Thursday, February 24, 2011

If you don’t hear from me, check the hospital

So, we’re going to go skiing this weekend!

Pray for me.

Actually, given the price of going skiing this weekend, I might just send the boys up to the slopes and sit in the lounge sipping warm things and finishing up the edit of a friend’s novel. Ah, a crackling fire, a hot chocolate, and a red pen. Life would be sweet.

However, I suspect that at least ONE in our party might like me to be out there freezing my wobbly bits off, and thus I may have to, for the first time in about 20 years, strap on a pair of skis and give it a go. Rather unfortunately, my back seems to be all healed up now after having caused me significant amounts of grief over the past 8 or so weeks, and so that’s one good excuse right down the crapper. I can’t use poverty as an excuse either, though in truth a sensible person wouldn't be going skiing at all as it’s not the cheapest activity in the world and there’s the rental accommodation to consider, but y’all, we’ve not just all 4 gone and done something fun in like FOREVER beyond the occasional hike, and the Things have never been skiing, so off we go, spending money like it’s water and, I hope, buying great memories to fill the empty pocketbook.

Sometimes you just need to know when to say ‘what the heck,’ and go for it.

So, if I’m not in full traction by Monday, you’ll get to hear all about how awesome it was and how much fun we had in the ol’ hot tub (Squee!) and how beautiful it was all up in them mountains. If I am in full traction,you’ll still probably get to hear about how much fun it was, but through the lens of pain. Could get a little snarkish ‘roundabout these parts if that’s the case.


Here’s an example of the color we’re going to paint the kitchen (Benjamin Moore 'Beach Glass'). I think I might love it a little.

In comparison to the brown+brown on brown color scheme we were previously going with, this will be an awesome change. I can definitely see how it will play up all the warm woods of the floor and cabinets, and once the new (CUSTOM!) kitchen table is in I’m betting we’re going to have a real showplace in the Tiny House.

Once it’s really and truly done, we’re thinking of throwing a kitchen-warming party.

And guess what? You’re invited.

Just bring an appetizer and some new dish towels for us (because ours? mostly not even good enough to wash the cars with. They're almost uniformly shameful). It’ll be fun! Plus which, I might let you touch my new stand mixer. Ooooh, fire-engine red and a 6-quart capacity bowl? That's hot! Rawr!

But you'll have to take off your shoes at the door. Our new floors require at least that much respect.


Brings me to a QotD - are you a 'shoes off in the house' kind of person or do you not care if people wear their clodhoppers? I was raised in a strictly no shoes house, and even now when going to visit my Mom my shoes are OFF the instant I step through the front door. At large family gatherings the shoe pile can grow to an impressive size.

I'm not nearly as strict, but am thinking of initiating a shoes off policy now that we have floors we'd like to protect. I mean, Biff and I sweated over refinishing the LR floor a couple of years ago, and I saw what a pain in the rumpus-room installing this kitchen floor was, so if I never have to refinish a floor in our house again it will be too soon.

Would it be too much of me to ask that guests take their shoes off though? This might be a deal-breaker for the Kitchen warming. I'd hate to put anyone off by installing a giant shoe rack on the front porch and putting a 'leave shoes here' sign in a place of prominence.

So, your input is respectfully solicited. This is IMPORTANT work we're doing here people, so pipe up!


With that little admonition out of the way, it's time to go. Later y'all. Tiff out.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

A new direction after abandoning the old road.

It has reached my attention that I am, in fact, pretty old. I am so old now that I daren’t get up to warble at karaoke (as if I ever went) because even if I had the best voice in the world the overall response would be ‘wow – who did she used to be?' I am so old now that fashion means nothing (as if it ever did) and I am encouraged by ladies’ magazines to ‘create your own style and make it timeless!' I am so old now that my body now looks like my gramma’s used to. I believe they call that ‘matronly,’ and damn but you can’t do much about that as the years slip by. I am also so old now that losing weight could put me at risk of developing estrogen-related symptoms like osteoporosis and thinning hair (which has already happened enough, thanks for asking) because fat stores estrogen and once you stop making enough of it (estrogen, not fat) your body obligingly puts on a layer of pudge (see? there's no escaping it!) to sequester away what little remains, and it does so by adding a spare tire to your gut instead of inflating boobs to impressively pneumatic sizes or plumping up dat azz to jaw-dropping curvaceousness.

Yes, I am certainly old enough to be a cylinder of mostly fat AND to need to give up my dreams of becoming world famous one day, but I have not yet given up hope. For what is world fame, anyway? Is it adoration by masses wherever you go, or is it having a contact in each global region you can rely on in case of a charging bull attack or shortage of fairy dust? Not, of course, that I have friends who could serve in those capacities, but that’s only because I don’t have friends, yet, in the bull-charging and fairy dust-making regions of the world, which I suspect are somewhere around Romania for the latter and Ecuador-adjacent for the former. So, clearly, I need to make some new friends in those areas to shore up my lacking capacity.

