A lot of unknowns, a lot of questions—and too many freebies

I endeavor to keep this blog friendly and mostly unoffensive. I really don't want it to turn into a place where I share vitriol for political parties, or air my fears about society's deterioration, or spread my own hostile opinions. But I'm a realist, as you likely know by now, and sometimes I just can't get something out of my mind until I get it off my chest.

I went to ALDI yesterday. I really appreciate ALDI's sensibility and pragmatism in a world of advertised lies and innuendo. They're just plain cheaper than everyone else, yet the quality of their grocery items is very high. I've been a proponent for years now. And I'm not alone. Often, the store is packed. Especially prior to an impending winter storm (ANOTHER one). This last visit to ALDI was no exception: there we all were, buying bread and milk and toilet paper per the usual Pittsburgh-area snowpocalyse-driven purchase requirements.

I got in line with my cart and my bags, along with several other people. I was behind a couple that I'd seen in the store as I shopped: two dark-haired young people who were well-groomed and appropriately dressed in attractive, modern styles. They weren't glamorous or out of the ordinary, but they also appeared to be far from destitute. Their cart was piled high, and they were swiftly transferring the items to the belt for processing.

I became aware that neither of them was speaking English. I couldn't identify for certain what language they were using; I have some guesses, but since I'm not positive, I'll keep those guesses to myself. What I couldn't help noticing was that the order came to over $100 (not hard to do when food shopping, I know)—and that all but $7 of the order was paid with an ACCESS card.

I covertly studied the two of them. Fashionable. Young. As far as I could see, perfectly able-bodied. Speaking a foreign language. And paying for the bulk of their order with someone else's money. And I bristled at the situation. I'm sorry if you think that makes me unfair, or that I am unsympathetic, or that I don't want to help people who are trying to help themselves. No, wait—I'm not sorry. I do feel that way. I'm allowed.

Granted, this twosome had filled their shopping cart with mostly genuine, simple, un-fancy food, like potatoes and milk and items that could actually be turned into meals with some homemade efforts. (Sadly, their cart looked unlike the typical ACCESS users I end up following, who buy expensive meat and name-brand junk food. But I digress.) And to be honest, I do not know the couple, nor their situation. Perhaps they had good jobs and one or both was recently laid off. Perhaps they are students somewhere, studying for advanced training that is best found in America... in which case, why would they have that card? I studied here, and I didn't have that card—I had, instead, an overabundance of ramen noodles. That is all.

It was the middle of the day, on a weekday. If they needed jobs, why wasn't at least one of them seeking work? If they shared a vehicle, why not use the extensive public transportation system? They knew how the free food card worked, and how to pay the difference in cost with a debit. They knew to bring their own bags to ALDI. These were not confused, fumbling foreigners.

I thought to myself that I would like to follow them out to the parking lot. Perhaps with more time, I could identify their language. And mostly? I wanted to see the car they were driving. If I had to guess, based on their outfits, I'd probably assume that the vehicle was a fairly recent model. Maybe I'd be dead wrong. I'll never know, because my turn in line came, and the intriguing shoppers bagged their items lightning-quick and got out of there. But I kept thinking about them.

I don't really mind buying second-hand; I find satisfaction in a good bargain. And truly, I don't mind driving old cars; we own them, and they'll never be re-possessed in hard times. I like to cook, and we have some dietary concerns to factor in, so making our meals at home is fine with me.

What I do mind? A lot? Knowing that healthy young people who don't speak our native language are shopping for food here for free. I object. Strenuously. If I went to a foreign country, would I ever have that option? No. If I venture out of this overly generous country, I must be prepared to pay my own way. In every way. That's the deal. There's a good chance, I suppose, that the couple I observed were U.S. citizens, and had every right to be here, and have just experienced recent hard times like so many others. I truly hope so. I pray that there weren't 3 or 4 free cell phones in her capacious handbag.

I know there is fraud. I know there is abuse of a well-intentioned, sick system that is meant to help Americans in need. I don't know if those two were guilty of any wrongdoing. But even if they weren't, the whole scene felt wrong to me. Very wrong. Are Americans paying attention? Do they realize where tax money is going? There's no way we plebeians can track it all, and no way we can be certain that the people who are accepting assistance truly need it. That concerns me greatly. If you've ever worked and paid taxes in the U.S., you should be concerned, too. Even if I misinterpreted what I saw at ALDI, I know that the system is broken and getting more decrepit every day. All over the country, a similar scene is repeating itself. Sometimes, the able-bodied offenders are Americans who may (or may not) need a healthy dose of pride and a revised list of wants vs. needs.

In short? That whole incident at ALDI reminded me that I'm weary of the whining and scrabbling of entitled receivers. If you cannot afford your lifestyle, then change your lifestyle. It is not up to the government to help you maintain the old standard. And if you come here from a faraway place? I sincerely hope you've come with an expectation to contribute—not to further bleed the working class.

“Let us never forget this fundamental truth: The State has no source of money other than the money people themselves earn.” ~ Margaret Thatcher

Christmas Eve already?

Boy, that was fast. I know Thanksgiving was late this year, but still...

It's been a busy season. I had some paintings to do, some baking to do, and I finally purchased a candy thermometer and tried my hand at a temperature-sensitive something-or-other... But mostly? Well, I fell back into the typical Mel at Christmastime persona... Crabby, ungrateful, ashamed of what our culture has done to Christmas, alarmed at the state of our country and the happy state of denial where most people reside... My Christmas roller coaster doesn't neatly align with any step program; heck, it isn't even consistent from year to year. But each December, without fail, I end up feeling down about the whole thing, stricken with guilt because the joy I'm supposed to be experiencing is quite absent a lot of the time.

Although, I suppose I am going through some kind of step program, because I've arrived at the acceptance stage now. And I do have some peace about the entire thing. That's no program, though—that's God. I prayed for peace, for the ongoing awareness that Christmas means For Us a Savior. Our pastor did a great sermon on Sunday about that very miracle. It was just what I needed. We have to be intentional about seeking joy. Did you know that?

Don't get me wrong, I'm still going to flit in and out of holiday-induced depression for the next few days. But through it all, I'll be singing a catchy little song to myself: Jesus Christ is coming to town.

Wait, He's already here! He was here, and He is here. That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.

I wish you the same song in your heart, through stress and bad weather and Christmas returns. We can still sing.

Saved by a horn

Picture it. A lovely fall day, and me behind the wheel, heading into the nearby Giant Eagle to pick up a few items. I turn down one long aisle, scanning the lot for a good space. About 10 cars in front of me, near the store entrance, a woman is loading bags into her trunk. I see a good spot a few cars from her, and I notice that she is rearranging the bags she's already loaded to make more space. I also notice that the cart from whence she is unloading appears to be very slowly inching away from her. I stop my car mid-aisle, and observe closely through the windshield: yes, the cart is most definitely rolling away. In fact, it is steadily picking up speed.

I hit the horn, except this is the Saturn that I'm driving, the one with the mystery horn location that is somewhere in the center of the steering wheel but never quite in the same place twice. I proceed to strike the middle of the wheel repeatedly, in different locations, to no avail. The cart is moving more noticeably now, and the woman is still gazing in the opposite direction, mesmerized by how to maximize her trunk space, utterly oblivious to the encroaching mishap.

Ahh, finally success on my end—"Beep beep, beep beep beep beep, BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!!!" She looks up and I frantically motion to the cart that is now moving with purpose toward a couple of cars. The woman is quick, unlike many shoppers at Giant Eagle; she immediately senses the seriousness of the situation, and with lightning reflexes she runs full tilt toward the cart, reaching desperately to grasp it before it bumps another vehicle. And of the 3 cars it could have zeroed in on, guess which one it's screaming toward? That's right, a Porsche. Bright cherry red, the curvy Carrera style, lovingly polished to a shine.

Just as the cart is about to bang into that shiny car, the woman manages to grab its handle and stop it, mere inches away from the pricey red machine. I can see her take a deep breath, relax her shoulders, and she waves a thanks at me, then takes the naughty cart, still holding groceries, to her car to finish the job. This time, she keeps a foot (brake) behind one wheel.

I park, get out, we joke about a sports car's magnetic ability to attract danger, and I head inside the store. As I pass the Porsche, I can't help noticing that its vanity license plate details the car's make and the fact that it features turbo power. Yeah, that would not have been a pretty scene: the cart, the dent and/or scratch, the angry aging man who drives it (yes, I'm pretty sure that's who drives it), and the unhappy conversation that would ensue.

The day was most definitely saved. For those two drivers, at least. My work is done.

The real me

Yesterday, I found myself near a department store. So, I decided to head in and abuse myself until I felt really depressed.

Well, that wasn't how it started out—but that's pretty much how it ended.

I made the mistake of doing a little spontaneous swimsuit shopping. Foolish, I know. That sort of adventure requires preparation, the pumping up of one's ego, a salad for breakfast to alleviate guilt, etc. But I broke all the rules because, by golly, the suits were all 50% off. Unfortunately, that was 50% off of the price, not the size of my thighs.

(If you're one of the two guys who actually read this, I apologize. I think a guy can relate if he thinks of areas of his body that haven't held up too well over the years, or of tasks that used to be easy that now require real effort. I'll try not to be too graphic or girly. I'm not a terribly girly girl, anyway, so I think you'll be safe.)

It began innocently enough, with simple purchase pursuits like toilet paper and sunscreen. And then. There they were, in all their stretchy, bright-colored glory. Animal prints, pink hyacinths, little skirty bottoms that one might believe could hide flaws. They hung enticingly, just the styles I'd been admiring in a magazine recently, with adjustable straps and reinforced tummies and all those wonderful extras that would turn me into a model. I couldn't help myself; I slipped into the happy world of what I look like in my mind. I grabbed an assortment of tops and bottoms and carried them with misguided hope to the dressing room.

Oh. My. Goodness. The first top was too small, which squeezed certain areas painfully until I feared I'd be unable to remove the article. I tried the other, and it was too large and turned the same aforementioned areas into ridiculously unflattering, saggy triangles. All through this painful process, I couldn't help noticing that my arms are really quite dimply and white. And round. And that there are parts of the lower arm that appear to be nearly detached because of the way they function independently from the rest of my upper torso.

