Silver Linings

It’s been a month of finding silver linings. Chateau Gahan experienced flood #4 since we’ve lived here. The first was when the ice maker line blew off the back of the fridge. My parents were picking Harleigh up from school and arrived in my driveway to see water pouring out from under my garage door.  I hightailed it home, tears streaming down my face, and pulled in to find that my parents and daughter had pulled out as much furniture as they could carry outside to the front of the house. It was chaos.

The second flood was the hot water heater expansion tank, the third the hot water heater itself. And because my hot water heater is in a closet in the center of the house, the water damage extended into the living room, hallway, my closet and my vanity area. This time, the fourth, was the water pressure regulator. It was 15 years old and died, causing the water pressure to skyrocket. The pressure was too much for a water line under my vanity sink (the line probably original to the house), and a small pin hole spewed water likely all night. I got out of bed in the morning because I heard water running and knew Harleigh wasn't up yet. Took three steps, and was standing on wet carpet.

As Harleigh and I hauled and sopped, she simply grabbed my wrist, looked me straight in the eye, and said “Mom, we got this.” And we got through it. The last of the shoe molding goes in today.

We twisted through zippered doorways for days on end. 

Endured the 24/7 deafening whir of giant fans and dehumidifiers. 

Gideon ate and drank from bowls on a shoe shelf from the foyer closet.

With most of the furniture temporarily stored in the garage, 

we jockeyed for seating on any surface that wasn't piled with our lives.

And the silver linings, once again as they always do in our make-the-most-of-a bad-situation little household, proved themselves too numerous to count.

• Got gorgeous 5”-plank hardwoods . . . 
• . . . and as everything was moved back into the living spaces I cleaned like a crazy woman, a long overdue deep clean. 
• All the windows got washed inside and out. 
• I got to work with a water damage restoration company that I have built a good relationship with over the many floods — good people, always positive. 
• Harleigh and I practiced and succeeded at taking things in stride, accepting what was, being OK with living conditions not being perfect. 
• We purged a lot; there’s nothing like having to move your personal belongings to make you question what is worth keeping and what just isn’t. My efforts at simplifying got a little kickstart with the great flood of 2015. 
• Harleigh and I also spent a lot of time together, holed up wherever there was space for two women and a giant dog. Her room, with the full bed gone and two twins in its place, was sort of our headquarters. And with this picture above Harleigh’s bed, it seemed the perfect room to escape to for chilling out and counting our blessings amidst the shambles right outside her bedroom door.

Gideon fared the best of all through it. With our house filled with work crews and machines for days on end, he was relegated to Harleigh’s room, where I made up his bed on hers, with the blinds up so he could watch all the goings-on in the driveway. He was in heaven, like a little boy watching a construction site.

A day into the mess, Harleigh came home with flowers for me. It meant a lot. She knows that little gestures like this are part of my love language.

The one project I got done before my craft room became filled with closet contents, lamps and home decor from the damaged rooms was to cover my new Bible. I’ve always wanted a journaling Bible, and I found one at a good price, but the cover was anything but pretty. I took the dust jacket off and used that as the base, covering it in some calico fabric, adhering it with Mod Podge. Then I glued a metal scrapbooking embellishment on the cover along with a mustard seed charm. A reminder that "with faith nothing is impossible" seemed a fitting mantra for the challenging time we’ve just lived through.

And on a final note, this book! What a page turner. Highly recommend.

 

Stay tuned for a post I hope to get up next week of the adoption baby shower I designed.

Lee Ann, who had hired me to design the nautical baby shower, asked me to do all the decor for an adoption shower (the adopting parents also happen to be dear friends, so that made it super special!).

hummmmmmmmm

I was standing in the kitchen at the stove, stirring a she-crab soup for the family’s annual Summer Kick-off Party. Harleigh was sitting within eye shot, in the ken, looking at Pinterest on her phone. “I think I’m a hummer,” I said, my mouth askew in a grimace. She sat upright, incredulous. “No, Mom, no. Please don’t. That’s bad.” I explained the transformation, neither defensive nor apologetic. It simply is what it is. As of late I’ve been humming a lot. Certain songs dominate the playlist. I do it when I’m alone and when I'm around people. I catch myself doing it at work, and while it’s been greeted with smiles, there’s going to come a point where people become annoyed, slipping on their earphones or snatching their laptops to go work in another part of the office. I don’t want to be "that" person.

