Reason Number One and Counting Why I Will Never Have a Yard Sale

Oh my God, you guys. I can't believe I haven't told this story already - and just when I was starting to think I'd run out of stories to tell. Okay, well, so today I went to the bank which I almost never have to do thanks to that beautiful invention - direct deposit. But I had a handful of checks the kids had received for Christmas and I figured it was high time to cash those suckers. That is all really here nor there except that it explains where I was and why I was parked in a spot that had a lot of cross traffic happening behind me; besides which, it is a better set up than today I was backing out of a parking space. Maybe. I dunno, whatever. Welcome to my stream of consciousness.

Anyway, so I'm backing out -real slow like- because it's busy and the black Toyota Sequoia parked next to me has the blackest tinted windows on earth and I quite literally could not see through them to determine if a car was coming. Or pedestrians. I get just far out enough to see a woman with a shopping cart waiting for me. So I halt to let her go what with that whole pedestrians have the right of way thingy and we do that whole she waves me on and I'm all no, no, after you wave to her and she's like, no really just go so I start to go at the same time she decides to stop waiting for me and we both do that immediate halt thing and she is all PISSED. And by this time I really do have to wait because there is a car speeding by but she thinks I'm still waiting for her and her teeth are all clenched but she still mouths the words just go lady or something because whatever she was muttering under her breath it was said with plenty of seething. So I just GO and I'm kind of hoping I take out her cart with my SUV on the way because I hate her a little bit at that moment and -what the hell? I was just trying to be nice and all law abiding. Screw that chick. And she reminds me of this lady who came to my door once.

Is she finally getting to the story? Yes, I believe she is. And you know what? I think she's realizing it's not really that great of a story. I hope she tells it anyway because I've gone this far. Oh, look...we're taking a trip in the way-back machine! Yay the way-back machine! I LOVE the way-back machine.

It's early summer of 1997, and Mr. Farklepants, a nine month old Boy-Child#1, and I are about thirty days away from our escrow closing on the house in which we currently live. During that time we lived in his mother's house and paid her mortgage and property tax while she lived in another location. We had a great deal with her and it was a perfect arrangement. Except that it was her house and it was always her house and that part was a little hard for a new wife to live with but...hence, the waiting for the closing of escrow on the current house.

Before moving we had a giant three day estate sale. I say "estate sale" because we pretty much sold anything that wasn't nailed down. That included a car. Much of the stuff belonged to my mother in law but the rest of it was what happens when two single people come to live together: a mash up of two separate dwellings, mismatched, mishmash, much of it second hand, most of it HATED. And none of that was coming into our brand new house, save for Boy-Child#1's nursery furniture and our bedroom furniture. Everything else went. And if that meant we had to live with a metal picnic table and folding lawn chairs in the dining room, so be it -but that is what happened- and totally a story for another day.

The estate sale was a success, except for not selling the car, haggling with some woman over a quarter for the dress I was selling FOR A DOLLAR, and getting conned out of ninety dollars. [Editor's note: That was the most authentic looking counterfeit one hundred dollar bill I have ever seen. Lesson learned, no bills over twenty dollars will be accepted, that is if there was ever going to be another yard sale, which there isn't] The following Friday the relatives are all gone, Mr. Farklepants is at work and it is just Boy-Child#1 and I at home when there is a knock at my front door. I answer, and on the other side is a pleasant looking woman...there for the estate sale. I explain that it was the previous weekend thinking maybe she had seen the ad my mother in law had placed and got the dates confused. And she? Was PISSED. Her pleasant demeanor fell away quicker than a drunk cheerleader's underpants at a frat party. "I READ YOUR SIGN" she yelled at me. My sign? "THE SIGN OVER ON THE CORNER OF BLAH BLAH AND BLAH BLAH BLAH". Oh, I'm sorry. My mother in law and her friends took the signs down but I'm guessing they missed one. Well, it was last weekend. "I DROVE ALL THE WAY OVER HERE AND TOOK TIME OUT OF MY DAY BECAUSE OF YOUR SIGN".

By now you'd think I'd be a little afraid and worried about this obviously crazy person on my front porch but the whole time I'm starting to get mad and I'm thinking, I've got a good twenty pounds and four inches on this bitch. I can take her.

BRING IT. I was kind of done being nice and all soft spoken and she actually flinched when I finally lost my shit "SO WHAT EXACTLY DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT IT LADY" screaming with flecks of spittle flying over my threshold. And she just looked at me. So I continued "THIS IS MY HOME NOT A STORE I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO SELL TO YOU WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME".

She looks right at me and screams "I WANT YOU TO TAKE YOUR SIGN DOWN SO NO ONE ELSE WASTES THEIR TIME".

And I finish with: SO FAR YOU'RE THE ONLY IDIOT WHO THINKS IT'S THIS WEEKEND SO GO TO HELL. And with that? I slammed the door in her face.

The end.

Speaking of My Facebook Addiction...

This week there is a Facebook meme making the rounds asking you to post a profile picture of the celebrity you've been told you resemble or have been mistaken for. Marcy over at The Glamorous Life discovered that she looks like Faith Prince. I wish I could post the pictures of my friends who look like Phoebe Cates [omg, uncanny, so much so], Jennifer Aniston [yep, totally], and Ron Jeremy [I don't know exactly what it is he is trying to suggest but more importantly, I don't want to know]...but since I don't have their permission, I won't. But I will show you mine:



I get Jennie Garth. A lot. I've even been mistaken for her, and living here in Los Angeles, it would make sense that she would be in a Starbucks, or Coffee Bean, or wherever the hell I was when it happened.

