A Word to "Broom"hilde

Dear Broomhilde from the Lane,

So I guess you know by now that I've been watching you.

And even if I don't escape to my parents' beach house as often as I'd like, I've been here enough since you moved into this neck of the woods (you know. . . off-season weekends . . .wine-filled-ladies-only getaways . . .the occasional Memorial Day or Fourth of July . . .  and precious weeks - like this one - of vacation time spent alone with Drip Dry . . . ) the point being. . . I've seen enough of your obsessive ways to know what I'm talking about here.

Now it's widely known that the alleyway that runs between the backs of the endless homes on this island is a prime source of entertainment for me - something akin to the Lanes of Limerick, where everyone sees and knows their neighbors' business. . . for we all know that any family on holiday might look happy and content on the front porch of their vacation home, but - much as it is in real life- it's the rear-end that shows the true colors of a family.

Oh, and the rainbow I've seen spawning from your rear-end, Broomhilde!

First, there's your obsession with hanging your laundry on the line.   Now, don't get me wrong. . . I come from a  long distinguished line of clothes hangers myself . . . but never before have I seen so much laundry generated by two people! Tell me. . .do you suffer from an incontinence problem or do you just have a burning need to wash your bathroom rugs each and every day?

And then there's the post-beach shake-and hose-down of every naughty bucket, chair, and umbrella that might have touched a errant grain of sand while being employed for the very purpose it was manufactured . . . followed - barely a half-hour later - by a myriad of freshly-laundered bathing suits and towels adorning the already-overworked clothesline.

And what's with the daily washing of both family cars?   Could they really get that dirty in just one short day?

And even though you live in the first-of-its-kind hermetically-sealed beach house - built without benefit of screens on the windows in order to prevent any chance of the fresh sea-breeze ever flowing in - somehow you have managed to maintain an effective anti-trespassing detector; rushing outside the second someone attempts to turn their car around in your driveway while threatening to notify the local authorities.

But all of this A Mom on Spin has withstood without complaint.

Until today.

Yes. . . today I saw you demonstrate the most inhospitable behavior ever witnessed in the long and richly-storied history of the lane.

Now I ask you. . . would it have killed you to have let that nice old lady cut through your yard to get to the beach?  Oh yes, she was a shoobie no doubt. . . freshly arrived in town and thrilled to be renting a house for the week as was evidenced by the shoes she was wearing to the beach.   And although, I admit, I had already labeled the entire family "cutters", my little playful moniker was bantered about for the benefit of my intimate family circle.  Never would I have ever dreamed of insulting those innocent shoobies to their face!  But not you, Old Broomie!  You had to break the hermetic seal (yes, I think I distinctly heard a whoosh as you opened the door) and run outside like the very lunatic that you are and turn that poor woman away!  That's right. . . you barred her from proceeding further, turned her back on her heels, and forced her to endure the walk of shame back out to the lane.

Shame on you, Broomhilde.  Shame on you!

I bet it was precisely this type of behavior that inspired that husband of yours construct your oh-so-precious clothesline about six-inches too high for you to reach comfortably - forcing you to stand on tippy-toes to hang your laundry.  It may also be why I've seen him aim your spotlessly-cleaned car at puddles in the lane after a rainstorm.  

And yes, Broomhilde, I venture to guess that it also may be the very reason that same husband sneaks to the garage fridge at 5:00 p.m. every evening and sucks down three beers in rapid succession when he thinks that no one is watching!

Oh but someone is!

                                    . . .watching, that is. . .

Signed, the Lady who sits on her back porch all day 

pretending to be reading because she hates the beach 

but really loves people-watching

(a.k.a.. . . )

Oh. . .and another thing?  

It gives me great pleasure to inform you that - although you may have successfully protected your house from all foreign invaders visible to the naked eye - I may, in fact, be pilfering your wireless internet service as I write, for I have recently noticed that my signal gets stronger as I approach your house. . .

Now I Know How the Innkeeper Felt. . .

Dear Mr. Newly Homeless with a Suitcase Guy,

Sorry.

But I couldn't look you in the eye.

I know you were neat. . . and clean-shaven. . .and well-spoken. . . and nicely dressed. . . and even intelligent. . .

And I know you never thought you'd find yourself in these circumstances. . .down on your luck. . . in a strange town. . . leaving your suitcase at the front door of a church. . . looking for a place to spend the night. . .

But you - Mr. Newly Homeless with a Suitcase Guy - are more frightening than most of the homeless population here combined. For you are just a little too close to being like me.

You need too much.

And even though I offered to watch your suitcase while you went for intake interviews at the Mission and the Homeless Shelter, I still couldn't look you in the eye. 'Cause I knew - like you - that you didn't belong in either of those places.

It stunk.

And I know you were fishing.

I know what you thought. . . if I could just engage her in conversation. . . . tell her my tale. . . win her over . . . perhaps she'll help me. . . give me money for a hotel room. . . let me stay here. . . put me up for the night. . .

I could taste your desperation.

And that's why I purposely didn't look at you.

No room in the inn.

I drove away at the end of the day and left you and your suitcase talking on your cell phone.

And if it matters at all to you, I felt like crap.

And still do.

And just what was in that suitcase anyway??? When I had a quick moment of panic and realized there could be a bomb in there, I tried to move it. Let me guess. . . your rock collection? The family china? Or are bombs really that heavy????

Just Some Everyday Run-of-the-Mill Office Correspondence

Dear Johnny (or is it Connie. . . or Bonnie. . . or Donny. . . no it's definitely Johnny. . . )

I would like to congratulate you on your impending nuptials.

I'm also happy to hear that after 60-something years of being on the fence (shall we say) that you have determined that the heterosexual lifestyle is the one for you. And - yes - it is glorious to be in love.

But since you have spent so many of your earthly years in someone else's back yard, I thought I would give you just a few pointers on how women feel about some of the things that you shared earlier today. . .

1. Women do not like you entering church offices and regaling the employees there with your latest sexual exploits - especially if it includes some mention of blood and gore.
2. Women do not like you telling the very same employees how you managed the very same types of things while on the other side. It just isn't conversation meant for polite company.
3. Women do not especially like you taking a beer or two so early in the morning. We much prefer that you take your meds like the doctor suggests.
4. Nor do we like to hear about what it was like the time you had bed bugs.
5. Women do not think you need a bridal gown for your nuptials - nor should you glam yourself down the aisle when you hear the beginnings of Here Comes the Bride.
6. We do - however - like you to take off your white athletic socks if wearing flip-flops.

But my greatest piece of advice for you, Dear Johnny, is a warning for you to watch your heart - for you and I both know it's been broken before. And in a strange and quite uncomfortable way, I find myself hoping that your future bride knows just how lucky she is.

That's right. I said lucky. . . to have the bi-polar, bi-sexual, anxiety-ridden, bed-bugged, heart-and-thyroid-diseased teddy bear that is YOU!
Call me crazy. . .

Oh. . . and that twenty bucks???? You still owe it to me.

Another Letter to The Big Guy

Dear God,

I'm sorry to go straight to the top on this one ( I know we Catholics usually use a more circuitous route) but I need to ask you a question.

It's about my friend Dora. . . we've spoken about her before. . . you know . . . she's the 450-pound-mildly-retarded woman who cares for her 500-pound-bedridden-husband, Meke (of course, I've changed their names around a bit for the sake of their privacy, but, hey. . . you know who I'm referring to . . . right???)

Well, my question is . . . and I don't mean any disrespect. . . but. . . (Oh, don't I hate it when my daughters preface a statement by saying. . . No offense, but. . . ) well anyway . . . my question is. . .Why is life so damn miserable for some people????

