I spent the better part of the weekend wrapping Christmas gifts. And when I was done, 2 days later, my living room was a practical example of Christmas commercialized excess.
I know that society has been bemoaning the commercialization of Christmas forever. But for real. It's gotten out of hand.
I am not a practicing Christian by any means, but I do buy into the whole "Peace on Earth/Goodwill to Men" angle of the holiday. The family aspect. The nice meal. The relaxing in front of the fireplace sipping a 1,000 calorie per glass of eggnog. I am past the age of 12 and while I do appreciate a nice gift, it's not that important to me. From my perspective, the magic of Christmas is for kids.
While I do like buying a few well chosen gifts for close family and friends. There is a societal perception that one must pick up "a little something" for every person we come into contact with on a yearly basis in the spirit of the season lest you be labeled a Scrooge. It's a layer of financial stress that I can't fully articulate. It has become a burden and not a joy.
This will come off as ungenerous and grinchy. So be it. I do consider myself generous and thoughtful gift giver but I'd rather do it on my own terms at any other point in the calendar year except the day when it is expected. My thoughtful well chosen gifts are replaced with the mad dash of gift cards so I have "a little something" for a laundry list of names. And frankly...all those "little somethings" along with all the other expenditures of the season, the booze, the special Christmas dinner, the hosted events, all add up to a big final total. A total that could be mistaken for a mortgage payment.
The commercialization of Christmas is real and it's exhausting. The malls start with the decorations and the music before Halloween. Then there are the ads. The doorbusters. The gazillionith rendition of White Christmas.
As I write this, it's 5 days before Christmas and I, for one, can't wait for it to be over. I am ready to settle down for a long winters nap.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
There ought to be a law
In case you missed the fantabulous update about the dismal nature of the big Kohler show, you can read about it here.
The Kohler show is a hybrid of both hand made and commercial vendors. Most of the commercial vendors are nicer things, such as candy companies and better knock-off designer jewelry. There was also, however, all natural jewelry cleaner...conveniently positioned right next to me. Who's so lucky?
Now the all natural jewelry cleaner booth consisted of a couple of tables with pepto bismal pink table coverings and 2 large signs that screamed "FREE RING CLEANING", ala QVC.
Next to the pepto pink ring cleaning lady was guy selling wooden frogs of various sizes. What's the purpose of the wooden frog you wonder? Well, the frog has a wooden pin stuck in it. If you remove the pin and stroke the wooden pin up the frogs back, it croaks. Big frogs make deep croaks. Little frogs sound like crickets. Who's so lucky?
For three, long, painful, sales-free days my Kohler show experience was a cacophony of piped in Christmas music, the "FREE RING CLEANING" sales pitch and frog croaks. I couldn't make this up if I tried.
"Ladies would you like a free ring cleaning"
"Croaaaaak"
"Once a week take this cream and rub it into your diamond. It's safe for all gemstones including pearls and opals"
"Jolly Old St Nicholas"
"Croaaaaaak"
"What the cream is doing is removing the sticky oxidation."
"Croaaaaaak"
"Silver Bells"
"It's all natural, with banana oil, coconut oil and grapeseed oil"
"Croaaaaak"
"Then rinse and dip in the brightener"
I wish I had blow dart gun to put us all out of our collective misery. Pfffffft.
Now, to be fair, I will say that the jewelry lady has a good pitch. I'm sure she could sell ice to Eskimos; however I am a jewelers daughter and I can tell you with 110% certainly that "oil" is about the worst thing you can put on your jewelry. What's sticks to oil? Everything. Which is the reason we all clean our kitchens with amonia or another like product to cut through the grease.
Never let it be said the buying public had the sense God gave a lemon. Women lapped up "all natural jewelry cleaner" for the "special show price" of $24.95.
Editorssnark note: Clearly these are the same women who fall for the Arbonne skin care sales pitch because it's "naturally and botanically based". You can pick em out of a crowd as they have lines in their forhead that could hold a dime and could really benefit from a little Botox. Chemicals have their place people; both in skincare and diamond cleaning.
The frog guy sold 1/2 his inventory. Apparently Northern Wisconsin has an affinity for frog dust collectors that make a frog noise. What do you do with this thing once you get home? Seriously?
Meanwhile, I couldn't give it away but every other lady bought an oil based product to rub into her wedding ring or a wooden frog.
Croaaaak! Cue the dart gun. Pfffft.
The Kohler show is a hybrid of both hand made and commercial vendors. Most of the commercial vendors are nicer things, such as candy companies and better knock-off designer jewelry. There was also, however, all natural jewelry cleaner...conveniently positioned right next to me. Who's so lucky?
Now the all natural jewelry cleaner booth consisted of a couple of tables with pepto bismal pink table coverings and 2 large signs that screamed "FREE RING CLEANING", ala QVC.
Next to the pepto pink ring cleaning lady was guy selling wooden frogs of various sizes. What's the purpose of the wooden frog you wonder? Well, the frog has a wooden pin stuck in it. If you remove the pin and stroke the wooden pin up the frogs back, it croaks. Big frogs make deep croaks. Little frogs sound like crickets. Who's so lucky?
For three, long, painful, sales-free days my Kohler show experience was a cacophony of piped in Christmas music, the "FREE RING CLEANING" sales pitch and frog croaks. I couldn't make this up if I tried.
"Ladies would you like a free ring cleaning"
"Croaaaaak"
"Once a week take this cream and rub it into your diamond. It's safe for all gemstones including pearls and opals"
"Jolly Old St Nicholas"
"Croaaaaaak"
"What the cream is doing is removing the sticky oxidation."
"Croaaaaaak"
"Silver Bells"
"It's all natural, with banana oil, coconut oil and grapeseed oil"
"Croaaaaak"
"Then rinse and dip in the brightener"
I wish I had blow dart gun to put us all out of our collective misery. Pfffffft.
Now, to be fair, I will say that the jewelry lady has a good pitch. I'm sure she could sell ice to Eskimos; however I am a jewelers daughter and I can tell you with 110% certainly that "oil" is about the worst thing you can put on your jewelry. What's sticks to oil? Everything. Which is the reason we all clean our kitchens with amonia or another like product to cut through the grease.
Never let it be said the buying public had the sense God gave a lemon. Women lapped up "all natural jewelry cleaner" for the "special show price" of $24.95.
Editors
The frog guy sold 1/2 his inventory. Apparently Northern Wisconsin has an affinity for frog dust collectors that make a frog noise. What do you do with this thing once you get home? Seriously?
Meanwhile, I couldn't give it away but every other lady bought an oil based product to rub into her wedding ring or a wooden frog.
Croaaaak! Cue the dart gun. Pfffft.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Painful Life Lessons - Art Show Style
At 44 (cripes, I still can't say that numbe out loud without flinching a little), one would think that I have learned all the big life lessons. I've had 44 years of the "the moral of the story is...", I should be done. Alas. Not so.
The "big" Kohler show was a protracted, painful, 3-day lesson in the grass isn't always greener on the other side." It's just more expensive.
I had expectations. I admit it. Big fancy, American Club, expectations. I spent months (months, I'm not kidding) prepping for this show. Buying stock. Alot of it. Dying stock. Alot of it. Configuring displays. Artfully problem solving how I was going to jam all my stuff in a too small, very expensive space. I was prepared and ready to sell.
What's that saying? Make plans, God laughs.
What I wasn't prepared for was the staggeringly bad loction of my booth. Location is everything. Of 101 vendors, I was 101. Stuck way in the back of the "Bay de Noc" room. The American Club venue is truly magnificent. It's opulence and over indulgence at it's finest. The doormen wear top hats with black wool coats with red trim. It's nice. I want to live there.
All of the other rooms have 2 doorways, creating "flow". The Bay de Noc room is a conference room broom closet. One entrance, like a hallway. There is no flow. There is only the average patron taking half a dozen steps inside, craning their neck to get a lay of the land, turning and leaving.
Strike One.
I also wasn't prepared for having another artisit that sold the EXACT SAME STYLE dresses as I do, 2 booths over.
Not kidding.
Hand dyed.
Not kidding.
Althought his were painted with little birds (ok, ewww). I am all for healthy competition but geez-oh-petes. There weren't that many childrens vendors, break it up a little.
And the artist was a head-case. Running over to my booth ever 20 minutes, checking my price points (mine were $28 - his were $32). He actually said to me and I quote "Your stuff is pretty but mine is a better value since there is more embellishment". What a tool. Please leave my too small, expensive 8x10 booth.
Strike Two.
And the most important thing I wasn't prepared for, and I should know, is the market dictates everything. Tye Dye just isn't beloved in the northern parts of Wisconsin. It's definately a Madison area type product. For good or for ill -- people associate tye dye with hippies. These weren't my people. These people wanted chickadees painted on heathered green dresses, not bright rainbow swirls.
Strike Three.
So for three staggeringly long days, I endured barely (and I mean barely) enough sales to cover my over-priced booth fee and my hotel. At the end of my show I took my bruised ego and my over-abundance of tye dye, packed up and went home.
Big. Heavy. Sigh.
The "big" Kohler show was a protracted, painful, 3-day lesson in the grass isn't always greener on the other side." It's just more expensive.
I had expectations. I admit it. Big fancy, American Club, expectations. I spent months (months, I'm not kidding) prepping for this show. Buying stock. Alot of it. Dying stock. Alot of it. Configuring displays. Artfully problem solving how I was going to jam all my stuff in a too small, very expensive space. I was prepared and ready to sell.
What's that saying? Make plans, God laughs.
What I wasn't prepared for was the staggeringly bad loction of my booth. Location is everything. Of 101 vendors, I was 101. Stuck way in the back of the "Bay de Noc" room. The American Club venue is truly magnificent. It's opulence and over indulgence at it's finest. The doormen wear top hats with black wool coats with red trim. It's nice. I want to live there.
All of the other rooms have 2 doorways, creating "flow". The Bay de Noc room is a conference room broom closet. One entrance, like a hallway. There is no flow. There is only the average patron taking half a dozen steps inside, craning their neck to get a lay of the land, turning and leaving.
Strike One.
I also wasn't prepared for having another artisit that sold the EXACT SAME STYLE dresses as I do, 2 booths over.
Not kidding.
Hand dyed.
Not kidding.
Althought his were painted with little birds (ok, ewww). I am all for healthy competition but geez-oh-petes. There weren't that many childrens vendors, break it up a little.
And the artist was a head-case. Running over to my booth ever 20 minutes, checking my price points (mine were $28 - his were $32). He actually said to me and I quote "Your stuff is pretty but mine is a better value since there is more embellishment". What a tool. Please leave my too small, expensive 8x10 booth.
Strike Two.
And the most important thing I wasn't prepared for, and I should know, is the market dictates everything. Tye Dye just isn't beloved in the northern parts of Wisconsin. It's definately a Madison area type product. For good or for ill -- people associate tye dye with hippies. These weren't my people. These people wanted chickadees painted on heathered green dresses, not bright rainbow swirls.
Strike Three.
So for three staggeringly long days, I endured barely (and I mean barely) enough sales to cover my over-priced booth fee and my hotel. At the end of my show I took my bruised ego and my over-abundance of tye dye, packed up and went home.
Big. Heavy. Sigh.
Monday, November 21, 2011
The quest to not give up
Here’s the thing.
Straight up.
Aging sucks rocks.
Yeah. Yeah. I could be one of those women who spouts some fallacy about how age is just a number and you’re only as old as you act or feel or look…whatever that is. But here is the hard cold, right between the eyes reality.
It sucks.
Inside my brain I still “feel” 25, but my low back, right hip and hamstring muscles think otherwise.
And there is ooze. Alot of ooze. There is muffin top where there once was none. And back fat. WTF? Seriously! Where does that come from? And why does it suddenly spring up out of no-where.
Now I fully admit, that I spent the better part of the summer licking the ice cream spoon, but all things being equal, I am an active woman. I work out. I walk. I take the stairs. Not 7 days a week, but consistently.
But the muffin top doesn’t care. It continues to rise. Things jiggle where they didn’t…and where they shouldn’t. And I’ve already lamented about the waddle. Oh yes, there is a “fund” started so I can address that little horror show in a few short years.
There is a big part of me that wants to say “screw it”, throw in the towel and start shopping in the polyester elastic pants section of the JC Penny. Mumus are fashionable paired with some sensible Hush Puppies, right?
Then there is the other part of me that screams, look at Helen Mirren for cripes sakes! She’s 65 and has a bod and half. She looks 110% mahvelous dahling! Yeah. I get she probably had some cupcake boy toy of a trainer chasing her around for 3 hours a days. And a personal chef preparing low fat, healthy tasty meals; she probably never has Ben & Jerrys Cherry Garcia Ice Cream in her freezer (which is a real shame because that flavor is the bomb and Helen doesn’t know what she is missing). But if Helen, in her 60s still has it going on – well, I can at least continue to hit the treadmill, limp through the sore hip and buy another body shaper to smooth the lumps. Right?
So I’m trying really hard not to give up. To not be one of those women who throws in the towel when the very unkind, and frankly bitchy Mother Nature, unleashes the effects of gravity all over my body.
I’m sure there will 100+ like entries on this subject because not giving up is exhausting and wouldn’t it just be so much easier if eating Ben and Jerrys out of the carton while reading the latest Fitness Magazine was enough?
Stay tuned.
Straight up.
Aging sucks rocks.
Yeah. Yeah. I could be one of those women who spouts some fallacy about how age is just a number and you’re only as old as you act or feel or look…whatever that is. But here is the hard cold, right between the eyes reality.
It sucks.
Inside my brain I still “feel” 25, but my low back, right hip and hamstring muscles think otherwise.
And there is ooze. Alot of ooze. There is muffin top where there once was none. And back fat. WTF? Seriously! Where does that come from? And why does it suddenly spring up out of no-where.
Now I fully admit, that I spent the better part of the summer licking the ice cream spoon, but all things being equal, I am an active woman. I work out. I walk. I take the stairs. Not 7 days a week, but consistently.
But the muffin top doesn’t care. It continues to rise. Things jiggle where they didn’t…and where they shouldn’t. And I’ve already lamented about the waddle. Oh yes, there is a “fund” started so I can address that little horror show in a few short years.
There is a big part of me that wants to say “screw it”, throw in the towel and start shopping in the polyester elastic pants section of the JC Penny. Mumus are fashionable paired with some sensible Hush Puppies, right?
Then there is the other part of me that screams, look at Helen Mirren for cripes sakes! She’s 65 and has a bod and half. She looks 110% mahvelous dahling! Yeah. I get she probably had some cupcake boy toy of a trainer chasing her around for 3 hours a days. And a personal chef preparing low fat, healthy tasty meals; she probably never has Ben & Jerrys Cherry Garcia Ice Cream in her freezer (which is a real shame because that flavor is the bomb and Helen doesn’t know what she is missing). But if Helen, in her 60s still has it going on – well, I can at least continue to hit the treadmill, limp through the sore hip and buy another body shaper to smooth the lumps. Right?
So I’m trying really hard not to give up. To not be one of those women who throws in the towel when the very unkind, and frankly bitchy Mother Nature, unleashes the effects of gravity all over my body.
I’m sure there will 100+ like entries on this subject because not giving up is exhausting and wouldn’t it just be so much easier if eating Ben and Jerrys out of the carton while reading the latest Fitness Magazine was enough?
Stay tuned.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
So What Exactly does a Non-Answer Cost?
I recently mourned celebrated another candle on my cake. I’ve stopped counting candles. Candle counting is depressing.
The non-depressing part about adding a candle to my cake is the birthday octave. You can read about it here.
This year’s birthday octave festivities included one GNO (girls night out for those of you not familiar with uber-cool acronyms).
Five ladies descended upon Lillianas, a very lovely restaurant with New Orleans inspired fare and a wonderful wine list. The intent of the evening was drinks and snacks; snacks of course including dessert. What’s a birthday celebration without dessert? Just sayin’.
I am the first to arrive at said restaurant, where the very nice bartender inquires about what kind of drink I would like. I order a glass of his recommended wine, that is happily 25% off due to happy hour. I can get happy.
Friend #1 arrives and inquires about my wine. Brian, the nice bartender, suggests a bottle of said wine. I inquire about the cost of the bottle of wine which I am told is a great “value” because we’ll get it for the happy hour price of 25% off. (Notice how this isn’t a real answer. ) But order it we do. Because it’s Friday. And we’re celebrating. Yay us! Aren’t we thrifty?
The entire group congregates. Wine is poured. Appetizers are ordered and consumed. More appetizers are ordered along with 2 particularly delicious sounding entrees. A second bottle of wine is ordered. Entrees and appetizers are devoured. The second bottle evaportates. Three desserts are ordered because if one is good, three is better. Then there is coffee.
And then.
The bill arrives. (Insert scary sounding horror music here.)
$278
I know.
That’s a car payment.
Or a Coach purse. Whichever your prefer.
The culprit? That damn happy hour wine at $78 a bottle. A bottle! Now I will concur that it was indeed very delicious. But $78 delicious? Hard to say. But what’s done is done. That ship has sailed and now it’s time to pay the piper for my very good (and unknowingly expensive) taste in Malbec wine.
Important life lesson – get a solid answer on the cost of the wine. Oh and always order the bananas foster for dessert, because bananas with butter, sugar and rum almost makes it worth adding another candle to my cake.
The non-depressing part about adding a candle to my cake is the birthday octave. You can read about it here.
This year’s birthday octave festivities included one GNO (girls night out for those of you not familiar with uber-cool acronyms).
Five ladies descended upon Lillianas, a very lovely restaurant with New Orleans inspired fare and a wonderful wine list. The intent of the evening was drinks and snacks; snacks of course including dessert. What’s a birthday celebration without dessert? Just sayin’.
I am the first to arrive at said restaurant, where the very nice bartender inquires about what kind of drink I would like. I order a glass of his recommended wine, that is happily 25% off due to happy hour. I can get happy.
Friend #1 arrives and inquires about my wine. Brian, the nice bartender, suggests a bottle of said wine. I inquire about the cost of the bottle of wine which I am told is a great “value” because we’ll get it for the happy hour price of 25% off. (Notice how this isn’t a real answer. ) But order it we do. Because it’s Friday. And we’re celebrating. Yay us! Aren’t we thrifty?
The entire group congregates. Wine is poured. Appetizers are ordered and consumed. More appetizers are ordered along with 2 particularly delicious sounding entrees. A second bottle of wine is ordered. Entrees and appetizers are devoured. The second bottle evaportates. Three desserts are ordered because if one is good, three is better. Then there is coffee.
And then.
The bill arrives. (Insert scary sounding horror music here.)
$278
I know.
That’s a car payment.
Or a Coach purse. Whichever your prefer.
The culprit? That damn happy hour wine at $78 a bottle. A bottle! Now I will concur that it was indeed very delicious. But $78 delicious? Hard to say. But what’s done is done. That ship has sailed and now it’s time to pay the piper for my very good (and unknowingly expensive) taste in Malbec wine.
Important life lesson – get a solid answer on the cost of the wine. Oh and always order the bananas foster for dessert, because bananas with butter, sugar and rum almost makes it worth adding another candle to my cake.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Kohler is Upon Me
If you’ve been following along then you know that in a few short days I will make my pilgrimage up to The American Club in Kohler, Wi for the Kohler Holiday Mart.
Three days of what I am hoping will be stellar crowds and stellar sales.
And thankfully the Verona show as respectable. I have broken the bad luck streak.
A full debrief to follow…
Three days of what I am hoping will be stellar crowds and stellar sales.
And thankfully the Verona show as respectable. I have broken the bad luck streak.
A full debrief to follow…
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
The Pet Life Cycle
My least favorite part of having pets is the end of the pet life cycle…or the dying part. It’s probably their least favorite part too.
With most pets, the life cycle is long. Most cats live upwards of 15+ years. I can tell you that having had a pet from infancy to death, 15 years isn’t long enough.
Hamsters, unlike cats, live about 2 years. Hamsters have a little internal egg timer, once they hit the elusive 2 year mark they are usually toes up in the bottom in the cage. Now a hamster isn’t a cat, he won’t purr and is most of the time afraid of the people who feed him. He spends most of his time burrowing in his cage or running on his plastic wheel. But he’s still cute and furry and has a sweet face. Finding your hammy dead is indeed a buzz kill. Let’s face it. Dead hammys are no fun.
As was the case Monday night, say oh, 9pm, when my son was in the feeding and watering phase of hammy care for the night. Only the hammy no longer needed feeding and watering as he had followed the white light to the green hammy wheel in the sky.
We found his little body curled up in his straw hanging thingy in his cage…the hammy version of a straw tire swing. My son tried to get him out of said straw hanging thingy, but hammy must have crossed the rainbow bridge quite a number of hours earlier. His body was a little, uh, stiff. There was no budging his body from that swing. Poor ham.
So we wrapped the whole tire swing/hammy combo in an old dishtowel and proceeded to commence burial at 9:00 at night. I was quite the site dressed in my blue doggie flannel jammies, holding a flashlight in one hand and towel wrapped dead hamster in the other while my son dug a grave along the back end of our lot line near the green space.
I feel bad. I do genuinely feel bad. He wasn’t the type of pet that gave unconditional love, but he was unconditionally cute and if he had lived 15 years, I would have taken care of him. Hammys don’t need much in terms of care. On the pet scale – they are pretty low maintenance.
Rest in peace little ham. He really did have the cutest little hamster face.
With most pets, the life cycle is long. Most cats live upwards of 15+ years. I can tell you that having had a pet from infancy to death, 15 years isn’t long enough.
Hamsters, unlike cats, live about 2 years. Hamsters have a little internal egg timer, once they hit the elusive 2 year mark they are usually toes up in the bottom in the cage. Now a hamster isn’t a cat, he won’t purr and is most of the time afraid of the people who feed him. He spends most of his time burrowing in his cage or running on his plastic wheel. But he’s still cute and furry and has a sweet face. Finding your hammy dead is indeed a buzz kill. Let’s face it. Dead hammys are no fun.
As was the case Monday night, say oh, 9pm, when my son was in the feeding and watering phase of hammy care for the night. Only the hammy no longer needed feeding and watering as he had followed the white light to the green hammy wheel in the sky.
We found his little body curled up in his straw hanging thingy in his cage…the hammy version of a straw tire swing. My son tried to get him out of said straw hanging thingy, but hammy must have crossed the rainbow bridge quite a number of hours earlier. His body was a little, uh, stiff. There was no budging his body from that swing. Poor ham.
So we wrapped the whole tire swing/hammy combo in an old dishtowel and proceeded to commence burial at 9:00 at night. I was quite the site dressed in my blue doggie flannel jammies, holding a flashlight in one hand and towel wrapped dead hamster in the other while my son dug a grave along the back end of our lot line near the green space.
I feel bad. I do genuinely feel bad. He wasn’t the type of pet that gave unconditional love, but he was unconditionally cute and if he had lived 15 years, I would have taken care of him. Hammys don’t need much in terms of care. On the pet scale – they are pretty low maintenance.
Rest in peace little ham. He really did have the cutest little hamster face.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Not as simple as it looks
Just in case you haven't been paying attention. The big "Kohler" show is a few weeks away.
You can read about it here and here.
As previously mentioned Kohler booth space is at a premium. Myoverpriced 8x10 booth will be "cozy" and because clothing takes up some space, so I've been brainstorming about how to maximize my space opportinity. I can't have any "stock" visible (no boxes or tubs) so I needed to figure out how to have extra stock artfully displayed.
I found some fun litte black wire cubes from http://www.robertham.com/. Supposedly they assemble and disassemble with ease. Ease is apparently a subjective word.
2 hours and one rubber mallet later I was still assembling, along with a few choice curse words all while thinking there is no (insert choice curseword here) way I am taking these apart and putting them back together again. My car is already going to be packed full but I'll make it work with assembled cubes if it kills me.
Two weeks and counting. Tick tock.
Updates to follow...
You can read about it here and here.
As previously mentioned Kohler booth space is at a premium. My
I found some fun litte black wire cubes from http://www.robertham.com/. Supposedly they assemble and disassemble with ease. Ease is apparently a subjective word.
2 hours and one rubber mallet later I was still assembling, along with a few choice curse words all while thinking there is no (insert choice curseword here) way I am taking these apart and putting them back together again. My car is already going to be packed full but I'll make it work with assembled cubes if it kills me.
Two weeks and counting. Tick tock.
Updates to follow...
Friday, November 4, 2011
Stuff I like – Reinvented vinyl
If you are as old as me, ahem, then you remember records.
You know, albums.
Vinyl.
Those big monstrous looking black discs that played music on your parent’s stereo console with a diamond tipped record needle while you are your besties learned to disco dance in the rec room. The rec room that probably had shag carpet and wood paneling.
It’s all coming back now isn’t it?
I wish I could say that I still owned my albums. Thriller, Styx, Madonna, Saturday Night Fever, Journey, Fleetwood Mac and so on. But I am a purger by nature and my albums were long since purged at garage sales, where they were probably acquired by someone like this artist who does nifty things with old records. Upcycling I think they call it now…although it’s cooler than that. Trust me.
Reinvented Vinyl is my new favorite etsy shop. Hand to god. This artist takes old albums and magically reinvents them (hence the shop name) into fabulous purses. I know! So cool. You can also send her your favorite album and she will turn it into an fabulous purse.
So I did what any good girl would do. I bought four. Three for Christmas gifts and one for me (because I deserve a present for doing all the Christmas shopping. You can read about my thoughts on Christmas here).
You might think the best part about shopping for these four purses was sending a check to the artist and receiving a big box of purses several weeks later on my front porch. Close.
But the real fun was the tripping down memory lane part of the purchase. The part where I covertly grilled my besties about their favorite record albums in hopes it could be created into some awesome piece of fashion nostalgia that doesn’t have “Made in China” stamped on the bottom. The part where I am renounced best gift giver ever come Christmas.
Win-win for everyone!
Buy unique. Buy handmade.
You know, albums.
Vinyl.
Those big monstrous looking black discs that played music on your parent’s stereo console with a diamond tipped record needle while you are your besties learned to disco dance in the rec room. The rec room that probably had shag carpet and wood paneling.
It’s all coming back now isn’t it?
I wish I could say that I still owned my albums. Thriller, Styx, Madonna, Saturday Night Fever, Journey, Fleetwood Mac and so on. But I am a purger by nature and my albums were long since purged at garage sales, where they were probably acquired by someone like this artist who does nifty things with old records. Upcycling I think they call it now…although it’s cooler than that. Trust me.
Reinvented Vinyl is my new favorite etsy shop. Hand to god. This artist takes old albums and magically reinvents them (hence the shop name) into fabulous purses. I know! So cool. You can also send her your favorite album and she will turn it into an fabulous purse.
So I did what any good girl would do. I bought four. Three for Christmas gifts and one for me (because I deserve a present for doing all the Christmas shopping. You can read about my thoughts on Christmas here).
You might think the best part about shopping for these four purses was sending a check to the artist and receiving a big box of purses several weeks later on my front porch. Close.
But the real fun was the tripping down memory lane part of the purchase. The part where I covertly grilled my besties about their favorite record albums in hopes it could be created into some awesome piece of fashion nostalgia that doesn’t have “Made in China” stamped on the bottom. The part where I am renounced best gift giver ever come Christmas.
Win-win for everyone!
Buy unique. Buy handmade.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Halloween
I love Halloween.
Love it! This is ironic for someone who doesn’t like horror movies. But I otherwise love it. The costumes, the fun decorations, the trick-or-treaters, the abundance of Halloween candy until Easter.
Once again I am approaching Halloween with a certain amount of bittersweet melancholy. My son is past the Halloween stage of costumes and trick-or-treats.
No more excited anticipation to skip dinner and hit the neighborhood with a pack of boys and a pillowcase all in the name of massive candy acquisition.
No more piles of candy sorted by variety on my living room floor.
No more Ziploc bags full of butterfingers and kit-kats stored in my freezer for impromptu movie candy.
In the big picture the absence of candy is probably a good thing. I am not exactly known for my spectacular will power when it comes to treats (or pretty much anything else, but I digress).
However, I still hold fast to a few key Halloween traditions.
Pumpkin carving…a must have; although trips to the pumpkin patch have been replaced with grocery store pumpkins. And the half a dozen elaborate designs have now been relegated to a couple of simple jack-o-lanterns. Pumpkin carving is not easy on the hands of a chronic tye-dyer.
Pumpkin Seeds. Technically my spousal unit takes care of the cleaning and the roasting of said seeds. He roasts them a golden brown with tons of butter and garlic salt; a decadent yummy treat that has been known to make me sicker than a dog if eaten to excess. (Remember that will power statement from above). Yeah. I suck at willpower.
Full size candy bars. Yup. I am a “good house” and dole out full size candy bars. Parents hate me. Kids revere me. Nothing says sugary excess like a basket full of full size candy bars. I only get about 40 kids a year…latecomers get a fun size treat. Better show up early to get the good stuff!
Perhaps I should pinch a full size Butterfinger for my own consumption. Yeah. Good plan. Definitely!
Love it! This is ironic for someone who doesn’t like horror movies. But I otherwise love it. The costumes, the fun decorations, the trick-or-treaters, the abundance of Halloween candy until Easter.
Once again I am approaching Halloween with a certain amount of bittersweet melancholy. My son is past the Halloween stage of costumes and trick-or-treats.
No more excited anticipation to skip dinner and hit the neighborhood with a pack of boys and a pillowcase all in the name of massive candy acquisition.
No more piles of candy sorted by variety on my living room floor.
No more Ziploc bags full of butterfingers and kit-kats stored in my freezer for impromptu movie candy.
In the big picture the absence of candy is probably a good thing. I am not exactly known for my spectacular will power when it comes to treats (or pretty much anything else, but I digress).
However, I still hold fast to a few key Halloween traditions.
Pumpkin carving…a must have; although trips to the pumpkin patch have been replaced with grocery store pumpkins. And the half a dozen elaborate designs have now been relegated to a couple of simple jack-o-lanterns. Pumpkin carving is not easy on the hands of a chronic tye-dyer.
Pumpkin Seeds. Technically my spousal unit takes care of the cleaning and the roasting of said seeds. He roasts them a golden brown with tons of butter and garlic salt; a decadent yummy treat that has been known to make me sicker than a dog if eaten to excess. (Remember that will power statement from above). Yeah. I suck at willpower.
Full size candy bars. Yup. I am a “good house” and dole out full size candy bars. Parents hate me. Kids revere me. Nothing says sugary excess like a basket full of full size candy bars. I only get about 40 kids a year…latecomers get a fun size treat. Better show up early to get the good stuff!
Perhaps I should pinch a full size Butterfinger for my own consumption. Yeah. Good plan. Definitely!
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Worst Shows Ever
Yup. I’ve officially accumulated a streak of two bad shows who have officially taken the #1 and #2 spot of “Worst Show Ever.”
I didn’t think anything could beat the Fond du Lac debacle of 2008. But I was wrong.
I hate being wrong.
Both Watertown and New Berlin were little mini disasters with long drives and no buyers.
It’s too depressing to recount in detail.
With each show, fresh hope.
I didn’t think anything could beat the Fond du Lac debacle of 2008. But I was wrong.
I hate being wrong.
Both Watertown and New Berlin were little mini disasters with long drives and no buyers.
It’s too depressing to recount in detail.
With each show, fresh hope.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Interviewing
I've worked for the same company for 21 years.
That's a long time.
Longer than I've been married.
Double decades.
Long.
For reasons, which are unclear, I decided to apply to promotion. Wait, you say? A promotion? Apply for a promotion? Aren't promotions usually just given when deserved.
Apparently yes...to everyone else except me. Now I don't want to be one of "those employees" who thinks they are all that and a bag of chips and should be promoted because they are more deserving then other employees. I've been around the corporate block long to enough to know that when manager wants to bump someone up the corporate food chain, it happens. Auto-magically. There is a tap-tap on the shoulder and Voila! Someone (else) has been bumped into double digit profit sharing. I have a combination of phenomonally bad luck and bad timing when it comes to "right place at the right time" career syndrome.
Oh. Is my bitterness shining through. Sorry. I know. I know. Sour grapes. But it's my blog and if you don't like it, I'll take my ball and go home!
So there!
The quick backstory. My department has folks that have slightly different levels of the same job. A higher graded position opened and I applied. Same job that I am doing today - just more money. Truly. The same. The same boss too. Same.
Now if my manager had her druthers she would have probably just promoted me already - but her manager, who is a tool and has yet to befall a non-fatal but slightly disfiguring accident, demands that God and everybody be interview for this position. This includes external applicants. Don't even get me started on how I will feel if this position ends up being filled externally.
And so I get an interview.
Interviewing is roughly on par with taking a mind numbing math exam. There is alot of pressure to remember the correct formula for the perfect interview. The right answers solved quickly and expertly delivered with the right balance of perkiness and positivity.
I'm pretty sure being flogged for 45 minutes wouldn't have been as painful.
Then...to add insult to injury...as if this process hasn't gone on long enough, it will be another month before a decision is made. I applied in July. Interivew in October...decision sometime before I am dead and buried.
Or so I hope.
That's a long time.
Longer than I've been married.
Double decades.
Long.
For reasons, which are unclear, I decided to apply to promotion. Wait, you say? A promotion? Apply for a promotion? Aren't promotions usually just given when deserved.
Apparently yes...to everyone else except me. Now I don't want to be one of "those employees" who thinks they are all that and a bag of chips and should be promoted because they are more deserving then other employees. I've been around the corporate block long to enough to know that when manager wants to bump someone up the corporate food chain, it happens. Auto-magically. There is a tap-tap on the shoulder and Voila! Someone (else) has been bumped into double digit profit sharing. I have a combination of phenomonally bad luck and bad timing when it comes to "right place at the right time" career syndrome.
Oh. Is my bitterness shining through. Sorry. I know. I know. Sour grapes. But it's my blog and if you don't like it, I'll take my ball and go home!
So there!
The quick backstory. My department has folks that have slightly different levels of the same job. A higher graded position opened and I applied. Same job that I am doing today - just more money. Truly. The same. The same boss too. Same.
Now if my manager had her druthers she would have probably just promoted me already - but her manager, who is a tool and has yet to befall a non-fatal but slightly disfiguring accident, demands that God and everybody be interview for this position. This includes external applicants. Don't even get me started on how I will feel if this position ends up being filled externally.
And so I get an interview.
Interviewing is roughly on par with taking a mind numbing math exam. There is alot of pressure to remember the correct formula for the perfect interview. The right answers solved quickly and expertly delivered with the right balance of perkiness and positivity.
I'm pretty sure being flogged for 45 minutes wouldn't have been as painful.
Then...to add insult to injury...as if this process hasn't gone on long enough, it will be another month before a decision is made. I applied in July. Interivew in October...decision sometime before I am dead and buried.
Or so I hope.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
I've Fallen down the Project Hole
I have. For real. A combination project hole (the real job that pays the mortgage) and tye dye hole (the fun hobby that keeps me in pedicures).
I'll be back shortly.
I will.
Promise.
And it will be dazzling.
Hand to God.
I'll be back shortly.
I will.
Promise.
And it will be dazzling.
Hand to God.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Sauk Prairie Cow Chip – Art Show Recap
Sauk Prairie Rules!
The Good:
The bad
Woot!
On the list for next year. Check!
The Good:
- There are people. Lots of people. People who apparently are unphased by the federal deficit, the blips in the stock market, recent back to school shopping or rain. The calendar turned to September and it’s a new month with new money to spend. And they spent it. On tye dye. Go me. This means I can pay for my husbands 50th birthday thingy (another entry for another time, promise).
- Pork Chop on a stick. $5 for 12 ounces of bone-in pork-a-licious pig on a stick. Oink! Pork Chop on a stick is not for dainty. Sit down at picnic table, rolls up the sleeves and Fred Flintstone that pork chop down to the bone. It’s a good idea to bring some floss. Worth every single smoked pork-chop-a-licious calorie. Yummy!
- Lots of first time grammas. Cool, hip grammas that think nothing of whipping out the Visa to buy cute little dresses, hoodies and rompers for their grandbabies. I’m putting all Grandmas on a big pedestal. They rule.
- The Square. My new fangled real-time gizmo that authorizes and captures credit card transactions via my smart phone. I received my “free” Square (really, it's free) in time for Sauk which make credit cards transactions easy, peasy, lemon squeezy. Seriously – slicker then sh*t through a goose. No lie. Major snaps on the cool factor.
The bad
- The weather. This year is was rainy and drippy and overall moist. Not that it mattered. Cow Chip is a one day gig and the people come out in droves. The bummer part was all my stuff was just a tad moist which meant unpacking everything at home to dry out proper.
- Normal hassles with loading in and loading out, but let’s face it I’m seeing dollar signs. Dollar signs are like exercise endorphins. They make me happy.
Woot!
On the list for next year. Check!
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Kicking it up a notch
You might think the kick I’m referring to is the spice level in my cooking.
Afraid not.
I’m talking about my exercise routine.
Let’s get a couple of things straight. If I never exercised another day in my life, it would be too soon.
I’d like to tell you that I look forward to exercise with the same enthusiasm as getting a pedicure. But I would be lying. There is a reason I have an exercise “buddy”. I need someone to guilt me into getting off the sofa and away from the Chester Cheese Puffs. True Story.
Oh sure, exercise gives your happy endorphins. Sometimes. The exercise people make it sound like 40 minutes of cardio is the same as a red wine buzz. It’s not. They are lying.
I think the real endorphins come from elation when the whole affair is over and I can take off my shoes and sit down.
My routine is getting a little stale. And now that I’ve settled comfortably into my 40’s, my body’s metabolism has slowed to pretty much a crawl. 30 minutes of walking or elliptical time ain’t getting it done anymore. I’m noticing ooze in places where there wasn’t ooze before. Such as…the ribcage. What is that anyway? Looks like a chicken cutlet spilling out from under my bra strap. Good god. Horrifying. Then there is the muffin top and the meno-pooch.
This is what eating ice cream every day this summer gets you. Fleshy.
Time to step up and pay the piper.
So I’ve decided I need to kick it up a notch. Confuse my muscles. Make them do something they haven’t done before. Yeah. Good plan.
So my first step in upping the ante was taking a Kick box Boot camp class through my health club.
I know.
The class is a mix of kickboxing moves and 60 second cardio drills. Surprisingly I didn’t pass out and die during the class. I held my own even though everyone in the class was younger. By a lot. However, I can tell you that upon getting out of bed the next day, I felt as if I had been run over by a large truck. This is good right? The run over by a truck feeling?
It means I worked hard. Or my body is deteriorating at a rate that is incomprehensible. Hard to say which.
So new plan…2-3 cardio type classes a week of 55 minutes each + 2, one- hour yoga type stretching classes. I’ll be reporting back in 6 weeks on the state of the muffin top, chicken cutlet and meno-pooch; although I think the latter is an unfortunate reality that will require nothing short of a trip to the plastic surgeon. If only.
Afraid not.
I’m talking about my exercise routine.
Let’s get a couple of things straight. If I never exercised another day in my life, it would be too soon.
I’d like to tell you that I look forward to exercise with the same enthusiasm as getting a pedicure. But I would be lying. There is a reason I have an exercise “buddy”. I need someone to guilt me into getting off the sofa and away from the Chester Cheese Puffs. True Story.
Oh sure, exercise gives your happy endorphins. Sometimes. The exercise people make it sound like 40 minutes of cardio is the same as a red wine buzz. It’s not. They are lying.
I think the real endorphins come from elation when the whole affair is over and I can take off my shoes and sit down.
My routine is getting a little stale. And now that I’ve settled comfortably into my 40’s, my body’s metabolism has slowed to pretty much a crawl. 30 minutes of walking or elliptical time ain’t getting it done anymore. I’m noticing ooze in places where there wasn’t ooze before. Such as…the ribcage. What is that anyway? Looks like a chicken cutlet spilling out from under my bra strap. Good god. Horrifying. Then there is the muffin top and the meno-pooch.
This is what eating ice cream every day this summer gets you. Fleshy.
Time to step up and pay the piper.
So I’ve decided I need to kick it up a notch. Confuse my muscles. Make them do something they haven’t done before. Yeah. Good plan.
So my first step in upping the ante was taking a Kick box Boot camp class through my health club.
I know.
The class is a mix of kickboxing moves and 60 second cardio drills. Surprisingly I didn’t pass out and die during the class. I held my own even though everyone in the class was younger. By a lot. However, I can tell you that upon getting out of bed the next day, I felt as if I had been run over by a large truck. This is good right? The run over by a truck feeling?
It means I worked hard. Or my body is deteriorating at a rate that is incomprehensible. Hard to say which.
So new plan…2-3 cardio type classes a week of 55 minutes each + 2, one- hour yoga type stretching classes. I’ll be reporting back in 6 weeks on the state of the muffin top, chicken cutlet and meno-pooch; although I think the latter is an unfortunate reality that will require nothing short of a trip to the plastic surgeon. If only.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
I can hear you
This is an honest to god true story from the Good Neighbor Festival Art Show. You can read recap about that show here.
Me: Sitting in my booth watching and listening to a couple outside my booth discussing one of my tye dye one-piece rompers (you know, onesies, except I can’t call them onesies because it honks off the legal team at Gerber).
The guy: (Loudly with disgust and finger wagging): “$14.50 for a onesie! It’s not like there is that much material. $14.50! Ridiculous.” (Guys continued to rant for another 30 seconds)
Me: “I can hear you”.
Guy: Hearing me, hearing him, moves along to taunt some other poor artist.
Me: Hopping up on soapbox inside my head.
Dude. It’s a novelty item. You aren’t going to dress your baby in 20 tye dyes. But if you want to I’m your gal. And hey, the price of cotton went up like, 60-80% for wholesalers in the last year. And it’s hand-dyed. Which means one color at a time. One piece at time.
Me: Hopping off the soapbox inside my head.
Buy unique. Buy handmade. You might pay a bit more but isn’t it refreshing to know you’d be buying something that isn’t all “made in China homogenized sameness?”
Me: Sitting in my booth watching and listening to a couple outside my booth discussing one of my tye dye one-piece rompers (you know, onesies, except I can’t call them onesies because it honks off the legal team at Gerber).
The guy: (Loudly with disgust and finger wagging): “$14.50 for a onesie! It’s not like there is that much material. $14.50! Ridiculous.” (Guys continued to rant for another 30 seconds)
Me: “I can hear you”.
Guy: Hearing me, hearing him, moves along to taunt some other poor artist.
Me: Hopping up on soapbox inside my head.
Dude. It’s a novelty item. You aren’t going to dress your baby in 20 tye dyes. But if you want to I’m your gal. And hey, the price of cotton went up like, 60-80% for wholesalers in the last year. And it’s hand-dyed. Which means one color at a time. One piece at time.
Me: Hopping off the soapbox inside my head.
Buy unique. Buy handmade. You might pay a bit more but isn’t it refreshing to know you’d be buying something that isn’t all “made in China homogenized sameness?”
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Kohler - An Update
So yeah. I was accepted to the big “Holiday Craft Market” in Kohler, Wi. You can read about that here.
Silly me. I assumed acceptance meant all artists are created equal. Not so much with the created equal. New vendors are low man on the totem pole.
Low. Very low.
Low man on the totem pole means that the 10x12 booth space I requested will not be a reality. Not unless another returning vendor befalls a non-fatal but disfiguring accident and is unable to attend this year’s event.
Low man means only 8x8 booth spaces are left. 8x8 isn’t very big when you display clothing.
Low also means you get relegated to some random banquet room, not the coveted “Grand Ball Room”.
Newbies must pay their dues.
The coordinator of the Kohler show…in my opinion has the most thankless job on the planet. I’m pretty sure coordinating the booth spaces and needs of 100+ narcissistic artists is tantamount to a hazing ritual in the events planning world. The hotel events managers of The American Club probably rub their hands in anticipation of who they can torture this year with the planning of the annual Kohler Holiday Mart….insert maniacal manager laughter here.
The coordinator has been great about trying to at least accommodate me, which I really do appreciate.
I do.
I am being 110% sincere. She could have easily dumped me in the 8x8 and left no room for discussion. So major snaps to the holiday event coordinator at the American Club for being so stand up about what I am sure is a no win situation for anyone.
I was able to use my powerful negotiation skills and wrangle my way into an 8x10 booth. I bet you didn’t think that an extra 2 feet of booth space costs $100. It does.
Booth space real estate ain’t cheap. It’s even less cheap at The American Club where a room is $300 a night.
No lie.
For the record I won't be staying at The American Club. I have 3 nights booked at the lovely La Quinta.
So – we’re off and running. Contract and check to be sent. Let the months of prepping begin.
More to follow.
Silly me. I assumed acceptance meant all artists are created equal. Not so much with the created equal. New vendors are low man on the totem pole.
Low. Very low.
Low man on the totem pole means that the 10x12 booth space I requested will not be a reality. Not unless another returning vendor befalls a non-fatal but disfiguring accident and is unable to attend this year’s event.
Low man means only 8x8 booth spaces are left. 8x8 isn’t very big when you display clothing.
Low also means you get relegated to some random banquet room, not the coveted “Grand Ball Room”.
Newbies must pay their dues.
The coordinator of the Kohler show…in my opinion has the most thankless job on the planet. I’m pretty sure coordinating the booth spaces and needs of 100+ narcissistic artists is tantamount to a hazing ritual in the events planning world. The hotel events managers of The American Club probably rub their hands in anticipation of who they can torture this year with the planning of the annual Kohler Holiday Mart….insert maniacal manager laughter here.
The coordinator has been great about trying to at least accommodate me, which I really do appreciate.
I do.
I am being 110% sincere. She could have easily dumped me in the 8x8 and left no room for discussion. So major snaps to the holiday event coordinator at the American Club for being so stand up about what I am sure is a no win situation for anyone.
I was able to use my powerful negotiation skills and wrangle my way into an 8x10 booth. I bet you didn’t think that an extra 2 feet of booth space costs $100. It does.
Booth space real estate ain’t cheap. It’s even less cheap at The American Club where a room is $300 a night.
No lie.
For the record I won't be staying at The American Club. I have 3 nights booked at the lovely La Quinta.
So – we’re off and running. Contract and check to be sent. Let the months of prepping begin.
More to follow.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Middleton Good Neightbor Fest - Recap
MiddlMiddleton is my hometown, which means the Good Neighbor Fest (GNF) is my hometown fair, which also means there is a lot of GNF sentimentality attached to the festival.
When I think of Middleton Good Neighbor I think of the food first.
Mini donuts, kettle corn, funnel cakes and cheese curds; (although the cheese curds weren’t as good this year as they have been in past years – sorry Kiwanis). After a weekend at the GNF, one needs a full body cavity flush and a green salad.
I think many other people think of the food first and art & craft show second.
And therein lies the problem.
It’s also the last fair of the season, smack dab at “back to school time”. Another problem.
So let’s get down to brass tacks and dissect the goodness and lack of goodness of this particular art fair, keeping in mind that it pains me to say anything other than great things about the GNF.
The Good
I figure the sour taste of this years GNF art show will fade and by May of 2012 I’ll be full of fresh hope and optimism. Time will tell.
When I think of Middleton Good Neighbor I think of the food first.
Mini donuts, kettle corn, funnel cakes and cheese curds; (although the cheese curds weren’t as good this year as they have been in past years – sorry Kiwanis). After a weekend at the GNF, one needs a full body cavity flush and a green salad.
I think many other people think of the food first and art & craft show second.
And therein lies the problem.
It’s also the last fair of the season, smack dab at “back to school time”. Another problem.
So let’s get down to brass tacks and dissect the goodness and lack of goodness of this particular art fair, keeping in mind that it pains me to say anything other than great things about the GNF.
The Good
- The food. In addition to wide variety of grease laden items already mentioned, you can also get cream puffs, chicken and/or steak sammys, burgers, brats, pulled pork, pizza, pretzel, pie, ice cream, fries, fish, chicken dinners , cotton candy, caramel apples, soda and beer. Whew. I mean for small town fair, the spread is pretty good.
- It’s close to home. Bonus.
- The weather! GORGEOUS! Picture perfect 78 degrees blue skies and sunshine. A far cry from the Mt Horeb Steam Bath in mid July.
- Firemans Park. It’s a park...not a parking lot. There are trees. There is grass. There are also an enormous amount of daddy long-leg spiders, but we seemed to co-exist peacefully, although I do feel really bad about unknowingly smushing one under my sales book. Live and learn.
- Firemans Park. Park = good. Hauling your crap into the park = not good. There is no easy load-in/load out. Basically, it’s a free for all. Technically artists are not supposed to park on North Ave, the very small block of road that butts up against the park… but no one pays attention to that rule, including me. I got lucky and parked on North Ave Sunday morning, so load out was slightly less horrible. It’s every man for himself when it comes to packing up and heading out. And I’m all about me when it comes to getting the hell outta there and home as much as the next guy.
- Communication with the Show Coordinators. I think art show coordination is a hazing ritutal. Some young eager beaver blindly accepts responsibility and then falls down the rabbit hole. In my experience manning the GNF artshow gmail account was pretty low on someone’s priority list.
- The buyers. There were lots of people but not lots of buyers. I think this stems from two things:
- The general stock market rollercoaster of late doesn’t actually inspire confidence. Lack of confidence = lack of spending. Economics 101.
- Back to School. Most families are tapped out from back to school supplies, book fees, tuition and otherwise being nickel and dimed to death by their local school district. Factor in August being a big vacation month and people are tapped out.
I figure the sour taste of this years GNF art show will fade and by May of 2012 I’ll be full of fresh hope and optimism. Time will tell.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Culture
Once a year I attend American Players Theater (APT) with my girlfriends in an attempt to get cultured.
I am not against culture, but plays just aren’t my thing. That probably explains why I only attend one per year. I’m more of a musical kind of gal. If folks aren’t intermittently breaking into song and prancing about in costumes with sparkles you’re going to lose me.
The whole event is very nice. It really is. There is picnicking beforehand with an ample amount of wine, snacks and snarky banter. This is my favorite part of the whole affair. I’d be only too happy to sit in the woods in Spring Green and drink wine all night. But then a bell chimes indicating the play is going to start and we trudge “up the hill” as they say, to be cultured by Shakespeare.
There are a couple of flaws with the whole culture in the woods Shakespearean plan. First, I’ve usually had a few glasses of wine, am happily buzzed and would like to continue to go on being happily buzzed. I’m a booze bag that way.
But one can’t continue to throw down red wine whilst watching Shakespeare. That’s frowned upon by the management. Spirit crushers.
The other flaw is, I generally only comprehend about every third word of the play. That’s pretty good if the play is on the lighter side of Shakespeare such as an “As you like it” or a “Taming of the Shrew”. If you’re going to force me to endure a “Hamlet” then the words to understating ratio is going to drop like a stone.
I know I am a huge cultural disappointment to my friend who graciously coordinates this event each year. Let’s be honest, I watch an unhealthy amount of reality TV and cooking shows. I don’t exactly fit the profile for “has a deep love of the classics”. I choose my books by the ever important criteria of smut content. I definitely gravitate towards books that fall into the “good beach read” category and walk right on by the Jane Austin and Shakespeare at the local library.
Overall I successfully comprehended most of The Taming of Shrew although I would be lying if I said it was my all time favorite play. I appreciate it the experience for what it is. It forces me outside my cultural comfort zone, I get to chat with my besties, drink some good wine and enjoy a nice summer night.
That’s a good dose of culture for this year I think.
I am not against culture, but plays just aren’t my thing. That probably explains why I only attend one per year. I’m more of a musical kind of gal. If folks aren’t intermittently breaking into song and prancing about in costumes with sparkles you’re going to lose me.
The whole event is very nice. It really is. There is picnicking beforehand with an ample amount of wine, snacks and snarky banter. This is my favorite part of the whole affair. I’d be only too happy to sit in the woods in Spring Green and drink wine all night. But then a bell chimes indicating the play is going to start and we trudge “up the hill” as they say, to be cultured by Shakespeare.
There are a couple of flaws with the whole culture in the woods Shakespearean plan. First, I’ve usually had a few glasses of wine, am happily buzzed and would like to continue to go on being happily buzzed. I’m a booze bag that way.
But one can’t continue to throw down red wine whilst watching Shakespeare. That’s frowned upon by the management. Spirit crushers.
The other flaw is, I generally only comprehend about every third word of the play. That’s pretty good if the play is on the lighter side of Shakespeare such as an “As you like it” or a “Taming of the Shrew”. If you’re going to force me to endure a “Hamlet” then the words to understating ratio is going to drop like a stone.
I know I am a huge cultural disappointment to my friend who graciously coordinates this event each year. Let’s be honest, I watch an unhealthy amount of reality TV and cooking shows. I don’t exactly fit the profile for “has a deep love of the classics”. I choose my books by the ever important criteria of smut content. I definitely gravitate towards books that fall into the “good beach read” category and walk right on by the Jane Austin and Shakespeare at the local library.
Overall I successfully comprehended most of The Taming of Shrew although I would be lying if I said it was my all time favorite play. I appreciate it the experience for what it is. It forces me outside my cultural comfort zone, I get to chat with my besties, drink some good wine and enjoy a nice summer night.
That’s a good dose of culture for this year I think.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Fitness Osmosis
I take a lot of steps to be a healthier trimmer individual. If you read between the lines I’m trying but often failing to execute. Or to put it another way…I’m not always hitting the fitness mark.
Case in point, reading a well intentioned albeit unrealistic article in my monthly fitness magazine about how to “look good naked” while standing at the counter eating Kemps “Under the Stars” chocolate peanut butter ice cream out of the container. Yeah, I know, there are about 10 things wrong with this scenario.
First off no one really looks good naked. Generally the human population looks better half-naked then all the way naked. Clothes are purposely designed to hide the flaws that can be seen while naked. Geesh.
I joined my health club 6 years ago because I wanted to lookgood better naked and then quickly realized miracles not withstanding I’d settle for looking better in a tank top. Naked arms but the rest of me clothed, just as it should be.
Kemps “Under the Stars”, my new favorite ice cream flavor (chocolate ice cream, peanut butter ribbons and chocolate stars filled with peanut butter) should probably be eaten out of dish. My mother would be appropriately mortified.
And there is the obvious contradiction of the actual eating of ice cream while looking at a fitness magazine. I probably should have been eating a slice of tofu. But ice cream is so much tastier. Who are we kidding here?
I’d love to be able to aim for fitness perfection. Knock out my 1 hour a day of exercise according to the some recent medical study that says women over 40 (sigh) need an hour a day just to maintain their weight. If that isn’t a thoroughly depressing medical statistic I don’t know what is? Right now I can barely manage 30-40 minutes 4-5 days a week.
The lapse in my exercise regimen I’m supplementing with a subscription to Fitness and Cooking Light; hoping the content will seep into my brain via osmosis in between bites of ice cream.
Case in point, reading a well intentioned albeit unrealistic article in my monthly fitness magazine about how to “look good naked” while standing at the counter eating Kemps “Under the Stars” chocolate peanut butter ice cream out of the container. Yeah, I know, there are about 10 things wrong with this scenario.
First off no one really looks good naked. Generally the human population looks better half-naked then all the way naked. Clothes are purposely designed to hide the flaws that can be seen while naked. Geesh.
I joined my health club 6 years ago because I wanted to look
Kemps “Under the Stars”, my new favorite ice cream flavor (chocolate ice cream, peanut butter ribbons and chocolate stars filled with peanut butter) should probably be eaten out of dish. My mother would be appropriately mortified.
And there is the obvious contradiction of the actual eating of ice cream while looking at a fitness magazine. I probably should have been eating a slice of tofu. But ice cream is so much tastier. Who are we kidding here?
I’d love to be able to aim for fitness perfection. Knock out my 1 hour a day of exercise according to the some recent medical study that says women over 40 (sigh) need an hour a day just to maintain their weight. If that isn’t a thoroughly depressing medical statistic I don’t know what is? Right now I can barely manage 30-40 minutes 4-5 days a week.
The lapse in my exercise regimen I’m supplementing with a subscription to Fitness and Cooking Light; hoping the content will seep into my brain via osmosis in between bites of ice cream.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Dumb things managers say
Perhaps it’s my age, but I have less and less tolerance for managers that are promoted to a level beyond their incompetence and inflict their idiocy on the working cogs of the world.
This installment of dumb things managers say includes an exchange between myself and one of the managers in our sister location. This occurred at our painful “teambuilding” torture session recently:
Manger: “How long have you been in our department”
Me: “2 years. Prior to that I spent 10 years in Marketing, and was in Operations before that.”
Manager: “That’s interesting. What role did you like better?”
Me: “That’s hard to answer. They are so different.”
Manager “This would be an opportunity for you to do some sucking up.”
Me: Dumbfounded but recovered nicely with a very diplomatic take the high-road-kind of answer.
Needless to say, the manager in question does a lot of sucking up.
As if you hadn’t guessed.
This installment of dumb things managers say includes an exchange between myself and one of the managers in our sister location. This occurred at our painful “teambuilding” torture session recently:
Manger: “How long have you been in our department”
Me: “2 years. Prior to that I spent 10 years in Marketing, and was in Operations before that.”
Manager: “That’s interesting. What role did you like better?”
Me: “That’s hard to answer. They are so different.”
Manager “This would be an opportunity for you to do some sucking up.”
Me: Dumbfounded but recovered nicely with a very diplomatic take the high-road-kind of answer.
Needless to say, the manager in question does a lot of sucking up.
As if you hadn’t guessed.
Friday, August 12, 2011
This is yet another blog entry about Corporate America trying to do the right thing, but falling flat on its face.
Thud.
Teambuilding is one of those corporate buzzwords that invariably make its way into every employee survey and/or managers annual performance goals.
Second: Teambuilding can't be forced. Yet, misguided managers across the land think that you can toss a bunch of people from two different locations who share like jobs into the same room for a few hours, feed them pizza and expect them all to “friend” each other on facebook. Sorry, not happening.
I was recently a victim of the forced teambuilding pizza lunch experiment.
P-A-I-N-F-U-L.
From the 3 hour long car ride down to the neutral location to the teambuilding exercise, to the pizza lunch, to the 3 hour long car ride back home.
Please baby Jesus – let it be over.
And then the pain was followed up with….wait for it….a survey to share our feelings.
Please kill me now.
Pass me a gun so I can shoot myself. And if you don’t have a gun, hurl a few bullets at me. Maybe one of the bullets will break the skin and I’ll die from a nasty infection.
A few bits of advice from an experienced “team member”; the following team building tactics don’t work:
For the record, the team building committee did suggest that one team building option was to pair folks from different units on the same project. Management responded with how that was not "cost effective", but we can spend all kinds of time driving employees hither and yon for some forced teambuilding.
Head slap.
I guess I should be grateful there wasn’t a ropes course involved.
I might have been left swinging.
Thud.
Teambuilding is one of those corporate buzzwords that invariably make its way into every employee survey and/or managers annual performance goals.
- Build your team.
- Create inclusion.
- Make sure that when people come to work every day it’s a great big warm fuzzy.
Second: Teambuilding can't be forced. Yet, misguided managers across the land think that you can toss a bunch of people from two different locations who share like jobs into the same room for a few hours, feed them pizza and expect them all to “friend” each other on facebook. Sorry, not happening.
I was recently a victim of the forced teambuilding pizza lunch experiment.
P-A-I-N-F-U-L.
From the 3 hour long car ride down to the neutral location to the teambuilding exercise, to the pizza lunch, to the 3 hour long car ride back home.
Please baby Jesus – let it be over.
And then the pain was followed up with….wait for it….a survey to share our feelings.
Please kill me now.
Pass me a gun so I can shoot myself. And if you don’t have a gun, hurl a few bullets at me. Maybe one of the bullets will break the skin and I’ll die from a nasty infection.
A few bits of advice from an experienced “team member”; the following team building tactics don’t work:
- The team lunch. I think I’ve sufficiently beaten this one into the ground.
- “Guess who I am” surveys; participants answer questions about themselves and we all have to guess who it is. Because – gee, when 30 of the 35 people on our cross-location team list “Christmas” as their favorite holiday…that’s a dead giveaway to the identities of people I’ve never talked laid eyes on. This also includes the ever popular “two truths and a lie” and let’s not forget the sugary sweet “guess the baby picture.”
- Anything via conference call where the audio is crappy at best and the video shows a wide angle of a conference room. You can’t feel the teambuilding love when one can only hear every third word and the people on the other end look like ants.
- Team Goals. These are made up initiatives usually at the department level to address some problem that really isn’t a problem, like lack of teambuilding. I’m not kidding here. There was an actual committee, which used real work hours to brainstorm solutions for turning two units into best friends forever. I couldn’t make this up if I tried.
For the record, the team building committee did suggest that one team building option was to pair folks from different units on the same project. Management responded with how that was not "cost effective", but we can spend all kinds of time driving employees hither and yon for some forced teambuilding.
Head slap.
I guess I should be grateful there wasn’t a ropes course involved.
I might have been left swinging.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Hippity Hoppity Movie Hopping
I popped my movie hopping cherry this weekend. Who knew? I am a glorified movie-geek and I have never ever done the movie hop. The pay for one movie, watch it and when it’s done, skirt into another movie. A two-fer.
I’m a little embarrassed to admit that my teenage son suggested we movie hop. I’m not embarrassed that I did the movie hop with my kid, only that I didn’t think of it first. Damn kids are too smart for their own good.
Times are tough, the economy is sluggish. I’m all for stretching my entertainment dollar as far as I can.
I suppose I should feel guilt; movie hopping doesn’t reek of leading by parental example but honestly, I don’t feel that bad when movies are $7.50 a piece (and that’s a matinee). I’m pretty sure the fine people at Paramount or Fox Studios of whoever it was that didn’t benefit from our extra $15 in ticket sales will find another way to fleece the movie going public.
Despite my novice standing in movie-hopping, I am an expert in the sneaking in of concessions. When a small diet coke is roughly the same price as a 12-pack at the Pick-N-Save…all’s fair in love and smuggling. It’s all about survival.
I highly recommend stopping at Walgreens for the boxed movie candy. Nine times out of ten they are on sale for $1 a box which is far more reasonable then AMCs take- it-in- the -shorts price of $4.25 for a box of Junior Mints.
Popcorn is a bit trickier, but it can be done. A ziploc freezer bag will hold plenty of popcorn and can typically be shoved in the arm of a jacket. Carry the jacket in over your arm. In the summer months a big purse works well. Empty out everything you don’t need, carry your wallet and stuff in the much needed provisions.
The movie-hop was great fun. We probably had success because it was a Friday afternoon, there weren’t a lot of ushers around and it’s a multi-plex. The multi-plex lends itself to movie hopping potential.
For the record we saw “Crazy, Stupid, Love” which was worth the price of admission and then hopped to “Rise of the Planet of the Apes”.
Kinda glad I didn’t pay for that last one.
Putrid.
I’m a little embarrassed to admit that my teenage son suggested we movie hop. I’m not embarrassed that I did the movie hop with my kid, only that I didn’t think of it first. Damn kids are too smart for their own good.
Times are tough, the economy is sluggish. I’m all for stretching my entertainment dollar as far as I can.
I suppose I should feel guilt; movie hopping doesn’t reek of leading by parental example but honestly, I don’t feel that bad when movies are $7.50 a piece (and that’s a matinee). I’m pretty sure the fine people at Paramount or Fox Studios of whoever it was that didn’t benefit from our extra $15 in ticket sales will find another way to fleece the movie going public.
Despite my novice standing in movie-hopping, I am an expert in the sneaking in of concessions. When a small diet coke is roughly the same price as a 12-pack at the Pick-N-Save…all’s fair in love and smuggling. It’s all about survival.
I highly recommend stopping at Walgreens for the boxed movie candy. Nine times out of ten they are on sale for $1 a box which is far more reasonable then AMCs take- it-in- the -shorts price of $4.25 for a box of Junior Mints.
Popcorn is a bit trickier, but it can be done. A ziploc freezer bag will hold plenty of popcorn and can typically be shoved in the arm of a jacket. Carry the jacket in over your arm. In the summer months a big purse works well. Empty out everything you don’t need, carry your wallet and stuff in the much needed provisions.
The movie-hop was great fun. We probably had success because it was a Friday afternoon, there weren’t a lot of ushers around and it’s a multi-plex. The multi-plex lends itself to movie hopping potential.
For the record we saw “Crazy, Stupid, Love” which was worth the price of admission and then hopped to “Rise of the Planet of the Apes”.
Kinda glad I didn’t pay for that last one.
Putrid.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Stuff I like – Pea Pod Magnets by Polpette Clay
I’ve had this shop ear-marked as one of my “favorites” on etsy.com for some time now, but I never had occasion to buy a pea pod magnet. Three peas in a pod are symbolic of a certain amount of closeness. Be it family, kids or friends. It’s also a bit kitschy. But I like kitsch.
Polpette Clay sat in my etsy favorites list unloved for quite sometime. And then something amazing happened. Well, amazing is a big word, but I was on a project at work with two other women and one of the ladies made a comment about how we were just like “three peas in a pod.” This statement was met with a fair amount of snarky giggling between us, since the project in question was a heinous compliance project required by the federal government, so it has about as much appeal as a lanced boil.
Horrible project content not-with-standing, I had an epiphany! I would order my colleagues (and myself of course) one of these cute little pea pod magnets as a memento of our time spent together enduring the pain of this particular federal compliance project.
In one fell swoop I could cement the bonds of teambuilding in corporate America and buy handmade. Smells like a win-win to me.
The magnets are cute. I mean ridiculously cute. And brightly colored. Bright and cute. And whimsical. What’s not to love? And I do like peas even when they don’t have super cute smiley faces. But these do. Bright, cute and smiley.
Buy unique. Buy handmade.
Polpette Clay sat in my etsy favorites list unloved for quite sometime. And then something amazing happened. Well, amazing is a big word, but I was on a project at work with two other women and one of the ladies made a comment about how we were just like “three peas in a pod.” This statement was met with a fair amount of snarky giggling between us, since the project in question was a heinous compliance project required by the federal government, so it has about as much appeal as a lanced boil.
Horrible project content not-with-standing, I had an epiphany! I would order my colleagues (and myself of course) one of these cute little pea pod magnets as a memento of our time spent together enduring the pain of this particular federal compliance project.
In one fell swoop I could cement the bonds of teambuilding in corporate America and buy handmade. Smells like a win-win to me.
The magnets are cute. I mean ridiculously cute. And brightly colored. Bright and cute. And whimsical. What’s not to love? And I do like peas even when they don’t have super cute smiley faces. But these do. Bright, cute and smiley.
Buy unique. Buy handmade.
Monday, August 1, 2011
A Summer Fashion Bullseye
Shopping for casual summer fashion is right up there with several of my other most detested shopping tasks:
And I am busty, or to put it another way. I got a big rack. Big racks don’t work in cami’s with shelf bras or halter tops or strapless dresses. And I have a bit of a tummy. Some call it the “menopooch”. One of my besties calls it “the fopa” (pronounced foo-pah), which translates into the “fat over pussy area”. Yeah it’s lewd, but it’s also shockingly accurate.
So basically I need summer fashion that is a v-neck/scoop neck, can accommodate a bra with reinforced steel girders, floats away from the tummy a little and is stylish without breaking the bank. And I want to be able to wash it and line dry. Dry cleaning is unacceptable. Basically I want it all.
I decided I wanted some dresses to fill the gap in my casual summer wardrobe. I work art shows. I sit at a lot of baseball games. I want to look fun, stylish and effortlessly casual when it 95 degrees out. And so I began my summer dress hunt.
I tried Athleta.com which is an arm of the Gap conglomerate of stores. Very cute stuff. I get their catalog. Clearly I failed to notice all models are 5’11, with 2% body fat and amazing yoga bodies. Bitches. Still I had hope and ordered 3 dresses but nothing fit quite right. And at $59-$89 a pop, the dress should make me look amazing. Not so much with the amazing.
I also tried Soma.com (lingerie arm of Chicos). Very cute stuff. I get their catalog. The models are a little less perfect. I ordered three dresses and struck out swinging. Back they went.
I also tried a few local places and came up empty. I felt defeated, unloved and a summer shopping failure.
And then…I went to Target…not to shop for dresses but for some other random thing, but I stumbled into their women’s department. And there they were…rayon blend dresses with a v-neck, twist knot front with an empire waist that gently floats away from the tummy without looking like a mumu. Score! Well – until I realized it’s July in Wisconsin and everything is thoroughly picked over so my size wasn’t available.
But then I remembered the internet.
Cue angels singing.
Even though it’s July, Target.com had plenty of dresses in my size and color preference.
I wept for joy.
For $60 I bought three totally cute sundresses. For those of you following along at home, that’s $20 per fabulously effortless, wash and wear dress. So happy. And because I must be having a string of amazing luck, I also stumbled across an uber cute Karen Kane designer dress, on the yellow dot sale rack, in my size (woot!) at the mall. Yellow dot is code for “so cheap you can’t afford not to buy it”.
So $100 got me 4 dresses which nets out to $25 a dress.
I know! 100% utterly fabulous!
- Shopping for jeans
- Shopping for bras
- Shopping for swimwear
And I am busty, or to put it another way. I got a big rack. Big racks don’t work in cami’s with shelf bras or halter tops or strapless dresses. And I have a bit of a tummy. Some call it the “menopooch”. One of my besties calls it “the fopa” (pronounced foo-pah), which translates into the “fat over pussy area”. Yeah it’s lewd, but it’s also shockingly accurate.
So basically I need summer fashion that is a v-neck/scoop neck, can accommodate a bra with reinforced steel girders, floats away from the tummy a little and is stylish without breaking the bank. And I want to be able to wash it and line dry. Dry cleaning is unacceptable. Basically I want it all.
