Okay, something you need to know about the Butterbean family. We could give the Griswolds the biggest run for their money, yes money.
Not that we decorate for Christmas or anything. We wouldn’t even drag the family pet behind the car. But I’ll give you a couple of examples here.
So we went to Macey’s on a Saturday night at 11 o’clock to buy groceries for breakfast the next morning. We had to hurry since Macey’s is closed on Sundays.
Breakfast the next morning was for 27 people. So we took six adults and a Grocery Getter along to accomplish the task. Well actually we couldn’t get anyone to stay home from what promised to be the social event of the season—grocery shopping at Macey’s.
They bring me along, not because they value my judgment when selecting sausages, but because I have a generous heart and a debit card with actual money backing it up.
On our way down the first aisle, my daughter brings up the question of the day. “Okay, who is going to pay for this meal, cause I don’t think I can afford this much food.” What she means is, “Shall I buy the gourmet bacon because Mom is paying for it, or shall I buy the ‘pork parts’ because I am paying for it?” It’s a grown-up version of trying to sneak goodies into the cart without Mom seeing you.
All six of the socialites promptly promise to chip in their share. We crisscrossed the unfamiliar store, Keystone Cops style, while trying to locate cheese, eggs, milk, orange juice, asparagus and Peanut M&M’s with six shoppers, three cell phones and only one of us who knows what we need but has no list and can’t remember everything either.
So at the checkout lane, I surrender my debit card to the daughter “in charge” and the conscientious daughter-in-law gives me $40 for her share of the groceries.
In the time it took my daughter to swipe my card and key in my password which is conveniently one of the only things she has ever memorized, she forgot that it was my card and began to key in “cash back” so she could pay me for her share of the groceries.
She remembered just in time that it was my card she was cashing out on. And I almost fell for it. Of course, I didn’t have too much time to think that one through.
This next story involves a transaction that must have taken a little more time. When our second son got ready to move on to college, he had gotten good grades, and had a plan, so we bought him a used truck to take to college so that he could get to class, etc.
So he drove the truck for the time it took for him to move on in the world and get ready to buy a new vehicle. I think his new wife wanted to drive something other than a ten-year old short-bed Chevy with a lift-kit and no credible suspension. It was beginning to suffer from multiple worn and broken parts. I think it barely ran, to tell the truth.
So Mr. B. who is a sucker for a Chevy truck no matter how old it is was first in line to buy his own truck back from his son who paid nothing for it in the first place. Isn’t that sort of like paying for it twice and not getting to drive it once?
What could Mr. B. expect from a son from his own loins? He taught him all he knows about getting the most for his money—what his grandson calls the fine art of cheap-skatery. What it amounts to is this: Mr. B. and men in general usually try to sell something for a price that has no correlation whatsoever with what they would pay for it.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Bathtub philosophizing
There are only two good things about winter—basketball and hot showers. And since we are speaking of twos here, there are two ways to look at the activity of bathing. Some people consider it a chore and other people regard it as an opportunity to contemplate all of the world’s and their own problems.
According to tradition, kids hate to take a bath, but I never met one who did. They hate baths about as much as they hate swimming. However, unlike some adults, they don’t think of anything more in the shower than they usually do. They just like to play in the water.
What could be more fun than turning the tub into a slip-and-slide, or splashing water on the ceiling? We used to have more toys in the bathroom than we did upstairs.
You can easily identify adults who approach bathing as a practical task. They are the people who take a six-minute shower and have those awful water-saving devices hooked onto the shower heads. And they use the step-by-step method of washing. I’m not sure I trust those kind of bathers.
And then there are the rest of us. A bath is a chance for a few minutes of idyllic relaxation, soulful introspection and just plain peace in a warm room with the door locked against trivialities.
No one expects you to come out of the bathroom to answer the phone or the door. Even your kids don’t expect you to get out of the bathtub for unimportant things once they get old enough to realize that dripping, shivering mothers are likely to be dangerous.
So, there are those who enjoy bathing and those who just wash.
Since we are talking about twos here again, there are two other types of bathers—those who shower and those who fill the tub.
I can only see one advantage to filling the tub. You get to sit down. I won’t argue the finer points. I have never yet convinced tub-filler that showering was the superior method.
Some days in the shower I indulge my imagination and pretend that I have enough money and space to build the perfect shower. (Talk about weighty matters.)
The consummate shower would have at least four shower heads. One for front, one for back, one for shampooing the hair and one for the legs. It would have a seat in the middle so that you could rest with your chin in your hand while you pondered the meaning of life, and since the primary purpose of time spent in the shower is the weighing of thoughts, the shower should be able to do all the work.
It should run water heated to precisely the right temperature for a few minutes, and then it should
begin to add soap—you know, like those carwash sprayers. Then after soap, shampoo would be nice for a few minutes, and then more water.
Finally it could mix a little bath oil into the final rinse and most importantlythe quintessential shower would never run out of hot water.
I suppose it would take a computer to customize each individual’s shower by time, temperature and type of soap, but that shouldn’t be a problem technically. Who of the great thinkers would count the cost?
I have seen some high-tech showers in those high-end-house magazines. The more introspective of their owners must already have installed the “think-tank.”
If a few more of us were acquainted with the real purpose for showering, just imagine how much we could all learn and understand. We just need a few more people to understand the real reason for bathing. We could just possibly overcome the brain drain.
According to tradition, kids hate to take a bath, but I never met one who did. They hate baths about as much as they hate swimming. However, unlike some adults, they don’t think of anything more in the shower than they usually do. They just like to play in the water.
What could be more fun than turning the tub into a slip-and-slide, or splashing water on the ceiling? We used to have more toys in the bathroom than we did upstairs.
You can easily identify adults who approach bathing as a practical task. They are the people who take a six-minute shower and have those awful water-saving devices hooked onto the shower heads. And they use the step-by-step method of washing. I’m not sure I trust those kind of bathers.
And then there are the rest of us. A bath is a chance for a few minutes of idyllic relaxation, soulful introspection and just plain peace in a warm room with the door locked against trivialities.
No one expects you to come out of the bathroom to answer the phone or the door. Even your kids don’t expect you to get out of the bathtub for unimportant things once they get old enough to realize that dripping, shivering mothers are likely to be dangerous.
So, there are those who enjoy bathing and those who just wash.
Since we are talking about twos here again, there are two other types of bathers—those who shower and those who fill the tub.
I can only see one advantage to filling the tub. You get to sit down. I won’t argue the finer points. I have never yet convinced tub-filler that showering was the superior method.
Some days in the shower I indulge my imagination and pretend that I have enough money and space to build the perfect shower. (Talk about weighty matters.)
The consummate shower would have at least four shower heads. One for front, one for back, one for shampooing the hair and one for the legs. It would have a seat in the middle so that you could rest with your chin in your hand while you pondered the meaning of life, and since the primary purpose of time spent in the shower is the weighing of thoughts, the shower should be able to do all the work.
It should run water heated to precisely the right temperature for a few minutes, and then it should
begin to add soap—you know, like those carwash sprayers. Then after soap, shampoo would be nice for a few minutes, and then more water.
Finally it could mix a little bath oil into the final rinse and most importantlythe quintessential shower would never run out of hot water.
I suppose it would take a computer to customize each individual’s shower by time, temperature and type of soap, but that shouldn’t be a problem technically. Who of the great thinkers would count the cost?
I have seen some high-tech showers in those high-end-house magazines. The more introspective of their owners must already have installed the “think-tank.”
If a few more of us were acquainted with the real purpose for showering, just imagine how much we could all learn and understand. We just need a few more people to understand the real reason for bathing. We could just possibly overcome the brain drain.
Cell phone wonder
Just to let you know, I am not a complete technological idiot. After all, I am typing this on my very own laptop. I can use more than one of the programs on it, too. I can save and retrieve files, send e-mail, install programs, and I know the difference between RAM and RGB.
I am not so literate with cell phones though. I have had one for a while which I have used when I have the need tocall other people. That doesn’t necessarily mean that they can call me, since I usually keep its battery in various near-death stages when I haven’t let it expire entirely. Of course it takes a lot of work to keep it alive. You already know how Bertha feels about batteries.
So for Christmas Father B. and I got new cell phones. They do a little more than just dial up friends and family. Father B. can take a fuzzy picture of his index finger with his, and I can record family arguments without even trying.
One upgrade we both have that we didn’t before is “text messaging.” It means that if we get into the right menu on our phones, we can send a little message that we type out on our keypad. If we do it right, the person we designate can read our little messages. If you are under the age of thirty, you can stop laughing anytime now.
I am supposed to be the one in charge of laughing here. So my first “text” was sent to Mr. B.’s phone. (He was sitting on the other end of the couch.) It said, “Hi gag.”
A few minutes later I get a reply that says, “Hi dufis. Who is gag?”
Okay, we are handicapped whether we have a cell phone in our hands or not. I can’t see very well, but those little letters beside the keys on my phone are about 4-point type in blue on gray. You realize, of course, that if I had been on the “3” key instead of the “4,” that I would have spelled “Hi dad.”
I can’t be expected to recite three letters for every number on the keypad every time I need a new letter, can I? Besides that, Mr. B. can’t spell.
