Curling Up with the Paper Shredder

Do you ever have one of those days–weeks? Months?–where you just feel like curling up with the paper shredder and letting it rip? I have bills spilling out my mail box–really, they are spilling. I ignore them and yet they multiple like rabbits; what gives?

Yes, yes, I know. You empty the mail box, then pay the bills. But you know, in a day or two they’re all back again, so really, tell me, what’s the point? I’ve always been a big believer in paying bills all at once, once a month. . . or so. They get paid. They always get paid. But this every two weeks things is hooey. I am just not that diligent, orderly, interested, pick your favorite word for self absorbed or in denial. It’s all the same.

So, now I’ve let the pile sit and simmer for over a month. I can feel I’m on that fringe, the one where the warning notices start coming in; we aren’t at the fifteen day notice yet, or holy smokes! the 48 hour notice, but it pretty much feels like the smoke signals are going up and it’s time for me to address what I am so good to ignore.

I get pretty flipped out when I finally do open bills, so I have a measure of tasks to help alleviate the pressure:

1) Happy pills: whatever you prefer: Valium, Adivan, Xanex, Clonazepam. Anything to keep your throat from constricting and your heart from palpitating through the roof of your head. We are looking for calm, not dazed, or stoned, lethargic or comatosed. Just status quo, room temperature, normal.

2) Separate the bills according to sender then toss all but the last one mailed. Really, do you need to go back and feel the pain of all the first notices? It’s like torturing yourself with old Dear Jane letters. Don’t do it.

3) The piles are getting smaller already. See? Now, separate the actual bill from all the other junk they add in: Green Energy Week Update, Life Insurance Overtures, travel discount plans, etc. Create a recycle pile. See? You care about the environment. You are still a good person.

Take all the extra papers w/your name and info, shred them. Shred them until there is nothing but paper fluff. Donate to your local hamster/iguana/guinea-pig home/cage/nest. Fill your compost pile. Set it all free.

4) Write checks while watching a very engrossing soap opera/home and garden/house repair show. Distract yourself from the numbers you are writing on those checks, the ones that have multiplied in the minute time it took you to find a soda and plop down on the couch. Breathe.

5) Stamps. Do not forget stamps. And remember the postal rate (U.S.) just went up so don’t use the left over Christmas stamps that are STILL in your desk. This may require a trip to the P.O. Keep breathing. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. You can do this.

6) Return address. Do not berate yourself for the umpteen millionth time about getting return stickers. It’s too late. Be here now. Writee ANOTHER sticky note to order return stickers and business cards. . . teeth whitener . . . flea meds, air filters, tire rotation, vacuum bags, bath tub grout, rust remover, new socks, bras, jeans, matress cover . . . I’m sorry; I got lost. Where was I?

Ah, the bills. . . I am calm, one with the universe, creating the power of cash flow. . . om.

7) Remember to actually put the checks in the correct envelopes AND mail them.

And now you have IMAGINED going through this process. It’s a very good beginning. And maybe tomorrow, if you are up to it, we can try again.

d

Warning: This is a People-Free Zone

Sorry, but my inner-pill has returned three-fold and she’s in a really, really bitchy mood. I’m even considering re-subtitling my blog “Life and other fucking annoyances.” Yep, that feels right.

I’m not just grabbing these feelings out of the air willy-nilly either. I’ve got a list! Yea! A frigging list! And remember folks it really is all about the little things–and that includes the annoying things too.

1) I had to go to two different post offices today (Sat) to find one open. The line was out the door. No seats at this one, no, so everyone is standing: people on crutches, old folks, kids and ME. Would it kill them to get a few folding chairs? Really?

2) My least favorite postal worker was there, chatting up every single solitary person in the vast line in front of me. “I see you’re from Denmark. Tell me ALL about it.” “You’re a cute little girl, do you know what day tomorrow is?” Kid is lost in thought, picking her nose, we are grinding our teeth. “It’s a holiday. . . . about someone you know. . . . it starts with an ‘M’. . . ” Oh. My. God. Forget about postal workers going postal. It’s the people standing in line that are going to bring out the oozies.

