The Pitfalls of Bargain Shopping

For some reason Curt and I took it into our heads to go shopping at the Premium Outlet Mall yesterday. Let the record show that’s the last time we’ll try that stunt on a weekend.

People were getting mowed down like bowling pins in the parking lot; the queues for a crappy cardboard plate of Chinese in the food court were 40 feet long; and don’t even get me started on the crowd waiting to be given dispensation to enter the Coach Factory Store. You’re standing in a freaking line at least a hundred feet long OUTSIDE THE STORE before being allowed inside, two-by-two, to view and purchase the handbags? President Obama, I have good news: the recession is over.

But O – M – G. Unbeknownst to me, Shangri-La awaited. How in the world had it escaped my notice that an entire Lindt chocolate store exists, devoted solely to the exploitation of addicts such as myself?

Almost as soon as we began our mall meander, I spied it. “Let’s pop in here and see what they’re selling.” My feint didn’t fool Curt, who knows of my heart’s greatest vice (aside from competitive frugality). If Lindor balls (technically Lindor Truffles) had any earning capacity, I’d have dumped Curt and married them years ago. He recognizes and accepts this fact.

Imagine bins filled with every variety of the tasty little demons at $7.50 per pound. Imagine 45-piece bags of the dreamy confections, on sale two for $20. Do the math, people—that’s 22 cents apiece! But wait—what is this in the back of the store? Let me sit down. Bring mama her defibrillator. Irregulars? Whole bags of mint-filled dark chocolate gratification, unencumbered by wrappers (the easier to pop in one’s mouth as the mood strikes)? Does that sign say $5.99 a pound? Why yes, Virginia, it does.

I’m almost sure I heard angels singing.



The sum total of my outlet-shopping spoils

 And do the math, I did. This cheapskate Dutchwoman made sure she got the best deals in the store. Since the mints were the only one of my favorite varieties available as irregulars, I had to buy the extra-dark and the peanut butter types in traditional bags.

The first two irregular mint balls we downed were just empty chocolate shells, devoid of any mint truffle filling. Never mind that; I’d gotten a bargain. Don’t rain on my parade.

People who know me well are keenly aware of the fact that I constantly agonize over weight and nutrition, and often make indiscriminate vows to change my evil ways. Vegetarian? Low-carb? Gluten-free? Sustainability? Glycemic index? I can hold up any end of a debate. But just in case anyone feels they might be justified in chastising me for my dietary imprudence in purchasing over three pounds of pure melt-in-your-mouth joy: you do understand that the Lindor balls were a great bargain, right? Not to mention gluten-free, and a great source of antioxidants.

Who knows how long this windfall may last me. Today I ate approximately ten balls (who’s counting?). At that rate, maybe two weeks? By my calculations, that’s a $60/month habit. Cheaper than cigarettes. On the other hand, ten cigarettes don’t contain 700 calories.

I could run seven miles a day. I could take the balls to work and share them with my co-workers. I could save them for the grandkids’ Easter baskets. Great suggestions, all.

Or, I could prudently limit myself to one ball per day, starting tomorrow. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Something for Nothing

My family excels at nothing.

Literally. We are absolutely unstoppable when it comes to idleness. We love doing nothing. We’ve even coined a term for our passion: QAT (Quality Ass Time). Meaning, we recreationally sit on our asses and have a great time doing it. Curt and I raised our three daughters with this philosophy, and they’ve embraced it wholeheartedly. 



Flag football game at family gatherings? Nuh-uh. Might break a sweat. Pitch a tent in the great outdoors? No, thanks. Too much effort and, mosquitoes, you know.

We prefer to engage in some quiet pursuit as we sit: reading, table games, conversation, puzzles, eating. But don’t assume we’re a passel of slack-jawed two-ton Tessies. Just ask anyone who’s married into the family: we Welsh women are highly competitive at our favorite less-active pursuits, and especially like to demonstrate our prowess at games of skill and chance. I say “women” because Curt wants no part of the competition; he only plays for fun, he says. To which I reply, where’s the fun if you’re not playing to win?

The three idlers doing nothing



Flash to vacation time in Florida last week. For some people, a week of sunning by a resort pool, sipping drinks with whipped cream and a cherry, strolling along a sandy beach, and reading the latest bestsellers would grow tiresome and monotonous. But throw in a few poolside trivia games—with prizes—and you’ve just described nirvana for me and two of my daughters.



