but it does contain a friendly reminder & curious encounter of a question:

Is it just me, or is rsvp-ing now a completely OBSOLETE courtesy in the party planning/invitation world? Maybe it’s where I live. I’m kind of wondering if anyone else out there has repeated offenders. But next to Janice Lumpybottom crowding my personal bubble of a shopping space in Target over the leggings while she simultaneously morphs into a LOUD PHONE TALKER practically BREATHING down my NECK while we both search the same display…the whole non-acknowledgement of an invitation that I took the time out of my good day to design, print, and adhere a stamp, and send to YOU...

is my second utmost pet peeve of all pet peeves.

Raised in a BARN much?

Small disclaimer: I know everyone, at some point of their fallible lives here on this good planet we call earth, has failed to RSVP at one time or another. Cut to me, raising my hand and waving it in the air for pure unadulterated admittance. I have failed. But I’m not referring to the occasional slipper-uppers.

I’ll be the first to admit, it’s a little obnoxious when I receive an invite and I know NO ONE throwing the shindig. I, the NON-phone conversationalist, am expected to let them know EITHER way via a phone number ONLY. {To someone’s random and innermost portal of contact…which means I have to call someone I DON’T know from ADAM and strike up a brief convo…PLEASE GIVE ME THE VOICEMAIL so I can avoid the whole awkward thing…I have maj. PHONE anxiety, okay???} Regarding if I WILL or NOT be able to make it to said shindig. (Sheesh people. Join the 21^st century…it’s called email.) I do find that quite annoying.

Let me put it this way. It’s kind of like doing laundry. Even if you put it off for a while, you do it anyway. Because its usually considerate of others to a. not smell in public and b. not go naked in public: Two good reasons to stop delaying the courteous inevitable. I get that you’re busy. SO AM I. With my three children four and under, (yes, I just played the I have three kids card) planning this party I am kind enough to invite you to, and goodness knows what ever else I decide to tackle in the next five days, be it the dishes or an oil painting... who knows when its me.

SO I get it if you’ve flaked once. (In college. At the age of 20.) You have my pardon. But you know what? I’m thirty in a week. And I’m STILL dealing with decidedly chronic socially exceptional flake outs. {We’ll call them SEF’s} I have a major problem with the people who continue to ignore the line at the bottom of the invite of the party I am so carefully preparing for.

Even when it says regrets only.

And other crazy unattainable goals like contacting me via EMAIL regarding your UNATTENDANCE.

I’m DUMBING it DOWN and still have some repeat offenders.

It’s simple and indirect, people. SERIOUSLY.

If this makes you angry, maybe it’s because you are a SEF. In fact, if you don’t receive an invite to my next partay, please know I am now adhering to a three strikes policy. I, the party planner, the paper plate purchaser, the cake designer, and the invitation sender-outer…am taking the proverbial homemade cheese ball back into my own hands. I, the one who took the time out of my busy day to include you on the invite list, am taking back control of my party life. Times are tough, and my budget no longer allots for your lavishly immature and blatant negligence. Please know you have been blacklisted.

I’m standing up for myself. I am an adult and I think it’s time for others to act the same…

It’s time to bring back that dying art known as ETTIQUITE and MANNERS.

…don’t even get me started on thank you notes.

That is all. Thank you.  

I had just settled the kiddos down for their afternoon naps. Aiden went down for the third time (it takes him a while every afternoon-he gets back up about four times to inform me he only took a baby nap, he wants to color, or his toy is orange-you know…the important stuff) when there was an incessant ringing of the doorbell. Can I just say that people who ring doorbells in the middle of the day are a little thoughtless? Side tangent: I’m seriously considering making a cute PERMANENT little sign that ever so non intimidatingly states: DEAREST thoughtless RUDIES: Children are napping. Leave the package. I’ll find it later. No, I don’t want your Gideonite Bible, Religious pamphlet to be filed under “other” or useless-to-me lawn service. STOP trying to sell me your crap unless you are the Girl Scouts and you have Thin Mints. If it’s after one in the afternoon, babies are sleeping. I am currently finessing the art of coordinated naps. GO AWAY.

Anyway, back to the doorbell ringage... I was sitting on the couch feeding Malone. And…cue the Incessant ringing. At first I ignored it and scolded Chloe who had flown into torrential fits of snarl induced growls. I literally thought she was going to throw herself at the door. I was too busy with a hardcore scolding of miss Prozac to realize what was happening on my lawn.

“ROOM SERVICE!!! ROOOOOM SERVICE!!!” I thought that was what I heard, in garbled sentences through the front foyer, but then dismissed it. Is someone seriously yelling for me to answer the door? I thought to myself. Surely the man who’s voice was floating through my house was UPS. I was expecting a package, (I didn’t think I would have to sign for towels) but I set a non-too obliging, ravenous Malone down, rearranged my woman parts, and, irritatedly, went for the door. Without even thinking, I opened it. I had to shove my snarling fifty-pounder ball of nerves to the side, but I still opened it.

That was stupid.

There was a chopper in my driveway. I’m not a motorcycle kinda gal but I have to say, this one looked like a Harley. I was too far away to tell, but it definitely had the low riding high handles going on, and the fire down the sides kinda vibe. Pretty sweet. It’s owner, a man dressed in motorcycle paraphernalia (as well as a healthy dose of narcotics) who looked to be in his mid to late 40’s was pacing, standing a good distance back in my yard.

“Mrs, Iris? Is Mrs. Iris here?” He began, immediately. Apparently what I thought was being screamed as ROOM SERVICE but thought I had misunderstood for POSTAL service was actually “MRS. IRIS. Mrs. IRIS.” My bad. {Both made absolutely no sense.}

For a moment, it felt like I was on the phone with someone who reached the wrong number. I didn’t know you were allowed to repeatedly ring someone’s door in the middle of the day and then act all confused in person when they answered.

“Uhhh, No. Iris doesn’t live here,” I responded to a slightly irritated Harv (we’ll call him Harv) as I continued to push the snarling protector, Chloe, back. Harv definitely fit the part with his skinny jeans, white tee and leather vest. And he kind of gave me a funny feeling. Harv was a little off.

I had opened my door to him in the middle of the day.

At this point he continued to pace my yard, examining my home. “Are you sure Iris doesn’t live here?” He looked around and then down at his hand into what looked like a crumpled check. “You haven’t ever gotten a 1400 check slid under your door, have ya?”

“Uhhh, No.” I replied. Looking down at the tile in my entryway, baffled, as if I half expected a check to materialize from nowhere right beside Chloe’s eager feet. Don’t we all wish we found 1400 smacks under our doors?

“You sure?” his voice had an accusatory tone to it.

“Yes, I’m sure.” I replied, my own voice becoming a bit incredulous.

“Do you know where an elderly lady named Iris lives?”

“There’s an elderly lady who lives behind us, but I’m not sure if that’s her,” I responded politely, I was eager to bring the conversation to an end, my hand still perched on the door latch. I’ve seen way too many Oprah’s about following your instincts in the face of rapists and danger. (Even though MY womanly instincts regarding the sex of a baby and pregnancy aren’t exactly up to par as of late, they are regarding psychos in my life.) So I was finished talking. Either that, or sic Chloe on him.

{Pause: If you are a psycho stalker killer and you’re reading my blog, hoping to pounce, I have a big dog. A GIANT SNARLING WHOPPER of a DOG who will rip your guts out as you scream for mercy and I laugh maniacally watching you bleed a slow painful death for trying to take any of my children. I’ll just watch you suffer. What??? Okay I’ll call an ambulance and ask you to wait in the driveway since I won’t want you to ruin my house with your gross blood. But you’ll still be in lots of pain and subsequently, big trouble…}

And then Harv began to ramble. And pace. And ramble some more. And I think he was trying to look into my windows and over my fence. He thought I was hiding Iris. And to be honest, I’ve had my fill with the local psychos lately, so I mumbled something about “Sorry, I have no clue. Good luck” And shut the door.

I decided to call Jamin and laugh, and then I realized Harv was still in the local vicinity. Harv hadn’t left. The chopper was still in my driveway and I couldn’t see Harv anywhere.

I still felt a bit uneasy, so I went around and locked all my doors while I aptly described the rude doorbell ringer / naptime intruder. Jamin was headed home, (it made him nervous) but I told him not to worry about it. He obviously wasn’t here to take us anywhere because he showed up on a chopper. I didn’t see him strapping my kids on his back and riding off into the sunset after he left me bludgeoned on the floor.

He would probs just murder us all with his giant hunting knife I was sure he had hidden in his awesome motorcycle vest. The hit man Harv, Hired out by Kanye.  

Even though his chopper remained parked, blocking my entire driveway, I completely lost sight of Harv for a good ten minutes. When I looked out my window again later, I saw him perched on the curb across the street. That was after he paced nervously in the park. And had a loud convo on his cell with his mob boss regarding a disappearing Iris. Bazaar much?

So, instead of helping Harv the sketchmeister, I did what any normal person with too much apparent time on their hands would do. I ducked out in my window and took ample photos of Harv. In case he came back. And tried to off me. That, and since I couldn’t make this stuff up, you know…a bit of spytastic-I-have-absolutely-no-life-check-out-this-weirdo-on-my-blog-action was definitely in order.

After a while, Harv gave up, lit a ciggy, and puttered off into the sunset, while I praised a formerly scolded Chloe. In the meantime I’ll be searching for Iris, the elderly meth dealer. Maybe she needs a helper. I would love to have 1400 dollars under my door. Harv was certainly ready to get his hands on some goods…

We were beginning to feel like the odds were against us the night before our first ever Mills hizzy garage sale extravaganza.

We’d spent a few days clearing out, prepping and tagging. But our babysitters nearly fell through. There was a seventy percent chance of rain for Saturday. Because of those daunting stats, we decided to hold it in our garage. Only when we went to clear it and make a space for the sellapalooza, we found a rogue can of polyurethane had spilled all over the garage floor. I feared the simply unbearable stinch would drive away potential customers. {That, or make them all incoherently high so they would experience an unexplainable spending spree phenomenon…Could be a good thing.} As we desperately tried to air out the smell, in the grand tradition of our SFR home (Swiss Family Robinson) Jamin found, and then quickly massacred a snake, who had apparently decided to take up residence under a spare cardboard box. {yay.} Side note: I’m speaking too soon, and tempting fate, but I’m kind of wondering why a rabid deer hasn’t dove through our dining room window, or my children all been sprayed by a skunk. A bird pooped on Emmy’s face, and a psychotic wombat from Satan’s lair flitted through our living room, so I’m putting nothing past Mother Nature and her never ending plethora of a secret arsenal at the moment.

The next day, however, the garage sale gods smiled favorably upon us, and apparently sprinkled our home with some good juju selling vibes. The smell was bearable, the sun was shining, my parents were able to babysit, and the snakes were still beheaded.

It turned out to be well worth the trouble. I, at least, consider 350 smacks for something I no longer find useful that’s been sitting in our nooks and crannies taking up valuable real estate, well worth the trouble. People basically paid me to purge my home. I soon got over that fear of the whole public display, strip-me-down-and-circle-my–proverbial-home-cellulite/oh-my-gosh-I-can’t-believe-you-actually-owned-this-brass-duck mentality. I didn’t feel so odd once the cash started rolling in. Old wedding gifts, my unwanted jewelry and Jamin’s Indiana Jones hat sold like hotcakes. {Yes. Jamin had an Indiana Jones hat. Yes. It sold like a hotcake. If by singular hotcake I am referring to the elderly man who nearly beat everyone else down to carry home his new find. No. I didn’t want him to keep it even though I had a childhood crush on Harrison Ford…} Trash truly is treasure when it passes to the right hands.

Most of the people who visited the sale were totally normal. And then, of course, in the secondary Mills grand tradition of attracting the psychos like moths to a flame, magnets to a fridge and fatties to a donut shop…there were the total wierdos/borderline psychopaths who ever so graciously paid us a visit. I’ve decided someone out in the Monty area has placed an ad on Craigslist in the personals. Regarding my mug, the idea of stalking me, and the chance to make guest appearances on my blog. {It’s every freak’s dream, after all. I take great pride in my fabulous ability.}

It started with our first visitors. The sale began at seven, but we decided to welcome the early birds, including the strange woman driving up and down our street at 5:30 in the AM in a giant black beaten up van. Up our small hill and into our garage, the influx of shoppers began. And so did the haggling.

Pause: I get haggling. Really. That’s great if you can do it. You’re basically an idiot or completely loaded if you haven’t haggled for a better deal at some point in your shopping career. But I truly fail to understand the people who obsess over the difference of a dollar. Or fifty cents. It’s one thing if you simply can’t afford it. It’s quite another if you’re just. That. Cheap.

The first group of women to enter our setup, were the ones to break us in. They walked around our sale, molesting and disheveling my obsessively nicely piled goods for nearly fifteen minutes, having overtly and offensively loud conversations about how Janice would like this frame, and they should call Tish to see if she wanted that onesie. This was before placing said purchasable items back in their NON-original spots wrinkled, pulled apart, or nearly broken. They then approached us with their desired finds. The oldest woman, (we’ll call her Rhondalita) made a beeline for me with an armful and asked me to make her a deal on the pile she had in front of her. “How much?” Overeager Rhondalita kept asking edgily. She was swaying back and forth while simultaneously waving money in my face. The combination of the swaying and the molestation of my things made me nervous. Note to Rhondalita: It was six o clock in the morning. I hated to break it to her, but early birds aren’t going to get the good deals. Just the great finds. Simple math. I’m not desperate. DUH.

Rhondalita offered us eight dollars for her finds. Some of these things included brand new frames, a fake coach purse, and a gigantic shelf.

“That’s 25 dollars worth of stuff, “ Jamin said to Rhondalita, after he simply responded to her by going through and reading the PRICE TAGS, adding it all up.

“You won’t come down on any of this?” Rhondalita replied indignantly. She then waved her wadded cash in our faces again. “All I have is eight dollars. That’s all I have. Eight dollars. Let’s see…”

I won’t bore you with the details. Because at this point I think distraction was key for these women. By the time Rhondalita was done bargaining, I was ready to pay her eight dollars to get off my lawn. Leaving was something they couldn’t do soon enough. I came down on a few of my prices, and she returned to her car with her finds, after ever so sloppily replacing the ones she couldn’t “afford.” She then came back nearly a second later to purchase something else. Even though she “only” originally posessed eight dollars. She now had nearly three dollars and haggled us down only to pay us in pennies. PENNIES. Jamin cast me an all too familiar look of annoyance as he politely accepted her cash. He then assisted her in dismantling the two dollar shelf she’d just purchased. Sadly, the time it took to dismantle and load said shelf was not worth ten.

We breathed a sigh of relief as we thought they were ready to leave, when Rhondalita (ever so predictably) headed, for the third time, back up our hill. She wanted to purchase yet another two dollar frame, after she attempted to haggle us down AGAIN. This time, Overeager Rhondalita paid up with a twenty.

Jamin accepted her cash (ever so begrudgingly) and then promptly took his time as he counted her change back to her.

In her own pennies.

• I took another impromptu vacay last week. Again, with the whole, simplifying my life thing, it’s been kind of nice. Three chillins can be more than overwhelming at times. I’ve been busy with a few projs around the house, {more coming soon this week} and I’ve been organizing my site and make it easier to access. Too many people have been all, “What? That was on your blog?” So I’m now all, “Hello. Look at my big pictures. And links. Click on them. And read. Yay.”

As usual, there are more posts below. Have a fabo week!

blue prints and old letters

our innermost sanctum of innermost sanctums...

partay on the playmat