Today it's Healthy Choice Asian Inspired Five Spice Beef & Vegetables. One of the basic problems with this dinner -- and all others containing "beef" -- is that the beef never looks very appetizing. Instead it's a fake-looking thin sliced "roast beef" not unlike the stuff you used to eat as a kid from Banquet frozen dinners. It also has this weird textured-leather look. But in spite of the look, the beef is actually tender and tasty.
While not among the ingredient list (unless if falls under "spice blend"), almost all I can taste is ginger, and the peppers. I was suprised to see "sake" among the ingredients. Not a big fan of water chestnuts either. I mean, they have no taste, really, just this crunch.
Overall, not bad, but I don't know if I'll try it again.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Quickie Cubicle Lunch Review
Today's Lunch is what I was supposed to have yesterday until the hostage situation arose: Marie Calendar's Breaded Chicken Parmesan. Besides being tasty, with actual recognizable vegetables, it's a fairly generous amount of food (as frozen entrees go)and it should be at 650 calories.
What I noticed today, however, is that Marie Calender's: 1)has supposedly been around since 1948 -- and this will require investigation because inquiring minds with low tolerance of advertising BS want to know; and 2)is actually part of ConAgra Foods.
I don't know anything bad about ConAgra, but it sounds so coldly and unappetizingly corporate. I mean, would you go to a restaurant named "ConAgra"? They also make Healthy Choice, Orville Reddenbacker, Hunts and Chef Boyardee, among a dozen or more other brands. Which is just kinda weird to me. Does this mean Marie, Betty Crocker and Chef Boyardee all get together to have drinks? Is there perhaps some fiddle-faddle going on between Orville and Peter Pan? And just where does that innocent little Swiss Miss fit into this sordid little family?
What I noticed today, however, is that Marie Calender's: 1)has supposedly been around since 1948 -- and this will require investigation because inquiring minds with low tolerance of advertising BS want to know; and 2)is actually part of ConAgra Foods.
I don't know anything bad about ConAgra, but it sounds so coldly and unappetizingly corporate. I mean, would you go to a restaurant named "ConAgra"? They also make Healthy Choice, Orville Reddenbacker, Hunts and Chef Boyardee, among a dozen or more other brands. Which is just kinda weird to me. Does this mean Marie, Betty Crocker and Chef Boyardee all get together to have drinks? Is there perhaps some fiddle-faddle going on between Orville and Peter Pan? And just where does that innocent little Swiss Miss fit into this sordid little family?
Monday, September 28, 2009
Quickie Cubical Lunch Review 9-28-09 Arnolds (Again)
I had intended to have Marie Calender's today, but around 11 am, my mouth sent a ransom note: "We have the stomach hostage. Give us Arnold's Country Kitchen or you'll never eat ice cream again."
I don't generally believe in negotiating with terrorists, but what could I do?
So down Rosa Parks to 8th Ave I went, not really minding being sorta "out" in this gorgeous weather. Even the bums loitering at the bus station seemed to have a spring in their step.
I was kinda hoping for country fried steak, but that's only on Thursdays, and I was momentarily tempted by the fried chicken, but I went for my standard: roast beef, mashed, green beans, mac and cheese.
I am pleased to inform you that the roast beef today is sheer perfection --- nicely pink and tender, ohmigod. The mac-n-cheese is still a little too peppery for my taste, but it's still a cheesy, gooey kiss of heaven. I really don't need the three "veggies" -- esp since two are starches - but it's so hard to choose. I mean, I passed up fried green tomatoes this time.
Have I mentioned how much I like Arnold's staff? Most of them have been there forever, and they obviously take pride in being a part of a Nashville tradition.
I tried to take a photo of my lunch with my cell phone, but I think company email is blocking it. I am disappointed.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish my lunch.
I don't generally believe in negotiating with terrorists, but what could I do?
So down Rosa Parks to 8th Ave I went, not really minding being sorta "out" in this gorgeous weather. Even the bums loitering at the bus station seemed to have a spring in their step.
I was kinda hoping for country fried steak, but that's only on Thursdays, and I was momentarily tempted by the fried chicken, but I went for my standard: roast beef, mashed, green beans, mac and cheese.
I am pleased to inform you that the roast beef today is sheer perfection --- nicely pink and tender, ohmigod. The mac-n-cheese is still a little too peppery for my taste, but it's still a cheesy, gooey kiss of heaven. I really don't need the three "veggies" -- esp since two are starches - but it's so hard to choose. I mean, I passed up fried green tomatoes this time.
Have I mentioned how much I like Arnold's staff? Most of them have been there forever, and they obviously take pride in being a part of a Nashville tradition.
I tried to take a photo of my lunch with my cell phone, but I think company email is blocking it. I am disappointed.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish my lunch.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Ah, vanity! Women have endured a lot of stupid things over the centuries, all in the name of beauty. Corsets, high heels, pantyhose, girdles, Richard Simmons. As a forty-something woman and feminist, I’ve given up on a lot of that, more out of exhaustion than philosophy or politics. But whether it’s society’s programming (i.e. my mother’s voice in my head) or simply something deep in those XX chromosomes, I continue to participate in one of the most painful and stupid rituals ever inflicted on the female of the species: the removal of unwanted facial hair.
It’s gotten worse as I have aged. When I was a teenager, a few painful moments with the tweezers were enough to save me from the “unibrow” look. As I entered my forties, suddenly there were whole armies of tiny but stunningly black hairs sprouting from the damnedest places. More than a week of inattention now and I begin to resemble Sasquatch in drag.
Given my carpal tunnel, developing arthritis and failing eyesight, tweezing has become rather like playing the old Operation game of childhood. No cartoon of a fat naked guy, true, and no buzzer, but a great deal of clumsy grappling at exasperatingly evasive objects. I began searching for another method, hopefully one that did not involve poking around my eye with pointy metal objects.
What I came up with was waxing, an ancient technique first used by the Romans to torture those criminals for whom crucifixion was deemed too “kind.” Modern waxing technique was later perfected by the Marquis de Sade (all the best and most painful beauty secrets come from the French, for reasons I don’t care to examine too closely but I suspect has something to do with their profound contempt for anyone not French.)
I found a product called “SurgiWax.” I liked the description because it required none of those pesky “muslin strips.” (I don’t know exactly what muslin strips are or what part they play in other waxing techniques; I only know that several of the products touted not needing them as a good thing.) You could heat this particular product in your microwave, which we all know is fast and quite modern so it must be convenient. And Surgiwax is quite effective, I admit. Here’s how it works, step by step:
1) Loosen the lid and microwave the small plastic jar according to the directions.
2) Test the temperature of the wax cautiously with your fingertip.
3) Think: "Hmm, seems about right."
4) Lift the small wooden paddle loaded with wax toward your left eyebrow, drizzling droplets of gooey wax onto the bathroom carpet, tile and even the mirror. At this point, a single droplet will land inevitably in your eyelashes, in effect waxing your left eye completely shut.
I have learned from experience that this lump of wax cannot be dislodged without leaving a 1/4" gap in the fringe of your already meager lashes, causing you to look like a drunken drag queen that has lost a section of her falsies. Pry lashes apart and attempt to scrape wax off with fingernails. If you accomplish this with a loss of ten lashes or less, consider yourself blessed.
5) Take another paddle of wax and this time make it all the way to the unwanted forests of left eyebrow.
6) Emit a sound often mistaken for an enraged mongoose that's been stepped on by a hippo. Why? Because no matter how long or short a time you heat the wax, no matter how carefully you have tested the temperature, the wax is always – ALWAYS -- still too #@I& HOT!
7) Stomp a foot and mutter, "Why the hell do I do this to myself?" as you feel the flesh beneath the wax begin to blister.
8) Repeat steps 4 and 5 on right brow.
9) Attempt to repeat steps 4 and 5 on upper lip, only to find the wax is now too cold, and refuses to adhere to upper lip.
10) Trudge back downstairs to microwave.
11) Repeat steps 1-7.
12) Allow wax to cool completely. You can amuse yourself during this time by making faces in the mirror just to watch the planks of hardening wax wiggle up and down.
13) Carefully peel up the corner of the first section of wax, getting wax under your fingernails that will later have to be carved out with a nail file.
14) Once you have a solid grip, give one enormous yank, pulling in the opposite direction of the hair growth.
15) See stars as blinding pain immediately causes eyes to fill with tears.
16) Grip the edge of sink (to keep from falling to your knees) and stop screaming.
17) If necessary, stand there for several moments, blinking and squinting, stomping foot, using language that has been banned in 34 countries.
18) As the profanity dies down to a sustained hiss, remove fingers from countertop. (A little sandpaper will remove the crescent-shaped imprints.)
19) Realize that there is snot dripping down your face, because the tears have, of course, set your sinuses running like the Mighty Mississippi. Blow your nose.
