Booooooo Part Two
3rd grader joke:
Why couldn’t the witch have a baby?
Her boyfriend had a hollow weenie!
We tend to think too much: like trying to figure out why we had Halloween last night instead of tonight. Safety issues made sense, so we went with that. Yet on the noon news yesterday the anchors were talking about it, and the real reason surfaced: Halloween on a Friday night interfered with high school football playoffs.
Now, my first thought was “so freaking what?” (ok, freaking was not the word I thinked up…) But then I realized that if I had a 16 year old with what might be a once in a lifetime chance to play in a game that could lead to a state championship, and the chance to stay home and hand out candy … well, I wouldn’t be handing out candy. And HS Football is huge here, so I imagine a lot of people wouldn’t stay home. Having it the night before gave everyone a chance at some fun.
We didn’t get quite as many kids last night as we did last year (and thusly, we have lots of leftover candy) but it was still fun. We sat out with the neighbors and talked, and had fun with the little ones. The older kids were obviously pros—they know how to get to as many houses as possible in the 2 hours allotted to trick or treat on base—and the littlest of the kids had no idea what was going on. A few of the toddler aged kids didn’t quite grasp the idea—they kept trying to give us candy. We’d drop a couple of Crunch bars into their bag, and they’d reach in for something else to hand to one of us.
There were no screamers this year, no one terrified by being out there, but a few of the kids looked dazed and stoned, either tired from walking around or tired because it was close to bedtime already. And there were some awesome costumes (poor kids had warm costumes, so of course this year the temps were in the mid-60s), but the one I laughed at the most: a 12-13 year old boy dressed in a pink evening gown and blonde wig. This kid had guts.
And the surprise of the evening—some kids are still out there collecting for UNICEF. I haven’t seen that in years.
So now I’m $5 poorer, but I have lots of Crunch Bars left over!
Lunch!
Friday
Thursday
Boooooo
Tomorrow is Halloween, but tonight is when the kids around here go out for Trick Or Treat. Well, they call it “Beggar’s Night” here, which to me sounds a little—I dunno, it just sounds wrong. But, whatever … a rose by any other name, and that sort of stuff, I suppose.
Initially, we were kind of perplexed about why the towns around here all were making tonight the night kids could go out instead of Friday. On the surface, Friday makes more sense. There’s no school the next day, the kids could stay up later and munch on their candy a little longer—and for those parent who take the kids’ haul in to be x-rayed, they have more time.
But then we started thinking about it. Friday night. People go out on Friday night. People drink on Friday night. The Stupid People who drink often drive, and they’re out there in greater numbers on Friday night. So the change may be a safety issue—send them out a day early and maybe more of the little monsters will get home in one piece.
So, okay, I can deal sitting outside handing out candy a day early if it means they have a better chance of not getting run over while they’re out.
Safety is probably a notch better on base—the routine speed limit is 15 mph to begin with, but tonight the housing areas will be crawling with security police. They’ll walk the streets with the kids in pairs, right up the middle, and stare down any potential troublemakers. Last year we saw no less than 4 pairs of cops on our street in the 90 minutes we were outside.
I suppose that means we can’t snatch candy away from the little one.
Darn.
;)
Tomorrow is Halloween, but tonight is when the kids around here go out for Trick Or Treat. Well, they call it “Beggar’s Night” here, which to me sounds a little—I dunno, it just sounds wrong. But, whatever … a rose by any other name, and that sort of stuff, I suppose.
Initially, we were kind of perplexed about why the towns around here all were making tonight the night kids could go out instead of Friday. On the surface, Friday makes more sense. There’s no school the next day, the kids could stay up later and munch on their candy a little longer—and for those parent who take the kids’ haul in to be x-rayed, they have more time.
But then we started thinking about it. Friday night. People go out on Friday night. People drink on Friday night. The Stupid People who drink often drive, and they’re out there in greater numbers on Friday night. So the change may be a safety issue—send them out a day early and maybe more of the little monsters will get home in one piece.
So, okay, I can deal sitting outside handing out candy a day early if it means they have a better chance of not getting run over while they’re out.
Safety is probably a notch better on base—the routine speed limit is 15 mph to begin with, but tonight the housing areas will be crawling with security police. They’ll walk the streets with the kids in pairs, right up the middle, and stare down any potential troublemakers. Last year we saw no less than 4 pairs of cops on our street in the 90 minutes we were outside.
I suppose that means we can’t snatch candy away from the little one.
Darn.
;)
Monday
Grrrrrrr
Today I harbored many ill thoughts towards a group of old people.
Their crime? After their Over-50’s Water Aerobics class, they did not vacate the pool. They stayed to float in the water and chit-chat. For once I decided to try the Y closer to our house, but they only have lap swim from 11:30 to 1:30. The class ended at 11:15, and by 11:50 they were still hogging all 4 lanes of the pool.
I waited, patiently at first … then with thoughts of jumping in and dunking them all. Then with thoughts of “aren’t you all supposed to be in a home somewhere?” (yeah, I was feeling a little snarky by then.) I finally asked the lifeguard how long they usually stay—“An hour, maybe two.”
What about lap swim? He just shrugged.
So I left and went to the Y where I usually swim, where I bought myself some really spiffy swim gloves (and I’ll feel it tomorrow… those really upped my workout a notch), and where my swimming was cut short by a severe cramp in my foot.
It’s all the fault of those old people.
Really.
Today I harbored many ill thoughts towards a group of old people.
Their crime? After their Over-50’s Water Aerobics class, they did not vacate the pool. They stayed to float in the water and chit-chat. For once I decided to try the Y closer to our house, but they only have lap swim from 11:30 to 1:30. The class ended at 11:15, and by 11:50 they were still hogging all 4 lanes of the pool.
I waited, patiently at first … then with thoughts of jumping in and dunking them all. Then with thoughts of “aren’t you all supposed to be in a home somewhere?” (yeah, I was feeling a little snarky by then.) I finally asked the lifeguard how long they usually stay—“An hour, maybe two.”
What about lap swim? He just shrugged.
So I left and went to the Y where I usually swim, where I bought myself some really spiffy swim gloves (and I’ll feel it tomorrow… those really upped my workout a notch), and where my swimming was cut short by a severe cramp in my foot.
It’s all the fault of those old people.
Really.
Sunday
Friday
Caught In The Web
If AOL is your service provider, and you’ve expected an email reply from me in the last 2-3 months, chances are you haven’t gotten one. I’m not sure why, but it seems I can get mail originating from AOL, but not very many of my replies actually make it back the other way.
I’m not ignoring you.
Really, I’m not.
If AOL is your service provider, and you’ve expected an email reply from me in the last 2-3 months, chances are you haven’t gotten one. I’m not sure why, but it seems I can get mail originating from AOL, but not very many of my replies actually make it back the other way.
