Betsy's Big Choice

Newsletter 2022-04-18

“It sounds like fun, but I don’t want to die.”

That was a quote from my eleven-year-old, Betsy, and when she said it, I knew she finally understood our proudest family tradition. And for the record, she totally opted in.

Easter is a time of death and rebirth. We went through our fair share of both this week, with a heavy emphasis on the death part. We’re nothing if not consistent. We had plans to visit both sides of our family for the holiest of Christian holidays, but first, a household crisis. My washing machine died, but it did it by overachieving in the worst way possible. In addition to washing clothes, it now also washed the floor. The leak started out as a trickle and developed into a sizable puddle. Soon, the rugs were soaked and the baseboards were soggy. Water, which is necessary for all life on earth, is also the destroyer of homes and ruiner of family budgets. My brother-in-law and sister-in-law recently suffered thousands of dollars in damage after the water line to their second-floor laundry room disconnected for just a few minutes, spraying the room in a frenzied attempt to create an indoor pool. Our water leak was slower yet no less nefarious. It could have been building up for days or weeks before it got to the point where standing on the rug in front of our washer left our socks soaking wet. But once we looked for water damage, we saw it everywhere. And no matter how bad things got, there was one thing I was sure of: The Easter Bunny wasn’t going to bring us a new washing machine. He needs bigger plastic eggs.

When it comes to appliances, there’s only one feature I want: for them to work. I know, I know, I’m asking too much. I expect a dryer to dry and a dish washer to wash and a refrigerator to refrigerate. If, instead of cooling food, the refrigerator incinerates it, we have a problem, probably one that will come to light one day after the warranty expires. Beyond that, I don’t care if the appliance has Wi-Fi or bluetooth or actual sentience that allows it to adjust its settings based on my circadian rhythm and bathroom schedule. That’s not the direction appliance manufacturers have gone, however. Instead of making machines more reliable, they’ve given them a million extra features I don’t need and one main feature, like cooling food, that breaks right away. Modern appliances have the service life of Kleenex, which makes sense for their business model. If customers have to buy a new fridge or washing machine every three years, the manufacturers gain a windfall. And you can’t get mad and switch companies because they’re all equally unreliable. It’s collusion of incompetence. Capitalism wins again.

It hasn’t always been this way. There was a time when appliances would outlast you and everyone you loved. In the 1950s, if you didn’t have a bomb shelter, you could simply squeeze inside an old timey fridge to survive the nuclear holocaust. (Disclaimer: For legal purposes, I have to clarify that this does not constitute nuclear survival advice. Although, in the event of nuclear war, there probably won’t be courts left where you can sue me, which makes the whole situation moot.) The ice maker in my old fridge broke a few years ago, and since fixing it would have cost almost as much as buying a new fridge, we bought a new fridge and turned the old one into a beer fridge, the ultimate status symbol in Midwestern society. We’re Indiana chic. After that crisis, I thought we were done with major purchases for a while, but my washing machine had other plans. This email is in memoriam of my savings account.

In the middle of all of this, my children were growing up. Betsy is now straddling that awkward line between childhood and adolescence. I would say childhood and adulthood, but it’s a little soon for that in this family. I’m thirty-six and still not technically a grown-up. She’s old enough that we can stop some of the comforting lies we’ve been telling her for years and finally show her the world as it really is. The universe is a cold and heartless place full of broken appliances but also opportunities for selfish profit. My extremely Catholic parents celebrate Easter in the traditional way: church, ham, and Easter egg hunts to the death. Mercy is for protestants. Every year, my mom and dad host a minor league Easter egg hunt for their grandchildren. Each kid gets an equal number of plastic eggs filled with equal amounts of treats. It’s candy communism. That’s not how things work for adult children. For us, we compete in a battle royale for money-filled eggs scattered around my parents tiny front yard. The confined area only intensifies the combat. Welcome to the octagon.

