Come on, Universe
Come on, Universe
*at this time of year I change colors in the sun faster and more drastically than others so my skin color becomes a frequent topic of conversation. Someone thought I was Native American. I’m Italian – I get dark.
With that said:
I have a friend who helps me at work.
One of her parents is white and one is black; she is a lovely combination of the two.
We were cracking eggs together today, and she looked down at my hands then looked up at me, “Sally, you are mighty white.”
There is something that I want; something that I want to happen which would take an specific alignment of the stars.
I sit here thinking about the possibility of that alignment while trying to keep any hopes and enthusiasms in check.
Those damn stars have not been on my side for quite some time now.
Which leads me to, “Come on Universe. Haven’t I earned a little something?”
Throw me a fucking bone.
I just started a fire, pulled the shades, made popcorn, got under the electric blanket, and tuned in to Santa Clarita Diet.
I’ve decided to embrace this being at home thing.
Not bored at all.
Or, the weekend I didn’t run to the desert.
The other day it got back to me that I am running away when when I head west.
Speculation runs rampant in a community this small.
I don’t think it was meant to sound judgmental, but I took it that way – mostly because it’s not an accurate statement.
Of course there have been plenty of times that I have run away but that’s not what’s going on here – it’s just that I can’t resist the idea of getting sand in my drawers and cactus thorns stuck in my big toe.
But this weekend, I made the choice to stay home. Friday evening, there was an event that I didn’t want to miss, and, I have been blowing off every single responsibility I have in order to spend more time in the dirt and sleep under the stars.
I figured I needed a few days at home to be a grown up and take care of my shit.
So here I am. Friday night was fantastic. I got a huge chunk of work done. I have a lovely Eater potluck this evening. My boys came over for a bit yesterday.
But in-between, I am bored as fuck.
I have plenty to do around here; vacuum, repot plants, scrub the shower, buy toilet paper and lightbulbs. It’s a goddamn thrill a minute.
I don’t go to bars, I have no desire to hit up a mall for a saturday afternoon shopping spree, I don’t watch baseball. And I don’t want to go for a run with 200 mountain bikers spinning past me.
I want to stretch my legs, my brain, my horizons.
I have wanderlust.
I come by it naturally; my mother is a wanderer. I grew up taking road trips all over Europe – cruising through the Italian countryside eating bread and salami, stopping wherever and whenever we had a whim.
I was bitten by the bug at an early age.
I used to tell my children that “I’m bored” was not in our family’s lexicon, and now here I am saying it.
“You could read a book, draw, make something, go for a walk, go for a run, play with the dog.” Those were my suggestions for them when they moaned about having nothing to do.
So applying those same suggestions to my situation…Yes, I could do all of those things, but I’d rather be doing them somewhere out there.
Sometime last fall, in the immediate aftermath of the implosion, I was running errands and entered a store where a woman who I know works.
*important note: I haven’t seen her in a few years so had no idea that I would see her there.
I don’t know her well, but we’ve had a couple of conversations that involved our hearts and I’ve always enjoyed her.
Anyway, she asked “How are you?” and I lost my shit, and so she closed the store for an hour and sat and listened and offered love.
She was such a gift.
I haven’t seen her since but I’ve thought of her kindness and generosity a million times.
She was in town and came into the cafe to say hello. She told me that she’d been having a really rough day recently and was crying and driving and I crossed the road in front of her.
She said that seeing me gave her strength, made her smile through her tears.
I took it that she meant that I was an inspiration.
But today a friend shared a slightly different perspective:
“She’s just glad that her life isn’t the shitshow that yours has been.”
Oh. Glad I could help.
I love scoring cool dishes in thrift stores.
I love dishes period.
Tableware, serving platters, teapots, even though I don’t drink tea, all thrill me. Large bowls really rev my engines.
Generally everything I have in my hutch is “one of a kind.”
And I do have a few items that truly are one of a kind.
Occasionally I will pick up two or three of the same kind in a thrift store, but they have to be something really fantastic.
And, I won’t be the shopper who fucks up a complete set.
Anyway, the added bonus to my mismatched dinnerware is that it’s not the Ducks Unlimited stuff that I used in my past life.
My dishes now are a bit more reflective of me.
At some point I picked up these killer lunchtime plates – 4 of them, unchipped.
Tonight, I was cooking dinner with one hand and holding one of these cheery cherry plates in the other and I flipped it over to read the back:
So I decided to look it up.
And lo and behold, there’s a whole story that goes with them and people seriously collect these.
To eat off of, not to hang on the walls.
Websites, auction sites, Wikipedia, a fan club.
This pottery was made in Tennessee at some point between 1930 and 1957.
The company shut down in ’57 because they could no longer compete with plastic dishes.
My particular pattern is called Cherry Bounce.
It’s hand painted.
Isn’t all that just fantastic.