Barbara

After decades of spending like Imelda Marcus at a DSW, throwing clothes away because they’re no longer stylish, and dumping leftovers down the garbage disposal rather than having the same thing twice, Americans have suddenly become frugal.

Yes—it is now chic to visit the second-hand store for name-brand jeans. The only difference is the price. The holes are still included.

People are choosing items from McDonald’s dollar menu instead of supersizing their butts and shrinking their wallets.

Walmart has gained customers from the other side of the tracks — the side that would once drive twenty miles out of their way to a Target store rather than be seen entering the aluminum walls of one of Sam Walton’s “only things made in America will be sold here,” discount stores.

 I can see why some people would have a hard time feeling comfortable shopping in a Walmart. There are more languages spoken daily inside a Walmart than in Walt Disney World during any given week. The clothes sold there all come in a one-size-fits-most stretchy polyester. And they have door greeters that try to talk to you when you go in and out.

Personally, I like to hear English when I shop, don’t look good in stretchy knits, and don’t like to be greeted when I’m shopping for Midol and Tampons. But that’s just me.

Lately the frugal people with saving ideas have made the news, newspaper columns and Internet articles. They talk about getting their groceries for free by clipping coupons, saving gas by working at home, or making pizza from day old bagels. They are the flavor of the month, or maybe the flavor of the next decade, as the economy settles into the mud.

Some ideas out there have been very helpful. Like cutting your lotion bottles in half so you can stick your hand down in there and get that last bit out. Or unplugging things that aren’t being used so electricity isn’t dripping out like a leaky faucet. But shutting off your car’s engine every time you stop for a red light is not a good idea. (If that is you—stop it!! Road rage can be very costly as well.)

We would all like to save money, conserve energy, and live wisely. As long as it doesn’t infringe on our rights to buy what we want, take twenty-minute showers, and eat Jalapeño potato chips.

So, I’ve put together a few tips on saving money. I hope this will help as your stock dwindles and your life savings melt away under the scorching, wide-eyed, Botox glare of Pelosi’s spend-like-there’s-no-tomorrow leadership.

1. Colgate toothpaste is good for filling cracks and nail holes in the walls. You’ve probably noticed how it adheres to the sink with cement force. (Plus it gives off a minty aroma not unlike a costly Glade candle)
2. Vacuum less frequently (or only when you are about to have company). This cuts down on the wear & tear of your carpets, preserving them under a layer of dust and grime, much like the city of Pompeii.)
3. Reuse the water you drain from your pasta after cooking. It’s a little murky for drinking but great for putting up wall paper.
4. Take all the leftovers in your fridge once a week, and dump them in a casserole dish. Mix some kind of cream soup in and top with tater tots or crushed chips. This has been the frugal church ladies favorite dish for a century. If you’re feeling extravagant you might add a little hamburger meat.
5. Instead of renting those over-budget, under-moral, Hollywood films, just have each member of your family take turns making their own blockbuster. Then Friday night can be movie night and you will have your own little film festival.

I hope this helps. Frugality can be fun if you go about it with the right attitude. It may even overtake Football as America’s favorite pastime. It’s all about the game and winners and losers. Savers and non-savers.     

Follow

March has always seemed like the longest month of the year.

I’m sure this year will be no exception. Especially given the unlimited excess of our government for “change,” the limited funds of the average citizen, and the enumerable television speeches our dear leader has been making. So, not only do we have no money for a spring vacation but we can’t even enjoy an hour or two of mindless entertainment without being interrupted by an “important message about saving the economy or killing embryos.”

The 15^th of the month marks the Ides of March. Once, the Ides pointed to the appearance of the full moon, but after Julius Caesar’s assassination in 44 BC, the Ides of March took on a whole new meaning. It represented a specific day of abrupt change that set off a ripple of repercussions.

Rome had a Republican government headed by two consuls with joint powers. They actually had a citizen’s senate that approved legislation and then general people’s assemblies got to vote on it. Rome did not take well to Kingship. Sound familiar?

But Caesar made his way around that obstacle by taking the title “dictator for life.” (That was totally different.) I think the proverbial “straw that broke the camel’s back,” came when Caesar had his image inscribed on Rome’s coinage. He was the first Roman citizen to do so. I suppose if he’d had cameras trained on him all the time and his studly photo slapped all over the Internet, maybe he would have forgone the coin images. But his ego seems to have gotten him killed. Brutus and the Liberators decided “enough with the leafy halo.”

When there is a chokehold on people for any length of time, denying them freedom of speech, their livelihood, and/or favorite television programming—something has got to give.

