Recessions Make Strange Bedfellows

I was staring down at the clumps of cat hair and runaway legos that my old Hoover kept spitting up when it occurred to me that what I really needed in order to clean my own house was a fancy schmancy vacuum—I had my eyes on the Dyson 25 model retailing for 500 smackers, exactly the same amount we spent per month on our cleaning lady before we decided to “scale back” and clean the house ourselves.

The original idea for the “do it yourself” model was to save money, a wise strategy since I’m not making much dough these days in my “real” job, (very lucrative in days gone by).  So, given our new, self-imposed, “fallen-on-hard-times” household spending strategy, forking out half a grand on a vacuum seemed downright schizophrenic.  What was I thinking?

Later that night I mentioned my vacuum lust to my husband Mark.  Known to foam at the mouth at the mere mention of technology, his eyes lit up.  “You know, a capital investment in the latest vacuum innovation would save us time, money and back pain.” But, even with his convincing logic and my desire for the fashionable and efficient yellow and black Dyson, I couldn’t justify the cost (one of us needed to be strong). 

Thus I began my Dyson25 search online (which will be referred to here as D25).  The search ended up being a lot easier than I had anticipated.  Within minutes of plugging the word “Dyson” into Craig’s List I found two new D25s priced at $330 and $370. 

The first person I contacted was advertising a “lightly used,” D25 for $330.  I called the number listed and left an enthusiastic message with a heavily accented voice mail.  They must have sold it because I never heard back.

The other posting advertised a brand new D25, in box, (that’s “NIB” for those of you who don’t speak fluent E-Bay) for $370 cash.  The NIB D25 was owned by a guy named Guy.  I asked him via text, “why are you getting rid of it?” He responded via voice mail, in a cloudy dope smoker tone, “I got in a three-wheel accident and I won’t be vacuuming for a while.”  My mind went immediately to Tom Cruise in Born on the 4th of July, replete with wheelchair, catheter and do-rag.   The least I could do for the guy was to take the D25 off his hands.  

I offered him via text $330 for the vacuum.  He responded that his floor was $370 and he had another buyer.  I wished him luck and went back to my old Hoover.    

 Five days later, on our way to church, I got a text from Guy. 

 “Other deal fell through; I will sell you Dyson for $340 cash today.”

“I’ll take it.”  I texted back.

“Meet tonight, Shell station in Sumner, 7pm.

For those of you who are not from Seattle, Sumner is so far south it may as well be Portland Oregon.  With gas and road snacks I’d probably be better off buying my D25 at Best Buy and saving myself the hassle.     

 “Sumner is too far to go for a $340 D25.”   I texted back.

“Can you do Jet Chevrolet, South Federal Way instead, 7:00pm?”  (Still a 30 mile schlep but given the fact that the guy was disabled I acquiesced.)

“Yes.  See you then.”

 When we returned from church I called Paige our effervescent, overachieving, APP high school babysitter to see if she could watch our six year old prodigy while we made the trek to South Federal Way that evening.  She enthusiastically took me up on opportunity.   

 At 6:15pm my husband and I, headed south on I-5 in our Toyota Prius to rescue our D25 and to save some money.  After 45 minutes in weekend traffic we finally came upon Jet Chevrolet, a beacon in the vast arterial littered with fast food joints and big box retailers. Excited to get the deal over with, we pulled up to the front of the deserted dealership in our foreign, gas saving car to conspicuously wait for our dealer to hand off the goods.   

Sseconds after of turning off the ignition we were descended upon by seven hungry man-wolves looking to sell some cars from their newly bankrupt supplier.  “We’re just waiting for a friend,” Mark said sheepishly when one of the guys tapped on the window. 

 At 7:10, I texted Guy asking him where he was.  “Be there in 5,” he texted back.  “Look for red Toyota Forerunner.”  A few minutes later Mark saw in the rearview mirror a red SUV pulling into the back of the car lot, “that’s him.”   We followed him as he sped down the gravel road behind the dealership. At my insistence Mark honked the horn to let him know we were there. “He doesn’t know it’s us,” I said to Mark.  “No, he knows we’re here,” he snapped nervously. Finally, after what felt like a Law and Order chase scene Guy stopped his car abruptly, blinding us with gravel and dust. 

Within seconds a wiry fortyish man who looked like he had smoked too many cigarettes in his time, jumped out of the car, all four limbs surprisingly intact.   He had longish, salt and pepper hair that stopped at his shoulder and a tooth or two missing. He was dressed in jeans, and a sweatshirt with a hood.  “You Sally?” he asked.  “That’s me!” I said, a little too enthusiastically, clapping my hands and smiling. I could see through the tinted window that he had a long haired female passenger in the car and lots of electronics in boxes shoved against the back window.   

“I have your Dyson.”  He said, pulling a long rectangular box out of the back of his car.

“Can I take a look inside?” asked Mark. 

“You open it and it’s yours.” He cautioned. 

“Well, we need to make sure it does in fact have a vacuum inside,” explained Mark defensively. 

“What do you think I’d do, lie to ya?” 

 Mark reflexively opened the box relieved to find a brand new Dyson with the tags still on it.  On the outside of the box was a UPC code from a major retail chain. 

“It looks like it’s in good shape,” said Mark. 

“Brand new, just like I said,” growled Guy. 

“Well that’s one hot Dyson,” I said.  With that I handed him the $340 cash. 

Turning away I asked, “Why are you selling it again?”

“I got a new vacuum, a Sebo X4.”   

“Ah ha, I see.” 

 Mark and I put our brand new Dyson, including warranty, in the back of our car and followed Guy out of the lot.  At the stop light we pulled up behind him. “Should I write down his license plate?” I asked Mark.   “It wouldn’t hurt.”  As soon as I found a pen Guy floored the engine and sped away, burning some rubber for effect.  I couldn’t help but feel that he was trying to get away from us.  I would be lying if I told you we weren’t a little anxious to get away from him too. 

 When we got home we tried out our new vacuum, put our prodigy to bed and had a light dinner. 

 A few days later I retold the story to a friend of mine.  I said, “It was so dark, I felt like we were in a drug deal.”  And he said, “Sally, I think you were.” 

 Recessions make strange bedfellows.

Phone Love

I recently broke up with Blackberry.  We were together for five long, mostly beautiful years.  It’s not that he wasn’t good to me; in fact he was generous, reliable and trustworthy.  You know—Canadian.  In the end, however, I came to the conclusion that BB, (that was my nickname for him), was too serious and kind of boring.  I thought I could do better.  I guess I just didn’t appreciate what I had.  And truth be told the last year we were together I wasn’t entirely faithful.   Don’t get me wrong, I kept my clothes on, but my eyes and heart were wandering.  I watched as other women cavorted around town, hand and hand with i-phone the new wunderkid from Silicon Valley.  Sexy, youthful women laughing, taking pictures and texting.  My old, staid, BB stood by proudly as I stared longingly at the happy healthy people holding hands.  I can’t imagine he didn’t see the breakup coming.

So now, I’m dating again.  O.K. well dating is probably a little misleading.   I am in a “new relationship” with i-phone—we live together.   I fell hard and just like that (snapping fingers) I kicked BB out of my life and I let i-phone move in with all his apps.  I didn’t even look at his references or demand a demo.   I was told by a reliable source that our relationship would be a snap, a plug and play kinda deal, I should have known better. 

As you can imagine our relationship started out a little rocky, after all we hardly knew each other.   I am on a PC and he never lets me forget it.  I suppose I should have looked into that little fact before I decided to let him move in. 

