“I’m a Winter/Spring, but my favorite color is October”

Do you remember the “Discover Your Season” fashion craze of the 1970’s?  For those who don’t or for those who need a refresher, this fad seemed quite logical – at the time.  Here’s how it worked - for a small fee, you could have a consultation with a fashion “expert” who would determine your “season” based on the color of your eyes, hair and skin tone.  Through this highly scientific fashion process, it would then be determined if you were a “winter, spring, summer or fall” season.  After forking over some additional cash, you would then be supplied with a color swatch sample for your respective season.  This swatch sample had 24 colorful fabric squares glued to it, just big enough to make you look like an idiot when you pulled it out of your purse at the department store to verify if the shade of blue on that blouse you loved was indeed a correct match on your season color swatch chart.                                    

When I was 13 years old, my mom thought it would be a wonderful idea to drag me to one of these consultations.  I knew this was going to be an “old lady” gathering… and I protested in the car the entire way there.  When we arrived, I did a quick scan of the room.  I mentally took inventory and noted that my mother and I were the only ones in the room who did not have blue hair.  A room full of old ladies, just as I had predicted!  I gave my mom a look of utter disgust, along with an “I told you so” eye roll.  She smiled sweetly and directed me to the table, by the lobe of my ear.  Our blue haired hostess explained that we would be starting shortly and instructed the group to help ourselves to some refreshments.  I found salvation in a bowl of butter mints.  While I was busy arranging my mints according to color in the palm of my hand, the fashion expert arrived, fashionably late of course, and made her way to the middle of the room.  I have to admit, I was pleasantly surprised.  She was beautiful, dressed from head to toe in bright, jewel tones.  Best of all, she didn’t have blue hair.  If she looked this good, maybe this “Discover Your Season” stuff wasn’t half-bad.  From that moment on, she had my full attention. 

For the next two hours, I learned what I had already known all of my life…I had hazel eyes, brown hair and an olive tone to my face.  Well, I didn’t know about the olive tone – at 13 years of age, I only knew two things regarding my face… it was either clean, or it needed washing.  Regardless, I was mesmerized by this incredible information.  Based on my hair, eye, and skin color through this highly scientific fashion process, the expert determined that I was a special kind of creature…  I was what they called in the “Discover Your Season” fashion circles, a “Cross Over” – meaning I was so unique and extraordinary; I actually had TWO seasons!  That’s right; I was a WINTER and a SPRING!  Upon learning this very important fact, I was issued not one – but TWO – color swatch sample cards, one for winter and one for spring.  The fashion expert looked at my face for quite some time and then asked for my spring color swatch sample card.  Upon handing it to her, she removed two color swatch samples from my card and handed it back to me.  I stared at the blank spaces, horrified.  WHY?  Why would she do this…?  I could feel my face get hot.  Tears began to well up in my eyes.  Realizing my fragile state, the fashion expert comforted me and explained that an exquisite specimen like me should never wear any shade of yellow.  Ever.  She went on to explain that any shade of yellow would “wash me out” and make me look ill.  Hmmm.  This information could prove to be very valuable later… say, if there was a math exam or a history test in my academic future.  I made a mental note, I would be sure to ask for a new yellow blouse each Christmas for the rest of my life. 

 

While the other women anxiously waited to learn their fashion fate, I sat in my chair, swinging my legs back and forth.  I popped butter mints into my mouth, one by one, allowing them to melt on my tongue before swallowing them.  As I examined my seasons, I began to realize that many of my favorite colors were not on my color swatch cards.  I looked over at the blue haired lady sitting next to me.  Thanks to her Italian heritage, she was assigned to the fall season.  I looked longingly at her earthy tone color swatches… forest green, chestnut brown, burnt orange and shimmering gold.  I hung my head.  “I’m a Winter/Spring but my favorite color is October,” I said, woefully, under my breath.  There was no hope for me in this (fashion) world. 

After everyone had received their appropriate season and a color swatch card, they cheerfully said their good-byes and ventured off into the world to try to dress accordingly.  As for me, I became a fashion rebel and decided from that day forward I would dress in whatever color I wanted… winter, spring, summer AND fall!  That same day I also swore to myself that I would never have blue hair, but I reckon that’s a story for another time.