I’m not ignoring you.
Really, I’m not.
Tuesday
This Wheelie, Wheelie Sux
Anyone who has ever been in a wheelchair knows how frustrating it is to get around. And anyone who has ever driven a car knows how frustrating it is to avoid unexpected obstacles—moving or not—in the road.
And then comes this kid from Iowa. He’s a 14 year old kid who keeps getting fined for rising his motorized wheelchair on the streets of Laurens.
Is he a traffic hazard? Sure.
Should he be on the street? Of course not.
When I first heard the story on CNN my gut reaction was to side with the cops—a wheelchair going down the side of the road is a safety hazard. Then came the little piece that makes a difference: Laurens, Iowa does not have curb cuts on its sidewalks.
It’s hard enough to get up and down curbs in a manual wheelchair. It’s damn near impossible in a motorized chair. Without curb cuts—those places where the sidewalk levels off with the street—this kid has no choice. It’s either ride in the street, or be held hostage to a town that hasn’t complied with the ADA of 1990.
Yep, they’ve had 13 years, and they haven’t bothered to make their town accessible for those with limited mobility.
So sure, I see the cops’ point. The kid is a safety issue.
And I definitely see the kid’s point. His town has done nothing to make it possible for him to get around.
Tally the points up—I think the kid wins. The town must provide curb cuts, not only for this one teenager, but for anyone needing reasonable access. Will they? I doubt it. Not until forced to by lawsuits that could bankrupt them. Then no one wins.
Anyone who has ever been in a wheelchair knows how frustrating it is to get around. And anyone who has ever driven a car knows how frustrating it is to avoid unexpected obstacles—moving or not—in the road.
And then comes this kid from Iowa. He’s a 14 year old kid who keeps getting fined for rising his motorized wheelchair on the streets of Laurens.
Is he a traffic hazard? Sure.
Should he be on the street? Of course not.
When I first heard the story on CNN my gut reaction was to side with the cops—a wheelchair going down the side of the road is a safety hazard. Then came the little piece that makes a difference: Laurens, Iowa does not have curb cuts on its sidewalks.
It’s hard enough to get up and down curbs in a manual wheelchair. It’s damn near impossible in a motorized chair. Without curb cuts—those places where the sidewalk levels off with the street—this kid has no choice. It’s either ride in the street, or be held hostage to a town that hasn’t complied with the ADA of 1990.
Yep, they’ve had 13 years, and they haven’t bothered to make their town accessible for those with limited mobility.
So sure, I see the cops’ point. The kid is a safety issue.
And I definitely see the kid’s point. His town has done nothing to make it possible for him to get around.
Tally the points up—I think the kid wins. The town must provide curb cuts, not only for this one teenager, but for anyone needing reasonable access. Will they? I doubt it. Not until forced to by lawsuits that could bankrupt them. Then no one wins.
Wednesday
Molasses Be Quicker, Eh?
OK, I don't have a clue what the problem is, but I've noticed that it takes a freakishly long time for my blog to load. Spouse Thingy has noticed it, too--he gives up trying to check up on it after the page just sits there, all black and blank for 2-3 minutes.
I'm seriously considering moving it, and if I can figure out Movable Type, I probably will. The only thing holding me up is a fear of not being able to install MT on my web host's server correctly. It looks easy to use once it's up and running, but it's the actual installation that has me sitting on my hands grunting "uh huh uh huh uh huh" every time I check out their web page. I suppose I could pay them to install it, but, funny enough, they don't mention how much they charge for that particular service.
Until I work up the nerve, I'll keep it hosted here, and when I do move it, I'll leave a nice big link to the new location.
But first, I gotta grow me a pair...
OK, I don't have a clue what the problem is, but I've noticed that it takes a freakishly long time for my blog to load. Spouse Thingy has noticed it, too--he gives up trying to check up on it after the page just sits there, all black and blank for 2-3 minutes.
I'm seriously considering moving it, and if I can figure out Movable Type, I probably will. The only thing holding me up is a fear of not being able to install MT on my web host's server correctly. It looks easy to use once it's up and running, but it's the actual installation that has me sitting on my hands grunting "uh huh uh huh uh huh" every time I check out their web page. I suppose I could pay them to install it, but, funny enough, they don't mention how much they charge for that particular service.
Until I work up the nerve, I'll keep it hosted here, and when I do move it, I'll leave a nice big link to the new location.
But first, I gotta grow me a pair...
Saturday
Autumn Wonderland
One of the nice things about living in Ohio is that we get 4 real seasons. None of this “Almost Winter, Winter, Trailing End Of Winter, and Remember Winter?” like North Dakota. Or the “Cripes this is one hot summer” followed by a “where the hell did fall go?” mildly annoying winter like in Northern CA.
We get a real, honest to goodness autumn, complete with the changing of the leaves.
Last year was a dry year here, so the changing of the leaves was less than spectacular, and they dropped before reaching full color. This year we had a wet summer, and it’s awesome. Spouse Thingy and I went to the Cox Arboretum yesterday to walk the trails and soak up a little fresh air, and we got to see some of the most awesome sights.
Stuff like this:
There are more pictures to see here. Just click on the images to see the larger, better picture.
Pretty, aren’t they?
One of the nice things about living in Ohio is that we get 4 real seasons. None of this “Almost Winter, Winter, Trailing End Of Winter, and Remember Winter?” like North Dakota. Or the “Cripes this is one hot summer” followed by a “where the hell did fall go?” mildly annoying winter like in Northern CA.
We get a real, honest to goodness autumn, complete with the changing of the leaves.
Last year was a dry year here, so the changing of the leaves was less than spectacular, and they dropped before reaching full color. This year we had a wet summer, and it’s awesome. Spouse Thingy and I went to the Cox Arboretum yesterday to walk the trails and soak up a little fresh air, and we got to see some of the most awesome sights.
Stuff like this:
There are more pictures to see here. Just click on the images to see the larger, better picture.
Pretty, aren’t they?
Wednesday
Uh oh
Dye your hair blonde.
Hate it.
Dye it back to its natural medium brown.
Be happy.
Go swimming.
Look in rear view mirror while driving home and wonder where you got all those copper highlights.
Get home, go about your business.
Look in mirror later.
Ask yourself "does this look lighter?"
When the Spouse Thingy comes home, ask him "does my hair look lighter?"
Say choices words to yourself when he confirms, yes it looks lighter.
Then think to yourself, "this really is a nice looking color."
Eye workout bag suspiciously, and wonder whether or not swimming again is a good idea.
=sigh=
We shall see.
Dye your hair blonde.
Hate it.
Dye it back to its natural medium brown.
Be happy.
Go swimming.