Name That Tune winners!



On two days we played TV show theme-song “Name That Tune,” and I’m proud to say that Angie and Christina swept first and second place on both occasions. Not only did they identify slam-dunks like “Family Ties” and “Growing Pains,” but they recognized oldies like “Magnum, P.I.” and “Hawaii Five-O.” The glory of strutting forward to their mother’s cheers to claim free drink coupons, mini-golf passes, bags of candy—why, these are moments to cherish. On another day, Christina and I mined our vast storehouses of knowledge, squashing all competition like bugs at Poolside Trivia. We knew such things as who was Michael Jackson’s first wife (Lisa Marie Presley), how to spell Cincinnati, and the name of Ross’s monkey in the first season of “Friends” (Marcel). Formidable forces we were, indeed, earning more drink coupons and mini-golf passes.



Morning Boggle



With all these free passes, we were compelled to move our legs and arms enough to actually play some mini-golf. Fortunately, I was able to avenge my Boggle losses to Christina earlier in the week with a three-stroke links victory. Now, I must admit we didn’t win at everything. We were losers at Bingo, and that was real money—$2 a card—so it was especially painful. 

As we boarded our homeward-bound flight, we marveled anew at how easily we are entertained, and agreed we could easily spend another week doing nothing without becoming bored. But I have a little secret: For this mother, getting to spend a week with the undivided attention of her adult daughters is not nothing. It’s really something.



Gettin’ Down with Hip-Hop

“Mom, if you want to, bring your workout clothes this weekend so you can go to my hip-hop dance class with me on Saturday morning.” This was the seemingly friendly and innocuous voicemail message I received Friday afternoon from middle daughter Angie.

Whoa! I’d been geared up for a quick weekend jaunt to Des Moines with Curt for our granddaughter Catie’s fourth birthday party, envisioning cupcakes, book-reading and hugs. Suddenly the vision of my carefree weekend had taken a more ominous turn, suggestive of pain, suffering and/or humiliation.

I like to think of myself as reasonably fit for my age, but the truth is that lately my exercise habit has been, well, not a habit. I have a pattern of fits and spurts: long gung-ho periods where I hit the gym three times a week for weight training and treadmill, seasoned with yoga classes; interspersed with longer periods where I do Jack Squat. Zilch. Zippo. But even if the gym and I weren’t currently on a break, hour-long dance sessions led by finely toned, exuberant, jiggly-in-only-the-right-places Beyonces would spell only pain and suffering to me, of both the physical and emotional varieties.

The grueling physical exertion, though, I could deal with for one looooong hour. The hip-hop dance is what promised the humiliation. I know I’m not a bad dancer, because my daughters often ask me to perform impromptu a few of my signature moves. They especially admire a hand motion they term “Pet the Cat.” Based on the huge grins that break out across their faces, they obviously derive great pleasure from watching this hootchy mama get down. Sometimes they even call their friends into the room to share in observing my dance artistry.

But I’m nothing if not a realist. My heritage is of the inhibited, sturdy, practical, northern European variety. I didn’t get dance lessons as a child. Walls often jump in front of me as I attempt to pass through doorways. I dropped out of Zumba class last year halfway through the session for lack of coordination. And youth. And ability. Actually, there are lots more lacks that come into play, now that I think about it.

So, what to do about Angie’s proposition? As I saw it, I had three viable options:
a) Admit I was too lazy and would rather lounge in my pj’s drinking coffee all morning.
b) Pretend I hadn’t picked up my messages and hence, brought no appropriate clothes or shoes.
c) Suck it up, bring the stupid clothes and feign enthusiasm for the outing. After all, feelings follow actions, right?

In spite of myself I decided on Option C. Upon arrival in Des Moines, I informed Angie of my choice. “Great!” she enthused. “I’m so excited to post a status update on Facebook about it tomorrow.” Obviously, she relished the idea of showing off her hip mother’s boogeying ability to her Des Moines friends.

Class time arrived. I stood in the back row, in the corner, and hip-hopped up a storm. A full step behind all the at-least-20-years-younger women in the room, my arms flailing wildly, without the jumps, without most of the hip action, sweating like a stuck pig. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected, mostly because no one was looking at me. In fact, it was a lot of fun, proving that feelings really DO follow actions.

