Pop Buys Pop

Everybody has a weblog nowadays.

My brother has a weblog. My mother has a weblog. Even my Aunt Virginia has a weblog, and I’ll be darned if it’s not one of my favorites. She tells hilarious stories, such as this one, which I’ve cribbed and edited from her site (and which is an amalgamation of a couple of her entries):

Pop Buys Pop
by Virginia S.

As I have said before, my husband likes quantity and sales. This is not a new story. Stuff like this still happens all the time.

For example, his pet peeve was always shopping for nylons. Well folks, we just moved, and in the process I ran across an old sales receipt from Wal-Mart. It is for 366 pair of panty hose. Yes, that’s the truth: a total of 366 pair of panty hose. Also on the receipt are batteries, motor oil, and oil filters. Quite a combo, I would say. I want you to know that after seven years, I still have enough new nylons left to last me ’til January 2007. They were purchased in July 1999.

More recently, Pop found a bargain at Wal-Mart the week after Christmas. Fruitcake regularly $2.99 was on sale for $1.00 a loaf. The more you buy, the more you save. Pop saved $106.00. He bought 53 fruitcakes, all that was left in the store. He spent $53.00.

Truth is stranger than fiction!!!

And now the main story…

Some time ago, the local supermarket ran a sale on two-liter bottles of Sierra Mist: two for a dollar, a pretty good price. Pop believes in sales. If you can save fifty cents on one bottle, then you can save $8.00 on sixteen bottles, so sixteen bottles he did buy.

On closer inspection, on each bottle there was a coupon good for 55 cents toward the purchase of another bottle. That would cover the sale price of another two-liter bottle plus the deposit. We cut off all the coupons. The next time in town, Pop made a stop at the store and sure enough the pop was still on sale. Taking in fifteen coupons (he had lost one), Pop returned with fifteen two-liter bottles of Sierra Mist. Thinking he had a good deal, he stood out in the parking lot and cut off the coupons from the just purchased fifteen bottles. He returned to the store and got another fifteen bottles. I was shopping down the street and came to the pickup as he was loading the last fifteen bottles. I offered to go into the store and get eight more bottles for him. (I was too embarrassed to get another fifteen.) He cut off the coupons and in I went. I also purchased some soup and coffee so I wouldn’t look too greedy. At home, Stan figured he paid $8.80 for the first sixteen bottles plus deposit. The rest he got for free, so that means 54 two-liter bottles of pop for $8.80. If you figure the money he gets back when he returns the bottles, it come out to $6.10 for 54 two-liter bottle of pop.

End of story?

I’m afraid not.

The next day Pop decided to return sixteen coupons to see if he could get some more pop. This time he came out to the pickup and said, “You won’t believe this. The coupon is for two two-liter bottles of pop.” Looking closely at the coupon, it plainly said: Good for your next purchase of two two-liter bottles of Sierra Mist.

It seems the clerk today had kindly pointed this out to Pop. So, for $4.40, Pop got sixteen more bottles of pop. It took him awhile to digest this and to figure out why the clerks didn’t notice this the last time he was in there. He was very deep in thought about this, as we took off for home thru Nyssa. It is twelve miles from Ontario to Nyssa. About half way thru Nyssa, Pop sat up with a start: “I forgot to put the pop in the back of the pickup! Now what do I do?”

“It surely won’t be there,” he fretted. “It is only $4.40. I’m not going back.” By this time I was laughing so hard I could barely answer him, but I managed to say that in Portland it would not be there, but in Ontario, well maybe?

He turned around, and back to Ontario we went. There was no cart full of pop in the parking lot. However, inside the store at customer service sat a cart with sixteen bottles of Sierra Mist. Pop brought them out and loaded them in the pickup, We drive back the twelve miles to Nyssa and on home.

Pop’s comment about the whole episode was, “Is this how it is going to be from now on? [re: getting forgetful] Wow, Wow I think I am going to quit cutting coupons.”

I’m still laughing!!!

He still ended up with 70 two-liter bottles of pop for $10.50 and if you subtract the deposit return on the last sixteen he will have $9.70 invested in the pop plus some extra miles (which we won’t count).

Note for regular readers: Virginia and Stan are Tammy’s parents.

Oh my, but that’s a funny story. I read it the other night and was chuckling to myself. Then I read it to Kris as we were getting into bed, and we were both in stitches. I was out of breath from laughing so hard. I think my Uncle Stanley could be a guest writer on my personal finance weblog once I get it going.

I should admit that Kris and I are getting coupon-savvy as we get older. We’re particularly good at getting stuff cheap from Safeway and from Ace Hardware. (In fact, we sometimes wonder how Ace Hardware stays in business, we pay so little.) But seventy bottles of pop for $9.70? That’s like some sort of world record in frugality!

How to Get Me to Exercise and to Eat Right

We don’t get a lot of visitors out here at Custom Box Service. There aren’t too many people who need to visit a box factory, and even fewer who are willing to drive nearly to Molalla to do so. Still, from time-to-time a customer does drop by.

Just now a long-time customer whom I’d never met stopped by. He’s an older guy who’s done a lot of business with us. I gave him a tour of the place and talked up our history, as I always do with guests. We paused outside in the shop and chatted about market conditions. At one point, he made a little joke and to emphasize the punch line, he reached over and patted my belly: pat pat pat.

We wandered outside and he told me some about his company. He talked about how they treat their salespeople differently than most places, paying more than twice as much in commission. To make his point, he reached over and patted my belly: pat pat pat.

Inside, I introduced him to Jeff and Nick. We chatted some more, and then made our farewells. As he was leaving the office, he said, “It was good to meet you,” and then he reached over and patted my belly: pat pat pat.

