Saving Money For My Custom Leather Catsuit (Banana Yellow)

Lately I’ve been thinking about stretching money, which is one of my least favorite things to think about EVER. I have been poor on and off for a long time, due to either carelessness or circumstance (mostly that, I swear) and it gets old.

Some of the best advice SeaFed’s grandma gave me before she died was, “Work hard in your twenties, it’s okay to be poor then. But being poor in your thirties sucks.” I didn’t know what she meant then, exactly. Would it just be that years of grinding poverty would have taken its toll by then? Would I look and feel ancient like those pictures of dustbowl farmers during the Depression? Maybe. I think what she meant was that a person would likely have children by the time they were in their thirties, and secondly that I am having this feeling of wanting to be settled and have a nice adult life. To be able to take little trips like the one we did to Portland recently, to see family, or to have people over for dinner and to be able to serve them any old weird thing you want.

So I started thinking about how to save money on food. Was this possible? I had fooled myself into thinking I was doing really well, but the total kept creeping up. As I was thinking about how to save money on food, I was also thinking we were kind of screwed, since we like to buy organic, and I decided to cut out as much corn syrup as possible. If there is a corn syrup-free alternative, I will buy it. If not, I will decide how badly I want it. So this has bumped us up to the four dollar-plus loaves of bread range. Delicious and local to be sure, but the way my little termites nom through it, was it worth it? I know one of the biggest ways to save money at the grocery store is to cut out junk food, usually defined as processed food. I thought, we don’t do that much; it’s usually “whole” or fresh foods that we assemble.

But I was fooling myself again. I may not be buying Cheetos, but I was sometimes buying expensive cheese. This is fun sometimes, but I can’t make it a habit. Also wine, which I love, but it’s another extra. I am trying now to think in terms of money and “do I really need these calories, or can I just wait til dinner?” God I love cheese. But junk food has to be anything that is just making my ass bigger.

Fortuitously, this article on how to save money at the grocery store fell into my lap a couple of days later. It’s a good read, full of some stuff I knew, but needed reminding of. Some stuff I wasn’t even thinking about, like the extra cost of canned beans (“expensive water”) versus dried. I followed links and started reading about making your own staples, which will help with my termite problem.

A couple of days after that, Dietgirl got into the act with an entry about budgeting. I feel like the universe is trying to tell me something here.

I buy bulk now and have for quite a while, and fresh veggies, and chickens to part out, that sort of thing, but now am going further. I have resurrected my neglected bread machine. I haven’t mathed it out yet, but I am guessing that loaves of mostly organic, preservative-free bread are now costing me around a dollar with very little labor. I have stopping buying string cheese and am now sending them out the door with a slice of cheese in their hand if they are hungry. I am going to try my hand at making yogurt, which I hear is delicious and a savings even with organic milk as a base. My neighbor does it all the time…I figure it can’t be too hard.

Lucky for me, and you know me, I like to cook anyway. I’ll let you know how it’s going.

Fun with My Pal Ed Emberley

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Cat? Mebbe.

“Do you love it, Mom?”

“I love it SOOOO much!”

“Really?”

“I love it so much I can imagine it tattooed on my beefy arm.”

“Noooo, Mom, that’s a stupid idea!”

This is a request and dedication to J>O>B.

St. Pat’s for Jerks

Decided to clean my house today, as it’s been too long and we have a spate of company this week. I was thinking this was excellent timing, as the girls have half-days and I thought I could put the big one to work.

So far in two hours, with many interruptions, I have made the soda bread, dusted, cleaned the upstairs, picked up odds and ends like books, newspapers, and magazines, done the dishes, swept the upstairs, put in a couple of loads of laundry, and answered emails. Normal busy afternoon, right? After I get off this I will get cracking on finishing the downstairs.

I have assigned my big kid to change her sheets and make her bed. As I write this, she is STILL working on it. Two hours later. She approaches everything with the same snail-like zeal. It can take her a half hour or more to get dressed.

