1. People will buy anything if the price is right.
2. Even if the price is right, they'll ask to pay you less.
3. There is no way to keep clothes organized when 20 people are rummaging through them at any given moment.
4. You will do 80 percent of your day's sales in the first hour.
5. Do not open the garage door until you are ready to sell.
6. People actually do buy cassette tapes (and to think I scoffed at my father for putting them out there).
7. People do not buy used toilet plungers (I laughed at my mother when she brought it out, I teased her with it half way through and I taunted her when it was one of the only items still sitting unsold at the end of the day). What was she thinking anyway???
8. There are people who are really in need of bargain-basement-priced decent used clothes for their kids and they are grateful and appreciative that you spent your Saturday sitting in a driveway (I undercharged every one of them).
9. Doing a family sale is the way to go -- you have more items to sell (which draws the buyers) and more hands to help. Keeping the money separate was kind of a pain though.
10. They're profitable. I pocketed over $350. Not bad pay for a couple days of work.

Believe it or not, I sold almost everything. I brought back two small containers of things. I'd have brought more clothes back, but a woman stopped and handed us a piece of paper saying that they would come and pick up any donations of clothing and/or toys we might have left over. They collect the donations and distribute them at Christmas time to needy families for free. We were all for that & I left most of my remaining baby and kid clothes and shoes for them.

So, I made some money, I helped some people who really needed it and I gained lots of basement storage space. Live and learn.

Ever tried to photograph fireworks? It's not easy, but I managed to get some decent pix last year using my digital camera. I was shooting them so I could use the photos in the girls' scrapbooks.

This article has some great tips for capturing fireworks with a digital camera.

BTW -- here's a tip for taking little kids to fireworks. They're often frightened by the noise -- a simple solution? Borrow a pair of rifle earmuffs from the hunter in your family. They'll muffle the noise and allow kids to enjoy the show. (sorry, I have no advice for the poor dogs who are terrified by the booms -- our Labrador used to hate the entire first week of July).

You just never know what's going to come out of the mouth of a four-year-old -- which means I am always on the ready to clap my hand over my daughter's mouth. They say what they mean, mean what they say and they aren't afraid to ask questions.

My little one has been on a roll lately...Here are a few of the funnier things she's said/done recently:

* My husband has a moustache (yeah, I know..how 70s-porn-star, but...really he just doesn't look right without it) and he was giving Lauren a bath the other day & she said "Can I touch your Moose-statch?" He said "If you want to" and she reaches up and touches it and says "Your porky" (which we took to mean that his moustache is like a porcupine..or that it's pokey).

* I don't cook often and when I do I'm a toaster oven gourmet. The other day Lauren pointed to the big stove/oven in the corner and said "What that big one for?" I said "Christmas cookies."

* Last night at the baseball game, she was making eyes at the Grandma sitting behind us and talking to her (Lauren talks to everyone and really never shuts up...hmmmm...like mother, like daughter?) and she says "I like peanuts" because, of course, the woman is holding a bag of peanuts and then she reached in a took one. I was mortified that she would be so bold and thought...dear God, have I taught this child NO manners?" But...of course, Grandma-behind-us thought it was hysterical and gave her the rest of the bag. (thereby creating a monster, I'm sure).

* Some Amish women (or Mennonite?) and children were at our garage sale on Saturday. Lauren followed them all around the garage saying "Who are you? Where are you going? Why you dressed like that?" Again...mortified.

A friend recently wrote a cool review on Camper's Paradise which is a really nice campground in Cook's Forest. I'd highly recommend it -- it's clean, it's wooded and it's got a great, heated pool.

I'm starting to hate holidays. Seriously.

I might like them if I could do something I enjoy. But, instead I get to spend them with family.

Not my little family (as in kids and husband)...no, that might be enjoyable.

I have to spend them with THE FAMILY and, frankly, I'd rather just work.

Let's just say that yesterday was less than enjoyable.

Husband and I are not speaking now. He thinks I'm being a bitch. I think he's a jerk. This is how marriage goes, I know. Ups and downs. I'm pretty angry that he's not talking to me because...I am not talking to HIM.

