Cupcakes and The Women Who Lurve Them

cupcake

This week had a theme…  CuPcAkEs!!    It started with a friend and I trying a new cupcake place in town (we are medical reps and we do a lot of goodie-giving so a new cupcake place sounded like a good thing to check out…for work…of course.)  We went.  The cakes were MEH but the icing was FAB! (Is it gross to order a pound of icing?  Okay, then a pound of icing, please.)

Fast forward to today.  That same friend and I are having lunch and discussing a  promotional item we could make from an idea on Pinterest  involving  cupcakes in a mason jar. (I know, who wouldn’t want to get an afternoon goodie with all THAT happiness in a toteable jar?!)  My friend told me at lunch that she had lab tests done this morning.  One of which was an A1C test, which if you don’t know, is a test for glucose (Diabetes).  My friend was offended that her doctor prescribed this test.  OFFENDED.  My friend is a nurse and ate cupcakes all week (and pasta, with me, right before a lab test) and was offended.  I said, “You are offended?”  She said, “Yes”.  I laughed and told her to throw her arm up on the table and I squeezed around the cupcakeyness of it and said, “Really, bitch…you’re offended?”  We laughed and laughed.  My friend told me that her doctor was super healthy and had offered to have my friend stay with her at her house for a month to embrace the healthy lifestyle and train with her and her  super-healthy husband.

I immediately tuned out my friend with a mental image of her hiding in the guestroom closet cranking out shameful looking and tasting cupcakes from an Easy Bake Oven hidden skillfully in the back of the closet.  I pictured my friend going batshit crazy when the sad little light bulb that actually does the cooking in the Easy Bake Oven poops out.  I can just see her busting through the shuttered closet doors like the Incredible Hulk looking for that good icing, or a mason jar full of cupcakes or even one of those Ho-Ho-Ring-Ding things.

I promised my friend that if she got bad news from her test and had to adopt a new lifestyle, and forced to wave goodbye to chocolate covered yum-yums that I would join her.  It’s what you do with friends.  That, and offer shovels and plastic sheeting and alibi assistance when needed…

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That’s a Lovely Set of Pomelos Ya Got There!

 

I needed to go to the farmers market today so I recruited my friend Tams who has a food blog and she was willing to go with me.  Upon arrival, right out of the cage we saw two old people unloading their electric scooters and sporting twin “I love Jesus” baseball caps, which struck me as odd that they didn’t smile or greet us when we said hello.  (Probably spent all their love on Jesus and had none left for regular people).  Right away we were captivated by what looked like the biggest-ass grapefruits we had ever seen!  We asked what they were and unexcitedly we were told they were Pomelos.  They taste sweet and just a tad like a grapefruit, we bought two.  Tams, a foodie, was there to take pics for her blog “Flip Flop Foodie” and she asked the gal, “What do you do with them?” (as in, share some creative culinary uses for this magical citrus delight!)   The vendor looked at her like, “wtf do you THINK you do with it!  You can cram it up your ass for all I care!”  On to the booth where they sell the tiny little crinkle knit shiny tops that could fit folded into a matchbox.  Down the produce aisle, a vendor quizzed Tams about where her bag was for the Pomelos (like she had stolen them), she quickly found me and bummed a bag off the sock lady booth.  At the sock booth we were hacking around taking pics of the pomelos.  (Tammy made a lovely set of knockers for herself and we spoofed the Twilight apple shot)  The sock booth man became very interested in the Pomelos that he must see 100 times a day and asked us about them..after seeing us take boob shots with them I was afraid he was going to try to buy us a funnel cake and ask for a hummer.  I do love the sock booth…you can get like 100 pair of “real” Nike socks  for two bucks and this is valuable to me because my younguns go through them like Kleenex.

We stopped at the god-awful-gawdy “miracle” comb both that had the smallest mannequin head ever, made with real  hair weave, when the clerk was all up in our business like we were going to steal them.  I really was there to crack on them but the clerk killed my erection for making fun of them since she was almost glued to my ass.  Last stop was the tweezer, dental instrument, scissor man booth where all of Polk’s dental do-it-yourselfer’s  get the goods.   I asked the man about uses for a 12” bent tweezer and he told me:  Motor cycle part grabber, aquarium cleaner and pasta tester.. c’mon dude…we both know they are for meth cooking and  for bootleg organ harvesting.  The afternoon produced 2 pomellos, 2 pics, a sack of strawberries and some cherry tomatoes which I sat on in the car.

Good times.

Lizard in the Bed

lizard

It happened.
Our dog, who loves to chase lizards has run one of those damned things into my bedroom. I considered moving or setting the house on fire but I decided to take an antihistamine and go dead to bed instead hoping that the meds would put me into an anti-reptile sensory coma. No such luck. I inspected every corner of my bed an pillows, no sign of that green bastard. I looked around the room for any sign of that Geico-looking-son-of-a-gun. Nothing. I sealed my ass up in that bed and was so tucked in that I was collecting condensation under the sheets. Sleep came.
2:00 a.m.. I bolted up with the strangest tickle on my décolletage. I started flappin’ and slappin’ my chest and undercarriage so hard that I literally snatched a knot on myself. I flung every stitch of clothes off and sprinted through the house screaming “Oh GOD! It’s Got Me!” The dog, awoken at his post in the family room, thought I was a chubby naked intruder in the dark and bit me right on the ass. The bite broke my run and I remembered that the wall made a “splat” as my first round of titty-slaps sent Mr. Lizard into space.
Beat up, bitten and unclothed I went back to my room to see if I could find him. He was gone. I decided I’d spend the next few nights on the couch and wait for him to be eaten by the dog. They deserve each other.

What It Weren’t

Sometimes I allow myself to get lost on the junk-route and make turns and twitsts all about. (I have a GPS, I can get home). One such day I went the back way behind the mines (phosphate) and started day dreaming. Before I knew it I was in the middle of these small clap board homes that were a hundred years old. The homes were oddly similar and although kept up, not much life showing around the area. I knew that these were heritage places, where milk cans were stools and chickens were pets and dinner.
Recently, I was told by a friend that I don’t wear enough makeup. I said, “Listen bitch, I wear a gob..it just gets rubbed off all damned day long!”. She didn’t buy it so lately I have really been trying to whore-it-up, make-up wise, and this was one of those days.
I digress… So, even though I was only like 40 minutes from my house I felt worlds away. I saw an old lady wearing one of those apron smock deals full of clothes pins hanging her laundry on a clothes line and in her yard, all growed up in weeds was an old iron bed. I pulled over.
I introduced myself to the lady who was about 70 and plump with wild ass hair and was wearing those turn of the century shoes with a heel and the apron and capris with martini glasses embroidered on them. My mind wandered as I wondered what motivated this old gal to get up and dress like”Deliverance Goes to Stein Mart” but in a skinny minute Wichitaw’s (her name, no lie) hubby rounded the corner all puffed up like a rooster just a gettin’ it with his cane and pointed index finger. He was all wanting to know who I was and where I was fromand why was I wearing more face paint than a street walker  and who sent me and did I have kin there and if’n my Daddy worked for the government and would I be staying overnight. I was like, “Hold on there, Poppi, I just wanted to ask about the bed frame you got all up in the weeds”. Wichitaw told the old man to go get him some chew and set a spell inside where the fan was cool. Turns out Wichitaw and the old guy are Common Law spouses. (Whatever that means). Evidently, he told her in 1960 that he had cancer and if she’d be his old lady (and take care of hom) she stood to get a lot of money when he died. So Wichitaw cooked and cleaned and sewed and gardened and ironed and scrubbed and toiled for now going on 52 years living in a house the size of a postage stamp. I asked Wichitaw if she loved him and if the amount of money (yes, I wanted to know how much) was going to be worth spending her whole life at the clothesline and if she minded cutting off chickens heads to eat for supper- you know, the general “getting-to-know-ya” run down of questions. She told me that he was worth “a quater million on paper and another 50 in land”. I thought to myself that 50 million plus was not a bad retirement plan. Then she said, “What it weren’t was cancer. He ain’t got no cancer. He is gonna outlive me.” I shuddered a little bit in the hot sun and wondered that if I stayed there too long would I get sucked in too. Wichitaw said I could have the bed she originally put it out there 30 years ago as a “flower bed”. She said ain’t been flower one it in ever since. Well I sure as hell didn’t want it and it’s bad JuJu. I got up out of there and haven’t made a rouge junk wander in weeks.

