My Frugal Accomplishments

Monday, I received a check for $17 for writing a tutorial about rebuilding a carburetor (after Googling “what is a carburetor,” then “how to rebuild a carburetor”).  It was unusually warm for January, so I decided to walk to the library, and then swing by the thrift store to spend my income-stream money.  I had a dozen library books to return, and they didn’t all fit in my backpack, so I put them in our wheelbarrow, after power-washing it in the garage.  It’s a two-mile trek to the library, and the wheelbarrow was listing pretty seriously to the right, so I returned home after a block.  I put half the books in my backpack, and the other half in the ticking-striped front-pack I used when my son was an infant.  It smelled faintly of breast milk, Desitin, and optimism, and I slung it on happily.  I hurried to the library, realizing I looked a bit like a post-menopausal suicide bomber.

After returning the books, and checking one out (the book jacket promises that I’ll never buy graham crackers again, once I realize how easy they are to make), I stopped at the thrift store.  First, I donated the ticking-striped front-pack, and scored a 30-percent-off coupon.  I then bought an over-sized Fiestaware mug, an unopened package of embroidery floss (50 colors!), a flannel sheet that I’ll use to make 36 cloth napkins, a maroon sweater-vest from Lands’ End in a boys’ husky XL that I think will fit me, and eight Mason jars (they’re actually less expensive when purchased new, but they’re “greener” when thrifted) (not literally…literally, they’re blue).  I couldn’t carry everything, so I called my work-at-home husband, and he picked me up.  We stopped for Mexican food, because we love Mexican food, and because it was a special occasion (MLK Day).  I used a coupon, but tipped generously.  I took half of my enchiladas home, and cooked them with eggs the next morning.

Tuesday, after a delicious and economical breakfast, I walked to my neighbor’s house, and offered her two homemade pumpkin muffins in exchange for a 4-inch sprig of rosemary from her indoor herb garden.  (Recently—after Halloween—the same neighbor gave me four carved pumpkins in exchange for walking her Labradoodle for 20 minutes.  I cooked, pureed, and froze the pumpkin, and later used it to make the muffins.)  She agreed to the swap, and I immediately used the bartered rosemary to make Rosemary White Bean Soup.  (For my birthday, my sister gave me a Door Snake that she filled with white beans, but I already have a Door Snake, so I cut the new Door Snake open, poured out the beans, and soaked them.  I then cut the Door Snake fabric into 5-inch squares, and tucked them into my quilting cubby.)  When the soup was done, I took a photo of it, and attached the photo to a thank-you email I sent my sister.  My husband and I enjoyed the bean soup for lunch.  (To be honest, he didn’t specifically claim to have “enjoyed” it.)

I put the leftover soup in the thrifted over-sized Fiestaware mug, and walked to my aunt’s house, a block away.  It was a chilly day, but the hot soup kept my hands warm.  While I was visiting my aunt, I trimmed her polydactyl cat’s claws, and—to show her appreciation—my aunt gave me a box of empty baby-food jars (the cat is a picky eater).  I returned home and organized my office-supply drawer, using the jars.  She also gave me a cutting from an aloe plant.

Wednesday, I got word that my great-niece lost her first tooth and had her very-long hair trimmed.  I requested the tooth and the hair trimmings from her mother (my niece).  She agreed to the request (“whatever”), and I dropped by midmorning and picked up the tooth and the hair.  I then cut two 3-inch circles from the Door Snake quilting squares, embroidered my great-niece’s initials on one of the circles, and stitched the circles together using embroidery floss.  Right before I finished the circular stitching, I stuffed the hair and the tooth inside.  I added a small loop for hanging, and I plan to give the ornament to my great-niece next Christmas (it’s very cute…the fabric is red plaid).  Tangentially, my niece (the mom, I mean) recently began using flannel sanitary pads (guess who made them for her?!?), and I asked if I could have some of the “soaking water” produced, because I read that it’s excellent for plant watering (I was thinking about the aloe start), but she said no, and I respect that.

At 2:30 that afternoon, I had an appointment with my OB/GYN (who happens to be my best friend from high school!).  In exchange for an Annual Exam, I gave her a pint of apple butter (made with gleaned apples), a halter-style gingham sundress for her school-aged granddaughter (made with fabric inherited from my mother-in-law), pumpkin muffins for her staff (see above), and a handwritten haiku about my vagina (matted and framed at JoAnn’s, using a gift card and a 50-percent-off coupon).  (The haiku was matted and framed, I mean.  Not my vagina.)

Thursday, there was a snowstorm, and I stayed home.  I watched a few youtube tutorials, located a box of nitrile gloves in the home-improvement closet, and expressed my dog’s anal glands.  I sent a group-email offering to express the anal glands of friends’ and neighbors’ dogs, but there were no takers.  There were some off-color jokes, but no one was willing to rototill my garden this spring in exchange for a monthly Expression.  There were also some off-color jokes about “rototilling my garden.” 

That afternoon, when a young Hispanic man knocked on the door and offered to scoop our driveway and sidewalk, I was enthusiastic.  I gave him a list of a dozen tasks that I would trade for snow removal, including data entry (QuickBooks), medical transcription, button replacement and zipper repair, small-group non-kosher catering, and—of course—anal gland expression, but he insisted on ten dollars, cash.  I think if my Spanish were better, I could have made my case. 

Friday, I made a coupon book for my husband’s birthday, with one coupon for each year he’s been alive.  I included coupons for his favorite meals and desserts, for his favorite…wifely duties, for pretending to listen when he talks about Pink Floyd, for not gagging when he puts green olives on his turkey burger, for remembering to wish him a happy Aphelion Day and a happy Perihelion Day, for laughing when he shares a Brian Regan line, for refraining from rolling my eyes when he calls me to his computer to see yet another photo of Emilia Clarke, for loving him even though he refuses to concede that Rush Limbaugh has no redeeming qualities, for watching all three Bourne movies in one sitting…that kind of thing.

Saturday morning, after staying up late and being inspired by the hunkiness that is Matt Damon as Jason Bourne, I asked my husband to cut my hair.  “Scary version?” he said, which made me laugh (even without a coupon).  He used my Dollar Tree scissors, finished in less than a minute, and I looked nothing like Franka Potente or Julia Stiles.  I didn’t blame him.  “It all went sideways,” he said, and I laughed again, there in the bathroom.

That afternoon, my sister and I went to Walgreens, suspecting that the price of Christmas candy had been drastically slashed.  90-percent off!  Better than expected!  We bought everything that wasn’t obviously for Christmas (so we could pass it off as Valentine’s Day candy).  We bought 82 boxes of chocolates for $26.  Once home, using red construction paper from my art-supply stash, we made 82 heart-shapes with the words “From a Fellow Traveler” scrawled across the front.  We drove 40 minutes to a neighborhood near the homeless shelter, and began handing out boxes of candy.  There were requests for money, cigarettes, sex, real food, and transportation, and one suggestion that we take our privileged white asses back to the suburbs, but no one turned down the chocolates.

Sunday, my great-nephew visited, and we made cookies.  He wanted to make snickerdoodles, and I had cream of tarter, so I said yes.  I substituted whole-wheat flour for white, brown sugar for granulated, olive oil for butter, flaxseed for eggs, baking powder for baking soda, and nutmeg for cinnamon.  I’ve been “shopping from the pantry” for a while, so stocks are getting low.  We’re out of salt, but I suggested omitting it, after considering using fish sauce.  “Are they supposed to get all flat like that, and touch?” he asked as they were baking.  “That happens sometimes,” I said, which wasn’t a lie.  They were tasty!  I washed out a baggie and sent some cookies home with him, for his family.

That evening, my husband and I went to my brother’s house and watched several episodes of “Game of Thrones” on HBO.GO.  I took some of the snickerdoodles-in-bar-form, a quart jar of hot spiced cider, and some sliced meatloaf from lunch.  We ended up taking all of that (and more) back home, ‘cause their snacks were better.  We had fun, though!  It was a good week!

Overeating, Overspending, and Me

I'm struck--yet again--by the similarities between overeating and overspending. One is a decent substitute for the other, but it's unclear which is heroin, and which is methadone; I suppose it's dependent on mood. Both nasty habits are similar to a third: sex online with strangers. (I won't delve too deeply into that subject, because it's tawdry even by my relaxed standards.) All three trade long-term joy for short-term pleasure, self-respect for self-disgust, and sometimes-painful mindfulness for sometimes-blissful distraction.

Years ago, I quit chatting online, and I anticipate similar success as I quit overeating and overspending. I anticipate becoming a healthy, energetic, debt-free cutie-pie with a well-funded retirement account. Any. Minute. Now.

When I relax into the temptations of overeating and overspending--and the clerks at Krispy Kreme and TJ Maxx greet me like an old friend--I feel (by turns) excited, outgoing, energized, busy, clever, liberated, secretive, ashamed, burdened, and uncomfortably full. When I strive to overcome the temptations of overeating and overspending--and I eat wholesome foods to satiety, and buy what enriches my life without cluttering my life--I feel (by turns) peaceful, mindful, healthy, content, disciplined, unfettered, wistful, jealous, listless, and peckish. If I choose to follow one path, I cannot successfully follow the other path.

The path of eating and spending in moderation will lead to more and better rewards, but...not today. To reap the rewards, I need to stay on the path...for months, for years. Early on, this path is recognizable only by what's not there: double cheeseburgers with fries, pecan pie with ice cream, Rachael Ray's line of brightly colored kitchenware, a cashmere cardigan with shell buttons and three-quarter-length sleeves. Early on, this path looks like the Black Rock Desert, like an abandoned factory, and I feel lonely in such a desolate place. For me, the buddy system is an illusion, and a Weight Watchers meeting or Debtors Anonymous meeting is worse than the first day at a new high school. This is a solitary journey.

In my experience, there's only one thing to do: Embrace the solitude. Embrace, even, Jung's "legitimate suffering." Empty deserts and empty factories are fierce and frightening places, but it's not necessary to flee. I can plant my flag here. I can brew a cup of tea, and ride this out. The rewards are vast, and the journey--even the third or fourth time--is compelling.

Here, I want to examine the intersections of overeating and overspending, so that I can be attentive when approaching them. (Of course, I'm only an expert on me, and I don't presume to know what you do when no one's looking.)

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are terrific (if temporary) stress reducers. And god bless 'em for it. Both go a long way toward seeming to fix: (a) cabin fever; (b) marital strife; (c) too many pets, bills, and unread classics; (d) too few long baths, marketable skills, and attentive listeners; and (e) the always-there, never-quite-gone feelings of fear, frustration, regret, boredom, and worry. Worried about a new mole? Worried about failing to embrace Alan Arkin's advice in "Little Miss Sunshine"? Worried about not taking a meaningful risk since Jimmy Carter left office? Well, I'll feel much better if I start my binge at Taco Bell, swing by Barnes & Noble, and finish up at Dairy Queen.

Solution: I can take a deep breath, and consider the possibility that my life--as is--can be borne, can be endured. I'm sure much of my stress would magically disappear if I had a real problem to deal with, like cancer or civil war. In fact, I make myself more vulnerable to stress (and everything else) by not being prepared for physical or financial emergencies. So, next time I feel anxious, I'll turn and face the demon. If I can't do something productive--something that directly addresses the problem--I'll embrace the stress, knowing that it's not likely to kill me.

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are crimes of opportunity, and--for me--the "bargain" presents an almost irresistible opportunity. Deals are everywhere: 80-percent off, 90-percent off, buy-one-get-one. Here's a coupon! Here's a book of coupons! Have a dollar? Here's three tacos! Have five dollars? Here's a pink cotton sweater! The most difficult challenge is anything that is free: a thick slice of buttered bread at Great Harvest, half an egg roll at Costco, an oatmeal cookie at a health fair. And those little snacks--given so generously, so innocently--flip a switch in my head, and thirty pounds later I can trace my falling-off-the-wagon moment to that goddamn health fair.

Solution: As a minimum, I can stay away from clearance sales, bakeries, and the drive-thru window at McDonalds. I might also want to consider a less black-and-white approach to everything. It's not necessary to deny myself the pleasure of new socks or a coat that fits; it's not necessary to hide behind a locked door when the neighbor girls deliver a plate of cookies. I can learn to see the difference between eating and overeating, between spending and overspending.

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are often preceded by disappointment: in me, in others, and sometimes in the very thing I eat or buy. I've resumed bingeing (and/or spent a fruitful afternoon at Ross-Dress-for-Less) when I received an email from a woman asking that I stop flirting with her husband, when I had to remind my sister that it was my birthday, and when my a la carte chicken enchilada had too much cilantro. It's crushing! It's more than I can bear! I've suffered enough!

Solution: I can acknowledge that disappointment is difficult, and some of us handle it better than others. My husband once waited until I was in a cheerful mood, and suggested that I learn to manage my expectations. Since then, it occurred to me that maybe I want to be derailed: I'm devastated, so I'm allowed to overeat and overspend, right?

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are--duh--encouraged by advertisers. It feels inescapable, especially late at night when I'm watching TV or surfing the 'net, when my resolve is weakened by the need for sleep. I must have that crab-cake sandwich, or those corduroy pants with a 36-inch inseam. Wherever I look, someone is encouraging me to eat more or spend more, and it's easy to feel ambushed, and to surrender.

Solution: Resist already! I can see it for what it is, and I remind myself that I already have more than enough.

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are encouraged (to some degree) by loved ones. "You should buy that," my sister says. "It's eight dollars, it's darling, and it's so you. Didn't you have an olive-drab sweater just like that when you were dating ___?" and she speaks the name of someone I loved and lost. I cradle the sweater in my arms, harking back to a simpler time, reaching into my purse for a ten-dollar bill. Later, we're at a sandwich shop, and she offers to share her huge snickerdoodle with me. "No, thank you," I say, and she's crestfallen. I love her, and I'm responsible for the dejected look on her face. I change my mind about the snickerdoodle, and all is right in our world.

Solution: I can find a way to love and be loved without overeating or overspending. And I can learn to enjoy both habits vicariously: my niece's Victoria's Secret catalog order, a friend's new kitchen counters, my dad's bowl of mostaccioli or cioppino...I can appreciate something without eating it or owning it. (And, as a bonus, I get to feel smug for resisting.)

Problem: Both overeating and overspending are social habits, and often feel integral to celebrating, visiting, and vacationing. They're handy when saying I like you, I love you, I want to get to know you better, I want to impress you, I'm sorry, and thank you.

Solution: I can remind myself that all of these situations can be handled with moderate eating and spending, or--better yet--with something that requires more imagination.

Problem: Both overeating and overspending tend to result in choosing quantity over quality. By definition, they lead to excess, which for most people means a whole lotta crap. I'm reminded of a vacation several years ago when, one afternoon, I drove twenty miles to buy an ice cream cone at the Tillamook cheese factory in Oregon. I watched as a girl made waffles, which became waffle cones; she filled a still-warm cone with Marion Berry Cheesecake ice cream for me, and I happily paid $4 for it. I sat alone on the patio, in the warm sunshine, grinning at children and dogs, eating my treat. A week later, back in Utah, I bought a low-fat vanilla cone at McDonalds for $1 and ate it while driving home. I was struck by the difference between the two experiences. My first thought was, "I need to move--alone--to Tillamook," but even I knew that was unreasonable.

Solution: I can learn to slow down and ask myself if what I'm about to eat or buy is exactly what I want. I can reject the easy choices: those things that are merely okay, that are convenient, that are habits, that are attractive only because they are bargains. I can hold out for a Tillamook ice cream cone every time.

Getting and Spending (But Mostly Spending)

If frugal-living meant giving up Saturday afternoons at Mexican restaurants with my sisters, partaking immoderately of chips, salsa, and diet Cokes, talking endlessly of boys and clothes...I'd pass. Happily, frugal-living is like sex: There are many ways to do it, and no winners are declared.

I refer to myself as frugal (perhaps more often than necessary). Anyone who's been shopping with me a time or two might furrow her brow at the suggestion. "Polly? Frugal? Did she really say that? The same Polly who just bought three cashmere sweaters, a box of Edward Hopper note cards, a pound of Nuts 'N' Chews, and a lamp? That Polly?"

In an attempt to embrace the philosophy more fully, I've made a list of reasons for picking up an item I don't need, and the self-talk I use to help me put the item down before leaving the store:

I want to Start Fresh. I'm plagued by the feeling that I need a new direction in life, and convince myself that new underwear, a new purse, a sprouting kit, or an assortment of cloth-bound journals will give me a today-is-the-first-day-of-the-rest-of-my-life feeling. It can also happen at the grocery store, when I'm suddenly certain that I've been eating all wrong, and I fill my cart with things like quinoa and lentils, which I will eventually donate to the food bank.

• I remind myself that a fresh start is an illusion. We "start" the day we're born, and we "stop" the day we die, and there's no resetting the shot clock during that brief time. Even as I sit pondering my new path, planning my new-and-improved life, time marches on. It's like an airport's moving sidewalk, and stepping off (and back on) is not an option. Shopping is useful if I need socks or yogurt, but there are much better and less expensive ways to redirect a life.
  

I have extra time. I'm thirty minutes early for an appointment or a lunch date, and I'm driving past a store, and I pull into the parking lot. I don't need anything, but I've been in this store before, buying sweaters, skirts, note cards, brightly colored colanders...all the things I stockpile. The clearance racks are no doubt bulging, and I could spend $80 on items that originally cost $800, and still be on time for my lunch date.

• I take a few deep breaths, because my pulse is already racing with the anticipation of bargain hunting. I remind myself that there will always be shopping, there will always be sales. And, again, I have to see past the illusion: An item this cute and this inexpensive is not rare and fleeting; it is, in fact, the norm. That's the very reason I like this store. I have to trust (based on the number of cars in the parking lot) that this store's business plan is sound, and if I need another pink cashmere sweater for twenty bucks (I do not), this store would be a good place to look, come February.
  

I'm bored. I enter a store, but I'm not really shopping, I'm wandering. Maybe--in my unfocused state--I'll stumble upon something (or someone) extraordinary. It often gets worse before it gets better, and I wander more slowly, sometimes actually stopping. I stand there, eyes filling with tears, wondering what the hell I'm doing here...and then I see a red plaid jumper, fully lined, and I buy it, and the clerk puts it in a shiny bag with handles, with tissue paper poking out the top, and it almost seems like a gift, I almost feel loved. I stop for frozen yogurt, and...wait for it...I'm okay!

• Before entering the store, I remind myself that boredom is the opposite of happiness. I'm lonely and scared, and I should admit it (and be willing to suffer), rather than trying to distract myself. I need to take risks, I need to demand more of myself, but shopping is so much easier than those things. For me, this is the very worst time to buy something, because it reinforces the warmly held belief that shopping "makes me happy," and I don't have to bother myself with introspection, hard work, and perseverance. This particular flavor of ennui is best remedied by heading home, curling up on the couch with a cup of herbal tea, and making a mental list of all that's right in my world.
  

I feel emotionally disconnected and unloved, and I plan to fix this by buying someone a gift. I'll buy something that's nicer than what I would buy myself, and the recipient will sense my sacrifice, and adore me. Or I'll find something that proves how well I know him (since this is more fun with a man), how clearly I see him, and he'll wrap his arms around me, forever grateful that I am able to see into his soul, despite the barriers he's erected.

• Sadly, people seldom agree to read from the script I've so lovingly written for them. "Oh. 'Travels with Charley.' First edition, signed by the author. Thanks. Are you ready to order? I think I'll have the Reuben." Gifts--no matter how thoughtful--do not create or sustain a relationship, and that goes double for a romantic relationship.

I want to establish bragging rights, especially in frugal circles. The other day, I bought a hat for $1, and the regular price was $90. Now, I can't imagine that anyone ever paid $90 for this navy-blue wool hat with a rolled brim, but the price tag says $90, so it's a $90 hat (right?). I've bought Lego sets for $1, Jockey underpants for 50 cents, "Atlas Shrugged" for 25 cents, spiral notebooks for 10 cents, and--by god!--everyone is going to hear about it.

• No one cares. And boasting is unattractive. My Depression-era grandmother might feign interest, but she's actually remembering when underpants cost a nickel, and everyone was too busy to read "Atlas Shrugged."

Shopping is what the women in my family do; it's our default activity; it's our only activity. I suppose it has replaced quilting, or tapping maple trees for syrup, or processing whale blubber. We move as a herd, encouraging each other to buy, making each other laugh, becoming a bit manic at times.

• I find that it's better to manage this type of shopping, rather than eliminate it, because I adore my sisters, and we don't really want to attend a film festival or a gallery opening, in part because those places don't encourage nonstop and noisy chatter, riddled with inside jokes and benign put-downs. The mistake, though, is in getting caught up in the bargain hunting and buying five cheap sweaters that I like rather than one expensive sweater that I love. Also, it builds character to occasionally enjoy the talking and the laughing without any of the buying, by declaring a self-imposed spending moratorium (although after noticing that I make an occasional exception when I do this, my husband said that I put the "more" in moratorium).

It's the land of plenty, and I buy out of misplaced patriotism. I enter a store, and tears well up because I'm overcome with feelings of gratitude and thanksgiving, because store shelves are crowded and prices are reasonable. In a novel once, I read about some folks on a train (in an Eastern European country, I think, in the early 1900s), and a woman had a small boiled potato in her coat pocket, and she was careful to hide it from the other travelers, because they'd be jealous, and they might try to take it from her. I read that passage several times, trying to imagine myself in that situation.

• I've never known food scarcity, even when I was attending BYU in the seventies and living on five dollars a week. There was still plenty of food. If I get confused, and begin to think that I need to buy enough to feed and comfort a train-load of Eastern Europeans, I breathe deeply and remind myself that it's not necessary to feed literary characters. And that the truly hungry would appreciate my donation of food or cash, but generosity and kindness spring from another mood entirely.

I don't know what the future holds, so I buy for a variety of futures. Who knows: Maybe I'll lose weight (or gain weight), maybe I'll get an office job (or a forest-service job), maybe I'll learn to ski (or bake bread), maybe I'll want to cut my own hair, reupholster furniture, or teach preschool in my garage. Better get shopping!

• I remind myself to embrace a just-in-time approach to inventory. I also remind myself that if Step 1 (of a multi-step project) is Shopping, then I better be darn sure I'm interested in Steps 2 and 3, which will probably be less fun than shopping, and considerably more work.

There are so many cute things to buy: cute clothes, shoes, jewelry, fabric, lay-abouts, linens, stationery, journals, gifts. And such good prices! Sure...health care is expensive, and college tuition, and apartment rent, but all the made-in-China stuff is affordable and adorable.

• I remind myself that a more austere lifestyle is desirable. Men (when acting alone) sometimes embrace such a lifestyle, as do Europeans. On HGTV the other night, a couple was house-hunting in Spain, and I tuned in as they were wandering through a two-bedroom condo, and had just entered the second bedroom. The room had dark wood floors and white walls. It was furnished with two beds (narrower than twin beds) with plain white spreads, and a dark-wood nightstand between the beds, and that's all. The closet was cleverly designed to maximize storage space. In that moment, I yearned for this monastic-cell-of-a-room. I imagined Jack Bauer resting here: focused, ruthless, effective...his worldly possessions in a canvas messenger bag. A person could get things done with this room as a home base.

I want to be prepared. As a child, I was taught that truly righteous families have two-year supplies of food, water, and hygiene items (although we were lucky at my house to rustle up the ingredients for a bologna sandwich or a pan of brownies) (what my mom considered "stockpiling," my dad considered "hoarding"). But I was occasionally privy to the basements of others, with shelf after enviable shelf of food: cans of tuna, jars of peanut butter, boxes of pudding, bags of chocolate chips and caramels. My favorites, though, were the nonfood items: dozens of rolls of paper towels, hundreds of bars of soap, thousands of tampons.

• There's nothing wrong with being prepared, but I remind myself that preparation can take many forms: money in the bank, a variety of skills, a strong and healthy body, the confidence to adapt to new situations. It's okay to buy a few extra of something when it's on sale, but I don't need to panic if I run out of toothpaste, and there aren't twenty more tubes in the underground bunker.

Understanding why I buy--and learning to recognize the difference between a reasonable purchase (black tights, 'cause I've run out of black tights) and an unreasonable purchase (lime-green tights, 'cause I only have four pairs of lime-green tights)--has been very helpful in keeping costs down while keeping inventory adequate. I have more money and less regret. And I'm subjected to less eye-rolling and snickering when--after a few buzz-inducing diet Cokes--I begin to wax lyrical about my frugal path.