I have been tired - for days, possibly weeks. Probably because at 49 years old, I am currently raising my one-year-old grandson, with the help of my husband. Admittedly, I wouldn't miss a second of this time because it truly is magical in every sense of the word. The wonder and excitement that this little child expresses over the tiniest of things reminds me that the small stuff in life is truly worth getting excited over. Which brings me to my day on Saturday. If you have read the two blogs beneath this one, you know that a major tragedy happened recently in the life of some very dear friends. I was in NY for several days because of this but by Saturday, I was alone and left to my own devices because Liam had stayed behind in Michigan with his Poppy. This is not to minimize in any way why I was in NY; rather, I often try to provide myself with diversions to keep from losing my mind on occasion. And, as I stated previously, my grandson helps me to find small things exciting.
As I rummaged around in our home in NY, alone and bored, I found a diffuser for the old hair blower I keep in the cupboard in the bathroom. Curious, because for some reason, I have never tried this type of attachment, I took my shower, threw some hair stuff in my hair, and blew my hair dry with the diffuser attached. I turned the dryer off and stood there, blinking at myself, wondering if my hair was the brunette's version of a Dollie Parton wig. "I cannot go out of the house looking like this," I choked, having planned a drive to a nearby village for some antiquing. So I pulled out my curling iron to try to tone it down. But instead, I ended up looking like Mary 
Tyler Moore from The Dick Van Dyke Show. Finally, I decided to lay on the bed, five minutes on each side. It helped somewhat, but I decided to never ever use a diffuser again. I will say that it made my hair less frizzy and left it quite shiny and smooth - only very BIG. In fact, I think I got a call from 1976 asking for their hair back but there was quite a bit of static (time travel will do that to you), and so it clearly could have been 1986. Regardless, I replied, "For God's sake, you can have it already!"
After that debacle, and right after I took the photo above, I glanced off the porch that I was sitting on and noticed the bird feeder hanging from the pole barn. I mused to myself that that bird seed had been in there for months and those birds must not have liked it or else it had rotted in there. I decided to investigate. 
Before I go any further, let me emphasize that I have a major fear of heights that I have been trying to slowly get over. Baby steps is what I've been told. I have, therefore, and on occasion, gotten up on a ladder. Feeling bold, because hey, Dollie Parton would be bold about it and I was sporting some big hair, I opened the big barn door and dragged out the big ladder. Taking a breath, I climbed to the very top and went to unhook the feeder. Just as I grabbed hold of that feeder, for some reason, I thought it'd be ok to glance down. Bad bad idea for someone afraid of heights. Instead I gasped, jerked in fright, and grabbed onto the gutter with my free hand, finding myself dangling there for about 3 seconds as I scrambled to get my feet back onto the ladder. 3 seconds might as well have been 3 hours. I saw many things flash in front of me and I have never even done recreational drugs. These were definitely unanticipated flashbacks - the kind that makes you wonder if you've been slightly brain damaged after the experience. No longer giving one iota of a crap about whether the seed was rotted or those little darling birdies were just being picky, I carefully climbed down from the ladder, staggered back to the porch and sat there for about 10 minutes which felt like 10 nanoseconds, trying to recover.
Afterward, I put the ladder away, went inside, changed my clothes and headed into East Bloomfield to do some antiquing where I purchased this lovely Gone with the Wind Lamp. These things cost a small fortune but for some reason, the vendor in this particular store was selling it on sale. I can find nothing wrong with it. Usually, they run somewhere around $400 for an antique of this caliber. I got this little gem for $111. It lights up on the top and on the bottom and I haven't told my husband about it. Mostly because he doesn't like me spending money of any shape, size, or currency - American, foreign or otherwise. And also because he would prefer to have posters of the Periodic Table or the Krebs Cycle on our walls with a Pink Floyd photograph here and there. 
Little does he know that his wife is a decorator to be reckoned with and this is why he finds our home in NY so cozy and welcoming. One day he will appreciate the care I put into decorating but for now, when we go there together next (or he goes there alone and calls me immediately upon his late arrival asking what is on his nightstand...), I will not say a word. Not one freaking word about it. And when he does ask about it, I'll say, like I often do, "Oh, we've had that for eons. I just dusted it off and found a place for it." Or I could also say to him, "This is your fault. This is what happens when you leave me alone. I get big hair, I hang from pole barns and I buy lamps, ok?"
Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma