Coconut Shell Bowls

Day 103: Goconut Shell Bowls

I love these coconut shell bowls, which were a gift from my brother- and sister-in-law, David and Sylvie. Another gift from them: the affection they feel for Sam, who is spending two weeks with them, their children and his gramma. I know he is in Florida, having fun and feeling valued.

Sadly, the paint that coats these bowls has utterly disintegrated. 

Meanwhile, I am sitting at Gate 36 at Denver Airport, waiting for my flight to depart, feeling tired, relaxed and not quite ready to jump into the thick of work again tomorrow. I love Rocky Mountain National Park. 

Junk Email

Day 102: Junk Email

I'm making up the rules for this project as I go along. One of the rules is that I'm not buying stuff to replace all the stuff I've gotten rid of. And not buying stuff makes me realize how often I'm invited, and tempted, to buy. 

So here I am in a cabin ten minutes from the Rockies, relaxing, talking into the night with my old friend Tina, taking long hikes to mountaintops and alpine lakes, drinking good coffee in the morning and good wine at night, sleeping in, doing yoga on a deck overlooking the mountain, cooking good food. 

But we both care a lot about our jobs - we went to graduate school together and worked together for many years - so we can't resist peeking at email a few times a day. And the first thing that pops up for me is always a commercial from a company marketing something to buy. Sears. Delta. Sierra Trading Post. Groupon. Mother Earth. REI. North Face. Trulia. Amazon. Ereader. Sports Illustrated. ESite Secrets. SPN. The list goes on. And on.

So I'm here in the mountains with no objects to give away. Today I'm doing two things. One, unsubscribing to all these advertising emails. Two, creating rules to send these advertisements directly to the junk mail folder. 

At home, Rich dumps the physical junk mail directly into the recycle bin before it enters the house. Next on my agenda: junk snail mail. 

Dressy Dress and Conference Materials

Day 101: Dressy Dress and Conference Materials

I was sitting in a conference session Wednesday morning, nervously awaiting the big, scary meeting I had to lead at noon, when I noticed that my power dress had a three-inch tear in the seam. I rushed back up to my room (thank goodness I was staying at the conference hotel!) and changed outfits. 

I attend the American Public Gardens Association conference every year. Usually, I come home with a suitcase full of pens, toys, pamphlets and business cards. This year, I resolved to take only information and objects that I specifically intended to use. 

I brought away only four things. Information about Nature Connects, a Lego exhibit commissioned by a friend and colleague at Iowa State University, which I hope to bring to the University of Michigan. A single sheet of paper about Blackbaud's ticketing and merchandizing software, which I hope will interface more effectively with UM's donor management system. A flash drive containing data about the US Botanic Garden's Landscape for Life Initiative, which goes well beyond LEED standards. And a plastic grocery bag covered with tulips and a portrait of Rembrandt from the Amsterdam Tulip Museum, because I spent a semester in Amsterdam, and besides, you can never have too many shopping bags. 

So the meeting went well. Very well. And I succeeded in keeping stuff to a minimum. The lunch meeting represented the end of six weeks of craziness, and now I am relaxing on a sofa in Estes Park, sipping Peet's coffee and gazing out the window at the Rockies. I did it. I did it all. Survived, thrived and completed. 

Tarantula Teapot - Psych! Stainless Steel Sugar Bowl

Day 100: Tarantula Teapot

by Lisa Johnson

Karen's note: I am still at the conference. Please enjoy this post by my brave and radical friend, monarch advocate and University of Michigan scientist Lisa Johnson. (PS I got rid of a stainless steel pitcher and sugar bowl last weekend for today's thing.)

If you seek, as Karen and I do, a simpler, less cluttered lifestyle, and you are a little observant, you will notice it right away.  When you assemble that box to take to the Salvation Army, take a good look at what is in it.  In my case, things that I have been given as gifts always dominate “the box.”  Sure, there are always foolish things that you bought for yourself, but the evil that is the unwanted gift is a special little beastie that is hard to vanquish because it has its nasty tendrils wrapped around every part of our lives and culture. 

My husband and I began our lives together with a bold act against the culture of gifts right away by having no engagement ring. We rejected the most important gift of all, and had no tangible, purchasable, and (importantly) expensive evidence of our plans to wed.  Believe me, there was a giant social cost.  For more than a year I suffered through the knowing and condescending looks of sympathy from practically everyone I knew when they reached for my hand and found it unadorned.  One work acquaintance just told me flat out to my face that if I didn’t have a ring, that we weren’t really getting married. 

Despite her prediction, we did wed, and immediately agreed to face and defeat together the guilt wielding, money-snatching monster that is the “Hallmark Holiday.”  The monster told us that we had to give it money every February 14^th, or it meant that we didn’t really care about each other.  We resisted, and our love continued.  It told us that if we didn’t make our yearly payments on our birthdays that we weren’t special.  We looked into each other’s eyes and knew that we were.  Failing to drive a wedge between us, it instead tried threatening members of our family.  The monster told us that if we didn’t get each other Christmas presents, and plenty of them, that our families would suffer because Christmas would be ruined.  Everyone survived and we saved a fortune – every year.

