As I’ve said before, not everyone appreciates a vintage life.
Case in point: Practical Man has been known to shake his head at something I’ve purchased while muttering, “I threw one of those out in 1978” under his breath.
It seems to happen quite frequently during yard/garage sale season. Lots and lots of head shaking and muttering.
But, I ask you:
Who will bring the ugly ducklings of the world home to be loved and cherished, if not I?
Oooh, look at the pretty patterns!
Especially when they’re vintage Lawnware for RVs (whatever that is) and only $1.
This particular vintage Lawnware for RVs needed a plug, but Practical Man is so very handy that a mere plug was no impediment to the purchase.
More muttering.
A look up into the “gubbins” of the lamp, as my dad would say. Isn’t saying “gubbins” fun?
When I lived in England decades ago, I once wired a plug on to my newly-purchased curling iron after arriving home and remembering (when I went to use said curling iron and had only some metal wire sticking out the end of the cord) that small appliances didn’t come with plugs. That way, they could sell them all over Europe and everyone could put their respective plug on or electrocute themselves trying because they couldn’t remember how to do it since it was O level Physics the last time they had tried and there was a really cute teenager distracting them from Ms. Russell’s fascinating lessons on plugs and besides that was so long ago because O level Physics hasn’t existed in a generation.
Anyway.
I haven’t wired a plug since then, but I will assume that Practical Man did it correctly.
Possibly, while muttering.
Even I have to admit, this is kind of an ugly duckling. But, it has a style about its ugly duckling-ness, don’t you think?
Especially once the wasp nest inside and 40 years of gummified dust was cleaned off.
It will work perfectly for a romantic evening under the stars (or Ugliest Lamp in the World) celebration as we hang out on our $1 for the pair, vintage, metal, scald-your-legs lawn chairs (totally impractical but I l-o-v-e them anyway).
Mutter, mutter.
Or, it will look fetching and appropriately “Lawnware for RV-ish” in our ugly duckling, vintage Boler trailer.
Ooooooh Aaaaaaah!
It’s like the Lite Brite of lamps!
Who wouldn’t like that?
Practical Man seems to be raising his hand.
And muttering.
Tra-la-la.
Copyright Christine Fader, 2015. Did you enjoy this post from A Vintage Life? Share on Facebook Tweet
We’re having enchiladas for supper tonight.
They use up our leftover tortillas, grilled chicken, tomato sauce, veggies and such, so they are fairly regular fare for us. While enchiladas are certainly not fancy, we do eat them in the dining room and pretend we’re grown-ups, tra-la-la.
Tonight though, is no regular supper.
For, if I squint a little, I can see that the glasses are crystal goblets, from the 1920s. Just the kind of heirlooms that are magically filled after each course. I can imagine that our enchiladas are sitting on delicate china and that I am wearing satin gloves that cover my aristocratic elbows. I blink and there is Carson, the butler, standing over by the drinks cabinet.
Practical Man converted an old radio into this bar cart, many years ago. I am pretty sure that the crystal goblets dance to Irving Berlin, when we’re not around.
Of course, Carson is glaring at our choice of food and lack of footmen. In fact, I can already hear his remonstration about how we are not “keeping up Standards” with those “foreign”, tex-mex morsels and laissez-faire attitude towards our cutlery.
Worry not, darling Carson:
At least I have my purse.
Here’s a first peek at its velvet lusciousness
If you have ever seen the television show, Downton Abbey, you’ll know that it is terribly important for a lady to dress for–and carry one’s purse–when she goes down for dinner. Never mind that the lady has heard the dressing gong ages ago and is still wearing yoga pants and a hoodie instead of Downton-dinner-appropriate jewels and tiara:
At least she has her purse.
I mean, I do.
And a very Downton-esque specimen it is.
