Dogs or Dollars

Why I’m Not Writing

dogsordollars — Wed, 15 May 2013 11:23:51 +0000

I will make no promises to ‘be better’. I’m not saying I’m back at it. I am not reformed. I probably won’t even try harder. However, I will acknowledge I haven’t written shit. In weeks. And I haven’t had much desire to. I’ve got some theories on that. Namely, that I’m still pregnant. Sure, its the final countdown. Weeks, just weeks. Weeks unto days. Give or take. Strike that. I can neither give nor take them. I can only eat lots of spicy food, continue to move as much as I am physically and emotionally able, and prepare. Another continuation. The dogs might be ready (as ready as they are gonna be), but are we?

Instead of writing, that is what I’ve been doing. In all its various forms.

There’s a baby room. It’s mostly complete. Not ready for Pinterest, but let’s face it, infants don’t really thrive on the whole ‘a room of my own thing’ anyway. More importantly, this kid will have a place to sleep. We’ll have the equipment to change dirty diapers for clean.

Maybe even provide a little enrichment and visual stimulus.

Oh, and feed him. He’ll manage to be fed.

All this despite, my best efforts, has cost more than I thought it would. UNsurprised am I. I resisted buying into baby for a long time. I worked on goals. (Accomplished, for those playing along at home.) I saved. I delayed. I plotted and planned. But, the last month or so I’ve had to let down my guard. Even if I’ve got amazing, generous friends to throw me the shower to end all showers, certain things must be bought. Perhaps not a new stitch of clothing – consignment is awesome – but bottles and pacifiers, a spray bottle for reusable butt wipe facilitation, crib mattress for our hand me down crib, diaper cream (with ingredients I can mostly pronounce), things generally not found or not wanted second hand.

All this spending effects me. The loosening of the reigns tends to open the flood gates. To overtly mix metaphors there. Anti-consumer walls tumble. Crash down. Wallets open. Spending leads to more spending leads to more spending, and pretty soon…

The kokeshi you’ve coveted, that you’ve managed to find scant few of at every thrifting opportunity. (Exactly one, to be precise). Well, loosened spending, with a little negotiated pricing, and suddenly it seems like a perfectly good time add a few to what has now become ‘a collection’. Buck the shackles of impending responsible parenthood, one last time. If only it had started and ended with wooden japanese dolls. It did not. That is all I will say.

But, even while I spend I save. Sort of.

I capitalize on the good weather and my obsession with the smell of line dried clothes.

Seriously. Dry your sheets outside, then give them a good sniff. Heaven. No artificial detergent need apply for comparison.

I work on projects for the baby room.

One of a couple that involves free wood and supplies found in my garage. $0. Plenty cute. Or they will be.

And I try (oh how I try) to appreciate what’s going on around me.

Growing garlic.

Looking so much better than last year’s. I must resist the urge to pluck and poke, hoping its done. Knowing its not.

Reacquainting myself with columnar.

Also in a far better state than just a year ago. Still, perhaps no apples. I’ll take blossoms. As a reminder, that the groundwork I laid, it’s working. That’s comforting. The hope that this year’s very different efforts will do the same.

So it’s not all bad. Yes, a bunch of money is being spent. Has been spent already. Curse you wooden dolls. Once upon a time that would have left me with fleeting feelings of elation. Now it just makes me uncomfortable. Traditionally money exits the building in times of big change – moving, new jobs, and apparently baby having. Being uncomfortable with that is OK. It reminds me how far I’ve come. It might get a little sloppy, but spending isn’t recreational. It’s delayed (sometimes a little too long) and batched and used to facilitate and prepare for the next phase of our life. It’s a tool. Just not one that particularly inspires me to write here.

At least not until I get back to my roots.

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Baby Proof your Dogs

dogsordollars — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 13:00:30 +0000

Dogs before children, chronologically speaking. It’s a common arrangement. Dogs are easier, cheaper, and less commitment than your own progeny. People are prone to have bliss-full, canine centric lives, before Junior shows up. People like me, who give dogs a 13 year head start on procreation. Over a decade of their lives, kid-free, let alone infant, baby, toddler free, which is a whole special subset if you ask the dog. Squirmy, loud, with poor impulse control, and developing motor skills. Sort of like dogs, but they grow out of it. Eventually.

Yet we expect our dogs to accept these new beings without question. Not just the new noises and smells from something they recognize as only vaguely humanoid, but a major shift in the pack and their lifestyle. Changed priorities. Newly unnaceptable behaviors, parts of the house off limits. Maybe they don’t get to sleep in the bed anymore. Maybe a bleary eyed new Mom or Dad pushes off or forgets the standard meal time. Maybe their spot on the couch is shifted slightly, if not gone altogether. We completely change the game. And if they don’t comply, we send them packing.

Well, some people do. I do not. I do crazy things. Like put small, elderly, (scruffy!), white dogs (who are still with us) into strollers and prance around my neighborhood with a veritable sled team in tow. See, I have been anticipating this adjustment for my dogs, just as I’ve been anticipating it for myself. There’s a heck of a lot I’m not going to know how to do. Same with the dogs. We are all going to need time to figure it out, together. In the meantime, as I prepare myself – with books, with childbirth classes, with gift registries and stocking up on essentials – I prepare my dogs. For the new world order. Life with baby. It scares me. I want it to be easier on them. So how do you teach a bunch of (mostly) old dogs the new trick of dealing with a baby?

