It’s all (Haviland) in the family

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By Cathy Wood

My grandmother smiled as she gently freed the daintily flowered tea cup from its yellowed tissue paper. She set it carefully on the matching saucer, adding it to the china deluge that threatened to take over the white linen-covered dining room table as the corresponding pile of tissue paper grew higher.

“Oh, Mother,” my mom breathed in. “That’s gorgeous. But are you sure it’s Baltimore Rose? That looks more like Trellis to me.”

Welcome to my childhood.

I’m not sure what your mother & grandmother talked about when they got together, but I bet it wasn’t the merits of relish trays versus celery trays or how many oatmeal bowls constitute a complete set, anyway?

My mom & her mother were crazed true Haviland Limoges crazy people collectors. They stalked antique shops & scouted estate sales, looking for that elusive spoon holder or bone dish. They bought price guides & made endless lists that began “4 bread-and-butter plates, 2 meat platters … ” They knew everybody within 100 miles who had a 12-place setting in the coveted Sheraton pattern.

And because I was the lone girl in the family — my mom was an only child & I had only brothers — I was the Haviland heir apparent. No matter that I’d rather be outside playing or curled up somewhere (else) with a Nancy Drew book. Didn’t make a difference that I was clumsy & heavy-handed & desperately afraid of dropping the rare Montreux-pattern tureen lid. Wasn’t a problem that I couldn’t tell the difference between lilies of the valley & lilacs in a garden much less on a dessert plate.

My disinterest was ignored. My aversion to delicate & fragile was disregarded. It was no use — by the time I had my own family, I somehow owned three whole sets of Haviland along with countless spare pieces & a box full of identification guides & newspaper clippings.

I guess the Apple (Blossom gravy boat) doesn’t fall far from the tree.

But all kidding aside, the Haviland Limoges story IS fascinating. A New York importer named David Haviland stumbled across a French porcelain tea service in 1838. Recognizing its superiority to the English imports he’d been selling, he decided to be the first American to introduce the fine china to American society. Haviland ended up moving his family to Limoges, France, home of the clay ingredient called “kaolin” that made the china so unique. The company survived wars, family squabbles & economic downturns and is still selling tableware today. (Learn more here.)

I ‘m not sure why my grandmother — and then my mom — loved Haviland so much. Did my great-grandmother have some when my grandmother was growing up? Was it something my grandmother always wanted when she was little? I don’t know, but I sure wish I’d thought to ask.

And, you know, some of those patterns are pretty. In fact, I’ve got a couple of dinner plates in the Richmond pattern & sure could use the salad plates to go with.

Luckily, YOU can add to — or start — your own Haviland collection at our first Rooted in Memories estate sale, where you can see the china’s elegant beauty for yourself. We’ll have good prices & plenty of sturdy packing materials. Check back often for details as we finalize the sale dates.

China & crystal & linens … oh, my!

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By Cathy Wood

So, see all of those plates & dishes & things in these photos? If you’re like most of my friends & my Younger Daughter, you love this image. You see yourself sitting in front of the open doors, oohing & aahing in delight as you unearth treasures. You’ll carefully pick up each piece, inspect it for nicks, turn it over for identifying marks. You wonder about where it came from & who used it. This is your happy place.

My mom would love you. This was her happy place, too.

Well, one of them. One of approximately 132 million shelves & drawers & boxes & cabinets in her house that look just like this — plates & goblets stacked precariously, tablecloths & napkins packed tightly. All waiting for people to love them.

I am not those people. This is not my happy place. This is my oh-good-lord-what-are-we-going-to-do-with-all-of-this-stuff place.

You see, my mom loved antiques. China, crystal, silverware, tablecloths, quilts — they all found new homes in ours, She knew the layout of every antique mall within a two-hour radius & the name of every antiques dealer within three. Family vacations included negotiations between her & my dad on how many antique shops we’d stop at (although Dad himself was susceptible to glass insulators, Civil War books & farm tools). But it wasn’t the browsing & buying & bringing home that bothered me — it was how freakin’ long the process took. Determined not to miss a single item, my mom could spend hours in antiquing mode. She’d go through every hatbox, every squeaky drawer, every dark musty corner. Time had no meaning when searching for a Towle fish fork or a Heisey relish dish. I took a book with me every time we got in the car because I never knew when I’d have two hours of waiting-for-Mom-to-finish-looking time.

