Breaking up is hard to do…

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Image from the Museum of Broken Relationships, Los Angeles

Not to mention, getting rid of the mementos left behind!

By Susan Caba
The Resale Evangelista

What do you do with the detritus–or cherished mementos–of lost love?

Sure, you can burn the wedding photos, toss left-behind t-shirts that still smell of your lover, donate the books once read together to charity. But what about the most intimate symbols of your intense love or overwhelming heartbreak–the things that demand a more dramatic gesture to mark the end of the relationship?

I’ve just discovered the solution–the  Museum of Broken Relationships in Los Angeles. Opened just last year, it is already the repository for, among other keepsakes, silicon breast implants that–once removed–signified freedom to their previous owner (wearer? implantee?); a blue dinosaur pinata that was one lover’s first birthday gift to another, and a piece of belly button lint preserved in a small plastic bag.

The label on the lint reads: “D’s stomach had a particular arrangement of body hair that made his belly button prone to collecting lint. Occasionally, he’d extract a piece and stick it to my body, sweaty after sex. One day … I met his oddity with my own; I put the lint in a small bag and concealed it away in the drawer of my bedside table.”

Love is strange.

Screen Shot 2016-07-23 at 10.11.29 AMThe original Museum of Broken Relationships was opened in Zagreb in 2010, established by two Croatian artists who decided to celebrate their love affair, according to a delightful article in The GuardianLos Angeles lawyer John B. Quinn was captivated by the emotions stirred by the exhibits in Zagreb and decided to open a local branch in the home of a bankrupt Hollywood Boulevard lingerie shop, formerly decorated with leopard-print carpet and red velvet dressing rooms. Donations were solicited with an ad that read:  “Unburden the emotional load. Don’t throw away the debris of your romantic exploits – give it to us.”

The texts, wrote Laity, have a compressed power a bit like a short story.  “I spent an entire summer making this birthday present, and he left it in my car”; or “You … did not want to sleep with me. I realized how much you loved me only after you died of Aids”. Some are little narratives of failed promise: “We met at a bar in NY; I lived in LA. 3 drinks, 2 poems, 1 walk later, we had sex on his friend’s couch … We saw the northern lights, but they were not as bright and vibrant as we thought they would be.”

Not every item memorializes lost romantic love. One of the most heartbreaking is a fake gold charm bracelet that once belonged to a daughter abandoned by her father–a souvenir from what she said was the best and the worst holiday of her life.  “Disney World 1977. You stood at the entrance and promised to bring us back there one day. Mum told you not to make promises you can’t keep. I have given up trying to make sense of your rejection of your two little girls.”

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Image from the Museum of Broken Relationships, Los Angeles

Can you imagine how cathartic it must be to boil a broken heart into a few words attached to a small object, then mailed to the Museum of Broken Relationships? Talk about clarifying and simplifying! And yes, the museum does accept donations.

I can’t think of a better resting place for these objects–things that we all, no doubt, are harboring with the knowledge that they deserve a dignified disposal, a metaphoric Viking funeral.

The Museum of Broken Relationships, Facebook is at 6751 Hollywood Boulevard, Los Angeles, California.


The Resale Evangelista is simplifying, clarifying and trying to live a more artful life. Sometimes that includes getting rid of emotional, as well as physical clutter!


The girlfriends-power house remake, Pt 1

A buffet makes a statement,

sparks redecorating frenzy

By Susan Caba
The Resale Evangelista

I only wish I had taken “before” photos of my friend Susan Rowe’s living room and dining room before we redecorated–the transformation is that dramatic.

Susan Rowe's oak buffet

The oak buffet that kicked off a make-over

And we did almost all of it with things Susan already had. That’s a lesson in looking at what you have–shopping your own house. When you do, you often get a clarified sense of your own taste. You notice the commonalities of color, pattern and style preferences. When you pull together items that, for one reason or another, have been scattered throughout the house, you’re rewarded–as Susan was–with a impact much bigger than the effort to make it happen.

A description of Susan’s downstairs, pre-makeover will have to suffice. The last time she redecorated, she was going for a monochromatic neutral look. The rugs in both the living and dining rooms were pale gray-on-white patterns. The window treatments in both rooms were Roman shades in a nubby cream, with sheer half-curtains below for privacy. Threads of orange and khaki in both materials were the only colorful accents. Both the sofa and love seat were off-white, rolled-arm, tufted back pieces. There was an upright piano in one corner of the living room, a contemporary black desk in another, along with a random armchair.