Look in rear view mirror while driving home and wonder where you got all those copper highlights.
Get home, go about your business.
Look in mirror later.
Ask yourself "does this look lighter?"
When the Spouse Thingy comes home, ask him "does my hair look lighter?"
Say choices words to yourself when he confirms, yes it looks lighter.
Then think to yourself, "this really is a nice looking color."
Eye workout bag suspiciously, and wonder whether or not swimming again is a good idea.
=sigh=
We shall see.
Monday
Wants revisited
My former list of the material things that I want:
I got the convertible (ooohyeah), I got a recumbent bike instead of a trike (sweet), and I came to the conclusion that I really don’t need a portable word processor, and really don’t want one—I have a laptop computer, that’s portable enough. I still kinda want the scooter, but not because I need it or because it’s even practical; it’s just cool. And the cash would be very practical, ‘cause with it we’d get out of debt and could look towards retirement with a sense of relief and fun.
So, since I got the biggees on my Incredible List Of I Want, it needs to be revised:
See, when you get most of what you want, there’s always more crap to add to your list.
Oh, I want a better body, too, but since no one can give that to me, I better head over to the Y and swim a lap or 80…
My former list of the material things that I want:
I got the convertible (ooohyeah), I got a recumbent bike instead of a trike (sweet), and I came to the conclusion that I really don’t need a portable word processor, and really don’t want one—I have a laptop computer, that’s portable enough. I still kinda want the scooter, but not because I need it or because it’s even practical; it’s just cool. And the cash would be very practical, ‘cause with it we’d get out of debt and could look towards retirement with a sense of relief and fun.
So, since I got the biggees on my Incredible List Of I Want, it needs to be revised:
See, when you get most of what you want, there’s always more crap to add to your list.
Oh, I want a better body, too, but since no one can give that to me, I better head over to the Y and swim a lap or 80…
Thursday
Back To The Dark Side
I couldn't stand it ... I dyed my hair back to its natural color, or as close as I could get. I just haven't felt blonde lately, and it was bugging me. It freaked me out every time I looked in the mirror, and maybe it was my imagination, but the blonde hair made me look pasty and washed out.
'Course, I only waited 2 weeks between dye jobs, so my hair might fall out overnight and I'll be bald as a cueball in the morning, but what the hell. Bald would be different...
I couldn't stand it ... I dyed my hair back to its natural color, or as close as I could get. I just haven't felt blonde lately, and it was bugging me. It freaked me out every time I looked in the mirror, and maybe it was my imagination, but the blonde hair made me look pasty and washed out.
'Course, I only waited 2 weeks between dye jobs, so my hair might fall out overnight and I'll be bald as a cueball in the morning, but what the hell. Bald would be different...
Wednesday
Round is a shape, but not a very good one
There’s an odd, paralyzing kind of fear that, when faced with mortal uncertainty, descends on a person like a fog of befuddlement. It’s like being stuck in a circular room with no corner in which one can hide. We all have those moments in our lives; they can be defining moments, or moments that make you stick your head in the sand.
Last year I came face to face with one of my greatest fears. And while it didn’t completely overwhelm me, it never really went away.
Face it, like those moments, we all have our deepest fears.
Mine happens to be death.
Dying terrifies me on so many levels: I believe in God and in heaven; I believe that true faith and an honest belief in good will get you there; I’m not sure I believe in hell, at least not that of the fire & brimstone variety. Yet in spite of believing that there is something else that follows this life, it scares me.
The seed of that fear is, I suppose, the questions that have the tendency to take on a voice of their own during quiet times. What if I’ve screwed this life up? What if the things I should be accountable for but don’t have the guts to own up to bite me in the celestial ass? And what if I’m wrong, that in spite of the faith that gets me over bumps in the road, that after this there’s nothing?
I can’t abide the idea of not existing.
There’s an entire theological spectrum that does sometimes eat at me, but it would take too much time to sift through it, and it would terminally bore anyone who bothered to read it. Or it would piss them off.
I had an epiphany of sorts; I’ve had it before, one of those light bulb moments that makes you grunt “duh!” because you get it, but I actually got it this time.
I’m feeding my worst fear. I’ve set myself up with a lifestyle that, aside from fits and starts and frustrating failures, is leading me down the path to the one thing I fear most of all.
My nutrition sucks. I don’t inhale food the way an addict does cocaine, but I make poor choices. I go for the easy fix, whatever is convenient, whatever makes the least mess to clean up, because frankly, I hate cleaning up. If I had a kitchen fairy who could wave a magic wand and the kitchen would be instantly clean, I’d cook every night. Well, most nights.
My physical activity is inadequate. Sure, I exercise, but not at the level of intensity that I probably could. There’s another fear that holds me back there—the fear of movement, because of chronic pain—but I allow that fear to hold me back.
My goals have been typically unrealistic. “Lose weight” isn’t good enough. “Lose 70 pounds” isn’t much better. I need to set a series of smaller goals, and be specific in how I intend to achieve those goals.
And yeah, I’ve been watching Dr. Phil.
I like him; he can be abrasive, but he seems to strongly believe in personal accountability, and I appreciate that.
My personal epiphany came while watching his show; I can’t even specifically recall exactly what was said or by whom, Dr. Phil or one of his guests, but I started thinking about my deepest fear—one I was already keenly aware of—and what it really meant.
That annoying little voice that often compels me to get up and do the dishes, or finish a particularly difficult chapter, piped up something along the lines of, “You are headed straight for the white light at the end of the tunnel if you don’t make the changes you know you need to and get yourself back into some semblance of shape, and for you this shape is not round.”
I hate that voice, mostly because it’s usually right. It’s the voice that also corrects me (and I sometimes ignore) when I think I hear M&Ms calling to me, or when I use having FMS and other assorted physical problems as a reason to not get up off my ass and work out.
That voice also keeps telling me that in the vein of being realistic, I need to remember that I’m not 20 anymore, and I don’t need the body of my 20 year old self. That person was thin, but not terribly fit. The voice keeps reminding me that at age 30 I was 30 pounds heavier than at 20, but in terrific physical shape, with little body fat and lots of lean muscle. And the voice tells me I might not be able to get that back, either, but it’s a hell of a lot more likely than trying to ever squeeze into a size 8 again.
So. Someone at WWDN started a 6 week exercise challenge and I’m joining in. It starts on Monday, so between now and then I’ll work on setting up some realistic goals for myself, take a good look at why I do what I do and why I don’t do what I should, and hopefully work up the nerve to face some of my own personal demons.
We all have them.
Fear of mortality is mine.
While it’s inevitable that someday I will take that last breath, if I stake a stand and do what I can to stave off the end of my personal life story, maybe I can stare down that personal demon until I’m ready to accept it.