Let the crying begin! Vocalized crying is the universal distress signal. It is designed to evoke a reaction in animals of any species. A reaction of ‘OMG, Whats going on?!’ and ‘How do I make it stop?’. So, it stresses everybody out. Until we get used to it. Until we figure out that ‘Red Alert!’ doesn’t actually mean Red Alert. It is perhaps an over reaction from somebody with a cold wet diaper, whose communication skills aren’t particularly great. But if your life hasn’t been filled with crying, how could you know that? As it turns out, You Tube is an excellent source of videos of babies crying. Who knew!? In order to ready the dogs, we’ve been taking a scenic tour of its offerings. At odd times. Babies crying when I get home from work. Babies crying in the morning. Babies crying upstairs, down stairs, while we lay in bed snuggling. Initially, as suspected, the dogs were most disturbed by these noises. There was pacing, whining, general discontent, which we ignored. We acted normal. We went about our business, and let the video play. The other night I popped up one such video during the quiet before bed time. I got a couple head raises, before they went back to snoozing. These sounds are no longer exciting. Will it translate to the real thing? Who knows for sure. But, it can’t hurt.

Equipment now. Babies come with stuff. Big stuff, little stuff, rolling stuff. (My stuff is used). Stuff my dogs haven’t experienced before. This is why I’ve insisted on setting up this stuff in central locations, not just hidden away in baby rooms, and leaving it there for a time. My controversial car seat? Sat in the living room for a week or so. As did our fancy (2nd hand) stroller, which we’ve then taken on walks with us, sans baby, but possibly with tiny, old dog. Just because. Yes, it has warranted us some interesting looks and commentary from passersby. I’d rather my dogs know and learn to disregard the equipment before it contains a baby I’m worried about protecting. Operation Empty Stroller is a complete success. Dogs will walk next to it calmly and politely for miles on end. All incoming supplies will go through a similar process. Although, I’m not planning to roll the crib around the neighborhood.

Who’s the boss? I admit it. We don’t spend a lot of time training anymore. My dogs know the essentials. At this stage it in the game, that’s really good enough. But in anticipation of the game changing, now’s the time for a little refresher. This is as much about establishing leadership, as it is rewarding behaviors you’ve perhaps taken for granted. I think about what will come in handy when I’m down and out and tired; a quick ‘come here’ or ‘kennel up’, ‘wait’ or ‘off’ even when they don’t necessarily want to. All things they’ll do of course, at a more leisurely speed than I may be hoping for. So we are running some speed drills, with treats flowing, so dogs remember I appreciate enthusiastic participation. We are also doing lots of sits just because, waiting for our dinner, and generally listening in all areas of the house. If nothing else it reminds them, I call the shots. Here’s hoping that will hold true when I havent showered or slept for days on end.

We prepare. We can’t possibly know how this is going to go. Other than that something will definitely go sideways. We can still put our best foot (feet? paws?) forward. Does talking about it a lot to my dogs help? Probably not. That’s an emotional thing. It feels good to tell them about the baby. It doesn’t actually benefit them much. Or at all. The fact remains, I’ve got a pack of rambunctious, shedding, barking, pooping monsters that live in my house. I’m hopelessly outnumbered, and that’s not going to change. In fact, in the adults vs. everyone else category I’m only adding to the deck stacked against me. The actual doing of things though, real preparation, that feels better and might actually be accomplishing something. At the very least, I’m pretty sure this is going to work. One way or another. The dogs won’t eat the baby.

Parents, Aunties, Child Guardians of all kinds, did you prepare your dogs? Care to share your tips and tricks? What worked? What didn’t?

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Adjust. Now.

dogsordollars — Tue, 02 Apr 2013 13:08:13 +0000

The last few weeks have been…”eventful”. Not in the traditional definition of that word. It’s not as if much is happening. Here I sit, 31-ish weeks, increasingly uncomfortable. I’ve begun referring to this as the doldrums of pregnancy. Still afloat, but not able to go much of anywhere in a hurry. By eventful I’m referring to the quiet death of Hope and Fake Budgets. Long ago mentioned, never followed up on, for precisely this reason. Yet, it stuck around for a long time. Long enough to look promising, really, really promising even. Bright and shiny and looming on horizons. Before snuffing out rather unceremoniously. But, that wasn’t even the event. The event was everything that came after.

Those are eggs in a basket. Of sorts. Get it?

Lingering hope is a dangerous thing. Lingering hope with the implications of being pregnant, a deadly combination. One can’t help but plan. That’s what this whole pregnant pause is about, isn’t it? Planning, preparing, readying yourself for a major life change. Until recently, we just happened to think ours was going to be two-fold. Now that it’s not, well… we aren’t exactly back to the drawing board. But, a big section just got erased. The events in all this? My reactions. The complete surprise at myself for how much hope I’d pinned, without really knowing it, and what the removal of that hope meant/means to me and my baby reality.

Corporate Servitude? Probably not going anywhere.

I’m going to let that stand on its own. I can look at those words now, without bursting into tears or a long string of cursing. And that’s progress. There’s still a chance things could change. There’s always a chance things could change. Barring that, some sort of life altering event, the unforeseen, not-looming kind, after a healthy time away I’ll join the ranks of working mothers. This is not what I wanted. It’s not that I am opposed to work. I always thought I would do that is some fashion or another. I rather hoped that the fashion would be of my choosing. Potentially involving more time here with you, with my baby, with my garden, with my dogs, and my chickens. Of a part-time, lower income nature. Less required so we can even survive variety. Corporate Servitude knows no end. Not for layoffs. Not for career changes. Not for babies.

So, what am I doing? I’m adjusting. Quick like. As quickly as anything can be done when your center of gravity has relocated to parts unknown. For a second there, things were sort of bleak. Like the initial return to Corporate Servitude bleak. This thing, this thing as it turns out I never really had but was nursing along in its compromised, imaginary state, it up and went poof on me. Turned to dust. Blew away. I didn’t really have it to begin with. As it turns out, that doesn’t make the pain of its loss any less acute. For me it’s a life different. Almost in my grasp, brushing it with fingertips. Taken away. Again. A little bit of devastation ensued. Rightfully so, if you ask me.

But, this is about the adjustment. We can wallow. And we should. Grieve. Lament. Curse your lot in life. Do it. It’s fruitful. Or it can be. As long as you move on. Mothers work outside the home. Lots of them. Worlds don’t end. Babies survive. It’s maybe not the way I think it should be, but it is the way it is. My baby will have a parent at home, which makes them luckier than many. It just won’t be me. Ouch. Ok, that still stings. Adjusting, adjusting. It’s not about me. That makes it ok, right? Yes. And no.

The useful part about all this has really been the fake budgets. High savings rates. Money hoarded. Living below our means. All that means options now. An extended and largely self-funded maternity leave. During which I’ll get to know my kid, provide them the best possible start in life, putter through the summer in a sleep deprived haze and hopefully establish some sort of routine. That’s a gift we’re giving ourselves. A pretty damn luxurious one at that. In this country. In this day and age. Not everyone has that option. Random people keep asking me if I’m still working. I find this question confusing and hilarious. As if I, we, most of us have any choice in the matter. If you are of the persuasion where money still has to be made (like me), that doesn’t actually stop with a swollen gut. In fact, it gets slightly more acute.

And after? After baby, after leave, after this is all actually my life-life, not my future-life, what will I do then? I’ll manufacture my own brand of hope. Primarily employing that fake budget exercise. I’ll wait it out a little. And I’ll have to take some risks. Use that stagnant, big fat emergency fund to further my lot in life. But mostly, I’ll make the best of it. I’ll adjust. We all will, really. This adjustment we know about. The 10,562+ others will probably be completely unanticipated.

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Buying into Baby

dogsordollars — Thu, 21 Mar 2013 13:00:10 +0000

There’s so much Stuff to buy for your kid!! Welcome to the pressure I’ve felt for the last 7 months. And I’m not talking on my bladder. No. Some people call it ‘nesting’. I call it a prime opportunity for our consumer culture to hoist a bunch of unnecessary crap your way. Short term crap, most of it. With an expiration date of a few years, if not months or even weeks in the the case of those newborn clothes. This is stuff you gotta have. At least some of it, but we ain’t talking life and death and heirlooms here. Oh, I’m sure I’ll tuck away a couple outfits and blankets for posterity. When it comes to breast pumps, nursing pillows, and pack-n-plays though, what do I much care?

The problem is people get a little nutty about baby stuff.

Exhibit A: Our car seat. Confession: It is second hand.

Crash. Boom. Bang. Gasp. Shoes dropping. Worlds ending. Indignant mothers ACTIVATE!

Dont I KNOW car seats can’t be second hand!? What if they’ve been in an accident? They have expiration dates FOR A REASON. Apparently, if past those dates the seat could completely disintegrate at ANY MOMENT! Car accidents happen! My child could be IN DANGER!

CALL PROTECTIVE SERVICES! STAT! This IS life and death!

Take a deep breath. Put down the phone. Disengage the IP tracking and photo identification in an attempt to locate the woman doing her unborn child a grave disservice. Hear me out.

The car seat came from my BFF, with whom I am in almost constant contact. If there is anyone on the planet earth who I would know has or has not been in a car accident, she is in the top two. In recent history, with or without the car seat, she has not. Then there’s the issue of that expiration date. Another fear not. This seat is less than 2 years old. Further, for at least the last 6 months of that, it has not been exposed to the major temperature swings that degrade the plastic as a result of living in car.

This car seat is fine. I am 100% not worried about it. It cost me $0. It is infant ready, which is more than I can say for the rest of our lives.

Yet, the reactions listed above aren’t actually much of an exaggeration from what I’ve experienced. I quickly learned not to mention used car seats. Except, ya know, here. It’s right up there with co-sleeping, vaccines, circumcision and breast feeding. A hot button issue, who knew? Guaranteed moral indignation. Lectures ensue. Common sense (and courtesy) seem to leave the building. Rapidly.

I get it. We all want to protect babies. Small, helpless, squalling, pudgy buddhas, incapable of looking out for themselves in any way. They are worthy of our protection. The worthiest even. We are programmed for this. Somewhere along the way though, that’s gotten a little mixed up. Reason has been stricken from the equation. Let’s just throw more money at it. Let’s buy shiny and new everything, because thats better. It must be safer, otherwise they wouldn’t make it. To the detriment of our planet and our pocket books. That is, our kids future. Just in case that car seat spontaneously disintegrates.

Never mind, everything recalled was new once upon a time. Pay no attention to the mounds of toys, swings, onesies, wipe warmers, disposable diapers, boppy pillows, and bassinets clogging up our Goodwills, consignment stores or, even worse, not rotting in our landfills. To justify not spending money at the risk of ‘endangering a child’ is wrong. Who can argue that? I wouldn’t. If I actually felt I was endangering my child. Instead of making smart use of the resources available to me. And not feeding into the culture of fear. The culture of fear that carefully feeds the culture of consumerism. Buy it for safety. Buy it just in case. Buy it because its the only baby you will ever have and you don’t want to fuck them up. Fight depravity as you keep that kid safe.