The walls in both rooms were painted a creamy neutral. Photos of Susan’s two kids were plentiful, both on walls and almost every surface. Small paintings by her father were a little hard to see, as they were hung too high or in out-of-the-way corners. Lamps, I am sorry to say, were too-few and in sad condition. You know how it goes–you decorate or redecorate, get consumed in work while raising your kids and volunteering at church and pretty soon, twenty years have passed. That once-fresh decorating is dated and possibly faded!

What does it take to get started? Time, for one thing. And a buddy, for sure. Having someone else along for the ride, at least at first, makes all that decision-making (where do I put the sofa, should I make curtains–or take a nap) much easier. Susan’s decorating streak burned brightly for several months after our mission in the living room and dining room was complete.

Susan’s  house is beautiful, with hardwood floors, pocket doors, a big bay window and elaborate mantels over the fireplaces, one in each room. The dining room mantel includes built-in glass cabinets. Like most of us, Susan had acquired and accumulated knick-knacks and decorative items that crowded the cabinets and almost every surface.

Susan opened her own law practice, working from home. The two kids are grown, graduated and out of the house. All of a sudden, she had time to look around and make changes. And boy, did she!


susan's dining room, with rug and valences

The dining room got a new, Craftsman-style carpet, new seat cushions and a decorative valance over the window. Susan loves sunflowers and keeps a bunch in a vintage green glass pitcher that was just a few dollars at Goodwill.

I don’t know where she got the courage, but she ordered a massive Mission-oak side board for the dining room on eBay. When I arrived, it was shrouded in cardboard, awaiting placement in the dining room. The designated space was occupied by a much smaller buffet. My first night there, I was up late so I tore apart the cardboard shroud and moved the sideboard into place. It looked magnificent, perfectly scaled to the room. That was the start of our decorating frenzy.

The final results are pictured above. With the new buffet in place, and the old one on a more appropriately sized wall, we rehung the art. You can’t see it because of the reflections in the glass, but the piece at the far end of the room is a Japan-esy abstract of leaves floating on a lake. We took four of the largest formal portraits on the Susan and Ross’s children, and grouped them above the buffet–which created a much bigger impact. The antique lamps on the new buffet belonged to Susan’s grandmother (we found them in the basement) and the big pottery platter was purchased during a visit to North Carolina. Susan had the antique gas lighting fixture–original to the house–rewired and placed on a dimmer switch.


We cleared the clutter out of the mantel shelves and hung decorative plates above.

Textiles made the biggest difference in the look of the dining room. After a long online search, we settled on the geometric rug from Lowe’s. We saw a lot that were more elaborate or more striking–but also more expensive. This rug, as I recall was around $200. Susan and her friend Barb Montgomery recovered the dining room chairs with fabric we also used to make Roman shades in the living room. The two of them also made valances from a different but coordinating fabric over the dining room windows. Susan later used that material to make accent pillows for a couple of chairs.

The takeaways

  • The big, beautiful buffet provided a huge focus for the room. We balanced it’s heft at the end of the room with the smaller buffet, topped by a large piece of art.
  • The Craftsman-style rug is stylistically compatible with the quarter-sawn-oak, Craftsman buffet.
  • The colors of the rug, the window valances and the chair covers complement one another without being “matchy-matchy.” The fact that the chair covers are the same fabric as the Roman shades in the living room, and that there are living room accent pillows out of the valence material in the dining room, pulls those adjoining rooms together into a relationship.
  • The shape and size of art work matters almost as much as the subject matter. Grouping the portraits together made them more “important” than when they were hung singly. The size of the print over the other buffet gave that wall enough heft to balance the bigger buffet, as well as the elaborate fireplace that takes up the wall to the left of the table.
The Resale Evangelista is all about simplifying and clarifying while creating a more artful life. A beautiful house that reflects who we are is one way of making life more artful–and it doesn’t have to cost much. Next up, a look at Susan’s redecorated living room, as well as a before and after post about  her revitalized garden.


