Ho ho ho...It's a Thrift Store Christmas!

Just a quickie before we take off for our Christmas pilgrimage to Michigan and Iowa with 7 adults in a minivan...AAAAAHHHHHH!

We'll see how that goes, won't we.

A few people have heard about our new (probably about 5 years old now) Christmas tradition in the Sanders household, and if you were here for our Open House last week, you may have noticed a couple oddities about our decorating.

Once our kids became late teens and young adults, we found ourselves in that predicament of "what do you give each other for Christmas?" They really had all they wanted (often bought for themselves), and also they were hopeless when it came to choosing things for their parents.

My husband does a lot of shopping at local thrift stores for his book business, and I, as a frugal young mom, raised my kids largely on thrift store clothes and toys. So my family looks on thrift stores as large treasure houses of adventure, kitsch and fashion. (I hope it isn't too obvious.) Naturally, this is what we have arrived at to solve our Christmas shopping woes...

Every year, right before Christmas (preferably Christmas Eve), we all gather for a lunch out at a fast-food restaurant. We then load up in the trusty crowded minivan and head for one of our favorite thrift stores (this photo was taken when we were in Minneapolis)--

We split up for about 2 hours, and shop like mad. The only rules are--THERE ARE NO RULES. Items bought for each other may be ugly, strange, lovely, useful, or an inside family joke. After 2 hours, we rendezvous at the Trusty Minivan with our big plastic bags and head home.

Then it's time to split up into various bedrooms to wrap. And of course, who is going to waste precious wrapping paper on this motley assortment? It's newspaper, folks! Lots of it! The colored comic pages are snatched first.

After our traditional Mexican Dinner of enchiladas and tacos (which the men graciously fling about the kitchen and make for the women), we gather around the tree for a couple hours of unwrapping and laughter. 

Our favorite gifts are always the ones that prompt the reaction, "What IS that thing???" (See the Spidey Head tree topper here for a prime example). And amazingly enough, there are always a few gifts that are right on the spot, and get used for many years thereafter.

We rarely spend more than $50 for our entire family at the holidays now, and we have a whole lot of fun doing it. Admittedly, some of the gifts end up back at a thrift store eventually, but hey...
it's the Circle of Life.

And the people you meet while shopping...well, that's just a side benefit. One year an old guy tried to picked me up..."So, do you come here often?" I had to gently inform him I was there shopping with my family. Ah, well, missed opportunities.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE! 

A Sweet Christmas Memory..."Fruitcake" Style

As a bookseller, I see all sorts of memoirs sailing by. It's the hot thing to write if you are an old rock star ("see how wild I was! and how now I don't have many brain cells left!"), a political has-been ("I really DID have dinner with JFK in 1962..I'll tell you all about how I spilled gravy on his lap. He thought it was a great joke, really..."), or someone who CLAIMS they were married to Elvis at some point in time.

But probably my favorite are the memoirs of famous poets and novelists
--it really does seem that the main qualification to become a famous artist is to have a horrific upbringing with drug-addled parents, lecherous uncles, schizophrenic siblings and crazy family histories (growing up in an Irish slum seems to be the current fad).

I have decided there is no way I will ever be a famous author unless I can beef up my family tree with some REAL crazies. OK, I do have the odd alcoholic far-flung relative (I believe I have one who died drunk in a snow drift somewhere there a long time ago...). But for the most part I really can't say that I'm suffering from "dysfunctional family syndrome." I understand that should be considered a blessing, even if it limits my artistic 'voice.'

Here is the one traumatic Holiday family memory I can pinpoint in my life.

My husband and I  were a young family--oh, so young and so full of children--three kids under 6 by now. It was Christmas Eve in Minnesota and the snow was crunchy underfoot. My beloved extended family was together for Traditional Christmas Enchiladas (a Scandinavian interpretation). My mom's house, warm and cheerful, rang with the voices of children, siblings and in-laws. It was almost time for the much-anticipated gift opening (we are heretical and always open ours on Christmas Eve. Please don't judge)

My youngest child at the time had struggled for a few years with intestinal difficulties (it's called "gas" for want of a better word). During dinner, and before present opening, she began whining and crying about her stomach hurting.  I held her and told her it would get better. It didn't. She cried louder. I rocked her harder. Family members began bringing antacids and advice. She cried harder.