Earlier I had tried to do something on that phone, and was told that I had to activate my Voice Mail. So I “press TALK to dial Voice Mailbox.” I get Voice Mailbox who seems to be female in gender. She tells me to enter my temporary password which I dimly remember was “9999.” So I key in “9-9-9-9.” Now what? Do I press the “#” key or “OK” after that? I tried both. She didn’t like either one.
“Please try again.” So I tried again, possibly pressing the keys in the same order, or possibly not, how would I know? Anyway my finger might have slipped off the “9” key and hit the “#” key prematurely, so I hit the “BACK” key four times and tried again, this time pressing the “OK” key.
Nothing happened, so I pressed the “#” key instead. I put the phone to my ear just in time to hear Miz Smarter Than Thou say to me, “You seem to be having a problem activating your Voice Mailbox. Please call our Help Hotline for information regarding your problem.” I detected a note of patronization (is that a word?) in her voice, too.
“Yes, and what is Help Hotline’s IQ?”
So the new phones are smaller than the old ones. I am not sure that smaller is better, Yes they fit into any pocket—not just one pocket. When I start to ring, I do the regular pat-down trying to locate the correct pocket. I come up with some change, a cough drop, a used tissue, a flash drive, a library card, and one glove, but no cell phone. After a couple more ring tones, other people are helping out. Miami Vice may as well be practicing on me.
Next thing I need to do with this technological wonder is input my circle of ten friends. I am working on that. So far I have thought of four.
I am not so literate with cell phones though. I have had one for a while which I have used when I have the need tocall other people. That doesn’t necessarily mean that they can call me, since I usually keep its battery in various near-death stages when I haven’t let it expire entirely. Of course it takes a lot of work to keep it alive. You already know how Bertha feels about batteries.
So for Christmas Father B. and I got new cell phones. They do a little more than just dial up friends and family. Father B. can take a fuzzy picture of his index finger with his, and I can record family arguments without even trying.
One upgrade we both have that we didn’t before is “text messaging.” It means that if we get into the right menu on our phones, we can send a little message that we type out on our keypad. If we do it right, the person we designate can read our little messages. If you are under the age of thirty, you can stop laughing anytime now.
I am supposed to be the one in charge of laughing here. So my first “text” was sent to Mr. B.’s phone. (He was sitting on the other end of the couch.) It said, “Hi gag.”
A few minutes later I get a reply that says, “Hi dufis. Who is gag?”
Okay, we are handicapped whether we have a cell phone in our hands or not. I can’t see very well, but those little letters beside the keys on my phone are about 4-point type in blue on gray. You realize, of course, that if I had been on the “3” key instead of the “4,” that I would have spelled “Hi dad.”
I can’t be expected to recite three letters for every number on the keypad every time I need a new letter, can I? Besides that, Mr. B. can’t spell.
Earlier I had tried to do something on that phone, and was told that I had to activate my Voice Mail. So I “press TALK to dial Voice Mailbox.” I get Voice Mailbox who seems to be female in gender. She tells me to enter my temporary password which I dimly remember was “9999.” So I key in “9-9-9-9.” Now what? Do I press the “#” key or “OK” after that? I tried both. She didn’t like either one.
“Please try again.” So I tried again, possibly pressing the keys in the same order, or possibly not, how would I know? Anyway my finger might have slipped off the “9” key and hit the “#” key prematurely, so I hit the “BACK” key four times and tried again, this time pressing the “OK” key.
Nothing happened, so I pressed the “#” key instead. I put the phone to my ear just in time to hear Miz Smarter Than Thou say to me, “You seem to be having a problem activating your Voice Mailbox. Please call our Help Hotline for information regarding your problem.” I detected a note of patronization (is that a word?) in her voice, too.
“Yes, and what is Help Hotline’s IQ?”
So the new phones are smaller than the old ones. I am not sure that smaller is better, Yes they fit into any pocket—not just one pocket. When I start to ring, I do the regular pat-down trying to locate the correct pocket. I come up with some change, a cough drop, a used tissue, a flash drive, a library card, and one glove, but no cell phone. After a couple more ring tones, other people are helping out. Miami Vice may as well be practicing on me.
Next thing I need to do with this technological wonder is input my circle of ten friends. I am working on that. So far I have thought of four.
Monday, December 22, 2008
I remember Christmas
Well here we are at Christmas Eve, 2008; and to borrow from Dickens, the Christmas Present is kind of a shambles. Some good ideas are still just ideas, and I wish I had a maid and Martha Stewart’s staff in my employ. Yeah, I know, if I were as smart as Martha Stewart, I would have my own staff. But I don’t, and there is way too much Christmas to go around.
Actually I could be content just to remember Christmases Past when my family wasn’t all grown up and there were small children in my home to make a Christmas for.