Gone, all gone!


Animated video by

Yeah, it’s Independence Day for sure!

That’s it. I’m done. For the first time in almost three years, I do not have a storage locker.

By Susan Caba
The Resale Evangelista

As you may recall, at one time I had two storage lockers–the big one–10-feet by 15-feet–packed front-to-back, side-to-side, bottom-to-top, and a smaller “spillover” locker. I acquired those when I sold my house in St. Louis and spent a year or more house-sitting around the country. When I moved into a one-bedroom apartment here in Virginia, I put the excess stuff in a 10-by-10 storage unit.  Now that I’ve moved to a two-bedroom apartment, I’ve made room for everything.

Well, not exactly everything. I parted with several items I decided I could live without–things that had some meaning or history attached that suddenly seemed not all that important.

  • Four mid-century modern rattan and bamboo bar stools. I bought them just before I got divorced and haven’t had a home with a counter in the 15 years since. I kept imagining them in a Deco-inspired kitchen or, alternately, selling them. Neither came to pass. I hauled them to Goodwill.
  • Four pressed-back oak dining room chairs that belonged to a gaggle of grand-aunts on my mother’s side of the family. I used them with a solid oak clawfoot table that came from the same household. I foisted–uh, I mean, presented–the table, which extends to seat 12, to one of my brothers. I don’t see myself entertaining 12 people in the near future and besides, the chairs weren’t my style. I gave them to Habitat for Humanity’s ReSale store with just a twinge of familial guilt. Goodbye, chairs.
  • An eiderdown comforter I bought in Switzerland on a trip after high school, took to college with me and used on my son’s bed. It was fluffy enough to hide my college boyfriend when a girlfriend popped in at an inopportune moment. Now I never get cold enough to need a real eiderdown comforter–and have no need to hide a male friend, should one materialize.

As I found when I staged my St. Louis house for sale, getting rid of the first thing with emotional or financial value (as opposed to run-of-the-mill furnishings or detritus) seems nearly impossible. But it’s like diving off the high-board for the first time, or skiing a black diamond slope. After the first time, the subsequent dives, ski runs or  Salvation Army deposits get easier and easier.

Quick factoid: Self-storage facilities are a $33 billion business in the United States. There are 2.63 billion square feet of self-storage capacity, and almost one of every 10 Americans rent a storage unit. According to Alexander Harrison, an independent Virginia journalist who blogs about the industry at  The Storage Beat, about half those people are using their units as a substitute for attics, basements or garages.

I have to admit–the storage locker is empty, but there is still an excess of stuff. One wall of the second bedroom is lined with unpacked boxes, of what, I’m not yet sure. There is still too much artwork lurking at the back of closets, behind furniture and in a Chinese leather trunk. And the shower in the second bathroom is a temporary library, housing a half-dozen boxes of books, cleverly hidden behind a hanging panel of fabric.

Books, this is where real difficulty arises. I have a box marked “classics and favorites.” There is another labeled “design and art books,” as well as one of “current reading” (despite the fact the box hasn’t been unpacked in two years.) Another, small but hefty, contains travel guides from the past twenty or more years. Though probably the most useless, these are the hardest to discard–“Greece on $5 a Day” is the memento of a post-high-school trip to Greece, more lasting than the 20 boxes of slides I haven’t looked at in the ensuing 40 years. There are guides to India, Antarctica and Hong Kong before the British lease expired. Is it wrong to dedicate three-feet of shelf space to a chronicle of my travels?


My “good box” collection

On the bright side, I unloaded a cache of moving boxes that were too good to throw away. They, along with a couple cartons of bubble wrap and packing nerdels, were piling up in the storage unit. Then, as I wandered through Lowe’s one evening, in search of a desk top, I spied a young woman loading fresh boxes into her cart.

“Moving?” I inquired.

“Yes,” she replied, “the van is coming tomorrow and we’re nowhere near packed. I thought we had enough boxes, but we keep needing more.”

“I can help! I’ve got boxes! Free boxes! What’s your address?”

