Decorating on a Dime

We did this with no money. Fixing, cleaning, decorating. I’m not saying that I picked things out of the garbage. Wait. That’s a lie. Yes, I did. Every time I go to the dump, I come back with something good. I’m kind of on the barter system down at the dump. I bring some garbage, I come back with a milk-glass hobnail vase. I bring some garbage, I come back with a glass candle holder. I bring some garbage, I come back with decorating magazines still in their plastic covers.

I’ve been trying out glass globes. The only thing that broke during all the moving was a glass globe that sat on the top part of my red antique lamp. It’s an odd size. Every time I go to the dump, I fling a couple of Hefty bags filled with kitty litter and coffee grounds, then I rifle through the pile of things the dump man put aside because he thought something was too good for the garbage and someone else might be able to use it. I find a glass globe that might work, take it home, try it, and when it doesn’t, I bring it back and trade it out for another one. One of these days I’m going to hit on the right one.

The dump man is cranky. Someone gave me a heads-up about that. He takes his job very seriously and you’re in big trouble if you try to sneak a Betty Crocker cake box into the regular garbage instead of putting it in the cardboard recyclables bin and he catches you. But that doesn’t worry me. I look at it as a challenge. Not just the recycling but the relationship. I get along great with grumpy old guys. Especially if they’re anal. Because let’s face it, I’m a little anal. I admire it that the dump man is out there with his broom directing people to the green glass bin and the brown glass bin and watching that someone doesn’t get his tin cans mixed up with his aluminum. Because if you’re not going to do a job right, why do it at all? And recycling is no joke. You should see those bins filled with the colored glass like boxes of jewels glimmering in the sunshine. It would be a shame if that was just thrown into the landfill with all the diapers and chicken bones instead of melted down and turned into new Mountain Dew bottles.

So I don’t mind him. I go out of my way to be friendly to him. We talk trash, him in his orange vest with the yellow tape on it, leaning on a broom, me all dolled up now because you can’t go anywhere in New Jersey unless you have makeup on, even the dump, leaning on my truck door. We discuss the characteristics of the globes I take home and the likelihood of the newest one fitting. We complain about taxes and the people who run the town who won’t let you put fluorescent bulbs into the dump. He tells me that I can sneak some of the wood that I’ve been cleaning up from my property into the regular garbage if he doesn’t see me, wink, wink. I think, someday I’m going to bring him cookies. You might call that a bribe. I call it a thank you. A bribe would be something you give to someone before the fact. That would be like if I gave him some cookies and then he looked the other way when I came with my truck filled to the brim with items on the violation list. But that’s not the way it went down.

It wasn’t only garbage that I availed myself of to get this place shaped up. I also charged a few things. I splurged and bought vintage wallpaper for the kitchen. It’s just the thing to bring back some of that old fashioned look someone stripped the place of back in the 70s when they thought replacing doors that had crystal knobs and porcelain sinks on legs was an improvement.

The olive green countertops had to go. Kurt is making a new counter out of sheets of laminate. He is actually fabricating the counter; not just buying a stock counter and cutting and installing it, which would be hard enough. He is going to glue sheets of laminate onto the old frame and make it himself. When Lowe’s refused to order the counter we wanted unless we paid them two hundred dollars for them to come out and measure, even though we assured them that Kurt measures for a living and even though we humored them by going home and measuring again because they insisted that Kurt’s measurements were wrong, and even though we agreed that we would be responsible and not Lowe’s if we made a mistake, they still wouldn’t let us order the counter unless we paid them to come out and measure. So we got our asses up. Now we’re making it ourselves. Visions of that show Renovation Disasters going through my head but screw them. We can do it! Thanks to them trying to squeeze another two hundred dollars out of us, we’re saving thousands of dollars.

We also got paint. We got spackle. We got faucets, door locks, weather stripping, fencing, gates, and new fluorescent bulbs. But we didn’t get a mortgage so if we’re maxed out on a credit card, we’re still ahead of the game.

I also got gifts. My girlfriends brought me things. This is the beauty of having good girlfriends. They know you and your quirky tastes. Micaela gave me this funky lamp.

Monica gave me this rooster.

I got this crystal candy dish from Jenise.

I have good friends, good family (a special thank you to my sister who went above and beyond the call of duty to help me with this place), and I didn’t even have to give them any cookies.

Getting in Touch with Your Inner Redneck

We love it down here. Why move to a place you don’t love? We could have moved to any one of the 50 states but we chose Virginia. And so we embraced it. I promptly set all the dials on the radios to Super Country and ordered a subscription to Progressive Farmer. I started watching RFD-TV, just so I could learn the ins and outs of important things like steam engines and corn chowder and square dancing. I planted a garden and made Pearl promise to tell me if she saw me doing something wrong. “Don’t be shy now,” I told her. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” That was an understatement—the only thing I ever planted before was a hyacinth I got on Easter. It came in a plastic pot wrapped in pink foil. It was dead by Mother’s Day.

In addition to the proper reading material and music, and a good garden full of turnip greens, in order to get the full southern experience, one’s activities should include: listening to bluegrass music down at the Dairy Queen; shopping at Wal-Mart (that’s a given); attending the Moonshiner’s Jamboree; and going to a pig roast where the pork will be served with cold slaw on a hamburger bun.

You should go to church and say “Amen” out loud when the preacher recites something you find particularly meaningful. Don’t say it half-heartedly like you don’t really mean it or you’re going to take it back if the wind changes direction. No. Bellow it out to show your agreement with whatever it was Pastor Lonnie said that was so inspiring. Say it like you’re mad and nod with conviction. It’s a very heady experience. Next thing you know, you will consider joining the choir and maybe even getting saved. All very southern acts.

You should take advantage of the pancake supper down at the firehouse, almost as good as ordering a pizza, which is impossible to do in the country. Never again will you be able to stomp into the house dead tired, shaking with hunger, kick your shoes off and walk zombie-like to the phone, where you will dial Tony’s Pizza, on speed dial, and order a large pie with pepperoni and extra cheese that will appear at your door in twenty minutes flat. Nope. You’re getting pancakes. Or frozen pizzas and sandwiches on those nights you can’t bear to cook and thank God, that at least, you can get Thumann’s cold-cuts around here. Because your delivery days are over sister.

Shooting guns is required. Even if you’re against killing animals like I am, just shoot the gun at a tree or something. Or the rifle or whatever it is. Any of these things will put you in touch with your inner redneck.

You can also go see NASCAR.

Now that’s the grand poobah of all southern experiences. Listen, I’ll admit it takes a lot to float my boat. I’m the one who fell asleep at the circus during a presentation of humans being shot out of cannons. I’ve seen a lot in my life. Perhaps I’ve seen it all. So maybe I’m hard to please. There were 63,000 people there. 63,000 people can’t be wrong. But, truth be told, I just don’t get it. And perhaps, if I cannot appreciate the roar of the engines on a half-mile track surrounded by beer guzzling fans giving the finger to and throwing cans at the drivers who pass that aren’t theirs, I will never fully assimilate.

I admit, the first hundred laps were exciting. You see all the people that are on TV and I thought I caught a glimpse of Jeff Gordon’s arm through the car window and I could swear Junior waved at me. There are big screen TVs like at concerts and pit crews all decked out in their sponsors’ colors and they go running out there and change the tires lickety-split just like you see on ESPN and then the race car guy peels out.



The last hundred laps were also good because I could finally figure out what was going on. I perked up when I realized my guy was vying for the lead. Kelly and I picked Jimmie Johnson because he wears a cowboy hat. I found out his number was 48 and kept an eye on his car so I wouldn’t lose track even though it was making me dizzy. But I kept getting distracted by the Lowe’s logo. I made a mental note in my head of everything I need and they just sent out one of those no-interest-no-payments coupons so I might as well get that screen door I’ve been thinking of and a new light fixture for the dining room while I’m at it. I’m also out of bug spray and I need bone meal and weed-and-feed and some black paint for my wagon wheels. Then I saw the bullseye on the Target car and I remembered I wanted to get some new curtains for the bedroom and perhaps one of those vases covered in mosaic made out of broken mirrors and a leather ottoman shaped like a cube that you can put a tray on with drinks and cheese-and-crackers like I saw on Design on a Dime. Fantasy shopping and watching my guy maneuver himself into first place kept me busy for a while.

Kurt’s guy was in eighth place. Kurt likes Dale Jr. because he used to root for his father so he just switched over to the kid because he’s a loyal kind of guy. I don’t know who the rest of our group wanted but I suspect it was also Junior because that’s who everybody goes for around here. People have his number decaled on their car windows, on flags flapping from their porch railings, draped over mailboxes and on t-shirts, jackets and caps. Someone even wrote a book called St. Dale and if he isn’t a God, he might as well be, for all the worshipping the locals do. And southern fans can be rabid, let me tell you. Just so you know, it would be in your best interests, especially if you’re trying to fit in, not to bring the subject up if you are voting for someone else due to a cowboy hat or cute buns or because you saw him on Regis and Kelly (which is why I almost chose Jeff Gordon). I would keep a lid on it. Kind of like religion and politics. Some things you shouldn’t talk about if you want any friends. At least in the south.

Anyway, it was the middle three hundred laps that almost put me in a coma. I couldn’t tell what the heck was going on and I couldn’t ask anybody because you couldn’t hear anything. Even if you scream in your husband’s ear and make motions like you know sign language. He’ll just look at you, shrug his shoulders, and keep smiling. Even if you get up and climb over everybody to go out to the concession stands. If you want a Dr. Pepper, you have to point. Mouths were moving but nothing was coming out. So I couldn’t ask a question. Like, how can you tell who is in front? How come they keep stopping the race? Do they keep their same positions when it starts up again? And is it safe to cheer when Number 48 goes by?



When the race was over, I did hear something. The woman behind me leaned over, practically climbed onto our laps, and said, “Jimmie Johnson’s a loser.”

When I told Kurt what she said when we were walking out to the car, he laughed and said, “Did you tell her ‘not today?’” (For those of you not from around these parts and don't know because you couldn't care less, Johnson won the race.)

Nah. What’s the point of arguing with a class act like that? Luckily she’s not the typical southern experience. One of the ladies in the long line for the bathroom saw me dancing from foot to foot (that irritable bladder, you know) and she insisted that I take her place in line. That’s what I embrace. That’s why I love this place. And the pig roasts.

The Luxury of the Sunday Drive

I’m quitting using gas. When I go to Wal-Mart, it costs me twenty bucks. Thirty dollars if I forgo the hick look and do some real shopping in Roanoke. If I keep it up, I’m going to have to get a real job.

Everywhere you go in the country is far. That’s one of the drawbacks. In Jersey, you could walk down to the supermarket if you really wanted to. Granted, you got people shaking their fists at you and giving you the middle finger because you’re too far in the road trying to skirt around someone’s chain-link fence or avoid a vicious dog, but you didn’t spend anything doing it. My friends up north gasp when I tell them it takes me at least an hour to drive anywhere around here. They can’t believe, when we’re yakking about how to pinch pennies, that it’s not worth bringing clothes to the consignment shop, even the ones from the real shopping places, because they won’t pay you what you spent in gas. Or how you spend more money going to Sam’s Club than you save because of the gas. Everything I do, I ask myself nowadays, is it worth the gas?

People with little cars might think I’m cheap. But let them walk a mile in my shoes. Or in this case, drive it. I have a pickup truck, the ultimate gas guzzler. The last time I went to the Minute Market for gas and milk and a package of Little Debbie powdered donuts, it cost me over a hundred bucks. I thought about buying a Hyundai to hold me over until the gas goes down, if it ever goes down again, but what I’d spend on the car—the insurance, registration, personal property tax (something else they get you for down here) and the maintenance—would not offset the price of gas. Assuming that this situation is, of course, temporary.

Even if gas never goes down again, I can’t get rid of my pickup truck. I use it for farm purposes. I use it for getting grain and shavings and mulch. I use it to take the horses places and to transport irregular-shaped or large items like plastic kiddie pools for dog swimming, antique dressers hauled out of the Dumpster and flats of flowers. Plus, I like how I look in it. Big black truck, long blonde hair, sunglasses, Marvin Gaye or Gretchen Wilson (yes, I have very eclectic taste) blasting out of a stereo system Kurt installed so I’d be even sexier. Nah, I can’t get rid of it. But it’s going to sit right there in my driveway for as long as possible.

I’m not the only one revolting. I recently read about a guy in Missouri who is so mad he has sworn off his car and is pedaling to work on an old blue Schwinn even though it’s fifteen miles each way. Uphill. And there’s a kid in Tennessee who is actually riding his horse to school. Now that sounds like a great idea. But if I rode Harley to Wal-Mart, where would I tie him up? And where would I put the groceries? I know, I could use those stalls where you return the carts and hook him up to a wagon to carry the groceries home. Yeah, that’s it. We could all go back to horses and wagons just like Little House on the Prairie! It’d be fun! It’d be an adventure!

Kurt said, “Now you’re taking this country stuff a little too far. Next thing you know, you’ll be churning butter.”

Well, I don’t know about that. That’s manual labor for no good reason if you ask me. Like making soap. As close as I get to that is saving all the little leftover pieces and squishing them together in a big ball. It’s an Irish Spring/Ivory Soap/lavender-and-ginseng glob no one will use.

We’re not poor. Kurt makes a good living. But it’s still a struggle. The gas has caused everything to go up. I got sticker shock when I went into Wal-Mart last week. Almost four dollars for a loaf of bread? Almost a dollar for one pepper or one cucumber? I didn’t buy everything I wanted. I skipped the Sara Lee smoked turkey at the deli and ordered “whatever’s cheapest.” I bought bologna. I bought generic brands and I cut back on the extras. No paper plates, no paper towels, no People magazine even though there was something in there about Brangelina’s twins and it’s only a matter of time before Brad comes to his senses and wonders what he has gotten himself into. I’m sorry. I don’t like her. She’s mean to her dad. We’re talking about the Midnight Cowboy she’s being mean to. No wonder it didn’t bother her to take Jen’s husband—if she can be mean to the Midnight Cowboy….

Anyway, that is neither here or there. Buying crappy brands didn’t make a bit of a difference. The bill still came out to $388. for three people. I got out my glasses. It was somehow even higher than the last time. I don’t know what I spent it on. We’re still out of everything.

I wonder about the people who actually work at Wal-Mart. The people in low-wage jobs. Or even the guy down at the cabinet shop who has a good trade but who still only brings home about six hundred bucks a week. Decent money around here. I think about the nurse who is going to take the position the county is advertising for right now that pays a salary of $29,000 a year. How can they even afford to go to work? What about the people who have to pay for child care on top of it? They can’t possibly make any money after they fill up their tanks.

I’m giving everybody a heads-up. Don’t expect me to go anywhere unless it’s absolutely necessary because my wheels are parked. Sunday drives have become a luxury and my days of cruising around looking at the nice scenery around here are over. There will be no more driving to community service projects for the 4-H club or willy-nilly excursions to Lowe’s or automatic participation in fun activities without considering the distance and the fun factor. Except for barrel races and Frank’s Pizza, I’m not budging.

I wouldn’t even go down to the Minute Market when I ran out of milk. I called Kurt and asked him to stop on the way home. Then the next day I asked him to stop and get bread. Then I asked him to make the bank deposit on his way out. Kelly had a sleepover here and normally I would have offered to drive the girls home but this time I didn’t say a word. I didn’t say boo. It all adds up. My truck is still sitting there with half a tank. I’m saving it for a rainy day. I’m seeing how long I can go. Or stay. If gas goes up any higher, my tires just might dry rot.