I made no resolutions this year. Did you know that only eight percent of people are successful at achieving their promise to themselves? The deck is already stacked against me.... If anyone remembers, a resolution is what started this blog in 2009. I made a committment to myself that I was going to write, everyday, regailing my readers with witty stories and first hand accounts of my nutty life. I did make it through the year, not writing as often as I first planned, so lets just say, if I had vowed to lose weight....ummm, I doubt one workout every two weeks would put me in skinny jeans.
Yet here I am.
Even my ten year old was turning on the resolution pressure, until I suggested to him that he may want to consider adding picking up his dirty socks to his register of declarations. In a huff, that conversation was quelled. Neither of us do well with authority.
There are so many things in my life that are crucial to my long term well being, that my resolution roll would be three feet long. That happens when your whole, comfortable life changes in the blink of an eye, and you are left to sweep up the shattered remnants. Weight loss gets pushed to the back burner. Besides, stress is an excellent diaretic.
I am still torn between my old life and my new beginnings, basically I miss my big, comfy bed.
So, as a newfound realist, I am making a commitment, not to baby new year, but to you , my loyal readers. I am going to be realistic about my blogging goals. Weekly is a way better fit, more often if I am in the moment. I have hope that I can deliver on that promise!
And by the way, motivation is great for goal achieving, hint, hint.
I recently made an 1800 mile drive from Wyoming to South Carolina with my five year old, my eleven year old, Tango the yellow lab, and Buster the housecat. Settled in for a little over a week now, in our new home, I am having a hard time convincing either of my children to get back in a vehicle, even just to go down the street to the grocer. They both look at me like, "not fallin' for it ma" and sneak away, hoping to avoid anymore long car trips.
The cat has been scarred for life, I am certain. His love of cardboard boxes gone, after the four days he spent in the kitty condo I had assembled out of two nice sized squares. I hadn't planned on the cat spending the whole trip in the boxes, however, he had different plans, and dug in hard when I tried to excavate him from his temporary residence. Fine, I tell him, stay in the box. I love my cat, but not enough to argue with him in the back of a Uhaul, in subzero temperatures, in a hotel parking lot. So, Buster spent 4 days in the box.
The dog, however, was thrilled to be removed from his kennel at every pitstop. Tango has marked hundreds of trees between Wyoming and here. He was very well behaved, until we hit Kansas. With my wet hair in a towel, and clothed in only a bathrobe, I cracked the door to our room to view the snowstorm, only to have my horse sized dog squeeze between my legs and bolt directly for the interstate. The kids are screaming, I am racing across the parking lot, robe flapping in the wind yelling for that dumb dog, as he prances, gazelle-like through the fresh dusting. After taunting me for several minutes, by running in wide circles around me, Tango happily heads to the door, and waits for me to let him in. I let him live. In the morning, I learn that I have been dubbed the bathrobe flasher, and enter the breakfast room to applause from two tables of college football players. I bow and quickly gather some bagels for the kids and run to the truck. I am sure that video will end up on youtube.
About two hours into our day, my sleeping daughter makes a strange noise and vomits all over the floor of the cab. I hurredly pull off the highway and try my best to clean out the truck with half a box of kleenex and a liter of bottled water. The smell is horendous, and I come to the realization that I will need to find a car wash and high power soap spray it out. I cruise up and down the tree lined streets, holding our noses, looking for a carwash. Finally, I find one and pull in. After hunting for two dollars in quarters, I hose out the truck, losing a few gameboy games and toys in the process. Only an hour delay I think, as we get back on the interstate. Ava is feeling much better.
The miles fly by, and soon we are in familiar territory. St. Louis, my old stomping grounds, makes me feel a little more comfortable, as I manuver easily through their highway system. The familiar landmarks put my soul at ease as the kids point happily to the Arch, and reminise with stories of our last visit there. Somewhere in Illinois, caffeine free me, decides it will be a great idea to try a 5 hour energy shot. I choke down the nasty brew, in hopes of making it to my brother's in Louisville, Kentucky. A little less sleepy, the kids and I kill time by belting out Christmas songs, and listening to Ava's musical creations.