I decided I wanted some dresses to fill the gap in my casual summer wardrobe. I work art shows. I sit at a lot of baseball games. I want to look fun, stylish and effortlessly casual when it 95 degrees out. And so I began my summer dress hunt.
I tried Athleta.com which is an arm of the Gap conglomerate of stores. Very cute stuff. I get their catalog. Clearly I failed to notice all models are 5’11, with 2% body fat and amazing yoga bodies. Bitches. Still I had hope and ordered 3 dresses but nothing fit quite right. And at $59-$89 a pop, the dress should make me look amazing. Not so much with the amazing.
I also tried Soma.com (lingerie arm of Chicos). Very cute stuff. I get their catalog. The models are a little less perfect. I ordered three dresses and struck out swinging. Back they went.
I also tried a few local places and came up empty. I felt defeated, unloved and a summer shopping failure.
And then…I went to Target…not to shop for dresses but for some other random thing, but I stumbled into their women’s department. And there they were…rayon blend dresses with a v-neck, twist knot front with an empire waist that gently floats away from the tummy without looking like a mumu. Score! Well – until I realized it’s July in Wisconsin and everything is thoroughly picked over so my size wasn’t available.
But then I remembered the internet.
Cue angels singing.
Even though it’s July, Target.com had plenty of dresses in my size and color preference.
I wept for joy.
For $60 I bought three totally cute sundresses. For those of you following along at home, that’s $20 per fabulously effortless, wash and wear dress. So happy. And because I must be having a string of amazing luck, I also stumbled across an uber cute Karen Kane designer dress, on the yellow dot sale rack, in my size (woot!) at the mall. Yellow dot is code for “so cheap you can’t afford not to buy it”.
So $100 got me 4 dresses which nets out to $25 a dress.
I know! 100% utterly fabulous!
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Mt Horeb Art & Craft Fair – A followup
Editors Note: Major props to a couple of my besties who helped me work this show. Pedicures for all.
This is a good show. I would do it again. Let’s cut to the chase…
The Pros
The cons
Bottom Line
Buy unique. Buy handmade. It’s my new mantra.
This is a good show. I would do it again. Let’s cut to the chase…
The Pros
- It’s close to home. Like 15 minutes away. Score.
- My booth was 3 spaces off the corner of Main and Third Street which mean I could pull my car RIGHT IN FRONT of my booth for BOTH loading and unloading. This may be lost on the average reader but not having to haul heavy stuff for any distance is amazeballs. Especially since it was beyond hot. I’ll get to that later.
- My booth was also like ½ block from the artists center which meant an air conditioned building and real potties. No port-a-potties. Praise Jesus!
- People spent. It helps that my price point even with my recent price increase is still pretty reasonable, but I was consistently busy, despite the heat. An influx of cash helped me feel less hot. Just sayin’. And there was no balking at my adjusted price points. Hurray.
The cons
- The heat. Hot. Hot. And more hot. Oh and humid too. It was more or less tolerable in the shade but take down was a beast. There is nothing quite like standing on asphalt, in the full sun, in 95 degree weather trying to stuff a 10x10 EZ up tent into an uncooperative bag. Good times.
- Whiny kids. There were a lot of them too. Excessive heat brings out the cranky-pants in kids and adults alike. And lets face it – I was hot and cranky too. Crankyness is contagious when the temperature is midway between a sauna and Turkish bath.
Bottom Line
- Good show. Well organized. Well attended. On the list for next year. Check.
Buy unique. Buy handmade. It’s my new mantra.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Liquid Goodness
Sangria.
It’s my new favorite thing.
It’s also a perfectly refreshing summertime libation. And given the recent heat wave that has, unfortunately, settled into Wisconsin, a must have summertime survival cocktail. We’re not talking mildly hot. I’m talking African veldt hot.
Hot.
Hotter.
Hottest.
Sticky, sweaty, stifling heat. The kind of heat that foreshadows hell, if you believe in that sort of thing.
Sangria is wine with a kick. And it has fruit. So it’s practically healthy.
I will admit, I initially balked at Sangria. It has brandy. Not a lot. Just enough for a little buzz boost. I was skeptical. I have bad brandy history. One erroneous over-indulgence when I was 19, when Ann Felachino snuck my under-aged sorry-self into the Nitty Gritty and fed me unhealthy quantities of brandy old fashioned sweets. It didn’t end well. I was a victim. Needless to say I can barely look at brandy some 20+ years later. Happily the brandy is just a background buzz boost and the wine + fruit is center stage.
My Sangria recipe has undergone a bit of tweaking. Tweaking being defined as “more booze, less mixer”. My first pass at Sangria had 32 ounces of mixer. 32 ounces!. That’s 4 cups mixer to one bottle of wine and 3 Tbls of brandy + fruit. It was a little flat.
I did what any good amateur mixologist would do. I Googled. I read. I made some notes. I tried again. And this is what has evolved into my new favorite summertime big girl fruit punch.
Important note – Sangria is cold and refreshing and slips right down. Probably a bit too quickly, so be sure to pace your chemicals (and eat some real food) so you don’t have a nasty hangover.
Stefanie’s Sangria
Meanwhile, chill the wine and soda. Then mix the whole mess up. Give it quick stir. Pour into a wine glass over ice.
Sigh contentedly.
It’s my new favorite thing.
It’s also a perfectly refreshing summertime libation. And given the recent heat wave that has, unfortunately, settled into Wisconsin, a must have summertime survival cocktail. We’re not talking mildly hot. I’m talking African veldt hot.
Hot.
Hotter.
Hottest.
Sticky, sweaty, stifling heat. The kind of heat that foreshadows hell, if you believe in that sort of thing.
Sangria is wine with a kick. And it has fruit. So it’s practically healthy.
I will admit, I initially balked at Sangria. It has brandy. Not a lot. Just enough for a little buzz boost. I was skeptical. I have bad brandy history. One erroneous over-indulgence when I was 19, when Ann Felachino snuck my under-aged sorry-self into the Nitty Gritty and fed me unhealthy quantities of brandy old fashioned sweets. It didn’t end well. I was a victim. Needless to say I can barely look at brandy some 20+ years later. Happily the brandy is just a background buzz boost and the wine + fruit is center stage.
My Sangria recipe has undergone a bit of tweaking. Tweaking being defined as “more booze, less mixer”. My first pass at Sangria had 32 ounces of mixer. 32 ounces!. That’s 4 cups mixer to one bottle of wine and 3 Tbls of brandy + fruit. It was a little flat.
I did what any good amateur mixologist would do. I Googled. I read. I made some notes. I tried again. And this is what has evolved into my new favorite summertime big girl fruit punch.
Important note – Sangria is cold and refreshing and slips right down. Probably a bit too quickly, so be sure to pace your chemicals (and eat some real food) so you don’t have a nasty hangover.
Stefanie’s Sangria
- 1 Cup of chopped fresh pineapple or apple – you choose, they are both good. You could also use pitted cherries but I found cherry pitting to be more of a hassle then it’s worth.
- 1 lemon and orange – thinly sliced
- ¾ cup of brandy
- 1 cup orange juice
- 1 bottle red wine. I used Rioja which is from Spain but a decent Pinot Noir works too…or you can use a Merlot if you like something drier. Both wines used were in the less than $10 range. Sa-weet!
- 2 cups diet white soda
Meanwhile, chill the wine and soda. Then mix the whole mess up. Give it quick stir. Pour into a wine glass over ice.
Sigh contentedly.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Facebook – it’s not for thank you notes
Ever.
Just so my position is clear right out of the gate.
I understand that we have evolved into the mecca of social media; however I would like to point out that facebook is not a vehicle for sending thank you notes.
I’m a stickler on this.
I was schooled in Etiquette in the house of Donna (my mother). I have my own copy of Emily Posts Guide to Etiquette. I have used it often. There are very specific rules about thank you notes and I don’t care that facebook is the whiz bang new thing. Facebook is not a vehicle for a thank you note even if that note is a “private message”.
I sent some baby gifts to extended family members. Two of the three “thank yous”, I received were via facebook. Uh, really? I didn’t post a picture of the gift on facebook. I actually picked something out, wrapped it, shipped it and included a card. The receiver of said gift should sending a HANDWRITTEN thank you note, putting a stamp on it and dropping it in the mail.
I can’t bend on this one. There is a protocol for the formalized hand-written note and I don’t care what kind of technology is in place today. Technology is not a replacement for etiquette; although I am finding it is eroding it and lowering our collective standards for acceptable behavior in polite society.
As a refresher…gifts given for weddings, baby/bridal showers, confirmations/graduations deserve a HANDWRITTEN thank you note. Birthday gifts that the receiver is unable to the giver in person (such as a card that includes cash/check) also deserve a HANDWRITTEN thank you note.
Not a text message.
Not an email.
And not a facebook post.
A thoughtful gesture deserves a thoughtful HANDWRITTEN response.
No exceptions.
Just so my position is clear right out of the gate.
I understand that we have evolved into the mecca of social media; however I would like to point out that facebook is not a vehicle for sending thank you notes.
I’m a stickler on this.
I was schooled in Etiquette in the house of Donna (my mother). I have my own copy of Emily Posts Guide to Etiquette. I have used it often. There are very specific rules about thank you notes and I don’t care that facebook is the whiz bang new thing. Facebook is not a vehicle for a thank you note even if that note is a “private message”.
I sent some baby gifts to extended family members. Two of the three “thank yous”, I received were via facebook. Uh, really? I didn’t post a picture of the gift on facebook. I actually picked something out, wrapped it, shipped it and included a card. The receiver of said gift should sending a HANDWRITTEN thank you note, putting a stamp on it and dropping it in the mail.
I can’t bend on this one. There is a protocol for the formalized hand-written note and I don’t care what kind of technology is in place today. Technology is not a replacement for etiquette; although I am finding it is eroding it and lowering our collective standards for acceptable behavior in polite society.
As a refresher…gifts given for weddings, baby/bridal showers, confirmations/graduations deserve a HANDWRITTEN thank you note. Birthday gifts that the receiver is unable to the giver in person (such as a card that includes cash/check) also deserve a HANDWRITTEN thank you note.
Not a text message.
Not an email.
And not a facebook post.
A thoughtful gesture deserves a thoughtful HANDWRITTEN response.
No exceptions.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Stuff I like - Cute Lamby Cards
I really dig Etsy.com. For those of you not following along, Etsy is a web-portal that allows artists to “set-up” their own shop and hock their stuff to the internet buying public.
Etsy is awesome because it’s pretty inexpensive and easy to navigate; however it totally over-saturated. There are thousands and thousands of artists all clamoring to be found. It can well worth it to take some time and sniff around the various showcases and listings; albeit time consuming.
I stumbled across this artist who takes oh-so adorable pictures of lambs. You can buy the prints or she also makes cards. I bought the cards. I love these cards and the little lambs on them. They look so happy. They are more original then your garden variety Hallmark and I’m pretty sure if you send someone a little note with this cute little lamby on the front is bound to generate a smile.
Rescue yourself from homogenized sameness. Buy unique. Buy handmade.
Etsy is awesome because it’s pretty inexpensive and easy to navigate; however it totally over-saturated. There are thousands and thousands of artists all clamoring to be found. It can well worth it to take some time and sniff around the various showcases and listings; albeit time consuming.
I stumbled across this artist who takes oh-so adorable pictures of lambs. You can buy the prints or she also makes cards. I bought the cards. I love these cards and the little lambs on them. They look so happy. They are more original then your garden variety Hallmark and I’m pretty sure if you send someone a little note with this cute little lamby on the front is bound to generate a smile.
Rescue yourself from homogenized sameness. Buy unique. Buy handmade.
Friday, July 15, 2011
In search of a thicker skin
I’m 43. And I still need the stamp of approval. Sometimes. Not always. But definitely sometimes.
Oh sure. I’d like to be able to portray myself as a strong, vibrant women who doesn’t care what anyone thinks. And sometimes I actually believe that about myself. Almost. But my skin isn’t quite as thick as I would like to think it is. Sometimes it’s downright papery thin.
Case in point. I follow a local blog and occasionally comment on said blog. I made a fairly lengthy comment recently and oh brother… right between the eyes with the “you’re opinions are so lame” by fellow blgogers.. Which, ya know, shouldn’t really bother me because c’mon, it’s an anonymous blog comment. But geesh. I felt unliked and unloved. Why do I care? I was probably looking for validation which I clearly wasn’t going to get, but searched for it anyway.
Pathetic.
I so need to get over myself and grower a thicker skin.
Working on it…
Oh sure. I’d like to be able to portray myself as a strong, vibrant women who doesn’t care what anyone thinks. And sometimes I actually believe that about myself. Almost. But my skin isn’t quite as thick as I would like to think it is. Sometimes it’s downright papery thin.
Case in point. I follow a local blog and occasionally comment on said blog. I made a fairly lengthy comment recently and oh brother… right between the eyes with the “you’re opinions are so lame” by fellow blgogers.. Which, ya know, shouldn’t really bother me because c’mon, it’s an anonymous blog comment. But geesh. I felt unliked and unloved. Why do I care? I was probably looking for validation which I clearly wasn’t going to get, but searched for it anyway.
Pathetic.
I so need to get over myself and grower a thicker skin.
Working on it…
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The Lowering of our Collective Standards
“What do you think the Devil is going to look like if he's around? Nobody is going to be taken in if he has a long, red, pointy tail. No. I'm semi-serious here. He will look attractive and he will be nice and helpful and he will get a job where he influences a great God-fearing nation and he will never do an evil thing... he will just bit by little bit lower standards where they are important. Just coax along flash over substance... Just a tiny bit. And he will talk about all of us really being salesmen. And he'll get all the great women.” – Aaron Altman, Broadcast News
This blog was never intended to be a political forum but I struggle with not commenting on what has become an obvious blemish on our collective standards regarding the news. And it’s my blog so I can do what I want. So there. Insert foot stomping here.
Reading the news take time.
Time is precious commodity. There is never enough of it. I get it. I do.
We have evolved into a society of must have it right now this second information at our fingertips. Unfortunately we want all the facts from one source in easy to digest, 10 words or less, bite size bulleted chunks of information.
I tell my son often that if you want to take a position on an issue, fine, but you better do your due diligence before you stand up on a soapbox. And due diligence takes time. A responsible citizen of the world digging into any number of the litany of issues should be reading a variety of sources, asking questions, probing, digging, listening objectively to both sides of an argument before forming an opinion. Color me simplistic but it seems like critical thinking 101 to me.
I have turned into a big of a news junkie of late. Not on every issue. Probably not even on most issues. But I follow a few blogs around Madison and read a lot of sources on some of the hot issues around town. I admit shock and awe at what passes for thoughtful journalism. Or even thoughtful commentary. Instead there is biased, knee jerk, “journalists” who read one source and one source only, never ask any questions much less address them and then put it in print – where it is read by the masses. Masses who are want their news in easy to digest bite size chunks.
And that’s just what they are getting. Flash over substance.
Shame. Shame. Shame.
This blog was never intended to be a political forum but I struggle with not commenting on what has become an obvious blemish on our collective standards regarding the news. And it’s my blog so I can do what I want. So there. Insert foot stomping here.
Reading the news take time.
Time is precious commodity. There is never enough of it. I get it. I do.
We have evolved into a society of must have it right now this second information at our fingertips. Unfortunately we want all the facts from one source in easy to digest, 10 words or less, bite size bulleted chunks of information.
I tell my son often that if you want to take a position on an issue, fine, but you better do your due diligence before you stand up on a soapbox. And due diligence takes time. A responsible citizen of the world digging into any number of the litany of issues should be reading a variety of sources, asking questions, probing, digging, listening objectively to both sides of an argument before forming an opinion. Color me simplistic but it seems like critical thinking 101 to me.
I have turned into a big of a news junkie of late. Not on every issue. Probably not even on most issues. But I follow a few blogs around Madison and read a lot of sources on some of the hot issues around town. I admit shock and awe at what passes for thoughtful journalism. Or even thoughtful commentary. Instead there is biased, knee jerk, “journalists” who read one source and one source only, never ask any questions much less address them and then put it in print – where it is read by the masses. Masses who are want their news in easy to digest bite size chunks.
And that’s just what they are getting. Flash over substance.
Shame. Shame. Shame.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Stuff I like - Warm Glass
Important disclaimer.
Art is subjective. Some local handmade stuff is tripe. Really. It’s truly awful stuff. The ceramic painted figurines spring to mind. So do dried floral arrangements. Or the wishing wells made out of logs. I’m sure some people like ceramic painted figurines, dried floral wreaths and log wishing wells… but I am not one of them. More often than not if someone is making crap I’ll probably be a bit snarky and poke some fun. I’m an equal opportunist that way.
The cool thing about the local handmade market is I get to meet other artists and check out the cool stuff people make and sell. I met this artist at a show last year. I really like her fused glass magnets and coasters. I own some magnets and have given a set as gifts. I plan on giving more sets as gifts. Everyone likes magnets and coasters. And they are cool looking. I mean you could buy a set of coasters from Crate and Barrel (don’t get me wrong I love Crate and Barrel) or you could buy something unique and handmade. A one of a kind original. And the magnets are strong. Not that I don’t appreciate my “Middleton Vet” magnets complete with phone number, but these magnets are pretty and actually hold up a few things. Sa-weet!
As a tangent to this subject, I know there are other bloggers who endorse a lot of artists and their hand-made wares in exchange based on a review of their product. I know this because I receive emails on a regular basis from bloggers who find my online etsy shop and want me to send them a “free” sample of my work so they can review and blog about it.
