So, I finished The Help and am now reading The Happiness Project. I'm barely three chapters in and I already love the author as she has admitted that she hates to shower long and that she postpones going to bed because getting ready with all the face washing and teeth brushing is so much bother. And I really couldn't agree more.

Another item that made me feel I may secretly be normal is that I wrote an e-mail to a friend noting a seemingly mundane thing I'm doing. I'm trying to be less negative (although if I was succeeding, I probably would have phrased that as trying to be more positive), so I didn't state any of the things that were bothering me about said thing. But darn if she didn't write back with her hackles raised over the very same things that ticked me off me but that I didn't put into writing lest I infect her day with my ire. I love my friends. They are really really really worth the wait it took me to find them.

I hope the gym doesn't again show Little Miss Sunshine during the time frame I am there. It's very difficult to work out at an optimum level and cry at the same time. Sure, sure I could have looked away and watched Fox News (although it's hard to work out at an optimum level while you're vomiting ) and/or just turned up the volume on "Head Like a Hole", but it was the pagaent scene. Where that poor little girl is being booed off the stage and her up-to-that-point crappy dad and her suicidal uncle and her brother all jump on stage with her and refuse to let them kick her out. Good golly, I'm crying just writing about it.

Goodness. Well, I'll chalk it up to getting old. Remember when you could do anything and never think about it because nothing hurt the next day?No, no, not just because you were whooping it up the night before, but rather because you were engaging in feats of physical strength like lifting weights. Or walking to the mailbox.

I'd finally stopped hurting after going to the gym for a couple of weeks. I think it was a couple of weeks. (It felt like longer, but I suspect it was shorter.) And then we went away for a bit. Now while visiting family out of town, I did go to the gym twice. And then I resumed my usual workout yesterday. And today I feel like a little old lady. Even my elbows hurt. But not as much as my triceps and my chest and my thighs and my calves. I even doubled my amount of time stretching before and after, knowing it was my first day back. I remember a time, long long ago, when I could just open the door and run for a while and never consider stretching. Not that that was smart, but it was something I could do. Youth! Youth is wasted on the young! I am so original this morning! Except not really!

I was stretching while a woman one mat over was working with a personal trainer. He was helping her keep good form and encouraging her while she did something on an exercise ball. Suddenly, she got up and returned the ball to its spot against the wall. "Hey," the trainer called, smiling and puzzled, "We're not done."

"Oh yes we are!" snapped the woman and she walked away. And then I think she went out to her car and ate a Twinkie that she had shoved under the front seat. But really, if you are paying someone to help you make your body strong and efficient, doesn't it seem logical that you would, I don't know, listen to what they're saying? Or at the very least, if you have to quit, can't you be polite and say Sorry, this isn't going to work for me. Thanks for your time. ? Also, I know starting an excercise program sucks. It really truly does. Sometimes I just close my eyes and pretend I'm not really attempting to lift weight over my head and concentrate on the melodic sounds of Will Smith gettin jiggy with it. But the hard part is actually getting started. Once you're there, it seems like you owe it to yourself to do something, anything, even if it isn't the workout you anticipated you would be able to do. And let's just say that this woman had not yet even broken a sweat.

Huh. Who knew twinkie was spelled with a capital T? Thanks Spellcheck.

So, as it turns out, Florida has an impressive amount of wildlife. I also saw but was unable to document: a bald eagle, various raccoons, and an armadillo. And no, I would still not want to live there. Ever. Under any circumstances.

Dear Rabbits,
Well, it's spring again, when a young rodent's thoughts turn to eating gardens and knocking boots(yes, that was me last night imploring you to turn down Barry White's Greatest Hits. It was 3 am for the love of Pete!). I know things were rocky between us last year, but I'd like to think we can begin anew and put all that behind us. Sure, you destroyed my garden, my fence and negated all my back-breaking hours of hard work. But to be fair, my dog killed off your entire family. So, I think we're even. Let's have a fresh start.

In that spirit of wiping the slate clean, I'm going to have to remind you that it is NOT a good idea to build your nest in the fenced-in part of the yard. That is the part of the yard in which Stella roams free. That is the part of the yard in which eight of your brethren met with their demise. If you insist on making your home near my home, please do it beyond the unmistakable DogLivesHere part. Like maybe in a neighbor's yard. Because Stella has got the blood lust. She's a terrier. She must follow her heart. And her heart wants to kill you with a sharp shake of her head and a quick snap of your neck.

