All Hail Octavia!!!

I got such acclaim for posting the last video, I decided to post another. It's been a while since I've visited "The Onion", but now I remember why it used to be one of my favorite sites...it counteracts the ridiculousness of our regular news networks. Right now I kind of need a few laughs.

All hail Octavia!!!

Nascar

Interesting video showing a pretty cool eye-opening inside look at the great sport of NASCAR racing, enjoyed not only by millions, but also myself and many friends and family.

Ash vs. Possum, Round II

If you've been reading my blog for any length of time, you know I have a flock of laying hens. I've learned a lot from keeping chickens, including the facts that 1) I now consider store-bought eggs to be no more than tasteless goo, 2) keeping chickens is addictive and hopefully wherever I go in life a few chickens will follow, and 3) that sometimes chickens just keel over and die for no apparent reason, so it's best not to become emotionally attached. Also, 4) chickens are incredibly dumb so that helps with the emotionally attached part.

Lately I've been having chicken troubles. In the past couple of months, I've lost 3 - two just seemed to have laid down and given up the good fight, and one snatched in the dark of night by some mysterious predator. One night a couple of weeks ago while checking the coop I came face-to-face with one of these predators - a possum. (I guess the correct name is "Opossum", but we're in the Ozarks and I've never in my life heard them called anything but a possum except on TV.) This particular possum was pretty laid back as possums tend to be, despite the fact that I was pretty angry that he was in my coop. I found a stick and whacked and poked him until he decided maybe it would behoove him to leave, and he slunk out of the coop and under the so-called "predator proof" electric fence. I called Lucy, who back in her younger years was a possum-killing fool, to take care of the problem. After giving the possum's butt a good sniff, Lucy ambled over to see what I wanted. Some guard dog. The possum scooted off to the woods.

After securing the chickens for the night in the coop, the next day I re-checked the fence, mowed the chicken yard, and was confident things were secure. And they were, until a few nights ago.

I had gotten in late that evening and rushed around doing my evening chores, and I was a bit distracted by keeping one eye on the sky for the meteor shower predicted for that night. I shut the chickens in the coop and went indoors to watch a movie until the shower was supposed to be brightest. At midnight I meandered outside to watch the sky, but my attention was drawn to the chicken coop where I heard frantic scratchings coming from the "upstairs" enclosed area. I ran to the coop with my flashlight, counted the chickens piled up in the "downstairs", and when all were accounted for opened the egg-access door - to meet the same possum. At least it looked the same. I had inadvertently shut him in the coop WITH the chickens. Doh! Lucky for me (and the chickens) he was too frantic trying to get out to have a chicken snack, but he had made short work of the eggs I hadn't gathered.

Once again, I poked and whacked him with a stick. This time instead of leaving the coop he jammed himself up in the far corner. I left the coop to see if he'd come out. He didn't. At this point I was SO tired, and pretty darn irritated at the possum. I figured I had to shoot him because this was a repeating problem, but I didn't want to shoot him in the coop and make a mess. I had to get him out of the coop. What I needed was a lasso. I scoured the barn and came up with a 50' piece of rope, tied my slipknot, and went to work trying to lasso the possum. After 15 minutes and with the help of my trusty stick, I got the loop over his head and dragged a VERY irate possum out, taking full advantage of the 50' of rope. After I got him out of the chicken yard and over the "predator-proof" fence I wasn't sure what to do. The shotgun was in the house, and I was standing in the yard with a possum on a rope in the middle of the night. For the sake of my chickens, I couldn't just let him go. I did what any logical person would do - tied him to the big yard light pole while I retrieved the gun.

*I think hubby would appreciate me noting that he was NOT home at the time of these shennanigans.

By the time I returned with the loaded 12 gauge, the possum was sitting calmly at the end of his rope. I reminded myself of my hen's safety and walked up to the possum and aimed right between his eyes. His beady little eyes. Looking right at me. Crap. He was only a young possum doing what possums do...and to think of all the baby possums I've raised. Crap.

I couldn't do it. I can dispatch a deer with no problem, help hubby dress it, and grind the meat myself. I can shoot a turkey in the face and do a victory dance, then fry up his breast with a side of green beans feeling no remorse. I can even process my own meat chickens. But I can't dispose of an egg-sucking, probable chicken-killing possum.

Now what? I couldn't let him go. Well, I couldn't let him go HERE. I untied the rope and led the possum to the truck. And, you guessed it, got him up in the bed and tied the other end to a support post. Good thing he was a possum...a raccoon would've eaten my face back at the coop with the stick-poking. This possum by now was either on Valium, stunned into complete shock, or resigned to his fate. Indeed, he seemed to be undecided as to whether now was an appropriate time for the "playing possum" act. I hopped into the truck and tried to think of where to drop him. I didn't want to plague some other hapless chicken-owner with my problem possum, so I decided to go out to the Wildlife Management Area about 5 miles away.

Then it occurred to me...what if I got pulled over? Here I was, 1:30 a.m., in my pajamas, no license, in an old Ford truck with a possum tied to a support post in the bed. Just another night in Arkansas. That's probably the best explanation I could give to a cop at that point.

I successfully reached the WMA, worked the rope off with my stick, and the possum scooted off into the woods to take his chances around less-crazy beings. I returned home at 2 a.m. and fell into bed.

If that possum turns up again, I AM shooting him. I think. By the way, my husband thinks I'm certifiable. I'm not sure he's wrong.

Healthcare Reform Bill Link

I've had several people ask me if I knew where to find the actual Healthcare Bill currently being proposed so they can read it, so it's posted at the end of this blog.

And if you know me, you know I just can't keep my mouth shut or my keyboard quiet. Lately I've been absolutely APPALLED by the assault on our first amendment rights by the media and the current administration. It's constantly being suggested that anyone opposing this bill are "nutjobs" and "unruly mobs" and that they just need to shut up and let this thing pass. Um...excuse me, but don't the politicians work for US? Since when can we not question them??? And I'm sorry, but according to current polls, over 50% of Americans think this is a bad idea.

Rasmussen poll page: http://www.rasmussenreports.com/public_content/politics/obama_administration/daily_presidential_tracking_poll

So...how are the protests not representing a significant portion, if not a majority, of American's concerns? As far as "angry mobs", I've seen none. I've seen angry American citizens conducting themselves in an appropriate manner, and with the exception of a few people shouting at politicians (which is not appropriate, but could hardly be called "mobish"), citizens have conducted these debates much more orderly than say...the left when amnesty was being discussed. I seem to remember seeing flaming trash cans, vandalized property, and yes...truly angry, yelling mobs.

