Eight Hotel Soaps Make a Bar

Beau-Hunkly reports to Westover Air Force Base one weekend every month.

He used to hang out at the Airman's club with his military buddies, enjoy off-base fine dining in Chicopee, and shop the PX for wardrobe updates.  To be honest, he might have been having fun, but it was kind of expensive.

When the Fortin Budget Bill of 2014 was enacted, it took a few months for him to adjust his spending, but Beau-Hunkly has finally straightened up and is flying right.

He steals the travel-size toiletries from his hotel room.

The first month he came home with his mini treasures, I was under-whelmed.

He dumped 2 ounce containers and small bars of soap from a plastic bag onto the kitchen table and then stepped back with hands spread wide.

"Tah Dah!" he exclaimed.  "Soap, lotion, and mouthwash, oh my."

I made him put them back in the plastic bag.  Later, I hid them in the back of my closet.  I was perplexed.

This went on for three months, until the bag was getting pretty full.

Then one morning, I ran out of hand lotion.  20 minutes later my hands were soft as a baby's bottom.  (Thank you large bag of travel-size pilfered toiletries.)

Next, I ran out of hair conditioner.  (Thank you large bag of travel-size pilfered toiletries.)

When we ran out of liquid hand soap last week, I shoved a bunch of minisoap into the container, added water, and told the kids that the luxury of soap from a pump was back.  (Thank you large bag of travel-size pilfered toiletries.)

This morning at 5:00 am, Beau-Hunkly was transferring small bottles of body wash into the empty container.  It gave him great joy.

He goes back to base next weekend so we can restock the plastic bag.  We're running a little low on the products we use most, but we do have a surplus of shower caps and shoe polish kits if anyone is interested.

The Cost of Being a Fortin

If we didn't have teenagers, Beau-Hunkly and I would not be on a budget.  We would be climbing Mt. Fuji instead of stay-cations, driving convertibles instead of minivans, and experiencing culinary marvels instead of stocking the house with ramen noodles.

Oh the sacrifices.

Currently, date night consists of attending Dave Ramsey's  Financial Peace University on Sunday.  We sometimes split a soda from the machine to really make it special.

A few weeks ago, the topic in FPU class was about kids and money.  Lessons learned as kids resonate into adulthood.  For this reason, Dave thinks all kids should be on a commission based allowances to learn the monetary value of work.

Beau-Hunkly and I quickly figured out this was going to cost us some cash.

Our kids have never had an allowance and we certainly do not pay hourly wages for folding laundry, taking out the trash, walking the dog, and washing the dishes.

We call their chores The Cost of Being a Fortin.

In return, we hand out money as needed and call it The Cost of Having Children.

At Dave's advice, we made some changes.

We started transferring $8 a week into both their checking accounts with the following rules:

1. No more Gatorade money on game day.

2. No more linking our checking account to their iTunes account.

3. No more pilferring Mom's quarters from the change jar.

4. The Cost of Being a Fortin rules still apply.

Friday is payday and the Sons know it.  "It's automatically transferred," I keep reminding them.

"I love Payday," Son I responds.  He still checks his balance online to keep me honest.

Son II has changed from spender to saver.  He has projected out his balance through age 21 at a steady grow of $416/year.

Of course, it takes them no time to leverage the only monumental flaw in our system.  Special projects.  They are now taking advantage of us.

"The deck could really use a new coat of stain," Son II comments.  "That really doesn't fall under The Cost of Being a Fortin or our allowance."  He looks me square in the eye.  "We'll do the job for $75."

"I'll wash the dog for $2," son II suggests.  I quickly agree because she still reeks like vinegar.

Knowing there is cash available has launched much creativity.

"You guys work to hard to come home and mow the grass," the Sons venture.  "We'll do it for $12 a week."

They offer to clean out out garbage cans, pick up sticks, and wash cars.  And everything has it's price.

