How to Have A Garage Sale.

Oh. Wait. Let me be more specific. How To Have A Non-Sucktastic Garage Sale, in seven easy steps:

1. I know it is a nice day. You're hanging around your house. It's sunny out. Friends and neighbours are dropping by. You've got refreshments at hand. Yes, the mood is festive, but it is a garage sale is NOT a party. SO TURN THE MUSIC DOWN!

Especially -- especially -- if you are a slightly reformed metal head from the 80s who wants to relieve the glory days of your mullet-years now that your wife is making you get rid of shot glass collection.

Easy listening music was specifically created to put women in their 30s and 40s at ease and make them want to spend money. We are your target demographic. Don't alienate us with your death metal musical medley. Think Neil Diamond. Think Barry Manilow.

2. Don't let your kids make your street signs. Yeah, they'll want to get involved, but find another task. Because here's a little known fact: kids suck at marketing. And they've got really bad penmanship at the best of times, but especially when I'm driving down a road at 30 kph trying to read your ad.

3. I don't value your crap as much as you think. Garage sales are not about making money, they are about de-cluttering your house. Consider yourself lucky if you make enough to cover your advertising costs and buy take-out pizza for dinner.

The bulk of your stuff should be priced at less than a dollar. Here's a sample price list:

Ω paperback books: 25¢,
Ω trade paperbacks: 50¢,
Ω hardcover recent bestsellers: $1.00,
Ω encyclopedias: offer someone $5 to drive them down to the recycle center,
Ω coffee mugs: 25¢,
Ω plates: 25¢,
Ω bud vases: 5¢ (unless you have a time machine back to whatever time period it was when people used bud vases),
Ω coasters: 5¢ (see above reasoning),
Ω dvd movies: $1.00,
Ω vhs movies, cassettes, albums, 8-tracks: 50¢,
Ω picture frames 75¢(and have the decency to take your family photos out of the frame), and
Ω cheap plastic toys from fast food outlets: 5¢ (and be prepared for my children to buy EVERYTHING you've got)

Then have some other things in the $2 to $5 range. Here's another breakdown:

Ω small-kitchen appliances: $3.00,
Ω antique silver ware (ie trays that no one uses): nothing more than $5.00,
Ω clothes: absolutely nothing more than $3.00. If you think your old clothes are worth more (and chances are they are NOT) take them to a consignment store,
Ω camping gear (all things Coleman),
Ω golf clubs, and
Ω mechanical type things that my husband buys.

The guiding principle for pricing should be that you bring items out to the garage, look at it with a critical eye and ask yourself, "How much money will I pay someone to ensure that this crap never comes back in to my house?" That's your price.

Sure you might have some big ticket items (baby crib, play pen, credenza, chesterfield, etc), but these should be in the minority of your stock. And be willing to haggle.

Here's what NOT to sell:

Ω bedding and assorted linens, including curtains and especially pillows,
Ω wedding dresses (and if you are going to sell it assume that it's being bought as a costume and the purchaser doesn't really want to hear about your bad first marriage that ended in divorce. And restraining orders),
Ω car seats,
Ω foot massagers (that is just unhygienic)
Ω soaps and shampoos stolen from hotels (standard issue fare, but I still think it's tacky)
Ω old cans of paint, and
Ω shoes.

4. Price things. If not every item, then post a price list on the wall or make signs "Everything On This Table: 50¢"

5. It is cruel to have your dog at your garage sale. First, it is mean to the dog. From a dog's point of view garage sale patrons look a lot like burglars. Second, I don't want the damn thing licking me (or my kids) in the face when I bend down to take a look at something.

6. Garage is the operative word in 'garage sale.' Don't have stuff in your house. Maybe it is just me, but I don't love bargains enough to risk going into some strangers creepy windowless basement and having my death wind up in the News Oddity section of Yahoo!.

7. Start at a reasonable hour and wrap it up by 1 PM. Then drag everything you don't want to the curb with a sign that says FREE FOR THE TAKING. Wait a few hours, then go out and load the slim pickings in your truck and take them to the local charity shop.