After all, it’s the children who are mostly nice and the grown-ups who are naughty, but you can’t threaten big people using the Santa-won’t-come routine. In the Christmas Past, Santa was not only a good motivational tool, but he was a good scapegoat, as well. There was always someone to blame when Christmas was less than perfect.
Well, we had a few of those, but there was still plenty of goodwill to make everyone merry. Kids are pretty forgiving that way. Some years though, I was ready to shoot Santa myself.
His choice of toys was what I had to quarrel with. Maybe since he didn’t have to live with his toys for the rest of the year he was a little short-sighted, but his selection was incredibly awful sometimes. I don’t think he ever left anything that didn’t require batteries, make a lot of noise, or fit the neighbors better than us.
He has left trucks so big you had to park them in the garage, and cars so small that they got lost under the bath mat. He has brought guns that mimicked submachine and never ran out of ammunition. He has left building sets with more parts than my Ford, and all of them just that necessary.
He has dropped off games with instructions in French, sweatshirts that would fit himself and no one else, and bicycles that take eight hours to put together.
Of course there comes a time when each kid gets older and you realize its time for either the kid or yourselves to grow up and take responsibility for Santa and his ideas. And just once in a while, when you/he got it right, you might even like to take little of the credit for yourself.
My grand-nephew’s parents thought it was time to sit him down and explain to him that Santa might be a bit of a stretch for even a ten-year-old’s imagination. So the other day they tried to let Santa out of the closet without too much trauma. When they told him who really leaves the presents, the kid was unconvinced. He said, “I don’t believe that, because there is no way that you guys could afford what Santa brought me last year.”
So hold off on the expensive presents until you can get credit for them. Let Santa bring the games with French instructions.
But let you be the one who gives love and laughter—cookies made while little helpers stand on chairs, forays to find the perfect tree which will soon have its symmetry destroyed with overloaded bottom branches, the Christmas story read from St. Luke in children’s halting voices, Jingle Bells sung off-key all the way to Grandma’s house.
Christmas is about the toddler standing in front of the lighted tree murmuring “Christmas, Christmas.” It began with a Child who was born in a stable. May it live on for children everywhere. And may our celebrations reflect the wonder of it all.
Actually I could be content just to remember Christmases Past when my family wasn’t all grown up and there were small children in my home to make a Christmas for.
After all, it’s the children who are mostly nice and the grown-ups who are naughty, but you can’t threaten big people using the Santa-won’t-come routine. In the Christmas Past, Santa was not only a good motivational tool, but he was a good scapegoat, as well. There was always someone to blame when Christmas was less than perfect.
Well, we had a few of those, but there was still plenty of goodwill to make everyone merry. Kids are pretty forgiving that way. Some years though, I was ready to shoot Santa myself.
His choice of toys was what I had to quarrel with. Maybe since he didn’t have to live with his toys for the rest of the year he was a little short-sighted, but his selection was incredibly awful sometimes. I don’t think he ever left anything that didn’t require batteries, make a lot of noise, or fit the neighbors better than us.
He has left trucks so big you had to park them in the garage, and cars so small that they got lost under the bath mat. He has brought guns that mimicked submachine and never ran out of ammunition. He has left building sets with more parts than my Ford, and all of them just that necessary.
He has dropped off games with instructions in French, sweatshirts that would fit himself and no one else, and bicycles that take eight hours to put together.
Of course there comes a time when each kid gets older and you realize its time for either the kid or yourselves to grow up and take responsibility for Santa and his ideas. And just once in a while, when you/he got it right, you might even like to take little of the credit for yourself.
My grand-nephew’s parents thought it was time to sit him down and explain to him that Santa might be a bit of a stretch for even a ten-year-old’s imagination. So the other day they tried to let Santa out of the closet without too much trauma. When they told him who really leaves the presents, the kid was unconvinced. He said, “I don’t believe that, because there is no way that you guys could afford what Santa brought me last year.”
So hold off on the expensive presents until you can get credit for them. Let Santa bring the games with French instructions.
But let you be the one who gives love and laughter—cookies made while little helpers stand on chairs, forays to find the perfect tree which will soon have its symmetry destroyed with overloaded bottom branches, the Christmas story read from St. Luke in children’s halting voices, Jingle Bells sung off-key all the way to Grandma’s house.
Christmas is about the toddler standing in front of the lighted tree murmuring “Christmas, Christmas.” It began with a Child who was born in a stable. May it live on for children everywhere. And may our celebrations reflect the wonder of it all.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
The Butterbeans remember the Sixties
Remember that good old decade—the Sixties? Well yes, a good share of you don’t remember it since you weren’t born yet. The rest of you are not remembering things too well. So I will help you out. That was the time when all the girls wore long hair, all the cars were Chevys, and all the schools were five miles away with snow every step of the way. For some reason, Chevys were never driven to school.
Life was definitely simpler then. Just ask Father Butterbean. All of the tee-shirts were white and so were the socks. All of the music was mellow; all of the jeans were Levis. All of the phones were AT&T. All of the tennis shoes were Keds. Well, it’s pretty much still that way for Father B.
There weren’t any teen-age identity crises back then because there were only two identities—hoods and everybody else. And once you arrived at school after trudging through the snow, there were only two halls that could qualify as Halls.
If you were rebellious you were a Hood. You still wore Levis and white socks. The only difference was that you carried a pack of cigarettes rolled up in your white tee-shirt sleeve, and you stood in Hood Hall only it wasn’t called that then.
Girls weren’t rebellious much, and they all wore dresses or skirts except for when they wore their Keds with their regulation gym shorts.
I’m not sure how many Halls there are these days. At least half a dozen. If I am wrong, don’t tell me about it, because I grew up in the two-Hall era and get most of my information regarding current high school culture third or fourth hand.
I may have heard of Jock Hall, Cowboy Hall, Skate-or-Die Hall, Stud Hall, Granola Hall, Reggae Hall and Rock Hall. If there isn’t a Rap Hall, I don’t know why not.
Finding a Hall to stand in with so many possibilities available must be excruciating since standing in the wrong hall could be social suicide.
And just because a kid has gotten through the crisis and negotiated the hall maze (figuratively speaking), that doesn’t mean he is through making decisions. Before a high schooler can leave the house in the morning, he has to make several different choices on several different levels. Sooner or later, he has to decide whether his reputation can stand up to blurring the image for one day. Say he hangs out in Cowboy Hall. Can he get away with wearing khakis when his Wranglers are dirty?
Then he has to decide whether to wear short or long khakis and with what. (In the Sixties, shorts were worn only when the temperature exceeded 80 degrees. The cutoff (pun) temperature is somewhere around 20 degrees these days. That may have been because shorts lived up to their name back then.)
Say our dude decides to keep it simple and wear jeans, a tee-shirt and sport shoes. He still has to decide which one of each, and each component by itself possibly has unforeseen implications in terms of image. “Do pink tee-shirts go only with Reggae gear or can they show up in Jock Hall occasionally?”
Shoes, by themselves, no matter which hall their owners habituate, could present monumental problems. You can’t tell me that Cowboy Hallers don’t have anything but Justins in their closets. At the very least, they have basketball shoes, hikers, joggers, something for church, and hunting boots. Can a cowboy’s image survive the wearing of alternative footwear in Cowboy Hall when his boots hurt his feet?
What I really want to know is whether those very baggy, very low-slung pants (they probably have a name that I don’t know of) can show up in every hall. I also want to know whether baggy-pants halls empty out at the same rate as jock halls during fire drills—presuming they still have fire drills at school.
I have never been great at making decisions. In fact, waffling is something I have raised to a fine art. The trick is to use the postpone-and-wait method which means that if you wait long enough you won’t have any choices anyway.
If I were 40 years younger and trying to get ready for school, I wouldn’t be able to decide which shoes to wear unless the dog had eaten every pair but one. And I would be late for school every day and wouldn’t get to stand in any Halls.
Life was definitely simpler then. Just ask Father Butterbean. All of the tee-shirts were white and so were the socks. All of the music was mellow; all of the jeans were Levis. All of the phones were AT&T. All of the tennis shoes were Keds. Well, it’s pretty much still that way for Father B.
There weren’t any teen-age identity crises back then because there were only two identities—hoods and everybody else. And once you arrived at school after trudging through the snow, there were only two halls that could qualify as Halls.
If you were rebellious you were a Hood. You still wore Levis and white socks. The only difference was that you carried a pack of cigarettes rolled up in your white tee-shirt sleeve, and you stood in Hood Hall only it wasn’t called that then.
Girls weren’t rebellious much, and they all wore dresses or skirts except for when they wore their Keds with their regulation gym shorts.
I’m not sure how many Halls there are these days. At least half a dozen. If I am wrong, don’t tell me about it, because I grew up in the two-Hall era and get most of my information regarding current high school culture third or fourth hand.
I may have heard of Jock Hall, Cowboy Hall, Skate-or-Die Hall, Stud Hall, Granola Hall, Reggae Hall and Rock Hall. If there isn’t a Rap Hall, I don’t know why not.
Finding a Hall to stand in with so many possibilities available must be excruciating since standing in the wrong hall could be social suicide.
And just because a kid has gotten through the crisis and negotiated the hall maze (figuratively speaking), that doesn’t mean he is through making decisions. Before a high schooler can leave the house in the morning, he has to make several different choices on several different levels. Sooner or later, he has to decide whether his reputation can stand up to blurring the image for one day. Say he hangs out in Cowboy Hall. Can he get away with wearing khakis when his Wranglers are dirty?