Like, when I’m 120.
There’s an odd, paralyzing kind of fear that, when faced with mortal uncertainty, descends on a person like a fog of befuddlement. It’s like being stuck in a circular room with no corner in which one can hide. We all have those moments in our lives; they can be defining moments, or moments that make you stick your head in the sand.
Last year I came face to face with one of my greatest fears. And while it didn’t completely overwhelm me, it never really went away.
Face it, like those moments, we all have our deepest fears.
Mine happens to be death.
Dying terrifies me on so many levels: I believe in God and in heaven; I believe that true faith and an honest belief in good will get you there; I’m not sure I believe in hell, at least not that of the fire & brimstone variety. Yet in spite of believing that there is something else that follows this life, it scares me.
The seed of that fear is, I suppose, the questions that have the tendency to take on a voice of their own during quiet times. What if I’ve screwed this life up? What if the things I should be accountable for but don’t have the guts to own up to bite me in the celestial ass? And what if I’m wrong, that in spite of the faith that gets me over bumps in the road, that after this there’s nothing?
I can’t abide the idea of not existing.
There’s an entire theological spectrum that does sometimes eat at me, but it would take too much time to sift through it, and it would terminally bore anyone who bothered to read it. Or it would piss them off.
I had an epiphany of sorts; I’ve had it before, one of those light bulb moments that makes you grunt “duh!” because you get it, but I actually got it this time.
I’m feeding my worst fear. I’ve set myself up with a lifestyle that, aside from fits and starts and frustrating failures, is leading me down the path to the one thing I fear most of all.
My nutrition sucks. I don’t inhale food the way an addict does cocaine, but I make poor choices. I go for the easy fix, whatever is convenient, whatever makes the least mess to clean up, because frankly, I hate cleaning up. If I had a kitchen fairy who could wave a magic wand and the kitchen would be instantly clean, I’d cook every night. Well, most nights.
My physical activity is inadequate. Sure, I exercise, but not at the level of intensity that I probably could. There’s another fear that holds me back there—the fear of movement, because of chronic pain—but I allow that fear to hold me back.
My goals have been typically unrealistic. “Lose weight” isn’t good enough. “Lose 70 pounds” isn’t much better. I need to set a series of smaller goals, and be specific in how I intend to achieve those goals.
And yeah, I’ve been watching Dr. Phil.
I like him; he can be abrasive, but he seems to strongly believe in personal accountability, and I appreciate that.
My personal epiphany came while watching his show; I can’t even specifically recall exactly what was said or by whom, Dr. Phil or one of his guests, but I started thinking about my deepest fear—one I was already keenly aware of—and what it really meant.
That annoying little voice that often compels me to get up and do the dishes, or finish a particularly difficult chapter, piped up something along the lines of, “You are headed straight for the white light at the end of the tunnel if you don’t make the changes you know you need to and get yourself back into some semblance of shape, and for you this shape is not round.”
I hate that voice, mostly because it’s usually right. It’s the voice that also corrects me (and I sometimes ignore) when I think I hear M&Ms calling to me, or when I use having FMS and other assorted physical problems as a reason to not get up off my ass and work out.
That voice also keeps telling me that in the vein of being realistic, I need to remember that I’m not 20 anymore, and I don’t need the body of my 20 year old self. That person was thin, but not terribly fit. The voice keeps reminding me that at age 30 I was 30 pounds heavier than at 20, but in terrific physical shape, with little body fat and lots of lean muscle. And the voice tells me I might not be able to get that back, either, but it’s a hell of a lot more likely than trying to ever squeeze into a size 8 again.
So. Someone at WWDN started a 6 week exercise challenge and I’m joining in. It starts on Monday, so between now and then I’ll work on setting up some realistic goals for myself, take a good look at why I do what I do and why I don’t do what I should, and hopefully work up the nerve to face some of my own personal demons.
We all have them.
Fear of mortality is mine.
While it’s inevitable that someday I will take that last breath, if I stake a stand and do what I can to stave off the end of my personal life story, maybe I can stare down that personal demon until I’m ready to accept it.
Like, when I’m 120.
Tuesday
Ooohyeah
One more thing off the list: the Hyundai is sold. The people who wanted to look at it Saturday took it to a mechanic today, and in spite of some needed repairs ($1200 worth, but $700 of that is covered under a Hyundai recall) they bought it, and we got $200 more than we really expected to. Coolness. Now we can either buy plane tickets for the Boy and his Significantly Better Half, or prepay taxes, like Uncle Sam wants.
Money never lasts…
One more thing off the list: the Hyundai is sold. The people who wanted to look at it Saturday took it to a mechanic today, and in spite of some needed repairs ($1200 worth, but $700 of that is covered under a Hyundai recall) they bought it, and we got $200 more than we really expected to. Coolness. Now we can either buy plane tickets for the Boy and his Significantly Better Half, or prepay taxes, like Uncle Sam wants.
Money never lasts…
Monday
Shiver Me Timbers … Again
I was okay with the chilly temps today until the weatherman said the norms are in the low 70s this time of year. He said that when it was 52 degrees with a 46 degree wind chill. Dammit. We went out to lunch (Pizza!) and had to ride with the top up—because, frankly, I’m a wuss.
Keep your fingers crossed for us; we’re showing the car to someone tomorrow. They’ve already seen it, actually, but because the Lemon Lot was blocked off for construction, they couldn’t take it for a test drive. Tomorrow they want to take it to a mechanic, and have sad that if it checks out they’ll buy it.
I won’t hold my breath, but I’m hopeful.
Not only do we need to buy airplane tickets for the kids, but Uncle Sam wants us to prepay some of our taxes. Granted, that really is a good idea, so we don’t get killed come April 15th, but in order to prepay the taxes, we kinda have to have the money. Funny how it works out that way.
I still think I should follow that hoochie Karyn who got the world to pay off her credit card debt, and start a Get Thumper Out Of Debt drive. Paying off education and medical expenses isn’t as fun as someone credit cards, though, is it?
Maybe I should start a pr0n site. I bet I could get rich that way…
Ok, I went from complaining about the weather to pr0n.
I need a nap.
Or a drink.
I was okay with the chilly temps today until the weatherman said the norms are in the low 70s this time of year. He said that when it was 52 degrees with a 46 degree wind chill. Dammit. We went out to lunch (Pizza!) and had to ride with the top up—because, frankly, I’m a wuss.
Keep your fingers crossed for us; we’re showing the car to someone tomorrow. They’ve already seen it, actually, but because the Lemon Lot was blocked off for construction, they couldn’t take it for a test drive. Tomorrow they want to take it to a mechanic, and have sad that if it checks out they’ll buy it.
I won’t hold my breath, but I’m hopeful.
