Frugal Lissa Finds a Body

by Ritter Ames

  My laptop was open on the table and cycling through the rollercoaster pictures I used as a screen saver. Something about facing potential virtual death by speed and height anytime I woke up my computer made real life seem a little less hectic. A couple of years ago I began blogging about finds I’d made that kept our family’s budget in the black each month. Well, it at least stayed in the gray area. I also tweeted new discounts and buyer rewards that my subscribers and I found and reported.

  After learning how to monetize the blog—through trial and error and the benevolent grace of a neighbor’s high school son who regularly talked geek to my computer and web page—I’d built a small business to aid other online families operating in the same middle-class trench where my family struggled each day. And I even made a little money doing it.

  Abby knocked the tabletop as she sat down, and the webpage editor showing my latest blog post popped up in bright red, white, and turquoise—my branding colors for the Frugal Lissa Finds blog.

  “Anything good come up lately?” she asked, scrolling through my words. “I could use a new purse.” She frowned a minute, then added, “And a new job.”

  I’d already had the feeling she was home this weekend for reasons other than to connect with friends and family. Good to know my instincts were on-track. However, an almost lifetime friendship with Abby taught me I’d have to tread carefully to learn the full scope of how things stood. She could be an impetuous shopper, but she was never an impetuous talker.

  While my friend pursued bargains like it was an Olympic sport, as an associate attorney at a large Dallas firm Abby could afford to pay MSRP on most of what she wanted. I, on the other hand, lived up to the Frugal Lissa moniker I used for my blog, because even “seventy-five percent off designer prices” never fit into our family budget. I was more about the needs in life than the luxuries, but I loved letting others know about great sale options.

  “Yeah, click on ‘accessories finds’ on the left-hand toolbar and check out the current coupon codes and deals,” I said. I grabbed a Post-it note from the desktop holder and jotted a cryptic note to remind Dek to turn in his receipts ASAP and slapped it onto the refrigerator. I added for Abby’s benefit, “Betsey Johnson has a good deal now on some of her bags, and one from Coach just went off but if you hurry, they may still redeem the offer. A lot of manufacturers give an unadvertised grace period to keep from ticking off consumers.”

  “Thanks. I’ll look. I never catch all the sales and bargains you do. But I’ve become a devotee to RetailMeNot, and I’ve signed on for JoinHoney and have their extension sitting on my Chrome browser for online purchases.”

  “There are several other good saving apps. When you get back home, look on my ‘Jingle Finder’ page for all the ones I recommend. Helps keep money in your pocket, instead of paying too much every time. Before you make a final decision to purchase, paste the purse details into a search engine to see what other deals might pop up. I’ve noticed stores like Saks will offer even bigger discounts on things like designer bags than the manufacturers’ sales, to keep customers from straying. And since you’re in Dallas, you don’t have to pay to ship.”

  My friend frowned, as she scrolled through one of the blog pages. “Maybe I’ll hit the outlet mall next weekend. Might be easier. Wish you could come with me.”

  A shopping day with Abby, looking for bargains, sounded like fun, even though she would be doing all the buying. As I tossed one of the straggly torn capes into the trash, I changed the subject and said, “Want a cookie? Don’t worry, I made them last night after the boys went to bed.”

  We’d had embarrassing moments in the past, incidents when surprise ingredients were discovered in the mix after one of my lovely sons “helped me bake.” Nothing lethal, but seriously more imaginative than most adults wanted when they bit into a snack.

  Abby shook her head.

  “They’re chocolate chip cookies with pecans,” I coaxed, knowing her weakness for anything with nuts. Or anything associated with chocolate, too.

  “Thanks, but no.” She walked to the fridge and grabbed us each a can of Diet Coke. My one big weakness in life. Well, Diet Coke, margaritas, and sweet peach tea, but I didn’t have the last two in the house at the moment. We popped the tops simultaneously.

  “Think the boys will get their room cleaned before their dad gets back to town?” she asked.

  “That’s debatable.” I laughed. “And I’m not sure he wouldn’t make it worse. But he flies in next weekend.” I’d hoped he could be around while the boys were on spring break. But since it had taken me until the Saturday afternoon before school started up again on Monday to even get them to clean their room, it was probably just as well. I would likely have three blades ripped from the ceiling fan if Dek had been here, too. Sigh... Yes, Jamey and Mac inherited their superhero ideas from their over-imaginative father. I propped my elbows on the counter and asked, “When are you going back to Dallas? Is this a long weekend for you?”

  “Nope, I have a Southwest flight booked for tomorrow evening.”

  “We barely have time for any fun.” I’d picked her up at the Tulsa airport that morning. Her bag was still in the entryway, and her mother had phoned her cell twice to ask when she was coming home. Her phone buzzed for the third time since she’d arrived. She pulled it from the pocket of her slacks and frowned.

  “Your mom again?”

  “Yes.” She touched the screen. “Hi, Mom.”

  I went to the laundry room to give her some privacy. Towels were in a pile on the floor and the sheets to my bed were in the washer. I pulled out the wet bedding, giving each piece a shake and a squeeze, for one last shot at reducing moisture before I tossed it in the dryer. To make everything fluff and dry faster, I slow-pitched in three wool balls I’d made from old sweaters the boys outgrew, before I hit the On switch. Then it was time to take on the load of dirty towels. The temperature dial on my washer stayed almost permanently set on cold, since statistics proved ninety percent of the cost of washing clothes was heating water. To the soap and softener dispensers, I added detergent and scented vinegar.

  “You use vinegar in your wash?”

  “Eek!” I squealed. Luckily, I’d already poured the liquid into the machine. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry. I made my mom mad quickly enough to get off the phone in record time. I am now officially the bad daughter.” She switched subjects. “What does the vinegar do?”

  “A capful of vinegar is a nearly free way to give clothes all the softness of the expensive brand name fabric softeners. It’s great for sheets and towels,” I said. “I also leave two or three recycled balls of aluminum foil in the dryer to eliminate static cling.”

  “Sounds scary.”

  “Totally safe. Neither you nor the dryer will get zapped by the silver balls. But it does make the process noisier, as everything bounces while the drum rotates.”

  “I need to come home more often. You’d probably save me a fortune if I could regularly pick your brain on money-saving ideas.”

  “Just nickels and dimes each time, but they all add up. I also hang up all the t-shirts, jeans and sweatshirts to dry, then toss them into the dryer for only five minutes to fluff all the wrinkles out before they get put away. You can save a good chunk of change over the year doing that, and your clothes will last longer.”

  It would be wonderful seeing my best friend more than once every three months or so, but I knew it was better to keep my end of the conversation running along frugal lines when it came to advice. Abby’s grumbling was her way to work through whatever she needed to think about until she made up her mind about anything stressful. After letting her thoughts percolate for a while, she’d talk about what really bugged her.

  Out of college, she’d wanted to head to Dallas to practice law. Since I’d dropped out the year before to globe-trot with Dek, I had no say in the matter. So, just because I was back in Rogerston and wishing I could see her more often, it didn’t mean I had a right to state
my opinion. But I could offer persuasion in a different manner.

  “How about after you have dinner with your parents, we take over the couch and the big screen and watch rom-coms, so the boys start moaning and head upstairs to escape?”

  “That will send them to bed early?”

  “It will if I let them watch TV on my bed.”

  “Can we have cookies?”

  I laughed. “You can have all the cookies you want this minute.”

  Abby slammed her palms on the countertop that doubled as my folding table and ironing board. “What are we waiting for? Close the lid on that washer and follow me.”

  “I knew you’d never hold out when chocolate is involved.”

  However, as we reentered the kitchen, I decided to press a little. “Cookies aren’t the only things you can change your mind about.” The glare I got could melt steel. “I’m not saying you have to open up about everything.” I pulled off the top of the Rubbermaid container and passed it her way. “Simply letting you know you have whatever support is needed.”

