Nessie

The children have been looking at a book from the library about Scotland (because of their evil Aunt's impending move there), and wouldn't you know--they are all fascinated, absolutely fascinated by . . . the Loch Ness Monster. M has drawn all kinds of pictures (and then hidden them, apparently, because I can't find them now) and has spent most of the day on the couch staring at a fuzzy picture purported to be said monster. E keeps coming up with explanations: "I bet someone carved a big log to look like the Loch Ness Monster and put it out there. Do you think maybe it was a rock? When was the last time anyone saw it?" And Tooie vacillates between longing and loathing: "Do you think the 'cotland Monster has TEEF?" "Do 'cotland Monsters EAT people?" "I think when we go to 'cotland the 'cotland Monster will say [funny voice here] 'oh, I think I will go up and visit Tooie and his family.' "

Everyone wants Aunt to be on the look out for the Loch Ness/'cotland Monster when she gets to Scotland. And then, when she locates it, they want to come and visit it themselves. Tooie's last words before he went to sleep tonight went something like this:

"Will the monster stay up and visit us if we are nice to it?"

Mom (distractedly): "um hmm, probably"

Tooie (with lots of spit): "Then I will be EXtra nice to it when I see it."

Tomorrow M is preparing a letter to send to Aunt with a picture of the monster and the instructions, "Look for this monster in the ocean when you are going to Scotland." Marmot Dad is trying to quash their belief in the beast, but I say if Leonard Nimoy suggested that it was real, well, I'm a true believer.

The Old Christmas Spirit

I was lying down with the girls tonight when I heard a knock on the door. I got up, peeked out the front window, and saw my neighbor's daughter, so I opened the door . . . only to discover that said daughter was proffering . . . a roll of toilet paper. Somewhat stunned, I took it, thanked her, waved to her mother in the car (who hollered out "Merry Christmas!"), and closed the door. There was a little note attached: "Money is scarce and times are hard, so we're giving you this instead of a card." There was more, but I can't bring myself to write it down. I was just given a festive Christmas roll of toilet paper.

Now I know that civilization is on the very verge of collapse.

In other Christmas news, Marmot Dad has been engaging in his favorite holiday pastime, Elf-Like Behavior (ELB). On his latest round, he came home to tell me some of what he had picked up here and there, whereupon I told him what he should have picked up, and where. So he has renamed his ELB "Elf-Like Blunders."

(Note: in all fairness, Marmot Dad's Elf-Like Behavior is generally of the highest quality--he has a knack for stocking stuffers, particularly for little girls, that borders on the amazing.)

Overheard

E goes to ballet classes once a week. This is a nice little ballet studio, run by the woman I took ballet from at the university twenty-some years ago (and she is also E's teacher). I like it because it is low-key, and there is none of the hoochie-koochie dancing that is so popular for young girls in these parts.

There are things, however, that I am not fond of. And I'm not talking just about trying to control the other three kids while E is dancing, although that is a sore trial in my life. I'm talking about Other Mothers.

One mother in particular feels the need to share wildly inappropriate information with me about how her children were planned or not planned and what medications she was taking when they were conceived and on and on and on. I try to smile and nod and mostly plan my next vacation to the Bahamas while she talks to me.

Last week, though, I heard some great stuff from another mother. Her three-year-old daughter was misbehaving, and the mother was trying to get her to stop. This is what she said: "Do you want to lose ten Good-Girl Points? Because if you don't stop, you'll lose ten Good-Girl Points. I'll just take away ten Good-Girl Points."

I ABSOLUTELY LOVE this concept. Except I want to award Bad-Girl Points. To my sister. And when she gets enough, she will have to give me a present. Brilliant.

In other news, the Marmot Babe is the messiest eater we've ever had. EVER. I find food all over the place, on him, his booster seat, the table, the floor, the walls, you name it. On me. Now here's the irony. When he comes in in the morning for breakfast, he looks at his booster seat, which sometimes his overburdened mama has not thoroughly cleaned out the night before. He starts muttering "towel, towel, towel" to himself while he waddles off, looking for all the world like a beaver on its hind legs, to pull a towel out of the drawer, bring it to his seat, and start cleaning it off (in the process getting food all over the floor again, but no matter). Yeah, now he suddenly turns into a neat freak.

