as time goes by

i save things. i save a lot of things. i save a ridiculous amount of things. or maybe, i save an amount of ridiculous things. some of it for sentimental reasons, like every single letter i’ve ever received from every single friend i’ve ever had. some of it gets saved for information, like all my old notebooks with song ideas scribbled randomly thoughout the pages. some of it gets saved out of habit, or is it compulsion, or an inexplicable attachment? more likely a combo platter of all three.

a few years ago i realized i come by it honestly. my friends have all heard the stories of the house i inherited from my parents, which came with the shocking realization they kept every single thing they’d ever touched. i swear, i never ever noticed before it was all handed down to me. there were stacks of sheets and towels, virtually everything i had slept on or dried off with from college all the way back to grade school. i called it ‘the greatest hits of my life, in bedding’. even scarier, i found a huge box of bedspreads and throw rugs from my grandparents house, unopened since they were packed in 1976. this was next to my old toy box, which contains every toy i ever had. next to that, a box with the horse costume my brother wore for halloween in 5th grade, next to a stack of luggage that may need carbon dating to be properly placed in history. and all this is being edged aside by the growing pile of boxes containing my own ‘magazine collection’. over 30 years of rolling stone. 25 years of interview. 20 years of vanity fair. i like to call this my ‘pop culture reference library’, though as i’m adding to the stack i usually just think of it as ‘an illness’. in the adjacent room are my vinyl lps, which i’ve been collecting since i was in 4th grade. it is my most precious thing, and chances are good you can randomly pull out anything and i can tell you where it came from: albums my grandmother bought me as a treat when we’d shop together (“every picture tells a story”, “deja vu”), albums i sent away and waited by the mailbox for, albums i got for christmas or a birthday or that i found in some wierd used shop for 99 cents. this is one collection that isn’t growing, though once i get a new turntable, all bets are off. and did i mention it weighs about 9 tons?

now, though, there is a ray of sunshine (finding me, no doubt, among a huge stack of boxes). in the early 80’s i started my retail career in a very urban-trendy card and gift store. one of the owners more brilliant moves was to start carrying swatches, long before anyone had heard of them, when they cost less than $50, before you could buy them in a department store. i went crazy, and with my employee discount ended up with 7 different models. do i need to add i still have them all (stored in a woven grass basket, saved since 1978)? yesterday, while reading my newest met home magazine (archive of approximately 20 years in the basement) about a designer who had worked with swatch in the early 90’s, i got curious to see if any of his designs were collectible. i looked at ebay. i looked at vintage swatch sites. i looked completely stunned. my 1980’s swatches now sell for anywhere between $250 and $450. each. one model i own is nowhere to be seen, which i assume means it is even more rare. most importantly, i suddenly feel completely justified for ‘collecting’. i had heard some older issues of the andy warhol magazine were now quite valuable, and i’ve seen many of my prized albums selling for significant amounts of money. but paying my mortgage with a couple of swatches? never imagined it. of course, i’m not going to part with them…yet.

i’ve been so worried about funding my retirement, but it no longer seems implausible. need a new car? sell a stack of architectural digest! feel like a vacation? sell a rare yoko ono album and a couple of frank zappas! time to buy groceries? here, have a pile of cds! suddenly, the world is my oyster. i wonder what i can get for the red plaid pillowcases i slept on in junior high?

the w word

people talk about the F word. they skitter around the N word. they whisper about the C word. but no one ever mentions the W word.

i’m single, and have been for some time. i tend to be fairly quiet, a little clumsy conversing under pressure, and totally incapable of flirting – which means approaching someone interesting to me is next to impossible. ever so rarely, i run into someone i’m incredibly attracted to, and i somehow summon up the power to try to make inroads and an impression. sometimes, the conversation starts to flow, i’m feeling erudite and confident, things are comfortable and moving right along. about the time i think “wow! this is really going great!”, the other person blurts out the W word. “WE made a great dinner last night….WE are taking a vacation next week….” in my mind, everything screeches to a halt.

sigh. sometimes, i hate the W word.