I’ve come to accept that I live a strange life. Mom says it’s God’s way of making sure I never run out of column material. 

I offer the following as case in point. 

Last week, I was skimming the online postings on Craigslist when I saw a post from someone looking for baskets. The post seemed heaven-sent. My latest attempt at organization had (as usual) resulted in little more than stuff being relocated from one part of the house to another. But this time, when the dust from my round-up had settled, I found a once-scattered assortment of baskets had been corralled together. 

We needed space. They needed to go. And here, thanks to the posting, was my simple solution. 

I sent an email to the woman who placed the ad, offering to give her the baskets, and we emailed back and forth several times to figure out where to meet. She’d only recently moved to Charleston from Ohio and wasn’t familiar with too many places, but we finally settled on one we could both find-the Moose Lodge parking lot just past Daniel Boone Park. Since we got off work at the same time, we agreed to head to the lot immediately after work.

She described her car (an older model blue) and said she had a bunch of Mardi Gras beads hanging from her rearview mirror. And since she’d said she moved here from Ohio, I figured I could spot her by watching for the car driving slow in the fast lane, lurching into the parking lot and then taking up two parking spaces.

But when I pulled into the lot, I spotted her car right away, parked a bit off by itself, windows rolled down. Ohio plates. Mardi Gras beads on the mirror. I waved to the woman sitting behind the wheel, and she smiled and waved back. Before either of us could say much, her cell phone rang and she answered the call.

Being in a bit of a hurry, I opened my car and began moving the baskets from my car to hers while she talked on the phone. I had quite a few baskets, so it took several trips, and I was feeling a little annoyed with her for not pausing her call long enough to at least offer to help. 

Still, it was no big deal. I wanted rid of the baskets and they were going to someone who could use them. I returned to my car and waved goodbye. She waved back. I headed for home, thinking no more about it.

Until the next day. When I got an email from the woman.

“I waited at the Moose lot for 25 minutes, but you never showed up. What happened?” 

I immediately emailed her back.  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

She wasn’t kidding.

And she apparently wasn’t the only former Ohio person parked in the Moose lot in an older model blue car with Mardi Gras beads.

Yes, I had not only loaded the baskets in the wrong car, but the woman sitting right there in that wrong car had let me.

Who can’t interrupt a phone call long enough to stop a total stranger from filling their car with baskets?

I keep picturing that woman, back home in Ohio, telling her family about how West Virginians are friendly and generous, although perhaps a bit weird.  

Since this incident, I’ve learned the Charleston Job Corp, located close to the Moose Lodge, is training people (many of whom have come here from out of state, seeking jobs) to work at the Tri-State Racetrack & Gaming Center, which has the whole Mardi Gras theme going on, thus the beads everywhere.

It’s a shame there’s already a book out there called “An Unfinished Life” since that would’ve made an ideal title for the story of my life.

Just ask my husband. He swears I suffer from ADHD, except in my case, it stands for Attention Deficit Home-remodeler’s Disorder. I’m not the only one who suffers from my affliction. Those who live with me suffer as well, as they’re forced to reside around and with my unfinished projects.

I’m not certain how I came to be so afflicted, but confess that my case is severe. I suspect the origins go back many years, to when I first entered the work force and an older coworker told me the best way to become an irreplaceable employee was to devise a filing system so complicated (or inane) that no one else could navigate their way through it.

(This particular coworker’s own system included two drawers devoted to the letter “T” due to her large number of files that started with “The.” The State of West Virginia. The Department of Motor Vehicles.)

So completely to heart did I take her advice that I was soon applying it in ways that went beyond mere filing-far, far beyond. To most every corner of my house and yard. Not only would no one be able to unmuck my many messes, but they’d be unwilling as well.

From the time we first walked through the doors of our house, my wheels started turning. There were so many possibilities.

And so little money or time.