Margarita and Boogers

I promise you that this post will read nothing like the title eludes to.

I confess that I stray from shabby chic yumminess when the job calls for it.  I do beach cottage, many faux finishes and other looks as well.  This was the case Sunday, when my HGIC (head girlfriend in charge) texted me to tell me there was a dresser loose on a street close to her.  I ordered her to “Get it!” as I was busy at the warehouse and decided to make her my immediate employee that I would repay by way of dog sitting or taking her to her car dealer to drop off her Jeep for an oil change that would otherwise hold her hostage in the “Customer Lounge” all day.  BTW, why do they call it a lounge?  I have never seen a lizard or a cocktail come out of there…. Liars….

At any rate, my friend dropped off the dresser while I was away.  It wasn’t what I expected.  I had expected a very french ornate deal.  I got a faux bamboo number.  It was jacked up with thick shiny/gloppy paint and hand prints from the owners younguns on top as well as lots of grime.  Inside, (and I know you like to know what was left behind) there was a little Minnie Mouse sweatshirt.  I assume it was outgrown… I removed it with my drawer tongs and disposed of it.  The inside was as clean as could be.  The drawers were all turned around. The good news was that was all that was wrong.  They were not on their tracks  Once put in the right places and on correct tracks, all drawers opened like buttah!

The top had to be stripped to the original finish, which was in perfect shape.  The rest got painted in white with gray dry brushing and the lyrics to the beginning of a Jimmy Buffett song…or so I thought.  I had gone through life thinking that these were the words:

Livin off Sponge cake,  Watchin the Sun bake……..  Wasting away again in Margaritaville.

I awoke the next day with the instant thought to go to www.lyrics.com to look up the real lyrics.  “Nibblin on Sponge cake….. Wasted away again in Margaritaville.”  Now that was different!  I had to repaint and reword the dresser.  Jimmy would be ashamed of me, for sure.  Besides, how can someone live off sponge cake and waste away at the same time?  It cannot be done.  I know, I’ve tried.  Here is before and after of “Margarita”

Now…BOOGERS.  This has nothing to do with Margarita..but it was and has been on my mind today.  Raised in the south, we have many uses for the word booger, none of them what you think.  Here’s how I was taught the word that I detest but probably often say:

Booger- defined

1.  Man, that storm was a BOOGER!  (meaning it tore down a single-wide and Bubba’s front porch coke machine)

2.  “Boy, you better get outta that old truck bed, a BOOGER will jump on ya!” (a southern parenting technique to get children off of or away from dangerous places or situations, inferring a spider, roach or snake attack.)

3.  “Honey, I saw Gerdine down to the Piggly Wiggly and her hair looked like a WOOLY-BOOGER!”  (Even this is a variation on the term, it means a heinous hairdo and assumes the woman resembled a drunken Teamster.)

4.  “I love you, BOOGER.”  (A term of endearment usually meant for children.  This probably confuses them.  Refer to #2.)

I hope this clears up BOOGER CONFUSION.  It is common here in the central part of Florida.  You’re welcome  🙂

Here is a picture of a little corner of the Vintage Warehouse!

-Dana

Mystery Disease

where good stuff lives..

Lots of cool stuff happening here at Shabby Chic Addiction!  Did I tell you I was asked for a radio interview about how I got started in the yummy decor and goodie business?  (Only a hundred times?!?!?) Well now, you must hear it for yourself!  You’ll find my interview segment starting at minute 20:10. Que it up so you won’t have to listen to people who have nothing to say about junk or shabby chicness or decorating. http://view.liveindexer.com/ViewIndexSessionSL.aspx?indexPointSKU=5L82bV9S4UfAZgwaEY0%2fmQ%3d%3d

That interview was fun and I learned something about myself un the process!  I had it in my head that I have always been a junker, a shabby magnet, if you will.  The interviewer said she had watched me over just the last year after I proclaimed to her that I was going to change my house to a romantic shabby chic look.  And it all started with my headboard!