World fame. The elusive goal of my youth. Ah yes. I wanted to be so famous I only needed one name (like ‘Cher’!) and people would hang on my every word when I spoke (like an MD!). I wanted to be ADORED, to be the center of the universe, to effortlessly slide from strength to strength as I sang, drew, acted, and played my way into the hearts and minds of the world’s populace. Oh, it was gonna be GREAT.

But something happened along the way that completely stalled my hoped of achieving fame. I lost confidence. See, it’s not as thought I COULDN’T sing, or draw, or act, or play, because I could, I just didn’t think I could ever do it good enough to be the absolute best (and therefore worthy of adulation). I sang solos, acted in school plays, filled notebooks with drawing and was one of the kids in the art class at school demonstrating techniques on open house night, I was in the top-tier bands and orchestra. I was involved, hoo boy, was I involved, but being involved and reasonably talented at so many things just felt to me like what was expected and not something to be especially proud of. Having talent actually stagnated my plan of capturing global fame because I couldn’t pick on thing and stick with it long enough to really shine because dang – there were all those other things I liked to do and was good at!

It sounds like bragging, and I guess it is, but the sad fact is that my youthful outlook probably kept me from achieving as much as I could as soon as I could. It’s the same thing that kept me from applying to really super-great colleges (though I did apply to a couple, but only those with strong programs in what I expected would be my career (it wasn’t) and a good music school (even though I wasn’t a music major)), that kept me from pursuing a career in radio (because I’d gotten a Master’s in Science, dammit, and needed to USE that education) even though that would have been a pretty cool job to have and come with a pretty much built-in fan base, kept me from applying for ‘stretch’ jobs throughout my career (even though countless bosses have told me to ‘not limit myself’). I have kept busy during the course of my long-ish life kicking myself in the ass and hiding my light under the proverbial bushel.

Well, as time has passed, some of those skills that used to flow as easily as pancake batter into a sizzling skillet are starting to dry up. I don’t play my horn much anymore, knowing that the work required to get back to half the skill level I used to be at would be too monumental. I don’t sing much anymore unless accompanied by a very loud band in a very crowded bar after a few whiskeys. I draw only occasionally now, mostly doodles and the occasional sessions-worth of effort that more often that not results in some really wonky flights of fancy translated into odd creatures or eye-swimmingly complicated doodles. Time is removing some of what I used to be able to do, and, obligingly, leaving only those things it seems I SHOULD be able to do in perpetuity.

Like, ‘squinting’ and ‘back-cracking’ and ‘snoring.’ Yes, the passage of time has revealed a whole HOST of talents I didn’t know I had when a youth, and I’m danged excited about that. Just think of how much time it will take to fully investigate the possibilities in ‘ass drooping’ or ‘wrinkling!’ Certainly the new-found past time of ‘love handle growing’ proves I’m an able gardender of adiposity, and who would have thought they’d be good at AT when they’re 21? Not me, certainly. Also, ‘freckling’ seems to be something at which I excel, but I’ve been told that's bad for you (much like ‘getting high’ used to be) so that’s out for now. Perhaps I’ll save that for when I’m nearer 90 and my time left for such giddy devil-may-care pursuits is limited. Certainly by then I’ll mostly be concentrating on ‘breathing’ and ‘pooping’ anyhow, so throwing in a bit of sun damage could be the thing that rounds out my portfolio.

Ah, it’s good to have goals. Even as truncated and abridged as they are, they do instill a renewed sense of purpose! Why, whole new fields of excellence are opened up, and if I’m the first in them then at least for a brief time I’ll be the BEST IN THE WORLD at it, and if that’s not an immediate call to fame then I don’t know what it.

So, I’ll be off now to work on things like ‘gastrointestinal noises’ and ‘groaning.’ Oh joy joy for a new direction!

Tiff out.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Why they don't see me at Humongacorp much anymore

I know, I shouldn’t complain (I could have been given THIS after the recent office move). I know, I’m lucky to have a job. I know, I’m fortunate to have a well-paying job! I know I should keep my yap shut about the new working conditions, but dang. It's nearly impossible to be sanguine when working in the corporate version of the Monkey cage at the zoo.

