Disobeying my Husband is Tempting Fate

After 40 blissful years of marriage, I can say without exaggeration that Eric has taught me a thing or two.  That's saying a lot, especially if you consider how little I actually listen to him.  But we think so differently, that occasionally his logical brain, employing the time-tested steps of the scientific method, stumbles on a good idea that is actually useful in my everyday life.  His rules and suggestions can be annoying on first hearing, not to mention the endless repetitions he feels are necessary to make sure I heard and understood, but a few ideas stand out as winners.

For instance, back when we were courting, he criticized my idea for how to spend that New Year's Eve.  We were on a chaperoned ride in the family buggy with Old Bessie in the harness, when he said, "New Year's Eve is amateur night.  Let's stay in and watch movies on the Betamax."  After all these years I may be getting the details a little mixed up, but his idea was that thinking people stayed off the roads when non-thinking people were out drinking and driving.  Even though that ruined my plans, it began a sacred family tradition of living through another year, DUI-free, that we still enjoy today.

Another law he laid down early in our marriage is "Don't buy crap."  Now this was very hard for me to understand, because I grew up under rather modest circumstances (read: "poor"), and I had spent many years perfecting my ability to be thrilled with anything cheap.  So acquiring a husband who thought differently led to some pretty unpleasant misunderstandings:

Me:  How do you like the steak?


Him:  It's terrible.

Me:  But it was only $2 in the "last week's specials" bin...


Him:  Take me to the emergency room.

And I have made many mistakes in the gift-giving department, particularly when I shop for small electronics.  We have a Rubbermaid tote filled with off-brand junk and factory-reconditioned devices that I once considered great deals - the tote is labeled "gifts that died." In the accumulation of the crap in that tote, I began to understand why he called me "penny-wise and pound-foolish."  Eventually I began to accept the rule "don't buy crap." 

But another rule that reared it's ugly head recently was his admonition, "Never go to a new restaurant until it's been open for a few months."  His thinking is that a new place needs to work out the kinks - why waste money when the outcome is uncertain?  Of course, I thought it was just another way he tried to keep me from spending money.  Checking out new restaurants was always a treat back in the good old days (after Prohibition was repealed).  I spent many years as a waitress and bartender, and considered it my professional responsibility to sample and critique my competitors. It didn't matter that it had been decades since I'd hoisted a tray to my shoulder and sauntered across the terrazzo in chunky white shoes - it was my duty to rush over and check out new eateries post haste.  So that rule stung, but being the ever-obedient wife, I meekly smiled and agreed, while collecting glass shards for future grinding, if necessary.


Last night, after a trip to the bookstore that got shortened because they don't carry several things I was shopping for (I go there once per week - why did I think they had Wii games?), my friend announced she was starving and croissants and coffee weren't going to cut it, menu-wise.  So we looked out the door and the nearest restaurant was a new Mexican place right across the street.  Neither of us knew anything about it, (cue scary music), but hunger and convenience prevailed, so what's the harm?  It's just one of my husband's silly rules.  I can hear you out there yelling:  "Don't go in!  It's new!"


In the hope of keeping the attention of those who don't like long blogs (too late now!), I won't mention every single thing that was wrong with our dinner.  It's a painfully long list. (You're welcome).  Suffice to say that, when I did finally complain about my watery salad, and our mystified waiter left (presumably to confer with the manager) and came back, his explanation was that "Taco salad is one of our greasiest dishes."  Well, didn't I just feel chastised!  Somehow I missed the "Greasy" category on the menu - it must have been right under the "Canned" entry, where they probably listed the queso my friend ordered.  She was not impressed, and by the time I sampled it, the cold cheese had a thick layer on top, generally indicative of microwave heating.  Now I happen to like that layer, but it really shouldn't form on a $5 dish of queso ten minutes into the meal.  And I have to mention that our waiter, in response to our request for separate checks, charged each of us for "0.5 queso."  Have you ever?  I thought it was hilarious, but my dinner partner insisted that he put all 1.0 queso on her check, so the poor guy had to go figure it all again *big sigh*.


Now the waiter was poorly trained, and would have benefited in the long run if we'd politely made an issue of the problems with our dinner.  But he was so earnestly off-the-chart bad that I knew he wouldn't learn anything from my on-the-spot advice.  And I wasn't in the mood to go all Dorothy Parker on him, because I'd had a lovely weekend of being a kind, thankful person and I just couldn't work up enough righteous indignation to launch a complaint.  

I didn't penalize him with a bad tip, because I intend to call the manager and bend his/her ear for some minutes explaining the shoddy food and treatment we received.  Hopefully they will all learn a valuable lesson from me, Mrs. Anonymous Patron, when I get around to calling.  Incidentally, I don't want to name names or hurt their business, but the restaurant is named after a condiment one often dips tortilla chips in, so consider yourself warned.