Here's the complete bill. Read it, and be informed.

http://energycommerce.house.gov/Press_111/20090714/aahca.pdf

Food for Thought - Part I

In a previous post I mentioned I'd just read Barbara Kingsolver's "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle - A Year of Food Life." I have to admit, it's a book I've been putting off for a while because it's non-fiction, and I must confess that sometimes for me reading non-fiction is a struggle unless the book is something I'm truly interested in, like pirates, American history, or political commentary. And even with subjects I'm very interested in, I've waded through some writing as dull as watching paint dry.

And as most fiction-lovers, I've had to put up with so many of those rude, snobby comments from non-fiction readers about how fiction-readers are intellectually inferior, keeping my mouth discreetly shut while longing to make a retaliatory comment about lack of imagination and variety.

However, I finally beat down the NONFICTION monster and delved into Kingsolver's book. Had I not already been a huge fan of Kingsolver's fiction, I likely would've never picked up this book - and that's hard to imagine. From the first pages I never felt a need to lean on the crutch of a fiction book. I took my time, forcing myself to go chapter by chapter, stopping frequently to check out facts and web pages she's listed, and pausing to make notes in my garden journal.

This book is about Kingsolver and her family embarking on a year-long quest to eat foods only gown locally, either from their own farm or purchased from area farmers. She mixes in her reasons for taking on this challenge, and presents many facts and truths about our current mainstream food situation.

She really hit hard on some issues that have been rattling around in my brain for a while now: 1) our fragile food distribution system and the waste it causes, 2) our MEGA loss of vegetable varieties, and 3) the widening gulf between us and our food - not just that it comes from far off, but in the short span of about 50 years we've lost most of the knowledge about growing food that our grandparents just knew. Thousands of years of food-growing knowledge, now gone from our common collective in the blink of an eye. In addition, she touches on the very scary reality of lab engineered hybrid plants - some now being spliced with animal genes. Makes you think twice before diving into that plate of hybrid corn-on-the-cob.

I've mentioned before when talking of gardening that it bothers me greatly that so much of our food is imported. There is a massive gulf between a great majority of us and our food - not only in physical distance, but in the knowledge of where it comes from and how it's grown. It doesn't seem right that we can go to the grocery store in January and buy a puny-looking watermelon. It goes against my ingrained sense that watermelons are to be consumed when the temperature is at least in the 90's and you eat it while standing outside leaning over so the juice doesn't get on your bare feet and make them sticky. And if you actually buy one of these in January, you quickly find that it wasn't worth a cent of what you paid.

What I didn't know is exactly HOW FAR removed we've come from our food supply - so far that kids now don't have a clue what "out of season" means, unless they are one of the dwindling farm kids or in the small minority of gardening families. They don't realize that milk really does come out of a cow, that carrots grow underground, or that peas were in a pod before a can. In addition to our disturbing lack of knowledge, having so much of our food shipped in from parts unknown causes a pretty precarious food supply chain. If that chain were to break, what would we do? A great majority would be running around like headless chickens, with no clue how to produce any food, let alone preserve it for later. Then there's the recent salmonella outbreaks - by the time a problem is realized with the spinach from California, it's made it's way to all points of the country.

I myself know that an apple, no matter how beautiful it appears, isn't supposed to taste like mealy cardboard. A tomato is supposed to be RED (if it indeed is a red variety), juicy, and very tasty - not grainy and hard. I wonder, how many people so far removed from food production really know WHY apples taste so much better in the fall and tomatos all of a sudden gain color and taste in the summer? (Not to mention go down in price). Do they care?

Where I disagreed with Kingsolver was where she seemed to take blame for this trend completely out of the hands of the consumers and put it squarely on "evil" capitalism. It's plain where she stands politically, and she's got every right and decent arguments to that way of looking at things. I just simiply disagree. You're not going to convince me that capitalism isn't the best way to do things - it's what made our country great in the first place. However, it does come with some undesirable side-effects, such as Walmart and lazy consumers. I put the great majority of the blame on the consumer. Capitalism will supply what the consumer demands, and if the consumer demands peaches in December, by golly someone will try to make money getting them into consumer's hands. And the lazy consumer will think this is great, forgetting that peaches are supposed to be eaten in the summer when they are (here we go again), in season, not only tasting good but benefiting local growers.

In addition, Kingsolver really truly believes in global warming caused by greenhouse gasses caused by us, the evil fossil fuel-user, and therefore we shouldn't buy imported foods because of how much fossil fuel it takes to get it from one place to another. I may not agree with the reasoning - I'm not so sold on human-caused global warming as to think we're destroying the planet by eating out-of-season foods, but I do agree it's a tremendous waste, to think of the amount of fuel and resources used to get a tasteless out-of-season apple from California to New York.

I REALLY hate waste. My husband refers to me as the "Water Nazi", and also gets irked that our Tupperware cabinet is full of used butter and cottage cheese containers. Hey, why buy Gladware when you buy it already? Who cares if it says "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter"?

And that's one of my points - I believe we can be much healthier, improve the economy, and "save the planet" just through old-school common sense rather than radically changing the fundamentals of our American way of life. How many rich actors screaming about environmentalism save their butter containers and re-use water bottles?

Even if you disagree with the above sentiment, wouldn't it be at least a little better if everyone were more aware of where their food comes from? If everyone were to make a little effort at buying local food and helping the local economy? If we took a step back and re-learned a bit of the knowledge that was so common just 50 years ago? I just happened to drive by the farmer's market last week, and there were plenty of delicious-looking organic produce, at VERY reasonable prices. Yep, even though I'm going to be covered in tomatos in the next few weeks (I got mine in late), I bought some. Along with a very delicious watermelon. And yes, my first step toward heirloom gardening was saving the seeds.

I'm not at all sure I'm ready to take the year-long challenge as Kingsolver did, though I may think about it. Of course, Marden would also have to be on board. And when you think about what that REALLY means, it's a daunting proposition. But, I feel we're on the right track.

I'm sure I'll have much more on this later, lest my rambling thoughts continue to carry on in different disjointed tangents for pages. For now, just some "food for thought."

Me, Mom, Chiggers, and Granolas

There was a little chigger,

that wasn’t any bigger,

Than the point of a teeny-tiny pin.

But the lump that it made,

just itches like the blaze,

And that’s where the rub comes in.
Comes in, comes in, and that’s where the rub comes in.

Yes, the lump that it made just itches like the blaze,

And that’s where the rub comes in.

I came across this little ditty while doing some Internet research to see if there are ANY chigger remedies out there I haven't tried. There aren't.