As an example of just how frantic moving can make you, she didn’t hesitate to give me her address and phone number despite my wild hair, paint-spotted clothing and out-of-the-blue offer.  I paid for my desk top, ran to the car and rushed to the storage locker–in a downpour, mind you. It didn’t take long to fill the Subaru with an assortment of boxes, both assembled and flattened, as well as the packing material. I was unloading them to their grateful recipients in about 15 minutes. They offered money but I assured them that accepting the boxes was more than enough payment. My only regret is that I’ve since unpacked 10 more boxes that are “too good to throw away,” and it seems unlikely I’ll have such good luck again in Lowe’s anytime soon.

As always, remember my advice: If you plan to move–or die–anytime soon, start getting rid of stuff  now! It takes longer than you think…

The Resale Evangelista is simplifying, clarifying and trying to live a more artful life.








I tried to get out…

But they pulled me back in

By Susan Caba
The Resale Evangelista

Uh-oh, I’ve become one of those people.

You know, the people who drop something off at Goodwill, then go inside to see what they need. Well, okay–I’ve been one of those people for many years. But I recently took a turn for the worse. I became one of those people who loiter around the door to the backroom, waiting for new stuff.

Didn’t I say it was bad? I know, very bad.

In my defense, I was waiting for a specific item. I spotted it–a KitchenAid MixMaster–on the pricing desk as I was donating a box containing two small oil paintings, a brand-new Swiss hot chocolate pot and a 50mm Nikon lens, among other highly valuable items. “When is that going out?” I asked the attendant, lifting my chin toward the mixer.  “About a half hour,” he said.

“I don’t care what it’s called!” said a woman testing the first home mixer on a stand. “It’s the best kitchen aid I’ve ever had!” And thus, a brand was born.

So I went inside and posted myself in housewares, just outside the swinging door marked “Employees Only” that is all-too-familiar to Goodwill patrons. At my favorite Goodwill, in St. Louis, I looked scornfully at the regulars who gathered outside the door every Thursday evening (a heavy restocking period), waiting to pounce on new merchandise as it appeared. “Get a life,” I thought. And yes, I did recognize that I was in the store often enough to know these people as “regulars.” I, however, am not a pouncer.

Or I wasn’t. Goodwill was relatively busy that day, so I didn’t stray too far from the swinging door lest some other fleet-fingered shopper spy the KitchenAid and spoil my big score. I determined that I would pay up to $50 for the MixMaster. New, they cost almost $300.

The KitchenAid home mixer cost $189.50 when it was introduced in 1919–$2,200 in today’s dollars. The mixer and the price were both refined in 1936. The weight was trimmed from 65 pounds to about 30 and the price was cut to $55. (Thanks, Jitterbuzz, for the KitchenAid page!)

My mother had a MixMaster when I was a little girl. It was white, with black trim. As I recall, it had two beaters. Since there were four kids, two of us got a beater each to lick, someone else got the bowl and the fourth person took the spatula–or as we called it, the scraper. I always made it a point to lick the outside of the beater, then did tongue twists to get the batter from the inner surfaces.

It’s hard to say whether my (temporary) conversion to a door-hanger constitutes a degradation in my habits, or a step up to a higher, more discerning level of thrift shopper. Anyway, i wasn’t doing it for myself, I was cherry-picking for a friend.

(Which reminds me of the time my then-10-year-old brother said to my sister, Mary, on her 16th birthday, “Let’s go down to the pasture and hug and kiss under the moonlight!” When the rest of us hooted, he said, “Oh, I’m not doing it for me–I’m doing it for her, because she can’t get anyone else.”)

kitchenAid ad

Vintage KitchenAid advertisement

I digress. My friend Maryann mentioned she wanted a MixMaster for a friend whose disability makes it difficult for to hold a mixer and turn the bowl simultaneously. As I said, a new MixMaster costs almost $300, more than Maryann wanted to spend. So there I was, loitering–and drawing weird looks from other shoppers. I think they suspected I knew something good was about to appear and they were considering whether they, too, should loiter. I may be paranoid about that, but I don’t think so.

The door swung in, the door swung out. Nothing good appeared. I strayed just far enough to find a tennis ball basket with a handle that converts to a stand, for $2.99. I have such a basket. But its handles are hard to use. This basket was much better. I put it in my cart.

Finally, the swinging doors opened yet again and there it was–a slightly grubby but still majestic MixMaster, white under a spattering of old cookie dough. All the accoutrements, or at least the basics, were present and accounted for: Aluminum bowl with removable rims to keep the batter from splashing, a beater, some kind of paddle and a bread hook hefty enough  to tow a car.

The Goodwill staffer made a sharp right at the aisle containing kitchenware. Before he could get it out of his cart, I was by his side. Goodwill protocol required him to actually put it on the shelf, rather than right into my basket. I hefted it myself, without even glancing at the price sticker: $4.99.

Four dollars and 99 cents, people! And when I got it home and plugged it in, it worked! Another fruitful day spent Goodwill shopping.

The Resale Evangelista is simplifying, clarifying and trying to live a more artful life.

You’re gone: Who’s stuck with your stuff?

Spider Web pearls by Lisa

Dew-covered spiderweb photographed by Lisa Mendelson

By Susan Caba
The Resale Evangelista

A dear friend, just 55 and apparently healthy, died in her sleep on St. Patrick’s Day.

She left behind a desolate husband—and a house she inherited from her father, along with all the belongings he had accumulated in a long life. Lisa couldn’t bear to part with any of it, and she’d added 20 years of her own possessions.

Her husband Lee called me an hour after the paramedics left with Lisa’s body, wailing with heartbreak. The second or third sentence out of his mouth? “What am I going to do with all this stuff?

Lisa sweetness in a moment

Lisa, last year, at the Santa Barbara Harbor 

I’ve said it before: “If you think you are ever going to move—or die—start getting rid of your stuff now.”  I guess I should add, “Start now, even if you don’t think you are going to die for a long, long time.”

Among her possessions  are dozens of potted plants, a 1924 Steinway grand piano, her stuffed animals from childhood, 1980s sweaters (hers, from high school), cashmere sweaters carefully preserved (her father’s), her mother’s ashes, kitchen appliances ranging from pro-level food processors to panini presses and pasta machines, collections of handmade pottery, five cartons of classic jazz recordings, dozens of towels, her father’s gold Rolex watch and a grandfather clock Lisa had lovingly restored herself. And that’s just what comes to mind in a moment.

Lisa was 9 years younger than Lee, and his health has been bad for some time. Neither one of them dreamed she would die before him. As an adopted only child of parents who themselves had no siblings, and who divorced when Lisa was about six, her father’s mid-century Modern house in Santa Barbara embodied the security that Lisa craved but never quite attained.

Lisa Mendelson’s obituary

She wasn’t a hoarder but something in her couldn’t let go of anything that evoked her past and that elusive sense of stability. She only parted last year with a little convertible her father had given her 25 years ago. She hadn’t driven it for years, and it was one of three cars she owned. As the years passed, stuff accumulated—and Lisa always liked things to remain mostly where they had been originally placed.


Sunset behind Lisa’s house in Santa Barbara

When her father was dying, he made Lisa promise she would never put him in a nursing home or hospital—and she didn’t. She and Lee made the same promise to one another. When Lisa died, her estate was in order and debt free. Nonetheless, she left her husband with a heavy emotional mortgage. In the few conversations in which they contemplated Lisa dying before Lee, she always, always, always entreated him not to sell the house.

Lee grew up on a farm in Kansas. He joined the Marines and, after having four children with his first wife, lived something of an itinerant life as a successful engineer. When he and Lisa met, he was living on his sailboat in Santa Barbara. He is not attached to many things. There’s no way he can see himself caring for this house and these things indefinitely. His three surviving children all live in Colorado. None are likely to move to Santa Barbara.


One of Lisa’s quirky wall plates

So here he is, heartbroken in a house that’s been maintained as a shrine to Lisa’s father and which now threatens to become her mausoleum, as well. Just acknowledging that it’s too much for him is painful. Of course, there will be changes made—there have been already. I’ve taken those high school sweaters and a few sundry other items to Lisa’s favorite thrift store. (Sorry, Lees.) I’ve pitched some plants and trimmed others (so very sorry, Lees!).

House-sitting for Lisa

It took me two years to edit my belongings down to a manageable volume to move from a small house in St. Louis to a one-bedroom apartment in Virginia. Have I mentioned I still have a storage locker and am moving from a one-bedroom to a two-bedroom apartment? I’ve developed a mantra when cruising the resale aisles: “I don’t need that. I don’t need that. I don’t need another one of those.”  (As opposed to previous mantras: “It’s no more than I deserve,” “The only purchases I ever regret are the ones I didn’t make,” and “At that price, how can I go wrong?”)