I hope our own dear leader gets past the tingly feeling up his spine every time he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a teleprompter, and stays in his office to get some actual work done. Vetoing Pelosi’s insanity once in a while would be a good place to start the “change we need.”

February was Black History month. March should be — Learn from History Month. 

Follow

I was in Nebraska visiting my folks last week. It’s pretty nice there–at least at my parent’s house. I don’t have to cook, clean, or do much of anything. I just talk, eat all the sweets my mom bakes and keeps in her freezer for company, drink coffee, talk some more, maybe go shopping… Their state motto, “the good life,” is truly applicable for a prodigal daughter. But I don’t remember life in Nebraska being quite so good when I lived there as a teenager.

Memories are individual and often skewed. One person’s memory may be pure fantasy to a sibling. You remember things one way, they remember them another. That is why I have a hard time trusting Memoirs. Looking back on childhood is like walking through a dark tunnel with little spotlights illuminating certain points and times, the rest remaining shadowed.

A naturally optimistic person may remember only happy times when the moon was full and the sun bright. A pessimistic individual might remember the times they were unjustly punished for their brother’s crimes or their mom made hamburger goulash for a month straight because their dad was out of work.

Someone once said, “you can never go back.” Well, you can go back, but it’s usually very disappointing.

Childhood memories are skewed by age, gender, romantic tendencies, etc. The house I lived in when I was a child seemed like a wondrous castle, full of hiding places and scary caves.  I returned in my twenties and realized I’d lived in a tiny farmhouse with an unfinished, dirt-walled cellar. I couldn’t believe it was so small and unremarkable. The twelve acres of pasture and fruit trees that seemed to stretch so far in my imagination now appeared nothing more than a quaint hobby farm.

Growing up with just the necessities of life, we never thought of ourselves as poor. We had everything we needed. Television advertisements didn’t play such a huge part back then. Parents met the needs of their children, not the wants.

Sometimes I think it’s best to remember things with the soft edges of shadow. Childhood wouldn’t have the same appeal if we lived it through adult eyes. And when we’re old and gray, the life we live now will seem much smoother, the hills and rocky parts worn away until our memories are warm and fuzzy. Memories enough to take out and share.

Follow

For those of you who haven’t heard the sad news, the Clinton’s cat, Socks, died the other day. I would have mentioned it sooner, but I was in the middle of my own drama—finishing a novel.

 Socks lived in the White House for eight years of his life. He was a very important feline for that reason and that reason only. What other reason would the media have of actually mentioning it? It’s a cat, for heaven sake! A creature that slinks around and ignores you when you call, eats rodents or Fancy Feast if someone will serve it in a crystal bowl, and coughs up hairballs. Not attractive traits.

Cats do not wag their tails, jump up and down when you get home, or even look cute. They just stare at you like they’re waiting for you to die so they can eat your face. I believe each of them has a little tiger inside screaming to get out—and it isn’t Tony.

But if cats could talk…Socks would certainly have had stories to tell. If only someone had thought to ghost write a memoir for him before his demise. He had firsthand knowledge of Bill’s escapades. Slinking through the Lincoln bedroom or hiding behind a couch in the Oval office, he heard and saw things no one should have to be privy to. If Kenneth Starr had gotten him on the witness stand that trial would have been over in an hour.

But although he never wrote a memoir, Socks did have a fan club. Hillary also cashed in on his celebrity by having a book published that was supposed to be made up of letters children wrote to him during his eight years in the White House. I’m not so sure I believe there were that many children in America who thought a cat could read, but perhaps they were all children of Democrats.

The cat hasn’t actually lived with the Clintons since they left office though. Apparently, Socks—like Chelsea, or old Mrs. Clinton, was only around for photo ops. As soon as they were out the front door they tossed Socks to Bill’s secretary, Betty Currie, and said, “Hey, we’ll pay you to take this thing!” Without the White House staff to feed it and clean the litter box, the poor thing would have ended up in a homeless shelter—which is where they picked it up in the first place for the Governor of Arkansas photo op.

I’m not saying the cat didn’t have it good living with Betty. In fact, he lived pretty high on the hog. He went to social events to raise money, traveled the country, and was treated like royalty, rather than the Arkansas Tomcat he really was. Just like Bill, he never really left his roots behind.

So long, Socks. You lived nineteen years on this planet, which would be one hundred thirty-three in dog years. Good thing you weren’t a dog.        

Follow

Happy Valentine’s Day

Follow

https://barbaraellenbrink.com/176/

In keeping with the celebratory President’s day coming up next monday, I thought I would give you all a bit of history. Our new president seems set on making himself the next Abraham Lincoln. His life story does parallel our sixteenth president in many ways.

