You arrive to Joey’s blog and you see her bent over a chest of doors. Not a chest of drawers, but a chest, think for hope, only full of doors.
If you come through the front door, she’s a mess of frizzy hairs over a red face and she looks up and says, “Oh, hi, howdy do?” She’s fair to middlin, but she’s rummaging through the doors lookin for what might work this time. The doors in her chest sorta remind her of Pandora.
If you come through the back door, she’s ass-up, and since her ass is big enough to block her spidey senses, she has no idea you’re there and you scare the ever-lovin-fuck out of her and she jumps up, screams like a banshee, hops sideways like a scaredy cat — but because she does not need all fours to do this, she waves her lil T-Rex arms all around as if you’re a slew of gnats she’ll swat to death before running away to cry.
If you’ve never seen Screaming Banshee on Hallmark’s site, you haven’t lived. You should go down that rabbit hole.
I usta send those cards to my parents all the time, because really, with anxiety disorder, a deployed husband, and a house fulla kids, it was, if you will, a scream for help.
I guess we have Stream of Consciousness Saturday, but I sorta stream of consciousness through my blog, and my life… Whether you’re streaming consciousness or screaming, you’re definitely in the now…
Oh yeah, doors. I get busy and doors day sneaks up on me.
If you thought that was weird, you must be new here.
K, along the same line of oddity, here are some pictures, some of doors even, for this doors day.
door-esque
not even door-adjacent
prolly her mama makes her do that
state fair bison-tennial is available for petting
so docile
initially assumed the doors were religious, then realized nope, just hardware
nifty, non?
it’s a lego farm, y’all
cellar doors, and yes, a basketball hoop, cause hoosier
Yeah, I’m a Yankee Bitch, but still y’all, YEEEEEHAW!!!
My HME is coming to visit! My HME always makes people ask What’s an HME? and again, I tell you, my HME is a person. Maybe her name’s Hattie Mae Eller, you don’t know. This ain’t her blog, you don’t need to know who she is ferreal, just that she is one of my favorite people in the whole wide world and she has been my friend through thick and thin these last … I am bad at math … since … MTV played music videos and people thought the internet was a phase.
Oh my goodness, we were so young. So young we got up early to run, but also so young we smoked IN coffee houses WHILE drinking caffeinated coffee in the middle of the night. So young the word ‘calorie’ was merely used academically, no practical application needed. So young we used answering machines, checked them from phone booths, and our brains stored phone numbers. Hell, we were so young we dated Republicans.
Around this time:
Which happens to be a song I listened to on the way home.
And also this:
And this:
Cause my commute is short and Cause MY HME IS COMING!
She hunts ‘em down and shows us
her discovered captured doors.
Posterns aplenty – doors are everywhere.
The doors may be opened or closed,
some’s locked, some ‘er not.
Glass doors, revolving doors,
important doors, cabin doors
and swinging saloon doors,
bathroom doors, stall doors, the hall door,
floor doors are trap doors.
Behind the green door, the red
doors and popular now are black doors.
Front doors lead to back doors,
ugly doors are artful doors.
Metal doors, fire doors, hollow core
doors, broken doors, missing doors
are no more doors, where there
once were doors before.
Doors with windows and windows
that are also doors. French doors.
Decorations for doors, door jewels
with glass knobs, fixtures, matching hardware.
Lions there guarding the doors.
Dead as a doornail on the floor,
cellar doors, creaky and squeaky doors.
Barn doors with no barn, Pocket doors with no…
For a few years when I was a kid, I lived in a small town. One of the perks of small town living was that I rode my bike, SAFELY, to “town” where I could spend an entire day dawdling and window shopping. If I had more than a few coins, I could go into the drug store and have an ice cream. A soda fountain at the drugstore counter was rare when I was a kid — Now, it’s practically unheard of.
One of the old Hook’s drug stores has been saved, monument-museum-exhibition style, and now resides at the Indiana State Fairgrounds.
I did not photograph everything, as everywhere one looks, something else catches the eye.
The variation in old medical tools and medicines is enough to marvel at. Some “Huh?” and “Ohhh” items, plus authentic apothecary items and stuff people haven’t thought about in ages.
But um, also CANDY. Omaword, the nostalgia. I could go on for days. I bought Pop Rocks. The kids made fun of me all giddy and messy and snarfing, BUT I HAD A GOOD TIME.
Anyway, I got the doors from ye old Hook’s. Enjoy!
One night, well after 10pm, Sadie’s boyfriend Cooper showed up at the door and I had to turn him away because she is NOT that kind of girl.
“You wanna play with my dog, you come at a decent hour. Thank you, Goodnight.”
You’d think that’d be universal, but I swear to you, some people want to be miserable and they want to make you miserable with them.