Between the two of us, we have slain the dragon, but what about everyone else?  We could stop giving gifts to one another, but we couldn’t prevent the monster from reaching us through others, no matter how hard we tried.  The well-meant gifts from our friends and relatives have flowed into our lives as steady as the Nile all of our lives

This one's a keeper

My favorite is the, “I know you like these” gifts, or IKYLTs.  In a heartfelt attempt to give you something you will really like, we latch on to some small thing that we know about someone and then use that knowledge to guide our purchases.  I have carried many a box to the Salvation Army, chock full of IKYLT gifts adorned by butterflies.  Everyone knows I raise and tag monarch butterflies in the summer, so they just can’t resist buying me butterfly things to satisfy the Beast.  Butterfly jewelry, butterfly pictures, butterfly ornaments, butterfly knick knacks, butterfly, butterfly, BUTTERFLY.  And I thank them, because I love them and I know they mean well, and quietly and quickly chuck the thing right back out the door, sometimes the very next day.  But my favorite gift in this category, real tarantula lives there right on the counter.  I love it because it is absolutely absurd, but this is rare.  Most IKYLTs are headed directly for “the box.”

which I have kept and appears in the photo, is my tarantula teapot.  Yes, you heard me correctly; it is a teapot with tarantulas on it.  It is creepy and weird, and it freaks me out to have it in the kitchen, even though my

IKYLTs are easy to dispose of without too much guilt.  Maybe someone else will want the “butterfly thingy”.  But there is no escape from the personalized gift.  You don’t just receive these gifts, you marry them.  The butterfly snow globe with your name and the year emblazoned on it is yours “until death do you part”.  The worst part though, is that this kind of gift has only two possible futures after you die.  It either hits the landfill (because who wants something emblazoned with a stranger’s name and date?) or it is kept by generations of descendants who can’t emotionally bear the responsibility of throwing out something of yours that is so “personal.”  So it becomes a special family heirloom, even if you actually hated it and couldn’t bring yourself to put it in the trash.

Changing our culture of purchasing “things” to prove our love for our friends and family is difficult, but it is a necessary step if we are going to ever reach a place of sustainability, stop the flow of resources into our landfills, and unburden our personal lives from the “stuff” we own.  I am not a religious person but the words of the Quaker Christin Hadley Snyder speak to me in this regard:

Simplicity is not so much about what we own, but about what owns us.  If we need lots of possessions to maintain our self-esteem and create our self-image and to look good to our neighbors, then we have forgotten or neglected that which is real and inward.  If our time, money, and energy are consumed in selecting, acquiring, maintaining, cleaning, moving, improving, replacing, dusting, using, showing off, and talking about our possessions, then there is little time, money, and energy left for our other pursuits such as the work we do to further the Community of God.

Amen.

     

     

       

       

      

     

Porcelain Pets, Never Housebroken

Day 99: Porcelain Pets, Never Housebroken

By Joe Mooney

Karen's note: I'm at a conference this week, so I asked some friends (and great writers) to guest blog for me. These are folks who've had some very thought-provoking responses to my "Stuff" blog. Joe is a former editor and writer for Gourmet Magazine, a former antiques dealer, and a natural philosopher. Enjoy!

PS I got rid of a handmade pottery cream pitcher today. Well, not exactly today; I borrowed a few things forward last weekend.

When Karen wrote a few weeks ago that she’d struck a chord or perhaps joined a symphony with her “Stuff” blog and year-long give-away project I thought, Yes! A symphony. That’s what it feels like to me, like we’ve entered into a new era where stuff and things and, indeed, ownership, don’t seem as important as they used to be, and everyone’s singing a new song together. We’ve been reading about it in all the papers, right? And then I had to stop myself and say, “Kidding?” Stuff still rules on this planet. So maybe I was just trying to make myself feel better by getting on the getting-rid-of-things bandwagon and giving stuff away. In other words, what does it mean to give things away authentically?

And yet—I do feel better. Lighter. I was inspired by Karen’s project. I’ve been giving something away every day for over a month. Good stuff, too. Vintage items. Antiques. Even some stuff I kind of paid a lot of money for but that ended up sitting in my basement in boxes for years. Like items with a pig theme (long story). Or cat paintings.

Because there was a time when stuff and things had an almost talismanic effect on me. I can’t give that away! It belonged to my first cat! 

Even so I’ve always had a kind of love-hate relationship with possessions. I want them and then when I have them they seem kind of meaningless—dusty orphans inhabiting the rooms in my house and the chambers of my soul.