Last week was pretty awesome - Mom came to visit, and for once during a visit of hers we didn't have anything to do but enjoy ourselves. Of course, you also begin to realize how boring your life is when you are attempting to entertain someone...made especially difficult when you're going sans-TV. We ended up reading a lot. A LOT. I gulped down 1 1/2 books, and I think she got in a whole two.

We got in some more active activities, too. Since I've lived in the area, I've been meaning to take in some of the local trails - and I haven't. As much as I enjoy hiking, sometimes I tend to overlook trails right in our own area. Heck, Marden and I hiked the heck out of Colorado and Tennessee, but have virtually ignored great trails right here in our back yard. So, Mom and I took off for the Buffalo River, meaning to hike Indian Rockhouse Trail. Once we FINALLY found the trail (Buffalo Point Park, which is NPS, should really consider a labeled MAP), it was definitely worth our while. Indian Rockhouse was an awesome trail, mildly strenuous (I hate trails that feel as if you're walking through a cow pasture), scenic, and with lots of stuff to see along the way. Not to mention the actual rock house, which goes beyond description. Unfortunately I don't have any pictures to show because I seem to have lost the cord I need to download pictures. Maybe by next post. And this is where we were viciously attacked by chiggers.

I HATE chiggers. Not that I know anyone who likes them, but I sure seem to be a target more than most. I must taste like chigger candy. I love summer, but I DREAD the inevitable - having my feet/ankles/lower legs look like they've been chewed and on FIRE with itch. And chigger bites aren't only uncomfortable (to put it mildly), but extremely unattractive to the point of looking like the poor afflicted is carrying some kind of disease, only compounded by dried calamine lotion. Ick. This summer I'd been lucky, but of course my luck had to run out. I'm afflicted.

Another highlight during Mom's visit was a trip up to Mansfield, MO to Bakersville, home of Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds. Here's a link if you want to check them out. You can also sign up for a catalog: http://rareseeds.com/

I've been meaning to get up there to take a look for a while, but I've recently read a book which really made me jump onto the heirloom bandwagon full-throttle.

I've been reading Barbara Kingsolver's "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle", and it's really woken me up to a lot of issues concerning our food...issues which have been banging around in my head for some time, and this book really brought them into focus. More on that later, lest this post turn into something resembling the Internet version of "War and Peace." But in a nutshell, I've gone from being pretty unconcerned as to whether the stuff I planted in my garden was hybrid or heirloom to now being pretty darn convinced that I should be not only planting ONLY heirlooms, but saving the seeds as well. But like I said, likely MUCH more thoughts on that later, as this was kind of one of those life-altering reads. (Hey, I SAW you roll your eyes...)

Mom and I trekked up to Bakersville bright and not-so-early for their monthly garden festival and summer seed sale. Overall, the place was pretty cool. Not worth the 1hr+ drive if you're not after seeds, but still pretty cool. They had a pioneer village, poultry on display, a farmer's market, and folk music. I could've done without the folk music. Not that I just hate folk music - I did grow up hearing a couple of Peter, Paul, and Mary albums mixed in with copious amounts of John Denver. I guess that music just seemed to have a time and place, and this modern folk music makes me want to toss my cookies. It's like the people are pretending way to hard to be all "folky" and one with Mother Earth and all that jazz. It just doesn't seem to fly in 2009. I would much rather have heard some good bluegrass, but the closest anyone got was some dude yodeling. Gack. Bakersville really draws the modern-day hippies, or as my brother calls them (and therefore I cobbed onto the term too), "Granolas." Granolas were out in force this day. Guys wearing tye-dye shirts with rolled-up or crazily cut-off overalls, girls also sporting overalls, but some opting for the "I-weave-my-own-fabric-from-organic-cat-hair-while-singing If I Had a Hammer" skirts. Rope sandals, earrings on guys, and my favorite - very large American Indian necklaces on obviously white people - were also pretty common. Mom bought a plant from an oldish guy wearing overalls and six earrings in his ear. I even spotted a flyer advertising Cindy Sheehan's anti-war cause stuck in a display case among antique gardening flyers. Silly Granolas...

Still, there were "normal folk" at this thing, too...I guess as normal as you can get spending your Sunday at a garden festival celebrating organic and heirloom fruits and veggies...so Mom and I weren't too conspicuous in our jeans and sneakers. We made out like bandits in the seed store, and I've got my work cut out for me next year with starting my own seeds. I did try it last year without success. I got the seeds to sprout nicely, but I tried setting out half the baby plants well after the frost and they promptly died a spectacular death. Same for the indoor seeds I DIDN'T set out. Yes...definitely have a busy winter ahead figuring this seed-starting business out. If I'm successful, I'll have all kinds of heirloom tomatoes coming out my ears, as well as some crazy stuff I just wanted to try. Blue pole beans, anyone?

A Successful Mid-Summer Break

The shin splints are gone, and my spirits are refreshed after several days of no-stress fishing in very beautiful, un-Julyish weather. Many trout were caught, numerous fish released, and a few un-lucky ones had a meeting with the BBQ grill. YUM.

Shaping Up - Update

OUCH. Shin splints.

I have heard the only cure is a good long soaking in waters inhabited by trout...and if I'm soaking, I'm pretty much obligated to fish.

If I must, I must.

Health Care Worries

If you want an idea of why this current government-sponsored health care bill is a NIGHTMARE, listen to this Betsy McCaughey interview with Fred Thompson.

http://www.facebook.com/ext/share.php?sid=147494195032&h=f80sk&u=buHl_&ref=nf

So many people seem to think that "free" government sponsored health care is a good idea. Believe it or not, I used to think this at one time too, having been frustrated with my own experiences with health insurance. It's been a few years of doing research, reading, and trying to see things from all sides. Having done research and also talked to quite a few people who live or have lived in countries where health care is government provided, I DON'T think this is a good idea. Doctors no longer have incentive. Patients are just a number. Bureaucrats make the decisions on what care you can/can't get based on numbers on a paper. Old people and the infirm are viewed as "expensive liabilities" and worth less than healthy people, frequently DYING before care is approved or because care was not approved at all. Then, there's the HUGE TAXES to pay for it.

I'll be the first to admit that there are major problems with our current system, but I really believe we do have the best system and that these problems can be fixed through reform that doesn't take the control from us and doesn't put all control into the government's hands. I think it goes beyond politics. Whether you're Democrat or Republican, seriously ask yourself whether this is truly the direction we should go.

There are some serious questions I'd like to ask President Obama right now, including:

Why the hard push to get this passed when you admit you haven't read the bill, and admittedly aren't familiar with some of the basic tenants of the bill?