If I wasn’t on a diet before, I am now.

The Book of Books

This book is by Harrison, Emma, and J.D.

Chapter One
Emma and Harrison. They made cookies. Cookies. And they made more and more cookies. And more and more. And more and more. And they played Play-Do. And they made gingerbread men out of paper at my preschool! And they vote for beavers. Beavers. Beavers. Beavers! We hate ducks. We like to make cookies. We like to make gingerbread houses. And we like making fun of ducks. And we like making fun of J.D. [Kris: Everyone likes that.] And mommy got mad at Harrison for smacking the toy at the window that I really didn’t do. I didn’t do anything.

Uh. What? The end. The end of a different story, silly! (There’s a hundred stories in this silly book.)

Chapter Two
There was a frog on J.D.’s shoulder. It kept croaking and annoying him while he was listening to J.D.’s famous music. And then J.D. said, “I won’t sing, I won’t sing, I won’t sing until you get off of my shoulder now!” Boing boing boing. The frog boinged out the door and he bounced off J.D.’s hat that was on the hook. And J.D. said, “You! You’re all wet, you! You get off of my hat.”

“NOW!” J.D. demanded.

And Scout said, “Please don’t demand at that frog. He was our friend.”

And the frog said, “Ribbit ribbit ribbit” at J.D. and punched him on the head with one of his legs.

And J.D. said, “Ribbit”.

The end.

Chapter Three
The gingerbread house bonked away. Clara was in the gingerbread house. Clara saw the Lorax. Now the Christmas tree rose up and bonked away, too. Clara got scared. She banged the house down, and the gingerbread fell on her, and she just ate and ate and ate until she was just as full as she can get. Then Clara told her mom about her journey. The end.

Chapter Four
And Darth Vader scared the lambs. Darth Vader had a red light saber and zapped the lambs’ bottoms. He ripped their bottoms off. The goats whapped Darth Vader on the head until his helmet knocked off. And then they knocked his suit off until he was Anakin again. Then he changed to the good side. And then the goats said “baaah” and went back to their grazing. The end.

Chapter Five
The hippo turned around. His name was Hippododups. Then Emma said “I want to play with Hippododups” and the hippo kicked her out of orbit. Then she flew into space. She had a beautiful sight, but she couldn’t breathe. Then when Emma landed, she choked J.D. The end.

Chapter Six
Once upon a time there was a bowl of cookies. And the bowl got baked. And the bowl melted in the oven. Emma and J.D. and Harrison and mommy and Kris had a fight with the bowl. They threw the bowl at each other. The end.

Chapter Seven
Once there was J.D., Emma, and Harrison. They were all fooling around. And everyone knocked their heads off. And one day they they all grew back, so they threw plates at each other. Then they had a fight with ice, but none of them got hurt with that one. [Harrison: You’re typing like crazy. J.D.: That’s because you’re talking like crazy.] Then they had a fight with hats. None of them got hurt with that one except the little tips on the inside that have metal on them. That hurt a little bit. The end.

Chapter Eight
One time the world was very very young. The end.

Chapter Nine
The end of this book is chapter ten. We’re not at chapter ten yet, but we are at chapter nine. The end.

Chapter Ten
The end of this book written by Harrison and Emma and J.D. The end of this book narrated by J.D., no-one, and no-one.

Now It Can Be Told

Seven years ago today, Jeremy and Jennifer produced a little Harrison James Gingerich. Jeff and I have always loved the story of Hank’s birthday as told from our perspective, and so today we are sharing it with the world.

At that time, the MNF women met on one Saturday every December to bake cookies. While our wives did womanly things, the men held a gathering of their own, a gathering dubbed: Den of Iniquity. Den of Iniquity was the sort of thing about which we talked all year long, our brains bubbling with planned debauchery. We could drink beer! We could watch porn! We could be rogues! Reality was always somewhat different: we generally rented a Nintendo, bought several liters of soda, and ordered in pizza.

On that particular Saturday in 1998, we had gathered at Sabino’s home for a day-long Mario Kart marathon. We had ourselves some serious four-player action, with the winner of each race staying in and the loser(s) rotating out. Joel, Jeff, Phil, and I joined Sabino that day. (It may be possible that Brock and/or Roger stopped by for a while, also.)

The women were across town at Julie’s, baking cookies in her deluxe new kitchen. Sometime in the mid-afternoon, Stephanie called to say that Jennifer had just given birth. They were going up to visit the new parents at the hospital. Did we want to come? (Harrison was only the second child born into the group. Ian had been born the previous May.)

“Hell no!” was our response. We were high on pepperoni and pop. “This is a Den of Iniquity. Iniquitous men don’t go to look at babies.” After we hung up, we laughed amongst ourselves and cracked wise. Sabino broke out his Jerry Seinfeld “you’ve got to see the baby” impression. I complained that all babies look like Winston Churchill. We were smug in how strong we had stood up to our wives.

Baby or prime minister? You make the call...

A few minutes later, the women showed up at the house. “Please won’t you come? We’re going to dinner first, and then to the hospital,” they said. “It would mean a lot to Jeremy and Jennifer.”

“No way,” we said. “We have more important things to do. We are mired in sin. Besides, we’ve already eaten pizza.” When the women left, each man knew he was in the doghouse, but nobody cared. Peer pressure hung heavy in the air. “We don’t really know them, anyhow,” we reasoned. At that time, Jeremy and Jennifer were not yet solid members of our group. (In fact, Jenn was a cipher to me; I barely knew her.)

Still, somewhere in the back of my mind, I felt guilty. We played for a few more minutes, and then I said: “Maybe we should go up. Wouldn’t it be funny if the women got to the hospital after their dinner and we were there waiting?”