Not only do we need to buy airplane tickets for the kids, but Uncle Sam wants us to prepay some of our taxes. Granted, that really is a good idea, so we don’t get killed come April 15th, but in order to prepay the taxes, we kinda have to have the money. Funny how it works out that way.
I still think I should follow that hoochie Karyn who got the world to pay off her credit card debt, and start a Get Thumper Out Of Debt drive. Paying off education and medical expenses isn’t as fun as someone credit cards, though, is it?
Maybe I should start a pr0n site. I bet I could get rich that way…
Ok, I went from complaining about the weather to pr0n.
I need a nap.
Or a drink.
Saturday
Theft By Any Other Name…
I’m a writer. That’s no secret; I’ve been pimping my stuff (see the little book cover images to the left) for the last couple of years. I’ve put up sample chapters of each book online, a sort of virtual flip-through since you can’t hold the book in your hand and look through it. Soon there will be a third, and another sample chapter.
That was my choice.
You will note, however, that I did not place the entire text of either book online. Why not? Because as much as writing is not about the money (face it, there’s very little money to be made unless you get lucky), if you want to read the book, you either need to suck up to me in a major way, or buy it.
No, it’s really not about the money. But it takes roughly a year, sometimes a little longer, to take those books from idea to final manuscript, a year of work without pay. So sure, I want people to buy the book. It’s just the same as anyone else who works—getting paid for the effort is generally a nice thing.
I imagine it’s not much different for a musician. They work their collective asses off, create a product, put it out there for the public to hear, and hope that people buy it.
Buy it, folks. Not stick it online to share with a million other people.
“But it’s art. Art is not about the money!”
“I paid for the CD. I can do with it what I want.”
“What’s the difference between file sharing and just burning copies for my friends?”
Honestly, if you have to ask those questions, your momma didn’t raise you right.
Okay, you bought the CD. Paid full price even. So make yourself a copy, that’s fine. A copy is a good idea; stick the original away to keep it safe. I had a bunch of CDs stolen out of my car; most of them were copies, so I didn’t lose much. I understand that. Make a copy for a friend. I can live with that, too.
But when you place someone else’s work online, you’re potentially sharing that work with millions of other people. Literally millions. And they didn’t get a say in it.
You’re not hurting the music companies, or book publishers, or even the distributors, really. But you’re killing the people who rely on royalties.
Put it into perspective. When my first book, Charybdis, came out, the entire text wound up online. Every freaking word. Roughly 25,000 people downloaded it, and who knows how many sat there and just read it. Twenty five thousand downloads.
At royalty rates that equaled about $4.00 per book, had those been purchases, I would have earned enough money to get us out of debt, with a little left over.
Even if only half of those had been purchases, it would have literally changed my life. And I’ll never know how many of those downloads were then shared with other people.
While I’m partially thrilled that so many people have copies of my book, I’m still mad as hell that I was ripped off.
Yeah, I said it. You who placed my book online without my permission, and those of you who downloaded it ripped me off.
Every time you take someone else’s work, place it online and “share” it with others, without the express consent of the copyright owner, you are stealing.
I know next to nothing about the RIAA or DCMA or whoever they are, I don’t care who they are and what they do, I don’t care if you’re for them or against them, or feel like because of their policies you deserve to swap music and text files to which you don’t own copyright. I do care that no matter what, when you do it, you’re taking money out of the wallets and pockets of the people who created that work.
And really, if you don’t get that, there is something wrong with you.
And if you’re one of the people who d/l’d my book, you owe me $4.00.
I’m a writer. That’s no secret; I’ve been pimping my stuff (see the little book cover images to the left) for the last couple of years. I’ve put up sample chapters of each book online, a sort of virtual flip-through since you can’t hold the book in your hand and look through it. Soon there will be a third, and another sample chapter.
That was my choice.
You will note, however, that I did not place the entire text of either book online. Why not? Because as much as writing is not about the money (face it, there’s very little money to be made unless you get lucky), if you want to read the book, you either need to suck up to me in a major way, or buy it.
No, it’s really not about the money. But it takes roughly a year, sometimes a little longer, to take those books from idea to final manuscript, a year of work without pay. So sure, I want people to buy the book. It’s just the same as anyone else who works—getting paid for the effort is generally a nice thing.
I imagine it’s not much different for a musician. They work their collective asses off, create a product, put it out there for the public to hear, and hope that people buy it.
Buy it, folks. Not stick it online to share with a million other people.
“But it’s art. Art is not about the money!”
“I paid for the CD. I can do with it what I want.”
“What’s the difference between file sharing and just burning copies for my friends?”
Honestly, if you have to ask those questions, your momma didn’t raise you right.
Okay, you bought the CD. Paid full price even. So make yourself a copy, that’s fine. A copy is a good idea; stick the original away to keep it safe. I had a bunch of CDs stolen out of my car; most of them were copies, so I didn’t lose much. I understand that. Make a copy for a friend. I can live with that, too.
But when you place someone else’s work online, you’re potentially sharing that work with millions of other people. Literally millions. And they didn’t get a say in it.
You’re not hurting the music companies, or book publishers, or even the distributors, really. But you’re killing the people who rely on royalties.
Put it into perspective. When my first book, Charybdis, came out, the entire text wound up online. Every freaking word. Roughly 25,000 people downloaded it, and who knows how many sat there and just read it. Twenty five thousand downloads.
At royalty rates that equaled about $4.00 per book, had those been purchases, I would have earned enough money to get us out of debt, with a little left over.
Even if only half of those had been purchases, it would have literally changed my life. And I’ll never know how many of those downloads were then shared with other people.
While I’m partially thrilled that so many people have copies of my book, I’m still mad as hell that I was ripped off.
Yeah, I said it. You who placed my book online without my permission, and those of you who downloaded it ripped me off.
Every time you take someone else’s work, place it online and “share” it with others, without the express consent of the copyright owner, you are stealing.
I know next to nothing about the RIAA or DCMA or whoever they are, I don’t care who they are and what they do, I don’t care if you’re for them or against them, or feel like because of their policies you deserve to swap music and text files to which you don’t own copyright. I do care that no matter what, when you do it, you’re taking money out of the wallets and pockets of the people who created that work.
And really, if you don’t get that, there is something wrong with you.
And if you’re one of the people who d/l’d my book, you owe me $4.00.
Thursday
Wednesday
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Remember when you were a teenager? More than once you probably heard some older person snort something like, “Those damn kids. They have no respect.”
I know I heard it more than once. And I wish I knew then what I know now, so I could have patiently pointed out a glaring fact: Respect is a two way street. You get what you give.
A couple of days ago I had an IM conversation with a friend who’s been struggling with her weight for the last couple of years. We met online when I was surfing for information on pituitary tumors, and she was a well of information for me, as well as understanding. She’d been through it, knew what I was facing, and pointed me in the directions I needed to go online to get the right information.