I’m not advocating for second hand car seats. There are concerns. Real ones, that despite the tongue in my cheek, do prominently feature life and death. My freebie second hand number addresses all those more than adequately, while still being both free and second hand. I am advocating thinking for yourself. That is, outside the box, beyond the lists of ‘have to’s’ and ‘musts’. If it doesn’t apply to you, then it doesn’t actually apply to you. Disregard. Trust yourself. Tuck that money away for a time when your kid really does need it.

But for God sakes, don’t bring it up in mixed company.

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Grocery Spending: Redemption

dogsordollars — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 13:00:05 +0000

That title makes this sound like the sequel to a bad action movie. And maybe it is. The first installment being the act of spending way too damn much, consistently on groceries. (Reference $750.) After some time away, we return to our storyline only to find our heroine (that’s me) singing a new, improved, slightly different tune. One that sounds a lot more like $500 a month.

That’s right. Grocery spending is down $250/month for the 3rd month running. That’s a big frickin’ deal, folks. Huge! $750 reprioritized dollars, SO FAR. Yet, I have not become an extreme coupon-er. I am not shopping at Safeway. Our changes have actually been quite small, cumulative in nature, and went surprisingly according to plan. Slow, time consuming, and somewhat bumpy plan, but one that’s coming together nonetheless.

Redemption through homemade yogurt? Not hardly. Yet, four quarts of yogurt for the cost of a gallon of milk remains one heck of a deal.

Bulk Buys. Much of this is perhaps not money saved. Its deferred spending. Some of you will remember the picture of my auxiliary freezer jam packed with a 1/2 cow, a whole pig, and a little bit of dog food. Despite our best efforts, we haven’t made much of a dent in our stockpile. The room we did free up has been recently occupied by a heck of a deal on whole organic chickens. I wrote a primer on the beauty of bulk-buying and I’ve only improved my ninja skills in that arena. This years cow and pig were cheaper than their predecessors, but just as yummy. Turns out when your weekly grocery list doesn’t include any meat, there is a corresponding drop in the over all total.

Food Preservation. All that insanity back in late summer/early fall is currently paying off. We eat a heck of a lot of egg salad sandwiches, yet I buy no pickles (or eggs for that matter). Simple weekend breakfasts (or weekday dinners) of the pancakes and bacon (or sausage) are only enhanced by the presence of homemade jam. There are tomatoes and tomato sauce a plenty for pizza, soups, casseroles, you pick. Apricot BBQ sauce goes nicely on a pork tenderloin. We’ve ketchup for all the potatoes you can fashion. I’m coming up with new uses for dried tomatoes. Most of the accouterments for any given meal can be found living quietly in the pantry. Fancy food. More deferred spending.

Farmer’s Market Be Gone. This was hard. Like emotionally hard. It’s also probably where I’ve gotten the most bang for my buck. I broke up with the Farmer’s Market. No more Sunday Morning special trips. No more chit chat with local purveyors. Comparison shopping in such a crowded, hurried venue was particularly challenging. So was planning. You weren’t ever sure what you would find and at what price, which could leave you in a meal plan or spending lurch. I love the atmosphere. I love the idea. It’s too rich for my blood. As soon as I gave it up, I noticed an immediate downward shift in my weekly spending. Perhaps I’ll go back during the harvest boom times, when crops are plenty and prices are (or should be) low. Even then, it will only be to facilitate more bulk buying.

Comparison Shopping. I’m not completely giving up my hippy-yuppy shopping experience. My markets are still earth toned, contain pictures of smiling farmers, and rate the happiness of their meat. Yes, I am aware much of that may be bullshit. I’m splitting the difference, and pitting the markets against each other. One less trip (sorry, Farmer’s Market) means more time to strategize and price shop. Bulk Peanut Butter, .50/lb cheaper at Local Market than CorporateFoods. Yet, CorporateFoods has way better deals on infinitely better produce. If I know this going in, I can plan one trip a week, instead of multiple stops, based on what we need, and the batching of other errands. Conveniently, both stores have their sales posted online, making much of this shopping exercise a lazy girl’s effort from the comfort of my armchair.

Not Done Yet. If you thought $750 was impossibly indulgent (it is), $500 for 2 people is still far from brag worthy. However, recent success has left me empowered. There are more changes to be made. Dare I say it? I’d like to get regular grocery shopping down to No-Spend levels. That is $400 a month. On the regular. An average of $100 week for 2, going on 3, people. This new low, should allow us to bank the difference between now and the upcoming season of preservation and bulk buying. I’ve set up a new ‘bulk’ budget category and I’m stashing small amount of money there in preparation. Next years livestock will be pre-funded.

What else? Is nothing sacred anymore? I’ve had some big savings by compromising time old traditions in the Dogs or Dollars household. Is it time to cut ties with my hippie-yuppy food purveyors entirely? Do I perhaps even need to go back to the ultimate bulk retailer? (Gasp) Maybe they’ve paid their dues, and I can go back to paying mine.

Any recent grocery spending epiphanies? I’d love to hear them.

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The Pet Gene

dogsordollars — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 13:00:08 +0000

Some people do not have pets. For many of us, this may be a difficult concept to grasp. Let me explain.

There are people who do not have dogs or cats. Or horses. Or chickens. Or even that whole foreign land of guinea pigs, rabbits, lizards, and fish. They do exist. These pet-less individuals are amazing. Baffling, and amazing. No animal husbandry, of any kind. What must that be like? I bet their lives involve a lot less poop than mine does. Poop and responsibility. With an increase in money. And more room on the couch. That doesn’t sound so bad.

