Such possibilities…….


I bought myself two nice, new, expensive (for me at least) notebooks.  Amazon calls them  journals.  I think notebooks are probably cheaper and journal sounds so la-dee-dah.  This is them.  Or is it they?  Anyway, here are my notebooks/journals. See?

And a brand new, never been bitten Bic pen.  Ahhhhhh………..

The reason being, I got an idea in my head that journaling would be good for my soul, or something like that.  At the very least, I could write down the randomness that invades my brain some nights that keep me from sleeping.  I like the idea of no one knowing what I’m writing, (mwah-ah-ah-hah) not that I have such fabulous secrets to keep to myself. I must write myself a note to make a list of promising secrets that I could write about.

But really, am I the only person in the world that loves, I mean really LOVES a brand new notebook and a brand new pen, to the point that it’s hard to make myself begin writing in it?  I look at it, all nice and new and shiny (the edges of both notebooks/journals are shiny gold, maybe that’s what makes them journals! 🙂 ) and the fabulous possibilities of what I could write, and how extraordinarily neatly I could write with that new, unbitten Bic pen, paralyzes me.

I’ve walked past them for three days now — just giving them a passing glance, don’t want them to think they’ve got the upper hand.  But even now, I can hear them taunting me from my craft room.

But in spite of all my grand ideas and literary dreams,  I’ll probably use them for grocery lists and keeping track of stitches when I’m knitting, or just notes to remind myself of something I’ll probably forget anyway.  Or some such like.

