A “before” of this re-use would be of a hand-knit sweater, in a style that looked pretty cool until it was on the body. Ill-fitting and unflattering, it was knit by for a woman whose husband treated her horribly in marriage and even worse throughout the divorce proceedings. There is no point in being a complete dick, unless you let everyone know as often as you can.

The sweater was knit by the mother of the horrible husband, who has not proven to be horrible.

The woman gave her sister the sweater. The sister looked horrible in it, but loved the yarn. They spent the week of the woman’s divorce together, driving around town going to the courthouse or taking a walk or fetching the woman’s child. All the while, the sister slowly unraveled the sweater.

For your information, it is very difficult to unravel a well-knit wool sweater, especially if it has trim and buttons.  Especially if it could be construed as a metaphor.

In all, there were four sisters, and a brother, and two parents, and the divorcee’s daughter and the siblings’ partners. They were there to pick the woman up and push her into her new life, free from the shackles of a man who treated her poorly. Each one took a different approach to helping the woman, from getting angry in her stead, to pushing her to fight, to providing legal advice or money, to making repairs on her house, making dinner or making her laugh.

The woman’s broken heart brought them all closer together. Her sisters spoke frequently to each other, discussing the woman and what they could do for her. They all found simple reasons to make room in their busy lives to come together, first for the woman, and then for themselves.

If this is a metaphor, they would need something to remind themselves of how closely knit that had become, in their hearts and their heads.

A “before” of this re-use would be of a hand-knit sweater, in a style that looked pretty cool until it was on the body. Ill-fitting and unflattering, it was knit by for a woman whose husband treated her horribly in marriage and even worse throughout the divorce proceedings. There is no point in being a complete dick, unless you let everyone know as often as you can.

The sweater was knit by the mother of the horrible husband, who has not proven to be horrible.

The woman gave her sister the sweater. The sister looked horrible in it, but loved the yarn. They spent the week of the woman’s divorce together, driving around town going to the courthouse or taking a walk or fetching the woman’s child. All the while, the sister slowly unraveled the sweater.

For your information, it is very difficult to unravel a well-knit wool sweater, especially if it has trim and buttons.  Especially if it could be construed as a metaphor.

In all, there were four sisters, and a brother, and two parents, and the divorcee’s daughter and the siblings’ partners. They were there to pick the woman up and push her into her new life, free from the shackles of a man who treated her poorly. Each one took a different approach to helping the woman, from getting angry in her stead, to pushing her to fight, to providing legal advice or money, to making repairs on her house, making dinner or making her laugh.

The woman’s broken heart brought them all closer together. Her sisters spoke frequently to each other, discussing the woman and what they could do for her. They all found simple reasons to make room in their busy lives to come together, first for the woman, and then for themselves.

If this is a metaphor, they would need something to remind themselves of how closely knit that had become, in their hearts and their heads.

Moral: not all sequin handbags will be perfect—unless you are a ten year old girl and someone gives you one!

Dear Gold Jewelry,
It’s not you, it’s me. I’ve never worn gold. O.K., not never—there was the high school class ring, lost before I started college and the studs every time I got my ears pierced professionally; but really, my choice is silver.
It’s not like I’ve been waiting for the gold market to go apeshit, like I’ve been rubbing my hands together in some Midas frenzy anticipating the rise in international gold prices as the world falls to hell and right-wing hate mongers preach the value of gold bullion.
Really, I was giving a bunch of shit away to charity, more crap than would fit in my car, so the charity van came to me. While I waited, I ransacked my closet and in the few minutes remaining I attacked my jewelry chest.
There you were, Bangle-of-unknown-origin, Early-courting-gift-broken-bracelet, Gold-and-pearl-necklace-from-Dad [ha-ha, eew], and Cracked-milky-opal-ring (another gift, wrapped up in a carbon copy repair receipt and tucked in a bag of tarot cards). You’ve been so lonely all of these years, stuffed in a crate, moving from storage unit to storage unit, finally landing in a rarely-opened drawer.
It’s only because the van was late that I went to the back of the drawer and found the velvet box with you Teeny-diamond-studs and Gold-hoops-with-teenier-diamond-chips. I didn’t even remember you. And you, Random-gold-cross-I-found-in-the-street, I can’t even recall where we met, it’s been so long.
Congratulations, you are all free now from your constricting shapes and your life of neglect. Go forth to the smelter and find a new life as an engagement ring, a gold chain for a Jersey Shore cast member, or heck, maybe even a tongue stud, or perhaps a more intimate piercing.
Really, anything is going to be more fun than the back of my jewelry box, and who knows, maybe you can be re-united with my long lost class ring (that should be worth an armful of chunky silver).
Please, don’t tell my Dad, he’ll be sad to know I sold his gifts. My sisters still wear theirs.
With only vague fondness,
Rubi

