I usually do all of my grocery shopping at Wal-mart. You know, low prices, lots of variety. There are a couple of things I do not trust to the superstore giant, though, and one of them is meat.
I always drive to Food City to buy meat. I only spend about $20 every two weeks there.
At the beginning of the summer, the local Food City started running a promotion- get 150 points on your value card and you can receive 15 cents per gallon off your gas at their gas station. I'm a girl looking for a deal always, but $40 a month was not getting me anywhere close to the needed point values.
Then, my sister-in-law came to visit. I had this elaborate salmon dinner planned, and of course, I bought the fish at Food City. When I totaled up my purchases in my head, I was pretty sure that this trip would be the one where I would fulfill the number of points needed for the gas discount. Which was awesome because my car was sitting in the lot on empty.
The cashier rang up my groceries and gave me my total: $48. I was excited to check my receipt for the confirmation of my new gas discount! Alas, when I looked at it, I realized that I only had 147 points...three short.
How could I get three points? (At the time I wasn't thinking that by spending three more dollars, I'd only end up saving $1.50 in gas. No, the thrill of saving money at all was enough to put me over the edge.
I grabbed one of the cashiers at the self pay checkout and hounded her into telling me what I could spend money on to ensure that I would receive my three points and my gas discount. She said I could spend three dollars on anything but alcohol and cigarettes and gain the needed points. Suddenly, the entire store opened up to me. What could I buy?
Mu buggy left with the cashier, I went and picked up a 12 pack of Dr. Pepper. Then, I went and cruised the dollar section. I remembered that I needed chalk. While looking for the chalk, I talked myself into buying a nice pen or two to use at work (I'm always using those pens I take from hotels; they're not very nice). I selected a box of chalk (99 cents) and a pack of two pens ($1.99). I put the pop back, glorious with my three dollar purchase.
It never occurred to me that A. there would be no tax and B. tax wouldn't count. I checked out at the self checkout lane. My total? $2.98. Only two points, not three. The cashier laughed at me as I sprinted over to the candy and selected a box of tic tacs. (I don't think I have ever bought tic tacs.) My new total was $3.60. I put my ten dollar bill in the slot and skipped over to my buggy with my new pens and chalk, and my receipt showing that I was the proud owner of 150 points, eligible for 15 cents off of gas.
Halfway to the car, I realized that I never got my change from the checkout. I did a big U-turn in front of a Cadillac whose owners looked at me like I was insane, and ran back in the store. I parked my buggy by the same woman who clearly at this point thought I was nuts. I raced to the receptacle and collected my $5 in change. I ran back to the buggy.
I felt good when it only cost $27 to fill up my car. That is, of course, until I realized that I'd really only saved $1.50.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
My descent from green cleaning into the depths of chemical use
A couple of years ago when Story was just a baby (and cried all night) I spent way too much time on the Internet. I ended up web surfing to a page that talked about the evils of soap. Yes, soap. The stuff that is supposed to make you clean? Well, I read it was full of this sodium laureth sulfate that was supposedly descended from the ninth level of Hades or something. So, I researched my choices and decided that my family was no longer going to use this poisonous stuff called soap.
Before this turns in to a blog about soap, in my anti-soap research I ran across a website that told me how to make my own cheap and healthy laundry detergent. I started doing it, and was amazed at the affordability and "safeness" of the stuff. The detergent making was only a step away from what would become my new obsession: green cleaning.
As I read more and more about how all these products that we buy every day could turn us into mutants or give us diseases, I started freaking out. I packed up all the Comet, Resolve, Windex, etc. into a box. I researched what I could clean with and found three items: vinegar, club soda, and baking soda. Not only were they better for all of us, they were cheap! There were thousands of uses for them. Yes, the vinegar was really stinky. It didn't smell clean at all. The club soda didn't shine like Windex. Baking soda left no smell, but I got some really strong arm muscles trying to scrub anything with it.
But I convinced myself with a little more muscle, everything was cleaning as good as the stuff I packed up. Sometimes I told myself that it cleaned even better. Sadly, I think I was deceiving myself. Everything in the house lost its sparkle. And cleaning started to take twice as long as I applied a lot of elbow grease.
So, when we moved into our new house two years ago, I was relieved to be starting with really clean stuff from scratch. Unfortunately, with the size of the new house, it became increasingly difficult to clean anything! Plus, the stuff wasn't staying shiny.
Last year, I bought my first bottle of pledge. I'd been scrubbing the furniture with vinegar and olive oil....which was really icky and not at all cost efficient. It was like the heavens shone through the windows on my coffee table. Everywhere I looked with a cleanable surface I heard the sound of singing. My husband said, "Thank God you bought the Pledge!" Apparently the smell of vinegar was affecting him, too.