But he’s sexy.  You know in that “I’m a savant from Stanford” sort of way.  That snarky “I’m smarter and more attractive, so you better keep up,” kind of way?   It can get a little intimidating.  But, like most creative types he’s sensitive to the touch, a nartist really, (that’s part artist, part narcissist).  It’s all about him—every time I go to make a call or send an e-mail he presents me with all kinds of complicated options, “hey try this,”  “what about this?”  All I want to do is make a simple call or send a text but when I touch his shiny screen he quivers and suddenly we’re somewhere else.  He doesn’t know it but I’ve had to call the experts on more than one occasion. 

Between you and me, all the funky new moves he wants me to learn make me a little nervous. I’m not entirely sure I’m up to the challenge.  You know teaching and old dog new tricks. He keeps telling me I need to work on my touch and my voice control.  Just yesterday he said that he’d like to employ the mega pixel camera into our love life.  Next he’s going to be trying to convince me that we need the compass in our bedroom.   BB wasn’t demanding at all, he just liked me to hold on tight and keep him warm.  i-phone?  He’s a live wire.  But I guess I asked for it. 

 My friends tell me not to worry.  They assure me that one day it will hit me smack dab in the face and I will be in love.  I too am hopeful that our relationship will blossom into something very deep and meaningful; otherwise I may be crawling back on my knees and begging BB to take me back.

Me, a size 2? Who Knew?

O.K. what’s this vanity sizing thing all about—I am sure some marketing director out there is claiming it does something for a girl’s ego, “Women feel thinner when they wear a size smaller.”  All it does for me is make me feel manipulated.  I recently bought a pair of size six cropped pants at Banana Republic.  First of all I am not a size six nor have I ever been, who do they think they’re kidding?   Anyway, I bought the size six because they were the ones that fit. Later, following an ice cream cone and a coffee, (because that’s what people who are a size 6 can do), I went home and put my new pants on.  Two hours later my size 6 pants had transformed into a BR size 12.  The waist and derriere stretched so much I looked like a rapper with the waistband at my crotch. 

The next day I tossed the incredible growing crop pants into our high tech, save the earth, washing machine, put the setting on extra hot and prayed for a shrinking miracle.  Sure enough when I got them out of the dryer they were back to their natural state–a BR size 6 (aka, real world size 8 or 10).  Relieved, I put them on.  Two hours later, however, I was dropping trow—again.   

Though I was frustrated that I had spent over $70 on pants that only fit well for about an hour, I continued to wear them a few more times.  I told myself that no one would notice that my pants were falling down. Finally, the last time I wore the pants my husband, who hardly notices anything about my wardrobe unless I am wearing a low cut something or other, said, “Those pants are awful, they’re practically falling down.”  At that point I vowed never to wear them again. 

A week later, annoyed about my new cropped pants that were supposed to take me through the summer in style, I decided that the most responsible thing to do was to return them, kindly report the product defect and get my money back.  When I went into the store to discuss the matter the cute little sales guy behind the counter informed me that “Banana doesn’t take returns once a product had been washed,” and… “Our pants stretch.  In the future you should buy your pants a few sizes smaller.”  Does that mean I am really a 5’5, 140 pound size 2?  I asked?   “Maybe, you never know,” he said shrugging his shoulders.

Cycling Girdle

I have recently and reluctantly re-taken up cycling, I guess you could call it recycling.   I say reluctantly not because I don’t enjoy cycling or its benefits—forty miles equals a monster sized burrito and a frothy Hefferweizen.  I say reluctantly because the clothes SUCK.  I am being kind when I say that no one, not even Mark, my handsome, 2% body fat husband looks good in the stuff.  

My re-entry into the sport began last spring when Mark talked me into upgrading my old, Raleigh ten speed to a fancy, schmancy, carbon fiber, eighteen speed something or other, with clip-in pedals.  He said the upgrade was for me but I really think the old red Raleigh along side his pimped-out racing bike embarrassed him.  My new bike, donned with all the components and the aero dynamic seat that is sure to give me hemorrhoids, is something he can stand by with pride.  My outfit?  Not so much.   Upon completing the expensive bike transaction with the tattooed sales specialist, Mark insisted we stop by the apparel section of the store to check out some cycling pants.  He obviously had a vision. 

