An Ashtray Gets a Breath of Fresh Air

No one smokes anymore. It used to be so seductive. Actors in the old black and white movies blew billowy smoke rings. Old cigarette advertisements declared that most doctors preferred to smoke Winstons. Camels were as cool as my Uncle Jim’s Lucky Strikes.  Real men didn’t need a filter. The “Marlboro Man” was the sexiest man alive. Yes, smoking was cool!

As a kid, I remember “candy cigarettes”. The box looked like a cigarette pack. The white, minty sticks resembled the real thing. We wanted to be just like our dads. Why didn’t anyone invent little juices that resembled booze bottles? That would have been fun. We could have pretended to stumble around like our drunk Uncle Charlie. Now that I am a parent, I understand all too well that the kids just want to act like the grownups.

About 1969 I remember my mom declaring that she was giving up the cigarettes. My brothers and I cheered and jumped up and down. Why? Because our house stunk! Those glamorous movies couldn’t show how smelly the house was.  The ads never showed the “doc who preferred Winstons” dragging his oxygen tank down the sandy shoreline in his golden years.

When I was student teaching in the 80’s, we had to lobby to make one of the two teachers’ lounges non smoking. When I worked at a residential treatment facility in the 90’s there was already one designated smoking lounge and one non-smoking lounge. Today, in order to take a smoke break, you have to drive 500 yards away from your place of work and promise to not exhale in your own car. My point here: it is getting more and more difficult to smoke.

As smoking became less and less desirable, one very important decorative accessory started disappearing from our homes: the ash tray. Remember the big, fancy art pottery ash trays? They looked beautiful & matched the household décor, however, they held about 10,000 cigarette butts. Those classic movies never showed a hostess with a hangover cleaning up the day after an elegant party. The only thing nastier than cigarette smoke is an ash tray full of stale butts, hence, the decline of smoking, especially inside our homes.

The last time I went home to California I came across my mom’s enormous aqua glass ash tray. It has to be about 45 years old. It had been repurposed under one of the bathroom vanities to hold cleaning products. I got permission to take the tray and the matching vase back to my own home in Michigan. This particular tray must have been able to hold at least 12,000 butts.

I (once again) repurposed the ash tray. It now holds shells and sea glass from both Atlantic and Pacific beachy family vacations. So, very ironically, now when I look at my mom’s old ash tray, it reminds me of relaxing and breathing the fresh ocean air.

 

Peri is a Dude

I am turning 50 this year and looking forward to the changes that are coming my way. I  start sentences with, ”Now that I am approaching peri-menopause…”  and they usually end with something like, ”and I really don’t care what other people think .”  Don’t get me wrong. I am still a nice person, but it is refreshing to no longer worry about what other people think of me.

So  women can complain about our “change” that is on the way, or look forward to the positives. When life gives you lemons you can either be a sour puss or pour some sugar on it and make lemonade. Someone tried to put a positive spin on our period and called it “our little friend”.  We all know it was no friend of ours. It was our crazy relative, Aunt Flo. How many times did she show up, unannounced as we were leaving for vacation, insisting on coming along? We were young. We didn’t know how to say “no”. Auntie was there for cheer camp in high school, pool parties, anniversaries, honeymoons, you name it- if there was a special occasion, she would screw it up.

Some would say the “curse” is a biblical thing. To that I say,” That is a crazy notion”. I am trying really hard to not curse in black & white. So when you read phrases like “that is a crazy notion”, know that my original notes said, “total horse s***”.  But I do remember reading that women had pain in childbirth as a punishment because it was Eve who told Adam to eat the apple.  Wasn’t there a nut tree in that Garden of Eden? Adam could have picked a couple for free and stood up for himself.  Last time I checked, persuasion wasn’t a sin, but giving in to temptation was really frowned upon.  Anyway, we women got the blame somehow.

Maybe our redemption is peri-menopause. Since our first  cycle was personified as our “little friend” , let's  personify the second as our dude, “Peri”.  He’s my wing man  on my shoulder saying,” You don’t have to buy that crazy notion…speak up for yourself"  Peri has my back. He encourages me to stand up for myself and  say what I think. I’m looking forward to a long, intimate relationship with him.  I’m just waiting for Aunt Flo to kick the bucket.

 

Hockey is a Cult

As I was trying to think of a catchy title for this post I thought of how we are often referred to as “those hockey people”. I looked up a few definitions of a cult and if you take out the religious aspect the definition I found was: A small group that is not part of a larger and more accepted group that has beliefs regarded by many people as extreme or dangerous. I found this amusing. Some of my non-hockey friends have called me crazy for taking my kids out of school for a hockey tournament.  In addition, hockey people won’t ever admit it to anyone outside of the group, but they have all at one time or another down-played their kids’ injury to their family doctor to get clearance to play. (not me, though) Extreme? Dangerous? Nah, in our “small group”  what happens in the compound, I mean at the rink, stays at the rink.

Since I started my blog to share ideas about how to use and display collections and vintage treasures, this post is about a work in progress at my house. It is our broken hockey stick collection. Yes, I am now stooping to the level of decorating with trash.

If you are not part of this cult let me explain. I married a man who has played hockey his whole life. He was so happy when we had kids because he knew some day he would fulfill an item on his bucket list. He was finally able to coach a hockey team.

My son’s first hockey skates are the same size as his first white leather Stride Rite walkers.  Here in Michigan the ice rinks have little skating frames that resemble a miniature version of granny’s walker. Reason being, the kids are put on skates so young  they aren’t even that good at walking yet.  Luckily my son loves the game as much as my husband.  He is 17 and now plays for his high school.

My husband is in his 50s and still plays hockey on what’s known as “the beer league” A bunch of middle aged men get together a few times a week and play hockey. It’s a tight group. The wives are friends. Many of the kids have played on a team together at one time or another.  We have vacationed together (stayed in hotels for hockey tournaments). We have spent holidays together (gone out to eat during Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas for holiday tournaments). It has been our second family.

We live and breathe hockey in this house. Unfortunately, it happens to be a pretty expensive sport. Some hockey parents even choose their ice bill in lieu of a college fund.  They can’t afford both. What is an ice bill, you ask? It is a monthly bill hockey parents make so their kid can be on a hockey team.  It is about the equivalent of our gas bill, no; our electric bill, no; about the equivalent of our cell phone bill for four ipones with unlimited everything.

In addition to the ice bill comes the equipment: a really big bag full of pads for shoulders & elbows, guards for necks & shins,  helmets & jocks for the beans, skates and a stick or three.  With the money we paid for our son’s last pair of skates we could have purchased a decent used car. Again, if you are not in the cult called hockey you might think I am making this up or crazy.

The last piece of equipment I want to mention is the stick.  Hockey players are very particular about their stick, how they tape it, how often they tape it, what curve they use, what strength they use. I think there is a university in Canada somewhere specifically to study and teach hockey stick engineering & taping. They can cost as much as an ice bill. The player needs spare sticks, game sticks, practice sticks. A stick can be snapped in two in a hot second.

So our wall of broken hockey sticks is a treasure to me.  I could not accept that all those expensive sticks so quickly became trash, I just couldn’t. Some were broken in the beer league. Some were broken in a practice & some in a game. Some were donated by I’m pretty sure future NHL players. It is my shrine to the cult called hockey.  It is the most expensive paneling you will ever find. Like my wine cork dart board back drop, I am not going to add it up. Some spots are still empty. As I said, it is a work in progress. I am not in any hurry to fill up those empty spaces. That would mean my husband and son are out shopping to replace a broken stick.

Brenda Lee's 411 on entertaining

I volunteered to provide a small refreshment table at an upcoming support group meeting. I could easily unfold a card table, throw down some bottled waters & oreos and call it a day, but I  do not operate like that. I plan on using my vintage table linens and depression glass. I also need to go shopping for one of those pretty glass beverage decanters with an iron stand. Ice water with a few lemon slices is so much prettier and economical than cans & bottles, and at the end of the day I get to keep the decanter. Whether it is a small refreshment table or a large party, I have always taken my entertaining and volunteer responsibilities seriously.

My husband wanted to have a big party when he turned 50. He said,” Let’s keep it simple: chili dogs and a keg.   I did my best to make his birthday wishes come true, but it took a little creativity to “Brendify” hot dogs. He hired the band. We also had a surprise set from our friend, Greg, who played the bag pipes. The keg was a craft beer. I hired our friend, Vandi, who is a much better cook than I, to make a few special chilies and several desserts including shortbread, lemon squares & raspberry crumble bars.  It was a casual, serve-yourself-type party. When the hubs first said he wanted chili dogs and a keg, I thought, “This isn’t a tailgate!” My point here: I put my twist on a white-trash menu and turned it into something nice.

I once helped coordinate a Thanksgiving feast at my son’s elementary school.  I specifically recall the note home saying, “If you are able, send in an ethnic dish that your family prepares as part of your holiday tradition” Being a very diverse school, the food was amazing. The tables were full of Arabic, Chinese, Indian & Jewish quisine. I made miniature pasties representing our familys' Finnish heritage.  If you are fortunate like me, our community is a very  generous group.  The school is no exception. Send a note home and the luncheon for staff appreciation looks like the Whoville feast.  (Please take note that if you are having a hectic week, feel free to toss that note requesting a donation of food into the recycle bin.)  NO ONE will starve.  I couldn’t help but laugh at my son’s ethnic feast.  Just as the catty words were about to slip out of my mouth, another mom beat me to it.  She blurted out, “So who is cheez-it mom?” That’s right, there at the ethnic feast, some busy parent felt compelled to send in something. It was a box covered in cellophane full of single serving bags of cheez-its. Sad thing though, give a 3^rd grader a choice between Grandma Chen’s seaweed salad recipe and cheez-its and Nabisco will win, every time.

So here are my two cents on entertaining. First, stick to the theme. Second, do something to make it special. I don’t know whether or not I will have time to make the refreshments for the meeting. If I don’t, you can bet I will be taking the cookies out of the plastic cell pack. I am not trying to fool anyone. We all recognize the Costco variety trio. They just taste better when served from a vintage crystal plate.