Of course, there’s also less warm dog. Warm dog with wet nose and contented sigh. Maybe a stray snore here or there. Ever-ready companions, whether it be for adventure or just to hang out in the yard. Non-human creatures that know me, communicate with me, rely on me, and are a distinct part of my life.

How do you quantify their value to people without ‘The Pet Gene’?

Is that what it is? A Pet Gene? A biological predisposition to the innate understanding of, duh, life is just better with insert your beast of choice. You’ve either got it or you dont. Does it come from your up bringing? A childhood without pets, seems a sad thing indeed to me. But, perhaps that’s only because mine was so fraught with animals great and small, I have no concept of it any other way. If that’s true, then so is the reverse. The Husband had barely a short-lived cat growing up, and look at him now. Dog-wrangling with the best of them, which is potentially only a side effect of years spent under the spell of my sickness. He’d argue otherwise as he squeezes highly squeezable Pug wrinkles, and talks a little trash to the funny looking companion at this feet.

I don’t intend to demonize those uninitiated into to our world of hair, slobber, inappropriate barking, and dead weight in your bed. If you don’t ‘know’, I can see how my particular life would look ‘complicated’, to put it nicely. It’s certainly much ado for relationships I value. If you don’t, well then, its just much ado. As much as I am perplexed by these people who go on living without dog, like that’s normal, I do not pity them. They are blissfully ignorant. How can they know what they are missing? You take all the negatives, as previously mentioned and then some, add in my egregious dog spending. That on its own, without the knowledge in your bones of how sharing your life with a pack of perpetual 3 year old comedians, who just so happen to adore you, casts the whole world in a shinier hue. Minus the Pet Gene, it would all seem sort of ridiculous. Like a ridiculous pain in the ass.

Your dogs get acupuncture? You make some of their food? There are how many crates in your house? Yes, yes and six. Incredulous stares would ensue. A big portion of this blog would seem like a colossal expense and waste of time. Not having need for my dog bed manifesto, doesn’t make one less of a person. It doesn’t mean they are any less caring, compassionate, or have something lacking in their lives. At least, not that they know about.

Is it something people can learn? I’d like to think that for most people an animal soulmate exists. That non-humanoid who gets you. Who reduces even the stiffest upper lip to a puddle of belly-rubbing goo. I can personally attest to real life examples of that, but if you don’t go looking, how could you ever find each other? If you don’t feel your life is missing that presence in the first place, what could possibly be the catalyst for change? Is it something people come to later in life? My guess would be, not often.

Thankfully, we don’t have to explain ourselves to segment of the population. Moreover, we shouldn’t try. Nothing good will come of it. I’ll let my budget stand, even as my priorities change (and don’t). But, I do wonder how it must look from the other side. The dichotomy of a Big Fat Mortgage versus Pet Spending that often sits in the 4 digit category. Constantly grappling with my own grocery budget, while ensuring enhanced diets to all with paws and tails. To the unknowing, it would seem an easy problem to fix. Hundreds of dollars a month just waiting to be diverted to more worthy goals. If only I’d de-prioritize my expensive ‘hobby’, I’d be well on my way to Financial Independence. Oh, it could be so easy! If I didn’t know what I’d be giving up.

I’ve said before, don’t be like us. My plan is to not have this many again. While I do, however, I’ll continue to throw money down that bottomless pit of dog love and responsibility. Its served me well so far.

Do you have the Pet Gene? Were you born with it? Or was in it acquired?
Do the non-pet owners in your life find you crazy insane?

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The Target Demographic

dogsordollars — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 14:00:26 +0000

I recently found myself in the rather awkward situation (for me) of having to define Dogs or Dollars. Repeatedly. To people who’d never read it. And didn’t know me. Huh. There’s a task that shouldn’t be hard. And sorta was.

Mumble, bumble, leaving corporate servitude, uhhhh saving money, erm growing shit, and how ’bout those dogs? Personal journey? Anyone? I conveniently managed to put myself at the intersection of two of my favorite bloggers: Northwest Edible Life and Mr. Money Mustache. Both of whom, I had the distinct pleasure of being in the same room with at that particular moment in time.

There they are. Worlds colliding before our eyes. Erica, in all her good food, Urban Homestead, life efficient, and deliciously snarky glory, shoulder to shoulder with a man who needs no introduction, The Mustache. Upon reflection, juxtaposition-ing myself between those two feels a little arrogant. Those writers, they’ve got followings. And while I am super happy to know them, their Facebook ‘likes’ put little ol’ DorD to shame.

The intersection though, that makes sense. In fact, the more I talked about it over the course of the evening, the MORE sense it made. (I’m pregnant so this wasn’t even beer fueled philosophy.) Guerilla money saving AND growing your own. Ugly Garden, as a weapon in the battle against the Big Fat Mortgage. The two lifestyles aren’t mutually exclusive. Anything, but. If you play your cards right, they are symbiotic.

I’ve long advocated that your garden needn’t be beauty-full (read: expensive). True to her name Ugly Garden, is composed mostly of reclaimed wood, bartered compost, and plants grown from seeds. That basically free infrastructure will grow food just fine. The only limitation being human know-how (or lack there of). Money saving in any of its infinite forms, need not be at the expense of what you enjoy. If that just so happens to be playing in the dirt, rah-rah for you. Use that carefully cultivated portfolio of frugality to grow yourself local, organic, seasonally appropriate food. Take a bite out of your grocery budget and reduce your carbon footprint all in one swoop. Watch those cyclical benefits keep rolling.