Crafting; Life Lessons....

Crafting; Life Lessons… 

A few weeks ago, I decided to give my autumn home décor an overhaul.  I pulled out some old pumpkins from a storage bin and inspected their sorry state of existence.  A few years ago I had purchased them from a craft store and brought them home.  I painted them with an orange paint that had glitter in it and was pleased with the way they had turned out.  But, years had passed and their paint job had faded… and very few “sparkles” still held to the surface.  It was time for a makeover!  I wanted something elegant or maybe something rustic.  I opted for a shabby chic solution and began my project – I was going to Mod Podge each pumpkin with vintage sewing pattern paper!  The result was sure to be charming!  So I got busy and spent the better part of the day layering each pumpkin with Mod Podge and pattern paper.  This process continued on the following day.  Coat, dry, repeat, coat, dry, repeat, and so on… there’s nothing quick about Mod Podge pumpkins.  When I could no longer continue out of sheer exhaustion, I declared them “DONE” and let them cure for another day before sharing them with the universe.  

Between you and me, I was not pleased with my pumpkin project.  They did not turn out like I had hoped… in fact; they didn’t turn out like anything I had imagined.  Two words came to my mind as I looked at them:  EPIC FAIL.  {Heavy sigh}  But, rather than make a hasty ruling on my own,  I decided to allow my efforts to be judged by my peers, after all – I am usually much more critical of my work than others… how bad could it really be?!!  I have a vintage/boutique e-commerce site and a Facebook page to promote it, so I posted pictures of my pumpkins and shared my pumpkin project journey.  Most comments were favorable, but a few of my followers noted that the pattern paper didn’t show up very well and/or that it was hard to see it.  Great.  My ‘epic fail’ was not only visible to me; it was obvious to others, too!  I gathered up my Mod Podge pumpkins and set them up on the shelf.  Surely, such a disappointment could not grace the centerpiece on my harvest table.  Thanksgiving would be ruined!  {Dramatic?  Hmm, perhaps.}  So, the pumpkins sat on the shelf and started collecting dust.  I have walked by them each day since – glancing up at them, only to be reminded of my failed pumpkin project.   

Today I was hunting for a Sharpie pen and I discovered a misplaced Krylon 18K gold leafing pen.  I picked it up and gave it a good shake… there was still a lot of paint in the pen.  I took the cap off and worked the paint down to the tip of the pen.  It was still in good working order!  My eyes drifted up to the shelf… and I locked in on those pathetic Mod Podge pumpkins.  What if I slapped some 18K gold on them?!!  I quickly pulled the pumpkins of the shelf and began making gold swirls on them… and as I busied myself, my mind began to wander as it often does.  Crafting is a lot like life.  Sometimes, it is a work in progress.  These pumpkins were supposed to be perfect after some slight embellishing and despite my best efforts; they didn’t turn out at all.  I was disappointed.  I had to put them on the shelf and leave them alone, until I came up with a new plan.  Life is like that, isn’t it…?!!  We are all a “work in progress” at times.  We have dreams about how our careers, our marriage, our families, or our lives will be – only to discover that, sometimes, things just don’t turn out as planned.  In fact, sometimes things turn out so badly, we have to put them on the shelf for another day until we can face them and make the improvements that are needed.   

My mind drifted back to my pumpkin project and I realized that I was nearly done.  I finished up and sat back to take a good, long look at them.  No, the pumpkins aren’t perfect…but nothing is ever truly perfect.  Despite that cold, hard fact of life - these pumpkins will be perfect for my Thanksgiving table centerpiece and I am thankful for the life lesson I learned while I made them, after all... I am a work in progress.

The Night Ranger; A Stop Sign Power Ballad

Someone once told me that if you can sing “off tune” or off pitch, you have the ability to be a great singer.  If that is the case, then I have just crossed paths with – quite possibly - the greatest singer on the planet.  Hands down.