Just as more snow begins to fall we reach the Red Roof Inn, in Louisville. My brother, Nate and his girlfriend Michele run out to greet us. The reunion is wonderful and the kids are besides themselves as they tell their uncle about all the past two days events. We enjoy an evening of video games and sandwiches, just catching up. The next morning, I awake to the phone. My brother wants to take us to breakfast. I look at the clock, 7:50, but I feel like I didn't sleep at all. The sleepless nights must be catching up with me. I ache everywhere, so I slowly shower and dress myself, resisting the urge to crawl back under the blankets. We head to Bob Evans, next door, where Michele works. After throwing up half my smoothie in the bathroom, I am sure that stupid energy drink made me sick. Back at the hotel, Nate takes the kids off my hands, and I take a nap. A four hour nap.
I awake in a sweat. My jeans hurt. I feel like the belt loops are digging into my vital organs and will surely kill me. I am too sore to move. My stomach is rolling. I try to grab my phone, but it is too far. At some point I fall asleep again. The door opens and the sun beats through my eyelids. Dalton thought he had better check on me. Thank God, I think, "can you get me a water"?
After a few more hours of complete misery I manage to call my brother. I think I need a doctor.
I struggle to get to the truck, and manuver it 2 miles through city traffic to an urgent care center. Within an hour, I have a diagnoses and two prescriptions. The flu and a kidney infection. Just knowing I am not going to perish makes me feel better, that and 1000mg of tylenol.
After a more restful night sleep, we arise early to make the last leg of our journey. As we get closer, the anticipation grows in all of us. The kids are beating each other, Ava repeatedly tosses her blanket over my head, and it starts snowing as we enter the Smokies. I feel my eyelids getting heavy, and try to shake it off.
"Ava", I say, "you're going to have to drive"
My five year old doesn't bat an eyelash and fires back,
"well, you'll have to show me which way to go".
I laugh. What blind trust. She was completely serious. She didn't protest that she couldn't reach the peddles, or that she's not old enough. Ava was just confident that as long as I would tell her what direction to go, she could accomplish this huge feat like it was nothing. Just show me which way to go. You give me the tools and point me in the right direction and I can do it. Isn't this how our relationship with God should be. He wants us to accomplish His goals for us, but how many times do we do nothing but offer up excuses of why we can't. Why can't we all just settle in and say ok God, just show me which way to go? Can you give up control to Him, and trust that He will get you there?
Well, Ava didn't drive, but her comment renewed me for the last two hours of the trip. We pulled into the driveway of our new home, excited and tired. As I layed my head on my pillow, I was thankful for so much. I have lost many things in the past month, but have gained so much more. I thank you Lord for everything You give me. Just show me which way to go! Now if You could help me get the cat out, things will be complete!
Orange is no longer my favorite color.
Things have been pretty tense around the Ropert household, and it came to a boiling point on Sunday. Over a shrunken shirt.
Well, not just any shirt, but my favorite Steelers shirt, that I wear to work every gameday to show my team spirit. So, yes, I was irritated. However, I am not one to rock the boat, because I can get a bit seasick.
After finding the mini shirt folded and tucked behind some of my jeans, I sadly retire it to my daughter's drawer, to the dismay of my husband.
"So, it's my fault your shirt shrunk? I dried it on low." The tone of his voice begins to raise and get angrier.
"No, I didn't say anything," I fire back, "remember when I opened it, I specifically said THIS CANNOT GO IN THE DRYER".
"NO YOU DIDN"T...."
and it goes downhill from there. He gets louder, I cry harder, doors are slammed and I flee the house with my children. As I am trying to pull myself together, with the clock ticking off the 20 minutes I have before I am due at work, my mom calls. My husband had called my mother to tattle on me. The repeated accusations always revolve around my mental illness. Jerry refuses to let me forget that I have bipolar disorder and insists on throwing the words crazy and unmedicated around, like I am ready for a straight jacket.