In Which I Cease Being a Homeschooler

M is going back to kindergarten! Not at her regular school, though. We came upon an opening at the university lab school where E went. We hope they can keep up with her. She starts Monday, which is about the time my life ends and I have to start hustling across town every day (at least it's a small town).

In the meanwhile, she has been prolific in her literary pursuits. This might be my favorite story yet. May I present

The Dragon With No Wings!

The Dragon With No Wings! A Once Upon a Time Book.

Once upon a time a princess had a dragon for a pet. It had no wings. Have you ever seen a dragon with no wings and no ears? The dragon had spots on him like leopards have spots on them. The dragon's friend had wings but he did not!

The dragon tried to fly but he could not fly.

(picture of dragon falling through clouds--note dotted line indicating falling)

The dragon tried and tried and tried to fly. Again and again and again. But he never could fly. "Oh," he said, "I will never never fly," he said.

(picture of dejected dragon with sad flames)

One day he woke up. He tried to fly again. He could, he could, he could!!! He was so happy he showed all of his friends. "I am so happy I can fly that I came to show you!" said the dragon.

"Oh oh oh I am so happy I can fly now. Oh I can fly fly fly now. Fly fly fly fly fly," he said. "La la la la I can fly now. Fly fly fly. I can fly. I can fly now. Oh oh oh. Hooray hooray hooray!!"

I can fly. Fly fly fly. Now I can fly.

"Yes yes yes I can fly now. Hooray, now I can fly. Hooray hooray hooray. I can fly now. Now now now I can FLY!!!!! Hooray hooray hooray I can fly now!!!" he said.

The End.

Melville, Steinbeck, Hemingway--they got nothin' on this kid. Next, the great American novel by M.

But wait--she does poetry too (she had me and Marmot Dad write some words--I did mine while holding a flailing toddler, which might qualify this as performance art).

There is a place called England where people do their fiction.

Frankly, this is on a par with or superior to most of what passes for poetry in The New Yorker.

In Which I Become a Homeschooler

Yes, I am a homeschooler. I've always been open to the idea, but I never actually thought it would happen. But our little M hated kindergarten after just a few days (actually after just a few minutes, but that's another story . . .). I'm not sure why, exactly. She's given me several (spurious) reasons. For example, "I don't like playing on the little playground." "I wanted to put my fingers in my nose sometimes when it itched, but it was against the rules." "There were some people I didn't like in class." "I missed you, Mommy." (That one I believe.)

For my part, I was not impressed by what she was doing in class, so I told her she could stay home another year and do kindergarten at home. Which she readily did.

This is how homeschooling M works. She gets up in the morning and says, "I think I'll do XY and Z today," and then she proceeds to do so. Sometimes I give her a suggestion, like, "Why don't you make a Writers' Workshop book like E did in kindergarten," and then she spends the rest of the day doing it, with verve, panache, and all those other French attitudes.

Now, just take a look at today's (self-imposed) task, and understand with me why the public school couldn't keep up with her RPMs:

Oh, to be Three Again

Tooie turned three last week. His GrandMarmot sent him two dollars via the USPS. There was much rejoicing all around. He carried his two dollars around with him everywhere for a couple of days, set them down along with his birthday card next to him on the sidewalk, and patted them every now and then. He refused to let me put them in his pocket because he wanted to be holding them whenever possible.

Today we finally went out to spend his money, after a nasty round of the stomach flu for everyone. Before we left he was very worried because he didn't have any "round money" for an ice cream cone. So M traded him a dollar in change for one of the paper dollars, which she likes better, anyway. And off we went. We had a few stops to make before we finally made it to the thrift store. He found a little Fisher-Price airplane (not quite like the one I got him for his birthday, but good enough, and only 1/10th of the price I paid, even though mine was second-hand, too) for $1.50 and paid for it proudly. (He and M played dueling airplanes all afternoon.)

Then I had mentioned going to the grocery store for a $.50 ice cream cone afterwards, but, heaven help me, I had been running errands for three solid hours with three little kids, and I just couldn't do it. So, as he cried, I promised him that Daddy would take him on a special trip tonight to get his ice cream cone. Heh heh heh. Sorry, Papa. What I didn't know was that Daddy would have to stay at work until 6:30, after having arrived there around 6:30 a.m. But I couldn't postpone the poor child's joy any longer.

So after dinner we popped him into his pajamas and sent him on his way to get his ice cream. Marmot Dad reports that as Tooie was slowly falling asleep in the grocery store, and as his ice cream cone, paid for with his very own (round) money, kept dipping towards the floor, he announced, "Daddy, this . . . this . . . this . . . this was . . . this was . . . this was . . . a good day."

Thank you, GrandMarmot!

The Terrible Twos

Today was Tooie's last day as a two-year-old boy. He's been doing a happy birthday dance every now and then, and then around about 1:30 this afternoon I guess he had to cut loose and act like a real two-year-old. While I was trying to do dishes and hold a baby, he was quietly standing on a stool in the bathroom playing with his sister's lipstick. With, depending on your perspective, horrible or glorious results.

Well, if he's going to be an imp, I'm at least glad he's an adorable imp. And maybe tomorrow, when he's three, the hijinks will be over.

A Haircut for a Marmot Babe

The Marmot Babe was long overdue for a haircut. See the curly locks. See how everyone referred to him as "she." See how sad his long hair made him. But his mamma loved his sweet silky hair. It made him seem like a baby still, even though he is inching up on 18 months old.

His sisters loved his curly hair, too. See their schematic drawings of him. First one by E:

Front View

Rear View

Then by M:

Rear View

Front View

And so the deed was done, with sobbing from E and a grim determination by mamma.

Front View

Rear View

Things I've Seen Lately

A face at dinner time:

A tiny boy in a tiny tie:

A "loaf" of "bread" baked without yeast (oops):

The dreaded interior of the baby's booster seat:
A baby washing dishes:
Pony hair. Yes, I said pony hair, arranged by color:
A boy sleeping with a teeny tiny ear of popcorn under his chin:

If there's one thing I want to do . . .

Last night we were out working in our yard (i.e. weed patch, as some would have it) when some neighbors came by on a walk (good neighbors, not faux pseudo-neighbors who leave anonymous letters in the mailbox). They have 8-year-old twins, and the boy twin was in our Sunday School class a couple of years ago. He is delightful, if a bit of a handful. For example, one Sunday he escaped from me and started doing ninja rolls up the center aisle of the Sunday School. Sigh. He was always bored, and I didn’t blame him, because I was often bored in there, too. His little mind was too quick for the Church Ladies.

Anyway, the kids were poking around in the garden asking Marmot Dad the Latin names of various plants. Apparently, apropos of nothing, Twin A said to Marmot Dad, “If there’s one thing I want to do, it’s stop global warming.”

Let me repeat that: “If there’s one thing I want to do, it’s stop global warming.”

The kid kills me. He went on to explain that it was all about the sharks (he spent a lot of time drawing sharks when he was our pupil). Global warming is not good for sharks, I gather. He let Marmot Dad in on a little shark trivia, though: “Bull sharks are the only sharks that swim in fresh water. There was an unusual incident (sic) once where someone was attacked by a shark in a creek. It was probably a bull shark.”

Then he rollerbladed into the sunset. Sic transit gloria twinboy.

The Garden (of Eden)

Here is our glorious garden for this year (see previous post--yes, this is in part compensation for the fact that SOME PEOPLE don't like our gardening style).

Collards. Have you ever grown collards? You should. They are impossible to kill and they make lots of tasty dishes for weeks.

