Barbara

Spring seems to have sprung up. You can tell by the continuous rain and wind. The yard is now a soppy, leafy, swampland of decaying vegetation and melted snow. It’s the perfect place for two dogs to eat things that make them puke on my carpet, and gather all the crud from outside on their furry little bodies to bring inside to keep my broom and vacuum in action mode.

I really love spring.

You can also tell when spring is in the air because of the sudden rise in crime. Sub-zero temperatures are good for something—they keep criminal types indoors watching Oprah Winfrey and playing video games instead of out wandering the streets with itchy trigger fingers. But when temps rise, so does their interest in causing mayhem. Drive by shootings at school bus stops, stolen cars, rapes, assaults on people walking along the lake, are just some of the activities precipitated by the cheerful weather.

Be glad you don’t live down south where it’s warm all the time. Crime never freezes up.

Spring often heralds the blooming of love. Birds mate and twitter in the trees, bunnies multiply, and people plan June weddings. I’m not sure why June is supposed to be better than May or July, but June wins hands-down in the Bride’s favorite-month-to-wed survey. I know this because I once worked at a Wedding store.

For all those brides and grooms who feel all starry-eyed and sappy, hanging on to each other’s words like a tick on a dog, let me give you a dire warning:

Things can change.

I read today that a woman handcuffed herself to her sleeping husband just to get him to talk to her. Apparently, whenever she said, “we need to talk,” he ran away and hid. Of course, there are always three sides to every news story and I only heard the police officer’s side. He said the woman changed the locks on the bedroom door, and handcuffed her husband to herself while he slept. Then when he woke up and refused to talk to her, but instead called 911 on his cell phone, she bit him.

Now this story does seem to have a few holes in it. (besides the teeth marks in his skin) For one thing, why would she bother to handcuff herself to the man if all she had to do was call him on his cell phone? Obviously, he slept with it under his pillow or something and preferred this method of communication rather than face to face. Also, how did she change the lock on their bedroom door without the man waking up? Is he deaf as well as dumb? If I changed a lock on a door I’m sure there would be much banging and cursing.

Now I think the whole man/woman communication thing has gone away with the invention of the remote control. Once a guy sits down in front of a television screen and picks up that little black button pad, you can say bye-bye to any conversation that does not include, “I wonder how they trained that little Gecko lizard to talk,” or “could you get me some ice-cream, honey? “Dirty Jobs” is coming on.”

Technology is a curse on relationships. Cell phones, remotes, computers, Ipods, have all had a part in the disappearance of actual face-time. Guys love technology. They can easily become obsessed with gadgets that do things no one ever needed done until someone thought of making a gadget to do this unnecessary thing. (that’s why you will get a fancy blender with a jet engine and lots of buttons for your anniversary rather than jewelry or flowers until you’ve properly trained your man)They can stare at the little one-inch screen of a GPS for hours on end, setting destination points for finding junk that some other guy hid in the woods, just so they can say they found it and put it back again. They can spend hours downloading music onto a tiny music player in alphabetical order or play some crazy computer game for three days straight without blinking, but they have very low tolerance for conversations that begin with, “We never talk.” Their eyes glaze over, they break out into a cold sweat, and I think they may have ringing in their ears.

So, for the newlyweds, or soon to be newlyweds, remember that you should never allow technology into the bedroom. No cell phones, computers, Ipods, GPS, or televisions—until you’ve been married at least ten years. By then you won’t need to communicate verbally anymore. You already know what he’s not going to say anyway.

Breathe deep. Spring is here. Pollen is thawing. Crime is rising. Buds are bursting to open. And young couples are still so in love they talk about nothing at all.  

Follow

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/