Dear Gold Jewelry,

It’s not you, it’s me. I’ve never worn gold. O.K., not never—there was the high school class ring, lost before I started college and the studs every time I got my ears pierced professionally; but really, my choice is silver.

It’s not like I’ve been waiting for the gold market to go apeshit, like I’ve been rubbing my hands together in some Midas frenzy anticipating the rise in international gold prices as the world falls to hell and right-wing hate mongers preach the value of gold bullion.

Really, I was giving a bunch of shit away to charity, more crap than would fit in my car, so the charity van came to me. While I waited, I ransacked my closet and in the few minutes remaining I attacked my jewelry chest.

There you were, Bangle-of-unknown-origin, Early-courting-gift-broken-bracelet, Gold-and-pearl-necklace-from-Dad [ha-ha, eew], and Cracked-milky-opal-ring (another gift, wrapped up in a carbon copy repair receipt and tucked in a bag of tarot cards). You’ve been so lonely all of these years, stuffed in a crate, moving from storage unit to storage unit, finally landing in a rarely-opened drawer.

It’s only because the van was late that I went to the back of the drawer and found the velvet box with you Teeny-diamond-studs and Gold-hoops-with-teenier-diamond-chips. I didn’t even remember you. And you, Random-gold-cross-I-found-in-the-street, I can’t even recall where we met, it’s been so long.

Congratulations, you are all free now from your constricting shapes and your life of neglect. Go forth to the smelter and find a new life as an engagement ring, a gold chain for a Jersey Shore cast member, or heck, maybe even a tongue stud, or perhaps a more intimate piercing.

Really, anything is going to be more fun than the back of my jewelry box, and who knows, maybe you can be re-united with my long lost class ring (that should be worth an armful of chunky silver).

Please, don’t tell my Dad, he’ll be sad to know I sold his gifts. My sisters still wear theirs.

With only vague fondness,

Rubi

I’ve had the amazing fortune to travel to some pretty freaking awesome places—on someone else’s dime. The trade-off is that I’ve had to get to most of those places by sailboat, and thanks to an interventionist force with a tragically twisted sense of humor, I’ve always had to stare down some crazy storm. Here’s the thing about storms at sea: 1) the brunt of their ferocity usually strikes in the middle of the night and 2) just staring them down won’t get you to morning and the other side safely. It helps if you have the benefit of someone who is significantly more competent than you. And possibly help from aforementioned interventionist force.
So after surviving these dramatic tempests and my feet securely on land, I  subscribe to some retail reassurance of my existence. This sarong was one such purchase in Bali, Indonesia. Between the two of us, I and the significantly more competent one—who happens to be the captain and my husband— we bought a lot of stuff in Bali. Most notably, an entire artist’s studio of oil paintings. It cost more to ship them back to the US than we paid the artist. They were so amazingly packaged; we didn’t have the heart to ask him to show us what was in the boxes. Until we returned to the US several months later, we half suspected he might have sent us some blank canvases. But everything was as it should be and currently graces our walls.
We also went a little sarong crazy. The competent handsome husband even bought some for himself, envisioning a future incarnation who could trade in khaki shorts and polo shirts for a freeballing wrap skirt persona. They are beautiful and have never been worn, but are neither mine to write about nor get rid of.
This one has also been hidden away, never used. The scent of clove cigarettes has faded, but the colors and batik still capture the rich exotica of its origins.  It seems greedy to keep its beauty to myself, especially when I know a wonderful person/yoga teacher, who deserves to appreciate it squall-free and until it is threadbare.

I’ve had the amazing fortune to travel to some pretty freaking awesome places—on someone else’s dime. The trade-off is that I’ve had to get to most of those places by sailboat, and thanks to an interventionist force with a tragically twisted sense of humor, I’ve always had to stare down some crazy storm. Here’s the thing about storms at sea: 1) the brunt of their ferocity usually strikes in the middle of the night and 2) just staring them down won’t get you to morning and the other side safely. It helps if you have the benefit of someone who is significantly more competent than you. And possibly help from aforementioned interventionist force.

