Fiddledeedee

A word of warning if you’re ever driving with me, or behind me. Should I see a handmade sign, inexplicably written in pencil, with miniature letters that spell “Garage Sale” so small that any naked eye should never be able to spot it traveling faster than 5 mph, I’m going to come to a screeching stop. I will then throw my car into reverse and flip it around, Dukes of Hazard style, and head in the direction of before mentioned sign. Tailgating me on a Saturday morning is never a good idea. I’m a garage, rummage, yard sale junkie.

I cut my teeth on portable makeshift tables filled with old used tupperware. While other children were flying kites, or playing hopscotch, I was trailing my mother and grandmother at the local tag sale. I knew how to barter, trade, and bargain before I could count. I taught myself to crochet while attending an auction when I was 7. And yes, I was one of the bidders.

Both my mom and Nanny were antique collectors by nature, and wheeler/dealers by trade. They were truly amazing to watch. They could size up a deal, and communicate with each other almost telepathically to know the best strategy to procure the most excellent deal possible. The seller never knew what hit ‘um.

My mother had an antique store called “Good Riddance” while I was in high school. And continuing a tradition, I started my own business when I left the entertainment industry in Los Angeles. I would go to garage sales, auctions, and garbage piles to find cast off furniture for a few dollars. I then fixed it up and resold it for obscene prices at the world famous Rose Bowl Flea Market, or local trendy shops on Melrose. I had an absolute blast in this business. I needed to put this endeavor on a back burner after we left California and I began birthing babies.

Now I go to garage sales for fun. And to find kids clothes, books, and toys at bargain prices. The WFMW tip that I have is how to make the most of your valuable time while going to garage sales. In most cities, you can go online and get garage sale information from your local paper, by Thursday. I print out those sales that look promising and are in my vicinity. Then I take my spiral bound map of our city, and photocopy the pages in my area. I then can map out the addresses of the sales I want to “hit”, and I save precious time going from one to another, because I’m not just wandering around aimlessly. In my heyday, I would often attend 25 to 30 sales on a Saturday morning. I also was one of those despicable “early birds”, only I was of the polite variety who NEVER knocked on anyone’s door.

So, get out there on a Friday or Saturday morning and look for signs pointing in the general direction of a good sale. I think you’ll be amazed at the wonderful bargains you can find. You’ll also be horrified at some of the items garage salers consider “valuable.” Just make sure that you’re not too close to my car. You never know when I’m going to flip it into batmobile mode and leave a trail of fire in my wake. The early bird gets the worm, you know.

For more Works For Me Wednesday tips, head over to Shannon’s.

(I was just tagged for this meme by Laurel Wreath and Cheryl.)

Reason #1: Because it was getting too expensive to mail my Christmas letters. The more children I had, the longer the letters would get each year. And the more tales I had to tell. I suppose I could have kept it at a page or so, by weaving a story about how I had lost all of my baby weight with no problem, and how incredibly well behaved my children are, and that baby of ours is just a dream, and oh boy, it’s good to be sleeping again. But then I’d only be dodging lightning bolts because of the LIES I’d be telling.

So, I blog. I didn’t even send out a Christmas letter this year. If anyone asked, I told them, “Go to the blog. Everything you want to know is there. Plus a bunch of other stuff you’ll wish you could erase from your head.”

Reason #2: My sweet husband introduced me to the world of blogging last summer, because I’m sure he was weary of me telling the same tired stories over and over, all while he was busy concentrating on the remote control, and timing himself on how fast he could flip through the channels nonstop. Men are just no good at multitasking. That’s a fact. But really, this smart man knew that the little wifey needed a place to vent.

Reason #3: (Reasons #3 through #5 are “Why I Continue Blogging”) You people. I no longer wonder if I’m going crazy. I’m quite sure of it now. And it’s okay. Because I’m not alone. Many, many, many of you are dealing with many, many, many of the same issues that I am. I know this from all of the wonderful comments that I receive, and from reading your blogs. You make me laugh, and you make me cry, and you always touch my heart.

Reason #4: There are some truly great story tellers in the blogosphere that raise the bar and make me aspire to be a better writer.

There are also some amazing Godly women that have befriended me and make me want to become a better mom, friend, and human being. One particular woman has truly been a God send to me is Laurel Wreath. We’re going to try to “meet in real life” some time this year.

Reason #5: My handwriting stinks. I keep journals for each of my children, but they will never be able to decipher my chicken scratch. My mother (who’s handwriting also stank) wrote many letters to her mother telling of her adventures in motherhood. While I treasure these letters, this documentation of my growing up years, I’ve also nearly gone blind trying to read them.

Reason #6: (I know it’s only suppose to be 5, but I’m a rebel.) It’s cheaper than therapy. My blog absolutely forces me to find the humor in a situation that could otherwise send me screaming unclothed down the street. And that would be no good for the property value around here.

