POW!-ell’s

I spent the weekend in Portland, OR.

Now, I’ve lived in the PNW for a little more than five years, and it pains me to say that other than on drunken rugby weekends with the Old Man, I hadn’t yet spent any time exploring PDX–which is a city, I assure you, that is known for much more than “steak and titties“.  With travel credits about to expire, I logged in to Expedia and booked a sweet Starlight Room downtown and planned this weekend.  We found a friend to watch the pets and we piled into the truck, sailing out for adventure.  The Old Man drove us out and I spent a nice trio of hours chatting with him and catching up on the tower of Vogues from my living room.  Upon riding in to town, we picked up the youngest of my brothers-in-law and ate a disgustingly delicious lunch at a hole-in-the-wall burrito joint in the barrio.  (Well, as barrio as you can get around these parts….)

From there, it was off to the original reason for this trip, the dream, the goal:  Powell’s City of Books.  Now, if you Google Powell’s, you’ll see that it is world famous for its size and scope of material.  Set on an entire city block, it is a huge building housing books that must number in the millions.  It is a compilation of used and new offerings, and, in order to offset the damage you do to your wallet upon entering, they do you the service of buying back any books you don’t want in your own collection.  With a $30 credit in hand, I grabbed a handbasket and went to work.  From the minute I stepped into the stacks, I was in heaven.

Floor to ceiling shelves stretched as far as my eye could see….row upon row upon row of books dazzled me and I was well nigh overwhelmed.  Having been to and enjoyed many a Half Price Books, I thought I knew what I was getting myself into, but I had no idea.  It became clear very quickly that I needed a strategy…wandering aimlessly would do me no good.  It was time for a plan.

1.  Everything Went:  there was no way I would have been able to remember and re-find anything I MIGHT HAVE wanted to return to.  If I was even the slightest bit interested, I put it in my plastic bin.  I sorted everything out and made final decisions just before checking out.  (Note:  It turns out, my first instinct rules me.  I did not put anything back.  Not a single thing.  It was indulgent and decadent. I will not wince until I pay the credit card bill next month.)

2.  Take ‘em Two At A Time:  I’m not kidding you, this building was the size of a city block and 3 stories high.  The ceilings are approximately 13 feet and each of the bookshelves takes advantage of that entire height.  If I were to have walked down a row twice, the first spending time on one side and the second on the other, I’d've been there for days.  Instead, I browsed one section of shelves, and then turned around to catch the same section on the other side.

3.  Leave No Copy Unturned:  From the get-go, I saw that many times, there was more than one edition of a book.  I looked through them all to find the least expensive copy.  This place is kind of like Costco.  Everything is inexpensive, but the sheer nature of buying in bulk is that you’re going to drop a dime or two.  It was in my wallet’s best interest that I pinched pennies where I could.

4.  Fiction First:  Look, I read everything.  Theory, classics, history, biography…. My name is Jen, and I’m an addict.  The written word is my opiate.  I’ll read a cereal box in its entirety if I’m lacking anything else.  But my collection, though varied, is ruled by Fiction.  My first love, the most dominant, has always been a flight of fancy.  My full attention went to this section.

5.  Let The Eye Rule:  In many ways, if I’m not after something specific, I choose my books like I choose wine at the grocery store:  by the label.  I’ll be drawn in by the cover, and let the final decision go to the jacket description.  At Powell’s there was no other way to do it.  Aside from the few recommendations that I was picking up, this was a purely sensory visit.  A shopping trip of chance.  I wasn’t here to stock up, or round out my shelves (otherwise I’d have spent another chunk of change ONLY on Vonnegut), I simply let myself be drawn in by whim.

In the end, my strategy was only mildly successful.  In three hours, I made it through Fiction and was able to skim the Feminist Theory stacks.  At the end of the Zs, I stared forlornly down at my bin-o-books. The weight of the basket had become a lesson in the isometric isolation of my biceps and the rain on my parade.  I simply couldn’t carry any more.  I tripped around a bit, still unwilling to give up the ghost, and then, finally,  sat to do my final sort.  Sigh. What I needed was a sherpa.  And another 8 hours.

