Cheese: the meaning of life?

 

 There's not much in life that can't be resolved by eating cheese with a spoon!

Life's all been a bit big lately: after a few days off post-flinging myself down the stairs, I headed to my hometown, Adelaide, 3,400 kms away, for my grandfather's memorial. My brothers came over from Melbourne, several relatives came over from Port Hedland in Western Australia, it was surprisingly huge in many senses of the word. What I found particularly fascinating was the difference between my memory of Grandpa and the memories of some of my cousins. I am the eldest grandchild, followed closely by my first brother, and when we were growing up in the '70s Grandpa still worked. After us there is a gap of between eight and 17 years for my cousins and my youngest brother, and it seems Grandpa in his retirement was a much mellower man than the one I remember.

While in Adelaide, I got to spend some good, quality time with my family, got rip roaringly drunk on Frangelico with my youngest brother (my hangover felt more sugar- than alcohol-induced - ugh!), did the rounds of the Adelaide Central Market where I wished I could have bought the entire Gorgonzola pictured above, met my new baby nephew, and stocked up big time for my Etsy shop. I found some really great pieces that I am very excited about - coming soon! 

By sheer coincidence, there was a 25 year school reunion on the Friday night I was there. I wimped out because it was a long way from my Mum's house where I was staying that night, and by the time we got to the day of the wake I was so glad I hadn't gone - it would have been way too much emotion to tackle the reunion, which would have been the first I'd been to, and also see my grandma, who is suffering from dementia, and go to the wake all in the one weekend.

Grandma was a classic though. She was present when my grandfather died, but, naturally, her condition means she forgets this. Most of the time she forgets he's even gone. She suggested to my youngest brother and I that we should go and visit him in his room up the hallway in the nursing home, "But," she added, "He's not been very well lately. In fact, he's a bit useless these days!" Awkward!

If it ain't broke...

"Listen up.
The 'universe' DOES NOT CARE about you, okay?
It doesn't try and 'tell' you things or reward or punish you for anything.
It just doesn't give a F#$%! It can't! It's a universe... not your f#$%in' mamma. Alright?!
Thank you." - GDD, former housemate, now long-distance Facebook friend, Facebook post 2012, initials used to protect anonymity.


Every once in a while you get a moment to yourself to pause and reflect on the true nature of the Universe. For me that chance came a couple of days ago as I was rolling around in agony at the bottom of my back stairs.

I was having an incredibly productive day, of the type I haven't had since before my back went dicky. I'd just had my medical and X-rays for my permanent residency application to Canada, I'd had two sales on Etsy, and I'd finally gotten around to buying a new printer after hours of painstaking research. I'd even taken myself out for brunch at Caffiend and had their truly wonderful fetta and basil omelette. It was a benchmark day in my recovery. Life was good. 

I'd popped home to package up the Etsy sales and drop off the printer, then I'd planned to do a run to the post office, then the op shop to try to restock for Etsy, pick up the X-rays and deliver them to the GP, and then do a supermarket shop. Busy, busy, busy! As I headed out I stopped near the bottom of the back stairs to add one last thing to my shopping list on my phone, and then I stepped off... 

Except I wasn't on the bottom stair as I thought, was I? No, I was on the second or third, and I stepped off into the void and went crashing down, landing with a sickening crunch on my right ankle while my phone smashed face first into the concrete. As I lay there trying to breathe through the pain—watching my ankle imitate a tetchy puffer fish and running through the checklist of "Is it a sprained ankle, or a broken ankle?"—I contemplated that I may have been done in again by a case of be-careful-what-you-wish-for. 

Now I'll confess that in my younger days I used to be a bit of a hippy-dippy, esoteric, New Agey thinker, but I got over that. Reason has won that contest, though on occasion Wonder still tries to put her two cents' worth in. I don't believe that 'everything happens for a reason'. In fact, that's a platitude guaranteed to send me into a boiling rage. But I have observed that sometimes if you really want something to happen, it does. Hence you have to be careful what you wish for.