It has this lovely, stowable long chain strap, in case we go dancing, after the enchiladas
Practical Man (who reminds me a little bit of Carson, sometimes, but more often of Bates) found it at a local thrift shop. Like Bates, Practical Man is full of honour and penitence (and the resignation and shoulders to be able to pull off the requisite suit of that era). Case in point, Practical Man not only spots treasures like this purse among the fray, but actually shows it to me, instead of burying it deeper on the thrift store shelf in the hopes that I will never find it.
He’s the Bates to my Anna, really.
Sniffle.
Anyway, this lovely, beaded bag was CDN$6.50 and looks as if it has never graced the dinner of an enchilada eater (no tomato sauce stains) or an aristocrat (no diamonds inside). I’m not sure if it’s truly vintage or merely a reproduction, but I love it all the same.
Sure, I’m still wearing yoga pants and a hoodie.
But, with this flapper-inspired beauty beside me, our enchiladas have never looked so good.
The Camptown Ladies sing this song,
doo da, doo da,
The Camptown racetrack’s five miles long,
Oh, de doo dah day.
– Stephen Foster (1826-1864)
I have been humming this very vintage song lately. Not because I’ve ever been to the camptown races (or even know what they are, if I’m honest).
I have a rather frilly and can-can-esque vision of the “camptown ladies” from the song in my head (probably wrong and sexist to boot but I’m a little afraid to google “camptown ladies”) and I had no idea that the song’s writer was walking around (and probably humming some annoying song from his village mistral), well before Canada’s confederation.
I can’t help but be impressed. 200 years is some serious longevity for a song that isn’t, y’know, required singing like the national anthem or 99 Bottles of Beer On the Wall.
I wonder if, in 200 years, people will be walking around humming one of Taylor Swift’s extremely catchy/annoying songs.
Ack! Just a second while I (groan) shake it off, shake it off.
Or as we’ll sing it in the year 2214: Shake It Off 99 Bottles of Beer On The Wall while We Stand on Guard For Thee.
Anyway, back to the camptown races because yep, that song is annoying me almost as much as Taylor’s is these days, and I believe it all started with the doo da-s.
Yep, it’s all their fault.
On account of the fact that I have recently become the proud owner of four of them.
Doo dahs, that is.
Two amber ones:
And two purple ones:
I can’t decide which colour is my favourite. The purple ones remind me of the beautiful glass we have found while beachcombing in St. Andrews, New Brunswick. Apparently the process used to make glass back in the day meant the clearness (insert technical glass-making term here) wasn’t stable and over time, glass would turn a lovely purple hue.
I love beautiful mistakes, don’t you?
So yes, the purple ones are wonderful. On the other hand, the amber doo da-s are like owning a piece of tree sap that has turned into something mystical and fairy-like and gorgeous. As a result, both pairs have been given pride of place in our living and dining area.
Note to self: get curtains befitting amber gorgeousness
I looked these flowery beauties up online and they were frequently described as “antique, Victorian depression glass”.
I’m not quite sure how something can be of the Victorian and depression eras simultaneously.
Sounds a bit like time travel to me.
But, despite their muddled pedigree and annoying accompanying campfire races ditty, I really do love the doo da-s. They used to sit on my friend, Mother Nature’s window sill, catching the light and sparkling it around on the beamed ceiling at her house. Before that, they were at Mother Nature’s oldest sister’s house, having been rescued from a yard sale, auction or some other upcycling venue.
One lovely day, Mother Nature asked me if I wanted the doo da-s for my very own.
She said she wanted to give them to me because I would “do something with the doo da-s”.
Do something with the doo da-s. Haha.
See how I almost wrote an annoying song there?
Anyhoo, we brought the doo da-s home and Practical Man got out the measuring tape so they would end up equal distances from the floor, once installed.
Boring measuring and blah blah blah but, with happy results.
Yep, this is more like it. Love the purple and red combination.
They make me smile (and hum an annoying little tune).
Yes ma’am, I think to myself, those are some mighty fine doo da-s.
Doo da, doo da!
Sorry.
Shake it off. Shake it off.