At one point, she started what we’d call today a “side hustle.” She became the original 1980s Girl Boss. At her peak, she had at least six booths at various antiques malls, a small open-by-appointment-only antiques shop at my dad’s retirement project/tree farm and a robust series of much-anticipated yard sales. And she loved every minute. After my dad died in 2016, she shifted from active antiques hunting to enjoying her acquisitions at home. She put a comfy chair in the sunroom and filled the bookshelves with price guides and file folders. We’d often find her asleep with an antiques magazine in one hand & a pen in the other. She and her caregivers spent hours cleaning & arranging & rearranging & putting away & taking back out again. She looked forward to visits from my Younger Daughter, Carolyn, who got the antiques gene that had skipped me. She & her Grommy talked hat pins & beaded purses & Bakelite jewelry. I’d go read.

Mom died in 2020 from complications of Parkinson’s. My brothers & I discussed What To Do for more than a year. Turning everything over to an expert for appraisals & sales seemed easiest. But during the quiet times of quarantine, I’d been thinking, too — about the joy Mom got from collecting, her enthusiasm when sharing finds with others, her directives to not break up this collection or split up that china set after she was gone. I remembered the times I rolled my eyes as new old things appeared week after week and my firm refusals every time she offered something she thought I might like but knew I wouldn’t take home. (Had I hurt her feelings? I’m afraid I probably did.) But I also remembered the project we’d started in the last year of her life — we’d pick out a room, she’d sit down & I’d go from object to object, asking questions & taking notes.

I wish I’d asked more questions & taken more notes.

But maybe I can do something similar now, I thought as the time for signing estate-sale contracts got closer. Maybe I could make up for my past impatience, my dismissiveness of china patterns & goblet styles & what does “Made in Japan” really mean? I couldn’t listen to my mom’s stories anymore, but maybe I could help create more. I could do my best to make sure her treasures were honored & celebrated even if I hadn’t done that during her life.

So Carolyn & I decided to manage things ourselves. As we clean out & organize & prep for sales, we’ll show you what we find & tell you what we find out. This is the place to share stories & memories — both ours & yours. Check back frequently for sale dates.

Telling and Selling Memories

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By Carolyn Myers

Growing up, my favorite place was my Grommy’s (and Poppy’s) house. After a quick greeting, I would immediately go exploring for hours. Like all of the other great museums, it could take a lifetime to see everything on display. Every wall, surface, closet and drawer held (too many?) items of interest, and I loved it all.

And Grommy loved me for it.

After hours of hunting, I would show her my finds. Maybe an old Pyrex bowl, or a flour-sack apron, or a collection of postcards from the early 20th century. or her great-grandmother’s hand mirror and hairbrush or a quilt made before the Civil War, or … or… It didn’t matter what I found or the price listed on the item in her beautiful handwriting — she’d let me keep whatever I discovered. After I thanked her profusely, she would usually smile and say, “Most of this will be yours someday anyway; might as well take it now.” No one else in the family shared my love and fascination with her treasures, and she knew I would appreciate them like she did.

So, when Grommy died on Feb. 29, 2020, we thought we knew exactly how to proceed: Each family member would pick out favorite items and then an estate sale would take care of the rest. Mom and I would plan weekend trips to fill a couple boxes each of mementos — we estimated we could have the clearing-up part done in two or three visits and then we’d set the sale for later this summer.

Easy peasy.

Also wrong.

We soon realized the enormity of this task and our reluctance to simply fill a few boxes and be done with it. Honoring Grommy, honoring our family history and the legacy of what she built and left us, was too heavy and too much to tackle in one summer.

In conversations with my mom about our options, we also realized that we weren’t ready to be done with this task. Granted, we couldn’t feasibly keep all of her treasures, but we couldn’t stand the thought of a stranger coming in to sell it all before we learned more about Grommy’s life’s work. We weren’t ready to let go of her treasures, her memory. We needed more time to honor her (and Poppy), what they built and what they left as their legacy.