And I must confess that if you disregard the whole dog territory thing and build your nest here anyway, then I have to question whether or not you really have the type of genes that are worth passing on. Because clearly they are a bit on the... how shall I say...less than smart side of things. (No offense.)

Best of luck to you in your endeavors this year. Please keep in mind that there are many other gardens in the area other than mine, should you get hungry. And to answer your question,no, of course those aren't rabbit skulls littering my garden! No, no. Those are...eggshells! Yes, eggshells. They're for the soil. Okay, then. Cheers!

While having lunch at school, another child in Mort's class (let's call him Dennis) left no doubt in my mind as to where Mort has been learning his new vocabulary. Dennis asked me if I knew what licking a beaver meant (before I could formulate a response to that through my stunned brain, he assured me it meant you were licking your butt.); told the table he would grow hair on his "pee pee"(really? you can't teach your child the proper name for penis?); and used the words "butt" "poop" "fart" "boobie" and "nipples" more times in a half-hour than I believe I have heard those words used in the last three years.

And this was before Dennis gulped the rest of his juice and announced he was "drunk."

What in the world is this kid being exposed to at home?

And please, please, please do not let him be in the same class as Mort next year.

Seeing as how it took me seven tries to stand-up this morning because my calves hurt so badly that I couldn't put any weight on them, I may as well come clean: I've joined a gym. I'm trying to become long-term healthy and fit.

On the plus-side, I have thus far been successful in protecting my back from even the slightest twinge.

On the negative side, I obviously have no idea what is a proper amount of weight to lift or how many times said weight should be lifted. Because my calves have hurt for three days and they feel like I have surgically inserted softballs into them.

Now of course I could do the obvious and meet with the personal trainer to get myself set-up on a program. After all, I know nothing other than now that I'm doing this, I want to be ripped and I don't want to wait. I have a friend who did just this and she is very happy with the results as seen by the program suggested by said personal trainer to the degree that she is looking into hiring her on for more sessions.

I think I must just like to make things hard on myself. And I'm too embarrassed to admit I have no idea what I'm doing. I've been switching between doing cardio and weight--one day upper body, another day lower body. And I've gained 4 pounds.

And no, I don't believe that it's because I'm building muscle. Because even though we've all heard that adage that a pound of muscle weighs more than a pound of fat, I don't buy it. Because a pound weighs a pound regardless of what is being weighed. It's like that feathers and bricks: if you drop a pound of bricks and a pound of feathers from the top of a building, which will hit the ground first? Theoretically, they should hit the ground at the same time because they both weigh a pound. (See how I used italics for emphasis?)

Yes, I do believe that a pound of muscle is more streamlined and compact and more effective for your body's functions than a pound of fat.

So we will have to chalk my weight gain up to me not watching what I'm eating. Because yesterday I made a smoothie: low-fat yogurt, blueberries and a banana. It was awesome. And then I wondered how many calories were in it. I checked out the amount of calories in a couple handful of blueberries and a banana. My seemingly healthy breakfast had more calories in it than I had just burned on the elliptical machine.

Yeah, maybe I need to meet with the personal trainer.

If I titled my posts, which I do not, this one would be called Reality Television.

Except for this part where I implore you to watch Breaking Bad. There are very few television shows that are watchable and dare I say, awesome. One is Breaking Bad. One is Weeds. One is Mad Men. And one is 30 Rock.

And now I must say that I have never seen Dancing With the Used-to-Be and/or Almost Were and/or want to become Stars. But I will be tuning in this year. Why? Because Brenda will be on it. That's right BRENDA from Beverly Hills 90210, possibly the only show I know better than the back of my hand, the show that enables me to win trivia games in which I have no business even participating. Because I LOVED that show. I didn't love that show in the same way I worshipped at the altar of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It's not like the writing was decent or the actors were talented or the costume department knew their stuff. But I loved it just the same. And any other BH90210 devotee out there is totally hoping Luke Perry will guest star as Brenda's dance partner only to be swept away by Jennie Garth to the strains of Sophie B Hawkins' "Damn I Wish I was Your Lover."