20) DO NOT -- I repeat -- DO NOT LOOK in the mirror at this point because what you will see is not pretty: a sobbing, snot-nosed face with thick yellow crusts of wax on one eyebrow and upper lip, and a scarlet crescent of angry red flesh above one still-squinting eye.
21) Repeat step 13 on next eyebrow. Only this time, in vain hopes of making it hurt less, pull S-L-O-W-L-Y.
22) Halfway across, unable to see for tears, give up this strategy as stupid and simply yank the rest in one motion.
23) Repeat steps 15 - 20.
24) Consider just letting the wax on your upper lip wear off naturally over the next 24-48 hours.
25) Decide this course is not viable, as you cannot bear to go to dinner, even at Waffle House, with a wax mustache.
26) Repeat steps 13-20 on one side of your upper lip.
27) Allow yourself one expletive of choice before doing the other side.
28) When your vision clears, examine eyebrows to make sure they are balanced. Find that you have actually removed your ENTIRE right eyebrow.
29) Consider whether you will look funnier with only one eyebrow drawn with the eyebrow pencil or if you should just remove the other eyebrow and draw on both.
30) Decide to hell with it and go eat the rest of your carefully hoarded Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey while you sulk. You’ve earned it.
It’s gotten worse as I have aged. When I was a teenager, a few painful moments with the tweezers were enough to save me from the “unibrow” look. As I entered my forties, suddenly there were whole armies of tiny but stunningly black hairs sprouting from the damnedest places. More than a week of inattention now and I begin to resemble Sasquatch in drag.
Given my carpal tunnel, developing arthritis and failing eyesight, tweezing has become rather like playing the old Operation game of childhood. No cartoon of a fat naked guy, true, and no buzzer, but a great deal of clumsy grappling at exasperatingly evasive objects. I began searching for another method, hopefully one that did not involve poking around my eye with pointy metal objects.
What I came up with was waxing, an ancient technique first used by the Romans to torture those criminals for whom crucifixion was deemed too “kind.” Modern waxing technique was later perfected by the Marquis de Sade (all the best and most painful beauty secrets come from the French, for reasons I don’t care to examine too closely but I suspect has something to do with their profound contempt for anyone not French.)
I found a product called “SurgiWax.” I liked the description because it required none of those pesky “muslin strips.” (I don’t know exactly what muslin strips are or what part they play in other waxing techniques; I only know that several of the products touted not needing them as a good thing.) You could heat this particular product in your microwave, which we all know is fast and quite modern so it must be convenient. And Surgiwax is quite effective, I admit. Here’s how it works, step by step:
1) Loosen the lid and microwave the small plastic jar according to the directions.
2) Test the temperature of the wax cautiously with your fingertip.
3) Think: "Hmm, seems about right."
4) Lift the small wooden paddle loaded with wax toward your left eyebrow, drizzling droplets of gooey wax onto the bathroom carpet, tile and even the mirror. At this point, a single droplet will land inevitably in your eyelashes, in effect waxing your left eye completely shut.
I have learned from experience that this lump of wax cannot be dislodged without leaving a 1/4" gap in the fringe of your already meager lashes, causing you to look like a drunken drag queen that has lost a section of her falsies. Pry lashes apart and attempt to scrape wax off with fingernails. If you accomplish this with a loss of ten lashes or less, consider yourself blessed.
5) Take another paddle of wax and this time make it all the way to the unwanted forests of left eyebrow.
6) Emit a sound often mistaken for an enraged mongoose that's been stepped on by a hippo. Why? Because no matter how long or short a time you heat the wax, no matter how carefully you have tested the temperature, the wax is always – ALWAYS -- still too #@I& HOT!
7) Stomp a foot and mutter, "Why the hell do I do this to myself?" as you feel the flesh beneath the wax begin to blister.
8) Repeat steps 4 and 5 on right brow.
9) Attempt to repeat steps 4 and 5 on upper lip, only to find the wax is now too cold, and refuses to adhere to upper lip.
10) Trudge back downstairs to microwave.
11) Repeat steps 1-7.
12) Allow wax to cool completely. You can amuse yourself during this time by making faces in the mirror just to watch the planks of hardening wax wiggle up and down.
13) Carefully peel up the corner of the first section of wax, getting wax under your fingernails that will later have to be carved out with a nail file.
14) Once you have a solid grip, give one enormous yank, pulling in the opposite direction of the hair growth.
15) See stars as blinding pain immediately causes eyes to fill with tears.
16) Grip the edge of sink (to keep from falling to your knees) and stop screaming.
17) If necessary, stand there for several moments, blinking and squinting, stomping foot, using language that has been banned in 34 countries.
18) As the profanity dies down to a sustained hiss, remove fingers from countertop. (A little sandpaper will remove the crescent-shaped imprints.)
19) Realize that there is snot dripping down your face, because the tears have, of course, set your sinuses running like the Mighty Mississippi. Blow your nose.
20) DO NOT -- I repeat -- DO NOT LOOK in the mirror at this point because what you will see is not pretty: a sobbing, snot-nosed face with thick yellow crusts of wax on one eyebrow and upper lip, and a scarlet crescent of angry red flesh above one still-squinting eye.
21) Repeat step 13 on next eyebrow. Only this time, in vain hopes of making it hurt less, pull S-L-O-W-L-Y.
22) Halfway across, unable to see for tears, give up this strategy as stupid and simply yank the rest in one motion.
23) Repeat steps 15 - 20.
24) Consider just letting the wax on your upper lip wear off naturally over the next 24-48 hours.
25) Decide this course is not viable, as you cannot bear to go to dinner, even at Waffle House, with a wax mustache.
26) Repeat steps 13-20 on one side of your upper lip.
27) Allow yourself one expletive of choice before doing the other side.
28) When your vision clears, examine eyebrows to make sure they are balanced. Find that you have actually removed your ENTIRE right eyebrow.
29) Consider whether you will look funnier with only one eyebrow drawn with the eyebrow pencil or if you should just remove the other eyebrow and draw on both.
30) Decide to hell with it and go eat the rest of your carefully hoarded Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey while you sulk. You’ve earned it.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Friday Night Dinner Review: Tom's Elite
Rex, my psuedo-significant other, has dragged me to Barbecutie a couple of times. He thinks the food there is good, including the dry, tasteless impersonation of brisket he ordered a couple of times. (I worry that he has such low standards; he is dating me, after all.)
When I found Tom's Elite, I brought the brisket plate home for dinner and told him, "THIS is what brisket is supposed to taste like." Moist, meaty, tender, flavorful, smoky heaven.
Tom's has become one of my favorite places to stop on my way home to get an excellent dinner that I don't have to shop for, cook or clean up. I just have to eat it. Which is exactly the way I like it. Plus, the portions are generous, so I always have enough brisket left over for a sandwich the next day.
Tom's Elite is located on Gallatin Rd in East Nashville, across from Nicholson's Cleaners and my SunTrust bank. I don't think I would have tried them if they hadn't gotten a glowing review in the paper. But thank goodness, they did. I love the ribs, but the brisket has captured my heart. The turnip greens are excellent too.
So that is what we had for dinner tonight. Beef brisket from Tom's. I had mac-n-cheese and green beans. Rex had the baked apples and greens.
We were going to watch Schindler's List, because Rex has never seen it (and that will not do -- i believe it's possibly the greatest film ever made), but I discovered that my VHS copy has developed that annoying buzz. So I'll have to get the movie on DVD.
Instead we watched my NetFlix "Dracula" with Frank Langella. I developed a definite crush on Langella in this one, back in 1979 when I first saw it. Not having seen it in years, I was a bit dismayed to find myself distracted by his hair, which looks disturbingly late seventies, maybe even a tad Liberace. But I'd still let him in my bedroom window, even if he was hanging upside down like a bat.
Doolittle, however, spent some quality time with Rex's shoes. One of these days, I'll grab the camera in time to get a shot of him rolling orgasmically on his back, which a shoe clutched tightly in his paws, or trying to force his entire head into one shoe. My cat just LOVES those shoes. Maybe it's a leather fetish, I don't know.
Quickie Cubicle Lunch Review
Today, it's Marie Callendar's Pasta Al Dente: "Inspired by Modena, Italy, the home of balsamic vinegar, Fettuccini Chicken Balsamico features spinach and mushrooms drizzled with a balsamic reduction sauce."
I've always thought that Marie had some of the better frozen entrees, and now she's going after that "steamed fresh" trend/marketing ploy. This one, the first i've tried, was... well, okay. I should have chosen a different variety, because actually I don't care much for balsamic vinegar. (I know, what was I thinking?) They could put more spinach in here. Spinach is cheap, healthy and I like spinach.
The good news, there's a generous portion of noodles here, so maybe I won't be gnawing on the desk by 4 pm. Maybe.