  “There are some decisions I have to make, sure, but I’m not ready yet,” she said, her huge brown eyes somewhat downcast as she bit into the moist cookie.

  Like I didn’t already know she had to make her own choices. It was time for a diversion.

  “Come on.” I waved for her to follow me. As we passed the staircase, I called up, “Boys! Abby and I are going out to the workshop. I’ll be making a room inspection when we get back.”

  Both heads appeared over the railing.

  “How long will you be?” Jamey asked, his eyes big and panicked looking.

  “Long enough to show Abby my newest project.”

  “Like an hour?” he asked.

  “I told you already you only have half-an-hour.”

  Mac had apparently forgotten the gravity of the situation and was playing tug-of-war with Honey in the hall.

  “That’s not one of my good hand towels is it?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mac said, trying to hide the cloth behind his back while Honey continued grabbing it.

  Jamey groaned, then wrangled the towel from Honey’s mouth. “Stop it, stupid, you’re going to mess up everything.”

  “Don’t call Honey stupid.” Mac punched Jamey in the arm.

  “Ow! I wasn’t calling her stupid. You’re the stupid one. Making Mom mad about the towel when she’s already mad at us for the fan.”

  “I didn’t make her mad!”

  I raised my voice, so they could hear me over the exchange. “Boys, stop this minute.” Pointing toward their bedroom, I fought to make my voice sound stern, though it took everything I had to keep from cracking up. “Neither of you should call anyone stupid—person or canine. Get in your bedroom and finish cleaning. I’ll be back soon, and whenever that is, I’d better find your whole space looking terrific. Not discover that everything has been shoved into the closet.”

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  I PATTED MY THIGH AND whistled for the dog. To my anxious sons, I said, “We’re taking Honey with us, so you won’t get sidetracked again from cleaning. Get busy.”

  They disappeared again, not quite slamming the door in their haste, but it was close. We exited the front door, and the nearly white Labrador loped along ahead of us, aiming for the street. “No, Honey, we’re not going for a walk. Go to the garage door.”

  Our detached garage had become my personal workspace, and when I raised the large door, I had all the light and ventilation necessary to work on my reclamation projects. I led Abby inside and grabbed Honey’s collar to pull her back before her tail hit a few home runs with several of the smaller objects resting nearby.

  Besides trying to turn a small profit on the blog, I also rescued gently used and yard sale items. In the past year, I’d built quite a steady business providing a Tulsa decorator with “distressed” treasures I’d rehabbed, which she turned around and sold to clients for a five-hundred percent mark-up. I knew I was getting the shorter end of the stick, but it was still more profitable than if I tried to sell stuff myself online. The previous week, when my down-the-street-neighbor cleaned out her cabinets and closets, I’d discovered a wooden wine rack at the curb the next morning as Honey and I took our early stroll. Not one of those honeycomb-styled one, but a design with three big bent-C collars on each side. So, bottles could lay horizontally between the brackets and didn’t need so much depth from the wall. A little cleaning, a smidgeon of glue, some new stain and—

  “Voila,” I exclaimed, whipping off the sheet I’d used to cover it.

  Abby stood in the light of the door, dust motes floating around her like an aura. She cocked her head to one side as if trying to find words that wouldn’t hurt my feelings. “If it’s for me, you know I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

  No, Abby drank wine at swanky events to look sophisticated, but she was mostly a Michelob babe. I shook my head. “Think about re-purposing.” I folded up the dust sheet until it was about the same size as a bath towel, then folded the fabric again to make a rectangle and shoved it between two of the open racks. “Hang this over your toilet and have the extra towel caddy you said you needed.”

  She snorted. “I barely see my bathroom anymore. My hours are a nightmare. Redecorating is particularly low on my list.”

  “Have you talked to your boss?”

  “Try to get sympathy from Ivan the Terrible?” She shook her head. “No, but I have put out feelers. Hopefully, I’ll get a job offer before he or his backstabbing assistant get wind of the news that I’m looking around other firms.”

  “Honey, I’m so sorry.” I reached out to touch her arm, but Honey-the-dog thought I was talking to her and tried to wedge herself between us. By the time we got the oversized puppy to stop walking between our legs and almost tripping us, Abby and I were both laughing.

  “Woof!” Honey grinned at us. Then she apparently decided her work was done and left to chase squirrels in the backyard. I followed her to open the gate.

  “Does she ever catch any squirrels?” Abby asked. She stood just outside the garage and gestured toward the dog’s departing rear end with its endlessly wagging tail.

  I shook my head. “No, but she gets extra points for always thinking she might.”

  A couple of green plastic garden chairs stood nearby. I motioned for Abby to come and join me.

  “It won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t want the re-purposed wine/towel rack,” I said, sitting back in my chair and shooting her a grin. “But I think there’s a little more here than you simply rejecting a new piece of décor. I’m ready to listen whenever you’re ready to talk, but no pressure.”

  She nodded, scooting her chair closer. “You’re right. I need to talk to someone about it. I’m so tired of living a rented life, Lissa. I rent an apartment I barely sleep in. I rent furniture because I don’t feel ready to put down roots in Dallas. Even after all these years. We hit thirty over two years and I’m still living like a recent law school graduate. I come back home on a weekend and practically have to force myself to get on the plane to return to work. Unless I’m here in Rogerston, I never have fun anymore. All my co-workers are living the same miserable existence, or they’re so focused on the corner office they can’t see life beyond the firm’s sign outside the elevator. I want a real life.” She slapped her leg. “And by damn I will get one soon, even if the future doesn’t include law.”

  “But you always wanted to be a lawyer, Abby.”

  “No, I always wanted to help people.” She blew off a heavy sigh. “But the only people I help are the senior partners, who gain by my working an ungodly schedule to create a bunch of billable hours working to help faceless corporations. I never feel like I’m making a positive difference in life.”

  “Okay. I think I’m getting the gist of your tossing out that comment earlier about needing a new job.” I reached over and squeezed her forearm. “I’m sure you have vacation time built up, and I have an extra bedroom that’s sitt
ing empty in the house—much to Jamey’s consternation. You’d be doing me a favor if you came and stayed for a week to show him why we need a guest room in our house.”

  She laughed, but the sound of a slight catch at the end worried me. “If I did that I might never leave.”

  At least she was in a better mood about it.

  I hoped.

  Standing straight again, I slapped my thigh to call Honey then said. “Let’s go see if my sons have made any progress on their room. If they have, I’m going to send them off to ride bikes and play at Tommy’s house. We can sit at the kitchen table and gossip and eat cookies until it’s time for us to head out for pizza and for you to go home. Then you can come back for movies.”

  Abby looked at her watch. “That’s one plan. Another is you could see if the boys can stay at their friend Tommy’s overnight after the bike riding, and we could get dolled up and go for a girls’ night out at Encounters. Tonight is karaoke. Saw it on the hotel marque when we left the airport.”

  “Your mom is expecting you for dinner.”

  “My mom is also expecting to be a grandmother someday. I could meet my prince charming tonight if I go, or I could miss him entirely if I eat with my parents. So, going with you means I’ll be doing what my mother truly wants, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

  “You’re saying we’d be doing this to make your mom happy?”

  “Yeah, someday I’ll explain it to her.”

  “Well, I’ll only do it if my best friend goes up on stage with me, instead of staying at the table holding court while I sing,” I said. “Want to join me?”

  “If I don’t, you’ll be a best friend short,” Abby said, grinning. “And I couldn’t live with myself if that happened.”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  I CALLED TOMMY’S MOM, Donna Richmond, and got the okay for my boys’ overnight stay at their house. Donna said they were heading our direction anyway, going to the library to return spring break books—something I still needed to do—and she and Tommy would pick up my boys on the way home. I hung up on the call and added a library visit to the to-do list on my phone, then headed for the foyer.