All Things Profane and Sacred

We have a $30 shovel. This shovel caused hours of debate. My position was that since I am mere steps away from debtor's prison, and because our little household is mired in poverty (we're already fashioning good deprivation stories for the grandkids about the depression of ought-six), we did not need no $30 shovel, the $3.99 model would do us fine for a few seasons. J's position was that this was the finest of shovels, built from the steel of champions, perfectly crafted and built to last. "We'll be showing the grandkids the fine shovel grandpa bought in the depression of ought-six! We'll never have to buy a shovel again!" he said. He had a gift card to Fred Meyer with a hundred dollars on it (His work gives out these bonuses several times a year-I can't wait to see what he gets for Arbor Day), so I told him that if he wanted to get the damn shovel, he could go ahead.

He's been driving around with the shovel all weekend, demonstrating the hot shovel action to all his friends and pedestrians who made the mistake of taking their Sunday walk down our street. I'm a shovel widow. Damn thing.