My mother told me I should call the doctor--"It could be  her appendix!" The big, bad Appendicitis Monster was always lurking at our family's door. My grandfather had died of it in his early 30's, my father had his removed, and I had a ruptured appendix at age 8. So naturally, it's the first thing that comes to our minds.

I really didn't want to call the doctor's office. "Mom, it's Christmas Eve. They'll tell me to keep an eye on her and call back in an hour. Then they'll have me come to the Emergency Room and sit for four hours while they dither around, and then send me home. You KNOW that's what happens. We need to wait a while."

The tension in the house continued to escalate...my daughter is crying, I'm getting upset, my mom is pacing and worried, my husband is trying to stay out of the way as the mom/daughter/granddaughter "chemistry" begins to take on disturbing forms..."OK, MOM! I know she's in terrible pain...I'll call the doctor!"

Which I did. And the nurse on the group health line said..."wait a while."
AAAAKK!

"I can't DO this anymore!!" I wail.
"My tummy HURTS!!" screams my daughter.
"You should call the doctor and DEMAND to see someone!!" insists my mother.

I burst into tears along with my suffering child; we sob and moan until my husband steps between my mother and I--

"Elaine...just SHUT UP!!!"

A stunned silence. For my easy-going mate, this is the equivalent of a profanity-laced tirade.

"Elaine, I'm sorry--but you've just got to leave Carla alone--we know it's hard, but we'll have to decide what to do on our own. Sanders family, we're loading up the car and going home. C'mon, boys."

The rest of the family quietly helped us load our belongings into the old station wagon; some leftovers from the delicious dinner that I mostly missed and the gifts I didn't get to see. Our poor weeping daughter was buckled into the car seat as the boys got in their boosters. We drove away in the dark cold night back to our little duplex; I was sniffling and grieving a lost holiday.

And of course,
miraculously,
my little girl stopped crying

As she relaxed into her seat and the "gastric distress" subsided, I heard another young voice pipe up from the back.

"Wow!" our younger son said with enthusiasm. "That was the BEST Christmas EVER!"

[This story obviously has passed into family legend and meme...anytime we have a prickly situation during the holiday season, someone is bound to repeat this optimistic phrase emphatically. We are not sure WHICH celebration the above-mentioned  son was attending...we think he was too busy with his presents to notice what was going on elsewhere in the house.]

So, everyone...have the BEST CHRISTMAS EVER, OK?
Just without the screaming part.

I Have 472 Friends...How Many Do You Have?

Have you ever felt misunderstood?

Here's an email response I got from customer after I apologized for having to cancel an order because we had misplaced the book--

WELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL,

if you present this as the Satan Revolutionary who advocates the permanent overthrow of the Republican Party, then you will get tons of $. However, ya gotta present yourself as an oppressed minority. It could be a slam-dunk.

I was a tad confused by this answer...did he mean to send this to me, or did he have me confused with someone else? Was he angry? Was he trying to make a political statement about my incompetence?? I decided to let this one go...sometimes you just know when an online conversation should not continue.

The technology revolution has forced us into communicating by written word much more than I ever expected. When I was a young college student in love, and my boyfriend was away for the summer, we wrote letters. Not because we preferred it that way, but because those were the days of long-distance charges and very little disposable income. Back then,  I envisioned someday all my communication would be by a Foto-Fone in my living room ("eek!! I can't answer the telephone--I just got out of the shower!"). My typing skills would be just about as crucial as a buggy maker's.

But no...today here I am doing the majority of my communication to friends and family by email, blog, Facebook and texting (and doing mad backspacing and correcting...I really didn't think I'd ever have to type after college!). While this works fine for those who know and love me , I've found it's  is a crappy way to make new friends. Somehow the written word can be easily misconstrued.

