Whew!

It's taken me this long to get over the horror that was the yard sale.

Actually, it wasn't that bad, except for the first hour, which was hellish. It all began at 7:45 am, when Bill told a lady, "We don't open until 9, but you're free to come in and look around." I gave him a look of death, because we weren't anywhere near ready and I had put "no early birds" in the ad, but by then it was too late. The floodgates had opened.

So we had the baby, way past naptime, screaming in my arms. Two women fighting over Mary's pink and purple LeapPad ($3). Little old lady trying to bargain me down from $3 to $1 on a pair of vintage embroidered pillowcases with the argument that "they're used." Cat trapped on the roof meowing piteously. One person berating me for opening the sale early, when SHE WAS THERE EARLY HERSELF! Mary in tears until we finally agreed to let her hold her own cashbox and make her own sales, even though it was horribly inconvenient for everyone, never mind that she's a seven-year old with inconsistent math skills and no calculator, not even a pencil and paper because there was no time to run into the house to get it. Plus some buyers who I think may have had borderline personality disorders, no kidding. Oh, and no change. ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

We sold the sofa to friends. The baby didn't sell for some reason. So we packed him up and took him to Out of the Closet with everything else that didn't sell.

Kidding! If I were going to get rid of the baby, I'd sell him on eBay.

Anyway, it's over -- we made a nice pile of money, even selling things cheaply, and got rid of a lot of clutter. Hurray!

Yard Sale Tomorrow!

We're having a yard sale tomorrow morning and I've been a little grumpy about the additional work, because Bill has a script to finish and hasn't been as big a help as he might have been. But he sent this to me, so now I'm feeling a little more charitable.

Indiana Wants Me / But I Can't Go Back There

There comes a time in the life of every young American where you are required to do a report on one of the fifty states, and create some unwieldy prop to go along with it. I think it might even be in the Constitution.

Mary chose Indiana. I have no idea why. She said she liked the name (maybe because her middle name is India?). In the course of her research, we discovered that Indiana produces corn and soybeans, that it was the nineteenth state admitted to the union, and that the torch in the flag stands for enlightenment and something else that I don't remember. She cut out all the yellow parts herself and we glued it together last night. She was very proud of it, and I think her pride is entirely justified.

I loved the idea of a flag costume, mostly because I thought it would be funny, like Lisa Simpson's terrible Florida costume in that episode of the Simpsons where Marge develops a gambling problem. "I'm not a state! I'm a monster!"

Ayelet Waldman wrote an article on homework in Salon a couple of weeks ago where she recounted stories of "mind-numbing make-work" given to kids in even the youngest grades.

"But my favorite is Carlie Williams' nephew. Assigned to construct a relief map of one of the 50 states out of plaster of Paris, the boy chose Nebraska. He made a flat rectangle. As his aunt said, 'You've got to love a kid who puts into the assignment exactly the effort it's worth.'"

Baby + Standard Time = Misery

The time change has thrown us all for a loop. My brain is so frazzled that I can't even remember if I've lost an hour or gained an hour. All I know is that it's dark outside when the baby wakes up.

Gomez, our fourteen year old cat, has suffered from some kind of crazy feline anxiety disorder since he was a kitten. Last night he sprayed Mary's Halloween costume, which had to be ready for her school's Halloween parade today. Stella, the girl cat, sneaks bites of Gomez's food, which is filled with medications for his thyroid disease and upset stomach, and barfs it up later. She's very lurky; her favorite thing is to slink into the bedroom when no one is looking, wait until you've closed the door and fallen asleep, and then pound on the door to be let out.

Last night I suggested to Bill that we both run away and leave the children and animals to fend for themselves, but I didn't really mean it. I wouldn't mind a night in a nice hotel, though.

In other, craftier, news, I went to the Knit Cafe for the first time a couple of weeks ago. I'm usually a Wildfiber kind of girl, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop in. It's tiny but charming, with a friendly salesclerk and a small but good selection of yarn. I still think Wildfiber is the best yarn store in Los Angeles, though -- they have a whole wall of Koigu!

Anyway, I bought the new Knitted Babes book by Claire Garland. I'm completely obsessed.



We've named her Nessa. Her dress is made out of an Oilily hankie that I never thought I'd find a good use for.



You'd think she'd be more appreciative of the handknit undies, but all she does is complain that they're "mumsy."

Thank you, Carmen !!!

from Carmen to Rachel
Originally uploaded by Grouchy Muse.

I don't usually go in for multiple exclamation points, but I think this situation called for it. I finally opened my Vintage Swap package from Carmen, and I was thrilled to find so many wonderful things, all selected with obvious care. Check out the fabulous plastic baby hanger! The wonderful little glittered Halloween tags! The pretty strawberry pin cushion!

She also included vintage greeting cards, which I love, and some vintage buttons, ditto:

This last thing is my favorite. A wonderful little metal sewing kit with a drawing on the front. I'm going to have to hide it from Mary.



Thank you so much for everything, Carmen! I feel very fortunate to have had such a great swap partner -- fun, nice, and with excellent taste! What more could a person want?

a little white lie

Today I successfully deflected a solicitor who came to our door by pretending to be the maid.

I don't do that very often because I don't really like to lie, but I prefer lying to talking to strangers, especially the kind who come to my door with a determined glint in their eye and a cheery "hey, how you doing?" that tells me that there's no way they're leaving my house without a check in their hand. The fact is, I do look like most of the maids and nannies in this neighborhood; jeans and t-shirt with formula stains, messy ponytail, no makeup -- and, of course, the whole "being Mexican" thing.

The developer who bought Mr. Troxler's house next door told Bill on the phone that he'd been meaning to drop by and say hi, but he's never seen anyone at home but the housekeeper. Which -- duh -- is me, apparently the only Mexican in Brentwood who isn't actually getting paid for cleaning the house and taking care of the children.

I can never quite figure out whether or not I'm offended by this. I don't think I am. But I think a large part of why I'm not offended is because it works to my advantage so often. All I have to say is "I sorry, she no here right now" when someone asks to speak to the lady of the house, and I'm off the hook.

The person who came to the door today didn't even bother to say "Okay, thanks" or "Do you know when she'll be back in?" She turned on her heel and flounced away without a word. Which makes me feel entirely justified in lying to her, since she was clearly a bit of a jerk.

James and Me.