And let me apologize if you get door crashers knocking on your door at 7AM Saturday morning -- they are dweebs, I know.

Anyone else have some pointers?

Who's Sorry Now? The Fine Art of Apologizing.

Sitting down to write this post, I took a quick stroll through my google reader and discovered that Mad and I are on the same wavelength today. Today we're both Sorry.


I confess: I like to say sorry. When I'm sorry, I say it. I pride myself on having a big enough ego that I can say sorry and mean it. I can apologize and move on. I can accept the apologies of others and move on.

This is not true of my mother.

On a recent visit I asked her if she'd ever said sorry? "And meant it?" she asked, "No."

What my mother lacks in sensitivity she makes up for in frankness. And egotism. She doesn't say sorry, because she never is sorry. She thinks that if I'm offended or hurt by her, I am weak. And dull. And self-indulgent.

My mother believes her anti-sorry stance is noble. She thinks people who say sorry are being insincere. They aren't really sorry. They just want people to get on with life and stop being easily offended weaklings.

I think that my mother is genetically incapable of saying sorry.

I fear that DrKnow has the same the gene. When he is wrong about something and we correct him, he gets really angry and indignant. And things escalate to boiling point and he won't say he is sorry, but he frequently insists we apologize to him.

Today he was reading from a library book:

DrKnow: This is a tall house. This is a little house.
Me: Small. This is a small house. Try again.
DrKnow: This is a little house.
Me: Small. The word is small.
DrKnow: Then why did you tell me to say little?
Me: I corrected you because you said little and it is small.
DrKnow: No, first I said small and you said that was wrong. And now I'm saying little and you are saying that is wrong. You are wrong. Say you are sorry.
Me: You made a small mistake, DrKnow. There is no reason to get mad. The word is small. DrKnow, you said little.
DrKnow: Of course I'm saying little, that's what is in the book. It doesn't say small. SAY YOU ARE SORRY!

It is not that I want make DrKnow a Sorry-aholic, but I do want him to learn that everyone makes mistakes and if he makes a mistake he should say sorry. Because he seems to think if he's made a mistake (even a very small one like illustrated above), that it is okay if he can browbeat us into apologizing first.

And his inability to acknowledge when he's made a mistake is becoming epic.

This was our dinner conversation a few nights ago:

DrKnow: Remember the time you made me eat human flesh.
Me: No.
DrKnow: I do. I remember the time you made me human flesh for dinner.
Me: No. We have never eaten human flesh for dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast.
DrKnow: Yes, we did. Last year. When we were camping. You made me eat human flesh. I didn't want to, but you made me do it.
Me: It's illegal to eat human flesh.
DrKnow: So why did you make me eat human flesh then?
Me: I didn't.
DrKnow: Yes, you did. When we were camping. You know we did.
The OmegaMan: Well, that's a good story, DrKnow. But it isn't true.
DrKnow: YOU ARE WRONG. We ate human flesh! I am not telling a story! IT HAPPENED! You are just teasing me. SAY YOU ARE SORRY!
Me: NO! I'm not going to even pretend that it is amusing or cute or creative to talk about eating human flesh.
DrKnow: It happened. It happened! We ate human flesh. Say you are sorry for not remembering we ate human flesh for dinner last year when camping.
The OmegaMan: Let's just drop this, DrKnow. Or I'm going to gnaw on your arm and call it dessert.
Me: That is not helping, Mr Funnypants.
DangerBoy: I was thinking about maple syrup. Can you tell me how syrup is really tree blood that's boiled up. I like that story.
Me: Oh god, why did I ever teach you two to talk?

So what do you think? Is this just a phase? Are some people incapable of acknowledging when they are wrong? Is he just exercising his sizable imagination? Does he believe what he says is true? What should we do? Force him to say sorry, even if he's not sincere (kind of a fake-til-you-make-it scenario)?

Part of the complication is that I pride myself on manners and rank please and thank you and sorry as coping skills for survival in the adult world. Is that so wrong?

