As many of you know, I have decided to give up most forms of alcohol for Lent. You would know this because of the obscenely big deal I have made about it on all social media outlets, since apparently I drink more than I realize. I left room for a glass of wine here or there just to avoid a total rebellion 10 days in. I am going to use the pain I am in as my excuse for wine.
In addition to beer and hard alcohol, I have decided, just this morning, to take a 33 day break from shopping as well. This is by far MUCH harder than the drinking. I am not sure if I should be terribly ashamed or congratulate myself for being less of an ALCOholic than a SHOPoholic. The 33 day thing started with Shonda. I blame her. She told me that it takes 33 days to form a habit, so she gave up fried food, pop and fast food for 33 days. She was really good about it. I decided to join her, but I cheated a bit. I didn't help that I was in Hawaii for part of it. And everyone knows when you are traveling over oceans it is a requirement of all American Citizens to taste McDonalds in other places, even if those overseas places are still American Places. Hawaiian McDonalds is just as good as mainland, in case you were wondering (and now I am craving french fries. Hey, that 33 days is up!). I am not sure where the 33 day thing came from, because I had always heard it was 3 weeks, or 21 days to form a new habit (at least that's what they said in those read-your-bible-daily programs), which sounds slightly less panic inducing than giving up shopping for 33 whole days. Like 12 days less panicky. But I can do 33 days. I can. I think I can. I think I can, I think I can. And wouldn't my husband be tickled pink?
It ticks me off a little that he called before I had a chance to publish this blog to tell me that our "accountant" (who doubles as his ongoing employer and biggest fan) has established that I do too much "frivolous" spending and should be cut off from the real household accounts and left to fend for my own with whatever income I can generate while Josh takes care of all of the real living expenses. I would be a little bit hurt, except I know that A) our accountant is TOTALLY biased on Josh's side about the frivolous thing B) Josh TOTALLY padded the numbers of the "frivolous" spending (as if toilet paper is frivolous) and C) that means I get any money I can make on my own to blow. Really, it's not a bad deal. Especially if Josh quits pilfering from my fun money to pay the stupid bills. :) I am so totally spoiled. But he did point out, before we were even married, that I didn't even make enough money to really contribute, therefore my income would be considered play (i.e. fake?) money. I have reminded him of this comment at least weekly since our union. None of this fiscal renovation is helping me with my resolve to become financially independent-able (which means if Josh electrocutes himself replacing a 40 amp breaker, I can still pay the bills) OR to quit shopping. It feels something like a pat on the head and a 5 dollar bill for cleaning up the pile of garbage in the back yard. "Go buy yourself some jelly shoes!" Brings me right back to 1988. I should probably be more offended. But I'm really not.
I went, against my better judgement, along with Josh's strong advice yesterday and took the kids to open swim at the public pool so that I could sit in the hot tub there. We have an ongoing disagreement about the disgustingness of the public hot tub - people stew I call it, and when you watch the comings and goings of various and assorted weirdos, it's somewhat terrifying. I am glad they use enough chlorine to burn your eyelashes off and make your skin peel, but I feel like the hot water kills any germ annihilating properties that chlorine has. Like heat kills bleach, duh. I had to turn my brain off to get in yesterday, especially because it was standing room only, being a holiday, and the place was packed with kids who were elated to not be in school. The pool actually had to post a no-one-under-16 sign at the hot tub because it was just too crowded. I will attribute most of the crowding to three very nice but very large individuals that took up one entire fourth of the tub and were there before I got in and after I left. I managed to get a jet after waiting in line for about 20 minutes. Lines in Jacuzzis are a little weird because it's kind of like a human train of awkward, half naked people staring at the people on the wall and trying to seem uncomfortable enough that the sitters feel bad and want to go get in the cold, child-filled pool and get splashed in the face a lot. When I finally got my jet I refused to make eye contact, or even face any of the line-waiters because I simply wasn't willing to be guilted into moving. Halle was in the hot tub as well because, as everyone knows, she is 16 now. She was feeling a little uncomfortable because she happened to get back from skiing as we were headed to the pool and didn't have her swim suit so she was swimming in her spandex ski shorts and a t-shirt. I am not sure why she felt awkward since this is nearly identical to what she normally wears swimming. I guess the idea that she had underwear on under he spandex was kind of freaking her out, and she was hoping that no one would guess that. All said and done I got at least a half hour on the jet and I think that that honestly helped with my pain more than anything has in a long time. I am afraid that telling Josh that and insisting we get our own hot tub will evolve into his insistence that it is more fiscally responsible to stew with the other people at the public one and pressure me into melting my eyelashes off more often. As my pain level starts creeping up, the eyelashes seem less important. But MAN would I give my left arm, or definitely my diseased uterus, for a little hot tub in the back yard. At least that people stew would only have ingredients that I allow. (Halle, you're out.) Now that I am going to be in charge of the play money, maybe I will just buy my own hot tub. Then I could sit in my back yard twice a day with a glass of (not contraband) red wine and some french fries and think about all the shopping I am not doing. Sounds like heaven to me.