Why not slow down a bit, lay it ALL out, let the American people see it, read it, and then let the PEOPLE decide to fundamentally change the whole system?

Why did you vote AGAINST every health care reform bill that ever came up, but yet are trying to push this huge monstrosity through now as "health care reform"?

Why do you keep saying we can keep our current providers when it plainly states in the bill that we can't?

I have so many questions I can't list them all. I think of my Grandma, and I think of my parents when I hear this interview and others speaking out against this bill, and hear the big push to get this bill passed. I hear people who haven't done any research and who think they'll be getting "free health care" speaking in favor of this...some of the same people I've heard gripe about HMOs. This would be like a massive HMO. It would be like this CRAPPY Military TriCare my husband and I are on, where it's impossible to see a specialist or just to get someone to LISTEN. It's so bad people routinely refer to it as "Tri-UnCare." I'm surprised and dismayed that people are so willing to give up free will without really considering it.

And I'm scared.

A Quest to Shape Up

Recently I've lit a fire under my own butt to get in shape. I'm totally and completely appalled at the way my fitness has rapidly declined over the last few years. Once upon a time not too terribly long ago, I was a strong, lean, multi-sport college athlete. Now I'm not. Like so many many others, I've let life get in the way, and too many times used the excuse of "I worked hard today...I don't need excercise", so that eventually I got out of the habit.

Several recent events have, however, brought the issue to my attention. First, I'm currently on the church's co-ed softball team, and we play once a week. It's been at least 3 years since I've even been on a softball field, but I figured that since this is a sport I know inside and out, it would be business as usual. Heh. During the first game, after hitting a single to first, I thought my lungs were disintegrating. On the next hit I got thrown out at second because I was simply out of gas. Later in the game on my way from second to third, I tripped over my own feet to get a face full of dirt and had to frantically crawl back to second. How embarassing. I held my own in the outfield for a while, but eventually got burned on a fly ball I would've easily caught just three years ago. I knew the answer to my troubles but just didn't want to admit it. The sad truth is that I am *sigh* in my 30's now, and after a few years without any regular fitness it's really taken it's toll.

Then, I went to a routine doctor visit and found my resting heart rate to be 74. Not that great. Not HORRIBLE, but not great, either. I know that the doc's office isn't exactly the place to feel relaxed, so I tested myself later: 78. Eek. Granted, that's still in the realm of "normal", but it doesn't exactly scream healthy....especially when it used to regularly be in the low 60's.

The last is a real motivator...probably THE motivator. As mentioned in previous posts, we recently redid our bathrooms. In our master bath there is now a large mirror opposite the shower. *sigh* Soon my butt will have to have it's own zip code.

I've had countless people say things like, "Oh, that's just getting older" and "Yeah, once you hit 30 it's all downhill...nothing much you can do." What a load of utter horse pucky. Sure, I understand things slow down, body parts start giving in to gravity, it IS harder to lose weight, and you can't fight time...but you CAN be healthy, and I'm totally ashamed of myself for having to get BACK in shape when I never should've gotten out of it in the first place. I've let excuses rule my life, and I've had enough. Like on Stephanie's Pointed Meanderings blog recently - I need to get INTENTIONAL.

Hubby is also feeling the need for fitness. Now that he works with other full-time in-shape army types, he told me he's tired of walking around the office trying to appear normal and relaxed, all the while struggling to keep his gut sucked in. He even exercises more regularly than me, mostly because he has regular PT tests.

Our answer is a program really gaining popularity called Crossfit, which a lot of military people seem to use and we can do together. Every day a workout is posted to http://www.crossfit.com/, which is the kind of direction I need. I need to follow a specific program and be told what to do, and the program also encompasses many aspects of fitness - cardio, strength, endurance, balance, flexibility, and diet. It's also very hard-core, but the workouts can be modified to fit your fitness level (or lack of, in my case). I found this out on the FAQ page, after I panicked while checking the "Workout of the Day" (or "WOD"...this site really likes acronyms) and the assignment was "Run a 10K for time." I nearly fell out of the chair. I can't even run to first base. For no time. Imagine my relief when I found out their philosophy is to take it slow and work up to the WOD, which some people may never do, and to keep in mind age and gender may also affect the workout. I could be called feminist, but I'm also a realist. I'm pretty sure I'll never work up to doing 3 reps of 50 pull-ups. They also give lots of excercise substitutions - for instance, if you are like me and can't do a pull-up at all, do a negative pull-up, which is to get yourself up to the bar and let yourself down slowly. The whole idea is to get as close as possible without overdoing it. I kind of like that - always having a specific goal on the horizon, even if it *may* never be attained.

Right now my goal is to 1) stick with the running, and 2) survive the running. The rest I can handle.

They say runners fit into two categories: they either love running or they hate it. I don't fit into either...I LOATHE running. I always have. In high school track I did field events and was on a sprint team (4x100), but I stayed far from long distance events. In college I was always among the last to drag in after a distance run. The announcement of a "5-mile run today" always sent dread through my body, though I never minded sprint workouts. In the police academy I endured the morning runs, but never found that groove runners talk about getting into. I did significantly improve my running time over the 3 months, but to me that just meant a shorter time to suffer. I enjoyed no part of it.

I'm still searching for that groove. On my runs to the highway and back, I suffer all the old pains running always gives - my lungs feel like exploding, my knees feel funny, my throat feels swelled, my ears and even my teeth hurt. It's horrible. The reward only comes later in the form of tired muscles and the satisfaction that I'm making an effort, the hope that my runs will get easier, and the fact that even though I may miss a few days due to this or that, this time the routine seems to be well on it's way to habit.

My Sticky, Sticky Shoe...

Not only is that a Phoebe song from Friends, it now applies to the right flop of my favorite pair of flip-flops.

Side note: Remember when we could call them "thongs" without getting laughed at? Is that a sign of advancing age?

While down in Little Rock this week, looking at what may become our new abode (more on that later), I spent a few hours shopping while waiting for Marden to be off for lunch. One of my stops, of course, was Gander Mountain. Evidently the staff had been doing some re-arranging, and someone had peeled off the wide tape that had been down to mark aisles, but had not removed the sticky. While browsing the ladies's shorts I unknowingly landed my right foot squarely in this area. As I went to take another step, the shoe was stuck so forcefully that my foot came out, along with part of the strap, and I careened into a rack of "Life is Good" t-shirts. At that point life was not good...I was stuck in Gander Mountain with only one working shoe. I was, however, able to get the strap temporarily fixed, but now the bottom of the shoe was incredibly sticky.

