Some say it's stalking - I say it's love.

So I saw this thing at a art fair by my house. I originally saw it on Saturday, and I wanted it. Is 'it' a he or a she?

Reactions have been mixed.

Personally, I think it's a she.

But I digress.

I wanted to buy this on Saturday. But art is discretionary. I did a bit of bargaining. I thought about how little I get for myself. And then I thought of all the places my money needed to be spent.

And then I walked away.

On Sunday, I took my regular walkies. I timed my walk so that I'd be at the art show at the exact moment when it opened for the day. I brought my checkbook, fully intending to buy this interesting treasure.

I noticed s/he had not been purchased, but again, I walked away.

College next year for one kid. Senior pictures. Lord, those are expensive.

Mr. Fabulous and I ran a few errands later on Sunday, and we drove past the art show, still in progress.

He knew how much I wanted this freaky thing. He said, "just tell me to turn or go straight."

I said, "turn."

So after having done some personal internal negotiations and a bit of art-stalking, I bought this for myself. It's the first thing I've purchased for the sole purpose of my own enjoyment for a very long time.

Here's what s/he looks like from another angle.

Last night, Mr. Fabulous and I were sitting on the couch, admiring my new acquisition.

We both agreed that it was a steal. The cost, when balanced by the time it must have taken the artist to come up with the idea, acquire the parts and actually make this piece was definitely worth what I paid.

I think it's interesting that I tend to gravitate toward art that's created out of things that were originally created with a completely different intention.

Such is the case with my newest acquisition.

The body is an old muffler, The hair is a thick chain. The eyes move; I'm not sure what they were used for originally, but I think they came from an old car. The head turns. The fingers are nails, bent ever-so expressively.

Sure, sure. There are a whole lot of other places my money could have been spent.

But I'm so glad bought it, even though it fell in the Want vs Need category.

It seems I'm still falling lock-step into appreciating the beauty of all things recycled.

Maybe that's the justification I can use to validate my purchase.

Or maybe it's okay just to appreciate this thing that I bought, just for myself, that I completely enjoy.

I asked for suggestions via my facebook page on what to name this thing.

My South Dakota friend Christine offered up the name Gladys. Christine has a very colorful, dramatic, borderline disgusting story about an inanimate object she fondly referred to as Gladys.

In both of their memories, this thing I stalked for the better part of the weekend has a new name.

The origin of our present fears

Nine years ago this morning, my husband at the time called me while I was still in my jammies, and he told me about what had happened to the World Trade Center. Turn on the tee vee, he said.

It was one of several very serious conversations we had about terrorism.

But as it pertains to today and today's relevance, it's a part of my lexicon that I heard first about the issues in New York from him, and I'll never forget it.

No one will.

I spent this evening not unlike I spent my time nine years ago today: glued to my television, watching coverage of 9/11.

Tonight, the coverage of the events of nine years ago were on the History Channel, and it brought the morning of that Tuesday nine years ago right back into sharp, if not sharper, focus.

With the odd exception that the events that unfolded in real-time nine years ago didn't come with a "may not be suitable for some viewers" cryptic introduction, the hindsight version of the events of September 11 are almost 20/20.

And in trying to apply a bit of hindsight to those events as those moments correlate to the present day, perhaps the most evidentiary conclusion is that we've all become so much more fearful.

About almost everything.

We're afraid about who can pray where, despite our country's Constitution. It's threatening to some people. God knows - whoever's God knows - why it's so difficult to just let people be.

It may be because of what happened nine years ago. But is it justified, all of this hostility?

Watching the rewind of what happened nine years ago today doesn't seem to reflect the anger that's everywhere almost a decade later.

Take a look at the video. The audio.

On the actual 9/11, there was an atmosphere of caring that seeped into every crazed pore of our collective fear.

Nine years ago, we all seemed to care about where people were and if they were safe more than what they were doing or who they prayed to or slept with or voted for.

We were less fearful not only of the unknown enemy. We were also less fearful of each other.

The events of September 11 have robbed us all of a fundamental essence of who we are that made us great.

Trust.

The lack of that essence of trust has made us such cowards to fear.

I miss that element of trust; that piece of who we were that banded together for the greater good, for the love of the other regardless of our differences.

Fast forward from that day nine years ago, and the majority of us seem to be so afraid of almost everything.

I think that fear took root nine years ago.

I miss the easier, softer, more loving acceptance we all seemed to project to each other nine years and a day ago.

I miss the absence of fear; not only of the other, but of each other.

It almost seems like we've become our worst enemy.

No new stuff for a year? Really?

I recently heard the revelatory story about the woman who didn't buy any new clothing for a year. She got a lot of press for her restraint.

I did read the piece she wrote about going new-free for a year.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-492574/No-new-clothes-year-A-shopaholic-goes-cold-turkey.html

She divulged that she, like many other women, is a therapeutic shopper. Shopping is a treat; something we're apparently owed.

She eventually did experience the revelation that shopping is a bit of a red herring when it comes to how we consumers see the world. And she provided valuable information about how those who have, spend:

"According to the National Consumer Council, we chuck out about 80 percent of what we buy after just one use."

