Further Proof of My Need for Therapy

The Sisters all belong to the national Romance Writers of America and the local chapter, Saguaro Romance Writers.  SRW is a fabulous group of women (and a few men) who love to write – romance, but not that genre exclusively.  I look forward to the monthly meetings with anticipation.  I’ve never belonged to a professional group more supportive than this one. 

Every meeting we have a raffle.  We all supply little things: First Editions of new releases, autographed ARCs (Advance Readers Copies) and the like.  Ava makes jewelery sometimes and takes it. 

In October, we have what’s called the Big Raffle.  It’s huge and the items donated are awesome.  Some of the published authors will provide critique time, amazing handmade items, and well, just fabulous stuff.  It all makes a ton of money for the organization that we use to bring in outstanding speakers each month.

For this upcoming Big Raffle, I decided the Quill Sisters needed to make Regency baskets for the raffle.  And like everything else, I’ve gone completely nuts.  It started out small, as these things always do, as one basket, but quickly grew into two.

Basket #1 is a Lady’s basket.  I knew what I wanted in it and became obsessed with finding the items.  I’ve drug Sassy and my mother all over this town looking for stuff.  We hit it big at an antique store where we found tatted lined hankies, an absolutely gorgeous pink teacup, and white gloves with embroidered roses.  I’ve also included my favorite Jane Austen, Sense & Sensibility (movie & book), various kinds of tea, some English Rose soap, and a cut-work wooden fan.  I even supplied an autographed book by one of my favorite NYT best selling Regency romance writers.  The basket is totally charming.

But then my downfall.  I thought how much fun it would be to do a gentleman’s basket, too.  Right?  Deep sigh.  The real problem is that I won’t admit defeat.  I know what I want and, come hell or high water, I’m gonna find it.  The idea of this basket was I wanted it to seem as if a Regency gentleman emptied his great-coat pockets and this was the stuff inside.  So, what would that be?  So far I’ve collected: various English toffees, a linen handkerchief with appropriately subdued embroidery, a silver flask, two tiny leather bound copies of Tennyson poems and English poems.  I’ve included a different book, autographed as well, by that certain author and a BBC version of Persuasion by Miss Austen.

It seems like I’m doing well, right?  Sounds done to you, does it?  NO!  I’m determined to find an old fashioned deck of cards, a brandy snifter and a small bottle of brandy, a snuff box, and several writing quills with ink. 

I’m totally insane.

Let’s start with the brandy snifter.  Don’t you think I could find like a million of those things in antique stores or the like?  I don’t want to go to Target and buy one because you can’t buy just one.  You must buy at least four.  I don’t need three extra damn glasses and four is totally overkill in the basket.  I can’t even find any open stock in the stemware departments of the department stores.

And the cards are giving me chest pains.  I want old fashioned playing cards – you’ve seen them in western movies – they don’t have numbers on them, just the symbols.  I live in the heart of the old west and one would think I could find them any ole place.  No.  I have toured every game store, antique store and mall in a 20 mile radius.  They are not here.  The people at the antique stores think I’m nuts because every time I think I’ve hit pay dirt and have them open a locked display cabinet, it turns out the cards have a World’s Fair logo or a damn airline or truck tire or something and I start whimpering.  One nice man suggested I go to Tombstone.  Dude! I do not have time to drive an hour there and an hour back just to get freakin’ cards. 

Of course, I’ve found all of these things on line, but I can’t justify paying $5.00 for something and then $12.00 more for shipping.  So I keep looking locally and keep those sites bookmarked for when I get desperate.

That means I’m still stalking antique stores and the like.  My Honey suggested I try the smoke shops for the snuff box.  On Saturday, I drug my children into a smoke shop.  Not my proudest mothering moment.  Go ahead and judge.  I’m certain I’m going to screw them up in ways that one visit to a smoke shop will totally eclipse so I’m not too worried about it.  In fact, I totally ignored the sign that stated, “You must be 18 to enter here”.  I figured they were with a parent so they were exempt.  After all, it’s not like I was taking them into a bar or something (ahem, Ed!).

The smell of patchouli oil and incense enveloped us as soon as we opened the door.  Of course, Sassy looked about her with utter disdain, while The Bandit was instantly fascinated.  He cruised around in front of the glass cabinets, peering inside and stared with fascination at the posters under the black light.  I talked to the guy behind the counter and he had a couple of ideas for me because, of course, he didn’t have any snuff boxes.

We walked back outside to get in the car with me grumbling about my obsessive compulsive drive.

“Mom, it smelled really good in there,” The Bandit noted.

Sassy wrinkled up her nose.  “I thought it stunk.”

“Nuh uh,” The Bandit argued.  “I really liked it.  The whole place was so totally cool.” 

So now I have to one to blame but myself for the little pot head he’s sure to become.