I reuse everything.
For my supper snack during my graduate classes this week, I packed my two honey turkey sandwiches in a plastic sack, the same one on both nights. This mildly entertained my peers in class. I don't know if it was a good "entertained" or a "oh-my-god-seriously-doesn't-this-girl-have-any-class-to-use-a-Ziploc-or-hell-even-the-generic-baggies?!" entertained. My response when I was teased was the same one Daddy says when people would make fun of Old Blue (his 1974 two-tone blue Chevy 3/4 ton truck. Those who are know my family, know which truck I am talking about). He never locked Old Blue when he'd take it to Halstead, because he would say "If someone really wants 'er, they obviously need 'er more than I do." He would, though, lock the tool box. When we were home this weekend, he talked about taking her to salvage yard, because he doesn't' trust Mom driving her and he doesn't think Old Blue could make it to Hutchinson.
The thought of him selling it, struck my precious sentimental cord. This is the pickup that I first learned to drive. I felt like such the badass "driving". "Driving" at 12 for me, consisted of just moving the wheel and Daddy running the gas, thank god. I think all farm kids have that POS truck that was comparable, in our little eyes, to a 2010 Cadillac Escalade. It was the cool thing that farm kids did that city kids could only DREAM about. Old Blue almost met her match several years back when Daddy was burning wheat stubble and the wind caught the best of him and switched directions. It melted the flaps on Daddy's four-wheeler. But Old Blue? Nah. Fire couldn't do shit to her.
Old Blue now resides in one of Daddy's round top sheds, for the days that his "newer" truck is in the shop. ajl and I were looking at him while we home and it seemed surreal. Seeing the truck in the dismal light, playing second string fiddle to his nicer and newer model seemed odd. What a demotion from being in the "cement garage" hauling tools and supplies, gas tanks, and random farm necessities and hauling anhydrous tanks back and forth from the field to the Co-Op. Old Blue now is parked next to the Chevy Suburban, that only gets used when all us girls are home and Daddy's old POS Versatile (If you do not know what a Versatile is, imagine a big huge yellow and red transformer-looking tractor).
Maybe that's why I find it hard to throw things away that are "paid for". I have no issues eating leftovers. At.all. One night, I made the fatal decision to have 3x warmed up Orange Chicken that my sister had brought to Manhattan. That tore up my intestinal tract in ways that even my precious Activa could not help with. I struggle with people not taking their leftovers home, when we are out at dinner. I almost want to ask if I can take them home. I am not a poor girl, I just like to save things when I can. Even if it is a plastic Dillon's bag. Or plastic silverware. Faculty are always baffled (maybe disgusted) that I'll use a plastic fork, lick it clean, and stick it back in my desk drawer.
What? It's paid for.
There's a line about being a millionaire that Daddy says that always always will stick with me "You don't become a millionaire by spending money." (I conveniently forget that line when at GAP, 6pm.com, Dillard shoe section, any jewelry stores that specialize in "junk gypsy" jewelry, MAC Cosmetics, etc).
Poor ajl. He gets to look forward to me saving everything, minus used toilet paper, and using rags instead of wasting tons of paper towels. I do not care how much money I have or how big my bank account is (or will be), I am the granddaughter of one of the stingiest, most frugal German Catholic women, you would have been blessed to meet. And I am going to re-use shit. My kids won't have stupid shit lunchboxes with stupid cartoon characters. They're going to rock Wal-mart bags.
Maybe on Monday's, I'll let them switch it up for a new bag (plastic).