Those of you who suffer from a mental illness know this pain. The stigma attached to a diagnoses can lead to a dark circle of self loathing and misery....sometimes caused by those closest to you.
With me completely broken, my mom begins to plan my next move...get the truck, pack your stuff and move across the country with the kids. I pull my shift at work, spilling tears at a few junctures, and begin receiving text messages from Jerry.
I love you
I still love you
I'm sorry and I love you
At some point he and my mom discuss the "move" and he agrees to relinquish the truck to me. I close the resturaunt at 1 AM and head over to secure the Dodge. Upon entering the house, I begin to gather some medications and extra clothing for the kids, and am startled by a knock at the kitchen door.
It is the police.
My husband pops out of the stairwell, and sets a brown box on the kitchen table. The police come in and seperate us, my offficer begins to grill me about the evening's events. I seem to be frustrating him with MY frustrations that the police were called for no reason. He then turns to the box.
"Do you smoke marijuana, Colleen?"
"would you take a UA to prove it?"
He then turns his attention to the box. It contained a plastic bag with homegrown contraband.
"Whose is this?"
I look blankly at him and say, "I have never seen that box before"
To make a long interrogation short, my husband made a claim to the PD that this box was mine, and I may have items in my purse or suitcase. Further searching reveals nothing, however the box sits there, mocking me.
I protest, but I end up cuffed and lead to a police crusier. As I sit in the back of the car, I am not too worried, surely as soon as I take a urine test, they will see that this is not mine and let me go.
We pull into the county jail garage. Standing in the booking room, they uncuff me and begin to search my person and belongings. They take my engagement ring for "safe keeping", my belt and shoes so I don't hang myself, and leave me barefoot and shivering on a hard plastic chair.
The sheriffs deputies joke with me while taking my mugshots and fingerprints. I am still hopefull that I we be home in a few minutes. "What size jumpsuit do you wear?" The realization of the predicament is setting in. Should I really know what size jumpsuit I fill? This is my first time donning a striped one piece. They even make me wear issued panties and bra, which pushes my OCD over a cliff, on fire and screaming. Orange stripes, orange socks, and orange velcro tennis shoes. I feel violated. I think I may be here for the night.
Cell one, is tiny, equipped with a concrete slab topped with a thin blue plastic
"matress" that looks more like a gym mat than a bed, and a steel toliet sink combo. The room is filthy and smells of urine. I stand there looking at my "bed" and the co tosses me a mesh bag with stained sheets and two scratchy wool blankets. I contemplate standing right here until they let me out. Soon, the guards go about their evening business and I am forgotten in that dank, cold cell.
I give up standing an hour in. Breaking down I make the bed, and sit down. What in the hell has happened, I wonder.
Another hour goes by, and an officer peeps in through the plexiglass.
"you're still up?"
"do you really expect me to sleep? When do I get out?" I ask.
"court is at 1:30 pm maybe later"
I look at the clock. It's 4 am.
I lay my head down and cover up as best as I can with the mini blankets. Sleep eludes me. Doors bang, people talk too loudly, a medical cart with a squeaky wheel grates at my brain stem. I'm thirsty, cold, and the concrete is doing wonders for my fibermyalga. I toss and turn, repeatedly sitting up, looking at the clock, and staring at the walls. Around 7 am I begin seeing strange things in the cinderblock walls, and can't get some Black Eyed Peas song out of my head.
The breakfast cart comes by at 8, and I turn down this gourmet meal. Time drags by between bouts of crying, I pace the tiny room. Eight steps for the length and two for the turns. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8, and over again. The lights are so bright, I can't help but squint. Laying on the mat, I peer across the floor at the filth and shutter.
