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.