Oldest Living College Student to Graduate Next Week

oldcollege

I was 17 when I graduated high school and had not one plan.  My Dad, the Navy man turned career  Fire Marshall did what any man who was raised by the military would do…he took me to the Naval Recruiting Office with a promise that I could “probably” be a USO comic.  There was NO WAY I was listening, giving them my name or anything in fear that my folks would allow them to come rip me from my Holly Hobby bed and drag me to the Navy where they would yell me out of bed, make me belly crawl under barbed wire to a breakfast of mud and powdered milk and go for a 16 hour jog.  I sweetly told the Recruiter that I would certainly consider his lovely offer, faked my social security number and got the hell out of there and drove as fast as I could to the Community College.

At the Community College I wasted many semesters and dollars signing up for random-ass classes and withdrawing or failing because I spent most of the hour in class making plans for Friday night with the other 2 townies that were left behind when everyone else went to real college.  I swear to Joseph when Kirk Cameron put out that “Left Behind” movie that I was gonna be an extra in it.

I always worked 2 jobs and enjoyed being a Recreation Therapist in Long Term Care facilities and later became a consultant and parlayed that into helping a major firm merge to another chain.  I spent more than a dozen years selling Real Estate and being a Home Health Rep.  I have had a nice career but I always wished I had finished school.  Signing up for classes in my twenties made me feel the same way it does when I rejoin Weight Watchers for the gabillionth time.

Something happened when we moved, in 2006, to Hickory, NC from central Florida (my lifetime home).  I was renewed by the place and the people.  I decided to go back and finish just in time to move back home.  It took me 23  years to grasp algebra but I did, and all of a sudden I got it!  I was a straight A student !  I received my A.S. degree in 2008 and set about working 2 jobs, raising young boys and going to the University.  I have not taken a break, I have made A’s and I have paid for it with Real Estate commissions and painting furniture.  Lots and lots of furniture.  You could say that my Shabby Chic Addiction was my scholarship.  I am grateful that I learned how to learn,  I am glad for the abundant experience and I am proud to have set this example for my (now high school aged) sons.

So, if you see me at the Piggly Wiggly next month and I am still wearing my cap and gown, it’s because it took me 28 years to get it…that, and because I am insane.

Please like and share this and I’ll love ya more than cooked food!

Voodoo Dolls and Teenagers

I started painting a loooong time ago when by boys were toddlers.  I faux finished beautiful custom homes during the construction boom.  I have been making and doing since I was a teenager.  I stopped for a while when my kids were small because I couldn’t find time to wear a decent outfit  much less paint.  As their pre-teen years approached I felt my morph to the garage some since I wasn’t afraid to leave them in the house alone.  I was wrong, of course, as evidenced by my coming in one day to my 12-year-old, with a can of hair spray, a straw and a lighter (making a flame thrower like the one he saw on Youtube.)  I yelled at him for wasting my good hairspray and went on about my business.

Over time, my tweens became teens and I was glad to have my painting as I rose on the weekend and the man and boys slept until 2:00 p.m.  I enjoyed my radio and the outside and found my company in Annie Sloan, Martha Stewart and some gal with the last name Behr.    My boys used to make fun of my hobby saying that shabby chic was stupid and they hated the old furniture in the garage.  They shamed me for my hoard at every turn.  When people came to pick something up they’d scowl off waiting for a grilled cheese and wonder how anyone would like the things I painted.  I made voodoo dolls of them and made their butts itch and shaved off an eyebrow.

Funny how the jeers stopped when we took the first vacation we had in 16 years, last year, because of my painting, my peace, the thing that sets me free.

I’m full-on in the throes of raising two high-school boys.  Painting and crafting still takes me to my happy place in so many ways.  I hope you have found your happy-place as well.

Here are some things I’ve done in the last few:

dressernight standombreharlequin Drexel dresser

What a Heiffer will do for Weigh-In Day

effie

Today was my 1 week weigh-in day at Weight Watchers. I joined last week with a friend (her idea). I showed up for weigh in (she did not). In my planning of how to make the most of this day I wore the lightest clothes I could find. For good measure I put on a brand new pair of compression (torture drawers) panties that go clear up to my bra. I used the word compression lightly. What I really meant to say is that they were so hard to get on that I felt the fat surge up to my eyelids. I was so mad because those people (Walmart) must have mis-sized those jokers and put a small pair onto that hanger and sold them to me! Over them I wore some light weighed goucho-sorta-deal that forgot to land at my waist and spent the whole day north at the bra-line too. I prayed that I would make it through the day without dying because I know the paramedics would have a big time taking pictures of me for their Facebook pages with all of my clothes resting at my bra and them not being able to get it off of me without cutting them and having to do rock, paper, scissors to see would have the duty of cutting them and run the risk of a slingshot effect of my flubber.