Here’s something I took to PTO because I knew it would sell there even if I’d never get what I paid for it if I tried to sell it myself. A Made in Japan lusterware sugar and creamer set in the shape of dogs. I paid $60 for these in an antique mall in Oberlin, Ohio about 20 years ago. They were made in a factory, cheaply, in Japan prior to World War II, probably to satisfy the appetite for stuff that people had back then. They’re pretty cute, really. Lots of personality. Why did I buy them? Good question. I had a notion, once, that pre-war Made in Japan would rise in price, and that was part of the appeal: I could buy low, enjoy them for a while, then sell high. But they never were useful objects for me, they were just objets. Now they’re gone, and hopefully someone else is treasuring them at this very moment.

This canine sugar and creamer set was made in Japan before World War II.
Aren't they cute? They seemed so necessary to my happiness
when I bought them 20 years ago.
And yet, they've hardly seen the light of day since then.
Sorry, my pets---back to the pound

Plastic Platter

Day 98: Plastic Platter

I found this white plastic platter in the cupboard above the refrigerator, where we have a few oversized plates and bowls tottering precipitously in an unstable stack. I have no idea how we acquired this object - did the previously owners of our house leave it behind? - and we have never used it.

I've been much more aware of plastic since the last time I wrote about it. I said then that avoiding plastic is like running between raindrops, but that was an offhand thought. Now that I've been paying attention, I realize just how true it is. 

Avoiding plastic would require a complete reshaping of one's life. You would have to eat only whole foods from local producer, purchased at the farmer's market or picked at the farm. If you wanted milk, you'd have to buy a goat. (Our milk comes delivered from Calder Dairy so we can avoid disposable milk containers, but even Calder Dairy milk has plastic lids.) You would have severe limitations on clothing: you'd be limited to those items that come with paper sticky labels. (Even Levi's have plastic stickers on the legs.) You would have to produce your own beauty products from your own bees. As a beekeeper, you would not be able to use plastic foundation or a plastic helmet. You would have to fashion a toothbrush from carved wood and boar bristles. You would have to walk or take public transportation everywhere, as you would not be able to own a bicycle, a motorcycle or an automobile. You could not take a train, or an airplane. If you ever wanted to buy or consume anything anywhere outside of your own home, you would have to come armed with your own utensils, bags, and porcelein cups. You would have to keep careful tabs on your quill pen. And you better not need an aspirin, or an asthma inhaler, or stitches.

In short, the easiest way to avoid plastic would be to return to the year 1900 or earlier, and die before 1950.

Keys

Day 97: Keys

Where did all these keys come from? They are sticky to the touch, as though we were a house full of smokers. I was able to identify only two of them: keys to our house, never used. Why they were on a hook in the basement with a bunch of other mysterious keys is anyone's guess. 

Even though I don't know what these keys are meant to open, it was awfully hard to put them in the recycling bin. I have only one recurring dream: that the house I live in (always a different house each time) is much larger than I knew, with more doors, more floors, more rooms. What if one of these keys opens a door I never knew I had?

Prescription Eyeglasses

Day 96: Prescription Eyeglasses

My eyesight is dimming. Quickly. The reading glasses I bought a few months ago have me squinting at the page. Without my progressive lenses firmly in place, the world is blur. Nine years ago, when I interviewed for my job at the Arb & Gardens, I didn't need glasses at all.

Growing old is taking me by surprise. Fifty! I am typing, looking at the pronounced blue veins on the backs of my hands, my right index finger thick with years of mouse-clicking, the skin of my knuckles wrinkled and exaggerated, a liver spot on my forearm. 

I am younger today than I ever will be, and older than I ever have been. When I look in the mirror, I try to focus on the former, and appreciate what I see. But it's hard. How much harder it is now to open a jar. To sleep through the night. To recollect a name. There is that pain in my thumb joint, and stiffness in my hips after too much sitting. My knees pop. 

I remember how it felt to be sharp, and supple, and fast, and strong, and wide awake. And yet, I am only fifty. Aren't I all those things still?

These can be donated at LensCrafters, where the will go to needy people around the world. Perhaps few people will find mine useful. The left lens is clear glass for my blind eye.

Extra Part from Sam's IKEA Bed

Day 95: Extra Part from Sam's IKEA Bed

What is it with IKEA? Why are there always too many parts, or too few? And why, when there are extra parts, am I afraid to get rid of them, even after the assembled item has been in use for months?

In just 52 days, we are going to have to decide whether to allow Sam to move himself and his IKEA bed into his sister's bedroom. According to the video about transitioning to college, which I and 200 other parents watched the day before yesterday at the Ball State orientation, a lot of younger siblings move into their older sibling's superior bedrooms the minute the door slams. And Emma's room certainly is superior, being twice the size with twice the windows and twice the closet space. Also the door latches.

I'm going to go out on a limb and assume this thing is recyclable.

Pleather Purse

Day 94: Pleather Purse and Other Seldom Used Handbags

I love leather. Leather armchairs, leather carseats, leather purses, leather belts, leather coats and leather shoes. The way it smells, like a pasture in the sun. Its nubby smoothness beneath my fingertips. The way it improves with age, fading and softening. Its sturdiness. Its colors, and textures.

I love the way, when I dropped my scooter taking a corner too quickly, I got a scraped elbow instead of a broken arm, thanks to my leather jacket. I love the way our Mercury Villager kept smelling good after ten years of kids spilling milk and dropping lollipops. I can smell leather upholstery in a car from half a block away. I am so glad I bought my Fusion before I learned anything about the leather industry. Love, love, love those sand-colored leather seats.

I've been reading a 2,000-page novel called A Suitable Boy, which takes place in India in the 1950s. Some of the characters work in the shoe industry. The description of the tanning neighborhoods are stomach-turning: the smell, the noise, the contamination. The illnesses of the children who live nearby. Sadly, it appears that the tanning industry, especially in countries with fewer regulations like India, is still extremely damaging to the environment and the health of its workers and their families.

I was not able to find any reliable information about the treatment of animals in the production of leather. There was, of course, a diatribe from PETA with a healthy dose of xenophobia (your shoes might be cat and dog skins imported from China!). Another equally inflammatory diatribe against PETA's by a non-profit organization apparently funded by the restaurant industry.

I'm giving away a few little bags and purses, but I'll keep anything leather. Tanning does undoubtedly require the use of toxic chemicals, and those toxic chemicals are being released into water systems around the world. I'll hang onto my leather stuff, so I won't have to buy anything new in the future.

Still, leather's ecofootprint compared with other products is not clear, particularly when those other products must be replaced more often. Because one thing is certain: leather is durable. I bought this backpack purse a little over a year ago, in hopes that it would alleviate shoulder pain. The fake leather is already cracking and flaking; I don't feel comfortable carrying it to work any more. To replace it, I bought a smaller leather bag used at the Thrift Shop. It looks new. The leather coat that saved my arm? I bought it at a garage sale 15 years ago and wear it often. It, too, looks new. 

Another certainty: buying used = zero guilt. 

Art Board

Day 93: Art Board

The label 'art board' is high falutin' for this moldy cupboard-backing that sat in a puddle in the basement for a few weeks before we realized we hadn't thoroughly cleaned up the flood. Believe it or not, this thing has sentimental value. We call it an art board because, when the kids were little, we'd lay it on the floor along with construction paper, pastels, watercolors, crayons and markers. Much of the art on the art walls was created on this art board. 

The arts walls are part of a closet room; its walls are completely papered with years of kid art. No need to mention that the art on the art walls will be pretty near impossible to get rid of. 

Another barrier to getting rid of the art board: it has to go into the garbage (treated wood) but it won't fit. I'll have to take an axe to it. 

Stuffed Animal

 Day 92: Stuffed Animal

I'm here at Ball State University for Emma's freshman orientation. They quickly separated the parents from the students - a precursor to next year I suppose - and so I am sitting alone in a sea of parents. I don't recall that my mother or father attended (or were invited to attend) orientation with me. It's good to be here though, a familiar-feeling mid-western place, clean and polite. I can see Emma chatting happily with a group of students below. I think she will be okay.

I didn't actually give this stuffed animal away today - I gave it away earlier this week - but I consider it to be a harbinger of future stuffed animals that will go away after Emma leaves home. They shouldn't just sit on her shelves or forgotten in baskets. We like to take them to the police station, where the police use them to comfort or distract children in crisis. I might keep a few, though, at least for a while.

Looking back over the last six weeks - our 18th anniversary, mother's day, a new car,  awards ceremonies, Sam's driver's test and licensing, Sam's 16th birthday, my 50th birthday (with my friends!), Emma's graduation party, father's day, my nephew's eighth grade graduation, Emma's graduation, freshman orientation, it is no wonder I am ready for a sabbatical. 

It's all good.

Soccer Magazines and Sports Illustrated

Day 91: Soccer Magazines and Sports Illustrated Magazines

I spent eight hours today driving Sam and his friend Dylan to soccer camp in Bloomington, Indiana. Now I'm sitting in our tiny hotel room in the Ball State University hotel, waiting for Emma's freshman orientation tomorrow. My stomach hurts a little from inactivity and junk food. 

It's a miracle I'm writing this blog today at all. I'm bound and determined to keep my resolution to write every day. I actually took most of these sports magazines to the library free rack last weekend, knowing I wouldn't be home today. When I dropped off a few more yesterday, the 100 or more I'd left on Sunday were already gone. Maybe it's the World Cup, or maybe people just have an infinite appetite for free stuff.

Meanwhile, crises at work make me long (yet again) for a sabbatical year. Why do only faculty get them? If I could take off one year in seven, I could keep working forever. Frankly, vacation days like these just aren't very refreshing.

Did I mention that it was 100 degrees in Bloomington today?