So after surviving these dramatic tempests and my feet securely on land, I  subscribe to some retail reassurance of my existence. This sarong was one such purchase in Bali, Indonesia. Between the two of us, I and the significantly more competent one—who happens to be the captain and my husband— we bought a lot of stuff in Bali. Most notably, an entire artist’s studio of oil paintings. It cost more to ship them back to the US than we paid the artist. They were so amazingly packaged; we didn’t have the heart to ask him to show us what was in the boxes. Until we returned to the US several months later, we half suspected he might have sent us some blank canvases. But everything was as it should be and currently graces our walls.

We also went a little sarong crazy. The competent handsome husband even bought some for himself, envisioning a future incarnation who could trade in khaki shorts and polo shirts for a freeballing wrap skirt persona. They are beautiful and have never been worn, but are neither mine to write about nor get rid of.

This one has also been hidden away, never used. The scent of clove cigarettes has faded, but the colors and batik still capture the rich exotica of its origins.  It seems greedy to keep its beauty to myself, especially when I know a wonderful person/yoga teacher, who deserves to appreciate it squall-free and until it is threadbare.

Tags: travel gifts

How awesome would it be if I possessed the knowledge contained within all of my books, simply because I own them?
Not so very long ago, in graduate school, I subscribed to that as a study habit. Whenever a professor or a something I read referenced a book, or a syllabus recommended a text, I hopped onto Amazon and had it in my hot little hands two days later.
Back off judging me for using Amazon, the shipping is free and the prices beat the hell out of the racket at the school bookstore, which mostly never had what I needed anyway. I’m not afraid to admit that buying a book from Amazon, barely reading it then returning it is far more economical than doing the same thing at the book store, which might pay $2.75 for a book I spent $75 as, as opposed to my full purchase price.
With my degree complete, I like my reading to be a little more pleasurable and a little less the-world-is-doomed-by-our-insatiable-consumer-appetite. Also, I have some pretty severe sinus issues, so I don’t need all of these books collecting and sharing dust with me. And let’s face it; I am not going to read them.
Yeah, I’ll hang on to a few, mostly because they have too much of my own writing inside to make them sellable.  After fees and shipping, I’ve probably made about $220, but I have just unloaded over 50 books between an Amazon seller/trade in account, Goodwill, and my alma mater departmental library.
I feel a little lighter, a little richer and oddly, a little smarter.

How awesome would it be if I possessed the knowledge contained within all of my books, simply because I own them?

Not so very long ago, in graduate school, I subscribed to that as a study habit. Whenever a professor or a something I read referenced a book, or a syllabus recommended a text, I hopped onto Amazon and had it in my hot little hands two days later.

Back off judging me for using Amazon, the shipping is free and the prices beat the hell out of the racket at the school bookstore, which mostly never had what I needed anyway. I’m not afraid to admit that buying a book from Amazon, barely reading it then returning it is far more economical than doing the same thing at the book store, which might pay $2.75 for a book I spent $75 as, as opposed to my full purchase price.

With my degree complete, I like my reading to be a little more pleasurable and a little less the-world-is-doomed-by-our-insatiable-consumer-appetite. Also, I have some pretty severe sinus issues, so I don’t need all of these books collecting and sharing dust with me. And let’s face it; I am not going to read them.

Yeah, I’ll hang on to a few, mostly because they have too much of my own writing inside to make them sellable.  After fees and shipping, I’ve probably made about $220, but I have just unloaded over 50 books between an Amazon seller/trade in account, Goodwill, and my alma mater departmental library.

I feel a little lighter, a little richer and oddly, a little smarter.

