I See Dead People's Stuff, And It Makes My Depression Disappear

I'm just gonna tell you the truth.  In 2012, I was diagnosed with depression (a hormonal result of a thyroid tumor, which eventually became cancerous), and as you can imagine, the whole experience  was, well, depressing. I stayed in bed all day with my cats, rarely showered, and looked like the Trash Heap from Fraggle Rock. 

Me on my better days.

In a supportive gesture, my husband, Christian (aka Mr. Big Moose), literally pushed me out the door, stammering in his best Yoda imitation, "Do something, you must!" So, we drove. And we drove. Until we passed a sign reading "Estate Sale," and Chris insisted we turn back. 

“I don’t want to do this,” I whined, eyeballing the 30ish or so hoarders queuing outside the house's door . “These people look crazy. Like, they might shank me for my sneakers.”

“Stop being so judgmental,” Chris snapped. “I bet they’ve showered more than once this past week.”

He had a point, so I shut up and shuffled into the queue. Then our turn came. I entered the house, expecting only half-used jugs of dollar store laundry detergent and unwashed rugs displaying artistic spatterings of cat pee. I paused for a second at the door, reluctant to enter what I imagined had to have been an old dude's crack den, and Chris firmly shoved me over the threshold.

Cheesus. On. A. Cracker. That was the best decision that man has ever made in his life (other than giving up his Harry Potter wand, because a grown man pointing a child’s toy at dirty dishes and yelling ‘Optimus Prime,’ even though that’s NOT a spell, is just the most ridiculous thing in the world.)

It was a freaking amusement park all up in that place. Star Wars memorabilia dangled from the ceiling. Plastic mannequin heads lined an entire table, each of them donned with some elaborate mid-century hat. The kitchen contained an entire collection of mugs painted with those ugly little corgi dogs. And the garage? Hand to God, it had more than 800 pounds of costume jewelry. Watches, necklaces, bracelets, and earrings snarled into heaps of tangled nests on table after table of glittering junk. Overweight women in tacky stretch pants sprawled on the floor, elbowing each other in an effort to claim the tubs of unsorted jewelry tucked beneath the tables.

Room after room presented erratic yet enticing oddities, and before I knew it, I was on the ground with the rest of the loonies, pawing through this stuff like a puppy on crack. Before long, I could barely see where I was going because of the stack of stuff I was holding in front of me. My loot included pig-shaped plates, a brass unicorn, Confederate War Bonds, a Pound Puppies puzzle, and a penis cozy.

See, right here. This is my "aha" moment. I was in a dead person’s house, hoarding their stuff, and I picked myself up a penis, albeit one made out of wool.

Get used to this picture. You're going to be seeing it often, because this truly is my favorite vintage find. 

Chris looked at my pile of treasure and queried: “Where the hell do you think you’re going with all that?” (He just pretended he didn't see the blue-balled-WWII-era-penis.) 

“To the checkout,” I said. “I’m flush with cash here, babe. Dolla’ dolla’ bill, yo!”

“No,” Chris clarified. “You just have my credit card. And this is not what we use it for.”

Maybe it was because he knew that my depression had been more crippling than either of us could have imagined, or maybe it was because in that moment he remembered that he actually loved my quirks, or maybe it was because he just really appreciated me finally bathing, but for whatever reason, my husband gave me a look of total endearment and affection and said, “Fine. Buy it. But it’s YOUR responsibility to figure out what we’re going to do with all of this, you crazy hoarder."

We got home, and I immediately signed up for Etsy. I haven't looked back since.

Dear readers, I will not lie to you. Some of the stuff I've found is complete crap. Oh, and scary. I've found stuff that's downright frightening. Or dirty. Or just WAY too personal. Behold:

Good Lord, Almighty!

WHY?!?

I don't even want to know...

This one literally made me jump when I turned the corner and saw it. *Shivers*

But I've found some classy stuff, too!

Mid-Century Brass Ibex/Gazelle Bookends

SUPER Collectible Vintage Vera Neumann Napkins

       Incredibly Rare Dorothy Kindell Lady Head Vase

Stellar Gold-Lined Mid-Century Glassware

The thrill of not knowing whether you're going to find a several-hundred-dollar-head-vase or the world's scariest doll's head is part of the medicinal aspects of estate sales. Because, in case you're wondering, my depression has abated, and I'm feeling pretty stellar now. 

