Garage Sale Maven

I should get flashers for the back of my Suburban. A big sign warning that "I Brake For Garage Sales (and Squirrels)". I love when folks plop all their shit out on folding tables and expect others to pay good money for it. The flags at the end of driveways are my dream come true. And its getting to be that time of year where everyone is cleaning out their houses and having these wonderful little bazaars.

This morning I got a tackle box, two pairs of pajama pants, a t-shirt, and some sunglasses for Zane. Since he is 3, he isn't very particular about whether or not someone has worn his clothes before him. God bless the child for not being picky.

The garage sale is one of the only places I buy books (aside from Amazon) because the volumes of material I read are grossly extensive. I purchase kids' toys and books at yard sales, because if they are in decent shape, they are usually a pretty good deal.

I only wish there were yard sales in Minnesota in January, since that is the only time I want to spend the time getting all my old, used up crap together for a sale. In the summer, I am more about enjoying the sunshine and fair weather. (Note I didn't say "nice") Can you see that, though? Old ladies slogging through the snowbanks to come peruse my kids' too-small clothes? Not so much.

But the winter garage sale is an idea. I wonder if it could catch on, and how much I would have to pay the kids to tend the cash box. How long could their shifts be without being considered abuse or neglect? And would folks turn out? I may try it, if the mood strikes me. But more likely it will be October, before the snow is plowable.

Wrong kid, wrong place...

So I got a call the other day. For anyone who knows me, I rarely answer my telephone. Bill collectors, salespeople, and other nuisances make it virtually impossible. Anyone who understands this position is a big fan of voicemail. I use it, everyone else should too. And for the short, informational shit, I appreciate a text message as much as the next person. Basically, I hate the phone. But anyway, this call.

It was Duluth Edison Charter School, where my oldest daughter will be going next fall. The sweet woman left a message about taking a placement test of some sort. Except at the time I listened to the message, I was cooking supper, watching two toddlers, and revelling in the sale of my second manuscript. In my helpless wasteland of a brain, I processed it as my oldest son's school. I informed him that he would have to go Friday to take a placement test. He was not thrilled, but not disgruntled, either, since it wasn't until late morning. He merely took five bucks and went and hopped on the bus.

An hour later, his guidance counselor, Andy, called me. Seems they had no clue what test Eli was there to take. I had no clue either. Until I called the number that the phone call had come from only to discover it was a completely different school. WHOOPS! MY BAD! Andy must think I am a total flake, since I can't keep track of who is doing what where.

I think Eli was tickled to have 5 bucks and the rest of the day with no chores. I wonder how Casey will place, since she is at Adventure Zone with her school patrol for the time this test is being administered. Can anyone say FLAKEY MAMA?!?

This rarely happens, but when it does, I feel like a boob. Sorry kids, Mommy's on crack again.

The Black Widow Strikes!

Last week I bought life insurance. On my husband, myself, and our 7 children. You would think the insurance man would jump for joy, having earned a commission on 9 policies. But he earnestly tried to talk me out of policies on the kids. REALLY?

I have seen too much to not have policies on the little sheisters. A cabin could explode, a rogue car could careen into our front lawn, etc. I think I would rather be prepared for these things than not. He thinks I am insane. Maybe I am. Maybe not.

I sprung for the big mother policy on my husband, just because I know I'd be up Schitt Crick if he kicked off before these kids were grown and gone. Yeah, I can support myself and a couple of 'em, but I would hate to have to choose. Or move into a teeny little house while they were all still around. So half a mil on him should keep me set, and 100K on me. After all, he can hire a decent maid/cook/hooker for that.

So now I just have to wait for the inevitable. There will be an accident. Someone will die. Then it will be investigated and someone will bring up that I just bought these insurance policies. Jesus Christ! Can I not mourn in peace? No, I will be accused of orchestrating some sort of bizarre fireworks accident. Something. Maybe I should just forget it. Am I better off?

Favorite Celeb Mommy

Reese Witherspoon. I love that talented bitch. In the world of celebrity moms, she is my favorite. Remember how her Vanessa Lutz kicked pedophile ASS in "Freeway?" No? Well, you're missing out. Watch it.

I love movies and I love me some smutty gossip rags. They distract me while I'm waiting for the doctor or getting ripped off by the people at the oil change place who always tell me I need a new goddamn air filter. I especially love the idiocy and narcissism of the celebrity world.

I like how when they have a babies, they act like they are the first to do so and that we NEED to hear about their unique experience. Then they let us in on the secret of how to get rid of all that accumulated back fat when you only have a three part time chefs and trainers and nannies and.....yeah, thanks guys.

Back to Reese, why am I writing about her? Here is a favorite Reese quote, "If you are not yelling at your kids, you are not spending enough time with them."

TRUE DAT, Ms. Spoon! But my very favorite has to be when she was quoted as saying this; "There is something timeless and important about making people laugh, about being the bright spot in their day."

I laugh all day. I have to. I choose to. I see everything as potentially hilarious. Oscar Wilde quipped about this when he said, "Life's too important to be taken seriously."

