Blackout Worked – At Least On Me

Refraining from purchasing on February 28 should not have been that hard. And I’m not sure that the Economic Blackout had as big an effect as its creators, People’s Union USA, had hoped.

But the effect on me was huge.  I suddenly realized that purchasing “stuff” was ingrained in my everyday life.

Whether searching the Internet for the perfect gift or running into the store for a box of crackers, I’m hooked.  And I like to think of myself as a “minimizer.”  In fact, it’s part of my professional life.  I run Unpacking Your Stories workshops where I encourage people to “rightsize,” go through their stuff and find the stories in it rather than hanging on to the stuff.

Still…my friend’s comment that she was running to the store on February 27 to “stock up” put me in inventory mode.  Did I have eggs?  Milk? Bread?  Was my tank full of gas?

I live in the city and am in touch with stores every day. I pick up a few things at Target or Kroger on the way back to the gym. I buy a few things at a time, so I’m not wasting. I often meet a friend for lunch or dinner.

None of this is wrong. But it sure does loop me into a dependency cycle, where corporate America is my new best friend and retail therapy is only a step away.

I’m not sure what news reports will say about the Blackout and maybe I should not trust them since, as my daughter points out, they are also part of corporate America.  But I can say this.  The one-day Blackout was meaningful for me. And I’m totally in on the 40-day boycott of Target starting March 5 since it’s backed away from DEI initiatives. I don’t know if Target will notice. But I sure will.

Lessons from Traveling PJs

With so much distraction in the world these days, I’ve been looking for sanity-saving strategies. I had not expected my old travel pajamas to offer any, but there they were – beloved and pitiful.

I had given up on them.  Hopeless. Gone.   Even one more trip seemed unlikely as the faded navy covered buttons popped off and hid under one hotel bed and then another.  And of course, Vanity Fair no longer sold the perfectly packable, washable, dry-over-night-able three-piece sets.

But voila!  While the rest of the world is reeling from tariffs and the dismantling of federal agencies, it occurred to me that this was a problem I could fix. I set out to find new buttons.

Let’s not underestimate the challenge. A trip to JoAnn Fabrics revealed stripped shelves – a condition described by the woman in sewing machines as “no one wants to work anymore,” and the checkout clerk as “they don’t want to pay for stocking hours.” A few days later, my local store hit the list of nearly 500 stores to be closed nationwide. Unwittingly, I was being sucked into bigger problems.

But not to worry.  Googling, I found “vintage” buttons online and with one false start educated myself that it was not the four-hole mother of pearl button I was after but instead the less expensive 11.5 ml blue resin “shank” button. Despite the fact that reviewers complained about the shade of blue, the buttons, quickly in my mailbox, were a perfect match. Since I bought a set of 20 for $2.99, I had plenty of replacements when they popped off and scooted under the hotel bed.

I am happy to report that while listening to a short audiobook, I removed the old buttons and sewed on 12 new ones. I have eight spares, just in case. Problem solved!  I feel suddenly empowered.

Ironically, the book – Claire Keegan’s Small Things Like These – offers its own strategies for surviving difficult times.  Among them, having a sense of purpose and showing kindness to others. Definitely worth the one hour, 57-minute listen.

Life Hacks From Uber Driver

When I called Uber for a ride to the Tampa Airport, the most I bargained for was a silver Hyundai that showed up on time.

I got all that, plus Edward (not his real name), a sunroof and more inspiring life hacks than a self-help book.

Seems that Edward had just paid off the car, which he bought not only for his Uber side gig and regular work transportation but also to accommodate the aging bones of his father, age 89.

He really wanted a Jeep, he said, but that wouldn’t do.  Too high for dad to get in.

After years of used cars with unexpected repair bills, he’d opted this time for a new one with a warranty so he could level his expenses.

He was socking away his savings for world travels in retirement.  He’d taken a look at the most affordable countries and based on the daily cost of living, he could exhaust his funds about the time he ran out of years – and still eat a lot of meals out.

Meanwhile, he was listening to Pavarotti on the radio.

And yesterday, he’d taken a blissful day off to celebrate that the car was paid off and that Hurricane Milton, which blew off his carport roof, didn’t destroy the car.

“We were lucky,” he said.

Lucky.  A word I haven’t heard much lately. It made my day.

What’s the “Real” Story?

One thing I’ve come to learn about stories.  We all remember them differently.  Just ask any sibling about that old chair in mom’s house.  It came from mom.  No, it came from Aunt Nell.  It’s important because it’s been appraised at a high value.  It’s important because we always needed an extra seat at the table.

I didn’t expect to get a personal lesson in the malleability of stories from a rental car agency.  But I where I got it – this past week.

My own car was hit by a semi.  Sounds impressive, but even though I was in it at the time, there was very little damage to the car and none to me.  $2,500 worth – small potatoes apparently in the car damage world – to fix some scrapes along the driver side.

This meant that for a week I’d need a rental while it was repaired.  All fine.  I got to experience driving a Chevy Malibu for the first time rather than a Prius.  That’s where the “fine” ended.

When I went to turn in the rental, I carefully removed everything that was mine – snow boots,  snow brush, even my cell phone charger. But I totally forgot about the garage remote I’d clipped to the visor – until the next day.  By then, some other renter was behind the wheel of the Malibu.

One call to the rental agency, and it turned out that renters leave their remotes behind all the time.

“It’s probably in our lost and found,” said Hannah at the main desk.  “What’s the brand?”

“Chamberlain!” I told her after checking the extra remote I keep handy in the kitchen for icy mornings. “And it’s black with gray buttons.”

“We’ve got it!” she said.  “I’ll put your name on it and hold it for you.”

Unfortunately, when I arrived to retrieve my remote, there was the one with my name on it plus a whole drawer of others that looked exactly like it.  I grabbed the labeled one, drove the nine miles home, and Voilà! it would not open the door.  Back to the rental agency.

This time, Hannah loaned me four more black-and-gray Chamberlain remotes plus a black-and-silver Liftmaster model that was somehow calling to me. Turns out that one opened the door.  I had convinced myself I had two identical remotes.  Not so.

Where stories are concerned, I think this is hopeful.  We all have the power to draw different stories from the same events or pieces of stuff.  In fact, we can’t help it.  So no worries if a sib remembers “the facts” differently. Even our own memories fail us. The good news is we all have the power to decide which story we choose to believe and live the one that serves us.