Apron

They modeled this apron off
the one I'm getting rid of

Day 90: Apron and Other Linens
This retro apron is so cute it makes you want to greet your husband at the end of a workday wearing only it and Saran Wrap.

Okay, maybe not.

This is a case where too much stuff is the equivalent of not enough stuff. We use cloth napkins, dishrags and kitchen towels, not paper or sponges. I had the mistaken impression that we have too few napkins and dishrags. In fact, we have so many that they were choking the drawers, especially when you add in what I've bought but didn't need. On the other hand, we have only two dish towels.

Once again I am resolved. Only acquire as much as you can fit in your storage areas.

The Other Boleyn Girl and Other Books

Day 89: The Other Boleyn Girl and Other Books

I can't figure out why this uploads
upside-down. It is correctly oriented
on my computer

My once empty, well-organized basement is becoming overwhelmed with cardboard boxes. This is a side effect of the stuff project. It is not enough to identify the items to be gotten rid of and to write about them. The errands must also be run. I feel good about getting rid of stuff in a way that makes better use of it all than just taking it all to the dump or the PTO Thrift Shop.

But this more nuanced approach takes work.

Luckily, Sam got his driver's license Friday. I've decided that he can pay for the use of the car by running errands. First errand: load the charity boxes in the car and drop them off at the PTO. Future errands will include taking the bookshelf to Summers Knoll School, taking the dresser to my brother's house, mailing the marbles to my cousin's son, chopping the legs off the resin chairs so they can be recycled, carrying books to the little free library (I suspect some homeless person steals and resells the books from it because it is always empty), taking magazines to the free magazine rack at the downtown library (Ann Arborites seem to have an infinite appetite for magazines) and going to the hardware store to buy light bulbs for the gooseneck lamp we decided not to give away after all.

I hope to be caught up before he returns to school in the fall.

Go Blue! Garden Gnome

Day 88: Go Blue! Garden Gnome

My father believes that some of my blog postings are good enough for the Huffington Post. He contributes generously to the Arb & Gardens, in part because he thinks it's a well-run organization. (It must be! I'm in charge.) He believes my husband is lucky to have me as his wife, and my children are lucky to have me as their mother. If I can't make it to family dinner on Sundays (as often happens with our busy schedules), he sometimes tries to convince me that it would actually be more convenient to stop by his house briefly to scarf down the dinner he cooks than to prepare food at home. When I do make it to family dinner, he likes me to linger. 

In short, I am the happy recipient of my father's unconditional love.

For Father's Day, I am giving him this Go Blue! garden gnome. I received this gnome as an award for being the woman who logged the most Active U minutes at work. There's poetic justice in that, because my father and I used to go running together, back when I was a miserable middle school student. We'd run around Pleasant Lake, where we had a weekend cottage, and sometimes enter 10K races together.

Also, he loves the University of Michigan. Our nuclear family has eight degrees from U-M, he says, and our extended family, many more. His father played football for Michigan, back in the twenties.

Happy father's day, Dad! Thanks for everything.

Stars

Day 87: Stars

I have been saving these stars for months - years? - to give to my niece, Evie. People say Evie looks like me, and I certainly relate to her. One of the many things we share is difficulties with sleep. In the last house I lived in, Rich and I had a skylight above our bed. When I had trouble sleeping, I could lie in bed and gaze at the stars. It was the thing I missed most when we moved to the house we're in now.

In the new house (we've been here eleven years), I have a few of these glowing plastic stars on the ceiling above our bed. I meant to add these to make a full starry night, but never got around to it. Just the few I have are enough to evoke the peaceful feelings of a full night sky.

I don't know if Evie has had the experience of sleeping out under the stars. The utter blackness. At first, frogs and crickets. Later, silence. Sometimes, owls. Sleeplessness, yes. But peaceful.

Perhaps these stars can evoke that peace for Evie. Sleepless rest, in peace.

Guitar Hero

Day 86: Guitar Hero and Other Childish Video Games

Sam is 16 today, poised and ready to rush down to the Secretary of State, get his driver's license, and hit the open road. Things aren't shaping up quite as he had hoped. Instead of cruising in his mother's brand new mid-life crisis Fusion (first new car in 15 years!), he'll be relegated to the beat-up RAV4 with 16 bumper stickers, 140k miles and a broken auxiliary connector. Which means he can't play his own tunes. He'll be stuck with the radio, just like his grandparents were back in the day. Though a radio in the car back in his grandparents' day was an exciting innovation.

Teenage years have done their work even on my cheerful, affectionate Sam. He asks, what's the point of school? Is science more true than religion? What does it mean to be good? What is God? And, why shouldn't I aspire to a Bentley? He writes poetry for English class, but won't let his mother read it.

No longer does he sit in a bathtub filled with bubbles and plastic farm animals, making them talk to each other in various voices while we outside are amused and comforted by the stream of sound. No more Guitar Hero; now he plays a real guitar with some measure of competence. No more Hotwheels; he is onto real wheels. 