But oh, that's just above the waist. Below was even worse. More fishy whiteness, more dimpling and orange peels where there should be none, more bulgy parts that refused to stay hidden smoothly under spandex. Why are all the modern, fashionable waistbands right at the plumpest part of my waist? In my mind, I'm still a slender, wasp-waisted gal... Where is that girl now? Oh, that's right. Over 40, had a baby, can't stop eating mac and cheese, etc.

The rear view was too upsetting to discuss. I realize I could amend some of this with harder exercise and more eating discipline, but honestly, it would require a lifestyle choice and self-centered approach that I just can't imagine happening right now. I have a 6-year-old, I can't justify the cost of joining a gym or hiring a trainer, and I already feel as if I've given up so much with the whole prediabetes issue that I'm just not willing to give any more.

The solution? I'll wear my old suit, which sports an old-lady skirt, and I'll wear my cute little cover-up I bought on super-clearance last fall, and I'll stop looking in 3-way mirrors under fluorescent lighting. Even if I get thinner and more fit, I can't ever match the image of me that I carry in my own mind. The idealistic vision that can't be found anymore. The imaginary Mel. I don't believe it's possible to regain that fresh face, the wide-open eyes, the tight neck skin, the hairless chin.

I'll do what I can. I don't look that bad, truly; I won't sit around beating myself up. Even as I left the dressing room, I saw far chubbier women shopping nearby and they weren't one bit worried about their thighs. I know I'm thinner than I was before my son was born, and I know I'm healthier than I used to be, too. And thank goodness I don't live at a beach where people hang out in swimsuits all the time. That's unsanitary, anyway. Right?

Still, it's a sobering moment, when you face the real you in a harsh reflection, and that real you confronts the happy younger you that lives cluelessly in your mind. Hey, little girl, says nowadays me. Hey, step aside or I'll sit on you. This is my house now. Move it, you bag o' bones.

Damn, I miss that bony kid. Or at least I miss her outward appearance. Now, pass me that big bathing dress and a bag of chips, okay?

The shirt that keeps on lying

I'm a bit of a thrift store junkie; if you read this silly blog regularly, you know that already, because I mentioned it here, and here, and here... (I really do lead a normal life, I swear to you—I don't just hang out at resale shops and scan the craigslist page.)

Anyway, I like to shop secondhand. A few years back, I was searching for a replacement sweatshirt to take the place of ol' Esprit. Ol' Esprit was a baggy, grey, mostly-cotton-blend that I had worn happily for years. It was loose in all the right places, had a snug enough neck to actually provide warmth and coverage, and was the perfect neutral shade so it matched nearly everything I own. However, as often happens to favorites, Esprit began to show serious signs of love. When the seams started to split and I could no longer leave the house in it for fear of being jailed for vagrancy, I knew it had to go. I wore it when painting for awhile, but knew all along I needed a shirt to step into Esprit's shoes.

Enter the nearby Goodwill store, which in addition to its convenient location, also accepts debit cards for any amount, no matter how small. I went there to find my new sweatshirt love. I wore a T-shirt, so the try-on procedure would be simple, could be done even without a dressing room (in case they were filled), and would replicate new sweatshirt's most common wearing scenario: over a T. I found lots of options, but only one fit the bill perfectly—the fit was ideal, boxy and wide but not too long; the bottom band was not tight at all, thus permitting free movement and requiring no tugging. Best of all, the arms were not too long! This must have been a true woman's sweathshirt; all the men's versions are always designed for gorillas, or at least it looks that way on me with my short limbs. The only problem with the grey sweatshirt was that it sported a lovely Harvard Business School logo in the top left corner. The logo colors were nice and subtle, dark maroon and navy, and other than that I loved the shirt. So, I purchased it and decided it would not matter that it had writing on it, which I normally shun. (Writing should be on paper. Or a monitor.)

I brought the shirt home, washed it, and have worn it all over the place since that day. But the funny thing is that the Harvard thing gets a lot of attention. I've had a number of people ask me if I went to Harvard. Of course I tell them the truth: "Oh, yes, Muffy and I roomed together and I graduated Summa Cum Laude..." Okay, I tell them the real truth, which is no, I've never even set food in the state, let alone on Harvard's campus. And most people seem to be either happy about it (I'm not such a big shot after all) or disappointed to learn I'm a fraud.

The last person to ask was the chubby, curly-haired young guy working the deli at the nearby grocery. He was a friendly fellow, and I was the only one waiting for cold cuts, so he felt unhurried and entitled to chat. "You said a half-pound, right?" I nodded. He went on: "Did you go to Harvard?"

"No, I bought this at a thrift store."

He was one of the disappointed ones, perhaps looking to meet that one Ivy League person walking around the Shop 'n Save. "Yeah, I guess if you'd been there, you wouldn't be shopping here."

"Well, maybe I would be. Those people have to eat, too," I replied. He handed me the package and we parted ways.

But I thought about it. What are the chances of my meeting a Harvard grad of any kind in my local deli? Would I be buying ham off the bone somewhere in the North Hills of Pittsburgh if I'd walked the halls of Harvard Business School? I only know one person who went to Harvard, and I don't know if she actually attended the school—only that she was accepted. And if she is studying there, will she come back to Pittsburgh to practice whatever she's practicing, or will she likely flock to a bigger, more citified city? If she does live here, will she choose a simple, very affordable neighborhood in the 'burbs, or purchase some mansion nowhere near me? Will she shop for lunch meat, or send a minion? Or are we all really pretty much the same, even the very bright and well educated?