11:30 lunch. No thank you, I mumble, before getting a lecture from the guard that if I turn down one more meal, I go on suicide watch. Hmmmm, I begin to think about some pretty dark stuff at this point. I scare myself and start to cry again, but no tears come, because the last liquid I have consumed was at 4 pm the day before.
Maybe my blood sugar will drop so low, they will have to take me to the hospital. Anything would be better than here. I write a four page letter to my husband, that is dotted with expletives, and then tear it up.
Sometime before two, several inmates are called and told to prepare for court. This is it, I'm out of here. But no one calls me.
I stand in the window and watch as the line of convicts marches down the hallway toward the bay without me. I begin to panic. A trainee (who I sold a truck to 6 months earlier) is at the desk, and I desperately whisper, are they making two trips?
She doesn't know, nor does she attempt to find out. I lay down as my body racks with sobs. The minutes feel like hours, when finally I overhear a radio transmittion, telling the officers to prepare the next group for court. My spirits lift.
My door is cracked and I line up with 8 men, who I would not want to met in a dark alley. Or in a brightly lit alley. They make crude remarks to me, and one even grabs at me before the officer tells him to "knock it off".
We parade down the hall into a room with more uncomfortable furniture and a satelite court setup. After reading my rights and signing several papers, we sit and wait for the judge. The process was painstakingly slow, as I sit and listen to each man's charges and their pleas, but I am pleased with the outcomes. Several of the men are there on a similar charge as me, and are receiving suspended sentences by peading guilty. The two that plead not guilty are bound over for court and given ridiculous bond amounts that I could never afford.
I begin to panic again. There is no lawyer, and I am terrified as I look at the clock and see it's 4 pm. If I ask for a lawyer will I get out today, or will I be stuck until tomorrow? I am not taking that chance. As my name is called and I approach the TV judge, I quickly decide to plead no contest. Two minutes, and a suspended sentence later, I am out of the hot seat and told I will be releasd today. I am overjoyed. I can hardly sit still as they finish the last 2 hearings.
We return to our cells in the middle of a shift change, which further complicates things. I pace the cell again. The dinner cart rolls by. NO I DON"T WANT A TRAY.
After another 30 minutes, my door opens and I am lead into a dirty bathroom that has a bag with my civilian clothing. I have never dressed so quickly in my life. It was as if they would change their mind at any moment and I would be spending another miserable night in this hell. Dressed and ready to go, the guards joke about inmates being in such a hurry, but (THEIR WORDS) they have two speeds and if you don't like the first speed, you sure as hell wont like the second. I am being as patient as a person suffering from withdrawl from an antidepressant can be. I fidget, and switch positions for a few minutes, then finally my name is called and I am signing paperwork. The guard leads us out the main pod, into the entryway where several people are waiting for loved ones. My dad and a friend are there waiting for me, but I walk right by them, I have got to get outside.
The air is crisp, and the chill of the wind bites at my cheeks. Freedom. I breathe deep. It is so sweet. Climbing into the van, I break down, and try to tell them about my ordeal through sobs and nose blowing.
I feel like this event may have left me emotionally scarred. The thought that, at any point, you can be dragged out of your warm, comfotable home and thrown into a pit of dispair has shaken me to the core. It's not a matter of staying out of trouble, it can happen anytime, to anyone. It scares me. I heard police sirens in the distance tonight, and I felt my heart begin to beat faster.
The sad part is, the people I observed while I was there, were like old pros, even though some were in the early twenties. The officers knew them by name and several were up for third and FOURTH offenses of their personal crime. They laugh and joke, and act like they are at camp, not in jail.
But maybe that is the key to incarceration sanity.
Most of the others had been housed since Thanksgiving, because the courts were out until Monday. Five days of that would have killed me, but they were troopers, regailing each other with war stories and sex talk. One inmate said something that I found funny, but terrifying just the same.
"Don't get caught on a holiday weekend"
So, now I am free again. Free. I like it.
Oh, yeah and I am filing for divorce.....