No more rocking him to sleep, no more pallet on the floor, no more crawling into my lap for morning cuddling. I am, however, still the grateful recipient of daily pats, mashings (where he sits on me and crushes me with his still-slight weight) and hugs. He even lets me kiss the side of his head sometimes.

Happy birthday, beloved boy.

Binders and Accordion Files

Day 85: Binders and Accordion Files

I've packed these up and put them
in the file room at work.

Last exam day for Sam. Emma graduated Sunday. Why do we need these empty accordion files and the half-dozen binders in a box?

One positive outcome of the stuff project: it's helped me match needs I have with stuff I already own, so I avoid buying stuff I don't need. I store my tax returns and documentation in a small file box that's completely full. I need more storage for future returns, and was intending to buy another file box. Instead, I'm putting the sturdiest of these accordion files to use.

Similarly, I'm using that moldy shower curtain as fabric to recover damaged patio chair cushions. The fabric is water resistant and much of it is still good. Only the scraps will go to the rag-pickers.

Does that count as getting rid of something? Getting rid of a problem? Reusing?

Commemorative Brandy Glass from 1982 Prom

Day 84: Commemorative Brandy Glass from 1982 Prom

Does anyone else find this
a strange choice for high schoolers?

My prom was not nearly as controlled as my daughter's. We held it in the ballroom at the Michigan Union. Kuma and I stopped in briefly, I in my $15 clearance-rack powder blue Laura Ashley dress, Kuma in his matching powder blue tux, both of us tongue in cheek. We picked up our commemorative brandy glasses, danced a dance or two, and headed off to the Marriott Hotel. There, our revelry involved the swimming pool, which had a tunnel linking the indoor with the outdoor pool. In my memory, it was winter; we swam in the icy outdoor water until we couldn't stand it anymore and ducked back inside. But that can't be right. Prom is in June.

In those days, you could easily change the birthday on your driver's license with a #2 pencil and Scotch tape, so beer was plentiful. (These modern holographic driver's licenses have driven our kids to cocaine.) Does the all-night group make-out session in the single hotel room (cost split among twelve kids) count as an orgy? 

My parents hosted my friends for dinner before the dance, serving us fruit cups and ice water with white linen towels draped over their arms. I can't believe they allowed me to stay out all night, and yet in retrospect, the whole thing seems so innocent.

VHS Tapes

Day 83: VHS Tapes

Even the Salvation Army won't
accept these babies

Sometimes, when you are in the midst of a number of life changes - when you've taken a lot of pictures, given a lot of hugs, eaten a lot of rich food, arranged a lot of flowers and cried a lot of tears - you need a break.

Sometimes, when you're blogging every day and trying to be funny, and witty, and personal, and clever, and informative, and kind, you need a break.

At such times, it is good to root around in a drawer, pull out a stack of homemade VHS tapes and call it a day.

Greeting Cards

Day 82: Greeting Cards

Greeting cards are flowing into our house this week. Emma's high school graduation yesterday. My birthday today (50!). Sam's birthday Friday (16!). 

I started buying boxes of cards at Costco a few years ago to make it easier to get ready for the numerous kid birthday parties. When you have two careers and two busy children, you'll do anything to eliminate an errand.

What's left now are a few odd fussy birthday cards, get well cards and wedding congratulations. Also in the boxes are dozens of old cards that we've received over the years. I keep the cards partly out of sentiment, and partly because I feel guilty about the environmental impact of greeting cards. Read them once and throw them away? What a waste! I have the idea that I can make the used cards into something new.

There's a system here. The blue box contains new cards, the green one, used. But the green box is covered with dust, tucked away in a corner. This morning, I went through it. Looked at friends' family Christmas photos from years ago. Read hand-written sentimental valentine messages from Rich to me. Read sentimental birthday messages from grandparents to Sam and Emma. Saved a couple that I couldn't bear to toss in the recycling bin.

I wish I could bottle up the joy and pride from this week and put it away in a cardboard box. Dust it off later, when the kids have moved on and the house is quiet. Sip a little, and remember.

Not My Grandmother's China

Day 81: Not My Grandmother's China

Don't worry. This is not my grandmother's china. The pattern resembles her desert rose, but this is a later manufacture. In the 1930s, chinamakers did not produce cruets with "V" and "O" embossed on their caps. Perhaps this is why I've never liked this salad dressing set, which I believe my mom found at TJ Maxx in the early '90s. (Sorry, Mom!) The "V" and "O" lack verisimilitude. 

Plus, the "V" and "O" cause this set to violate my new "no single-use kitchen items" rule. Without the "V" and "O", think of the possibilities. Maple syrup. Honey. Salt and pepper. Half-and-half. It's mind-bogling. 