 Let’s see:

1. he gives great speeches

2. he’s a lawyer

3. he won the war between the red and the blue states

4. his face is on just about everything you can imagine.

What he doesn’t have is a beard, a top hat, and an assassin.

Abraham Lincoln, as you’ve probably heard, was shot at the Ford Theatre by a man named John Wilkes Booth, (obviously a very dramatic & temperamental actor). What you probably don’t know, unless you’re a history buff, is the name of the Union Army soldier who shot Booth. He never gets any attention.

Thomas P. “Boston” Corbett was born in London, England, but his family immigrated to America in 1839. Thomas took on the trade of a hatter in Troy, New York. Yes, a hatter was a maker or seller of hats. Sounds like a great career move, right? Well, the term, “mad as a hatter” wasn’t pulled out of thin air. Some say the mercury used in the making of felt could be absorbed through the skin and cause Korsakoff’s syndrome.

Corbett was married for a short while but his wife died in childbirth, and after her death, he moved to Boston, Massachusetts. There he became a born again evangelical Christian and changed his name to “Boston” because he wanted to reform his whole life. Apparently his given name had negative connotations, such as “doubting Thomas”. The newly named Boston was also the first Jesus freak. He decided to grow his hair long in imitation of the Lord.

 In July of 1858 he must have been having some real problems with lust, because in order to avoid the temptation of prostitutes he decided to castrate himself with a pair of scissors. (That is taking the Bible verse “if _____ offends thee, cut it off” way too literally) Now such an act would probably fell the best of men, but Boston had a will of iron and a lack of nerve endings. He went out for a meal and a prayer meeting, and then took a walk before coming to the conclusion that he should see a doctor. He ended up at Massachusetts General Hospital.

At the outbreak of the Civil War, he eagerly joined the Union and actually reenlisted three times. He was a Sergeant in the 16^th New York Cavalry and was captured by the Confederates in 1864, and held at Andersonville prison until an exchange was made and he was returned to his unit.

On April 24^th, 1865, he was selected with 25 other cavalrymen from his unit to pursue the assassin John Wilkes Booth. After cornering Booth and his accomplice David Herold, in a tobacco barn on a Virginia farm, the soldiers set the barn on fire to force them out. Herold surrendered, but Booth didn’t budge. Boston Corbett was known as a sharpshooter; he aimed through a crack in the barn wall and shot Booth in the neck. Since the soldiers had been ordered to take the man alive, it didn’t go over well at first. Boston stated that he saw Booth raise his pistol after being told to surrender and point it at their commander, so he shot. Other eyewitnesses disagreed, but the American people wanted justice and Secretary of Justice Stanton said, “The rebel is dead. The patriot lives.” And Corbett received his share of the reward money. Later when asked why he really shot Booth, Boston Corbett replied, “God Almighty directed me.” Could have been the mercury talking, but I don’t know.

He returned to being a hatter. Probably not a wise idea but its what he knew. In 1875 he attended a soldier’s reunion in Ohio. Like most reunions it was filled with jerks and pompous windbags trying to appear more important and successful than the next guy. Several men joked that Corbett didn’t really kill Booth, and Boston Corbett drew his weapon and pointed it in their faces as though to say, make my day. There is no record of him actually shooting any of them, so I guess they backed down.

He moved to Kansas and lived in a dugout, keeping to himself except on rare occasions when he happened into town. One Sunday he saw some boys playing baseball and being a very religious mad hatter, he pulled his .38 and waved it in the air, putting an immediate end to the game. The sheriff came to tell him he was to stand trial for threatening youngsters. He dismissed the sheriff with the barrel of his gun, but still showed up for trial because the Lord told him to. In the middle of the hearing, he yelled, “I’ve fallen in with a den of liars!” and dismissed the meeting with another wave of his gun.

Corbett’s friends offered him a job as assistant doorkeeper of the Kansas Legislature and he became a sort of tourist attraction at the state house. After another incident of threatening folks with his trusty sidearm, he was judged to be insane and sent to the State Asylum. Not one to let things happen to him without a fight, he stole a pony and made his getaway. He stayed with a friend for a short while and then took off bound for Mexico.

The funny thing is, Boston Corbett ended up in Hinkley, Minnesota. Or at least that is one of the rumors. No one really knows for sure, but after the Great fire that took place there on September 1, 1894, his name was on the list of the dead and missing. Not only was he mad as a hatter, he had a terrible sense of direction.

Well, there you have it. The history of another great American hero. 

Happy unBirthday President Lincoln. I’m sure you’d be proud to know your image is being put on the penny once again, while your reincarnation, President Obama, prints his on a pile of thousand dollar bills two miles high and pushes it down the government’s rabbit hole.

Follow