TRUE DAT, Mr. Wilde, it IS too important. It is my opinion that taking things too seriously can be as dangerous as not taking them seriously enough. That is why I weave laughter into your day using my potty mouth. I do the yelling for all of us, as we spend way too much time with our kids. I try to strike a balance. Sometimes I fail.

He should know better, really

We have lived with Nora for a little over two years. We should know better than to leave her alone, especially when she is mad. Last Thursday we sent her to bed angry. Not because she wanted ice cream and couldn't have any. Not because Justin "the Bieb" Bieber was on TV and we wouldn't let her watch. But because we made her come inside and take a bath before bed. If you have any concept of just how grubby two-and-a-half-year-olds get after a day of playing outside, you understand why bathing is a necessary evil. Plus I had to work early Friday AM, so I was saving Brian an early wakeup. Baths always help the little people sleep a little sounder, a little longer.

Friday morning came, I shot off to work. At 648 I got a text message that Nora, in all her fury, had treated herself to a "spa day" using Desitin and diaper wipes. Apparently her hair would not need conditioner for the next 4 weeks, according to Brian. I asked for pictures and got a grainy image of her bed smeared in white, surrounded by diaper wipes. Not exactly what I was looking for, but whatever.

Friday afternoon, I picked Nora up from daycare. Yes, she was mighty greasy. But nothing a few Dawn baths couldn't handle. I headed for home, wit the grand idea of pitching her in the kitchen sink and scrubbing her good. Except when I got home, the ENTIRE dining room floor was covered in Fruity Pebbles. WHAT THE FUCK?!?

I phoned Brian, worried that some sort of cereal bandit had broken into the house. Not so, he affirmed. While he had snuck upstairs (not sneaky at 235#, my friend) to take that weak picture, Nora had decided to spoon feed Huckleberry (the dog) her breakfast. Brian had been in too much of a hurry to clean up the cereal, the Desitin, the diaper wipes, AND the 2-year-old.

Living with my husband is sometimes like living with FOUR kids 3 and under, except he makes bigger messes. I love him dearly, but he was REALLY DAMN LUCKY he wasn't home for that one.

Scared of the Basement

So the little shits are supposed to be cleaning up the basement (AKA the kid lair) before they go to their other parents' houses for two weeks. I am scared to go look. I keep hearing sounds that resemble whale communications, screams from Nora (nothing out of the ordinary there) and an occasional crash. I want to know what is going on, but I am scared to open the door.

There was a disaster earlier today involving the bathroom sink and Zane's watering can down there. I know because Casey came and asked me if she could use the shop vac to suck up water. Dear God! I'm afraid to ask.

Maybe if I just ignore them a while, it will end up being fine. I know there are no whales down there, so maybe I will look tomorrow. Maybe I won't. It might be one of those situations where it is just best to keep the door shut and pretend it doesn't exist.

Did Someone Say "Publish"???

So, I have been reveling.

Last week, I got a very leading email inquiring about a manuscript I sent out a million years ago. Was it accepted elsewhere? Did I retain all the rights to the poems published in other places? It ended abruptly with "call me after 5" (which I took only to mean that it was someone's home number) and the number.

I didn't want to get my hopes up, because that usually only leads to disappointment. I did, however, wait until after the kids had gone to bed so I could hear this poor guy out. I called my husband and read him the email. He said it sounded promising, and that I should call the guy. I paced. I sweated. I fantasized.

Finally, when the last little beast had lain down to bed, I sat at my desk and read the email again. It DID sound promising. I picked up my phone, dialed the number and got a woman, who was probably the editor's wife. She didn't sound suspicious that I was calling her husband at 8:30PM. I took that as a good sign.

I answered the editor's questions that he had asked in the email. He followed my answers with "then I have good news for you" at which point I think I began holding my breath. The room began to waver, and I got hot. Hotter than I think the 56 degree Duluth day warranted. Baking in the sun in Arizona July hot. I had to remind myself to breathe, both in and out, as he told me Slipstream would be publishing my manuscript. I thanked him profusely, told him he had made my life and then promptly hung up on him.

I don't think he was done telling me what he wanted to tell me though, because he called me back two minutes later, and I almost didn't hear the phone I was hollering so loudly. My neighbors must think I am out of my skull, or severely abusive to my children. Because who yells "YES" at the top of their lungs from their front porch at 9PM? This gal, that's who.

I answered the phone and made a list of all the things Slipstream needed from me ASAP. This included a publicity photo, which I ended up taking myself with my phone, after desperately searching through my pictures of myself (all 4 of them) and combing the internet for someone who could pass as me. Did I mention my hair is at the worst possible length for photos? Did I mention that my double chin was nearly a goiter? Did I mention the bags under my eyes were even more pronounced after 5 straight night shifts? Did I care? NO!

I am getting a book. My very own book. 33 pages of all me. Mine, my own. Slipstream is going to market it for an entire year on their website. It's so surreal. And now I have to con writerly folks I know into saying something nice about this manuscript so their names can draw folks in. I hate asking for favors like that. But the things they say are the best part of the whole deal.

That and the prize money!