Speaking of headboards…  look at the picture of one of our vignettes at the warehouse!  This is just a tiny corner of the joint!  I can’t share any more than this pic because we haven’t finished sorting, staging or preparing for our sale.  Our plan is to make it a monthly junk purge set to the tune of  the Sanford & Son’s TV theme song.  April 20, 21 and 22 will be the first. But enough of this shameless self-promotion!

And on to a more serious topic:  The MYSTERY Disease. First, let me tell you what it’s not:

Not Snookie-Preggers  (the kind of pregnant when you ALREADY feel sorry for the baby)

Not the Sundrop Dance disease (where you dress and dance like you never wish to get laid again…ever.)  www.sundrop.com  see the “Drop it like it’s hot commercial”  Hot, yes…hot mess!

Not Middle Aged Zumba-itis (Where you are 40+ and insist on going to zumba classes with full-on head to toe zumba logo embellished clothing.  It’s sad..Don’t.

These are the true symptoms of the MYSTERY disease:

1.  You wake up with an idea to find old shutters and paint them in a haphazard manner to use them as a corner accent in your home.

2.  You drive 46 miles around your town on the hunt for abandoned shutters to paint.

3.  You are excited for garbage day in the historic district in hopes to get good junk before the city hauls it away.

4.  You learn to breathe through your mouth so you don’t notice the musty smells of old things.

5.  You start calling dust and rust “patina” and consider everything with it much more attractive and valuable.

6.  The bright lights of the discount mega stores begin to hurt your eyes and sensibilities. (I call it Junk Vampirism).

7.  You happily trade your only day available to sleep in late for an early rise to go “pick” at yard sales and flea markets.

8.  You consider used layers of lace and denim with cowgirl boots as appropriate garb to wear to the grocery, a flea market or even an evening out.

Ladies:  If you have identified with any of the 8 symptoms above you may be at risk for the mystery disease.  Unfortunately there is no cure.  Victims with a severe case can expect to experience frustrated husbands who are constantly asked to move furniture, fix old junk and endure mismatched pillowcases and frilly bed linens.   This disease may alienate you from friends who are creeped out by patina.  The good news about your disease is that you will be very happy with your treasures, you will make new girlfriends who love patina and you will crave the thrill and adventure of a dumpster full of vintage furniture and finds.

Oh, and it’s contagious, and I have it..so with computer viruses and such..Get Well Soon!  🙂

Addiction, eviction and prediction.

Exciting News on the Junk Front!

I have been lucky enough to score some warehouse space with two other gals!  (Code for:  Husbands finally saying, “Move these six dressers and buffets out of my garage or I will leave you for a stripper at Showgirls!”)

At any rate, these gals, Kim and Mendy are wildly creative and have a great eye for all things vintage, industrial, urban chic, eclectic and blingy.  We have become friends over our love of chicken wire, chalk paint and burlap.  We have so many goodies that we have decided to raise the door on our hobby once a month for a fantastic purge!  It will be fabulous!  There will be suitcases and furniture, fur covered benches, head-boards, dining sets, lawn and garden delights and so much more.

You see, we now have a girl cave.. where w can come and craft, collect, recycle/repurpose/reuse, paint and teach, share and drink fizzy drinks, while we work on our dance moves.  Why hadn’t we done this before?

Oh yeah, because our children were small and our plates were full.  It seems that we now have a keen eye for what we like, what tickles our fancy.  We want to share those goodies, to build our sisterhood and fill central Florida with things we can cherish in our homes.

It all sounds so pretty and communal doesn’t it?  Well let me tell you how it’s really rolling out:  For the last 3 days I have had to pay my 108 pound teen son tn bucks an hour to help me haul 14 loads of my garage to Wallace Road.  He is learning to drive so he insists on doing so.  We have run 2 red lights, a stop sign and damned near mowed down an old lady biking the Fort Fraiser Trail.  We put the fear of God in her so bad that I was sure she filled a Depends in crossing that stretch of the trail.  I have managed to beat up my rig pretty good and dismantle my femininity as I haul huge furniture around like a gypsy teamster.  In my mind I’m Rachel Ashworth.  In reality, I am Horace McGillicutty.

I am proud to say that the hubs can now park his Prius in the garage.  I still have several loads to go before I can call myself completely relocated but I am well on my way to tenancy.  I am tapped out of ten bucks an hour pay so I am single-handedly hauling stuff over to Wallace Road.  I double backed on my flip-flop yesterday and almost tripped with a huge armoire on top of me.  I would hate for the men who also have space out there to find me, Flat Dana, underneath a three hundred pound armiore with birds painted on it… ultimately killed by a flip-flop and a passion for ruffles.

If you aren’t busy, come see us.  I predict you will find something that makes you remember a time long ago, or something that makes you feel happy to look at.  For us, it’s that… and a place to make and do and gather.  Our warehouse sweet warehouse.

Vintage Warehouse Sale

Friday April 20th, 2012

4-8 p.m.

4310 Wallace Road, Lakeland , FL 33813

(Warehouse is across from Publix on Bartow Road in Highland City)

Follow Signs!!!!!

 

Dealers, Pickers, Decorators, Photographers, are welcome!!!

 

Shabby Chic, Industrial, French Country, Primitive, Unique Cottage Treasures, Repurposed  and Salvaged Items!

 

Hosted by Shabby Chic Addiction, Modern Vintage Home, and

One Chic Vintage

Call :863-944-4789 (Dana)

Come On Down To “Carnie-Mart”!

My oldest son turned 15 and I was forced to take him to the DMV in Armpit,  Florida because I procrastinated and didn’t make an appointment at the “good” DMV where some of the people actually have teeth.  As we took the 20 mile drive through the cow pastures and the bait shops of central Florida, we chatted.  Well, I chatted, he sat with his “beats” (AKA= fancified headphones) on.  On the way there I spotted a semi trailer parked in an empty lot with a bunch of old furniture lined up on wood pallets.  A blue dresser stuck out to me like a turd in a punchbowl and I made a mental note to distract the teen on the way home and pull in.  We were just getting to a good clip on the way back from YEE-HAWville when I spotted the junk again.  Faster than a fat girl eats a ho-ho I whipped in to the lot.  Trying not to act overly eager, I meandered around,  purposely avoiding the blue dresser.  Finally, I made my way over to this filthy, chippy, old robin’s egg blue dresser that had no knobs left on it.  The holes where the knobs once belonged were rigged with old telephone cable that you could use to open the drawers…classy.  I was in love.  All of a sudden this tiny boy jumped out and said, “I am your salesman!”  I Suwanee, it scared me so bad that I clutched my chest and damned near fell over the pallet to my death!  There he stood, this little boy, all enthusiastic and certainly had to be older than his stature led on.  Someone (I hope not him) had pinned at least 8 old brooches onto his too-tight little granimals shirt.  I played along and asked the price on the blue dresser (now named Midway).  He said he didn’t know but he would take me to his PawDaddy.  WTH????  I was hoping that PawDaddy didn’t mean that it was his Grandpa AND his Daddy!  Little boy  showed me to an umbrellaed table where a huge toothless man, a skinny, hairless woman with the BIGGEST bugged eyes I have ever seen and a real nice looking strapping young man sat smoking cigarettes.  This nice looking guy stood up and, looking like a Hollister model, wiped his hand on his shirtless abs and flashed his cobalt blue eyes at me and grinned.  He had 3 teeth. TOTAL!  I know this for a fact because he told me.  He also told me that he, “Ain’t had a decent bath in a week.”  I’m like, “Hey smooth talker, you keep on like that and I just might have to hook you up with the girl at work that I hate”.  I asked if he would load the dresser in my car so he went to the semi trailer and pulled out a dude to help him that was wearing a Stone Cold Steve Austin shirt and the shortest cutoffs I have seen on a guy.  They loaded up Midway and I went on my way…back to town…to civilization.  On the way home my teen complained about the stop we had made…but I didn’t have to remind him to brush his teeth that night!