3) There is finally one woman left in front of me: One. Single. Person. She decides to look through ALL the pretty stamps. She goes back to the case, looks some more, back to the clerk. They chat. Clerk goes in back to look for other hidden/locked away/secret/non-existent stamps for her. He is gone FOREVER, taking a lunch/cigarette/pee/coffee/laughing-at-us break. My eye starts twitching. I want to register with the NRA after all. I WILL vote for Bush, or any other sadistic, incredulous Republican if this woman will just leave/vanish/disintegrate. Pact with Satan? Bring it on!

4) It is finally my turn. I am precise, succinct, have cash, am all properly addressed/ signed/filled out. I slide the box across the counter a bit too forcefully. “Would you like stamps w/that?” If I needed stamps, I would have ASKED for stamps. No. 

“Do you need this insured, tracked, signed for, specially delivered w/a singing telegram?” No. No. No. just this, PLEASE. “Is there anything flammable, fragile, breakable, combustable, corrosive, explosive, implosive, contagious, viral, epidemical in this package . . .  I can no longer think. I may, in fact, implode myself. (The irony, right there in the PO.) I shake my head from side-to-side, more a nerve-induced tick. And then, finally, finally it is done.

5) I drive directly to my little cafe. I need food/water/coffee/a distraction/a lobotomy. I get almost all. I find a nice quiet table. I am decompressing. I have my eyes closed. I am Buddha. (Okay, I’m obviously not Buddha, but I’m trying.) I suddenly need to pee. I ask the woman next to me, “would you please watch my things?” No problem.

I come back, maybe 4 minutes later (I pee fast) and all my stuff is gone. My coffee/paper/clippings/stuff and new people are sitting at my table. What the fuck? “Oh, she says. I didn’t notice.” YOU DIDN’T NOTICE? My table is two feet directly in front of her line-of-vision. I want to scream/pull out my hair/dump her table/throw a tantrum on the ground/cry.

My body/psyche/soul/whatever just can’t take . . . people, that vast all encompassing designated word for THEM, “them” acting like “that.” (No. I am not schizophrenic, although I know someone who is and it sounds right, but no, I’m just tired. . . and way too tightly wound genetically. But like I’ve said before, if you’ve been reading this for any length of time. This is not a surprise.)

I am home now. I took my bagel order and left. It is quiet here. I’ve disconnected the phone. I have drawn the shades. Even Zephyr is asleep somewhere and that’s fine with me. I am declaring this a people-free weekend–no phone, no visitors, no unnecessary outings, no nothing–it may last longer, but we’ll see.

Okay, now back to whatever else you were doing and leave me alone. You’re bothering me. But, hey! Have a nice weekend!

d.

Tangerine

I’ve been such an inner-pill lately I thought I should post something cheery and bright. These are both. A special order for Tangerine Wristlets (Thank you Danielle!).  

When you hear “tangerine” do you think a) fruit,  b) bright, bright, 70’s bright or  c) Led Zepplin? “Tangerine, tangerine, living reflection, of a dream. . . . ” Yea, you know the rest.

 

 

Everybody have a groovy day. d.

Cloudy Joy Syndrome

My low genetic battery Monday wafted onward and is now my low energy Wed. I think I’ve hit a burn out wall. I’ve let my thoughts about “outside views” about what I’m creating–my two Etsy shops cloud my joy. Yep, folks I’ve got cloudy joy syndrome.

My freaked out examples:

1) My mother has not ONCE asked how my shops are doing. No yeahs! No good-for-yous! No cute item, nice pattern, wow, sales, etc, etc. It just isn’t enough for her. I’m not “being the person I should be” for her imagined photo album family. I know, I know. I’m a fricking grown-up–at least on paper–but do we REALLY ever get over wanting our parents to be proud of us? (If you have, in fact, please let me know your secret. I might even pay you for it. I pay my therapist enough and she can’t come up with a solution).

2) When I sit and crochet special orders at the cafe in the morning, I’m the only under-retirement age, non-gray-haired breakfast lounger there. My peers? They’re married, with kids, at a real JOb. It bums me out.

3) I’m working WAY more than any money being produced. It’s almost pathetic. I’m feeling un-employed, not self-employed.

4) My freedom from an  office is starting to feel like an outcast situation instead of a free-to-be one.

5) Downstairs, a soap opera is playing on the tube and I’m too tired to go down and turn it off. Day time television is a BAD BAD sign. Just say NO. RUN!

Okay, enough blithering for one day. Back to . . .

d.