“Wait a minute,” I said, pausing in my tracks for effect.   “Cycling pants?  Are you !@#$%^ nuts?  I told you I’d ride but I didn’t say I’d wear the pants. I would rather wear a pair of high waist, acid washed jeans than a pair of ugly, spandex, sausage legged shorts with a crotch chaffing, Kotex Maxi Pad chamois.  It’s not my look.”   

“Well then what are you going to wear?” he asked.  

“My yoga pants.”

“Your yoga pants, for cycling?”   

“Yeah, why not?  They look so much better.  You know the ones, the bell bottom lulu lemon pants with the hipster contrast border at the waist.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Yes.  I am not wearing those weird pants.  No way.”

I saw in his eyes his vision for our future of biking together slip away.  “You can’t wear yoga pants babe.  Not with your fancy new bike.  It’s just not done.”

I knew then I was in over my head.  This cycling business was so much more than the bike.  It was a culture that demanded an aesthetic reset.  I was now the proud owner of a fancy bike that required me to scrap my instinctive fashion sensibility and embrace the ugliest, most unattractive trend invented by man (a woman would know better). 

And so right there in the bike store I acquiesced.   I gathered six to ten pair of black cycling shorts and began the demoralizing task of squeezing my soft body into a variety of girdle like contraptions, one after the other in search of the “most flattering pair.”  News flash, for those of you who have an issue with cellulite the issue becomes an all out crisis in bike shorts. I stood face to face with myself in the small, dingy fitting room and mouthed the words “you know better.”   

Mark called from outside the dressing room, “hon, come out and show us.”  The us included the youngish, sinewy sales woman.   “Not yet,” I said, nearly out of breath and laboriously peeling off another pair of tourniquet shorts.   The sales girl chimed in, “do you have a jersey?”  And with that she hung three loudly colored polyester jerseys over the dressing room door.  “Try these on, we just got them in.  They’re awesome.”   Awesome was not the word that came to mind.  Logo-mad print designer on acid was more like it.

I finally settled on a pair of black, below the knee knickers with a stayfree mini-pad sized chamois.  They were $90.  Who knew that being unattractive could cost so much?   My husband and his sales clerk side-kick were disappointed that I passed on the Jerseys.  I was certain that I could get away with cycling pants and a Gap t-shirt for a while.  At least until I found an inconspicuous jersey that didn’t scream “this is ugly.” 

Consider a Career Shift? Lice Knowing You

A few weekends ago I had the pleasure of going on an all-girl’s weekend with a group of friends sans children.  The social coordinator of the trip has a marvelous house on a remote island in the San Juan’s.  It was lovely and the weather, which can be iffy in early spring, cooperated beautifully.  The company could not have been better and the food and libations were nothing short of gourmet.  Let’s just say the only thing any of us suffered that weekend was a hang over and a few extra pounds.  That was until late Sunday afternoon on the drive home.  

I was in the front seat driving when one of the women in the backseat of the car took a call from her husband.  He gave her the report: their youngest child, she has three under the age of eight, had lice….again.  This wasn’t the first time the subject of head lice had come up that weekend.  We had spent at least an hour discussing the topic over gin and tonics the previous evening; my friend in the back seat’s three little darlings had had it no fewer than three times.  

As I write this I am hesitant to say, knock on wood, that our family, (three boys aged 6 to 17) has not yet suffered from the Seattle School lice epidemic.  That said all of this lice knowledge is new to me.  

Apparently there is a whole arduous regime that needs to be followed in order to rid one’s head and house from the nasty mites.  And there is quite a stigma that goes along with it. “When we found out we had it, we felt like leapers,” said one mom while throwing back the last of her gin and tonic.   “No one wants to play with a child who has lice.”  

Another mom in the group told the story of going to see a hairdresser in the neighborhood who would only see her little boys “covertly.”   The stylist and business owner demanded that my friend come in after hours and through the back door, lest her customers find out that she had been harboring and helping lice victims.  