I’ve known a few hummers in my life. The most blatant of them all was a dentist. Many moons ago I went to a practice with a handful of dentists. There was one that I always asked for, pleasant and non-chatty, the way I like ‘em. When I was told that I needed a filling, I requested Dr. Pleasant and Non-chatty, but he was booked solid for the next several weeks, and I really did want to get this off my list. So I opted for another in the practice who had an immediate opening. He was nice enough, but the minute the rubber gloves went on and the sterile stainless tools invaded my mouth, the humming began. And didn’t stop. I closed my eyes, thinking that would make it less invasive, but it only made it more comical as I lay there thinking of whether anyone had actually called him out on it. Asked him to stop. Asked him why he did it. Needless to say, I never went back to him.

I looked it up online and found that many people hum as a simple and effective way to ease tension and reduce stress. For some, it improves sinus health, creating vibration in the sinus cavity, which helps to eliminate congestion. Another guess is that humming is little bits of joy bubbling from your unconscious. As it relates to my own irritating warbling, I’ll go with this one. And for the sake of my daughter, who looked at me like I’d become someone she could no longer stomach, consider the habit squelched.

Scooter and the Beauty Within

When I was in high school, popularity eluded me. I was liked by what I consider to be a large number of people, fellow students and teachers alike. I was fun to be around, a good and dry sense of humor tempered with a seriousness that made for trusting and deep friendships. I was involved in many extra curricular activities, but no sports, which would have put me onto a different and probably higher rung on the popularity ladder. As I saw it, I was probably about 1/3 up on that ladder, a likable girl with a complicated beauty, the kind of prettiness that people can't explain, the kind of pretty that people refer to as coming from within, maybe because they can't truthfully call me pretty. Not the kind of beauty I'd have hoped for when I was a 16 year old. Growing into a handsome woman would be my legacy.

Popularity, like true beauty, is effortless. The popular and beautiful simply are. And the fact that I was desperate and willing to work to be both or even a little of one proved that I would be neither. I excelled in my studies, and throughout my school years was always a high achiever, sometimes a bit hard on myself. I was artistic, and could see a future, a career, which would put this talent to use.

I definitely wasn't one of the "it" girls. Not on the cheerleading squad. Not possessing the kind of cuteness that boys that age found intoxicating. Not overly confident in myself and my body. I remember at the time adults saying that they'd love to live their high school years again, and me thinking that these years were what I wanted to run from, only to look back on the positive, what little there was of it.

I began entertaining the idea of a nickname. What if I had one? Would it make me feel different? More confident and special? It was worth a shot . . . . . . . Scooter. Where I came up with it I have no idea. But I pitched it to my sister. "Just start calling me Scooter," I ordered, oblivious to how awkward she might feel doing so for the first time, but instead focusing on the glances I'd get from people knowing that this was obviously not my birth name but a moniker bestowed on me out of a certain circumstance or by one who loved me dearly. Either way, it meant I was special. Sister refused. And the nickname campaign died.

Fast forward. In my early 30's, a single mom, spending time with Lisa, a work friend who turned into an Anne Shirley kindred spirit kind of friend. Probably a couple glasses of wine into the conversation, I told her this story, the Scooter crusade that fizzled but was never forgotten.

Now you have to know Lisa. "Lisa the Jew" I call her. To her face. And she wears it like a designer label. She's Jewish. I'm Christian. And her nickname was born because she always said "Everyone needs a Jew." I can't recall her ever explaining that comment. All I know is that I believed those four words without question. The bottom line  — I don't think that it was as much "Everyone needs a Jew" as much as it was "Everyone needs a Lisa."

And Lisa said to me, "You WILL be Scooter." And to this day, she calls me Scooter.

I've told this story a number of times since that Chardonnay night with Lisa the Jew. And some friends have jumped on the Scooter train. And I'm forever grateful.

Last month, my bosses (a husband and wife team) threw their son a high school graduation party. They had it at our office, a chic and open space at Atlantic Station. As the planning commenced and I heard bits and bobs of conversation about the challenges and details of throwing a successful and heartfelt event, I decided to offer up my services. It's easy for me. Comes second nature. And I want people to throw parties and events that their guests enjoy and remember.

The night was a huge success. Because I had helped plan the night, and then helped to set up, run the party, and help with tear down, my bosses could enjoy celebrating their son, without having to deal with the minutiae that comes with throwing a big shindig. It's all I ask of any event that I'm overseeing: People enjoy.

As a thank you, they gifted me with this bag. Now ya gotta know that I love me a good tote. And this particular tote sports my nickname. Scooter. S-C-O-O-T-E-R. I may not be the most popular girl, but I do feel special. Beyond special.  I feel appreciated. That, my friends, is what I see when I look at this embroidered name. Popularity is overrated. Appreciated is everything.