As I watched Angie and her friends from behind, excellent dancers all, and compared myself in the sea of mirrors, a disquieting thought came to me. Is it possible, just maybe, that my daughters enjoy my dancing more for the spectacle than for the art of it? I really don’t care. Let them laugh! One day, their daughters will pay them back, and they won’t care, either.

Besides, Angie said I did great, and I believe her. Feel free to ask me for instruction in “Pet the Cat.”

Blades, Trains, and Grenades

A while back, hearing the pop song “Grenade” by Bruno Mars for the first time, I thought the lyrics macabre, a bit pathetic and totally unrealistic. OK, granted, my particular age group would not be his target audience. Undoubtedly I’ve grown somewhat cynical through my life’s journey and I’ve left my bright-eyed passion at a rest area somewhere along the way. But I’m pretty sure that even as a 17-year-old I never felt this way about anyone:

I'd catch a grenade for ya,
Throw my head on a blade for ya,
I'd jump in front of a train for ya …
I would go through all this pain,
Take a bullet straight through my brain,
Yes, I would die for you baby,
But you won't do the same.

My first thought was good lord, no! If it were my daughter he was singing about, I would hope she wouldn’t do the same. That’s just Mr. Mars’s off-kilter notion of romance. I’ve never even seen a grenade, except in the movies. Throw my head on a blade? Circumstances that would require such drastic actions are pretty much beyond the scope of my imagination. Take a bullet straight through my brain? Well, maybe … but only if it actually goes straight through. I desire a swift end; I wouldn’t care to have a bullet lodge in there permanently.

Most likely Bruno Mars just wanted his song to rhyme, and didn’t intend anyone to dissect it for its sociological implications. Grenades, blades and bullets aside, the jumping-in-front-of-a-train scenario IS somewhat plausible, especially around here with the busy Metra line. Such are the musings of a born-and-bred pragmatist.

Of course, someone with a less practical nature than mine would say Mr. Mars is expressing a very sweet sentiment, which is not necessarily meant to be taken literally. Although when I launched into the subject with two of my daughters, Christina asked me if I wouldn’t take a bullet to the brain for her dad. (Curt, if you’re reading this, now might be a good time to play some Spider Solitaire instead.) Though I love him dearly and I’d love to be the sort of heroic person who could honestly answer “of course!” without a moment’s hesitation, I had to think about it. Which, I suppose, is your answer, because if a bullet came whirring out of nowhere on a direct course toward Curt’s rather impressively-sized noggin, my taking a moment to think it over would render the point moot.

This macabre vein of conversation continued as Christina and Angie took up the subject in earnest. Probably in order to clinch her continued status as favorite daughter (at least as viewed by her older sisters), Christina shocked me by saying that she would take a bullet for me. Not to be outdone, Angie said that of course she would as well, but it would seem merely ingratiating to say so after Christina had said it first.

As dear expressions of love as those were, sincere or not, let the record show that if anyone is going to be taking bullets for anyone else here, it’s me who’s going to do the taking for my daughters or grandkids. Without hesitating for even a nanosecond. What mother wouldn’t? (The ones featured on the cable TV show “Snapped,” for starters. But that was just a rhetorical question.) Dredge up that old philosophical discussion question about who gets to board the lifeboat when the ship is sinking; if there’s only room for eight, our daughters and grandkids are getting on, no argument. Curt and I will go down with the ship.

And if that lifeboat should have room for nine, the person who I’m pretty sure would take a bullet to the brain for me is way more deserving of the spot.

Smiling in the Face of Cable TV

Let me state right up front, I am NOT a crier. I’ve often wondered at my lack of emotional response in heart-tugging situations. Unlike other women—for instance, my friend Pat who I swear tears up at any mention of babies or upon hearing any Irish song (even though she’s not Irish)—it takes a lot to activate my waterworks. Put it down to my Dutch stoicism.

By all rights, I should be all smiles right now. It’s a new year, and there’s a lot to cheer. Small things, like the sunlight streaming through the windows, even though it’s cold outside; the great cup of coffee topped with whipped cream I’m sipping on; and my Christmas cactus, a memorial from my dad’s funeral 15 years ago in December, is blooming like mad in spite of my brown thumb.

The big things—really, huge things—can be checked off too. Curt and I are both gainfully employed; we and our entire family are healthy and speaking to one another; my 88-year-old mom still lives on her own quite successfully and contentedly.

