The Tuesday that Feels Like a Monday

In the spirit of easing into the week, I'm having a catch-up pajama day over here. I just wrote an article to send to one of my all-time favorite magazines, and I hope they'll want to print it. Fingers crossed.

I've also been thinking about beauty products.

Back when I was spending my parents' money, I had expensive tastes in hair care and makeup. Clinique, Estee Lauder, and of course super-sized cans of Paul Mitchell hair spray cluttered my countertop. No "bonus gift" or "gift with purchase" passed me by, even if the colors were all wrong for me. But back in the 80's, sometimes the colors were so wrong they were right, you know?

It was as I got older (poorer, cheaper, thriftier) that I made the move to CoverGirl, Maybelline, and the occasional Wet'n'Wild product.

Well, at thirteen, thanks to Youtube videos and Pinterest, Margaret makes my previous champagne tastes seem more like Milwaukee's Best. She is familiar with every high-end product at Sephora and is skilled at using them. The good news is, she is introducing me to a few new products and helping me figure out how to keep my sparse yet unruly brows "on point" as they say these days. She also managed to help me look like I'd had a full night's sleep by dotting white eye shadow on the inner corner of my eyes. Who knew?

The bad news is, I am not comfortable supporting a $50 a pop toiletry habit, even though the desire for "bonus gifts" was passed down from my genes to hers.

Her desire for more products/more money led to a little mother-daughter furniture painting adventure, taking this sad little nightstand with its cheap plastic knob:

 To this shabby chic charmer.

Selling it on our local yard sale site means Margaret pockets $25.

Which I think translates to about 1/2 a high-end mascara and hopefully more mother-daughter enterprises like this one!

Easing In

It's weird that with all of the end of the year talk of busy-ness and the scramble to get everything done, I haven't been feeling that way at all. I've taken a break from a lot of things, and Margaret isn't super busy (her school doesn't get out until LATE June-- yuck). It's weird to not be needed every second. That feeling was hard to imagine when the kids were younger and they were all up in my business, but it's kind of a quiet empty nest-y feeling and I can't say that I care for it.

We have sports a couple of days a week, church activities on Sundays, and that's about it. I've been working on getting advance reader copies of  my book out, and coming up with some marketing strategies. I realize I get more done when I'm busier, if that makes sense, so I may need to beef up my schedule a bit. And while I know there is a time for slowing down and making space in one's life,  it's not as if I'm at home praying and contemplating all day or even going to an exercise class.

I'm just being quiet in my house, doing laundry, and waiting. Not sure for what.

While I was waiting last week, I painted two very sturdy, lovely end tables from Hickory Chair Company. They looked very good as-is, even though they had some scratches and cosmetic damage on their surfaces. They were very shiny and formal, however, and I don't think that look is selling these days. I thought they might be more likely to find a new home if I painted them a soft gray.

Before:

After:

Ooh! I hope someone special loves them as much as I do.

I hope your week is starting off well. Mine began with a 9 am mammogram, so I think that counts as hitting the ground running (squeezing?).

Broad Strokes

My friend Theresa asked if I'd paint some furniture to sell in her charming store in downtown Falls Church, VA. As you may know, I haven't painted furniture since the week of Jack's accident. It has just seemed so empty and meaningless to me.

I wrote toward the end of my book about noticing Margaret get excited last summer just seeing me carry old paint cans up the stairs at the old house. She was hoping I was up to my old tricks, most likely because that would somehow take us back to at least SOMETHING being the way it was before.

I wasn't sure if Theresa's appeal for "help" was along the lines of the Dowager Countess of Grantham and Mrs. Hughes constantly digging up causes and people for Isobel Crawley to assist as a means of getting her interested in something other than the blackness of her grief, or whether she genuinely was backlogged with painting projects.

Either way, with her encouragement, I stepped away from the computer for a few weeks and picked up the paintbrushes. It felt awkward. My brushes had grown stiff, so I had to buy new ones. It was a different kind of paint, not what I'd used before, and I didn't know if I'd find a rhythm with it.

Margaret sat on the leather couch as I spread flattened moving boxes out on the family room floor to protect it from spatters. We watched American Idol and Downton Abbey as I opened a few cans and started testing the paint. I talked about how it was different, how I didn't know if this was going to work out at all. After a while, she asked if she could try her hand at painting a little too, so I gave her some pointers and let her pick the color for the next piece. We sat on either side of a tiny doll cradle, painting it together, talking about our TV shows.

My pushing through fear to write a memoir did not impress her one bit. Blog conferences and the new business cards I bought (but am too wimpy to hand out) that proclaim, "Anna Whiston-Donaldson, Writer" don't merit a second glance.

But the back and forth of our brushes, and seeing me do something that links us both to an earlier time-- a time when we were yet unscathed by a level of pain and longing so profound that despite my best efforts still rarely forms words between us-- felt good to her.

And to me.