I’m in the left lane.  He’s in the right.  It’s muggy today – we both had our windows down.  I’m listening to the news on KOMO.  He is rocking out to what only could be an 8-track or cassette tape.  The song – Night Ranger’s power ballad:  Don’t Tell Me You Love Me.  If you’re not familiar with the tune – flash back your mind to the early 80’s.  I will be sure to include a link to the song.  To help you – here’s the chorus line:

CHORUS:
Don't tell me you love me
Don't tell me you love me
Don't tell me, I don't wanna know
Don't tell me you love me
Don't tell me you love me
Don't tell me, I don't wanna know

From - DON'T TELL ME YOU LOVE ME, Written By: Jack Blades

His car speakers clearly went to “11”… and he was singing over the top of the music, so yeah… this dude was singing pretty loud.  I sat there, smirking – at first… and then, I was astonished.  Did this guy not care that …1) his voice was pretty awful and 2) um, DUH, I could hear him!  

I was chuckling to myself when, suddenly he looked over at me.  To my total surprise – he smiled at me, while he kept on singing, and gave me a “double fist pump” in the air. 

Stunned, I could only do one thing – I smiled and gave him a courtesy “fist pump” back.  He then launched into what I could only describe as being a drum solo on his steering wheel. 

The light turned green, and he was gone.

I drove home, unloaded the groceries, and relived the experience in my head.  To be honest, I am still a little star-struck .  He was not only aware that he was being watched and listened to… he acknowledged it, he even gave it a ‘fist pump’ of approval.  Awesome. 

Mr. Night Ranger, I may never see you again, but do not doubt for a minute - I will never forget the sound of your voice. 

The Difference Between Men and Women ~ A lesson in Shabby Chic

He said: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!!

She said: Sanding...

He said: I see that. You mean to tell me that you've spent the last 5 days painting all of that stuff and now you're going sand off all of the paint?!!

She said: Not all of it, just some of it...

He said: WHY?!!

She said: To make it look "shabby"...

He said: WHAT?!!

She said: Shabby - like 'shabby chic'... you know...vintage-looking.

He said: Joni, you've lost your mind. You put three coats of paint on all of that stuff and now your sanding it down to make it look crappy.

She said: I said SHABBY - not crappy...

He said: and I said crappy - not shabby!

She said: Chris, don't make me use my opera voice.

THE END

To A Facebook Friend...

Introduction ~ Facebook is an incredible universe! 

A single status update posted by a friend can trigger any number of emotions, feelings and responses. 

Here is such a response.

 

 

I read your profile status this morning: Closer To The Edge

I don't know what you mean by that, but if you're searching or needing some direction, here's my take on "the edge" ....

I live and dwell on the edge. I prefer it. The view is always better. Not so close to the edge that I risk falling or slipping... but close enough to the edge to see the view - to take it all in...and it's amazing!

 

I can see everything that this life has to offer from the edge. It's a much better perspective, closer to the edge. You feel more. You see more. You learn more. You live more. But, there are consequences... you hurt more. You get a bit banged up from time to time, as you find the right line to walk on the edge. But - imagine if you never walked to the edge. Imagine if you lived your whole life so far from the edge that you never risked danger, pain, or growth... you were safe and protected forever, never learning what the world looked like closer to the edge. Some people prefer that way of life and that's perfectly okay.

 

For them.

 

But, I prefer life a little closer to the edge. There may be some bumps, some bruises... but I can see clearly from the edge and for me, it's a perfect balance of risk and security. I have lived a full life on the edge and I would never want to leave the edge. I want to continue to grow, to learn, and to experience everything this life has to offer me and I do that best when I am closer to the edge. The edge has been good to me.  I have never lost my way or my respect for the edge.

If you're closer to the edge; embrace it and all that it has to offer. Take it all in - the good, with the bad. We learn more from the difficult times than we do during good times. Welcome this opportunity for growth and take all that is has to offer you. Learn from it... become MORE from it... find the lesson and live it. But never forget to respect the edge or the lessons it has for you. You can't ignore it. If you're walking closer to the edge, you have to be present and aware of your every move. A wrong step... there will be consequences. You have to be more aware on the edge. There is a lot to see, a lot to learn... but you have to be aware.

The most important thing about being closer to the edge... you need to have the sense to know when you need to push yourself a little more or take a step back for safety.

And only you can decide how close to the edge is comfortable for you.

 

Signing off, from the edge...

 

Your friend,

 

Joni

You're Not Going To Hollywood... ROCK ON!