“Nah,” said Joel. “I don’t wanna go see the baby.”

“It would be kind of funny,” said Jeff. “And then the women would get off our backs.”

“I guess we could just run up there for a few minutes and then come back to see who can defeat the Rainbow Bridge,” said Phil.

And so the five of us piled into a single vehicle and sped to Tualatin. As expected, little Hank looked like Winston Churchill, or a lizard, or any number of the other grotesque creatures that babies look like. “Have our wives been here yet?” we asked. They had not.

“Man, I’m hungry,” said Jeremy.

“Well, let’s go eat!” suggested Sabino. “We’ll take you for a steak.” The six of us piled into a single vehicle and drove to the newly opened Outback Steakhouse across the freeway. We sat at the bar and ordered Jeremy steak and beer and whatever else he wanted. He smoked like Jeremy will. “Congratulations!” we said. Still full from pizza, the rest of us merely snacked on appetizers.

(Sidenote of interest only to football fans: While we were sitting at the bar, the Heisman Trophy results were being broadcast on television. During the meal, I read the subtitles with interest. A young man named Ricky Williams had just won the award, and while being interviewed he seemed remarkably articulate for a football player. And intelligent. I resolved that I would draft this man for my fantasy football squad. The next year, I traded away Peyton Manning to acquire the first pick in the draft. I kept Ryan Leaf. (I had drafted Manning and Leaf with the first two picks of the 1998 draft.) Football fans can understand the complex implications here.)

After our celebratory meal, we returned to the hospital. “Have our wives been here yet?” we asked. They had not. We were flabbergasted. How long did it take these women to eat, anyhow? “You know what,” said Phil. “When they get here, don’t tell them we’ve been up to see you.” The rest of us chortled, comprehending his plan. We said our good-byes and dashed home.

A couple of hours later, a troop of sour women tromped in to find us sitting in front of the television, still playing Mario Kart. “How was the baby?” asked Jeff. The women were icy and distant.

“Are you done yet?” they asked.

“We can be done,” we said, snickering amongst ourselves. We gave each other high fives and went our separate ways. That night, each man revealed our deception to his wife in his own way. Not a single woman thought we were as clever as we believed ourselves to be.

We still believe ourselves to have been well and truly clever. We break this story out every year at Harrison’s birthday and tell it amongst ourselves. The women never laugh, but simply glower at us.

Ah, the Den of Iniquity. Those were the days, back before my friends began breeding like rabbits…

Bonus fact: Why Hank? Before Harrison was born, Jeremy was prone to saying, “We’re naming our son Harrison, but I’m going to call him Hank.” So, when I first started calling him Hank, I was merely doing what I thought his father was going to do. Of course, it turned out that Jeremy never did call him Hank, but I’ve kept at it for seven years.

Tomorrow: More babies! Kim and Sabino plan to give birth to Isabel Pilar on Tuesday, and this space is reserved for all the details. (You can pass the time waiting by reviewing the entry on their last child: Diego Fiesta!)

Hot Cocoa and Toast

Ah, what a lovely Sunday morning. What a fine thing it is to have slept late, lingering in bed with my wife by my side and the cats at our feet.

We slide out of bed and tumble downstairs. Kris feeds the birds, and we watch through the windows as the finches and jays and chickadees compete for the various seeds. Kris brews a mug of tea, then a second. We sit at the dining room table, looking at Walnut, the fat squirrel in the tree, as he forages for nuts and seeds in the feeder. The jays wait impatiently for him to leave.

“Isn’t it funny how he hides his peanuts,” I say. “Look at him climb down the tree and hide them in the lawn. He’s lucky there aren’t any cats around.” While he’s on the ground, the jays fight a peanut battle, squabbling over the tastiest treats.

“Look at that!” exclaims Kris. “It’s a bird of prey. It looks like a falcon.” She runs to grab the bird book, from which we learn that the bird is, indeed, a peregrine falcon.

Uncommon in open areas, especially near water. Nests on cliff ledges or (recently) on buildings or bridges in cities. Solitary. Hunts from perch or from high in the air, stooping on prey at very high speed…Feeds mainly on small or medium-size birds. Sleek and powerful, with very pointed wings and relatively short tail. Prominent dark “moustache” unique; also note uniformly patterned underwing. Voice a series of harsh notes rehk rehk rehk…

Why is a peregrine falcon sitting in our walnut tree? The squirrel doesn’t like it and, in a startling display of bravado, makes a sort of lunge at the bird, which is easily twice its size. The falcon is cowed, or willing to humor the squirrel. It sloughs from the tree and curves away on the strength of three or four wingbeats. A marvelous sight.

Not our falcon.

“We have a great house for birds,” Kris says, and I murmur agreement.

“What shall we do today?” she asks, finishing her tea.

“I have no motivation,” I say. “All I want to do today is to lay around the house.”

“That’s fine,” she says, “but promise me you’ll finish raking the leaves.”

“I’ll finish raking the leaves, but not until this afternoon. I want to move slowly. I want a hot bath. But first I want some hot cocoa and toast.”

Nothing is finer on a cold November Sunday than hot cocoa and toast, the preparation of which is almost a religious ritual: retrieve the blender and the toaster, plug them in, heat the milk on the stove, toast the bread ’til it’s golden brown and then slather it with honey, cut the cocoa tablet into chunks and dump these into the blender, pour in the steaming milk, turn the blender on.

Nothing is finer on a cold November Sunday than hot cocoa and toast.

While I wait for the cocoa to froth in the blender, I fetch The New York Times from the end of the sidewalk. “Hello, Nemo. Are you hunting birds?” The air is brisk, the grass is damp; I do not want to rake the leaves. The paper has a fine heft. I peel the two plastic bags that protect it and, as I walk back up to the house, I scan the headlines.