To note, I'm known at my place of business for the nicknames I give people. It's a gift. The names come to me, like a vision, a fuzzy but legible word in a crystal ball. They are epic. I keep a list of them. And the nickname I gave myself may be the greatest one of all.

Tucked Away — iPhone Images

Here are some of my Instagram images from our beach vacation at Alligator Point. 

Creating this post calmed me, remembering how peaceful the week was.

The day we arrived it was a bit overcast, 

which was a blessing as we had unpacking and grocery shopping to do.

Gideon was antsy to get down to the water where he knew

there were birds and sand crabs to be chased.

Our pile of books for the week.

I read five of my seven.

The screened-in porch overlooking the ocean was enjoyed for morning coffee, 

afternoon naps, and evening wine and cheese.

Here, after unpacking, Harleigh enjoys a beer in one of the two swinging chairs complete

with swinging foot hammocks.

The house, Tucked Away, sets right on the beach. 

Day and night the beach was, for the most part, deserted. 

The view and walking path from the porch.

The houses on both sides were vacant all week.

Decorated with shells like a Christmas tree.

The shelling was great.

One of my most favorite things to do in the whole wide world.

Employed

As I've mentioned here before, I'm purging like a maniac at Chateau Gahan. And grateful, more than ever, that I have a booth at an antique mall where I can get money for all that I'm getting rid of (otherwise, I'd be having weekly garage sales which, as we all know, are the work of the devil to plan and execute).

My paperwork is getting a good cleansing as well. My billing files are thinning out as I shred stuff that I know for sure I can access online. My file folder upon file folder of inspirational and informational articles/images from magazines and catalogs . . . well, all I gotta say is thank gosh for Pinterest. If I have a tearsheet that I absolutely must keep, I try to search it out on the internet so that I can turn it into a Pin.

I came across this in one of my folders and had to smile at the sentiment.

I remember when I became a mom, I felt this sentiment so strongly, especially as a single working mom who juggled an extremely demanding job with raising a daughter. Doing a good job at work was and is always my goal, but turning what I do into a career has never been a priority. A career is the pursuit of a lifelong ambition or the general course of progression towards lifelong goals. I think being a good mother became my "career."

If there are any regrets about my work life, it's that I didn't pursue one of my passions. When I was younger, I dreamt of becoming a magazine editor. I'd make my own magazines using spiral notebooks, laying out each page, writing copy, drawing the images. And there was also my love of interior design — I'd take graph paper and cut-out pieces of furniture and spend hours drawing and mapping out house plans. Archaeology was a long-time love — I devoured books and magazines on the subject, and would stage my own digs in the yard complete with a make-up brush to dust found treasures. In each of these cases, I wonder what my life would be like now had I pursued that passion. This regret has come up in many conversations I've had with Harleigh, and always in the positive light of encouraging her to go after what she loves.

Don't get me wrong. I'm in a good place with what I do. There's lots of perks to being with a company for going on 19 years. Plus, I've built quite a creative life outside of work that keeps me endlessly happy. And most importantly of all, I AM a piece of work.

Here are some Instagram posts from the past couple weeks.

I decided that I should add a case to my booth. 

I do have lots of doodads to sell. I found this one, unfinished, for $15. 

I gave it a coat of ivory chalk paint.

It has slots on the inside long ends (it must have held shelves), 

and I covered them with a pretty paper. And then lined it with a teal blue fabric.

The broaches are pinned to ripped squares of linen.

(The first thing to sell from the case . . . the two worry stones on the left. Who'd a thunk it?)

Evenings as of late = time on the sofa. Him sleeping. Me reading.

What I usually see in the morning when I wake up.

Not too shabby.

Sporting his Valentine bandana from the groomer.

(Don't tell him, but tomorrow he gets his summer cut. It makes him a little self-conscious at first.)

Go Team 50!

I'll begin with this excerpt from Amy Poehler's book Yes Please —

Getting older also helps you develop X-ray vision. The strange thing is that the moment people start looking at you less is when you start being able to see through people more. You get better at understanding what people mean and how it can be different from what they say. Finally the phrase “actions speak louder than words” starts to make sense. You can read people’s energies better, and this hopefully means you get stuck talking to less duds. You also may start to seek out duds, as some kind of weird emotional exercise to test your boundaries. You use the word “boundaries.” You can witness bad behavior and watch it like you would watch someone else’s child having a tantrum. Gone are the days (hopefully) when you take everything personally and internalize everyone’s behavior. You get better at knowing what you want and need.