But those afflicted with my variant of ADHD would never allow measly finances or a frequently erratic schedule to deter them from starting a large, involved, and extremely messy project (or three). Not for a minute. True ADHD sufferers are fueled by such limitations. Such roadblocks not only make the job more of a challenge, but they also provide legitimate-sounding excuses for not completing the job.

The main factor hindering me from completing a task is this bothersome little thing I like to call “Monday.” These Monday impediments always come along much sooner than I anticipate. During the week, I can rarely muster the energy after work to spend time on a project, and the aforementioned spouse’s escalating annoyance often compels me to relocate much of the construction-related material and byproducts to a less conspicuous area, thereby rendering the area into something I’m able to view as more finished/less urgent than do other members of my household.

Currently, there is not a single room in our house not bearing my mark–a mark as familiar to my family as that of Zorro. He of the Z. Me of the tape-masked, yet not painted; the spackled, yet not sanded; the mitred, yet not nailed.

That of which legends are made.

Just not particularly positive legends.

My husband compares me to a dog marking its territory, in an only slightly more tolerable manner.

Lest you believe me to be proud of my failings, please know that I’m not. I recognize the frustration of my spouse and my child, who must regularly traverse our abode in hurdle-like fashion. Still, I find myself unable to take most projects beyond a certain level of completion. Once the most challenging point is past, I find that my interest has gone with it. 

I envy the a surgeon who, once he’s performed his job on the patient, can pass the needle and thread to his assistant and say, “Close her up.” That’s what I dream of for my unfinished life.

Their anger was obvious.

“These juveniles need to have their feet held to the fire!” commented one person at the end of the Gazette’s online article about teen vandals who trashed a Charleston school.

“To do nothing only inspires more kids to do the same.”

Said another, “This is probably just the beginning of what they’re capable of.”

Another: “They should be publicly shamed. Make them stand in front of the school they damaged for a day, then move them to another public place for a day.”

Since I was angry myself, I chewed through the comments. The recent local vandalism problem was already fresh in my mind, as it had been a main topic of conversation during our dinner with Desper Lemon, a Ward 7 Councilman in St. Albans. 

“They did thousands of dollars of damage to the old Parkway Supermarket, spray-painted the church on Forrestal, damaged cars up and down the street,” said Lemon. “One 12-year-old boy is responsible for most of it, but his family doesn’t have the money to pay for the damage, and you aren’t even allowed to print the kid’s name in the paper, so nothing happens. He’s right back out there.” 

Lemon is frustrated because even though St. Albans already has a curfew that might help deter some of the vandalism, it isn’t being enforced. 

When the Vermont home of the late poet Robert Frost was badly vandalized by a group of 28 teenagers, part of their sentence included a requirement to take a class on Frost’s poetry. 

“I was thinking if these teens had a better understanding of who Robert Frost was and his contribution to society, they might be more respectful of other people’s property in the future and learn something from the experience,” said the prosecutor.

I like that the prosecutor was willing to try something different with the offenders, but my thinking is more aligned with those commenting on the newspaper’s site, which is basically that the vandals need to be forced to clean up their own mess. Until a person has spent hours trying to scrub spray paint off brick, they don’t fully appreciate the stupidity and senselessness of the damage they’ve caused.  

We can commiserate, point fingers at the parents, blame society and the lack of recreation choices available for teens, but the only solution is to come up with a punishment that fits the crime, and publish the results for everyone to see. The vandals need to have their actions made to be an embarrassment to them, and their punishment distasteful and harsh enough that to copy their actions would be foolish. We can’t allow them to be seen as cool. 

There are some who defend graffiti as “street art,” but street art and vandalism are two different things. For every one graffiti artist who does beautiful work, a dozen or more are just kids writing their names. True street art is far less common than vandalism, and while some graffiti <I>is<P> art, most is not. Most is vandalism.

Unfortunately, vandalism is generally considered a low priority by police, even though it’s a gateway crime. In the same way torturing animals is an indicator of future violence, graffiti and vandalism are indicators of future anti-social behavior. They usually move on to other, worse crimes.