Walking around on the concrete floor sounded something like, "flop...schllleeeeeeeep...flop...schlleeeeeeep...flop...schlllleeeeeeep..." Nice. Why always me? I guess a less-nice person would've sued, but instead I sheepishly made my way back to the car.

On to my destination - Academy Sports in the quest to find some running clothes. More on my workout intentions later, but for now I'll just mention that I am starting a new workout routine, and it occured to me on my first day of this routine that my workout clothes were in sorry shape. Several years with no regular workout-type exercise has not only taken a fitness toll, but a wardrobe toll as well. I was down to threadbare t-shirts from college, which really should be in the rag bin, and shorts (also mostly from my college days) with disintigrated elastic bands or holes. And I also thought it would be nice, solely for motivation's sake of course, to have nice new shorts and matching t's. If they happen to also be snazzy looking, well, that's just the price I have to pay to get in shape.

My problem in getting to Academy was mostly due to my fear of city driving. I get so irritated around Mountain Home getting behind a blue-hair from Chicago who can't drive hilly curves (a popular yankee technique is to floor it in the straight parts, run up on a curve, and slam on the brakes taking the curve at 20 mph). But, I've never really learned to comfortably city-drive, especially in areas I don't really know. I can do fine, but it sometimes comes with sweaty palms, gritted teeth, and white knuckles. In this particular area of town, it seems the road system was laid out by a drunk monkey. I had been to this Gander Mountain before, so arriving safely on the first try wasn't a problem. However, my drive to Academy Sports was a bit more interesting. I detest one-way outer roads, and this area is full of them. I drove by Academy no less than three times, like the Griswolds driving by Big Ben over and over again on the roundabout in Family Vacation.

"Look kids, there's Academy Sports!...Look kids, there's Academy Sports!"

I finally made it, in a mood not really fit for trying on shorts, but I eventually emerged victorious and with several new, cute (and on sale), running outfits.

Still hearing "Schlllleeeep...flop....shlllleeeeep...flop...", the whole way back to the car.

Berries, Gender-Confused Deer, and Bikes

Last week I FINALLY totally and completely finished work in the house with the installation of those final folding closet doors, installing base and door trim in and around said closet, and cutting/painting/installing new exterior trim for the back door. Neither job was even half as simple as it sounds, but oh so rewarding to proclaim, "It is DONE!" to nobody in particular.

Since hubby was at his weekend National Guard drill, I pointed my evil SUV toward my folk's for a little break. Naturally, since I like to think of myself as an accomplished multi-tasker, I also chose this visit to coincide with blackberry-picking time. Mom and Dad have some nice, productive bushes which were starts from Grandpa's bushes, and so far I've just got sprigs. I did manage to pick four blackberries this year. Not four cups...four berries. And, since moving is in our hopefully near future, the bushes will once again be uprooted and relocated (no way in heck I'm leaving them! This includes 5 blackberry and 10 gooesberry bushes.), and even next year four berries is likely all I can hope for.

Not that berries were my only motivation. Of course I wanted to visit, and I also wanted to see "Daisy", the fawn they've been raising for a few weeks now. Daisy showed up one day stuck in the fence, after being chased by a dog, with no mother doe in sight. Since it had been chased, needed doctoring from it's collision with the fence, and the folks with the neighboring farm had heard it hollering the day before, it was assumed that this was definately an occasion for intervention. It was a pet-peeve of mine as a Park Ranger that many well-meaning people would mistakenly kidnap fawns from mama deer every year, but in this case I'm certain the fawn needed the help.

Mom and Dad nursed it back to health, gave it antibiotic shots for an infected lip, and now it's growing like a weed. It's nose and mouth are still a little boogered up, but on the mend. He does seem to have a very prominent overbite, which could either be from injury or birth defect. However, it doesn't seemt to affect his eating. The only problem I spotted was the name "Daisy." They took for granted that the fawn was female, not having really investigated the very furry nether regions. And of course, I really have to know these things, so I made the discovery that "she" was really "he", and the name was promptly changed to "Davy."

Davy spends most of his time laying in the tall weeds down close to the creek or out in the blackberry bushes, only coming when he's called for to take a bottle. And he does come running, nearly barrelling over the bottle-holder. He's pretty spooky of people, which is a good thing, but he did get used to me enough to keep me company while berry picking (along with Dixie and Toby the cat), and he came over for a head-scratch from time to time before wandering off.

Aside from picking berries and determining fawn gender, I also went with Dad on a motorcycle ride. Dad's a "Prospect" for a local motorcycle club, and they were participating in a huge area fund raiser for Muscular Dystrophy. This is us heading to Joplin with a group of club riders. The rally was pretty cool - lots of cool bikes, and lots of bikers. I like looking at bikes, and the bikers were no less interesting. Not that I'm bashing bikers at all. Bikers are some of the nicest people out there, who do immeasurable good for various charities - it's just that if I were to become a biker, I'm not sure I'd fit in with appearance. I DID find out, though, that a great place to keep cigarettes is in your bra strap. I assume this provides for easy access and hands-free storage.

Unfortunately the mullet-hunting wasn't very productive at this event. Bikers and bike fans don't seem to sport mullets, instead favoring more normal and likely helmet-friendly hairdos, ranging from shaved heads, to normal hair (Dad fits into this category), to overall long hair pulled into a ponytail. We still haven't quite talked Dad into the clip-on ponytail, but I think it would look dashing, and it might make him feel more like a biker.

The most eye-catching item I spotted was a very prominently displayed belly. This guy was incredibly proud of his rotund appendage, showcasing the roundness for all to enjoy with a inadequate t-shirt and shortie-shorts. It's not certain how this belly was attained. My assumption is years of hard work with beer cans and hot dogs, but one can never be sure with a specemin of this magnitude.

Man that's a lotta goats

Interesting Read

Article by Conservative David Kahne titled, "I Still Hate You, Sarah Palin".

http://article.nationalreview.com/?q=NDE3MmE5MDVmMGM1YjQ2NmVhMjJkN2I2ZTcxMzhlNjU=&w=MA==

Fiddle Update

It's been some time since I've updated my fiddle-making progress, and in answer to some inquiries I thought I'd better post some pics. Believe it or not I'm still hard at it, and have actually made some good headway in recent months. I'm starting to really believe that someday I will be actually playing this thing.