So here we are. A year and half after Grommy left us, we are picking up the (thousands and thousands of) pieces. My mom and I, with the rest of the family’s blessing, have a plan. She and I are working our way through the rooms full of antiques and collectibles Grommy delighted in finding and displaying for decades. Our idea is to host events at the house where you can explore and find treasures for yourselves (details to come). Along with those events, we’ll share the stories we discover – stories about teapots & crystal, linens & china, books, prints, Hummels, Depression glass and more. This is our work: Understanding more of our family’s history, discovering relics of American history, paying tribute to the beautiful and overwhelming world of collectibles and antiques, all while grieving the loss of a complicated and wonderful woman. We are not professional curators or antique sellers (Mom is a professional writer, thank goodness!), but we are ready to get to work and excited to share our adventures with you all.

Check our Rooted in Memories Facebook page frequently for details.

Grandson outsmarts grandma — which is not that difficult to do

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My grandsons are the most amazing people I know. You probably believe that your grandchildren (or children if you’re not there yet) are amazing, too. And I bet they are. There is something about this crop of young ‘uns that gives me hope for the future.

Here’s an example:

I stopped by Older Daughter’s house for a bit the other day. Youngest Grandson, a rising first-grader, always claims my phone immediately when I walk in — probably because it’s an iPhone 12 Pro Max that I don’t really understand & it’s out of his Mom’s all-encompassing media-censorship reach so it’s ripe for non-approved game downloading. On this day, I got a hug, handed over the phone & sat down to visit as he left the kitchen with his prize.

He was back again in a couple of minutes.

“Kacky, would you help me with your password so I can get this game? It’s new and I really really really want it,” he said.

Unfortunately, his mom heard him.

“No, Wesley,” she said, firmly, in that voice that always makes me straighten up a little even though she’s not talking to me. “You can’t use Kacky’s password to download games all the time. Give her back her phone & use your own tablet.”

The world held its breath for the next couple of seconds as he thoughtfully considered his options, apparently discarding the nuclear “arguing with Mom” choice (which, obviously, never ends well), and finally decided on a strategy. I couldn’t wait to see what happened next as he shrugged a concessive “OK, Mom” and left the room.

It didn’t take long.

A few minutes later, he returned with his headphones plugged in to his own kid-appropriate tablet. Taking a sip out of my glass of tea, he hopped on my lap & settled in as his mom & I kept chatting.

During a conversation break, he pulled off his headphones & asked me a question.

“Hey, Kacky,” he said, with a studied nonchalance, “I think that game is on my tablet. Would you help me find it?”

With his Mom’s attention diverted elsewhere (one of the dogs? one of the cats? one of the other kids?), I was happy to help.

“Sure, sweetie,” I said. “What’s the name of it?”

He seemed to ponder.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Maybe look it up in the App Store to see?”

Who could refuse such a reasonable request? We searched, looked up icons & tried to identify the mystery game.

“There it is!” he said. “I knew I had it.”

But, being the helpful (read “naïve & gullible”) grandma that I am, I had to point out that the game had been deleted from his tablet & needed updating.

“Would you do that for me, please?” he said, adding a kiss on my cheek. “I don’t know how.”

And that is how Youngest Grandson did an end-run around all the barriers erected against him & got exactly what he wanted with a minimum of fuss and a brilliantly executed plan.

As I said, my grandsons are amazing.

Getting along requires compromise

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Because my husband John Pitts & I hold differing political views and vote for opposing candidates, many folks wonder how we make our marriage work. (Actually, those questions usually are directed to my husband in the form of “How in the world does Cathy put up with you?”)

Today, on an Election Day that’s responsible for, I bet, millions of other families in the same situation these past months, I thought I’d share a thoughtful analysis of a typical reasoned & logical & courteous exchange between my husband & me in hopes it may inspire others.

Totally kidding. We never have reasoned & logical exchanges.