Copyright Christine Fader, 2014. Did you enjoy this post from A Vintage Life? Share on Facebook Tweet You might also like my book.
When I was 5 or 6, I decided to run away.
I can’t recall what unspeakable childhood injustice led to the moment when I flounced into my room and started packing my suitcase, but I do remember the dilemma:
how to fit everything in?
The little blue suitcase that I kept my doll’s clothes in wasn’t nearly big enough to hold the non-negotiable running away necessities such as:
- a flashlight to guard against bogey man,
- books and books and books to read while “on the road”,
- clean underpants (in case I was in an accident),
- penny bank (a plaster, brown-and-white pig approximately the size of my entire torso),
- and red-and-white checkered umbrella and raincoat ensemble (one can never be too stylish while running away),
let alone my TREASURES.
Red cowboy hat:
There’s me in my red cowboy hat (and rubber boots, of course).
Thumbelina doll:
Really quite small but somehow, trying to squish it in the suitcase, it seemed so very, very big.
Mickey mouse record player:
This played REAL records!
and my Elizabeth doll:
Elizabeth (and her companion, Audrey) were much-loved Christmas presents to my sister and me from Santa
I should have known right then and there, that I was never going to be a footloose and fancy-free kind of gal.
Too. Much. Stuff.
My new vintage suitcase evokes a 1974, running away kind of vibe too.
As in, Practical Man wants to run away when he sees the loud pattern.
I think he might have some kind of rare retinal disorder.
I love him anyway.
This suitcase is approximately the same size as my old running away version.
LOVE the vintage fabric!
The inside is pristine, as if someone 5 or 6 years old couldn’t quite fit all her treasures in there either. As a result, it probably rested, only occasionally disturbed by a fleeting fancy of running away, until it was returned to under the bed.
I think it wants to be my new briefcase. It is not only (obviously) fabulous looking but eminently useful with both interior and exterior pockets and a handy umbrella slot. I can’t wait to take it out into the world and around the university, full of fun stationery supplies, snacks, a sunhat, music, assorted Sharpie markers, and life’s essentials: books and books and more books.
Who wouldn’t want a briefcase like this?
Some things never change.
I had a run-in with The Nature today.
It tried to fool me with its sunshine and lovely temperatures.
And then, it attacked my ankles.
It’s my own fault, really, for not putting on the bug juice that Practical Man pointedly left out for me. Perhaps it was The Nature’s way of evening the score. After all, I was yanking and digging grass and weeds out of our flowerbed with some zeal. That’s probably tantamount to a leg wax for The Nature. And, it was much too warm today for me to sport my trademark out-in-The-Nature rubber boots. Mocked by many, my rubber boots have prevented plenty of unjustified assaults by The Nature and I L-O-V-E, LOVE them. But today, I recklessly left them inside and trotted out into the great vampire bug, all-you-can-eat-buffet, brazenly naked around the ankles.
I hate it when things are my own fault, don’t you?
The flowerbed and I have called a cease-fire so I have time to smear myself with liberal doses of anti-itch goo (which is apparently flammable, it says on the label!) everywhere I can find evidence of The Nature’s wrath. Note to self: Do not use anti-itch goo while camping and then try to warm ankles by the fire.
Flaming ankles would be much worse than itchy ankles, even I can admit. You may laugh but, I can’t be too careful. I come from a long line of accident-prone people (including one person who cut herself, to the point of bleeding, on an onion bun.)
Flaming ankles are totally in the realm of possibility.
On the plus side, before I foolishly headed out into The Nature, we spent the morning wandering yard sales in Westport, a quaint waterside village nearby. The whole town was having a festive time trading their own junk for their neighbour’s junk, because at a mere 10 or 25 cents for many items, “how could you lose?” You apparently couldn’t because it was a phrase I heard repeatedly, as we wandered.
I found this and immediately had a crush:
Everyone should have a pink punch bowl with nine matching cups, don’t you think?
