Cost/Benefit Analysis ―Or ―How Much Guilt is Enough?

I had to mow the lawn today. I had already put it off longer than I should have but I knew, next weekend, mowing wasn’t going to figure into my plan of freaking out as I pack for our trip to Ecuador. So, because thirteen days from today I will be in a strapless gown, even though the temperature called for a tank top and shorts, I donned clothing appropriate for a cool and cloudy day, slathered sunscreen on the few bits of skin still peeking out, plugged in the mower, and sweat like I was in a hot yoga class.

Partway through mowing, I took a short break and did a little pruning. Over the summer the bush next to our mailbox did what bushes do. It grew. Recently it had been getting harder to find the mailbox, let alone close it without a pine branch getting mashed in the mailbox door. I did a mental cost/benefit analysis and determined that the benefits of being able to open and close the mailbox without fighting through the bush were greater than the 99% possibility Dean would be mad at me for an hour or so after he discovered what I’d done. He has been busy putting the garden to bed and I knew he wasn’t going to want to deal with the composting of those branches.

In our house, there is always the issue of compost — or to be more specific, the pre-composting chipping and shredding. I knew this would be the cost to the benefit. I knew when he saw a wheel barrow piled high with pine branches he would not be happy. Chipping and shredding was not on his list of things to do this weekend ― even though he goes into a zen-like state of tranquility when he’s doing it. Because we have a “baby” chipper, said chipping and shredding must be done while the branches are green and soft. So I knew the cost of my benefit was going to be immediate.

Dean was inside making spaghetti sauce from the garden tomatoes while I was mowing and pruning. I came inside just as he was getting ready to head outside. I had a mini debate with myself. “Tell him about the pile of branches before he discovers it himself, or let him be surprised and pay the price later.” I went for the surprise factor and hoped it would be much later. 15 seconds later he was stomping through the house to the garage mumbling to himself. Something about women and shredding. I offered him a solution. “Just throw them away. Just this one time.”  But no. That is not an option in this house. Not yesterday. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

Dean stomping through the house mumbling was a cost I could live with. What I hadn’t factored into my formula was the guilt, which amazes even me because I am the Queen, the Empress, and the Goddess of Guilt. The guilt I felt from knowing that he was out in the backyard chipping and shredding branches I had created, when he really wanted to be putting his garden to bed, was too much for me. To rid myself of the guilt I would have to make amends. I offered to work in the garden. “Really? You’re serious?” he said. I nodded and held my breath … hoping it wouldn’t be “turn over the dirt in the beds … by hand … with a garden fork.”

But I got lucky. All I had to do was harvest the rest of the beans ― even though our bean crop was inedible this year. I don’t know why, but they were stringy. And I don’t mean stringy as in string beans. It felt like your mouth was full of dental floss when you were finished chewing them. But there is no way Dean would throw perfectly good but inedible beans into the compost. And if somebody else will sit in the hot sun and pick them ― so much the better. I didn’t dare suggest we throw them away, but personally, I think they might enjoy being with the other members of the vegetable variety in the compost.

So ultimately the cost/benefit breakout looked like this:

Cost: Dean grumbled.  I sat in dirt, sweating in the blazing sun picking beans.

Shadow got filthy from flying chipping/shredding bits.

Benefit: A bush won't attack me each time I open the mailbox. Shadow will get to eat stringy beans. I didn’t have to turn over the dirt with a pitchfork. Dean gave Shadow a bath.

I think it’s clear the benefits outweighed the cost.

The nasty, stringy, inedible beans are waiting to be sorted, cooked and shelled. I could help with that … but you know what? I’m not feeling that guilty.

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Cost/Benefit Analysis ―Or ―How Much Guilt is Enough?

Beautiful Fall Day

There are all kinds of signs telling me that the season is changing from summer to autumn. One of the biggest, of course, is the change in temperature. I don’t need a thermometer to know the nights are getting cooler. I don’t even need to stick my nose out the door to know if we had a frost. I have Lily.

I know the outside temperature is somewhat cool if I can’t move my feet during the night because her fat little body is lying on top of the covers. But I know it’s gone from cool to cold if, during the night, I feel her walking around sniffing heads, looking for the person who will let her under the covers. She’s a smart kitty. She’s smart enough to know that if she waits at the bathroom sink someone will turn the water on for her so she doesn’t have to drink dog-slobber water. She’s smart enough to know that each night after dinner I will give her some Greenies —as long as she doesn’t trip and kill me in her race to beat me to the bag of treats. So you’d think she’d be smart enough to know that Dean sleeps on the same side of the bed every night and she doesn’t need to waste her time sniffing his head. I’m sure she knows the odds that he would quit hoarding junk collecting treasures are a thousand times greater than that he would ever lift the covers for her to snuggle up next to him.

You just never know when you're going to need a trophy or computer part.

But that doesn’t stop her. She sniffs his head; then she walks over and sniffs my head. Safe in the knowledge she has found her favorite human form, she begins butting my head and doesn’t stop until I roll over onto my side and lift up the covers. Then she crawls under, pushes herself up next to my stomach, and drops her fat, furry body like a lead balloon. That’s one way I know it’s not summer anymore.