You are probably thinking. “Why would anyone get rid of such a freaking awesome shirt?”
I know, right.
I first saw it on someone else. We were in some tiny town in Italy. I can’t recall where, but I do remember an old churchy thing, brick buildings and some rolling green hills. Sitting at an outdoor café (the only place to sit in Italy) I spied a woman across the street wearing this shirt. I had to have it.
A short time later, in a different unrecollected Italian city, I found it in a Benetton shop. And I paid full price. Why shouldn’t I? It matched everything I own.
But, it doesn’t fit so well as it used to. Unless I wear super high-waisted mom jeans—which I don’t now, or never will, own— every time I lift my arms, a rather unattractive slab of stomach shows. I don’t care how fucking cool a shirt is, its visual appeal can be immediately destroyed by an ugly bit of side belly.
Yes, yes, we are all beautiful. The human body is beautiful and sacred. Whatever. That doesn’t mean I want you looking at my not-as-sleek-as-it-used-to-be torso.
But that also doesn’t mean I am going to abandon all of this stripey-paisley-patterny coolness to the anonymity of a thrift store. I have a very stylish niece who insists on wearing floral leggings under her soccer uniform. As the highest scorer on the team, she also has a bit of substance. Her mother is desperate to find more favorite shirts for the kid, since she seems stuck on the same funky outfit every day.
Here ya go, kid. I recommend polka dot tights to really round out the outfit.

You are probably thinking. “Why would anyone get rid of such a freaking awesome shirt?”

I know, right.

I first saw it on someone else. We were in some tiny town in Italy. I can’t recall where, but I do remember an old churchy thing, brick buildings and some rolling green hills. Sitting at an outdoor café (the only place to sit in Italy) I spied a woman across the street wearing this shirt. I had to have it.

A short time later, in a different unrecollected Italian city, I found it in a Benetton shop. And I paid full price. Why shouldn’t I? It matched everything I own.

But, it doesn’t fit so well as it used to. Unless I wear super high-waisted mom jeans—which I don’t now, or never will, own— every time I lift my arms, a rather unattractive slab of stomach shows. I don’t care how fucking cool a shirt is, its visual appeal can be immediately destroyed by an ugly bit of side belly.

Yes, yes, we are all beautiful. The human body is beautiful and sacred. Whatever. That doesn’t mean I want you looking at my not-as-sleek-as-it-used-to-be torso.

But that also doesn’t mean I am going to abandon all of this stripey-paisley-patterny coolness to the anonymity of a thrift store. I have a very stylish niece who insists on wearing floral leggings under her soccer uniform. As the highest scorer on the team, she also has a bit of substance. Her mother is desperate to find more favorite shirts for the kid, since she seems stuck on the same funky outfit every day.

Here ya go, kid. I recommend polka dot tights to really round out the outfit.

Tags: clothes

These shoes suck. They are seven, maybe eight years old. They were cute once, but now are old and worn out and need to go. I walk funny when I wear them, not just from their lopsided age, but they seem to always play host to sand or rocks. They have to go.
And now they are gone.
But that’s not all. I haven’t posted recently, and not for lack of getting rid of Stuff, but exactly the opposite. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say that the thing that happens which makes me want to throw everything out happened. But more intensely than ever before. Don’t worry, it isn’t a medical condition.
After a short road trip in which the hubbo and I stayed at the world’s nastiest motel, were in an earthquake, had our car break down on the Jersey Turnpike, had the event we traveled 1000 miles for cancelled, were evacuated from a hotel, had a tree fall on the house we were in, lost power for 8 days, painted said house (without power) which didn’t belong to us and then got in a huge fight with family, we came home. I promptly slipped into a purging binge.
Nothing was sacred; nothing was safe (except hubbo’s belongings). If I stopped to photograph and consider each item, the whirlwind momentum that fueled me would’ve settled itself into a light breeze of seasonal cleaning with side trips down memory lane. I attacked without mercy, filled (tote) bag after (tote)bag with everything from an automatic 35mm SLR camera to a half dozen different teach-yourself-French courses to all my culinary tool duplicates. Who knew it was possible for one woman to own that many three ring binders?
Except for a fat pile of books I sold on Amazon and some gifted magazines, almost the whole lot went to the Salvation Army. If you are looking for a hand crank pasta extruder or a fry daddy, check out this weekend’s Junior League sale. I know, I know. There are better places to donate my Stuff, but it seems impossible to locate them. Google searches and Facebook queries led me through a maze of dead ends, great programs for books for prisoners in another state, an awesome system for donations to military families someplace else.
Never fear, just because I was merciless didn’t mean I was completely thorough. I still have plenty of crap that might mean something to me, so there will still be something to write about.
Stay tuned.

These shoes suck. They are seven, maybe eight years old. They were cute once, but now are old and worn out and need to go. I walk funny when I wear them, not just from their lopsided age, but they seem to always play host to sand or rocks. They have to go.

And now they are gone.