And, now I realize we are both acting like 7-year-olds.

But, family will do that to you -- reduce you back down to the child you once were, bring out all your insecurities and make you want to run for the hills.

After reading an article "What your Bad Habits Really Mean" by Keith Ablow, M.D., in the May issue of Good Housekeeping (yeah, I'm a little bit behind in my periodicals), I ordered the book "Living the Truth."

Now, apparently, Dr. Ablow is some big-deal TV personality. I didn't know that, but then...I work all day when the talk shows are on and I don't have cable, so...I'm always three steps behind in popular culture anyway.

I just liked what the article had to say -- I like that the subtitle to the book is "Transform Your Life Through the Power of Insight and Honesty" -- because I can use a little transformation, insight and honesty in my life.

Sunday was our company picnic at Waldameer. My daughters made fast friends with the daughters of a couple of co-workers and within an hour of meeting each other the four girls -- ranging in age from 4 to 5 were walking hand-and-hand toward the kiddie land rides chanting "Frog hopper, frog hopper, frog hopper!" The crowd had to part to let the girls pass by four-abreast because they weren't letting go of each others' hands.

We parents stood back and laughed. Though our daughters didn't known each other well, we mommies knew quite a bit about each kid because, well, we discuss them endlessly at the office. We compare behaviors, ask "Does so-and-so ever do this?" and "How do you handle that?" The greatest parenting resource I have are my co-workers with kids who are about the same age as mine.

As the girls ran from ride to ride, sitting next to each other (and all together) whenever possible, we joked how nice it would be when they're about 12 or 13 years old and we parents can stay in the picnic pavilion with the beer, wine and food and tell the girls to "check back" at a certain time.

But, life has taught me that it's never that simple. These girls will get older and develop their own personalities and insecurities and friends and they'll likely resent their parents for trying to force them to hang around with their co-workers kids at the annual picnic. They'll cringe when we tell them how they used to run around the park holding hands when they were younger because it's likely that they older they get, the less they'll have in common (with the exception of parents who work for the same company).

I realize that's a pessimistic view to take -- to recognize the good and miss it before it's even gone. For now, I should just enjoy the innocence of young girls who can make friends easily and unabashedly. Who hold hands for the sheer pleasure of it and bond over nothing more than their gender and a love of Waldameer's Frog Hopper ride and anything pink.

.. that people in Erie would actually be cursing the sunshine and praying for cooler temps and rain. Today, I actually had a conversation with my mother in which she said, "well, it was raining, but now it looks like the damn sun is trying to come out again." Never did I think I'd ever see the day we had too much sun in Erie.

... that our little corner of Northwestern PA would make national news THREE days in a row for bizarre news stories -- on Monday it was our lazy legislators shutting down our "crown jewel," yesterday it was the loose wrecking ball wreaking havoc in Meadville and today it's the federal government handing down indictments in the "pizza bomber case." Oy vey. How embarrassing all this is. I can almost hear the banjo music from Deliverance.

... that Nicole Richie could actually get pregnant? Don't most waifs lose the ability to ovulate when their body weight drops below 90 lbs.?

It's like "Wacky Wednesday" (one of my favorite childhood books) -- where everything is backwards and nothing is quite right.

I've been wandering through the camera department of every store and leafing through the advertising flyers every Sunday for the past six months lusting after the new digital cameras. I have a nice 5.0 megapixel one that I bought probably less than 2 years ago, but...I wanted an upgrade. Something with more megapixels and less bulk. A camera I can slip into my pocket or purse without looking like I'm packing heat. Something sexier than the bulky model I've been lugging around.

I noticed the Kodak C763 in this Sunday's Office Max advertising flyer and, on impulse, ordered the camera on-line on Monday. I justified the purchase with free shipping, a free gift and a recent "if you want one so badly, just buy it" comment from the husband.

I got the camera last night, charged it up and started snapping before work this morning. Here are some photos of my gorgeous hollyhocks that I got from a friend here at work. They grow about 6 feet tall and flower from top to bottom (when I spray them before the Japanese beetles devour them). I have them lining my pool fence in an area that gets complete sun. They, apparently,like it there because they have greatly multiplied over the years.