Somewhere hidden in their rooms are spreadsheets calculating the benefits of fleecing us for every dime we earn.  

Capitalists!

Nonetheless, I think we will continue on the current plan.  Continue until one of them figures out we pay 10 cents on the dollar.  Then, the Sons are going to form a union and probably go on strike.

Adventures in Vinegar

I work with a guy that makes his own cleaning chemicals.  From scratch.  And cheap.  He buys spray bottles wholesale.  He stores great big vats of vinegar in his garage.  He thinks his creations are an art form.

Bob cleans for a living, so he is able to apply his creative output to the stains, spills, odors and splatters of the apartment community I manage.  The hallways and common spaces of Riverside Village are his test kitchen and there is plenty of opportunity.

He reminds me of The Mad Professor when he talks about how much money he is saving the property with his natural cleaning supplies and how good they work, so I thought I would give it a try.

My experiment started with window cleaner.  Cleaning windows hasn't been my thing in over four years, but it seemed like a good place to start.  It's spring, after all, and all the good housewives wash their windows.

I mixed and measured and transferred the liquid into a spray bottle.  Spilling half of it on the floor was not intentional, but my hardwood was glowing by the time I got it all cleaned up.

I headed for the first window, but quickly realized that since paper towels haven't been in the budget for at least 5 weeks, cleaning the windows was going to be difficult.  The non streak formula only works if you wipe the glass clean after application.

As I headed back to my kitchen laboratory, I began to realize how bad vinegar smells.

Son II was making a sandwich.  "It reeks, Mom." He said between mouthfuls.  " I can't eat in here." He took his plate to the living room.

He was right, the kitchen smelled like a pickle factory.

"I will persevere!" I shouted after him.

I started in on the homemade grout cleaner - vinegar, baking soda and a splash of lemon juice.  Bob told me the secret is to let it sit for 15 minutes, so after I applied it to the bathroom floor, I returned to my kitchen.

"Gawd, Mom," Son II told me.  He was back in the kitchen eating peanut butter out of the jar.  With his finger.  "When are you going to stop?  It smells disgusting."  

"I won't stop until it's clean," I tell him.  He smiles from behind the gallon of milk he is chugging.

I mixed up a shower head cleaner compound while trying to breath through my mouth.  Was I getting a headache from vinegar fumes?

I stirred and shook, and then I read the final direction.  "Pour liquid into plastic bag and attach to shower head with a rubber band."

By the time I got that sucker tied up to the shower head, the mixture was all over my shirt and hair.  In my haste to wash the vinegar out of my eye, I stepped in the grout cleaner so my socks were now soaked with vinegar.   Smelled awful, even with a splash of lemon.

I decided it was about time to launder my pickle factory clothes and call it a day.  I remembered Bob telling me that adding vinegar to the washing machine is a natural freshening agent.  Good.  Call that final experiment #4.

Freshly showered and smelling much better, I sat down on the coach next to our beloved dog.  She gave me a big wet sloppy kiss.  From the smell of it, she has been drinking vinegar from some spill I didn't get cleaned up.

Two Quarters for the Price of One at Aldi's

Beau-Hunkly and I are now routine grocery shopping buddies.  Things are getting too comfortable for him.  Its time to shake things up a bit.  We are going to Aldi's.

We hop in the Prius.  "To save gas on our errand," he tells me.  Well trained, I think.

If we want to do Aldi's supermarket right, we are going to need a quarter.  He doesn't have a penny on him.  Well trained.  We dig around in the glovebox and find $0.38.

If you have never been to Aldi's, the quarter is essential.  It's necessary as a security deposit if you want to use one of their carriages.  BH is perplexed by this.

"We are being nickeled and dimed to death already," he says.  "Next they are going to charge us for grocery bags."

Got it covered, I tell him as I swing our reusable shopping bags over my shoulder.

We enter the store.  It's a plain box store with white paint and gray tiles.  It's clean and well-lit.  There is no Muzak piped in through speakers and no one handing you a sales flyer. There are no shelves, just a bunch of wire racks like you buy at Home Depot.  The food is conveniently left in the cardboard shipping boxes with big holes cut in the front for easy access.

"What the heck," he whispers under his breath.  "It's a little, ah, basic in here."

We start picking off items from our grocery list.  The same rules apply, but now he is repeating them back to me. 

"Not on the list," he says to me as he pushes the cart past the generic Cheez-it's display/packing box.

We finish I record time, and manage to heap the whole cart for $182.00.  This might seem like a lot but we used to spend $300 a week at the grocery store, so this is great news.  We start packing up our groceries, because at Aldi no cute bagger to load our food into grocery bags.

BH keeps suggesting that we try to get all the groceries back into one cart.  It's the Engineer in him.  "Stop making a scene," I hiss.  "We need His and Her carts."  I grab my half full cart and book it for the exit, hoping he will follow. 

After loading our stash into the Prius, we met at the carriage holding area.  As I slip my cart onto the lock, I retrieve the return deposit quarter.  He smiles as he does the same with his return deposit quarter.  

The Fortins turn a profit.

My two cents: try a discount grocery store - one cart in and two carts out.

You Reap What They Sow: Lessons from Sims Freeplay

My Sims Freeplay alter ego is an over spender.

Sims Freeplay is an online simulation game.  You add imaginary people into an imaginary town and then create imaginary lives, families, jobs, and hobbies for them.  You can also buy imaginary things for them by earning imaginary money doing imaginary things.

The creators probably envisioned a happy community where everyone is advancing their careers, upgrading their houses, and becoming better people.

In my town, things work a little different.

Queen Mother rules the roost.  And she is an overspender.

She lives in an extravagant house filled with expensive toys and decorations.  She has a swimming pool and a dishwasher and a $10,000 king size bed.  She has a Mercedes, a hat collection and a jacuzzi tub.

How does she pay for this extravagant lifestyle?  Indentured Sims, of course.

When Queen Mother creates a new Sim character, the games automatically gives the new character a house with basic necessities.

Queen mother sells this stuff for her own personal gain.  She auctions off the bed, the fridge, the toilet, and even the walls.  Queen Mother then moves the now homeless Sim into the communal bunkhouse in her backyard.

She names them so she can tell them apart.  Nate One, Zack One, Nate Two, Zack Two, Nate Three, Zack Three.

I sometimes online-invite my real children to visit my Sim Town.  It makes them upset.

"Mom!  You have twelve Nates gardening and you are watching movies on the big screen TV," real Nate tells me.  He is appalled.  "We all need showers and food or we are going to pass out."

The Nates can eat and sleep when they are done harvesting potatoes for $248 in Sims cash apiece.  Queen Mother needs a bigger slide for the swimming pool.

"You demolished all my houses! I can't have kids unless I have a place to put a crib," real Zack tells me.

"The Zacks aren't real paternal," I tell him.  "And if they keep kicking over the garbage cans, I am going to have them plant tomatoes overnight."

Queen Mother enjoys buying things and without the Zacks and the Nates working, she would have to curb her frivolous ways.  She doesn't want to stop buying until she has the biggest house in town, a perfect wardrobe, 3 cars parked in the driveway, and a jet airplane on the landing pad.

My real kids know their real mother would do anything for them.  Anything.  But it has got me thinking that it's almost time to start the tomatoe plants seedlings.

My two cents:  Stop trying to keep up with the Queen Mothers of the World.  Plant a garden instead.

You Might Be a Walmart Junkie

Before this brutal budget (BBB), I went to Walmart one time each week to buy a ton of stuff and one time each week to return at least one piece of stuff I had just bought.  The facts don't lie: 53 debit card purchases in 2013 and 48 returns.  I was a Platinum Walmart Shopper.

I knew the Greeter by his first name; I had a favorite checkout lane; I considered the girl at the return counter my friend.  I was a Walmart Junkie.

Because I suck at saving receipts, I was also never without at least one "merchandise credit" card.  This made me feel good.  It was reassuring.  I was carrying "as good as cash" at all times.  Printer ink emergency?  Got it.  Need a new garden hose? I got your back.  Out of ziplock bags?  Hope in the car because this ain't gonna cost us a dime.  Walmart Junkie.

Here's my theory.  You walk into Walmart for laundry detergent.  You grab a big shopping cart.  As you speed down the main aisle, swerving to avoid The People of Walmart Candidates, you notice everyone else has a cart, but their carts are filled with frozen pizzas and window washer fluid.  Your cart looks empty and you start to feel silly.  

So you start loading your cart with candles, dish towels, and a new blender.  Ah.  Better.  You, too, deserve this cart.  

By the time you reach the cleaning supplies, there is no room left in the main part of your cart so you have to store the laundry detergent underneath the carriage.  Walmart Junkie.

You wonder how the cart got so full. You have plenty of time to think about it as you wait in a line five people deep at checkout.  You convince yourself that you needed all this stuff anyway.  You are saving yourself a trip later.  Walmart Junkie.

You tell the checkout lady how funny it is that you just came in for laundry detergent.  She smiles at you as yshe looks at the full cart.  She resembles that trademarked yellow smiley face logo that is always Rolling Back the Prices on the Things You Need Most.  

My two cents: If the above feels even vaguely familiar, you might be a Walmart Junkie.  The recovery program is actually simple.  Avoid going to to Walmart unless crisis, stick to the list, and DO NOT USE A CART.

The Passive Aggressive Thermostat War

In 2013 we installed a wood burning stove insert into our fireplace.  We felt it was a brilliant way to save some money on heating fuel and create a romantic ambiance in our living room.  The children felt it was a brilliant way to work them like wood-carrying slaves for our own personal warmth.  Poor overworked children.

Somewhere along the wood burning journey, however, perspectives have changed.  

Maybe three men splitting wood creates unnatural thoughts of lunacy, but the male posse of the Fortin household has decided we should never turn on the furnace again, saving millions in home heating oil.  Budget $200/month to $0/month achieved.

My desperate pleas to supplement, not negate, the furnace are met with mockery.  They are all on board the free heat train as I sit stubbornly at the station.

But it is cold some mornings. Like 52 degrees cold. I feel like Laura Ingalls Wilder and they have no sympathy.

"Stop whining, the sun is out."

"What would Dave Ramsey say?"

"Didn't you grow up in Minnesota."

"Budgeting is about needs versus wants."

"If you can't handle the heat, get out of the kitchen."  This is my personal favorite, because it is normally directed to me when I am standing in front of the open oven door warming my hands.

Consider it passive aggressive, but freezing to death in your own house calls for extreme measures. I turn on the furnaces when no one is looking.

Quietly, stealthily, I push the thermostat to heat, jack it up to 75 degrees, and quietly walk away.

I get caught, I get scolded, I get chastised for being a wimp.  But it usually takes at least an hour for someone to notice, so I have won my warmth.  Momentarily.

There are worst things in life than thrifty kids and a husband who chops wood in the dark.  

My two cents:  turn the thermostat down two degrees in March and call it an end of winter adventure.

Revenge of the Prunes

The doctor told him to eat more prunes.

For the sake of annomitity, I will not disclose who got this advice at his physical last year.  I won't even divulge why the advice was given.

But a whole year has gone by and the big container of prunes, purchased with noble intentions, remains disregarded, neglected, and uneaten in the far reaches of the cupboard.

I found them while searching for chocolate chips.

So I chopped up the whole container and added diced prunes to the Sunday afternoon cookie batch.

Most times, cookie day results in multiple visits the the kitchen by multiple members of the family.  They come not to help make the cookies, but to steal batter, lick the mixer, and get first grabs of the finished products.  

