Column: Sunny Saturday gives Black Friday a run for its money

By Margi Washburn

I love bazaars. They’re uplifting, colorful, the aromas make my mouth water, and there are smiling faces almost everywhere.

Today is supposedly the busiest shopping day of the year. Black Friday, they call it, but I prefer what I call Sunny Saturday. Most holiday bazaars fall on a Saturday, after all, and it makes for a great opportunity to find unique Christmas gifts.

In our family, we eagerly look forward to dragging ourselves out from under warm covers, splashing cold water on our faces, ramming a comb through tangled hair and donning layers of clothing so we can stuff ourselves into our car, park a mile away from our destination, and hoof it to the front door with our breath puffing out in front leading the way.

Just kidding. We really do look forward to these times together. It’s just that last Saturday, someone who shall remain nameless, kind of slept in and didn’t fully open their sleepy eyeballs until the driver honked the horn in the driveway beneath the bedroom window.

At first, the driver, who was the most recently invited, thought that this was some kind of dirty trick. She used her cell phone to call the third person in this trio to ask if she was ready to go. I, of course, had been up since before 5 a.m. and had been ready for nearly an hour and a half. The bazaar had started at 7, and it was now 7:20.

I suggested the driver come get me, then we’d go back and pick up Mrs. Sleepy. We did, and we apparently didn’t miss too much at our first stop. We walked out with delectable goodies, some gifts for the littlest ones, and a much-coveted cookbook with Kewaneean Dorothy Atwell’s recipes.

The next bazaar didn’t begin until 9, so we went off to have breakfast. After plenty of coffee, we discussed high finance, as in: “How much cash do you have? Do they take checks? I don’t want to write a check for every little thing.” The one who had the most cash in her purse generously doled out some to the other two. And we were off.

We circled the site a couple of times, then the driver dropped us at the front door and went off to find a place to park. She asked us to wait inside the front door for her so we could synchronize our meeting times. We promised we would, then both of us promptly went in search of the restrooms. I made it back in time to tattle on the other one for running off.

I knew we’d be inside this glorious place for well over an hour. The three of us met and caught up with folks we hadn’t seen in too long a time. We hugged, laughed, talked and shopped. We took the time to check out each vendor and we were deeply impressed by the hard work they obviously put into their craft.

Eventually the three of us ended up at one of the tables where we sat to collect our thoughts and decided whether we’d seen everything yet. I had a ball watching people shop and talk, enjoying themselves and the atmosphere of a holiday bazaar.

We eventually went our separate ways. Hubby and I went to an auction, and on our stroll up West Central Boulevard, we came across a trio of sassy squirrels. I got some great photos before we headed home.

We found out later over coffee in our homes, the bakers outdid themselves again. I can only imagine how much their families and friends look forward to a visit from these folks. And it isn’t just their cookies, pies, cakes and breads that impressed me; these people are good-hearted and friendly, and it shows.

There may be one or two bazaars left before Christmas, and we’ll probably go to them simply because the memories of the time we spend together is the perfect gift.

Still, I may run into a few of you this morning because it’s awfully hard to pass up a good sale, and those times can make for good memories too.

Column: It was the tightwad versus the big baby

By Margi Washburn

(Sunset over Veterans Park in Kewanee - if only the camera could have captured its true beauty.)

