Thrifting

I always love to point out how much I hate to shop.  And I do... for new things. Give me access to pre-used, bargain deals, then my mouth salivates at the thought of going store hopping. It's to the point where I can't even stand being in regular stores, because I think, "Oh I'm sure I can find a better deal on this." or "Who would pay that much for this?!"

In effect, I've become a snob. A reverse snob, I guess.



There's a thrift store trifecta that I hit every time I'm in the neighboring town. Even if it's for a quick run-through due to limited time, I cannot not stop. They all help satisfy my different needs, so the steering wheel literally takes on a life of its own and plops me right in front of the door. It can't be helped.

First stop, Goodwill.

Here I get clothes, books, bric-a-brac, and occasionally a piece of furniture.

It was at this place that I landed on a pile of discarded Eddie Bauer sweaters. If you know me or R, then you know of our love affair with EB (or Ed, as he likes us to call him.)



Then onto the Salvation Army.

Here you can find a great piece of furniture and bric-a-brac. The clothes are still too pricey (can you believe me!?), and the kitchen ware is slim.

Okay, I'm not a complete imbecile.. where I refuse to buy anything new. It's just become a knee-jerk reaction to question the need to pay such inflated prices. I mean, yes, I will buy new and unused underwear. (However, I did buy and wear a vintage 1940s swimsuit for a summer. Discuss.)

A hairbrush? New. (This has especially been cemented in my head after working in an elementary school where those insects whose name rhymes with 'mice' tend to congregate. Shudder.)

If I were to jump out of a plane, then yeah, I'd pay extra to make sure the parachute was new and in working order.

See? I'm not demented.



The last stop on the holy trinity trail is just a generic THRIFT STORE (per the sign). I found this puppy while getting lost one day.

It feeds my do-it-yourself projects, my kitchen ware, knitting, and occasional piece of clothing.



It was there that I bought these bushel baskets. R thought it was a great idea, since we have an orchard not growing anywhere near us. (He never appreciates my purchases).



And who could forget the great book buy of 2010: a Gardening Encyclopedia set. The cashier rang up each book at 25 cents when I thought they'd be a dollar. Will I read them? Probably not. But I saved almost $14 people.

And I love how they look in our eames style TV stand. We found that curbside in our old KC neighborhood and I made R carry it three blocks home. You know, instead of me running ahead to get the car. I was afraid it would be snatched.

Yes, I am that person. A dumpster-diver.

There, I said it. I'm a dumpster-diver and I love it. During my sister's annual neighborhood large-item pickup day, she and her husband would grab a six-pack, sit in their screened porch, and make fun of my fellow divers.

They don't understand.



Then what about the Shack's mini, almost microscopic wine (and champagne?) cellar. With my $4 wine rack and $2 carafes. I bought the carafes back when we lived in KC and they were next to 12 mini wineglasses of the same decor. Those glasses still haunt me to this day. Why I didn't buy them, I'll never know.

I think I didn't want everything to be mitchy-matchy. I still get queasy about mitchy-matchy, but in this case I would've come to love the matching set eventually.

Note Klimt's and my mutual friend, Judith, gazing longingly for a glass.



And then my 'Medicinal Plant's' poster. At the checkout line, a lady said that she was this close to buying it.

Half of the fun is the competition. There are not several of these in the store, with more in the back storage room. It's a one and done deal. Who knows when you'd see it again, if ever. So you have to grab fast if you like it, because others are just as quick.

For the record, I have no idea which plants these are, as they are all written in the latin names.  I know one day I'll see something outside that looks similar and then end up with poison ivy on my tongue.



But when you live in a Shack with limited storage, you have to be creative. So when I found this 60s (maybe earlier?) laundry basket, I immediately thought where it could go.

In front of our kitchen window, where I am desperately trying to revive my grandma's plant. Remember? I said I'd baby this one forever here. Turns out I'm a liar. It's hanging on by a thread. Sorry Mary Margaret. I'm trying.

It also holds the cute set of vintage mixing bowls, one of which holds our compost goodies.



You need storage, Carolyn? Then voila! That little guy opens up to find all of my awkwardly sized bottles. These have been stashed randomly in the kitchen, bedroom, and who knows where else.. so it pleases me to have them all in one place.

The Shack's wallpaper & white linoleum, on the other hand does not please me. Oh well. I'm blessed to have a roof over my head.

Happy Thrifting everyone!

Just in case you were wondering..

Here are some dos and don'ts of  deciding to camp while attending a dance workshop on a blistery cold & windy weekend.

Yeah, go ahead and pack a really yummy healthy lunch. Some no-knead bread, a jar of carrot juice, maybe even some avocados.



And, sure, why not make a cozy fire to sit around.



Yes, of course use your new cast iron skillet skills for supper that night. You know, the ones you learned at this class. Only, try not to get a flat tire.



