I fell in love yesterday

Yesterday Tom and I went antiquing.

We headed to Sewickley. Tom said he knew of some shoppes there. Turns out he didn’t. We drove past the only place that had stuff spilling out of it’s doors, the word Antiques plastered across its front, but because it wasn’t in Sewickley and it wasn’t the place he was thinking about and it was on the other side of the road and he would have had to slow the car down to turn around, we didn’t stop, we continued to Sewickley.


We walked up one side of the main street Sewickley and down the other. No antique stores. We did, however, find a quaint outdoor cafe to get a bite of lunch. We also found Ideas Vintage Market.

I walked in and was transported to France. The furniture was works of art. A turquoise distressed rocker that I am sure has, or will soon, rock someone’s baby to sleep. French white dressers, benches, and tables. A secretary, distressed in light grey and white, with the softest pink painted inside the glass doors. I couldn’t get enough. I walked slowly by each piece, caressing them, admiring them, imaging the home it would live in.

I was smitten.

I have, in the past, painted furniture; Jena’s bedroom set bought from a WVU grad, small flea market tables, benches, adirondack chairs, even brooms. It was fun and a great way to buy cheap pieces and turn them into something fresh. Give them a new personality. But these pieces, I so tenderly touched at Ideas, were more than just refreshed, these pieces were transformed.

I realized I was holding my breath. I was awestruck.

Judith, the owner, came over and introduced herself. She explained that she opened the shop yesterday and that she paints the pieces herself. Furthermore, the row of big, white, tables in the center of the room were there for the furniture painting classes she is going to teach on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

“CLASSES? I can come learn how to paint pieces like this?”


My mind was going a mile a minute. I could paint our bedroom furniture. The secretary in the living room. My rocker. The lamp. I could find some cheap end tables on Craig’s List, recreate them, and save myself the price of brand new, french white, distressed, Arhaus, Restoration Hardware, or Pottery Barn pieces selling for $900.

Tom overheard us. Slowly he approached. I noticed he wasn’t fondling any of the furniture as he passed by it.

“Is there anything you won’t paint?” he asked Judith. I knew where this was going. He is from the tribe that doesn’t believe in painting wood. Wood is wood and should look like wood, is his motto; unless it is bad or ugly wood, or my furniture-which he doesn’t like anyway.

Judith had his number. She showed him the pieces that she hadn’t painted, either because of the detail in the wood, the grain, or an inlay. She had some of his tribal blood in her too. He was soothed. Temporarily.

We left the store with Judith’s number so I could text her pictures of pieces I wanted to get her opinion on and with plans to attend a class. I jabbered all the way home about the money we could save given my creative license.

I spent the better part of today scouring Craig’s List for end tables. I had found a pair yesterday for $425 at a place in the Strip that I was considering, until I found Ideas Vintage Market. Now I was on a mission to rehab something. For really cheap.

As I was scouring, I was also texting Judith with pictures of the bedroom furniture. I didn’t dare send pictures of the secretary, Tom had made it quite clear on the way home that his grandmothers piece was OFF LIMITS.

“Okay. Okay.”

I excitedly told him Judith LOVED our bedroom furniture. Since it was a family piece from his mom I knew he would be pleased. Judith texted that maybe we just wanted an antique lace linen to throw over them, but what color was I thinking. I excitedly shared all this with Tom.

“PATRICIA, PLEASE find SOMETHING TO DO,” he admonished from his place on the couch.

Have you ever been so insulted and cracked up at the same time? Had he just said that? Like he was a 1950’s executive, home from a long days work, enjoying his martini but having to move one more ceramic knic-nac his bored housewife made at ceramics class in order to put his drink down.

“OHHH. You didn’t just say that.”

A couple of days ago Heidi told me she thinks I should get a dog. She said I needed something to take care of since I am still having empty-nest-postpartum-wedding- depression symptoms. I told her I really didn’t want a dog, and how funny she should say that because Landon thought I should get a fish.

They are right. I need to have something to transform.

I am going to paint some bad ass furniture.




PS I found some end table to love

I am so excited I can't sleep

I am so excited I can’t sleep


Notice, Notice, Notice

Since I did so well with the 21 day meditation challenge, I signed up for an 8 week mindfulness meditation class at the Center for Integrative Medicine at UPMC based on the work of Jon Kabot-Zinn. It is all about noticing. Not changing, just noticing.


I had wanted to take this class for a long time. Despite that I still felt uncertain if I should follow through after attending the introductory class. I told myself the class was going to be too big. I was going to be too tired. I reminded myself that I probably wouldn’t practice anyway, that it would be another thing I tried and then forgot.


I couldn’t make my mind up and I didn’t know how to decide. As I looked over the materials given in the intro class, it said a symptom of stress was not being able to make up your mind…hmmmm.


I decided to take the class. Continue Reading

It’s Just Not Right…

I grew up with my mom telling me to, “Watch your mouth!”  She hated when I said I hated something, when I sang at the dinner table, or told her I couldn’t see my mouth so I couldn’t possibly watch it. She even washed my mouth out with soap once. I don’t remember what I said, but the next day I got tonsillitis and my grandmother blamed my mother for giving it to me. I was vindicated.


I did, for the most part, try to please my mom. I watched what I said and did. I became so good at it that I developed TMJ before it was called TMJ. My parents thought it was normal that I had to hit the side of my face to get my jaw to open in the morning to eat my Special K cereal.


I don’t imagine this was so unusual for those of us raised in the late 50’s-60’s. We were managed to be polite extensions of our parents. It was our job to make them look better than they felt about themselves. Especially us girls.


It’s a hard habit to break, this watching your mouth. “What if I offend somebody?” I would worry. My mom told me the reason a boy I liked didn’t call me again is because I told him a story using the word “poop.” She said, “No boy would want to date a girl with a mouth like that.” Fuck.


It seems the older I get the less I watch my mouth and the more I speak my mind. I am a lot less tolerant of what I see and experience. I am “mouthier” these days because some things need to be said. I started a list… Continue Reading


I am taking this week off and staying home. A staycation. My spell check hates when I type the word, it wants to correct it. Seems my spell check isn’t the only entity wanting to challenge this breach in normalcy.

While planning this break I ran head long into a nasty belief of mine. It was a surprise attack and left me terrified.  My reptilian mind, the part of my brain that wants me to survive no matter what, informed me of the facts according to it… Continue Reading