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.

Is That Someone’s Liver I Smell?

I got a promotional e-mail today from Desert Sun. They are celebrating Cinco de Mayo and their four year anniversary with an amazing offer, a free tan with a ten tan punch card. I don’t know if premature death is worth it. It’s dangerous business,

Four years ago Desert Sun, opened across the street from my office. I watched the opening festivities from afar; balloons, and streamers festooned the entrance, the neon logo shone like a beacon in the gray mist of February. Scantily clad Pamela Anderson look-alike’s managed the door wearing little more than bikinis and cover ups to show off their bronzed bodies. If a person wasn’t familiar with the new retail on the block they might have mistaken the excitement for an adult only movie premiere. Or a casting call for a new reality porn show. Oversized sandwich boards and six foot banners gave potential customers incentives to Sun Your Buns. Ten Tans Free with the Purchase of a Lifetime Membership. What would that person look like when their life was over I wondered? Free Bronzing Lotion with Ten Tan Package. Special lotion? Can’t a person just pack their own Nivea?

This tanning phenomena has been troubling me since the place opened. It’s May and everyone in my neighborhood is Tan. Or rather all the people in my neighborhood under the age of fifty are tan and have been every day since the rain set in last November. It wouldn’t be something to notice if I lived say, in Palm Dessert or Miami Beach, but I don’t. I live in Seattle, where the old saying goes “in Seattle people don’t tan…they rust.” And for the record, in 2009 so far, we have had approx. 5 sunny days with temperatures over fifty degrees, the rest has been rainy and cold, but who’s counting? Nasty weather combined with the recession, swine flu and the increasingly popular “staycation” I doubt anyone is traveling to get a tan.

The tannies are ubiquitous; they’re in the grocery store, at the local Starbucks and at the school auction. It’s all I can do to keep myself from pulling our favorite babysitter aside and giving her a lecture…something akin to…”listen missy, lay off that tanning bed you’re starting to look like an Umpa Lumpa. I want to grab that cute little check-out girl in the market by the cheeks and tell her “sure you look cute now but how about in ten years when your sun kissed face looks like a wrinkled Louis Vuitton handbag.” And then there’s the twentyish barista who can’t stop himself from calling me, “Hon.” He’s so tan I can smell it.

When I mention the smell to my friend Diana she tells me a story that sounds more urban myth than fact. Something about a very tan woman, let’s call her Laurena, waking up one day to the smell of tangy, burnt flesh. On close inspection Laurena discovers that the odor is emanating from her very tan body. Naturally, she goes to see her Doctor. He sniffs Laurena’s body, pokes and prods her abdomen and finally breaks the news to her that all that tanning has actually melted her innards—which explains the stench. I ask Diana, “Did she die?” She responds, “Not really sure, she was a friend of a friend’s cat sitter. I don’t really know her personally. But it’s true.”

Hmmm. Since hearing that story I notice that my local Starbucks barista smells suspiciously like cooked liver.

P.S. Lying in a tanning bed damages your skin and can lead to skin cancer. Now you know. Check out the skin cancer physicians website for more information on the dangers of tanning.

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!

What is Work? Where is Work?

Today my six year old son made a pronouncement, “I figured out what work is?” My husband and I looked at him with curiosity, since neither one of us is entirely sure what we actually do. “Work is talking on the phone, sending e-mails, texting, making estimates, going to meetings, and having conference calls—sometimes with the phone on mute for five hours.”

Well, I guess you could say that about sums it up.

In the not so olden days, when work was somewhere else other than a laptop on the kitchen table or the screen on an i-phone, it was easier to understand. My dad left the house every morning, dressed in a suit and a cloud of aftershave and didn’t return until 6pm. He went to work—a mysterious place, in a big building, behind a big desk decorated with pictures of me and my siblings in awkward stages of our youth.

Occasionally, on the rare Saturday when Dad needed to tie up some loose ends, we were allowed into the inner-sanctum of his office. With the promise of “it’ll be just a sec.,” my brother and sisters and I fondled paper weights, shot staples at each other and made rubber band slingshots while we waited for dad to finish whatever he was doing. Eventually, tired of flying paperclips landing on his desk Dad sent us to the copier room for some real fun. There we smashed our faces and hands on the Xerox machine photocopying ourselves for hours. It’s no wonder that I ended up in the “photography” business.

If at six years old I was asked what my dad did everyday at his job I would have said, “He wears a dark suit, goes to a big building with a copier machine in it and bosses people around. Sometimes he goes away on an airplane for a few days, which is great because when he’s gone we eat weenie wraps and waffles for dinner. When his friends from work come to our house they like to drink, smoke cigarettes, and stay up really late.”

Now, when either my husband or I say we’re going to work my son isn’t sure where or what that means. It could imply that in pajamas one of us is going into the bathroom to talk to a man about a horse and to send a text. It could also connote going up to the bedroom where the wireless signal is better than it is in the kitchen to crank out an e-mail in bed. Or it could imply a trip to the market with that weird thing in our ear, or it could suggest going into the “den” and closing the door for an eternal conference call. Regardless of which room the “work” takes place, it means a lot of shushing and hand waving indicating that silence is required.

They say, those people who say things, that kids tend to follow their parents lead when it comes to career choices. I can imagine Cameron, our little guy confessing to a school counselor, “When I get big I want to be an e-mailing estimator who takes conference calls in pajamas, sends texts at the park and makes deals with a weird thing in my ear while driving the car to a little league game.

Is The Great American Diet Part of the Slow Clothing Movement?

Last night as I was rummaging around in my closet looking for something to wear it occurred to me that I have given, thrown or recycled a lot of clothes over the past ten years. Darn, I’d love to have some of those items back, and if not the items themselves the time it took for me to shop, clean, futz and manage them into my wardrobe. Especially now since I am no longer able to purchase any new apparel. I remember vividly, an amazing and probably overpriced DKNY sweater coat. A sort of retro 20s style with velvet accents. I wonder who’s wearing that gorgeous garment now. I wish I were.

This morning, right on the heels of my closet rummaging, I read an article in the NYTimes magazine about storage and consumerism.  By 2005, according to the Boston College sociologist Juliet B. Schol, the average consumer purchased one new piece of clothing every five and a half days.  

This eye-opening statistic got me thinking about a “slow clothing” movement. There are official slow food, slow money, slow travel and slow sex movements these days. Why not a slow clothing movement? I wondered.  And is The Great Amearican Apparel Diet the beginning of it? 

 I googled “slow clothing” and “slow fashion,” and guess what…we’re slow to the movement. People have been blogging about this for a long time. “Wear local,” they say—is that like a sweater made with Fido the family dog’s hair? Or does it mean belting your neighbor’s old drapes and wearing them as a topper, a la Maria Van Trapp? Maybe we could learn from the Hispanics who wear huarache sandals made from repurposed flat tires? Buy from a thrift store and then remake your own, the experts suggest. Sew the arms of one sweater to the bodice of another, cut off pants and make them into a patchwork skirt, turn a tube top into a Rasta hair band. I am envisioning a renaissance fair.

In one article I read in the Christian Science Monitor, the author challenged US households “to create a single outfit for every man, woman, and child that is homemade.” Going back to a bygone era, she also suggested that people mend and darn their clothes.

Good idea for those people who:

a.) Know the meaning of darn in this context.

b). Know how to darn or sew http://www.ehow.com/how_648_darn-sock.html

c). Have a sewing machine. ( Investment Tip: Buy Singer, Ticker Symbol: SEW, you heard it here).

Darn (as in Darn-it), I wish I had that DKNY sweater coat  and that brown Liz Claiborne maxi, corduroy coat from 1987, and let’s not forget the blinding Neon Obermeyer ski jacket I bought in 1992 to match the bottom of my K2s. Looking back, I admit, it was a wasteful, hedonistic and consumer-centric few decades—but we looked good.

Now, with my apparel budget cut to the quick and my participation in The Great American Apparel Diet, I am left fantasizing about my old wardrobe. I imagine a lovely waif of a “slow clothing movement” girl prancing down the runway of life in my old clothes and my Guess booties. I trust that she appreciates where her wardrobe began. I really hope, upon further reflection, that the “slow girl” hasn’t sewn the arms of my Obermeyer ski jacket onto the bodice of my brown Liz Claiborne Courdory Maxi coat. But if she has, all I can say is “you go–slow girl!”

The Boy’s to Blame

This afternoon, my six year old son hit a six year old girl and then proceeded to throw her to the ground. I watched with horror from a distance, wondering if I was witnessing a vaudeville act or a testosterone infused taekwondo move. The scream that erupted from the little girl confirmed that they were not play acting. I was aghast. The little girl’s parents, who I sort of know in a “hi, how are you” sort of way and not in a “hey let’s go have a bottle of wine and get schnockered way,” were dumbfounded.

I ran toward the fracas screaming, “Cameron, Cameron, what are you doing?” I yanked on his arm and pulled him aside. Yelling apologies over my shoulder to the little girl and her parents, “I am so sorry, so so sorry. I’m embarrassed. Please, I am so sorry. He didn’t mean to do that. He’s usually such a sweet boy.”

When I was out of earshot I dug my fingers in my son’s fleshy upper arm, “Listen Mr.,” I said wagging my finger two inches from his face for effect. “Never, ever, ever, beat up a girl. “But mommy, she threw dirt in my eyes and bark dust at my back and called me names.” “Well Mr., I don’t care what she did; there is never a reason to hit anyone, especially a girl. My son looked at me with a puzzled expression. “Why is it worse to hit a girl than a boy?” “Well,” I said walking him toward a park bench for a heart to heart, “when it comes to physical conflicts between a boy and a girl, no matter who starts the fight, the boy will always get blamed. “That’s not fair mommy,” Cameron complained. “She started it. You didn’t see her hit me first. She’s always mean to me. I couldn’t take it any longer.” I looked across the playground as the little girl’s mother consoled and protected her from the evil force standing on the other side of the play structure. All I could think is, “this is my little, sweet, baby. He didn’t mean to hurt your bratty little girl. By the way, she provoked him,” and then I realized that all that background noise and excuses didn’t matter because when it comes to hitting–the boy’s always to blame.

And the Whales Kept on Swimmin’

I recently returned from a seven day trip to the Sea of Cortez. Well actually, some people prefer to call it the Gulf of California but I think that’s kind of misleading, especially for those who are geographically challenged and equate the Gulf of California with The OC, Sea World and South Coast Plaza.

The sea of Cortez deserves its exotic name for many reasons, least of all it’s lack of shopping malls, fake boobs and man—made glamour. For those of you who want to specifically put this place on the map, it is the body of water that separates the Baja California Peninsula from the Mexican mainland and it is absolutely paradise!

Geography aside, it was a trip of a lifetime. We saw so many dolphins, whales and sea lions that on the forth day at sea my first grade son complained, “I’m tired of whales.” We saw Blue–Footed boobies, Pelicans, Vultures, Egrets and Osprey. We snorkeled with baby sea lions, kayaked in mangroves, ate s’mores on the beach and found new constellations in the sky.

But the best part of the trip was the fact that we did not have access to radios, newspapers, blackberries or televisions. We barely had internet service and when we did it required a lot of money and patience with very little reward. While Obama was giving his speech to congress about the fragile financial precipice that we are perched upon we were adjusting shutter speeds to capture a blue whale’s enormous fluke, (by the way, the blue whale is the largest mammal to have ever lived on earth!) When the stock market hit 7,000 we were high-fivin’ the rare sight of a 70,000 lb. mother Gray whale nuzzling her 15 foot, 3 ton bambino. I was on an unintentional technology vacation and a CNN fast. I cleansed the nasty talking head toxins from my brain, banished my blackberry reflex and ousted my online obsession. And you know what…I was fine. No jitters, cold sweats or hallucinations. No one died, the world didn’t end and the giant whales…well, they just kept on swimming. http://www.expeditions.com/Destination44.asp?Destination=287