I will admit, I have really struggled to make friends since moving to Maryland nine years ago from the Midwest...going from "Minnesota Nice"  to the Nation's Wacky Capital has not been easy. The D.C. area, especially, has such an incredible array of people-types--intense Northeasterners, , slow drawling Southerners, purposefully striding, watch-checking politicos, confused transplanted people from every walk of life and a few other nations, to boot. Trying to make connections has been difficult.

Facebook, bless its heart, can make it even worse.  Contacting local new friends seemed like a good idea, but exchanging brief notes and "comments" on statuses (stati?) has sometimes led to some embarrassing moments ("No...I'm sorry...I think you took that wrong. I never meant to say that I'm really glad your Great-Aunt Boopsie died. I meant I 'liked' that you have such good memories of going catfish noodling with her!"). 

And making actual face-to-face social appointments has been, well, to put it nicely, a bugger. It seems that the majority of the people I have met have social calendars that are booked until 2025 ("ooh, I'd say next Friday night, but I think we have the Uzbekistanian ambassador's reception...can we try for next March sometime?") Or they have children who MUST be in bed by 6 PM. Or they refer me to their wife ("my social secretary") who then refers me back to the husband ("I really don't know his schedule...you'll need to talk to him.") Or they make a date, and then forget it. For real. Who does that? If I have someone offering to feed me, I'm camping out in my car in their driveway for 2 days ahead of time! 

Recently,  I was so annoyed with the situation that I  actually typed up a "Friendship Resume." Before getting into a new relationship, I planned to  hand over my credentials, along with a list of references (my pastor, my old college friends, a co-worker, my cat).  If the Potential Friend would care to take me on, great. If not, I'd move on. Here's my mission statement: 

I am a middle-aged woman who is tired of taking so long to get to the meat of good friendships. I believe in cutting to the chase and letting people know who I am in a timely and efficient manner, so as to expedite the friendship process and achieve deeper and more meaningful exchanges without having to ask others to piece my life together from various and sundry lighthearted exchanges (which can lead to some strange and misleading impressions).

I then continued on with sections such as Personal Highlights, Job Experience, Odd Life Experiences, Activities I Am Interested In, Activities I Am Not Interested In (my personal favorite...things like 'shoe shopping' and 'discussing celebrity news' go there).  I ended the document with this statement: "Thank for your interest. I hope my experience and expertise will meet your friendship needs. I look forward to serving you."

Seems reasonable, right? 

However, I ran across this recently in C.S. Lewis' "The Four Loves:"

Friendship, unlike Eros, is uninquisitive. You become a man’s Friend without knowing or caring whether he is married or single or how he earns his living. What have all these ‘unconcerning  things, matters of fact’ to do with the real question, Do you see the same truth? In a circle of true Friends each man is simply what he is: stands for nothing but himself. No one cares twopence about any one else’s family, profession, class, income, race, or previous history. Of course you will get to know about most of these in the end. But casually. They will come out bit by bit, to furnish an illustration or an analogy, to serve as pegs for an anecdote; never for their own sake. That is the kingliness of Friendship. We meet like sovereign princes of independent states, abroad, on neutral ground, freed from our contexts. This love (essentially) ignores not only our physical bodies but that whole embodiment which consists of our family, job, past and connections. At home, besides being Peter or Jane, we also bear a general character; husband or wife, brother or sister, chief, colleague, or subordinate. Not among our Friends. It is an affair of disentangled, or stripped, minds. Eros will have naked bodies; Friendship naked personalities.

This shook me up. If Lewis is right, no, friendship really isn't about laying out my qualifications before new people and seeing if they will "take me on." It's really about just being who I am and seeing who God brings into my path who "sees the same truth." And I need to realize and be comfortable with the fact that even when I like someone, they may not be the friend God has led me to. Can I be happy with the fact that I really don't have 472 friends, even though Facebook says I do? (Besides, as my daughter reminded me...friends help friends move; real friends help you move bodies.)

And you know, I have gained several very good friends in the last nine years here. I thank the good Lord for each of them--those friendships have been forged slowly and well, and have the strength to last for the long haul, I think. There just aren't hundreds of them. 

Take heart, ya'll. I'm pretty sure most of you are in the same boat as I. We are all drifting around in our little lifestyle dinghys  thinking 'I'm the only lonely person I know...everyone else is out there clubbing or 'lunching' while I sit here watching Netflix.' But no, out there are thousands of other bored Netflix-watchers wishing life were different (maybe watching "Law and Order" like you are!). Like I'm trying to do, appeal to the God of the Friendless to help you make the connections you need, just a little bit at a time. It only needs to be one or two. It only takes a skinny isthmus to prevent you from becoming an island. 

But in friendship…we think we have chosen our peers. In reality, a few years’ difference in the dates of our births, a few more miles between certain houses, the choice of one university instead of another, posting to different regiments, the accident of a topic being raised or not raised at a first meeting—any of these chances might have kept us apart. But, for a Christian, there are, strictly speaking, no chances. A secret Master of the Ceremonies has been at work. Christ, who said to the disciples “Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you,” can truly say to every group of Christian friends, “You have not chosen one another but I have chosen you for one another.”
The Friendship is not a reward for our discrimination and good taste in finding one another out. It is the instrument by which God reveals to each the beauties of all the others. They are no greater than the beauties of a thousand other men; by Friendship God opens our eyes to them. They are, like all beauties, derived from Him, and then, in a good Friendship, increased by Him through the Friendship itself, so that is His instrument for creating as well as for revealing. At this feast it is He who has spread the board and it is He who has chosen the guests. It is He, we may dare to hope, who sometimes does, and always should, preside. Let us not reckon without our Host. (C.S. Lewis)

Mom Misadventures #1

OK, stop me if you've heard this one.

This is a real story from real life that is one of my favorites. I think it captures some of the 'sitcom' aspects of young parenthood.. So...if you have heard me tell this story in person, you can skip this. Or you can read it and see how differently it comes out when I'm not embellishing it with arm-waving and grimacing at key points.

My Son and the Pop-Top Adventure

One sunny day, Mom (me!) and her three small children and their auntie decided to take a walk to the local thrift store. I was a young mother living on a limited budget in a less-than suburban neighborhood without the benefit of a car during the day, so my entertainment venues were limited. The thrift store not only held a wealth of knick-knacks and unusual clothing with odd stains, but also many fascinating characters (my sister regularly saw a lady very much past her prime who liked to shop wearing a beauty contest sash and a tiara. We called her the "Thrift Store Queen.")

My boys began to tire of my browsing, and they asked if they could please, please, have a can of pop from the vending machine? Vending machines were a huge treat. My patience was wearing thin, so of course, in the tradition of all exhausted mothers everywhere, I said yes. "But you sit RIGHT HERE by the machine and drink it. Don't move until you are done, then come find me." (By the way...this is in Minnesota, where 'soda' is more correctly called 'pop.' You can argue with me later.)

Ah, blissful quiet...I'm searching the clothing racks for winter jackets when...

"Carla! Come quick! Greg says he's choking!"

My sister ran up, grabbed me and we headed for the vending machines.  I found my middle child (about age 5) seated on the cold cement floor, holding his throat and staring bug-eyed at me--"Mommy, I swallowed the tab off my pop can!" he whispered frantically.

Visions of throat-gashing metal edges swarmed over me as I accosted the local cop posted at the door (this is a very fine establishment). "I need to make a phone call! I need to talk to the doctor!" But as I was calling my insurance hot line (oh, group health...), I saw that a fire truck has already pulled into the parking lot. The policeman had jumped the gun.

The whole store had now gathered around this poor little angelic blond boy, gawking as the firemen and then the  EMTs checked his pulse, asked him questions, and finally escorted him out to the waiting ambulance. My sister collected the other kids to take them home, and I was privileged to  (oh, joy!) ride in the back of the ambulance with my poor, gasping child. "It's ok, Greg, you'll be fine..." But will he?? Every mother's nightmare is coming true! My lack of oversight has led to this. My "Best Mom Ever" mug will be taken away, and I will live in ignominy forever. There will be a "60 Minutes" reporter at my door when I get home. Oh, the shame.

Ah, but the blase atmosphere of the local emergency room brought me back to reality. They don't care if you die in the waiting room...you'd just better make sure you get that insurance form filled out pronto. After quite a wait, we ended up in an exam room. After another extended wait, here comes a doctor...

"Well, young man, what have you been up to?" "I swallowed a pop-top." "Can you breathe?" "Yeah." "Well, I see you can talk. I'll bring you something...hold on..."

And he returned with...graham crackers and milk.


"What???" I am amazed. "What's this for?"

"Eat the cracker and drink the milk, son. It'll help move that little metal bugger right along."

"But...but...won't it rip his stomach up?" I am astonished at this whole line of thinking.

"Nah....it will get all coated up by mucus and go through just fine. Kids eat all sorts of thing, even glass, that just goes right on through."

Well, to this day, I don't know if this was very good treatment, but it seemed to work that time. After his delicious little $400 snack, Greg was ready to go home.

The day was shot. I was exhausted. And I still had dinner to cook and the family to feed when I got home. My sister was there to help, thank goodness. As we sorted out the kitchen mess, I found the offending pop can in one of my shopping bags. Into the recycling bin you go, you bad, bad thing! I shook the can over the sink to empty any remaining liquid.

Clink, clink.

Out fell a pop-top tab. Shiny and accusing.

"Greg...WHAT IS THIS??"

Greg peered into the sink, saw the tab, and said very soberly, "Well, I thought I swallowed it."

Who can be mad at a face like this...I ask you?

Exercise is for Lazy People

You know what's wrong with exercise? It goes against my grain to do activity without any point to it (other than wearing myself out). I'm from good, solid Swedish-Irish farming stock, and I certainly can't imagine my grampa in gym shorts riding on a bicycle that didn't go anywhere. Or my gramma in a hot-pink jogging outfit "sweatin' to the oldies."

Why do you run? Are you running from something? If there's a wolf chasing you, then run. Otherwise...stand still and appreciate the fact you aren't a rabbit.

What's with this "lifting weights" thing? Don't you have any hay bales to move around from the truck to the hayloft? How about putting those pecs into use with a wheelbarrow and a load of fresh cow manure? What a waste.

And don't get me started on Pilates, Yoga, Zumba, Jazzercise, Tai Chi, Kickboxing, Interval Training, Aerobics, Stepping, Spinning, Bouncing, Gliding, Falling off Parallel Bars or Sweating in front of a Gym Mirror. What in the WORLD have you accomplished by all this foolishness? Is your house any cleaner, your garden any more productive, or your pasture less poopy? No!

In this most helpful post, gentle readers, I will suggest new work-out ideas for those of us who can't stand to think of all that time and muscle wasted on unproductive activity.

Top Ten Workouts for People Who Hate to Exercise  (And Don't Live on a Farm):

10. Walking to the Mailbox. (Best done if you have a mile-long driveway. Just install it a few blocks away, if necessary.)

9. Running after a City Bus (Be sure to wave your arms vigorously to engage those deltoids.)

8. Looking for your Toddler Under Clothing Racks in the Mall (Deep knee bends, arm stretches, vocalizing exercises.)

7. Scrubbing your Kitchen Floor on Your Hands and Knees (Protective knee pads required; also a helmet may be useful to prevent injury from forgetful moments around open cupboard doors.)

6. Chasing a Bat Around Your Living Room (Although rare, a great opportunity for aerobics and ducking.)

5. Falling Down the Stairs While Holding a Laundry Basket (Balance, footwork, First Aid practice.)

4. Picking Up Doggy Doo in the Yard (Lots of stretching; facial exercise while grimacing.)

3. Taking that Same Dog for a Walk (You know, that dog of yours that never has learned the idea of "heel?" Really watch your heart rate here.)

2. Pushing a Disabled Car off the Road  (Out of gas? You get extra points for walking to a gas station along a freeway.)

And...Number 1: Shoveling 22 Inches of Snow off the Sidewalk and Driveway (best accomplished in a Minnesota setting, but probably the Gold Standard of Scandinavian exercise routines).

I currently am  in the beginning stages of a workout regime consisting of standing up and walking to the basement every 30 minutes or so. This, of course, is to get something--NOT just to stand up and walk! I get lots of chances to practice this move, since half the time I've forgotten why I came down to the basement in the first place. There are advantages to aging, occasionally.

So, I encourage each of you to find one activity that is both healthful and useful. Write in and let me know what you come up with.  Then I'll make a video out of it, and make lots of money! (I promise I won't put a photo of myself on the cover in Spandex, though. That would definitely depress sales.)

I'm Sorry, Have I Suddenly Become a Doddering Idot?

At what exact moment did I go from being "Mommy" to being ancient and clueless Mom? What magical bridge did I cross to deserve being addressed with "Mom... you need to watch what you're doing. Here, let me help you." "No, Mom, you didn't just delete the internet." "Mother...quit pressing all those buttons on your phone and just give it to me!"  I find myself stomping my little foot and screaming, "NO! I do it MYSELF!!" And I feel an overwhelming need to go pout in the corner.

Case in point: a few days ago I decided it was time to start digging through our chest freezer in the basement in preparation for the "Big Cook." That's the month before our annual Christmas Open House (we invite everyone we know and some we don't know). It's the 30 days of cooking and baking and tasting and gaining weight, and I need room in the freezer for all that stuff.

A chest freezer is a scary thing; it tends to collect items the way an attic does.  I rarely make it all the way to the bottom. I'm a little nervous that someday I'll find a chopped-up human body in there, and when the police show up,  I won't have a clue how old it is (no "best used by" date!).

Anyway...I noticed two zip-lock gallon size bags enclosing a vaguely organic substance. Hmmm....what did I put in there? No, I did not write a little message in the little message area on the bag--that's a bit too Martha Stewart for me. I'm thinking, 'did I put mashed bananas in bags again? They turn kinda brown...' and naturally I broke a little corner off the item to taste it.

Huh. That's the dullest-tasting banana I've ever had. Let me take off my glasses and get up close to this stuff...odd...it looks like little...hairs?...pieces of hay?...mixed with...tiny, tiny, ROCKS?

After spitting and gagging into the kitchen sink for a few moments, I began the semi-hysterical interviews. "Did anyone put something in ziplock bags in the freezer that was brown?" My youngest daughter comes in the kitchen, sees the bag, and says exasperatingly "Mom! That's my roach dirt!"

OK. Now, I am a thoroughly patient woman. But ROACH DIRT?? In my FREEZER? "Mom, don't freak out. The roaches weren't IN it; it's just the special dirt I put in the bottom of their cage. I have to keep it fresh and moist, and that's the best way."

VERY IMPORTANT FOOTNOTE: My daughter has Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches, which are in no way like the other nasty cockroaches that I have experienced in my house both here and in Texas. They are large, placid, and unassuming creatures that do not multiply in my kitchen, and are common pets with certain "buggy-type" people.

Back to the action--I remind my daughter in  gentle and persuasive tones that perhaps she aught to TELL me when she plans to put dirt in my freezer. She comes back with this zinger...

"Well, Mom, [and here comes that tone of voice!] maybe you shouldn't just eat things when you don't know what they are. Next time, ask!"

Humph. I'm going to the corner to pout.

Halloween as Wish Fulfillment

Growing up in a preacher's home, my favorite holidays were, of course, Christmas and Halloween. Yes, you heard me right. At Christmas, all the loveliness of the Jesus story was out there for the world to see, and everything surrounding the season was a joy to me--family, food, decorations, and of course, presents.

But Halloween meant I could become, for a short time, someone other than myself. Someone who wan't a nerd, or shy, or gawky. Understand...I was growing up just previous to the Satanism hype (no goats being sacrificed in our neighborhood, believe you me!), and the darker, more sinister meanings of the holiday just hadn't penetrated down to small town churches in Wisconsin.

 All my early Halloweens were spent dressed as a Princess. A Princess could wear makeup, could wear a pretty long dress and mince around looking important and self-confident. A Princess could even be too tall for her age...that was OK for a Princess, because her dad was the Boss of the World. You haters could just go on hatin', 'cause I was gonna be a really tall Princess.

Then one day I decided I was too old to be a Princess, so for our church's annual Halloween party (you heard that right--we DID that back then!) I decided to go as someone sultry, mysterious and just a little frightening. Yep. I was "Dracula's girlfriend/Mrs. Frankenstein/Zombie Woman" (or something). Just whatever is the opposite of Quiet Reserved Pastor's Kid.

Yes, I'm amazing. 

I know this must seem scandalous to you all, but I have more shocking dirt to dish--at that same party, I have photographic evidence to prove that my father (the Baptist preacher) came as a priest (collar backwards!), my mother as a Hindu woman, and my little brother as a girl. Oh, a Freudian psychologist would have had a field day with all this if we would only pay him lots of money and show up to his office for several months.

But we didn't need to. We had games to play at this church party; activities our family has lovingly labeled "Games for Sexually Repressed Christians." Let's see--we could play "Electricity" (holding hands! squeezing fingers!); Pass the Orange Under the Chin Relay (chest to chest action!); Pass the Life Saver on the Toothpick from Mouth to Mouth (almost kissing!!!!). Is it any wonder the church basement was packed?

A brief aside...there was one odd year when I came to a College Age party at the church as "Candy Barr." I think there may have been patterned stockings involved...I'm not sure how I got safely out of the house that time without parental interference.

Then there was the Halloween I was the Hippie my parents wouldn't let me be for real. Although I had to go through a gender change to really give it the "umph" it needed (see photo). Despite being a teenager in the '70's my experience with actual Hippie culture was pretty much limited to sneaking over to a friend's house for a dip into the forbidden John Denver and Monkees pool. I'm afraid I could even be elected President  safely, because I never inhaled ANYTHING. This costume was definitely a flight from reality for me.

And need I mention that we went Trick or Treating every year, as well, until I got sick of people asking me "aren't you a little old for this?"

I suppose this is where I should bemoan what Halloween has become-- kids being shunted off from Trick-or-Treating and silly parties in the church basement to "Autumn Festivals" held in community centers where they have to come dressed up as in a costume from This Year's Approved List of Optimal Educational Characters. I won't, though, because I promised to be non-cranky. I just get my bowl of candy and sit by my door every October 31st and hope some princesses and Dracula's wives show up. I'll only be cranky if you show up with no costume and a pillowcase. THOSE kids make me ornery!

And this year...I'm dressing up as a Highly Paid and Successful Blogger.

Yoga, Anyone?

I know some of you may not have believed me in my last post when I said we had a DVD called "Yoga Booty Ballet" on our sales inventory for our home business. Well, I've got news for you. There's enough Yoga out there to float a ship full of old hippies. It's not like I'm unaware of this phenomenon--I even flirted briefly with a DVD program called "An Invitation to Christian Yoga" (I was looking for some stress relief at the time...nothing new for me...). It was a valiant effort, but one of the downsides of living in a house/warehouse is that I think I have approximately 12 square inches of floor space left in each room. "Saluting the Sun" resulted in swollen knuckles from whacking various boxes, dressers, end tables and bed frames.

It's so tight in our bedroom right now I recently fell out of bed in the middle of the night and got stuck like a turtle on my back between the shelves and the mattress. "Carl! Help!! I've fallen, and I can't get up!" He didn't let me forget that one for a while.

Anyway, we have enough exercise routine DVDs around the house to train a Spartan army, but there's no way in God's green earth I can do anything except walk on my treadmill (the space is reserved--books are not allowed on the treadmill belt). And I have yet to see a Yoga Treadmill DVD. Here is a real live list of some of the Yoga disc variations that have come across our path:

You've got your "mommy yoga...."

Bend, Breathe, and Conceive: Fertility Yoga
Yoga Kids
Baby and Mom Post-Natal Yoga
ZenMama with Rainbeau Mars: Prenatal Yoga Workout
Itsy Bitsy Yoga: Poses to Help Your Baby Sleep Longer, Digest Better, and Grow Stronger

Your "body part yoga..."

Yoga for a Healthy Back
Sarah Ivanhoe's 20 Minute Yoga--Flat Abs/Sculpted Buns and Thighs
Yoga Buns: The Complete Workout to Strengthen, Lengthen and Tone Your Body
Yoga for Your Eyes
Yoga for Your Hands

And your "really cool yoga..."

Kundalini Yoga Flow Bootcamp
Iron Yoga
HeavyWeight Yoga 2: Change the Image of Yoga
Yoga Booty Ballet 2-Disc Set: Light & Easy / Latin Flavor
Power Yoga for Happiness 2: The Surf Edition
Yoga Zone Power Yoga
Yoga Dance Fusion
Crunch - Candlelight Yoga
Hot Yoga

Then there are the few videos I might possibly even THINK about attempting:

Yoga for Equestrians: A New Path for Achieving Union with the Horse
Yoga For Inflexible People
Yoga in Bed: 20 Asanas to do in Pajamas

Yeah! Bed exercise!

I don't know. I guess Yoga just brings back incredibly painful memories of Junior High gym class. That teacher is still lurking out there somewhere, I'm sure; a woman in her 70's who is probably sitting cross-legged on floors and liking it. Mrs. P, I'll call her...the evil Gymnastics Witch. I suppose my memories are just slightly flawed, but I really believe that we never did anything except uneven bars, balance beams, tumbling and floor routines. Anything that involved humiliating a 5 foot 11 inch 7th grader with the flexibility of Pinocchio. Although I suppose even  Pinocchio might be able to put his legs behind his head...

Yes, I'm Gonna Try This

Hi.

This blog is in response to several pressing pressures in my pressurized life. First pressure--my friend Wendi will not stop harassing me to "write something." Second pressure--I graduated with a useless degree in English, which qualifies me to do nothing except write the Great American Novel. Which this is the first chapter of. (Please ignore all grammar mistakes from here on out.) Third pressure--I spend much of my day sitting at my computer and looking over books and videos that I then list for sale on Amazon (for our family book-selling business) and the combination of random facts assailing me hourly and the need for a social life seems to need an outlet.  Sorry about that, but it's probably healthier than going out on the street and assailing random people with tidbits like "Did you KNOW that there is such a thing as 'Booty Ballet Yoga?' And that people actually buy DVDs like that??"

You really don't need to know much about me, because if you are reading this, you are probably one of my 5 friends who are just curious to see if I ever have any serious thoughts about anything. Then again, I have a feeling several of my friends haven't a clue what I'm about, and that's ok. I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it...people like me.

And now that I've said I won't talk about myself, here's my data. Because writers are all just navel-gazers at heart, and I am no exception. I am a 50-something year old woman married to an equally aged man; I have four grown children who hate talking to  me on the phone because I am always shouting "What? I can't understand you! Are you calling from a bus station or something?" I am  failed cowgirl (couldn't get a job punching cows), so I pretend a lot by wearing riding boots and posting photos of myself with various horses. I love reading books, but I rarely have enough time. And this blog will just be another distraction from the work I'm supposed to be doing.

What to expect if you come to this space on the World-Wide-Web-Internet Cloud...(my daughter tells me I have to "tell what I hope to accomplish." Right.)...I am resigned to the fact that no one ever takes my advice on anything, so you won't find much advice here. Unless I'm irked about something, and then you'd better SHAPE UP, SEE! The best thing I can say about my child-raising skills is that not one of my four were potty trained before the age of 3. Please look elsewhere for sage wisdom on that score.

This will be a place where I will take all the random thoughts that go through my brain as I work with books all day, line them up verrrry carefully (the thoughts, not the books; they will be piled all over my house as usual), and then publish them and hope they will bring about world peace. This is, of course, only going to happen if you, ALL of you, link to my blog and make sure all the various Senators and Representatives and School Board Superintendents and Important  Public Officials are aware of the greatness published herein. And then I need a book deal. Thanks very much.

P.S. I have absolutely no (informed) political thoughts. That may dampen the enthusiasm of some, but it also may get me a TV show if I play it right.