But that’s not all. I haven’t posted recently, and not for lack of getting rid of Stuff, but exactly the opposite. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say that the thing that happens which makes me want to throw everything out happened. But more intensely than ever before. Don’t worry, it isn’t a medical condition.

After a short road trip in which the hubbo and I stayed at the world’s nastiest motel, were in an earthquake, had our car break down on the Jersey Turnpike, had the event we traveled 1000 miles for cancelled, were evacuated from a hotel, had a tree fall on the house we were in, lost power for 8 days, painted said house (without power) which didn’t belong to us and then got in a huge fight with family, we came home. I promptly slipped into a purging binge.

Nothing was sacred; nothing was safe (except hubbo’s belongings). If I stopped to photograph and consider each item, the whirlwind momentum that fueled me would’ve settled itself into a light breeze of seasonal cleaning with side trips down memory lane. I attacked without mercy, filled (tote) bag after (tote)bag with everything from an automatic 35mm SLR camera to a half dozen different teach-yourself-French courses to all my culinary tool duplicates. Who knew it was possible for one woman to own that many three ring binders?

Except for a fat pile of books I sold on Amazon and some gifted magazines, almost the whole lot went to the Salvation Army. If you are looking for a hand crank pasta extruder or a fry daddy, check out this weekend’s Junior League sale. I know, I know. There are better places to donate my Stuff, but it seems impossible to locate them. Google searches and Facebook queries led me through a maze of dead ends, great programs for books for prisoners in another state, an awesome system for donations to military families someplace else.

Never fear, just because I was merciless didn’t mean I was completely thorough. I still have plenty of crap that might mean something to me, so there will still be something to write about.

Stay tuned.

mmmmm…scallops

unconsumption:

Friend of Unconsumption Rubi McGrory, featured here in posts about her contribution to our Uncollection, thought of us when she spotted this repurposed container herb garden. The garden’s located on the grounds of Forty 1 North, a waterfront boutique hotel in Newport, Rhode Island. Rubi was pleasantly surprised to see the upscale property reusing kitchen waste. Well done! 
[Thanks, Rubi!]
Speaking of The Uncollection: Stay tuned for another addition to it, which we’ll share here with you in the next week or so. 

mmmmm…scallops

unconsumption:

Friend of Unconsumption Rubi McGrory, featured here in posts about her contribution to our Uncollection, thought of us when she spotted this repurposed container herb garden. The garden’s located on the grounds of Forty 1 North, a waterfront boutique hotel in Newport, Rhode Island. Rubi was pleasantly surprised to see the upscale property reusing kitchen waste. Well done! 

[Thanks, Rubi!]

Speaking of The Uncollection: Stay tuned for another addition to it, which we’ll share here with you in the next week or so. 

Okay, so here’s the thing. Some of all of this stuff that I don’t want, it came into my house on its own legs. I had nothing to do with it. Once, I was gone for almost a year and when I came back my garage was full of random bits I had never seen before. A friend had been looking after the house and whenever he saw something cool thrown out in the lane, he would pick it up and toss it into my garage. This added up to a heap of mirrors, plastic drawers, tool boxes, art supplies and one very suspicious plant, which he claims he found and had been nurturing. Handsome hubby disposed of said plant upon confirming its potential to impact his captain’s license.
The handsome hubby, though,  is guilty of lane shopping as well. At one point we had three enormous inflatable holiday creatures festering in our garage. I sold two at a yard sale for $20 and the other went into the trash in a cleaning binge. The worst was the 8 foot tall fake plastic tree that sat next to the work bench for almost a year. He was convinced somehow I could scrape the layers of dust off and paint it pink. Then he thought it would be cool to randomly palm someone. You know, just dump an enormous nasty fake palm tree by their front door and run. He imagined it becoming some crazy sort of phenomenon which would have a website charting its journey, maybe even its own Facebook page. When I got sick of walking around the dusty tree, he set his plan in motion and left it on our neighbor’s front porch. Too bad she watched him. She marched over and asked (quizzically, yet politely) what he meant by it. He tried to explain his vision. She stared at him. He put the tree in the dumpster.
Two trips ago, I came home to find this table in my front room. A friend left this coast for the other one, and couldn’t fit any furniture in her car. She thought I might like it. It has served as a back-up bar on two occasions, fun was had each time. I can’t hog all of the good times, someone else deserves this fine piece of craftsmanship.  There is a sewing machine inside. It is a Singer. It is old. I have no  idea if it works or not. But the table works. It holds things flat and  keeps them off the ground.
craigslist SOLD!