I bid a reluctant adieu to the floors and sections of territory that would remain, to me, uncharted, and thunked my spoils down on the cash wrap.  With a thrill, I re-chose each title as it was uncovered by the last and handed over my Visa.  I called the Old Man to help me with my bags and we headed back to the brewery where he’d been sitting, chatting with his youngest brother for the previous two hours.  We sat as I reviewed my spoils and I ordered a drink.  Which!  Reminds me of:

6.  Books + Beer:  Pale Ales and paperbacks.  Bloody perfect.

The stack is sitting in front of me still—partially because I didn’t sell back enough books to accommodate these which I acquired (this is the express train to an episode of Hoarders, dear reader), but mostly because of the little bit of joy I get from a thing as simple as a teetering pile of tomes.  The rest of the weekend was lovely and even mostly sunny.  But Powell’s and I have some unfinished business, and I eagerly await my opportunity to return.

Ordinary Joy

The Prompt:

Our most profound joy is often experienced during ordinary moments. What was one of your most joyful ordinary moments this year? (Author: Brené Brown)

There isn’t incense burning or a chorus of angels  singing as you walk through the doors.  There are no priests or monks or stained glass windows filtering the midday light  in dusty shafts through the air.  No candles burning, no latin incantations.  No robes or divine Scooby Snacks, no vessels of blessed water or baptismal founts…but it IS my church.  There ARE commandments (Thou Shalt SHHHHH!, Thou Shalt Use a Bookmark, Thou Shalt Put Thy Fucking Cellphone AWAY…et al. )  And (blasphemy!!!) I DO hold no gods higher than the knowledge contained within.

I speak to you, dear reader, of that Mecca of all things  used and bound, that promised land of the written word: Half Price Books (specifically, the HPB located on E John in Capitol Hill, Seattle).  This, my friends, is not your grandma’s used bookstore.  Put away all notions of creaky floors and musty odors.  You’ll not find precarious stacks of unorganized tomes or dimly lit basement caverns paved with moth eaten carpets.  Dream instead of an impeccably catalogued and merchandised warehouse of two levels, packed with floor-to-ceiling shelves of books on every topic you could list.  Though organized in a similar fashion to that anti-Christ, Barnes and Noble, HPB boasts a larger selection which is, most importantly WAY CHEAPER!

The Old Man and I stumbled upon one of these on our way home from the outlets one weekend as we stopped to grab a bit to eat.  I discovered that it was a chain shortly thereafter as I began my new job in Seattle–4+ years ago.  It just so happened that my region contained what I’ve found to be the best one.  This particular HPB is within spitting distance of Seattle University and Seattle Central CC.  The residents of this portion of town are young, educated, and artsy.  This, to my delight, means a higher quality of book is being traded in/sold here, and I’ve never made a trip with something in particular in mind and left empty-handed or disappointed.

This store feeds my most basic need: the overwhelming compulsion to READ.  I am a reader; an avid inhaler of all things written.  I will read the ingredients off of the back of a can of Campbells if there is nothing else around.  I dream (literally) of one day owning a house replete with white built-ins in each room, filled to capacity with books.  The joy I get from organizing and cataloguing my own limited supply is outrageous, fullfilling, settling, rewarding.  I’ll never own a Kindle or a Nook because of my snobbery and tactile need to feel actual paper pages between my fingers.  The hardcover’s heft and the portability of a paperback, those are my drugs.

The trouble is, I’m also quite cheap.  Miserly actually.  I hate spending money.  If there is a need for us to buy something high in value–even if I’ve saved for it and started a separate account for the sole purpose of stashing away money for that specific thing–I will leave the store before looking at the final total or seeing the money changing hands.  It makes me ill and anxious and I can never quite justify the expense.  And books are expensive.

