Not Really MIA

It's been a while...again.  Oops.

It's Friday, thank goodness, and I've had the benefit of a very long nap.  This past week did a number on my stamina.  Long meetings at work, lots of stress, lots of 'must be social' activities that made me alternately happy and tired.  I'm a true introvert who gets rapidly drained of energy by being around a lot of people for an extended period of time.  I think the nap was my body's way of getting some alone time, not to mention down time.  I haven't been sleeping well; see above mention of meetings, work, etc.  Oof.

One of the good things about this week's very long meetings was that they gave me time to spend with some wonderful women from my past.  Jackie O. and Suzanne came down, and we carved out time to go out to dinner at Circa 81.  I loved introducing them to Circa and seeing their reactions to their icy chocolate martinis and shrimp and grits.  We laughed a lot, and loudly.  Being around Jackie reminded me of our trip to The Library of Congress and our mutual love of books and learning. Suzanne is one of those people whose very presence inspires me to be a better person.  She's funny and kind, smart as hell, and I admire her faith because it's uniquely her---honest and heartfelt.  I snuck up behind her on the first day of the meetings and surprised her, and the hug she gave me in greeting made me feel like I was the most beloved person ever.

I don't get to feel like that often, but when I do, it jostles my heart.

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I made the switch from the brand-name antidepressant I've been taking for eight years to the generic.  I just couldn't see paying over $200 a month for something I could get for less than $2.00.  Yes, you read that right.  In some cases, generics are just as good as their pricier brand names.  In some cases, they're not, and this, for me, is one of those instances.  But it works well enough that I function and feel fine 99.9% of the time.  I have noticed that rainy days make me a little sadder, and I'm more easily moved to tears, but I can live with these changes.

It doesn't escape me that I'm fortunate to be able to afford any medication at all.  There are far too many people who can't afford what they need to be well.  And that's a terrible commentary on the state of this country.


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I have a ton of things I want to do this weekend:  knit, crochet, read, paint, draw, clean this house, cook some good food, maybe sit outside while the weather is fine.  I think we're going to go see R's side of the family on Sunday to celebrate some more birthdays.  That's always a good thing, celebrating.  Again and again, I am reminded how fortunate I am, how many blessings are strewn through my life like roses blooming along a path.  I am blessed.  I am blessed.

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Missing Her

Five years of August 17th have passed.

I didn't do anything out of the ordinary to mark the day.  It was beautiful and sunny out, the kind of day MomMom would have adored.  I tried to felt some yarn for mine and Jennifer's DragonCon costumes, but my felting mojo was a bit out of whack.  I ate too much ice cream and watched two of my favorite movies---Pitch Perfect and Practical Magic---just because I could.  The sky outside was turning indigo before I finally told Robby what today marked.  He reached out across the space between us and held my hand.  I squeezed his fingers until I could compose myself enough to make a joke, to lift the heaviness that had settled over our weekend's end.

I miss the sound of her voice on my telephone.  I miss seeing her handwriting on envelopes in my mailbox.  I miss the smell of her perfume.  I miss knowing that I can drive a span of hours and be enveloped in her embrace at the end of the journey.

The only thing at the end of that drive now would be a quiet grave site surrounded by trees and wind and the sky.

I've learned how to navigate a world without her in it.  It hasn't been easy.  Sometimes I try to channel her goodness of heart, her generous spirit.  I fail more often than succeed.   I'll keep trying.

My friend Pam once told me that when you lose someone so dear, a hole develops in your life.  The hole never goes away; it's never filled.  You  just learn to live with it, build yourself around it.  It becomes part of you.  Sometimes I imagine that hole left by my grandmother's death as a clearing in the woods.  The trees around the clearing are tall and whisper when the wind flutters the leaves.  Lily of the valley blooms in the shade like clusters of pearls.  Queen Anne's Lace bends and sways to the quiet calls of mourning doves. There is no pain or sadness, no despair or grief.  Only peace and the hush of the listening green.

It's been five years since my grandmother breathed her last and left this life.

Wow.

It's been a while.  A lot has happened, some of it positive, some of it not so much.  That's life.

The business is no longer.  Reality kicked in when we hit the end of the year and had to pay quarterly taxes right after Christmas when business was slow.  Long story short, the business couldn't survive a multitude of problems, including my own difficult personality clashing with G's.  Looking back, I wish I'd done things differently.  I learned a lot of lessons the hard way.

I miss the shop.  I always look over at the building when I'm in MHC for appointments.  I miss scouring the paper for yard sales and haunting auctionzip.com for upcoming auctions.  Other thrift and consignment shops have opened and closed since we started and ended.  If things had been different, if I'd been more patient or less opinionated or if we'd been better organized and prepared for the inevitable after-holiday slump, I think the shop could have continued.

But it didn't, and life went on.  M finished her master's degree, G got another job, and E & W grew and grew and grew.  I had a hysterectomy (a blessing) and dodged a cancer scare. Our parents have had serious health issues.  M and I had our share of  psychological bumps and bruises as we tried to figure out how to work the day job together and salvage our friendship.  We're okay.  It's not like it was before the building, but it's better than it was when things began to fall apart.

Learning to set up and run and business and ultimately failing at it took away some of my fears of trying new things.  I'm still struggling with perfectionitis, yet I've grown bolder about trying new things creatively: painting, drawing, pottery, jewelry making, cosplay costuming, even figuring out who I am, what I believe, and how I want to present myself to the world.

Life hasn't been easy, but it's still been a gift.

So...what's going to go on in this blog?  Chatter about creative stuff, mostly.  It's what keeps me sane on days when I think it's just better to crawl under the bed with a jar of Nutella and a bottle of liquor.

Living

I was thinking about the little tag line on this blog's title:  "thrifting, painting, and creating for a living."  Most folks who would read that would assume that I make a living doing those three things, in the sense that I support myself and my family with that work.  I wish that were the case!  I have a day job, one that alternately exhausts and challenges me, and that day job is the reason I was able to pitch in to buy the inventory for our consignment shop. The day jobs pays the bills and gives my family financial security.  But it doesn't inspire feelings of joy, of contentment.  There are times, certainly, when I feel like I'm in the flow at the day job:  when I help someone understand a concept or I solve a particularly knotty problem or when I can help edit a document so that it's easy to understand.  But there are so many semi-negative things that go with the day job that I can't really say the day job does much for my soul/spirit.


Creating, on the other hand, makes me feel more like the real me.  The times when MC and I have painted something in the shop or created something with the Cricut have been the stuff of the daydreams I had when we talked about maybe buying this business.  Someone asked me if I wanted to turn a profit, and I answered that of course, I'd like that, but I'm mostly in this to have fun and feed my soul, my creative side, my eccentric side.  I want this business to do well so that I can have a reason to haunt yard sales and flea markets, so that I can have a reason for sporting smudges and spots of paint on my arms and legs, so that I can spend a Saturday working and see immediate results of my efforts.  I want to let my hair go back to its natural salt and pepper colors and rock long skirts and keds when the weather cools down.  I want to be the eccentric old hippy people talk about, the one who helps run that funky store down by the coast, who's always knitting or painting or doing something crazy with hats and handbags, who likes to talk about cats and books and makes a fuss over little kids.


That's what I mean by 'thrifting, painting, and creating for a living."  It has nothing to do with money for me because I'm fortunate enough to have a good day job.  It has everything to do with feeding my life, my real life, the one made up of yarn and cabbage roses, purring cats and the sticky kisses from a little girl, paint and glitter glue, fabric and thread, wood and stone, sunlight glowing through colored glass, old books and romance.


I'm a lucky, lucky old duck.

Bienvenue

At least, I think that's how you spell it.  "Welcome," in French.  Or my favorite, in my native Texan:  Howdy.


I need another blog like I need a hole in the head, but I wanted to document, more or less regularly, the craziness that goes with owning and running a small business.  We're a month in, and so far, I haven't killed anyone, we haven't gone broke, and no one has gotten arrested.


I have trouble believing I'm a business owner.  I already have a full-time day job, one that leaves me in a quasi-zombie state many days.  I also write fiction, knit, and dabble (badly) in painting and drawing.  I have a house, a patient husband, and aging parents, not to mention a Diva who happens to have four feet.  My life is full.  


And then my friend MC asked me if I wanted to buy a thrift shop with her.  I said yes, and the rest is...well, not so much history as chaos.


Buying the business was equal parts terrifying and horrifying.  (I know they're synonyms.  Work with me.)  The legal stuff alone nearly sent us running for the nearest open bar.  Licenses, registering with our state, registering with the county, registering with the Feds, getting electricity and water set up in our names, buying supplies (toilet paper is our number one priority), cleaning.  Oh my Lord, the cleaning that went on.  Now add ripping up old carpet and removing elderly tiles and throwing away piles of junk.  Did I mention the cleaning?  Did I mention that we would go home covered in grime and sweat and would get up at 5 a.m. the next day to go to the day job?  Did I mention the whole feeling like a zombie thing?


I never really knew that starting a business was so much physical work.  I never knew just how committed our friends and families were to helping us succeed until they pitched in and went far above and beyond familial duty and friendship to help us get ready in time to open our doors.  A month in, and we're still exhausted, and Mark and Mr. Tom and Miss Bobbie are still helping us  stay sane.  


It's been amazing.