Then he has to decide whether to wear short or long khakis and with what. (In the Sixties, shorts were worn only when the temperature exceeded 80 degrees. The cutoff (pun) temperature is somewhere around 20 degrees these days. That may have been because shorts lived up to their name back then.)
Say our dude decides to keep it simple and wear jeans, a tee-shirt and sport shoes. He still has to decide which one of each, and each component by itself possibly has unforeseen implications in terms of image. “Do pink tee-shirts go only with Reggae gear or can they show up in Jock Hall occasionally?”
Shoes, by themselves, no matter which hall their owners habituate, could present monumental problems. You can’t tell me that Cowboy Hallers don’t have anything but Justins in their closets. At the very least, they have basketball shoes, hikers, joggers, something for church, and hunting boots. Can a cowboy’s image survive the wearing of alternative footwear in Cowboy Hall when his boots hurt his feet?
What I really want to know is whether those very baggy, very low-slung pants (they probably have a name that I don’t know of) can show up in every hall. I also want to know whether baggy-pants halls empty out at the same rate as jock halls during fire drills—presuming they still have fire drills at school.
I have never been great at making decisions. In fact, waffling is something I have raised to a fine art. The trick is to use the postpone-and-wait method which means that if you wait long enough you won’t have any choices anyway.
If I were 40 years younger and trying to get ready for school, I wouldn’t be able to decide which shoes to wear unless the dog had eaten every pair but one. And I would be late for school every day and wouldn’t get to stand in any Halls.
With Berthanomics you feel better already
I know that if you spend any part of your day listening to the news, talk shows, talk radio, or reading the papers, blogs, etc., you might be sick of hearing about the economic crisis we are in. Well, I am here to give you Bertha’s perspective on the whole mess which may or may not be correct, but I do have experience in dealing with messes—and this is the deal—whoever makes the mess cleans it up. Yeah right. But that is another column.
My theory is this: stock values are down; retirement accounts are worth less; real estate is worth less; the dollar is worth less. We heard last week that financially speaking the last seven years have been wiped out.
Well, trust the media to give you some meaningless piece of information which is designed to unnerve you. (It’s not the vampire movies that are scary these days, but the six o’clock news.)
But back to the economic situation. Yes, our money is worth less, and we have less of it, but in case you haven’t noticed, everybody’s money is worth less and they all have less of it at roughly the same percentage you do. Not only that, you have probably noticed that the price of lots of goods, gas, groceries, cars, houses, and electronics, are down and just about everything else you can get for a deal.
So if we have less money but it costs less to get things, we just might come out even anyway.
According to Berthanomics, we are all still in the same place we were before the bust. Okay, maybe seven or even twenty years before the bust. But we still buy what we used to. We just pay less for it, so having less of it is okay. Right?
There are a couple of positive things going on as well which could help to tip the scales to better than even for some people. The money in our bank accounts remains in our bank accounts. Your banker hasn’t called to say that your account now has fewer dollars in it. And most likely no one has cut back on your paycheck either, so the money you have to work with is more than before, relatively speaking. You still have x amount of dollars only now it will buy more. (Just don’t think about your stocks. or instead of thinking about how much they were worth at their peak, think about how much it cost to buy them.)
It’s like playing Monopoly with only half of the money, but making all of the properties cost half as well. You still get to collect the full amount when you pass “GO.,” and so does everyone else.
And for once, being on a fixed income is a good thing. Unless or until someone unfixes your income, advance to “GO.” And remember, Park Place only costs $175. I have to admit though that you will probably have to keep taxes at $200. They aren’t going to go down anytime soon.
As games go, I hate Monopoly; it takes too long to play, it is boring, and I never win. “I knew it,” you say, ”Bertha is not a closet financial genius, she is an idiot. She doesn’t even know how to play Monopoly, let alone understand finance.”
You may be right. I suppose you are thinking of all of the things that may never come down in price. But I don’t know anyone who thought that gasoline would ever come back down either.
The alternative to Berthanomics can look pretty dismal. You find yourself wondering whether you are going to be able to eat bugs when your food runs out, or whether you want to buy a horse in case you can’t drive your car. Thinking about going without electricity could really make you crazy.
My daughter says that if she finds herself eating bugs someday, cooked or not, then she has bigger problems than hunger anyway and starving might be a solution rather than a problem.
So when you get your next mutual funds statement, think about the Butterbean Financial Institute’s Monopoly model, or better yet, go ahead and play a game with half of the money kept in the box. (You could always put it into circulation if you decided to.) It will still be boring and you might lose, but it won’t take as long to do it, which may or may not mean something.