Watching Lee, I’m even more conscious of the over-abundance of stuff in our lives. If you don’t believe me, skip the retail aisle in your favorite thrift shop and go take a gander at the rooms that overflow with donations—much of it great stuff, much of it garbage.

We’re all going to have to do it sooner or later. If not for ourselves, then for our parents, our siblings, our friends.

So I’ll say it again: “If you think you are ever going to move—or die—start getting rid of stuff now.”  Your heirs will profoundly thank you.

Camels, Camels, Camels—you gotta love India!

Camel Camaraderie in Pushkar, India, at the annual Camel Fair

Camel camaraderie in Pushkar, India

On my last trip to India, I finally made it to the annual Pushkar Camel Fair, held for a week every November in the desert of Rajasthan. What a sight! Thousands of camels–thousands! And hundreds of Brahma cattle and Marwari horses, not to mention the colorful herders and families who travel by foot or camel cart across the desert to the fair. I just wrote about the fair for Mehera Shaw. You can read about it here…

Mehera Shaw, owned by Shari and Mark Keller, is a fair-trade company in Jaipur. Mehera Shaw artisans use centuries-old traditional Rajasthani hand-blocking and hand-screening processes to create gorgeous cotton and silk fabrics. The company is dedicated to preservation of these traditional processes, while improving the lives of their employees. I’ll be writing regularly for Mehera Shaw, as I share their belief in simplified, sustainable and artful lifestyles.

The Meaning of Serena Williams

Powerful Writing in NYTimes

By Susan Caba
The Resale Evangelista

Poet Claudia Rankine’s essay in the Times’ Sunday magazine is an example of compelling writing about a terrifically talented and inspirational woman, tennis star Serena Williams.

Beyond the  meaning of the aptly named Serena to African-Americans that is the focus of the essay--which touched me even though I am not black–the piece reminds us all of the importance of joy and humor and the need to express those emotions. Which is impossible unless you also share the frustration, rage and disappointments. The photos of Serena after her victories are all marked by her trademark grin.

I loved references to Serena’s reactions to bad tournament calls, especially to an incident at the U.S. Open in 2009:

“She will tell an audience or an official that they are disrespectful or unjust, whether she says, simply, ‘‘No, no, no’’ or something much more forceful, as happened at the U.S. Open in 2009, when she told the lineswoman, ‘‘I swear to God I am [expletive] going to take this [expletive] ball and shove it down your [expletive] throat.’’ And in doing so, we actually see her. She shows us her joy, her humor and, yes, her rage. She gives us the whole range of what it is to be human…”

All in all, the essay is a portrait of a champion who has grown emotionally during her years in the spotlight. She expresses something about herself that I certainly aspire to achieve: ”

“I play for me,’’ Serena said, ‘‘but I also play and represent something much greater than me. I embrace that. I love that. I want that. So ultimately, when I am out there on the court, I am playing for me.’’

Claudia Rankine is the Aerol Arnold Professor of English at the University of Southern California, and the author of five collections of poetry. Her most recent work, Citizen, was a finalist for the National Book Award and the winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award for poetry. I plan to get that book and I enthusiastically recommend her magazine piece on Serena Williams. It’s insightful on so many levels. By framing it in terms of her own experience, Rankine enriched my understanding and appreciation not only of Serena, but of the power of compelling writing.

The Resale Evangelista is dedicated to simplifying, clarifying and creating a more artful life. 

Horrors! A Rat!

Wildlife woes in California

Alice recalls her adventures in Wonderland.

Alice in Wonderland having a very bad dream. Original drawing by Melody Caba.

By Susan Caba
The Resale Evangelista

My friends, I’ve told my tales of animal encounters while on the house-sitting trail but the worst (I hope) has just occurred. Sometimes, no matter how simple things get, they just don’t contribute to an artful life.

Thursday began with the discovery of a pretty gray bird huddled low in a corner by the kitchen windows. I hadn’t rubbed the sleep out of my eyes before noticing, on the way to the coffee maker, several little puff-piles of feathers on the floor around the table. Even then, I didn’t register the bird until it made an attempt to escape. But with two cats circling, the bird was going nowhere.

