Ironing a Record

I have this really faded memory. The kind that may have been a dream, may have actually happened, may have been seen on TV. It is of a record that was left in the sun in the back window of a car. And the thing got so hot that it melted into a wavy bubbly oval, like a tortilla cooking. When my Grandma Virginia wanted to do the impossible she would call it "ironing a record". Being a visual person, I always loved the mental picture of my Grandma in an apron with an ironing board and an old warped 45.

When I was living in the Avenues in Salt Lake one Sunday these women came in from another ward and did a little skit in Relief Society. One of them had THE highest stilettos I have ever seen at church. At some point the woman leaned over the table to pretend to answer the phone and her high heel caught in the crocheted table covering. I was frozen. She was inches away. Do I stand up and stop her and unloosen her heel and make them start the skit over? Does she know she's caught? And around the time I am processing, sure enough, her heel slices right through and tears a hole in it a foot long and wide. It is a handmade work of art. I am now sick to my stomach. She makes a surprised and horrified face before she sits down for the rest of the meeting. I can't think of anything else but this tablecloth.

At the end of the meeting I stay in my place waiting for all of the female traffic to sort of thin out. A woman comes over to the table to clear it off. She reverently picks up the tablecloth and folds it up, then turns right to me and says, "I don't even know how to fix this. Do you know someone that can fix this?" And I say, "I can," and hold out my arms. She sort of jumps back and then hands it to me. I am not sure why I said it, it was only a hunch I could do it, but I felt I could. So I take it home and get out a needle and thread. I pick up the torn strands, figure out where they connect in the pattern and then sew them up. When I was done, I could still tell where it had been torn. I was kind of sad so I put it down and walked away from it. (Something Grandma taught me...) The next day when I looked at it again I didn't know where the tear was anymore, I couldn't find it. I was marveled. What really are the odds the woman would turn and ask that question right to the person who could fix it? 1/60? What are the odds I would be sitting right there in that seat? 1/2,000? What are the odds I would even be in Salt Lake, or in that ward, on that day? 1/18,000,000,000,000?? God...is great.

When people ask me what I do, I really have no answer. It depends on the shoot. 'Technically" I do make-up and props and wardrobe for commercials so my title usually reads, "Art Director" on the crew sheet. But really each shoot is a unique set of problems that I get to try and solve. Like a puzzle. Or a riddle. I used to work retail and the necklaces used to turn into a rat king in shipping sometimes and I was the only volunteer to untangle the messes. I loved it. Today it dawned on me, I am a record ironer. I had two illegitimate kids and was a dead broke single mom who was working three jobs and trying to go to school, now I am a happily employed happily married mother of two beautiful kids sealed to their Dad in the temple. I used to be a half a pack a day smoker with a loose grasp on the definition of integrity and now I'm a Relief Society Secretary. (For 1.75 GPA me, that is a big deal.) I used to live in homes of strangers and at the mercy of friends and move from place to place at least twice a year and now I am a homeowner thanks to the spirit that helped me find a silly house for a song in my great old neighborhood. And all of these things about me that I am making sound so awesome do not belong to me. Be clear about this, if I am awesome at any of these things, if I have a moment where I am an awesome Mom or a great cook or a compassionate listener, it is because of my Grandmother. Her genes and her influence and her testimony and her prayers. It's not mine to brag over, any of it. My good qualities, my happy life, my love of God, all belong to her. I love her. I cherish her. I will miss her.

This is the Right Place. To Freak Out.

I had the privilege and honor of being asked to shoot with Tyler Gourley for Deseret Book. I think Tyler is one of the most talented photographers in Utah and I have not worked for Deseret Book since the Jericho Road days. So I was totally excited when I was asked to come help shoot for their catalog at This is the Place State Park. Until I heard the ghost stories. Then I wanted to leave.

I have never in my life been up to This is the Place State Park. If you also have not, I suggest you go up there and take the kids. You can tell it's for kids by the font. It looks the same as the font used by The Children's Place clothing store. I hardly think that's a coincidence. I thought TITPSP was going to be a big statue of some Mormon dudes and their oxen sprinkled with seagull poop parked somewhere off the freeway. I had no idea there was a whole actual town, called Heritage Village. (It's right next to the big statue of some Mormon dudes and their oxen sprinkled with bird poop.)

In Heritage Village there are these beautiful historical buildings from all over the state that have been picked up and carefully tiptoed to this new resting place. They have furniture from their famous deceased homeowners and/or their time periods and the rooms are all made up as if they are being lived in currently. They are all very historically accurate and super fascinating. Especially for people who love aesthetics. So all of us could not help but to look around at things in between getting our shots. In the Heber C Kimball house there were some cool instruments, a funky chair made out of horns and a haunted doll. Yep. A rag doll that allegedly moves around on it's own whilst you navigate about the house. According to Diamond Jim, who is an expert on the place and a tour guide, the doll will be laying on the bed until you go downstairs, where you may then see it at the piano. Or sitting at the kitchen table. Or by the china cabinet. But this is not the only reported haunting. One time a little girl told her Dad she wouldn't go up the stairs with him. She was at the bottom of the staircase. He turned at the second to top stair and asked her what her problem was. She pointed to his pant leg and said something about not wanting to go near the child by his side. He then felt a distinct tugging on his pant leg and watched his jeans actually move, even though he could not see anything there.

I thought that was a quaint story and imagined the kind of attention starved people that must have made something like that up. Then we wrapped out our day and went home. The next day we were to be shooting in the park again. I woke up super early and got ready. I was drinking my hot cocoa in the Jeep when I turned the radio to 101.9 The End. They were doing their annual ghost hunters radio show where they bring people in from the Ghost Investigators Society or Ghost Hunters Club or whatever it's called. They do this for a few hours during October so they can tell stories about their ghostie adventures. They begin the show by playing a bunch of EVPs. These are taped recordings of ghost voices that can not be heard with the "naked ear". I never think they are accurate. Like if they say to the audience, "In this EVP you will hear a little child say, "Don't leave me!"" I always think its sounds like an old woman saying, "Cleveland." This year it is no different. Then they begin to talk about This is the Place State Park. And they all agree it's one of the most haunted places in Utah. So I turn it up, because I am on I-15 headed North. And Jimmy Chunga, AKA Brett Smith, tells a story about Cort getting hit with a ball of light and feeling really dark and gross, in the same exact spot a guy in years past had his wrist broken. Then a woman calls in and says she believes the park is haunted because her child saw another child that wasn't there and it happened by the white schoolhouse. And the hairs on my neck stand up. I pull into the entrance of the park. I see Tyler and his assistant Cody driving towards me. They tell me that they will stop by the building we are going to shoot at, so I should just follow them. I roll up my window and we start up a dirt road. Chunga is now talking about a night of ghost hunting at the State Park in the Andrus Halfway House. He was with a woman that is supposed to be a certified psychic. The two of them went into one of the upstairs bedrooms, he even got specific as to which one but I don't recall it now, and they suddenly felt cold and odd. He said the temperature in the room dropped like 40 degrees in fifteen seconds. Chunga then turned to see a little boy in tweed knee pants run past him and go straight into the wall. The psychic just dropped to her knees and began to cry. I assume she also wet herself and released her bowels. I would have.

I am now driving through the park with my mouth open holding my cup of cocoa. We stop. I look to my right and there is the white schoolhouse. To my left? The Andrus Halfway House. I park and knock on Tyler's car window. I tell them to turn on 101.9. They catch the last of the story so I fill them in on the first part. We listen to them talk some more about other spooky experiences people have had there and we turn off our cars. I tell the guys that the building Chunga was talking about is *right there*. We all go up to the fence. It's not helping that it is all decorated for Halloween. They have a big HUGE haunted affair there, you can go around and look in the houses and the little orchards are full of fake bodies and stuff. It's cool. And they had begun the decorating THAT DAY. So we go look in the windows of the Andrus house and it's about one third of the way finished being decorated. Just as I glide along the porch casually looking in the windows, Cody steps away from one and reveals a dummy pressed up against the glass. I jump and squeal. A carnal sin. You never let other crew see your petticoat. It's like film rule 101. The rest of the day the guys keep setting me up and scaring me. We move from building to building taking care of our set ups and our shots. We'd turn the corner and see a pioneer walking towards us with a musket or a woman in a long skirt and aprons and I'd wonder what it would be like if I knew they weren't real.

It became a little old, the haunted thing, by mid afternoon. We left the main part of the park for Brigham Young's farmhouse. It's pink. It's a big pink gingerbread house. Which I venture to guess is why he never actually lived there. It was used instead for events and visiting dignitaries. We entered the thing and were greeted by a large sweet man. He told us about the house, it's purposes and it's ghost. One of the wives, Ann Eliza, loved the house. She was the only wife of Brigham's to divorce him. (I guess if you play the odds, even a prophet, and even back in those days, you're bound to lose one...) Anyway Ann Eliza did not like people in her house. He said that during a previous Halloween he was setting up a CD player for sound effects as part of the spook display. He left the room and came back to hear it playing. He turned the thing off and left again to carry in more things for the display. He entered, only to hear it playing again. This time he unplugged it. And it still turned back on. People use the building for receptions and parties and a lot of people claim to have seen a woman at the sink looking out the window or hear footsteps on the floor above. The footsteps thing may not be so impressive. I could hear what the people upstairs were wearing the floor was so touchy, but the woman at the window thing? Yeah. So again, we begin to set up our shots. I go out to my car and get my tool boxes but before I cross the threshold back into the house I spiritually ask Ann Eliza if it's OK if I come back in. I make it clear I want her permission, out of respect. And then I assume she says yes because I come inside. I clean her windows. I pick up all of the trash I drop. I make sure I don't leave behind any dirt from my shoes. I put everything back where it belongs and even fix and fluff the pillows on the couches in a drawing room we never went into. Because what could be scarier than an angry German ex-wife ghost? I plan on being one myself one day. Cody double dog dares me to go down a pitch black stairway that leads to a locked door to the basement. I feel like I have to make up for the womanish squeal on the porch of the Halfway house, so I do it. I am surprisingly not scared. I tell myself it's because I have been respectful of Ann Eliza and she likes me. When we write up phony names for a prop FHE chalkboard. I thoughtfully assign Ann Eliza a task. I think she was in charge of the opening prayer. We wrap up our day by watching the sun come down over the various workers prepping the park and even shoot one cool shed full of bloody broken dolls hanging from their necks. We stand in the gravel parking lot and talk about everything but spooky stuff. By now we are not into it anymore. We are sick of the topic. We stand in the parking lot and chat about people we know and how great a time we had and how we hope to be able to shoot for Deseret Book again because they are just really cool down to earth people to work for and then we say our goodbyes.

I stop for gas at the Chevron off 7th East. There is a super scruffy older guy in his car about to leave, but then sees me walking into the station and stops. He turns off his car, gets out of the vehicle, and stands on the sidewalk, staring. I put my hand behind me and make an unfriendly gesture then place it on my butt. If he looks there, he deserves to see it. I go in and get a drink and pay for my gas. I walk past the guy that now stands in my way. I get past him. He then turns 180 degrees to watch me walk back to my car. I grab my keys in my hand like a weapon. Just in case. I pump my gas while this Bozo stands there and stares at me without any hint of subtlety at all. I imagine that in this guy's POV I am like a Tweety bird that turns into a roast bird on a plate. I finish pumping, sprint into my car and lock the doors. I pull through the lot and see that the guy gets back into his car and finally pulls out going in my opposite direction. That was easily the scariest thing to happen to me the whole day. I believe certain people do see ghosts. I am sure they have a gift or a talent for it. I do not. I don't think I see ghosts because I tend to believe they are nothing special, really. They are just normal people like me, that just happen to be dead on the outside. I'm afraid not afraid of them. I am afraid of people that are dead on the inside.

There's No Place Like 710 E 3950 N

So I finally did it. I applied to Oprah. Most of you know the story of our house. For those of you that don't, I will try and sum up...

We were renting a duplex house in the Avenues in Salt Lake. One day our little Bella, who was 2, found a crack pipe at Wendy's. This (and a few other things) told us it was time to move. But with the market at it's peak we couldn't even afford a cardboard box behind a warehouse next to the freeway in SLC. So we looked south. For three weeks we looked. And by we, I mean me. After finding no-thing, Brett hired a realtor. The very next day he called me and said he had a house that was in the exact neighborhood that we said was our ideal and was STILL in our price range. We were floored. Then we learned why. The house had been a rental for 20 years. The Elders quorum had put a roof on it. Twice. The gutters were clinging onto the house for dear life. There were plastic Easter baskets full of DIRT outside. Not potting soil...dirt.

We scheduled a walk through. The renters were hoarders. We couldn't get a complete inspection because of all the stuff. We were told not to worry about a mold inspection because in Utah it was an unnecessary expense. We were told more inaccurate things. We prayed a lot. We argued with our realtor and asked a lot of questions. We eventually bought the house.

The occupants had a month's heads up regarding the date we were to move in. They started moving ten days before they had to be out. Neighbors from all over came together to help them move, but the family turned people away. They didn't like the way they were handling their possessions. Their little girl cried when someone threw away a used band-aid. (True story.) They called us and asked us if it was OK to keep some things in the garage until they could sort through it. We said sure. We showed up to take ownership and there was just stuff everywhere. The lawn was totally covered, the back yard, the deck, the garage, the shed. We have the video tape. They would come and make trips occasionally but it wouldn't even put a dent in what was out there. They even left their dog in the backyard for three days.

After they moved out I re-finished the wood floors upstairs while the roofers put on a new bituminous membrane eco-roof. (What I like to call "our white fondant" roof.) I pushed a drum sander and used my knees to fight with the orbital edge sander until about 2am, slept in my clothes on the floor in the kitchen then woke up before the roofers arrived. I sanded some more, took back the equipment, drove to Salt Lake and loaded up our moving van. I thought it was the hardest thing I would ever have to do. Me and my silly pants.

I found mold. I had suspected something was up. When we tore out the carpet the smell was abominable. The carpet strips were black and just crumbled to dust when I tried to pry them out. I put mold in the back of my head and kept plugging away, in denial. And then the fateful day came when I pulled off the baseboards. I could see the bottom edge of drywall and it was black. I poked at it with a crowbar and it hissed at me. I backed away, and went upstairs and made dinner. I said nothing to Brett. I went back down there not long after (maybe a few days?) and decided I could handle the truth. I pulled a corner of the paneling off completely and saw the mold going up about two feet on the drywall. I tore off all the trim, all of the baseboards and all of the paneling in that first room. The mold was on three of the four walls. It was heaviest where the water valve is. Didn't take a scientist to see it must have burst at one time and the damage was not taken care of properly. I tore EVERYTHING out of another three rooms. I found it on all the walls. Especially in the bathroom, where it rotted clean through the drywall. The vanity was so rotted it was being held together by luck and sunshine. I pulled the marble off the back splash like a static cling sock. When it came to scraping the asbestos off the ceiling I didn't even have to wet it down. It came off because I asked it to nicely. We sealed off the rooms with duct tape and plastic and only spoke of it in hushed tones. We dealt with it slowly over time.

Everything about this house has been bigger, uglier, worser and more expensive than we ever imagined. It's been two years of Googling "replacing rotted sub-flooring" and learning how to lay hardy-backer on YouTube and re-wiring upside down plugs and learning to read the mold classification tests and parts per million in oxygen ratios and researching how asbestos was used in construction from library books and trying to paint over tar adhesive on concrete because everyone seems to know it won't come off with any solvent known to man.

And I would never leave it. We love this neighborhood. I can see how this house is perfect for us. In all of the ways that really matter, it's perfect. The neighborhood kids all come down to our TV room to play because they know there is nothing precious there. They kick around and play swords. The kids love the backyard because it's like a big weedy wilderness. We are not so close to Timp Drive that I am nervous and our next door neighbor is a Single Mom. I was a single Mom. I know what that means. There are like 15 boys, 14 dogs and 13 girls on our street. When we left Salt Lake there were six kids in the Primary and three didn't come to church. We promised the kids there would be so many kids where we were going that they could open the doors of the house and kids would fall in. We said they could dock a jet ski in all of the children where we were going. I know we were guided to this house. I know God is good all of the time and this is too big for me. I know that he knows that some how it will come together and one day we will live in all of it, not just part of it. I know that it's really a miracle we even have a house at all considering where, and whom, Brett and I come from. Even a house held together by cobwebs and innuendo. So don't even worry. Oprah is gonna be all over this. And if we don't hear back, I'm totally applying to Deal or no Deal.

Torn out drywall.

There is not enough CLR in the world for what is growing down there in the corner of the picture.

This is new. Plumber did this to fix the three year old leak in the shower. See first pic.

That last step is a doosey.

Where Nigel Pugmann fell through the stairs. After being hit by a car he needs special assistance minding the gap.



Hey, we got this far! Don't kid yourself, that drywall is just resting there. Heaven forbid there be a strong wind. Note: Love the brick wallpaper in the closet? Love the torn out drywall, too?


Thumbs up.

Nigel and Me.

Covered in dog hair and blood, I had a moment. And while I was having it I was very conscious of the fact that it was not special. Everyone feels this way about their dogs. They drive you nuts until something happens to them.