Anyway, the experience comprised all the problems you'd expect at a new restaurant.  Some of those issues will probably be resolved in the coming months, especially if knowledgeable busybodies such as I take the time to call management.  But the biggest lesson is much harder to swallow.


My husband was right.  Again.  Two times in forty years.  It really pains me to admit that.

Can this consumer be saved?

It is 1:02pm on Black Friday, and I'm still at home.  Just got out of the shower, in fact.  Spent the morning in my flannel pjs, looking through Black Friday ads and making notes on my Christmas planner.  But I didn't go to any stores, didn't shop online, didn't do my part for the American economy.  I guess the terrorists have won.

I don't do Black Friday.  I actually never shopped for Christmas presents on the day after Thanksgiving until my first Thanksgiving as a daughter-in-law (1994).  I spent that day holding coats and shopping bags while my mother-in-law and her sister demonstrated how super-shoppers get it done.  A few hours with them and I was exhausted beyond description.

Why I'd never Christmas shopped on that day is pretty simple:  I never had any money until the Christmas bonus showed up, usually around 12/15 or thereabouts.  No matter what my job, I never managed to juggle the paychecks and bills until mid-December, and then I just shopped with what cash I had and was done.  No long-term planning or budgeting involved in those days.

Once, several years after my first Black Friday experience, one of my children desperately needed something that necessitated my standing in line at 5 in the morning to get in ToysRUs for a Black Friday bargain that couldn't possibly be repeated in the month remaining before Christmas.  Yes, I actually got the inflatable bouncy tent, which (amazingly) appeared in sale ads that whole month for less than I paid that day that I slept standing up in public.  


Not only that, but the darn thing sprung a leak roughly 5 minutes after the girls started jumping in it.  And didn't my husband think that was hilarious, since he'd stayed up until 3am blowing the stupid thing up.

So you might say that experience cured me of shopping on Black Friday.  It also helps that I'm not that fond of shopping in the first place, so I feel no need to venture out in my amateur fashion and attempt to compete with the shopping experts to find the one and only $229 I-Touch with bonus $15 gift card left in South Bend.  Let the scavengers have it.


When it comes to shopping for groceries, however, I'm in a league of my own.  I challenge anyone to a grocery bill showdown - anytime, anywhere.  I'm reasonably certain I pay less for my butter than my neighbors do, and I'm damn proud of it.  But when it comes to electronics, toys, clothes, stuff for guys - you know, useless stuff - I don't care enough to get very competitive.  At least not on the morning after Thanksgiving, when USA Today alleges I ate upwards of 3,500 calories before I served dessert(s).


No, I just don't need anything that badly.  In fact, yesterday reminds me that I really don't need anything at all.  My children and husband are healthy, my mother-in-law is on the mend, and my family back in Alabama are all well.  I have a lovely home, a working furnace, dependable transportation, my husband has a good employer, we have clean water to drink and air to breathe and I'm protected by the world's greatest military and the world's best constitutional government.  I have great friends, nearby and far away, and I like myself enough to enjoy being alone.


Like I said, I really don't need anything at all.  And I get the satisfaction of feeling like I outsmarted the fake-holiday marketeers who tried to manipulate me to get my full belly and fat butt out of bed ridiculously early to buy stuff for people who also don't need much at all.  

It's almost kickoff time, I had popcorn for lunch, just popped an Amber Bock and I haven't spent a dime today.  I'm a thankful little Frugal Hoosier War Eagle right now.

Happy Thanksgiving Eve

On this Thanksgiving Eve, I am grateful for many things, but tonight I want to mention one particular group who contribute daily to my happiness and sanity: my Granger girlfriends.

They are such an amazing group of ladies, and I am not just saying that because I drank half a bottle of ChiChi's premixed Long Island Ice Tea tonight.  They are also amazing because no matter how much of the aforementioned Tea I drink, they let me talk and talk and talk and dispense advice as befits a grand dame of my advanced years.

Tonight we had a mini-gathering at Susan's house;  she managed to chase her family off on the pretense of "working" as a "nurse" on the "labor and delivery floor" tomorrow - what a scam!  She had lovely snacks and some wine; note to self: how did I come to be overserved?  She runs a very lax establishment and I don't recommend it for lightweights.  We also played bananagrams (I won) and Querkle, a delightful shape- and color-matching game for ages 5 and up, and I lost.  Stupid baby game.

Anyway, I have to spend tomorrow cooking and cleaning before Eric's mother and brother come for lunch, so tonight's get-together was a pleasant way to relax before the big day.  Some people experience much more pressure from family and holiday obligations than I do.  I keep the expectations pretty low - I just basically state my willingness to perform a minimum of traditional jobs, and that's that. If I screw up, a grand total of 5 people will know about it.  Fortunately I'm not required to please two sets of parents, siblings and siblings-in-law and their kids.  I don't know if I could stand all that pressure.


So I'm very thankful that our Thanksgiving is a small, low-key affair.  After several recent trips to the local food bank/soup kitchen/homeless shelter, I'm not much in the mood to overdo for us fortunate folk.  My family is blessed in so many ways, the list could go on and on.  That itemized list is a subject for another installment - when I get all sappy and serious.  Tonight I'm simply offering up a prayer of gratitude for my girlfriends, near and far.


Thanks for always filling my empty glass.

 

Happy Monday to all, and to all a good week

Let me just begin by saying that I have two equally wonderful daughters.  If anyone had ever told me that I'd like my own children so well, I wouldn't have believed them.  Your children are supposed to be a constant trial of your patience, and your most cherished dream is alleged to be attaining the empty nest years - right?

Well, I don't feel that way.  At least not yet.  And realizing I'm lucky, and realizing it could change any day, and realizing I'm probably jinxing myself by even saying this, I'll still say right here in front of God and everybody that I like my girls almost as much as I love them.  And I'm not playing favorites, but today I'm only writing about one of them.

That said, my younger daughter, Camille, gave me a lovely start to my day.  She didn't know it, but that doesn't matter, because it's Monday and that usually means headless chickens tripping over each other in the kitchen from 6:00 - 8:30am.  But not today.

I should back up a bit and explain that Camille is a musician.  She plays piano and bassoon, and is quite accomplished at both.  I was what you would call musical as a young person - I played in the band, sang in the church choir, dabbled at piano - but in spite of the fact that I had a little talent, I didn't work at it or value it like I should have.  I don't refer to Camille as "musical," I call her a musician because she takes her instruments seriously.  Whether in a group or as a soloist, she owns her effort, her talent, and her accolades.  When she isn't pleased with her results, she doesn't blame anyone else.  I think that's impressive for a girl of thirteen.

 

Most mornings, Camille only has a few minutes to spare (she is a slow mover upon waking, but that's fun dirt for another blog when I'm annoyed at her).  If she has a few minutes to spare, she usually turns on the TV to watch one of her archived episodes of "Dancing with the Stars."  I despise television in the morning, but I can usually ignore ten or fifteen minutes of Tom Bergeron and the most dramatic panel of dance judges in world history if the volume is turned low enough.  But today, she decided instead to practice her new piano piece:

and it was so lovely.  I'm amazed that a child raised by me could attempt something so delicate and emotive.  I don't know how she broke the genetic bonds of uncoordination to play so well.

I began my Monday to the soothing sounds of my daughter tinkling the ivories with her usual care and seriousness.  Add a cup of coffee and a furball warming my feet, and I was in heaven.  So here I sit, writing about my lovely morning, and there goes Camille:

waiting for the bus in the rain, with a fifteen pound backpack strapped on, and a bassoon to wrestle onto the bus and under the seat for the half-hour ride to school.

So the next time I start to wallow in the attitude of the unappreciated mother who does everything so my kids can have it easy, someone please remind me to look back at this entry.  My kids have it good, there's no denying that, but they don't have it easy.  And Camille demands more of herself than we demand of her.  So I should just thank God that I have her in my life, and that she'll be living with us for at least a few more years.

Thank you, Camille, for a lovely start to Thanksgiving week.

 

 

And so it begins...

I've never been someone who has hangups about birthdays.  For some reason, the numbers don't seem all that important as they go up.  I fully expect that one day that will change, and I'll freak out about an upcoming birthday and leave town so no one can rib me about it (by leaving town I mean go on a cruise).  But so far, I've not dreaded any upcoming birthdays.

In fact, I couldn't wait to turn 30.  When I hit 30, I was still a single working girl, with long, big, bright blond hair, an unfortunately deep tan and a tad too much enthusiasm for happy hour, to put it politely.  I'd spent my 20s in a male-dominated work environment, and it seemed people constantly patronized me with statements about how "girls" my age didn't know anything.  I truly felt that turning 30 would magically cause the world to take me seriously.  It didn't, but I wasn't worried about my biological clock or wrinkles or a mortgage or any of those issues that preoccupied my 30ish friends.  I just had a big party and moved on.


By the time the next decade rolled around, I was married with two children, living 900 miles from home.  POOF!  In 3,650 days, quite a bit changed.  But I didn't dread turning 40 either.  Somehow, that number just seemed like a good place for someone like me to be.  And Eric gave me a surprise party that accounted for my first understanding of why Depends are so popular - I was extremely surprised!  But again, another party, some food and drinks and the company of great friends, and I moved forward without too much concern about getting old.

