The Scottish blood in me (I think there’s Scottish blood in there) abhors wasting money. It’s not that I’m cheap, it’s just…. I’m cheap. I’m sure I drive the kids and Nikki nuts with my ways. I’m a big “turn that off” guy, just like your dad was when you were young. Five humans live in our house, that means there are a LOT of (like, at least 35 or so) very dexterous fingers that can turn electric devices on. Having electric things on means that there is a steady drip of money leaking out of my wallet until the darn things are turned off. Televisions, game consoles, computers (ok, so most of these are mine, and some can’t be turned off for very important reasons, but roll with me here), lights, fans, electric toothbrushes, toasters, grills, mixers, phonographs, food processors, hair dryers, curling irons, hair straighteners, humidifiers, de-humidifiers, and toys of all shapes and sizes are constantly powered on, sucking electrons from the grid at a rate that makes me weak and fluttery just thinking about it. It’s not even about the environment, or the 7 hectares of virgin rain forest they bulldozed last week just for our house alone, it’s all about the cash, people. I’m a selfish, selfish man. If I can also save the world by being the “turn that off” guy, then great. But that’s not my main goal here. I’m trying to find a way to retire before I’m dead.
But I digress. I’m not here to talk about electricity. I’m here to talk about lunch kits. For various reasons we are historically unable to purchase, and retain lunch kits. Cael is the only member of our family that has a perfect track record with lunch kits, he is still using his from last year and it’s mostly still in one piece. So, for the rest of the family we have been using recycled grocery bags to carry lunches around. Not the most environmentally friendly option, I know. But at least up until now we had a readily available supply of these things. No longer, as the closet supply has finally been exhausted. We didn’t know it at the time, but we reached “peak bag” about a month ago, when our supply started dwindling rapidly due to using enviro bags to do our groceries all of the time.
Anyway, I was recently complaining about the lack of a mainstream lunch transport mechanism (i.e. lunch kit) solution and mentioned to Nikki that we were out of grocery bags. She brightly suggested that we use doggy bags for the kids lunches, since they are biodegradable after all.
Hm.
Picture for a moment what it would be like (particularly, the teacher’s expression) to plop a black bag tied at the top containing lumpy shapes onto your desk at school, tear that sucker open and then start eating the contents.
I decided right then that while new lunch kits for the family might be an extravagance, we could probably swing it this month.
Oh, my son.
Mom… Help ….me!
Good choice.
Courtney, I am such a sad sack. Not only do I have self-induced insomnia (brought on by staying up till all hours writing poetry . . . ), but now I have begun reading your blogs at 1 a.m. I see this particular one was written a while ago, so I assume by now you have purchased and are enjoying those lunch kits (perhaps they’ve already been lost . . .).
Reading about your unabashed cheapness makes me feel slightly less embarrassed to admit that I am able to claim expert status in the field of frugality, having been raised in a house where overuse of Kleenex was considered a sign that you might be possessed by some profligate demon. Electronics were not only shut off, they were unplugged (or simply never purchased in the first place). My dad is a lovely person, he never speaks ill of others and I truly believe that he thinks others always mean well, too. The only exception occurs when he witnesses blatant waste or reckless spending—two sins of the most contemptible kind. On those occasions he is compelled to verbalize his indignation and disgust. This is a man who, when I was a kid, walked many miles several times each week to peruse the clearance shelves of grocery stores in pursuit of dented tins and other mildly damaged castoffs (he loved to come home with his treasures and tell the story of the find and invite us to guess at the amount he had saved . . .). My little world was filled with reused tea bags, recycled gift-wrap, third-generation hand-me-downs, yard sale pottery, and cheap knock-off brands that resembled the more expensive originals in the most nominal way. When we frequented amusement parks (always bearing two-for-one coupons), we brought brown bag lunches and sat at picnic tables, scoffing at the foolish extravagance of the lunch counter patrons. Who did these people think they were?
For some reason, your lunch box story brought to mind the Kirby vacuum incident. It was a fine December day in 1979. Having faked illness in order to avoid square dancing in gym class, I was at home with my mom, who was apparently in the midst of a disillusioned-housewife-crisis. Right in the middle of The Young and the Restless, a Kirby vacuum cleaner salesman arrived at the door. I suppose he must have been just charming and cheesy enough to wrangle an invitation inside the house (I believe there might have been a free pie plate involved, too). I remember that my mother laughed a lot at his pathetic and predictable jokes and that he paid her many seemingly rehearsed compliments. He must have visited every room in the house, demonstrating the effectiveness of Kirby’s state-of-the-art attachments. The whole thing strangely fascinated me. I watched with delight, hoping my mom would join the legions of cutting-edge homemakers and purchase this miracle of cleaning technology.
By the time my dad arrived home from work (two hours into the sales pitch) my mom had traded in our two current vacuum cleaners and written a cheque for $700. My dad glanced at the receipt on the counter. His face flushed and he walked passed the salesman, refusing to shake his hand. He sat in silence at the table and waited for supper. The salesman scurried out the door, leaving behind what now seemed like an obscenely shiny monstrosity. The Kirby Classic III stood there for many days—an island unto itself—unused, despite obvious debris on the carpet. The whole thing was surreal; it was like an episode of The Wonder Years, complete with heavy, quiet stares and loaded statements made to me and my sister but intended for my mother (or father, depending on the speaker). I think my dad would have preferred to arrive home and stumble upon the salesman in bed with my mother: That would have been forgivable. But this was an outrage, a fracture in their marriage contract.
The vacuum was eventually returned and we didn’t speak the name Kirby for years. Even now, when the story is brought up jokingly, my dad looks mildly irritated and heartbroken. I’m sure every time a Kirby vacuum is sold he experiences sudden and inexplicable chest pains.
Now that, my friend, is the story of a cheap family.
Oh Paula.
I seem to recall that Gram (my Dad’s mom) purchased a Kirby vacuum at some point, it too was a huge piece of machinery, crazily oversized for the house they lived in (maybe it was their apartment even? Whit could tell me for sure, she’s my memory). I don’t recall any similar financial stress about that particular purchase, but I do remember being awed by the sheer complexity of the thing. It was simultaneously old-fashioned and futuristic, and weighed 130 pounds. Absolutely a silly thing.
Your comment deserves it’s own feature post, that’s a great story. Don’t be ashamed of being cheap, I’m not. Strangely my cheapness doesn’t translate to having lots of money. I’m obviously a cheap failure, if I was any good at being cheap I would have lots of money, wouldn’t I? Crap.
Court is right Paula, that is a wonderful post! And Court, the vacuum was purchased for the 2 bedroom apt, and it allegedly did everything but windows….don’t you remember the demonstrations with the pillows in the plastic bags to show us how disgustingly dirty they were??? Funny!!!