Roto-Rooting Together Forever

Last night I.T. brought me this smiling sunflower and told me about a greenhouse he'd discovered that day on the way to a meeting at corporate headquarters. "I'll take you there," he said.

Tonight, Mr. and Mrs. I.T. had a date. Burgers and green beans for dinner at the home ranch, then off to Luurtsema's where the prices on annuals have been slashed 50 to 75% less than what they cost last week. I understand how I.T. feels about saving and I.T. knows how I feel about flowers-I get all romantic around the bloomers. the blooming flowers. I get all romantic around the blooming flowers. We strolled among fuchsia colored wave petunias cascading out of pots and giant, ruby red Dragonwing begonias all boasting their Miracle Gro-th. The $3.99 a flat, mix and match, your choice deal was speaking I.T.'s love language. Shade loving, New Guinea impatiens, gazed up at me seeming to say, "our name, Impatiens, defines you, but see how we clothe the imperfection in splendor." I bought six.

I.T. turned up the heat with his selection of a Bonfire begonia bursting from a hanging basket.









We ooo ed and cooed over sunbursts of marigolds and a blue lake of ageratum, carefully adding some of each to our tray.

Back at the ranch, I.T. helped me mix dirt in the potting box he made for me last summer. Then he repositioned the tiki torches to stave off the mosquitoes, attempting to save my neck, while I arranged the flowers in pots to place around the pool.

Perfect.

Planting done, I.T. disappeared inside the house. He had another fabulous idea- Roto-Rooting. Yes. The water has not been going down so well of late. What better time to work on fixing it, than date night? Here is the Roto-Rooter with 25 feet of steel coil inside this black, round part. You simply hold onto the handle below the black, round part and rotate the black, round part around the black, long part. I know- I've Roto- Rooted with I.T. before. Here we are Roto-Rooting together in our project bathroom with the Brady bunches old sink on date night. A faint smell of sewage seems to come with Roto-Rooting. Hmmmm....
The coil travels down the drain, all over town and 25 feet later, you reverse the rotation and retrieve your problem- in this case a large, gnarly hairball. I spare you that picture here. Alternatively, I offer you a break from this date night story of two star-crossed lovers and leave you with these flowers. So, what do all you normal people do on date night?
Feel the Love-

Another Maavelous Day in the Suburbs

I once thought the perfect life would be the one lived in the country on a few acres of land with an old farmhouse and a barn full of animals. Our family never made it to that grass is greener on the other side place. However, one of my sisters lives in the country. As it turns out, that isn't the best location for making a killing off treasures that have been retired to closet or attic. Mainstream suburbia is where shoppers lurk, searching endlessly for deals. Every couple of years or so, sis yearns to swap stuff for cash. So, she brings all of her junk to my garage. Fashionista and I add a few items and wa-la- we take advantage of this life in the suburbs-with a garage sale.


Sis is always trying to entice garage salers to our sales. She believes large merchandise has the best road appeal and will draw people in. This year she ran an ad on Craigslist announcing we'd have a sofa set for sale, but she didn't actually have a sofa set to sell. Not wanting to disappoint, I decided to sacrifice our Lazy Boy hide-a-bed and a loveseat-the family room furniture. While sis and Fashionista heave hoed the seating out to the garage, I dreamily leafed through the IKEA flyer I'd just received in the mail. Surely I'd make enough and we'd update the look of the family room. Just to be sure, I added to the sale two pet rabbits complete with hutch and extra cages.
On Thursday at 4:00 pm the garage door lifted and we were open for business. We were trying something new-a night before the real sale preview sale. We got about three customers and $1.50, but then nothing. Nobody else. The neighbor across the street came wheelin' in from work, so I asked him, "hey did you see our sign?" He wasn't sure, "Does it look like a bunch of duct tape on a stick?" Lackadaisically, we'd stuck our pathetically small signs on pencil thin garden stakes with knock off duct tape from the dollar store. Also the weather was a bit blustery.

The Malibu and I retraced the sign route. I found duct tape flapping in the wind on metal skewers, but the garage sale signs were missing in action. One message remained, but every time the breeze picked up it did a 180 around the stick indicating the sale was being held on Broadview Drive one minute and Hollyhock Street the next.

That was enough garage sale for one evening.

Sis and I regrouped and decided to play a board game with her kids, Outside the Box, his girlfriend and Fashionista. Gathering in the family room, everyone looked around. Outside the Box verbalized what we all were thinking, "What are we gonna sit on?"

Friday morning we woke revitalized. I.T.-ologist had sawed the ends of two inch wide, flat, wooden sticks to a point, so we could easily drive them deep into the ground. We used larger, brighter colored poster board, thickened the font and taped the living daylight out of the backsides of those signs with reinforced packaging adhesive, securing them for life to the pointy sticks.

I hammered those hummers a foot deep into the earth's crust at every crossroad within a two and a half mile radius of our driveway. Just like Jimmy John's- the success was in the signs. A steady stream of shoppers flowed in and out of our garage all day.

Sis did the happy feet dance when her high ticket item- the rocker from Crate and Barrel- sold. The event turned bittersweet when suddenly there was a rush on rabbits. I'd been looking for a loving home for those little fertilizer factories for about two years, ever since I decided to join the working world. Sadly, I no longer had time for the cuddly bunnies. The first interested party asked me how much they weighed, but what I heard was: will they feed a family of four? No deal. Finally, after three more no deals, a 13 year old girl, who lived on a farm held the lop earred furballs, hugged and kissed each and proclaimed her love for them. To my delight she bought both Pudge and Margo, their hutch, 4 cages, 2 nesting boxes, food supply and water bottles paying me three times what I asked for the lot. Now that is what I call a deal.

Sometimes the deals are too good to be true. In our garage the dividing line between what is for sale and what isn't is made unmistakable by I.T.-ologist. He builds temporary walls to cover shelving where his tools are stored and hides his remaining valuables behind a barricade of boards toward the back of the garage. After that he disappears. I think he gets a little scared when we have these garage sales- probably because a few years back before one of our sales, I asked him if he had anything he wanted me to sell for him. He said I could sell that one weedwacker. "How much?" I asked. He said, "Cheap." I looked around the garage, spied a weedwacker and put it out in the driveway to attract male buyers. The very first guy on the scene asked, "How much for the weedwacker?" I said, "One dollar." His eyes dilated and he grabbed it, smiled and gave me the buck. It's heartwarming to make someone's day like that.

Later after work, I.T.-ologist decided to whack a few weeds. He asked with a slight tremor of lip, "Where's my weedwacker that was hanging on this hook right here?" I said I sold it. Cheap. One dollar. Come to find out, I.T.-ologist had recently taken a weedwacker out of some guy's trash thinking he might fix it one day. The other weedwacker- he had just purchased on sale at the hardware store for $99.00. You'll never guess which one I sold.

This year's mishap was not so costly. I.T.-ologist phoned from work. I asked him about the wheelbarrow full of firewood he'd put in the driveway. How much should I sell that for? He reminded me of the mom and pop operation out by the entrance ramp to the highway. There, grandkids sell bundles of wood, less logs in number than were currently in the wheelbarrow, for ten bucks. So, considering the value of the wheelbarrow, we should get at least $10 for the whole shebang. No problem. I hung up. Then I went downstairs to grab a few more math books to sell. When I got back out to the garage I couldn't see the wheelbarrow. I said to my sister with real fast words,
"Where'sthatwheelbarrow!"

She smiled proudly, "I just sold it!"

I gulped, "how much?"

"Two bucks!" Another happy customer.

After the sale, we counted up the money. We were only $20.00 short of what our calculations told us we should have in hand. Not bad. (bookkeepers we are not) Sis and I split the loss. Everyone else who had contributed items to the sale got their fair share, except I.T.-ologist who got almost his fair share.

Remains of the day boxed up for Goodwill, I waved good-by to sis and the kids as they drove off. Time to relax. But just inside the back entryway, my eyes fell on a purse that did not belong to me. I quickly phoned sis, "you forgot your purse." She turned around, sped back, picked it up and I waved good-by again. Five minutes later I was answering the ring-a-ling. Sis again. She mumbled something about being out of gas.

"Yeah, me too," I sighed into the receiver. These sales are exhausting. But then:

"No, Heidi, my car, we ran out of gas at 36th Street. It's right by a farm, but the guy who lives here says he only has diesel," she sounded helpless.

Everyone else in this family had gone off to do their own thing. I was looking forward to the time alone- to blog. But sisters do not leave sisters stranded on roadsides. Good thing I didn't sell the red plastic gas can. I drove to the station, filled 'er up and headed to 36th . Gas in her tank, kids belted in, I waved good-by for the third time and made tracks back to my house.


I added up the day's values:
Loveseat $35.00
Math books $15.00
Rabbits and gear $30.00
Lazy Boy hide-a-bed $65.00

So, we'll watch television from the floor for a while. Doesn't matter- because it was another maavelous day in the suburbs.

Heidi

Two Tan or Not Too Tan

Spontaneity, common sense and I have trouble when we all hang out together. It's that situation where sometimes three's a crowd. Common sense is the first to get left behind.

Such was the case this spring when my daughter insisted on that must have prom look accessory- the even, sun-kissed tan.

No problem I thought, we did the same thing in 1979. I paused for a flashback of bikini clad me in my mother's kitchen tearing off six foot sheets of aluminum foil and dragging them out to the lawn. I laid them out carefully avoiding gritty ice piles that might be there until mid-May in Michigan. A few landscaping stones placed on each corner kept the wind from wisking away my homemade solar tanning blanket. With baby oil rubbed onto every inch of exposed skin, I'd stretch out on the crinkly, tin bed and undo my straps to avoid a tan line that might not coincide with my dress. If I was lucky the weather would cooperate and give me at least 55 degrees with that sunshine. I was modest then, as I am today and made sure my oversized t-shirt was right by my side in case the mailman had a delivery or a neighbor dropped by unexpectedly. It was cold and it was risky, but vanity whispered that sporting a suntan on prom night would make it all worthwhile.

As it turned out, my daughter wasn't talking about anything even close to my vision from 1979. She knew right where the tanning salon nearest to our house was located and she knew they were offering a student rate of $25 for one month of daily tanning visits. I hadn't paid any attention to this subtle establishment, because I would never even consider being a customer there. My daughter's power of persuasion found a hole in my resolve and we drove over to have a look.

With my skepticism dial turned to high alert, the toasty-skinned sweet young thing on duty at the counter didn't help much to edge out my concern over the eery, blue glow emanating from underneath closed doors flanking both sides of the checkout. Spunky confirmed that for $25 students could visit once every day for one month for mere minutes and have a beautiful bronze by prom night. My daughter threw me the questioning eye. This is about when spontaneity and I dumped common sense, thus alleviating me of my fear that this was a bad place where a person's chance of developing disease is heightened just by being in the lobby. I became irrational. Since my daughter still didn't have her driver's license, I would have to taxi her over every day. Sooo, maybe I would go with the if you can't beat 'em, join 'ems - I checked out the price list. The same deal she was getting would cost me 30 bucks. Ridiculous. Spontaneity elbowed me in the side and I handed over my debit card. The price included a shiny set of orange Wink Ease to protect my eyes.

Within three seconds my daughter was gone and I was in dark room #11 staring at a cocoon shaped, tanning bed that reminded me of my George Foreman grill. A little neon timer embedded in the wall counted down the minutes that remained before the ultraviolet rays that I had just paid for would come pouring out of the acrylic bed. I guess I don't have to mention that bathing suits aren't usually worn in these cookers. I could hear crystal clear voices on the other side of the wall. There was a crack between the door and the jamb wide enough for a note written on a piece of cardboard to pass through. Above where I stood, a winding air vent pipe with a 12 inch diameter mouth was staring down at me. It was something out of a Dr. Seuss drawing and I was pretty sure there was a hidden camera inside. Countdown- three minutes.

I stepped out from underneath the camera, stripped down to my zippity doo das and pushed the "start" button. UV rays flooded the room. I jumped into the human sandwich maker and pulled down the lid. I folded up a long scarf I found in my purse and draped it over my ta tas. Barely safe, I noticed my eye protectors were missing. Up went the top. Off flew the scarf. I fished the Wink Ease out of my jeans pocket, unstuck them from their paper backing, folded them to form a cone and stuck them onto my closed eyelids. Now I couldn't find my scarf. I felt for the floor. I'm not sure why they call these Wink Ease, because there is no winking when you are wearing these little babies. The door to the cubicle next to mine shut, which rattled my room and splintered my nerves. I dove back under the George Foreman and closed the lid. My whole body was stiff with fright. Common sense passed a note through the crack. It said, "What on earth are you doing in there with your clothes off- this is a very bad idea."

I opened the cover slightly to see how many more minutes I had to tan. A door handle twisted and hinges creaked. It sounded like someone was coming in. I yanked the top down hard. Crack. Did I break it? I peeked out. Nobody. The music from the sound system blared. I was still as death; my eyeballs were wide open beneath the Wink Ease. I wasn't sure if my eyes were properly protected, let alone anything else. Boom! I sucked in sharply, more UV rays than air. The lights explode when they turn off. It was over. Top still worked. Darting from the bed, being careful to avoid the video, I dressed in a record two seconds flat. "Reflect that on your neon timer!" I spoke up at the camera. Tossed my hair around a little, opened the door and calmly strode out.

"So, how'd it go?" I casually asked my daughter who was already in the waiting area.

Dropping People magazine on the chair, she and I walked out. Her reply came in a wisp, as if she'd just woken from a deep slumber, "It was great...so relaxing.."

We did go back. For me it was because I'd already paid and I didn't want to waste the money. I didn't mind the idea of being a little tan. But I found it doesn't take much UV time before my skin is pretty dark. Going around town with this shade of brown by the first week of May in Michigan is a dead giveaway that it didn't come from the sun. It's almost embarrassing. I have about six visits left, but I'm done. Overall, my research confirms the note of common sense- copping a tan from ultraviolet radiation at the salon is probably a very bad idea.

This story proves that every once in a while the thinking cap shorts out (see profile "About Me")

Heidi