Okay, so here’s the thing. Some of all of this stuff that I don’t want, it came into my house on its own legs. I had nothing to do with it. Once, I was gone for almost a year and when I came back my garage was full of random bits I had never seen before. A friend had been looking after the house and whenever he saw something cool thrown out in the lane, he would pick it up and toss it into my garage. This added up to a heap of mirrors, plastic drawers, tool boxes, art supplies and one very suspicious plant, which he claims he found and had been nurturing. Handsome hubby disposed of said plant upon confirming its potential to impact his captain’s license.

The handsome hubby, though,  is guilty of lane shopping as well. At one point we had three enormous inflatable holiday creatures festering in our garage. I sold two at a yard sale for $20 and the other went into the trash in a cleaning binge. The worst was the 8 foot tall fake plastic tree that sat next to the work bench for almost a year. He was convinced somehow I could scrape the layers of dust off and paint it pink. Then he thought it would be cool to randomly palm someone. You know, just dump an enormous nasty fake palm tree by their front door and run. He imagined it becoming some crazy sort of phenomenon which would have a website charting its journey, maybe even its own Facebook page. When I got sick of walking around the dusty tree, he set his plan in motion and left it on our neighbor’s front porch. Too bad she watched him. She marched over and asked (quizzically, yet politely) what he meant by it. He tried to explain his vision. She stared at him. He put the tree in the dumpster.

Two trips ago, I came home to find this table in my front room. A friend left this coast for the other one, and couldn’t fit any furniture in her car. She thought I might like it. It has served as a back-up bar on two occasions, fun was had each time. I can’t hog all of the good times, someone else deserves this fine piece of craftsmanship.
There is a sewing machine inside. It is a Singer. It is old. I have no idea if it works or not. But the table works. It holds things flat and keeps them off the ground.

craigslist SOLD!

Dear Kitchen Aid,

 

I am a huge fan of your products. I could not imagine my professional or home kitchen without your iconic mixer. My eldest sister gave me your pink Bake-for-the-cure mixer as a wedding gift. I thought it was far too extravagant, but she assured me my elopement saved her the hassle and expense of throwing a shower and wearing a bridesmaid dress. She put the difference into my gift. Frankly, our tastes are so opposite, I think the idea of my eclectic style applied sartorially to her person then subsequently captured for eternity in wedding pictures sent a chill through her nude pantyhose.


Anyway, as I said, I find your appliances to be reliable. Over the course of my professional career, I have worked with a wide range (no pun intended) of your large appliances and have never had any problems. I have, however, always felt a bit suspect about your kitchen gadgets. They seem inordinately large and unwieldy. Anyone who loves cooking tends toward overcrowded drawers. Oversized handles, like many of your designs, take up an impractical amount of space. My father, who has enormous hands and doesn’t cook anything but toast, likes to buy your kitchen tools. Sick of trying to squeeze them in, we return them behind his back.


I’m going to give it to you straight here. This black angled flipper sucks. I noticed it is not listed among the gadgets on your website, so maybe you have discovered the same thing. According to the description on Amazon.com, it is supposed to be heat resistant to 450°. If you look carefully, you can see several spots where it has melted. Additionally, it is purported to have a flexible head for getting under delicate items in pan. Again: not so much. Even thin fish fillets prove to be too heavy; the spatula, flexible as promised, just sort of bends, its tensile strength not capable of standing up to (or flipping) flounder. Its efficacy as anything more than a space taker-upper has yet to materialize.


Real estate in my kitchen and in my utensil holder is at a premium. There are many tools and gadgets vying to be among those which make my desert-island-kitchen-tools-list, but black angled flipper could never aspire to move beyond the I’ll-get-rid-of-it-when-I-get-around-to-it pile. I thought about donating it to the Goodwill, but frankly, I don’t want to saddle an unsuspecting thrifty shopper with a tool which will never live up to their expectations or lead them to discredit their culinary skills. I can’t bear the thought of it sitting in a landfill for the rest of time; the earth torturing itself with this object of unfulfilled ambitions.  It seems the most logical solution is to return it from whence it came.


No backsies.

