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.

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.

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. 

Don't Mess with Me, Ugly Kermit

Every journey starts with a plan.  In our case, the plan was a monthly budget.

Have you ever dissected where exactly all the money goes in a year? It will absolutely separate you from the wimpy kids who fainted in Biology class.

It took me more than 2 hours to create categories for our spending.  This is what I came up with: mortgage, groceries, utilities, savings, cell phone, Kids, dining out, medical, charity, household, clothing, ATM, dog, insurance, auto and gas. 

Household was one ugly amphibian!  It was shocking to see how much we spent at Walmart.  Ocean State Job Lot and Dicks Sports were equally awful. But the one that truly grossed me out was the local convenience store at the top of the hill.  More than $200 per month on what I can only assume is beer wine, candy, lottery tickets, and cigarettes.

Staring at me, with its beady glassed over eyes, were the exact reasons we never have money left at the end of the month.

So I slapped that Budget Frog on the lab table and grabbed my scaple.  Don't mess with me, ugly Kermit.

I sliced and diced the budget for another two hours.  Some categories were wicked easy to snip a leg off.  If you are on a budget, everyone knows going out to dinner is pretty much a formaldehyde dream.  Others were tricky.  Do we cancel the cell phones to save $242 per month and go back to the telegraph?  How much can we really cut from the grocery bill when the kids grow an inch each week?

In the end, with hard line determination, I created a purposeful spending plan that allowed $3000 savings each month. Now that's a frog song. Croak.  What are we going to do with all Les Grenouilles Jambes?

 

My two cents.  Know what you spend each month.  If you are embarrassed at any amount, that should be the first thing to go.

Short Christmas Lists Force New Family Budget

We are going on a budget. We are going on a strict Family Budget.

It’s been brewing for a few months.  It was bound to happen.  The holidays, American’s Mecca of Overspending, was the catalyst.

When Beau-Hunkly and I sat down to discuss Christmas spending last month, I was upset not that there was not enough money, but that the wish lists of Son I and Son II were too small.  Together, their Christmas lists added up to no more than $600 total. 

“We need to spend more on the kids,” I said to my Beau-Hunkly.  He didn’t comment.  I tried again.

“It won’t seem like Christmas, even if we buy every single gift on these lists.  There will not be enough present to fill the tree.  The lists are too small.  The kids are going to have to try harder,” I told him.

Nothing.   So I stared right back at my husband until he drew a big breath and grabbed my hands.   “Stop, “ he said quietly.  “This is all they want.  Are we asking them to want more?”

And that’s when we started really talking.

We started talking about living within our means.  About how much money we make and how much money we spend and how outrageous it is to always buy a bunch of stuff only to realize that we can’t put our kids through college.  Talking about how we don’t want our kids growing up getting everything they want.  Talking about how crazy it is to work so hard just to buy more stuff.

We formed a plan.  Not like “we sit down with a calculator and together form a plan."  More like, "Caroline sit down with a calculator and formulate a budget and Beau-Hunkly promises to follow the plan and encourage the children."

And then we went Christmas shopping.  And we didn't buy everything on the list. That entire Christmas came out of our checking account and we knew we weren't going to have a January hangover of credit card bills.

In the end, Christmas was a success.  This budget is going to be a success.