One has to wonder.

P.S. I'm wearing the shirt today. Inside out. I like to get double my money.

P.P.S. This one's starting to look pretty ratty, too... Short-armed sweatshirt donations will be shamelessly accepted.

The cost of convenience

In my ever-present dilemma of whether to stay near a city or unplug completely, I've discerned a disturbing pattern.

It occurred to me as I sat in my really great parking place at the local Shop 'n Save store. I'd been so happy to find it! On a busy day, the day of the shop's crazy-good specials, I'd managed to land a spot right by the door. I couldn't believe my luck. This awesome spot would allow me to run in and get the three little items I needed.

Ten minutes later, five of which had been spent at the bustling check-out (stop chatting and move it!), I hurried to my car. Except I couldn't drive away. There was a big truck parked behind me, blocking me in along with two other cars. Of course it would stop there, with blinkers blinking; it was right by the entryway. As was I. Except now, my spot wasn't so perfect, was it?

I pondered my realization as I watched the truck's blinkers continue to mock me. Yes, every time there's a convenience, there is a price. Even if that truck weren't hedging me in, for example, the parking spot close to the door is also the spot most likely to feature runaway carts. I sought the pattern elsewhere. Cars? They're great. Except now that I depend on one, I am lazy and don't combine errands the way I would if I had to ride a bus, or walk, or bike. And, cars (and airplanes) have allowed people to move far away from jobs, schools, extended families, etc.—which seems convenient until you consider all the traveling hassles—not to mention the extra money we spend going to those places frequently, even daily. Plus the pollution.

I love my washing machine, clothes dryer, and the dishwasher. Love them. However. The price? Now it's too easy to be clean, to toss a shirt or a drinking glass into the ever available receptacle for dirties. I don't need to be careful, don't need to be mindful of whether the item is truly dirty, because the solution is right there. Waste, and waste more. The same is true for indoor plumbing and a seemingly endless supply of hot water at the ready. Now? We're all obsessed with cleanliness; God forbid we smell like people instead of perfumes. The Europeans don't seem to have been sucked into this illness; perhaps we should find out how they remain immune to the lures of scentlessness...

Easy, breezy communication? I've already touched on that one, and how I truly believe it's cheapened and weakened our interactions, to the great detriment of our language and relationships. Prepared foods? They're often very unhealthy for you, and use more energy to prepare and deliver than locally grown or slaughtered. Fast food? Same thing, plus all those convenient foods cost you more money, too.

Disposable goods are so convenient, aren't they? Paper plates, napkins, little zip-lock baggies, plastic cups that no one bothers to recycle, plastic tablecloths for parties, etc. I'm just as guilty—I've used them, too. Although I do recycle the cups, and we certainly don't entertain much... But I digress. The point is that since all this stuff is as close and cheap as your nearest dollar store (filled to the gills with imported garbage, no offense to the stores intended), we have an insatiable hunger for junk just because it's there. It's so affordable. We forget that we'll never use it all, that we never needed it to begin with.

Easy entertainment via TV, movies, and games? Well, now we've forgotten to think for ourselves, and we're getting less exercise than ever before. Health costs continue to skyrocket, not just because the health care and drug companies are the new mafia, but because collectively we're in worse physical shape than pretty much any nation in history that I can think of.

The best part? We're teaching our kids to require all these conveniences. So they, too, can be slaves to big corporations and foreign countries. So they can also have lifelong habits that kill them softly instead of infusing their lives with meaning and purpose.

It seems to me that everything intended to add convenience to our lives actually costs us considerably in some other way. Does anyone else see the pattern? Is anyone else starting to question our culture?

Upon closer inspection, the remote countryside is looking pretty good. Harder, yes. But infinitely better than the squishy alternative.

Paper or plastic?

I feel as if I've been away for weeks. Sickness struck us, and I'm still blowing my nose and listening to my son cough. We survived, though.

During the hubbub of sickness combined with Thanksgiving preparations, I recently found myself waiting to check out at the nearby Giant Eagle store. Busy shoppers were pushing carts around the store, looking frantic, checking lists and store flyers and then plowing forward. I stood in a self-checkout line behind a tall, willowy blonde woman with a rather low-cut shirt on.

I didn't notice the shirt at first; I was looking at her cute little boy, maybe 18 months old, who sat in the front of the cart but tried more than once to stand until the woman instructed him to sit. "No, no, sit," she said. while she tried to unload items from her cart onto the belt.

I watched this exchange, thinking that she ought not to wear such a low-cut shirt to the grocery store, thinking that 13 years from now, all her son's friends might want to gather at his house in hopes of getting a glimpse of cleavage. I mentally shook my head at her (I'm not a nice person, really—I know this—and I admit without hesitation that I most definitely need a savior so I have a chance), and I thought about changing lines. I always change lines—it's an impatient behavior that I firmly believe is inherited—and for that moment, I was contemplating switching lanes. Perhaps I could skip over to the 15-items-or-less line, and I could drop in behind that old lady and zip right through...

