Susan B. Scarecrow and the Little Pink Box

No, this isn't my yearly tour of the straw folks in my home town. I do plan to give that tour later in the week, but this morning, I'm just going to give you one little peek.

Then, I'm going to yak about it. 

You see, the tour is a little different this year. Usually, the scarecrows represent the individual businesses or their owners. This year, however, they represent their personal heroes.

This one sits outside the bakery of a friend of mine. 

Can you tell what it is? 

It's Susan B. Scarecrow, 

the female voter. 

I thought it was a clever idea, especially coming from a small business owner who just happens to be female herself.

Just in case you haven't noticed, we're in the homestretch of another election cycle here in America. In a little over a week, those of us who haven't done so already (and maybe some who have) will head to the polls to choose the next leader of the free world. Daunting task, when you think about it.

And just in case you haven't noticed, there's one voting block that  is more coveted than any other one this year.  It's the woman's vote. It's true, ladies. They want us. They really, really want us.  We are woman. Hear us roar.

I'd love to take that as a compliment, but I can share just a bit of my heart with you?

I wish they wouldn't. 

Don't get me wrong. I'm glad they both want my vote. I'm glad they think it's valuable.  I just wish they wouldn't consider me to be part of a block. 

You see, when  I look at that picture  up there, I can't help but wonder if that's exactly what the political world sees when they look at me -- a brainless prop all schtuffed with fluff -- a female, with no individual thoughts or personal passions outside that little pink box.  

Maybe I'm the cheese who stands alone here, but I just don't find that flattering.  I don't think it's empowering either.  

It probably wouldn't bother me so much if that little pink box weren't so, well... little. It seems to hold about three issues, and there isn't  even room for those issues to stretch out a bit.  As I said, it's a very small box.

I'm not saying that I don't care about those issues. I do. I actually have an opinion about all of them.  No big surprise there... I have an opinion about everything. It's just that I don't care about them to the exclusion of others.

Unless there's a mouse in the house, I consider myself to be a pretty strong woman.  I was raised by a strong woman, and I worked hard to raise two strong women as well. We pay attention to what's going on around us. We watch the news and read the editorials.  We have opinions about things like energy and the environment; education and national defense. We know what's going on in the Middle East.

We also pay the bills.  We care about the economy and the national debt.

If those things don't fit inside the little pink box, maybe we need a bigger box.

Or maybe... just maybe... we don't need the little pink box at all.

And speaking of boxes. Time to step down off of this soapy one and get back to cleaning toilets.

I am woman. Hear me roar.

*****

So what about you? Are the traditional women's issues the most important ones to you? Or do you like to expand the little pink box.?

I'm too 50 for that...

That's been my catch phrase of 2012, ever since I qualified for the Red Hat Society on Christmas Eve.

Drama? I'm too fifty for that.
Snotty little cliques and cool tables? I'm too fifty for them too. 

Well folks, in attempting the Domino Days organizing challenge, I have added yet another item to the list.    Apparently, I'm too fifty to organize. 

It's true. Younger Debbie was a focused organizer who would fix her target and execute her plan. Vintage Debbie seems to have developed something that I call Organization Deficit Disorder, or ODD.

I'm blaming the hormones.
I always blame the hormones.

For over a week now, I've meandered from closet to closet, pulling everything out and dumping it on the floors (and beds and tables and chairs) of the nearest room. Then I would sort of stare at it helplessly, head to the next closet, and do the exact same thing. Seriously. My house looks like a scene from one of those hoarding shows.

Minus the filth and feces and dead cats.

Young Debbie never embarked on a reorganizing adventure without a plan. She used the domino theory, reorganizing her schtuff into new storage spaces as they became available.

Looking out over the first pile in the first room, however, Vintage Debbie decided that she was just too fifty to keep moving it.  

In fact, Vintage Debbie started to get a little irked that "it" was there to begin with. She got a little testy with Young Debbie for priding herself on organization that's really not organization at all.

It's storganization. 

The art of  storing and organizing schtuff which has no useful purpose.  

It took me fifty years, folks, but I finally reached my breaking point. Not only am I tired of moving it; I'm tired of storing it. I'm too fifty to keep storing it any longer.  

The problem is that I wouldn't have stored this stuff if I didn't believe that it had some sort of value, either economically or emotionally.  For that reason, I can't just toss or donate willy nilly. Instead, I need to go through every pile with a fine- toothed comb.

Now, I've never had to use a fine-toothed comb, but I'm pretty sure I get the concept. I'm pretty sure that it requires combing, and combing, and then combing some more.