I love everything about this. I remember when I was in my 20's. I have a soon to be 23-year-old, so I'm also reminded every day, as I live side-by-side with my daughter, just what being in 20-ish skin feels like. It's not an easy existence. Living as a 20-something is like the stage of a butterfly when it's emerging from its chrysalis; it's awkward, unfamiliar and there's uncertainty about what life will look like on the other side. While something beautiful emerges, getting to that point involves change, effort, and living and looking like the not-as-beautiful-as-the-butterfly caterpillar.

There are people who would give an arm to relive their high school years, others their college days, and some their 20s. I suppose there's a fan club for every decade. But I'm the head cheerleader for the 50s crowd. It feels good to be in my skin; I wear it humbly and with ease. And yes, I do have X-ray vision.

Catch-Up

I’ve been gone so long from blogging. I have that feeling that you get when you’ve not seen or talked to a friend in a really extended amount of time. And there’s a hesitation about reaching out. But then I think about my really good friends . . . they’re the ones I can reconnect with, we pick up instantly where we left off, and there’s no guilt, shame or blame. And so, with that as my guide, here I am. I may have lost some of you, tired of coming back and seeing over and over again the December 21 post. But for those of you who haven’t given up and are happy to reconnect, here’s to you, really good friend.

Here are some straggling images from the Christmas break. (Most, if not all of these, were originally posted to Instagram.)

Over the holiday break, I catalogued my collection of decorating books.

Sometimes when I'm at a bookstore or the library, I forget what I have.

So images like these on my phone (and this isn't even all

my decorating book!) serve as a great point of reference.

I wish I'd been more creative this year for Christmas gifts for the neighbors.

But my good-ol'-standby poppy seed cake is just so doggone easy and super good. 

One of those cakes you can eat  for dessert AND breakfast.

Harleigh graduated magna cum laude from Georgia Southern University on December 12.

So proud of her!

(It looks like I cut out an image of just her head and put it on another picture of just a body.

What what???)

Ever since we've lived in our humble little Chateau Gahan (since 1999), 

I've dreamed of putting up Christmas lights, especially icicle lights. 

But without a man around the house, the effort

has always seemed too daunting.

Well, 2014 was the year of the lights.

I drove home from work one evening, and this greeted me.

I came to a halt in the driveway, literally gasped out loud, 

and took it all in, with tears streaming down my face. 

A gift from my dear daughter, no doubt.

She had gone to Ace Hardware with measurements in hand, 

and turned to the red vests to help her figure

out how many strings to get, how to hang them from the gutters,

and how to handle hooking them up to an electricity source.

She got up on a ladder and got them all strung.

She then had the idea to hang lights along the top of the 4 windows you see above the roof level.

She got on the roof (if she weren't 22, I'd have spanked her hearing this!), 

got scared, and luckily had her phone on her, so she called Mr. Clif next door and he came over 

and helped her down. Then he loaned a better electrical cord and a timer!

THE BEST CHRISTMAS GIFT EVER.

Most nights when I was home, I'd stand at the open front door and wait for 6:00 to hit

so that I could see them light up. It never got old.

While down in Statesboro for graduation, we ate at a Cracker Barrel.

All their Christmas stuff was on sale. 

I scored this light-up plastic, life-size baby deer.

And this large ceramic tree with lights.

Money well spent.

Our boy.

Christmas morning at Chateau Gahan.

It really wasn't cold enough to warrant a fire, but

for pete's sake, it's Christmas!

This was our second year in a row getting matching pajamas.

Harleigh told me last year that she always thought that was a cute tradition,

and she'd wish we'd done it when she was a little girl.

It's never too late to start traditions.

(And one more nod to a parent's "wish I would have's.")

This year Harleigh wanted scottie dogs.

The search proved successful at Kohl's.

For gift wrapping, I usually use a variety of papers, ribbons and baubles.

But this year I found this beautiful kraft paper with pine cones and greenery, and I 

decided to dress all my gifts alike.

I ripped red and white seersucker for ribbon, and used vintage

postcards for the gift tags.

I'm in the process of redoing all six Sunday School classrooms at church.

Over the holiday break, I managed to complete one.

They're all underwater/ocean themes.

This one is a "find the hidden" object picture.

Since it didn't take up the entire wall, I painted the empty sides a glossy deep blue,

and then added little water bubbles.

One down, five to go!