A Definitive Experiment
(continued from previous post)
I was still pondering the hypothesis that women are more careful with their money than men several days later when Elizabeth asked for money to spend at the Ancaster Fair.
“It’s $30 for 22 tickets,” she reported.
“That’s the sort of thing we give you an allowance for,” I answered.
She minimized her request, “How about $2 for the entry fee?”
Together we decided to do an experiment. She would ask her father for the money, not mentioning that I had already turned her down. I was willing to go with whatever he said.
“What if he says, ‘ask mom?’” she wondered.
“Then we’ll discuss it.” I replied.
She approached her father just before leaving for the fair.
He immediately reached for his wallet, “I’ll give you $20. Anything more, you pay yourself.”
According to Elizabeth the hypothesis that women are more frugal than men is 100% correct.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Read Rave Review at 'Interviews and Reviews'
Laura Davis recently posted a review of 
Blooming on her blogsite Interviews and Reviews. Tomorrow I'll be over there for an interview.
Blooming on her blogsite Interviews and Reviews. Tomorrow I'll be over there for an interview. Thanks Laura, your words are music.
Women Who Buy Books
(continued from previous post)
Are women more concerned about price than men? Five women in the store during the book signing bought my book. None of these women expressed any concern about price. Of course there were also a number of women who didn’t buy the book. Possibly they were concerned about price.
One woman wondered about a senior’s discount. Another woman told me she didn’t come that day to buy a book. Astutely, I deduced she wouldn’t buy a book. She didn’t.
Yet, another mentioned apologetically that she had just spent $26 on another book. I gave her my blog address.
As you can see my study was inconclusive, not to mention, unscientific.
(to be continued – tomorrow – A Definitive Experiment)
Are women more concerned about price than men? Five women in the store during the book signing bought my book. None of these women expressed any concern about price. Of course there were also a number of women who didn’t buy the book. Possibly they were concerned about price.
One woman wondered about a senior’s discount. Another woman told me she didn’t come that day to buy a book. Astutely, I deduced she wouldn’t buy a book. She didn’t.
Yet, another mentioned apologetically that she had just spent $26 on another book. I gave her my blog address.
As you can see my study was inconclusive, not to mention, unscientific.
(to be continued – tomorrow – A Definitive Experiment)
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Do Men Spend Money More Freely than Women?
(continued from previous post)
My testing field wasn’t exactly even in the middle of the day in the middle of the week at a Christian bookstore. A steady stream of women flowed through the door the day I was there; whereas, I noticed less than a dozen men during my four hours in the store.
At least two men rushed past me as they targeted their purchase. I read somewhere that men treat shopping like a hunt—find it, and capture it.
Women treat shopping more like an exploration—don’t miss anything along the way. I suppose this fits in with my friend’s observation that men are looking for the item, while women are looking for the bargain.
Men with the wives are different then regular men shoppers. These men are looking for something interesting to happen while their wives check out their purchases.
One such husband said to me, “I don’t read.” I noticed his wife three feet away at the check-out counter shaking her head.
Using my superior reasoning ability I guessed he was lying. I read a story to entertain him. He laughed out loud at least three times during the story and ended up buying the book.
(to be continued)
My testing field wasn’t exactly even in the middle of the day in the middle of the week at a Christian bookstore. A steady stream of women flowed through the door the day I was there; whereas, I noticed less than a dozen men during my four hours in the store.
At least two men rushed past me as they targeted their purchase. I read somewhere that men treat shopping like a hunt—find it, and capture it.
Women treat shopping more like an exploration—don’t miss anything along the way. I suppose this fits in with my friend’s observation that men are looking for the item, while women are looking for the bargain.
Men with the wives are different then regular men shoppers. These men are looking for something interesting to happen while their wives check out their purchases.
One such husband said to me, “I don’t read.” I noticed his wife three feet away at the check-out counter shaking her head.
Using my superior reasoning ability I guessed he was lying. I read a story to entertain him. He laughed out loud at least three times during the story and ended up buying the book.
(to be continued)
Monday, September 28, 2009
Husbands, Wives and Parting With Money
A writer friend of mine observed—while working in a Christian bookstore—that women are more frugal than men. The gist of her observation: women want to pay less for more; men, on the other hand, want what they want and will pay whatever it costs.
At my book signing last week I had an opportunity to test this theory.
Would it be easier to sell books to men?
(continued)
Friday, September 25, 2009
MY Jars of Frozen Fruit (I Think)!
Monday I visited 96-year-old Mrs. Z at the extended nursing facility. Mrs. Z is now using a walker to get around, her eyesight is steadily deteriorating, and although her mind is still pretty savvy, she's definitely in Ecclesiastes 12.
Mrs. Z had phoned me in the morning to make sure I would first go to her house to clip some roses, check her mail and pick up two jars of frozen fruit from her freezer downstairs.
“I have an upright freezer downstairs in the laundry room.” she explained.
“Yes,” I said remembering the years of arranging her garden tomatoes in plastic bags in her upright freezer in the laundry room while she spent her summer at the cottage up north.
“Count the jars and take half of them for yourself. The fruit is about a year old.”
“Okay.”
“You will come here to visit me and give the two jars, and you must go back later for the jars for yourself because they shouldn’t thaw out while you are visiting me.”
“Okay.”
I brought her a jar of raspberries and a jar of apricots, along with four gorgeous roses from her bush. As I arranged her roses, she wondered, “How many jars are there in the freezer?”
“About twenty,” I guessed.
She put the raspberry jar on her dresser. “Take 10 jars for yourself.”
“Okay.”
As she showed me where to put the apricot jar in the fridge, she reconsidered, “Maybe take eight jars for yourself.”
“Okay.”
When we came in from sitting out on the little deck, she pulled off her well-worn purple mohair sweater—the one I had given her for a clothing drive for the people in Latvia about seven years ago—she reconsidered once more, “Maybe take seven jars and we can talk about the rest later.”
“Okay.” I said.
As I prepared to leave, she thanked me for coming and asked me to pray a blessing.
I hugged her, and prayed for her health, for peace and for her son. Then I kissed her and smiled as I left.
About an hour later, my phone rang. It was Mrs. Z. “Hello Marian, I forgot to offer you one of my roses while you were here.”
I pictured the four coral roses in full bloom. “That’s okay. There were only four and they look so beautiful together in your window.”
She continued, “When you go to my house to get the jars, then when you come to visit me, can you bring me two jars?”
“Okay,” I agreed. I love Mrs. Z.
Mrs. Z had phoned me in the morning to make sure I would first go to her house to clip some roses, check her mail and pick up two jars of frozen fruit from her freezer downstairs.
“I have an upright freezer downstairs in the laundry room.” she explained.
“Yes,” I said remembering the years of arranging her garden tomatoes in plastic bags in her upright freezer in the laundry room while she spent her summer at the cottage up north.
“Count the jars and take half of them for yourself. The fruit is about a year old.”
“Okay.”
“You will come here to visit me and give the two jars, and you must go back later for the jars for yourself because they shouldn’t thaw out while you are visiting me.”
“Okay.”
I brought her a jar of raspberries and a jar of apricots, along with four gorgeous roses from her bush. As I arranged her roses, she wondered, “How many jars are there in the freezer?”
“About twenty,” I guessed.
She put the raspberry jar on her dresser. “Take 10 jars for yourself.”
“Okay.”
As she showed me where to put the apricot jar in the fridge, she reconsidered, “Maybe take eight jars for yourself.”
“Okay.”
When we came in from sitting out on the little deck, she pulled off her well-worn purple mohair sweater—the one I had given her for a clothing drive for the people in Latvia about seven years ago—she reconsidered once more, “Maybe take seven jars and we can talk about the rest later.”
“Okay.” I said.
As I prepared to leave, she thanked me for coming and asked me to pray a blessing.
I hugged her, and prayed for her health, for peace and for her son. Then I kissed her and smiled as I left.
About an hour later, my phone rang. It was Mrs. Z. “Hello Marian, I forgot to offer you one of my roses while you were here.”
I pictured the four coral roses in full bloom. “That’s okay. There were only four and they look so beautiful together in your window.”
She continued, “When you go to my house to get the jars, then when you come to visit me, can you bring me two jars?”
“Okay,” I agreed. I love Mrs. Z.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Getting Shovel-Ready
A very efficient company has been awarded one of those shovel-ready boost-the-economy infrastructure projects in our neighbourhood. Among other things, they are ripping up old damaged bits of sidewalks and putting in wheelchair assessable walkways.
At 4:30 Monday morning I woke out of deep sleep to beep, beep, screeching growling roaring noises. Marty who had already peeked out the window explained to me that a giant shovel was being loaded onto a trailer bed just outside our bedroom. A few minutes later we heard a woman voice. We assumed she too had been startled awake. Then we heard the clunk clunk of chains being gently arranged, followed by the roar of a mighty engine starting up, then fading off and finally silence.
Is there a bylaw against disturbing the peace at 4:30 in the morning? Or maybe there are exceptions for shovel readiness. I had trouble keeping my eyes open Monday.
At 4:30 Monday morning I woke out of deep sleep to beep, beep, screeching growling roaring noises. Marty who had already peeked out the window explained to me that a giant shovel was being loaded onto a trailer bed just outside our bedroom. A few minutes later we heard a woman voice. We assumed she too had been startled awake. Then we heard the clunk clunk of chains being gently arranged, followed by the roar of a mighty engine starting up, then fading off and finally silence.
Is there a bylaw against disturbing the peace at 4:30 in the morning? Or maybe there are exceptions for shovel readiness. I had trouble keeping my eyes open Monday.
Above: equipment used to break-up and truck out the old sidewalk. I didn't get a picture of the shovel they carted away at 4:30 a.m. It was one very large shovel on caterpillar treads.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Slimed
The front window after we cleaned it up. Sunday afternoon, when I came home from the woman’s conference I attended on the weekend, our front bay window was slimy with raw egg and bits of egg shell. Apparently sometime Saturday evening someone had spent a few wonderful moments tossing eggs.
I found a note on the table from my husband, “If you wait until I get home, I’ll help you with the front window.”
Between us we hosed down and wiped the window clean. Then we prayed that whoever did this thing would come to the decision that they’d rather eat eggs than throw them.
We tried not to perceive this attack on our house as a personal attack—whoever threw the eggs didn’t hate us, they just liked throwing eggs.
Having our house egged reminds me of an e-mail I received a while back. Someone had spent a few wonderful moments putting together an email that blasted me from five different angles and then told me she would pray for me.
I thanked her for her prayers and tried to believe she didn’t hate me—she just liked writing nasty emails. Nevertheless, I felt slimed.
I found a note on the table from my husband, “If you wait until I get home, I’ll help you with the front window.”
Between us we hosed down and wiped the window clean. Then we prayed that whoever did this thing would come to the decision that they’d rather eat eggs than throw them.
We tried not to perceive this attack on our house as a personal attack—whoever threw the eggs didn’t hate us, they just liked throwing eggs.
Having our house egged reminds me of an e-mail I received a while back. Someone had spent a few wonderful moments putting together an email that blasted me from five different angles and then told me she would pray for me.
I thanked her for her prayers and tried to believe she didn’t hate me—she just liked writing nasty emails. Nevertheless, I felt slimed.
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