Therefore, that's what I've been doing. I've been combing through the stuff I've been storing. I'm trying to use the O.D.D. to my advantage by meandering from pile to pile and back again. I'm utterly unwilling to start room reassignments until I have completed the purge of a lifetime.

That's the reason that I still don't have anything to show for it, and the reason that all my hard work has not been yakkable.  I mean, really... who wants to hear someone ramble on about her piles of schtuff?

Oops. I guess you just did. 

So what about you?  

Are you too fifty (or sixty or seventy) for something? 

Care to share what it is?

The Frocky Horror Picture Show

So now that the fat cat's out of the bag,

 I have some yakking to do.

I kind of want to yak about that picture, you know the one... the one of the repentant drama queen in the blue frock. The one that had me so horrified that I actually considered closing down the blog rather than put it on here.

Seriously.

So why was I so horrified? I mean, I'm not a vampire or anything. We do have mirrors in our house, and I've actually seen my reflection a time or two. How could I be so ignorant?

Because I don't like to step on one of these.

source

It's true. Decades ago, I heard someone, probably Oprah, yakking all about breaking free from the tyranny of the scale... how we shouldn't be slaves to some silly old number...   how it's all about how your clothes fit... how you feel about yourself...  The scale? Well, that's just an archaic invention of man to terrorize woman.

I'm pretty sure she followed it with a segment on buying clothes to flatter your frame.  

Therefore, that's exactly what I do.  I buy clothes to flatter my frame, and I judge how bad the weight gain is by how well those clothes fit.

But there's a catch.  Clothes can stretch.
And s-t-r-e-t-c-h.

The cheaper they are, the better they stretch, and when you are a perpetual dieter and a cheapskate to boot, you generally buy the cheaper ones. I buy Kim Rogers slacks from my local Belk store. For $29.99, Kim will flatter my frame. Even better, she will stretch to accommodate future growth.

Kim is very gracious that way.

And so they stretch quite well over my rumpus. When they stop stretching? Well, that's due to dryer shrinkage of course. The fact that I line dry my Kims is irrelevant. If they shrink, they shrink. Who am I to argue?  And anyway, any pants that can't endure a little heat now and then must not have been very good to begin with. They need to be replaced.

And that's when I have the crisis.

Aside from an unfortunate Kodak incident, most of my meltdown moments happen in the dressing room. New clothes, you see, are not gracious at all. They are mockers. You reach for the size that you're supposed to be wearing, and they magically shrivel, right before your very eyes.

I don't know what you do when this happens, but I generally console myself with a smoothie. Then, after a salad supper, I wake up the next morning, strip down to the birthday suit, close one eye, and step on the scale.

And then, I turn into Jane Fonda (minus all that communist stuff).

Wouldn't it be easier, and certainly healthier,  just to gut up to it and step on that scale on a regular basis? Oh sure, the news won't always be pleasant, but it will always be true. 

The scale doesn't lie. It doesn't give empty flattery or grant absolution when none is warranted. Its numbers are never out of style. 130 is 130 yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

(True, it's a lot more yesterday than today, but I'm believing for tomorrow.)

But here's the thing.

This post isn't actually about the weight problem at all.

I just lured you in for the sermon. I'm sneaky like that.

It's about a delusion of another sort, and one that is so much more important than the Michelin around our middles.  It's the delusion of the spirit. 

You see, God has a scale too. He has, as he says in Amos, a plumb line, and it's His Word.

The Word of God is the only true measure of our spiritual fitness, and we don't need some Oprahfied spirituality to tell us any differently.

Don't be a slave to the tyranny of the Word, they will say.

Oh, they won't phrase it exactly like that, but that's exactly what they mean.

That's what they mean when they give you any alternate measure. That's what they mean when they tell you to weigh yourself in the balance of feelings, that the Word of God is just an archaic invention of man.

And the people eat it right up. They have since the beginning.  There are folks out there who try on church after church and faith after faith just to find the one that best flatters their frame. 

They have no intention of changing said frame. It's their frame, after all.  It's who they are and who they want to be, right down to the very bone.

I'll give you this one for free:  Anyone who tells you to step away from God's Scale and flatter your frame doesn't really love you. They're the fat friend who wants you to be fat too. Misery, as they say,  loves company.

God isn't in the business of flattering our frames and stretching elastic truth over our ever-expanding flesh. He's in the business of transforming us into His image. He whittles away our flesh, inch by inch and pound by  pound until we are his very likeness. Isn't that infinitely more beautiful?

Yeah, I think so too.

So go ahead. Step on God's scale. Oh sure, the news won't always be pleasant, but it will always be true.

As for me, I'll be back to yak all about that other exercise equipment later in the week. Right now, I have some celery sticks to gnaw and sit ups to do.

Of Della, Demons, and Dying Divas

So the report from the computer doctor wasn't all bad. Della isn't terminal after all. I did, however, manage to short circuit half of her memory and her keyboard in the unfortunate coffee incident. This means that  Della is not only menopausal, but senile and mute as well.

Don't drink and blog people. Don't drink and blog.

I'm currently awaiting parts to arrive by mail so Mr. Scottish Thrift can play doctor. In the interim, he has kindly offered the use of a small silver contraption which he calls a computer. I call it a timely reminder that Della the demon possessed laptop wasn't so bad after all. I've named him Winky, in honor of the Popeye face I use to read his tiny screen.

In other news, Whitney Houston has passed away.
Just thought I should mention that for my Siberian friends.

Now folks, in the two years that I've been blogging, I have pretty much stayed away from posts of opinion. (Walmart lamentations not withstanding...) I don't voice my opinion because I'm a neurotic people pleaser who really doesn't want to be known as Pot Stirrer on Wheels.

But sometimes... sometimes... I just can't hold my tongue. 

Today is such a day.

 I'm sorry in advance if this is less than people pleasing.

Let me say up front that I'm a huge respecter of talent. I also understand that the death of certain public figures can bring sadness in the hearts of fans. Even though she hasn't made a public appearance in years, I'll still feel blue when my favorite actress and singer passes away.

I get it.

What I don't get is how folks trade simple admiration for a gift well used into fanaticism. What I don't get is the obsession with celebrity to the point of idolatry.  

Yes, I know Whitney isn't to blame.  I also know that  she isn't the first star on the receiving end of overkill, and she won't be the last. I'm too young to remember Marilyn Monroe, but I do remember Elvis Presley and  Michael Jackson.

This isn't about them. It's about us. 

For whatever reason, Whitney Houston was not only given an incredible gift, she was also allowed to shine in the spot light because of it.  Was she talented? Without a doubt. Was she more talented than the average good singer? Yeah, probably so. (Although more fame doesn't necessarily mean more talent.)

But folks, that's where it ends. Whitney Houston  was an entertainer.  She didn't contribute more (or less) to our society or our nation than millions of people who walk among us every day.  Yet to hear the media, one would think that we had lost a national leader. The flag will even be flown at half staff in her home state.

Really?

Have we completely forgotten the significance of a flag at half staff? It's a symbol that we are a nation in mourning, not that we have lost a pop star.

I'm not saying that we shouldn't recognize the death of Whitney Houston. Play her music.  Lament her loss. Remember her gift. If it blessed you at all, then thank the God who gave it to her, but really folks, our culture needs to get a grip on the whole idolatry thing.

Because that whole idolatry thing? It really has a grip on us.

Of course, that's just my opinion on the matter. What's yours?

Seven Random Christmas Things

You can thank   blame Joan at Reflections of His Grace  for this post.  Not long ago, she gave me the Tell Me About Yourself award and another opportunity to share 7 random things about Debbie. Thanks, Joan!  In the spirit of the season, I decided to do mine with a Christmas theme. 

So here ya go, seven completely random

  Christmas facts on Wheels.

1. I was a Christmas baby. Well, technically, I was a Christmas Eve baby. I was born on a cold and snowy Christmas Eve in 1961. That would be 50 years ago this year in case you missed the other 400 times I've mentioned it. 

Yes, I said snowy. I wasn't born in Georgia, you see. The Legend of Debbie begins in the Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts. And yes, it's a legend. Some babies are born; others are born with a yakabout.    

  

As the story goes, the Duchess woke that morning to tell-tale twinges which shouldn't have surprised her since I was already nine days overdue. Apparently, she felt that since I had waited that long, I could jolly well wait until the Christmas rush was over. She didn't tell a soul that she was in labor for hours hoping it was another false alarm.   

Which tells you two things:

The Duchess has been trying to control me my entire life, 

and my entire life,

 I have been utterly uncontrollable. 

They say that the doctor and nurses stood at the window and watched as Dad tried to defy gravity up the slippery slope called Hospital Hill. According to the Legend of Debbie, the good doctor had satchel in hand and was prepared for a case of  vehicular delivery when Dad gave it one final burst and delivered us to the top in the nick of time.  

Go Dad.  

2. I always wanted to have a Christmas name like Holly or Noel, but every other name in our family, including those of my parents, starts with the letter D. Try as they might, all they could think of was Dasher, Dancer, Donner, or Ding-a-ling.

And so, I'm Debbie.

3. At nearly 50, I still love those Rankin-Bass Christmas claymations.  My favorite one is  Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. My favorite character is  Hermey, the elf with mall bangs who wanted to be a dentist.


My favorite line? 
        Yukon Cornelius: We'll have to outwit the fiend with our superior intelligence
        Rudolph: How?
        Yukon: Douse your nose and run like crazy!   

4. My favorite Christmas gift of all time was a tambourine. I wanted one so that I could do the tambourine hip bounce like Betty on the Archie Show. I can still do it and will show anyone who asks. 
No one ever asks.

5. I believe that The 12 Days of Christmas is an action song and should be performed as such. If you’ve never acted it out, I highly recommend it. There is no better way to work off the Christmas fudge than shaking your groove thing to six geese a-laying. 

6. I make the most delicious sugar free Christmas cocoa on the planet, and I’m very humble about it too.

7.  I'm obsessed with the Elf Yourself videos from Office Max and make random videos to email to the husband on the road. Just in case I haven't embarrassed my girls enough in their lives, I've elfed the three of us to finish my random list. In case you can't tell, I'm the blond with the slightly detached bobblehead.  

Elf Yourself

So that's it, folks, 7 random Christmas things about me.
What's the most random Christmas thing about you? 

 I'm hoping to post one more time before the week is out, 
but just in case I don't...
Merry Christmas. 

Extreme Early Birding

I wanted to make this a Talk Back Tuesday,

but I was too tuckered to talk.

Remember back in June when I vowed and affirmed I would never have another garage sale? Remember how I yakked abroad my reasons why?  

Yeah, well, I'm kinda standing firm on that. I mean, a thrift sale isn't exactly the same thing as a garage sale, right?   A garage sale, you see, is a KooKoo Fest one brings upon herself. A thrift sale is a KooKoo Fest some organization brings upon her.

In this case, it's my chapter of the DAR.

This weekend, we're having a thrift sale to raise funds for our historical house.  Since I'm a trustee for that old house, I'm involved up to my thrifty armpits.  I have spent all day, every day this week in preparation.

We're collecting.

And cleaning.

And displaying.

And pricing...

And some people are shopping.

Which sort of set off my irkometer.

Which in turn set off my yakabout.

We've secured a vacant store in the downtown area, you see, and we've left the doors wide open for donations and deliveries. Of course, when you open up the thrifting doors, well... you know what follows.

I was elbow deep in brass candlesticks yesterday when I was interrupted by a male voice in my ear. A local shop owner had ventured into Thrift Land.   

What will you take for those garlands?

He gestured to a corner of the room piled with unpriced Christmas merchandise. Since I apparently had nothing better to do than state the obvious, I told him that we hadn't yet priced our Christmas items.

So he made me an offer on an entire box.

Do I look like Monty Hall?

I made him a counter offer somewhere in the four thousand dollar range, but apparently he thought I was kidding. He tried his best to drag me on a trip down Haggle Lane until I gave him such a firm No Deal that I felt like I was the rude person.

Which I wasn't.
He was.

Way back in June, I mentioned that I had a few thoughts about my least likable characters in a garage sale adventure, one of whom was the early bird. I said then that it would have to be a post for another day.

Today's the day.

Now folks, I realize that I might step on a toe or two out there, but please hear me out and consider.  First, I think it's annoying. It's annoying to be frantically setting out wares whilst navigating gate crashing American pickers who are hoarding them faster than you can get them out.

It's annoying to have to be blunt to the point of rudeness to a person who is bound and determined to create an early bird special where none was advertised. I don't know how they behave in your neck of the woods, but around here, they have unmitigated gall to ignore signs and keep right on shopping even when asked nicely to wait.

They look you dead in the eye and either feign ignorance or plead their case, all the while filling their hands full of goodies.

I think that's rude.  It's not just rude to the seller, either. It's inconsiderate to the would- be bargain hunters who actually follow the rules out there.  That's the reason I hardly ever  shop garage sales any more. By the time the rule followers get there, the gate crashers have picked it clean.

You can't let the rule breakers control the game and then wonder where the fun went.

So anyway, that's all I've got this morning. Today is my only day all week with a pass out of  Thrift Land. Isn't it just like me to waste it in a whiney wokkabout?

So how about you? Early birds, yay or nay?


*****

By the way, I did read the questions about the Deco Ware from my previous post. I'll do a little follow up when I have an extra pair of minutes.  

Smack Down in the Walmart Parking Lot

Let's have a little Talk Back Tuesday...

I've yakked before how I feel about these spaces.

I personally don't think they're necessary, but I respect a store's right to erect them. Regardless of the Buddah belly I seem to be fighting these days,  I still wouldn't sneak Ebenezer into that parking spot. For one thing, I don't want to get the local tongues wagging. For another, well... I just think people ought to follow directions.

I've been thinking a lot about following directions lately. I don't claim to be perfect by any means, but I at least  try to respect and follow directions, even those for which there's no consequence.

Take those courtesy signs for example. They aren't the equivalent of handicapped parking spaces. You're not going to be ticketed or towed if you use one when you shouldn't. They are on the parking lot honor system.

Sort of like the grocery cart returns.

Does this look like a little yellow cart corral to you? Why no. It doesn't.

I just don't understand why it's so difficult to return your grocery cart.

Really, I don't.

And these festive yellow stripes are not pavement decoration. They are for pedestrians. Tooting your horn at the elderly couple moving as fast as they can across them is just plain rude.

Of course, so is strolling aimlessly across with a cell phone super glued to your head as four hundred cars wait to proceed... 


Is it just me, or does it seem that shopper's courtesy is getting worse by the day?

The express lane means just that. It's for folks who want or need to get in and out with their few items. Just a hint here, but if you have to count  the items in your cart,  it's probably not intended for you anyway. That's not to say that you shouldn't count them. I personally think you should.

Of course, I also think a big old alarm should go off at the 21st item... 

Yeah, I know. I need to work on that grace thing in the express lane. I'm trying. I'm also working on the fine balance between respecting the rules of courtesy without falling into the Pharisee Trap. You know the one, it's where you get all puffed up about following the letter of the law without considering the intent of it.

That's the reason for this ramble today.

I got a little smack down about this yesterday.  You see, I had the chance to "legally" use one of the little courtesy signs.  I was so excited.

It was late in the afternoon, and I was tooling about trying to wrap up one of those annoying errand runs. You know the type... the kind which resembles more of a scavenger hunt.  I had one thing and one thing only left on the list, and it happened to be located at my least favorite place. That's the bad news. The good news is that it happened to be a prescription pick up.

So I was going to get to use one of these things.

Or not. 

As bad luck would have it, they were all taken. I know this because rather than just park the car, I felt the need to circle the parking lot...three times.. in search of a courtesy parking.  By round two, I was feeling just a little bit cranky. By round three, I was talking to myself about all the big fat fakers who were probably parking in those courtesy spaces and not following the rules... like I was. 

And then, the annoying voice that lives inside my head cleared his throat.

Ahem... 

Seriously, Debbie... Can we please get a grip here? Do you need that space anyway?

Sure, you have the right to it, but do you actually need it?  Is that the intent of the thing?  Is it really designed so the scavenger chick can have her privileged parking, or maybe... just maybe is it intended for the sick person or care giver who could use the shortest distance between two points and the courtesy of a well placed parking spot?

Well, oops. I think it's the latter.

So I parked Ebenezer about four spots down from paradise. And then, just to show Him that I got that clue, I pulled out and parked even farther for good measure. I'm kind of an over achiever like that.

Then Debbie and her baby steps headed in to Walmart to pick up her prescription, just a little bit wiser on the topic of parking lot courtesy.


So what about you? How do you feel about shopper's courtesy? Have you ever gotten the smack down about an area of your own courtesy that needed fixing?

About Those Curly Bulbs...

Somebody keeps playing with my dimmer switch. 

Really, it's true.

At first, I thought it was just that whole approaching 50 thing. They say the first thing to go is the eyesight, and the reading glasses living on my nightstand would tend to agree. It seemed reasonable to blame the dark shadows on the aging process as well.


But then, I noticed a little pattern emerging. It seems that my eyes weren't always stuck on low wattage.

Nooo...

It was directly proportional to the presence of

this little beauty in the room. 

Curly Top. 

She's everywhere, and I'm just not a fan.

I don't care what *they* say, she has about as much oomph as a kerosene lamp. Working in a room full of  Curly Tops is like playing shadow tag on a hazy day.  That's the first beef that I have with her; she's  a dim wit.

Now, I realize that  a lot of folks love their energy efficient curly tops. I just don't happen to be one of them.

In fairness, no one is forcing me to burn them right now. I brought them into my home of my own free will. I'm nothing if not a tightwad after all. When that little piggy went to market boasting a ten year  life span, I brought her all the way home.   

That was about ten years ago.
Since that time, I've replaced them more than once.
I keep expecting a different result.
That's my second beef. 

Truth is, Curly Top is a bit of a tease who rarely  lives up to her reputation. Apparently, there's a reason for that, too.  Apparently, florescent bulbs  weren't really designed to be switched on and off like a regular old light bulb. They were designed for places like factories where they can burn for long periods of time. 