The prunes changed everything.

"That's disgusting," Son One mutters as he walks away shaking his head.

Son Two smells my concoction and drops the spoon back into the mixing bowl like the cookies have plague.

Even the dog wants nothing to do with the prune cookies.  She suspiciously watches a prune chunk dropped on the floor, but won't go near.

I am trying to justify to Beau-Hunkly my theory of waste not want not.  He seems to think it is better to waste in this case then Not Want any cookies.

I champion on with my prune cause.  Battle on, under-appreciated former plum.

It works.  3 dozen cookies disappear before they are generously deemed "hardcore."

My two cents:  Dig around in your cupboard for forgotten ingredients and get creative.  It's like finding a quarter on the ground.

Get the Cheerios out of my Treat Jar

Our dog Libby is part of our family.  I am sure this is pretty common in most households.

Son One and Son Two call her their sister; she wears clothing, sleeps in a bed, and accompanies us to soccer games.

She has her own budget category for expenses such as the beauty parlor (groomer,) vet visits, and an occasional leash or new bone.

A very large portion of her budget is allocated to dog treats - she receives an average of 12 treats a day.  Probably more...

But at the end of February, life as she knows it ceased to exist.  For the first time in her canine life, multiplied by 7, the jar was empty  For three entire days the treat jar was empty.

It's not uncommon to run low on household inventory towards the end of any month.  We might deplete shampoo, dryer sheets or beer, but we have never come close to running out of dog treats.

She was devastated.

She moped around on Thursday, looking forlornly at the empty jar whenever we glanced her way.  Friday she became passive-aggressive and spread her toys across the living room floor.  Saturday morning, she could hardly get out of bed she was so depressed.

Something had to be done.

So we filled the treat jar with Cheerios.

Son Two thought it was a stupid idea, but he still made a huge deal about getting her all excited.  She was jumping up and down and nodding her head.  Yeah.  She wanted a treat.  Wanted a treat.  Treat.  Yeah.  Treat.  Treat.

Son Two reached into the treat jar and tossed a handful of Cheerios at her feet as we all chanted, "treat" excitedly.

If you think it didn't work, you are correct.

She took one sniff and rolled her eyes with that facial expression that transcends species.  A healthy mix of annoyance, disdain, disbelief and supremacy played across her face.

Then she started cleaning herself.

"Ah.  Mom," Beau-Hunkly said, talking for the dog.  "These are not treats.  Duh."

"Gawd Mom," both kids responded for the dog.

I stepped on the pile of Cheerios as I grabbed my car keys and the coupon for PetSmart.

My two cents:  To some things, there is no substitue.  Stock up!

Chicken Parts Make Me a Good Mom

Fundamentally, I abhor unnatural meat products.  Ekkkkk.  Yuck.  Gross.

Real life sometimes gets in the way of your fundamentals.  Specifically, a workday filled with  interviews from 8:15am to 4:30pm got in the way of my fundamentals.

I was baked by the drive home.  Crispy.  Done.  Not Kentucky Fried Chicken baked, crispy and done.  More like, "stop at the grocery store for a bag of frozen, breaded chicken parts shaped like breast meat" baked, crispy and done.

I knew that the extremely healthy meal previously planned was ready to prepare at home.  I am going to be honest that the thought of roasting carrots and sweet potatoes with a side of pork roast made me feel exhausted.  Baked. Crispy. Done.

And so I decided to settle.  To not take this budget (and this life) so seriously.

With $12 left in the food budget, I walked through the doors of the local Hannfords.  A pint of strawberries, chicken parts, and frozen French fries maxed out our budget for the month with $1.78 to spare.  Two Cadbury Eggs put us right on the line.  We walk the line, right.  Done.

My two cents:  Being on a budget does not require you eat chicken parts.  But embrace your life, your family and your morales.  And then allow yourself a break.