There’s a temptation to excuse away the actions of these delinquents because we feel sorry for them, saying they’re acting out of anger or frustration and that graffiti and window-breaking serve as an outlet for them, but if their acts go unpunished, what’s to prevent them from thinking other more serious offenses won’t be overlooked, too? 

They might’ve been dealt a bad hand, but they don’t have to play it. 

We need to enforce curfews, designate a few bare walls where graffiti would be allowed, and most of all, we need to repeal the law that protects the identities of the offenders. 

They need to be held accountable for their behavior, and they also need to repay their victims for damages. In some cities, juvenile offenders are required to work for Habitat for Humanity, the nonprofit group that builds homes for low-income people. The state’s victim restitution fund pays the offender minimum wage for their time, except their earnings are sent directly to the victim.  

Instead of being sent to a detention facility, these teens learn construction skills, how to use tools, and other life skills, like showing up on time. And they see how long it takes to earn enough money to cover the cost of the damage they’ve done.

While it’s easy to sit back and say, “Make them clean up their mess,” it will be hard to enforce unless someone steps forward to volunteer. We need a group or individuals willing to be responsible for making certain the vandals get the work done. We have to stop saying it’s for the courts or police to handle. 

It’s the community’s problem, and it’s for the community to handle.

I was the kind of kid summer reading programs were made for. It took nothing more than a little competition (a challenge to see who could read the most) to turn me into a library regular. 

I came to love the written word so much that I can’t recall ever wanting to be anything but a writer or to work at a newspaper or for a publisher, and over the years, my enthusiasm doesn’t seem to have waned. 

Sadly, according to an Associated Press poll, one in four adults read no books at all last year. Twenty-five percent did not crack open a cover. The same poll reported that the average adult reads only four books per year. While I suppose I should savor being above average for a change, this is one area where I’d rather have lots of company. Especially in my own home. 

My husband makes his living writing, editing, and teaching writing, so it’s not surprising that he’s a voracious reader. He can wander the aisles of a bookstore for hours. The range of his curiosity is immeasurable.  Not so with my girl, who recently decided reading is “nerdy.”

Her blade cut deep. How could a child who has been surrounded by books since birth, who has been read to and written with, whose monthly Scholastic book orders occasionally threatened to reach car-payment levels, suddenly declare reading to be the height of not cool? I’d have been less shocked if she’d come home with a barbed wire tattoo and multiple piercings. 

Celeste has always read (and seemed to enjoy reading) the books assigned to her by her teachers, but nothing has lit the fire that would have her reading for pleasure or curiosity. I keep hoping she’ll stumble across the one that gets her hooked. I thought she’d found it last spring, when she tore through The Giver by Lois Lowry, loving it so much that she made us read it, too. But her fervor soon faded, and we’ve not found another that enthralled her that way. 

When I heard about First Book’s “What book got you hooked?” competition (www2.firstbook.org/whatbook), I went to the site hoping their list of favorites might spark some ideas. (The site is hosting a competition where they’ll award 50,000 new books to the state that gets the most votes. West Virginia placed third last year, and is currently third again this year, with less than a month to go before ending.) I skimmed the voter favorites and saw some titles that would’ve made my own list (Put Me in the Zoo by Robert Lopshire, Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White), but I wasn’t sure what might strike the fancy of my fickle 11-year-old. She’s at that age where so many books seem too young, but others seem too mature. 

It seems wrong (and maybe counterproductive) to force a child to read, yet to me, reading is every bit as important as a healthy diet, doing homework, and getting enough sleep. But how does a parent battle the not cool factor? My husband and I read all the time. Seeing one of us with a book is a daily event. But apparently, we’re the epitome of not cool. 

My 13-year-old niece, Madeline, is also a ravenous reader. When she visited this summer, she brought a duffle bag filled with novels. Since Celeste looks up to her cousin, I hoped she’d catch the book bug, but I think she’s immune. 