That's crazy.

Several sources I've resourced indicate that, collectively, Americans alone discard two quadrillion pounds of clothing and textiles every year. All of this most likely reusable merch winds up in a landfill that's conveniently out of our field of myopic vision.

And as I've blogged about before, one culture's trash is another's treasure. Much of what we benevolently donate to thrift stores that isn't purchased is ultimately shipped overseas in big crates, and is sold or given away to people who think that what we consider discards is golden.

As for me, I can honestly say that more than 80 percent of what I own was previously owned by someone else.

Maybe more than 80 percent.

Am I ashamed? No. Do I look like I recently sashayed out of a thrift store? I don't think so.

Because people throw away really cool stuff.

So living without new items for a year? Really? Is that considered to be some kind of a sacrifice?

Try it for a while. It's an experience.

Can you remember where you bought your last Coach purse or Vuitton tote?

I can.

I don't want to brag, but I bet I spent less than you did, and no one knows the difference.

Really, the only difference is that mine didn't end up in a landfill.

A review of the bins: They're craptastic!

I was driving to my Real Job today, thinking about the income I've generated by culling through the bins.

I've blogged about the bins before. To review, the bins is actually The Goodwill Outlet, which we affectionately refer to as the bins, due to the proliferation of bins filled with what some would see as crap.

But I've found that the bins are craptastic!

Let's review.

There was The Principles of Knitting book. Bought for 50 cents, sold for $260.

There was the Italian leather tote. Bought for about a buck, sold for $185.

There was that very cool book about the Titanic. Again bought for 50 cents, sold for $68.

Then there was the golf cart. We did a bit of negotiating on the golf cart with the employee at the register, because the cart weighed so much. She gave us a deal. It was purchased for 2.99. Sold for $100.

The Tumi computer bag. Ah, the Tumi. So light, and that's a wonderful feature when you're buying items by the pound. I probably paid two bucks for the Tumi; sold it for $140.

I found a fabulous bolt of vintage upholstery fabric. I wish I'd have kept a few yards of that fabric, but I sold it for about $200.

There have been so many craptastic finds at the bins. And yes, there are downsides.

Yes, there's the atmosphere. Dismal.

Yes, there's the ishy music and disobedient children. That's why they make Ipods. So you can disengage.

Yes, there are the crazy folks who knock you over to get to that random piece of crap that's crappy. That's why they made the concept of sauntering, like you just don't care. Because you don't, at the bins.

Because invariably, good stuff is ripe for the picking, if you can identify quality labels. If you know the difference between Guess and Gucci, you'll be just fine at the bins.

My fiscal bottom line has been nicely supplemented with what I've found at the bins.

All other thrifty thrift places pale by comparison.

The only difference is that, at the bins, you have to get your hands dirty.

And you have to disengage.

These are two qualities at which I'm very good.

What's killing radio? The attack of the pod people.

If there were a wager I could bet on in Vegas, I'd put my money on the potential that radio as we know it will be nothing like we know it now in 10 years. Maybe sooner.

Technology is grabbing terrestrial radio by the throat and holding it under the ipod, iphone, droid-filled water.

Own one of these devices and the world is in your back pocket, literally.

The technology is good, and it's only going to get better.

And the technology has created a whole new generation of program directors.

Pandora. Stitcher. Itunes. I Heart Radio. The list of locations is becoming extensive, and every new source provides a wealth of free content, much of which is timely, relevant, mutable, interesting.

I love it.

Today, I listened to my favorite podcast, then listened to what Rachel and Keith had to say. I took a break from chatter and put the hundreds of songs that are in my magical iphone 4 on shuffle.

And it was all commercial free.

That's the best part.

I've read a bit about why some folks think that radio is on life support. Decreased advertising revenue. The economy. Consolidation. And then there's technology.

I'm loving the technology.

So much to access, just a touch away. Anything I want, commercial free.

I can stream my favorite local radio station, too. But it's more out of a slight desire to occasionally listen to music that's relevant to my community.

I'm traitor, I guess. But I have the technology, and I'm using it to to its fullest potential.

Sorry, radio. I've become one of the pod people.

Because when it comes to what I want, commercial-free, it's all right here, in the palm of my hand.

Houseplants are takers, gardens are givers.

I have this personal credo when it comes to houseplants. When they start looking like they're getting ready to die, I put them on my back porch, ostensibly so that they can get some fresh air and sunshine. A backyard spa for plants.

Honestly, I put these pitiful plants outside because their leaves are falling off like the hairs on an old man's head, or because they're obviously not enjoying living the quiet, contemplative life of an indoor houseplant.

So I've been known to be passive/aggressive by punishing my errant houseplants. Go ahead and judge. These plants have every opportunity to come back inside - if they perk up, they come back in. If they continue down the path of withering unsightliness, they stay on the porch, and aren't invited back inside.

Houseplants aren't the same as garden plants. Houseplants are silent takers, and their primary function is to bring a slice of nature indoors.

Garden plants give back.