We all make phone calls. We gotta call to RSVP, call to make an appointment, call to cancel, call to order, call to renegotiate, call to clarify, call for assistance.
Inevitably, we must deal with people who do not enjoy having pleasant experiences.
I truly don’t understand it. If I want information from someone, that means they already have it. They don’t need it; I need it. That means they already have the power in this situation. I’m asking them for information and I’m hopeful they’ll oblige. I’m vulnerable in my position of need. It is not in my best interest to grunt and yell and swear and huff at someone who has something I want.
It’s that whole flies and honey thing.
I will honey and gratitude you to smithereens. I’m positively delighted to talk to you and share a pleasant experience — you can feel my joy long distance.
It’s not just calls, it’s a way of conducting your life.
WE make the happy.
There are people who go about their business in the exact opposite way.
I’m not talking about when shit ain’t goin your way. I’m not talkin bout when you’ve been wronged and come hell or high water, it’s got to be put right!
No, no, I get that.
I’m talkin bout in daily life, why on earth would anyone want to have unpleasant experiences with total strangers?!?
We have every right to feel the way we feel, but we have no right to take it out on others.
I tell ya, if you can’t master the art of being pleasant and you can’t muster up enough self-discipline to keep quiet, it is not what the world has done to you, it’s what you’re doing to the world.
Has it been about a year? I said we could talk about it in a year. I figured it would take me that long to process it. It’s been about 100 days. I’m okay now. I hardly ever have the nightmares anymore.
Not. Kidding.
Okay, so my line of work isn’t important to this blog. I research, write, and organize. I worked in this field twenty years ago and it’s what I decided to go back to two years ago.
I have had many, many different kinds of jobs — hardware, paper, food service, office, education, sales, finance, pizza delivery girl. My happiness is always, always determined by the people.
There are those who will say work isn’t about being happy and to them I say, Fuck Right Off. If I’m going to GET UP IN THE MORNING AND PUT ON A BRA AND PANTS AND LEAVE MY PETS, I’M GOING TO NEED A LEVEL OF SATISFACTION BEYOND FINANCIAL GAIN.
Do you KNOW how cute and sweet and cuddly my pets are?!?
I like myself more than I like nice things. I’m not saying work should be fun, I’m saying work should be rewarding.
So I took a job in a small office. Normally, my jobs have more than one of me, but this place was small enough that it was just me. I prefer the smaller offices. I like the clarity of expectations that come from knowing how a particular person likes things done and being ahead of those expectations. This is me, as a person. Being of service, being the right-hand woman, I enjoy that. I enjoy collaboration and teamwork for the greater good — it’s crucial, but I thrive in solitary detail. Wind beneath wings, alright?
The job was in a fancy office, in a fancy building, where I would wear fancier clothes and I would therefore receive a fancier rate: IF THE FUCKIN CHECK DIDN’T BOUNCE, fancy broke bad check writin motherfuckers GODDAMN: I wanted the job. I liked the illusions I was sold. I was slobbering about paid bank holidays and two weeks off at the end of the year.
I worked there for 5.5 days. Mid-afternoon day six, I was fired.
Well for fuck’s sake. I’d never been fired before. It.is.not.pleasant.
I had one nice thing to say about getting fired: I HATED THAT COMMUTE.
I take the job thing like anything else. With checklists. Compromise on this, unwilling to compromise on that. For instance, due to the busfuckedupedness I’ve experienced, I need to drive my kids to school. Period.
Further, I don’t want to get on the interstate in rush hour.
I don’t wanna work all the bank holidays, even if it means unpaid. These things matter to me. They’re not petty to me, they’re important to me, because my entire family is home every bank holiday and my mother goes to bed when I eat dinner and she won’t talk to me while I drive home, even ‘hands-free’.
Much like ‘getting over a man is best done by getting under a new one’ I immediately pursued a new job. I debated whether I should totally change gears. Work in a bakery or for a vet or a florist, I dunno. Somethin different. I can do a lot of things. I am lovable and capable. Goddamn.
Mentor told me I should come work with her at her office. When I left the office where Mentor and I used to work together, I’d exhausted all possibilities of growth there. I wanted more. I honestly stayed on a month longer because of her. She is an amazing person… Y’all, she’s wicked smart and a natural leader; she has this way of recognizing and developing ability in me. If you’ve had this, this sorta awe and respect for a person and they’re willing to invest their time and effort into you, then you get it. That’s why even when I left, she remained Mentor.
Sadly, because of Mentor’s abode, I assumed she also worked ‘up there’ and y’all, I didn’t wanna. Images of roundabouts filled my head. She asked if I was interested, and I was like, “Kinda, but isn’t it farrr?”
She said she didn’t think so.
(She’s not from here. She dunno the city.)
Then she told me the cross streets and I almost peed my pants with excitement. I squeed. Location: Ideal
So Mentor pitched me to her new people saying, “We need this woman.”