American Idol:  You’re Not Heading To Hollywood …

So, perhaps I am a little behind the times.  American Idol is in its’ 7^th season and I am just getting around to watching it for the first time.  Yeah, well – perhaps I have had better things to do for the past 6 years.  Regardless, for the past 3 weeks I have been viewing this program – initially, it was because Mr. Tyler of Aerosmith fame would be one of the judges.  I could not resist the temptation to watch him.  It was not long before he moved to the back burner and my focus zeroed in on the contestants of the show… but not the contestants that you might think.

I appreciate music.  In fact, I love it.  I admire those who can sing, I envy those who can pick up a guitar – or any instrument for that matter – and make a sound that is pleasing to the ear and brings joy to the hearts of those who listen.  I would love to be able to do that.  I have ‘performed’ in my living room to an audience of animals, working on every move and inflection of my performance.  It is amazing… until I start to sing along.  One by one, my audience begins to pick off and fade away.  The oldest, a Jack Russell terrier, will remain until the end of my show – but he shakes wildly with anxiety throughout my performance.

“When will this ever END?”  – His eyes seem to say.

So, it’s safe to say that I am not a polished, pretty performer.  I know that.  For that reason alone, you will never see me on American Idol.  I would never audition for something that I knew I would fail – fail, miserably. 

For the past three weeks, I have been in total disbelief… astonished at what my eyes are seeing and what my ears are hearing.  I’m not talking about the beautiful people – those who carry a tune to perfection and keep a perfect pitch.  Those fortunate souls who leave the stage of third degree, clutching a “golden ticket” in their hands, and exit into the joyful screams and loving embrace of their loved ones.  I’m talking about the ‘other’ people… those who are so far off the mark, one would wonder – “What were they THINKING?”  – And yet, while they perform… they have no idea how truly bad they really are.  At first, I snickered.  I chuckled.  I even asked in total amazement – “What were they thinking?”  …  Then it happened.

Something switched.  A light went on.  I quit laughing.  I started to cheer for them.  Secretly, at first.  Now, I am a one-woman cheering section for those who will not go to Hollywood.  I’m not cheering for their off pitch, tone-deaf performances… although I do have to applaud their courage.  I am cheering for people who believe.  BELIEVE!  They want something so badly that they are willing to put themselves out there – to stand on a stage and do something they want to do… they may not make it, they even might make a fool of themselves in the process – but they are gonna give their best shot!  They believe they can.  That to me is inspiring.  I may not watch American Idol ever again.  But if I do…  I’ll be rooting for the “other” people – the people without the golden tickets who will not get to Hollywood.  That’s MY team.  Those are MY people.  I believe. 

The dogs have gathered in the room for a nap.  My friends, I must step on the stage – for I have a concert to perform, off pitch and out of tune.  Yes, indeed - I believe!  Rock on.

Estate Sale

When my mother died, we had an estate sale.  At first, I was very sad about selling off her belongings.

But after having some time to process it - and taking in how I have felt when I purchased things at an estate sale – I felt better…finding comfort in my own experience of buying treasures from the dearly departed.

I think people like estate sales because not only can they can find treasures at a great price, they also know these "treasures" have some history.  I have shopped estate sales for years and this is a story about a sale I attended about eight years ago. 

This particular estate belonged to a woman who was no longer able to live by herself, so her family was moving her to an assisted living apartment.  Her one bedroom apartment would not hold a lifetime of collecting... and her three bedroom, 2-bath house would soon be listed for sale.  They had packed up the things that she wanted and needed - the rest was to be sold.  I stopped by the sale on a Saturday - it was packed full of people and possessions.  I could tell by the items that she was a widow, elderly, and that she had lived a long, interesting life.  She liked to read and listen to music.  She loved the holidays and old traditions that many folks don't seem to take the time for or appreciate these days.  She must have liked to sew - there was a lot of fabric, as I recall.  I bought some books and some holiday votive candles... and I admired an old, worn-out rocking chair in the garage.  The chair had seen better days - it had a broken spine peg, the seat - once made of rattan - was completely gone, and one of the legs of the chair had been patched with a big, clunky hunk of metal.  Still, with all of these battle wounds, the chair was listed for sale at $60.00.  The wood was nice and there was some ornate carving in the headrest of the chair.  I looked it over and gave it a push to see how she rocked.  I stepped back to admire it once more before coming to the decision that it was simply more than I could afford.  I took the books and the holiday candles to the cheerful woman at the cash box table.  I paid for my new treasures and I left.