Who knew?

I certainly didn't.

I didn't know that breaking one was akin to committing an act of act of bioterrorism either, but that's another story. I'll call it my third beef. 

And then, there's the whole attractiveness thing.
There's the beef.

I could more easily tolerate the lying little dim witted bio hazard in the interest of savings if she weren't such an eyesore. I think she should be banished behind the shade of a table lamp. Unfortuntely, the besotted testosterone who lives with me likes to spread the curly wealth all over the house. This makes the estrogen very unhappy.

Yes, I realize it's a little late to worry about style when you have a rattan and brass hovercraft dangling from your popcorn ceiling, but I do. I have gray roots and crow's feet too, but I still don't walk around with broccoli between my teeth.  Same principle.

Kind of.

I actually stopped that project midstream and claimed a small, temporary victory in the invasion of the Curly Top. The husband might have given in, but he's not interested hearing me harp about it.

So I'm harping to you instead.    

What about you? 

What's your relationship with Curly Top?

In sickness and in health...

If you read my blog post a few days ago, you might recall that the husband and I have always managed to do a little something for our anniversary. We've run the gamut, from dinners out to dinners in, from fancy meals to picnics for two. Yes indeed, for richer or for poorer, we hadn't missed a year.

Until this year.

You see, not too long after I posted our plans, I began to swoon with a different type of dizziness than the one I felt on that other June day.  I tagged it a combination of excitement and low blood sugar and decided to remedy it in the usual way (you know... ice cream...)  and leave in the morning refreshed and rested. 

Only I didn't wake refreshed and rested.

I woke with heavy head and full blown something-or-other.  By 10:00, it was obvious that I wasn't going to rally, and the plans were cancelled. While he rearranged work schedules and headed home, I lounged on the sofa feeling sorry for myself and watching the Casey Anthony trial.

photo credit

As if I weren't nauseated enough...

Just for the record, no matter how vociferously you address a television screen, prosecuting attorneys do not heed your advice in cross examination.

But I digress...

I've been sort of weak- eyed for the past few days and am only now feeling the ability or desire to peek at  a flashy computer screen. It may take me a while to get caught up.

We're still planning to celebrate our day, even though we'll be late to our own party.  (Kind of ironic when you consider that I started my last post confessing neurotic punctuality, isn't it?

Man plans. God laughs...

And so I'm leaving the timing in His capable hands and resting. Lest you think chivalry is dead, though, think again. The anniversary wasn't a complete bust.

You see, Sir Lotsa Hair knows me very well. 

 He knows that I'm a hopeless romantic...

But he also knows that I'm a tightwad...

And he knows that for much less than the cost of a single arranged bouquet, he can buy a bucket 'O  flowers at the farmer's market.

   And spread the anniversary love all over the house.

So that's exactly what we did.

If you haven't introduced your husband
to the Bargain Bucket Bouquet,
 I highly recommend it.

*****

The Whackit Back Attack

I've blogged before about the crepe myrtles lining my street.  Being a lover of all things pink, their magenta explosions are something that I look forward to every summer.

Every winter, however, they look like this.   

Now, those myrtles get their yearly whackit whether we like it or not. It's done by order of the development, and the crepe myrtles, like their pals the pear trees, don't actually belong to the home owners.  We don't complain, though. We all know that a little pruning is best for the long term health of the tree.

By experience, we know that the whackit  is just a temporary rest.  In due time, the leaves start growing again.   Before too long, I'm a happy camper on pink watch.

pruning  + patience = reward. 

There's a reason for this ramble this morning. You may not have noticed, but  I've been doing some long overdue pruning myself lately.  For a variety of reasons, I need a rest.  Let's just say that I needed a little pruning for my pink to grow. 

And so I have whacked back the blog writing for a while and tried to entertain myself elsewhere.  First, I entertained myself by celebrating a milestone with Sir Lotsa Hair. You know the one...

We ditched the black and did it up green since that's our theme color for the year.

 Plus, he's not even close to over the hill. 

Oh please... with all that hair? 

After that, I entertained myself  with a Great Purging Adventure of epic proportions.  Why I habitually wait until Summer to get into that attic is a mystery. It might have had something to do with the fact that the two house servants I procreated were available to help. 

Or it might have had something to do with the looming deadline for that LIST that sits on my sideboard.

Smirking.

Or maybe, it's the perfect project for  Whackit Back Season.  After all, Hell hath no fury like a menopausal maniac purging an attic in the summertime. As far as attic whacking is concerned, I'm Debbie Scissorhands.

Whatever the reason, the Great Purging Adventure has kept me very occupied as I wait for my pink.

And just  look what I discovered on my walk this morning.

Proving once again that a little pruning is a positive thing.

By the way...
Does anyone have any tips for successful garage sales?

The Great Oreck Intervention

Wooohooo!

 I’m here today to report a miracle.

My vacuum cleaner worked.

Quietly.

This may seem like a small matter to you, but it’s obviously a big deal to me. You see, for months, my vacuum cleaner has sounded like a lawn mower sucking gravel from a concrete floor.

I had been living with it because it was still  working… somewhat.

Plus, I’m too cheap to buy a new one.

Plus, I was ashamed to confess to the husband that I might possibly have killed another electric appliance.

We bought this particular upright because of my back problems.  We wanted something powerful yet lightweight, something that I could use every day if I wanted to.  Not that I wanted to.  

The Oreck XL seemed to fit the bill.

And you know how Mr. Oreck man says

 that it’s powerful enough to lift a bowling ball?

It isn’t.

It is, however, powerful enough to suck the fringe off a rug, a cloth off a table, and a curtain off a rod. Don’t ask me how I know this. Let’s just say that little sucker is the reason we can’t have small pets.

This phenomenon makes it a poor choice for those of us who like to retreat to our happy spot while doing the household chores.  One careless pass too close to the window and happy thoughts are interrupted by a high pitched squeal and the smell of burning rubber.  

I’m sure someone can relate.

I don’t know how you handle this, but I usually scream for a minute before turning off the machine and extracting the offending object from around the beater bars. If you unwrap gently and slowly, no one is the wiser.

Angry little tugs, however, can make the belt slip a little.  Very angry tugs can snap it completely. I’m not exactly sure what putting both feet on the beater bar while yanking out an entire spool of pink satin ribbon does, but the result sounds like a lawn mower sucking gravel off a concrete floor.

You can see why I had been reluctant to mention this recent episode to the husband.  I just suffered in silence. Too bad I couldn’t say the same for the Oreck.

Until yesterday.

Because yesterday, after months of gravel grinding, I plugged him in, and he ran as quietly and efficiently as when he was brand new. I’m almost positive that I could push him around easier too. I was so delighted that I cleaned the entire house.

Now, clearly the man of the house didn’t fix the Oreck; he’s been out of town all week. Plus, I hadn’t told him that the Oreck was in need of fixing.  I certainly didn’t fix it. My specialty is breaking.

But fixed it is.

I’m putting this in the electronic miracle category and calling it an act of Divine Oreck Intervention. I had a little service of thanksgiving, too.

And then I started thinking about my Divine Oreck Intervention…

And about the whirly swirly gremlin living in my computer.

I’ve been living with Della the demon possessed laptop for just about as long as I’ve been living with the protesting Oreck, yet it was the Oreck who got the faith healing.

Maybe God is much more interested in my cleaning than my blogging.

Just sayin’…

Have you ever had a divine appliance intervention?

Unlikely Praise

I mentioned on Saturday that a variety of events had left me uninspired all week. How I could manage to be uninspired with the Georgia spring bursting into bloom around me, I do not know, but uninspired I was.

But then...

Just before I left town on Friday, my blog friend Angel sent me something to help me Find the Inspiring.

I had seen this challenge to gratitude yakked abroad in blogland. I’ve even visited and enjoyed the author’s blog. I had just procrastinated the purchase of it because I’m a tightwad.  Leave it to God to use a literal Angel to get his message across.

Since thanksgiving is the ultimate inspiration, I have decided to join all the Gratitude Gals in blogland and count the simple gifts of the fleeting moment. I'm planning to put these on a separate page when I get a pair of minutes, but just for today, I decided to start my journey with some shout outs of  unlikely praise.

Like...

1. The gift of a traveling man…

The husband is in sales and has traveled weekly for our entire marriage. If I could choose a different model, I would, but in many ways, I’m thankful for it. I’m thankful for his absence because it has always made his presence all the sweeter to me. Color me nauseating, but I really do get butterflies in my stomach every time I hear that door open and the sound of his feet clumping across the kitchen floor.

It has saved both our marriage and the man's sanity. How would you like to live with Charlie Brown's teacher 24/7? Wok wokwokwok wokkkkkk....

2. The gift of the terrible, horrible, very bad no good year…

I’ve yakked before about the loss of our single income in 2008. While I wouldn’t have volunteered for that particular character building mission, I’m thankful that we endured it. I’m grateful for what God showed us about Himself through it all. I’m thankful that I no longer wonder what I would do if…

Because now, I know. I will do exactly what I did last time. I’ll cry like a baby. After that, I’ll lean and trust.