Low Genetic Batteries

It’s such a  Monday today. Usually I like Mondays; I really do. Quiet returns as all working folk head back to their offices, but today I am beat. Apparently my old life (late-night reading or weekend Milongas [tango dances], sleeping in late) no longer agrees with my knew self-employed working life–the one where i spend my days crocheting, buying, shooting photos, e-mailing, posting, etc, etc, etc. It sounds easy enough, but the work day never really ends. It just keeps on going, like the Energizer Bunny, until I drop.

I thought my social life really needed attending to so I went to a Milonga Sat. night. I lasted 1.5 hours. And the party was really just beginning as I snuck out the door. It made me terribly sad. It really did. I was blue all day Sun.  Other people have an amazing capacity for 50 hour work weeks then burning the midnight oil on Sat. I honestly don’t know how they do it. I fear I am missing an energy gene, low genetic batteries. 

And worse, they all look so happy, playful, woo-hoo! We are partying now!  (these are not young 20-something folk either. Not even 30-something, most of them) So what is it? WHaT is IT?

***

Meanwhile, I’ve been busy with my Etsy shops. Business is picking up. Two special orders for crocheted items which is surprising considering it’s nearing summer. Well, it is here. The order was from Norway. Anyone know what it’s doing in Norway? Not me.

So, this was my check in. Not very glamorous, but there it is. I’ll leave you with this: Me sipping tea in my latest wrist warmers on a cloudy day last week. They are rather long with knots curving around the arm. I’ve named them “Camelot.”

Coloring Outside the Lines (Nazi Parking Officer)

Good morning happy campers, I’ve had my brisk walk (a surprisingly chilly morning, always welcome) and I’m amply caffeinated. I’ve got a big list of finds to post, scarves to crochet and deliveries to the PO, but on top of all that is a pile of paperwork–apparently I’m in charge of paying bills, who knew? Plus, I got a parking.

Normally, one sucks it up and pays, because you know you overstayed your welcome, but this ticket–$35 fricking bucks!–was because my tires were apparently outside the designated white lines. I bristle at the remembrance. It was a solo spot too, on the edge of an alley and a driveway. Wasn’t blocking either of those, no! This is simply me coloring outside the lines, so to speak. And this is my beef with society in general.

If ever there was girl who can’t handle inane rules, authority for authority’s sake or coloring inside the lines just because I’m supposed to, it’s me. Don’t get me too wrong. I cross at corners, J-walking still feels crazy wrong. I wait for signals to change before walking. I drive the speed limit, unless I’m trying escape crazy drivers. (I like a VERY wide berth between me and other folk, on the road, in a mall, anywhere were there are infact People, but I digress. . . )

So, what kind of turd in his little parking nazi moped gets his jollies ticketing me for being just outside the lines? That kid. You know the one. The little kiss-up in grammar school. The one who worked extra hard to perfect filling in boxes, no outside doodles. He could have been a tax accountant (no offense, we need them); a surgeon, precision is good there too; an engineer, I like my bridges and buildings properly reinforced, all corners matching, but this worm was too lazy to strive for good use of his anal retentive ways. He’s a state worker–put in the hours, get the benefits, retire with as little contribution as possible. I live in capitol city, just blocks from the central DMV. They’re everywhere!

It’s just sad, and I’ve seen them often. I get that day dream feeling, just jerking the jeep a tad to the right and ka-thunk! Oops! One less parking enforcement guy–or gal. Oh well. (Someday an accident will happen, someone will find this post, nail me to the wall and I’ll be writing this blog from Lompoc. Just a friendly game of make-believe folks! Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of it too!)

So, as you might imagine, I’m fighting the ticket. It probably won’t help, but what ’s an easily pissed off radical to do? Fight the system, man! (insert laugh track here).

Have a day, d.

Street Find #4

I haven’t posted a “Found” in a while. This is one of my truly favorites. I actually found this on top of a pile on neighborhood junk day.

It was probably cleaner then than it is now–dog fur and all. I took it home scrubbed the bejesus out of it with liquid dish soap and a scrub brush, hosed it off and hung it to dry.

It’s 28″ x 46″ hand woven wool. Simply beautiful. You just really never know what you’re going to find.

Cheers, d.

And Don’t Say Wikipedia!

I’ve been verging on an existential melt down, but not for the reasons one might think–you know, global warming, Earth Day, “An Inconvenient Truth,” Darfur–no mine has to do with completion and information.