Please tell me. QUICK! Before he goes to school and tells his teacher that his mom is a cannibal. A cannibal with plans to homeschool him next year -- 'cause you know she'll totally set Social Services on my ass for the combination of those two.

Guest Blogger: Alan Rickman, the Future Mr AlphaDogMa

My name is Alan Rickman.

I. Am. A. Thespian.

Not an actor. A thespian.

Ah thes-pee-ahn.

A serious thespian.

You can tell that I am a serious thespian, in two keys way.

Firstly, I have appeared in many serious movies. Yes, I have been in those wretched Harry Potter films, but I wish to be remembered for my appearances in serious films. Like The Winter Guest with Emma Thompson, and Galaxy Quest Snow Cake with Sigourney Weaver. I and my ample gravitas were most recently in Sweeney Todd. You might not have noticed since Johnny Depp is a bit of an attention whore.

Another sign that I am a serious actor: I am parsimonious with my smiles. It is not that I am dour or humourless, but rather because serious thespians can't be seen as daft berks.

If you have seen me smiling there are several simple explanations, which can best be reconciled with the help of visual aides:

Photo 1:

In this photo I am drunk.


Photo 2:

Someone is touching my genitals.


Photo 3:

Drunk. Again.
What can I say? I may be a serious actor, but I do love my Applejacks.

Photo 4:

Drunk. And someone is gently cupping my genitals.
If I recall, it was Johnny Depp. What can I say? He isn't just a whore for attention.

Photo 5:

Stone cold sober. But anticipating some genital touching.


Photo 6:

These smiles: all courtesy of photoshop.

Photoshop is truly the bane of the serious actor. I was just chuntering about this yesterday while sharing a round of Applejacks with Edward Norton.

Here is another photo -- which Alpha did not create, but stole from some long forgotten source -- which has been photoshopped.


While I appreciate that my facial expression has been left in my trademarked Snape scurrilous gaze, I wish to clarify that my chest it much more hirsute. And serious. And hirsute. Seriously hirsute.

Alas this is a very popular photo. In the last month over a thousand people have come to AlphaDogMa's blog from a Harry Potter fan-fiction website. People from Russia, Germany, Poland, Hungary, the Czech Republic, and other former Warsaw Pact nations LOVE this photo. Of course, fan-fiction freaks out Alpha (who encountered some very graphic Spock/Kirk slash fiction at a very sensitive age and she was unable to keep from reading it. Over and over again) and she's a bit overwhelmed by the traffic since on average six people read her blog every month.

Personally, I have no problem with Eastern Europeans fantasizing about Professor Snape getting it on with young Mr Potter, just as long as they respect the work of serious thespians. Anything to the contrary makes me want to cry.

And then make sweet love to Alpha.

Monday Mission: Personality Test.

To: Gayle King, gayle.king@oprah_is_all_things.com
From: Alpha Dogma, alpha.dogma@dr_phil_is_a_big_faker.org
Re: Personality test.

Dear Ms King,

Thanks so much for that wonderful interview yesterday.

I am so psyched about getting this job internship with Ms Oprah. As you instructed, I have completed the Harpo Inc personality test. Even though it was suppose to be just a yes or no answer I have expounded on my replies. Because I like to give 110%! Go Team Oprah!

You rapidly get involved in social life at a new workplace.
Oh, yes. Yes I do. Which is why I always abide by the plan to sleep with at least one senior VP within my first month of employment. And I just want to reassure you that I am very open minded. I noticed that many of your senior staff are women -- and I can totally swing that way.

You are usually the first to react to a sudden event:the telephone ringing or unexpected question.
Yes. On account of the ESP.

It's difficult to get you excited.
No. Oh no. Not at all. Couple of Applejacks. Some Kenny G. And I'm rearing to go.

You are strongly touched by the stories about people's troubles.
Yes, if by 'strongly touched' you mean bored outta my gourd. Wah wah waaaaaaa.