The staging area, where Marmot Dad keeps his hopes up that these plants will be planted somewhere this year.
The Great Onion Massacre of 2009. 
True Love. Marmot Dad does not care for rhubarb, but he brought home FOUR plants for me.
Squash-a-rama.
An eggplant! Houston! We have an eggplant!
Holy Sqash Bugs, Batman!
My climbing cantaloupe. Marmot Dad says cantaloupe doesn't climb. I say it does. So far he's winning. 
Peppers. Hot.
Arugula a-goin' to seed all over. And a cabbage.
Popcorn! Tooie can hardly wait to put the ears in a bag and "'tomp the corns off."
The garden from a distance. Not bad for the back half of a very very very small lot.
Amen.

Weeds, Glorious Weeds

I came home from swimming lessons today with the kids and, as is my habit, checked my mailbox. I found a little packet from a "neighbor" inside. Let me quote the letter, as written, poor grammar and all:

This property is a eye sore to the neighborhood. please clean it up! the weeds and flowers are out of control. if you are overwhelmed. please ask your neighbor's or church leaders for help. we have decided to give you a few days before we contact the city and start filing complaints. thanks for being a responsible neighbor.

Yes, someone actually left this in our mailbox, along with a pamphlet from the city ("weeds cannot be higher than twelve inches") and some photos of our home from the street, taken from inside a car.

Well, suffice it to say that I was shocked and appalled. And really annoyed. For so many many many reasons. There's the passive-aggressiveness. Then the patronizing-ness. And the high-and-mighty-ness. And the insulting-ness. And the fact that we do not have 12-inch high weeds in our yard. What we have is a yard that does not conform to the idiotic golf-course aesthetic of our white-bread-eating, American-Idol-worshipping, ATV-riding, pious-church-going neighborhood. Allow me to illustrate.

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:
Exhibit C:
DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THAT???

Here's the thing. I think I know who sent this to us, bless her little heart. She calls the city all the time on people (despite her own city code violations). She even turned my neighbor and friend, a wonderful parent, into DCFS because she didn't like her potty-training techniques (said friend then picked up and moved because she couldn't stand to be in a neighborhood where people would do such a thing).

So this is my plan. I'm planning to put the letter (just the letter) back into her mailbox. If I'm wrong, no harm done. She'll just think some crank put a letter in her box. If I'm right, she'll know that I know it was her. 

Passive-aggressive, meet passive-aggressive-ER.

We Scream for Bugs

I just finished cleaning the baby's booster chair. Some BONEHEAD designer designed it with about 2000 nooks and crannies, each of which can harbor a week's worth of discarded food that will fester and ripen to an alarming stench in no time at all. Especially when one's child does not so much eat food as tuck it under his bottom. Then some BONEHEAD novice parents bought it for their first child and couldn't bear, in their silly frugal way, to discard it and have been cursing it ever since. So this parent in particular feels she deserves a little blog break before she goes to freeze some kale and grind some wheat for her daily bread.

So the kids were all playing happily in the playhouse earlier this week while I worked in the garden. Suddenly M began to scream in her usual histrionic way that "there was a bee on my hand! there was a bee on my hand!" Well, I say her usual histrionic way, but there was in fact a true sense of urgency in her scream. I asked her over and over, "did it sting you? Did it sting you?" She didn't know, and after a few moments of back-and-forth I realized that this was not helping the situation at all and that if she was still screaming she probably had been bitten. Which she had. Stung twice on the wrist by a wasp or wasps. Ouch. So the usual remedies were applied (baking soda, frozen peas, hydrocortisone cream, kisses, lying on the couch) and the brave mama went out to investigate, trailed by two not so brave as curious and reckless boys.

I opened the door to the sink of the playhouse and saw what looked like a basketball-sized wasp nest (my skin is crawling right now as I think about it). Wasps started buzzing and whizzing around, so I picked up the baby and hustled the toddler into the house pronto.

