My friend Kellyrae call me last week, crying so hard I could barely make out what she was saying. A death in the family? Sickness? An accident? Had she lost her job?
When she finally calmed down enough to speck, I realized she was talking about her husband.
"I.........had.........every.......week.........and......he.........just .........threw them away!"
Kellyrae didn't need to say another word. I realized her husband had tossed out the loyal-shopper frequent buyer coupons you get at our local grocery store.
See, if you shop ten out of twelve weeks and spend at least forty dollars, you can get free stuff. Good stuff like turkeys and towels and gas and even cash.
We have all become a little obsessed with this give away coupon thing. Here was a woman who is getting her Ph.D in Russian studies and she is sobbing hysterically because her husband trashed eight weeks' worth of gobble dollars.
I felt her pain. Hadn't I choked on the Thanksgiving Giveaway last year? Sure, I had ten coupons, but they included three weeks sixes, a rookie mistake.
Listen to me, I don't care if you only have a jar of garlic olives in the refrigerator and the kids haven't had cereal since last Saturday, you don't go to the grocery store until the next coupon week starts----always on Wednesday.
Last Monday, Long Suffering began to whine about the lack of diet soda in the house.
"Are you insane?" I shrieked. "We can't have soda again until week seven. Do you have any idea how close we are to free gas?"
"But I'm really thirsty," he started. "Then try this!" I said, wrenching the cold water faucet on. "It's called water! Get used to it!"
Those of us who are good at this coupon thing have little patience for those who aren't, or the people who tell the cashier rather high-handedly, "Oh I'm not collecting those things."
Hmmph. Guess their cars run on snob juice.
We don't go to spinning classes, get seaweed wraps and such'. We wear our badge of "penny pinching' proudly.
At a Saturday night gettogethers you will more than likely find us outside frying a turkey with a can of Aqua Net.
We aren't ashamed to have dirt from the garden embedded in the prongs of our 3-carat diamond engagement rings and we'll slam on a brakes to point out a magnificent dogwood or mourn evidence of blight.
A Yankee friend of mine once remarked how odd it was that women here mow their own grass.
Well, of course we do.
We are precious and dahlin' in our straw mowing hats and don't you forget it, sugah.