Nothing is finer on a cold November Sunday than hot cocoa and toast and The New York Times. Nothing is —

Holy shit!

On the counter, the blender has become a fountain of hot cocoa. I drop the paper and punch wildly at the buttons. The cocoa-spout continues. Why? There’s the problem: the blender is not gushing from the top, but from around the base. The pitcher on top of the blender has started to come unscrewed, and the hot cocoa is spewing from the bottom, all over the counter, all over the toaster (plugged in and toasting!), all over the floor. Screw the top back to the base! Unplug the toaster! Quick! Where’s a towel? The bathroom!

“I’m not messy!” I call to Kris. I’m not messy is one of my common refrains (others of which include I’m not clumsy and Kris Gates is always right). “I’m not messy” actually translates into “Oops, I made a mess again” because, in reality, I am messy.

Here’s Kris. She’s taking stock of the situation. “Why are you using a nice bathroom towel to mop this up?” she asks. “There’s a whole stack of kitchen towels on top of the fridge.”

“Well,” I explain. “I lost a lot of cocoa. There are probably two cups on the counter.” I direct her attention to the black cocoa-fall trickling down the cabinets.

“Oh my god,” she says. “I’m going upstairs.” And she does.

Why do we have so many things on the counter? I have to move them all, wipe them all with hot water. When I’ve moved everything, I’ve revealed a small pool of hot cocoa.

When I was nearly done with cleanup, I remembered to snap a photo.

Five minutes later, I sit down at the table and spread open The New York Times. I read about Elia Kazan while drinking tepid cocoa with toast.

Friends and Neighbors

The Chinese man who owns the dry cleaners helped me carry my clothes to the car today. He scolded me for laying the garments on the back seat. (I make one large dry cleaning trip per year, which means transporting a score of shirts, a dozen pairs of pants, and various sundries. I typically stack this mound on the back seat.) “Hang like this,” he said, demonstrating the proper method.

“This your first time here?” he asked, looking at me as if I were a novice at the whole clothes-cleaning thing.

“Second,” I told him.

He nodded and stroked one of my shirts. “Good quality clothes,” he told me, which left me wondering: what does this mean? Despite my wife’s opinion, is my taste in clothing impeccable? Or — and I fear this to be the truth — do I have the same fashion sense as an elderly Chinese man? Does the dry cleaner guy also buy his clothes at Costco?

On the drive home, I decided it might be fun to be a dry cleaner, but an immoral dry cleaner. Imagine! I would never have to shop for clothes again. I would have an entire store filled with garments from which to draw my wardrobe. A nice dinner out? This shirt looks perfect, and it’s not due to be picked up until next Tuesday! Some people fantasize of stealing cars or robbing banks; I dream of borrowing other people’s clothes. (Especially woolen clothes!) My evil-o-meter just doesn’t go very high, I guess.

At home, I stopped to speak with the neighbor across the street. He was wearing a t-shirt which proclaimed in large type: GET IN THE BOAT. John is a retired teacher. He spends his autumns in Oak Grove, but he winters in New Zealand, and then spends the bulk of the year on his boat in Alaska. Today he told me all about his boat generator and how he wants a new one. (“There’s a new Honda model that produces a regular sine wave,” he said. “You can even plug a computer into it!”)

John turned the conversation to my car, and as usual I bemoaned the sorry lot of my Ford Focus. It’s just not the right car for me, and yet I’m not likely to get a new car any time soon. I’m a “drive it til it’s dead” kind of guy.

“Keep the oil changed, and it’ll last forever,” he said.

“Oh, I keep it changed,” I said. “I change it every five thousand miles.”

John shook his head. “That’s not often enough,” he said. “You need to change it every three thousand miles.” He frowned, then turned and walked away. I wanted to protest: for twenty years, I’ve changed my vehicles’ oil every five thousand miles. I’ve never had any trouble! I take care of my cars! I felt I’d failed some crucial test of manhood, as if I’d fallen in his sight.

As I walked to the mailbox (carrying three bundles of dry cleaning), John stopped at his front door: he turned to smile at me and wave.

I spent my evening skimming the library books I’ve had checked out since July: Cooking By Hand, Slow Food, The Elements of Taste, The User’s Guide to the Brain, The Greatest Batman Stories Ever Told. I soaked in a hot tub and browsed. Then I sat in bed and browsed. I still feel sick, so I went to sleep early, my C-PAP mask and my eyecover dutifully in place.

Kris woke me from a light doze. “You have to listen to this,” she said, handing me the telephone. Jenn had left voice mail earlier in the evening that went something like this (the following is a reconstruction, not a transcriptioin — Jenn is the narrator):

Harrison came up to me tonight and asked for a bath. “You don’t need a bath,” I told him. “You’re already clean. You had a bath last night.” Harrison whined. “Please. You don’t have to wash me. I just want to soak in the tub. It’s so relaxing.” “Alright, J.D.” I said. Harrison laughed and said, “Good one, Kris!”

Maybe this is only funny for the Gingeriches and the Roth-Gates. It’s pretty funny, though. Now I need to go back to sleep.

Forty-Four Ounces

“[I doubt my senses] because,” said Scrooge, “a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There’s more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!”

After a wonderful meal at Paul and Amy Jo’s last night — beer-cheese soup, salmon cakes, garlic aoli, mashed potatoes, a corn dish that wasn’t grits — Kris and I slept in this morning. When at last we rose, I made hot cocoa for breakfast. I started to prepare a single cup, but that left only enough cocoa powder for one more serving. “Why not just have it all now?” I thought, and so I did. I sat at the table, reading the paper, dunking honey toast into my cocoa. Delicious.

