in Springfield and Father is ready to go now that he’s got on his angora sweater vest.
First I went to Christmas Tree Shops to feed my spring fever. Came out with:
- A green and blue swirly 10″ gazing ball to replace the one that I failed to take inside for the winter and which subsequently exploded from the deep freeze situation out there.
- An outdoor flag of spring flowers and a watering can, complete with dangling fabric strips meant to simulate streams of water. I am a sucker for watering cans on a garden flag.
- A little flower pot shaped like an owl because obviously.
- A red-handled mini-pruner that is graceful, delicate and so utterly tres petite to the extent that I will have to get a floppy hat and some floral-patterned clogs in order to feel right about using it.
- $10 deodorizing pet wipes. Eve though I have one of those grind upside down in the stink kind of dogs and was highly motivated to purchase these, their worth is suspect to me. The ingredients list had only fibrous tissue, water, cleanser listed. Sounds like I get the same benefit by squirting diluted dog shampoo onto a damp rag.
- Solar spying garden animals. Actually they had a ton of solar spying gnomes of various sizes. I want to like gnomes but I just don’t.
In the category of non-shopping, my other weekend accomplishments were:
- filling 3 boxes with clothes, books and random items like handbags, jewelry boxes etc for a charity pickup
In other news, I find my self seriously fretting about those plastic covers for baby strollers. I mentioned before how use of this product might lead to a generation of neurotic claustrophobes, but I realize that there might be another danger here. The weather was clear and sunny but still chilly and windy so in the most downtown-ish of my travels, there were plenty of parents pushing plastic encased strollers. The sun was beating down on the plastic making little rolling greenhouses out of the baby passenger area. Wasn’t overheating determined to be implicated in SIDS deaths? Here was have a population of helpless beings in coats, gloves, hats and plastic covers under the sun. Something bad is going to happen. In fact, I bet it already has. I am going to write to Kathleen Sebelius and suggest that this is an emerging hazardous trend and that HHS should start tracking this and issuing public alerts. Because I don’t have enough of my own business to mind.
If Father Knows Best is any guide, the patriarchy came home from work at 3:30 in the afternoon.
The Anderson’s have breakfast together, a scene from which one or another of the children leaps up before finishing because they are late for school. Father always finishes his meal and then drives downtown to his office. When do you suppose his workday starts? 9 o’clock? 8:30 at the very earliest.
Fast forward to modern times. Your faithful correspondent is at her station no fewer than 10 hours a day, often 11+. Granted, your faithful correspondent has always been afraid not to work, in case work dries up and she is subsequently locked out of work forever. Your faithful correspondent is a nurse by trade so that unemployment scenario is extremely unlikely but even so let’s not take any unnecessary chances.
The point is I’m wearing down. I’ve always fancied myself to have the freedom to manage my own destiny and stop working anytime I felt was right for me. But I suddenly realized that I am too young for Medicare and that my work-provided insurance coverage is going to keep me tied to my job for years longer than I want to work. Such is my demographic detail and my on-the-record party affiliation that Obamacare is not good for me. Even though I am relatively issue-free now, it will only take one good fall or the discovery of one irregularly shaped mole to put me in a boxcar headed for the glue factory.
So I’m a victim. A current victim of fear; a future victim of winnowing the herd. Obama wins.
Anyway, the Anderson’s have a beautiful spacious home, belong to a country club, have tuxedos and party dresses and a gardener. Pocket money for impulse purchases like pony pictures or money for college never seems to be a worry. That’s pretty good for a single income family where the bread earner puts in minimal time. That Father must have sold a shit ton of insurance policies while he was there.
I’m working like a beast of burden and my efforts reach almost 200,000 people – no kidding – on the first touch. I’m not irreplaceable but I’m uber productive and I make more money than I ever dreamed possible. Not a lot of money – just more than I ever thought I would make. Still, I never throw away the stem end of a tomato and I could write my own sit com episode about how I can convince myself that it’s necessary for my future financial security to let go of no more than $20 per visit to the gas station.
Also, I have no time or capacity left at the end of the day for blogging.
It’s here. My tipping point. I’m completely turned off by the idea of spending money on anything for myself because I feel like I won’t live long enough to get my return on investment.
And I’m not even talking about major purchases. I’m talking about things like Valentine Day gifts or anniversary presents. There’s a lot of occasions coming in in the next few months – anniversary, Mother’s Day, my birthday – so I know people or at least one person will be pressuring me to come up with gift idea. Back in the day, I could even wangle an Easter present but now I don’t need anything and I don’t want anything.
Well, maybe one of these little vintage planters so I can clip roses and keep it filled all summer long.
But really, although this would give me pleasure right now, what is going to happen to it after I shuffle off this mortal coil? [I'm perfectly healthy and in fine, if winter-weary, shape. I'm just thinking, that's all.] What will my children do when they find it among my possessions? Gaze at it and wonder what to do with it? Toss it on a junk heap without deliberation?
I don’t know.
Gawd, is it spring yet?
Here’s a little chocolate treat for Valentine’s Day: