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.

Johnny Cash meets Barry Manilow

I analyzed our end of the month cash flow budget at lunch today.  Despite all the heartache and misery, we will finish the month well within our budget.

$16 bucks, baby.  $16 bucks.

 It made me happy.  It made me really happy.  Like "buying groceries for a day at the beach day" happy.  And it made me want to sing.  

Two singers came to mind.  The first was Barry Manilow.

I spent the entire ride home singing out loud with the windows up.  "Looks like we made it.  La la la la fall la la.  Looks like me made it.  Fa la la...."

Then I decided that not knowing the words kind of cheapened the experience.  So I switched to Johnny Cash.

I keep a close watch on this heart of mine

I keep my eyes wide open all the time

I keep the ends out for the tie that binds

Because you're mine, I walk the line.

By simply changing one word in the first sentenance, it makes perfect sense.  

I walk the line!  

Keeping a close watch on this budget of mine.

My eyes wide open all the time

La, la, la.

My two cents:  celebrate the month end victory with singing - it may be offkey, but it is free.

Burping the Kuerig

There are some seriously scary components of a budget.  Probably the scariest is an unexpected crisis requiring cash any day after the 23th of any month.

Our Kuerig is broken.

We sit and stare at it, but it is still not brewing.  We coax it, pet it, hit it upside the head, threaten it, plug and unplug it for a solid 5 minutes.

Still broke.

There is no money left in the February Household category to buy a new one.  Beau-Hunkly and I start brainstorming.

We arrive at a very mature decision.  We will borrow from the grocery money and eat ramen noodles all week.  That's mature, right?

I am grabbing the 20% off coupon for Bed Bath and Beyond and halfway out the door when Son One stops me.

"If there is no money left in the Household category, how exactly are you planning on paying for this," he asks.

With my coupon?

"Come sit down and let's try to fix it," he says as he pulls me into the kitchen.

I don't want to fix it.  It's too much work.  It's too hard.  It's going to frustrate me. 

He grabs his iPad.

"We'll look up YouTube videos," he says.  "No way can we be the first Kuerig to break."

45 minutes later, the Kuerig is in pieces and the entire kitchen reeks of vinager.  I have coffee sludge under my fingernails.

"I would already be back enjoying a cup of hot coffee if you would have just let me," I tell him.  I am sulking.

"Paying for it how?" he asks.

With the help of instructional YouTube videos, in another 5 minutes the Kuerig is reassembled. 

 

Suddenly, Son One has our coffee maker raised above his head, and then nestled in his arms like a baby, but upside down.  And then he starts firmly patting the bottom of our Kuerig on it's base.

"I am burping it." He says.

I see.  He is burping it.

And then he plugs it back in.  And it starts brewing.  And it is fixed.

My two cents: take some time this week to repair instead of replace:  darn a sock, grease a can opener, sharpen a blade.  Too easily, we throw out and buy new when all we really need to do is Burp the Kuerig.

Weekends > Errands

I have a favorite t-shirt.  It's black with big white lettering and reads: Beer > Work

Directly translated from 9th grade Algebra or 2nd grade Math, it means, "beer is greater than work."

I wear it on Saturdays, so most of the townsfolk of our little burg have probably seen me at the mall, the grocery store, the video store and the garden center in this shirt. I used to be the one laden down with shopping bags throwing money at the cash registers.

Drive to store, scour every aisle for bargain, stand in line for the cashier, load up car, fight traffic home, unload car, stuff new items in closet, realize closet is too full, bag up old stuff from closet, get back in car and head to donation center.  

By the time I was finally done, I was too tired to cook on Saturday night.  You get the picture.

My Saturdays have recently changed drastically.

Because when you are on a budget, the errands totally dry up.  If we need it, it's already bought.  If we want it, we have already put it to the back of our minds as a later.  The list on the fridge for our weekly Walmart trip is gone. Gone, baby, gone.

Replacing Super Saturday Errand Bonanza has been the easiest part.  Slow coffees with Son I, funny YouTube videos with Son II, and afternoon Pilates with Beau-Hunkly.  Takeout styrofoam containers have been replaced with Kitchen-Congregating Taste Test Kitchen.

I always knew that weekend errands were costing us a lot of money, but I did not realize they were also costing us time and stealing moments with my family.  Being on a budget has prohibited me from mindless errands and in return, has given me a better life.  Weekends > Errands

Directly translated from 9th grade Health or 2nd grade Circle Time, it means:  "weekends are greater than errands."


My two cents.  Go a weekend without spending a dime. Relax instead.

24k Fish Still Gets the Tinfoil Treatment

 

It used to be that if a teenager would accompany me to the grocery store, they could fill up the cart with whatever their heart desired.  I considered it Kid Tax.

That had to stop when we went on the grocery budget - because I am weak.

"You sure you don't want some company at the grocery store?" Son I asks.

"Nope."

"I don't mind going with you," he persists.

"All set."

"If I give you a small list will you pick up a couple treats for me?" He continues.

"Nope."

With crestfallen face, he lowers his gaze. "Is it that you don't want to spend time with me?"

He is killing me over Cool Ranch Dorittos and a 12 pack of Mountain Dew.  I feel myself slipping out of Fiscally Responsible Mom and back into Buy Your Love with Nutella Mom.

"Date night," I squeak.  "It's Dad and Mom date night."

Twenty minutes later we are in the car. Not me and Son I. Me and Beau-hunkly.

From multiple sighs and quick side glances, it appears that cute husband does not consider grocery shopping a date night.

"I need your support here," I tell him as I grab his hand.

He deciphers that to mean I need assistance with the cart.  OK.  Works.

We wind our way through the store with BH pushing the cart while I check items off the list and throw them in the cart.

"How about..." He starts.

"Not on the list," I bark as I finish his sentence.

"Not on the list."

"Not on the list."

By the time we get to the checkout, I am estimating, based on the height of the cart, that we are $2 over budget.  BH is confident we are right on.

 

And then I spot the salmon.  Salmon? There was no pink flaky fish on the weekly list.

"How'd that get in our cart?" I hiss in a low tone so the teenage checkout clerk can't hear me.  

"Seriously? $22?"

"Dunno," he mocks.  "Not on the list?" 

Hahaha.  

 

Final tally grocery budget for the week?  $24 over.  Like 2.4lbs of salmon, or so.

 

And I cooked the salmon in tinfoil that night.  And it was awesome.

 

We will see what Mr. 24k Salmon has to say next week when we are eating baked beans and hot dogs.

My two cents.  Everyone gets input in the budget.  Enjoy someone else's choices too.