Despite the obvious overlap, in the blogosphere, it behooves you to specialize. Readers are drawn to the poles – specific lifestyles. The Urban Homesteader. The 30-something Retiree. Personalities. Characters. Who cares if they don’t completely represent reality? We want to read about the person who’s actually doing it! Who knows ‘The Way’, has ‘The Secret’ (and I don’t meant that stupid book). The individuals pictured above are veritable fountains of knowledge in their areas of expertise, and damn fine people to boot. I’d wager their lives aren’t as simple as a tag line. They can’t be completely defined by their target demographics, their google analytics stats, or their place on the lifestyle pendulum.

Around here we don’t do particularly well at staying completely on topic. Sure, I talk dogs. I talk dollars. But, the popularity of my blog will forever suffer from the ADD nature of our subjectS. Emphasis on the plural. Multiple plurals. Gardens and Money and Dogs. Let’s call those the top three. With subcategories of Chickens, Consumerism, leaving Corporate America, Goals, Health, Navel Gazing, and some rambly First World Problems thrown in for good measure.

Being forced to define the project you’ve spent the last year and half on… and struggling, is an interesting exercise. Gesturing towards two representatives across the room, with a “Something like what she does, with an emphasis on what he does” was a convenient out. The truth is, I am not a perfect Mustachian. I like Stuff. I have an affinity for owls. Nor am I a particularly adept grower of food. I suffer from many failures involving dirt. Sometimes repeated failures. Without taking a complete tour of all my shortcomings, the point is I am weak. I have poor impulse control. I make mistakes. I fuck up. I’m probably a lot like you. No offense.

In fact, I’d assert everyone’s life is this way. We flock toward the black and white. We live in the gray. Imperfect Mustachians, who’s crops don’t come to fruition. Gee, there’s a demographic (as in the one I occupy) you should take advice from. This personal inventory could be discouraging. Self awareness is a bitch like that. Why should I even bother? I can’t grow an Extreme ‘Stache as quickly as I want to. I will inevitably mess up even the simplest of growing projects.

Poor me.

Or. Or it could be inspirational. Life at the crossroads of awesome. Tapping multiple disciplines to buoy my money-saving and stay true to my values. The constant challenge of learning new things. What’s more exciting?! This year I’ll work to maximize the return on my Emergency Fund by moving some of it out of those pathetic 1% savings accounts. Even though it scares the shit out of me. I’ll continue to struggle with succession planting and having our own food outside of the prime growing season. I might get it right after the last two years of mixed results. I can pick and choose and write my own brand of success, failure, and frugality.

Here’s the beauty of having a drink with two of your favorite blogger (or part of it), it reminds you that The Money Mustache will happily buy a beer for his new found friends. Even Erica’s garden suffers from a bit of the Ugly now and again. Their lives intersect and swing and fail to fit into any one category, just as much as mine does. Just as much as yours. So I’m reminding you, Dogs or Dollars is something different entirely. And so are you. You are more than a gardener. You are more than your savings account balance. We are a messy journey that defies categorization. Stake out your own spot on the lifestyle spectrum, and embrace it.

Who are you? Are you a gardener-Mustachian? Or a pet-owning, Corporate Servant longing for more?
All (or none) of the above?

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Free Compost. Just Add Pallets.

dogsordollars — Mon, 25 Feb 2013 14:00:51 +0000

Pallets, the humble wooden shipping platform. They are experiencing a bit of a renaissance. Somebody, somewhere in the last few years realized their potential as an excellent source of (usually) free wood, suitable to any number of projects. Maybe a lot of somebodies, because a quick Pinterest search reveals a cornucopia of DIY inspiration: headboards to bookshelves, play houses to coffee tables. Possibilities, endless.

One could create a veritable rustic decor oasis from a bunch of bunged up free wood! But no where is the pallet more at home than the Urban Homestead. In all things garden, think free, repurposed, versatile, and sturdy as ideal. Pallets fit the bill. So last year, when I was building out the Ugly Garden infrastructure, I knew I wanted a kick-ass compost system. What would I construct it out of? Pallets, naturally.

No, it ain’t pretty. It kinda shouldn’t be. Its a place you put things. To rot. Screw the aesthetics. It might have bothered me a bit upon initial construction. Now that I know the wonders of homemade compost, looks are the least of my concerns.

Prepare to become a believer, because making your own is easy.

Free materials. Some people pay for pallets. I think that’s blasphemy. The whole point of the pallet as a construction medium is its availability and price. I score mine through my connections at the Pet Store. However, driving around my hood I see pallets everywhere. Behind the local drugstore. Left in garbage heaps at construction/landscaping sites. Some businesses have deposits associated with them, so it never hurts to ask before you abscond. But, in my experience, most establishments are happy not to have them sitting around.

A word on wood quality. Pallets are usually constructed from oak, spruce or pine. Not woods that will last forever, but safe to pile your yard waste in. Some pallets are tainted, rather their wood is, by previous use. I avoided using wood that appears ‘oiled’ or blackened. This generally happens when they’ve been used to transport metal, engines, etc. Fine for certain things, but not what I wanted to expose my garden materials to.