I’m going to tag five people: Farming Folks, Beth @ I Should Be Folding Laundry, Tammy, Amy @ Laughing Through The Tears, and Deidre @ Raising Future Esthers. (Unless you guys have already done this one.)

Friday night was date night around here. Fiddledaddy was taking his small girls to an Ice Cream Social for Princesses and their Prince. The event was sponsored by their scouting troup. Anticipation was at an all time high.

I prepared an easy dinner for the party attendees. A crustless spinach and tomato quiche, with some hash browns on the side. The girls came to the table. Cailey said, “Ewwww”, then saw my expression and added, “I mean, Ohhhh, mmmmm.” That’s better. My girls are usually not picky eaters. The son is a different story. He won’t go within 20 feet of a green bean, but he can scarf down a container of cottage cheese in one sitting. So, I just hide a multivitamin in his apple sauce and hope for the best.

We tell the girls that they need to be sure and clean their plates, so that they can partake of the yummy ice cream at the Ball. Cailey finished, but Emme had some trouble. She took an extra big bite in an attempt to get it over with. And the gagging began. Her eyes bulged, she turned red, and began with the retching. Past experience told me this was serious and that we must GET TO THE BATHROOM, AVOIDING THE CARPET AT ALL COST. She made it to the kitchen. And graced the entire kitchen floor, herself, and me with a full helping of spinach and tomato quiche, plus hash browns, and a little lunch from earlier in the day. She panics. And cries. Her only concern is that she can still attend the Princess and Her Prince Ice Cream Social. My only concern is that I don’t add more quiche to the floor. We all know what happens to me when I even think someone is going to hurl. And it seems to only happen when we’re on our way to an American Heritage Girls function. From all appearances, this seemed to be related to a healthy gag reflex, and not illness.

The Prince puts on his coat and tie, looking dashing, and gets the girls cleaned and placed into their beautiful dresses. And off they go to The Ball. While Cinderella is left on her hands and knees scrubbing puke off of the cheap linoleum.

The evening goes as well as can be expected, as I’m told later. Considering you have a bunch of men in suits who don’t know each other, and their little princesses, most of whom are too shy to socialize. The shy gene is dominant in my two daughters. But there was a little dancing and the ice cream was delicious. And it stayed inside my daughter, where it belonged. That’s what mattered. When my husband was driving his dates home, after much silence, my Cailey chirps up, “My, that ‘shore’ was a good party!”

The theme continued the next day when Emme kissed a frog in our backyard. No, not a neighbor boy. A slimy green frog. The amphibian population has declined since we moved here. We were made aware of this infraction by the local narc, the younger princess. The Prince, who is very germ conscious, blew his crown.

The Queen mother just shakes her head. How is it that she will gag on spinach quiche, and yet kiss a frog. On the lips.

Well, she comes by it honest, I suppose. I had to kiss an awful lot of frogs, before I found my handsome prince.

The sudden ear piercing scream emanating from the back seat caused the man to nearly wreck the Chrysler. The hysterically crying little girl in blonde pigtails was mostly unintelligible. But after a short while, he gathered enough information, between breathless sobs, to deduce that the three year old baby brother had thrown her beloved bear, Bugga, out the window of the moving car. This was a time before seatbelts were mandated. He feared the little girl would crawl through the open window in search of her treasured bear. Or worse, toss the little brother out in retaliation.

He had no choice but to pull over. And turn around. And head back down the highway to search for the lost bear. The man, risking great peril, plucked the bear from the busy street. It was either that or listen to the little girl shriek the rest of the long car trip home. And he knew from experience that she would not let up.

Bugga was my precious bear. He measured about 9 inches from the top of his fuzzy head to the tips of his little brown feet. He had two big brown button eyes, and wore a poinsettia dress that my grandmother had made for him to cover his many scars. You see, she and my mother had to conduct surgery on him often to restuff him, and fix wounds from too much loving. And from being thrown from moving vehicles.

Each of my children has a cherished stuffed animal or doll that they have loved dearly since infancy, and still sleep with at night. Emme’s is a small stuffed dog, aptly named Puppy Dawg. Puppy Dawg lived on our bed until at the age of about 1, Emme crawled up to him, snatched him under her arm, and headed back to her room. He never graced the master suite again.

Jensen has a small blue dog. He has no name yet. But he is coordinated in color to Jensen’s Blues Clues chew blanket, and his big blue blanket. When I need to go to him in the middle of the night, he gathers up all three of his possessions, and waits for me to lift him and his cargo out of his bed. For the mommy, it’s quite a handful to rock.