Recently, I received some coupons for a variety of Lysol products. Exhausted from all these years of green cleaning and (ha ha) elbow grease, at Walmart I reached for toilet cleaner and bathroom spray.
I came home, and began to clean the girl's bathroom. I was floored. I had never seen the toilet so white! The rust stains were coming off (I know, right? Rust stains on a two year old toilet? A combination of bad water and baking soda cleaning no doubt). All of the bathroom gunk came off with no effort! And the smell was amazing!!
I cleaned all three bathrooms in less time than it took me to clean one with vinegar and baking soda. I actually only had to clean my shower once! With the other stuff, I was scrubbing it three times at least.
Moved by the cleanliness of my bathrooms and the possibility of more free hours on a Saturday suddenly moved me to denounce my green cleaning ways. No more would I be the slave to club soda on the mirrors. No more would I wallow in self pity while trying to scrub a toilet with something that belongs in homemade cookies. I was going to have clean, and have it quickly.
So, I moved the green cleaning materials to.....the baking cabinet. I gave the bottles of Lysol the new place of honor under the sink.
I still make laundry detergent, because it's cheap and easy. I take my reusable bags to the store. But, I'll never be given a super-eco award now. Green cleaning is not for me....because I like things that are actually clean.
Before this turns in to a blog about soap, in my anti-soap research I ran across a website that told me how to make my own cheap and healthy laundry detergent. I started doing it, and was amazed at the affordability and "safeness" of the stuff. The detergent making was only a step away from what would become my new obsession: green cleaning.
As I read more and more about how all these products that we buy every day could turn us into mutants or give us diseases, I started freaking out. I packed up all the Comet, Resolve, Windex, etc. into a box. I researched what I could clean with and found three items: vinegar, club soda, and baking soda. Not only were they better for all of us, they were cheap! There were thousands of uses for them. Yes, the vinegar was really stinky. It didn't smell clean at all. The club soda didn't shine like Windex. Baking soda left no smell, but I got some really strong arm muscles trying to scrub anything with it.
But I convinced myself with a little more muscle, everything was cleaning as good as the stuff I packed up. Sometimes I told myself that it cleaned even better. Sadly, I think I was deceiving myself. Everything in the house lost its sparkle. And cleaning started to take twice as long as I applied a lot of elbow grease.
So, when we moved into our new house two years ago, I was relieved to be starting with really clean stuff from scratch. Unfortunately, with the size of the new house, it became increasingly difficult to clean anything! Plus, the stuff wasn't staying shiny.
Last year, I bought my first bottle of pledge. I'd been scrubbing the furniture with vinegar and olive oil....which was really icky and not at all cost efficient. It was like the heavens shone through the windows on my coffee table. Everywhere I looked with a cleanable surface I heard the sound of singing. My husband said, "Thank God you bought the Pledge!" Apparently the smell of vinegar was affecting him, too.
Recently, I received some coupons for a variety of Lysol products. Exhausted from all these years of green cleaning and (ha ha) elbow grease, at Walmart I reached for toilet cleaner and bathroom spray.
I came home, and began to clean the girl's bathroom. I was floored. I had never seen the toilet so white! The rust stains were coming off (I know, right? Rust stains on a two year old toilet? A combination of bad water and baking soda cleaning no doubt). All of the bathroom gunk came off with no effort! And the smell was amazing!!
I cleaned all three bathrooms in less time than it took me to clean one with vinegar and baking soda. I actually only had to clean my shower once! With the other stuff, I was scrubbing it three times at least.
Moved by the cleanliness of my bathrooms and the possibility of more free hours on a Saturday suddenly moved me to denounce my green cleaning ways. No more would I be the slave to club soda on the mirrors. No more would I wallow in self pity while trying to scrub a toilet with something that belongs in homemade cookies. I was going to have clean, and have it quickly.
So, I moved the green cleaning materials to.....the baking cabinet. I gave the bottles of Lysol the new place of honor under the sink.
I still make laundry detergent, because it's cheap and easy. I take my reusable bags to the store. But, I'll never be given a super-eco award now. Green cleaning is not for me....because I like things that are actually clean.
Monday, September 6, 2010
My life is (on) a highway....
I was traveling home from my mom's house yesterday on a four lane highway. We'd been making pretty decent time when I noticed in the rear view mirror (which is placed on my kids, not the road, ha-ha!) that Story started squirming and crying in her seat.
"Story! STORY!" (I had to scream loud over the Polly Pocket DVD) "What's wrong??"