Construction. Let the pallet be your guide. They are a bit of a bitch to tear down into smaller pieces. Pulling nails, sawing, don’t bother. This is supposed to be an easy project, and conveniently, pallets come in a (mostly) standard size (roughly 48″ X 40″). Pallet size can dictate width and height. I wanted a wider bin for easier access, so we oriented our pallets longer side down. Then, we chose a level spot, close to both garden and chickens, built two open-ended boxes, wired the corners together with tie wire by looping it through the slats then twisting together with pliers, and viola! Compost receptacle. ‘Tie wire’ I am told by The Husband is ‘16 gauge annealed (flexible, because its heat treated) wire’. We always have rolls of it sitting around because of The Husband’s blue collar ways. If you don’t, it could be the one material you have to pay for.

Possible upgrades. Our bin is bare bones utilitarian. One could add lids, lining, latches, doors, and any number of fancy features. The necessity of which is dictated by what you actually want to compost. If you will be putting food scraps in your pallet composter, plan on making it varmint secure. That means those lids, doors, latches, and most importantly, lining the whole thing with sturdy hardware cloth (including the dirt bottom). If you don’t do this, you will get rats. Maybe just possums and raccoons if you are lucky. By dumping your peels, rinds, skins, and leftovers you are effectively laying out the scavenger buffet. Be prepared to secure it or play host to a raft of unwelcome visitors. I skipped this by putting 99% yard waste and chicken bedding into mine. Leaves, grass, straw, wood chips, chicken poop, and the occasional dead plants from a cleaned out bed. Without lining, some material does fall through the slats. Not a significant enough amount for me to worry about. Food waste is disposed of by way of chickens or a secure in-ground unit, but that’s another post entirely.

Standard build. The base open air construction of a pallet lends itself so well to compost makings, not a lot more is actually required. Maybe water. Adequate rotting occurs with air. Mismatched pallet slats allow air flow throughout your pile of refuse. This keeps worms happy. Happy worms eat, poop, propagate and manufacture garden gold.

The one build feature I would insist on is the double sided bin. You don’t want one square. You want two. That second slot provides somewhere to pile the not-quite composted top, to get to the black bounty underneath. It lets you effectively turn your compost by moving it to one side or another, increasing the airflow and overall yields. At any given time, one side of our bin is being harvested (used in the garden), while the other is being added to. My other addition was the front grates. Not a requirement. Just nice to pile compost against, while maintaining circulation and not getting it all over the place. Mine are repurposed panels from an X-Pen.

The results. Initially, I was skeptical. Compost seems so complicated; temperature, moisture, nitrogen, greens vs. browns. It never has the uniform color and texture of what you buy in those big bags. I’d attempted compost before, on a small scale, but I’d never used it. The Ugly Garden experiment is all about self sufficiency. It seems contrary to grow your own in soil amended with someone else’s. Let alone to pay for that privilege, when I’ve got plenty of waste around here. For a year I’ve been dutifully shoveling, leaf collecting, but primarily ignoring whatever is going on betwixt those pallets. What came out is anything but uniform. I’m sure any weed seeds have not been inoculated through high temperatures. Drat! There goes my completely realistic plans to have a weed free garden. What it is though, is free. No price per yard. No delivery. No bags to throw away. A win for Ugly Garden overhead. Manufactured by me. With a little help from Chicken Butts.

It’s not commercial. It’s not sterile. It can get a little stinky at points. (I don’t use those bits yet.) I’m convinced its good for my soil. And it’s my kind of project; easy, productive, basically free, and capitalizes on the waste I’ve already got.

Do you compost? What’s your compost bin like? Do you actually use your compost?

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How to Save $1000

dogsordollars — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 14:00:07 +0000

One THOU-sand dollars. Note the dramatic emphasis. The holy grail. Or the start at least. To emergency funds. Emergency funds to free you from vicious credit card debt. Breaking the shackles of that debt being the first nano-step down the yellow brick road of financial independence.

A cool grand. Dave Ramsey recommends it. Is further endorsement required?
(Well, yes. Have you seen that dude’s house? Conservative Fiscal Fail.)

It’ll pay for unexpected car repairs, vet bills (more likely in my case), an insurance deductible, a medical bill, a gushing (not in a good way) hot water heater. All life’s unexpected pseudo emergencies. Whatever it is that would usually have you reaching for the plastic, this little stash makes it that much easier to not. No payments over time. No interest paid to The Man. No late fees or surcharges. No bullshit. Just money when you need it.

I remember that feeling. The empowered sense of “I got this” versus the usual Oh Shit Moment. For me that was revolutionary. Birds sang. Mental lightbulb illuminated. Bill paying without dread. Who knew it felt so good? Maybe that explains my current long term love affair with the now much overgrown Emergency Fund. If we can still call it an Emergency Fund. It’s well past covering singular bills, now encompassing many, many months of living expenses. Its morphed into something else entirely. More like “How long could I be unemployed?” money. On particularly bad days of Corporate Servitude, the balance on this nest egg provides the warm comfort of a shot of whiskey.

And it all started with one thousand dollar bills. But, first you gotta save a whole army of them. If you are fortunate, windfalls are involved; tax returns, work bonuses, maybe somebody dies (but, not someone you like or knew particularly well). For the rest of us, especially if you are already in the midst of financial woes, that first grand can be painful. Slow. Scavenged. Hoarded. Scraped together over months. If you aren’t used to saving or you don’t have a lot of room in your budget to begin with, an ‘extra’ thousand can seem like an insurmountable hurdle.

But, its not. As what would now be considered a veteran saver, with my automatic withdrawals, budgeted saving, and interest rolling in (as much a whopping 1% rolls anywhere), I endeavored to save an extra $1,000. Above and beyond my current budget, without sacrificing 2013 goals or changing priorities. A thousand bucks from somewhere.