I'm not advocating 'wishcraft' or any of that Law of Attraction hoo-doo, I'm far more inclined to think that wanting something to happen makes you much more receptive to noticing when it does, and probably also makes you act in subtle ways to bring it about. But what I'm taking an awfully long time to get to is that, in my experience, if you are really putting it out there that you want something to happen you had better be specific—like make, model and serial number of desire—because otherwise it tends to come back to you any which way and you must wryly concede that you got what you wished for, just maybe not quite under the most ideal of circumstances. I'm talking getting fired when you hate your job but you haven't yet got anything else lined up, that person you've been crushing on turning out to be a dick once you are dating them or else confessing their true feelings the minute you've given up and started seeing someone else, that sort of thing. In this particular instance I have been very strongly focusing on how I wish I could have several days to work from home because I have so much written material to generate and I'm getting interrupted every five minutes in the office and can't concentrate, and, as is well documented on this here blog, I am really not loving my Android phone and miss my iPhone, particularly since Bek introduced me to Camera+ the other day, which like Hipstamatic is not available for Android users. Amazingly, my phone still works, even though its screen looks like a spider's web.

So, here I am, proving that is is in fact possible to limp with both feet (gosh, I must get around to explaining about that left leg!), trying to keep my fat, sprained right ankle elevated, compressed and/or iced as much as possible and contemplating either a replacement phone screen or the purchase of a second new phone in the space of six months (aaaargh!).

Is there a 12-step program for Etsy addiction?

My name is Beverley Mitchell and I am an Etsy addict.

There. I've said it. The whole world knows (well, the three of you who are reading, but y'know, anyone could know if they bothered to check ...)

It started out with just a few gifts for friends and family, here, there. Then, frustrated with missing out on things I really wanted in eBay auctions, I started to prefer the surety of an outright purchase rather than bidding for vintage items, even if it did mean paying a slight premium: if I paid, I got it, end of story. Instant gratification plus postage delay.

Then things got kinda crazy. Obsession set in. It doesn't help that I live in a regional centre where, if your proclivities run to the slightly eccentric like mine, you can't just walk into the shopping mall and get that perfect thang for an upcoming event. Yes, I shop for vintage on a pretty regular basis around town, but it's a lottery. Etsy gives a better chance of success in the search.

And then the killer blow: I got engaged. I would love to know what percentage of Etsy's turnover is wedding related. Hell, even the search stats would be mind-blowing I'm sure. Plus, once married, I will apply for permanent residency in my beloved's home country - Canada. Cue the hunt for a whole new wardrobe to guard against the cold. My vintage tropical sun dresses that are so perfect for Cairns just won't cut it in a Montreal winter, so it's lucky I am stockpiling a substantial wardrobe there already even though it is probably about 15 months until I am likely to move. I have also purchased all our wedding decorations, my wedding dress and a vintage map pdf to use on our invitations on Etsy. Ob.Sessed!

And then to crank it up one notch further, I opened a shop. This has actually been a blessing in disguise. Now, instead of spending hours a night trawling favourite shops or searching for knee-length 50s skirts with a 26-27 inch waist, I am sneaking a peek at my shop stats - visits, favourites, listing views, watching the difference it makes when I list new things or someone else puts one of my items in a treasury. This is good because it stops me spending money. I also have an excuse now to buy the great things I see in op shops that don't fit or suit me: "Oh, I'll just get it for the shop," is my new enabling phrase.

Not everyone loves Etsy, though. I did peek at the dark netherworlds of the rather bitter sites such as Regretsy, but ya know what? While I concede some points about crappy or inappropriate handmade items, the market will deal with those, and I think I'd rather hang out with the happy people, thanks. There's lots of natural lighting and everyone I've met has been really lovely. Ah, Etsy! It's fun, it's pretty and it's not hurting anything but my PayPal balance. Favourite!