Another indication that those lazy, hazy days of summer are ending is Dean trying to weasel out of letting me use one stall in the garage to park my car during the winter. We have a deal. Dean can have the whole garage to do whatever he wants as soon as winter ends, and I get one measly stall when it gets so cold that I need to scrape my windows in the morning.

The other day he even played the retirement card. “I won’t retire this year if you let me build a second story above the garage so I can have a big workshop. That way you can have the WHOLE garage.” Right. I’ll “let” you continue to work so you can fork out more money than you would lose from retiring to make our house look like Rapunzel’s tower. Then I’ll go get a second job to pay for your medical bills and the repairs my car will need after you walk out of your huge workshop, lose your footing, roll down the stairs into the garage and dent my car with the chunk of wood you were carrying. Nope. Not happenin’ buddy.

But for me, the Farmer’s Almanac of all indicators that the dog days of summer are ending and Indian summer is beginning is … here it comes … get ready … the waterproofing of the BFD. Yes. The B  ·  F  ·  D. Betcha weren’t expecting to see those three letters again! It is still alive and well. Not only well, but healthy and whole. And FINISHED! Totally, absolutely, no question about it, completely, for-reals done. It has new stairs! Beautiful new stairs.

Stairs that will give the grandkids a fighting chance if they accidentally somersault down rather than walk in the normal upright stance most of us take.

You’re amazed aren’t you? And impressed, I’ll bet. Me too. Nice job, Justin!

Oh…you thought WE built the stairs? We could have. Oh, we could have, but it wouldn’t have been fun, and I would have been forced to torture you with dozens and dozens of BFD stair-whining posts and then you might get grumpy from reading cranky posts so when Windows froze up you’d lose control and throw your glass of ice water at the monitor. The computer would spark and smoke and as you were running for the fire extinguisher you’d slip on the ice and break your leg and you’d have to drag yourself through the gritty dog and cat fur on the floor to get to the phone to call for help, but before you got there the fur would make you sneeze and then not only would you have a broken leg but your back would be spasming and … anyway … we did not build them so you should probably be counting your blessings now. The thing is, one of the best parts about getting old(er) has been spending some of the money we used to spend on tuition, books, dentists and doctors on us. What could be more enjoyable than hiring young muscle to do something for us we both dreaded doing.

I’m telling you, the feeling of having somebody working outside in the sweltering heat FOR you, all the while remembering that last year it was YOU who was out there  ... well  ... it’s blissful. And, after the stairs were completed, I somehow (unintentionally, of course) managed to be busy during almost all of the 12 hours it took Dean to completely waterproof the whole dang B  ·  F  ·  D again.  That was as heavenly as a crisp fall day with nothing to do but watch the leaves fall gently onto a new deck.

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Beautiful Fall Day

Buns On Bikes

When I came home from Ecuador I wanted to make the same pan de yuca that Jorge's mom had made for us one night, but none of our grocery stores carried the flour I needed to make them.  I could have ordered it on-line but the shipping was three times the cost of the flour.  They were good and I wanted to make them, but not quite that badly.   Yesterday I found and bought a pound of flour for under $3.00 and all it took was a couple of tanks of gas and about six hours of driving back and forth to Ft. Collins.  

Alright, that's not the real reason we went to Ft. Collins.  I thought Dean needed a new shirt and tie to wear to Abby's upcoming nuptials and foolishly thought a bigger city would have better shopping.  It turns out Ft. Collins doesn't really have any better shopping than we do here at home.  I had been feeling pretty discouraged until I found the elusive flour needed for the pan de yuca.  Burning feet near the blister stage only added to my whining disappointment.  I had also foolishly worn my "go to town" shoes.  I thought I'd only be walking in a mall -- not the blocks and blocks and blocks we walked, in the blazing sun, following ballerinas,

angels,

butterflies,

and thousands of bicycles.

We had stumbled upon the Tour de Fat.  Dean is now threatening to turn Abby's snake bike (generously donated to us when she moved to Ecuador) into an "art bike" for next year's event. 

Since it's a girls bike, he thinks I am the one who must ride it.  Really, after looking at all these other photos, do you think that's a detail people would notice?  Or care about?

For now his threats are merely words with no substance.  But what I really wanted to tell you, before I was distracted, has substance.  Yummy substance.  What I want to tell you is that today I used the flour that made the whole trip worthwhile and I made the pan de yuca using this recipe.   I used 2 cups of mozzarella cheese and only 1 teaspoon of cream.  I baked them on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper on the top shelf of my oven for 20 minutes.  They weren't quite as good as Jorge's mom's, and definitely not as pretty, but they were pretty good for a first try and so easy I plan to make them again and again and again and try a different cheese each time. 

Don't you think they'll be the perfect snack for Dean when he's riding that bike next year dressed up like a cassava root?  They'll fit very nicely in the basket.

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Buns On Bikes