And the reason I'm asking, God, is because yesterday she came to me in her motorized wheelchair to pick up her monthly food vouchers and she looked at me with those big brown eyes and cried, Liz, who can help me with Meke? I gotta talk to somebody!!! And although I can't elaborate on her woes right here (for they concerned a lack of hygiene and some bodily functions which I would rather not discuss with the general public. . .) I was overwhelmed by a sense of sadness for poor Dora and the daily trials which she must be enduring.

And more than that, I was humbled by her trials.

Her trials. . . so much greater than having some teenage daughters who drive her to distraction. . . who push the envelope. . . who break the rules. . .

For there she is. . . barely able - both physically and mentally - to live alone in a cold-hearted society, much less to be burdened by another whose needs are greater than hers. . . . living in the "projects" . . . scraping by on only the generosity of others . . . And (I dare say) knowing that if she makes the unthinkable choice of putting her husband in a Medicaid-accepted nursing home, her own precarious living situation may be compromised.

And so I ask you now, dear God, to be with her. . . to see that perhaps those small steps I made with her. . . the only phone call that I knew how to make. . . will be enough to provide her with some relief. . . some comfort . . . some reprieve. . .

And I guess I don't really need an answer to that Why is life so miserable? question. I guess I just need to know that you will hear my plea on her behalf and do whatever it is that a God like you decides to do.

And yes, I thank you for the dose of humility which I so desperately need from time to time. . .

and don't expect a p.s. 'cause I don't want to push my luck here. . .

I'm a Lousy Chicken Stalker

So guess who's having a yard sale this weekend?

No, I mean it. . .

Guess.

Who.

Let me give you a hint. . .

I stopped by to see if there were any COATS for sale!!!!

Yes, my friends, The Perfect Coated One held a yard sale this weekend.

And this, we all know, was a stalker's dream come true . . . the opportunity of a lifetime. . . a chance to debunk the myth. . . peek under the veil. . . find some cobwebs in her picture-perfect life. . .

But - alas - there was only one problem.

I chickened out.

I first discovered the retail bonanza on the way to the market this morning, but quickly ascertained that my reaction time is not nearly what it used to be - for I just couldn't bring myself do something as crazy and unscripted as stopping at The Perfect Coated One's garage sale without butterflies in my stomach and sufficient prior planning under my belt.

What would I do? Nonchalantly wander about as if I do this kind of thing all the time? Casually check labels for size and maker of any clothing for sale? Pretend to be peering at the candlesticks while all-the-while peeking inside the windows???

And where was the Perfect One anyway?

She was nowhere in sight. And in her place stood the Granny-figure of the household (mother-in-law, no doubt - for I'm sure she never would have subjected her own dear mother to anything as base and lowly as a yard sale. . . )

No, The Perfect One was clearly not about. . . but a beautiful happy vase of sunflowers stood welcoming her garage sale guests.

And so I parked in the grocery store parking lot and hyperventilated.

While a strange case of hives developed on my torso.

And after I spent way too much money at the market (including $8.99 for my own cheery bunch of sunflowers) I put White Ice on autopilot and headed for the house with the white picket fence.

And for all of my time plotting (or should I say scratching) I still didn't have a plan.

And so I casually pulled up outside the house and left car running while I tried to peer around the corner of the driveway from the driver's seat. . . and suddenly . . . without warning. . . the Granny figure looked up from under her visor and stared straight at me. . . .and I froze!

Froze, I tell you.

I Froze!


Well. . . and then. . . I drove away.

Drove away without even a glimpse at the clothing rack. . . Drove away without even browsing through her books. . . or her VHS tapes (My God, there could have been an unwitting sex tape of her and the Perfect Hatted Husband in there and I missed my opportunity!). . . drove away without knowing what size shoes she wears!

Now I ask you. . . What kind of timid-lousy-no-good-brainless-complete-nin-com-poop-of-a-stalker am I???

What was I afraid of? Was I afraid to discover that she had actually read Ulysses? Or listened to Pavarotti? Or didn't have any old exercise equipment to shed because she faithfully uses it every day?

Was I afraid that even her cast-offs weren't good enough for me???

Or perhaps it was something else!

Perhaps . . . just perhaps. . . .I didn't need her hand-me-down clothing (Who am I kidding here? She's all of a size "6" while I'm well into double-digits.) Perhaps I felt secure with my own sunflowers and didn't need to stare at hers. Perhaps I didn't want to waste my hard-earned money supporting her out-of-control spending habit!

Or perhaps I'm just a spineless chicken. . . .

She's Perfectly Coated. I'm Old, Fat, and Bloated

Dear Perfect-Coated One,



The time has come for us to say a fond farewell.



Until September at least.



For the dawn of summer means that you will no longer stand outside your picket fence each weekday morning, poised and ready to shoo your little darlings onto the school bus.



It also means that I no longer will get stuck behind said school bus on my way to work, leaving me no choice but to observe your perfect family unit in action.

No longer will you need to don a coat. . . a sweater. . . or perfect pair of shoes. . . at that ungodly hour of the morning.

And no longer will I - still sweating after having waged a colossal battle with my own wardrobe malfunctions - need to lay my eyes on you.


No longer will your your sweaters. . . or your shoes. . . or your long blond hair be on display for all to see.

And no longer will I be living my life in sin . . . . coveting my neighbor's wife's goods.




Oh. . . and one last thing. . . I thank the good Lord that your perfect children don't have to go to summer school because I don't think I could bear the turmoil of seeing you in a bikini each morning. . .

Until September, I remain. . .

p.s. If you'd like to see more correspondence, skip on over to Kat's and read some other fab Dear So and So's. . .

Eight of the Ten Commandments

I need to follow a different route to work.

Because it occured to me this morning that I am violating a number of the ten commandments.


I think I'm coveting my neighbor's goods.

I may - in fact - be coveting my neighbor's wife.

And I am most definitely coveting my neighbor's wife's goods!

Yes, I'm talking about the perfect coated one. . . I covet her coats. . . I covet her sweaters . . . I covet her children. . . and her picket fence. . .and her front porch swing. . . at times I even covet her bald husband, cause I know that guy must be good for something. . . and I covet her skinny body!!!!

So sue me. . .

It's not like I killed anyone . . . and eight out of ten ain't bad. Is it????

Paralysis and pain

WARNING!

THIS POST MAY CONTAIN SOME DEEP THOUGHTS,

THE LIKES OF WHICH

ARE NOT USUALLY FOUND ON THIS BLOG. . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Do you know how life sometimes throws a strange confluence of events at you?

Well today I blame it on my shoes.

As I rummaged through my overstuffed closet in a frantic search for something to wear this morning, I thought. . . Should it be the flats . . . Or the high heeled boots?

And damn! Did I make the wrong choice!

I could have survived the morning alright . . . for it started the way it seems I start most mornings these days . . . with a funeral . . . and knowing that I was wearing those boots on the hard tile floor, I consciously conserved steps . . . taking the lazy-man's-load with every load I carried. (I bet you didn't think that one woman could carry the candle lighter, holy water, pall, incensor, and crucifix all in one trip, but I did it!)

But if I told you what ensued after that. . . you would be exhausted yourself!

Let it just suffice to say that my sweet little "Dora" (not little, actually, probably 400 pounds blown-dry) was struck by a hit-and-run driver while crossing the street in her wheelchair and I had to rush to the hospital to be there with her.

Are you family? they asked.

No, but I'm the closest thing she has, I found myself answering. . .

And because - thank God - she was not seriously injured, we sat and talked about life while we waited. . .

And you know. . . I was going to relate our whole conversation here . . . but the long and the short of it is that her husband "Meke" had an epileptic seizure 20 years ago when their son was small and he's been paralyzed from the waist, down ever since. Her son, also, was struck by a hit-and-run driver about 10 years ago and is severely disabled. And our dear Dora, who is diabetic, morbidly obese, and has a long-term injury from an automobile accident years ago, has been left to care for her disabled husband "Meke" ever since. . . living in my town's equivalent of "the Projects" and relying on his disability, medicaid, and the church's outreach to make ends meet.

And after a stop at Walgreens to fill her pain meds, I dropped her at her "home" and watched her make her way slowly up the wheelchair ramp. . . . paralyzed, myself, with fear of getting in too deep.


And as I put my little Fred Flintstone feet into my foot massager tonight, I can't help but think about Dora, and pray that the few phone calls I was able to make on her behalf may someday bring her the relief she needs.

Why? I wonder. Why is life so painful for some, but not for others?

The answer, I guess, we will only know after someone else has exhausted their feet preparing our funeral for us. . .

Every man's dream

First and foremost. . . I want to offer up prayers and well-wishes for my friend and bloggess-guru, Braja and her husband - who were severely injured in a car accident in India. May health and healing come your way. . .

Now, on to the good stuff. . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Phone call received at work today. . .

Meke: It's Dora's birthday today. . . I don't get it. . .but every year she expects me to go out and get her a present . . . and I just can't do it.

Me: Well what kind of present does she want?

Meke: I don't know

Me: Where is she now???

Meke: I don't know. She left.

Me: She took off in her wheelchair? Is she mad at you, Meke. . . you know, for not having a present for her???

Meke: Yup!

Me: Well, what does she like? Does she like flowers??? Chocolate???

Meke: I don't know

Me: What about jewelry? Does she like jewelry?

Meke: I don't know. I guess so. . .

Me: Well how about if I go to Walmart after I get off of work and buy her a pair of earrings and bring them to you to give to her. . . would that be okay???

Meke: Yeah.

Me: And if I get a birthday card for her. . . could you sign it?

Meke: Yeah.

Me: And if I wrapped the gift and brought it to your apartment and rang the doorbell . . . would you answer the door so you could give the gift to Dora yourself?

Meke: Yeah.

Me: Now don't forget to answer the door when I come so you can give the gift to her yourself. I don't want another repeat of the Valentine's Day fiasco. . .

Meke: I won't.

Two Hours Later. . .

Me: Well Hello Dora. Is it your birthday?

Dora: Yes

Me: Well, here's a little present for you from Meke.

Dora: Thank you.

Me: And Dora?

Dora: Yes?

Me: Make sure he signs that card I bought that says To My Wonderful Wife. . .

p.s. Did you think - for a moment - that I was talking about your "better half"??? The only difference between Meke and the average man is that he is severely disabled and - consequently - has an I.Q. of about 84. . . Happy Birthday Dora!!!!

The reason I know God has a sense of humor

I'm sorry to trouble you with extra reading, but if you want to know precisely why I know that God has a sense of humor, you're going to have to do a little extra work today.

First, I would like you to read the post that I wrote last night and planned for today. The post was in the form of a letter to a woman who is an acquaintance of mine through my job. . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Fannie Dae Kell,

This letter will serve a two-fold purpose.

First . . . I would like to thank you (in a long-overdue manner) for your Christmas present comprised of the not-so-gently-used-leather-pocketbook-with-evidence-of-someone-else's-life-in-it-in-the-form-of-tissue-droppings-and-the-two-tubes-of-already-used-lipstick-in-the-zipper-pocket. It was (in many ways) the most thoughtful gift I have ever received.
I hope that you don't mind that I passed your gift along to our parish secretary on her recent birthday. A gift like that is too good not to be shared. . .

Secondly. . . I need to inform you that I am hereby removing myself from your "case" (not that you have a "case" but somehow it seems right to call it that. . . )

Yes my friend, as of the writing of this letter, I am going to run into the conference room whenever I see you coming and declare myself in a meeting until you leave.

I can't help it, Fannie Dae Kell, I am - quite literally - giving away the store to you!!!! You know I can't resist it when you flash that gold tooth at me and pass me those little love notes when you think no one is looking. . . . the ones that read. . . need $ for wash clothes. . . or when you twist your face into that distorted look when I ask you if maybe you shouldn't get food stamps. . . or when you beg me to drive you home to the seniors center in the middle of a snow storm. . .

My heart goes out to you, Fannie Dae Kell . . . but the church and I are going bankrupt in the process!

Have you seen me driving Dora Schmalton around? Is that the problem??? Do you think I'm spending all my excess cash on her???? But you must have noticed, Fannie, that Dora is a good 400 pounds and needs some help . . . have you not seen her zipping around town in her motorized wheelchair? It's tough for her in all this snow and ice. Those wheelchairs don't come with four-wheel-drive, you know. . . One wrong move and she's toast! Besides, she has no one else to drive her around. . . God knows her husband can't help her at all because he weighs more than she does. . . and they need a lot of food - those Schmaltons. . . a few extra pork chops now and then are all I can do . . .

They won't take your place. . . Honestly!

Be grateful for your gift of health, my dear (even if I did have to give you bus money to go and have an ultrasound of your distorted stomach and to find the root of those damned nose-bleeds - the proof of which you always feel the need to show me in the form of a bloody tissue . . . See, my nose is bleeding again!!!!) for who knows when we may end up helpless like Dora Schmalton. . .

But - in all honesty - I can not stand it when you sit there looking like I've wronged you in some way by not financing your every move!!!

You remind me of my daughters!!!!!

And, for that reason alone, I am hereby declaring myself Off Duty! whenever I see you coming!!!!!!

With all hopes for your future success, I am. . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So here is the reason I think that God is chuckling at me from upstairs. . .

This evening when I left work I needed to pick up some ingredients for dinner. Now usually I run to the pricey grocery store around the corner, but suddenly I remembered that my trendy minivan has developed quite an annoying squeak (yes, it's relevant, keep reading. . . ) and I'm tired of other mothers in their S.U.V.'s looking down on me (quite literally) thinking How could she drive around in that squeaky old thing? or Don't tell me she's still missing that hubcap! and so I decided to run to the cheapy A & P instead.

That's where God comes in. . .

I no sooner walked through the doors, but who should I see?

Now I know you're thinking off the bat, I bet she saw Fannie Dae Kell! but you're wrong!

I saw Dora Schmalton in her wheelchair with an overflowing basket of groceries on her "lap" and a loaf of bread dangling from the wheelchair's arm! (Shopping, of course, with the $40 in food cards that I had given her earlier in the day. . . )And so I cry, Hello, Dora! Are you going to be okay getting home with all that stuff? Do you need a ride or anything? (Although how in God's good earth I was going to put that wheelchair in my squeaky hubcap-challenged van, I just didn't know. . .you see, she's not lame or anything. . . she usually walks to and from the car when I drive her.) Well anyway, she declares that she's perfectly fine and off she zips. And I, in turn, go on my way. . . rounding the corner into the first aisle when who do you suppose I saw next????

If you guess Fannie Dae Kell now, you're right!!!

Liz! says she, I was just thinking about you! I'm out of my A & P cards and I don't have enough money to pay for my stuff!

And so I knuckled in and handed over $20, a ride home, and a promise that I would sneak her some more food cards tomorrow.

And that - my friends - was when I caught God laughing.

I don't care what you call the entity that I refer to as "God". . . Supreme Being. . . All-Knowing. . . Allah. . . Buddha. . . Creator. . . Brahma. . . Divine Spirit. . .

Call God what you will. . . but you have to admit, She's got one heck of a sense of humor!!!