 

Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.

I have been missing my metric for a blog a day, so rather than beat myself up I am changing my metric. It is now “a blog whenever my OCD is in full swing and enough ideas collect in my head to formulate a blog post”

Yesterday when I was soaking in the tub after spending an hour at the gym earning a caramel apple martini and a few pieces of Halloween candy , I glanced at all the chatzkies on my bathroom vanity shelf. A vintage crystal salt dish full of smashed pennies is a sweet little reminder of our travels. If you are not familiar with the smashed penny I have included a picture. Places like tourist destinations and museums often have a smashed penny machine. You insert two quarters and a penny, turn the crank and a 51 cent souvenir slips down the chute. The problem with smashed pennies is that they usually end up in a kitchen junk drawer or never make it out of your coin purse. Smashed pennies do not share with the world that you have been there.

Therefore, we are usually compelled to buy a t-shirt when we go on a vacation or attend a concert. I think the same factory in China makes all the souvenir t-shirts. My family has t-shirts from the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, San Francisco, Nashville, Chicago, you name it- they all look alike. Some scheduling manager in China meets with his employees each morning and probably says in Chinese,” The Grand Canyon souvenir shop is getting low- we need to switch over the screen printing from San Francisco today.” Or something like that. We have never been to China, but we have many  t-shirts from China.

 I bought a t-shirt from Antique Archaeology in Nashville. It did strike up some conversations. One lady asked, “Is that the company where you work?” I couldn’t believe there were still people out there who didn’t know who Mike & Frank were.  I typically don’t wear t-shirts with writing on them. When I was younger, I always felt like writing across my over-sized chest was just an alibi for guys to be pretending to read. When I buy a souvenir t-shirt I usually cut off the sales tag, the sleeves and the suffocating crew neck and throw it over my yoga top. They make good work out shirts, and the sleeves good dust rags.

I recently saw a guy at the gym with an interesting t-shirt. It had California references listed on it like Diablo and Tahoe.

I said, “I LOVE Tahoe.”

He sounded surprised ,”You do?!”

I said,  "I grew up out west and spent a lot of time there as a kid.”

He said,”Well, this   t-shirt isn’t from California. These are names of marijuana dispensaries.”

"Oh," I said.

I guess I won't be going on that trip, or getting the t-shirt to prove it.

Brenda Lee says," either be useful or look good"

My house is highly accessorized. My husband says there isn't a horizontal or vertical surface that doesn't have something on it. He was wrong. The basement stairwell was looking sad. It needed some love.

The design genius, William Morris, said over a hundred years ago, "Have nothing in your house which you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful". I worship him and live by his motto. His motto covers it all.  You either like the way it looks, or you use it. I love when something is both, like a beautiful crystal bowl.

I have kept some things so long that they have switched teams on me. They used to be useful, but now I just think they are beautiful: take old records, for example.  After the 78,  before the ipod, CD, cassette tape,  & 8 track was the vinyl record: the LP. When I was a kid they were about the price of one itunes download.  We played them on the turn table on our parents' hi fi.

My parents had a hi fi in the livingroom that as I remember was bigger than the sofa. The cabinet was walnut. The speakers were covered in metallic gold fabric. The turn table, radio and LP storage were in the middle. Those were the good old days. We sat around the livingroom and someone was in charge of flipping the vinyl record over to play the other side. We listened to music as well as comedy albums like Bill Cosby and George Carlin. I can't believe my parents let us listen to "the 7 words you can't say on television"

Now-a-days our favorite music has been digitally remastered and is conveniently located on a cloud somewhere. It's magic, really. I don't understand it. So why have so many of us kept our LPs? They are no longer useful. I think we kept them because they are beautiful. I still have my parents' original "Meet the Beatles" and "The Fabulous Johnny Cash".They bring back memories. I remember when my cousin Liisa came to visit from Michigan & bought me Cher's "Half Breed" album. I was in like 4th grade. I still have that album.

Since we believe our albums to be beautiful, we need to have them in our house. Display them proudly. Reminisce about when we got them. Cover a vertical surface in our home, like your basement stairwell.  I did. And when the teenagers head downstairs to shoot pool or play darts, I hear them say, "Woah- this is so cool- Beatles, Fog Hat, Nugent, Styx, Journey, Elvis Costello, Kiss...wait...Who is Brenda Lee?!"

outta my wits

TGIF everyone. I didn't accomplish a heck of alot this week, but I did fulfill one goal of publishing some blog posts. Putting pen to paper (I mean fingers to the keyboard) is a bit intimidating for me, so I am going to call this a successful week. I also got a pedicure and worked out 5 days in a row. Woot! Woot!

I'm not feeling particularly witty today, so I am just sharing a picture of one of my collections and a few things vintage which was the whole idea for this blog in the first place. I wanted to display my jewelry in a way that I could see it all at once so the executive decision each morning is a bit easier. I found this vintage hammered aluminum dessert tray at a local antique mall. The hand is an antique ceramic form that was used in a glove factory. Two vintage pieces repurposed- I'm happy!