Who's your celebrity twin-ish?

Twitter the Gateway Drug and its Hardcore Addiction Cousin: Facebook

Quite some time ago I, like Demi Moore, Ashton Kutcher, and Discopickles** created a Twitter account. There was a time, you know, when I used to actually write on my blog regularly, when I would think in terms of blog posts. It wasn't long after signing up with Twitter that I found myself thinking in 140 characters or less and by the power invested in me so help me God I will use "its" for "it's" if I'm one character over the limit. At first I would try to limit my tweets and discern what might be tweet-worthy. Because I didn't want to answer Twitter's "What's Happening?" and be all: Just took out the trash or first load of laundry for the day complete zzzzzzzzzzzzz....It didn't take much time to decide that things like: "When did James Cameron turn into Bea Arthur?" or "When my dog leaps onto the couch, she farts. Audibly and impressively. You're welcome." - were important updates for the world to know. Because I'm helpful with information like that.

About a year ago my college aged sister talked me into joining Facebook. And I was all, I already have a blog, I have a Twitter, I'll sign up but don't expect me to frequent that little corner of the internet - much. And she was all, yeah, we'll see about that sucker. Most of our family, adults and children alike, and our friends are there. It's a great way for us to keep an eye on our teenage son and his friends share photos, family updates, plan a get together, and communicate with those closest to us. But then there is the political aspect to contend with. If you want to keep something one on one or between a chosen few, you take your conversation to the inbox...away from prying eyes. And when I say prying eyes I'm talking about that person who's on your friends list simply because you went to the same high school. And then you start to realize that the politics of Facebook are very similar to that of planning a wedding.

If you invite Auntie Gertie then you have to invite her offspring, your cousin, the one who used to pour sand in your hair and stole your boyfriend when you were in sixth grade and you don't really like her, in fact, you kind of hate her guts and don't want her anywhere near you on the happiest day of your life, because wtf? It's YOUR wedding. This is Facebook. You get a friend request from someone you genuienly adore or did once and would like to reconnect. Then because of that connection it turns out someone from their friend list remembers you or went to the same school as you or maybe worked with you briefly at some point, or likes your profile picture and would like to see more of you. Whatever the case may be, now you've got a dilemma on your hands in the form of a friend request pending on your homepage. And you sit on it for a spell. Because you don't want to be rude or hurt their feelings by hitting that "ignore" button. But then you don't really want them keeping up with the witty banter on your wall and the pictures of your friends, family, and your kids in your albums. In other words: I want my Facebook to be a private, intimate affair and I don't want them at my wedding.

And I try to limit my status updates on Facebook because I'm hiding my addiction from the people closest to me. I don't need to come home to some kind of Facebook intervention with far flung relatives from around the globe. Because I've got it under control. Really. Really I do. No, really.


**In fact, not a Twitter name I checked. It's yours if you want it.

Tootsie Takes a Long Hard Look in the Mirror and Faces the Facts

I find myself, lately, uttering the phrase Oh my God I'm getting so old! I mean, it's true, I am. That is the way life goes. You get older. Fortunately, it's a gradual process. But sometimes events arise that smack that fact right straight across your face like a bitch. And certain events include but are not limited to the following:

• Tootsie's youngest sister graduated from high school last June and is in her first year of college. And when Tootsie says youngest sister she means the sister who is twenty years younger. What. Ever.
• Tootsie's other younger sister is turning 21 in just two months. It seems like yesterday Tootsie was changing her cloth diapers and ramming herself in the thumb with those fooking diaper pins. Hello, Mom? One word: Pampers.
• Tootsie's oldest son is 13 - A TEENAGER - and it dawned on Tootsie that hiring a 15 year old babysitter to watch the kids when she has her very own teenager right there in her own home seemed like a waste of five dollars an hour (who is Tootsie kidding? See following gripe)
  
• Babysitters in 2010 are at least ten dollars an hour. Tootsie used to make two dollars an hour babysitting. But that's okay because Tootsie didn't really like your kids anyway she just needed cigarette money.
• Tootsie's twenty year high school reunion was LAST YEAR.
• Tootsie's niece became engaged to be married over winter break**
• Tootsie's oldest son shaves will start high school in the fall.
• Tootsie can't remember the last time she went to a bridal or baby shower but does remember the last funeral she went to.
• Tootsie's flower girl from her own wedding just turned twenty-two.
• Tootsie knows when it's humid before setting foot outside because she is unable to remove the rings from her fingers.
• ETC...

**Congratulations to my niece on her engagement. And for becoming engaged and not being pregnant - way to break the cycle.

P.s. No one likes a showoff.

The Family that Parties Together Travels Back in Time Together

Tootsie and family attended a 1970's themed New Years Eve party to ring in 2010. With the movie Boogie Nights in mind, they hit the thrift store on Ventura Blvd to secure their vintage clothing. They left with two shirts and a dress. The dress is the only thing Tootsie had to purchase for herself. This means that Tootsie already had blue eyeshadow, gold strappy shoes with cork heels, a hair comb, a gold sequined purse, suntan pantyhose, and sundry costume jewelry at her disposal: which means that Tootsie either has some really cool treasures in her closet or some really tacky shit. Tootsie's oldest son looks like he fell right out of 1975 on a daily basis so not much effort was needed to achieve his look. Even Mr. Farklepants is wearing Tootsie's own belt. He IS wearing a wig but the douchestache and mutton chops are all his - which made it all the sweeter when it wasn't until AFTER he'd made a trip OUT IN PUBLIC to replace the flat tire on his car that he realized he still hadn't shaved. That, dear friends, is made of AWESOME.