But we do have conversations like this:

Me: Hey, sweetie, didn’t you say you put that box in my car as I asked you to?
JP: Yup, I sure did. Why?
Me: Because it’s not there.
JP: Sure it is.
Me: No, it’s not.
JP: Yes, it is.
Me: Sweetie, I saw this with love & respect, but that box is not in the back of my car. At all. Not. There.
JP: What are you talking about? I put it exactly where you asked me to.
Me: You put it in the back of the car?
JP: Of course.
Me: Well, it’s not there–unless you magicked it with a Cloak of Invisibility.
[Momentary silence as we mutually head out of the kitchen & into the garage. I stop midway at the back-seat door of my CVR, preparing to open it & prove the non-existence of the disputed box. John Pitts, however, continues his march to the back of the car, opens the rear cargo door & triumphantly points inside.]
JP: See? It’s right here.
Me, confused: But that’s not the back.
JP: What are you talking about? Of course it’s the back.
Me, still confused but gesturing to the correct location–the back seat: No, that is not the back. This is the back. That’s the way-back.
JP, looking as if he wished he had his own Cloak of Invisibility: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Me, speaking slowly & clearly: That. Is. Not. The. Back. That. Is. The. Way. Back.
JP, now looking a bit dazed: I literally have never heard you call this the ‘way-back’.
Me, considering but ultimately discarding–in the interest of civility–a comment referencing the number of times I say things proportionate to the number of times he hears me say the things: Hmm … well, that’s what it’s called. We’ve always called it the ‘way-back’.
JP:
Me: Besides, why would I want the box in the way-back? I’ll never remember to drop it off at the donation center if it’s [pausing for emphasis] way back there.
JP, doing a remarkable job of remaining calm: Would you like me to move it to the back seat for you?
Me: Oh, that would be lovely. Thank you so much.

And that’s how we negotiate our conflicts to a mutually satisfying conclusion: He knows I’m correct but won’t admit it but it’s OK because I know that he knows that I’m the winner.

Happy Election Day!

I really am cheap & frugal*

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*she says as she hides her $82.34 Starbucks receipt (those cups!).

Seriously, I  am. My husband John Pitts would point to our dear friends the UPS & FedEx drivers–they send us Christmas cards!–as evidence to the contrary, and maybe I do have trouble leaving T.J. Maxx without a Rae Dunn mug. (I’m looking for the yellow “Hello Spring” right now & although I KNOW I can find it on Amazon or Mercari, I am NOT paying $30 for a $6 mug, thank you very much. See? Told you I was cheap.)

Despite my platinum status with several credit cards, (just kidding, John Pitts! I’m exaggerating for literary affect!!) frugality is how I was raised — because that’s how my parents were raised. My maternal grandmother never met a piece of burned toast she couldn’t scrape to some level of eat-ability. A little bit of mold never fazed my mother. “Just take it off or eat around it,” she would say, frowning. “It won’t hurt you.” Until she stopped cooking a few years ago & caregivers brought order to the house, her refrigerators & freezers were full of leftover spoonfuls of this & extra little bits of that — all stored in, of course, plastic margarine tubs. So. Many. Margarine. Tubs.

It took years of (retail) therapy to overcome the teachings of my youth. Thankfully, although I burn a lot of toast, I’m able to throw it out instead of attempting resuscitation. I may err too much on the side of “Ick! Get rid of that moldy mess!” when perhaps a little scraping would save a piece of cheese. And I never compromise on quality when buying the important stuff: toilet paper, Wheat Thins & coffee. I don’t care that the store brands are 75% less.

But in the depths of my soul, I’m cheap.  I will absolutely make every dime I spend on household & personal stuff work as hard as possible. And I have discovered a few tricks I’m happy to share because so many people admire my penny-pinching ways so we can all spend more money on Rae Dunn mugs. Just step away from the yellow one.

Tiny type on the back of this detergent box offers measurement directions that do NOT involve filling the scoop to the top, although that’s what most of us do.