But do not.

I repeat, Do Not....



only pack skirts to wear, because you want to "look cute". You will freeze your ass off and you'll also get such a bad cold that it will threaten your Food Network getaway with a girlfriend the following weekend.

Just in case you were wondering, that is.

Kansan Girls Visit

This photo at the top of White Rock Mountain is proof that we are not still hiking at this very moment.

My friends, S & L, came down for a weekend visit a couple weeks ago, and I still have bug bites as memories. They visited The Shack, we went on a hike, and then played board games until 1 in the morning. A pretty well-rounded time I must say.

When I found this hike, I saw the outlook at the top and knew this was the one. It wasn't too far south, and you could still get some good views.

Little did I know that you literally had to call upon the native american navigational skills you've been studying, because there were moments when the trail disappeared. What, you didn't study them? Neither did I, and a broken record of "Are you sure this is the trail" questioning ensued.



What. I was nervous! Two of my friends took time away from their busy lives to visit and then I lead them into the woods never to be seen from again?

L registered our names at the trailhead while reminding us what to do if we encounter a bear. I don't know where I read that you're supposed to scream, trip your neighbor, then run; but it seemed like sound advice to me. So I dismissed everything L read.



It was kind of warm that day and I was happy to have worn shorts, silently gloating over that fact as S & L changed into pants.

And then it started. Or ended, I guess I should say. The trail, that is.

It ended.

And we had to eyeball our way to what looked like a white rock on a mountain. That meant going through bushes. And bushes. And thorny bushes, and kinda thorny bushes, and not thorny bushes.

My legs got tore up, people. And every so often I would turn around and see...



two smiling faces going through any sort of foliage with ease.

Those smarty-pants.

[let me pause here for awkward laughter as I say, "no pun intended" but you really know that I meant to say the pun and suddenly realize that you're required to make some sort of noise, so just do a muffled golf laugh and avoid eye-contact]

ahem.



It eventually got so bad, that after finding a map of the trail, yet not being able to decipher which way was north, we took to turning S into a sundial to figure it out.

We kinda just went forward and hoped to see a white rock somewhere. We'd even take a white flower, at that point. Anything white, in fact and we're followin' ya.



What we found in the meantime was a nice waterfall....



With remnants of someone's campfire, complete with homemade chairs. There were only two, so S rolled a couple stones together and formed a third.

We decided to take a breather and snack on fruit and a sip of wine, cheersing to our inate ability to identify plants. For instance, the extremely rare reese's pieces plant, along with the more common purple gobstopper flower. I know, we're pretty savvy.



We hiked on and enjoyed streams of sunlight.



Then eventually found a spot to eat our lunch before hiking our way to the main overlook.





On the rock wall, we noticed engravings of various places and the distance away from there.

We followed the arrow and looked up.



Ah, there it is.

Take a deep breath and imagine sitting with your legs dangling on the other side of the wall, and a breeze blowing through your now slightly wet hair. I could've sat looking at that view all day.

But we couldn't. We had to get to our little cabin in the woods before sundown. We don't know what happens after sundown in these parts.



But I do know what happens at the cabin after sundown. Did someone say hot-tubbin' time? More exciting than that was forcing L to wear my vintage 1950s swimsuit which I unfortunately did not get a picture of.

Forget Ralphie's shotgun, the bra on this bathing suit could shoot your eye out. And who knows, maybe it did at one time.. because I'm pretty sure a pistol could have clear, level aim through those puppies.



The night was rounded out by a wine board game, which solidified the fact that I should not get into the wine business. S & L tried their best to help me...

Game card: "What color of wine are you drinking?"

Me: I dunno. Lemme see.... wait... it went down too fast. Ask me again.

But having Anne of Green Gables playing in the background solaced my hurt pride.

The next morning we narrowly escaped getting murdered by Garmin, as the road he took us down turned into a dry river bed. Seriously. But with S's help, I did a 40 point turn and we made it out.

All-in-all a relaxing weekend with the girls. Thank you so much for visiting, I had a wonderful time!

"It's (still not) my birthday" month

This entire month, I've been planning (and not planning) things, using my birthday as the excuse. It's gotten to the point where I don't think it will ever arrive, it's taking so long.

It kind of reminds me of a friend, who will remain nameless, that literally told me of the conception of her child the day after said event occurred. It felt like she was carrying that kid for years. Who knows, maybe she did, because he came out as big as a three year old, I swear.

Speaking of which, is it possible to give birth to an 8-yr old? That's what I would like to do once the C & R family starts growing. I love that age.

But anyway, back to me. (oh Lord, am I now stealing the spotlight back from the twinkle of a twinkle in my eye?) My birthday. I've been using it as an excuse for everything.



Like when I forced some friends on a pontoon boat. It's my birthday.

Or when I reached for that second brownie. It's my birthday.



Or when tagging along while my bro-in-law was buying his bday gift, I bought the same thing for mine. It's been a month and I still haven't worn them. N, on the other hand, wore them out the door and into Starbucks where everyone asked him where he uses them. This is literally an hour after the purchase, so we had the pleasure of watching him lie to the general public on "the best" places to wear them. "Well, I normally use them canoeing, but they're also very comfortable to work out in as well." Oh, it was priceless... and it was also my birthday, you know.

Or when unable to find the remote to watch a movie, asked R to please press play because if he hadn't heard already... it's my birthday.



Or indulging myself with a 50 cent pair of salt/pepper shakers because they are reminiscent of R and me. It's MY BIRTHDAY.

Or sleeping in that extra 15 minutes and forgoing the Shaving of the Legs. Leave me alone, it's my birthday.



Or going to a scotch-tasting with a co-worker and realizing that I really can't fake making a face when drinking it. I tried to cover it up by smiling extra hard when the guy came by, but it only resulted in him thinking I actually liked it and thus giving me a little bit more the next round. The irony here is that as each round increased in liquid amount, so did my liking of it. My head the next day did not. However, it was my birthday, so I let it slide.



And lastly, having a Wuthering Heights experience on the shoreline of Rhode Island.

Thank you for the birthday surprise trip, R.

And still, it is not my birthday yet. Even I'm annoyed.  I hope we do nothing, because, you guessed it... It's my birthday (tomorrow).

Beware of Freckles.

We were supposed to go to this a month ago. But it didn't happen.

It was a Dutch Oven Workshop at a nearby state park. We woke up early on a saturday morning, actually put on work-out clothes and did a workout (as opposed to putting on work-out clothes and then heading to a breakfast joint for bacon and white gravy), boiled up some hot coffee for our thermos, and hit the road.

Literally 2.5 miles into the drive, R asked me to hand over the thermos for a quick drink. I laughingly said, "Maybe you should watch the road. Remember what happened the other night?" and then, feeling guilty, I gave in and gave him the lid for sip. He took his eyes off the two lane country road and..

BALUMP.

The tire popped.

I sat there sitting in the nearest driveway telling myself to schedule a massage asap or there was going to be a warrant out for little miss carolyn.



You see, a few nights prior we had visited some friends for dessert and on the way to their house another incident happened. A "I'm glad no children were riding their bikes along the sidewalk" type of one.

A right-hand turn into their neighborhood caused R's head to slightly face me. In doing so, the freckles on my legs caught his attention. And if any of you know R, you are quick to realize that he cannot do more than two things at once. So why not test this theory while driving a one ton piece of machinery, shall we?

He saw the freckles and proceeded to lean over to point out each of them with this right index finger. He repeated "freckle, freckle, freckle, freckle".



And I looked up at the same instant our car hit the curb, and then hit the grass next to the curb, and then the sidewalk next to the grass next to the curb.

R was still pointing out freckles. It wasn't until I screamed that he jerked the car back onto the road.

Now our already dirty, no-muffler-because-it-still-runs-fine-and-we-don't-like-spending-that-extra-money-on-that-car car makes a weird scraping sound anytime we make a left hand turn. Great.

Thank you melanin.



So our flat tire happened on the way to the first class and they offered to move us to the second one the following month.

And here we are. Only two other couples attended: one from South Africa, the other from Texas. We slipped into the back and I spied the menu on the board.



Ahhhhh yeaaaaah. (Side note: Does anyone else remember the show were two guys would rub their bums in chocolate pudding while saying Ahhhh yeaaaaah? Or am I the only one who gets that visual every time.)

Well, anyway, if pudding had been on the menu, I probably would've had to reenact that skit for the class, so let us all bow our heads in thanksgiving that it was not.



Each couple paired off to do a dish. R was stuck with me even though when asked if we all wanted to stay with our spouses, he responded without glancing "Is she watching me as I answer? Then, fine."

'Preciatecha, R.

(Remember? That was the first Arkansas slang I heard when we moved down here. 'Preciatecha. Another since moving to a smaller town: "So-and-so is a mess." I've discovered this can be used as an insult or affectionately. With the wide range of uses, you can imagine how often it's thrown out there and for some reason it takes all that I have to swallow a low guttural growl each time it's said. I know what you're thinking..... I'm a mess.)



R and I tackled the Charley Bread which was a basic corn bread recipe with a can of creamed corn added.

Hello!

Mama hasn't been fed this good in a looong time! And by long, I mean since about 8 that morning. Each meal seems like eons since the last...and my mouth was beginning to water, especially every time they opened the peach cobbler lid to check on it.



