Little to report

I just wanted to check in to show my invisibles that I haven't disappeared. I was just uber busy this weekend with the not so stellar garage sale. I made $50 but sold almost nothing. I just sold a couple of high ticket items. Go figure right? Anyway my darling dearest has graciously agreed to let me do it another weekend with sign placement of my choosing this time instead of his. I was to busy to do it myself the first time but that will change this week as all the hard stuff has already been done. I already spent most of my gain on oodles of old lace doilies but I have a lot to show for my money spent because I won't buy them unless they're $1 or less or packaged with several of them. I look for slightly damaged ones because it won't affect what I'm going to use them for. I also got some nice vintage fabric scraps and a couple of weird cute things for the mermaid swap I'm in. Last but not least I have some pictures as usual of family and the kitchen. Its hard to describe my decorating style and so I'm just going to show you all instead. I haven't forgotten about that promise of frees stuff either but am not quite ready for it just yet. Keep watching and pass word about. Yes this is a shameless bid for readership and I'm not sorry to admit it ;) Now the pics.

the kitchen

J10 and J11

J14 holding their newest puppy while she sleeps

I've come to love these girls like the sisters I never had. J12 has been out of the picture for a while due to some bad decisions but I am happy to say that yesterday for the first time in probably more than a year she seemed like the girl I used to know and J11 and I were almost tearful to have our girl back. J10 and J11 having just shy of 2 years between them in age have always been very very close and the rift between them the last year has been hard on J11. I'm so happy to have J12 back to her self and I'm proud of her making her way back from the edge. On another celebratory note yesterday was J11's birthday so happy birthday sis.

So much Junk! err good stuff

So yesterday Jarell and I decided to start going thru the boxes of stuff I've had stored down there since last year when we got married. It was an interesting task. As I was going thru the stuff to try and get rid of some of it we had the brilliant plan to have a garage sale and suddenly things got easier. I was really into it and I picked up today where I left off yesterday. I found lots of craft goodies that I'd forgotten I even had and all my books that I've kept to re-read and now I can. O happy day. I found a choir trophy, some cool 70's flowery fabric, TONS of pictures and so much more. It was like going through a flea market owned by an alter ego and any urge that may have been slowly creeping up on me to shop with nonexistent money has been put to rest yet again. The only sad thing is I've been using all those boxes as a quick fix whenever I felt the need to accumulate more stash. Instead of going shopping I'd go downstairs and dig through one box and bring a whole armload of stuff back upstairs. Now I don't have that option so much as most of the really good stuff is now where it needs to be put away. On the upside, Jarell said the proceeds of the garage sale are all mine. This makes good sense since all the stuff in it was mine, but at the same time I feel like I should share with him as unselfishly as he shares with me. I'll let you all know how that works out. :) Until then I leave you with this old essay I found by a mysterious unknown author. I apologize in advance.

The Last Night
by Melissa Bacon

The thunder crashes and the winds howl outside, The sky is a mix of colors. Near the top it is a dark purple that slowly fades into pink and finally orange near the horizon. Inside it is cozy and dark. A fire, the only light, crackles cheerfully in the stove and the soft murmur of a single voice blends itself around the storm.
A small dog observes the peaceful scene, her black eyes clouded. Her breathing is labored and rasping. The television box that makes her bed seems to dwarf her shrunken body. Next to the box is a young girl. You hear a soft voice singing an old song. As you listen the voice wavers and pauses. The storm rages outside. Seeming to take courage from the tempest out of doors, the voice continues, stronger and more pure than before. A single tear lands on the faded blue blanket underneat the little dog.
The voice fails again and the girl looks around her. The weary green eyes search for a distraction. They fall on a dulcimer the color of honey. Suddenly the scene is animated. The girl scrambles to her feet and seizes up the instrument. Now the plaintive tones of "Amazing Grace" compete with the storm.
As the song winds to an end, it is followed by a hymn pulled from the depths of the girl's memory. The fingers race along the fret board as if possessed. The little dog, however, appears oblivious. Abruptly the music ceases. The girl grasps a small log and tosses it deftly onto the fire. There is the sound of paper being crumpled and the fire roars to life as it consumes the light material. A soft sigh, followed by several sharp barks startles the girl out of her reverie. Once again the scene changes from a solemn still life to a quick movement. The girl is at the dog's side fumbling for a syringe of water. With compassion she works the syringe into the now frantic dog's mouth. The dog has yet to move, but some remaining reflex causes it to swallow convulsively. Even so, it isn't long before you hear the cries again.
A man appears. He walks into the room and drops down next to the sobbing girl. They pet the small dog. Eventually it is silent, the energy seemingly spent at the moment. Mouth closed, the dog seems to rest. From outside comes a new sound. It is the sound of more dogs and you see headlights. The girl slowly rises and gives the dog one last pat before she heads out into the storm. The little dog gives a few more piercing barks and slowly fades into silence. The once labored breathing falters and finally ceases. The man sighs and closes her now unseeing eyes one last time. Outside the storm rages on.