I finally finished the fiddle back, which literally took MONTHS. Granted, I didn't exactly work on it every day, but I really think had I carved it out of marble it would've been quicker than the cement-like cherry! It's been worth it, though...even though I put in twice as much work as the two other fiddle-students, my cherry back is much prettier than their plain maple backs. I'm really glad I didn't cave and give up on the cherry in favor of a softer wood. Believe me, it was harrowing getting it to the finished point. Many weeks I thought I'd be done, only to hand it to Violet for inspection and get a "nope, not yet" or "what's this hump here?" or "I can feel sandpaper marks"...but, I appreciate her honesty, otherwise I'd see mistakes later. Patience is tough.

After the back was finally proclaimed "finished", and after I did a exuberant victory dance, I had to go back to the sides and get them cleaned up a bit with some very fine sandpaper, then carefully measure and fit the back to the sides with clamps. Since it'd been so long since finishing the sides, they'd changed shape just a tad, so I trimmed the back just a bit for a better fit. Then, with some special fiddle glue which smelled something like dirty feet wrapped in an old dog blanket, I very carefully applied the glue and clamped (and I mean CLAMPED) the sides and back together. It was an extremely nerve-wracking day.

Once the glue was good and dry and all the friggin' clamps were removed, I could cut out the top. For this I had two pieces of sassafras wood which I'd glued together last fall since it wasn't wide enough for a one-piece. Once the top was cut, it was once again time for the fear and trepidation of using the hand-ax in order to quickly get the wood to shape:

Luckily I didn't whack off anything important, including fingers, toes, or any other appendages. Unlike the experience with ax-ing the back, this time I didn't chop off any large chunks which had to be glued back on, and soon it was ready for finer knife work.

Along with working on the back, I also started work on my fiddle neck, again out of cherry to match the back and sides. I wish I had more "in progress" pictures of it, but I wasn't actually sure it would turn out the way I wanted so I didn't bother with pics...oh well. I knew from the beginning that I wanted a unique fiddle, and that I wanted to do something different for the neck than just the traditional scroll. Violet did some of hers with a horse's head, and I thought I'd do the same. Until, that is, turkey season. You might wonder what turkey season has to do with fiddles, but turkey hunting requires a lot of time just sitting and doing nothing, which really lets your brain do some wandering. While sitting in the woods waiting on that elusive gobbler, I happened to notice an oak leaf curled up, which reminded me of a fiddle head. Viola! There's my unique idea, and here is my fiddle head. It's not quite finished...and it's of course not perfect. During it's carving I had a plethora of discouraging guesses as to what it was going to be by other people, including a manatee, a hippo, a cat, a softball, and flower. I have to say it wasn't doing much for my confidence. I wish I'd been able to curl the leaf under a bit more, because now there's a flat area that just doesn't look right. But, I'm experimenting with carving a few little acorns to glue in that flat spot, which I think is going to turn out pretty cool.

Carving a slot into which the neck fits was also an unforeseen challenge - and again it's not perfect. I keep having to remind myself that this is a learning process, and my first one WON'T be perfect, no matter how careful I am or how hard I try.

So, this is my fiddle so far...minus the top, fingerboard, tailpiece, pegs, sound peg, fine-tuners, and strings.

In case you're wondering I'm also still playing - I'm now up to 26 tunes, if you can believe it! I didn't say I played them WELL - that's still the major challenge.

Michael Jackson and Climate Change - Is There a Link?

I suppose I would be remiss in not commenting on some of the goings-on lately, though sometimes I want to live in my little bubble of blissful ignorance a little while longer and not really pay attention to things - or just altogether pretend they aren't happening.

First, holy cow, but a lot of people died this week. In addition to my sister-in-law's grandmother, on a national scale we had the deaths of Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon, and Michael Jackson. Is is just an Ozark saying that people die in threes? Call me superstitious, but it does seem to happen a lot. (Insert Twilight Zone theme music here)

Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon didn't really phase me. I was too young during the part of the 70's I was alive to be impacted by Charlie's Angles or the Farrah 'do. Of course it's tragic that she couldn't beat cancer even as a celebrity, but unfortunately it's a tragedy millions of non-famous Americans deal with daily. As far as Ed McMahon, I'm still trying to figure out what he did to make himself famous.

I was, on the other hand, a bit shocked when I'd heard of Michael Jackson's death, but not really surprised. With all the plastic surgery and who knows what else, it's not really unexpected that his heart would suffer the consequences. I was shocked simply because I thought the guy would never go away. That's not really meant to sound as callous as it does...I think MJ was a really talented guy, and it's been sad over the years seeing him sink lower and lower into what can only be described as a cesspool of madness and delusion. You have to wonder what happens to people as kids to make them such screwed-up adults. It's also obvious and sad that money and fame are the two things, as usual with our society, which kept him out of prison and were actually going to allow him to attempt a comeback. I'm currently temporarily without television, and I'm glad - I have a feeling all tv-watchers are getting hammered incessantly with the who, what, when, where, and whys of this situation, rehashed every which way.

Still, anyone who grew up during the 80's will think of MJ with a bit of fondness, for without him we wouldn't have been shocked and amused to find out his hair caught on fire while shooting that Pepsi commercial, and we wouldn't have ruined countless pairs of socks trying to moonwalk through the living room. (Chad, I'm talking to you.)

Meanwhile, the House VERY narrowly passed the so-called "climate-change bill." *sigh* You know, I want a clean environment as much as anyone. I'm very much an outdoors person, and it kills me seeing litter on the sides of the roads. I hate seeing clear-cuts for new housing developments. I've lectured, lectured, and lectured friends, family, and strangers alike on how irresponsible it is to throw cigarette butts out the car window or on the ground (you KNOW who you are). But, this idiotic excuse for a massive tax increase scares the living daylights out of me. In this administration's short time in office, we've seen government interference into the private sector where government doesn't belong on a scale never before imagined. Government is sticking it's nose into not only our private lives but our pocketbooks with no shame or apologies. All of a sudden, we've got a government-owned car company. We're discussing government-owned banks and government-owned health care. WHY do we think the government can do a better job than the private sector? I challenge anyone to name ONE thing they haven't screwed up. Take the government-run Post Office - it looses millions every year, yet prices for postage keeps going up. Now look at private-sector shipping companies such as UPS or FedEx - efficient, profitable companies - otherwise they wouldn't exist. Bottom line - you get results when you HAVE to make a profit to stay alive, and when you have competition.

But I've gotten off the subject - I was talking climate change bill. Let's forget for a second that, believe it or not, scientists still don't even agree that greenhouse gasses cause climate change...and a rising number of them are now saying that they don't. Personally, I'm not really sure what I believe, but what I DO know that in the earth's history it's been through many heating/cooling cycles without our help. This bill is a perfect, very un-Constitutional example of what this administration believes is appropriate - controlling citizens and changing behavior through taxation. In a nutshell, this bill will tax and put major restrictions on all energy deemed not "green" enough. Don't get me wrong - I DO think we need cleaner energy - I just don't think this is the way to do it. It's my understanding that renewable energy sources just haven't evolved to the point of being as viable or as cheap as gas, coal, and oil. This is going to hit EVERY American right in the wallet, at a time where our economy is struggling. Likely we will use less energy, but it will be forced upon us. I guess we'll just have to see how things play out for now.