So, why are these tears running down my cheeks? Not for missing Curt, who just left on another business trip, or for the girls and grandkids, with whom we’ve spent a lot of time over the holidays. No, I didn’t shed a drop at parting with anyone.

But there’s a new kid on the block this year: cable television. Last month we finally succumbed to a package deal too good to pass up and became subscribers. No longer will I be forced to stand by silently while others discuss “What Not to Wear” and “House Hunters International.” And that’s what’s bringing on the blubbering.

Cable TV has unleashed my inner teddy bear. For the life of me, I don’t recall anyone ever warning me about the potential emotional impact of watching inane reality shows. Shows like “Say Yes to the Dress,” where the bride-to-be is missing her late mother as she shops for her wedding gown; and some show on which grown adoptees search for their birth parents, and sometimes when found, the birth parents don’t wish to meet them. Then there’s the one (“Hoarders”? I’m not really sure) where the family has to confront their emotional and physical clutter due to the father’s dying of leukemia.

I’m sure that this new world of virtually unlimited programming will become old-hat. After all, one can’t watch everything on several hundred channels, so hopefully I’ll learn to pick and choose so I won’t be blindsided by emotion.

Then maybe I can get worked up over something more deserving of my tears. Like a peek at the bathroom scales, perhaps? Nah. My grandkids love me pudgy or thin, and dark chocolate makes me smile every day.

Happy new year, everyone! May you find many reasons to smile this year. If you need to, lay off the cable. But apparently everyone else already knew that.

Peace and Quiet

This was our year for all the kids and grandkids to be with us for Thanksgiving: our three daughters, son-in-law, grandkids Will, Catie, Jack, Autumn and Ada, plus friends Paul and Nancy. In all, thirteen for dinner, but only nine spending the night. And only seven spending the weekend.

I love this truism about the joy of hosting your grown children and their kids: The sweetest sight in the world is their car turning into the driveway, and the second sweetest is the same car backing out when the visit is over.

Post Thanksgiving, I can appreciate that wisdom. Sure, the toys are back in the toy closet; the dishwasher has been run and emptied one more time; four loads of sheets and towels are laundered; the craft paint spots have been eradicated from the kitchen table and tile. On the other hand, I don’t have anyone with whom to read a bedtime story. Or delight in the immense depth of the bath water in the spa tub. Or sing me a song about ballerinas. (Don’t tell me Curt can fill in; he had to catch a plane for Canada this afternoon. And while he likes deep bathtubs, he knows diddly squat about ballerinas.)

In the midst of all the “I’m hungry,” and “Can we make a gingerbread house,” and “Where’s the kitty?” and “I want to play with that!” and “Come and watch me,” interspersed with shrieks and laughter and mittens and shoelaces and toilet needs, it’s apparent from this vantage point why nature has determined that human beings have their offspring while the parents are still relatively young. I’m amazed to realize that Curt and I also once handled all the tumult of a young family with such aplomb, and I have new admiration for grandparents who are called upon to raise their grandchildren.

Still, I already miss the wild enthusiasm of Will, age 6, whose favorite expression is “Who doesn’t love (fill in the blank)!” As in, “Who doesn’t love Thanksgiving dinner!” even though he doesn’t really love most of what was served at Thanksgiving dinner. His favorites were the grape tomatoes on the appetizer platter, the sparkling juice, and the dinner rolls. His assessment of the star attraction as it was prepared to go into the oven: “That’s a live turkey!” His sister Catie, age 3, decided in that one look that she no longer likes turkey. Can’t say I blame them; that’s basically why I’m vegetarian myself. Even so, at the dinner table Will marveled, “Grandma, you made all of this!”

And I love the way they make me laugh. Catie’s dad Dave remarked, “When you get older, Catie, you’ll be able to get me coffee.” Catie’s response: “I’m free and free-quarters, and I can get all the drinks I want for myself.” Let Daddy get his own damn coffee.

But then again, I have only myself to please at dinner tonight. I’ll go for slightly past-its-prime leftover pasta, Chex mix and Ghirardelli 60% dark chocolate chips. I can’t look at stuffing or sweet potato casserole right now. Please. Though they’re still buried in the fridge somewhere.

So, let me see. Tonight:

Gramps the cat dozing blissfully, check.

Everything in its rightful place, check.

Me with my feet up and a good book, check.

Troll books and ballerinas, no check.