R checked on our bread and it was coming along nicely. We used the stacking method of heating the dutch oven which threw the time to cook it off. So it ended coming out around the same time as dessert.  No one complained.



And then we all sat down for our picnic in the woods. R and I chatted it up with the park ranger, because he graduated from K-State too! What a small world.

It was a good class, I'd take another one. We ending up buying a dutch oven from them and we're so excited to put it to use.

If anyone has any tips or recipes, I'd love to have them!

Watering Hole

On down the road from The Shack we noticed cars parked on the side. As we passed, we craned our necks to see what was down there but only caught a glimpse of this dirt road.

So one day we decided to find out what was going on...



Bathing suits - check.

Towels - check.

Leaving Carolyn in the dust while the roommates get caught up in conversation - check, check, and check.



We turned the corner at the bottom and was immediately greeted with a nice mural.



R practiced his best whud-up stance in case the muralists decided to get unfriendly. You know, because doesn't every gang hang out by creeks in rural Arkansas?



But guess what - No gangs! Only a wonderfully cold watering hole with rope swing included. People had their chairs, their drinkie-poos, and picnics packed. What a nice surprise, especially during this heat wave we've had.

Y is for Yawn.

Definitely not for Young. Last weekend, our local casino hosted a live concert for Eve 6. Hello 1998!

The roommates and I looked at each other, debated, and then agreed that if it were even just 5 years ago, there would be no question about going folks. So now we have to go whether we want to or not if only to prove that we have just as much energy as we did back then.

The concert kicked off at 10pm which in college was the time we would have just started getting ready. I was ready for the local-breakfast-joint portion of the night by 9:45.





We hung in there for the night, occasionally yelling how absolutely Young we all are, had a couple cocktails, played a few hands of blackjack and even ate breakfast at the casino itself.

When we got into the car, exhausted, we felt like we really lived up to our college days.

And then we looked at the clock. It was barely after midnight.

Sigh.

Moving on to a new phase in our lives, I guess.

Contra Twirling Fix

R really does have an adventurous spirit and game to try most anything. Thank goodness too, otherwise being bossy wouldn't be as much fun.

A co-worker had mentioned that she attends a contra dance once a month in Fayetteville and suggested I go. Well, it only took a few months to find the time to attend one, but last night R and I finally did.

My face positively hurts today from smiling so much. It was like my Jared Haase smile times a hundred. You remember the smile. It still haunts me.



I was pondering what to tell you to not do if attending a contra dance. Oh, how about wear an all white outfit with no second layering and then sweat like you're in a sauna. Everytime someone put their hand on my back, I felt them pull away like it'd just been burned.

So while learning the actual dance routine, a conversational routine started to emerge...

• [hand jerks away from my back]


• "I'm so sorry. I never sweat like this. I don't even have sweat glands."


• [he smiles apologetically for so obviously showing his repulsion, but then realizes that my sweat caused a one person wet t-shirt contest (which I STILL lost, damn genes) and returns hand to my lower back.]


• "it's okay, I know I'm disgusting. Please don't shut me up in an dungeon somewhere a la Buffalo Bill"


• [his eyes widen and then immediately twirls me over to the next victim whether it was time to or not]

And then it just repeats. Embarrasingly so.

I finally figured out how to stop that line of conversation.

And then the tale of the father-son duo.

They. were. awesome.

I first turned to dance with the son (in the photo below) who is half my age and literally half my size. I smiled sweetly at him, thinking that the more mammoth of the two of us would have to lead.

Um no.

He grabbed my hand, took hold of my back and twirled me like he was trying to start a fire on the floor. I have never. I repeat, never been spun so fast in my life. The first time I kind of just stared at the blurry faces going by and when he let go so I could dance to the middle of the circle with the rest of the girls, I literally stumbled over my left foot and skidded to the center.

No one made eye contact with me, which as everyone knows is much more embarrasing than if they had only laughed at me.

The next time I was more prepared and stared at his face the whole time. I noticed that he never quite looked back at me, but instead was watching the rest of the group and I finally realized it was so he knew when to spin me out to the next move. Professional. I was impressed.

Then the dad asked me to dance. Here we fricken go again. It doesn't look like we were going fast in the above photo, but I was hanging on for dear life. It was so much fun.

Notice the Jared Hasse grin. And sweaty face.



I managed to catch R in action too. He really improved by the end of the night. I think I just might make a dancer out of him after all.

We both agreed that we are going to insist that our sons know how to lead on the dance floor. Shouldn't that just be a basic skill learned by all men?





After three straight hours of dancing, we were exhausted. As we were putting the chairs away, the duo who were playing (a fiddle and a banjo -- loved it), played a nice waltz. I was asked to dance and, really, what better way to end the evening than with a slow waltz.

This is definitely going to happen again... because I'm already coming down off my twirling high.