On that note, I'm going to get on my gas-guzzling, carbon-spewing lawnmower and mow the yard while I still can. I assume soon we'll all be using scissors. Or goats. Oh wait - no - goats emit methane. Scissors it will be.

You may all now commence trying to moonwalk.

Beating the Heat

Lucy never fails to put the sprinkler to good use. If it gets much hotter, I may join her.

Berry Blues

If you haven't perused the comments from my last blog post, there's some pretty funny and creative, and definately true, suggestions for subdivison names. I have a feeling this topic may be explored further in the future.

As if you didn't know (and maybe you don't if you live in a cooler climate), summer has fallen on us like a big, extremely hot, extremely wet blanket. Made of wool. Now are the days of walking out of the house intending to do something outdoors, but turning around less than five steps from the front door. The days when it seems the only bearable way to mow the yard is at 4 a.m. Yay summer.

Last week I thumbed my nose at heat and humidity and drove to a local berry farm for some good 'ol berry pickin'. I'm a pretty big fan of blueberries, especially since they are key ingredients in my very favorite pie (besides pumpkin), the Blue Goose Pie, which is made with blueberries and gooseberries. Nummy. Since my six blueberry bushes I planted last year are now down to two sick-looking, non-berry producing, sparsely-leafed twigs, I have to find my blueberries either in the supermarket or at someone else's berry orchard. One of my far-off goals for the future is to figure out how to successfully grow blueberry bushes.

Which reminds me - did you hear about that British guy who won the lottery? It was the equivalent of 50 million dollars. His biggest aspiration for the cash is to hire an expert to show him how to grow "proper carrots." I hope I don't have to resort to such drastic measures in my blueberry goals.


I arrived at the berry farm early, bathed in bug spray and ready to pick. I must've looked like a serious picker because the Berry Guy immediately handed me two buckets and spared me the picking lesson he'd finished giving the people before me when I arrived. He showed me to a row of bushes heavily laden with berries, and I commenced to picking. It wasn't long before I became aware of the people picking around me. Is it the heat that brings out the inner obnoxiousness in people? And how is it that I'm always around them? Or, is the heat making me less tolerant?

Over a few rows was a woman speaking in a very shrill, very loud northern voice, on topics ranging from ticks to the heat to everthing Southern she's had to grow used to since moving from Minnesota.

"Oooh but my gooooodness isn't it hoot oout already toodaeeey? Eyee shoore am glad I wore dees shooorts, doncha know!" I swear, she was a living, breathing, Minnesota stereotype.

Then I met the guy picking behind me. The Berry Guy called him "Frank", and apparently he's a regular picker. Frank was definately from a foreign country - I'm guessing by his accent to be from maybe Poland. I'm not that great at placing accents, but I was relatively sure it wasn't Australian. Frank was reminded by the Berry Guy to please stay on his row and don't skip around so they'll know what's been picked. As soon as Berry Guy left, Frank turned around and started picking on my row.

I looked at Frank.

Frank looked at me and said, "I pick on dis row."

I said, "Umm...are you sure that's ok?"

Frank says, "Jes...we pay for dees bellies an I pick dis row."

I sometimes wish I didn't have this combination of personality traits that causes me to have an inability to be rude, even when the case calls for it, and a deep-running tendancy to avoid confrontations with strangers. I really wanted to tell 'ol Frank to get himself back on his own row and quit picking just the big juicy berries on MY ROW that were in easy reach, but instead I just kept picking. Pretty soon Berry Guy came back to check on us, and he rolled his eyes and admonished Frank for getting off his appointed row. Frank turned around and picked back on his row until Berry Guy left, then promptly turned around back to my row. This of course meant war. I started picking at lightening speed, zipping around Frank and snatching choice berries. At this point Frank stopped picking and said, "Dis big field...you go pick anywhere."

I think Frank just told me to get lost. I didn't, but I did smile at him and move in even closer. I kept picking right out from under Frank until he finally moved back to his own row mumbling under his breath - possibly something about the rudeness or impertinence of American women, but I don't think he was mumbling in English - and soon left with his mostly full buckets. In the meantime, we were serenaded with more from Minnesota Lady:

'Oooh geez...when I get to heaven, I'm gooona ask God why he made ticks. Wee didn't have dis many in Minneesooooota."

"Isn't it sooo funny how people here talk? (Uhh...us???)

"Ooooh! Dese are suuuch nice joooocy berries! I just hooope I'm not gettin' da chiggers toooo!"

Yeah. Me either. I finally finished my two buckets and headed off to pick a few raspberries, leaving Minnesota Lady to keep chatting with other pickers who were pretending they were deaf.

And people wonder why I want to go through the trouble to grow my own produce.

Pine Quail Oak Valley Deer Trail Lake Estates

Ok, so I'm not doing as good of a job as promised as getting back into the swing of blogging, but I do believe I'm justified considering our pending relocation to central Arkansas. Relocating stinks. Flat out stinks to high heaven. While I'd rather be spending my mornings relaxing out on the back porch at home, hot mug of coffee in hand, thinking of things to blog about, this past week I spent a majority of my time down in Little Rock hitting the real estate hard. One word will very aptly describe my feelings during this hunt: FRUSTRATION.

Looking for a new house to buy can be fun - it's just shopping on a much larger scale, but with much more at stake. Once you sign, you can't just simply return it. But the excitement is that much higher, also. Finding a great-fitting pair of pants, as wonderful as that is, doesn't come close to finding your perfect home. So much of our lives and identities are wrapped up in our homes. A home shows our personalities, and also dictates how we'll live our lives, whether in the country, city, or a subdivision.

Several things, however, have put kind of a damper on the excitement of finding a new house. First of all, I still don't want to leave Mountain Home. I know it's best for our future, and there ARE going to be advantages - but I still don't WANT to. It's much more exciting to house-hunt when you're totally 100% into the move. Second, I'm extremely intimidated by the city. I've never really minded VISITING cities - probably because of the knowledge that I would soon escape back to familiar territory. But lately when we've been in Little Rock, I've had to fight nearly full-blown panic attacks. Though it sounds a bit dramatic for even me, the fact that this will soon be "home" nearly sends me into involuntary hysterics. Thirdly, I've been hugely disappointed with the houses we've been looking at in our price range.