And -- for realz -- I swear that it was that moment, when I opened my shop and made my first sale, that things started to look up. This is not a line, folks. It's the truth. 

Booger Says Sorry

Mr. Big Moose: "You know, if you had told me in my younger years that I would be spending my Saturdays cleaning up a cat named Booger's vomit while my wife was selling brass unicorns online, I would've been very skeptical."

Ms. Posh: Isn't our life magical?

Mr. Big Moose: No. Not in the least.

Booger: (From the corner) I'm too ashamed to show my face. Please stop fighting now, guys. 

Wherein Chris Comments...

So, Chris here.  My wonderful wife, Bekah, has been badgering lovingly encouraging me all evening to contribute to our blog. And because I value my sanity wife's feelings, here I sit trying to think of something clever. In absence of that, I'm going to go with this...

Grown Ass Man

Yup, that happened.  My in-laws came to town, bringing a French couple along. We decided to show them Atlanta's showier side and took them to the Westin Hotel, which has a fancy rotating restaurant at the top. First, I love rotating restaurants.  They're usually pretty high up and have a great view.  It's pretty much the lazy person's version of sight seeing.   

At any rate, we pull up to the Westin's valet, and we immediately notice the inordinate amount of folks milling around. And those folks were dressed... well, ... let's just skip to the conversation:  

Bekah: “Does that woman have a tail?”

Me: “Oh no….”

Bekah: “No, seriously, what’s with that guy’s ears? Are those fox ears? I think they're fox ears.”

Me: “Shit. Don’t make eye contact”

Bekah: “Why? What's going on? Is something wrong?”

We make it into the Westin and ride the elevator up to the fancy brunch place, but instead of focusing on the sights, my in-laws and the French couple were staring at the gigantic Dalmatian roaming the restaurant. 

And in that moment, over waffles and friend chicken, I got to explain the furry subculture and the resulting FurryCons* to my in-laws, who then translated the more salient parts into French. I don't know which was better: Watching their reactions, or seeing the great view from up top.

*I'm not going to go into what the furry culture is. For those sorts of questions, we have such tools as Google and Wikipedia. 

You Lucky Son of a Gun

Yesterday, we had a little giveaway contents, wherein anybody who commented on our first blog post received a prize from a bag of surprise goodies. With a future in doctoral research, I took great care to maintain an unbiased, confound-free, randomized selection process.

First, I wrote the names of all participants on slips of paper.

Names! Names! Names!

I acquired a receptacle from which to conduct my drawing. I placed said slips of paper into the vessel of truth.

KERMIE!!! And Reporter KERMIE at that!

And then I drew out a name. And that name is.... Jeska! Congratulations, you lucky little princess!

JESKA!!!

You may choose from one of the following four prizes. Please read that sentence again, because you do not get ALL of the prizes. Just A prize.

Really rad cat coaster

Totally groovy alien pin

No need to explain this awesomeness. It's a Far Side mug.

And for all of those you wondering, yes, that IS a cat hair in the pictures. Remember the tagline of this here blog? Cats, chaos, and clutter. This is a perfect example of all three peeking its way into my blogging life.

Anyway, Jeska, CONGRATS! Please leave a comment of which item you have chosen, and we will privately arrange for me to get your address... so I can stalk you... or mail you the gift... or stalk you...

Hello, world.

This? This right here? This is what you didn’t even know you’ve been waiting for your whole life.

My first blog post.

Well, I guess since I am a CO-founder of this here A Study of Stuff, I should *technically* say “our” first blog post. 

But anybody with two bad eyes and a minimum reading skill set can identify me as both the beauty and the talent of this here operation. My husband, Mr. Big Moose, is the financier, task master, and the genius behind all the technical stuff. Like that thing up above? Where there’s a drawing of a dude and a lovely lady? And then it says the name of our blog?

Big Moose did that.