I wasn’t sure they needed me. They weren’t actively seeking any of me.
Mentor sent me a photo of her office, files piling up, and I laughed and text back, “Mentor, Mentor, Mentor, Tsk.”
She needed me, Haha!
That’s how she became my mentor got me, originally.
I am naturally gifted with organization and worse, I truly enjoy it.
Sometimes your neurosis is a pleasure, what can I say?
Fresh from my bad break-up, I needed to score. I had some really terrible interviews during this time of hot job pursuit.
I grew jaded, I did.
Mentor pitched me to her bosses and I met with them. Upon leaving my three-hour meeting with the people, I could not suppress my hope in the least. I wanted it so badly, only joy or devastation could come from it.
Oh it was misery for two days, the waiting, UGH.
It happened. They offered. They offered me a position, warmly, with enthusiasm. They offered me more pay than fancy office, more pay than I asked for, not working overtime, not working past dark come winter.
The first few weeks, I worked in Mentor’s office and I walked around hummin “Reunited” a la Peaches n’ Herb.
Sometimes, the stars all align and magical shit happens and dreams really do come true.
Jiminey Cricket, I still cannot believe it.
Y’ever hear that thing about getting what you want when you make it clear to the Universe what it is exactly? This is my Maybe So:
1. Mentor is there. This means I learn constantly. Every day. I do what she tells me and when I need direction, she provides it. Or she throws me in and I swim, and when I start to drown, she laughs and redirects.
2. The verbal ability in my office. Jeez. The magnitude of word choice, the writing, the cadence, the articulation, the puns… Such mastery of language is impressive.
3. This unworldly particular group of people seems to enjoy things about me that tend to give me trouble with most people: asking ‘too many’ questions, displaying frequent candor, seeing everything with meticulous scrutiny. I was recently praised for not taking shit. !!!
4. We don’t seem to people it up over there. Guests must be buzzed in, voicemail is rare, work is frequently independent and uninterrupted.
5. It’s close. It’s the closest commute I’ve had since I walked to work as a teen. It’s close to home and schools and groceries and Target and Starbucks and the bank that doesn’t charge me a fee.
6. I have my own office. It has a door. It has windows. It has a nice art. It is completely devoid of fluorescent lighting. If we staff up, I may end up back in Mentor’s office, but there still won’t be fluorescent lighting.
7. There is no office music. Y’all, I love music. Truly. However, when I need to write, or God forbid, math, I do it better in the quiet.
8. Jeans are not verboten. I have not seen any suits. Jackets, no suits.
9. Whatever I wanna eat or drink, I ask the office manager for it, and it appears directly. Complimentary lunch is fairly regular.
10. Free parking. Shaded parking. Conveniently located at the office, no ramps, no half-mile walk out to Scooby-Doo 6. You know what’s out there? Birds, squirrels, cats, ants.
11. I heard one of my bosses bragging about us on the phone and he said, “They’re so great, I don’t even care if they hear me!”
12. If I need to leave early or arrive late due to other obligations, I simply note my absence and make up my time much as possible.
13. The digital files are arranged the way everyone should arrange their files. I had no idea how important this was until I encountered the opposite. It’s really fucking important to me.
14. I drive west in the morning and east in the evening and the sun is never in my eyes.
15. PAID. BANK. HOLIDAYS.
I bought a real coffee cup for work.
When I answer the phone, the smile people hear is authentic.
I freakin love my job!
Still, I love the weekend more! Happy, Happy Friday Everyone!
A long, long time ago, my husband went purse shopping with me, which is why he went a long, long time not purse shopping with me.
There are no perfect handbags. There are only perfect handbags for each outfit and occasion.
There are some things I need to tell you up front:
1) I have owned maybe 30 bags since I got my first one on my tenth birthday. I am not a collector of bags. I am not a handbagaholic. I do not have a purse problem. I may have some shoe and scarf issues, but the purses are under control.
2) I have a few bags I’ve held onto and reused many times over the years — a black silk clutch my mother gave me in college, the itty bitty cross-body patchwork thing that goes on hands-free outings, an enormous denim weekender circa 2005, a chic patent leather putty clutch from 2013, and from 2011, a yellow handbag whose leather may as well be butter.
3) I have had a few bags that I carried for years and years: the blue satchel, the black messenger, the giraffe tote. My friends who read me just nodded and nodded. Iconic Joey bags. They know.
4) I do not buy handbags on a whim. I can’t buy anything bigger than candy on a whim, because I suffer terrible buyer’s remorse. Also, do not buy generic gummi bears.
5) I do not pay full price for handbags. I have not and will not. Won’t happen.
6) Since leaving the job I felt I lived at, I’d abandoned my enormous weekender bag. I’d been carrying the yellow bag. I planned to use the yellow bag through the summer. I wanted time to shop for a new purse.