Conclusion: Peace and quiet is both marvelous and overrated. At least I have some new Christmas ornaments—snowmen and stars freshly painted in muddy blue and gray tones because too many colors were applied, all signed illegibly on the back. I’m sure they’ll look great hanging on the tree next to the ones their mom and aunts painted 25 years ago.

Besides, the whole clan will be back in four weeks for Christmas. Life is good.

Viva Las Vegas

As an Iowa schoolgirl, I and my schoolmates were treated to annual assemblies featuring the world travels of Al Bell. In outlandish costumes, bringing artifacts and animals and showing films from places like Newfoundland and Egypt, Mr. Bell introduced a generation of landlocked middle-American children to the reality of a vast world.

But did this impressionable pre-adolescent girl get bit with the Indonesia bug? No, it was that great philosopher of the Twentieth Century, Elvis Presley, who first stirred my travel dreams. His melodic extolling of the beckoning allure of Las Vegas just sounded so upbeat and happenin’:

Bright light city gonna set my soul, gonna set my soul on fire,
… turnin’ day into nighttime, turnin’ night into daytime…
If you see it once you’ll never be the same again.

Not being the kind of place I wanted to vacation with my parents, I quietly added it to my bucket list under the heading “Someday.” As a churchgoing young mother of three, I hid that list under a pile of laundry, schoolwork and choir practices. At various times over the years, I’d drop hints to friends, sisters and/or daughters that we might plan a trip together. (My husband wasn’t interested, so I needed a traveling partner.) But I soon found that, like Curt, not everyone shared my dream of visiting Sin City, even with the tales of drinks flowing freely and cheaply; 99-cent prime rib buffets stretching endlessly; and hotels practically giving away their rooms in return for our coins in their slot machines.

Me, Juli and Mary in front of Caesar's Palace

So I bided my time, and my patience was rewarded this past summer when I met two new friends who eagerly agreed to join me in checking this item off my bucket list. Mary and Juli had both been to Vegas before and were game to give it another go. Since our acquaintance was based on four hours together while under the influence of a couple of martinis apiece, as we traded emails planning the trip I reasonably began to question the wisdom of committing a weekend to traveling with them. They had known each other for years; would I be the odd man out? Were they regretting that they’d agreed to include me? On the fun-loving spectrum, would they turn out to be rowdy, devil-may-care hedonists, or prim, early-to-bed schoolmarms? I know which end of that spectrum I fall on, much as I like to pretend it were the other.

The view from my room at night

The three of us met up at the Paris hotel, where we checked into lovely rooms on the 30th floor overlooking the Eiffel Tower and the Bellagio fountains. With temperatures in the low 80’s, we ambled along the Strip, having lunch outdoors and shopping at Caesar's Palace. A seafood dinner at Aquaknox was followed by a show at The Mirage, Cirque du Soleil’s Love, with seats in the seventh row. I don’t want to review the show here, but let me just say that this Beatles extravaganza was probably the most amazing live performance I’ve ever attended, barring even the Bavarian accordionist on the riverboat last month.

The three of us with the backdrop
of the water wall at SW

The next day we got a tour of the fabulous Wynn and Encore casino resorts, with dinner at SW overlooking a manmade lake featuring a colorfully lit water wall. That night we saw another Cirque-type show, Le Reve, featuring diving, feats of strength and special effects over a million-gallon water setting. This one was Mary’s favorite, while I had become a bit blasé from the sensory overload by this time.


Speaking of sensory overload, that’s a pretty fair two-word summary of the Vegas experience. Street performers—one of which scared the pants off me when the “statue” moved—and huge themed hotels with sculptures and structures and waterfalls and fountains, and Elvis’s lights and the ubiquitous hum of the casinos, incomparable people-watching for those who enjoy that sport, the free-flowing food and drink. However, from those early days Las Vegas has evolved into an expensive, upscale destination with nary a 99-cent buffet in sight, and drinks running $13 a pop. Lucky for us that Mary provided lots of perks, compliments of her connections in the travel industry.

Now that I’ve covered the niceties, the reader might be left to wonder about the parts I’ve left out—those in-between-dinners-and-shows times. What about the debauchery? What about the gambling? What about the SIN, for crying out loud?

As it turns out, the very best way to visit Las Vegas is with someone who has no prior expectations of how you’ll behave. I highly recommend it. Next year, maybe Newfoundland.