It took me over 6 months, but I did it. In June of last year, I repurposed an empty savings account, entitled it ‘Freedom’ and so the experiment began. First deposit: $4. Off like a shot. And so it proceeded, an exercise in nickel and diming myself. Only small amounts of money I wouldn’t miss. Checking account balance sit at $358? I won’t notice $350 instead. $10 Mail-in rebate finally shows up? I know just where to stick it. After that $4 rocket launch, deposits read like $8, $4, $5, $4, $10 (!!). You can see how this took so long. The biggest deposit was $136 from a windfall, with a couple $50 injections, even one $80. Unsurprisingly these were enabled by No-Spend Month. Yet, most of this mini-fortune was built in less that $20 increments.

What did I sacrifice? Funny, I can’t think of a thing. Maybe I cursed my lack of latte money at the time. Maybe I bemoaned my desire for a cuban sandwich foodgasm (for real, those things are amazing). There were certainly things on etsy I coveted, but what else is new? In any case, I probably blamed my unfortunate circumstances on the world at large. Instead of my own efforts to funnel away small amounts of cash. I often don’t connect my own actions to save with an actual lack of cash flow. Because the money’s just not there. Out of sight. Out of mind. Adapt. Adjust. Eat something yummy at home. Have another cup of drip coffee. Move on.

Maybe that’s not how you’d save a grand, but it certainly worked for me. In a slow, relatively painless sort of way. I find a little comfort in the fact, if I were starting over, back to Savings Ground Zero, with reduced circumstances and no know how, I could still do it. In that case, real life might intercede with some unfortunate incidents to tap that money before it was fully grown. Balances might slip backwards a few times. But upward progression can be made. Start with $4. Heck start with $1.

How would you save that grand? How long would it take you? And what should I spend it on? I’ve got $1,000 ‘extra’ smackers. Goals? Vacuum? Mortgage? Roll it over to long term savings? Retirement? Be responsible? Or not?

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Knowing When Its Time

dogsordollars — Mon, 18 Feb 2013 17:48:47 +0000

The most difficult part of owning a dog isn’t potty training. It isn’t having your couch eaten. It isn’t making food decisions. Or big vet bills. It isn’t the first year. But, the last. And knowing when your time has come to an end. They don’t live forever, these creatures. Not even close. Really only long enough for us to take them for granted. To completely incorporate them into our lives. To make them firmly and officially family. How long is that? It varies, and I dont think it really matters. Years or months. Its never easy.

Which brings us to a certain little dog. I’ll say up front he’s still with us. We just don’t know for how long.

We’ve done this dance a time or three, more if you count cats (Yes, I said CATS). It’s never easy. And while I’m hardly an expert (nor do I wish to be), I am learning the decision is as unique as each individual dog, which really isn’t much of a revelation. As the caretaker of old dogs, I’d thought I’d get this down. That I’d hone my sense of ‘knowing’. That our connection would tell me, tug me in the right direction, beyond the shadow of a doubt. Yet, doubt appears to be the one constant. Waffling. Assessing. Re-assessing. Thinking I’m ridiculous. I’m jumping the gun. No, we should have already done this. I’m being selfish. In either case.

But, doubt we should. Its a big decision. The decision. Life and death and more than that. Comfort. Security. Courage. Gratitude. Big concepts to reconcile with the ending of a life. Consciously. Especially when it’s warm and snuggly and still wags its tail because its happy to see you. When Ford showed up almost exactly a year ago, his little 19 year old Maltese body had plenty of issues. We never thought he’d be with us this long. His body though, has mostly healed. Yes, he has an enlarged heart and some chronic bronchitis that must be managed. He stumbles. He’s more than a little blind and deaf. For all the mess he sounds like, he gets around pretty well. Ford’s body might have some time. It’s his mind that seems in a hurry to exit the scene.

In recent history Ford has become lost and confused, which he expresses by wondering where the hell you are. AKA barking. To put this into context, you are either less than a foot away or lost to him entirely. There is no in between. Present or gone. Comforted or alone. Even if you were just with him (less than 5 minutes ago). Even if you are in the same room. It matters not. He only knows that moment, and if its off, he’s in a panic. Not fun for him. Not fun for us.

This is not something I’ve previously dealt with. Cancer. Mobility issues. Sudden emergency room death. That I’ve got. This I feel like I should manage. We keep him with us. We snuggle him in blankets and worn clothing to trick him into thinking he’s not alone. We’ve tried anti-anxiety meds (a no-go). But, life has to keep going. That’s difficult trying to have a small dog attached to you constantly, keeping his anxiety in check as well as your own.

And is it fair? If life has become that scary, if the room is that empty where once it was full, is it really better to go on?

I don’t honestly know.

I do know the question has to be asked. I know I’ve never regretted this decision once I’ve made it. I know I still miss the dogs who came before. I look around, and I know it will have to be made again. And again. And again. I know its not going to get any easier.

I also know, Ford is still happy to see us. Even if we’ve only been 20 feet away for 2 minutes. It’s all relative. His fluffy white tail celebrates our arrival. He eats his food with gusto. Occasionally, he still rolls around on the door mat in some sort of undignified, but apparently quite gratifying, scratching routine.

So, we are hedging our bets. Doing our best. Hoping thats enough. Until it feels like it isn’t. Count the good days. Count the bad. Keep a tally. Eventually, I will make the phone call. We will take the drive. In the not too distant future, I’m sure. Right now we appreciate the time we have. We minimize everyone’s stress. We appreciate all the tail wags and look for the moments of clarity.

How do you know?

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