And then another woman pulled in behind me. Oh golly. Now I was kind of stuck, unless I was willing to ask the new woman to move. (I wasn't.) And I felt, too, an inexplicable urge to just stay put. It was fine. Stop being so rushed all the time, the urge said. The little boy in the cart was trying to climb out again, and this time the woman spoke to him in a foreign tongue. I'm terrible with languages, so I'm not certain which language it was: Swedish? Norwegian? German? Are those all Germanic? Oh, I should have paid more attention in linguistics!!! I felt a twinge of annoyance, partly at myself (because I couldn't begin to identify the tongue) and partly at this slim, pretty, blonde creature in her low blouse with her darling boy who reminded me of my darling boy. The one who spends his days in school now. Sigh.

I looked at Ms. Low-cut, and the urge to stay put in line became a voice. Why don't you help her out? said the voice.

Me: What? Her? Low-cut?

Voice: Yes, of course.

Me: What if I insult her? She's foreign! What if she gets mad at me and starts swearing at me in another language?

Voice: Then let her. So what? At least you will have tried. Everyone in this store is in a hurry, but you all stand here watching people struggle. How pointless is that?

Me: Yeah, but, but... Oh. Okay.

And then, with my face feeling a bit warm and uncomfortable, I asked her (I had to speak twice because she didn't hear me the first time): "Excuse me, could I bag those for you?"

She looked at me, doubtful, a bit surprised, but after a pause she replied, "If you don't mind, that would be great." Slight accent, but clear English. I had no trouble understanding her.

I slipped past her and began putting things in bags, then into her cart. The little boy watched me with big eyes, not smiling but not unfriendly either. She commented that he was a busy little boy who could not sit still for long, and I agreed that kids get bored when shopping. I shared that I was missing my little guy, who was in kindergarten now; I couldn't believe how quickly it had gone. She agreed; she had two older girls, and she understood quite well that the years flew by. She scanned, I bagged, we chatted, and it was such a better use of my time than standing behind her judging her. At one point it crossed my mind that my purse and wallet were sitting back in my own cart, and that the woman behind me in line had overheard the entire exchange and could right now be casually sneaking her hand into my giant bag and stealing my identity. That would be just the sort of thing that would happen, right when you're trying to do a good deed, right?

But it didn't happen. No one stole my identity. No one swore at me in another language. In fact, we got the order checked out much faster and she thanked me as she left. And that was that.

Why have I never done this before? Why do I feel more comfortable standing around huffing at someone and thinking unkind thoughts than I do offering to help them? We're all in this together. I doubt I'd be moved to help every shopper, because some of them are downright inconsiderate and obnoxious. But honestly? I should probably try to help them, too. I never know what battle they're fighting, right?

I'm going to try to remember how much better it felt to reach out to someone instead of condemning them behind folded arms. I'll need to hold onto that feeling, that desire to serve, as I move through this holiday season. I'll have to remind myself daily that each one of us needs grace every morning.

And sometimes, that grace is delivered in an unexpected way.

Squeaking by in style

If you read this regularly, then you are already aware that we've been treading water in some uncertain seas here at our house. The world of part-time, freelance, and contract work is financially a bit unpredictable; in addition, it is a world of pay-for-your-own-medical-benefits. Combine those two things and you have a serious need to cut out extras and live close to the bone.

I'm not complaining (at least not right now! ; ) I like to think that tight times, like hardships, build character and fortitude. I also believe that we as a country are a wasteful, greedy, spoiled bunch of brats for the most part. I don't want to represent that growing segment of the population.

Take those health benefits: I've had person after person tell me that I should try to get them for free, or less. It's the same story with every assistance program out there: "The help is there, you might as well use it," they say. I try to point out to these "helpful" sorts that we still have two running vehicles, jobs we can do, skills we can use, good and plentiful food from all the food groups, a home with heat and even A/C when it's stiflingly hot, a home computer, enough money to occasionally do something just for fun... I can see from the glaze in their eyes that it's not sinking in, but what I'm saying to them is true: we are not destitute. We have all the requirements for life and far more. If I can still pay for my health benefits, I will; I don't care that the state wants to give them to my kid. I don't care that we might qualify for some sort of assistance. We do not want for ANY necessities; that's enough information for me to decline all the handouts. If I really, absolutely, positively must take them, I will. If I am wanting for necessities on a regular basis, I will accept assistance from those programs, because people in those straits are the folks for whom such programs exist. But I'm not there yet.

You see, a lot of Americans have pride about the wrong things. They have no qualms whatsoever about taking any and every thing the government will give them, but they turn up their noses when I mention shopping second-hand. Or ALDI. Or knocking on a neighbor's door to ask if you may use the apples that fall from their tree and rot on the roadway. Why are we collectively more ashamed of shopping in the wrong stores, of looking less than wealthy, but not ashamed to accept handouts? Why are people reluctant to use coupons at the grocery, but unapologetic that they still get checks or money equivalents from Uncle Sam? Is is because Uncle Sam spares them the embarrassment of being forced to use coupons? What is wrong with coupons?

