I’ve been dealing with some heavy family issues and haven’t bought a piece of milk glass or a used book in the past two weeks. I’m surviving on coffee and gluten-free cereals.
My life is changing and I’m working on a more eloquent way of saying; my boyfriend’s daughter’s mother is dying. She has had cancer for most of Little Lady’s life. I’ve been with The Man for most of LL’s life. We are in the last weeks of LL’s mom’s life and I’ve stepped into a full time Mom role.
The entire focus of my life is my family right now. I am writing longhand about the experiences we’re going through, and I want to share them with you, but not today.
Keep The Man and Little Lady in your thoughts in the next couple of weeks. I’m going to continue writing and continue taking care of my people. I’ll be around.
I first read it in fourth grade and I pick it up about once a year since then. I hope one day to be able to teach it as a unit in a classroom. *Random Idea* Develop it as a unit for a classroom.
2) I hate mushrooms.
The taste of dirt and fungus is just not appealing to me; in anything. The way that my teeth feel all chalky and squeaky afterward is also a major mushroom malfunction.
3) I educate myself a lot before I start doing something new.
Learning about milk glass came before I even started searching for the stuff. I had seen it in antiques stores before, and I had heard it could be valuable, but before I purchased my first piece, I read extensively about how to do it right. I’m perpetually worried I’ll make a “mistake” when I try something new.
4) I have been chronically ill since my early elementary school years.
I started suffering from migraines before I turned five. By 12 I knew I had depression and anxiety. In high school the ovarian cysts and eating disorders turned up. Post-graduate time taught me about PTSD and Ankylosing spondylitis and scoliosis. In the recent years, we’ve discovered uterine fibroids and a weird chronic pain that has
currently been undiagnosed. My invisible illnesses are just part of who I am.
5) I love to color.
Even before “adult coloring books” were a fad, I was coloring. I have coloring books from my Grams’ house that I colored in the early 80s. I have coloring books from my teenage and college years. I have a small hoard (unofficial collection?) of coloring books from this fad’s resurfacing. I own multiple sets of Sharpie’s, Bic markers, and Crayola crayons. I recently invested in a set of Prismacolor Premier colored pencils and I am in love with them. I find coloring intensively meditative and calming. I love the way that colors can combine and change a mood. I enjoy the precise need to stay in the lines.
I swear, once you hit 30, all your days, weeks, months, and even years, become a major blur. I don’t know where May went … and June is halfway over. I’d like to think that as a teacher, my summers would be full of adventure and fun, but uhm, I’m still just doing a lot of cleaning and cooking. I don’t actually mind it, but time flies even when you aren’t having fun.
I got a new book today and am looking forward to reading through it.
I’m only a few pages into Sher’s book, but am enjoying her friendy tone, her down-to-earth style of writing, and her reminder that as Millennial’s, we can be more. I look forward to more work through the book and seeing what other advice Sher has to offer her readers.
I’ll be in touch with a full review of this book soon enough, but wanted to let you know I am being more than just a stay-at-home-stepmom; I’m doing things, too!
One of the problems I struggle with when I’m not working outside of the house is that by 11am, I’m bored. I’ve cleaned the house, I’ve done the dishes, I’ve slayed a load of laundry, I’ve tidied and made beds and run the dryer; and it’s 10:41am.
It sounds like something I should enjoy; not having anything to do, but it’s not me. I need something to do. I’ve started working out in order to use some of my “free” time, but I get my half-hour of exercise done by 9:30am, and I’m still bored.
I’m working on a novel, but you can only push yourself to write so many words in a day. I can write jibberish, or blog all afternoon, but it’s not really productive to just blather on; I don’t think.
I could learn something, take a class online (there are plenty of free online classes, btw), exercise more, create something crafty, or wash the windows … but none of those things actually sound fun.
What sounds fun? Laying on a very warm but breezy beach with a book and a fruity (non-alcoholic) drink. I could probably find a breezy (but not warm) beach within 45 minutes of driving (living in Silicon Valley is so nice) but meh.
I’ve been keeping myself busy with forcing out words and taking in words. The outwardly forced words aren’t quite ready to be shared, but the words I’m taking in have been interesting and worth sharing.
I Am Watching You by Teresa Driscoll was a thriller/mystery that had me rushing through the pages. A woman overhears (and oversees?) something on a train that leads to her “accidental” involvement in a young girl’s disappearance. Worth the read, 3.5/5.
#METOO: A Supernatural Thriller by L. Seifert was a fun read. During the current #MeToo movement, a story that takes a magical look at methods of dealing with sexual pressures from men. I have more to say about this book, but want to give it its own entry, as the author deserves a deeper review than It was a fun read. I tore through it trying to figure out ‘whodunit.’ I was impressed by the new take on “cell phones” and a feminist movement. More soon. 🙂
Lies that Bind Us by Andrew Hart wrapped me up and dragged me into its story. A third of the way through the story, we learn that our narrative is pathologically untrustworthy. This threw me for a HUGE loop as the entire book is “based” on the lies that wrap us within the lives of those around us. However, if my narrator is lying about lying, who is actually lying? Great read; 5/5 no qualms.
The Selection by Kiera Cass was a young adult fiction piece I’ve seen my former students reading. I was offered it free and thought I’d give it a chance. It was an easy read, pretty stereotypical girl meets boy, girl falls in love with boy, girl shouldn’t be in love with boy, don’t know the ending of boy and girl because it’s a series. Most of me is not even interested in picking up the second in the series, so that might tell you a bit about how serious this entertainment is. (Hey, at least I’m honest.)
In the very early 2000s, my mom suggested I use milk glass bud vases in my first wedding’s decor. I laughed at her old fashion suggestion and I forgot about her ridiculous antiques decor idea until a few weeks back.
A long-time friend of mine posted her Great Depression era milk glass cake stand collection on Instagram, and I remembered what my mom said. I started reading. I spent a week reading every blog post, antiques mall article, and Pinterest post about milk glass collections.
Then I started searching for my own pieces. I had previously visited a (somewhat overpriced) antiques store searching just for pretty stuff. I stumbled across a well-priced Fenton Hobnail milk glass fluted edge vase. It’s about four-inches tall and I’m in love with the fluting, the precise little bumps (hobs? hobnails?). Once I clean her up, she’s going to live as a makeup brush organizer in my bathroom.
I haven’t stopped looking for fun pieces since this, and I’ve amassed a quick double-digit number collection already. I read an interesting post recommending “if you like it, it fits in your collection,” and am following that mindset as I scour local Goodwills. (Yesterday I found 10 pieces of collectible glass for less than $40.)
Piece number two? was a pair of pieces. A set of Westmoreland milk glass creamer and sugar jar WITH its lid. I overpaid for it, because all three pieces were perfect, and I think it’s a beautifully created little set.
Ever seen this stuff? Have any of your grandmas given you dusty old pieces you want to mail me? Hah!
As I go forward, I might try to keep sharing pieces. Obsessions often become intense collecting events for me. Let’s see where this goes!
Daddy’s tires on the white truck growled in the dirt as we neared the top of the steep driveway. Looking over him, I could see there were horses at the neighbors’ house. Maybe I could get a horse! I excitedly thought.
It was silenced by a voice I was learning wasn’t quite my own; they’ll never buy you a horse.
I didn’t voice either opinion aloud in the white truck; I knew the condescending voice was right; they’d never buy me a horse. We were poor; I could see it in the soles of Daddy’s shoes when we played checkers on the floor. Even if we weren’t poor, I don’t think my parents would ever buy me a horse, anyway. It wasn’t that my parents didn’t like me, they just didn’t know what to do with me.