I know that most little kids are slow, and it’s a loft bed, but DAMN. I feel torn, because at close to this age I was given a whole list of chores on a Saturday and told to hop-to. I know that proficiency comes with time, but when it is this painful to watch I want to clean around her. I had a dream that she would clean the bathrooms today, but I don’t know if there will be time. Eventually she will work faster because she will want to be done, right? How can I tell someone with no perspective on the matter that two hours is too long to take to make a bed?

I know by having her be responsible and helping she is 1. learning how to take care of a house and 2. she is learning how to be a contributing family member but GODDAMN watching her clean is like nails on the blackboard, watching paint dry or…like watching a little kid clean. Please, any words of wisdom?

They’re After Me Lucky Gene Program

Me: Look at these cute shirts I got for the girls for St. Pat’s Day!

Companion: Those are cute.

Me: We have to make sure they marry Irish men.

Companion: Why?

Me: So the bloodlines can say pure.

Companion: As a Jew I feel compelled to run away from you now.

Do you remember the time we were going to get your teeth fixed and we spent all of the money on Francis’s toupee?

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I was going to do something all amazing and squeeze little frosting clovers, but I said FUCK IT. We’re dealing with a group whose average age is four. Please dispense sugar delivery system NAO kthxbye. You may not be able to tell, but these are wee cupcakes, so they are not full-strength. This is how you keep the teachers sweet. Also they are carrot cake. NOM.

For Strudel’s third birthday, the British Fairy came. Coool.

“What would you like for your special birthday breakfast?” I said.

“I would acksherly like yogurt quite a lot,” she said.

“ORLY.”

“Jolly good, Mother.”

Okay, she didn’t say the last part. She’s a funny one. Franny was all “F this N, dog,” and would get as close as she could to a word. “I wear my fweater while I’m on the fwing.” This one pronounces every letter, but does not yet create a smooth blend. So we’re at the table and we get,
“I need a sss pppooo nuh.” This is yelled, of course. It’s sort of like eating with with Sloth, except less shouting for Baby Ruths, and we’ve gone to a quieter chain system.

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Anyway, I had a lulzy moment yesterday. I got the bill for my IUD. It was $69. BOW CHICKA BOW BOW, IUD pimp. Now I am bleeding, and I had to jam my menstrual cup there with the IUD. Will they be friends? How many things can I fit in there? Next month, turtle and flipflop, too. Seriously, I have a fair amount of anxiety about this. There IS a string hanging out…what if they fight? What if IUD loses? I had a dream I was fishing through my purse for my keys and I came up with it. I thought I was just going to forget about it. I guess that’s for the non-spastic.

And this…is probably all I should say about that. Have a good day.

You Wrote I Love You; I Love You Too

Ha! Coup! Beau Coup! Companion let me dye his hair blue-black yesterday. I accidentally dipped my finger in the straight dye and then put the glove on, so when I flip people off they will think I am angry because I suffer from frostbite. Well, nails can’t GET frostbite, so you can take your Phoenix University degree and stick in in your SCRIMSHAW. I trimmed the back and he is growing the top so he can have flippy broody hair. There May Be Mohawk, or at Least Faux.

Speaking of EMO. I am stuck at my house because my kid woke up an hour late. I am watching her make the noms on the toast. I am missing my action meeting. I am out of the auction doghouse that I was in last week, because I made an auction webpage, complete with a meter of how many items we have currently. I would tell you about my auction doghouse (my auction dog house, let me sho u it) because it was a rather emo episode of “bitches shifting power around” and if I tell you about it I will have to self-injure and listen to MCR, and I REALLY don’t want to listen to MCR.

Other than that this weekend was kind of a blur. Did not clean, did not do much of anything. A little emailing, a little auction work. Much less cooking and baking than usual. Calmed down about the moon. It doesn’t matter what happens, because they have drugs for it now.

In Which The Princess Is Not In Another Castle

Last night we went to the 4,000th Survivor’s Banquet for the Puget Sound Mycological Society. There were about 100 people there so I guess a lot of people survive. They had a few schmancy chefs and everything was all mushrooms all the time. Mushroom soup. Mushroom salad. I encountered mushroom pataaaaay. Then, of course, the chicken had a mushroom ragout on it. The dessert was shaped like a mushroom, but did not contain mushrooms (I think).