Now, I do not believe in applying poisons all over the home for no good reason. E lectured her class about the evils of fertilizer in preschool, thanks to my evangelizing. To spiders, I say live and let live. BUT when you sting my baby, you forfeit your rights (let's not even talk about what happens when you hit my baby on the head with a baseball bat), and I keep a secret can of wasp spray in the garage for just such an occasion. So I dispatched the nest and the wasps with rapid if not entirely eco-friendly efficiency. (And when I went to remove the nest saw that it was not quite as big as a basketball but probably the size of my fist nevertheless.)

So poor M, the very next day, came running to me from riding her bike, screaming this time about a spider. On her hand. Once again, the dumb question, "did it bite you?" This time she was sure it hadn't, but while I was trying to calm her down she realized it was crawling on her leg, so she screamed some more, shook it off, and ran inside. I have to admit, it was pretty big and hairy. (We have these big hairy spiders living in our air ducts--we looked them up, and they are harmless Daring Jumping Spiders, a name you have to love.) Well, that was just too much for M. She spent the next two hours lying motionless on the couch, staring at the ceiling, no doubt thinking evil thoughts about bugs.

She is recovering nicely.

KEEP OUT

The neighbor kids drive us krrrrrazy. There's the usual annoying kid behavior. Then there's the entire lack of supervision by parents. A couple of weeks ago we were sitting down eating dinner--eating dinner, I tell you--when one of the girls said, "hey, is that a puder [special marmot language for something unmentionable that you can no doubt figure out]  on the back porch?" And indeed it was. IT WAS, I'm telling you. The youngest and most revolting neighbor child had taken off his diaper on our back porch and let it all hang out, so to speak. On another day, an awful day, this same puder-boy hit Tooie on the head with a bat (which I confiscated and still have in my pantry) and then moments later pushed over the Marmot Babe into the grass and sat on his head and bounced up and down until I grabbed him and shoved him off. This child is now banned from our home because he shoves the Babe over backwards every time he sees him.

Today the next oldest child (female, age three) pulled up about half of my onions out of our garden and broke off all the stems of the others. The children have been appalled at this shocking behavior. E decided that a fence would be the best option to keep her and her ilk out. E and M were talking at dinner about how best to fence off our yard when Tooie piped up, thoughtfully, "we should put up a sign at our house that says 'keep out.'" Then he beamed at his own sagacity while nodding repeatedly. The girls kept up their fence talk (electric or conventional? gate or no gate?). Suddenly Tooie cut in with his coup de grace: "And we should put up at sign at Ella's house that says 'keep in.'"

Would that we could, my blue-eyed boy. [Actually green-eyed, but that doesn't sound as good.]

Hilarious or disturbing . . . you decide

Here's the backstory:

E always likes to get presents for people for their birthdays, bless her heart. So when the kids found this horse at a yard sale, she knew it was just the thing for M's birthday. The people selling were happy to get rid of the Cinderella coach (which Tooie picked out for himself), as well as I think three other horses, for the low low price of $1. Birthday happiness was assured.

But we had no idea just how happy this particular horse was going to make us. The kids finally prevailed upon me to put batteries in it, and everyone commenced screaming "IT WALKS!" It was only a matter of time before the idea of harnessing the Cinderella coach to the horse and perching a naked and bald Barbie doll on its back made its way into the little marmoty heads we have around here.

p.s. please don't judge me for how my kitchen floor looks. If truth be told, it usually looks a lot worse.

Babies are Dumb

Our sweet Marmot Babe has lost his left toenail. He pulled the cast iron skillet (which I stole from my mother so it was probably karmic retribution) out of the cabinet and dropped it onto his toe. It looked horrid for a while until the nail actually came off. I put a sock on him for a few days to protect his toe. People thought it was a quirky fashion statement. "Quirky" is me, "fashion" is not.

But that's not all. On Sunday night as I was loading up the dishwasher he sneaked a handful of detergent out of the dispenser cup and shoved it right in his mouth. I didn't think much of it until he walked onto the carpet (of course) and vomited. Then returned to the kitchen and vomited again. So Marmot Dad checked the label which of course said "call your doctor immediately," so he spent some quality time chatting with the folks at poison control. The Babe was OK, but I got some good heart-racing exercise while I tried to force 4 oz. of fluids into him.

What else he does: tries to eat rhubarb leaves (poisonous); sucks on bar soap (yucky); climbs on things and fall off (painful); runs onto the ball field in the middle of E's baseball game (annoying); and turns the water on hothothot when he's in the tub (dumb).

I'll save my mom the trouble of posting a comment and write what she would have written: "His grandma is going to come and get him and take care of him because his parents are clearly not!"

Poor little Marmot Babe.

How to Have a Really Very Trying Birthday

Let me give you some advice on how to have a trying birthday. I'm not the type who doesn't like my birthday, feels sad about growing older, etc. etc., so it takes a lot of effort to have a distressing birthday. Hence, I am the best one to give advice on how to make it a day to put wrinkles in the corners of your eyes.

First, and this is important, you must, absolutely must, have four children in rapid succession. This takes quite a bit of advance planning, so don't even think of having a stressful birthday if, say, you only have two children, or if you have the four already but they are at least two years apart each. If you have more than four, and if they are the requisite less-than-two-years-apart, you might as well just stay in bed on your birthday, and most other days as well.

Next, you have to promise all of those children that they may help you make your birthday cake. Absolutely promise the eldest that you will not even unwrap the butter before she gets home from school around 3:30 or 4:00.

So, it's 4:00. Washing the dishes is optional. It will clear out the sink, making cake clean-up easier after you cook, making your birthday less stressful, but it will also increase the whininess of the children who want to help cook your cake NOW, so it's up to you.

Now, get out your ingredients and make sure that you position the two-year-old near everything sticky and/or floury so he can put his grubby hands in it and  get it on the floor. Make sure you leave the sugar out so your older children can not-so-surreptitiously sneak bites of it right out of the canister giving you little brain seizures every time they do. Brain seizures keep the stress levels up, ladies! Keep up the good work!

Make the frosting and run whatever interference you need to about who gets to lick the bowl/beater/spatula.

When you take those puppies out of the oven, make sure you leave them where a two-year-old can drag over a stool and pat and press them with his grubby hands. See if he won't lick one or two.

Around 5:45 after you clean up the cake mess, start to think about dinner. Do not, I repeat, do not look at your recipe for tasty pad thai ahead of time, because if you do, you will know that your noodles need to soak in cold water for at least an hour. An hour. At 5:45. Also you will remember that you needed tofu for this recipe. So do the best you can with a quick soak in boiling water and add some extra egg instead of tofu. Hope for the best.

Make sure you promise the kids they can help frost the cupcakes, because that always makes for good fighting amongst the siblings, and, if you're lucky, a cupcake dropped upside down. Try for the carpet, but if you can't make that, the kitchen floor will do. Make sure you put coconut on every cupcake so you'll be sure that someone will cry because he or she does not care for coconut. Remind them that this is your special day, and expect more tears.

Open presents with whining all around and, if possible, get someone to smash your giant-size bag of shrimp crackers (thanks Marmot Dad!) onto the concrete, turning it all into shrimp dust.

Go to bed confident in the knowledge that you have done all you can to make your birthday Very Trying Indeed.

Then give Marmot Dad the leftover coconut cupcakes for his birthday, because you are too worn out to make another cake, ever, until your children are all in college.

At least no one vomited on me this year.

Here's a link to the coconut cupcake recipe. They were very tasty. I've never used so much butter for one recipe before in my life. But I have to admit, I chickened out at the frosting step. I just couldn't add that third stick of butter to the pound of cream cheese. They were very very tasty cupcakes, nevertheless, and I want about 85 more.