Those panties are mean. Sinister. The whole reason why I bought them was to use as bathing suit bottoms under my new bathing suit top (tent). I decided that I would rather wear cowboy chaps to the beach (and nothing else) than to have to spend a day in the hot sun and sand with those unrelenting scratchy-ass britches! I did “save” them however, for when I am lighter. (That’s unless they get outlawed or the rapture comes before my “lighter” days happen)

You must be wondering about my weigh-in? I stepped right up there, took off my sweater, earrings, shoes, necklace, and rings. The weigh in lady looked at me like she didn’t trust that I wasn’t gonna get buck-ass-nekked. They didn’t kick me out. I get to come back next week and give them $13.

Underwear Waist Bands

I am ashamed about how ‘home grown” I am. Today a lady came to look at a car I have for sale while I was sweating away in the garage over an old bookcase. We got to chatting and I told her that my Daddy spent his life having his retired underwear used as dust rags in our home all stained with Old English. We chatted a bit about our dogs as well and I shared that I had owned a dog once that ate the waist bands to ALL of the family’s underwear while we were out on a Saturday excursion once and how I had to go to the Walmart with underwear pinned into my jeans with safety pins to stock up on new drawers for the entire family.

I am glad, however, that I get to select my own underwear at this stage of the game.  I remember some of the underwear I got as a kid.  My mom would go to the flea market and buy (in bulk) underwear from the textile mills of North Carolina that I now understand were seconds.  Seconds, meaning there was SOMETHING wrong with them!  I grew into my teen years thinking that one of my ass cheeks was freakishly bigger than the other and that painful (front) wedgies were normal.  (I assume now that I was kissed by serendepity by getting undies with not enough crotch fabric.)  Imagine my delight when I wore my first undies that were proportionate and didnt have cartoon characters on them with grotesquely smeared images.

I wonder about my sanity. I now have to face that my country-ass oversharing must be a cry for help.

And I Didn’t Even Have to Set it on FIRE!

When something goes horribly wrong in my world there are three solutions: 1.  Set it on fire.                 2.)  Shave it all off             3.) Pretend nothing happened. Such was the case with the 1999 idea to become a redhead, the time … Continue reading

Pause

The above video is the theme song to my drive-bys, pick ups and midnight junk runs.

This is a song we Zumba to. (Zumba:  a dance class for crazy people who think they look like Usher and Janet Jackson dancing when they really look like Cee Lo on meth.)

At any rate… This is the song I hear in my head when I am on a curbside furniture rescue. I prefer to call it rescue and NOT theft.

It’s sometimes a surprise as to what is lurking in the forgotten corners of abandoned or thrift purchased furniture. Just this week I came across these tidbits:

1.)  In a set of 1950’s french provincial night stands:  1 pair of tweezers and a pair of cuticle snips, a lace hanky and a picture of someones ass. Literally, a picture of someone’s ass~ circa 1960.

2.)  In a dresser:  A fake fingernail and  2 hits of acid on stamped paper.

3.)  In a roadside rescue dresser:  A crayon,  a nickel, a twenty-dollar bill, all wadded up and stuck between drawers… and  a tooth.

4.)  In a cabinet: A shoe lace,  cassette tape of David Bowie, a chicken foot and a  cowboy boot.

So, with these little details I have assumed that many people who I cosmically or financially transact my furniture from are an eclectic group of  highly groomed, drug addic,t voo doo enthusiasts with a flair for country western?  Also, I figure I am up $20.05 , two hits of acid and an ass picture.  Surely the street value of the latter two would be worth at least a ten spot.  (KIDDING…..I WOULD NEVER SELL THEM ON THE STREET!  That’s what Craigslist is for…)

It does take some doing to figure outl what all is left behind in a piece of furniture.  You see, it shifts in transit and things become visible again when once they were hidden.  The tooth and the fingernail, both gag-worthy items, came rolling out at me like marbles when I pulled out the drawers.  I handled them with tongs that I have rigged up with spongy grip so I don’t have to touch them.  The single tooth did help me understand the mystery of so many toothless people in my county.  (Evidently the tooth fairy is heinous and just yanks and stashes teeth in furniture so that her quota doesn’t go over… something like that.)  I imagine the press-on nail became a resident of the night stand on a drunken evening when lady and her man were having a squabble about which youngun pulled up all the onions she was growing in the yard and chucked them into the above ground pool.  I imagine that the argument grew hotter and in the midst of her finger-waving monologue about how there. “Won’t gonna be no damned onion rings at Skeeter Mae’s birfday party!” that the one nail flew off and hid in the drawer next to her Lucky Strikes and Vaseline.

So, I am replacing the song, “Pause” by Pitbull (Video attached) with a shout out to my boy David Bowie as I blare the cassette (turned MP3) song “Let’s Dance”  and deem it my new FAS (Furniture Acquisition Song).

Anybody want to buy a cowboy boot?  Size 10. Mens.

My pulls were once knotted telephone cords