 

Kindly,

Rubi McGrory


I don’t just own a lot of things; I own things whose sole purpose is to hold other things. These don’t occur singularly, but in surfeits, plethoras and myriads. They include:
·         Bags, tote
·         Purses
·         Bags, hand
·         Bags, duffel
·         Clutches
·         Bags, recycled basmati rice
·         Metal tins, mint sized
·         Metal tins, cookie sized
·         File boxes
·         File cabinets
·         Baskets, plastic
·         Baskets, reed
·         Baskets, straw
·         Crates, large, plastic
·         Bowls, turned wood
·         Shelves
The key to being able to rid myself of these vessels, requires that I first must empty each one out. Stay tuned. (Molly got the bags for the kids at the Y).

I don’t just own a lot of things; I own things whose sole purpose is to hold other things. These don’t occur singularly, but in surfeits, plethoras and myriads. They include:

  • ·         Bags, tote
  • ·         Purses
  • ·         Bags, hand
  • ·         Bags, duffel
  • ·         Clutches
  • ·         Bags, recycled basmati rice
  • ·         Metal tins, mint sized
  • ·         Metal tins, cookie sized
  • ·         File boxes
  • ·         File cabinets
  • ·         Baskets, plastic
  • ·         Baskets, reed
  • ·         Baskets, straw
  • ·         Crates, large, plastic
  • ·         Bowls, turned wood
  • ·         Shelves

The key to being able to rid myself of these vessels, requires that I first must empty each one out. Stay tuned. (Molly got the bags for the kids at the Y).

Tags: bags donate

Who doesn’t love stickers? It’s not just a first grader thing, everyone loves shiny die cut paper that adheres to almost anything. We use them to declare that we have just given blood, eaten a banana or bought a new skateboard.  The state of Georgia even gives them out, and encourages people to wear little signs that say “I’m a Georgia voter” after  casting a ballot.

Stickers are a way to easily transform and personalize an object. Nothing declares “Back off, this book belongs to Cindy” like a sticker which says “Back off, this book belongs to Cindy.”

Let’s not even talk about using your motor vehicle as a means for personalization and driving home your ideology. You can let the whole world know how much you like Dave Matthew’s Band or hate paying taxes for the very roads you are riding on. You can similarly tell us that you have three stick figure kids and a stick figure dog, but only one of your kids is an honor roll student.

My love affair with stickers started with Mrs Grossman sometime in the sixth grade. Things took a dark turn when I became a fruit sticker hoarder (only post-consumer). I had papaya stickers from Australia, mango stickers from Thailand. I used this fruit sticker stash to make all manner of crafty things, from a series of fruit bowls, to a back pack and an apron; and, to the dismay of my husband, collected them on every flat surface in the kitchen. After minor surgery, I woke up in post-op talking a mile a minute and begging the nurse for stickers from the chart station.

I’m done with it.

I am freeing myself of almost 30 years of stickers, giving them to Molly at the Y. The youths of Savannah can have all of the cheese stickers from my brother’s job at the deli, all of the alphabet stickers from the datebook I made for my sister, even the sandwich stickers I may or may not have liberated from a high school cafeteria when I may or may not have snuck in under the influence of something I can’t go into.  The only stickers I am keeping are the Elvis one, little die-cut photos of The King in his gold jumpsuit, perfect for applying to postcards.

Who doesn’t love stickers? It’s not just a first grader thing, everyone loves shiny die cut paper that adheres to almost anything. We use them to declare that we have just given blood, eaten a banana or bought a new skateboard.  The state of Georgia even gives them out, and encourages people to wear little signs that say “I’m a Georgia voter” after  casting a ballot.

Stickers are a way to easily transform and personalize an object. Nothing declares “Back off, this book belongs to Cindy” like a sticker which says “Back off, this book belongs to Cindy.”

Let’s not even talk about using your motor vehicle as a means for personalization and driving home your ideology. You can let the whole world know how much you like Dave Matthew’s Band or hate paying taxes for the very roads you are riding on. You can similarly tell us that you have three stick figure kids and a stick figure dog, but only one of your kids is an honor roll student.

My love affair with stickers started with Mrs Grossman sometime in the sixth grade. Things took a dark turn when I became a fruit sticker hoarder (only post-consumer). I had papaya stickers from Australia, mango stickers from Thailand. I used this fruit sticker stash to make all manner of crafty things, from a series of fruit bowls, to a back pack and an apron; and, to the dismay of my husband, collected them on every flat surface in the kitchen. After minor surgery, I woke up in post-op talking a mile a minute and begging the nurse for stickers from the chart station.