I don't mean to harp and rant. I realize we are all making our own choices and that is part of what I love about America. I also realize there are a few people in this country who are truly doing without the basics and suffering. I just wish the idiots in charge would stop giving it all away to anyone who asks; they're creating an ever bigger, uglier monster of laziness and entitlement.

ANYWAY. That wasn't supposed to be the point of this post. This post is about squeaking by without feeling squeaked.

The other day, I saved my grocery store receipt to show my husband. Why? I was proud of that receipt. It wasn't for a huge purchase or anything; I simply pointed out to him that the amount of the purchase was $12.97, and the amount saved was $12.60. That's how I shop, people. One good thing about having more time and less money is that you can dedicate as many minutes as needed to planning and scanning: planning your list and menu, and scanning the store flyers to see where your best deals are.

I've put together a quick list of tips and methods on which I rely weekly. Following this list pretty much guarantees you'll save money. However, it's just like a diet—not following it guarantees nothing. Diligence works, while distraction and lack of discipline do not.


Cheapskate Mel's Shopping Tips

• Always keep a list of needed items in a central location. Write down each item immediately upon thinking of it. If you always buy certain items at certain places, then keep multiple lists titled by the appropriate store name. (Don't write the list on a chalkboard, whiteboard, etc. because then it is not transportable. The list must be easily transportable or you will not use it.)

• Use coupons, but only use them for items you already buy. Do not use them as a way to buy something unusual, unless it is something you've really been wanting to try anyway. Keep the coupons in your wallet, in your handbag (if you're a woman), or in the car that you drive. Do not keep them in the desk or on the table in the office, because you will never have them when you need them. Clip them together or contain them in an envelope. Before you go into a store where you plan to use them, take out the stack, find the one(s) you need, and put those coupons on top of the stack so they're handy when you check out.

• If your list is short and/or does not contain heavy, awkward items, do not get a cart; get a basket instead. Or, put the items to purchase into your reusable tote. (NOTE: I can employ this tactic now because I'm typically shopping alone; if your little one is still coming along, ignore this tip for now.) Having that basket limits you from impulse purchases. If you can't comfortably carry the impulse item, you will likely not buy it.

• Shop ahead of time and always have back-ups in the freezer or pantry to help you avoid panic purchases at more expensive, more convenient locations. Stocking up ahead of time allows you to take advantage of good sales involving multiple items. It also saves you from, when in a hurry, being forced to buy a pricey brand-name item because the convenience store doesn't offer generics. Ideally, you should buy an item only when it's offered at a sale price. Usually, with prior planning, that is an achievable goal. (This works best if you have a good idea of what things cost when they're not on sale.)

• If your list involves only one part of a large store, do NOT venture into the rest of the store. You will most certainly find things you think you "need." Fight the urge, check out, and leave the store.

• If you really have a hard time controlling yourself, use the cash system: roughly figure how much your total purchase will cost, and then take only that amount of money into the store. A limited cash "cache" will force you to restrain yourself and stick to the list. Apparently, gamblers do this, I've heard—they take with them an amount of money they can afford to lose. Um, hello? If you can afford to lose more than a couple of bucks, then please invest that money wisely instead of flushing it down the toilet!?! (Dave Ramsey, debt-free guru, frequently recommends a cash-only method to families; he calls it the envelope system, and suggests that financially strapped people set up envelopes each month, labeled by expense and based on what they can afford and what they realistically need to spend in order to survive. We haven't yet resorted to the envelope system, but I'm not ruling it out...)

• Plan your meals based on what is in season and what's on sale. Buying fresh food in season costs sometimes half as much as buying the same food out of season. It's better for the environment anyway; stuff that's out of season has to be shipped from far away, likely picked before it's ripe, and possibly preserved en route by the use of unhealthy and unnatural means.

• Like to read? The library is still free. Remember the library, before all those big-box book-and-coffee stores? And oh, yeah, they have movies at the library, too. If you have extra money, that would be a great place to donate a few bucks; thanks to our stupid leaders, public libraries really need more funding.

• Eat at home. I've already hit on this several times in past posts, so I won't go on and on. It's cheaper, healthier, and better for your family (if you have a family). I know it's hard to do sometimes, thanks to different schedules, sports, work, etc... Do what you can. Slow cookers still work well, and fresh food doesn't take as long to cook. Not to mention this is still excellent grilling weather.

• Make it known that you happily receive hand-me-downs. We have several folks who kindly share with us their kids' goods, and since I have more time, I can sort through them, label them, store them, and pass on any excess. Sometimes people have nice clothes, toys, books, etc. that they'd like to give to someone, but they're hesitant to pass things on in fear of insulting the recipient. Let it be clear to others that you detest waste and will accept with gratitude any of those items they're planning to unload.

• Shop second-hand. It's just smart. You pay $30 for something, and I pay $3 for the same item. I wash it, and it's clean. This is especially true of household items and furniture. Obviously, I won't buy anything that looks worn, beat-up, or straight from the 70s, just like I won't buy an article of clothing that's stained, or pilled, or has holes. I don't want to be a bum. I just want to spend money on things that really matter. (No, I don't buy undergarments second-hand. I have common sense AND standards.)