And, at a mere $10, how could you lose?
Actually, $10 is less a crush and more a commitment for me. So I hemmed and hahhed for all of three seconds and then someone walked by and said to her friend, “how could you lose?” and I took it as a sign.
You can’t mess with that kind of magic.
I’m not into pedigree, especially when it comes to old stuff. I just like what I like. But, I am curious about this. It doesn’t have any maker markings that I can find. It seems to have a sort of strawberry pattern to it and it’s heavier than depression glass, although similar in hue. A search online yielded nothing that resembled it, so now I’m even more curious. I doubt it’s valuable, I just wonder what vintage it comes from.
Here is what it looks like up close:
The pattern is slightly raised and bumpy.
Not unlike my poor, poor ankles.
But, at least they’re not on fire yet.
Copyright Christine Fader, 2014. Did you enjoy this post from A Vintage Life? Share on Facebook Tweet You might also like my latest book.
Once upon a time, there was a very shiny, brown, plastic-y kitchen cupboard.
Naturally, I fell in love. Y’know, as you do when something is–ahem–shiny, brown and plastic-y. With fake gold handles.
Did I mention that it was also $15.00 (CDN)?
That’s practically free in many parts of the world (like England, where I paid an outrageous $38.00 for a one month supply of contact lens solution in 1996 but I forgave England because her chocolate bars were so cheap and Wispa love cannot be measured in mere dollars/pounds/euros because Wispa love is forever. Especially, when it’s a bargain.)
But I digress. I was in love with a brown, plastic-y thing. Said plastic being manufactured during the last decades under a variety of monikers, which shall remain nameless–except for Arborite. Did you know that quintuplets can basically ice skate down an Arborite table surface and it will lose none of its durability or give even a hint of the real wood underneath? That stuff is practically indestructible. And, oh-so shiny and plastic-y with its fake wood grain.
What’s not to love?
Oh sure, there are people who go for the obvious lookers of the furniture and decor world, all gleaming teeth and hair (or as they say in furniture and decor and seemingly every single show on HGTV: granite you-know-whats and stainless steel blah, blah, blahs.)
There’s no challenge, no thrill of the hunt, no wallflower’s revenge in that!
I tend to find the least desirable thing at the auction/flea market/thrift store/garage sale and suddenly, my heart is overwhelmed with desire for, um…shiny, brown, plastic-y-ness.
Who knew?
Practical Man, that’s who.
As soon as we entered the shop, he immediately started sidling, as if drawn by an invisible magnet or the force of my slight hyperventilation–towards the most downtrodden, bits-missing, unloved, dented, moth-eaten, fake wood grained, shiny, brown plastic-y, ugly ducklings of the lot. He knew that it was only a matter of seconds before I honed in and it has become a race between us–to see who can leap on the most pathetic specimen of all, first.
I won, this time. MWAH, HA, HA, HA.
This ugly duckling had pristine, original 1950s etched glass sliding doors and perhaps most important to a co-dependant, against-all-odds, happily-ever-after gal like me: POTENTIAL.
Tra-la-la!
Practical Man had that look on his face: the one that said “wee-hoo, that is one ugly specimen, as usual” and then he had the look on his face that said, “and where, exactly, is she going to put that thing?!” but then, magically, his face transformed into the face that said, “well, it does appear to have lots of practical hide-y holes for useful stuff like levels and flashlights and lock washers” and then, most compellingly, he got the look on his face that said,”at least the darn thing is cheap.”
Then, he went to work with his superlative haggling skills.
I love Practical Man.
Then, not unlike Cinderella, our shiny, brown, plastic-y cupboard got some:
- sanding (ugh) to scuff the shiny, brown plastic-y-ness,
- priming (double ugh) to make the shiny, brown plastic-y-ness more receptive to paint and
- painting (by which time Practical Man had swooped in to rescue me from the ughs) to hide and transform the shiny, brown, plastic-y-ness and
Voila! Presto-Bongo! Abra-Cadabra! Our ugly duckling was further bejeweled with my collection of vintage Pyrex and suddenly, it turned into a vintage swan.
Kind of a green swan and to my new friend, Disney Dancer, who I recently met in Colorado, I know that I’m mixing Disney/Hans Christian Andersen metaphors a little, but you get the idea.
Whatever the story, one thing is not in question: Practical Man is like a real, live, fairy godmother for my shiny, brown, plastic-y cabinet.
I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.
Copyright Christine Fader, 2014. Did you enjoy this post from A Vintage Life? Share on Facebook Tweet You might also like my latest book.
Hands up if you think office chairs don’t have a lot of vintage style.
At least, not the ones you can find in your average medium-sized town for a medium-sized price. But, I needed to find one because Practical Man has been fretting lately about my posterior.
I love a man who frets about my posterior and mine is apparently at risk.
I’m in posterior peril, if you will.
This is due to the fact that I am an old-school girl who types at lightning speed. I need to do it in a chair, at a desk. None of this lolly-gagging about on the floor with my keyboard in the air. No sireee. I am all about respect for the home row and that requires a chair.
This is the desk chair I have been using:
Not glamorous but I liked its vintage nod and white colour
You’d think we’d have lots of chairs to choose from since I have what some might call an addiction to chairs. They are one of the first things I gravitate to at an auction or flea market. I have a rocking chair with no seat or rockers. I have a tiny little child’s chair (even though we have no children). I once made a flying leap from the car as we passed a yogurt shop that had incredible vintage-looking outdoor chairs.
Now, I try to avert my eyes as soon as they land on a fetching seatable specimen. With their winning personalities and come-hither nature, you can see how an innocent person might end up with a herd of chairs.
Not me, of course. Mine is more of a flock.
But to get back on point, desk chairs aren’t really chairs. At least, not in a good way.
They usually contain way too much plastic (at least in the stores I can afford) and they look, to me, like giant orthotics sitting in a room. Thus, I have been waiting for a beautiful vintage specimen to reveal itself to me somewhere.
You get it, don’t you?
My desire for something affordable, with chrome-y legs and a 1950-1970s industrial vibe?
Something straight out of a Mary Tyler Moore episode that could turn my world on with its smile?
Where-oh-where are you, my gorgeous retro lovely?
Silence.
In the meantime (over the past several years), we have been using the aforementioned chair that I spied, abandoned and forlorn, at the side of the road on the way to work one morning.
Some people have rescue dogs and cats. I have rescue chairs.
Practical Man oiled its bits for me and I made it marginally more posterior-friendly by sewing up a quick cushion with a vintage pillowcase.
Slightly modified hard-as-a-rock chair
I can’t imagine why but, Practical Man is still not a fan.
Even I have to admit that after a few short minutes of writing, it is not a very comfy on the posterior, nor does it have anything resembling an ergonomically-supported back.
But, back-schmack. I didn’t care until recently, when I was dragged, kicking and screaming to the dark side.
I was encouraged to give desk chairs a chance.
Harumph. Not a vintage lovely among them. They were all new. As I trialed and tested, I asked the sales clerk why desk chairs were so universally ugly and never any fun colours or patterns. Was it so hard to design something reasonbly-priced, comfortable AND fun?
Eventually, I stopped punishing the people making minimum wage and lined up with the other people at the cash.
This is the seat for my new chair. Are you weeping?
Was it my imagination or did we all have a sort of resigned, sorrowful look about us at our failed quest for a delightful desk chair? I’m sure I’m not exaggerating to say that there was a general air of gloom as we all meandered to our cars with our ugly, ugly but very comfy chairs.
New back. Ergonomic and blah, blah. Weeping, weeping.
Not for the first time, Practical Man and I set about re-inventing something as soon as it came out of its over packaging.
We got some vintage fabric out of my stash.
