Frantastically Frugal

6:57 AM … waiting for wireless web connection

Until last night, my laundry method depended on black leaf bags: one bag for clean folded clothes, and one for dirty. The trouble was after a few days of bouncing around back in Calypso’s dim berth, I couldn’t always tell the difference between the two. Seriously.

Then last night I shamefully grasped that my predicament had reached critical, unmanageable proportions when I met Fran at the marina restaurant and direct sunlight revealed I’d picked clothes from The Wrong Bag.

Like uh oh … that smells trouble.

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Maybe that’s why immediately after dinner, Fran drove us straight into town for some crucial shopping. On the way we made one detour so I could buy a CD, but even before that I had to gape, stare and drool over the plasma TVs on display.

I read the dimensions printed on the price tags and excitedly turned to Fran. “I think Calypso’s got room for a bigger screen.”

But she never even stopped. Not only did she keep walking; she didn’t even turn around to look at me … and I had to run to catch up.

“Fran, it’s a guy thing,” I explained. “We’re always wanting whatever’s newer and bigger.” Total silence. Like Ignore Me long time. At least until I said, “You’re really not impressed with a bigger screen, are you?”

At last she glanced back but only long enough to make clear, “No Joe Hall, I’m not.”

Memo to Man-Self: Never go shopping for big screen TVs when there’s any chance at all a woman might be nearby. They just don’t understand because there’s no chance they’ll ever Get It.

Or maybe, they do … and have all along.

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At Target Fran picked out two plastic bins for my laundry so I’d have better luck telling Clean and Dirty apart.

We both added out a few little inexpensive “extras” along the way (I wanted two notebooks; an Eiffel Tower photo on one, a pirate’s skull and crossbones on the other), before checking out.

But before we even within sight of a cash register Fran started hauling her stuff out of the cart and putting it back on the shelves in an urgent fury of frugality. Her Two-hand Total-Thrift Method was impressive, severe and austere … but that was nothing compared to what was coming at the cash register.

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The cashier rang up my new laundry bins but missed seeing the two notebooks. I reached for my debit card but shoulda saved myself the trouble.

A moment’s delay was long enough to warrant Fran’s Dollar-Wise Death Sentence … and with no discussion or hope of cash-clemency whatsoever, back on the shelves they went. Just like that.

Wow. How could Fran do that? For a measly $7 purchase?

I pouted all the way to her car, whining and protesting “I need new notebooks.”

But Francis wasn’t buying excuses either and explained, “Joe Hall, you don’t need a new notebook just because you want one with the Eiffel Tower on the cover. Besides, a week from now your new notebooks will just be in your way and start getting on your nerves.”

What Fran had just said was true. Her eyes locked on mine and she added, “Joe Hall from now on you can call me ‘The Notebook Nixer.’”

Indeed. But wait, my humiliation was just spreading its wings to take off.

Once we were outside Fran unlocked her car while I stuck my hands in my pockets and pouted. I glanced inside her trunk and in predictable man-fashion smugly explained there’s No Way either bin would fit inside. Not even close.

While I moved to the passenger door and studied whether a bin could be squeezed into the back seat, Fran picked up a bin with both hands … and effortlessly slid it into the trunk. Smooth as butter. Never mind what I said.

She slammed the lid without saying a word. Not one, not even after she closed her door and started the engine.

I stood beside her car with the door open and stared down Clemson Boulevard for a long time, trying to figure out what just happened. Wasn’t it A Fact that men can judge distance and dimensions better than women? Isn’t that why women can’t drive to the corner without getting lost? Doesn’t everybody know that men know these things?

Maybe everybody does know … that is, everybody knows except Fran.

Finally she said, “Joe Hall get in the car, and let’s go.”

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Fran’s known me a long time and must’ve quietly sensed my manly ego hadn’t just been stung; it’d been plucked out, whipped silly, re-fried with beans and handed back to me on a platter with a big slice of lemon.

She’d been right about everything all night long: I didn’t need a bigger TV. Heck, I didn’t even need a new two-dollar notebook. Maybe that’s why Fran plugged in my CD and let loose the volume on yesterday’s Playlist as we headed back to my truck.

Which got me to thinking that with bold new lyrics a song like Bulls on Parade could become Debt’s Already Paid … an anthem and marching song for folks who understand the difference between Stuff I Want, Stuff I Need … and remember the gift we’ve already received.

Thanks again Francis, I owe you one. And I don’t at all mind being in your debt for last night’s frugality favor.