The only problem I have with my hollyhocks being planted there is that they attract bees. Lots and lots and lots of bees... to the pool area ...where there are lots of people running around barefoot and half-dressed. Though, in all honestly, no one has ever been stung by a honeybee at our pool (though people have been stung by yellowjackets a time or two).

If you've never grown hollyhocks, you just don't know what you're missing. These things are incredible. They do take up a lot of space, but...they put on quite a show.

Currently, in this small 8 foot bed, I have five or six large plants (and a few more trying to start in between) that range in color from salmon to pink to crimson to peach.

Here, are a few photos I took with the new camera:

We hosted my mother's family reunion at our house on Sunday afternoon. The husband and I are party-throwing pros -- you get used to hosting a lot of parties when you have acres of land and a swimming pool. Frankly, we enjoy sharing our little piece of paradise with others. And, to be honest with you, I had ulterior motives when I offered to host this year's shin-dig: It gave me the perfect excuse to get some stuff done around the house (or rather to nag the husband into getting some stuff done around the house).

One of his jobs "to get ready for the reunion" was to replace our main bathroom toilet. Though we've known we were hosting this reunion since...oh, last July...my husband waited until the Thursday before the reunion to replace the toilet (and, actually...that's not too bad. I expected him to wait until the day before). Our old throne had become a three-flush toilet and that just wasn't going to work with our well water and 50 people flushing thrice every time they visited the commode.

So, off the husband goes to a local big-box hardware store to buy a toilet. First, he calls to ask me what I wanted. "Uh...something that flushes and has a lid that closes...that's pretty much it, dear. I'm not real potty-picky."

He says it will cost a $100 and take 1 hour. I immediately triple that -- applying the Cass Home Improvement Principle (total cost and time = estimated time and cost multiplied by 3).

When I got home from work on Thursday I could tell when I pulled in the driveway and saw him stomping out to his tool bench in the garage that something went wrong with the potty installation. I prayed it wasn't a rotten floor that meant ripping out and replacing.

Turns out it was a defective toilet -- it didn't flush right. The husband had to take it all apart and take it back to the store.

Home he comes with another toilet. "Now I've got a good one. This is what I'm talking about -- an American made toilet."

A 1/2 hour later, I hear him laughing. He had removed the tank cover and the inside was stamped with "Made in Mexico by American Standard." He said "Oh, whatever...it flushes...look at that (flush), nice strong flush."

Few minutes later I'm doing dishes in the kitchen and I hear him swearing (which is highly unusual for my mild-mannered husband). "Come in here," he says to me. "You have to see this."

"I don't think I want to."

"No, c'mere, really."

The toilet seat holes were drilled incorrectly so the seat sat cockeyed on the top off the bowl. Not mildly cockeyed, but four inches cockeyed.

I just started laughing.

He pulled that toilet out, too. Took it back to the store the next day and got toilet No. 3.

... which cost about $100 and took him about an hour to install.

Of course, there were those previous two..so, once again, the Cass Home Improvement Principle holds true.

I had to take the girls to run errands with me on Monday. Dragging two young children from store to store is pretty much a recipe for disaster under even the best circumstances, but it's a guaranteed nightmare if one of those children is 4 years old.

Which just so happens to be the age that my youngest turned on Friday (the 13th, no less).

We were in Michael's around 11 a.m. on Monday, my 4yo securely seated in a cart (because I know better than to let her out -- containment is key). She is whining away in her squeaky, high-pitched Minnie-Mouse voice because ... she's hungry, she wants some candy, she wants that plastic flower, she wants a purple foam crown, and ... well, suffice to say she whining about everything and anything.

I say to the cashier (well to her as much as the disapproving-looking older couple behind me) -- "Twos have nothing on the Fours." The cashier says "Really? I thought it was always 2-year-olds that were hard."

I said "No way. At 2, they are still cute. And you can still physically pick them up even when they're freaking out, and (as Lauren interrupts to tell me I'm a "mean mommy" and "Maybe you need a time-out, Mommy") they don't engage in snotty backtalk (which is a 4-year-old girls favorite way to test your limits).

I wanted to stop at another store along the way home, but I knew it there was nothing I needed that badly.

Except a little peace and quiet, of course.

A colleague at the paper sent me a link to this interesting story about bottled water.

FACT: "24% of the bottled water we buy is tap water repackaged by Coke and Pepsi."

I've never bought into the bottled water phenomenon and never understood why people would pay good money for something that comes right out of the tap for free. And, I've always thought those individual bottles were recklessly wasteful -- all that plastic just made to be thrown away. Oh, sure, they recycle some of it, but you know darn well that there are tons of those bottles in lying in the landfills.

I confess to having bought bottled water occasionally -- in fact, I'm sipping on a Dasani bottle now (that I've been refilling with tap water for, well...far to long judging by the lipstick on the rim). I buy kid-size "sport" bottles of water for my kids -- but, truth be told, I buy for the bottle and we reuse again and again and again. I bought a 10-pack of their water sometime back in January and we still have two bottles left.

And, as long as I'm on the subject of people and their stupid drinking habits (or maybe it's the soft drink giants, Coca-Cola and Pepsi I should be bashing) -- what's with everyone drinking Gatorade all the time? It's become fashionable to carry around a sport drink. A sport drink that is FULL of calories, salt and sugar. A sport drink designed to be used by ATHLETES while they are working out. I scoff every time I see some schmuck walking around with a bottle of Gatorade -- surely it's so we all know they're a big-time athlete, right?

Whatever.

I read a parenting quote several years ago that said "Parenting: The days are long, but the years are short." It sure rang true back then when I was up to my elbows in formula, had two kids in diapers and a full-time job and was frequently heard muttering "this too shall pass, this too shall pass...." Seems every day back then was a struggle just to get through it and get everything done and everyone's needs taken care of. I reminded myself,constantly, to stop and enjoy my babies because they wouldn't be babies for long.

Now, five years later, not much has changed about the daily struggle to get things done -- except I no longer deal with diapers and formula. The girls are a little more self-sufficient now, but it comes with a price -- namely independent streaks that cause them to automatically challenge everything I say or tell them to do, particularly with the 4-year-old.

Today, my oldest child turns 6. She'll start Kindergarten in less than 5 weeks. Every day she loses more of her babyish looks. Her curly ringlets of youth are gone -- replaced by long, golden wavy locks. Her chubby baby cheeks have thinned and her face has taken on a more mature look. I can no longer carry her if she falls asleep in the car and she can't sit on me for more than a few minutes; my girl has outgrown me.

Even though these days (and girls) can be challenging and every day is still an endless stream of work -- from 4:45 a.m. till I collapse at 11 p.m. -- I try not to wish these years away because, indeed, the years are short.

It still seems like yesterday:

This was yesterday:

There's a really great story about the Presque Isle Inn -- the infamous P.I. nightclub on the shores of Lake Erie -- in the Erie Times-News today. If you missed the story, you can read it here.

Most importantly, you simply must watch the video -- if for no other reason than to laugh hysterically at the fashion and hairstyles.

I am too young to have ever experienced the P.I., but I used to hear great stories about it from the various people I babysat for (who were all out partying at the P.I.).

I was disappointed to read that the owners demolished the place to build condos. Part of me was happy to read it didn't turn out to be a successful venture for them.

I find it tremendously sad that the first view people now get of our peninsula is, in fact, of condos. I hate those condos. I still cannot believe they were ever given permission to build them there. I seethe every time we stop at Sara's and sit outside, licking our ice cream cones and admiring the view of stockade fencing and condos instead of Lake Erie.

All of nature -- and most of Erie -- will rejoice the day they finally bulldoze those suckers down.

We stopped at the library Monday and the girls were too entranced with the stuffed animals in the children's library to pick out their own books and movies, so it was Mommy's choice. I spied a DVD of Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory -- the original one (with Gene Wilder and his crazy hair).