Why does everyone else think they are sooooo interesting? You know who is interesting? You know who Ms Barbara Walters should write a book about? ME. My life is soap opera. And not one of those flashy American ones. But one like Coronation Street. Everyone's got bad teeth and they're ugly and they drink all the time. Now that's some true Reality TV.

A thirst for adventure is close to your heart.
Well my flask of gin is in my breast pocket and THAT is close to my heart AND gin on your cornflakes always makes for an adventurous day. Am I right? Or AM I RIGHT?

You usually place yourself nearer to the side than in the center of the room.
Yes. And with my back to the wall. That is just one of the many things my daddy taught me when he came back from 'Nam. Also how to make a bomb out of a tampon, duct tape and tequila.

You value justice higher than mercy.
Yeah. Who doesn't? Opening a big ol' can of whoop ass ALWAYS trumps a group hug. I'm totally willing to be Oprah's heavy. Course she could be her own heavy. Not that I'm calling her fat. Noooo. Not this month anyway.

What I meant was that Oprah could count on me to do her dirty work. Like you put me in a room with James Frey and I'll make him WISH he'd done time in jail...well, he probably already wishes he'd been to jail cos that would give just a smidge more street cred than he has currently. Well, certainly since Oprah gave the kind of tongue lashing she usually reserves for Stedman.

You prefer to isolate yourself from outside noises.
Yes. And that's the easy PART. It's getting the voices inside my head to shut up, that's the real trick.

Your desk, workbench etc. is usually neat and orderly.
Very neat. In fact the warden my last boss said I had the neatest cell work pod in the whole dang joint.

You value the scientific method.
Nah. Not so much. Because pseudo-science is so much more fun. Long Live The Secret!

You prefer to spend your leisure time alone or relaxing in a tranquil family atmosphere.
Yes. In Montecito, California. Or in Hawaii where Oprah owns her other house. Or her Fisher Island retreat. How about her ski chalet down the street from Tom Crazazy Cruise's mansion? I'd even settle for her estate in New Jersey -- though I gotta admit I find in incongruence that there estates in New Jersey. Tract houses, sure. But estates? In New Jersey?

The more people with whom you speak, the better you feel.
Oh, yeah. Because the more people I meet the more I realize that there are some real twits out there who are way worse off than me. And some of them aren't even my mother and father.

You often think about humankind and its destiny.
For sure. And that destiny? Is Oprah. We all need to nurture the Mother Oprah within and let her come out.

You readily help people while asking nothing in return.
Well, not so much 'ask' because that would be gauche. More like imply. Or blackmail. Generally both are just as effective at getting me free stuff.

So thanks again, Ms Gayle. I look forward to hearing from you. Or Ms. O.


Sincerely,
Alpha DogMa

PS -- For more Monday Missions, visit the always lovely Painted Maypole

Diary of a Mad Housewife...

Ω Monday:
DrKnow has a restless night which means I have a restless night.

At dawn's early light (or the third and final time I hit the alarm clock snooze button -- which ever came last), I check on him and decide he's staying at home. Surely the teacher will thank me for not subjecting her to a runny nosed six year old. Right?

Come the afternoon we receive word that The OmegaMan's employer has gone into receivership. Five weeks into his new awesome, amazingly well-salaried job he is again facing the daunting task of going back into job search mode. Only this time without the nice cushion of a generous severance package which we have earmarked for a lovely Hawaiian vacation in the fall.

Spend evening curled up in lovely Ekornes recliner whispering, "Don't be scared little armchair oasis. We shall never be parted" while investigating homeschooling options in Yellowknife and looking scornfully at photos of Hawaii. HA! Have decided I hate Hawaii. Sooooo over rated. Who likes beaches? And whale watching? And tropical breezes. NOT ME! Phooey.

Ω Tuesday:
When I go into DrKnow's bedroom at 7AM he says, "Leave. Me. Alone." Surely the teacher will thank me for not subjecting her to a runny nosed, cranky pants, six year old. Right?

DangerBoy sniffs once. Ahh. There is a pox on my house.

