She’s been using Brand X
When Darling Husband and I first moved in together, we were pretty poor.
I was still in school and he went through a period of unemployment, so things were tight. We lived in an apartment overlooking Wal-Mart, and took the bus everywhere. Going to the movies was too expensive, so for entertainment, we would sometimes occassionally regularly scowl at eagerly watch kids beating each other up by the cart corral.
In those early days — before I developed Aisle Angst — we food-shopped together. We had both come from brand-loving households where you ate Eggo Waffles — not generic toaster waffles. So we naturally found ourselves buying brand-name groceries. Except for one thing …
Store-brand juice from concentrate.
Is that even how you say it? Or is it concentrated O.J.? O.J. concentrate? Anyway, it tasted terrible, but we bought it because it was cheap. I still remember dumping the can of goop into our plastic pitcher, adding water, and stirring its murkiness. Blah.
Looking back, I have no idea why we “took a stand” with orange juice. Why we thought that saving a dollar or two on juice alone would make a big difference in our budget.
Eventually, we started making more money and graduated to Tropicana. I didn’t think much of it, until yesterday when I was in the grocery store.
I bought store-brand shampoo and conditioner.
And you know what? It was good.
I compared the prices between a couple of different brands, and decided it was just shampoo. Anything was going to work, so I might as well get the cheaper kind. And in the interest of tightening our belts, I think I’m going to be more flexible in the future, brand-wise.
I don’t think I will ever be able to buy only store-brand, no-name products. I hear about people who only buy store-brands, and save tons of money on groceries every year, but I just can’t go that far. I don’t want my cupboards to be an ugly yellow no-name blur.
I don’t mind buying store-brand shampoo, baggies, or canned corn. But I will probably always buy brand-name juice, cereal and toothpaste. And Diet Coke. And cheese. Don’t even get me started on store-brand moisurizers and cosmetics!
There are some things were you can choose to skimp, and there are some things where you want to buy the best.
And as long as I don’t skimp on my face cream, I’m content.
Veggie tales
ME: Yeah, Little Sis came over while I was doing my weekly vegetable chop. I do it every Sunday evening. I take out carrots, celery, broccoli and green beans, and chop everything up, and make individual baggies of raw veggies …
*SILENCE*
ME: … you know, so we can take them to work everyday? As a snack?
MOM: That is the most boring thing I have ever heard. (TO LITTLE SIS) You had to watch her do that?
LITTLE SIS: Yes! It was disturbing!
MOM: God.
LITTLE SIS: I’m not going to be like that when I’m 25, right?
MOM: No, definitely not.
ME: Um, ow!
What are little boys made of? Explosives?
I’m no scientist, but I have been inspired to write a thesis.
The topic? Why boys are far more likely to get hurt than girls.
Darling Husband had a little mishap at work over the weekend, so we paid a trip to the emergency room to get him checked out.
Since he was clearly not in much pain, we must have been placed onto some kind of “No rush-this-guy’s-fine” list … because we waited for five hours to see a doctor.
During our lovely five-hour stay in the waiting room, we watched lots of people come in. A little boy limping. A boy who hurt his ankle skateboarding. A little boy with a head injury. Another little boy with a head injury.
Yeah, that’s right — all boys! OK, in the name of fairness, there were two girls — both sick, not hurt — and a whole hoard of old people.
Was this just a fluke? Do girls get hurt just as often? I’m not sure, but if I was a betting woman, I’d place $500 on black … a black-and-blue-ankled boy, that is.
Three months from today! Yay!
Best Friend is getting married in exactly three months!
I can’t wait to see her in her dress!
I can’t wait to see me in my dress!
I can’t wait to see Best Friend’s man — and my own — in their handsome tuxes!
I can’t wait to see me in my dress!
I can’t wait to see Best Friend’s man — and my own — in their handsome tuxes!
P.S. I swear, I am looking forward to more than just the clothes … although the clothes are obviously a very exciting part!
Written in the stars
It’s official: the number “18” is written in the stars … you know, at least in relation to my womanly-parts.
Maybe the idea of getting knocked-up on the big day — July 18 — is not so impossible???
P.S. In related news, I have a brutal cold, so there is no way we’ll have another scare this month. There is zero temptation when I am a sniffling whiner in a fluffy housecoat.
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Heather's Handmade Life 