I’m a tad past middle age and I still haven’t learned that one shouldn’t assume anything.
For instance, I assumed that if any of our appliances went on the fritz, we would do quite a bit of grumbling to each other, lament our predicament in front of family and friends so they would show deep concern, and then we’d cancel eating out for the next six months and go out and buy what we desperately needed.
Will I never learn?
You know, of course, that we went through the refrigerator meltdown a few weeks back. The auction we attended and all upcoming such events showed nary a fridge. And so began the shopping.
I’ll tell you one thing. I was under the impression that guys don’t like to shop. They know what they want, they grab their car keys, drive to the store, stomp in, buy what they need and head straight for home. No stopping for breakfast or even coffee because they’re on a mission.
Well, let’s clear something up. That’s the biggest misconception out there. Hubby price-compared until I wanted to smack him upside the head.
We got tips from well-meaning friends, and we checked those out, too. One memorable Sunday, we were headed to Galesburg to check out Sears because the night before they had a terrific sale on appliances. Guess what? The very next day, the sale was off. I could feel my eyes stinging.
After wandering around for a few minutes, we found a willing clerk who cleverly explained that we were lucky we’d missed the latest sale because the appliances were actually cheaper now than they were the day before. I wondered if the two of us had the word stupid written on our foreheads.
But then the world got a whole lot brighter. “How desperate are you? Can you wait one more week?” My smile froze, yet my head was nodding because she looked like she was bursting to tell us a big secret.
“Next Sunday night we’re having a friends and family sale from 6 to 9.” She pointed to the refrigerator we wanted. “This model will be 30 percent off. Well, actually 27 percent because of the way we figure it.” She stopped talking and waited for us to process the good news.
I was thinking that I would take the figures back to Kewanee, show local businesses this great deal and we’d get our fridge right away. We could haul it ourselves and save money.
Hubby, on the other hand, was thinking that this was it. We’d wait, and continue using the dorm refrigerator that was taking up valuable counter space.
I opened my mouth first. “OK,” I said, “what about delivery?” After punching in our zip code, we got more good news: it would cost another $65 and we’d have to wait until the following Friday to get delivery. My mind was made up.
And so was hubby’s. He thought that was a fine idea, and off we went with the promise to return in a week.
I couldn’t talk over the lump in my throat, and instead of sympathizing, I was roundly criticized for not having any patience. No argument there, but I was tired of being without a major appliance.
The next two days I called around and tried to find someone to match the price, but no one could. Notice I didn’t use the word “would”; the price we got was simply too good.
I asked good friends what they thought. They were quick to sympathize and tell me that hubby was wrong, that we should just slap down the money and get our fridge here. But someone refused to budge, and that led to a few slamming doors whenever I’d leave the house muttering that someone was a “fat-headed tightwad.” Little did I know that he had a nickname for me.
I’m sure you ladies can remember how tears used to move your hubby to change his mind and give you your way. That doesn’t work forever. And when I finally admitted what I was calling him outside of earshot, he told me that he was calling me a big baby. Imagine that.
Sunday did indeed come, and he went over to pay for the fridge. He took the truck and brought that gorgeous appliance home himself because he said he felt it was his turn to compromise. If I could wait that long for the best bargain, he said, then he could take care of the rest.
I’ll spare you the Laurel and Hardy routine that ensued Sunday night when I tried to help hubby haul in our newest appliance. He managed to get the thing inside and hooked up in spite of my help, and the next morning I poured a cup of coffee, sat at the table and turned to stare and smile at the shiny, new refrigerator.
Oh, and by the way, I noticed that two of the auctions this week each have a refrigerator for sale. Like they say, timing is everything.

Extra: an observation, or two or three

I guess I'm kind of tired. Physically, yes, but also mentally because things have been so blasted tough financially lately.
We're not only watching our own checkbook take a beating, but we're keeping tabs on hubby's mom, too. Dad went on ahead of us almost four years ago, and mom's income went down - a lot. But her expenses kept chugging along, and she's added more prescriptions due to a mini-stroke and a mild heart attack (probably brought on by the stress of having so much less income.) Sigh.
She worries too much about being unable to buy Christmas presents for her family. No matter how much we reassure her that we're all in the same sinking boat, she's of a generation that took great pride in taking care of themselves and everyone else, if need be.
We're hurting too, and can't help much. Winter's around the corner, along with high heating bills, colds, flu, pneumonia (mom gets her share of those during the winter, thanks mostly to her grandkids visiting while they're sick). Mom's like many of us: too much month left at the end of the money - and it's not at all funny.
I'm thankful that mom has a dear friend she met at church. He takes very good care of her, though she refuses his money, but he brings her to his house for supper almost every night. They watch movies, listen to "their kind" of music, and reminisce about the Olden Days.
Right now, though, I'm half-listening to the news. They're talking about the sinking stock market, a family with no health insurance, and a multitude of other horrendous news that is enough to make a person want to crawl inside a hole, pull the cover over yourself and never come out.
This, too, isn't a very uplifting message. That means it's time to slow down, get quiet and tune back into our prayer life. To reach out into the future we cannot see and pull out promises that our life will, indeed, get better.
See you later, dear reader.

Column: "Fat people gotta go. They're contagious"

(Denny Crane, attorney, on Boston Legal)

By Margi Washburn

There used to be what some of us girls call a “foo-foo” restaurant downtown on the corner of Tremont and Third. Posies and Pies had a proprietor named Pat, and served some of the best pie I’ve ever eaten.

I popped in about twice a week and usually ordered a burnt hamburger with extra pickles, fries, a diet Coke and a piece of pie. Whenever Pat got my order, she’d yell out, “I know who’s here!” I loved that place.

One day I was sitting there, my food freshly delivered, when a quartet of slim, well-dressed men and women arrived. As they passed my table, the two women glanced at my lunch and made a face. I know that face.

Basically it says that the person ordering that kind of meal is destroying their body and probably deserves to look lumpy and out of shape. I could’ve predicted the four of them would order small salads with their dressing on the side, and that’s what they did.

I’ve always cared a little too much what others think, and that day was no different. I could feel their eyes upon me and suddenly I wanted to be anywhere else. Then things took an interesting turn.

That was back in the day, as they say, when smokers were welcome to light up just about anywhere, and that is exactly what at least one of these folks did. The smoke glided up and over and made its way to my table.

Now I’m not knocking smokers; in fact, I second-hand smoke almost two packs a day myself. I’m just saying, why don’t folks who criticize big people take a good, long look at their own life and lifestyle before passing judgment on others?

I guess what got this whole thing started was when I heard some (ahem) well-meaning folks point out that certain elected officials and some city employees were, well, fat. They didn’t couch their comments in politically-correct terms, and they insisted that their observations were influenced by the latest reports on obesity. No one came to the defense of these people, and my own face turned red on their behalf.