But then, on any old Tuesday in May, one of the handles on my fine Italian yellow handbag broke.
It had been a rather Scarlet O’Hara day for me overall, so that handle breaking was tops on my NOT-FUCKING-NOW! meter.
Because Dan Antion told me he’d once stapled his pants, I stapled my bag to get me through. So inspiring, Dan. Then I restapled. Because staples for paper are not the best sort for holding together straps of leather. They are, however, inconspicuous and leave only the slightest marks.
This got me by for a while, but there comes a time when a woman simply cannot go on carrying an unreliable bag and she must take it in for repair. My baby!
I dragged out my canvas tote and woefully placed all my preciouses inside it, and went out in search of a new handbag.
The Mister went with me. The Mister got involved.
See, all I said was how I have exquisite taste. And since we’re talking about a man who carried the same hunter green backpack from 1989-2013 and felt guilty spending $70 (On Clearance!!!) for a beautiful leather man bag, he no doubt hoped his involvement would rein in my spending.
Joke’s on him.
He, too, has exquisite taste in handbags.
Some of the handbags, I don’t even look at, because I know. I know the look of fine construction, I know at a glance. I don’t pick them up and get personally involved with them because I know I am not going to buy them, because I have no business buying them. Unless they are half off. Then I will debate a bit.
Given his lack of experience, The Mister has no wisdom in these matters. He picked up a bag:
“Looks like a bowling bag.”
“Yes, very nice bowling bag.”
“Look at the stitching.”
“I know.”
“This is nice hardware.”
“Oh, I know. Look at the price tag.”
“Holy fuck!”
“Mmhm. Is very nice bowling bag.”
He had me in stitches! I’m sorry you weren’t there for all the laughing.
On he went. He could pick out a purse for me, no problem. It turns out his complaints about handbags are my complaints about handbags. His disdain, my disdain.
Design a beautiful bag and then maybe try not to put your name, your brand, your emblem all over the fucking thing. I want to advertise my taste, not my money, and certainly not you.
An embellishment here and there is fine. It needn’t be crammed with detail. I don’t want a chain and a tassel and some bling and a pop of color and a big ass flower all on the same bag. Stahp.
If you want me to empty my purse for the purchase of your beautiful purse, then for the love of leather, show some respect and put some fucking feet on the bottom. I am NOT The Queen of Indiana, I can’t hold my bag all the time. I have to shop and eat and applaud and use public restrooms.
I’ve got a fine European back. It’s ideal for hauling sacks of potatoes up the hill, but since I’m not trying to bulk-up, I don’t want my purse to weigh twenty-five pounds, thank you very much.
We looked at hundreds of handbags.
And I left without a new purse.
Then another day we went to the mall, where The Mister repeated the same commentary and made lots of scoffing noises.
“I thought you liked these. You didn’t look at this section at all,” he said.
“Baby, lemme help you with this,” I told him, “Where we were before? That’s where they go after a season or two. This is where they’re born. They’re full price here.”
His Face.
Oh y’all.
After two weeks and eleven shops, I finally got a new bag. Half off.
Everyone says they’re thrilled for me and I’m sure you are, too.
Even though Doris The Red is still new and I will keep her for years to come, next week at the fair, Imma take a serious gander at those hand-tooled leather bags I always ogle.
I have to cook half the night and get up early to finish cookin.
And that’s after workee workee and takin the girls back-to-school clothes shopping and grocery shopping. I amaze myself, I really do.
You guys, I finished that project at work and Mentor brought me eight other sections and said, “Here, work on This.” I’ve never done This before. This is a lot of work. And can I just say, This used to come in boxes and now This is all in tidy lil lectronic files? Isn’t that nice? I tell ya, a girl can keep her manicure in the digital age.
We had to do parent school things three days this week. We both have two to do next week. What the fuck is that about? In the midst of that, there was an evening parent meeting.
Errr…
The Mister’s response to the mandatory parent meeting was, “Mandatory. Fuck that. Ain’t fuckin me, feedin me, or payin my bills, so you don’t mandate shit.”
I didn’t share his sentiments exactly, but we do pay lots of money, we do drive to the things, sometimes we even drive and feed other people’s children, AND we do above and beyond the ‘required’ volunteering hours.
We’re invested. Okay, so sometimes he paces the lobby while I lie on the floor, but sometimes the things last a REALLY long time.
We’re experienced parents, which means We’re tired and intolerant of your bullshit meetings. Send that bullshit in an email. We love our kids, they’re the best. You’re lucky to have their brilliance and talent at your school, but we don’t demand you come here and listen to us talk about it. You’re welcome.
No. We did not go.
So that’s it, that’s the random burst of my brain.
Okay, off to chop and slice.
First, though, we pour the Riesling and turn on the music.
joeyfullystated 
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