Goat? What goat?

Yard sales.  You either love them or hate them, right?

I love and hate them.

No, really, I do.  I love going to yard sales, garage sales, rummage sales, flea markets.  I love digging around in piles of stuff, searching for treasure.  I love finding that unbelievable deal, because someone is sick of his or her own clutter.  I love looking at what one of aunts calls "used crap." 

Seriously, she does.  She also calls antiques used crap.  Several years ago, she, my uncle and my cousin took me to a nearby town known for its antique stores and let me run wild for the day.  My aunt was ever so helpful, too.  She'd point at a store and say, "Oh, there's some more used crap we haven't looked at, over there!" A pip, she is.  An absolute pip.

Anyway.  While I love going to yard sales, I am pretty much sick and freaking tired of putting on yard sales.  Okay, yes, Roommate does do most of the work, but I get dragooned into a boatload of work I did not want to do in the first place.  Which begs the question; has Roommate forgotten what an essentially lazy creature I am?  I am beginning to fear this is the case.

Roommate's heart is in the right place, though, bless her.  The yard sale proceeds go to support breast cancer research and treatment for people who cannot afford care.  Any leftover items at the end of the yard sale is donated to Goodwill or the Salvation Army or Value Village.  And when she heard about shortages in Seattle Food Banks, she added a canned food drive to this sale; anyone who brought a canned food item to the sale to donate would get a free baked good.

Guess who baked the goods?

Roommate was quick to point out that "we" baked the shortbread, the chocolate chip cookies and the four loaves of banana bread the night before, because she HELPED with the baking.  Which is true.  She did help.  She pulled a cookie sheet out of the oven and slid another sheet I'd loaded with unbaked cookies into the oven.  Really, it was tremendous.  Based on this criteria, Roommate's mom chimed in that she, too, helped with the baking, since she pulled out two of the loaves of banana bread.  Now that I think of it, I have no idea why I was even in the kitchen. 

Despite my utter exhaustion afterward, the sale was a success.  Roommate and her mom worked very hard to make it so and I walked around, trying to talk people into buying more used crap than they ever wanted.  And after it was all said and done, the rest of the used crap was donated and is no longer in my basement.  It just doesn't get much better than that.

No, wait.  It does.  The best moment of the whole weekend happened when Roommate's mother made reference to an object that finally broke after a long period of ownership and use.  "It finally gave up the goat," she reported to Roommate.

I stopped unpacking a bin of glassware onto the folding table to turn and stare at her.  "What did it give up?" I asked.

"It gave up the goat," Roommate's mom repeated.  "Haven't you ever heard that saying?  That means it died."

The ten minutes it took me to stop laughing and explain the origin of something giving up the ghost was the absolute best moment of the whole three days.  It almost made the work worth it.

Almost.

Sigh.  It's done.  I'm done in.  I'd better get to bed now, as I feel like I'm about to give up the goat.

Snicker.

Bailey's Super Power

Dearest, I know I've told you that I live in a three-dog household. And I adore them all, really, I do. My wee beastie, Tuppence Marie, is a little demon spawn, but she's my baby. Maddie Mae, the thirteen year old Pillow That Eats, has wormed her way into my heart. Now if she would only scoot over in my bed.

And then there's Bailey. Beagle Bailey.

He's Roommate's dog, primarily. Oh, sure, when I'm on the couch and he wants under my blanket, he completely forgets who his mama is, but he loves Roommate. And she loves him. And I love Mr. B, too, despite his propensity for stealing and eating used Kleenex and dirty underwear.

But last night, neither Roommate nor I were feeling love for the beagle.

Bailey spent the majority of the evening driving Roommate nutso. While I was safely occupied by my hideous job, Bailey was acting like someone had slipped speed into his kibble. Itching, scratching, itching, scratching, racing around the house, bow-WOOOOing at the top of his lungs. Not his usual snuggly, couch-potato self.

Naturally, Bailey needed a bath to ease whatever irritation he'd found for his pink and bumpy skin. And if the boy gets a bath, the girls get baths. NO ONE was happy about this.

Btw, when dogs get baths, one person does the job in my house. Here's a hint.  It's not Roommate.

So the dogs were bathed and it was late and Roommate and I retired to our respective chambers for an abbreviated night's sleep. Until quarter to one. That's when Roommate opened the door to my room and asked me to help her.

Bailey had been unwell. In Roommate's bed.

I will not inflict the details on you, dear one. I like you too much. I can tell you this, however; it was better than last week. Last week, when Bailey was sick in Roommate's bed, then under Roommate's bed, then in MY bed, then under my bed. Yes, he was The Incredible Barfing Beagle.

So Roommate and I didn't get a lot of sleep and even when we did go to bed--AGAIN--Bailey was still squirrelly. Which, for a beagle, is very conflicting.

We're both exhausted. And jealous of the fact that the dogs all got plenty of sleep when we went back to work. And we have a boatload of laundry. And everything needs to be steam cleaned.

Sigh.

Rotten little beast.

Anybody want a beagle? He's going cheap.