We both have undeniable problems resulting from the tumors; I was thrown into very early menopause, have diabetes insipidus, my pituitary gland doesn’t make growth hormone, and probably a few things I’m not even aware of. She was left with some of the same problems, but she also lacks the hormone that prods the thyroid into functioning.
So, she’s gained weight. She hates it, but it’s there, an all too visible reminder of what she went through, and what she lost.
So the other day we were talking, and she brought up an encounter that she found a little startling, more than a little upsetting, and frankly, quite rude. An elderly woman sitting near her in a fast food restaurant leaned over and said, with a slight nod towards the food on the table, “Deary, you would be so pretty if you would lose some weight.”
Backhanded compliment? Hardly. The message was clear: don’t eat those fries, you’re fat enough already and you’re only making it worse, and I don’t want to look at you.
No concern over why she’s overweight, no thought to the idea that there might be a reason not obvious to the world that gets to live outside her body. Just a judgmental old woman who probably doesn’t care that she took what was a nice day, someone’s afternoon out with the kids, and deflated it in less than 5 seconds.
Now, I get looks. I know what being overweight in this world feels like, and it’s rarely a nice feeling. When you’re overweight you get looks, sometimes the occasional derisive snort. But can you imagine someone leaning over and saying that to you? Do you know what you would say back?
She had a good comeback. “Ma’am, if you would keep your opinions to yourself, you would be such a nice person.”
Better than the “Bitch” I would have spat.
I once belonged to a Body For Life support group online; I was giving the weight and nutrition program a try, hoping that it would work for me (it didn’t.) Most of the people on it were nice enough, but the underlying message to a very high percentage of the posts were the same: fat people are less deserving of respect than others. Fat people deserve the crap they get. It’s okay to sneer, frown, and make fun of fat people, including posting running commentaries on the contents of their shopping carts, because they are defective.
It’s not all right.
It’s rude.
It’s disrespectful.
So, I’ll say what fat people across the world think but rarely verbalize: unless you can look at a person and know, with 100% accuracy, what their story is, why they are the way they are, shut up. You don’t know, not really. You don’t know if that person shoves food in their mouth every ten minutes. You don’t know if they’re inherently lazy. You don’t know a thing about them, other than outward appearance.
Give the respect you want to get.
It’s as simple as that.
I think I wrote that book, actually…
Remember when you were a teenager? More than once you probably heard some older person snort something like, “Those damn kids. They have no respect.”
I know I heard it more than once. And I wish I knew then what I know now, so I could have patiently pointed out a glaring fact: Respect is a two way street. You get what you give.
A couple of days ago I had an IM conversation with a friend who’s been struggling with her weight for the last couple of years. We met online when I was surfing for information on pituitary tumors, and she was a well of information for me, as well as understanding. She’d been through it, knew what I was facing, and pointed me in the directions I needed to go online to get the right information.
We both have undeniable problems resulting from the tumors; I was thrown into very early menopause, have diabetes insipidus, my pituitary gland doesn’t make growth hormone, and probably a few things I’m not even aware of. She was left with some of the same problems, but she also lacks the hormone that prods the thyroid into functioning.
So, she’s gained weight. She hates it, but it’s there, an all too visible reminder of what she went through, and what she lost.
So the other day we were talking, and she brought up an encounter that she found a little startling, more than a little upsetting, and frankly, quite rude. An elderly woman sitting near her in a fast food restaurant leaned over and said, with a slight nod towards the food on the table, “Deary, you would be so pretty if you would lose some weight.”
Backhanded compliment? Hardly. The message was clear: don’t eat those fries, you’re fat enough already and you’re only making it worse, and I don’t want to look at you.
No concern over why she’s overweight, no thought to the idea that there might be a reason not obvious to the world that gets to live outside her body. Just a judgmental old woman who probably doesn’t care that she took what was a nice day, someone’s afternoon out with the kids, and deflated it in less than 5 seconds.
Now, I get looks. I know what being overweight in this world feels like, and it’s rarely a nice feeling. When you’re overweight you get looks, sometimes the occasional derisive snort. But can you imagine someone leaning over and saying that to you? Do you know what you would say back?
She had a good comeback. “Ma’am, if you would keep your opinions to yourself, you would be such a nice person.”
Better than the “Bitch” I would have spat.
I once belonged to a Body For Life support group online; I was giving the weight and nutrition program a try, hoping that it would work for me (it didn’t.) Most of the people on it were nice enough, but the underlying message to a very high percentage of the posts were the same: fat people are less deserving of respect than others. Fat people deserve the crap they get. It’s okay to sneer, frown, and make fun of fat people, including posting running commentaries on the contents of their shopping carts, because they are defective.
It’s not all right.
It’s rude.
It’s disrespectful.
So, I’ll say what fat people across the world think but rarely verbalize: unless you can look at a person and know, with 100% accuracy, what their story is, why they are the way they are, shut up. You don’t know, not really. You don’t know if that person shoves food in their mouth every ten minutes. You don’t know if they’re inherently lazy. You don’t know a thing about them, other than outward appearance.
Give the respect you want to get.
It’s as simple as that.
I think I wrote that book, actually…
Tuesday
Shiver Me Timbers
The weather here is starting to turn; the days reach a nice, comfortable mid-70’s, but the nights are cool and the mornings are pretty nippy, in the low 50’s. Fall is definitely bearing down on us, something I’m both looking forward to, and wishing it could be delayed another month or two.
Because of all the rain we’ve had over the last couple of months, when the leaves start to change it should be damn near spectacular. Last year was kind of a dud; the leaves changed—sort of—but fell off within a week or two. Or so it seemed. This year holds the promise of some sights to seriously behold, or at least stare at and ooze “Ooooh. Pretttttty.”
You know. The same way you’d ooze over bright, shiny, new jewelry. ;)
But, the thing is, cold weather means putting the top up on the convertible, and I haven’t had it long enough to be willing to do that. We had some things to do today and when we left the house it was still pretty chilly outside, but there was no way I was putting the top up. Nope, we ran the heat instead.
It works. Zooming down the Interstate at 65 m.p.h. with the wind whipping our collective hairs around and the heat blasting from the dashboard, it was comfy.
I don’t suppose that’ll work when it’s 15 degrees and snowing.
Not that I won’t try.
A month or two more of mid 70’s would be nice.
Arrange it for me, willya?
Thanks.
The weather here is starting to turn; the days reach a nice, comfortable mid-70’s, but the nights are cool and the mornings are pretty nippy, in the low 50’s. Fall is definitely bearing down on us, something I’m both looking forward to, and wishing it could be delayed another month or two.
Because of all the rain we’ve had over the last couple of months, when the leaves start to change it should be damn near spectacular. Last year was kind of a dud; the leaves changed—sort of—but fell off within a week or two. Or so it seemed. This year holds the promise of some sights to seriously behold, or at least stare at and ooze “Ooooh. Pretttttty.”
You know. The same way you’d ooze over bright, shiny, new jewelry. ;)
But, the thing is, cold weather means putting the top up on the convertible, and I haven’t had it long enough to be willing to do that. We had some things to do today and when we left the house it was still pretty chilly outside, but there was no way I was putting the top up. Nope, we ran the heat instead.
It works. Zooming down the Interstate at 65 m.p.h. with the wind whipping our collective hairs around and the heat blasting from the dashboard, it was comfy.
I don’t suppose that’ll work when it’s 15 degrees and snowing.
Not that I won’t try.
A month or two more of mid 70’s would be nice.
Arrange it for me, willya?
Thanks.
Saturday
Unappreciative Little Furball…
Ok, so I managed to do a couple things on my list. I went blonde—very blonde—and while I really didn’t like it at first, it’s growing on me. I’m not sure the cat likes it; I’ve woken up the past two mornings to him biting my head.
But, in spite of his gnawing on my head, I rearranged the office yesterday to accommodate his incredible need to stare out that particular window. I had to unplug everything from the computer, there were massive amounts of paper to be shuffled through (what the heck, while I was at it I cleaned the office up a bit, too) and I had to figure out where to stick the scanner since moving the desk meant losing wall space.
I got it all done (with a little muscle from the Spouse Thingy, who helped move the actual desk, which I couldn’t have done on my own. This sucker weights a lot) and then the little Psycho came downstairs.
Did he notice the now free window?
No, he jumped up on the desk, went behind the monitor, and stared at the freaking wall. And then turned to look at me with this “where’s the window?” look.
I went blonde and the cat lost IQ points.
Ok, so I managed to do a couple things on my list. I went blonde—very blonde—and while I really didn’t like it at first, it’s growing on me. I’m not sure the cat likes it; I’ve woken up the past two mornings to him biting my head.
But, in spite of his gnawing on my head, I rearranged the office yesterday to accommodate his incredible need to stare out that particular window. I had to unplug everything from the computer, there were massive amounts of paper to be shuffled through (what the heck, while I was at it I cleaned the office up a bit, too) and I had to figure out where to stick the scanner since moving the desk meant losing wall space.
I got it all done (with a little muscle from the Spouse Thingy, who helped move the actual desk, which I couldn’t have done on my own. This sucker weights a lot) and then the little Psycho came downstairs.
Did he notice the now free window?
No, he jumped up on the desk, went behind the monitor, and stared at the freaking wall. And then turned to look at me with this “where’s the window?” look.
I went blonde and the cat lost IQ points.
Thursday
List-O-Rama
Things I am going to do in the Very Near Future:
1. Rearrange my office so that my desk is not blocking the window. Having my desk where it is is causing PsychoKitty great distress, as he cannot get a clear view outside without jumping up on the desk and pushing his way behind the computer monitor (which, frankly, pisses me off sometimes.) He’s a good kitty most of the time, and deserves to be able to watch the kids play outside.
2. I’m going to dye my hair blonde. Very blonde.
3. Rearrange bedroom furniture to make room for a couple of bookcases that are in the spare bedroom. We need the space so that we can stick a queen sized bed in there—we figure the Boy might want a place to sleep when he visits (ahem, and his Significantly Better Half, but we’ll pretend that one of them is sleeping on the floor, yes we will.)
4. While I’m at it, I’ll strip down one of our old dressers and stain it. For the spare bedroom.
5. Sell the Hyundai. For megabucks. Like, $1500. And then spend it all on plane tickets. For the Boy and his SBH.
6. Did I mention, dye my hair blonde?
Things I am going to do in the Very Near Future:
1. Rearrange my office so that my desk is not blocking the window. Having my desk where it is is causing PsychoKitty great distress, as he cannot get a clear view outside without jumping up on the desk and pushing his way behind the computer monitor (which, frankly, pisses me off sometimes.) He’s a good kitty most of the time, and deserves to be able to watch the kids play outside.
2. I’m going to dye my hair blonde. Very blonde.
3. Rearrange bedroom furniture to make room for a couple of bookcases that are in the spare bedroom. We need the space so that we can stick a queen sized bed in there—we figure the Boy might want a place to sleep when he visits (ahem, and his Significantly Better Half, but we’ll pretend that one of them is sleeping on the floor, yes we will.)
4. While I’m at it, I’ll strip down one of our old dressers and stain it. For the spare bedroom.
5. Sell the Hyundai. For megabucks. Like, $1500. And then spend it all on plane tickets. For the Boy and his SBH.
6. Did I mention, dye my hair blonde?
Friday
No One Is Available To Take Your Call…
If your name and number don’t show up on Caller ID, that’s what you’re going to hear if you call our house. Yep, we screen calls. If you want to talk to one of us, don’t hang up, just start speaking after the tone. We are just so tired of all the telemarketers, and while the numbers of calls instantly decreased the day the National No-Call list went into effect, we’re still getting them. You know the calls—those unaffected by the list. Companies we’ve “previously done business with.” Like credit card companies who don’t accept “no” and “never call me again” as a legitimate reason to place us on their own Do No Call lists. So as an FYI, if you call and you’re unlisted, start talking. We might even pick up.
I was not at all surprised to get online this morning and read that Johnny Cash had died. After June Carter Cash died a couple of months ago, both the Spouse Thingy and I figured he would not be far behind. It was just a gut feeling; it’s not like either of us were huge Johnny Cash fans, though we both certainly respected his talent and really liked his last release, Hurt. I think we both just had that vibe that he’d rather be with June, and not here.
On the other hand, I was completely blown away by the death of John Ritter. He was too damned young to die and had everything to live for. I first noticed him when he played the minister on The Waltons. And like most of America at the time, I watched him on Three’s Company. I was blown away by his true acting talent in movies like Sling Blade. And I had that thought every once in a while, when I would see him on talk shows, that someday we’d all be watching him at the Emmy’s, an old man taking small old man steps, accepting his lifetime achievement award.
Instead, we’re robbed of a comedic talent far too many years too soon, his wife looses her other half, and his kids lose their father.
And damn it all, for the rest of her life, his little girl’s birthday will be the Day Daddy Died.
Another FYI: The new chicken strips at McDonald’s suck.