It’s a good gig if you can get it; American resourcefulness at its finest. And I will admit I’ve fallen for it a few times. And then I grew a brain and realized all I was doing was giving away free baby bodysuits with no hope of repeat business. I don’t do that anymore. If you want a tye dye t-shirt, buy it like everyone else.
My philosophy is more straight-forward and less loosey-goosey. If I like your product. I’ll buy it. And if I really like it I’ll probably mention it here because I’m all about sharing the good stuff. And I believe that handmade can be truly awesome and maybe we can rescue ourselves from a houseful of items with “made in china” stamped on the back.
Go for unique. Go for handmade.
Art is subjective. Some local handmade stuff is tripe. Really. It’s truly awful stuff. The ceramic painted figurines spring to mind. So do dried floral arrangements. Or the wishing wells made out of logs. I’m sure some people like ceramic painted figurines, dried floral wreaths and log wishing wells… but I am not one of them. More often than not if someone is making crap I’ll probably be a bit snarky and poke some fun. I’m an equal opportunist that way.
The cool thing about the local handmade market is I get to meet other artists and check out the cool stuff people make and sell. I met this artist at a show last year. I really like her fused glass magnets and coasters. I own some magnets and have given a set as gifts. I plan on giving more sets as gifts. Everyone likes magnets and coasters. And they are cool looking. I mean you could buy a set of coasters from Crate and Barrel (don’t get me wrong I love Crate and Barrel) or you could buy something unique and handmade. A one of a kind original. And the magnets are strong. Not that I don’t appreciate my “Middleton Vet” magnets complete with phone number, but these magnets are pretty and actually hold up a few things. Sa-weet!
As a tangent to this subject, I know there are other bloggers who endorse a lot of artists and their hand-made wares in exchange based on a review of their product. I know this because I receive emails on a regular basis from bloggers who find my online etsy shop and want me to send them a “free” sample of my work so they can review and blog about it.
It’s a good gig if you can get it; American resourcefulness at its finest. And I will admit I’ve fallen for it a few times. And then I grew a brain and realized all I was doing was giving away free baby bodysuits with no hope of repeat business. I don’t do that anymore. If you want a tye dye t-shirt, buy it like everyone else.
My philosophy is more straight-forward and less loosey-goosey. If I like your product. I’ll buy it. And if I really like it I’ll probably mention it here because I’m all about sharing the good stuff. And I believe that handmade can be truly awesome and maybe we can rescue ourselves from a houseful of items with “made in china” stamped on the back.
Go for unique. Go for handmade.
Friday, July 8, 2011
The Friday Fun Initiative
I made the executive decision to take off every Friday afternoon this summer (June- August). My intent is to do something “fun” for myself.
To date I have failed the Friday fun challenge.
So far one Friday afternoon consisted of a trip to the grocery store. Not a quick trip for a coupla-things. The big trip. The trip that requires like 2 carts. And if you’ve been paying attention, going to the grocery store is absolute torture for me. I’m a hater of the grocery store.
Another Friday consisted of my little out-patient thingy. Sure the IV drugs were good but there was nothing really fun about it and I missed my son’s baseball game. And I was still recovering on the third Friday. Even though I wasn’t working, laying around with a hoochie full of stitches is definitely not fun.
Current Score: Friday Fun: 0, Friday non-fun things: 3
So I’ve recommitted myself to the Friday fun challenge. Oh sure I could do laundry and cleaning and other assorted tasks. But the whole purpose of 3 hours of vacation in the afternoon is to recharge and refresh.
This Friday I think I’m going to get it right. I have a date with some work peeps to hang at the Union Terrace. Despite living in this city for the whole of my adult life, I rarely get down there. So the fun will consist of a few big girl lemonades, chatting with my friends, excellent people watching and of course Babcock Hall Ice cream. (Ice cream of course if the subject of a whole other blog entry which you can read about here).
New Score: Friday Fun: 1 , Friday non-fun things: 3
I have some making up to do – stay tuned.
To date I have failed the Friday fun challenge.
So far one Friday afternoon consisted of a trip to the grocery store. Not a quick trip for a coupla-things. The big trip. The trip that requires like 2 carts. And if you’ve been paying attention, going to the grocery store is absolute torture for me. I’m a hater of the grocery store.
Another Friday consisted of my little out-patient thingy. Sure the IV drugs were good but there was nothing really fun about it and I missed my son’s baseball game. And I was still recovering on the third Friday. Even though I wasn’t working, laying around with a hoochie full of stitches is definitely not fun.
Current Score: Friday Fun: 0, Friday non-fun things: 3
So I’ve recommitted myself to the Friday fun challenge. Oh sure I could do laundry and cleaning and other assorted tasks. But the whole purpose of 3 hours of vacation in the afternoon is to recharge and refresh.
This Friday I think I’m going to get it right. I have a date with some work peeps to hang at the Union Terrace. Despite living in this city for the whole of my adult life, I rarely get down there. So the fun will consist of a few big girl lemonades, chatting with my friends, excellent people watching and of course Babcock Hall Ice cream. (Ice cream of course if the subject of a whole other blog entry which you can read about here).
New Score: Friday Fun: 1 , Friday non-fun things: 3
I have some making up to do – stay tuned.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Coochie. An Update.
This is a much anticipated follow-up to the Same Time, Next Year post.
First…commence involuntary leg crossing.
Okay. Now you can read.
Thankfully my procedure time was bumped up from 3:00pm on a Friday afternoon to 11:30am on a Friday morning. I mean, come on! I know what my attention span is like on a Friday afternoon in the middle of summer. I don’t care what you do for a living. I’m sure the medical professionals of the world are just as anxious to kick off the weekend as much as the next guy. I wasn’t too jazzed about a room full of people with a “that’s good enough” attitude itching to find the nearest happy hour.
I am told the procedure went well. I was blissfully un-aware. The bliss was administered by way of the wonder drug Fentanyl and one other drug with a name too long to remember, by a very attentive anesthesiologist. I said “I want to remember nothing” and she obliged by pushing little syringes of liquid goodness into my IV about 2 minutes after I arrived in the OR. I love this woman. I would paint her house.
There was also Lidocaine administered, you know, in the coochie. I don’t remember this. I am glad.
When the Lidocaine wears off – say 3- 4 hours later it don’t feel so good. I recommend ice packs. Lots of ice packs. Ice packs + 1 vicodin + 3 episodes of Sex and the City. And maybe a dish of ice cream which may not help, but it can’t hurt.
I finally got up the nerve to take a peek at the cooch; to make sure the lady parts still looked like, well, lady parts. Hard to say there was so much swelling. Bad swelling. Not good swelling like after a long 3-day weekend when you’re 21, with a hot guy named Brad. (Hypothetically speaking of course). Bad swelling lady parts that resembled a coupla Kielbasa sausages side by side. I know. Quite the mental image, isn’t it? Try living it. Good times.
All things being equal recovery hasn’t been too bad. The standard 2 naps a day for a few days, handful of painkillers and a couple dozen sitz baths.
Six days post op and the bad swelling is gone. Hallelujah! But the bruising was spectacular. I’m pretty sure he used a pony clamp. Again, glad I don’t remember. Not remembering is best for all parties involved.
Physician follow-up in about a week. I bet you can’t wait for another report!
First…commence involuntary leg crossing.
Okay. Now you can read.
Thankfully my procedure time was bumped up from 3:00pm on a Friday afternoon to 11:30am on a Friday morning. I mean, come on! I know what my attention span is like on a Friday afternoon in the middle of summer. I don’t care what you do for a living. I’m sure the medical professionals of the world are just as anxious to kick off the weekend as much as the next guy. I wasn’t too jazzed about a room full of people with a “that’s good enough” attitude itching to find the nearest happy hour.
I am told the procedure went well. I was blissfully un-aware. The bliss was administered by way of the wonder drug Fentanyl and one other drug with a name too long to remember, by a very attentive anesthesiologist. I said “I want to remember nothing” and she obliged by pushing little syringes of liquid goodness into my IV about 2 minutes after I arrived in the OR. I love this woman. I would paint her house.
There was also Lidocaine administered, you know, in the coochie. I don’t remember this. I am glad.
When the Lidocaine wears off – say 3- 4 hours later it don’t feel so good. I recommend ice packs. Lots of ice packs. Ice packs + 1 vicodin + 3 episodes of Sex and the City. And maybe a dish of ice cream which may not help, but it can’t hurt.
I finally got up the nerve to take a peek at the cooch; to make sure the lady parts still looked like, well, lady parts. Hard to say there was so much swelling. Bad swelling. Not good swelling like after a long 3-day weekend when you’re 21, with a hot guy named Brad. (Hypothetically speaking of course). Bad swelling lady parts that resembled a coupla Kielbasa sausages side by side. I know. Quite the mental image, isn’t it? Try living it. Good times.
All things being equal recovery hasn’t been too bad. The standard 2 naps a day for a few days, handful of painkillers and a couple dozen sitz baths.
Six days post op and the bad swelling is gone. Hallelujah! But the bruising was spectacular. I’m pretty sure he used a pony clamp. Again, glad I don’t remember. Not remembering is best for all parties involved.
Physician follow-up in about a week. I bet you can’t wait for another report!
Monday, July 4, 2011
I've fallen and I can't get up.
Thud.
Did you hear it?
The distinctive thud of me falling off the ‘sweets only once a month’ wagon? I’m not sure how you missed it. It’s become a daily occurrence.
Some say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Actually, I think it’s paved with ice cream. Mint Chip, Chocolate Peanut Butter, Cookie Dough, Strawberry and Old Fashioned Vanilla. Sometimes the road to hell is dotted with ice cream sandwiches and sundae cones (also known as drumsticks, you know, the ones with the hard chocolate shell sprinkled with peanuts). The road could be paved with custard, but custard is too rich. Ice Cream is better. Real ice cream. Not soft serve. Ice cream. Am I making my point clear?
Ice cream is my Achilles heel. (As if you hadn’t guessed) And it’s summer. Summer is for ice cream. I’m screaming for ice cream. It’s so tasty. Curses!
The ‘sweets only once a month’ wagon has been rolling back and forth over my body for a few weeks now. But due to the uptick of butterfat and heavy cream in my diet, no bones have been broken. There is padding. Ice cream filled padding.
Fudge.
Except I’m not thinking fudge. Well, unless it’s Mackinac Island Fudge. I digress.
I’m thinking the "F – dash – dash - dash" word because I’ve failed the challenge. I’ve fallen off the wagon but landed safely in the dish of ice cream. An endless dish. Yum.
I could sit here and flat out lie that I’m giving up ice cream for the summer, but honestly, I have a better chance of winning the SuperCash. I can’t do it. I can’t. I’ve tried. Not possible. I do have the ability to give up ice cream and everything else sweet in the winter/cooler months, but summer screams for ice cream. It calls to me and I’m answering. My only hope of surviving the ice cream phenomena is cramming in a few more workouts to keep all the ice cream goodness from permanently taking up residence in my thighs. My only saving grace is Wisconsin has only 3 months of summer and 9 months of winter so my deep dive in the ice cream bowl is short-lived.
Summer and ice cream is a big glorified rationalization. I admit it. I’m an ice cream-aholic. But to be honest, I have no real inclination to be cured of my addiction. None. Nada. Pass me a spoon.
Did you hear it?
The distinctive thud of me falling off the ‘sweets only once a month’ wagon? I’m not sure how you missed it. It’s become a daily occurrence.
Some say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Actually, I think it’s paved with ice cream. Mint Chip, Chocolate Peanut Butter, Cookie Dough, Strawberry and Old Fashioned Vanilla. Sometimes the road to hell is dotted with ice cream sandwiches and sundae cones (also known as drumsticks, you know, the ones with the hard chocolate shell sprinkled with peanuts). The road could be paved with custard, but custard is too rich. Ice Cream is better. Real ice cream. Not soft serve. Ice cream. Am I making my point clear?
Ice cream is my Achilles heel. (As if you hadn’t guessed) And it’s summer. Summer is for ice cream. I’m screaming for ice cream. It’s so tasty. Curses!
The ‘sweets only once a month’ wagon has been rolling back and forth over my body for a few weeks now. But due to the uptick of butterfat and heavy cream in my diet, no bones have been broken. There is padding. Ice cream filled padding.
Fudge.
Except I’m not thinking fudge. Well, unless it’s Mackinac Island Fudge. I digress.
I’m thinking the "F – dash – dash - dash" word because I’ve failed the challenge. I’ve fallen off the wagon but landed safely in the dish of ice cream. An endless dish. Yum.
I could sit here and flat out lie that I’m giving up ice cream for the summer, but honestly, I have a better chance of winning the SuperCash. I can’t do it. I can’t. I’ve tried. Not possible. I do have the ability to give up ice cream and everything else sweet in the winter/cooler months, but summer screams for ice cream. It calls to me and I’m answering. My only hope of surviving the ice cream phenomena is cramming in a few more workouts to keep all the ice cream goodness from permanently taking up residence in my thighs. My only saving grace is Wisconsin has only 3 months of summer and 9 months of winter so my deep dive in the ice cream bowl is short-lived.
Summer and ice cream is a big glorified rationalization. I admit it. I’m an ice cream-aholic. But to be honest, I have no real inclination to be cured of my addiction. None. Nada. Pass me a spoon.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
The Pain of Employee Satisfaction
My company administers an “employee satisfaction survey” every other year. It’s a respectable idea. Ask your employees a lot of questions, get some feedback and make some changes. Right?
Sort of.
This week alone I’ve endured several hours of survey results which will be followed by several more hours of in-depth discussion about why morale on our team is 10% favorable. For those of you playing along at home – 10% favorable is not a good news message.
I am personally of the opinion that if morale is below a certain threshold for any department, some type of warning signal should be sounded in the president’s office. A flair should be shot off. I mean, really. This is a group of reasonably intelligent, dedicated IT professionals clinging to the last shreds of professional sanity. Someone toss out a lifeline for Pete sakes.
Instead we are being asked to form “committees” to “identify possible solutions” for improving said morale. Now call me crazy, but morale isn’t something that can be fixed from the bottom up. Pretty sure it’s a top down issue. And frankly, I’m pretty exhausted dancing around all the politically correct terms for saying the reason our team is miserable is because our department manager is an insensitive gas bag that has no business managing people in a corporate setting. I mean let’s be honest. Actually being “honest” would be a career limiting move.
So instead we call sit around, are unfailingly polite and politically correct whilst sharing our feelings. Sharing is overrated. I’m tired of sharing. I no longer wish to share. I simply want the giant hook to appear stage left and yank this guy of the managerial stage. Ba-da-boom.
I was brave and asked the question, what the “current management team thought about the results”. There are some pretty low numbers. There was some skirting around the issue that the gas bag in question was of the opinion the respondents are just a bunch of whiners.
Yeah. That’s a morale killer. Feign interest in obtaining your employees feedback and then when you get it, discount it because it wasn't the equivalent of puppies and rainbows.
I’m sure there will be more on this topic as well much to my dismay.
Sort of.
This week alone I’ve endured several hours of survey results which will be followed by several more hours of in-depth discussion about why morale on our team is 10% favorable. For those of you playing along at home – 10% favorable is not a good news message.
I am personally of the opinion that if morale is below a certain threshold for any department, some type of warning signal should be sounded in the president’s office. A flair should be shot off. I mean, really. This is a group of reasonably intelligent, dedicated IT professionals clinging to the last shreds of professional sanity. Someone toss out a lifeline for Pete sakes.
Instead we are being asked to form “committees” to “identify possible solutions” for improving said morale. Now call me crazy, but morale isn’t something that can be fixed from the bottom up. Pretty sure it’s a top down issue. And frankly, I’m pretty exhausted dancing around all the politically correct terms for saying the reason our team is miserable is because our department manager is an insensitive gas bag that has no business managing people in a corporate setting. I mean let’s be honest. Actually being “honest” would be a career limiting move.
So instead we call sit around, are unfailingly polite and politically correct whilst sharing our feelings. Sharing is overrated. I’m tired of sharing. I no longer wish to share. I simply want the giant hook to appear stage left and yank this guy of the managerial stage. Ba-da-boom.
I was brave and asked the question, what the “current management team thought about the results”. There are some pretty low numbers. There was some skirting around the issue that the gas bag in question was of the opinion the respondents are just a bunch of whiners.
Yeah. That’s a morale killer. Feign interest in obtaining your employees feedback and then when you get it, discount it because it wasn't the equivalent of puppies and rainbows.
I’m sure there will be more on this topic as well much to my dismay.
Monday, June 27, 2011
I don't do birthdays
When I got married one of my sister-in-laws gave me a book with all the birthdays carefully plotted by month. Each family member name was neatly documented with their respective birthday.
I think the assumption was that I had the skills necessary to find that book, read it, buy the cards, address, stamp and mail the cards in time for the birthday recipient.
I don't.
They would have had better luck betting it all on ‘21’ at the roulette table.
I do my own birthday, of course. The date, not the year, and have perfected the art of the birthday octave. (See blog entry here about that rollicking good idea that you too should adopt for your own birthday.)
I just don’t do anyone else’s birthday (spouse and child not-with-standing). And it’s not because I’m a hater, or insensitive or purposely un-thoughtful. It’s simply beyond my capacity as full-time working mother with a million responsibilities to remember birthdays with any consistency. I can’t remember it all. Birthdays were one thing I gave myself permission to forgo.
I know this lack of birthday ability has significantly disappointed my respective in-laws and probably a few friends. It used to bother me that it bothered them, but it doesn’t anymore. I can’t be all things to all people and I figured they’d get over it.