For example –and this is obvious but I have to remind myself all the time–read the directions! I bet that when you’re doing laundry, you simply fill the cup or scoop or whatever to the top & dump it in. Right? Isn’t that what we all do? Well, stop doing that! Laundry detergent packaging always has suggested measurements based on laundry-load size — and they’re not “fill up the scoop with as much detergent as possible.” Quite the opposite, in fact. Of course, those instructions are difficult to find. And the accompanying measuring devices rarely are clearly marked “THIS LINE IS WHERE YOU STOP PUTTING IN DETERGENT.” Now, I’m not suggesting that the manufacturers make it difficult for us to find these measurements on purpose. I’m not saying that they WANT us to give in to our natural impulse of filling the scoop to the top & dumping it in. I am in NO WAY intimating that they are encouraging us to race through our boxes of Tide much faster than necessary so WE’LL GO OUT & BUY MORE. But … check for yourself. Go to the laundry room right now & pick up your detergent & see how long it takes you to find the directions & see how clearly the measurements are marked to make following those directions easy. Am I right? Yes, I’m right.

Even when the directions are clearly visible on the packaging, it’s not always easy to follow them. Now, where is that top line, again? And which line is for the smallest load?

The best part of this read-the-directions technique is that it not only saves you money but it also reduces waste AND gives you the satisfaction of not falling for the old fill-it-up-and-go-buy-more trick.

Ready to save more more & reduce more waste? Come back soon & we’ll tackle those amazingly designed beauty product containers & FORCE them to give up that last bit of $50 moisturizer. Not that I personally myself have ever bought $50 moisturizer* …

she says as she sips from her new $30 Starbucks cup. Priorities, people. Priorities.

My daughters know me so well

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I’m still talking about Christmas presents because —

  1. we only recently took down the tree.
  2. I just last week found some gifts I’d opened Christmas morning & then carefully placed in a safe spot so I wouldn’t lose them/forget them/accidentally throw them away. It’s Christmas every day at our house!
  3. my daughters gave me such awesome presents that I want to share.

It won’t surprise you to learn that all three things are true. But let’s focus on the third thing because it’s the most true: My daughters – – two incredible women in their sort-of mid-30s — are THE BEST present-givers ever. They must have learned this skill from the Internets because I sure didn’t teach them.

  • Older Daughter gave me something I’ve never had or thought about having before: a image0facial. I am 62 years old & have never had a facial. Is that normal? I don’t know–somehow I always associated facials with stars & celebrities & people who say, offhandedly, “But that handbag is only $5,000–a steal!” After all, I’m from the Pond’s/Noxzema generation with a dash of hippie-natural. I mean, I always thought that your face is your face. It’s going to go through some things (with deepest apologies to Marie L. Yovanovitch) & there’s nothing a normal non-celebrity person can do about it. But I was wrong. Thank goodness Older Daughter knew that I was wrong & decided to do something about it. (Again, I have no idea who taught her such impressive adult behavior. I should take notes.) I know I probably won’t look 10 years younger when it’s done, but literally putting my face in somebody else’s hands is going to be relaxing & fun. One question  — How close to your facial date do you remove chin hair? Asking for a friend.
  • Younger Daughter excels at finding gifts that make you think “This was absolutely made for me & now I never want to be without it.” I am both a notebook & writing-image2implement addict AND a make-up newbie (see above on facials). So what better gift than Sephora makeup brushes in the shapes of classic yellow No. 2 pencils? Yellow No. 2 pencils! This is genius & I sort of want to find the designers & shake their hands. Or write them a thank-you note with, you know, a classic yellow No. 2 pencil. Younger Daughter also gifted me this Ruth Bader Ginsburg keychain string doll. I love her. She’s the perfect size & has accompanied me practically everywhere since I got her & I credit her with all good things that have happened to me since. She goes with the RBG dissension necklace Younger Daughter gave me the previous year. I need to start wearing it every day, as well.

Thanks for letting me brag about my brilliant daughters reading. What are some presents your grown children have given you? And are you surprised that they learned such mature behavior AFTER they grew up–seems like only yesterday we were saying, “Please don’t throw My Little Ponies at your sister.”