Why are they ugly, when the rest of the desert rose set is so lovely? Is it the basketweave background, which the rest of the set doesn't have? Is it that there are too many roses and not enough background? Is it my eyes?

Plastic Chairs

Day 80: Plastic Chairs

My poor father-in-law was sitting in this chair yesterday when it
collapsed in the middle of the party. Luckily, he wasn't injured.
I promised my father I would get rid of all of these chairs today.
They are 15 years old, but I thought they were in good shape. My bad.

I now know what it feels like to be completely, utterly, overwhelmingly surprised. Yesterday was Emma's (and her friend Francesca's) graduation party at our house. It was a day of cleaning, organizing, preparing food, running errands, fielding text messages and phone calls, moving furniture, washing glasses, wiping counters, arranging flowers, weeding the cracks in the sidewalks. What if no one comes? What if we run out of food? What if we run out of ice? What if we run out of chairs? What if the teenagers sneak beer? What should we do about the dog? The peeling paint on the front porch? The flowers already fading in the vases? Should we park the cars in the driveway or on the street? 

I can't help it. I'm a worrier.

So when Rich came back from Ali Baba's with a car full of catered food and asked me to help unload it, I was annoyed. Sam was helping unload. Jane was helping unload. I was busy folding towels. Hanging curtains (yes, that's right, hanging curtains). Hiding stuff in drawers. Sweeping the floor. But he insisted.

OMG! Sarah was waiting for me on the front porch! OMG! My oldest, closest friend, the keeper of my memories, whom I met on the first day of high school, whom I've traveled with, lived with, commiserated with, talked with, yelled at, laughed at, laughed with, cried with for decades since. I never thought I'd see her here, in Ann Arbor, on my own front porch. OMG! Tears flowed, and it was a half an hour before my heart rate slowed down.

Which is probably why, three hours later, with the party in full swing, I didn't even recognize Miranda, my other closest beloved friend. (Yes, I have more than one closest friend. I do.) It was just too much to take in. And then they were both here for the party, with my best Ann Arbor friends, all together, here, in my house, with my in-laws, my siblings, my parents, my husband, my children and my best friends. And Rich arranged all this! For me! For my birthday! And he invited them and they came! OMG!

Refrigerator Decor

Day 79: Refrigerator Decor

Before

After

I've often heard my mother lament that magnets won't stick to her stainless steel refrigerator. Sticking stuff to your refrigerator is as American as -- well, you know. Kid art, photos, reminders, favorite cartoons, magnetic poetry, magnetic paperdolls, magnetic advertisements, coupons, take-out menus, shopping lists, phone numbers, notes to each other. Our refrigerators have got it all.

My refrigerator has got too much. I haven't culled in years. 

The magnetic white board idea never panned out. As soon as you used the last of something, you were meant to write it on the list. The first week, I felt awkward carrying a white board around Kroger's. After the second week, no one wrote anything on it. This was about a year ago. Then, a month ago, Emma wrote "Gone 2 gym." No one noticed.

Lucky I picked today for culling. Amid the chaos was a packet of orientation materials, including a parking permit and a health form, for our freshman orientation trip to Ball State the week after next.

We'll rank higher on the feng shui scorecard with the refrigerator in its current pared-down iteration. Someday I'll throw sentiment to the wind and clear it all away. After all, I've got a photographic record.

But not today.

Sam's cartoon exactly captures the esprit of high school.
Student (in tears): "I finished."
Captain Red Pen - Destroyer of Grades: "Not good enough. You fail. Have fun working at McDonald's."
Second student (also in tears): "I was supposed to go to Berkeley."

Patrick and Other Toys

Day 78: Patrick and Other Toys

I like Patrick and SpongeBob. Squidward. Mr. Krabs. SpongeBob is such a cheerful sort, how can you not like him? Who wouldn't want to live in a pineapple under the sea? With Garry?

Today, Emma received a senior arts award, the first celebration to kick off a weekend of graduation festivities. Yesterday, Sam passed his driver's test. For me, the first big transition in life was when I left home for university. Emma is embarking on that transition right now. 

The second big transition for me was when Emma was born. I wonder. Will their leaving home be as profound? 

Many (most?) children's books are so insipid, you feel like you're going to die if you have to read it one &*() more @$!%#^ time $%^&. Praise the lord for Go the Fuck to Sleep, and Raol Dahl and P.K. Travers. I haven't had to read Go Dog, Go for ten years or more, and soon, I won't be helping Sam study or scratching Emma's back.

I like Captain Underpants and I hate Mr. Krupp. I like Jemima Puddleduck and Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and Peter. I like the Simpsons. They're crass, stupid and self-absorbed, but they love each other. And Marge and Homer seem to have a good sex life, despite her blue hair and his pot belly. Soon, it's goodbye to all these characters as well.

Emma likens herself to Patrick. She says she's pink and soft, just like him. SpongeBob is brilliantly, sustainably silly. Goodbye, soft pink Patrick and other forgotten toys. Good riddance, Berenstain Bears.

Very soon, goodbye, Emma. Not long after, goodbye Sam. As my mother would say, write if you get work.

Shower Curtain

Day 77: Shower Curtain

Shower curtains get moldy
after 15 years

Getting rid of one thing a day has changed me. I find myself peering around the house, scowling, looking for things we don't need, much as I peer around the garden looking for weeds. I've started counting unnecessary things. In the garage, there are five things we could get rid of. In the basement, seven. Four more in the attic. Thirty shelves of books.

Emma told me - adamantly - that it is not fair game to count getting rid of something that is not mine. Such as her papers and other detritus from high school, which are going into the recycling this week.

288 days to go. The math's not looking good.

I feel a growing certainty that well before Day 365, I will have gotten rid of every weed in the house. What then? Will I give away things I like - things I use - so I can keep this resolution? It's the opposite of my intention to buy new things because I gave away things I needed. 

I want to  to keep some things I don't need, too. I like having my grandmother's silver. Her bone china cocoa set. Her desert rose Franciscan ware. My souvenir wineglasses from Sonoma. The mystery writer's teapot my father gave me when I finished my novel. Bee stuff. The little wooden racing car Sam made in seventh grade. The raku vase and the little ceramic giraffe whistle Emma made at Blue Lake.

What about getting rid of our nasty old shower curtain, which has black mold on it despite multiple washings? Even though I ordered another to replace it?

Does that count?

Maybe I should have given away one bedsheet a day, instead of piles at a time.

Pens and Pencils

Day 76: Pens and Pencils

One bag for recycling, one bag to donate
to the office supply pile at the Arb & Gardens

What if you lived in a home where every pen had ink? Where every wooden pencil was sharp, and every mechanical pencil had lead? What if you took it one step further, and decided that every writing implement should be a pleasure to use? No more mingy ballpoints or chewed stubs. Every pen has flowing ink that glides across the paper. Every pencil has a soft eraser.

For me, such a goal would involve recycling this many pens, giving away this many ballpoints, and sharpening this many pencils.

The endeavor - testing every pen in the house - is one I made every three years since the kids were born. Each time I do it, I remember half-naked Turkana children, children who were grateful for a single Bic pen, which we tourists tossed over the truck rails like coins in a wishing well. 

In my part of the world, cheap washable art supplies begin to flow into your home as soon as your children can hold a pen. Scented markers, fabric markers, erasable markers, white board markers, teeny wee markers, big thick markers, sharpies, sparkle pens, gel pens, click pens, crayons, pastels, watercolors, colored pencils, highlighters. We've got them all in spades.

Emma loves office supplies and hates school. Every August, we have a ritual. We head down to Office Max for an infusion of binders, spiral bound notebooks, date books, WhiteOut, graph paper and rulers. Somehow, the crisp newness of these things makes the end of summer easier to bear. I guess we won't do that again. One last marker that passed by, without my realizing.

Usually, I'm not as ruthless getting rid of markers and ballpoint pens. But the days of posters and collages are done. These days, it's all memorization and multiple choice, book reports and research projects double-spaced and neatly printed. The half-dried markers will be dead before anyone uses them again. Might as well put the Bics and #2's to good use somewhere else.

Makes me sad just thinking about it.

More Books for the Little Free Library

We had two copies of The Old,
Weird America, separated by a shelf

Day 75: More Books for the Little Free Library
I walked back and forth between the bookshelf and the giveaway pile three times with The Barrytown Trilogy in my hand. And Herman Wouk: I'm swooning. But the little free library would be no good if people only put second rate books in it.

When I dropped the stack off this morning, I couldn't resist taking one more in exchange.

Two steps forward, one step back.

Balls

Day 74: Balls
I've made a resolution to say "yes" every time Sam asks me to play Pig. Pig is a one-on-one shooting game. Often I don't feel like playing, because I'm focused on the garden, or I'm tired from a long day of work, or I'm in the middle of a game of solitaire, or I've already walked the dog plus ridden my bike twelve miles that day. But I never regret saying "yes" to a game of Pig with Sam.

It's a little like Calvinball, except all the kooky rules are designed to let me stay in the game a little longer. So:

(1) I get to defend against Sam, but he doesn't get to defend against me

(2) There are no fouls, so I get to pull his shirt, grab his arms, kick at the ball, and push him aside

(3) I get to use a broom to try to keep his shots from going in the basket

(4) When I'm on defense (and sometimes when I'm on offense) I get 5-6 attempts for every one of his

(5) When the score is P-I-G to nothing, I get 5-6 Hail Mary's, which means if I get a shot from a particular spot in the driveway, I get to go back to P-I.

The game makes me laugh so hard my ribs hurt. Sometimes I even "win."

Sam wants to save his balls to give to his own child someday,
but skimming off three deflated duplicates will still leave plenty.