Plus, I don't want go to school drop off. The only thing working in town is the gossip mill and I haven't the energy.

Do make the boys attend library storytime and then we go for groceries. At grocery store DrKnow and DangerBoy race their kid carts up and down the aisles unchecked (because if the grocery store actually gave a flying fuck about safety and sanity they wouldn't have a dozen of these ankle bashers in the store)and we see the school secretary. She gives me a condescending smile. I want to yell, "No, he is sick. Honest. Between 7 and 9 in the morning my house is a total phelgmathon!" But do not. Obviously this is a sign of emotional maturity on my part.

Do curse like a sailor when DangerBoy clips my heel, drawing blood.

Call my mother and tell her of possible eminent financial ruin. Her response, "Oh. Pooh. What a nuisance." Hang up on her after suggesting she learn about active listening.

Ω Wednesday:
I am sick. Am way way more sick than DrKnow or DangerBoy! I have a serious profound illness, not some little pissy case of the snivels. Those two were gold bricking. Relatively speaking they've been healthy for the past two days.

Well, okay they are both much sicker today and both boy begins the day with a steaming hot towel on their faces in an attempt to soften up the snot. What too gross? Too much detail? Yeah. Welcome to my world.

The OmegaMan is concerned about finances. He suggests canceling the satellite dish subscription. Oh, how we laugh. It is good that he has not lost his sense of humour. He smiles benevolently when I say, "if you cancel my TV I will follow you around all day long asking 'So, honey, how are you? Do you want to talk about your feeeeeeelings?' "

Ω Thursday:
Did I mention I is sick. Am very sick.

Spend most of the day in the aforementioned recliner in the company of EM Forster. Not the actual man -- cos he is loooooooong dead -- but with Room With A View. Is is such a lovely story. I think I use to date a Cecil Vyse?

Oh and learn that maybe the OmegaMan's job has NOT evaporated into thin air. Or maybe yes? But still could be no? Agh. Stability. It is for suckers. Or people other than me.

I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings...

Oprah Watch

April 28 to May 2 was a stellar week for Oprah. Her long slow march to cultural irrelevancy continues unabated.

Let's recap:

Wednesday: David Blaine holds his breath for 17 minutes. Sadly, he survives.

Today: Tom Cruise speaks. Is anyone listening anymore? But it was awesome to see Oprah fake enthusiasm on that snowmobile. And I enjoyed seeing Tom fake sanity.

And next week Barbara Walters is on. Confirming all the rumors that she denied for years: she was a big ol' slut. Yeah, a banner day for feminism everywhere!

Yeah! GO OPRAH!

We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts.

Disclaimer: this -- and ALL posts -- are composed whilst I sit at the kitchen table OR when ensconced in the world's most amazing armchair about which I have waxed poetic before. It was with poetic license and two jiggers of gin that I made my earlier comment about blogging in the WC.

Are we good now?

And it's for when I go HIKING! and CAMPING!! and CANOEING!!! I'm not a sexual deviant.



Last week whilst looking for photographic illustrations for my Room With A View review I came across this photo of actor Rafe Spall (aka Young Mr Emerson).



Is it just me or is Rafe Spall that rarest of men, one who looks better whilst mustachioed?



Because other than Rafe and Tom Selleck, I can't think of any other person (of any gender) who looks better in a mustache than without. Mustaches are just silly.

Two recent examples:


Eric McCormack. At this VERY moment, he is attempting to rob a stage coach of all its gold doubloons.


Geez. Johnny Depp wears jewellery and eye makeup and he STILL looks more manly than Orlando Bloom and this ill-considered attempt at going butch.

Any other celebrities whose looks are improved by a mustache?

For the purposes of this discussion: mutton chop sideburns, soul patches, goatees or the like are grounds for disqualification. I am of the opinion that the addition of other facial hair legitimizes the mustache and makes it much less mockable. Don't believe me? Perchance you can take that up with Mr Bloom who looks sooooooo much better when he commits to full-on whiskers: