Small pleasures: Look what I found!

Oh my gosh! I found these shoes in the clearance rack at DSW! People, I literally skipped to the cash register. It's true.

So let's see . . . how many identical pairs of these rockin' red loafers have I now purchased? One pair for Coleen. One pair for Carolyn. And one two three pairs for me.

They don't call me frugal for nothing!

It happened at Walmart. Seriously.

OK, so I have been known to enter Walmart under duress --

-- like the time Coleen sent me squealing out of the parking lot of the Brownie Encampment she was running so that I could fetch more crucial but dwindling camping supplies, by which I mean glitter and Mod-Podge.

Or the time my procrastinating tall boy was in the midst of printing the final draft and graphs and charts for the all-important Science Fair project (fifth grade but I still suffer from the PTSD), and the printer died, and my husband is a computer genius but like an evil genius in that he has very specific notions of what is an acceptable printer, and I can just tell you they don't sell it at Walmart. Oh -- and it was two o'clock in the morning.

But I really don't like to venture into Walmart, although I love a sweatshop-produced bargain as much as the next patriot on a budget. And where else are you going to find throw pillows, tires, Fruit of the Loom underwear, diamond earrings, Tide, and bacon all under the same roof? This is what makes America great, people -- but I have a hard time with the . . . how shall I say this? . . . trailer trash element.

Come on, now -- don't pretend you are unaware of those about whom I speak (dig my crazy good grammar used to show you how un-trailer-trashy I am, although you should have seen my wild-eyed, pajama-clad tear through the electronics section at 2:00 a.m. looking for a printer -- any printer). And let's be clear -- it's not about anyone's socio-economic situation, because frankly, who hasn't been kicked upside the head financially speaking during the past year?

It's really about a subtle, "I don't know you, and thus I don't care about you" attitude that I just see way more at Walmart than anywhere else. We've all read horrible stories about fisticuffs breaking out over a Wii, --

-- or folks who are shall we say inappropriately dressed for an outing, --

-- or people using just the most amazingly vulgar language as they correct their childrens' misbehavior -- or as they ignore that misbehavior. It's the stinkeye that patrons of different ethnicities offer each other instead of an "excuse me!" or a "please -- go ahead with your one item." I do find it troubling.

So because I rag on Walmart way too much, I felt that I needed to tell you what I saw this morning, as I left with my emergency craft paint. You know how Walmart has those people who sit at the door and say good-bye, and check your packages and monitor the alarm? Well, today the lady at the door was a woman who has worked at our Walmart since it opened fifteen years ago. She was really old then -- so goodness knows how old she is now. She's a classic blue-haired lady -- she could be my grandmother.

As I was leaving, a younger (thirty-five-ish?) black man came up to her, took both her hands in his, and very gently kissed her on the forehead. Then he continued out the door with his cart. She looked after him, a little dazed, and said, "Bye, now!" I wish I had a picture.

I just love the people at Walmart!

Name this plant . . . please!

I bought this beautiful plant at the Home Depot, mainly because it cost (costed? did cost? was in the act of costing?) I paid $6.00 for it. I feel like a plant that is lush and lovely and purple and costs six bucks is a plant that is meant for me.

But I don't really know what it is. It was out with the mums (a plant that annoys me because I find it all smug and "I get worn by the Homecoming Queen -- nyah, nyah, nyah!") so I assume this purple beauty is a fall-ish plant. Or maybe it's a spring plant that originally cost (costed?) thirty-five dollars. I haven't the foggiest notion.

It was gorgeous in the rain on Saturday, but a) I don't have the camera savvy to take a picture that captures its glamour, and b) it was raining, dudes! There's only so much I am willing to go through for my art.

Ominous information I feel compelled to report -- I tend to kill the beautiful plants. At the beginning of the summer this planter held this whitish silvery thing (What is it? Don't know.) and some English lavender. The ivy is, I feel, a weed and should be ignored. The silvery thing has not changed a bit. It hasn't grown; it hasn't wilted. And I have not done One. Thing. For. It. Clearly silvery plants can take this kind of treatment, but English lavender? Not so much.

Bargain!

OK, so Staples is getting ready for school to start, and has pocket folders on sale for a penny apiece. One penny, people! If you need folders just skedaddle on over to Staples right now -- I'll wait.

So my friend Mindy clued me in to this, and asked me and the urchins to help her buy a bunch of folders that will be used when our high school hosts a big hoo-ha in the spring.

tangent: Practice your bowing down now, before the awesomeness of Mindy, the queen of the bargain-finders.

another tangent:Please note that the EASY button does not in any way imply that Mindy is EASY, or that my urchins are EASY, or even that I am EASY.

When I asked her how many folders she thought they would need, Mindy was v-e-r-y cagey, but her answer involved me and my urchins and her and her urchins all trooping through Staples over and over and over again buying folders twenty at a time (some ridiculousness about "allowing others to take advantage of the savings.")

Well, now -- I thought this would be a fun adventure for a Sunday afternoon, but the urchins did not see it this way. You would have thought I had tied them to the rack or forced them to do Pilates. Much eye-rolling and teeth-gnashing ensued. The girls were bought off with a pretty binder and -- why?? -- a locker magnet in the form of a piggish lamb or maybe a lamb-like cow, I'm not sure. The tall boy had too much fun shooting me the evil eye to be bribed, so I left him to his pleasure.

Mindy's older urchins, by the way, refused to participate in this event -- using the fishy excuse that they are already ensconced on their college campuses six hours away. Anything to get out of a little help for Mom!

My urchins and I bought 240 pocket folders for $2.52. I feel like Ma Ingalls, making my own cheese grater or braiding hats out of weeds. Except different.

Deal or Steal?

This is a a little self-portrait I dashed off right after I opened our first "texting-activated" wireless phone bill. We had this cool plan where the first fifteen texts per month are free! After that, each text you send or receive only costs fifteen cents! Doesn't that sound great?! Guess how many texts my son sent or received in that first month? The grand total was 2762. Texts. In a month.

Here is a typical text "conversation" from those early days:
[Do I know this because I took his phone and read his messages? Yes!]

Her: What's that girl's name in that song?
Him: Delilah
Her: I love that song
Him: U R a dork.
Her: No U R
Him: no U R
Her: UR cuz you are lame.
Him: I am not lame b/c I am awesome.
Her: No you're not.
Him: Yep
Her: Gotta go
Him: Bye
Her: Bye
Him: Dork
Her: Dork

So here's my analysis of this interaction:

1. I think this counts as some sort of flirtatious courtship ritual, but I'm not sure.
2. I love that Delilah song, too.
3. They are both dorks.

This exchange used up our "fifteen free texts" for the month. After this he could have sent her the complete lyrics to that Delilah song, and as long as they were contained in one text, that text would cost fifteen cents. Bargain! Or he could keep it simple: "Dork!" Fifteen cents, please. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways . . . ." Fifteen cents. "No, U R . . . ." Fifteen cents.

So now we have Free Unlimited Family Texting, which has really changed our lives and which is not actually free, but whatever. Here is a more recent self-portrait:

I call it "Self-Portrait with Carpal Tunnel Syndrome."

Image credits:
Edvard Munch: "The Scream," 1893, The National Gallery, Oslo
Dante Gabriel Rossetti: "Portrait in Yellow (Annie Miller)," 1863, The Tate Gallery, London