I've always thought that Marie had some of the better frozen entrees, and now she's going after that "steamed fresh" trend/marketing ploy. This one, the first i've tried, was... well, okay. I should have chosen a different variety, because actually I don't care much for balsamic vinegar. (I know, what was I thinking?) They could put more spinach in here. Spinach is cheap, healthy and I like spinach.
The good news, there's a generous portion of noodles here, so maybe I won't be gnawing on the desk by 4 pm. Maybe.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Quickie Cubicle Lunch Review: Marche
Somehow, my lunch reviews have become rather popular -- or so people tell me. Maybe it's just three people desperate for diversion, but still....
But I'm wondering if the fact that people are actually reading about what I had for lunch is making me seek out lunches that are... well, bad for me.
I've been a bad, bad girl today. I had to be in East Nashville, dropping off some art, and thought: "Hmmmm... Marche would be a yum-fest."
So I stopped at Marche's Artisian Foods. It's an almost unbearably trendy temple to food in the Five Points area, and only the fact that the food is in fact fabulous prevents it from being pretentious. The interior is shabby chic French provencial, where the waiters are all unemployed musicians and starving artists.
It's the kind of place where you'll pay $8 (plus tax) for a BLT -- but it will be the best BLT you have ever tasted. It will be the Sistine Chapel of BLTs.
It will start with fresh baked sourdough bread, toasted lightly, with generous, thick-cut smoked applewood bacon... and sun-dried tomatoes that are to die for, and fresh tender greens. There's some kind of dressing on it, I think, something light. I'm always too busy eating and sighing in bliss to take note.
But today, I was lured by the Cheese Steak -- soft, fresh foccacia bread, still slighty dusty from the oven, with Boarshead Roast Beef, roasted red and green peppers, carmelized onions, and cheese that I think may be brie.
Yum. I'm a sucker for food lovingly, artistically crafted... a welcome antidote to the recently-frozen, mass-produced and mundane crap that passes for food in most restaurants.
I suppose I wasn't as bad as I could have been. Did I mention... creme brulle? Madeleines? Chocolate Expresso Cake with Caramel and Cream Cheese frosting? Butternut Squash Cake with Apple Mousse frosting? Every kind of bread you can imagine. Chocolate croissants. Baguettes. Stuff you could just sit down with, along with a pound of butter, and eat until you die a happy piggie.
But I'm wondering if the fact that people are actually reading about what I had for lunch is making me seek out lunches that are... well, bad for me.
I've been a bad, bad girl today. I had to be in East Nashville, dropping off some art, and thought: "Hmmmm... Marche would be a yum-fest."
So I stopped at Marche's Artisian Foods. It's an almost unbearably trendy temple to food in the Five Points area, and only the fact that the food is in fact fabulous prevents it from being pretentious. The interior is shabby chic French provencial, where the waiters are all unemployed musicians and starving artists.
It's the kind of place where you'll pay $8 (plus tax) for a BLT -- but it will be the best BLT you have ever tasted. It will be the Sistine Chapel of BLTs.
It will start with fresh baked sourdough bread, toasted lightly, with generous, thick-cut smoked applewood bacon... and sun-dried tomatoes that are to die for, and fresh tender greens. There's some kind of dressing on it, I think, something light. I'm always too busy eating and sighing in bliss to take note.
But today, I was lured by the Cheese Steak -- soft, fresh foccacia bread, still slighty dusty from the oven, with Boarshead Roast Beef, roasted red and green peppers, carmelized onions, and cheese that I think may be brie.
Yum. I'm a sucker for food lovingly, artistically crafted... a welcome antidote to the recently-frozen, mass-produced and mundane crap that passes for food in most restaurants.
I suppose I wasn't as bad as I could have been. Did I mention... creme brulle? Madeleines? Chocolate Expresso Cake with Caramel and Cream Cheese frosting? Butternut Squash Cake with Apple Mousse frosting? Every kind of bread you can imagine. Chocolate croissants. Baguettes. Stuff you could just sit down with, along with a pound of butter, and eat until you die a happy piggie.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Confessions of a Craft Junkie
I should have known, early in childhood, that I would develop an addiction to making stuff. I had a ton of Barbies, but I wasn’t at all interested in dressing her, or taking her around town in her spiffy orange jeep, or even posing her in compromising positions with Ken. No, not me. I spent all my time building and decorating her dream house.
Having only the limited resources of a child, I found my materials around the house. And nothing was safe. Not my mother’s jewelry box (brooches made excellent wall decorations), not her closet (scarves became curtains), and not the kitchen table mats (excellent for carpets). When Mom couldn’t locate her pincushion, she knew she’d find it being used as an ottoman for that little blonde bimbo.
Soon came all those elementary school projects: handprints in plaster and lopsided ashtrays. In Vacation Bible School, they showed me how to cover cigar boxes in macaroni, and spray-paint them a gaudy gold. I made bookmarks and Christmas ornaments out of felt, egg cartons, pipe cleaners and way too much Elmer’s glue. While the other kids were busy spreading layers of glue over their hands just for the sheer joy of peeling it off, I labored over macaroni designs and glitter placement with all the concentration of Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel.
I didn’t really blossom into full-fledged crafting until I moved into my first apartment. Having little disposable income, I had to get creative. I’ve talked to other crafters and found that for many of us, poverty is truly the mother of invention. I’d see something fabulous in a store (that I could not afford) and think, “I could make that.” Or some approximation of it. God knows, some of my first attempts were indistinguishable from, say, the work of blind, motor-deficient fourth graders.
But whether it was a dorm room or a cardboard box, I had to decorate it. Had to. Just as surely as I had to breathe. And I would use anything and everything. I became a compulsive pack rat of discarded ribbons, buttons, pretty paper and miscellaneous “stuff” from garage sales and thrift stores. There was no furniture so scarred and battered that it couldn’t be painted, decoupaged or covered in fabric.
Eventually I discovered the craft and hobby stores springing up all over the place: Michael’s, Joann’s and Hobby Lobby. I’d wander the aisles, my eyes glazing over in a blissful daze of creative mania. Not just for the things I already dreamed of making, but for whole new crafts that I never even knew existed. Clay sculpture, glass painting, wire wrapping. Even the rolls of multicolored yarn, in so many colors and textures, could mesmerize me, and I didn’t even know how to knit.
I learned to cross-stitch, and for several years, the biggest goal of my life was to own every color of DMC floss known to man.
I bought my first glue gun. It was wondrous in its possibilities, but I couldn’t understand how Martha Stewart managed to use one without yelping, “Oh, shit!” as the hot glue melted all her fingers together into mutant flippers, or the cat chose just the wrong moment to stick out an inquisitive paw. But even the searing pain of red-hot glue could not stop me. Let me just say, I no longer have fingerprints. And my cat is now afraid of the glue gun.
The money I once tried to save by making pretty things now went to feed my addiction at the various craft stores. Even walking through their doors, I felt my wallet opening like a thirsty flower to spring rain, even if it meant forgoing food, rent and cable television. At one point, a friend threatened to post my photo on signs at every register, saying: DO NOT SELL TO THIS WOMAN: SHE IS SICK AND CANNOT HELP HERSELF.
My current boyfriend has suggested that I should only be allowed into Hobby Lobby if he accompanies me with a cattle prod.
When I discovered beading, I was like a pot smoker graduating to heroin. Oh, the variety of bright, shiny objects in so many colors, textures, sizes and shapes! Semi-precious stones, glass, plastic — it didn’t matter. I had to have them all, and now discovered entirely new specialty stores to plunder.
Soon I was buying sterling silver by the gram, beads on long strings in bulk. Bead shows at the fairground beckoned to me with a siren’s song. Even on vacation, in every destination from Memphis to New Orleans to Pigeon Forge, I would check the phone book to seek out new suppliers to feed the ravenous beading monkey on my back. I showered friends and family with beaded jewelry until they were afraid to open even one more gift.
I wasn’t even safe in my own home, as I discovered mail order catalogs and the Internet. When I spent $200 on a state-of-the art wood burning kit on EBay, I began to suspect I had a problem. When I donated two bulging bags of perfectly good clothes to Goodwill just so I could devote an entire closet and dresser to my craft supplies, I knew I had hit rock bottom. I had a sudden vision of myself standing on a street corner, with a sign that said: “Will Work for Beads.”
Then, I found my salvation. I discovered others who did not judge me, for they suffered from the same addiction. They understood. They did not turn away or yawn when I rambled excitedly about my new paper cutter.
I have one friend who crafts in her car during her lunch hour, and frequently puts her three children into an assembly line of prep-work similar to third-world sweatshops. Another roams estate sales and thrift stores, obsessively searching for interesting junk to fashion into funky art and jewelry. We confessed our sins, the depth and width of our addiction, like alcoholics at an AA meeting. “Hello, my name is Belinda, and I’m a craft junkie.”