Cailey dearly loves Zoe, the character from Sesame Street. She’s a ratty orange color, with fuzzy orange hair, blue eye shadow, and pink bows. Zoe is, to quote Dr. Phil, her currency. If Cailey commits an infraction, nothing puts her into a tailspin faster than placing Zoe in time-out. Time-out for Cailey is simply a happy place to sit on one’s bed, contemplate the ceiling, and sing “Hush My Dear”, complete with vibrato, ad nauseum. But threaten sideline Zoe, and Cailey straightens up toot sweet.

The other night, Cailey was misbehaving, and Fiddledaddy pocketed Zoe in his jeans, until Cailey completed her nightly chores. He must have forgotten Zoe, because Cailey began tailing him, talking to his backside. He finally figured out Zoe was still in his pocket when Cailey announced to him, “Dad, Zoe’s bored.”

I just completed my nightly rounds. All the children are fast asleep. Blue Dog was thrown haphazardly at the end of the crib, so I put him within arms reach of my snoring Jensen. Zoe is tucked under Cailey’s sleeping chin. And Puppy Dawg is clutched tightly under Emme’s arm.

Bugga is safely stashed in my stockings drawer. I have Fiddledaddy to sleep with at night. I’ve offered Bugga to each of my kids, but I’ve had no takers. Secretly I’m relieved. “Um, he’s pretty ugly Mom. And he has no fur. Or nose. Or mouth. And he’s wearing a dress.”

Critics.

Bugga is still precious to me. He reminds me of carefree sweet childhood days. I hope that one day, when my children are grown and have their own families, they will open a drawer, and see Blue Dog, Puppy Dawg, or Zoe and remember a simple time when they were children. And all their problems and hurts could be kissed away. And they could snuggle into their beds at night, and remember they were loved dearly.

I was a bit late arriving at the church for the first meeting of the Ladies Bible Study that I’ve forced myself am excited to attend. Not so late that they had already started, but just late enough that everyone turned to stare at me as I entered the door. I quickly planted myself in the closest chair to the door. Not that I was planning on escaping. Okay, maybe it did cross my mind that I should be prepared to slink out of my chair to the floor, and army crawl my way out, as unobtrusive as possible.

The facilitator announced that we would be beginning, since everyone was present. She wanted to ask the question of each of us “What woman do you most admire?” Since I was on the end, she called on me first. All eyes turned to me. I choked. My mind was racing. Of course there’s a myriad of women that I admire, but for the life of me, not one single person came to my lips. I hoped that I would like to give the most spiritually profound answer possible. Mary, the mother of Jesus. Esther from the Old Testament. Mother Theresa. Something along those lines. I then wondered if I could just fall from my chair and feign a fainting spell. And then belly crawl my way out the door. Thankfully, the facilitator sensed my panic, and moved on down the line. Where it should be noted that everyone else gave wonderfully uplifting examples of the different women they greatly admired. Well, of course. My panic attack gave everyone else that much needed time to formulate their answers. And of course, as everyone else was answering the question, my heart suddenly filled with love and gratitude for those women in my life that uplift, edify, and live their lives in graceful Godliness.

I’m clearly out of my comfort zone.

The last time that I was involved in a women’s Bible study was when I was single. And that was over ten years ago. I write often how as a mid-life mom with three young children, I am guilty of isolating myself. I use to host women’s studies. I use to have long theologically centered discussions with other women over coffee. I use to be able to string two cohesive thoughts together. I use to wear sandals.

My times of greatest spiritual growth has been when I’m partnering with a group of other women committed to studying the word of God. So, spiritually speaking, the last ten years have been a little hard. And then you add miscarriage, pregnancies, births, major move across the country, loss of a parent, hormone fluctuation. Well, good gravy. There’s a recipe for disaster.

Then it was time to begin the DVD. This is a Beth Moore study on the Book of Daniel/Lives of Integrity. I’m familiar with Beth Moore, have read some of her material, but have never been involved in one of her structured studies. She is a lovely woman, possessing a bounty of southern charm, and a love of the Word of God. The crux of the study will be about living lives of integrity while residing in modern day Babylon. Western civilization is such a “me” focused society. I’m as guilty as anybody. It is my hope that I will be able to step outside of not only my comfort zone, but to really participate in reaching out to others. To be in a position where I can and will be used by God to further His Kingdom in this place where I’ve been planted.

In this last week I’ve been completely convicted in what I’m allowing to enter my spirit. Everything from the music I listen to, to what I’m reading, to what I watch on TV. Garbage in, garbage out. I realize that I really need to clean house. And I’m not just talking about my sticky cheap linoleum.

At next weeks, study, I plan on sitting a little further away from the exit. I may even set my purse down and get comfy.

And I’ll try to sound reasonably intelligent when called upon.

I’ll let you know how that turns out. But don’t hold your breath.

Have any of you been involved in this study, or one like it, and what was your experience?