I shooed the cats away, then tried to shoo the bird toward the front door. The bird didn’t cooperate. Panicked, it fluttered against the louvered kitchen windows, trapped and unreachable behind the table. I finally captured it in the folds of a linen shirt and released it outside as the cats looked on, tails twitching.

I was up early on Friday, practically predawn. The cats, all three, were impatiently awaiting their morning rations of dry food. I filled one bowl and bent to fill the other. As the crunchies clattered into the dish, something gray under the edge of the cabinet caught my eye. Something big and gray. I prayed very quickly that it was a baby rabbit. No such luck. Horrors! It was a rat!

My response? I fled. My sister, Celia, lives next door. I planned to enlist her help. On the way down the driveway, my other sister, Mary, arrived. We ventured back into the house. I moved the cat bowl while Mary stood ready to toss a box over the rat. He made a run for it, but Mary was fast with the box. The rat was trapped. Now what? Mary and I went next door, and returned with Celia.

The plan was to inch the box over to the door and shove it out, freeing the rat as it went over the sill. The plan worked perfectly. Except the rat wasn’t in the box. Horrors! We opened all the doors from the family room and left, hoping the rat would, too. I could only hope. I sure as hell wasn’t going to look under the couch to see beady little eyes. If he wasn’t gone, the cats would surely hunt him down–wouldn’t they?

Saturday morning passed uneventfully. Sunday, no such luck. The cats had been hunting all right, but all they caught was a mouse. Which was under the kitchen table, eviscerated. Yuck! I know from  experience these cats will bring a stream of trophies, mice and hapless lizards. Resigned, I went to fetch a plastic bag.

What did I find? A big dead rat, right in the middle of the floor, all four feet in the air. He hadn’t escaped after all. The least the cats could have done was carried him outside.

And I haven’t even mentioned the bobcat that locked eyes with Mary down the block, or the yapping coyotes in the foothills out back.

The Resale Evangelista is winding up a year of house-sitting and getting ready to move to Virginia. No rats or other varmints are invited.

The “good enough” DIY garage and garden renovation

Perfection: A worthy goal…sometimes

Perfection: A worthy goal...sometimes

By Susan Caba
The Resale Evangelista

Work on my friend Susan’s garden and garage is almost finished. The garage is painted, the shade garden is an oasis of hostas and ferns, the yews are lacy shadows of their former selves, while new azaleas, rhododendron and hydrangeas are positioned to put down roots.

The result is a 1,000-percent improvement, a restful environment under the spreading limbs of a maple tree. But it is by no means perfect–and we didn’t aim for perfection. This is a garden project accomplished within the limits of time, energy, money and ambition of two working women of a certain age.

It’s the good-enough garden restoration, which fits into my philosophy of incremental improvement. Sure, we could have gone for perfection. If we had, we probably would never have gotten started, let alone finished.

An Imperfect--but

We painted Susan’s garage a mossy blue-green, to complement the shade garden to the right.

This isn’t a philosophy that comes to me naturally. Incremental improvement, in this case in the garden, means waiting until next year for the hostas and ferns–dug from the gardens of friends and neighbors–to reach their full potential. A good-enough paint job meant we didn’t reset every popped nail in the garage siding.

Ambersand Before

I have friends who are true craftsmen when it comes to building projects, gardening or handiwork. They might be appalled by the unfilled nail holes or the fact that we planted the hostas in the middle of July, rather than in spring or fall. My thought is, you gotta start somewhere. I’ve never painted a garage before–next time, I’ll probably get it done with a little more finesse.

I’m not saying you should do a sloppy job–some corners shouldn’t be cut, no matter what the task. Be realistic about your resources, then accomplish what you can within those limits.

So, if there’s something you’re waiting to do until you can “do it right,” consider plunging in and doing a good enough job for the time being. You can always go back and make it better.

The good-enough garage paint job

The garage before a good-enough paint job.

The Resale Evangelista is dedicated to simplifying, clarifying and creating a more artful life. Sometimes that means going for what works for the moment and planning to circle back later for more improvements. Just because you can’t have it all doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have some of it–whatever “it” is!