• Make a deliberate decision to live low-tech. We have done so and it saves us a ton. I know some of you may think this is easy for me to say because my child is still very small. However, remember that America is known for helpless children and helicopter-parents who hover. Maybe the answer is having emergency-only tech tools, just for older kids who are unsupervised more often. Perhaps we should all stop running around so much. Easier said than done, I realize—but some of our own suffering we bring on ourselves. Don't worry about keeping up with all the great gadgets. They're amazing, they're fun, and...they're expensive. Get by with the minimum, forget the frequent upgrades and newest versions, and have a face-to-face conversation or look up from that screen to see the world around you. The technological boom has done a huge disservice to free thought, creativity, and common sense. In my humble opinion, of course. As I type this on a computer. But hey, it's 4-1/2 years old already and it was the cheapest Mac available at the time.


*****

Okay, okay. I'd better stop. I'm starting to preach, and no one wants to read that. Seriously, though, it is possible to cut corners and still live large. I'd welcome any additional money-saving suggestions!

To squeak by, you need to sort of rethink and question our culture. You have to pretty much forget about the Jones family and focus on the really important things in life. Thankfully, those things aren't terribly expensive, at least in dollars. And if you're worried that you'll short-change your kid, I disagree: you'll be teaching the younger generation that there is more to life than Wii, Abercrombie, new cars, the current restaurant fad, and the latest iPhone. Now, that's a lesson we all need to learn.

The great (if somewhat “dandy”) outdoors

A few weeks before Christmas, the kid and I ventured to the new L. L. Bean store at the mall nearby. (Yes, the same increasingly upscale mall I wrote about here.) We went in search of a very handy, utterly pragmatic wind-up flashlight for Todd/Daddy.

The store was beautiful, lots and lots of wood but not all of it spotless; there were a few carefully chosen pieces with wear and character. It was huge, two stories, with a giant staircase in the middle, incredibly high ceilings (so as to easily accommodate standing kayaks, of course), little training areas and small classrooms tucked away, and lots of trademark pine and sage greens, perhaps to fool the shopper into feeling as if he or she is actually in the great outdoors.

The entire staff was impeccably mannered, eager to assist but never fawning or stalking the customer. Everything was so neat, so tidy, so utterly organized and shiny. We wandered for a few minutes, found what we’d been seeking, looked around at the overpriced clothes upstairs, and picked out some adorable doggy slippers for my boy to purchase with some early Christmas money he’d received.

It was lovely, and just a little bit intimidating. I tried to figure out my discomfort as we left the store, bag in hand, and were bid farewell by the friendly and courteous greeter who was stationed at the door. I love the outdoors, love fresh air and sunshine and stretching my legs on a grassy slope while the breeze blows my hair. I should feel at ease in a place that sells all this gear. I don’t ski, or kayak, but it shouldn’t matter—Bean has always been about fun and practicality outside.

And it still is. It’s a great company. The stuff is high quality, and works, and lasts. I want no beef with Bean.

But it’s this whole outdoorsy “lifestyle” that’s turning me off. With all the giant outdoor stores springing up—Cabela’s, Gander Mountain, Sportsman’s Warehouse—it feels as if I am being sold a shopping experience, a whole package deal in which I buy the stuff and then live the life. And that smacks of lies to me.

I remember hearing about the original Bean store in New England from a friend who had the pleasure of visiting it yearly while visiting family up north. Her descriptions of the place didn’t ring true while I walked through this newest store. Where were the real woodsmen and women? Why wasn’t anyone wearing a coat that didn’t match the rest of the outfit? How come no one was clumping around in work boots? I wonder what would happen at that pretty, spotless store if a guy who owned a couple of those infamous Labs came in and had dog poo on his shoe… Would he be asked to leave? Would the other customers be offended? And are people who love the outdoors always so well-heeled? I thought they could be gruff, perhaps even sloppy. I didn’t know they all were clean shaven and colored their hair. Not ones shopper even raised his or her voice. Aren't people who love being outside ever loud? The true outdoorsmen and women I’ve known didn’t look like any of those shoppers, at Bean or at many of the other stores.

And the stores themselves: must they be so ginormous? Cabela’s alone must take up such a huge chunk of acreage that many of the animals the place claims to love and protect were likely put out of their homes. The parking lot alone is the size of a huge meadow. Bean wasn’t a store of that scale, but still…

I wonder what has become of all the real outdoor people. I know Orvis and Bass Pro and the like have been appealing to the upper crust of sportsmen for many years, but it feels like a wave of falsification is taking place in this world that I hold dear. The Great Outdoors is great—it doesn’t need to be billed as an amusement park so that every yuppie within driving range can visit it, be impressed, and mark it off their list of “to-do’s in this lifetime.” I am sad that even the natural realm has become yet another mark of materialism in our messed-up world.

Yes, the stores are interesting and amazing—but not nearly as much so as the real thing. The shopping for gadgets and garments shouldn’t be the experience; the outdoor experience itself should be the experience. Perhaps someday, if we keep building these monstrosities, the shopping experience will be the only one that remains.

Opiate for the (financially comfortable and pretty) masses

I went to the mall today.