We shared our secrets: new ideas, new materials, the best places to find supplies, the newest adhesives, and how to hide Joann’s receipts from husbands. We found Cafe Press, Lovli and Etsy as an outlet to turn our addiction into hard, cold cash – or at least enough to fund our next expedition to Michael’s. And when those websites were not enough, whole groups of us began banding together in armies like the Craft Mafia, CRAFT, Artsy Mamas, and the Etsy Street Team, just to name a few. When we could not find enough existing venues for selling our wares in the established fairs and shows, we took to the streets of Nashville, creating our own events.
I have now come to terms with my addiction. I no longer hide in shame, but I embrace it, cherish it, and nurture it. I am not alone, and with my new friends, I have the strength to get out and testify to the masses who have not yet embraced their inner crafter. I openly scorn the mass-production of third world countries, the ugly and the just plain boring. I spread the gospel of the handcrafted and the one-of-a-kind like a born-again prophet.
I am a craft junkie, and damned proud of it.
How to Tell If You Are a Craft Junkie:
1. Family members will no longer go into Hobby Lobby with you.
2. You have sacrificed sleep to make "just one more ______."
3. You have considered trading your least favorite child (or spouse) for a gift card to Michael’s.
4. You have ever lied about how much you spent at a craft store.
5. You have bought a craft material or tool even when you had no idea how to use it.
6. There is at least one closet/bookshelf/cardboard box in your house crammed with craft supplies. And there are things in there you don’t even remember buying.
7. You have ever refused to throw “trash” away, because you are sure you can someday use it.
8. You are physically incapable of throwing away a scrap of fancy ribbon.
9. You have ever called in sick to work or made excuses to get out of a family obligation in order to stay home and make something.
10. The mention of a cold-temp, cordless glue gun makes your heart race faster than Antonio Bandera’s butt.
Having only the limited resources of a child, I found my materials around the house. And nothing was safe. Not my mother’s jewelry box (brooches made excellent wall decorations), not her closet (scarves became curtains), and not the kitchen table mats (excellent for carpets). When Mom couldn’t locate her pincushion, she knew she’d find it being used as an ottoman for that little blonde bimbo.
Soon came all those elementary school projects: handprints in plaster and lopsided ashtrays. In Vacation Bible School, they showed me how to cover cigar boxes in macaroni, and spray-paint them a gaudy gold. I made bookmarks and Christmas ornaments out of felt, egg cartons, pipe cleaners and way too much Elmer’s glue. While the other kids were busy spreading layers of glue over their hands just for the sheer joy of peeling it off, I labored over macaroni designs and glitter placement with all the concentration of Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel.
I didn’t really blossom into full-fledged crafting until I moved into my first apartment. Having little disposable income, I had to get creative. I’ve talked to other crafters and found that for many of us, poverty is truly the mother of invention. I’d see something fabulous in a store (that I could not afford) and think, “I could make that.” Or some approximation of it. God knows, some of my first attempts were indistinguishable from, say, the work of blind, motor-deficient fourth graders.
But whether it was a dorm room or a cardboard box, I had to decorate it. Had to. Just as surely as I had to breathe. And I would use anything and everything. I became a compulsive pack rat of discarded ribbons, buttons, pretty paper and miscellaneous “stuff” from garage sales and thrift stores. There was no furniture so scarred and battered that it couldn’t be painted, decoupaged or covered in fabric.
Eventually I discovered the craft and hobby stores springing up all over the place: Michael’s, Joann’s and Hobby Lobby. I’d wander the aisles, my eyes glazing over in a blissful daze of creative mania. Not just for the things I already dreamed of making, but for whole new crafts that I never even knew existed. Clay sculpture, glass painting, wire wrapping. Even the rolls of multicolored yarn, in so many colors and textures, could mesmerize me, and I didn’t even know how to knit.
I learned to cross-stitch, and for several years, the biggest goal of my life was to own every color of DMC floss known to man.
I bought my first glue gun. It was wondrous in its possibilities, but I couldn’t understand how Martha Stewart managed to use one without yelping, “Oh, shit!” as the hot glue melted all her fingers together into mutant flippers, or the cat chose just the wrong moment to stick out an inquisitive paw. But even the searing pain of red-hot glue could not stop me. Let me just say, I no longer have fingerprints. And my cat is now afraid of the glue gun.
The money I once tried to save by making pretty things now went to feed my addiction at the various craft stores. Even walking through their doors, I felt my wallet opening like a thirsty flower to spring rain, even if it meant forgoing food, rent and cable television. At one point, a friend threatened to post my photo on signs at every register, saying: DO NOT SELL TO THIS WOMAN: SHE IS SICK AND CANNOT HELP HERSELF.
My current boyfriend has suggested that I should only be allowed into Hobby Lobby if he accompanies me with a cattle prod.
When I discovered beading, I was like a pot smoker graduating to heroin. Oh, the variety of bright, shiny objects in so many colors, textures, sizes and shapes! Semi-precious stones, glass, plastic — it didn’t matter. I had to have them all, and now discovered entirely new specialty stores to plunder.
Soon I was buying sterling silver by the gram, beads on long strings in bulk. Bead shows at the fairground beckoned to me with a siren’s song. Even on vacation, in every destination from Memphis to New Orleans to Pigeon Forge, I would check the phone book to seek out new suppliers to feed the ravenous beading monkey on my back. I showered friends and family with beaded jewelry until they were afraid to open even one more gift.
I wasn’t even safe in my own home, as I discovered mail order catalogs and the Internet. When I spent $200 on a state-of-the art wood burning kit on EBay, I began to suspect I had a problem. When I donated two bulging bags of perfectly good clothes to Goodwill just so I could devote an entire closet and dresser to my craft supplies, I knew I had hit rock bottom. I had a sudden vision of myself standing on a street corner, with a sign that said: “Will Work for Beads.”
Then, I found my salvation. I discovered others who did not judge me, for they suffered from the same addiction. They understood. They did not turn away or yawn when I rambled excitedly about my new paper cutter.
I have one friend who crafts in her car during her lunch hour, and frequently puts her three children into an assembly line of prep-work similar to third-world sweatshops. Another roams estate sales and thrift stores, obsessively searching for interesting junk to fashion into funky art and jewelry. We confessed our sins, the depth and width of our addiction, like alcoholics at an AA meeting. “Hello, my name is Belinda, and I’m a craft junkie.”
We shared our secrets: new ideas, new materials, the best places to find supplies, the newest adhesives, and how to hide Joann’s receipts from husbands. We found Cafe Press, Lovli and Etsy as an outlet to turn our addiction into hard, cold cash – or at least enough to fund our next expedition to Michael’s. And when those websites were not enough, whole groups of us began banding together in armies like the Craft Mafia, CRAFT, Artsy Mamas, and the Etsy Street Team, just to name a few. When we could not find enough existing venues for selling our wares in the established fairs and shows, we took to the streets of Nashville, creating our own events.
I have now come to terms with my addiction. I no longer hide in shame, but I embrace it, cherish it, and nurture it. I am not alone, and with my new friends, I have the strength to get out and testify to the masses who have not yet embraced their inner crafter. I openly scorn the mass-production of third world countries, the ugly and the just plain boring. I spread the gospel of the handcrafted and the one-of-a-kind like a born-again prophet.
I am a craft junkie, and damned proud of it.
How to Tell If You Are a Craft Junkie:
1. Family members will no longer go into Hobby Lobby with you.
2. You have sacrificed sleep to make "just one more ______."
3. You have considered trading your least favorite child (or spouse) for a gift card to Michael’s.
4. You have ever lied about how much you spent at a craft store.
5. You have bought a craft material or tool even when you had no idea how to use it.
6. There is at least one closet/bookshelf/cardboard box in your house crammed with craft supplies. And there are things in there you don’t even remember buying.
7. You have ever refused to throw “trash” away, because you are sure you can someday use it.
8. You are physically incapable of throwing away a scrap of fancy ribbon.
9. You have ever called in sick to work or made excuses to get out of a family obligation in order to stay home and make something.
10. The mention of a cold-temp, cordless glue gun makes your heart race faster than Antonio Bandera’s butt.
Friday, September 18, 2009
10 Steps to Happiness or Some Approximation Thereof
In my forty-six years, I have collected some small bits of wisdom for a happy life. And now, I'm going to share them with you whether you want them or not.
As a misanthrope/cynic/sometimes negative-nelly, I'm not talking about the broccoli-brained happiness of game show hosts and certain religious cults, but rather the fleeting and transient happiness of a Survivor contestant who wins a finger-full of peanut butter on day 47. But sometimes a finger-full of peanut butter can keep you off the rooftop with an AK-47.
1) Never say no to whipped cream. If you are eating something, somewhere, where someone would possibly ask you if you wanted whipped cream with that -- then, damn it, say yes to that fluffy puff of indulgence. Don't stop to calculate calories, carbs or fat grams. You're already in the pool, so go ahead and grab that inflatable donut of wild abandon. Say yes to whipped cream. And the cherry, if for no other reason than that it's a cheerful, lovely red.
2) A bathroom of your own. Virginia Wolfe espoused the benefits of having a room of one's own, but I'll take it a step farther. Not just any room, but a bathroom.
It doesn't matter if you're five, dancing in agony in the hallway waiting for your brother to open the door; or twenty, beating on the door and yelling at your roommate that you have the right to blow-dry, too; or thirty-five, sighing at the vast amounts of hair, dried shaving cream and petrified toothpaste splotches on the marble vanity, all left by your partner.... the bathroom is the last bastion of personal space where you should be free to linger, soak and pluck your eyebrows in peace without having to clean up anybody else's used personal hygeniene products. Do what you have to do -- lie, steal, cheat or kill -- but with God as your witness, never share a bathroom again.
3) Never pass up the opportunity to nap. Ah, the joy of totally unnecessary, unrequired langor. True, it's often hard to find the time, but indulge yourself once in a while. There is something so decadent about lying in bed during the daylight hours, rolling over to press your cheek into that soft, cool pillow case. And it's even better if you can convince someone to indulge with you. Your lover, your child, your cat.
4)Throw your alarm clock across the room. Personally, I think we'd all be better off if no one had ever invented the clock; we could all just show up wherever whenever we felt like it. Imagine, no more rush hour, because no one would have to rush. As for the bastard who invented the alarm clock? Dig him up, disembowel him and feed him to hyenas. That foul electronic honking is enough to make your ears bleed, second only to crying babies on an airplane, and the only reason it comes in second is that babies don't have snooze buttons.
Once a month or so, set your alarm even when you don't have to get up, and give yourself the criminal pleasure of grabbing that wonking Big Brother of our hurry-up culture and send that puppy crashing into the wall. The spackling will be worth it, believe me.
5)Learn how to read. I don't mean just mastering the ABCs enough to read the back of cereal boxes and snarky YouTube comments. I mean learn how to read a good book. And I don't mean "good" as in just the Bible or Moby Dick. Pulp romance novels will do, if those are what take you out of your own world for just a few hours.
A good book -- a good story -- is like a vacation without going anywhere and it's still absolutely, positively free. Let's face it, reality is overated. Learn how to read, and you learn how to leave it behind.
6) Adopt a pet. Cats and dogs are best, but a goldfish will do in a pinch. It's a scientic fact that a pet can lower your blood pressure and make you live longer. Sure, there are the walking-the-dog, clean-the-litter-box chores, as well as the occasional loss of your favorite (and expensive) strappy designer sandals, but the joys of a pet outweigh all of that.
I get so much pleasure from my cat, Doolittle, even if he does almost nothing but sleep, and he has an unfortunate affection for launching himself at my ankles when I least expect it. Even when he does things that annoy me -- like walking on my head at 3 a.m. -- I still find myself smiling at the way he looks curled up on the sofa cushion that I've tried so hard to keep him off of. I laugh when he runs full-tilt through the house for no reason at all. I smile at the way just the tiniest pink tip of his tongue hangs out of his mouth.
And nothing compares to the contentment of a warm cat sleeping in your lap on a cold winter day.
Addendum: Don't go to some puppy mill for a purebred with the brain of a pea, or buy a gorgeous haughty cat out of the classifieds. You'll earn brownie points with both Karma and your own conscience if you adopt an animal that needs you to save its life. Double points if you spay or neuter them.
7) Just say no. No, I'm not talking about Nancy Reagan here. I mean, learn how to say no to the things you really don't want to do, if you can get away without doing them. So many of us say yes automatically, a sort of good-girl knee-jerk reaction even when people are blantantly taking advantage of us. It's nice to help people out, but there's a limit. Find it. Stick to it. Just say no. At least some of the time. You are allowed.
And what's so great about obligation and guilt, anyway? How many parties have you gone to that you really didn't want to go to, just because you felt you should. Especially those parties where your "friend" tries to coerce you into buying one of those super-duper non-stick cake pans in the shape of a bunny rabbit just in time for Easter. Really? Do you really have to? It was one of the greatest days in my life when I realised I was a grown-up, and nobody could make me do anything I didn't want to. Except for work, death and taxes... and going to Walmart.
8) Plant something. You don't have to become a poster child for Miracle Gro, but every spring, plant something, even if it's just a begonia in a clay pot. Maybe it's just the childlike joy of playing in the dirt. Maybe it's the higher-plane metaphysical joy of getting closer to growing, blooming things.
Nah, it's the playing in the dirt.
9) Smile at a stranger for no reason. Smile as if you really mean it. Most of the time, it will cause them to smile back; it will scare the shit out of the rest of them. Either way, it's a win/win situation.
10) Once in a while, give money to the guy on the corner. Maybe it's a scam when he tells you he came downtown to see about a job, and his car ran out of gas, and he just needs a few bucks to get back home.
Maybe he isn't homeless, this is just how he's chosen to make a living, because isn't standing in the rain with a soggy sign that says "Help a veteran" more glamorous than flipping burgers?
Maybe he's an alkie who's just gonna blow it on Thunderbird or Starbucks. Maybe he's a tobacco addict who simply can't afford the price of cigarettes anymore.
It's not our place to judge why he (or she) is out there. Sometimes, you just don't know what a dollar can mean to someone else. What's a dollar to you, anyway? Super-sized fries? A lottery ticket? If you're gonna throw it away, you might as well buy a lottery ticket in the Do-A-Good-Deed Powerball.
Sure, it would be better if we stopped and brought them a Happy Meal or some clean socks, but we all know we're not gonna interrupt our busy schedule to feed and clothe the homeless. It would be better if we all volunteered with Habitat for Humanity, or ladled soup at the Mission. We all intend to do those things, but do we?
So take the easy way out, just every once in a while. Meet their eyes. Really see them. Take a chance and give them something.
As a misanthrope/cynic/sometimes negative-nelly, I'm not talking about the broccoli-brained happiness of game show hosts and certain religious cults, but rather the fleeting and transient happiness of a Survivor contestant who wins a finger-full of peanut butter on day 47. But sometimes a finger-full of peanut butter can keep you off the rooftop with an AK-47.
1) Never say no to whipped cream. If you are eating something, somewhere, where someone would possibly ask you if you wanted whipped cream with that -- then, damn it, say yes to that fluffy puff of indulgence. Don't stop to calculate calories, carbs or fat grams. You're already in the pool, so go ahead and grab that inflatable donut of wild abandon. Say yes to whipped cream. And the cherry, if for no other reason than that it's a cheerful, lovely red.
2) A bathroom of your own. Virginia Wolfe espoused the benefits of having a room of one's own, but I'll take it a step farther. Not just any room, but a bathroom.
It doesn't matter if you're five, dancing in agony in the hallway waiting for your brother to open the door; or twenty, beating on the door and yelling at your roommate that you have the right to blow-dry, too; or thirty-five, sighing at the vast amounts of hair, dried shaving cream and petrified toothpaste splotches on the marble vanity, all left by your partner.... the bathroom is the last bastion of personal space where you should be free to linger, soak and pluck your eyebrows in peace without having to clean up anybody else's used personal hygeniene products. Do what you have to do -- lie, steal, cheat or kill -- but with God as your witness, never share a bathroom again.
3) Never pass up the opportunity to nap. Ah, the joy of totally unnecessary, unrequired langor. True, it's often hard to find the time, but indulge yourself once in a while. There is something so decadent about lying in bed during the daylight hours, rolling over to press your cheek into that soft, cool pillow case. And it's even better if you can convince someone to indulge with you. Your lover, your child, your cat.
4)Throw your alarm clock across the room. Personally, I think we'd all be better off if no one had ever invented the clock; we could all just show up wherever whenever we felt like it. Imagine, no more rush hour, because no one would have to rush. As for the bastard who invented the alarm clock? Dig him up, disembowel him and feed him to hyenas. That foul electronic honking is enough to make your ears bleed, second only to crying babies on an airplane, and the only reason it comes in second is that babies don't have snooze buttons.
Once a month or so, set your alarm even when you don't have to get up, and give yourself the criminal pleasure of grabbing that wonking Big Brother of our hurry-up culture and send that puppy crashing into the wall. The spackling will be worth it, believe me.
5)Learn how to read. I don't mean just mastering the ABCs enough to read the back of cereal boxes and snarky YouTube comments. I mean learn how to read a good book. And I don't mean "good" as in just the Bible or Moby Dick. Pulp romance novels will do, if those are what take you out of your own world for just a few hours.
A good book -- a good story -- is like a vacation without going anywhere and it's still absolutely, positively free. Let's face it, reality is overated. Learn how to read, and you learn how to leave it behind.
6) Adopt a pet. Cats and dogs are best, but a goldfish will do in a pinch. It's a scientic fact that a pet can lower your blood pressure and make you live longer. Sure, there are the walking-the-dog, clean-the-litter-box chores, as well as the occasional loss of your favorite (and expensive) strappy designer sandals, but the joys of a pet outweigh all of that.
I get so much pleasure from my cat, Doolittle, even if he does almost nothing but sleep, and he has an unfortunate affection for launching himself at my ankles when I least expect it. Even when he does things that annoy me -- like walking on my head at 3 a.m. -- I still find myself smiling at the way he looks curled up on the sofa cushion that I've tried so hard to keep him off of. I laugh when he runs full-tilt through the house for no reason at all. I smile at the way just the tiniest pink tip of his tongue hangs out of his mouth.
And nothing compares to the contentment of a warm cat sleeping in your lap on a cold winter day.
Addendum: Don't go to some puppy mill for a purebred with the brain of a pea, or buy a gorgeous haughty cat out of the classifieds. You'll earn brownie points with both Karma and your own conscience if you adopt an animal that needs you to save its life. Double points if you spay or neuter them.
7) Just say no. No, I'm not talking about Nancy Reagan here. I mean, learn how to say no to the things you really don't want to do, if you can get away without doing them. So many of us say yes automatically, a sort of good-girl knee-jerk reaction even when people are blantantly taking advantage of us. It's nice to help people out, but there's a limit. Find it. Stick to it. Just say no. At least some of the time. You are allowed.
And what's so great about obligation and guilt, anyway? How many parties have you gone to that you really didn't want to go to, just because you felt you should. Especially those parties where your "friend" tries to coerce you into buying one of those super-duper non-stick cake pans in the shape of a bunny rabbit just in time for Easter. Really? Do you really have to? It was one of the greatest days in my life when I realised I was a grown-up, and nobody could make me do anything I didn't want to. Except for work, death and taxes... and going to Walmart.
8) Plant something. You don't have to become a poster child for Miracle Gro, but every spring, plant something, even if it's just a begonia in a clay pot. Maybe it's just the childlike joy of playing in the dirt. Maybe it's the higher-plane metaphysical joy of getting closer to growing, blooming things.
Nah, it's the playing in the dirt.
9) Smile at a stranger for no reason. Smile as if you really mean it. Most of the time, it will cause them to smile back; it will scare the shit out of the rest of them. Either way, it's a win/win situation.
10) Once in a while, give money to the guy on the corner. Maybe it's a scam when he tells you he came downtown to see about a job, and his car ran out of gas, and he just needs a few bucks to get back home.
Maybe he isn't homeless, this is just how he's chosen to make a living, because isn't standing in the rain with a soggy sign that says "Help a veteran" more glamorous than flipping burgers?
Maybe he's an alkie who's just gonna blow it on Thunderbird or Starbucks. Maybe he's a tobacco addict who simply can't afford the price of cigarettes anymore.
It's not our place to judge why he (or she) is out there. Sometimes, you just don't know what a dollar can mean to someone else. What's a dollar to you, anyway? Super-sized fries? A lottery ticket? If you're gonna throw it away, you might as well buy a lottery ticket in the Do-A-Good-Deed Powerball.
Sure, it would be better if we stopped and brought them a Happy Meal or some clean socks, but we all know we're not gonna interrupt our busy schedule to feed and clothe the homeless. It would be better if we all volunteered with Habitat for Humanity, or ladled soup at the Mission. We all intend to do those things, but do we?
So take the easy way out, just every once in a while. Meet their eyes. Really see them. Take a chance and give them something.
Monday, September 14, 2009
FaceBook Is Eating My Brain....
Oh, I remember when we first met. I was in my middle years, feeling like I'd done it all, seen it all... and then, there you were. The Internet.
You made me feel like a kid again - a kid struggling to understand long-division, true, but once I mastered AOL, it was love at first password. You had me at: "You've Got Mail."
Some said it was just an infatuation, a passing fad; but I knew our love was here to stay.
Still, the relationship has gone through some changes. AOL gave way to Yahoo; Yahoo melted into MySpace... and then FaceBook captured my heart.
At first I felt like I was cheating on MySpace. But Facebook just seemed to really understand my needs, what I really wanted from a social networking site. Namely, a vehicle for posting minute-by-minute updates on every move I make, every breath I take, every thought -- profound or inane -- that skitters through my addled brain.
I also desperately needed a way to keep in touch with 2,534 of my closest friends. Because I really need to know your Disney princess name.
I love FaceBook. It's brought me back in contact with friends I haven't seen or spoken to in a coon's age. But I am beginning to think I may need an intervention.
It's bad enough that I feel compelled to come up with something moderately witty before noon for my status message. A little sad that I've actually started to post a new status message late at night, only to think, "Wait... most of my friends are in bed. I'd better wait or they might miss it."
But it's the GAMES... those freaking games!
I'm not a gamer, never was in the "real" world. No D&D, no marathon Risk games, none of that. And for years the only thing I ever played on the computer was Solitaire, which, in the computer gaming world, is really lame. Kind of like playing Spin the Bottle when everybody else is playing Howard Stern's Orgy-Mania. (It's like Twister, only dirtier. Yes, I made that up.)
But then a FB friend kept sending me sheep. Chickens, cows, orange trees. I caved into peer pressure, and thought, I'll just try it. What harm can it do?
So I began my first farm in Farm Town. I thought it was just a little innocent fun, and I could stop any time I wanted to. But by the time I expanded my farm the third time and made a spreadsheet to calculate the optimal profit per field, I began to suspect I had a problem.
I hit rock bottom the night Farm Town went down for six hours and I couldn't get to my farm. My crops, I wailed, beating on the computer screen. My crops! I've got pumpkins coming in, you have to let me harvest!
I thought about finding a twelve-step program, but I was too busy plowing, planting and harvesting.
Then it happened. I reached Level 24. My farm could expand no more. I bought my mansion, my greenhouse, my river. There was nothing left to do in Farm Town.
I wandered the web searching for another fix, trying to recapture the thrill of that first level-up. YoVille. FarmVille. Mafia Wars. Sorority Life.
Sorority Life is my dirty little secret. The game is the pinnacle of crass materialism and anti-feminist smut based on the idea that women will climb all over each other in stilletto heels for a chance at a Guicci bag and a dozen cookies, slapping each other silly the whole time. Because they do. I'm so ashamed of myself.
But I have 402 sisters now, as well as 148 Hummer stretch limos, 74 lifetime tans and one yacht. And it pisses me off way more than is seemly when a rival smacks me upside of my head and steals $70,000 from me.
First thing in the morning, I log into FaceBook and head straight for Sorority Life, to bank my earnings, send Juicy Couture dresses to all my sisters, and make sure I haven't been put on the Burn List.....
Then it's off to Mafia Wars, where I check my properties for break-ins and send my family members wire taps, sawed-off shotguns and stolen Rembrandt paintings.
Then to YoVille, to feed my cybercat, punch the clock at the Widget Factory, and shop for a new dining room set. If I have time, I dance with a few friends before rushing off to Farm Town.
Once the flowers are watered at my Farm Town estate, I run over to FarmVille, where I have to milk the cows, collect eggs and harvest all the eggplants.
I've also got my own amusement park in Rollercoaster Kingdom, where it seems i do nothing but feed my employees.....
It's all becoming a big blur, more a job than my job.
What I fear is that one morning, I'm going to send Juicy Couture dresses to my goodfellas, throw grenades at my sheep and try to milk my sisters.
Someone stop me, before I farm again.
You made me feel like a kid again - a kid struggling to understand long-division, true, but once I mastered AOL, it was love at first password. You had me at: "You've Got Mail."
Some said it was just an infatuation, a passing fad; but I knew our love was here to stay.
Still, the relationship has gone through some changes. AOL gave way to Yahoo; Yahoo melted into MySpace... and then FaceBook captured my heart.
At first I felt like I was cheating on MySpace. But Facebook just seemed to really understand my needs, what I really wanted from a social networking site. Namely, a vehicle for posting minute-by-minute updates on every move I make, every breath I take, every thought -- profound or inane -- that skitters through my addled brain.
I also desperately needed a way to keep in touch with 2,534 of my closest friends. Because I really need to know your Disney princess name.
I love FaceBook. It's brought me back in contact with friends I haven't seen or spoken to in a coon's age. But I am beginning to think I may need an intervention.
It's bad enough that I feel compelled to come up with something moderately witty before noon for my status message. A little sad that I've actually started to post a new status message late at night, only to think, "Wait... most of my friends are in bed. I'd better wait or they might miss it."
But it's the GAMES... those freaking games!
I'm not a gamer, never was in the "real" world. No D&D, no marathon Risk games, none of that. And for years the only thing I ever played on the computer was Solitaire, which, in the computer gaming world, is really lame. Kind of like playing Spin the Bottle when everybody else is playing Howard Stern's Orgy-Mania. (It's like Twister, only dirtier. Yes, I made that up.)
But then a FB friend kept sending me sheep. Chickens, cows, orange trees. I caved into peer pressure, and thought, I'll just try it. What harm can it do?
So I began my first farm in Farm Town. I thought it was just a little innocent fun, and I could stop any time I wanted to. But by the time I expanded my farm the third time and made a spreadsheet to calculate the optimal profit per field, I began to suspect I had a problem.
I hit rock bottom the night Farm Town went down for six hours and I couldn't get to my farm. My crops, I wailed, beating on the computer screen. My crops! I've got pumpkins coming in, you have to let me harvest!
I thought about finding a twelve-step program, but I was too busy plowing, planting and harvesting.
Then it happened. I reached Level 24. My farm could expand no more. I bought my mansion, my greenhouse, my river. There was nothing left to do in Farm Town.
I wandered the web searching for another fix, trying to recapture the thrill of that first level-up. YoVille. FarmVille. Mafia Wars. Sorority Life.
Sorority Life is my dirty little secret. The game is the pinnacle of crass materialism and anti-feminist smut based on the idea that women will climb all over each other in stilletto heels for a chance at a Guicci bag and a dozen cookies, slapping each other silly the whole time. Because they do. I'm so ashamed of myself.
But I have 402 sisters now, as well as 148 Hummer stretch limos, 74 lifetime tans and one yacht. And it pisses me off way more than is seemly when a rival smacks me upside of my head and steals $70,000 from me.
First thing in the morning, I log into FaceBook and head straight for Sorority Life, to bank my earnings, send Juicy Couture dresses to all my sisters, and make sure I haven't been put on the Burn List.....
Then it's off to Mafia Wars, where I check my properties for break-ins and send my family members wire taps, sawed-off shotguns and stolen Rembrandt paintings.
Then to YoVille, to feed my cybercat, punch the clock at the Widget Factory, and shop for a new dining room set. If I have time, I dance with a few friends before rushing off to Farm Town.
Once the flowers are watered at my Farm Town estate, I run over to FarmVille, where I have to milk the cows, collect eggs and harvest all the eggplants.
I've also got my own amusement park in Rollercoaster Kingdom, where it seems i do nothing but feed my employees.....
It's all becoming a big blur, more a job than my job.
What I fear is that one morning, I'm going to send Juicy Couture dresses to my goodfellas, throw grenades at my sheep and try to milk my sisters.
Someone stop me, before I farm again.
Why I Despise Kroger, and You Probably Do Too
I hate Kroger. I loathe that store with every fiber of my being.
It's not just that it's always crowded with slack-jawed sheep staring blankly at the 2,054 varieties of breakfast cereals as if the secrets of the universe are about to be revealed. It's not just the shrill whiny spawn of shrill, whiny psuedo- humans from the shallow end of the gene pool, clinging to the cart and beating on their siblings like so many monkeys fighting for the last banana.
it's not just the infuriatingly oblivious women chatting on their cell phones about whether or not their husbands are really cheating or trying to arrange Jr's next playdate while blocking the four-foot ailse of death with their buggies full of organic veggies, LifeWater and cottage cheese.
It's not even the cashiers whose conversations I am obliged to interrupt as the bagboy puts the bananas and twelve cans of soup into one bag... which will split open as soon as I lift the bag to put it into my trunk.
All of the above, I resignedly accept as a tradeoff for not having to forage in the wild for roots and berries. It's more than that.
The bagboys are akwats forgetting to put one item in my bags. I get home, unpack, and wonder where in the hell the pimentos got to. You know, the pimentos I needed for that dip I was planning on taking to a party which I am already late for. I have to dig through coffee grounds and garbage to find the receipt to confirm that yes, I did pay outrageously for those stupid gourmet pimentos.
Out to the car to search trunk and floorboards. No pimentos. Back into the house, rechecking the cabinets and countertops, even the freezer. No pimentos. Drive back to Kroger, shove my receipt in the face of a different cashier -- because you know the one from before is on break now, naturally -- and demand my freakin' pimentos.
This requires the intervention of a manager -- who, judging by the length of time it takes him/her to reach the front of the store, must have been stocking frozen foods in Siberia. He and the cashier shuffle around the register area looking for a jar of pimentos -- at one point i catch the manager looking into the trash can and i have to wonder, if my pimentos are in fact there, will he merely fish them out and hand them to me, with a glob of the cashier's gum stuck to the top?
Finally the manager sighs and tells me to go get another jar of my pimentos off the shelf.
Did you get that? He TELLS me to GO GET ANOTHER JAR.
Because I am late, and afraid that at any moment my head is going to shoot right off my spine and richocet around the store, probably landing in the cereal aisle where two snotty children will procede to fight over it -- I don't give him a lecture about customer service, but trudge off to find the pimentos.
When I return to the front, the manager is gone and the cashier is looking blankly at me as if she has just experienced a complete CIA mind-wipe. I remind her of our journey together around the register just a few moments before, searching for the pimentos.
She asks me if I have my receipt.
I tell her I handed the receipt to her earlier.
"When?" she asks. "You didn't give me no receipt."
Must...not.... kill. Must... not...
Finally she produces the receipt from her pocket, with a cheeky little smile and an "oops!" that makes me wonder what her heart tastes like.
She says I have to take the receipt and my new jar of pimentos to the Service Desk, where the entire crew of a local landscaping company is in line to cash their paychecks.... and they are as fragrant as manly men who spend a day in the hot sun playing with manure are bound to be. None of them speak much English, and the transactions proceed with all the speed of a large glacier racing uphill.
But the time I leave the store, my jar of pimentos clutched between two white-knuckled hands and my left eye twitching, the very sight of those pimentos makes me ill.
Sometimes, upon the discovery of yet another missing item, I have simply said "F--- it" and waiting until my next regularly scheduled trip to Hell's Supermarket. Now knowing how the game is played, I go straight to the Service (!!?) Desk.
"You bought the eye drops last Thursday," she says, eyeing me as if I look familiar from the post office wall. "Why didn't you come back that day when you first realized they weren't in your bag?"
"Because...." Gritted teeth. The sound of my own blood pounding through my ears. "It was eight o'clock at night and I was too tired to drive all the way back here."
"If they were left here-" dramatic pause for effect tells me she believes this is merely an attempt to scam Kroger out of a five dollar and forty-five cent bottle of eye drops - "someone would have put them back on the shelf by now. You really should have come back right away."
"Let me get this straight," I say. "You are telling me that it's MY fault for not dropping whatever I was doing and coming all the way back to this store to correct a mistake YOU made? Is that what you're telling me?"
"Ma'am, I'm just saying you shoulda come back as soon as you --"
"Call your manager. I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOUR MANAGER RIGHT NOW."
Thiis is the kind of relationship I have with Kroger. These are not isolated incidents. Crap like this happens all the time. Kroger hates me, and I hate Kroger. If Kroger were a little old lady crossing the parking lot, I'd run her over.
In recent months, I have been struggling to quit smoking. I go a few days, fall off the wagon, get back on the wagon, you get the picture.
When I finally got health benefits at work, I was thrilled to find out they would cover smoking cessation medications, even over the counter ones. I trot off to Kroger (which is also for some twisted reason I don't fully understand also where I have chosen to do my pharmacological business) and present my new card.
The tech looks at the card, looks at me, and says, "We can't bill insurance if you don't have a prescription."
"Even for an OTC item? Nicotine patches?"
"You have to have a prescription."
So I leave, condemned to smoking for another day at least.
I call my doctor, tell him what I need. His nurse says I have to come in for a physical. To make sure I am healthy enough to quit smoking, I presume.
I wait two weeks to see the doctor. He gives me a prescription. I take it to the Kroger pharmacy. They tell me to give them a few minutes. I go and do the rest of my shopping and return to the pharmacy where there is now a line of snuffling, sneezing, wheezing and generally miserable people in front of me. I am certain at least two of them are Alzheimers patients. I wait.
It's now been at least 40 minutes since I dropped off the script. When I finally get to the window, the tech says, "Oh, it's not ready yet."
The store is hot, and two flies have been dogging me from the moment I set foot in the store. I haven't had a cigarette all day, and my will power is crumbling rapidly.
"How can it possibly take so long?" I ask. I know I'm losing it but I can't stop myself. All I want to do is go home. And smoke. A lot. "It's not like you have to count it or mix it or even label it -- it's over the counter nicotine patches, for Christ's sake! You just take them out of the cabinet here and you take my insurance card and then you let me the hell out of this store."