But, oh the possibilities………


~~~~~ INTERMITTENT ~~~~~


After I posted my intention to take a break a few days ago, boom boom boom, I banged out some more posting. So I’m changing my blogging “INTERMISSION” to “INTERMITTENT”. I can’t promise how often I will post, but when the mood hits, I will run with it.

Sunday Scribblings #77 — Collector Personality


I have always liked the idea of collections. I collected plates that I thought were pretty back in the 70’s when yard sales were first coming into their own. Yard sales were a super way to fill up spaces in your home with items you normally couldn’t afford. After collecting plates for a few years, I tired of them and sold them in my own yard sale. Ditto for books (I had all of Stephen King and Richard Bachman’s books) salt cellars (usually only footed larges, but smalls if they were interesting looking). Displaying things that I had collected gave me a feeling of pride, for some reason. Oh well, I was very young (well, youngish anyway) and defined myself by the material things that I owned.

When I was moving into my own apartment after my separation and subsequent divorce in 1994-95, I wondered why I needed to have all this stuff. I really didn’t have the space to display them and I had come to a point in my life where clutter was distracting and upsetting. I wanted peace and serenity in my life. I decided that I needed to start a huge “pare down” of everything that I owned. I leafed through all of the books that I still owned, reading snippets here and there, then put them in a box and donated them. Ditto with sugars and creamers that I had still in boxes. I realized then that the best thing to do with my “collections” was to not even look in the boxes, just put them back into the car and take them to the Salvation Army, which was exactly what I did. I opened up the hatch of my 1986 maroon over grey with grey fabric interior and sunroof Ford Mustang (can you tell, I just heart icon‘d that car!!) folded down the back seats and packed it all in, then added more boxes to the passenger seat and floor. I had to tie the hatch down with rope to keep everything inside, but I got it out of my life. Can I tell you how empowering it was to be shed of all of this chaos? It was certainly a bright, bright sun shiney day!! Looking back, I can see that what I was doing was subconsciously giving myself a fresh start, but then I just saw it as less stuff I had to wash and dust, giving me more time to heal and move on.

My house with Sweet Baboo is much calmer, no collections to be seen anywhere. My life is at peace and when I come home at night after work, I don’t feel like I want to tear my hair out in frustration because the house is cluttered. However, I am still somewhat collecting.

While I was sewing, I couldn’t go into a fabric store without coming out with something. I must confess, I bought many, many fat quarters just because I liked the hand of the fabric, or the color caught my eye. I was never sure what I would do with it, I just HAD to have it and I usually found some project or another to work them into. I still have lots and lots of fabric that I know that I should part with, but I’m having trouble purging it just yet. Knitting is my newest enchantment, and I’m happily buying yarn that I love the hand of or it has a color that catches my eye…….. plus all of the gadgets and notions that go along with the craft.

Okay, time to turn the car around and get back to the interstate before I get totally lost.

The collections that I have now are small, take up very little room, and don’t need to be dusted. I like to collect knitting patterns from the internet. Free ones, of course. I also like to collect websites with images on them giving me ideas for things that I may or may not want to knit in the future. Ditto with sewing patterns, although I don’t sew very much anymore. It’s just force of habit.

My strangest collection is collecting and using colloquialisms to amuse the girls at work. Because of the difference in our ages and the fact that I was brought up in a different part of the country, they haven’t heard a lot of the expressions that I use. A couple of the other ladies are my age so they usually know what I mean. For instance — off like a prom dress — play it again Sam — pot calling the kettle black — preaching to the choir — Lucy you got a lot of ‘splaining to do — Captain, she can’t take any more. If I hear a phrase that is familiar to me I will often write it down and then work it into conversation to see if they know what it means. It’s just a fun past time that hurts no one. My very favorite kind.

Sun smiley face

Would you like to try your hand at scribbling, Sunday or otherwise?

There are lots more scribblings to read HERE

Sunday Scribblings #76 — Writing


It would be nice to say that I have been writing since the first day that I could hold a pencil. It would be even nicer to say that words just pour out of me on demand. And, of course, neither statement would be true.

I have read other blogs and the writing is so much more evolved that what I do. It’s really intimidating to read blogs written by college graduates and lawyers and editors and the ideas and beliefs that they abide by. I’m a country girl from the foothills of the Adirondacks — when I graduated from high school, college was for the well off kids, not so much my lower middle class group. Not that I’m having a pity party — I like my life just fine, in spite of the screaming lefts and rights it’s taken with me in tow.

When I was in high school, one of my classes was a creative writing and public speaking class. The teacher was a young woman, maybe all of 25 or 26 years old. Having always been a ravenous reader, I thought that to be a good writer, you had to write stories like the books that I had read. I would pattern my stories and articles after what I believed constituted good writing, parroting the writing styles of other authors. I had all of the grammar and punctuation correct, wrote everything very neatly (no computers back then!!) but still couldn’t seem to pull the grades that I thought I should be getting. I would feedback from the teacher “too trite”, “too dry”, “lacks animation”, “no imagination” — I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong for the life of me.

Then we were assigned a story that we were to write in outline form and speak in front of the class. We were to take questions and answer them as well as we could. I must have been channeling Stephen King, because this was 1970 or so, and he hadn’t hit it big yet. My recital would be about vampires.

And I aced it. I talked about vampires and sunlight and silver bullets and coffins and the earth from their graves. Elaborated on holy water and non-reflections in a mirror and garlic. Still using my outline, I embellished and enhanced and shot the bull in general. Being more than three decades ago, I don’t remember everything I said but I remember that it kind of took on a life of it’s own and instead of a stiff, dry report, it turned into a story, complete with the rambling that I still do today when I write. Imagine my surprise when I finally got the A that I wanted! Apparently what I was doing wrong was not writing in my own voice. Once I started writing what my head was saying instead of emulating other writers, everything fell into place.

Long story short (something I’m not really able to do very well) I look at what I do as story telling that I write down on my computer. I don’t have any deep and abstract thoughts to impart to others, just stuff that happens in my life. If that makes me a writer, then I’m a writer!!

