Depreciation

Let me tell you something about selling used furniture, appliances and the like.  They aren't worth squat.

Seriously.

First, there is the stainless side by side fridge that we bought a few years ago to the tune of about $1800 bucks.  Today, we'll be lucky to get $600 for it.  I will never buy another stainless product again because you can't keep the bastards clean.  They are a fingerprint nightmare.

Then, we have our front loading washing machine.  I spent DAYS researching that purchase until I came up with a Frigidaire unit which promised performance without the huge price tag of the fancier LG and Bosch models. After rebates and incentives, we shelled out just over $700 but I felt smart and informed, until today.  A little web surfing tells me that even offering free delivery, we probably won't see any more than $200.

And the list goes on and on.

The point, I suppose, is that at the end of the day, why do any of us buy anything new when we can pick up good quality near new items for a song?  Of course, there is that sticky little "used" part.  One can never be sure how someone has utilized their fridge ( Jeffrey Dahmer comes to mind) and I can only imagine what badness could be tossed into a washing machine but I'm pretty sure that with the exception of beds and underwear, used items offer a superior value to their brand new counterparts.

If we are going to retire like The Millionaire Next Door, I'm thinking that the hubby and I had better cultivate a different mindset...... less consumer and more producer.

Personally, I think I will kick off my newfound financial enlightenment by combing through the used merchandise adverts listed on New Zealand's "TradeMe".   I'll plan to pay special attention to those that say, "Moving Overseas" because, you know, that's where DEPRECIATION lives.

Cleanse and Cash

Time is passing so quickly these days as it always does when you feel you don't have enough of it. Business is strong, homeschool is ticking along and slowly, all of the items our "to do" list are being crossed off.

A few weeks ago, I resigned myself to the fact that we will have to hold a garage sale. It is the most efficient way of divesting ourselves of the things that we will not be able to bring with us on our journey across the Pacific. The mere thought of that day makes my stomach hurt. Friends of ours recently had a garage sale of their own and unfortunately, the local paper got the date wrong. A week before they had planned, on a rare, quiet Saturday morning when neither of them had to work, they were startled awake by an insistent POUNDING on their front door.

At 6:30 am.

I'm not the most rational person on most days. I experience a near constant internal dialogue where the kind and reasonable side of my personality wrestles with the larger, impatient, head-shaking, wincing, angry, I'd-like-to-beat-the-tar-out-of-you side.

Let me just say this one thing. If I advertised a garage sale for 7:00am on a Saturday morning and had people thumping on my front door at 6:30am, it would be fugly. I've clearly communicated this personality defect to my husband and asked that he specifically mention the possibility of bloodshed should anyone try to be the uninvited, unwanted, early bird on said morning.

So last weekend, we power washed the garage floor, cleared all the shelves and then filled them, by theme (small appliances, lamps, seasonal, books, etc), with all those things that need a new home. It was enormously satisfying. I was also forced to open two boxes that were being stored in the garage and which hadn't seen the light of day since 1999. I'm not kidding.

I had moved those boxes from Houston to Bentonville, from Bentonville to a different Bentonville address and then from Bentonville, here to Tulsa. Twelve years.

I kept exactly two scrapbooks and a bag of pictures.

As I looked around the kitchen this morning with its absence of steamers, crock pots, popcorn makers, portable ovens, toasters, blenders, mini grills, food processors, beaters and such, I noticed that I preferred the minimalist decor. There is order in the nothingness. I can't say that I will be anxious to clutter all that clean, empty, space in my new environment. There is beauty in less.

Thus, while certainly filled with anxiety in regard to the mechanics of holding a garage sale, I am eager to give our house a colonic.

And the fistful of cash when it's all said and done is better than a kick in the pants.

Steve

“I have always said if there ever came a day when I could no longer meet my duties and expectations as Apple’s C.E.O., I would be the first to let you know. Unfortunately, that day has come.” - Steve Jobs, August 24, 2011


Good bye, Steve.

Thank you.

Be well.

Postcard From Lip of My Sanity

Remember the construction zone next door? Well, I'm just a big ball of hate and discontent today.

My office looks out onto our driveway and street. While not the most scenic, this view does have its advantages. I'm able to catch our post lady and give her last minute mailings. I can watch Olivia as she pedals her bike with a ramrod straight spine and I am able to spot the Jehovah's before they see me which means I can gather the children, flee upstairs and pretend we aren't home.

Today, I saw something that made my head explode. I watched as a subcontractor parked, completely blocking my driveway with his truck and trailer. Then, he unloaded a small excavator, like this.


Then he DROVE OVER MY DRIVEWAY AND MY GRASS to get to the construction site. I went flying out the front door and yelled at him to stop, which he did.

"What's the problem?" he asked. Ignoramus.

I got a little crazy because between the guys eating their lunch on my driveway, plugging their power tools into my electrical ports, the roofers at 6:30am Saturday and Sunday morning, the port-o-potty, the garbage that flies everywhere, the displaced mice, ants and dogs and the pile of dirt and gravel that has collected at the bottom of our driveway, I had zero patience left for a torn up lawn and an ass.

"We fix it," he said. I silently cursed him and his shitty judgment. Shortly after that, a supervisor showed up to the site and sat in his truck. Coward.

Three hours later, my reasonable husband came home and I once again flew out of the house to tell him what happened. The guy was still working, the supervisor still idling and I wanted Dallas to handle the situation for me because my solution wasn't rational and involved blunt objects. Big surprise.

He did and nobody got hurt, however, the supervisor did admit that he'd been sitting in his truck for several hours, working up the nerve to knock on my front door. He'd been told that I was a little upset.

And a small, immature, petty, bitchy, side of me is secretly happy about that.

The End.

Mad Men Mania

Last Christmas, I downloaded the first season of Mad Men to watch on the plane as we made our way down to New Zealand. I liked it but since I'd read rave reviews, I expected to be blown away and wasn't. Sure, the clothing and sets were scrumptious and from what I've read, they have captured that time on Madison Avenue perfectly but at the end of thirteen odd episodes, I had a take it or leave it attitude.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I decided to stream a few episodes from the second season to see how the cliffhangers had been resolved and oh dear God, I drank the purple Koolaid. I was hooked. In fourteen days, between 9pm and 7am, I devoured 50 episodes (4 seasons). I'm obsessed. It's great tv.



I've only got two shows left of the fourth season and then I'm out of luck. No fifth season.

Yet.

Apparently, after prolonged contract negotiations between the series creator and the network, they are back to work filming new episodes. Makes me tingle with anticipation.

I know. I'm not well.