It’s a shame the Kindle, Amazon’s electronic wireless reading device, is still so expensive ($359) since that kind of technology might be what it takes for her to view reading as cool. But until they become more affordable, we’re considering canceling our cable. If her entertainment options are diminished, she might rethink her opinion that reading’s for nerds.

Normal people go to the beach and make castles.

We went to the beach and made people.

While typing these words, my toes are scrunching in sand. A single optimistic gull is lingering at the rail, although my crusts are long gone. A band has started warming up at the beach bar on the other side of the wall. And if Dustin Michael touches his sister’s toast one more time, he’s going shopping with Meemaw tomorrow instead of to the beach.

I don’t know Dustin Michael or Meemaw, but apparently, it’s an effective threat. There’s no more screeching from the balcony above.

(And come to think of it, Meemaw probably told Dustin Michael not to touch his sister’s toes, not her toast. Such is the plight of the eavesdropper.)

It’s strange to think that by the time these words are in print, our time at the beach will be over. That we’ll be back home in South Charleston and all I’ll have to show for it are a few thousand new freckles, hair the consistency of straw, and sand in places it’ll take years to get out.

And memories I wouldn’t trade for a million bucks.

We thought a trip to the beach wasn’t going to happen this year. Financially, it just wasn’t possible. The same as last year and the year before that. But my ex-laws, Bernie and Patty Vingle, came through, offering us the use of a condo they jointly own with relatives in Myrtle Beach. We jumped at the chance.

Even with the free place to stay, finances remained tight. Still, it’s possible to come up with creative entertainment methods that can be done on the cheap.

For example, it costs nothing to go down to the beach and dig a hole slightly narrower than a sand-colored beach towel. Once you have that hole, simply stretch the towel tightly across and secure, then build a large and elaborate sandcastle around the edges. Then sit back and wait for the first pack of obnoxious teenagers to charge the castle.

My favorite activity was discovered something by accident. It involved a bag of microwave popcorn and a drying-off-in-the-sun spouse who has become so deeply absorbed in his reading material that he fails to notice popcorn being scattered (I mean, accidentally spilled) all around him. Until the seagulls arrive. (He was so into his reading that he didn’t notice the gulls until there were almost a dozen.)

The next was a dare. It involved one crowded swimming pool, one somewhat innocent-looking (I like to believe) woman, and two fake ponytails which had been tucked, one on each side, into the underarm area of said women’s one-piece swimsuit. This allowed the phony pit locks to gather and protrude - enough, but not so much as to look too fake - the reddish-brown hair spilling luxuriously out against her contrasting swimwear.

And the final involved a little planning, although I didn’t know yet what I’d do with the realistic rubber Halloween hand I tossed into my suitcase before we left home.

So many kids enjoy burying Pop in the sand. In our case, it simply looked like we failed to dig him back up. 

Hormel Foods Corp. recently released the results of a study it commissioned on how cubicle inhabitants handle work stresses while effectively balancing their time and remaining reasonably sane.

Their findings revealed that today’s average office worker not only deals with an increased workload, but also with overly talkative co-workers, tiresome catchphrases and shared office refrigerators that, if reported, could generate OSHA fines.

As one who recently lost her office refrigerator privileges (our mini fridge lost power over a holiday weekend, enabling my ancient inedible to make its presence known throughout a good part of our floor), I was intrigued.

According to the study, “More than half of Americans (51 percent) say the biggest source of stress at work is not the job itself, but their co-workers.”

The study made gentle reference to a few types of office worker, such as the Gossip, the Tattler and the Flatterer. (Better known in the real world as Busybody, Rat and Brown-Noser.)

Those classifications reminded me about a recent conversation I had with a friend who was complaining about a “wannabe detective” in her office. He frequently appears at her desk, not so discreetly looking at what’s on her computer screen and randomly picking at papers or objects that attract his attention.