I put that episode out of my mind, and wouldn’t you know it, something happened over the weekend to bring it back to mind. We were in Davenport and I was meandering through a mega-store’s electronics department. I love technology, and my eyesight isn’t all that great, and I carry a big purse. Add it up: big woman, big purse and putting my face a little too close to the merchandise and pretty soon you realize you’re being followed around by a nervous young clerk who thinks you’re going to run off with the store’s goodies. He may as well have announced over the public address system: “Fat woman with big purse in aisle 3!” He seemed much more relaxed when I walked away and no alarms went off.

I’ve walked into upscale clothing stores with slim family members and friends, and while the clerks are polite, I’ve noticed that they steer me toward a chair to wait while they attend to the others.

Then, there’s the on-going fictionalized case of the employee fired by William Shatner’s Denny Crane character on Boston Legal. The reason? She’s fat, says Denny, and he claims he has the gene that will do the same to him if he doesn’t get rid of the woman. He told his best friend Alan that fat people have to go, that they’re contagious. Then he asks Alan to defend him in the upcoming court case. This I have to see.

I’ll be tuned in next Tuesday night at 9 p.m. because I have to find out if there is a defense for treating overweight people with disrespect. Who knows? Maybe all of the perfect people out there in the world who have no bad habits or room for improvement can teach us folks a thing or two.

Or, perhaps we can finally get through to some of them and they’ll understand that we are so much more than our appearance. It’s just that our faults are a bit more visible than theirs.

Column: To freeze or not to freeze, that is the question

I wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression. Hubby and I don’t have week after week full of trials and tribulations. This is where I should add that it just seems that way.

Not long ago, fellow columnist Diane went through the Refrigerator Blues and now it’s our turn. You know how it is when you reach in and notice that the can of soda isn’t quite as cold as it used to be. But I have to admit, we had some warning.

It started several weeks ago when I noticed puddles of water on the kitchen floor. My cynical mind focused on Sarah the pup, who, it turns out, is as innocent as the day is long. Besides, the puddle did appear to be plain old water.

We didn’t connect the occasional problem with our fridge because the two were physically far apart from one another. Yes, we know that water runs downhill, but who figures they have hills in their kitchen?

A couple of weeks ago we noticed more water and problems with the ice cubes. We’d put in a bag of ice, and within a day or two it would harden into a giant chunk that needed to be chipped. Apparently it was melting, leaking out onto the floor, puddling under the kitchen table, then the freezer would miraculously begin working again.

Well, we’re into serious business now. It seemed like a good idea to pull out the ol’ side-by-side and peer into its innards. No can do, because there’s a metal plate that covers the whole thing. We settled for using my rarely-used vacuum cleaner on any openings, pushed the fridge back and waited for the healing to begin.

Nuts. That didn’t work, as we found out the next morning as we slid through the welcoming puddle on our way to the coffee pot. Time for a more drastic measure.

I dug out the owner’s manual from deep inside the bowels of an old filing cabinet and found out the fridge is past its tenth birthday. Oh, and the warranty ran out seven years ago.

So, out came the air compressor with its handy-dandy attachment for blowing dust out of refrigerator coils at the speed of light. Of course we couldn’t see light, each other or much of anything else when hubby got done because of the severe indoor smog. We had years-old dust and gunk in our hair, on the cupboards, in the dog dishes and up our noses.

Surely after all of that effort and sacrifice we could count on a revitalized fridge. Once again, we were sadly mistaken.

Then, the weather forecaster helped us out. The temps were to dip, so that made our front porch a temporary shelter for milk, leftover meatloaf, and even pop if we’d had any left. Apparently, in our frustration over the possibility of having to purchase a major appliance, we’d been hitting the soda pretty hard and now we were out. If we bought more, we had no ice to put in it, so it’s a good thing it was time for bed.

Hubby hauled the milk onto the porch, and since the bottom part of both the fridge and the freezer were decently cold, we moved other foods south. We left a glass of water inside the freezer on the middle shelf, and another on the bottom.

We skirted the small puddle the next morning and opened the freezer. The water in the middle was cold, but still water, and the glass on the bottom was frozen. Interesting.

It was Sunday, and we found an auction that listed just about everything you can imagine, but no fridge. We knew we should wait and see what the repair technician would tell us on Monday, and we knew that would cost $50, yet there was a possibility it wouldn’t cost all that much to fix what we already owned. We’re the impatient types, so off we went to the auction, and true to their word, there was no fridge. We headed home to eat up leftovers and worry what the next day would bring.

Guess what? Monday morning brought good news. The fridge seemed to be recouping its losses, and we were thrilled. Still, we kept the borrowed dorm fridge – just in case. And I canceled the service call, since the future looked rosy.

Tuesday morning there was still no puddle, but now the middle glass of ice was floating in a bit of water.

I’m not positive, but I think our refrigerator is of the female persuasion. She keeps changing her mind, and messing with ours. Now I wonder if I should change mine and call the repairman.
Maybe I won’t need to worry about it. In a week or so, I can roll the whole shebang onto the front porch and use the free frigid air we’re supposed to get.

Cool.