A letter to the lady I see each morning

Dear Lady who Lovingly Puts her Children on the School Bus in Front of Me Each Morning,


I believe you already know who you are. . . the tall, pretty one with the long brown hair who waits outside that beautiful home with the picket fence and owns about ten of the most absolutly gorgeous coats I have ever seen . . . the one whose children's bus I invariably get behind each morning as I am rushing to work like Mario Andretti . . . the one with a boy and a girl, aged roughly six and eight, who are dressed impeccably . . . .who always hop onto the bus after kissing you goodbye, leaving you waving like the queen at their departure. Now, keep in mind, I haven't seen what sort of car you drive, but I'm sure it's some sort of oversized SUV, not at all in keeping with my 1999 minivan.

Well, I have just one thing to say to you. . .

Do you think, for once, you could try to be less than perfect at 8:29 a.m.? How about if your children were late and the bus had to sit outside your house and honk once or twice? Could you try that? I'd be more than happy to be six minutes late for work instead of five just to see it. . . Or how about if one of your precious children decided they didn't want to go to school and had to be shoved on the bus - kicking and screaming - instead? Or what if you came out with your hair all disheveled? Or in your bathrobe? How about throw-up? Could one of your your kids throw up on one of your many coats as you wait for the bus to arrive? And, for good measure, could you make sure that they drank some red kool aid with their breakfast? That would be great! Or maybe one of them could be mad at you and throw you a good old, I hate you, Mom! before getting on that bus. . . but maybe you should wait for the warmer weather for that one so that my windows would be down and I could hear it. . . Oh, I forgot, my passenger window is perpetually out of order, so he'd have to scream like a banchee, okay. . . I could send my daughters to practice with them if you'd like. . .



I can't tell you how much a little imperfection on your end would leave me feeling a whole lot better about my life and spread a little sunshine into my day . . .

With all hopes for a little rain falling into your backyard, I am . . .

p.s. I want you all to notice that I didn't complain about my daughters once!!!

Ask, and you shall receive

You know. . . sometimes I'm sure that my life has some sort of cosmic, psychic, voodoo-ey thing going on.

Do you believe that some things can be more than just "coincidental"?

I'm convinced that sometimes I only have to think of something to make it happen. No really! I think about someone. . . I see them at the deli counter. I look at my phone. . . it often starts to ring. I doubt my daughter's story. . . turns out she's lying. (Okay, you don't have to be a psychic brain surgeon to figure that one out!)

But I think today some great cosmic communication wires got a tad bit crossed and knotted.

For those of you who read yesterday's blog (and shame on you if you think you can just scroll on down and read it now!) you'll know that I was talking about giving used (gently-worn if you prefer) sweatshirts as a gift.

But little did I guess that the psychic pendulum would swing back my way so quickly.

Now when you work for a church like I do, you're very often in contact with those who need a little help making ends meet . . . enter my dear friend we'll call "Fannie Dae Kell" who comes to me twice a month for some church-issued food cards (along with whatever cash she can get me to extract from my own wallet.)

And now that Christmas has rolled around, she realizes that it's time for giving back - quite literally. She came in today with presents for the entire staff (which she asked me to wrap, of course.) And what had she purchased for us?

~ The Music Minister got a make-up case.

~ The Parish Secretary, a new pair of earrings.

~ Priest Number 1 was gifted with a new black T-shirt with poker chips on it that said "Play or Die. . .Los Vegas!" (Living proof that what happens in Vegas should have stayed in Vegas!)

~ Priest Number 2 received two pairs from a three-pack of socks. (I wonder who got the other one. . . )

~ And as for me? What did A Mom on Spin get, you ask. . .

Well, Fannie Dae Kell gave me a not-so-gently-used-red-leather-purse-with-evidence-of-some-other-person's-life-still-in-it-in-the-form-of-fuzzy-tissue-droppings-and-two-tubes-of-used-lipstick!

Told you I was psychic!

I asked for a used item . . . I received one!!!