It's that time of year again....frantically running from store to store last minute shopping for friends, family, and secret santa victims. I have a solution for you, send me your money....
The candy is started, and this year I am assembling tins AND trays of deliciousness for your holiday sugar coma. I accept paypal, and will ship USPS to you or your loved one, before Christmas.
If you have ever spent any amount of time as a patron or employee of the wine and spirit industry you know the phenomenon.
I was drunk.
It's the imfamous line used by many a man, even celebrities and politicians have used it.
I have pettled the poison, off and on throughout my life, and it is the greatest job for people watching. You never know what the evening will bring, as the shots flow freely and the smell of stale beer hangs in the air. People slowly slip into delerium. Don't get me wrong, not everone acts like stark raving lunatics at one time. They take turns.
It doesn't seem to matter if it's Monday or a weekend, when the moment hits, you will know. Your patron crosses the bridge over the river moderation into the land of kookiness. Then the fun begins.
I have worked all over the country, and have met all types of people, from all walks of life, and no one is ammune. When they are past that point of no return, anything could happen.
Over the years, I have seen fights, both men and women involved, adultry, strange anticts, people having sex in dirty bar restrooms, table dancing....the list goes on. Otherwise perfectly sane citizens, acting a fool.
The thing I find most disturbing, is how we play it off. Like a little booze in your system is carde blanche to act as you please, as long as you have a designated driver. Would you ever flash a stranger on the street your boobs? Of course not, however, do you know how many sets I have witnessed committing indecient exposure in my life?
But it's OK, because you were drunk.
So, I don't want to sound like a fun Nazi, but my thought on it is this:
live every moment as if you would run for office someday. Unless you are Ted Kennedy. Or Bill Clinton, or...ehhh, nevermind.
Fall baking season has begun. I snagged a few cans of pumpkin on my last Casper excursion, so the house smells of pumpkin bread. I topped the sliced mini loaves with stiff heavy whipping cream with a touch of pumpkin spice for a reminder of past Thanksgivings at my grandma's house. On top of my cabinets, I have a depression glass hand mixer that was used as long as I can remember to make our celebratory pie topping. It was a task in itself, so we all took turns cranking, and craking until our sweet reward was finished and ready to be slapped on a slice of pecan pie.
I love fall....
So, I am no longer a car sales professional. I couldn't hack the hours of boredom. Don't get me wrong, I loved to be the first butt in every new car other than the delivery guy. How else would I have ever driven a Camaro? But like all good things, this too came to an end.
I often find myself in the position of being taken advantage of by my employers. I work hard, which is a difficult trait to find in Wyoming. I am sure it has something to do with the altitude making everyone exausted. Basically, in Wyoming, it is not hard to shine.
Not down for long, I quickly gained employement at a local eatery, named Michael's Big City Bar and Grill, and thus begins my new adventure.
Sorry my husband just came in and after performing a SNL throwback, "hans and fronz", asks me in the Hungarian accent, "do you want to touch my muscle?". It's hard to blog sometimes.....
Halloween was my first big duty as manager, and was a marathon evening. After closing the bar Friday evening at 2:00AM, I discover that, thanks to a city ordinance, my boss was planning on staying open until 4 Aon Saturday night. My humor of drunk, costumed, vomit machines runs dry around 3:30. Sometime after the third scantally clad female sailor or witch asked me where her high heels were, I begin to think about hiding in the cooler for a little cat nap. Unfortunately, the people I work with are extremely needy, and I am sure I would be quickly discovered, curled up in the box of romaine lettuce.
Every inch of the Saloon was sticky and smelled of Jaeger and stale beer. The lingering crowd moved to the parking lot to wait for cabs, or began to stumble up the street, towards their homes, eeriely similar to the king of pop's Thriller video. I scan the remnants of this monster mash. The random items scattered throughout the battle ground included 2 pairs of shoes, several phones, capes, sceptors, and a pair of boxers. I am thankful I am not a janitor.
Everyone should bartend for one week of their life. Everyone needs to see the abuse these people endure on a nearly daily basis, to provide you with your "holiday cheer". Maybe then some people would realize that Tipping is not just a city in China. Or at least maybe a few patrons would not act like such jackasses.
I survived the fourteen and a half hour shift, like a champ with bruises.
I was so motivated to blog tonight. I got my ice water and grabbed the laptop, not because I had some great idea, but because we are now a wireless family. Well, really we have been wireless since last August, but when the mega virus killed this pc (thank you facebook), I somehow lost my wireless connection. So I am born again wireless. All I had to do is sit on the phone for 45 minutes with some Dell rep from India.
So, now I can blog in my bed, which is a thrilling thought, but will be very irritating to Jerry none the less.
After another appointment with the surgeon, my husband has another 2 weeks, shooting for back to work in 6. It has been nice having him around, but the boredom he is suffering from makes him crabby. He and Dalton just pick at each other all day and night, tickling, and pinching, a constant flury of arms and legs and squeals. I find myself repeating "quit it, knock it off" at least 25 times by dinner. Honestly, sometimes I feel as if I have three kids, not two.
Ava's birthday is this weekend, and we will be spending the weekend in Fort Collins, Colorado. She really wants to go to Chuckie Cheese, which is 3 hours away, so a simple dinner turns into an overnight trip. We enjoy going to "the city", real food choices, and a mall, not to mention Lowe's! We jam pack 2 months worth of fun into 2 days, and drive home exhausted and broke.
I am afraid Ava will be disappointed that she's not getting a power wheel. We saw a pink jeep last summer at a trashy yard sale, that some old lady wanted 50 bucks for. It had no battery and was nasty looking, so I figured save the money and get a new one. Ava begged and begged, and I promised that Christmas would be there soon.....
Nope, Christmas, no jeep. So, about 2 months ago, Ava began to spread the word to anyone who would listen that her birthday is September 19th and she wants a Barbie car. In the color pink. She got her uncle Nate first.
Uncle Nate: "what do you want for your birthday, Ava?"
Ava: "a pink Barbie car."
Uncle Nate: "Sure, I can get you one."
So, Ava begin rattling off stories about driving her new Barbie car around the house with her unicorn, when my brother begins to get nervous.
"Put your mom on, Ava."
I answer the phone.
"Is she talking about one of those battery cars they ride in?" he asks.
"Yep", I answer.
"Oh, crap, I told her I would get her one."
Since Uncle Nate, she has tried this move on 5 other people, that I know of.... The ury is out on whether we will buy her a jeep. Last time I checked they were 300 dollars, and I was hoping to get away with spending a bit less. Still, she's getting the Pillow Pet she so badly wanted, and I need to find some Tinker Bell thing she also spied on TV, so I am sure she will be contented. Actually, the girl is just thrilled to go stay in a hotel.
She told her dad and I last night that she wanted to go stay in a hotel again. When I asked her why, she responded: I really like that Barbie with the bathing suit and I want to but her flippers on and go in the water with her, so she can swim and see if the flippers will work.
My daughter has only been swimming in hotel pools, so she doesn't realize, you DON"T have to spend 119 bucks for a family of four to go swimming, however, at the Y there is no continental breakfast.
I think Direct TV is getting a bit lax on descriptions of the music channels. I heard the B-52's on a singer songwriter station that was described "as good as lyrics are on paper, they're even better when they come alive in a song. Intellectual and thought provoking, these are great songs from the greatest...".
Extremely thought provoking.
So, I get stressed out trying to find music because the so called descriptions are very deceptive, and I don't want to lose my hearing or good mood because of Rob Zombie hiding out at the Lilith Fair There ARE times when I want to put on my combat boots and tie a flannel around my waist, but not today.