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P.S. Nobody pays me anything or gives me anything or helps me in any way in exchange for a mention in “Coffee with Cathy.” Whatever you read here is from me alone, for no other reason than it’s something I like or saw or heard or feel or want to talk about. Of course, if Cadillac wants to gift me my dream car – an Escalade SUV – I’m open to negotiations, but otherwise, I can’t be bought. (Also blue. I like Dark Adriatic Blue.)

Was Dec. 25 really only 25 days ago?

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Yes. Yes, it was. Only 25 days ago you were knee-deep in LEGO boxes & sugar-cookie crumbs & desperately trying to remember if you’d wrapped everything correctly because it sure looks your third-favorite sister-in-law is opening the bracelet you bought for your second-favorite sister-in-law. Oops.

(Side note: I’m sitting here with my computer while A Very Important Football Game is on TV & I’m, like, “Oh, it’s the cute guy from the insurance commercials. Aaron somebody.” This is the extent of my NFL knowledge.)

Returning to the Great Gifting Extravaganza of 25 days ago–remember how, before image3Dec. 25, we’d anguished over our burgeoning holiday gift list? Remember how we second-guessed every purchase & debated every gift-card-v.-actual-item decision? We worried & stressed & considered paying extra for the super-duper-extra-fast-guaranteed-delivery-yesterday-or-maybe-next-week shipping because we wanted to give everybody the perfect present. But, right now–25 days later–can you remember what those presents were? I have to admit that for me it’s all faded into a warm fuzzy memory of “thank-yous” & hugs & those Dec. 25 words every grandparent longs to hear: “It’s exactly what I wanted!”

However, I DO remember the awesomely wonderful presents I opened 25 days, and I bet you do, too. We focus so intently on our own holiday shopping that we forget it’s a two-way process. I need to grab a gratitude journal & remind myself because my family includes some of the best present-picker-outers ever. Here’s proof:

  • OK, it’s true that my husband John Pitts didn’t actually go out & buy the BrevilleIMG_2325 Barista Express Espresso Machine for me. But he DID say “go for it” when I told him I had ordered was going to order it & it it could be my Christmas present & I really really wanted it because had he noticed I hadn’t been making espresso lately because my other machine leaked all over the kitchen counter & we can’t have that but we must have espresso. Must. Have. Espresso. At least, I think he said “go for it.” He might have said “What the @#$% do you need a $500 coffee machine for?” I wasn’t really listening. But this? This is life. I love it so hard. We have deep meaningful conversations every morning. We understand each other completely. There was a learning curve in which I doubted myself a couple of times but we finally figured each other out. If you appreciate good coffee as well as the process of making it, then this is a must-have.image1
  • I have two sisters-in-law & they are both generous, loving & giving women who care about things such as equality & environment. One of them gifted me this gorgeous World Wide Fund scarf. It’s a meaningful gift because it reminds me 1) to be more like my sisters-in-law instead of pondering such minor annoyances as “Do you think my ears are different sizes–like feet? Because the left AirPod always slips out.”; 2) “WWF” stands for “World Wide Fund” & not “World Wildlife Fund” or “World Wrestling Federation” because legalities & trademarks, people, and 3) the WWF website has disturbing reports on the Australian wildfire & other climate-change news–and it’s not good. Take a minute & read for yourself. My sis-in-law says “thank you.”

But, wait! There’s more! Come back tomorrow for more gifting fun & other goodies.

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P.S. Nobody pays me anything or gives me anything or helps me in any way in exchange for a mention in “Coffee with Cathy.” Whatever you read here is from me alone, for no other reason than it’s something I like or saw or heard or feel or want to talk about. Of course, if Cadillac wants to gift me my dream car–an Escalade SUV–I’m open to negotiations, but otherwise, I can’t be bought. (Also blue. I like Dark Adriatic Blue.)

A story about mothers & daughters

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Because I’ve been walking around–well, sort of walking around–on crutches these past couple of weeks and people are squinting at me & saying, “Wait, you hurt your leg AGAIN???”, I thought I should explain.