In the afternoon, we saw The 40-Year-Old Virgin. “My gut hurts,” I told Kris as we drove to the theater. “My gut always hurts after I drink cocoa, especially if I drink too much.”

Kris shook her head. “Maybe you should stop buying chantico,” she said.

“I’ll just get some pop at the movie to help soothe my gut,” I said. I’m not sure why I thought this would work.

Kris paid $12 to get us into the matinee. ($12!!!) I bought refreshments. “What can I get you today?” asked the bright young Regal employee.

“Uh, well. I see you have combos available,” I said, pointing at a sign, “but you don’t list the prices for them.”

“I can tell you the prices. Which one would you like?”

“Well, what’s the difference between the nachos and the super nachos?”

“The super nachos come with more chips and two dipping sauces,” she explained, as if the super nachos were the best movie concession in all the world. “Would you like the super nachos?”

How could I refuse? “Uh, sure. How much does that cost?” I asked.

“Ten dollars,” she said, “and it comes with a medium drink. Also, if you buy a combo you can have any candy for two-fifty.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll have a diet. And some M&Ms.”

“Is Diet Coke okay?” she said, and I sighed inwardly. Of course Diet Coke is okay — that’s why I say ‘diet’ instead of ‘Diet Pepsi’, yet whenever I ask for a diet soda, the server always asks “Is Diet Coke okay?” or “Is Diet Pepsi okay?” Maybe I should ask for ‘diet cola’ instead.

The girl scooped up our chips and M&Ms and then handed over a tub of diet cola. “That’s a medium?” I asked, awed. She smiled and nodded. The forty-four ounce “medium” drink contained the equivalent of four cans of soda. Thank god I ordered diet.

“I can’t believe we’re paying $24.50 to see a movie,” Kris said as we waited through the barrage of music videos and advertisements that Regal Cinemas inflicts on its customers. I hate Regal.

“At least I got a forty-four ounce diet,” I said.

“The thing of it is,” said my wife, the trained observer, “we didn’t save any money by getting all this food. They didn’t list the prices of the combos because there’s no discount for buying them. They cost the same as if you’d purchased the items seperately. I added it up while you were ordering.”

“At least I got a forty-four ounce diet,” I said.

As the movie began, I realized I was in trouble. I’d been sipping on the soda for only fifteen minutes, and already I needed to urinate. I held out a while longer, but was soon forced to make a dash for the restroom. I hate to miss any part of a film for a bathroom break, but ultimately I had to miss three chunks of The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Forty-four ounces of diet cola are too much for my bladder to handle.

Perhaps those three missed chunks were crucial to one’s enjoyment of the film. Despite my appreciation of Judd Apatow‘s televison work (Freaks and Geeks, Undeclared), I found The 40-Year-Old Virgin mediocre. Parts were funny, but invariably the audience laughed where I didn’t, and I laughed where they didn’t. (The biggest laugh for me came from a music cue, for goodness sake.) This isn’t a movie one needs to see in a theater, if ever.

We did chores in the late afternoon. I tried not to get distracted by side projects. (I have a bad habit that goes something like this: Perhaps I am sweeping the library floor. As I sweep, perhaps I gaze absently at a bookshelf filled with Latin books, and perhaps it occurs to me that I ought to put the Latin books into alphabetical order. Rather than finish sweeping, I pause — because it will only take a minute — and sort the books. Then I pull one of them down to thumb through it. Pehaps I think to myself, “I should begin studying Latin again.” Perhaps I then decide to go upstairs to google a Latin word. Or two. Or three. Perhaps I then decide to check the football scores. And then I might as well try to catch up on my e-mail. Before I know it, Kris is scolding me because once again I’ve forgotten what it is I’m supposed to be doing, which is sweeping the library. Without Kris to guide me, my rooms would be perpetually half-swept, though at least all of my books would be in alphabetical order.)

After chores, I was hungry. The super nacho and the forty-four ounce diet soda hadn’t been filling. “Can I have your leftover Chinese food?” I asked Kris, because I knew she’d say yes. I piled her Mandarin Chicken into a bowl with my General Tso Chicken and stuck it in the microwave. The resulting mass was terrible (deep-fried Chinese food just does not reheat well.) “This sucks,” I said.

“Then don’t eat it,” Kris said, but I did anyhow. I didn’t enjoy it.

Later in the evening, my gut began to hurt again. I ignored it and climbed into bed, but I could not fall asleep. I took a sleep quiz in a magazine: “Are you an owl or a lark?” I was a lark: best in the morning, not performing well late at night. I turned out the light and lay there in my C-PAP mask, breathing deep Darth Vader breaths (breaths that scare the cats), unable to sleep for the gross Chinese food causing a pain in my gut and for the fourty-four ounces of diet cola I’d consumed earlier in the day.

Tuesday is Sno-Ball Day

Kris and I met after work to go to Contract Furnishing Mart in Clackamas to look at various samples for our bathroom remodel.

“Look at that: a bakery outlet,” Kris said, as we walked through the parking lot.

“It’s not a bakery outlet,” I said. “It’s a Hostess outlet.” And we all know what that means.

We spent half an hour looking at samples of granite and Marmoleum. We hemmed and hawed over various shades of cream. Do we prefer the Umbra or the Shell? Maybe the floor would look better in Van Gogh. And what about the countertops? Should we go with Brazilian Brown or with Mystic Brown? Such choices. It didn’t help that we hadn’t thought to bring a paint chip. Kris had to scour the store for something close to the color she has in mind for the walls, and the best she could find was a big hunk of deep pile carpeting.

When we had finished, we walked over to the bakery outlet. To the Hostess outlet.