A bunch of boys were over here playing on the Wii. Bella and I were finding back-to-school clothes on the computer. Aidan asked suddenly, "Who's bleeding?" We looked at the floor and there was blood all over, like someone had a bloody nose and walked it around the room. We followed the trail, all five of us, and it led to Nigel Pugmann sitting under a chair with his foot limply dangling there, bleeding and swollen. Aidan got a towel, I grabbed the dog and called Brett and we all went straight to the Vet. Who was closed. So we went to another Vet, who wouldn't take him. But if they weren't helpful at least they took forever. Brett got the most absurdly detailed directions from a woman at the front desk who's assistant just handed us a freaking card with a map on it for the Pet ER on 8th N. Meanwhile I am trying to hold him down and there is blood just everywhere. We finally arrived and a nice woman who smelled like so many Camel Lights helped us. She said he most likely was hit by a car. His foot was smooshed. He lost a foot pad, two toe nails, broke a toe, chipped the bone at the "knee" and dislocated a ligament, which is why his foot went all loosey goosey. He got weighed and we tried to take his (ahem) rectal temperature to no avail. So he got sedated, x-rayed, some cleaning solution for his ears and a little blue cast. He got a bunch of pills he won't take and then sent home.

I was holding our little broken guy in a towel on the way to the hospital when I realized he might actually have internal damage for all I knew and that he could maybe actually bite the black banana. I told him he was a good dog and we loved him and I found that I kind of meant it. Most days we, and by "we" I mean "I", hate this dog. He chews his feet loudly, he licks the wood floors obsessively, he is always underfoot. He sheds, he stinks, he barks at the birds and sneezes in our faces. And we wouldn't be the same family without him. Like Aidan said, "Who else would we all hate for being so dumb?"

We love you, Nigel. Thanks for not being as stupid as we think you are. You were at least smart enough to move a crucial 6 inches in one direction to save your own fat butt.

The *State* of Utah.

So I read a post from some lady. I will not be more specific. Someone that I follow on Twitter posted a link to it, so I clicked on it and read some. I felt like a few things about it were just...off. She was trying to defend the Church's treatment of women. Which is a good thing, I guess. But am I crazy in writing a post saying that we shouldn't post about this stuff? Yeeep.

She read an article against the Mormon Church's treatment of women. Not sure why. If you find it offensive, quit reading it. Like I did with her post. (I am told that later on she makes herself clear, but I chose to stop reading. Because I thought she made herself pretty clear in the beginning and middle.) She writes about how women are not in fact ever told by the Mormon Church to be subservient, like this article suggests, and then to prove her point she goes on to quote what our covenant actually IS in the temple. Now, I'm new around here, but I'm pretty sure they make it nutty clear that's not super cool. Also, she says that the wording in the covenant is purely ceremonial, really. And anyway she doesn't know any families really like that and what she believes is that women are really in charge. Like, *wink*.

She also then goes on to say that she can't speak for Utah women because she doesn't know what it's like in Utah homes. But she is pretty sure that, and I quote, "When President Gordon B. Hinckley speaks out in General Conference about Mormons not being arrogant about all they believe and have, I believe he's talking to Utah. (Because when you are a minority as a Mormon, you can't afford to be arrogant about it.)"

Aaaand that's where I quit reading. Because...what the crap?

Once when I went to a Fast and Testimony meeting in Colorado I couldn't believe what I heard. A man stood up and said some very ignorant and rude comments about Utah Mormons. It was the first time I had even heard of the concept of a "Utah" Mormon. I totally thought we were all in this together. But the loving and smart member I was with just went over and told him he appreciated his comments and talked to him until the guy asked where my friend was from, and he said proudly, Utah.

So very quickly, because the only way to handle a hot potato is to drop it, I will make my point. To swiftly and effectively defeat an opponent, divide and conquer.

Article of Faith # 13 We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men; indeed, we may say that we follow the admonition of Paul—We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things. If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.

And so, trying my hardest to follow this even though it's frikkin hard at this very moment, I'll just say, Amen.

How to lose five pounds in one week.

Pretend like you say, "Hey, Amelia what have you been up to?"
And I answer, "Painting 400 sq feet of floor, that was covered in tar adhesive, until one in the morning for three days straight."
And you're like, "No way!"
And I go, "Yeah, I did. My 5 year old took pics. Wanna see 'em?"
And you go, "Sure!"