Such an event doesn’t seem like the place for a small child, but Betsy’s diminutive size isn’t necessarily a disadvantage. The rules of the egg hunt vary every year, but the only consistent statute is utter ruthlessness. Your eggs aren’t “safe” until you get them back to your basket at the starting line. Between the field and that line, people can pry eggs out of your possession by any means necessary. This is a full contact Easter egg hunt. Mouth guard and head gear are recommended. The only thing that stops the egg hunt from degenerating into a fist fight is pure self-interest. It’s easier to pick up an undefended egg off the ground than to fight someone to the death for one already in their hand. Usually, we’re limited to carrying one egg at a time. Sometimes we’re allowed to run it back. Other times, we have to hop on one foot or carry it on a spoon. There’s a mad rush for unclaimed eggs first, and then, after all the obvious ones are taken, we resort to piracy. My siblings and I are all sizes and shapes, but no one takes it easy on the small. It’s their own fault for being young or not eating more. Pregnancy is also no excuse. Women with child are slow and can’t bend over, but they also have extra mass and powerful hormones. Take them on at your own risk. These were all factors Betsy had to weigh carefully when considering if she wanted to play it safe and go for candy or glory and money with the accompanying lowered odds of survival.

In the end, Betsy decided her size would be more of an asset than a detriment, so she opted for the adult egg hunt. Her risk of being crushed was very real. Although she seems big to me since she’s tall compared to my kids, she’s tiny compared to other eleven-year-olds. When she took team photos for track, the kids had to line up shortest to tallest. Betsy was shorter than all thirty-five girls and all but one boy. The boy, though, will probably have a growth spurt that makes him 6’5” when he hits puberty, while Betsy has no such surge to look forward to. Just look at her bloodline. Her mom, Lola, is only 5’1 ¾” (Lola will tell you she’s a full 5’2”, but that’s a lie.). Ethnically, my wife is half Keebler elf. There is no growth spurt in Betsy’s future, but that’s okay. When it comes to full-contact adult Easter egg hunts, she just needs to move like a hobbit fighting a mountain troll. Stay low. Move quick. Don’t get smashed. That’s good advice in all situations. I should be a life coach.

Betsy couldn’t have picked a more important year to make her adult Easter egg hunt debut. We could really use the egg money to go toward that washing machine. We go through approximately a million loads of laundry a week, give or take a few hundred. My kids wear three dozen outfits a day and somehow manage to get them all dirty before tossing them next to the hamper (never in it), inside out with the underwear stuck over the inverted pant legs. It’s a wonder everyone doesn’t want to have kids. Could we really expect to pay for a washing machine with our Easter egg prize money? Definitely not. But I felt like a financial win, no matter how small, would balance things out, not mathematically, but in terms of karma. I’d end the week with one loss and one win. That’d be as close to breaking even as I was ever going to get.

Heaven knows I could use the morale boost. Getting a new washing machine hadn’t exactly been a smooth process. I long ago gave up on reading product reviews and comparing features. The limitless appliance options of the modern consumer state has paralyzed me to inaction. Rather than putting in any independent thought, I just ask my brother-in-law (the same one whose laundry room recently turned into one of the Great Lakes) what I should buy. He lives for comparing various technologies and finding the best deal, and I’d rather die than do any of those things. We make a good team. He finds his best deals through a particular big box store that requires a membership card and a store-brand credit card to maximize the experience. Usually, he’ll buy whatever it is for me and I just pay him back. Unfortunately, the washing machine was a tad large for in-store pick-up, and we were unsure if they would ship to my house since we have different addresses and I’m just mooching off his card. After years of freeloading off of him, I finally broke down this week and signed up for a membership at the store and applied for the credit card. God willing, I’ll actually be authorized to buy a washing machine in a few more days. I understand the need for the delay. They can’t sell discounted appliances to just anyone. Washing machine control works.

With the future of clean clothes at stake, Betsy, Lola, and I went into the adult Easter egg hunt Saturday more motivated and focused than ever. The field of competitors was smaller than normal this year. Notably missing were both Harry and Mitchell, the two brothers closest to me in age who were more likely to attack me for my eggs than to collect the unclaimed eggs right in front of them. Money is good but spite is better. Besides Lola, Betsy, and me, the remaining competitors were my two youngest brothers, one sister, and her partner. That meant people who lived in my household made up almost half of the competitors. If we had worked together, we could have dominated. We did no such thing. When it comes to competing for loose singles in the yard, it’s every man (and woman and child) for themself, even if Lola and I share a bank account. Cooperating is for people who can successfully buy a new washing machine without an extensive background check first.

The seven competitors assembled in my parents’ front yard. Then, we were off. This year, we had to carry the eggs back to our bags on a spoon one at a time. It was a repeat of rules from a past hunt, but I didn’t complain because it slowed us down. Several years ago, we could carry the egg in our hand and move as fast as we wanted, which turned the entire event into a shuttle run. It took me three months to catch my breath. The slow pace of this year’s spoon carry made the hunt much more strategic. You had to plan out which egg to go for ahead of time and chart a course to minimize proximity to siblings who were likely to ambush you. An egg balanced precariously on a spoon isn’t exactly easy to defend. Thirty seconds in, someone hit my spoon and sent my egg plummeting to the ground, costing me precious seconds. Moments later, one of my brothers swung his spoon for my egg but missed and hit the back of my hand. For context, this wasn’t some dainty teaspoon, but a thick and sturdy tablespoon. You know, the type that’s so hefty you can’t take it on an airplane since it’s considered a weapon. A day later, my hand still hurts. I’m lucky I didn’t need to have it amputated.

After about a minute of frenzied speed walking and spoon attacks, the hunt was over. We went inside to count our winnings. I came out with fifteen dollars, my lowest total ever. Clearly that violent spoon assault slowed me down more than I wanted to admit. Lola did even worse, coming in with a mere thirteen dollars. We might have to get divorced. Betsy, however, did just fine. She found no less than two of the coveted five-dollar eggs and finished with a whopping twenty-five dollars. It was so much money she’ll have to declare it on her taxes. Unfortunately, that cash belongs to her and won’t go towards our washing machine fund, assuming the big box store even deems me worthy of buying one. I told Betsy she could donate a few dollars toward it just to be a good person, but she flatly refused. I taught her well.

Betsy didn’t have anything to fear after all. In a no-holds-barred Easter egg hunt, she bested all of us. It helped that she was already low to the ground so she didn’t have to bend far to pick up the eggs. Also, no one recognized her as a threat. Next year, I suspect she’ll be target number one for all spoon attacks. Growing up is painful and glorious all at once. Just don’t get too old, kid, or you’ll be the one who has to pay for the washing machine, and none of your children will help.

***

Want to meet me in person? After the last 2,200 words, almost certainly not. For those brave few who weren’t dissuaded, I’ll be at Main Street Books (426 Main St, Lafayette, IN 47901) Friday April 22nd at 7 p.m. for a book reading/signing. I’ll share the stage (Although there won’t actually be a stage. I’ll be on the ground level with everyone else. Sorry if that’s a deal breaker.) with Dave Sattler, a retired newspaper cartoonist whose local popularity dwarfs my own. I look forward to being humiliatingly upstaged. To be clear, I am absolutely not worth a drive of any length, but if you happen to be within a two block radius of the event that day at that time, there are probably worse ways to spend your evening. I’m not sure what those worse ways are, but they exist. Probably.

I plan to read from my sci-fi debut, The Chosen Twelve. You might have heard me mention it once or twice before. If you haven’t, here’s a reader review:

Victoria

5 Stars

“There used to be this guy called Hitler. He was a disco dancer turned megalomaniac. Everybody agrees he was the epitome of evil. In fact, it might be the only thing all organics ever agreed on. ‘Don’t be like Hitler’ became a universal mantra. But nobody could agree on what being like Hitler meant. Pretty soon, people who disagreed about what kind of flowers to plant in a park were calling each other Hitler. The term became meaningless.”

This writer has put everything everyone loves about science fiction into one book. The blurb says it is Hunger Games meets Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and Lord of the Flies meets Philip K Dick. It’s spot on.

[...]

I absolutely loved this book and didn’t want it to end.

Get the book here: The Chosen Twelve.

Or just come see me Friday and I’ll hand you a copy myself.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next week.

James

Copyright © 2022 James Breakwell, All rights reserved.

Our mailing address is:

7163 Whitestown Pkwy #268

Zionsville, IN 46077