogspot.com/2013/02/presidents-day-partyfood.html">food</a>, now here's a way to let people know what they're eating at your party. Just print and cut out <a href="https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B6RTAsH7RmvfVDQzRE9aQS1PbVU/edit?usp=sharing">these labels</a>. They can be attached to bowls with clothes pins or stuck right into the food with kabob sticks. Maybe just use ribbons to tie them to serving baskets.
<br> <br> For bonus points, decorate them with stickers, fringe or other trim!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-46441666758830924262013-02-07T13:22:00.000-06:002013-02-13T21:01:03.730-06:00Presidents' Day Party...foodAre you throwing a Presidents' Day party with me? We've sent out the <a href="http://smalltropolis.blogspot.com/2013/01/presidents-day-partyinvitation.html">invitations</a>, now we're deciding the food.
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You could go with recipes that Presidents and their wives actually used. Here's a <a href="http://www.recipe4living.com/articles/celebrate_president_s_day_with_presidential_recipes.htm">link</a> to a few of those. There's even a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cookbook-Revised-Updated-Centennial-Edition/dp/0471347523/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1360258322&sr=8-1&keywords=white+house+cookbook">cookbook</a> you can get for some more.
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But I've decided to go a bit wackier. Here's my menu:
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Buchanan Bourguignon
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Theodore Rollsevelts
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Washington Redskins
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Lincoln Logs
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FDROs
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Bushmeat
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Millard Filberts
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Chestnuts A. Arthur
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LBJ PBJs
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Calvin Coolwhip Cake
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Ford Model Tea
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Although I want the food to be fun and definitely tasty, I've tried to choose things I can either purchase pre-made, make ahead, or just aren't too labor intensive.
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For the Buchanon Bourguignon, you can use any Beef Bourguignon or beef stew recipe and throw it in the slow cooker. Here's an <a href="http://www.food.com/recipe/slow-cooker-beef-bourguignon-484132">example</a> on Food.com.
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For the Theodore Rollsevelts, go easy by purchasing some nice bakery rolls, or get crazy ambitious with something off the King Arthur Flour site, like <a href="http://www.kingarthurflour.com/recipes/crusty-european-style-hard-rolls-recipe">these</a>.
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For Washington Redskins, <a href="http://domesticfits.com/2012/01/18/jalapeno-popper-filled-potato-bites-2/">these</a> from Domestic Fits sound delicious, but you could just as easily top boiled baby red potatoes with a store-bought sour cream dip.
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Lincoln Logs? Go easy with store-bought cheese logs. Or try this <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/317293/pistachio-covered-cheese-log">one</a> from Martha Stewart.
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FDROs
You could go way simple and just get a bag of <a href="http://www.fritolay.com/our-snacks/funyuns.html">Funyuns</a> or make something like <a href="http://www.food.com/recipe/zesty-cheerios-diet-snack-473812">this Cheerios snack</a> from food.com
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Bushmeat? Think deli tray. I'm getting some delicious sausage from our local Lithuanian bakery.
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Filberts are another name for hazelnuts. Here's a great-sounding recipe for <a href="http://www.oregonlive.com/mix/index.ssf/appetizer-recipes/spiced-hazelnuts-1.html">spiced hazelnuts</a> from Oregonlive.com
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For Chestnuts A. Arthur, I'll have to find a place to buy chestnuts so I can make <a href="http://www.bonappetit.com/recipes/2012/12/dan-romans-buttery-roasted-chestnuts-in-foil">this</a> from bonappetit.com. If not, there's no shortage of recipes on line for bacon-wrapped water chestnuts.
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LBJ PBJs will be peanut butter and jelly cookies. Foodnetwork.com offers <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/giada-de-laurentiis/peanut-butter-cookies-with-blackberry-jam-recipe/index.html">this chocolaty one</a> with blackberry jam or here's <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/316916/peanut-butter-and-jelly-thumbprints">a more classic one</a> from Martha Stewart.
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Your Calvin Coolwhip Cake could easily be a whipped cream cake from the store, or one of the many recipes on-line. Or try something more subtle (with no apparent whipped cream!) like <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/348539/whipped-cream-cake">this Martha one</a>.
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Ford Model Tea can come in many colors, as long it's black. To keep it caffeine-free, think black<i>berry</i>. <a href="http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/blackberry-iced-tea-10000000653439/">Make your own</a>, go easy with <a href="http://www.celestialseasonings.com/products/herbal-teas/black-cherry-berry">teabags</a>, or <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/healthy-recipes/NU00371">spice it up a bit</a>, ala the mayo clinic!
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Lots of ideas there. And soon I'll post some fun labels you can print out and put next to each of these items. I'll also post some decoration ideas.
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Happy party planning!<br>
WrenUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-14866632539874734082013-02-06T20:22:00.000-06:002013-02-06T20:22:01.444-06:00Super easy, super dark curtain linersHow dark is your bedroom at night? Lots of studies show that the darker it is, the better you sleep. So if your curtains are too thin to block much light, here's a tutorial for you!
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I choose black ripstop nylon for my liners because it really blocks light and it's lightweight. (Just make sure your curtains are heavy enough that you can't see the black through them.) I then lined the liners with muslin because I didn't want it to look, from the outside, as though I have black curtains!