So, when I first discovered this store, this heaven, this children’s candy shoppe for adults, I almost peed myself with joy.  I can walk in its doors with $50 and a cloud over my head, and walk out, three hours later with a smile on my face and 14 or 15 new volumes to pour over.  HPB is my ordinary joy.  Walking up and down it’s stacks–Fiction, History, Biography, Autobiography, Sociology, CounterCulture, Poetry, and then Clearance to see if anything in my hand can be found for $1 instead of $5–I browse away the world outside.  No matter what I’m scowling over at that particular juncture, I can find peace in this store.  It’s like a gigantic retail hug padded with words and bindings.

Books are my fix.  My pleasure.  My joy.  My guilty indulgence.  And Half Price Books is my dealer.

Make

The Prompt:

What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it? (Author: Gretchen Rubin)

I was relieved, after getting this prompt, to know that I’ve been uncharacteristically productive lately in a whole manner of creative forays.  Being stranded in a new city, with no job as yet, I’ve had to find ways of passing the time.  What follows are examples of the fruits of my labor.  Be kind….I’m a beginner!

Green Stained Wardrobe Dresser

After an inexplicable series of events, my husband and brother-in-law got into an argument in our old house.  Perceived slights escalated to heated words which culminated in an actual fist fight.  Somehow, the Jersey Shore made it into my small home, and the result of the brawl between these two hooligans was the splintering to pieces of my wardrobe dresser.  After an extensive search (and a disappointing inability to find anything close to what I had had and LOVED….), I had a piece built for me in pine.  It was cheaper than a furniture store, and I was able to finish it myself.

A moss green stain called Vermont Barnboard and a satin polyurethane finish took me two weeks to complete.  I can’t say that it was fun (the sanding alone after every layer was enough to make me want to choke someone), but the finished product was exactly what I wanted, and thus, worth the effort.  I finished it off by adding an assortment of mismatched antique pulls and fits like a glove among everything else in my bedroom.  Not bad for a first foray into furniture finishing.

Vermont Barnboard Dresser

Dresser Drawer Bookshelf

Well, I had a new dresser, and the old one was sitting forlornly in the corner of my garage.  On top of this, I’d discovered that after a couple of particularly prodigious trips to my mecca of the written word (Half Price Books anyone?  Anyone?!), my book collection had far outgrown the space I had for them.  I needed bookshelves.

Genius struck, and I thought to myself:  ”There has to be a way to turn the drawers out of my broken dresser into bookshelves….”  A quick ride on the interwebz proved this idea right and I began immediately to collect the materials I’d need.  After a trip to Lowe’s and then Sherwin Williams, I had the paint, primer and wall paper I needed to begin.

It wasn’t long before I realized that hand-sanding the finish off of the old drawers was the dumbest idea I’d had since deciding to pierce my eyebrow in college.  After a short go-over, I saw quickly that the primer wasn’t sticking.  I would have to use an electric sander.  And I didn’t have one.  Back to Lowe’s I went.  And then back again for plywood to attach them all together after painting.  And then back again for spray adhesive for the wallpaper.  When all was said and done, I probably spent more money on these shelves than all the books I’d fill them with combined, but it was a neat idea, and I’m in love with the finished product.  Recycle Chic.

Dresser Drawer Bookshelf I

Dresser Drawer Bookshelf II

Tante Jen’s First Ever “Not A Scarf Or Hat” Set

On my 31rst birthday, I found out that one of my oldest girlfriends was going to be a mama.  I’d been knitting for years (all scarves and hats) and I decided right at that moment that I would revive the old tradition of giving something handmade.  I wasn’t confident that I could finish a blanket, so I picked up a beginner pattern and began to work on a sweater, hat and mitten set.  It seemed only appropriate as, years before, this girl had been the recipient of my first ever scarf and hat set.

The project wasn’t without it’s problems, and there were plenty of swear words knitted it with all the love, but it turned out beautifully, and I was able to give a gift that came from my heart and not off of a registry.  I’m not a fan of baby blue, or any pastels at all for that matter, so I changed the yarn color to a Crayola crayon green, and finished the project for baby B.A.M. only shortly after he was born.

It looks like a Home Ec project gone a bit awry, I know, but I made it with my own two hands.

And there you have it, a decidedly un-crafty girl gets crafty and pulls it off.  Take that all you master-beaders!