After my friend in the backseat hung up with her husband she was distraught; it was as if all the Kum Ba Yahing, from the girl’s weekend had suddenly vanished like a glass slipper.  Nit picking, sheet washing, and itchy children filled her brain before we hit King County.  

One of our friends, an experienced and organized mom who had her own lice infestation story to tell, was riding shotgun next to me.  She suggested, with a practical tone, that our friend call in the professionals. “I have heard they will come to your house,but it’s not cheap.”  “Well, hell,” lice mother responded.  ”At this point I will pay anything!”

A few days later I ran into my friend in the neighborhood, she was surprisingly yippity skippity—hardly the image of a woman who had been slaving over a comb and picking out nits (or is it nats?).  “We did it, we called in the professionals,” she said proudly, with a bright smile stretching from one ear to the other.  “It cost $500 but it was worth it!” 

Who knew?

Apparently there is a business, yes a certified business called Lice Knowing You .   I have heard some crazy business ideas floating around lately but this one really takes the cake.  Talk about filling a niche.  The online brochure states: As the premier (are there others? I wonder) head lice removal company in the Seattle area, we arrive discreetly (thanks for that) with all the necessary items (hmmm. what might that be?) to make head lice removal as quick and painless as possible.  During the removal process, Lice Knowing You will provide free consultation on taking care of your home to ensure that the head lice will be gone for good. .….All of our consultants are trained in the most up to date methods of head lice removal.  Our bilingual staff speaks Spanish, French, Japanese and of course English. Our staff consists of teachers (special ed and general ed), medical professionals and counselors.

God bless her…see what women can do!   What a relief!

I Married a Sesquipedalian

I married to a Sesquipedalian. For those of you who don’t know what a sesquipedalian is Webster defines it as a person who uses exceedingly long words when a simple more concise word would suffice.

It gets a little nutty around our house. Let’s just say it keeps me on my toes. He’s a regular William Safire, mixing and playing with words. There are times when it makes me incredulous; I think he’s just pulling my leg, throwing out a far-fetched jumble of gobbledygook. I’ve worn a path in the carpet, running to the computer to consult dictionary.com. In most cases, much to my chagrin, I find that that gobbledygook is a word.

He doesn’t mean to be acrimonious, egregious or haughty. He finds words creative, stimulating and naughty. The longer the word the happier he is. ‘Can it be both noun and verb?’ is often the quiz.

I like words too, don’t get me wrong. But my theory has always been they must fit in a song. I often snub Webster and add my own endings like ishes and ises, all depending –on the mood or the crowd I’m in.

Dubious, dubiety, dubitable, dubitation. That’s me, if I could learn all the words it would be a breeze. But until them I’m just a dilettante.

But my husband Mark, he’s not that way.

He reconnoiters each page of the NY Times collecting his words like a kid collecting dimes. He savors each word, one by one, looking for the spectacular that will start the fun. I know when he finds it, his eyes they lift, he swallows and prepares for the perfect gift.

His shoulders shift back; he clears his throat, the word rolls off his tongue like the perfect note.

This week it was— axiomatic. That’s axiomatic.

I made a visit to dictionary.com. It means self evident, obvious, goes with out saying. In a sentence it could be, “It is axiomatic that Mark is a sesquipedalian.”

It’s not like he’s a nerd or dork per se. He’s an intellectual jock who likes words his own way. He’s not a grammar hound or a perfectionist, but when it comes to words he likes to insist the more the vowels the better; he likes constants too, the x and the z are the precious few. They make good endings and they always sound sharp if you say them just right they sound like a harp: Spetsnaz, accusatrix.

His word obsession is entertaining but there are times, however, when its charm begins waning and I just want to say…Cut the crap.

But then I remember, it can be romantic… and it’s not in his nature to be pedantic…after all it’s just…..semantics.

But the good news is, I find his word thing a turn on, it keeps us up nights with the dictionary and the light on.