Dashing Through Goodwill . . . .

You might think that I'd take the holidays off from checking
out the goods at our local Goodwill Industries outlet.

You might be wrong.

Me?  Wrong?  Impossible!

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Last week, our local Goodwill -- an organization which clearly knows its customers -- sent me an email announcing that all Christmas items were half price.   That's like offering crack to an addict.

I did not leave empty-handed, and my finds went from the sublime to the ridiculous.

The udderly ridiculous.

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A 12-inch Christmas platter.  $2.

 Why is this guy grinning?

Because he's come to live at That Old House.  $1.44.

 He comes from a good family, too, and is a canape plate.

 He makes me grin.

 As does this fella:

Another canape plate.  48-cents.  I'm not making that up.

 And from the same fine family, too.

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You've probably figured it out already; that was the sublime part of my Goodwill scores.

Now for the ridiculous:

 A Christmas Cow.

At least, I think that's what she is.

 She has ruffles.  Why?  Why?

Hmmm. . . I don't think she likes the teasing.  That is not a friendly cow eye we're getting.

 Uh-oh.  She's turning her back on us, and leaving.

I think we insulted her.

She fulfilled a noble purpose at our party on Saturday; she was one of the Grab Bag prizes.

I put her in; I ended up with her at the end of the game.  Where's the justice?

Think about it: someone had to design this gal, someone else had to buy the design and manufacture it,

someone else had to buy it for retail sale, and still another person had to buy it as a consumer.

Holy. Cow.

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Now I'm more than a little abashed at posting to Tabletop Tuesday at Marty's blog,

as the tabletops there are just stunning, and mine clearly is not.

Mine is an Emergency Centerpiece.
It's an object lesson in planning ahead, and what happens when you don't.

It's what you do when, 30 minutes before guests are arriving, you realize that in the

long lists of "to-do" chores . . . you have forgotten to include "centerpiece for dining room table."

And you have no flowers on hand. And no time to buy any.

 You grab the trusty crystal candlesticks off the top of the china closet, rummage in the sideboard

for the little crackly red votives, steal the big crackly red hurricanes from the kitchen hutch,

string them out along a runner on top of a beautiful embroidered tablecloth, step back and think. . .

 "Okay.  Now what?"  Because a hodgepodge of candles on a 10-foot table looks, well, lost.

You need something to tie them together.

More rummaging, this time in the bottoms of some near-empty Rubbermaid bins of Christmas bling.

And . . . what to your wondering eyes should appear, but yards and yards of red wooden beads.

You remember when you used to use them on the big stone mantel at the old house, and indulge

in 32-seconds' worth of nostalgia, before flinging the beads on the table, snaking them through

the candle holders,  and calling it a day -- because you need to get back to the kitchen.

No placesettings on this table.  Dinner was a buffet, and guests could perch

with their plates on their laps, or choose to use the dining room table.

Well, that's it for today.

I'll be off soon for our old neighborhood, about a half hour away, so Alida and I can do some poking around in familiar stores, and drop something off at a former neighbor's home, and maybe get lunch at our favorite Italian place; I think they miss us there.

By the way, the goofy centerpiece looked much better at night, with all the candles lit.  No, really.

Linky parties today:

Tabletop Tuesday at A Stroll Thru Life.

 2nd Time Around Tuesday at A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words.

Three Or More Tuesday at The Gypsy's Corner.

Nifty Thrifty Tuesdays at Coastal Charm.

Twice Owned Tuesday at House Of Grace.

And .... Thrifty Thursday at Tales From Bloggeritaville! 
(Leigh has an especially lovely Christmas message and story.)

Click and visit!  I'm off to do more Santa-ing, and hope that -- like yesterday -- my dear

daughter treats me to coffee and dessert in the middle of the afternoon!  -- Cass