“Look!” I said, in awe. “I didn’t even know Hostess made breakfast cereal.” But they do. There were boxes and boxes of Hostess-branded cereals, knock-offs of Cheerios and Fruit Loops and various other big name brands. There were Hostess “toaster pastries”. And, of course, there was a big-ass aisle of bread.

But none of that was why I’d wanted to enter the store. You all know why I wanted to check out the bakery outlet: Sno-Balls. I’ve been very good with Sno-Balls since the start of the year. I’ve had them once. (Maybe twice.) But I figured that here, in a Hostess outlet, I’d let down my guard and stock up.

Only there were no Sno-Balls to be had.

“I don’t know if I want anything,” I said. “Do you?”

“Let me look around,” said Kris. While she wandered the rows of Ding-Dongs and Cup Cakes and Twinkies, I watched a man in distress do his shopping. Perhaps he was intoxicated. Perhaps he was crippled. Whatever the case, he teetered and tottered through the store. He reached for products in wild, flailing gestures that threatened to send stacks of Ho-Hos to the floor. When he’d finally found the food he wanted, he rummaged through his pockets to check for change. He had some, and we all knew it because it rained to the floor. Kris and I walked back to the bread where we pretended to be interested in the various varieties of hamburger buns. This guy was a little creepy.

When he’d gone, I grabbed a cherry Fruit Pie — a “sell by 01 APR” cherry Fruit Pie — and Kris picked up a box of chocolate Zingers.

“You don’t have any Sno-Balls,” I told the clerk when we went to pay.

She seemed a little daft, a little slow. “No. No,” she said. “We had them yesterday. You should have been here yesterday.”

“I love Sno-Balls,” I told her in a low, confidential tone, “but I always wonder if I’m the only one. They’re often sold out wherever I go. I wonder: are they sold out because they’re popular, or are they sold out because they’re unpopular?”

“Well, the boss used to order more of them,” she told me, “but we couldn’t sell them all. Now she don’t order as much, and it seems we always run out. I wouldn’t be surprised if people was stocking up because they know we don’t have enough.” A run on Sno-Balls!

“But you do get them in from time-to-time, don’t you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I don’t know which days we get them, but we do get them in.” Then she changed her mind. “Well, Tuesday is Sno-Ball day.”

“Tuesday is Sno-Ball day?”

“Yes, Tuesday is Sno-Ball day. We always have Sno-Balls on Tuesday. All day long.” I thanked the woman, and we left.

“We should remember this place,” Kris said. “We should come here on our way to Bend.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Just think: we’d be the most popular couple if we brought a couple of boxes of Suzy Qs and Twinkies.”

“Can I have a bite of your chocolate Zinger?” I asked as we drove home. “I’ve never had one before.” I was impresseed. Compared to the non-chocolatey nature of other Hostess products — Ding-Dongs are the worst — Zingers are actually pretty good.

My cherry Fruit Pie was better. All 470 calories, all 22g of fat (11g of which are saturated), and all 35g of sugar.

But what I was really thinking was, “I’ll be back. Next Tuesday is Sno-Ball day.”

Comments

On 06 April 2005 (08:12 PM),
Kim said:

JD, It’s funny you should write about Hostess today. I logged on to your site to tell you that today is the anniversary of the Hostess Twinkie. The first one was made on this day in 1931. I can’t say I join you in your enthusiasm for Sno-balls or Hostess products in general. I think the last time I had one was in High School when I’d occasionally buy myself a fruit pie.

On 06 April 2005 (10:20 PM),
Kristin said:

Funny, indeed. Kim and I happened to be discussing your love of Hostess products while T and Tonio were having swimming lessons. Neither of us could recall your favorite. Now we know. I do remember your nutritious high school fruit pie-and-soda lunches.

On 07 April 2005 (06:51 AM),
J.D. said:

In high school, there was no question: Suzy Qs were my favorite. I loved the luscious chocolate sponge cake and the soft, creamy filling. I haven’t had a Suzy Q in over a decade now. Now my favorite Hostess treat is the coconutty Sno-Ball. I didn’t get this chubby without a little help from these snack products! :)

I know I’ve mentioned it before, but just for fun I’ll mention it again:

In high school, Kristin used to chide me for my poor diet. She warned that constant consumption of Suzy Qs and Twinkies couldn’t be good. My oh-so-clever response was that no, on the contrary, this diet was very good for me. In fact, what I was doing was conditioning my body to take Hostess products as nutrition. In fact, my goal was to make things like carrot sticks the equivalent of junk food for my body. I thought I was pretty funny…

On 07 April 2005 (08:51 AM),
Courtney said:

With all the Hostess products you’ve consumed, and all the preservatives, you should have a very long shelf life!

On 07 April 2005 (12:35 PM),
Lisa said:

Mmmmm! If I were at a Hostess outlet, I’d head straight for the lemon fruit pies (a.k.a. cardboard pie). Come to think of it, I haven’t had one of those in far too long…

On 07 April 2005 (05:50 PM),
Amy Jo said:

I used to have an affinity for chocolate donut gems in all their fried, waxy artifical chocolate glory . . . They don’t sound so good now days . . .

On 08 April 2005 (06:18 AM),
bill said:

gee golly! a Krispy Kreme does’nt stand a chance.but one would have to stop and wash ones sticky paws on the way to Bend. decisions -decisions -decisions!

On 08 April 2005 (06:18 AM),
bill said:

gee golly! a Krispy Kreme does’nt stand a chance.but one would have to stop and wash ones sticky paws on the way to Bend. decisions -decisions -decisions!