Unfortunately we're moving to a really booming area where land is more expensive. I knew from the beginning that we wouldn't be able to afford a house on 20 acres like we have now, but we still figured it wouldn't be too hard to find a reasonable house on a few acres out of town. My dreams include much of what we have now, though on a smaller scale and preferrably outside city limits. I wouldn't even mind neighbors - real neighbors that you actually get to know, visit with over the fence, and take some fresh eggs or even a pie to every so often. Yes, I DO want to live in Mayberry.

This has turned out to be harder than I ever thought. Instead of "acres per house", we're moving to an area where it's more of a case of "houses per acre." I thought Mountain Home was booming - which it is, much too fast for my comfort. But, compared to the central Arkansas area, Mountain Home is in a rut. Radiating out from Little Rock seems to be a never-ending procession of bulldozers making the way for new subdivisions, with sign after sign proclaiming "Future home of Arbor Ridge" (that one was ridiculous because it was clear-cut) or "Lots Available now in Quail Glen Estates". It seems to escape this parade of "progress" will mean getting too far from hubby's work.

A majority of houses out there for sale in the area are located in subdivisions. In the past week, the word "subdivision" has reached the status of a dirty word. I'm APPALLED at the number of these housing developments in central Arkansas - acres and acres, miles and miles which were so recently forests and fields are now covered with brick cookie-cutter houses all jammed up to within a few feet of each other, all with ridiculous titles such as "Whispering Meadows" (uhh...excuse me, but where's the meadow?) and "Majestic Pines Estate" (again...where are the pines??? And does a 1/8 acre lot really qualify as an "estate"?). These titles are of course all perched on pretentious brick or stone entrance gates. And we've all seen the houses in these places - about three variations on the same brick structure, featuring a very small front porch (not meant for spending any time on) and a very large garage. Front yards are for looking nice only - nobody hangs out in the front yard. Certainly not in view of other residents of the neighborhood.

One of my best friends lives in the area in one of these places. Acutally, one bright shining beacon of hope in this mess of a relocation is that we'll again live in the same vicinity. We were taking a break from house-hunting one day this week and visiting on the back patio of her cookie-cutter brick sub-divided home, gazing into the windows of the house behind hers (the privacy fence isn't high enough), listening to the yapping lap dogs in the privacy-fenced yard to the left, and the soothing sounds of a weedeater in the yard to the right. In a nearby yard, someone was talking on a cell phone. I felt like a rat in a trap. How does one get used to this kind of living? Of course, Laura is a bona-fide city girl, married to a bona-fide city boy, who both think their perfectly landscaped postage-stamp yard is just heaven.

"I just noticed we don't have squirrels", Laura observed during our visit. Really? If I were a squirrel, I'd live somewhere else, too. The largest tree in the whole neighborhood is in Laura's yard, a scrawny pin oak with a whopping 6" diamater trunk. Besides, I'm not sure that neighborhood would tolerate squirrels, what with actual nature and wildlife messing with the picture of utter perfection. This got us on the subject of restrictions on their house dictated by the subdivision - what color they can't paint their garage door (it's the only thing not brick), how many shrubs one must have, how short the lawn must be, etc. In addition, there are many restrictions on what you can/can't have in front of your house - such as a boat. Where else are you going to keep a boat? Paid storage, I suppose. Hmm...sounds an awful lot like Socialism to me.

(side note: Maybe we should all live in subdivisions to acclimate ourselves to what this current admisistration is leaning toward.)

I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said before. Goodness knows I've heard and read plenty of anti-subdivision rants, so I'm just adding my two cents into the fray. Subdivisions are definately too lucrative for developers to go away. But, I'm going to do my best to stay out of them - if at all possible. I do think I could come up with some more truthful names, though. Here are some I compiled during my house search:

Brick Houses Only Estates

Privacy Fence Drive

Previously A Farm Acres

No Tree Valley

If anyone has any to add, feel free.

The ray of hope finally appeared late in my search, after meeting with a real estate agent. She seems to genuinely understand our plight, being a country girl herself. She assured us that while what we're looking for is relatively rare in the area, they do exist - it's just a matter of being willing to dig while being patient. We actually looked at a couple of possibilities, one of which is actually going to be a consideration. We're really in no huge rush, since we of course can't buy until we sell. Despite my cynicism I do have faith that all will work out eventually, and we'll find a home that meets our expectations. I just hope my sanity lasts until then.

Hooray for Garage Sales

My fondest wish is to go at least three years without packing a box. I hate packing...and yet I seem to be doing it ALL THE TIME. I detest putting treasured items in a dark box, wondering when I'll see them again, and wondering where I'll be when the box is finally unpacked. Not to mention wondering what will survive, and what will inevitably bite it. I used to find the packing activity a little exciting - the idea of a fresh new start in a fresh new place was something to look forward to. I'll admit I do feel a drop or two of the excitement, but it's overshadowed by the fact that we're moving to an area I don't really want to go, and that I'm sick of this moving business. I'm ready to nest. I'm ready for a real mailbox and a real address that won't change every two years. Who knows how much of my mail has been scattered all over Missouri and Arkansas?

In preparation for THE BIG MOVE, I decided to rid myself of some junk by having a garage sale. This was my first ever "solo" sale, and I did learn a lot about hosting one. First of all, I had to borrow a town friend's garage and driveway to stage the sale, since I was pretty sure The Homestead wouldn't draw a crowd - especially since half the time the UPS guy can't even find us. So, at the crack of dawn I planted signs, set up my wares, and opened for business. I had a lot of lookers, and eventually some buyers. A garage sale is a great place to people-watch. Some folks were extremely nice and courteous, and some were of course as rude as the day is long.

All in all, I did pretty well. I got rid of most of my unwanted stuff, plus made a little cash. I probably could've made more cash, but the thought of packing all that stuff up again made me into the worst haggler in the world. Here's the dialogue from one of my sales:

Lady (with a beaufont hairdo wearing a mu-mu and crocs, I kid you not): "Will you take less for this clock?'

Me: "What will you give?"

Lady: "$5"

Me: "How about $8.00."

Lady: "How about $5.00?"

Me: "7.00"

Lady: "$5.00"

Me: "6.00"

Lady: "Mmm....$5.00"

Me: "$5.50"

Lady: "5.00"

Me: "5.25"

Lady: "Nope. $5.00."

Me: "$5.00 and a stick of gum."

Lady: "Ok. Sold"

Eh, at least I didn't have to pack it up. Besides, was Marden's. Shhh...don't tell. *wink*