For more thoughts on writing, check out Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings #71 Decision


I consider myself lucky in that I do not waffle when making decisions. It’s been my experience that most decisions, if they turn out to be the wrong one, can usually be reversed. My personal decision making criteria is to do what makes me happiest, without harming or inconveniencing other people. If I am faced with too many choices, I make none until the easiest comes to my mind. (Buying breakfast cereal usually falls under that heading.) However, I have been told that because I do not examine a problem from all sides that I am a shallow person, that I need to become deeper in my thinking. I’m not so sure.

I equate pain and misery with deepness of thought. When I was 30, I was diagnosed with malignant melanoma on my stomach. It was removed, along with alot of tissue, and I had no recurrence. Although there was no pain associated with it and no further treatment was needed, I spent many, many sleepless nights playing the what if game and planning my funeral. When I was 40, I had a suspicious lump removed from my left breast that was diagnosed as Lobular Carcinoma in Situ, a precancerous condition. Again, I had no recurrence after surgery and again there was no further treatment required, but I still lay awake at night worrying until my five year anniversary.

So, I’ve had my share of making decisions that I did not want to make. I believe that if I want to look on the sunbeamy side of life, to look for the bliss instead of the wretched, I have earned that right. For me, life is too short to spend it seesawing back and forth about decisions that are not necessarily written in stone. It’s likely that I am deluded, thinking that everything can be rainbows and kittens and puppies, but I prefer it that way.

However, when it comes to making decisions about fabrics for my quilts, I am one of the deepest, most miserable and wretched decision makers that you would ever want to meet. 😦

Sunday Scribblings #68 Hair


I love my mother and grandparents absolutely (too bad that I don’t know what my ancestors are like on my father’s side) but of all the inherited traits that I could have received, I was unlucky enough to inherit the McGibbon/Spencer hair.

Both my grandmother and mother had/have the same thin, fine hair that I have. My sister (GRRRR) also has fine hair, but she has tons of it. She knows better than to complain about her tresses. The most that I will allow hearing from her is a complaint about her cowlicks. What I wouldn’t do to have enough hair to even have a cowlick!!! It’s outrageous!

My ex-sister-in-law was one of the good things in my now defunct marriage. She was a fabulous stylist and lived only 40 minutes away, so I was able to have her cut/perm/bleach/dye my hair as often as I liked, which was often because B was always telling me and anyone else that would listen that I had paper bag brown hair. (It’s also known in the tress trade as Ash — which simply means no real color. Take a look at Ash hair dye samples sometime in a salon!!) She also liked to say that because my hair was so (ahem) *challenging* (you may insert your own uncomplimentary adjective between the asterisks) that if she could do anything on my head, she could do it on anyone. Just call me a cosmetology crash test dummy!!

Okay, onward…..

I was so used to having B do my hair that I was really panicking when I realized that I would have to find another hairdresser. It seems that I should have had other things on my mind during the divorce, eh? Nonetheless — I knew how hard it was to find a good hairdresser so I started the search. And I think I was fair about it. I didn’t hop from here to there willy nilly — I gave each hairdresser at least six months to get their act together. It seemed that they all started out gangbusters, but by the 3rd or 4th haircut, they would get sloppy and spend more time talking than cutting correctly. I actually had one haircut where it was only cut on one side!! She whipped off the cape with a flourish and I asked her if she would like to finish cutting it before I paid her. No “A” for effort there, no sirree!!

The last straw came when yet another hairdresser mucked up my head. I had a job interview that was very important to me but I really needed a cut and foil. I had been going to this girl for awhile and while she wasn’t a stellar stylist, she wasn’t totally wretched. Well, until this day and then she was REALLY totally wretched.

The cut was average, but the foil came out – um-mm — stripy is the best was I can describe it. Stripy and orange. Can you spell panicked, boys and girls? Her brainiac suggestion to repair it was to cut it shorter, thereby cutting out the orange — this was her suggestion for fine, thin hair that was already 1 1/2″ long!!. My scalp was practically showing through already! I was beyond panicked and well on my way to terror-stricken. No way was she getting near my hair with scissors again!! And SHE had the nerve to get all offended when I wouldn’t go with her suggestion — not to mention how p.o.’d she was when I wouldn’t tip her.

(There really is a point to this whole story — stick with me here now.)

So I went home — in tears, and I don’t cry easily — pulled out the phone book and called the closest hairdresser to my home (I only had an hour to get my hair repaired and then get to my job interview — a baseball cap just doesn’t make a good first impression) and begged them to try to salvage my hair, which she did and quite nicely. (In case you’re wondering, she dyed the back of my hair back to my original color, thereby covering the orange.) That was five years ago. With all of the twists and turns of my hairdressing quest, and thanks to the brain surgeon that striped my hair orange, I found L, who in five years has never once given me a bad haircut or lousy foil. They say that all things happen for a reason and I guess Lady Luck was having a good laugh, watching me go through all of those other stylists until I found L.

Seems like an awfully long story for something so ordinary, doesn’t it? 😀

I think I’ve finally made the decision


So far, I’ve managed to keep this blog theme for more than 12 hours. The picture is one that I took through my front door window looking into the street. I’m actually pretty happy with it. Maybe my “theme jumping” is finally over.

And on a lighter note…….

Is there such a thing as a 12 step program for obsessive bloggers? “Hello, my name is Marcy and I’m a blogging addict.” Something will happen during the day and I immediately have this phrase running through my head “remember to blog that later”.

It was actually a good day to write. I got up later than usual to a grey, dismal, drizzly day that progressed rather quickly to a dark, rainy and stormy day. I just love morning thunderstorms, even more so when I am inside warm and cozy in my jim-jams, drinking my first java of the day and watching the weather outside. A lot of people say that on rainy days, the most that they want to accomplish is cozying up on the sofa with an afghan and a good book. Although that is very tempting, I often will go the other way — I will get a lot of work done around the house, then when the weather has cleared, I won’t have any chores calling me to get them done before I venture outside.

Speaking of outside, I was looking out the window and saw that Sweet Baboo’s poppies have gone by, so I will get out tomorrow morning with the clippers and clean them up. I also still have a couple of plants to go into the rock garden.