If your name and number don’t show up on Caller ID, that’s what you’re going to hear if you call our house. Yep, we screen calls. If you want to talk to one of us, don’t hang up, just start speaking after the tone. We are just so tired of all the telemarketers, and while the numbers of calls instantly decreased the day the National No-Call list went into effect, we’re still getting them. You know the calls—those unaffected by the list. Companies we’ve “previously done business with.” Like credit card companies who don’t accept “no” and “never call me again” as a legitimate reason to place us on their own Do No Call lists. So as an FYI, if you call and you’re unlisted, start talking. We might even pick up.
I was not at all surprised to get online this morning and read that Johnny Cash had died. After June Carter Cash died a couple of months ago, both the Spouse Thingy and I figured he would not be far behind. It was just a gut feeling; it’s not like either of us were huge Johnny Cash fans, though we both certainly respected his talent and really liked his last release, Hurt. I think we both just had that vibe that he’d rather be with June, and not here.
On the other hand, I was completely blown away by the death of John Ritter. He was too damned young to die and had everything to live for. I first noticed him when he played the minister on The Waltons. And like most of America at the time, I watched him on Three’s Company. I was blown away by his true acting talent in movies like Sling Blade. And I had that thought every once in a while, when I would see him on talk shows, that someday we’d all be watching him at the Emmy’s, an old man taking small old man steps, accepting his lifetime achievement award.
Instead, we’re robbed of a comedic talent far too many years too soon, his wife looses her other half, and his kids lose their father.
And damn it all, for the rest of her life, his little girl’s birthday will be the Day Daddy Died.
Another FYI: The new chicken strips at McDonald’s suck.
Thursday
Wednesday
Pimping My Wares
It’s not as pretty as the cover for Charybdis (on sale now at Amazon.com!), but it works. In any case, As Simple As That went to the printer and should be in the online bookstores in 2-3 weeks. I got a proof copy yesterday, and it looks a whole lot better in hand than this little .jpg image does; my only gripe is that after I approved the proof, I found a whopper of a mistake—towards then end there’s a line that should be in italics, but it’s also in bold. The bold type is very distracting … but I’m not pulling the whole book over one line. I can be cheap that way.
The third book, Finding Father Rabbit, is in the final editing stages. There are a couple of chapters I’m not happy with and I’m struggling to find a way to make them flow better, but I still think I’ll be done with it in the next couple of weeks. Overall, I think this book is the best of the three. The subject matter is a little more touchy than things I’ve written about in the past, and it might even offend a person or two out there.
‘Course, I don’t want to intentionally offend anyone, but being that I’m not Catholic and it does deal on some level with Catholic issues, I can see where I’m ripe for “What the hell do you know?” salvos. I can only point out that I had a lot of help from TK Scott, who was a priest until he was 40 years old. This is a guy who’s full of eye opening stories about his experiences over the years … he should write a book. I’d publish it.
Heck, you should write a book.
I’ll publish it.
For a fee.
It’s not as pretty as the cover for Charybdis (on sale now at Amazon.com!), but it works. In any case, As Simple As That went to the printer and should be in the online bookstores in 2-3 weeks. I got a proof copy yesterday, and it looks a whole lot better in hand than this little .jpg image does; my only gripe is that after I approved the proof, I found a whopper of a mistake—towards then end there’s a line that should be in italics, but it’s also in bold. The bold type is very distracting … but I’m not pulling the whole book over one line. I can be cheap that way.
The third book, Finding Father Rabbit, is in the final editing stages. There are a couple of chapters I’m not happy with and I’m struggling to find a way to make them flow better, but I still think I’ll be done with it in the next couple of weeks. Overall, I think this book is the best of the three. The subject matter is a little more touchy than things I’ve written about in the past, and it might even offend a person or two out there.
‘Course, I don’t want to intentionally offend anyone, but being that I’m not Catholic and it does deal on some level with Catholic issues, I can see where I’m ripe for “What the hell do you know?” salvos. I can only point out that I had a lot of help from TK Scott, who was a priest until he was 40 years old. This is a guy who’s full of eye opening stories about his experiences over the years … he should write a book. I’d publish it.
Heck, you should write a book.
I’ll publish it.
For a fee.
Saturday
Money Money Money
Six a.m. is like, well, early. I’m a nine a.m. kind of person, and even that’s reluctantly, dragging myself up to feed the PsychoKitty. But this morning I dragged myself up, slooowwwly put clothes on, and went outside to start dragging stuff out of the garage and onto the driveway for the neighborhood yard sale.
Spouse Thingy had to work, but he was home long enough to help me take most things out, and he got all the really heavy things. Not long after he left, people started coming; not as many as we expected, but enough. I managed to sell 80% of the crap I had sitting out there, including most of the big things we wanted to get rid of to make space in the garage.
We’ve had several sales over the years and it still amazes me the things people will haggle over. I had a paperback book out, in dang near new condition, priced at 50 cents—some woman wanted to give me a dime for it. Would I take twenty cents? No, fifty. Twenty five? No, fifty. She finally paid the fifty cents and went next door and started haggling over the price of a toaster oven. Now, I heard my neighbor tell her—very politely—that the prices on the appliances were firm because they were new, but damned if she didn’t try to talk her down regardless.
The funniest thing about everyone having sales on the same day was the kids. They bounced from one sale to the next, generating a wake of “I want” that just built as the day went on. They were all really good, though, and didn’t get grabby, they just drooled and wanted.
I know that feeling.
Now … since I ran the sale, I should get all the money. Right? Right. I’ll run out and spend it before Spouse Thingy gets home.
Yep. All on jelly beans.
Six a.m. is like, well, early. I’m a nine a.m. kind of person, and even that’s reluctantly, dragging myself up to feed the PsychoKitty. But this morning I dragged myself up, slooowwwly put clothes on, and went outside to start dragging stuff out of the garage and onto the driveway for the neighborhood yard sale.
Spouse Thingy had to work, but he was home long enough to help me take most things out, and he got all the really heavy things. Not long after he left, people started coming; not as many as we expected, but enough. I managed to sell 80% of the crap I had sitting out there, including most of the big things we wanted to get rid of to make space in the garage.
We’ve had several sales over the years and it still amazes me the things people will haggle over. I had a paperback book out, in dang near new condition, priced at 50 cents—some woman wanted to give me a dime for it. Would I take twenty cents? No, fifty. Twenty five? No, fifty. She finally paid the fifty cents and went next door and started haggling over the price of a toaster oven. Now, I heard my neighbor tell her—very politely—that the prices on the appliances were firm because they were new, but damned if she didn’t try to talk her down regardless.
The funniest thing about everyone having sales on the same day was the kids. They bounced from one sale to the next, generating a wake of “I want” that just built as the day went on. They were all really good, though, and didn’t get grabby, they just drooled and wanted.
I know that feeling.
Now … since I ran the sale, I should get all the money. Right? Right. I’ll run out and spend it before Spouse Thingy gets home.
Yep. All on jelly beans.
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