Everyone in the pharmacy is looking at me now.
The head pharmacist says snippily, "If all she wants is patches, then go get them out of the cabinet and she can take them up front to ring them-"
"I already explained to you that i need to pay for them here to use my insurance," I tell her. "My insurance pays for this!"
"If insurance is going to pay for this, then you have to wait your turn."
"How much longer is it going to take?"
Snotty smile. "Could be as long as another hour."
I left the store, my head filled with visions of carnage that would make Quinten Tarantino proud. I did not get my patches yesterday. I don't know if I can stand to go by and try again today. I'm still too pissed off.
If I lived even a mile closer to the nearest Publix's, I would shop there, and tell Kroger to piss off. But Publix is a good thirty minutes from my house, and in the summer time, ice cream would puddle before I got to my driveway.
I love Publix. The people who work there are kind, smiling, eager as puppies to cover me with slobbery kisses. I can get sushi there, and the seafood guy will steam fresh shrimp just for me while I shop. They have scones in the bakery, and I get a nice meal of samples as I wander through the store. I go in and come out smiling, so unstressed and relaxed that I always tell the cashier and bag person how wonderful they are, and how much I love shopping at Publix.
Sure, things cost a little bit more there, but it's worth it, to me, to not be pushed to a homicidal rage every time I run out of milk.
Or pimentos.
Please God, let Publix open a store closer to my house. It may well one day save a life.
It's not just that it's always crowded with slack-jawed sheep staring blankly at the 2,054 varieties of breakfast cereals as if the secrets of the universe are about to be revealed. It's not just the shrill whiny spawn of shrill, whiny psuedo- humans from the shallow end of the gene pool, clinging to the cart and beating on their siblings like so many monkeys fighting for the last banana.
it's not just the infuriatingly oblivious women chatting on their cell phones about whether or not their husbands are really cheating or trying to arrange Jr's next playdate while blocking the four-foot ailse of death with their buggies full of organic veggies, LifeWater and cottage cheese.
It's not even the cashiers whose conversations I am obliged to interrupt as the bagboy puts the bananas and twelve cans of soup into one bag... which will split open as soon as I lift the bag to put it into my trunk.
All of the above, I resignedly accept as a tradeoff for not having to forage in the wild for roots and berries. It's more than that.
The bagboys are akwats forgetting to put one item in my bags. I get home, unpack, and wonder where in the hell the pimentos got to. You know, the pimentos I needed for that dip I was planning on taking to a party which I am already late for. I have to dig through coffee grounds and garbage to find the receipt to confirm that yes, I did pay outrageously for those stupid gourmet pimentos.
Out to the car to search trunk and floorboards. No pimentos. Back into the house, rechecking the cabinets and countertops, even the freezer. No pimentos. Drive back to Kroger, shove my receipt in the face of a different cashier -- because you know the one from before is on break now, naturally -- and demand my freakin' pimentos.
This requires the intervention of a manager -- who, judging by the length of time it takes him/her to reach the front of the store, must have been stocking frozen foods in Siberia. He and the cashier shuffle around the register area looking for a jar of pimentos -- at one point i catch the manager looking into the trash can and i have to wonder, if my pimentos are in fact there, will he merely fish them out and hand them to me, with a glob of the cashier's gum stuck to the top?
Finally the manager sighs and tells me to go get another jar of my pimentos off the shelf.
Did you get that? He TELLS me to GO GET ANOTHER JAR.
Because I am late, and afraid that at any moment my head is going to shoot right off my spine and richocet around the store, probably landing in the cereal aisle where two snotty children will procede to fight over it -- I don't give him a lecture about customer service, but trudge off to find the pimentos.
When I return to the front, the manager is gone and the cashier is looking blankly at me as if she has just experienced a complete CIA mind-wipe. I remind her of our journey together around the register just a few moments before, searching for the pimentos.
She asks me if I have my receipt.
I tell her I handed the receipt to her earlier.
"When?" she asks. "You didn't give me no receipt."
Must...not.... kill. Must... not...
Finally she produces the receipt from her pocket, with a cheeky little smile and an "oops!" that makes me wonder what her heart tastes like.
She says I have to take the receipt and my new jar of pimentos to the Service Desk, where the entire crew of a local landscaping company is in line to cash their paychecks.... and they are as fragrant as manly men who spend a day in the hot sun playing with manure are bound to be. None of them speak much English, and the transactions proceed with all the speed of a large glacier racing uphill.
But the time I leave the store, my jar of pimentos clutched between two white-knuckled hands and my left eye twitching, the very sight of those pimentos makes me ill.
Sometimes, upon the discovery of yet another missing item, I have simply said "F--- it" and waiting until my next regularly scheduled trip to Hell's Supermarket. Now knowing how the game is played, I go straight to the Service (!!?) Desk.
"You bought the eye drops last Thursday," she says, eyeing me as if I look familiar from the post office wall. "Why didn't you come back that day when you first realized they weren't in your bag?"
"Because...." Gritted teeth. The sound of my own blood pounding through my ears. "It was eight o'clock at night and I was too tired to drive all the way back here."
"If they were left here-" dramatic pause for effect tells me she believes this is merely an attempt to scam Kroger out of a five dollar and forty-five cent bottle of eye drops - "someone would have put them back on the shelf by now. You really should have come back right away."
"Let me get this straight," I say. "You are telling me that it's MY fault for not dropping whatever I was doing and coming all the way back to this store to correct a mistake YOU made? Is that what you're telling me?"
"Ma'am, I'm just saying you shoulda come back as soon as you --"
"Call your manager. I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOUR MANAGER RIGHT NOW."
Thiis is the kind of relationship I have with Kroger. These are not isolated incidents. Crap like this happens all the time. Kroger hates me, and I hate Kroger. If Kroger were a little old lady crossing the parking lot, I'd run her over.
In recent months, I have been struggling to quit smoking. I go a few days, fall off the wagon, get back on the wagon, you get the picture.
When I finally got health benefits at work, I was thrilled to find out they would cover smoking cessation medications, even over the counter ones. I trot off to Kroger (which is also for some twisted reason I don't fully understand also where I have chosen to do my pharmacological business) and present my new card.
The tech looks at the card, looks at me, and says, "We can't bill insurance if you don't have a prescription."
"Even for an OTC item? Nicotine patches?"
"You have to have a prescription."
So I leave, condemned to smoking for another day at least.
I call my doctor, tell him what I need. His nurse says I have to come in for a physical. To make sure I am healthy enough to quit smoking, I presume.
I wait two weeks to see the doctor. He gives me a prescription. I take it to the Kroger pharmacy. They tell me to give them a few minutes. I go and do the rest of my shopping and return to the pharmacy where there is now a line of snuffling, sneezing, wheezing and generally miserable people in front of me. I am certain at least two of them are Alzheimers patients. I wait.
It's now been at least 40 minutes since I dropped off the script. When I finally get to the window, the tech says, "Oh, it's not ready yet."
The store is hot, and two flies have been dogging me from the moment I set foot in the store. I haven't had a cigarette all day, and my will power is crumbling rapidly.
"How can it possibly take so long?" I ask. I know I'm losing it but I can't stop myself. All I want to do is go home. And smoke. A lot. "It's not like you have to count it or mix it or even label it -- it's over the counter nicotine patches, for Christ's sake! You just take them out of the cabinet here and you take my insurance card and then you let me the hell out of this store."
Everyone in the pharmacy is looking at me now.
The head pharmacist says snippily, "If all she wants is patches, then go get them out of the cabinet and she can take them up front to ring them-"
"I already explained to you that i need to pay for them here to use my insurance," I tell her. "My insurance pays for this!"
"If insurance is going to pay for this, then you have to wait your turn."
"How much longer is it going to take?"
Snotty smile. "Could be as long as another hour."
I left the store, my head filled with visions of carnage that would make Quinten Tarantino proud. I did not get my patches yesterday. I don't know if I can stand to go by and try again today. I'm still too pissed off.
If I lived even a mile closer to the nearest Publix's, I would shop there, and tell Kroger to piss off. But Publix is a good thirty minutes from my house, and in the summer time, ice cream would puddle before I got to my driveway.
I love Publix. The people who work there are kind, smiling, eager as puppies to cover me with slobbery kisses. I can get sushi there, and the seafood guy will steam fresh shrimp just for me while I shop. They have scones in the bakery, and I get a nice meal of samples as I wander through the store. I go in and come out smiling, so unstressed and relaxed that I always tell the cashier and bag person how wonderful they are, and how much I love shopping at Publix.
Sure, things cost a little bit more there, but it's worth it, to me, to not be pushed to a homicidal rage every time I run out of milk.
Or pimentos.
Please God, let Publix open a store closer to my house. It may well one day save a life.
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