“I think there’s one of those in every office,” I said, recalling a former co-worker who was bold enough to stand behind me and attempt to read over my shoulder.

I suspect there are certain types that most every office likely has.

There’s the Skunk: someone who either has an aversion to deodorant or a propensity to abuse cologne. I’ve experienced scents so strong they made my eyes burn.

There’s the Lifer, generally a member of management who lives and breathes for the company, and expects the same of his staff. Can be seen walking the halls, regardless of the hour. Arrives early even when there’s waist-deep snow. Seldom takes vacation. Never takes a sick day. Inspired the saying “I don’t suffer from stress; I’m a carrier.”

 There’s the Poor-Me Competitor, who makes every situation into a contest. They’re the sickest, the most tired, most abused.

And the Kodak Representative, generally a proud parent or grandparent who traps co-workers on a regular basis, forcing them to look through stacks of nearly identical photos.

The Enthusiast can be hard to tolerate, especially on Mondays. Some of us just don’t do perky. It makes us sarcastic.

Occasionally, an Enthusiast will also be an Inappropriate Dresser, apparently to show off the fact that perkiness isn’t only a personality trait.

The Cynic is the staff member who takes pleasure in wryly reminding the Inappropriate Dresser that time and gravity aren’t going to be kind. Some offices have an abundance of Cynics. I suspect there’s a requirement that one be present at every meeting to shoot down ideas.

Finger-Pointers can be hard to take, too. They tend to start every sentence with the same word. For example, “Someone didn’t start a new pot of coffee” or “Someone left the copier jammed.”

Or “Someone forgot their food in the refrigerator and now it’s stinking up the third floor.” 

I have a problem with vacations.

My problem is that I want one. Might even go so far as to say that I NEED one. 

It’s been several years.

The thing is–I have trouble taking a vacation because there are so many more lasting and responsible things we could do with our money.

If we had money, that is.

One of our cars, a Volkswagen Jetta, is 11 years old. Our other car, a Toyota Matrix, currently has a broken windshield, no hubcaps, and a V100 sticker holding the back bumper on. But it’s nearly paid off–and not a moment too soon, as we’re inching ever closer to reaching the national average for credit card debt.

Our clothes dryer is contemplating a career change (it aspires to be the first icebox with tumbling action), while our air conditioner is going through menopause (unpredictable hot flashes, general moodiness, considerable whining).

Our yard was recently blessed by the appearance of a small pool of black, mucky goo with a scent dogs find irresistible. Black gold? Texas tea? No such luck, although I could bottle and sell this Eau de Swamprot and fund one fine vacation, except few dogs carry cash and the allure of this fragrance doesn’t cross over to humans.

I’m a practical person. I understand the difference between a need and a want. I get that it would be irresponsible to traipse off to the beach to get sunburned and sand flea bitten and jellyfish stung. I’ve calculated the cost of gas to the closest beach and back, have added up how long it would take, how much we’d likely spend eating out.

It’s simply not going to happen. There are more pressing priorities.

Generally, I’m good with priorities. Except I can’t stop thinking about my daughter, who turns 11 this week.

I want to play in the waves and the sand with my girl before she’s too grown to enjoy doing such things with her mom. I want to take her to tacky souvenir shops and spend ages trying to convince her we don’t need to liberate hermit crabs. I want to drag her out of bed before dawn so she can experience the sun as it rises over the water.

But at the same time, I want to teach her that we don’t always get what we want. That sometimes, we have to do without, that we have to work extra hard to save up for a trip.

And that, with a little creativity, we can have a decent vacation right here at home.

We can go to the wave pool or maybe put up at tent near the woods at my parent’s house. Have a campfire. Roast marshmallows and cook hotdogs on a stick.

We can go to Blenko Glass and watch the glass blowers. Go fishing at Ridenour. Take a canoe ride down the Coal River.

We can rearrange furniture (her idea of fun), trade bedrooms, sleep in sleeping bags on the living room floor. Hang out at the dog park.

Spend a day (or three) collecting and pricing stuff for a yard sale, then have the yard sale.

And start building our savings for a trip to the beach. 

I wasn’t going to post these since I’m thinking about doing a story on some of my recent projects, but I’m just so charged up about how this one turned out that I have to show off and post it.

This is a picture of my fireplace before I got started. That pile of wood in front of it is a disassembled antique fireplace mantle I got at the Habitat for Humanity ReStore for $40.

And this is after…

The miniature fireplace-looking thing used to be a firewood box, but since our fireplace is gas and we didn’t need it for that, I decided to make it into a little dog house. The entire project came in right at $75, and it completely changed the feel of the room.

I love doing this kind of work. Wish I could do it full-time, except I’m the slowest worker imaginable. I still need to do some kind of tile around the fireplace opening, but I’m not sure what. I bought a couple cheap tables ($10) at ReStore to practice on.

Don’t believe Kermit D. Frog for a second. It’s actually pretty easy being green. So easy that some of us didn’t even realize that’s what we were. 

For instance, I was trying to decide what to do with an old recliner that was too stained to donate, but too comfortable to throw out, when my daughter said, “Let’s put it out back. It’s better out there than in a landfill somewhere.”

Since our porch is covered and private, and since we had no real outdoor furniture to speak of, I saw no harm in temporarily “repurposing” the chair.

“Repurposing” is one of those green words the ecologist types are constantly tossing around, like “carbon footprints,” “eco-friendly,” and “harmonically grown.” Those who repurpose are “converting an item for use in another format,” which is something most of us frugal types have been doing for decades. I doubt I’ve thrown out a Cool Whip container, shoebox, or rubber band in my life.

Someone needs to start a movement to drop these goofy enviro-words and call it what it really is-frugal. Although I’d just as happily settle for “economical,” “thrifty” or “cheap.”

It’s like some marketing genius repackaged the concept of being thrifty and thoughtful into something that even the recklessly wealthy would feel obliged to do, lest they risk being viewed as a bad “global neighbor.” 

According to a Greenbiz report, there were 2,400 trademark filings in the United States last year that included the word “green” in some fashion, more than twice as many as in 2006. There were more than 900 applications for trademarks that began with “eco-.”

Seems a day doesn’t pass without a news story about green architecture, green clothing, or even green speed-dating, which is a trendy new way for eco-extremists to meet. A recent NPR story on “verdant” speed-dating told of one potential green suitor who made the mistake of driving his Land Rover to the event.  I’m betting he left alone. 

Many of us long-time cheapskates and packrats didn’t even know we were playing, and yet here we are, way ahead of the game. Those ratty clothes we held onto long after they were no longer stylish-they’re now called “vintage.” Our mismatched chairs, plates, and silverware have “eclectic charm,” and our chipped and paint-faded furniture is now “shabby chic.”

I love that hanging your clothes outside to dry on a line is no longer a sign to your neighbors that you can’t afford a dryer. I’m tickled that driving a small car is now admired, not pitied. Still, I’m not quite ready to buy into Celeste’s argument that a couple of goats would be more green than a lawnmower, or my husband’s counter suggestion that we not mow at all.

There are different shades of green-ness. I expect we fall somewhere around a light sage. 

After Celeste and I moved the recliner out to the porch, then covered it with an old cloth shower curtain, we stepped back to assess how it looked. 

“It looks lonely,” she said.

She helped me drag a not-quite-as-stained chair, an orphaned ottoman, and a seen-better-decades coffee table out there to join it.

It was a far cry from the vision I once had for our porch. I’d wanted to tile the floor and paint the pillars and hang ceiling fans. Maybe a built-in fire pit. Still, this looked comfortable and inviting.  And it required just a smidgen of labor and didn’t cost us a cent. 

Perhaps we’re not really green. We’re just lazy and cheap.