Also in the world of Reality TeeVee: Survivor is still on. Who knew? I saw the first season. I knew there was another season because that's how the chick with hate in her heart who doesn't believe children should be breastfed on demand got her job on the View. But wasn't that like 10 years ago? Anyway, it's on. And I'm hooked. I'm totally rooting for Tom because he's from Boston and seems like a such a good guy and he reminds me so much of our friend Tom from Boston that I jumped up and down last night when he was safe from elimination. (Yeah, no real excuses there--I was sober. I'm just apparently a big drip.)

Which brings me to The Real Housewives franchise. Goodness. I watched the Jersey season with a passion because it coincided with my mommy beach week and my friends and I would hustle those kids into bed, make chocolate chip cookies, pour some wine and watch the RH of NJ marathons, culminating in the table flipping episode. Outstanding. I started watching the New York season last year because we were visiting my in-laws and my mother-in-law was watching. The friendship between Jill and Bethenny seemed genuine and kind and so if the reruns were on, I watched it whilst folding laundry and doing dishes. (Don't be jealous of my glamorous life. It's just like Sheila E was singing about. )

HOWEVER. Today I saw the season 3(?) opener, and all heck has broken lose. It looks like it' s up to me to put things in order.

We won't concentrate on LuAnne or Ramona because they are delusional. We won't concentrate on Kelly because she is not only delusional , but God help her, I truly hope she's on drugs, because if she isn't, she is too stupid to be allowed to tie her own shoes.

But Bethenny and Jill...they've had a falling out. And geez louise ladies, hello! We can all see why. Last year, Bethenny was a single person who was extremely close to Jill and her family. This year, Bethenny has a boyfriend. And not just any old boyfriend: an he's-the-one-I'm-dropping-everyone-who-isn't-him-please-let me-work-his-name-into-every-conversation-I-live-or-breathe-all-things-boyfriend. Annoying under any circumstances. She should have gotten this out of her system in 7th grade, but maybe she's a late bloomer. And Jill feels left out. And Bethenny feels like Jill isn't her boyfriend, so she doesn't really exist anymore. So, I would just like to put this out there: give this a year, maybe a bit more and when Bethenny comes up for air and stops being selfish and all the sudden wants to hang with someone who isn't her boyfriend, if Jill is willing to overlook this and remember what it was like to be 17 and have your first love; I think these two crazy gals can work it out. Because I really do like them both(seeing as how I know them from TV and all). But right now Bethenny is being a little wonk wonk and Jill is being a little what the what. Hang in there, my women! Friends are life's battery rechargers!

And yes, I am available for hire should the network need me to get them back on track.

Herbs are growing, flowers are making their way through the earth and we had a great blue heron hunting in our yard. I shall take these all as signs of spring. Even though the herbs are inside and I see herons hunting all winter long. Two out of three ain't bad. Just ask Meatloaf.

While Mort was eating his breakfast, he asked me to read him a book about whales. So I did. And then I remembered I had pictures of real, live whales from 73 years ago when the economy was a bit different and Duke worked for a company that out of the blue said, "Hey! You're doing a great job! Here's an all-expenses paid trip to the Cape for a weekend."

And so we went on a whale watch and got to see two mother and calf whale combos. It was very exciting. And Mort thought it was pretty cool that we had pictures of whales in our photo album.

And that led to Mort looking through our photo album and marvelling at these strange creatures who are now his family. "Who is that?" he asked pointing to almost every picture of Duke, of my Mom, and of various dear friends he calls Uncles. A picture of my sister with very short platinum(well, we thought so at the time) blonde hair produced the gasp of, "She looks like a super pop star!" And no, Mort is not 109. I'm not really certain where the phrase super pop star originated.

And in an almost tie-in, have you ever seen the website myparentswereawesome? Because it's pretty awesome. People have uploaded pictures of their parents back in the day before they were parents, back in the day before they were stressed and weighed down by worry and responsibility and age and became bewildered by the crappy bands being played on the radio. (I mean, have you heard that ridonkulous Owl City song Fireflies? It makes me want to punch something every time it comes on.)

But that's what looking through the photo album with Mort reminded me of this morning. Because those pictures are only 12 or 13 years ago, but life was so different for us then, and we seem so young and bright-eyed and fresh and unencumbered that Mort could barely identify us as those nice, albeit slightly greying and crinkly-eyed folks who feed him and clothe him and read to him over breakfast. Goodness. So much nostalgia for a Monday morning.

I know that I was just ranting about this, but since every media outlet is fixated on it, I can't take it for one more second. It is absolutely bizarre that a press conference had to be called so that Tiger Woods could apologize to the nation for being unfaithful to his wife. I certainly didn't exchange marriage vows with this man, and unless his wife is a secret reader of my blog, neither did any of you. How has society reached a place where we need an apology from him? Is this not completely insane? I apologize to you all for cheating on my wife. Seriously, do we as a society have nothing else going on in our lives? There are so many things we should care deeply about and so many things that should raise our hackles. This isn't one of them. WE DON'T KNOW HIM. It doesn't affect us. Truly, it doesn't. I promise. Your life is going to continue on in the same way whether you accept Tiger's apology or not. Let's instead emotionally invest ourselves in the simple fact that I couldn't buy hot dog buns this morning because I couldn't find one single brand that was made without high fructose corn syrup.

Well fantastic. Tiger Woods is going to re-emerge and speak on Friday. Thank goodness. What do you think he'll talk about? Do you think it will be about...golf?

Because I don't really give a hoot about any other thing he has to say. (Don't get me wrong, I couldn't give a hoot about golf either, but at least he's qualified to speak on that subject.)

Aren't we all tired of this yet? We all need to get on the same page here or else we will continue to be inundated with people's personal failings. Guess how much I don't care that he's a crappy husband and lousy father. And guess why I don't care: because I don't know him. I'm not married to him. I'm not friends with him. I'm not related to him.

Oh, but he's a role model. For whom? Who cares? Who is looking at someone who plays a mean game of golf and tries to model their life after theirs? I think that's weird. And the whole will-he-or-won't-he lose his endorsement deals---really? Who really buys a product based on whether or not some guy you don't know is standing beside said product and smiling? Now, to be fair, I am the first one in line to buy any mascara that promises it will make my eyelashes look so lush they must be false. But I'm not going to buy my cell phone based on which one is being touted by Luke Wilson or Catherine Zeta Jones. And event though I am still mournign the demise of the marriage between my dear friends Brad and Jen, I don't drink water or wear jewelry endorsed by either of them. Just because someone collects a paycheck from a company doesn't mean the product is worth anything. People do know that, right?

I took the real age test on realage.com. I'm 4 months older than my biological age. Not too shabby, you may be thinking. At least in my head, that's what you may be thinking. In reality you may be thinking, Damn! Someone isn't taking care of themselves! And that would be correct. Because the things I have going for me are the things that can't be changed: I have good genes. But the things that stop me from being a decade or so younger than my actual age are entirely under my control and I am pretty disappointed in myself that I've been given the gift of good health from a genetic standpoint and I don't do anything to hold up my end of the bargain. I just coast along.

I don't exercise on a regular basis, especially in the winter. I may go for fits and spurts of trying to get in 30 minutes of cardio every day, but it eventually tapers off at some point. I have a healthy BMI and so it's easy to forgo a little thing like making sure the vehicle that carts you around is in good working order.

I don't eat as well as I should. Shocker, huh? But wait aren't you always yammering on about food safety and organic this and grow your own food that? Well...yes. But yesterday, for instance, I had two yogurts and a veggie burger. Not as bad as say a bag of jellybeans and three trips to McDonald's, but notice the suspicious lack of fruits and vegetables. Not good.

I get points for having a happy marriage, a good support system of family and friends,"owning" a dog, not smoking, and being a healthy weight. But I lose points for not belonging to any organizations and not attending church on a regular basis.(By which I mean I go at Christmas.)

I have to say, I'm feeling pretty ashamed of myself. (Hence the public outing in a public forum.) I do all the maintenance to keep my faulty disc in place, and I do the maintenance to be able to breathe with my 9237 allergies. It's incorporated as part of my day because those things have a minute by minute effect on how I am able to live my life. I can't even walk around for too long in the mornign without doing my back exercises because I will experience pain. But if I would do the maintenance in all the other areas, I will be much less likely to ever even have to know how they could negatively impact my life. I don't really want to get to the point where I have to be in pain to make changes, or where all the changes in the world won't help me regain my lost health.