I could not stop thinking about that chair. 

The following morning, I woke up and made some coffee... it was not long before that rocking chair came drifting back into my thoughts.  How silly to spend so much mental power on a broken down rocking chair! 

It was early, but I decided to drive to town and see if that chair was still there - on Sundays, everything is 50%... and $30.00 was more in my price range.  If the chair was there, I would buy it... and if it wasn't - then it was not to be mine.  I made this mental agreement with myself as I drove to town. 

I arrived at the sale and worked my way through the house to the attached garage.  Much to my delight, there in the corner sat the rocking chair!  I rushed over and picked it up, carried it to the table to pay for it and realized I didn't have any cash - I would have to write a check.  The woman at the cash box table told me to write the check to "The Estate of Emma Mason" - which I did.  While I wrote the check, the cheerful woman shared the story about the woman who once owned the chair; the woman who had grown too old to live alone in her home and was living at a senior living center.  I took in her story as I carefully loaded my new rocking chair into my car and took it home.  I was thrilled!  When I arrived home, my husband did not share in the enthusiasm of my new purchase.

“It's in pretty rough shape," he said, looking doubtful.

 I took offense to his comment.

Noticing my frustration, he offered "but the wood is pretty nice" - trying to smooth over his initial insult.

That week, I bought some Murphy's wood/furniture soap, some wood stain, and some brushes.  The following weekend, I went to work - giving new life to a well deserving rocking chair.  I fashioned a cushion with some fabric and a chair pad... and in no time at all, the chair looked as good as new. 

Well, almost. 

The spine was still broken and the thick, metal bracket “band-aid” was still in place - but other than that, it was a huge improvement.  I couldn't help but wonder, as I worked on the chair ... "if this old rocker could talk what stories would it have to share?”  – And that is when I decided to write to Ms. Mason.  I had taken a "before and after" picture of the chair - so I included a copy of the photographs and asked her if she would mind sharing the "story" of the chair with me.  I even included a self-addressed stamped envelope.

Weeks passed and I did not receive a response.

Then one day - when I had all but forgotten about my letter to her, I was surprised to see my hand-written, self-addressed envelope in my mailbox, with a return address from Mrs. Emma Mason - I didn't wait to get home....  I opened the envelope to read what she had written to me right there at the mailbox.  Her handwriting was shaky, but lovely.  She thanked me for my letter and for the pictures, commenting on how nice the chair looked after I "fixed" it... she went on to tell me that the chair had come from her late husband's family, as early as 1910 - when they traveled way out west to Washington state.  It had rocked many sleeping babies, sick children, and much later...  one old woman.  She was glad that it had a good home and in closing, she added that she hoped I enjoyed the chair for a good, long time.  And I have.

That old rocking chair is still in my living room - and I cherish it now more than I did the first time I saw it in a garage at an estate sale... it has a story, a history, and while the stories aren't mine - I appreciate them and cherish the chair just the same.  I still have her letter.  It, too, is precious to me.  We exchanged letters a few more times - a thank you card to her for her initial response - and we exchanged Christmas cards that following winter, as well.  Sadly, my Christmas card to her that next year came back to me - Mrs. Mason had passed away. 

I have found some comfort in knowing that my Mom's things found new homes where they will be used, appreciated, and cherished as well... maybe someday I will get a letter from someone asking for the "story" behind the item they so happily purchased at an estate sale.  Maybe they knew Mom personally and wanted 'something to remember her by’...

 I have come to the decision that I am now the keeper of Mrs. Mason's rocking chair - it was a part of her history, but it is now my honor to own this precious piece of her life.  My only regret is that I never had the chance to meet her in person; I bet Mrs. Mason was a great lady.  She sure put a lot of miles on that rocking chair... and perhaps someday, if I am fortunate enough to have a few grandchildren of my own - I can add some miles on that rocking chair, myself. 

*Out of respect, the fictitious name “Emma Mason” was used to protect the identity of the individual.