My theory is this: stock values are down; retirement accounts are worth less; real estate is worth less; the dollar is worth less. We heard last week that financially speaking the last seven years have been wiped out.
Well, trust the media to give you some meaningless piece of information which is designed to unnerve you. (It’s not the vampire movies that are scary these days, but the six o’clock news.)
But back to the economic situation. Yes, our money is worth less, and we have less of it, but in case you haven’t noticed, everybody’s money is worth less and they all have less of it at roughly the same percentage you do. Not only that, you have probably noticed that the price of lots of goods, gas, groceries, cars, houses, and electronics, are down and just about everything else you can get for a deal.
So if we have less money but it costs less to get things, we just might come out even anyway.
According to Berthanomics, we are all still in the same place we were before the bust. Okay, maybe seven or even twenty years before the bust. But we still buy what we used to. We just pay less for it, so having less of it is okay. Right?
There are a couple of positive things going on as well which could help to tip the scales to better than even for some people. The money in our bank accounts remains in our bank accounts. Your banker hasn’t called to say that your account now has fewer dollars in it. And most likely no one has cut back on your paycheck either, so the money you have to work with is more than before, relatively speaking. You still have x amount of dollars only now it will buy more. (Just don’t think about your stocks. or instead of thinking about how much they were worth at their peak, think about how much it cost to buy them.)
It’s like playing Monopoly with only half of the money, but making all of the properties cost half as well. You still get to collect the full amount when you pass “GO.,” and so does everyone else.
And for once, being on a fixed income is a good thing. Unless or until someone unfixes your income, advance to “GO.” And remember, Park Place only costs $175. I have to admit though that you will probably have to keep taxes at $200. They aren’t going to go down anytime soon.
As games go, I hate Monopoly; it takes too long to play, it is boring, and I never win. “I knew it,” you say, ”Bertha is not a closet financial genius, she is an idiot. She doesn’t even know how to play Monopoly, let alone understand finance.”
You may be right. I suppose you are thinking of all of the things that may never come down in price. But I don’t know anyone who thought that gasoline would ever come back down either.
The alternative to Berthanomics can look pretty dismal. You find yourself wondering whether you are going to be able to eat bugs when your food runs out, or whether you want to buy a horse in case you can’t drive your car. Thinking about going without electricity could really make you crazy.
My daughter says that if she finds herself eating bugs someday, cooked or not, then she has bigger problems than hunger anyway and starving might be a solution rather than a problem.
So when you get your next mutual funds statement, think about the Butterbean Financial Institute’s Monopoly model, or better yet, go ahead and play a game with half of the money kept in the box. (You could always put it into circulation if you decided to.) It will still be boring and you might lose, but it won’t take as long to do it, which may or may not mean something.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Responsible Christmas tree ownership
Last week we took our annual trip to cut a Christmas tree. Those of you who value convenience in completing holiday chores will think we are crazy. Why go up on the mountain for a tree when you could have a artificial one which would only require a trip to the basement? But then how much fun is that?
We don’t really have to go far, and this year we didn’t even have to get our feet wet or cold.
I know life is about being responsible, not having fun. I’ve been telling my kids that for years. I began to wonder about the extent of that responsibility when I learned while picking up tree permits that things may have changed a bit. It seems that the permitting process has undergone some restrictive changes. What else is new? I only wanted to cut a tree, not adopt one.
Well, it worked out, but I began to wonder about our traditional tree harvesting. Could I possibly be overstepping the bounds of social responsibility by choosing a live fragrant tree instead of a manufactured one?
I thought going organic was a good thing. Just how green does this tree have to be?
So, after the fact, I checked the websites to see whether cutting a live tree could possibly be politically or environmentally incorrect.
I found out that fir or pine “holiday” trees last longer—as opposed to what other kinds I couldn’t tell you. And there really are organic trees. They are raised on farms where very few fertilizers or chemicals are used. (Hey, the trees I cut are as organic as they get since they raise themselves without help of any kind.)
Artificial trees on the other hand are made from PVC and could possibly emit bad tree gases. In addition they are made in Japan or China and leave big tree prints by virtue of being shipped long distances. On the other hand, again, most are already strung with lights and relieve the owner from excessive handling of the some kinds of lights which may have lead in them.
One website suggested taking a walk in the forest to enjoy the trees in their natural habitat instead of having one of any kind, which translated means “do without a tree,” and which led me to grumble something about taking a hike yourself.
Doing without is what we nearly had to do the first year we moved back to the Basin after living away for several years, and it was a rather traumatic experience. It seems we delayed a little too long in going to buy a tree at the tree lots. There was not a tree anywhere in town. We learned that not many trees are sold in the stores because most people actually go and cut their own.