That sounds like a cop out. I know.
I tried. I have. Hand to god. Year after year, I went to Hallmark. I bought the cards. And then stored the cards in a location so amazing that I couldn’t find them again. Finally I cut my losses. I am ever hopeful that my other good qualities make up for the fact that I don’t do birthdays with any degree of accuracy or consistency.
Once in a while a birthday recipient will get lucky and I’ll not only remember, but I’ll remember in a timely enough fashion to actually do something to honor said birthday. It’s rare, but it does happen.
Those are the same days the birthday recipient should buy a lottery ticket because what are the odds?
Probably not as good as "21" straight up on the roulette wheel.
I think the assumption was that I had the skills necessary to find that book, read it, buy the cards, address, stamp and mail the cards in time for the birthday recipient.
I don't.
They would have had better luck betting it all on ‘21’ at the roulette table.
I do my own birthday, of course. The date, not the year, and have perfected the art of the birthday octave. (See blog entry here about that rollicking good idea that you too should adopt for your own birthday.)
I just don’t do anyone else’s birthday (spouse and child not-with-standing). And it’s not because I’m a hater, or insensitive or purposely un-thoughtful. It’s simply beyond my capacity as full-time working mother with a million responsibilities to remember birthdays with any consistency. I can’t remember it all. Birthdays were one thing I gave myself permission to forgo.
I know this lack of birthday ability has significantly disappointed my respective in-laws and probably a few friends. It used to bother me that it bothered them, but it doesn’t anymore. I can’t be all things to all people and I figured they’d get over it.
That sounds like a cop out. I know.
I tried. I have. Hand to god. Year after year, I went to Hallmark. I bought the cards. And then stored the cards in a location so amazing that I couldn’t find them again. Finally I cut my losses. I am ever hopeful that my other good qualities make up for the fact that I don’t do birthdays with any degree of accuracy or consistency.
Once in a while a birthday recipient will get lucky and I’ll not only remember, but I’ll remember in a timely enough fashion to actually do something to honor said birthday. It’s rare, but it does happen.
Those are the same days the birthday recipient should buy a lottery ticket because what are the odds?
Probably not as good as "21" straight up on the roulette wheel.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
The price is, uh, right?
At the risk of tooting my own horn, I must say, I am really good at the tye dye thing. The creation part of the tye dye process is something I have perfected. I don’t do a lot of fancy stuff. No peace signs or wonky stripes. I do a lovely classic spiral. I have excellent color saturation and intensity. My colors are clean and vibrant – not muddied. I know what I am doing.
I am not so good at the administrative part. Every year I vow to get “really organized” with my receipts so I am not spending the better part of three weekends every January organizing the receipts I should have been organizing during the year, in order to do my tax return.
Every year I fail. Yes, another failed resolution on my behalf, right next to lose more weight and save more money. I suck at those too.
My little tye dye opportunity is not exactly a money maker. It’s more like a break-even hobby. I probably clear enough for a few pedicures or a couple of nice dinners out. Last year I lost money. Craptastic. So I finally dug into the “why” I lost money. You know, a mere 6 months later. I’m nothing if not timely.
Well, first off the price of cotton has increased like 80%. I’m not sure who to thank for that.
A New York Times article indicated it was a supply and demand imbalance. I probably should have paid better attention in economics class. Regardless – the cost of all my blanks (the white stuff before it’s dyed) costs more now. And the cost of dye has gone up. I don’t think there is a supply and demand imbalance with dye. I think they cost just went up because it could. But for some reason cotton is way more expensive then synthetic fibers. Natural fiber is in and it’s going to cost more to get it.
So basically I wasn’t charging enough. I had to raise my prices, which I really didn’t want to do but geez-oh-petes I have to break even on the stuff at least. And like most artists, I barely factor in my time. It takes T-I-M-E to make this stuff, peeps. Tye dye doesn’t grow on trees.
My first show is in July with my “new and improved” pricing and I’ll be really curious to see how much of a ripple it makes with the buying public.
There are, of course, small populations of people who want hand-made items at Wal-Mart prices. I generally ignore them anyway. These are the same people who wonder why their RIT tye dye experiment turned all their laundry a dingy shade of grey. But for the folks that buy local and handmade, will a $2 price differential be enough to drive them away and into the arms of Target or will they still see the value in buying handmade?
Time will tell. I’ll report back after July 16th.
I am not so good at the administrative part. Every year I vow to get “really organized” with my receipts so I am not spending the better part of three weekends every January organizing the receipts I should have been organizing during the year, in order to do my tax return.
Every year I fail. Yes, another failed resolution on my behalf, right next to lose more weight and save more money. I suck at those too.
My little tye dye opportunity is not exactly a money maker. It’s more like a break-even hobby. I probably clear enough for a few pedicures or a couple of nice dinners out. Last year I lost money. Craptastic. So I finally dug into the “why” I lost money. You know, a mere 6 months later. I’m nothing if not timely.
Well, first off the price of cotton has increased like 80%. I’m not sure who to thank for that.
A New York Times article indicated it was a supply and demand imbalance. I probably should have paid better attention in economics class. Regardless – the cost of all my blanks (the white stuff before it’s dyed) costs more now. And the cost of dye has gone up. I don’t think there is a supply and demand imbalance with dye. I think they cost just went up because it could. But for some reason cotton is way more expensive then synthetic fibers. Natural fiber is in and it’s going to cost more to get it.
So basically I wasn’t charging enough. I had to raise my prices, which I really didn’t want to do but geez-oh-petes I have to break even on the stuff at least. And like most artists, I barely factor in my time. It takes T-I-M-E to make this stuff, peeps. Tye dye doesn’t grow on trees.
My first show is in July with my “new and improved” pricing and I’ll be really curious to see how much of a ripple it makes with the buying public.
There are, of course, small populations of people who want hand-made items at Wal-Mart prices. I generally ignore them anyway. These are the same people who wonder why their RIT tye dye experiment turned all their laundry a dingy shade of grey. But for the folks that buy local and handmade, will a $2 price differential be enough to drive them away and into the arms of Target or will they still see the value in buying handmade?
Time will tell. I’ll report back after July 16th.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Same Time, Next Year
Authors note: Yes, this entries title is a shameless rip-off from a fairly decent movie circa 1970s of the same name.
Life holds a fair number of annual events, holidays not-with-standing. My life consists of annual events that I generally look forward to, including: The Good Neighbor Fest, Milwaukee Ala Carte, BFF shopping trip to Mayfair, baseball tournaments and so forth. Unfortunately, my life also seems to be good for one medical ailment per annum requiring a trip to the OR.
My surgical ailments typically include something extraordinarily embarrassing. Nope, No torn rotator cuffs or hot appendixes here. By Murphy’s law all of my medical ailments include the nether-regions. Ridic.
The latest diagnosis is vulvar dysplasia. I know. Once again I lost a bet. It’s my mantra.
Dysplasia = abnormal cells. The kind of cells that can turn into the big “c” if left untreated. Good times.
A punch biopsy confirmed the diagnosis. I will tell you a punch biopsy is also low on the fun scale but not as low as a peri-anal abscess. That remains one of the most painful procedures on record. You can read about it here.
I had more tests to determine the extent of said dysplasia. The test basically consisted of being put on the rack while my very nice doctor looked under the hood with high powered binoculars.
“Hey. How ya doing?”
No dinner.
No drinks.
No flowers.
Just me, the rack, and my mommy parts.
All three treatments options are equally dismal.
Doctor recommended door number 3 on account of being sure they “got it all” and of course the good drugs factor (for me, not him). I am told the procedure aptly titled “wide area resection” (cringe) takes 30+ minutes in the outpatient OR, the IV drugs will be robust, I won’t remember a thing and I’ll only have about a week of down time.
I’m scheduled for the 24th.
Dreading. Dreading.
Life holds a fair number of annual events, holidays not-with-standing. My life consists of annual events that I generally look forward to, including: The Good Neighbor Fest, Milwaukee Ala Carte, BFF shopping trip to Mayfair, baseball tournaments and so forth. Unfortunately, my life also seems to be good for one medical ailment per annum requiring a trip to the OR.
My surgical ailments typically include something extraordinarily embarrassing. Nope, No torn rotator cuffs or hot appendixes here. By Murphy’s law all of my medical ailments include the nether-regions. Ridic.
The latest diagnosis is vulvar dysplasia. I know. Once again I lost a bet. It’s my mantra.
Dysplasia = abnormal cells. The kind of cells that can turn into the big “c” if left untreated. Good times.
A punch biopsy confirmed the diagnosis. I will tell you a punch biopsy is also low on the fun scale but not as low as a peri-anal abscess. That remains one of the most painful procedures on record. You can read about it here.
I had more tests to determine the extent of said dysplasia. The test basically consisted of being put on the rack while my very nice doctor looked under the hood with high powered binoculars.
“Hey. How ya doing?”
No dinner.
No drinks.
No flowers.
Just me, the rack, and my mommy parts.
All three treatments options are equally dismal.
- Some type of cream that is a 12 week treatment and basically burns the tissue raw.
- Laser that burns the tissue raw.
- Surgery to excise the tissue. There will be stitches.
Doctor recommended door number 3 on account of being sure they “got it all” and of course the good drugs factor (for me, not him). I am told the procedure aptly titled “wide area resection” (cringe) takes 30+ minutes in the outpatient OR, the IV drugs will be robust, I won’t remember a thing and I’ll only have about a week of down time.
I’m scheduled for the 24th.
Dreading. Dreading.
Friday, June 17, 2011
So Now What?
Woot. I was accepted into the Kohler Holiday Market.
This feels like a big deal.
I attended the Kohler Holiday Market last year, held at the lovely American Club, to scope out the venue.
I was impressed.
The artists are good. The shoppers have money. The booth fee is expensive.
So I applied never really thinking I’d get in. I mean, let’s be honest. There is a perception about tye dye. Mostly it’s a perception rooted to include The Grateful Dead, pot-smoking, pony-tail wearing hippies. Most don’t think “tye dye” and leap to funs children’s wear.
The scary part is the show is 3 days, 4 if you include the day for setup. And it’s 2.5 hours away from home and will require a hotel stay as well as pulling in favors from lots of friends and family to help me pull off a three day show. Not to mention it’s definitely an investment.
But I’m in. Go me.
More to follow…
This feels like a big deal.
I attended the Kohler Holiday Market last year, held at the lovely American Club, to scope out the venue.
I was impressed.
The artists are good. The shoppers have money. The booth fee is expensive.
So I applied never really thinking I’d get in. I mean, let’s be honest. There is a perception about tye dye. Mostly it’s a perception rooted to include The Grateful Dead, pot-smoking, pony-tail wearing hippies. Most don’t think “tye dye” and leap to funs children’s wear.
The scary part is the show is 3 days, 4 if you include the day for setup. And it’s 2.5 hours away from home and will require a hotel stay as well as pulling in favors from lots of friends and family to help me pull off a three day show. Not to mention it’s definitely an investment.
But I’m in. Go me.
More to follow…
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Grill Master
I am an admitted carnivore. Steak, pork, chicken. Yum! My carnivorous self is also addicted to cooking shows that focus on meat and grilling. After I win the PowerBall, my dream job is to judge one of those awesome grilling competitions where delicious cuts of meat are lovingly smoked for hours on end in giant shiny smokers, by chefs that wear hats that look like pigs. Oh. My. God. Someone pass me a cigarette.
I am the only person I know that enjoys eating a steak while watching Adam Richman from Man Vs. Food also eating a steak, usually it’s some monstrous cut like a bone in ribeye grilled to medium rare perfection, which I will then covet even though I have a steak right in front of me. I know. It’s a bit sick and twisted.
The carnivorous part of my personality is not without its conflicts.
Conflict #1:
I have no interest in amateur butchery or any kind of butchery. Frankly, I don’t want to have a personal relationship with anything I am going eat. I am just fine with the notion that meat comes from the grocery store on those little styrofoam trays wrapped in plastic. That works for me. I have great respect for the animal whose main purpose was to eat well so I could in turn eat well. I don’t need to know more.
My brother in law and his family raised chickens one summer. We ended up with a roasting chicken from their summer chicken project. I couldn’t eat that chicken. It was like family. I can eat the chickens from
Jen-Ehr Farm in Sun Prairie (and they are incredibly tasty), but I’m not related to the fine people at Jen-Ehr. Therefore it doesn’t feel like I am part of the Donner party, eating one of my own.
I can eat the meat from a whole chicken but not meat from a whole hog. And I love pork. I do. But the whole pig is just too much like “Babe”. My in-laws have this weird fascination with “cooking a whole hog” – they do it a lot for big family gatherings for reasons I don’t understand. I can’t eat it. I just can’t. Now if they cooked a bone in boston butt low and slow with a dry rub and a yummy sauce, that would be a different story altogether. I’ll take a side of coleslaw.
None of this is remotely logical.
Conflict #2:
I love animals. I do. I love them all. I had to stop volunteering at the Humane Society because I wanted to adopt all the animals as evidenced by the fact that we now own a Hamster.
I love the wild animals too (except coyotes). We’re having issues with the bunnies eating all of our plants. They are brazen littleshits critters, hopping up to the bed of lilies like it’s the salad bar at Copps. My spousal unit has been live-trapping the bunny squatters and relocating them to the soccer field 2 miles away. I agreed to the live trapping project as long as no bunnies were harmed in the relocation process. No bb guns or accidental drownings in the pond. He can live trap and relocate as long as he talks to them during the car ride and takes them for chocolate ice cream first.
I am a bag of contradiction when it comes to my supper table. I know.
I don’t think I could give up meat. Life is too short with go without bacon. I could probably never eat chicken again and be okay with that – but ribs and steak and pork tenderloins. Mmmm…pass the sauce.
I am the only person I know that enjoys eating a steak while watching Adam Richman from Man Vs. Food also eating a steak, usually it’s some monstrous cut like a bone in ribeye grilled to medium rare perfection, which I will then covet even though I have a steak right in front of me. I know. It’s a bit sick and twisted.
The carnivorous part of my personality is not without its conflicts.
Conflict #1:
I have no interest in amateur butchery or any kind of butchery. Frankly, I don’t want to have a personal relationship with anything I am going eat. I am just fine with the notion that meat comes from the grocery store on those little styrofoam trays wrapped in plastic. That works for me. I have great respect for the animal whose main purpose was to eat well so I could in turn eat well. I don’t need to know more.
My brother in law and his family raised chickens one summer. We ended up with a roasting chicken from their summer chicken project. I couldn’t eat that chicken. It was like family. I can eat the chickens from
Jen-Ehr Farm in Sun Prairie (and they are incredibly tasty), but I’m not related to the fine people at Jen-Ehr. Therefore it doesn’t feel like I am part of the Donner party, eating one of my own.
I can eat the meat from a whole chicken but not meat from a whole hog. And I love pork. I do. But the whole pig is just too much like “Babe”. My in-laws have this weird fascination with “cooking a whole hog” – they do it a lot for big family gatherings for reasons I don’t understand. I can’t eat it. I just can’t. Now if they cooked a bone in boston butt low and slow with a dry rub and a yummy sauce, that would be a different story altogether. I’ll take a side of coleslaw.
None of this is remotely logical.
Conflict #2:
I love animals. I do. I love them all. I had to stop volunteering at the Humane Society because I wanted to adopt all the animals as evidenced by the fact that we now own a Hamster.
I love the wild animals too (except coyotes). We’re having issues with the bunnies eating all of our plants. They are brazen little
I am a bag of contradiction when it comes to my supper table. I know.
I don’t think I could give up meat. Life is too short with go without bacon. I could probably never eat chicken again and be okay with that – but ribs and steak and pork tenderloins. Mmmm…pass the sauce.
Monday, June 13, 2011
More Musings on a my ongoing mid-life crisis – An Update
Happy to report that my transition to transitional lenses has been pretty much a non-event. PTL! I had a headache for 2 days then adjusted fine. So far I don’t seem to be bobbing my head too much to get the placement right for reading. The worse part about new glasses is getting the fit right. I’ve been back for adjustments twice and still have rubbing on my temple. Annoying.
I have noticed, that despite regular workouts with some weight lifting, pilates and yoga stretching tossed in for good measure there is a lot of muffin top. Also annoying. Wondering if I need to invest in one of the Spanx body suits to keep it all smooth. Eff.
I’ll say it again. Aging sucks ass.
I’m kicking around trying hot yoga. I like yoga but don’t necessarily like being hot; although this may be the thing my body needs to keep it challenged. Clearly the elliptical ain’t getting it done. Hot yoga is expensive and I’m already dealing with an over-inflated health care membership thanks to one teenage son who insisted he would work out regularly with me. Yeah. Right. I can take that $38 a month a throw it out the window.
I have a coupon for a few hot yoga class.
Pondering. Pondering.
I have noticed, that despite regular workouts with some weight lifting, pilates and yoga stretching tossed in for good measure there is a lot of muffin top. Also annoying. Wondering if I need to invest in one of the Spanx body suits to keep it all smooth. Eff.
I’ll say it again. Aging sucks ass.
I’m kicking around trying hot yoga. I like yoga but don’t necessarily like being hot; although this may be the thing my body needs to keep it challenged. Clearly the elliptical ain’t getting it done. Hot yoga is expensive and I’m already dealing with an over-inflated health care membership thanks to one teenage son who insisted he would work out regularly with me. Yeah. Right. I can take that $38 a month a throw it out the window.
I have a coupon for a few hot yoga class.
Pondering. Pondering.
Friday, June 10, 2011
What's for dinner?
Generally speaking, I like to cook. I do. Hand to god. What I don’t like is that I have become solely responsible for all manner of meal planning. It has become the singular most stressful thing in my life.
Imagine this conversation occurring pretty much on daily basis
Me: "What does everyone want for dinner?"
Everyone: "I dunno. What are the options?"
Me: Internal head slap.
Or this slight variation...
Everyone: "What’s for dinner?"
Me: (Fully exhausted after working a quality 9+ hour day): Blank look, followed by the internal head slap.
There must be some unwritten rule that because I have a vagina and reasonably decent planning skills that I spend all my free time thinking about, shopping or cooking meals.
I don’t.
And when I do just plan and cooking something I am often met with a pulled up nose (mostly from my son because my husband is the equivalent of a human garbage disposal) because he would rather have mashed potatoes instead of baked, or he doesn’t like shredded pork. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Part of the meal planning fiasco is the chore of grocery shopping. There is no one store that meets all my needs, so I end up running all over the place. As a result, my least favorite chore on the planet is grocery shopping.
I abhor it.
Detest.
Hate.
Loathe.
I can generally tolerate it if I shop at Copps, but shopping at Woodmans is pure torture. Yeah, the canned goods are cheaper but the produce sucks and the meat is like monkey chow. Hence the need to run to Brennans for fruits and Copps for meat. It’s exhausting.
The whole feeding the family a balanced meal is a lesson in high blood pressure.
I’m fine to just eat a salad or a bowl of cereal and call it good. But you know, I’m raising a kid so there is this mom guilt about a well-balanced diet; although I swear the kid would prefer to live on 100% carbs. Well, I would to but that’s another topic all together.
I have tried menu planning and engaging said family members in planning discussions with little success.
I’m sadly confident the internal head slap will continue to be an ongoing part of my meal planning routine ad nauseaum.
Imagine this conversation occurring pretty much on daily basis
Me: "What does everyone want for dinner?"
Everyone: "I dunno. What are the options?"
Me: Internal head slap.
Or this slight variation...
Everyone: "What’s for dinner?"
Me: (Fully exhausted after working a quality 9+ hour day): Blank look, followed by the internal head slap.
There must be some unwritten rule that because I have a vagina and reasonably decent planning skills that I spend all my free time thinking about, shopping or cooking meals.
I don’t.
And when I do just plan and cooking something I am often met with a pulled up nose (mostly from my son because my husband is the equivalent of a human garbage disposal) because he would rather have mashed potatoes instead of baked, or he doesn’t like shredded pork. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Part of the meal planning fiasco is the chore of grocery shopping. There is no one store that meets all my needs, so I end up running all over the place. As a result, my least favorite chore on the planet is grocery shopping.
I abhor it.
Detest.
Hate.
Loathe.
I can generally tolerate it if I shop at Copps, but shopping at Woodmans is pure torture. Yeah, the canned goods are cheaper but the produce sucks and the meat is like monkey chow. Hence the need to run to Brennans for fruits and Copps for meat. It’s exhausting.
The whole feeding the family a balanced meal is a lesson in high blood pressure.
I’m fine to just eat a salad or a bowl of cereal and call it good. But you know, I’m raising a kid so there is this mom guilt about a well-balanced diet; although I swear the kid would prefer to live on 100% carbs. Well, I would to but that’s another topic all together.
I have tried menu planning and engaging said family members in planning discussions with little success.
I’m sadly confident the internal head slap will continue to be an ongoing part of my meal planning routine ad nauseaum.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
All hail the Dyson
It’s a sad state of affairs when a vacuum cleaner is a blog subject.
For years I have coveted the Dyson.
The roller ball technology.
The fun colors.
The bagless filter.
It’s the Cadillac of vacuums’. And I wanted one. I didn’t want the Dyson price tag which is a lot for a vacuum. A lot. Which is why I hung onto my under-whelming Hoover.
But I’m well into year 10 of our current carpet (which is crap in case you’ve never heard me mention it, although that’s highly unlikely since I’ll talk to strangers on the street about my crappy builders grade carpet) and I’m at least 12-18 months away from replacing it. Plus I have two long-hair cats that shed copious amounts of white fur. It was time to get a serious vacuum.
After some lengthy research I landed on the Dyson animal. It is purple (fun color) with a bigger canister and motor. I opted against the slightly smaller roller ball version of the Dyson animal in lieu of more suction.
The Dyson Animal 28 retails for a lofty $599. I know. That’s a couple of car payments or many many nice pairs of shoes. However, if you have a spouse that works for a major appliance company (and I do), you can take advantage of the factory direct program for like half the price…including shipping. I couldn’t send my check fast enough.
And a mere 10 days later a great big box from my new favorite company was on my front porch when I pulled into the driveway from work.
I think I squealed a little when I saw it.
A mere 20 minutes later I was vacuuming my very modest size living room with Dyson greatness and marveling at what was being sucked out of my carpets.
Frankly, it’s disgusting but also cool.
Like I said, it’s a sad state of affairs when a vacuum cleaner is a blog subject. I need to get out more.
For years I have coveted the Dyson.
The roller ball technology.
The fun colors.
The bagless filter.
It’s the Cadillac of vacuums’. And I wanted one. I didn’t want the Dyson price tag which is a lot for a vacuum. A lot. Which is why I hung onto my under-whelming Hoover.
But I’m well into year 10 of our current carpet (which is crap in case you’ve never heard me mention it, although that’s highly unlikely since I’ll talk to strangers on the street about my crappy builders grade carpet) and I’m at least 12-18 months away from replacing it. Plus I have two long-hair cats that shed copious amounts of white fur. It was time to get a serious vacuum.
After some lengthy research I landed on the Dyson animal. It is purple (fun color) with a bigger canister and motor. I opted against the slightly smaller roller ball version of the Dyson animal in lieu of more suction.
The Dyson Animal 28 retails for a lofty $599. I know. That’s a couple of car payments or many many nice pairs of shoes. However, if you have a spouse that works for a major appliance company (and I do), you can take advantage of the factory direct program for like half the price…including shipping. I couldn’t send my check fast enough.
And a mere 10 days later a great big box from my new favorite company was on my front porch when I pulled into the driveway from work.
I think I squealed a little when I saw it.
A mere 20 minutes later I was vacuuming my very modest size living room with Dyson greatness and marveling at what was being sucked out of my carpets.
Frankly, it’s disgusting but also cool.
Like I said, it’s a sad state of affairs when a vacuum cleaner is a blog subject. I need to get out more.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Summer TV
Summer TV rots. It really does. Of course I maximize my being outside opportunity during the summer, but when it 90+ and humid…there ain’t much I’m doing outside after late morning. I spend PLENTY of time enjoying Mother Nature while watching copious amounts of Little League baseball and hocking assorted tye dyes.
But when it’s a sticky wicket, I mostly want to lay on the floor under the ceiling fan and rot my brain appropriately whilst sipping a vodka lemonade.
Did I mention summer TV rots?
No Survivor. No Glee. No Dancing with the Stars. No Top Chef. No Greys. No Private Practice.
It’s true that I am busting out a lot of tye dyes to make up for my endless sofa surfing over the winter but even when the weekends allotment of shirts has been dyed…there is downtime. Downtime when it’s uber hot and sticky. With no good TV.
My viewing choices have been severely limited to endless Major League Baseball games (cause that’s always on) or The Bachelorette. The Bachelorette makes my IQ plummet. I’m not kidding. With each Bachelorette squeal, giggle and utterance of the phrase “[Insert boy name here] and I have such an amazing connection”. I get stupider and stupider.
See it’s true.
Plummeting IQ, stupider isn’t even a word.
Any more Bachelorette and I’ll be sitting in front of the washing machine, mesmerized by the spin cycle.
But when it’s a sticky wicket, I mostly want to lay on the floor under the ceiling fan and rot my brain appropriately whilst sipping a vodka lemonade.
Did I mention summer TV rots?
No Survivor. No Glee. No Dancing with the Stars. No Top Chef. No Greys. No Private Practice.
It’s true that I am busting out a lot of tye dyes to make up for my endless sofa surfing over the winter but even when the weekends allotment of shirts has been dyed…there is downtime. Downtime when it’s uber hot and sticky. With no good TV.
My viewing choices have been severely limited to endless Major League Baseball games (cause that’s always on) or The Bachelorette. The Bachelorette makes my IQ plummet. I’m not kidding. With each Bachelorette squeal, giggle and utterance of the phrase “[Insert boy name here] and I have such an amazing connection”. I get stupider and stupider.
See it’s true.
Plummeting IQ, stupider isn’t even a word.
Any more Bachelorette and I’ll be sitting in front of the washing machine, mesmerized by the spin cycle.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Bake Sale Goal
I have a decorative centerpiece that is a shaped like a star. It’s also a mirror. It looks pretty with candles on it and I’m sure is well worth the $24.95 I overpaid at Crate and Barrel. The last time I used said centerpiece, it required cleaning of the Windex variety. Whilst cleaning, I made the grievous error of bending over the mirror and that’s when I saw it…
In all its middle aged glory.
The waddle.
You know. The waddle. The beginnings of the craggy saggy fleshy jiggle under the chin. Not to be confused with the jowl which is another cosmetic ailment altogether.
I was appropriately mortified.
Let me be clear. If you have a waddle, I could care less. I am concerned with no one’s waddle but my own. So concerned (and mortified), that I immediately contacted the fine people at my Credit Union to establish my bake sale fund via a modest monthly paycheck deduction. Bake sale of course, being code for “mini facelift”. Naturally.
I’d love to be that woman who is all confident about the aging process but let’s be honest. I am not that woman. This is me we’re talking about. The same me that was raised by my mother. The same mother that emphasized the importance of always wearing a matching bra and panties just in case there was an unfortunate trip to the emergency room via ambulance. Won’t the medics be impressed by my matching under-things while administering CPR? Yes. Yes they would.
My new mantra since turning 40 is “cheat the clock”. I figure by the time I hit the next milestone birthday (a number I cannot say out loud without weeping) my bake sale coffer will be robust enough for a little trip to the nip tuck factory. I applaud the woman that indulges in a little cosmetic freshening up. We’re not talking Joan Rivers freshening (although I am a fan of Joan but for different reasons) – just a little “something-something’ that makes one look fresh and rejuvenated and waddle free.
Or to put it another way, I’m taking the appropriate steps to leaving a good looking corpse.
In all its middle aged glory.
The waddle.
You know. The waddle. The beginnings of the craggy saggy fleshy jiggle under the chin. Not to be confused with the jowl which is another cosmetic ailment altogether.
I was appropriately mortified.
Let me be clear. If you have a waddle, I could care less. I am concerned with no one’s waddle but my own. So concerned (and mortified), that I immediately contacted the fine people at my Credit Union to establish my bake sale fund via a modest monthly paycheck deduction. Bake sale of course, being code for “mini facelift”. Naturally.
I’d love to be that woman who is all confident about the aging process but let’s be honest. I am not that woman. This is me we’re talking about. The same me that was raised by my mother. The same mother that emphasized the importance of always wearing a matching bra and panties just in case there was an unfortunate trip to the emergency room via ambulance. Won’t the medics be impressed by my matching under-things while administering CPR? Yes. Yes they would.
My new mantra since turning 40 is “cheat the clock”. I figure by the time I hit the next milestone birthday (a number I cannot say out loud without weeping) my bake sale coffer will be robust enough for a little trip to the nip tuck factory. I applaud the woman that indulges in a little cosmetic freshening up. We’re not talking Joan Rivers freshening (although I am a fan of Joan but for different reasons) – just a little “something-something’ that makes one look fresh and rejuvenated and waddle free.
Or to put it another way, I’m taking the appropriate steps to leaving a good looking corpse.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Mentally Preparing for the 2011 Craft Show Season
The craft show season winds from summer through the holidays. It includes both indoor and outdoor venues. Making the product is one thing but there is a bit of mental preparation in dealing with the general public. I generally enjoy shows and festivals. They are fun. People plunk down their hard-earned dollars for something I made. The people watching is fabulous and the food is tasty. Have I mentioned the fried cheese curds and pork chop on a stick? But they are a lot of work. A lot. It is no easy feat to pack your car, haul your stuff, set it up, sell it, remain cheerful and good-natured, take it down, haul it back to car to re-pack it. Rain, snow, sun, wind and extreme heat. It’s a lesson in tenacity.
At the risk of biting the hand that feeds me (or more accurately the hand that keeps me in pedicures), a few musings as a mentally prepare for another show season.
Yes. I actually make all the items I sell. It’s surprising how often I am asked that question. I wonder if people think I pre-order from China, throw up a few display racks and try to pass the stuff off as my own.
Yes. It takes a long time to dye it all. It’s all hand-dyed. That takes time.
Yes. My colors are brighter then what you did with RIT dye in your summer camp project. I know what I am doing, hence the reason I can put up a shingle and collect sales tax.
Go ahead and pop for the $5 pair of socks. I am always a bit surprised how much people will agonize over such a small purchase while clutching a $300 Coach purse and guzzling a $5 Starbucks White Mocha. The same mocha which will be gone be gone in 15 minutes. My socks will last longer with 500 fewer calories.
Cheapest is not always the best. I’ve already provided a too lengthy commentary on this subject but revalidated this philosophy first hand as a shopper while investigating up-cycled woolen mittens. The cheapest were not the best made. The most well made were a bit more expensive and therefore worth my patronage. That said, the best is not always the most expensive. Check carefully for quality and value.
No. Tye Dye is not just for summer anymore. And it doesn’t make your kids hippies. It’s bright and colorful which is why kids love it. Embrace their passion for color before they turn into monochromatic adults like me who wear only black, grey and brown.
Assembly is not the same as creating. Buying $10 worth of trinkets and trash at the dollar store and then assembling like themed trinkets and trash into a little gift basket is not art or craft. It’s assembly. Nothing is being made or created. Craft show organizers need to keep a little integrity with their show and not give a booth to anyone who has the booth fee without proof of artistry. I’m just saying.
And in that same vein Commercial products have no place at the craft show. Creative Memories and Tastefully Simple are pre-made items. Sorry.
Fellow artists please stop de-valuing your work. I get that Grandma does nothing but sew little snowman all day to keep herself busy, but a well executed hand-sewn snowman ornament is worth more than $4. I am betting that the materials in said cute snowman were more than $4 not including Grandmas time. You do yourself, Grandma and all the other artists a disservice by cheaping out the value of “handmade”.
Hauling your stuff when its 90 degrees with the humidity of a Turkish bath sucks. So does hauling in the snow and wind. I’ve done both.
It sucks even more if the show was abysmal and you barely cleared the booth fee.
If you’re thinking of getting in the handmade game don’t pick jewelry. You can’t walk through a show without every 3rd vendor selling jewelry. I’m not kidding. It’s utterly oversaturated. So is the little-girl princess tu-tu market. At least I’m generally the only tye dye artist around.
And with that I’m looking forward to another festival season. And the cheese curds. And the pork chop on the stick!
At the risk of biting the hand that feeds me (or more accurately the hand that keeps me in pedicures), a few musings as a mentally prepare for another show season.
Yes. I actually make all the items I sell. It’s surprising how often I am asked that question. I wonder if people think I pre-order from China, throw up a few display racks and try to pass the stuff off as my own.
Yes. It takes a long time to dye it all. It’s all hand-dyed. That takes time.
Yes. My colors are brighter then what you did with RIT dye in your summer camp project. I know what I am doing, hence the reason I can put up a shingle and collect sales tax.
Go ahead and pop for the $5 pair of socks. I am always a bit surprised how much people will agonize over such a small purchase while clutching a $300 Coach purse and guzzling a $5 Starbucks White Mocha. The same mocha which will be gone be gone in 15 minutes. My socks will last longer with 500 fewer calories.
Cheapest is not always the best. I’ve already provided a too lengthy commentary on this subject but revalidated this philosophy first hand as a shopper while investigating up-cycled woolen mittens. The cheapest were not the best made. The most well made were a bit more expensive and therefore worth my patronage. That said, the best is not always the most expensive. Check carefully for quality and value.
No. Tye Dye is not just for summer anymore. And it doesn’t make your kids hippies. It’s bright and colorful which is why kids love it. Embrace their passion for color before they turn into monochromatic adults like me who wear only black, grey and brown.
Assembly is not the same as creating. Buying $10 worth of trinkets and trash at the dollar store and then assembling like themed trinkets and trash into a little gift basket is not art or craft. It’s assembly. Nothing is being made or created. Craft show organizers need to keep a little integrity with their show and not give a booth to anyone who has the booth fee without proof of artistry. I’m just saying.
And in that same vein Commercial products have no place at the craft show. Creative Memories and Tastefully Simple are pre-made items. Sorry.
Fellow artists please stop de-valuing your work. I get that Grandma does nothing but sew little snowman all day to keep herself busy, but a well executed hand-sewn snowman ornament is worth more than $4. I am betting that the materials in said cute snowman were more than $4 not including Grandmas time. You do yourself, Grandma and all the other artists a disservice by cheaping out the value of “handmade”.
Hauling your stuff when its 90 degrees with the humidity of a Turkish bath sucks. So does hauling in the snow and wind. I’ve done both.
It sucks even more if the show was abysmal and you barely cleared the booth fee.
If you’re thinking of getting in the handmade game don’t pick jewelry. You can’t walk through a show without every 3rd vendor selling jewelry. I’m not kidding. It’s utterly oversaturated. So is the little-girl princess tu-tu market. At least I’m generally the only tye dye artist around.
And with that I’m looking forward to another festival season. And the cheese curds. And the pork chop on the stick!
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