Second Hand, Second Thoughts

I do try to keep a relative handle on the homeostasis of my inventory and my home work and storage space. I keep things either selling or returning, and I'm trying to buy less actual inventory. But I've lost interest in the back-breaking work that the eBay biz requires and I have hit a patch where I just can't deal with the even limited social interaction with buyers. I try to convince myself I'm buying salvage materials for my new up cycle projects, or that I won't be acquiring any new inventory when I'm up at my farm for the entire summer. All the same, I'm picking up definite vibes that this is an addict's justification and I'm starting to cross the line where the stuff is coming in faster than I can process and get it out again. You actually can't call it "inventory" if it's not actually for sale. It is just "garbage." Part of the hoarding disorder is the supreme discomfort that is caused by getting rid of items....

Ephemera Vulgata (garden variety Mayfly) Ephemera: From the Greek: Ephemeron --a short-lived insect. Members of the family Ephemeridae include dragon and damsel flies as well as may flies in the genus Ephemera. For the rest of us: the detritus of our lives: concert tickets, bus tokens, valentine's day cards, matchbooks, packaging, coupons: objects meant to be useful for a brief period of time. And then what? Advocates of simplicity say it should be thrown away. I have tried.   But I don't think they're looking close enough. Simply because it is not meant to be durable doesn't mean much of it isn't a tiny window into some artist's mind. I am not ashamed to say I buy many things based on the cleverness or beauty of its packaging. I consider this a way of supporting the arts--manufacturers paid someone to design the structure, the image, the lettering. It may not be as grand and sweeping as an operatic performance, but the opera itself is ephe...

This subject has been written and blogged about before (and undeniably more brilliantly) in many different ways--most resonantly for me,  "The Sneaky Hate Spiral"  (in Allie Brosh's hapless and hilariously insightful Hyperbole and a Half), or more optimistically, playing more gently on the theme of Brosh's Hate Spiral, as " one of those days " (Brian Konzman, a Jesuit scholastic in The Jesuit Post) that present an opportunity to see the glass as half full or expand, through prayer or meditation or yoga or whatever, our capacity for patience and whatnot, or as the classic depressive cycle that is kicked off with irritation, frustration and restlessness as can be found in just about any artist's self-reflecting blog on the internet. So I'm not covering new ground here. Although when one is slogging along, deep in the tangled undergrowth of the circuitous path of the Hate Spiral, even though you're all oh-shit-here-we-are-again , it still looks as...

Let me begin by saying I don't have OCD.  Or, perhaps, I should say I don't have any papers to prove I do have OCD. I'm quite certain if I were to go have a mental health checkup with a psychiatrist they'd find something . A whole list of things. I already know I've got things. I don't need to pay some other crazy person 100 bucks an hour to have him tell me I've got things. Lately, though, OCD seems like the thing to have. Like it's cute to say: "I'm so OCD!" because you like clean counters or because you sometimes have to go check and see if you locked the door. Or you think you're a "hoarder" because you buy Scotch tape in bulk and save wrapping paper and have more than three magazines on your coffee table. I just get a little... obsessive. About things. A single word or line or phrase from something. A number. Not stepping on cracks or, conversely, stepping on ALL the cracks. An imaginary friend or the storyline in a ...

People love to talk about simplifying their lives. All those adorable tiny houses and the dream of whimsical, simple living! Everyone wants to be Henry David Thoreau or a Shaker or something. Well, without the whole celibacy and religious fervor thing. And with central heating and A/C, maybe. And my headphones. So more like Thoreau, maybe, because I definitely couldn't do that whole single-sex dormitory arrangement. Also, I like to spend Sunday mornings doing brunch with friends, so that whole church thingy? No, that won't work for me. Also--if someone else would do the laundry that'd be great. But the baskets? So gorgeous and simple!! I'd love to learn how to make stuff like that someday. Not now, of course. And I'll definitely need a yard for a dog. Gated community maybe so I can lock up my simple life and travel. Learn about how simply the people live in Vietnam and Japan. We can learn so much from other countries. How they make do without washing machines ...

There has been a lot of talk about failure lately—articles in highbrow publications and interviews with Oprah and other celebrity self-help professionals on every channel in the universe vaunt the romance of falling on your ass . Top talent seekers claim their top picks must have some ill-fated entrepreneurial venture on their CV’s.   It’s almost like failing has become downright fashionable. If that’s the case, I think I failed to get the memo. Nothing about the experience seems like anything you’d want to have. At least, maybe not the way I do it. Some people enter into things carefully, after a certain amount of consideration. They proceed cautiously—they read up on it, they take lessons, they start on the bunny slopes. I usually find myself trying things because they sounded interesting or fun or just completely crazy or I’d secretly been mulling it over for a few decades and suddenly just decided “what the heck?”  For the first group, failure might come in small, ...

Sarah Cannibal hunting jacket label for Hippik Because I was raised by wolves. Not really. But sorta. Ok--maybe cats. I was raised by cats. I was a difficult, fat, scabby, feral child. The youngest kid of those old-school big Catholic families--the one who crawls around under the piano, eating everyone's homework, teething on old cigarette lighters and rubber grapes. I was an early talker--mostly obscene--because by the time the fifth, sixth or tenth kid comes along, everyone is tired of watching their mouths. Mostly I was in the barn, searching for the new litters of kittens. We had a rotating herd of barn cats. And there were always new kittens. But cats really aren't good as surrogate parents. If you have retractable claws, they might teach you how to kill mice, but other than that, they don't have a lot of useful life skills to pass on to young girls. My mother did not teach me to sew. In fact, she thought I was a bit tetched in the head for wanting to even b...