My Precious

Turns out I have a knipple, and I didn't even know it.

I'm skimming around in Liz Perle's new book, Money, A Memoir: Women, Emotions and Cash. Page 22, the author's grandmother presents her with a reticule, a small purse that can be hidden in one's clothes:

"My grandmother went over to her pocketbook ... She removed a $20 bill, folded it twice, and stuck it into the bizarre purse, which she then handed to me.

"'This is the beginning of your knipple,' she said, pronouncing the alien word kah-nipple. 'It's a woman's private stash. Every woman needs money of her own that her husband knows nothing about. So she can do what she wants. What she needs. Remember that.'"

I fell through the page to a day long ago, when my own grandmother took me into her bedroom and presented me with the same advice and two small gold coins, with a warning: "Keep these safe. Keep them hidden. Tell no one you have them."

Like the author, I never forgot the sense of intrigue and danger. To this day, I have those secret talismans, safe and hidden. To this day, they color my feelings about money. I do not know whether their power is for good or ill.

Ahhhhhh.

A morning at home, at long last. The second job is over.

It was a part-time stint with H&R Block. They allowed us beginners to work only the easy stuff that comes in at the dawn of the tax season -- which is A Good Thing for you, and fine with me. It wasn't much of a job, but I'm actually rather proud of myself for trying it. Taxes have long been one of my phobias, so taking the Block classes and doing returns represents a small personal triumph. One less thing to fear.

So. I've been roaming around the house today, getting reacquainted with the place. I found an archery range in the basement. Imagine my surprise.

Me to hubby: "When did we get arrows?"
Hubby: "Couple of weeks ago."
Me: "WHY did we get arrows?"
Hubby shrugs: "Seemed like a cool idea at the time."
Me: "And why are these arrows embedded in the rec room wall?"
Hubby: "We have two boys."
Me: "Oh yeah."

There is serious cleaning to be done, and the cupboard holds food I have never seen before. Apparently, hubby has also been experimenting with canned and frozen dinners. Poor baby.

It's good to be back.

American idols

Let's hear it for the losers: the Idol wannabees. The fat, the ugly, the weird, the tone deaf and shrill who look in the mirror and dare to say, despite all evidence to the contrary, "YES. I AM the next American Idol."

It's the triumph of of hope over every socially inflicted wound they've ever experienced, and I'm willing to bet they've suffered quite a few. I wish I had their courage.