Doing The Math

I had planned this for a while,  dearest.  I said to myself, "Self, what we really need at the clusterama that is my workplace is a COOKIE JAR.  Preferably filled with cookies."  Fortunately, the other personality that was present that day agreed.  We approached Roommate with the idea.
Roommate, being who she is, was on the job immediately.  While she doesn't sprint to the kitchen the second baking projects are discussed, she is an ardent and committed shopper.  It was she, unsurprisingly, who spotted the cookie jar at a local thrift store.  She spotted it, I bought it and then, the sprint to the kitchen occurred.

(N.B.  I do not sprint.  Or run.  Or jog.  I have a car for these things.  And while I believe you might have recognized hyperbole in word choice for dramatic effect, I felt it was only right to confirm your possible suspicions.)
So I baked coconut cookies and I brought cookies and aforementioned jar to work.  Then I posted the sign. 

Then the questions started.  While I had prepared for one question, and pre-answered it ("Oooo!  May I have some cookies?") I was blindsided by the question I received.
"Did you make the cookies, Lisa Marie?"
Seriously?
Okay, okay.  Other people can bake.  Other people do bake.  Other people can and do bring things they've baked to work.  Other people are less likely to bring in a cookie jar for the cookies, but it's still possible.
But then there's the sign. 
Oh, sure, other people can do a smart-ass sign.  Coworker Vicki the Wonder Xray Tech does so quite frequently.   But the combination of baked goods, jar AND smart-ass sign pretty much points the thinking being to me.
Cookies + Cookie Jar + smart-ass sign = Lisa Marie.
See?  It's just simple math.

The Return of VNP

Very Nice Person came to town this week; his cousin got married and he attended said cousin's wedding.  Although we're no longer dating, we're still friendly, and we had the chance to hang out a bit, grab a few meals together and catch up.

This was from breakfast this morning, at the Maltby Cafe.



After breakfast, we stopped at Flower World, so I could covet nearly everything I saw.  VNP was really quite patient.  Which was understandable, given that he was working toward renewing certain aspects of our former relationship.

Dearest, I'm not saying that to be unkind, nor am I angry with VNP for this, as he was respectful and caring an interested in my while doing so.  But I have to say, I find it a bit startling.  After all, VNP is still the same person.  I am still the same person.  The dating thing didn't work before.  So why the rekindling effort?

And now my brain won't work because of massive frustration.  Mind-body connection?  Yeah.  Gosh, it's fun!

Sigh.  If someone can explain the Y chromosome type, please, please do so.  Immediately.  I think my brain is actually starting to bleed.

Change of Season

Okay, okay. I fell off the face of the planet again. I could apologize, but I've done that before. Instead, I think we should just move on.

Yes. I do. Stop glaring.

I've let too much fall to the wayside in the last several months, blogging being the least of it. But enough is enough. If I want my wish list fulfilled, I'm going to have to act on it.

1) I need to get back in the habit of Weight Watchers.

I've completely fallen off the wagon there. Yeah, I know the keys to success. But unless I actually pick them up and fit them into the locks, keys don't do me any good.

2) I have to return to the gym.

GAH. I cannot believe I typed that. The gym is a place of evil, and not the fun kind. Not the seven different types of chocolate in one dessert kind. Not the fleshy misbehavior with the really hot guy kind. Not the kind that, yeah, will send you to hell, but the trip is going to be awesome. It's just the sweaty, stinky, nasty kind of evil. And it's evil that must be done.

I just have to figure out a way to do it without needing to return to counseling afterward.

3) I must write every, single day.

It's not rocket science. I just have to do it. Whether it's a blog or one page of craptastic prose that kind fits in my sadly neglected work in progress, it has to be done.

Btw, how do rocket scientists describe things that are really, really complicated? Any clue?

It's a whole lot of change, my dear invisible friend. A whole lot.

I'm not sure I have a large enough jar.

Newfoundland Pictures!

We'll chat about this soon, but oh!  How gorgeous this place was!!!!  Perfect weather, awesome surroundings, fantastic people.  I almost stayed.  I would have stayed, but my hideous job requires that I "show up for work" in order to get paid.  Pfft!  Unreasonable much?

Here are a few of the pictures taken by my not-so-super camera phone.







Must.  Go.  Back.

On My Way!

Dearest, I've been naughty yet again, I know I have.  It's been another chunk of time apart.  Can you forgive me?  Will you forgive me?

I'm writing this as I sit in an airport, praying to an Omnipotent Comedian that the free wi-fi emblazoned on the signage dotting the long hallways will actually allow me to use the internet on my phone without having to sell an internal organ to pay the roaming charges.

That's right.  ROAMING charges.   I'm in Canada. 

Okay, I'm  barely in Canada.   I'm just over the border in Vancouver.  But I'm waiting for a flight that will take me to St. Johns, Newfoundland.

Well, I should be accurate.  If nothing else, let me be accurate, right?  I'm actually waiting for a flight that will take me to Edmonton, which will lead to another flight that will take me to Montreal, which will then let me board the flight to St. Johns.

I know.  I know!  But it was the only flight that got me to St Johns at a decent hour.  So what if that decent hour is sometime tomorrow?   So what if I'm beyond exhausted?  I'll nap a bit and be ready to enjoy a summer evening in Newfoundland!

I just have to get there first.  On a teensy, tiny little plane.

...No problem!