I’m not a mallrat by any means. Today’s trip was the first visited there in a few months—and today’s mission took place mostly before the stores even opened. It was time to walk indoors on a snowy day, to work harder to fit into my “fat” clothes—fat clothes being the more forgiving portion of every woman’s wardrobe… When the fat clothes no longer fit, then the walking must commence. Hence my mall visit.

I’m always amazed when I’m in a mall; it’s like a whole new world has opened to me. A pretty, bright, fragrant world, with many gadgets and lights and beautiful people. Can this possibly be the same world I inhabit daily? Where are the unattractive people? Where are the foul odors? The noise? The poor? The unhealthy? No sign of them within this well-attended splendour.

It’s especially hard to believe we’re in a recession as I stride through the halls of success. Not even Thanksgiving yet, but every store beckons wallet-bearing passersby with shop-appropriate Christmas carols and décor. The athletic wear store blares rap Christmas from its entry, while classic jazz Christmas wafts out of the mature women’s clothing lines. Like children staring through a candy store window, eager shoppers line up before the gated entrances, gazing hungrily through the metal bars, mentally organizing their purchases before they even set foot inside.

And the shoppers themselves: Did I ever wear high heels to go shopping? I cannot recall a single occasion. I realize some of the people might have been stopping off en route to another final destination, perhaps work? But the number of women, and not just vain young women, who shop in tiny stilettos always amazes me. It’s 9:30 am and they’re tripping around on just a few square inches, by choice. I’m speechless.

It’s difficult for me not to feel like an alien when trooping through a well-to-do suburban shopping mecca like today’s walking locale. The typical shopper is, quite simply, of a different caliber than I. Well-tailored, well-heeled, mostly older women roam with confidence in this materialistic haven. It is their world, and they know it. They don’t even bother to glance at little old me in her worn sneakers and stretch pants. “Not one of us.” They’re right—I’d never argue.

And everywhere, the message is the same: Spend. Signs outside of kids’ and teens’ shops are especially disturbing: One of them said, “All I want is everything.” What the--?! What kind of message is that? Sometimes I feel genuinely sad for today’s upper-middle-class youth. What a setup we’ve created for them, how we’ve trained them to be consumers but not earners, to recognize brand names instead of character. What a disservice we’ve done them, and are doing to them.

So, I’ll probably be headed back to the mall next week, but only if the snow continues to fly. I don’t really care to see the Tiffany’s that’s nearly ready to open its doors. I don’t want to be forced to consider how many people will still be making purchases with credit cards to keep up the appearance they’ve created. Maybe some of those fashionable, attractive shoppers have the cash to back it up. I hope so. I hate to think that the whole darned thing might just be a competitive illusion. It’s so soothing for me to go somewhere and be assured of my place in the world.

Seriously? My hope is that you’ll never fall prey to commercialism and consumerism, that you’ll spend only what you have in cash, and that you’ll enjoy a good and grateful Thanksgiving holiday. We truly have so, so much to be thankful for. : )

How parasites shop

I like to think I’m pretty economical, that I can stretch a dollar. Todd and I live intentionally sparkle-free lives; we drive old cars, eat at home most of the time, he packs his lunch for work, I’m a regular Pennysaver and Craigslist participant, the kid and I seek out free fun at the library, take walks in the parks, etc. You get the idea. We try to live simply and inexpensively. Part of this is because we must, but truth be told, part of it is because we genuinely enjoy finding a bargain.

My favorite places to seek those bargains happen to be second-hand shops and sales. I have a local Goodwill that I frequent, we hit the church rummage sales sometimes, and there’s nothing better than a neighborhood garage sale on a warm Saturday morning. Sometimes I drag Marcus on these little forays; he’s quite familiar with the regular shopping spots. (He actually asked me today if I got my teeth at Goodwill—no kidding. Could I fabricate such an odd quote? You know it must be true.) I wouldn’t say that I pride myself on finding some of my favorite things in the midst of other people’s discarded goods, but I also wouldn’t say I’m ashamed of it. (Sometimes I think that the real shame belongs to people who spend ridiculous amounts of money on this stuff in the first place.) I do enjoy the thrill of the hunt, the unlikely Ralph Lauren skirt that’s in mint condition and cost me $3, or the Banana Republic sweater I found for $2… It brings me great satisfaction to step out in a name-brand outfit that didn’t even cost me a tenspot.

But pondering my second-hand hobby recently, I realized with some chagrin that I’m a parasite. All this time I’ve been thinking that I’m bucking the system, that I don’t need to live at the mercy of this season’s fashion, spend hundreds to update my wardrobe, invest thousands in furniture. The reality? I’m just as dependent on the whole goofy materialistic way of life as the initial purchasers of all these goods. If the person who first bought that $2 Ralph Lauren skirt had suddenly decided to save her money, where would I be? I couldn’t pick this stuff up cheaply if someone else hadn’t splurged on it in the first place.

So, I’m not really bucking the system. I’m just operating in a different system…but it’s not so very different, really. I spend less money, but I’m a cog in the greedy, fickle, buy-more/buy-new wheel just the same. I need those spendthrifts to help me maintain my lifestyle. My way of life requires that a consumer must consume; whether or not that consumer is me doesn’t really matter.

I'll be biting my tongue next time I'm tempted to ridicule someone's extravagance, because now I'll picture myself, a little leech, clinging to a bloated underbelly.