"Mo-mom-mo-momma-mom-mommy!" (because she's in that stage where it takes her forever to get a word out) "My butt huwts!"
"Why?" I asked. I was met with only more wiggling and whining. So, I started looking around. I noticed a BP up ahead on the left, so I pulled into the lane, signaled, and drove in. Just because they spilled a bunch of oil in the gulf doesn't mean I can't use their bathrooms.
I got both kids and my wallet out. We walked into the almost empty gas station (which is good because lately Story has developed this thing where she likes to almost jump in front of cars and scare me to death). We walked past the guy at the counter and into the bathrooms. I put Story on first after I coated the seat with paper. She peed. I said, "Your turn, Ivy."
"I don't hafta pee." Which she would say even if she had pee running down her leg.
"I don't care." I grabbed her, yanked the pants down, and placed her on the toilet. She peed.
I sat down about the same time Story got really interested in the trash can. She started to touch the lid and I yelled, "Don't!" She diverted and touched a piece of chewed up gum stuck to the trash bag. I yelled, "Nooooo!!!!!!"
Now, some days you can yell until you're blue in the face at Story and she laughs at you. Other days you can look at her kind of sternly, whisper "no" and she collapses into tears and screams. You can guess what kind of day this was.
She looked at me with big eyes. The tears welled and spilled out over her eyelashes. She put her hands up to cover her face in shame and wailed. And I mean WAILED. I tried to comfort her as I washed her hands. She screamed louder. I thought about the guy at the counter calling social services. He probably thought I brought the kids in here to beat them.
Then I did the only thing I could think of to bring a halt to the tears. "Wanna treat?"
"Yes!!!" they both shouted with glee. I took them out into the store and looked around. I decided to get a cup of coffee. They decided to get blue slushies. We went to the counter and paid for them.
We walked outside and Story immediately jumped off the curb and out into where there would be cars if there were any cars there. I yelled, but fortunately she was so excited about the slushie that she ignored my mean voice and jumped back up on the curb.
I laid my wallet on the hood of the car as I buckled the kids in their seats. As I did it, I thought, "Shew, I'd better not forget this. It would be horrible for my wallet to be spilled all over the highway." When I have thoughts like that, I should really learn to listen to myself.
I hopped in my seat after trying to set Polly Pocket back to where she was when we turned the car off. We backed out of the spot, and I went forward. I had to wait about three minutes before I could pull out, during which I should have paid more attention to the hood of my car.
When I pulled out and got up to speed, something flew at my windshield. It hit with a thunk! and I ducked and looked into the rear view mirror (which is how I have to use it to actually see the road) just in time to see my wallet crash to the ground in an explosion of little white, plastic cards.
"*&@^$#!!" I said as I pulled into the median.
"*&@^$#? What's *&@^$#?" Ivy asked.
"Nothing you should EVER EVER EVER say again!!!" I screamed as I slammed the car door and ran back to where my wallet was sitting forlornly in the middle of two lanes.
I got the wallet before it was run over by a motorcycle. I waited out two cars and picked up my license. I started collecting bits and pieces of things that had flown out of my wallet as it crashed to the asphalt, leaving the receipts and *sob!* my ticket stubs from Eclipse.
I ran back to the car with what I could find amongst the trash that people throw out of their cars and did inventory. I had my license, my medical card, a couple doctor's appointment cards, and my cash (which had stayed in the zippered pocket- thank God I didn't put it where my cash actually should go!)
"Mommy, what is*&@^$#?" Ivy insisted.
"*&@^$#!! *&@^$#!!" Story yelled. Great.
I tried to explain what cussing was to Ivy, how it was even worse than saying "stupid." She kind of didn't get it, so I fully expect a call from her teacher or another parent tomorrow asking me just what I've been teaching my child. In the meantime, I'm sure Story will be teaching all the three year olds in her room that word tomorrow.
"Story! STORY!" (I had to scream loud over the Polly Pocket DVD) "What's wrong??"
"Mo-mom-mo-momma-mom-mommy!" (because she's in that stage where it takes her forever to get a word out) "My butt huwts!"
"Why?" I asked. I was met with only more wiggling and whining. So, I started looking around. I noticed a BP up ahead on the left, so I pulled into the lane, signaled, and drove in. Just because they spilled a bunch of oil in the gulf doesn't mean I can't use their bathrooms.
I got both kids and my wallet out. We walked into the almost empty gas station (which is good because lately Story has developed this thing where she likes to almost jump in front of cars and scare me to death). We walked past the guy at the counter and into the bathrooms. I put Story on first after I coated the seat with paper. She peed. I said, "Your turn, Ivy."
"I don't hafta pee." Which she would say even if she had pee running down her leg.
"I don't care." I grabbed her, yanked the pants down, and placed her on the toilet. She peed.
I sat down about the same time Story got really interested in the trash can. She started to touch the lid and I yelled, "Don't!" She diverted and touched a piece of chewed up gum stuck to the trash bag. I yelled, "Nooooo!!!!!!"
Now, some days you can yell until you're blue in the face at Story and she laughs at you. Other days you can look at her kind of sternly, whisper "no" and she collapses into tears and screams. You can guess what kind of day this was.
She looked at me with big eyes. The tears welled and spilled out over her eyelashes. She put her hands up to cover her face in shame and wailed. And I mean WAILED. I tried to comfort her as I washed her hands. She screamed louder. I thought about the guy at the counter calling social services. He probably thought I brought the kids in here to beat them.
Then I did the only thing I could think of to bring a halt to the tears. "Wanna treat?"
"Yes!!!" they both shouted with glee. I took them out into the store and looked around. I decided to get a cup of coffee. They decided to get blue slushies. We went to the counter and paid for them.
We walked outside and Story immediately jumped off the curb and out into where there would be cars if there were any cars there. I yelled, but fortunately she was so excited about the slushie that she ignored my mean voice and jumped back up on the curb.
I laid my wallet on the hood of the car as I buckled the kids in their seats. As I did it, I thought, "Shew, I'd better not forget this. It would be horrible for my wallet to be spilled all over the highway." When I have thoughts like that, I should really learn to listen to myself.
I hopped in my seat after trying to set Polly Pocket back to where she was when we turned the car off. We backed out of the spot, and I went forward. I had to wait about three minutes before I could pull out, during which I should have paid more attention to the hood of my car.
When I pulled out and got up to speed, something flew at my windshield. It hit with a thunk! and I ducked and looked into the rear view mirror (which is how I have to use it to actually see the road) just in time to see my wallet crash to the ground in an explosion of little white, plastic cards.
"*&@^$#!!" I said as I pulled into the median.
"*&@^$#? What's *&@^$#?" Ivy asked.
"Nothing you should EVER EVER EVER say again!!!" I screamed as I slammed the car door and ran back to where my wallet was sitting forlornly in the middle of two lanes.
I got the wallet before it was run over by a motorcycle. I waited out two cars and picked up my license. I started collecting bits and pieces of things that had flown out of my wallet as it crashed to the asphalt, leaving the receipts and *sob!* my ticket stubs from Eclipse.
I ran back to the car with what I could find amongst the trash that people throw out of their cars and did inventory. I had my license, my medical card, a couple doctor's appointment cards, and my cash (which had stayed in the zippered pocket- thank God I didn't put it where my cash actually should go!)
"Mommy, what is*&@^$#?" Ivy insisted.
"*&@^$#!! *&@^$#!!" Story yelled. Great.
I tried to explain what cussing was to Ivy, how it was even worse than saying "stupid." She kind of didn't get it, so I fully expect a call from her teacher or another parent tomorrow asking me just what I've been teaching my child. In the meantime, I'm sure Story will be teaching all the three year olds in her room that word tomorrow.
Wednesdays with Blake-ie (like Tuesdays with Morrie!)
Blake is my oboe student. He takes lessons with me one day a week.
Of course, when you have two oboe players in the same room in charge of completing a task, nothing will get done. We have the inability to focus on anything seriously for any amount of time. We laugh, we giggle, we talk about how awesome the oboe is.
So, in a thirty minute lesson, it's safe to say only about 12.7 minutes is actually productively spent.
On this particular Wednesday when Blake came for his lesson, we had a mission. I was convinced that I was in possession of the book Blake needed to find his All-State audition pieces.
*** Side note: I know for a fact that I did at one time have the book. I had to have it for my private lessons. I promise.
Anyways, since I've moved four times since college, all of my materials have been kind of hard to locate. I'd checked out every closet before he arrived, looked in bags, under beds, and came up with the only logical explanation- this book was in the attic. Definitely.
So, when Blake came in, I told him not to worry about putting his oboe together yet, we were going on a music hunting expedition to the bowels of my attic. We trudged up the stairs, and the kids followed us. At the door to the attic, I explained to them that they were not allowed to come with us. So, what did they do? (if you can't guess, refer to any of my earlier posts). They stayed at the door, trying to edge their way in as we moved along the corridor of broken toys and Christmas decorations.
"We're looking for a box that says 'Master Bedroom'," I said.
"Are you sure, Mrs. Scheeler?" Blake asked.
I laughed. "No."
