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.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
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.
Friday, May 27, 2011
The 100 Day Challenge – A long overdue update
When I fall off the blog wagon, I really fall off. I’m getting back on.
On May 5th, the 100 day no sweets challenge officially ended. I took all three of my “passes”during my 100 days and indulged in chocolate stuff (a wonderful, yet sinful dessert that is likenend to an slightly undercooked brownie), a piece of my dad’s birthday cake (best cake on the planet for the best dad) and bananas foster (I saw god).
In 100 days, I lost 6 pounds. I felt great.
And then May 6th rolled around and I somehow felt the need to make up for lost dessert time. In the span of 3 weeks I not only fell off the no dessert wagon, the wagon rolled me over. A couple of times. Clearly I have an issue with falling off the wagon, regardless of topic. There were krispe creme donuts, ice cream, a butterfinger, ho-ho cake, more ice cream, brownies, still more ice cream, bananas foster and a crème brulee.
The sad reality is, I have no will power. None. Nada. If there are brownies at home I will eat them. Because I can. My spouse bought me three peanut squares and damn if I didn’t eat them all. In one day. I am here to tell day, you can eat three peanut squares in one day, but you will feel dreadfully sick. I’m just saying.
So I’m back on the no dessert wagon. I think it’s in my best interest to limit my dessert intake to once a month instead of once a day. That sick feeling is rarely worth it and frankly, I really don’t want that 6 lbs back.
Updates to follow.
On May 5th, the 100 day no sweets challenge officially ended. I took all three of my “passes”during my 100 days and indulged in chocolate stuff (a wonderful, yet sinful dessert that is likenend to an slightly undercooked brownie), a piece of my dad’s birthday cake (best cake on the planet for the best dad) and bananas foster (I saw god).
In 100 days, I lost 6 pounds. I felt great.
And then May 6th rolled around and I somehow felt the need to make up for lost dessert time. In the span of 3 weeks I not only fell off the no dessert wagon, the wagon rolled me over. A couple of times. Clearly I have an issue with falling off the wagon, regardless of topic. There were krispe creme donuts, ice cream, a butterfinger, ho-ho cake, more ice cream, brownies, still more ice cream, bananas foster and a crème brulee.
The sad reality is, I have no will power. None. Nada. If there are brownies at home I will eat them. Because I can. My spouse bought me three peanut squares and damn if I didn’t eat them all. In one day. I am here to tell day, you can eat three peanut squares in one day, but you will feel dreadfully sick. I’m just saying.
So I’m back on the no dessert wagon. I think it’s in my best interest to limit my dessert intake to once a month instead of once a day. That sick feeling is rarely worth it and frankly, I really don’t want that 6 lbs back.
Updates to follow.
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