Let me explain, along with running a new internet shop (dahlilafound.etsy.com–shameless ad plug) I’ve also added more stress, or, I’ve allowed myself to get stressed out AGAIN for the most ridiculous of reasons. Truthfully, give me a lollipop and I will find a reason to stress; choking hazard is the first thing that comes to mind, but I digress. . . . 

Completion! Ah, yes. There is no end to the STUFF I need to find, fix, create, photograph, bio and post. NO END IN SIGHT! And that freaks me out like you have no idea. It really messes with my need for order–create, complete, feel sense of doneness, deep breathing, rest, move on. Right now there is no breathing or rest, at least not without happy pills.

Then there is Information. Example, I find a great Deco tie, but I need to know all about it when I’m posting. (Does anyone really cares about this, but me and a few library geeks?) I was on-line last night for over two hours searching copyright dates on a box of Crown Checkers and a Swingline CUB stapler.

There have been, and will be, more: The Grand Funk Railroad red album has the original gold label.  I know this because two nights ago I researched vinyl forever.  Do you see any records on Dahlila Found yet? No. And what about the cool opera shoes, the signed oil painting, the porcelain dishes? THERE IS NO END TO THE MADNESS! Okay, that was slightly overemphasised, but do you see my problem? (OCD is the not the answer I’m looking for, although yes, probably, maybe, a little. )

Now, if you will excuse me I have to go crochet something for Dahlila.etsy.com. Crocheting is said to relax the nerves.

d.

“It Will Set You Free”

I’ve been away so long WordPress has revamped the site again.

My Etsies are neck and neck. I sold a nice pair of men’s wine colored wingtips to a suave guy in Germany on Dahlila Found, and my new Etsy friend up in Canada bought a really lovely amber button bracelet off Dahlila.  That’s what I call a good Monday.

* * *

Over the weekend, I rose early enough to go yard saling. I was just in that great thrifting mood too. You know–good coffee in hand, a big messy raspberry muffin, driving w/your knee, while looking for yard sale signs. It’s like treasure hunting for adults. And I really scored. I got a slew of books, the contents of some old tackle boxes–rusty fish hooks galore, feathers for tieing lures, weights, old fishing pouches, but the pieces that really got me were the records.

An old Boomer couple: long grey haired guy w/a mustache, she with a wing sleeved blouse, ala Stevie Nicks, were selling their ENTIRE record collection. The Rat Pack: tons of Sinatra; 60s, 70’s gold mine: Grand Funk Rail Road, The Byrds, Dylan, Young, Buffalo Springfield, Joplin. I wanted all 5 boxes. They were a quarter each! I don’t own a record player. I didn’t care. I bought 9 records. I want more.

You see, I was a 60’s child, but really I missed it. I was too young. I was just barely old enough in the 70s, but we didn’t know then history was being made. We were just hanging out, watching boys, living in the mountains. Our music was The Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Boston, Creadance (which I do love), Kansas, The Doobies and, yes, Journey.

There’s this great scene in the movie “Almost Famous” when Anita leaves her young brother William behind w/their overprotective mother. She looks William straight in the eyes and tells him,  ”One day you’ll be cool. Look under your bed. It will set you free.” Under the bed is her whole record stash: The Who, Yes, Dylan, Bowie, Zepplin. . . . That’s how I felt on Sunday. And even today I’m sitting here looking at all this great music I can’t listen to. I could go buy Janis on CD at Target or Walmart or Amazon, but it just feels wrong.  

I’ll leave you with these beauties, which if I can rip them from my fingers, I’ll be selling on DahlilaFound. (See, even I’m a sell out. )

If you happen to have a record player still, go play something rocking for yourself. Maybe, if I open my window real wide I’ll hear it too.

later, d.

Shineun in the Woods

Okay, I’ve calmed down, a little bit. This photo helped.

This is Shineun. Shineun recently bought these special order wristwarmers from me at Dahlila. It took us awhile to pick the right yarn (nothing itchy) and get the right color, but together we did it. She sent me this photo in return, which is great because I was in such a hurry to make them I forgot to shoot them.

Now, ISN’T SHE THE SWEETEST THING EVER! She looks like a little forest fairy. (That’s way more fun to yell about than smokers; more productive too.)

Thank you for the photo Shineun. It’s simply wonderful!

d.