As I was driving Mort to school this morning, I marvelled at the wealth of deer and other animal tracks crisscrossing the otherwise untouched snow. All of the freshly tossed beer cans and bottles that littered the landscape? Not so much marvelling, more of the shuddering. It's pretty frightening to realize just how many people are obviously drinking and driving. Or driving whilst drinking. During a snowstorm. Before the plows have even been out. Because if those yahoos are out and about during those conditions, how many of them are steering with one hand and knocking back a beer with the other when the driving conditions are good? Scary stuff. I have to say, it does make me wonder why there is no law in effect requiring car companies to proactively install those contraptions mandated for repeat drunk drivers where you have to blow into the tube and if you're over the legal limit, your car won't start. I mean, who wouldn't be willing to pay an extra $100 for a car if it meant keeping drunk drivers off the road?Granted, people started crying about personal freedom when wearing a seat belt was required, but I think considering drunk driving is already illegal, proactively enforcing that overrides the personal freedom argument. And besides, your freedom to drive while drunk takes away everyone else's freedom to be safe from you on the roads.

Do you see how I can fix everything if given a chance?

I would be terribly remiss if I didn't mention that I've now seen another Best Picture Contender. (at last count, I'd seen Inglorious Basterds[outstanding] Up in the Air[outstanding] and Crazy Heart[really really damn good]---wait are they all up for best picture? Well, they should be.Anyway.)

So, we rented A Serious Man. Do not waste one moment of your life watching this. It will lure you in, you will spend the first 20 minutes marvelling over the movie making genius that is the Cohen bothers and it will let you down worse than being stood up at the altar. I won't say too much in case my warning has only made some of you out there in computer land want to see see it for yourself, but I will say that Joel and Ethan owe me some damn money and an explanation. The only thing I can come up with is sheer laziness. And maybe a desire to see if anyone would would call them out on their Emperor's New Clothes.

In fact, maybe that is just it. Maybe when everyone goes ga-ga over your work and thinks everything you do is praise-worthy, maybe you start wondering if people really like what you're doing or is they just see your name and throw awards at you. Maybe you would have a small niggling fear that people weren't watching your movies and really appreciating them anymore. Maybe you would decide to test them and just see what would happen if you gave them a big old steaming pile of manure and then sit back and wait for people to notice that you were Just Kidding. That obviously you weren't serious with this horrid piece of malarkey. And then you would reward them for noticing with one of your usual genius creations.

But America, you have failed the Cohen brothers test! You have showered them with praise instead of scorn! You have given them four stars and nominated them for prizes instead of crying that they've lost their touch.You have demonstrated to them that you are not watching their movies, you are just seeing their name and applauding. Now, to punish us for accepting such drivel, they may never again make another good movie.

Seeing as how I'm a female and all, of course I am a feminist. And as such, I had always had the intention that Mort and I would not play the card game, "Old Maid,"(And yes, as improbable as it seems, not only do they still make that card game, but they even still call it that. And yes, I just checked and it is 2010.) but rather Crazy Dog, or whichever other person in the pack I picked out for the hot potato. Today, however, after Mort being sick and inside for a week, I just played straight Old Maid. Because some days you are just too tired to fight every fight and it seemed easier to go with the card of the old woman that was on top of the pile rather than sort through and remove the matching football player card and have the object of scorn be the football player. Anyway. Mort, however, is such a wonderful little creature that when he saw the picture of the card we would be avoiding, he exclaimed, "Well, that's a beautiful old lady!" And then I felt guilty for making that card be the bad one and I said, Yes, she sure is. It's silly that no one would want that card, isn't it?" And then Mort looked at it a little longer and asked, "So she's a maid? Like Amelia Bedelia?"

Saw Crazy Heart. Rather, I sobbed my way through Crazy Heart. By the time we got home, my eyes were sore and swollen. However, it was a good movie, albeit obviously very emotional. (Not that you can really go by my usually overflowing feelings. I also cried through Bend It Like Beckham and a myriad of other movies simply because they were nice. If someone onscreen cries, so do I.) The writers and Jeff Bridges managed to accomplish the feat of creating a character who is not necessarily a particularly likable person, and yet the audience still is pulling for him. Good music, too. In fact, despite some questionable judgement on the part of the character played by Maggie Gyllenhal, the only flaw was the casting of Colin Farrell. Just did not make any sense. I can't fathom why they made that call unless there was some type of contractual obligation to fulfill. Really could not have been more miscast. That's all.

Yesterday was the Valentine's Day Party at kindergarten. I love those kids. Most of them. Who else is so thrilled to make crowns from paper plates? Who else so delights in seeing their name on a BINGO sheet and immediately hangs glow sticks from their ears? Who is else is so unselfconscious(is that a real word? You may think I should know, but I don't) that they clamour for hugs and line up to give them?


Mort and I have been making Valentines over the past week or so. Save for the last two that became a struggle of me begging, bribing and coaxing him to write his name until he suddenly had a happy change of heart and decided to turn them into baseballs and footballs, we had a lot of fun. We grabbed a pile of scrap paper and construction paper and we cut hearts of every shape, size and color. (Oh, yes, when you have the two of us crafting, hearts can take on varied shapes). We glued on wrapping paper and letters. Mort drew and colored and wrote across them. We giggled. We marveled. It was a nice time.

And yet I was surprised when he opened his bag 'o Valentines last night and discovered all the other cards were store-bought. And that made me sad. Not because the other kids didn't hand make their Valentines, because that doesn't matter, but rather because it made me wonder if next year Mort wouldn't want to make his either . Will he want to skip it and pick out his favorite super hero cards instead? Did we just have our last year of making Valentines and I didn't even know it? I hope not. I hope it was fun enough to him that we have more years of doing this before he finally looks around and announces he wants to do what everyone else is doing.

And yes, I fully recognize that will happen at some point. Obviously it happens to everyone or else all these people wouldn't be wearing skinny jeans when I have come across only two people in all of America who actually look decent while doing so. I thought the extra big pants were a silly trend, but skinny jeans---no one looks good. And all the kids are wearing them. Have been wearing them for years. It's time to face facts and make this go away. In fact, I was complaining about this to my sister and loudly declaring how no one can look good in skinny jeans (are we sensing I may have the teeniest bit of I-look-like-an-overstuffed-sausage-in-skinny-jeans envy? Yes, make no mistake about it. There has never been a day in my life where I could have acceptably donned skinny jeans without ending up in the pages of Vice.) Anyway, my sister seemed puzzled by my claim and replied that she's seen people who look great in them. I just assumed she was lying. And then later that day I met two of her friends. Both of whom were so tall I looked directly at their shoulders. Both of whom seemed to be wearing no make-up and yet looked like they had stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. They were jaw-dropping, double-take gorgeous. They weren't even related to each other. Two different families of gene pools had the capacity to produce this kind of phenomenon. And needless to say, they both wore skinny jeans. As they well should.

Sometimes I like to step back and marvel at how I started writing about Valentines in the world of kindergarten and finished up with how amazing skinny jeans look on some of my sister's friends.

Duke and I rented a movie last night. We both fell asleep during it. And then Mort beat us both at Go Fish this morning. We suspect he cheated, but we were too not-yet-caffeined to figure out the scam.

Wow. Three posts in one day. I must be snowed-in.

My to-do list isn't going so well. I got some unexpected, but very welcome editing work this morning. Check. I made chocolate chip cookies. Check. I used the snow blower on the driveway and shovelled out the garage and shovelled out a Stella spot twice. And lured her outside with a cookie to use it. Check. Mort and I colored, but he is adamant about not doing any Valentines today. Laundry is almost done. Check. I did get Mort outside for a bit, but it's blowing pretty hard. Mmm. Not a full-check on that one.

How many chocolate chip cookies does two hours of snow blowing and shovelling burn off? One and a half?

I am honestly too tired to clean. I was all ready to go. Took an allergy pill and everything this morning. But it is going to have to wait until tomorrow. Please. Please let them have school tomorrow. Thank-you.

I found SUCH a great bathing suit. It is so retro Barbie. But it has a price-tag that is a bit hard to justify. Must mull it over. Maybe.... Oh, who am I kidding? I'm totally getting it.

The other shame of this is that I actually HAD that Barbie Doll. My aunt had the whole original collection and passed them our way. I think we got rid of/donated them when my mom moved and thought it was time for my sister and I to get our stuffed animal and magazine collections out of her attic. And in my sister's case, her 17 boxes of trophies. And in my case, a pair of mud-encrusted Birkenstocks from the last Grateful Dead I concert I attended before Jerry died. Just because we own our own homes and can store our own junk. Selfish. Anyway, who knew that there would one day be such a thing as e-bay and Craig's list and we could have sold that collection for a zillion dollars and never told my aunt and instead bought a storage facility to cram all the new junk we bought with our windfall.