…Yeah, I own THIS shirt, so I don’t think I’m allowed to make fun. It would be hy-purr-kitty-cal.
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If you’ve ever wanted to remove William Shakespeare’s head and store knick-knacks inside his chest cavity, have I got a treat for you.
(P.S. There’s also one shaped like my favorite historical figure, a cat.)
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Next week we start the big move. …Again.
Long-time readers may remember that last summer, we loaded up two cars with me, my wife, our two rabbits, our turtle, my parents-in-law, and enough house plants to stock the rain-forest part of a mid-sized zoo, and drove 2,500 miles from Ohio to California. This move’s going to be different. This time, we’re moving 3,000 miles.
I’ll be gone for the next few weeks, as I
down-vote people’s Yik-Yaks all across this great country drive, so I wanted to leave you with something good. One last dose of California weirdness (except for all the pictures I have saved that I haven’t shared yet). I now present to you:
Little statues made out of dead crab bits.
Goodbye, California… 😭 😭 😭 😭 😭
This past weekend I was visiting my parents’ house for Birthdayfest—that traditional time of year when all the summer babies in my family gather together, and mourn the fact that we were all born so close to each other and therefore don’t get our own special celebrations. It’s a somber, subdued event where we play games like “Pin the Tear on Your Own Cheek,” and (later) “Ow, My Cheek!” I look forward to it every year.
Now, I’m not the only one in my family who enjoys going to yardsales—as I stated in my very first post here, I’ve been going to them ever since I was a little kid with my mom, and I was cute enough to get free things with just a sad pout and a “my mommy said it’s too expensive…” Practically any weekend we’re together at the ol’ homestead, the whole family (or at least, anyone who can wake up early enough) piles into Mom’s minivan for a fun-filled morning of stimulating the American economy, one quarter at a time.
…Even if it’s pouring rain. Which, as it turns out, it was this weekend. Most of the sales this past Saturday that weren’t outright canceled looked like a post-apocalyptic version of Hoarders, with junk hastily packed shoulder-deep into garages, scattered contents spilling onto the tables outside—tables that were circled over again and again by we intrepid yardsalers, in hopes that something worthwhile would finally reveal itself, if only we stared hard enough.
But I did discover one benefit to rainy-day yardsales that I hadn’t previously realized: There’s almost no competition for the quality goods. Most of the regular salers stay home, because they assume that all the sales will just be canceled. And true—many of them were. But many of them weren’t, and we were able to find a lot of choice (and not-so-choice) merchandise. Continue reading