The servers were pouring champagne for a toast as one of the founding members had died recently. I was sipping on mine and a server came up and topped my glass. “You’re going to want to SAVE some champagne for the toast,” she told me sternly. I just looked at her. I felt like I had just Bushuru’ed all over the flower arrangement or something.

Someone was awarded the Golden Mushroom award, and I found it awesome that such a thing exists. You get a golden chanterelle pin, which is at least worth the price of admission. This is a crowd that obviously enjoys their NOMs if they are willing to go out in the natures and procure it themselves. So after dinner, the schmancy main chef and pastry chef, who are members, came out and spoke. Where else can you go to a banquet where the chef speaks?

On the way there I saw a billboard hawking something called Moonvertising. Since I don’t yet have the internet in my arm, I flipped out and called a couple of my friends. “Explain this fuckery,” I demanded, but they could not. When I came home, I googled it and discovered Rolling Rock, which is the shittest beer on the planet, is threatening to become the shittiest beer on the moon as well.

I know I fall under the category of “crackpot” in about twelve different ways before noon, but I find this idea, even in jest, infuriating. It has to be not a huge deal because none of the real news services have picked it up. I think they are going to get a lot of attention but I think it will backfire.

When I got to the part in The Time Machine where the moon cracked up like a broken molar I cried while reading it. I have had nightmares since I was a little kid about people fucking with the moon and it always freaks me out. It was hard to get to sleep last night. Not much bothers me in the scheme of “idiocy the rest of the world is up to” but I will take to the streets with a pitchfork if they try this.

PS, your moonvertising site is slow and sucks, and even my grandma who tried to answer a mouse that she thought was ringing once knows it. YOU SUCK.

My Ride, Do Watch How I Elegantly Pimp It

Sup suuuup SUP?

I am so psyched, because in this life I never run out of opportunities to dance for you like the dancing monkey I am. I have official poop about the Can I Sit with You? reading that is more than just me shooting my mouth off, a la the other day.

It is April 25 at 8 p.m. at Annex Theatre. Tickets are $5 or $12 (your choice how much you care to donate) and there are only 99 seats! Come and see me and I will totally sign your book. Or come and plug your ears during my part and have me NOT sign your book. Just come! Tell your fronds.


Official Poop about Line up

Buy Tickets through Brown Paper Tickets

And then after buy me a drink because I’m pretty when I’m drunk. Wait, that’s not right. YOU’RE pretty when I’m drunk.

Also today I blobbed about International Women’s Day over at Blogher.

Hey This Looks Dusty and Full of Cheerios

So it must be a VENT.

I have two things to tell you.

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The Life of a Volunteer Coordinator

Stage One: Ask for Volunteers
“GREAT GOOGLY MOOGLY YES we’d love to do that for you!” You describe the job completely. “Yes, yes, we can do that in our sleep!”

Stage Two: Wow!
Wow. I have a team.

Stage Three: Call in Team
And then you say, OKAY, tiem to do jorb nao, and they say, “This is not as described. I have surgery/vacation/fallen arches.” And then I check my sent mail and see how I described the job exactly as it is.

Stage Four: Wine
I am stupid. Cry. Do job myself. Vow to never do this again. Mean it this time.

PART DEUX

2. Today I told my friend a story about my ex-husband to make her laugh, as she was having a rough day.

Three years ago, I took my big kid to the dentist. This is when I was still under the impression that we were going to be splitting medical expenses and whatnot as outlined in the parenting plan. (“Parenting Plan: For When You Run Out of Hamster Litter.”)

So I sent him a bill for the dentist, asking him to pay half. I think it was around a hundred bucks total. What I got in the mail was a check for twelve-fifty.

“What’s this about?” I said.

“Well, that would be half the copay if either of us had insurance,” he replied. Clever. ELEGANT.

After I finished telling the story my friend said, “Is he…special?”

Yes. He’s very, very special. Turns out she gave me the laugh.