As I approach the half-century mark, I know I'm supposed to get all philosophical about aging and the value of youth in our culture, and the appalling idea that a young person like me could get mail from AARP, and many other weighty subjects that mature people enjoy cogitating upon.   But none of those matters resonate with me at this time.  My age wasn't really on my mind until yesterday, when I was fitted for my first pair of bifocals.  All of a sudden I'm feeling old!

I wore glasses for most of my life, until my adoring husband suggested I have lasik surgery back in '01 when he got a bonus for a patent he filed or something like that.  I have loved life without glasses dependency these last 10 years, but I have to say I kind of like my new specs.  I'd only started needing reading glasses in the last year or so, mostly late at night when my eyes were tired, but suddenly, in the last few months, my magnification need went from +1.25 to +2.75.  Whooooosh!  This aging stuff happens fast when it happens.

So I like my new glasses, but part of me is mourning the fact that I need them at all.  If signs of aging continue to surprise me in this furtive and speedy manner, it seems only a matter of time  before I'll need to stock up on Depends, denture adhesive, Miss Clairol, ExLax and prunes.  I'd better start a list...

Meanwhile, I'd better party while I still remember how.  Thankfully, my little pumpkin friend helps keep me feeling young:

 

Have a great weekend~

IAM4AU RU?

According to the blogging experts, and there are no shortage of that self-proclaimed breed online, in order to build readership (a less egotistical word for "audience") the serious blogger must blog daily. 

What happens if the blogger has nothing entertaining to say?  Especially if that blogger is someone who, when she does have a subject for blogging, uses 300 words to say what others can convey in 20?

I find myself in that situation today.  I've got lots of drafts that need to be cleaned up and organized before they can be published (why does that sound familiar?)  So this is when the experts tell you to post a picture and a cute comment and sign off.

The only recent pictures I've taken are of inanimate objects that I want to sell on ebay, so I'll spare you the VHS movies and antique furniture (of course, if you are in the market, shoot me an email).  I also may need to give Colin a brief rest - and Colin, please send more pics - so as to put to rest the notion that I'm obsessed, when I'm only politely interested.

So I leave you today with an image that always makes me happy, even when the NCAA and FBI are snooping, and young men resort to unsportsmanlike behavior, and TV announcers sound like gossip columnists, and being undefeated is almost a curse instead of a blessing.  An image that takes me back to childhood, Southern rivalries and family allegiances.  An image that will always mean home, even though I never lived there.

 War Eagle!

Blogging for my Digestive Health

Up until a few days ago, I was blogging endlessly about chores I couldn't seem to get done because of the demands of being a newbie blogger with 2 followers and almost 10 daily page views (on average).  I was taking blogging as seriously as church while letting cobwebs grow in my kitchen sink.  Re-reading a few of my entries, I realized I was going to run out of interesting things to say about my messy house, and grounded myself from blogging until I finished the oft-mentioned chores.

I developed a case of blog constipation as I tried to focus on completing a few long-overdue projects the last couple of days. Since I'd banished myself from blogging until the cursed jobs were done, I had to content myself with furious note taking in draft form - no publishing until I was done!  Well, I'm happy to say the glassware has been packed, antiques auctioned off, outerwear is in the coat closet, all the bird feeders have been emptied, cleaned and refilled, the yard tidied, the ironing is done for another six months and I'm free to get a case blog diarrhea as I unleash a fresh barrage of polite ravings.

I'm trying to improve this blogging effort, but I obviously need some guidance.  I had a terrific meeting this morning with a friend who is a veteran blogger, web designer, online palm reader, and inventor of HTML (also, she had ONE date with Al Gore, and then he dreamed up the Internet.  Coincidence?)  So she's all that, digitally speaking.  This lady is also the person who told me about Blogger (easy enough for even me) and encouraged me to just sit down and and write and worry about how to turn it into a blog after I started writing.  My friend is so tech-savvy and answered my endless questions about the mysteries of the blogosphere and how to pick up a reader here and there.  I expect to make numerous mistakes trying out some of her suggestions, and will undoubtedly embarrass myself trying to employ some of the tech "info & lingo" she tried to explain. Bear with me.

 
Colin isn't going anywhere, so don't even mention that idea.  I'm considering letting my other boyfriends (Clive Owen, Gerard Butler and Sean Connery) have their picture under mine occasionally.  Stylistically, this is the only sacred space on the page. Feel free to offer suggestions; even criticism is welcome if it's sugarcoated and couched in lots of ego-stroking.

My husband is delayed on the return leg of his trip, and won't get home until late tonight.  The silver lining is the nice voucher the airline gave him for his trouble - and I get to use it!  While I wait up for him I'm going to work on cleaning up some blog drafts about a variety of subjects that have inspired me in recent weeks.  I may end up publishing lots of disjointed blather until he gets safely home.  'Cause I'm definitely finished with housework for the foreseeable future!