Yes, I hurt my leg again. No, the other leg.  Yes, it was something stupid.  No, a dog & beer bottles were not involved this time. And, yes, you are correct that I’m a klutz & definitely should watch where I’m going. Thank you for your concern.

Also–daughters are The Best. The. Best.

But before I tell you why that is true: My current leg situation is because, at home one day, I walked into the leg of a chair that has been in the same spot for several years but apparently time-traveled into invisibility at the exact second I passed by.  That’s the only explanation I have for walking into a chair I’d managed to avoid  a million other times. (Unless you have a better story & then, please, may I borrow it?) Anyway, the sweet folks at the emergency clinic said I’d broken the something-or-other part of my foot & I should stay off of it for several weeks via crutches and this lovely boot thing & we’ll file your insurance & please have a nice day.

But the previous leg situation lives on because of this photo.45035643_10103008473157676_7379885916367618048_n

That is me with some more sweet folks loading me into an ambulance at my mom’s house in home-of-Bonaroo Manchester, Tennessee. But you’re probably looking at Younger Daughter, on the left, and wondering why she’s making a rude gesture & to whom she is making it. In reverse order, the answers are my brother/her uncle & because he had asked us to “smile for the camera.” And also because she loves her mama & felt her uncle was somehow responsible for what had transpired. Which is this:

  1. Younger Daughter & I drove up to my mom’s house for a weekend birthday celebration. It was late afternoon & getting dark.
  2. Everyone always brings adult beverages to my mom’s house because if we didn’t there wouldn’t be any.
  3. My mom also doesn’t think dogs should be in her house.
  4. My brother, therefore, had left his dog, Roxie, in the mudroom/back-entryway.
  5. My brother also had barricaded the doorway leading out of the mudroom/back-entryway by placing a walnut dining-room chair on its side in said doorway.
  6. My brother also had thoughtfully turned out the lights because Roxie likes it better that way & we’re trying to be environmentally & sustainably thoughtful.
  7. I walked into the mudroom & didn’t turn on the lights because I was carrying six-packs of beer bottles because of course that’s the most important thing to bring inside the house first and I also was talking to Roxie & Younger Daughter.
  8. I immediately didn’t see the chair, fell over it & found myself on the floor with Younger Daughter saying, “My god, Mom, YOUR BONE IS STICKING OUT.”

It wasn’t my bone–there was just some normal body stuff that apparently appears when you fall over something while carrying six-packs of beer bottles & slice open your leg with one of the bottle’s metal caps. I spent the remainder of the weekend with my leg propped up and recovering from a nasty hangover because–and this is where the mother-daughter bond makes another appearance–I’d stupidly told the ambulance & emergency-room folks that “No, I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt at all.” because that’s what you say when people ask you how you are & so, consequently, my on-a-scale-of-one-to-10 pain level was recorded as being so low that I didn’t need pain meds. Which was a big ol’ lie because it really really really hurt. But, Younger Daughter, with impressive presence of mind & because she is awesome, had accurately assessed the situation & brought my big tote bag to the ER with the little boxes of wine I always pack (see No. 2 above) so I sneaked gulps between visits by attentive medical people administered my own pain meds quickly & thoroughly–so well, in fact, that I had TWO reasons for walking out of the ER unsteadily & then I also promptly got sick in my brother’s truck.

But the good news is that I have wonderful daughters who stick up for their mama & take excellent care of her when needed. Happy Mother’s Day!

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These are a bunch of my favorite things — Part 1: Shopping while everybody else is watching The Game

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Note: This is Part 1 of a continuing series about some of my favorite things that you need to know about so they can be your favorites, too. Check back frequently for the latest–and share your favorites, too.

 

There’s this Big Football Game (remember that you can’t say “Super Bowl” unless you’re an NFL team owner or actually playing in the game) coming up. Then, in a few weeks, Massive March (basketball) Madness happens. So because of these important televised Sports-Ball Games at which your people request your couch presence, you’ll probably be spending more time in front of the TV–you know, that big screen on your wall you keep forgetting to dust because you’re snuggled up in bed watching “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.” And even if you’re a passionate I’ve-worn-my-team-shirt-for-12-straight-days fan who notices all the things–or you’re a casual observer who only REALLY pays attention when there’s a chance Alabama will get the @#$% beat out of them–it’s difficult to completely 100 percent focus on every single play 100 percent of the entire game. Sometimes you need a break–something quiet & unobtrusive that won’t earn you side eyes from those who frown on game-time side chatter.

Solution? Shopping on your phone.

Sure, you could do something like sit there & read a book or knit a sweater or grade some papers. (Wait, CAN you knit a sweater? Because if you can, you totally should do that, anyway.) But doing something that’s so obviously NOT watching the game is a bit I’ve-got-more-important-things-to-do-thank-you-very-much rude. Of course you could use your phone to play games or check email or engage in a Twitter war while everybody else debates an offside call. But those things take focus & concentration, too, and may cause you to be that person who looks up & asks plaintively “What happened? Why is everybody yelling? What did I miss?” Don’t be that person.

Shopping on your phone, on the other hand, is the perfect watching-but-maybe-not-so-much activity: You’re engaged enough to participate in game commentary but you’re also doing something nice for yourself. Win-win. Which–fun fact–is completely unlike the Sports Ball you’re (supposed to be) watching.

So, for your Big Game Day sort-of-watching pleasure, here are three of my favorite online boutiques. These are for mainly women’s clothes & accessories because that’s mainly what I shop for. I’ve got several other favorites, but these are simply the ones where I’ve recently spent waaay too much money because there’s so much cuteness & so many sales that I thought of first.

  • Lemons and Limes Boutique–Owned & run by the amazing Wendy Knight from her home in Loveland, Ohio, this is the place for fun & affordable jewelry, stylish yet useful handbags and unique items from her own product line, Lauren Lane. Double-stud earrings? Mix-and-match stretch bead necklaces? A purse you really & truly can wear five different ways? Lemons & Limes had them first. And now you can, too.  cropped-cwcslantCoffee with Cathy tip: Wendy has the best subscription shipments, grab bags & mystery auction boxes. The. Best. Even if you think you don’t like surprises, I guarantee you’ll like these.
  • Prep Obsessed–Best friends Nina Vitalino & Corey O’Loughlin started their boutique in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida, six years ago … and shopping has never been the same. Known for their colorful Florida vibe, the two entrepreneurs & their hard-working team offer curated collections of Spartina, Simply Southern, Corkcicle, All for Color & other classic brands both online & in their store.  cropped-cwcslantCoffee with Cathy tip: New gotta-haves go fast, so don’t delay clicking “Add to cart.” (I NEVER hesitate.) However, Corey & Nina restock whenever things are available, so wait-listed items usually get fulfilled.
  • Tag Online Boutique–Julie Knight, of Cincinnati, couldn’t find an online clothing boutique that offered style & fit at accessible prices, so, four years ago, she started her own. “TAG” stands for “Trendy, Affordable & Gorgeous”–and everything she sells on her website meets that promise. Shop here for dresses, outerwear & separates–Julie was the one who introduced Magic Pants to the world.  cropped-cwcslantCoffee with Cathy tip:  Join the Tag Facebook group for discounts on new releases, fabric info & to see items modeled by women of different sizes.

Each of the hundreds dozens one or two times I’ve shopped these boutiques, I’ve been amazed at the helpful customer service & quick shipping times. Each of these businesses is run by women–women with families & in some cases women with other jobs. Each of these boutiques gives back by helping individuals who could use a boost & by contributing to non-profits that help others. It’s win-win-win-win. Again, please don’t say that during The Game. The purpose of any sports ball is one–and ONLY one–win. Only in shopping can there be many winners. True story.

cropped-cwcslant1.jpgP.S. Nobody pays me anything or gives me anything or helps me in any way in exchange for a mention in “Coffee with Cathy.” Whatever you read here is from me alone, for no other reason than it’s something I like or saw or heard or feel or want to talk about. Of course, if Cadillac wants to gift me my dream car–an Escalade SUV–I’m open to negotiations, but other than that, I can’t be bought. (Also blue. I like the Dark Adriatic Blue.)