Getting ready to alter a brand new item from the store
With only a staple gun, some scissors and a dream, we set about re-upholstering the seat with it.
By “we”, I actually mean, “Practical Man did it while I supervised”.
I make a great tool nurse.
It was stapled within an inch of its life
Then, we actually put the brand new and already much improved, chair together.
Assorted knobs and do-dahs to help with the ergonomic blah, blah, blah
It has more knobs and levers than the space shuttle. I bet there were no attractive desk chairs in space, either.
Here’s the so-far result:
I want to dislike it, but…my posterior is a traitor.
The chair is oh-so-comfy and ergonomic and blah, blah, blah.
I’d still like to make a slipcover for the back. But, I have a problem.
A looming sense of posterior peril, if you will, because:
- Sewing a slipcover will require some time at the sewing machine.
- The chair at my sewing table is a cute little something we found at the side of the road.
But, sewing while seated on a lovely-looking, albeit slightly uncomfortable vintage chair?
Priceless.
There are purple people chanting beneath my office windows.
It’s orientation week at the university where I work. They are VERY spirited about their orientation activities–so much so, that a contingent of the student population dyes themselves purple and puts some sort of glue in their hair and pastes it into amazing (and colourful) sculptures for the entire week of orientation. They also race around campus chanting stuff at each other–in gaelic, no less.
[Photo credit: Kingston This Week]
It’s a look.
It amuses me, because I think teenagers are great.
Possibly because I am so very, very grateful not to be one anymore.
I wasn’t involved in such radical orientation rituals as the purple people, but, growing up, I had a look on the first day of school too.
To begin with, I was usually sweating buckets as I headed off with my lunch bag to school because:
a) I really loved school (especially new textbooks and chalkboards)
b) I also really didn’t love school (new kids and gym class)
and
c) I had inevitably successfully begged to wear the new fall outfit my mother had bought for me.
For her, the approach of autumn seemed to be synonymous with corduroy so I usually had a very ’70s fetching corduroy ensemble calling my name on the day after Labour Day. However, my mother always spent the bulk of breakfast on the first day of school trying to talk me out of wearing my snazzy new clothes.
Y’know, because it was generally around 25 degrees Celcius/80 degrees Fahrenheit outside.
Oh sure, I had been wearing shorts and running through the sprinkler all Labour Day weekend but come 7:12 a.m. on the first day of school, it was head-to-toe corduroy for me.
And possibly a co-ordinating turtleneck.
I was determined. I mean, what’s the point of wearing a new outfit on the 37th day of school, when there’s actually a nip in the air appropriate to corduroy? October is far too late for the unveiling of new and year-defining togs. Everyone knows: the time for new outfits is on THE FIRST DAY of school.
So, off I went, every year. Sweating, sweating, sweating.
In grade seven, I added another layer of loveliness to my stunning back-to-school fashion regime.
I insisted on curling my own tresses with my mother’s curling iron.
That year, my back-to-school outfit was corduroy. braces, gigantic glasses, sweat and burnt hair.
It’s a look.
[I’d love to hear about yours.]
Copyright Christine Fader, 2013. Did you enjoy this post from A Vintage Life? Share on Facebook Tweet You might also like my latest book.
My husband, Practical Man, often has to pry a book out of my snoring, sleeping fingers. I know fingers don’t usually snore but, I’m sure mine do.
It can’t be my adorable nose making all that racket.
We made our headboard out of architectural tin and for the entire drive home, Practical Man kept mumbling, “I can’t believe I just paid money for a rusty old piece of metal”.
Ever since I learned to read, it’s been the same story. Me and a book, in a dimly-lit room, my nose literally squished against the pages as I strained and squinted to see the words from my secret spot beneath the covers. I probably would have needed glasses at some point, but I may have hastened the process just a tad with my voracious attachment to 1970’s six-year-old’s I-Can-Read literature, like Pickles the Fire Cat, The Adventures of Jimmy Skunk and The Strange Disappearance of Arthur Cluck.
Not much has changed. Right now, I’m reading Penelope Crumb (funny and touching children’s chapter book), and The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (a wonderful book for grown-ups and ’40s vintage fans).
Perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising that my left eyeball hurts today. What with the habitual reading before sleep ‘n all.
It’s been hurting on and off (mostly on) when I move it around recklessly–as in reading, driving or checking out Practical Man’s form on a tractor–since February. Doctors are mystified but I don’t appear to be going blind, growing a brain tumour or developing Multiple Sclerosis.
In other words, it’s all good.
It just hurts. But I can still see, for which I am grateful, since I have needed glasses (badly) since the age of seven.
And Practical Man looks darn good on that orange Kubota. It might hurt my left eye to look, but I’d hate to miss that. So I’m grateful for the vision provided to me by glasses and contacts.
But, like many, I’ve had a love-hate relationship with them. After all, it was said that Boys Don’t Make Passes At Girls Who Wear Glasses.
My parents bought me this Norman Rockwell print when I was a child. Apparently boys weren’t making passes at her either.
At first, my affair with glasses was all good. In fact, it started out rather glamorously.
Behold my Great Grandma Hildegard’s snazzy, sparkly horn-rimmed glasses when she held me as a baby in 1969. They match her equally snazzy, sparkly earrings and brooch, of course. Don’t you just love how eyewear gives an instant snapshot of an era?
My great grandma Hildegard is a much-loved family legend…and very fashionable with her glasses.
But after that, things–spectacle-wise–started taking a definite turn for the worse.
My parents bought me fancy (and no doubt, expensive) glasses that darkened automatically in the sun but this was the mid-70s, so they didn’t lighten back up very well. As a result, I had a vaguely Annie Sullivan look about me…even though with that haircut it was hard to look like anyone but a young Shaun Cassidy.
Yikes.
And then there was puberty (bad perm and worse glasses). Still look like Shaun Cassidy. Remember the phase where the arms of the glasses started at the bottom of the lenses and then swooped up over your ears? Apparently, I thought that was a good look (stop laughing).
Um…yeah
In high school, I didn’t love the “four eyes” teasing or the fogging up the instant I set my foot on the first step of the bus to school when I was busy trying to plan how to nonchalantly plop myself down next to Graham Gorgeous, the hunky guy who had just moved back from New Zealand.
But, it was all good.
I had worked out that if I entered the bus backwards, my glasses didn’t fog up. It’s very challenging to bat your eyelashes at Graham Gorgeous when steam has obscured his view of your beautiful baby blues.
Yep, it’s a real mystery why I didn’t end up as Mrs. Graham Gorgeous.
So, I should have known better by the time high school graduation rolled around. Apparently blue eye shadow was my thing. Not that you would notice on account of the gigantic, red glasses and ’80s bangs.
What can I say? I was a late, LATE bloomer.
Despite that, all these years later, I am thankful for glasses ‘cos I can’t find a thing without them.
For example, I can’t find my glasses without my glasses.
How cruel is that?
I haven’t found snazzy, sparkly vintage glasses like Great Grandma Hildegard’s, but I’ve started wearing this modern-day, reasonable facsimile:
My vintage-inspired sunglasses (maybe I can bedazzle them so they’re more like G.G. Hildegaards). And, I match the grass.
And, every night, when Practical Man pries the book out of my snoring, sleeping fingers, I’m sure I am smiling because I finally know the truth:
Boys DO Make Passes at Girls Who Wear Glasses.
It’s all good.
Copyright Christine Fader, 2013. Did you enjoy this post from A Vintage Life? Share on Facebook Tweet You might also like my latest book.
If you’ve ever found yourself struggling to fit a giant vat of olives into your fridge or an 84-roll mega pack of toilet paper under your bathroom sink while wondering why on earth they had seemed like such a bargain at the membership-only warehouse store:
You might understand our house.
