Sorry, but its Hard to See With This Plank In My Eye

How deeply lines rivet the faces of those whose role in life is that of keeping other people from sinning. How precious and valuable used, unwanted, chipped, sweat-stained, and skin follicle speckled junk is. What great responsibility to protect it, to ensure it is securely and diligently locked up so that only the keeper of the key can unlock the bounty of those one dollar and fifty cent broaches and belly rings. How critical to maintain the integrety of these objects so that good may be done. This good which will be bestowed upon the great and blessed field far, far away. Visited by few, the field is vaguely known by the glossy pictures carefully fastened to white walls- gleaming pictures of cleansed field dwellers whose lives have been eternally changed from dusty monotony to ceaseless gratitude.

How tremendously rewarding and exciting it must be to deliver this good news to that land far far away. Surely it would not be as complex as being the keeper of the keys here in the Land of the Plank. It takes a great deal of commitment to confiscate backpacks and large handbags at the door, lest untrustworthy locals should be found allowing merchandise to fall into their greedy folds. Its no small task to sleuth about the place, scowling down at children and sticky-fingered mothers who are surely in this place to take and take and take, never once thinking of the good that could be done to those in the field far, far away. Or what of the responsibility to ensure that no one should fondle an item yet unpriced!! Or slip an item with a pink tag into their satchel on bag sale day when the signs clearly read blue tags; priced $5.00 and under! (no fabric, no tea towels, no pretty things, no vintage things, no laughing, no smiling, and certainly, no dancing, drinking, or loitering). No, nor shall we support the hedonistic pleasures of campers, seeking to purchase a cooling receptable whose exterior clearly depicts bottles of Coors, or Labatts, or Kokanee. Woe to the fingers of the fallen pricer who brought such an abominable thing of shame onto the floor.

These are the thankless, unrecognized duties of those who were left behind. Their pictures will never smile from a brochure that promises tax deductable receipts to support the efforts of those lucky messengers of good in that land far away. In that place, surely the good is always well received and its recipients never fall into traps of greed and carelessness like the lowly, base thrift shoppers from the land of plenty. Surely their men marry women without question. Surely their mothers teach children to be seen and not heard. Surely all its people have learned the value of not asking questions; not challenging the status quo.

But someone must stay behind to ensure that the cracked and faded donated things don't get all dirtied up by some local before the proceeds can be used for some good. Somebody must ensure that some local doesn't carry off the merchandise improperly priced, or taken from behind a staff only sign, or that backpacks and large handbags don't get stuffed with eight tracks and cd games from the cheerio boxes seven years ago. Somebody has got to stay behind to make sure there are no toys in the area that the kids are allowed to play in. They might carelessly damage one, and what good would that do?

Its a diry job, but someone's got to make sure that nobody is doing anything wrong. No good could come of it.

One More Shot at Making an Ugly Mark

Back in the eighties I shared the second floor of an amazing old house just off of Corydon and my roomies and I had a party that would be henceforth be remembered as the "cop stopper". As it turned out, the guys who lived below us, (and repaired harleys on the living room hardwood in their spare (sober) time) were also throwing a party, so we just threw all the doors and stairways open and had one great big, cop stopper. It felt to me like one of those life events that I could wear as a feather in my kercheif. Like maybe I had finally moved off the farm...

Well, I'm not twenty-something any more and I'm not afraid to tell you that I've been thirty-nine for some ten months now. You gals all know about the up and coming cougar party, and I trust that your shopping and hair-teasing is well under way. I'm putting quite a bit of energy into plumping myself with that extra twenty to thirty pounds that was mentioned in the comments. I'd forgotten about that cougar special, but I think I can pull that one off. (she says, taking a sip of her wine, and a big bite of baguette with boursin cheese...the sambucca resting in the folds of her thigh).

Last year I hosted my first ever I'm-thirty-nine-and-not-afraid-to-tell-you-what-to-do-about-it-Ugly-Sweater-Party. I'm not joking whatsoever when I tell you that I believed this to be my very own, original idea. I came up with it at the elevater thrift shop when I was enjoying all the ghastly holiday sweaters and wishing I had some reason to purchase them. Turns out that there are other brilliant minds out there. That this has been thought of before. And I'll tell you how I know.

After the Ugly Sweater Party, I received an e-mail from a Michigan reader who was contacted by a columnist at the Winnipeg Free Press. He had googled "ugly sweater party" and landed up at her site. She had been sent a lovely honourary bad-ass sweater corsage since she had been otherwise committed on the day of the party and could not attend in person. Mr columnist guy wanted to write an article about this trendy Christmas party theme and asked her some questions about the event. She in turn directed me to him; and he to me. We exchanged e-mails, and since we were already well into December, he decided to defer until the following winter to write the piece about the ugly sweaters.

TRENDY?! Like I said, I thought that this was my original idea. I thought it was just possible that this idea of mine would be my ticket to finally making something memorable of myself- some legacy for my children, for my future generations.......

Hard to believe its been a year already. Another year off my life, and I'm still not a published author, a tae kwon doe instructer, a famous lecturer, or a coveted artist. But just this week, I received an e-mail from Dave Sanderson of the Winnipeg Free Press. He requested an invitation for himself and his photographer in anticipation of what he probably believes is an annual event for me. Rapidly approaching forty, and fearing that I may never make my mark on this world, I lept at the oppurtunity. So, maybe my works would never get published, but at least I'd get my name and maybe even a photo in the paper?!

So, here's your formal invitation:

on November 24, 2007, 7:00 pm

We request the honour of your attendance

at Joyce's second annual

Ugly Sweater Party

this year featuring

your choice of male escort or attendent.

(not necessarily paid)

No shoes, shirt, or black tie required.

Sweater mandatory.

Bring food and drink to share.

(BYOB&F&S)

(bring your own drink and food and sweater... heck, just bring your own party!)

Care to join me in becoming famous?

Check out last year's event here and here.

This time, if you want to, you can bring your husband or significant other. (just please not both). Leave your kids and pets at home though. They remind me too much of work.

Bringing Sexy Back

Down at the local junk shop yesterday I ran into a worldly friend who had been hoodwinked into buying tickets for the infamous Justin Timberlake concert. We giggled about being older than fourteen and trying to blend into the hysterical audience of perky young undie tossers. Then I inadvertently launched into a long spiel about my thirteen year old daughter downloading his music and how less-than-thrilled I was about the sexual pervasiveness in his tunes, and my horrer at the very idea of purchasing her a $111.00 ticket for the privelege of watching his hips gyrate. Our culture is so saturated with sexuality, I rambled on, and I want more than that for my daughters.

Little did I know how far and wide that Timberlake's influence had spread. Like a batch of newly hatched Manitoba mosquitoes launched out of a tepid July pond, that sexy thinking had saturated places previously unknown to the world and all its temptations. Little did I know that even our local haven- the mecca for clean hands missionary work, scrubber and seller of all things used and dated, was also a pawn in our culture of hedonism. Yes, buried under key chains advertising evangelism, hilcoa, fancy humble cars, and trendy funeral homes was a treasure unearthed by my precious, innocent, impressionable young daughter.

Run for the hills, cloister your handmaidens.

Our last remaining sanctuary of purity has been toppled.

The Niverville Mcc Store is bringing sexy back.