I’m done with it.

I am freeing myself of almost 30 years of stickers, giving them to Molly at the Y. The youths of Savannah can have all of the cheese stickers from my brother’s job at the deli, all of the alphabet stickers from the datebook I made for my sister, even the sandwich stickers I may or may not have liberated from a high school cafeteria when I may or may not have snuck in under the influence of something I can’t go into.  The only stickers I am keeping are the Elvis one, little die-cut photos of The King in his gold jumpsuit, perfect for applying to postcards.

Winner Winner Chicken dinner

Thanks to everyone for your great suggestions of the most creative re-use for a lemon keeper.

Perhaps I have allowed myself to become a wee bit influenced by the latest episode of Project Runway, where the challenge was to create an outfit from items available at a pet store. There was no room for ho-hum, with the goal to push each material’s use far beyond its original intent. I firmly believe the birdseed dress should have won.

It was with a similar spirit of creativity in which this contest was offered. I have combed through the responses and have no choice but to award the prize to Ellonyia who will turn the lemon keeper into a bike crash helmet for her Boston Terrier. She has promised photos. Lemon keeper goes in the mail today because we can’t wait to see the final product.

Husband and I have gotten each other some stinkers of gifts over the years. Not on purpose. I really thought he would like my painstakingly sewn bowling shirt complete with bowling pin buttons. And maybe the 36 by 24 inch oil painting wasn’t such a great idea while we were living on a sailboat. For his part, there are some jewelry purchases tarnishing quietly in my jewelry box. But both the rubber chicken and the squirrel-buster bird feeder were hits.

We have come to a tacit agreement that we’ll just spend gift money on things for us, like traveling and projects around our 160 year old house. This Christmas, we gave ourselves a low-flow toilet for our new bathroom (which is an anniversary- birthday- valentines-arbor day-sorry-I-left-your-table-saw-out-in-the-rain-all-rolled-into-one-for-a-few-years gift). Nothing says “I love you, let’s celebrate someone else’s religion” like knowing our poop has been disposed of in the most hydro-economical way possible.

These sunglasses would have been a great gift if they weren’t too big for my face. It’s too bad, they come with three different means to hold them, one does double duty as a glass cleaner.  So even when I can’t find my sunglasses, I could be guaranteed to spot something that looks like it might contain them. Alas Maui Jims, you could have been a towel warmer!

listed on ebay

Husband and I have gotten each other some stinkers of gifts over the years. Not on purpose. I really thought he would like my painstakingly sewn bowling shirt complete with bowling pin buttons. And maybe the 36 by 24 inch oil painting wasn’t such a great idea while we were living on a sailboat. For his part, there are some jewelry purchases tarnishing quietly in my jewelry box. But both the rubber chicken and the squirrel-buster bird feeder were hits.

We have come to a tacit agreement that we’ll just spend gift money on things for us, like traveling and projects around our 160 year old house. This Christmas, we gave ourselves a low-flow toilet for our new bathroom (which is an anniversary- birthday- valentines-arbor day-sorry-I-left-your-table-saw-out-in-the-rain-all-rolled-into-one-for-a-few-years gift). Nothing says “I love you, let’s celebrate someone else’s religion” like knowing our poop has been disposed of in the most hydro-economical way possible.

These sunglasses would have been a great gift if they weren’t too big for my face. It’s too bad, they come with three different means to hold them, one does double duty as a glass cleaner.  So even when I can’t find my sunglasses, I could be guaranteed to spot something that looks like it might contain them. Alas Maui Jims, you could have been a towel warmer!

listed on ebay

YOU KNOW YOU WANT IT!
Contest extension:
What is your best creative re-use for plastic lemon-keeper?
Winner receives this amazing plastic lemon keeper with hand painted Unconsumption logo!
Special thanks to Unconsumption.
Post your ideas by the end of the day on Friday August 5.
Winner announced on Monday August 8.

YOU KNOW YOU WANT IT!

Contest extension:

What is your best creative re-use for plastic lemon-keeper?

Winner receives this amazing plastic lemon keeper with hand painted Unconsumption logo!

Special thanks to Unconsumption.

Post your ideas by the end of the day on Friday August 5.

Winner announced on Monday August 8.