Garage Sale Subculture

This past weekend was spent at some local garage sales. I used to not "get" the whole love affair with garage sales but since having kids, I have found it's a great way to get gently used stuff at way cheaper prices. Having a husband laid off for a while also gave me the kick in the pants needed to cut my consumption. He's back to work now but the uncertainty of what will happen within his company still has made us cautious.

But I digress...

Getting back to the former topic, I have noticed a whole caste system within the garage sale community. I could spend the day just watching the different types of bargain shoppers.

You have your ruthless first searchers. They show up the day before the garage sale as you are setting up and try to peruse for first comers bargains. They rarely look you in the eye but can scan a room with laser precision. They are all business...and are probably looking for things to re-sell on their own garage sale for a higher price. They wear a fanny pack stashed with cash and change and tend to fly solo.

Then you have your lazy perusers. They look over every item with intense focus as if they really might need used potholders or one more glass bowl. They will ask questions about each item but never really intend to buy anything. They are just looking to pass the time.

You have your haggard mothers...usually with multiple kids in tow. She's so glad to be out of the house that she doesn't mind dragging a few kids along. Her kids are, meanwhile, getting into every box of books and toy bin and taking turns begging for their mom to purchase whatever has currently caught their fancy. Meanwhile, the mom is trying to remember which kids wears which size and is lamenting that there are not enough used boys clothes once boys reach the sizes where they can get grass-stained knees.

You have your hagglers...these women should be hostage negotiators. It's a major game for them to get something for less than the marked price. Doesn't matter how much of a bargain it is, they have no qualms about asking if you'll take half. You want to take the item and throw it at them but you instead manage a terse, "Sure." just because you really don't want to bring any items back into your house. You've already mentally purged the item from your memory.

You have your collectors that buy the weirdest stuff. You'll have the lady that buys that crusty Christmas ornament shaped like a holstein cow while she crows to you about her 10,000 holstein cow collection. You have visions of what her house must look like with that many knick knacks and you hope that someone planted a microchip in her left arm in case a search and rescue team has to go in after her.

Finally, you have your last minute sallys. They are like the vultures that pick over the remains. They purposely don't shop until almost the end of the sale because they are hoping you'll say, "You can have it for half price." or even better "Take it. I was planning to get rid of it anyway."

It's a weird subculture and those who venture into its depths are nodding their head with me right now. I'd give a penny for YOUR thoughts. Or perhaps you'd take half?

Doin' the Dirty Work

Tonight was the last night of adoption class for Husband and me. As I looked around the room of adoptive parents, I marveled at the complete diversity of the class. You would expect that it would be a bunch of clean-shaven, Bible-toting, married couples, right? But it was the least obvious people you could have picked from a line-up. We're talking motorcycle-riding fiftysomethings, a single middle-aged black woman adopting a white teenager, grandparents adopting grandchildren that their own children were too messed up to parent, aunts adopting nieces because their sibling just couldn't get their act together. There were a myriad of races, religions, and situations - heartbreaking situations - that were all coming together for a single cause.

To stand in the gap.

People want to put Husband and I on this pedestal for what we do. It may look brave and wonderful from the outside but the real work of the Lord can be "dirty" work. It's messy. It can leave you wondering if you are making a difference for anyone in this world. It can mean never hearing a "thank you" or a "job well done". It can make you feel like you are failing half the time and DEFINITELY erase any romantic visions you have of being a hero.

I think of my sister's friend in Mexico who has come alongside the red light district women from Boystown in Reynosa. She is a friend to those caught in the lucrative destructive work of selling themselves for money. She is doing the dirty work of the Lord. She is standing in the gap. And it makes plenty of people who claim the name of Christ very uncomfortable to hear about.

I think of another friend who created a support group for those caught in sexual addiction. Man, that's an addiction that no one wants to talk about in polite, Christian circles. Yet he is doing the dirty work of the Lord. He is standing in the gap for those who are too ashamed to bring to light the secret sins of darkness.

Foster care and foster adoption are not glamourous or romantic. It certainly doesn't carry the dramatic stories of rescuing babies born in huts in the Amazon or babies being left on doorsteps of orphanages in foreign lands. It's messy and the birth families can be messy and the court system can be messy and yet the children caught in its web desperately need someone to stand in the gap.

We don't do this to be heroes. I've wanted to quit more times than I can count. Everyone else's adoption situation looks easier. And yet, I will do my part to make sure one or more of the 143 million fatherless children in this world have two fathers - one they live with for a while and one that I tell them about everyday so they can live with HIM forever.

Look, Mom, I Can Do Yoda!

In all the bouncing off the walls around here, Elisabeth was upside down in the rocking chair the other way with her legs bent, standing on her head. "Look, Mom, I can do yoda!" she proudly proclaimed.