I didn’t even know that thing had a name ("banner," in case you're curious), until Mr. Big Moose told me. But don’t you dare think he's smarter than me. That man that I just described as having incredible Internet intellect? Yeah, well, he once insisted that a “comma” was spelled “coma,” at which point, I was tempted to put him in one. So, take that for what it’s worth...
        Anyway, this has already gotten off track, and I feel quite sorry about that. You deserve better. But remember. This is my first time, and the first time is never really all that good.

So, what to tell you… I could tell you about the time that my sister made me eat dog feces. But I think I’m going to save that. Hrmmm… I could tell you about when Mr. Big Moose proposed to me after an episode of Battlestar Galactica. Nah, too obvious. I could tell you about the time I kissed President George W. Bush. Probably not a good story for what I hope is my more liberal audience. Sheeesh. This IS hard.

Ok, welp, to Google I go: "How to write first blog post." Search result: “Imagine you were at a coffee shop, and people asked you about yourself or your company. What would you say?”

I’d ask them why the heck they were interrupting my peaceful caffeine consumption, but I see where the author of this how-to was headed, so here’s the proverbial skinny (although, as you can tell from our pics, Mr. Big Moose and I clearly don’t know what that “s” word entails.)

We’re a husband and wife team with one fat cat and a closet packed to the brim with stuff. Vintage stuff, to be precise. Three years ago, we existed as corn-fed Iowans, and then, one day, we packed up our stuff, and we moved South. Atlanta, that is. Collard greens country.

Suck it, snow shovel!  To the trash  you go.

Mr. Big Moose advanced his career with a professor position at a state college, as well as a computer security vulnerability manager spot at a huge corporation (yeah, I don't know what that means either, other than I know how to read his paycheck, and I think this was a good move.) I made a vertical move, too, but one that plummeted straight down. After almost a decade of kicking ass and literally taking names down in my notebook,  at 27,  I decided that I’d enjoyed my career as a journalist, but that the curtain had fallen, and it was time for a new act.

Turns out, my headlining appearance was unemployment. With nothing to do and a tumor on my thyroid (more on all the cancer goodies later), I became depressed and turned to … duh! Retail therapy, obviously. But this sort of shopping has a whole earthy underground grooviness to it. By accident, I stumbled upon an estate sale, and once I immersed myself in the gritty underbelly that is estate sale-ing, I haven’t looked back. In fact, I roped in Mr. Big Moose, and now we spend our free hours picking through dead people’s stuff, determining what remainders of these people’s lives have monetary value for the online world.

Sure, it sounds creepy as hell, but it’s flipping addictive as pie. On one of my first digs (or picks, as we call them), we discovered a World War II - era patriotic red, white, and blue penis cozy. Yuuup. You read that right. The estate sale manager assured us the item remained unused. I bought it and sold it to a little old granny wanting to shock her grandkids for their White Elephant Gift Exchange Party.

So, together, Mr. Big Moose and I founded my vintage online Etsy store — PickPosh. Suddenly, I owned more stuff than an entire country in the sub-Saharan (probably not a joke, which is a truly sad commentary on materialism, capitalism, and social justice.) This excess prompted Mr. Big Moose to open his own store — BigMooseMantiques — to feature the more manly items I found, such as cuff links, barware, ties, razors, and more.

Now, together, we’re our own little snarky, spunky, not-all-that-lame conglomerate known as A Study of Stuff. We considered calling it something more snappy and more likely to irk my mother-in-law. The title Bloke and The Bitch was my top vote. But in the end, we knew that this name, "A Study of Stuff," fit best.

Why?

Because we don't have clue numero uno as to what we’re going to discuss. Other than, you know, stuff.

Stuff could include our cat, Booger, and his bowties. Stuff could be which pipe tobacco Chris thinks smells and smokes the most scrumptiously.

Stuff could include our cooking and dining out adventures, Southern or otherwise. 

It can include the crazy shit I encounter on a random basis in my new life as picker, college student, cancer patient, and full-time infertile woman whose mother-in-law still has not accepted that she will not have grandchildren from her son.

       Or, stuff could include how Chris and I are thinking about buying a stuffed beaver and making it wear a beaver skin top hat.

        

 Or, stuff could be just nothing at all. 

Kind of like this post.