"Gee!" You say. "That looks hard."
I'm all modest so I go, "Naw, not really."
"How did it turn out?"
"Oh, Like this..."

And I'm like, "But don't even worry, we coated it with 2 coats of garage sealant to make it nice and tough. So it lasted all of thirty seconds until we moved the furniture in and ripped the paint off the floor in about ten places."
And like, you don't know what to say about that.
And then I start to cry and stuff.
And then you feel uncomfortable, and I feel bad I made you feel uncomfortable, so then I tell you all about our trip to Lagoon instead.



And then I tell you how I call this my Swim Gown, because it is one. And how I was easily the flattest woman under 39 there. (You laugh. But I can tell it's tinged with pity.)


And here is where you tell me how it looks like my kid is frisking his business through his pockets and I get all embarrassed because he totally is.

And then I tell you how my favorite part of the day was that my kids LOVED pioneer village and could have spent 3 hours there. And you get all jealous cause your kids would rather ride rides and eat cotton candy until they puke off the Jet Star 2.
And I'm like, "Wow...weird."
And then I wind it all up with my saying it was fun to see Jared and have him over and the in-laws are all so fun and we had a really, really good time bonding. So we say goodbye feeling good at the end of our chat. And I don't realize until after you leave I forgot to mention I lost 5 pounds with all of this activity going on. But then I realize that it's probably for the best that I didn't bring it up, 'cause that's super braggy to say and stuff.

Up and Running, Blackhoneyvintage.com

Chelsey and I are happy to finally announce we have Blackhoneyvintage.com up and running. It made me stop and think about how this vintage obsession that I have ever got started. And I have to credit some of my friends.

When I was in seventh grade my friend Tiff's older sister owned a store on Center St in Provo. Not sure if anyone will recall it, but it was up some stairs over a little diner that was called 534 or something to do with it's address. There were these little enclosed booths you could sit down and eat in. There were always teen hipsters in black clothes and sailor hats hanging out there. The little store had dressing rooms with hand-prints in different colors all over the walls. I thought it couldn't be more awesome. I would spend every dime I had there. Between those things and the stuff I "borrowed" from my Mom I made up a pretty punk-rock wardrobe. And by punk-rock I mean I got made fun of every single day of my life. Wearing lace gloves with a big tweed man's blazer and cuffed jeans is not cool in Provo Utah in November at the bus stop. It's just not. By the time Tiff and the Grow sisters started wearing cool vintage and Tiff started helping me pick cool stuff I was not laughed at so much and school girls started liking the things I wore. One week I wore a stack of gold necklaces with a German cross pinned at the neck of my collared shirt and by the next week it was a fad. I knew the torment would be over. For a few months at least, until I cut off my hair. That's another story...

After the little store closed down I had to get creative and I just borrowed a lot of clothes for the next few years. Until Sue Andrus took me to DI. I used to pass it and wonder what was going on in there, but I assumed it was some kind of storehouse. Like you had to qualify to enter. But Sue just walked in like she belonged there and we left with some of the most amazing vintage jewelry I still have ever seen, for just pennies. (I still have one of the bracelets.) And that was it for me. I remember shopping weekly in the old DI. When the basement was the best part. Back when the glass cases held all the wonders of the world, like Portobello Road. I miss the old DI. I miss the old pricing structure.

Once DI began to carry new items, (the pine furniture they manufacture), they had to restructure their business. Legally they are required to structure and price their merchandise like Target and Kmart. This is why DI no longer has things priced for a quarter, or fifty cents. It's not because the church needs the money. I personally think it stinks for shoppers. They are too overpriced to want to shop there anymore. It's not any fun. I used to find designer merchandise for two and three dollars. Now dresses can be fifteen to twenty bucks and tables, couches a hundred bucks. It's a rare occasion I find something great for the price I want to pay.

DI originally opened directly after the depression. They realized a need to try and pool extra resources from the saints and begin to redistribute these assets. There used to be drives to raise items. Men would come by weekly and haul stuff away. The church used to ask their members to give as much as possible and gave out DI bags to fill. Not we have so much stuff the DI problem is processing it all and figuring out what is garbage and what is not. I do so enjoy DI dumpster diving. (The sorter's idea of trash is not always my idea of trash.) I wish I could go in every day. I should buy their garbage... I'm looking into that.

So, with this love of mine for old things I hope to bring some joy to people who may love old items as well, but not so much the dumpster diving. I get that that part is an acquired taste. I guess I've acquired it.