On 08 April 2005 (07:05 PM),
Lynn said:

When we were young, my brothers loved those fruit pies. Once, when we were driving somewhere, my mother pointed out the rear window of our car and announced, “Look it’s the Bains.” I assumed she was speaking of the two fruit pies in the back window that one of my brothers had brought along, but she was in fact speaking of another family that passed us in their car. So, we called Host fruit pies Bains for the remainder of my childhood. In fact, it’s difficult for me to say fruit pies when I really want to say Bains. I hope you enjoyed your Bain, JD.

Brushless Shave Cream

Prologue
I have a bad habit of putting off my haircuts. I’m not sure why I do this since I love having my hair cut — it’s a very sensual experience — but I often go six weeks or longer between haircuts.

I prefer old-fashioned barber shops, the kinds with gossipy old men standing around telling stories about hunting and fishing and the kid who burned down the old barn last Saturday.

Choose from a selection of shaving cream and shaving sets for your hair care needs. We can remove hair too

Story
I’ve been going to the same barber shop in Canby all my life. This shop added a new barber recently. Before Christmas, when he cut my hair for the first time, I was pleased that he wasn’t too talkative. I may enjoy the shop conversation, but I don’t necessarily want to participate in it.

Toward the end of the cut, the new barber raised my chin and examined my neck. “You have trouble shaving, don’t you?” he said. I nodded. “I thought so. Ingrown hairs. I have the same trouble. You know, what you need is the brushless shave cream that I use. It’s great stuff. Gives you the smoothest, closest shave and no ingrown hairs. We don’t have any here — I used to get it in at my old place — but I’ll have some for you next time.”

I left the shop and promptly forgot about the conversation. In mid-January, I had my hair cut at the place in Oak Grove. (It’s an old-fashioned shop, too, with three gruff old guys cutting hair while they watch Perry Mason and ESPN — they flip channels during commercials. On the day I had my hair cut, Perry was exposing a man who had driven his car backward to take miles off the odometer, and ESPN was showing a cross-country bike race.)

Last week, I went back to Canby to have my hair cut. I drew the new guy again. (At these types of shops, you take whichever barber comes up, or you can defer your place in line to have a specific fellow cut your hair.) He didn’t ask me how I wanted my hair cut, so I started to tell him: “Clipper cut on the side with a four, but longer on top, just—”

“I know,” he said. “I remember. I cut it last time, didn’t I?”

“Er, yeah,” I said. No barber ever remembers how to cut my hair, even after they’ve done it a zillion times. I figure they have far too many clients to remember how some anonymous guy likes his hair done.

The old guy cut my hair, and I listened to the talk about Dr. Kevorkian, recent land annexations in town, and the Iditarod. (One of the barbers, Howard, is a big fan of the Iditarod.) My mind entered a Happy Place.

Eventually, my barber started talking. “So, I got some of that brushless shave cream in,” he said.

“What?” I said.

He explained. “Last time you were in here, I told you about this brushless shave cream. You have trouble shaving.” He gently ran his finger under my chin. “Your skin gets irritated. You’re shaving too close, and you cut the whiskers off below the skin. I ordered this brushless shave cream for you.”

“Oh. Since the last time I was in, I’ve been trying to use an electric shaver,” I said. “But it doesn’t really work.”

My barber stopped cutting my hair. He was horrified. “You don’t want to use one of those. They’re awful. They chew your skin up. No, you need this stuff.”

He walked to the back room and came back with a big pink tub. He unscrewed the cap and held the tub for me to sniff. It smelled medicinal, almost like Icy-Hot.

“This stuff is great,” he said. He took a dab of it and rubbed it on my neck. “You don’t need a lot. Just a thin film. You don’t want to lather it up. If you need a lather, use a bar of soap. You apply a thin film of this and it makes your skin extra smooth. Feel it.”

I felt it.

“Now stand up,” he said, removing the hair cloak (what are those things called, anyhow?). I stood and followed him to a mirror. He lifted my chin and pointed. “Look at those hairs. See how they’re standing on end? You want to leave this stuff on for ten seconds, thirty seconds, even longer. The longer you leave it on, the more your hairs will stand up, the closer shave you’ll get.”

He motioned for me to sit back down so that he could finish the haircut.

“You don’t have to buy this,” he said. “And if you do buy it, and you don’t like it, just bring it back. I’ll give you your money back.”

I was dumbfounded by the whole exchange.

I left the man a large tip. I would have tipped him even more but (a) he didn’t trim my ear-hair and (b) the blade with which he shaved the back of my neck was rough, so that it felt like he was scraping it with sandpaper.

Epilogue
“I’ll see you next month,” my barber said as I put on my jacket.

“Yeah,” I said, but then I caught myself. “Actually, I guess not. Every April, I spend a weekend in Bend with some guys. I get my hair cut there every year.”

The other barbers perked up. I was the only customer in the shop by now. “Where do you get your hair cut?” asked Howard. He and I have had this conversation before, but apparently he’d forgotten.

“At the Metropolitan,” I said. “I love that place. Also, the guy who used to own this place — Jerry — he works there.”

Howard beamed. He went to his drawer and dug out a newspaper clipping from the Bend Bulletin. It was an article about Jerry and another guy. They’d left The Metropolitan and opened their own barber shop one street over. Their trick is that they serve you beer while they cut your hair.

“That’s going to be rough,” I said. “Now I’ll have to choose. I love the Metropolitan, but Jerry’s been cutting my hair since I was a boy. My family once traded a parrot to him for a hundred haircuts.”

“No shit!” said Howard. “That was you? Jerry loved that bird.” I’d already told him this at least once, possibly twice, and yet it was as if it were new information. Still, I don’t hold it against him. I know how my memory is.