Today I am in search for the greatest playlist. The anxiety builds in me, I keep flipping and cannot find a song that wont make my ears bleed. I have only found one station that was THE station, and it's in St. Louis, way out of antenna range. It's hard to listen to any station here for more than 3 songs, before you angerly switch off La Grange for the second time that afternoon.
I used to like that song.
I am also disturbed that Bryan Adams is now considered classic rock.Really, am I that old that music that came out when I was in school is now antique? I listened to 33's on my dad's turntable and danced in the dining room, listening to his classic rock. The scratch of needle on vinyl makes me nostalgic. I knew all the words to every Rotary Connection song by the time I was 6.
My memories have soundtracks.
I always wonder about the stars in commercials that were chosen obviously for their odd apperance. Like that dorky redheaded kid that was in Kicking and Screaming. He's strange looking. My question is at what point do you decide you have become one with your akwardness and shall use it to your advantage? Like that guy in Machete. I don't even know his name and he freaks me out. Not because he's hard to look at, but because he plays some bad dude or a creep in every role he's ever played. He is always that Mexican bartender that freaks out the star of the film.
Or like heavy people. Could you go to an audition for a role that was written for someone who was overweight? No black dress for me today, I don't want nothing camoflaging my buns of butter! I couldn't do it, it would crush me.
If I had to play side by side with anyone other than Bea Arthur or Roseanne, I couldn't do it. I am that insecure about myself.
I also notice there are way more average or below average men than women. It's like the FBI agility test: the scales are different for men and women, but it's reversed. It's like affirmative action for actresses. The studios decide they have a 2/100 for ugly/beautiful ratio. Think about it. Honestly, sit down with someone else and make a list of ugly actresses and ugly actors. But be honest and you have to go by the majority....most people find Sarah Jessica Parker good looking, but Jerry calls her horseface. Or that she DOES look like a foot.
Something just hit my window....LOUDLY.
OK. Crisis averted, it was a huge moth. I was going to take it's picture, but when I came back with the camera it was gone. He played possum, dang moth.
So, we had another yard sale today. It was windy and ended with enough drops to send us arms ladden with wares towards the garage. And as soon as we got everything inside, it stopped. Thank you Whyoming. Would it be too much to ask to not have to water my grass for a day?
People at yard sales are strange.
We had a lot of drive by yard salers. They pull over and creep by eyeraping every item they can glance at in 15 seconds. I yell, "THERE"S MORE IN THE GARAGE", but many of them don't habla the English. No money spent and junk still in my space.
Quite a few of our shoppers were bargain hunters. They are ruthless scavengers. They loudy scoff at your pricing, and make it a point to tell you they saw the same thing down the street for 2 dollars not 3. I am not walmart and I do not accept my competitor's coupons. If they cannot force your hand they will then shoot for whatever they can get. I'll give you 2.50. My favorites are the ones that come with an armful of merchandise and want it all for 10 dollars, or they'' give me 10 bucks" . What a relief to see the respect you have for the time and effort I put into marking each item with a cute little sticker so that you would have no question in what I believe is the value for the things I have put out here to sell!!!!
The be backers.....never come back.
The hold this for mes........only come back half the time.
I even had some 11 year old boys that I must not have seen because they left the garage looking a lot like my son's room, clothes strewn about. I have folded the clothing in totes and on a table 59 times since it was carefully placed there on Thursday morning. SCREW ORGANIZATION! they shout and mix my size sorted baby clothes bins. I feel like I work at the Gap.
Then to conclude my day of haggling, I sat and fed peanuts to a pregnant squirrel in my tree. I spent two hours trying to get that squirrel to take peanuts out of a big vase on my picnic table. It worked. I think soon I will be able to hand fed this squirrel. She's weird. She stares right at me when I'm watching her and she's ventured very close to my hands.
So, soon I will befriend this squirrel and learn it's language and let you all know why squirrels dart out in traffic and all of your other squirrel filled questions.
I will keep you updated.
RIP Bea Arthur, you are sadly missed.