Most spam that hits my inbox is pretty boring. However, I now have a favorite spam:
Subject: Broken emails is repaired.
All I can say is, thank god.
In my neck of the woods, this is the time of year when you start to see signs up for Holiday Church Bazaars. I always get a warm, fuzzy feeling about them, but haven't been to one since I was a squirt. We were members of a small, Episcopal church in Lorain, Ohio. My father was a layman, my mother poured coffee after the service (always in hat and gloves - those were such different days). The men of the church put on the spaghetti dinner to die for, and the woman all worked their crocheted/knitted magic for the Christmas Bazaar. I thought it was the most wonderful thing in the world - all kinds of things that were in my limited budget. (These were the times of the 50-cents-a-week allowance. Did I just hear a Millennium hit the ground in a faint??) I was riveted by the toilet paper doll cover. I secretly longed for one but, if I recall correctly, it would have cost the equivalent of a month's allowance. I did some of my best Christmas shopping there. I am so tempted to check out the modern day bazaar - will there be an array of toilet paper covers? Can I still cover my Christmas shopping within my allowance? (Which, I'm afraid, is almost the same as when I was six.) Friends and family, beware.
I was also in the church choir. Every week at practice, we weighed heavily on the patience of our very patient choir mistress, Mrs. Pfaff. I can still see her face as we drolly sang, "...and He forgetSNOT his own...", titter, titter. That poor woman. Every Sunday we would pony up as the mothers hovered over us, tying our bows (which I loathed) and trying to keep order. I learned how to whistle in the choir. Unfortunately, it was during a particularly long pause in in the sermon...
If I Google my blog name, it comes up on top. Right under it is a listing for E-I-E-I OMG! 87 Hot Farmer's Daughters. I wonder two things: How many prospective readers have I lost to that much-more-provocative title? And: That Farmer must have been one hot ticket to have produced 87 daughters. Punctuation, folks, punctuation...