**Happy Birthday also to Marmot Dad. Tooie spilled the beans on his birthday presents (a bike helmet and bike seat) so he had to get them many days before his birthday and, with the leftover cupcakes and all, had somewhat of a subdued birthday this year**

**Many thanks also to my long-suffering sister who chopped cilantro and shredded carrots and beat back some of the marmots so that my head didn't actually explode. She also walked off with two cupcakes.**

Someone There is Who Does Not Love the Mall

Today was the day. My sister and I reserve the first Saturday in May each year for our rummage sale extravaganza at a local elementary school. We dream about it all winter long, through the cold nights and the dreary, garage-sale-less days of February. April is the cruelest month, because it postpones May, and the rummage sale.

But today was the day. We get up early, skip the shower (speaking strictly for myself here), and brave the drizzly dawn to line up for our beloved rummage sale. We know enough now not to rely on the garbage bags the good folks at the school hand out (these are strictly for amateurs) and bring our Mary Poppins bags to stuff all of our stuff in.

It's important to go with someone else to these sales, because often in the heady rapture over the piles and piles of clothes (shirts for a dollar! skirts for 75 cents! I'll take them all!) we sometimes make less wise fashion decisions. Like the year my sister wanted to buy a shirt that looked like she had slung a rag around her torso. Or the many unfortunate skirts that have made their way to my home, a mere waystation on their way directly to the thrift store. 

Then there was the turquoise snowsuit that is absolutely hideous but that, I must say, has kept my girls warm for about four years and that they love and that cost no more than $.50.

So said sister and I shop, and then retire to a quiet corner to critique each others' finds ("you may not buy anything else that shade of blue" she always tells me, or, "did you not notice the gaping hole in that coat?") and then head off to shop some more. I got a pat on the arm and a condescending "good fashion choice" for picking out a bright blue, rather than a light blue, shirt.

This year was a bit crowded, and not as well stocked as years past, but I still managed to spend more than I have in any other year. Tell me, ladies and gentlemen, how much would you spend for this:

3 men's shirts

2 pairs of men's khakis

2 ladies' skirts

1 pair of pants for same

1 pair of sweat pants (shiny, which my sister says I may not wear outside of the house)

6 polo shirts

2 sweaters

3 blouses

3 casual knit shirts

1 pair of shorts

 

But wait! We'll also throw in some children's clothes:

2 dresses

1 skirt

1 pr. sweats

1 pr. shorts

1 pr. pajamas

5 shirts

2 pr. pants

1 top

3 pr. snow pants

Now how much would you pay?

BUT WAIT! That's not all. If you rummage now, I'll throw in . . . 

1 loaf pan

1 muffin tin

1 ice cream scoop (which Tooie thinks is his--"We can make muffins together, Mommy!")

1 instant-read thermometer

1 can opener

1 plate

1 bowl

1 pumpkin thingy for Halloween

And finally, the coup de grace,

10 cafeteria trays in a pleasing lime green.

Any takers? I spent $45, and that's after being charged extra for the cafeteria trays (my sneaky sister got hers for $.10 each) and for a couple of other things, but since it's a fundraiser I usually don't fuss about miscalculations. 

We ate off our cafeteria trays for dinner tonight, and I made a dinner fit for a cafeteria tray (or a TV dinner): chicken nuggets (granted, homemade with whole-wheat breadcrumbs for coating), green beans (pan-roasted, not boiled), mandarin oranges (straight from the can), and chocolate pudding yum yum.

(Here's what the pudding looked like after Tooie dropped some on the floor and, not wanting to waste a drop, got down and licked it up.)

Here are the trays post-pudding:

I'm not sure why I love them so much, except perhaps that they are just like the trays from my elementary school (those were pink, though, or a beige-ish pink). Plus the kids think they're fun.

Now, people tell me they don't go to rummage sales because they don't like spending all that time rummaging through things. But I for one would much rather spend two hours going through piles of clothes than spend two hours at the mall feeling a vague sense of unease that deepens into a full-blown funk. Or, worse yet, go to Wal-Mart and brave the horrible lighting and bad chi. I also get to experience the thrill of the chase and the bragging rights of dressing my family for less than $100 a year.

And where else would I have found those trays? Say it with me, baby. Rummage Sale.