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To get the width of your liner, measure the distance on your curtains between the side hem stitching lines. (So not quite the full width of the curtain.) To get the length, measure from the bottom of the rod pocket to about half-way down the bottom hem. Add 1/2 inch seam allowance on all sides. This is how much <a href="http://www.fabric.com/ProductDetail.aspx?ProductID=c7b42ae4-592d-4d7f-abc6-81f64884efa7">ripstop nylon</a> you'll need. Now add 4 inches to the width and 4 inches to the length. This is how much muslin you'll need. I was making two curtain liners but I got them both out of <a href="https://www.fabric.com/ProductDetail.aspx?ProductID=11cc8a07-1304-4f23-b5ba-c0f12c2dad43">really wide muslin</a>.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8451082964/" title="4 inches from bottom by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8505/8451082964_8124692d69.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="4 inches from bottom"></a>
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Cut a 4 inch strip off the length of the muslin and pin it (right sides together if it matters) to the nylon 3 1/2 inches from the bottom. Sew at the 1/2 mark. (You're sewing 4 inches from the bottom of the nylon.)
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8451069028/" title="Press down by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8233/8451069028_cf7a4982fb.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Press down"></a>
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Flip the muslin over and press. If you've sewn a little inacurately and it doesn't quite line up, just trim off the longer piece, whether it's the nylon or the muslin. You want them the same length.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8451069162/" title="Pin muslin by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8362/8451069162_e0b3e7d72e.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Pin muslin"></a>
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Pin the large piece of muslin (which should now be the same length but 4 inches wider) to the nylon, right sides together.
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Stitch 1/2 inch from the edge.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8449981335/" title="Sew 1 inch from edge by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8328/8449981335_f77b365045.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Sew 1 inch from edge"></a>
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Now stitch 1/2 in from your first line of stitching.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8449981431/" title="create pleat by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8049/8449981431_2c52079a92.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="create pleat"></a>
<br>
Take the muslin and pinch it over on the edges to create a pleat of about 1/2 inch. Do this on both sides. What you want is to take up that extra 4 inches of width so that the muslin is the same width as the nylon. Adjust the pleats until the muslin is nice and flat across the width of the liner. Pin in place and stitch the bottom of the liner with 1/2 seam allowance.
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Do the same with the top of the liner as well but leave a gap of about 5-6 inches for turning.
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Turn the liner right side out.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8451069600/" title="Press liner by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8188/8451069600_f366780b0f.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Press liner"></a>
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Press. The nylon side of the liner will have about a 3 1/2 inch band of muslin at the bottom and about 1 inch on the sides.
At the top of the liner, the muslin and nylon are even. At the gap you left for turning, press under 1/2 inch. You'll be stitching over this in a minute so you don't need to sew it closed.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8451069950/" title="Pin in place by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8372/8451069950_153d388b9b.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Pin in place"></a>
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Find the center of the curtain and the center of the liner by folding each in half and pinning. Line up the centers and pin the liner, nylon side to the wrong side of the curtain, just under the rod pocket. Work your way out to the sides, pinning the liner in place. If the widths aren't exact, try easing in the fullness as best you can, so that the liner comes just to the edge of the side hem. It's your choice whether to pin from the liner side or from the front of the curtain but it's much more accurate to sew from the front. (I first pinned from the back, to make sure the liner was right up next to the pocket edge. Then I moved the pins to the front.)
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8451070390/" title="Stitch ontop by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8233/8451070390_08d9846b30.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Stitch ontop"></a>
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Turn the curtain over and sew about 1/4 inch lower than the rod pocket stitching line. Make sure you use the right color top and bobbin threads. If you're using two different colors, like I did, make sure the tension is correct on your machine, so the thread doesn't peek through.
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From the back of the curtain, you'll have just caught the top of the liner, just below the stitching line for the rod pocket.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8449991579/" title="Tack edges by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8073/8449991579_c9ebc027ae.jpg" width="408" height="500" alt="Tack edges"></a>
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Hang up the curtain and tack the liner in place, about half way down the sides and at the bottom corners.
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8451315489/" title="Wren sewing by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8101/8451315489_7d94d70468_t.jpg" width="76" height="100" alt="Wren sewing"></a>
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Enjoy your nice dark curtains!
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Wren
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386814132814455681.post-59572332785116716512013-01-28T13:41:00.003-06:002013-02-07T13:28:34.826-06:00Presidents' Day Party...Invitation<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/59293501@N07/8424920316/" title="Picture 1 by smalltropolis, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8219/8424920316_bd500380ac_n.jpg" width="320" height="218" alt="Picture 1"></a>
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I'm throwing a Presidents' Day party and you can too. I'll help you out! We still have a couple of weeks to plan it, so check back often and see what I've posted to help you get ready. Today I'm giving you the invitations. Better <a href="https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B6RTAsH7Rmvfd3VxVUNoUzE2OVU/edit">print them out</a> and get them sent off soon!
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Wren
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P.S., In the coming days, look for posts on <a href="http://smalltropolis.blogspot.com/2013/02/presidents-day-partyfood.html">food</a> and decorations for the party!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0