Photo: our house (the weeding fairies have obviously been there, whew!)
Oh sure, there was no photo ID required or free samples like at the membership-only warehouse. But, as we strolled around looking at the house and property the first time, we could see that it had good bones and underneath all the neglect and grime, it had potential. In short: it was a deal.
My husband, Practical Man, loves a deal. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s why he married me.
Almost positive.
Or, maybe it was for my membership-only warehouse card.
Anyway, the property was great but the house was a mess and it was much bigger than we needed. 3+2 bedrooms. In Canadian real estate vernacular that means 3 bedrooms on the main or upper floor of the house and two in the basement (often desirable in case you have teenagers or trolls you would rather keep partly underground.)
Just a reminder: there are two of us.
No growing, space-hogging children.
No gigantic, space-hogging pets.
Just space-hogging vintage vehicles (my idea) and assorted practical things (definitely not my idea) that need yard space. But, we really just wanted a small-ish house. Yet somehow, we ended up with five bedrooms (albeit two for trolls).
I know, I know.
But, try to remember: it’s like the 84-roll mega pack of toilet paper. It was a deal.
So, the upshot of all this is to confess that I commandeered a room (or two), one of which we call, “the dressing room”, because naturally, every room needs a name since we have so many darn rooms to keep track of. I think “dressing room” sounds very shi-shi or possibly Mariah Carey-ish or Jennifer Hudson-ish but my room is less personal shopping mall and more grown-woman-reverting-to-some-girly-persona-she-had-never-actually-had-as-a-child.
Beautiful Cecily Barker lithograph from her flower fairy series (gift from my sister)
This room is entirely comprised of objects found, purchased at auction or in a thrift store except for a few items given to me as gifts by thoughtful people who played right into my designer-ific master vision. The 10×11 feet of space seemed to give me just enough room for all my girly infatuations to come bubbling up from I don’t know where.
Actually, I know from where.
I blame it on the 1980’s movie, Top Gun.
Dressing table with original, squinty/streaky glass
Kelly McGillis’s character had a gorgeous Porsche Speedster (drool!) and lived in a cute ocean-view cottage that was decorated in a sort of beach-cottage/shabby-chic look that I remember noticing. And, since the sweet little cottage from Top Gun inspired the room, I’ve decided that it shouldn’t be called the “dressing room” anymore. (even though that does appeal as it makes me sound a bit like an upstairs character in Downton Abbey.)
Instead, we’ll call it the Top Gun Room.
Folded quilt made for me as a child by my great-grandmother; quilt on couch back made by someone else’s grandmother (purchased from thrift store)
As you can see, it’s mostly pink. I’m sure that’s the first thing you thought of when you conjured up your image of a place called the Top Gun Room, right?
And yes, I’m aware that it’s completely self-indulgent.
Also, I’m not even sure I like pink, yet, I have a pink room and I also wrote a very, very pink book. I feel like it’s becoming a theme, but it’s not my fault.
Vintage barkcloth curtains (Value Village)
I had planned just a few touches, but you see, the giant can of pink paint costs barely more than the teensy can of pink paint. So, Practical Man was quite right to suggest that it made no sense to buy the amount I actually needed when it actually cost so much more per brush stroke. Except, I really only needed about 400 brush strokes and now I have around 50,000 brush strokes of “bridal rose” still available. That’s a lot of pink paint to go around. As a result, it sometimes tries to splash into other places outside the dressing room.
Y’know, just the odd chair, bookshelf, or picture frame.
Photo: waterfall dresser, vintage barkcloth curtains, armoire, watercolours of our garden roses painted by my mom
When this happens, Practical man mutters pointedly, “the pink is travelling” which I think is code for, “Good grief, isn’t that paint can empty yet?”
If you’ve ever bought the giant vat of olives, I know you understand.
Copyright Christine Fader, 2013. Did you enjoy this post from A Vintage Life? Share on Facebook Tweet You might also like my latest book.
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