I’ll bet the new barber will remember every detail of the conversation, though…

Comments

On 21 March 2005 (09:13 AM),
Rich R said:

I use a Kiehl’s product. It is also a brushless cream. I started using it over a year ago (along with sereral other Kiehl’s products) and it has changed my face. I get great close results with almost no irritation.

On 22 March 2005 (07:55 AM),
mac said:

So, does the stuff work j.d.? If it does, i’m going to the barber in Canby on Monday after school!

On 22 March 2005 (07:59 AM),
jenefer said:

I’ll be waiting for a review of the shaving before I get some for Bob and Adam. Don’t forget.

On 22 March 2005 (08:02 AM),
J.D. said:

I’m still testing it, Mackenzie.

I’ve shaved with it twice now. The first time, I had a thick ten-day’s beard that I thinned first with the beard trimmer. I shaved after showering. I applied the brushless shave cream in a thin layer, and it made my face tingle just a little. I let it rest for half a minute, then shaved. It worked very well on the firmer parts of my face, but less well on my neck. My neck still felt raw during and just after shaving. When I’d finished, I applied a second thin coat of the stuff as an after-shave.

The neck irritation faded with time and seemed to leave no lasting blemish. The shave was smooth. Very smooth.

I shaved again after 36 hours, which is very quick for me. (Because shaving bothers my skin, I often shave only once a week. Twice a week is a quick turnaround.) This time, I suffered more irritation, especially on the neck. I would have suffered more irritation with any other cream, though.

Tomorrow morning will be 48 hours since my last shave, and I’ll try the stuff again. Based on its performance so far, it may actually do the trick. I like it. I’m not completely sold yet, but I could be after a few more uses.

On 23 March 2005 (03:07 AM),
molliwogg said:

Does anyone know if this product is appropriate for a lady’s more delicate areas?

The Decemberists (Live in Concert, 2005 Edition)

Update: the Decemberists have released a BitTorrent of their latest video, 16 Military Wives. It’s a great song!

My favorite Portland band, The Decemberists, play a show at the Crystal Ballroom tonight. I won’t be able to catch the concert, but I did see them on last night in Eugene, the first stop on their new tour.

The Decemberists have a new album due out Tuesday, which means you can be sure of one more entry on them before the end of the month. Previous entries on The Decemberists include: The Decemberists, The Decemberists (Live in Concert), Red Right Ankle, and The Decemberists (recorded live from KEXP).

I drove to Eugene on a cold and blustery afternoon which featured the first rain the valley has received in nearly a month. I had a warm and hearty meal with Paul and Susan (about which more tomorrow), and then we headed to the show.

As we walked into the Woodworkers of the World meeting hall, I was startled to hear somebody say “hey” to me. There stood Tom Denton, whom I mentioned yesterday as the supplier of one of the songs for my latest mix. He’s the only other person I know in Eugene besides Paul and Susan; what are the odds that I’d run into him at this concert?

The Woodworkers of the World meeting hall (or Wowhall) is a smallish, boxish sort of room, perfect for a mid-week concert aimed at college kids. The space held a few hundred people, most of whom were dressed in what must pass for the latest in fashion: dirty clothes and pierced lips. (I hadn’t realized that piercings were still so popular. It seemed that everyone present was required to have some part of their head pierced, and preferably multiple parts. I saw one guy with two studs in his upper lip; it looked like he had fangs. I felt naked.)

By design, we missed the opening act. In fact, we arrived just as The Decemberists were taking the stage. The crowd cheered. Toward the front, some bozo with a digital SLR took photo after photo after photo. Flash flash flash. (This went on for the entire show.)

Colin Meloy, the band’s lead singer, has an easy, jocular repartee with an audience. He’s chatty. “Ah, Eugene,” he said. “I went to school here.” And, of course, the crowd loved it. “Isn’t it finals week?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be back at the dorm studying?”

The group began the show with the ever-bouncy “Billy Liar”:

Billy Liar’s got his hands in his pockets
Staring over at the neighbor’s, knickers down.
He’s got his knickers down.

They played old favorites, of course, but also featured a fine sampling of stuff from the new album. I’ll admit that I didn’t care for all of it, but some of the songs — “Mariner’s Revenge Song”, “Sixteen Military Wives” — were classic Decemberists. (Which means precious clever lyrics, bouncy strings, a smattering of accordion, and lots of songs with nautical themes.)

Midway through the show, Colin made an announcement. “We’re going to do a cover song,” he said. “We’ve never done this live before. Ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Petra Haden.” (The group made some lineup changes recently, adding Petra as vocalist and violinist. This was her first show with the group.

Paul leaned over to me: “Hounds of Love,” he said, referring to a twenty-three-year-old Kate Bush song.

“Ha ha,” we laughed at Paul’s silly joke.

Our laughing faded quickly as we were shocked to hear the tinkling piano that marks the beginning “Wuthering Heights”. It wasn’t “Hounds of Love”, but it was a Kate Bush song. How strange is that? Stranger still was that Petra did a marvelous job with the song. “Wuthering Heights” is difficult, yet she nailed it. The crowd roared, giving the biggest applause they’d give all night. (I wanted to shout “Petra rocks!” — about as clever a pun as I’ll ever devise on my own — but the crowd was too loud, we were too far back from the stage, and I was too shy.)

It was a great show. The Decemberists shine in live performance, especially in a small venue like the Wowhall. For a time, I hoped to catch them again the following night at the Crystal Ballroom in Portland, but it just didn’t work out.

Will the band ever become truly popular? I doubt it. They’re too smart. But they’re certainly worth a listen if you’ve never heard them before. Amazon has all their albums for sale, including the newest, Picaresque; their last album, Her Majesty, which is loaded with great songs; and their first album, Castaways and Cutouts, which is perhaps less mannered and more easily accessible.