Well, namaste. I think she meant "yoga" and probably part of the new mind+body+spirit connection in P.E. Whatever happened to good old fashioned square dancing and shin-blistering scooter hockey? Kids these days...

Actually, I'm okay with them learning yoga. I took a stab at it myself when I was in NC. Only I had Miss Gumby for a teacher...she could bend in positions I'm pretty sure require more ligaments and tendons than I have. She would speak in a cool, soothing voice, encouraging us to salute the light in each other (say WHAT?). I had an 80-year-old lady in my class that would consistently pass gas whenever we did the "Happy Baby" position (on your back, all fours in the air, and using your hands to grab your feet). I guess when you are 80, you no longer care whether or not others are around to partake in your bodily functions.

I found the class much better than the Denise Austin yoga video I tried. Denise Austin has voice made for porn videos...all breathy and low. At one point, I hear Darren outside the door of the exercise room, as I am panting and sweating (to yoga, I know...how pathetic) and he pauses and tentatively asks, "Ummm...what are you doing in there?" as Denise Austin is breathlessly purring, "Feel your stretch...mmmm...doesn't that feel fantastic?" "Nothing, honey!" I yell. Yeah, nothing but hearing from muscles I had long forgotten about in my body.

I also did a stint at pilates. I was worried about my core. You know, since I have an apple shape, it makes sense that I have a core. I found pilates to be impossible. There was a lady in my glass I dubbed "Barley Water" because she was one of those people who probably didn't shower because it hurt the water's feelings. She had hair past her waist and a pasty complexion from staying indoors too much. She probably wove baskets or made pottery, who knows. Anyway, she was very bendy and stretchy, unlike me, who went from laying on my stomach with my head and feet raised to trying to roll over and keep the position. I got stuck halfway through and had to endure the eye rolls of my instructor. So much for my core.

So now I am hopelessly unflexible again. I may have to tape some yoga shows off of FiTV and get back into bending and stretching. At least this time, I won't have Miss Gumby behind me telling me to deepen my stretch while bending me into very hurtful positions. My Warrior II salutes your Downward Facing Dog. Namaste.

Saying "Sorry" With Flair

We have been trying to teach the girls that when they do something wrong, they need to apologize and sometimes, that includes writing a "sorry" note. It started with a REALLY bad night with the babysitter, in which they ran amok outside in the mud, kicked each other, and lied. I wanted to wake them up when I got home and give them the "what for" but what good would that do...so instead, Elisabeth wrote a "sorry" note and Kate put a picture of the babysitter in her swimsuit on the bottom. Not sure why she chose to draw that particular picture...there was no swimming involved. She also put the babysitter's arms coming out of the sides of her head and her legs were two sticks seventy-five times longer than the rest of her body.

This last note was written by Elisabeth to her Grandpa F after she was a royal pain in the rumpus to him. He had come over to get her off and on the bus while I was out of state. She threw a fit about having to write an apology and was in two time-outs before she finally put pen to paper.

In case you can't read the writing, here is what I think it says:

"Sory for (ADHD train of thought derails)

sor (crossed out) from Elisa

beth

to grandpa

Sorry for throwing

Afit thankyoufor

bringing me to the

Bus & for (something scribbled out...this is the ADHD train of thought derailing again)

I love you Both (both? there is only Grandpa...was she seeing double?)

I Like you stihle (I think that's "still")

Sorry sorry

sorry sorry"

It make take two time outs, lots of crying, and many lectures to get her to this point but at least when she apologizes, she does it with flair!

Ranger Bill, Warrior of the Woodland

Tonight I decided to ignore my fastidious urge to clean and have an "adventure" with the girls. I'm not entirely the outdoorsy type, but nonetheless, we all put on our mud boots, long pants, and long-sleeved shirts and traipsed down a very steep, wooded path to the river bottom. We took Lumpy and Spazzoid (okay, Atticus and Sasha the dogs) with us and they were going berserkoid when they (the dogs) realized they were freed from their invisible fencing prison. They were tearing every direction, sniffing, rooting, flailing in the river (which had a very strong current, due to recent flooding).

I know next to nothing about plants and tracking animals but my kids know even less so I took on the role of "Ranger Bill" (a nod to the many Saturdays growing up that I spent listening to the Ranger Bill hour on the radio), showing the girls deer tracks (I think) and poison ivy plants (again, I think...who are they to argue). We tromped through woods and weeds and itchy bugs and all along, trying to make sure the hounds didn't escape into the wilderness (which happened a time before and they ran six miles until they flopped down in some random woman's yard, too exhausted to go further).

Tonight, my city mice became country mice. I think we're all ready for our merit badges now.