We finally found a box that said "Master Bedroom Closet." I was certain that we'd hit the jackpot. I distinctly remembered keeping my music in the closet one house ago. I cracked open the box and voila! There was my music. I handed part after part, folder after folder to Blake, who looked through them and found....nothing. There was one yellow book that resembled the one I was looking for, but everything else was not even close.
I scoured the box again while Blake paged through what I'd given him. "Hey! You told me you didn't have this!" he yelled, holding up a solo I'd encouraged him to buy because didn't own it. Apparently I did.
I backed up from the box and looked around at the others that were sitting there unmarked. "Maybe it's with the books?" I said. I opened a couple of boxes of books that were covered in little mouse poos. "Maybe not," I decided.
I backed away from the boxes that were sure to contain various surprises and straight on to a sticky trap. "Crap!" I said, trying to shake the trap off of my foot. I sat my foot down to pry the trap off if it, and noticed that there was a dead mouse stuck to it. Blake laughed. I tried not to vomit.
With my free foot, I tried to check out some other boxes where this book could be resting, waiting for us to snatch it up. I found a box of Ivy's old shoes, and they were exactly the right size to fit Story!!! Blake was balancing all of the music in one had when I started thrusting pink and white tennis shoes and boots at him.
I finally gave up and followed him outof the attic. I let him drop the shoes and some of the music in the office and we went back downstairs, presumably to play.
He played for about three minutes, but then we got in a "discussion" about something he'd said to me on facebook chat once (which he DID), but as oboe players, neither one of us will ever admit error.
I looked at the clock and 48 minutes had gone by since we started the lesson. So, I said, "Time to go!
And then we agreed that next time we would actually get stuff done.
Of course, when you have two oboe players in the same room in charge of completing a task, nothing will get done. We have the inability to focus on anything seriously for any amount of time. We laugh, we giggle, we talk about how awesome the oboe is.
So, in a thirty minute lesson, it's safe to say only about 12.7 minutes is actually productively spent.
On this particular Wednesday when Blake came for his lesson, we had a mission. I was convinced that I was in possession of the book Blake needed to find his All-State audition pieces.
*** Side note: I know for a fact that I did at one time have the book. I had to have it for my private lessons. I promise.
Anyways, since I've moved four times since college, all of my materials have been kind of hard to locate. I'd checked out every closet before he arrived, looked in bags, under beds, and came up with the only logical explanation- this book was in the attic. Definitely.
So, when Blake came in, I told him not to worry about putting his oboe together yet, we were going on a music hunting expedition to the bowels of my attic. We trudged up the stairs, and the kids followed us. At the door to the attic, I explained to them that they were not allowed to come with us. So, what did they do? (if you can't guess, refer to any of my earlier posts). They stayed at the door, trying to edge their way in as we moved along the corridor of broken toys and Christmas decorations.
"We're looking for a box that says 'Master Bedroom'," I said.
"Are you sure, Mrs. Scheeler?" Blake asked.
I laughed. "No."
We finally found a box that said "Master Bedroom Closet." I was certain that we'd hit the jackpot. I distinctly remembered keeping my music in the closet one house ago. I cracked open the box and voila! There was my music. I handed part after part, folder after folder to Blake, who looked through them and found....nothing. There was one yellow book that resembled the one I was looking for, but everything else was not even close.
I scoured the box again while Blake paged through what I'd given him. "Hey! You told me you didn't have this!" he yelled, holding up a solo I'd encouraged him to buy because didn't own it. Apparently I did.
I backed up from the box and looked around at the others that were sitting there unmarked. "Maybe it's with the books?" I said. I opened a couple of boxes of books that were covered in little mouse poos. "Maybe not," I decided.
I backed away from the boxes that were sure to contain various surprises and straight on to a sticky trap. "Crap!" I said, trying to shake the trap off of my foot. I sat my foot down to pry the trap off if it, and noticed that there was a dead mouse stuck to it. Blake laughed. I tried not to vomit.
With my free foot, I tried to check out some other boxes where this book could be resting, waiting for us to snatch it up. I found a box of Ivy's old shoes, and they were exactly the right size to fit Story!!! Blake was balancing all of the music in one had when I started thrusting pink and white tennis shoes and boots at him.
I finally gave up and followed him outof the attic. I let him drop the shoes and some of the music in the office and we went back downstairs, presumably to play.
He played for about three minutes, but then we got in a "discussion" about something he'd said to me on facebook chat once (which he DID), but as oboe players, neither one of us will ever admit error.
I looked at the clock and 48 minutes had gone by since we started the lesson. So, I said, "Time to go!
And then we agreed that next time we would actually get stuff done.
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