I never liked the movie much, but it's one of my husband's all-time favorites, so I grabbed it up.

I put it in for the kids that afternoon while I did some paperwork and proofreading nearby. My 6-year-old loved it - and was entranced.

My 4-year-old sat watching wide-eyed and clearly terrified. Every time a "bad" kid would disappear or bloat up or fall into the chocolate river, she's say, "Momma, what happened? Where he/she goed? Where did they go? Where did they go? This is scary, momma. What happened to that boy/girl?"

I knew right then that I'd have an extra body in my bed that night. Willie Wonka was sure to produce nightmares (and it did).

Of course, it only makes sense that she would be terrified. It's a freakishly frightening movie. As the Web site I linked to above states, "Promoted as a family musical by Paramount Pictures, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory is more of a black comedy, perversely faithful to the spirit of Roald Dahl's original book."

The basic premise is that all the selfish, spoiled, whining brats are, well, disposed of. Only the "good boy" remains.

You can see how this might be terrifying to my 4-year-old who is not exactly a "Charlie" at this point in her life. She knows that her behavior is sometimes less than desirable (and, in fact, she had been "acting up" at a few stores that morning) and then her mommy rents this movie for her showing all the "bad" kids having these terrible things happening to them when they don't listen to the adults.

Hand me my Mother-of-the-Year award.

Though, it is kind of funny if you think about it.

And, don't think I'm above using it next time she starts to whine when we're out shopping.

"Hey, remember Willie Wonka and what happens to bad kids ... "

From my Wild Words from Wild Women desk calendar:

"Adam and Eve had an ideal marriage. He didn't have to hear about all the men she could've married, and she didn't have to hear about the way his mother cooked." -- Kimberly Broyles, humor monger.

We put a second floor on our (former) ranch house....oh....5 years ago now. And, since the day they dug the footer there has been a pile of rocks and dirt sitting in my front yard where the backhoe dropped it.

I eyed that pile of dirt when we were done with the major construction and gave my husband my trademark sideways glance and said, "so, what are you doing with that? You're moving that right? Because I don't want that sitting in the yard for a year. I know how you are about the details..."

He responded with his trademark eye roll and an audible sigh (and one hand up in a "stop" gesture) and said "Don't worry about it. It will be gone. I will take care of it. Seriously. Soon. Don't worry about it."

I took a silent vow not to nag about it and to see how long it would go before he "took care of it."

5 years.

FIVE YEARS.

Over the years, weeds grew over the pile and a shumac tree took root. The dirt pile had become the topic of conversation among the neighbors who were well aware of my annoyance about "the pile" and never missed an opportunity to ride Dan about it, thereby doing my dirty work (nagging by proxy).

At Christmastime, the shumac tree had twinkling lights strung on it. Dan thought I did it to mock him. I thought he did it to irritate me. We found out later it was a friend of Dan's from work (a guy who was also privy to the ongoing dirt-pile war in our house) stoking the fire.

On a Monday, two weeks ago, the girls and I came up from a walk in the creek out back to find the pile gone and the backhoe guy smoothing out our new front lawn. It took backhoe Bob about two full days of work to even out the land, tear up the weeds that had taken over, plant new seed and lay down straw.

And, then, we were blessed with last week -- a week filled with daily rain and sunshine -- perfect for growing grass. I figure it's my reward for biting my tongue (mostly) for five years. Perhaps it's Dan's reward for finally getting the job done.

Regardless, the grass is growing up now and, if you look at the lawn sideways you can see whole patches of grass poking up from under the straw. It's just a matter of time before it takes over and we have the lush, green lawn I've been dreaming of for five years now.

When Dan saw the first blades of grass coming up, he rushed me outside to look at them. As we admired our little lawn-to-be, I gave him my trademark sideways glance and said, "you know a nice lawn like this requires maintenance..."

He responded with his trademark eye roll and an audible sigh (and one hand up in a "stop" gesture) and said "Don't worry about it. I will take care of it. Seriously. Don't worry about it."

Now where have I heard that before?