This tasty bowl of tomatoes is a case in point. My garden is presently producing amazing amounts of, well, produce. I've been plucking a few dozen roma and cherry tomatoes every day, and they're being consumed as fast as they ripen.

Thank god I entertain a lot.

If this high level of garden output continues at this pace, I'm thinking I'll need to up my game. Maybe open up a cookbook, learn how to freeze fresh produce, supply a food bank.

We're not only well stocked with tomatoes: the cukes and zukes keep appearing, growing quickly and profusely in an almost magical way.

Sadly, like a clean house or the thrill of a new romance, I know my garden won't last. A month from now, the giant tomato plants will become wilting skeletons dotted with shriveled tomatoes that are presently in hiding; the dinner plate-sized zucchini leaves will take on the look of sad, wet rags hanging on dried sticks.

But for now, my garden is like an intuitive friend who asks if you'd like to get together and talk, just a few minutes before you know you're lonely.

Sometimes, my houseplants seem like that friend who only calls to ask for a ride or to borrow a few bucks.

Maybe if houseplants did a little less taking and a little more giving, I wouldn't have to be so punitive.

In any case, soon my garden will take on the needy look of some of the houseplants that I've relegated to my back porch.

I miss my garden already. It's been so generous, so tasty. And like a fire, the ocean or an interpretive dance performance, the garden's been interesting to watch.

Economy of words

As I've mentioned in a past blog, I host a weekly Salon.

Every Tuesday night, my sister, her son, my clan and occasional  guests have dinner at my house. And after dinner, we cleanse our palates with our Salon.

Typically, we choose a word, and we each write something that connects in some way to the word we've chosen.

There are no rules. So, once armed with the word, the outcome could be a piece of poetry, a short story, an observation. There's no requirement when it comes to length. To minimize self-editing, anything goes.

The words we've chosen over the course of our Tuesday night Salons have been diverse. Superpowers. Fear. Heat. Faith.

We've been doing this for years, and the words we've written about have generated a dessert that's become very sweet.

Our Tuesday night Salons are a great source of connection. Making dinner at home and writing about a word has brought each of us a bit closer together. Dinner at home combined with the brain food that Salon provides invariably results in a cheap, interesting evening.

My sister's offerings are highly anticipated. She creates vivid, forehead-smacking, raw, compelling material simply with a word as her leaping-off place.

But everything each of us writes is interesting, and occasionally we mix it up.

This past week, having not chosen a word the previous week, we used a random word finder app to choose our word for us. The app provided the word Shelter. We had a few guests, and everyone participated. We set the timer for 10 minutes, and everyone wrote whatever came to mind.

Then, each of us read what we'd written.

The exercise far exceeded everyone's expectations, and I loved how willing the group was to engage in this odd exercise.

The week before, the magic 8-ball word finder had chosen the word Powder.

My sister enjoys the tactile nature of writing long-hand, so I don't have her Powder Salon yet.

But I do have mine, and I have Logan's.

My son Logan, 14, wrote this on the Powder topic:

Powder

He was half-standing half-floating in the powder blue Mexican water. It had become somewhat dull for him. Just wading there with only small waves passing by him, almost entirely undisturbed. He was slowly pushing back and forth through the water. A bit closer to the grit of the sand, a bit closer to the ease of the waves.

This continued for nearly 20 minutes. Then, when his hands were growing weary, he turned around. The sun was now at his back, but he forgot about the sun, and water for that matter. All he cared about was the beautiful purple in front of him. It faded from light to dark within what seemed to be an inch of space. This depth seemed to rival that of the water he was drifting through.

He thought, as he wiped a briny tear from his eye, “this must be why the water is salty. This color makes people cry, giving back their minerals to the water they live in.”

Suddenly a wave flipped him over into a spiral. He was turning in the deep water. The siren call of the color pulled him 30 feet from the sandy shore.

He didn’t care. But he kept staring, his head full of adjectives and wordy poems.

And so he drifted, into oblivion.

And here's mine:

The Powder

The powder was neatly stored in the vial, like a dried tincture of possibility and curiosity.

When he found it, he thought the powder was nothing more than a remnant; a wisp of dust from the past that needed to be purged.

Then, because he had nothing better to do, he opened the lid.

The smell struck his nose like a blow from a prize fighter.

After that, he didn’t remember much.

When he woke up, he was in a different shirt, in an unknown city.

It may have been another time. His head was too muddled. He didn’t drink it all in at first.

It must have been the powder. That’s all he could think. It was his mantra.

He was a simple man, but the powder complicated everything.

He admonished himself, in his head first, and then out loud, for being too headstrong, too interested in things that were really none of his concern.

Like the powder.

Opening the lid was his first mistake.

But it wasn’t the last.

My sister's Powder Salon will be added to this community of Salon entries eventually.

As usual, I think hers was the best.

In any case, our Tuesday night Salons, each beginning with dinner and ending with an offering we've each created, have become such a bonding, interesting, creative experience.

Salon has drawn me closer to my sister. It's let me in on who my kids are, just a little bit. The exercise has made a few mental muscles a bit more elastic.

And it all begins with an economy of words.

It starts with one.