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.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
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!
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
In the Weeds
I had big plans for this winter. Big.
I intended to spend the 7 months of Wisconsin winter (and there were 7 months this year) prepping for the summer and fall art festival season. That was my intent. But we all know the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Instead I spent copious amounts of time lolling about the sofa watching The Tudors, Big Love and Mad Men whilst perfecting the Sunday afternoon Bloody Mary followed by a well timed nap.
The tye dye table sat idle. Dust collected.
And just like that (insert finger snap here) the summer festival season is nipping at my heels. As a point of clarity, the weather has generally been about as far as you can get from summer until today, but you get the point.
In 6 short weeks I need to be fully stocked for 3 big festivals, in addition to keeping my consignor stocked with bucket hats and toddler tshirts. All this while working my regular job and shuttling my son from upwards of 20 ballgames, assorted practices and umpire duties.
I also need to keep up on my exercise routine because summer festivals equals fair food and fair food equals deep fried calorie laden delciousness. I mean I’m already limiting myself to one dessert a month, it’s not like I’m going to get all healthy and give up the fried cheese curds or pork chop on a stick, or the tasty roasted corn that is dipped in a vat of butter. Let’s not be unrealistic.
Now I’m in the weeds.
What’s the saying “Bite off more than you can chew, and chew it anyway”.
Pass the salt.
I intended to spend the 7 months of Wisconsin winter (and there were 7 months this year) prepping for the summer and fall art festival season. That was my intent. But we all know the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Instead I spent copious amounts of time lolling about the sofa watching The Tudors, Big Love and Mad Men whilst perfecting the Sunday afternoon Bloody Mary followed by a well timed nap.
The tye dye table sat idle. Dust collected.
And just like that (insert finger snap here) the summer festival season is nipping at my heels. As a point of clarity, the weather has generally been about as far as you can get from summer until today, but you get the point.
In 6 short weeks I need to be fully stocked for 3 big festivals, in addition to keeping my consignor stocked with bucket hats and toddler tshirts. All this while working my regular job and shuttling my son from upwards of 20 ballgames, assorted practices and umpire duties.
I also need to keep up on my exercise routine because summer festivals equals fair food and fair food equals deep fried calorie laden delciousness. I mean I’m already limiting myself to one dessert a month, it’s not like I’m going to get all healthy and give up the fried cheese curds or pork chop on a stick, or the tasty roasted corn that is dipped in a vat of butter. Let’s not be unrealistic.
Now I’m in the weeds.
What’s the saying “Bite off more than you can chew, and chew it anyway”.
Pass the salt.
More musings on a my ongoing mid-life crisis
After two years of reading the fine print on pretty much anything either an inch from my face or doing the trombone move and extending my arm from as far from my face as possible, I pulled the trigger on new glasses with progressive lenses.
They don’t call them bifocals anymore.
Praise Jesus.
And praise technology. Bifocals are now aptly named “progressive lenses”. They can call them anything they want. The reality is I need reading glasses. Sad.
Initially I asked my spousal unit to help me select new frames. He was well-meaning but his mode of feedback was as follows:
• Frame #1: “Those look nice.”
• Frame #2: “Those look nice.”
• Frame #3: “Those look nice”
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
I checked out two pairs of the “those look nice” frames and brought them home to show my son to which he said:
“Is there a 3rd choice” and “I don’t want to hurt your feelings but those look like Grandmas glasses.”
Yeah. Back they went.
Then I got smart and brought my BFF to the eyeglass selection party who could offer real feedback. We picked out three pairs that thankfully did not resemble “Grandmas glasses” and yielded the appropriate amount of “Those look nice” comments from my family.
I pulled the trigger and ordered them and now wait patiently for them to be completed.
Whoever said “age is just a number” is a liar.
They don’t call them bifocals anymore.
Praise Jesus.
And praise technology. Bifocals are now aptly named “progressive lenses”. They can call them anything they want. The reality is I need reading glasses. Sad.
Initially I asked my spousal unit to help me select new frames. He was well-meaning but his mode of feedback was as follows:
• Frame #1: “Those look nice.”
• Frame #2: “Those look nice.”
• Frame #3: “Those look nice”
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
I checked out two pairs of the “those look nice” frames and brought them home to show my son to which he said:
“Is there a 3rd choice” and “I don’t want to hurt your feelings but those look like Grandmas glasses.”
Yeah. Back they went.
Then I got smart and brought my BFF to the eyeglass selection party who could offer real feedback. We picked out three pairs that thankfully did not resemble “Grandmas glasses” and yielded the appropriate amount of “Those look nice” comments from my family.
I pulled the trigger and ordered them and now wait patiently for them to be completed.
Whoever said “age is just a number” is a liar.
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