3. The gift of a big butt.
*What? You expected a picture?*

OK, maybe I'm not thankful for the posterior itself, but I have recently decided to thank God that I’ve struggled with diet issues for much of my adult life. I’ve gained and lost that same stupid thirty pounds more times than I can count. I’ve tried a hundred different ways to beat that monster who likes to stuff her insecurities down by the spoonful. I wouldn’t choose this struggle for the world, but because of it, I have an easy compassion for those struggling with addictions and strongholds of other kinds. Compassion is a gift, and so, I thank him.

4. The gift of a  leaky roof.

Our roof is original to the house, which makes it about 115 in roof years. It’s creaky, leaky and unpredictable. It has been repaired as we save for a new one in this pay as you purchase household, but roof repairs only last so long. Do I pray that she’ll hold out? Oh yes. Do I pray for a windfall roof fund to fall down on this house like manna from heaven? Yes again. But every time the rains fall instead and that patch holds, I get to have a little service of thanksgiving. Without the leak, I wouldn’t have the praise.

And so, I’m thankful.

And along those lines...

5. The gift of counting pennies

I'm a penny counter, and I'm truly thankful for that. While God has always met our needs, we still have a life just shy of self- sufficiency. Too many times to count, Satan has tapped me on the shoulders to make sure I know what I’m missing, too. He loves to remind me what I gave up by stepping out of a full time classroom all those years ago…

He tempts me to count my numbers.

He points out rain clouds and leaky roofs and weaklings in the piney stick forest. He niggles when the refrigerator dies and the washer starts to rock and roll. Though I admit that I'd rather count the Benjamins, I still think that counting pennies is a gift. 

A woman in my Sunday School class once told me that she couldn’t imagine praying over things like cars and appliances. If she wants a new van, she said, she just buys one.

No. Big. Deal.

Sunday School Girl would probably never believe this, but I pity her for that, and I’m thankful that I do. Maybe I’m just more fleshly than most (see number 3 above), but I don’t think that I can be trusted with too much self- sufficiency.  Obviously, God agrees.

And so, I thank Him.

The list goes on, but I've probably already lost half of you already. If I yak up the rest of them this way, I'll never reach 1000. Plus, I have lesson plans to finish and an unventilated book room full of students to  teach.

6. I’m thankful for that opportunity 

7. and I'm even more thankful that tomorrow is my last day to do it.
I'm a burned out little pool of wax just about now. 

What about you? Do you have gifts of unlikely praise?


******
Thanks to Jen's gracious invitation, I'm going to join here today, too.

Uncle!

That's it.
I'm calling uncle. I'm throwing in the towel. I'm waving the white flag. In every expression possible, I surrender.  You win, Blogger Man, wherever you are.

As if I have not been  busy enough for the past few days with planning, teaching, and trying to get ready for a big upcoming weekend, I am being held hostage by a whirly swirly arrow circlet which will let me neither open nor comment on blogs with any kind of ease or consistancy.

If you've seen me in your neck of the woods,  feel privileged. It means I actually had the patience to sit through 17 whirly swirly attempts to get your blog to load and the subsequent 45 clickless endeavors to get a comment to post.

Behold. I stand at the door and knock...

This has been going on for several days, basically since I reopened the blog after the little  makeover. I can see absolutely no reason or connection to this whatsoever other than the coincidence of time. What could redesigning my own blog possibly have to do with visiting all the others?

Nothing, I tell you, absolutely nothing.

Yet, apparently Blogland is some sort of  Brigadoon which, if you step out for a few days, disappears in the mist for a hundred years.

It isn't my computer or internet connection. I seem to be able to pop about in Email Land without a problem. I can open message boards. I can surf the net like a googling Gidget.

But open a dashboard and try to visit and comment on blogs?

Nooooo.

I'm tired of fighting it. I have become convinced that some sort of gremlin really does live inside this computer.  If he's not gobbling up my pictures and belching them up in a distorted vapor across the screen, he's stealing my Irish Growler. (Because no matter what you can see, my own screen still refuses to growl.)

When the sun comes up, I'll be going for a walk and stepping away from Della the Demon Possessed Laptop before I pick her up and toss her out the window.

Please know that if you don't see me in your neck of the woods, it is not for lack of trying.

Before I go, I have two questions that I hope someone can answer.

#1... Can anyone relate to this specific problem?

# 2 What in the world do you call this tree

currently blooming along the 30 mile country commute?

The blossoms are the palest lavender

and stand up straight on the branches.

It sort of looks like a terrified wisteria to me.
What is it?