We finally scrounged a tree from a friend who had decorated with short, obese spruces at a wedding reception. It was the tree I would “dubs” for you if we were playing “There’s Your Tree” as we usually do while riding to the forest to cut one.
So rather than be stuck with “your tree,” after that we got the permit and cut our own. At least we had no one to blame but ourselves if when we got it home it looked like Snoopy’s master had picked it out.
So over the years, we have added Christmas tree hunting stories to the vast collection of family hunting lore. There was the year that our dog jumped out of the truck and bounded off through the snow, never to be seen again. If someone picked him up thinking they had found a good hunting dog, they were mistaken. (There are unexpected benefits.)
One year when the snow up there was especially deep, wading through it waist-high was the only way to see how tall that tree (at least 30 feet from the road) really was. The snow was piled up alongside the road as high as a car, which uncharacteristically kept us from getting stuck that year. But one of our tall high-schoolers climbed up the berm and jumped off the other side. He was nearly never seen again as well. When Father B. climbed the berm to check on his progress, all he saw was his hat.
If Christmas is about experiences and relationships, then we are doing the right thing. If it ever becomes about saving fuel and time, then we have thought of a helpful solution. While the guys are up there hunting for deer or elk in the fall (which activity is never about fuel or time) and they spot the perfect tree, they can “GPS” its location. In late November, we can drive right to it and be back home in the time it takes someone to go to the basement and haul up the plastic.
Meanwhile, we can say we did our part to reduce CO2 emissions by cutting three trees.
We don’t really have to go far, and this year we didn’t even have to get our feet wet or cold.
I know life is about being responsible, not having fun. I’ve been telling my kids that for years. I began to wonder about the extent of that responsibility when I learned while picking up tree permits that things may have changed a bit. It seems that the permitting process has undergone some restrictive changes. What else is new? I only wanted to cut a tree, not adopt one.
Well, it worked out, but I began to wonder about our traditional tree harvesting. Could I possibly be overstepping the bounds of social responsibility by choosing a live fragrant tree instead of a manufactured one?
I thought going organic was a good thing. Just how green does this tree have to be?
So, after the fact, I checked the websites to see whether cutting a live tree could possibly be politically or environmentally incorrect.
I found out that fir or pine “holiday” trees last longer—as opposed to what other kinds I couldn’t tell you. And there really are organic trees. They are raised on farms where very few fertilizers or chemicals are used. (Hey, the trees I cut are as organic as they get since they raise themselves without help of any kind.)
Artificial trees on the other hand are made from PVC and could possibly emit bad tree gases. In addition they are made in Japan or China and leave big tree prints by virtue of being shipped long distances. On the other hand, again, most are already strung with lights and relieve the owner from excessive handling of the some kinds of lights which may have lead in them.
One website suggested taking a walk in the forest to enjoy the trees in their natural habitat instead of having one of any kind, which translated means “do without a tree,” and which led me to grumble something about taking a hike yourself.
Doing without is what we nearly had to do the first year we moved back to the Basin after living away for several years, and it was a rather traumatic experience. It seems we delayed a little too long in going to buy a tree at the tree lots. There was not a tree anywhere in town. We learned that not many trees are sold in the stores because most people actually go and cut their own.
We finally scrounged a tree from a friend who had decorated with short, obese spruces at a wedding reception. It was the tree I would “dubs” for you if we were playing “There’s Your Tree” as we usually do while riding to the forest to cut one.
So rather than be stuck with “your tree,” after that we got the permit and cut our own. At least we had no one to blame but ourselves if when we got it home it looked like Snoopy’s master had picked it out.
So over the years, we have added Christmas tree hunting stories to the vast collection of family hunting lore. There was the year that our dog jumped out of the truck and bounded off through the snow, never to be seen again. If someone picked him up thinking they had found a good hunting dog, they were mistaken. (There are unexpected benefits.)
One year when the snow up there was especially deep, wading through it waist-high was the only way to see how tall that tree (at least 30 feet from the road) really was. The snow was piled up alongside the road as high as a car, which uncharacteristically kept us from getting stuck that year. But one of our tall high-schoolers climbed up the berm and jumped off the other side. He was nearly never seen again as well. When Father B. climbed the berm to check on his progress, all he saw was his hat.
If Christmas is about experiences and relationships, then we are doing the right thing. If it ever becomes about saving fuel and time, then we have thought of a helpful solution. While the guys are up there hunting for deer or elk in the fall (which activity is never about fuel or time) and they spot the perfect tree, they can “GPS” its location. In late November, we can drive right to it and be back home in the time it takes someone to go to the basement and haul up the plastic.
Meanwhile, we can say we did our part to reduce CO2 emissions by cutting three trees.
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