Herein, the top 10 things I’ve learned in my week or so living in the office equivalent of the freaking main terminal at O’Hare:

  1. The director around the corner simply does not know how to talk softly.
  2. The people (random groups of them!) who use the conference room right outside my cube door do not know how to close the door. NONE OF THEM.
  3. The people who use the coffee machine do not know how to keep their conversations at a level the might be considered discreet.
  4. The copy machine/printer runs CONSTANTLY.
  5. There are many many people here who wear unnecessarily clicky shoes
  6. Some people spend an awful lot of time at the coffee machine.
  7. There are folks here show eat might pungent foods for lunch. Mighty pungent. Mouthwateringly so at times, other times right-out puzzlingly so.
  8. Seriously, director lady can’t be quiet. It’s like she’s talking right in my ear, constantly.
  9. Not being able to pinpoint when the footsteps approaching my cube are for me or are simple random walk-bys of the hundreds of people using the effing corridor my cube in located on is uncomfortable.
  10. And #10 was another rant about being in the worst place in the building, but I’m tired of ranting. I just want someone to come sit with me in this Babel-tastic craphole and agree that it’s quite possibly the most asinine place to put a writer that ever existed. Shoot – they could have put me in the cafeteria with less regular disruption to my work surroundings.


I think I’m officially tired of bitching about my cube now. I know, I didn’t think it could happen EITHER! Seriously, I have to face facts - Nothing’s ever going to be done about it, nobody cares to listen, no-one will agree that it’s sucks as much I think it does, so it's time for me to man up and shut up about it now.

If something really JUICY comes along though, be sure that I will tell you. But for now, I’m pretending I’m working in a glamorous airport terminal, minus the Cinnabon smell. It might help quell the hate, just a little, the pretending.


What’s the worst place you’ve ever worked? Was it the job or the atmosphere or the people that made it heartily suck? Do tell us about it in the comments so I can maybe feel a little bit better about this good job I have to do in the worst cube ever.

And thanks.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

No thanks, not for me

There's a story going around about a 51-year-old woman who died in her cubicle at work and nobody noticed. For over a DAY.

Is this not one of the more frightening things you’ve ever heard? I mean, who wakes up in the morning and says ‘yepper, today’s the day I’m going to stick it to the head office and make ‘em shell out the 2X accidental death and dismemberment rider on my insurance that I signed up for because I’m going to croak at work!’ Not me, that much is for sure. Shoot, the 2X payout would be sweet, but only for the survivors and I’d just bet that in the majority of the cases the survivors would rather have their family member back than all the bills paid off.

The truly scary thing is that she was only a few years older than me.

I SO need to make a doctor’s visit to see if all systems still pass the pre-flight check.


Yesterday I was in the company of someone who might NOT make it to their 50th bday if they don’t change how they approach the world.

I was driving home, a commute of 25-odd miles that takes about 45 minutes and is largely on 2-lane roads. Passing on these roads is permitted at intervals, but is nearly impossible during rush hours.

That did not stop the gentleman behind me from WANTING to pass so very badly that he felt it necessary to encourage me toward greater speeds by riding the bumper of Tinkerbell so closely I thought momentarily about just slamming on the brakes and teaching his BMW-driving self a lesson. In the rear view mirror I detected him swerving around in the lane, edging left and slapping back right when an oncoming car was spotted. There was honestly nothing I could do, as the line of cars ahead of ME was ½ mile long with no getting around it. It was obvious he wasn’t about to look more than one car ahead of him though, and thus I became a target.

We approached a stoplight at which we were both turning right. I stopped, as is the LAW, and also as common sense dictated because there was a tremendous amount of traffic coming from the left that prevented me from taking advantage of the ol’ right turn on red’ rule. Well folks, this was the nearly final straw in the Beemers basket, and it cause him to literally pound the steering wheel, wave his hand wildly around, around (I can only surmise) shout bad words at me for my unwillingness to put my life in danger so he could move up one car length.

Needless to say, I spent the appreciable remainder of our co-commute doing exactly the speed limit, until such time as he could ROAR around me and the person ahead of me who was also doing the limit.

15 minutes later, as the road widened into 2 lanes each way, I was happy to see him sting at the same stoplight I was. What a wonderful feeling.

Also wonderful is that he turned right, straight down the road that leads to the ‘we’re better than YOU’ developments. Where I’m sure he fits right in.



Currently, I am listening to approximately 6 people all talking at once. Also, 3 people typing, one coffee machine going, a microwave beeping, the printer whirring, and 5 or so people in very clicky heels walking around.

God I hate this cubicle.


And that’s it. I need to go find something worthwhile to do before I get even more stabbity and start putting up ‘think of your colleagues, LOUDMOUTHS!’ signs all over the outside of my cubicle.

I’m also going to print some up for the people who use the meeting room right next to my cube as a chattering place without CLOSING THE DOOR. It has a door, folks – use it!
Hey though – there are free Girl Scout cookies in the break area, so there’s at least one ray of sunshine in this gloomy stupid place.

Tiff out.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Well, all right.

Most people on Valentine's Day go out to dinner with their sweetie, or give one another little gifts meant to endear one another to the other, or perhaps spend some extra-special canoodling time to re-bond with their mates.

Biff and I? We like to visit the emergency room on Valentine's Day.

There's just something special about spending 3+ hours sitting close to one another on uncomfortable plastic chairs surrounded by strangers in various states of disrepair that simply screams 'romance,' wouldn't you agree? I'm sure the lady coughing into her surgical mask, or the lady in a wheelchair who looked about ready to keel over, or the gentleman writing in pain, or the child screaming in blood-curdling agony down the hall would nod their heads enthusiastically if they had the strength to do so.

Why, I'll just bet the doctor who rammed a needle into Biff's knuckle, or the nurse who rammed a needle into his shoulder, or the other nurse who did not ram anything into Biff but instead smeared him with ointment and put his stitched-together finger in a sterile straitjacket would certainly say that quality time spent together in a busy emergency-room hallway, with one of you on a gurney and oozing blood, is a great way to shout your love for each other out loud.

It's the little things he does for me that make him so lovable., Little things, like nearly slicing off 1/3rd of this index finger. You know, that's real sacrifice for us to be able to spend alone time in the midst of a germ-spewing, groaning, wretched crowd.

Yep - it's almost like we should make this a tradition. Heck, we might just get to go back there sooner rather than later for our next great date if one of us picked up any nuclear-grade germs in that fetid hole of agony.

But heck - there's going to be steak and fried pastries dipped in chocolate for dinner, so what's half a day spent in one of the least glamorous places on earth between boy and girl? Not much, that's what.

Thanks for the excitement, darlin' Biff. You do know how to keep things interesting.

And to all tens of you who read NAY - Happy Valentine's Day! I hope yours didn't involve anything having to do with blood. I'd like to think we're pretty unique in that. :)

Friday, February 11, 2011


My goodness but our dog stinks. Who knew Aussies could get so smelly in just 2 weeks after their last bath?

I guess the fact that she licks herself constantly and never, ever, brushes her teeth might have something to do with it.

And to make the future seem even more bright, it's coming onto Spring around here which means she's going to go full-on-allergic at any moment, meaning I'm going to have to start dosing her up with the Bennies soon, which we both lovelovelove as you might imagine.

Yes, the first signs of Spring are upon us. It's in the 50's today, with temps up near 60 on the weekend. The daffodils out front are all pushed up and the buds are getting fat. I've even spotted a shoot or 2 from the daylilies starting to peek out, and the hydrangeas are budding out as well. It's light until at least 6 p.m., a nice change from the December gloom, and I'm seeing geese headed back north. Pretty soon there will be robins hopping around and grass to mow, and I'm ready for all of it.

Except the dog allergies and the stupid effing fleas that appear every year. There's no avoiding them, they overwinter better than a basement full of pumpkins, and they're out for blood. I wonder what poor humor God was in when he created those suckers. They are, in my opinion, completely worthless except to remind us how nice it is when they're NOT around, much like obnoxious relatives.


Yesterday I packed up 2 whole boxes of office stuff (woo - no packrat, me!) and took one long last look at my lovely cube.

Next up, the cube in Grand Central Terminal, which I now plan to decorate with very obnoxious fake plants and creepy dolls. Maybe only the HEADS of creepy dolls. But definitely creepy. SOmething like they'd have on "Oddities," a show I rather like.

Yep - put me on public display, and watch what you get.


Our new dishwasher is a jaunty little thing - it actually plays a little tune when it starts up and when it's finished with a load of dishes. So cute.


Well, that's about that. Nothing very interesting coming out of this end of the earth today. Sometimes life is just like that, you know? A head full of ideas one day but a memory so full of holes that by the next day those ideas have spilled right out leaving nothing much in their place. If things continue as they are, in a couple years' time I'll be publishing posts that contain nothing but white space and maybe a couple of fart jokes.

And I'll STILL expect you to comment on it.

Have a lovely weekend, all. Tiff out.

Wednesday, February 09, 2011

no, really, I don't come here that often

There's something happening here.
What it is ain't exactly clear.
There's a cube in the hall over there,
with my name on it, which isn't fair.

Oh my stop, hey what's that sound
everybody talks while walking 'round
Stop hey what's that sound
talking by my cube it does abound!

My silent corner is gone
cube moves hit, and I got the call
"Move on out to this new dreadful place
Where everyone can be all in your face!"

Oh my stop, hey what's that sound
everybody talks while walking 'round
Stop hey what's that sound
talking by my cube it does abound!


Only 2 more days in the place I've occupied for a bit over 3 years, my back to a wall and a window to my left. Goodbye sunshine. Goodbye privacy, goodbye quiet corner. Goodbye also to being co-located with the people in my group.

And a big hello, come next Monday, to life in the work equivalent of the howler monkey cage at the zoo. My best representation below...

See why I'm a little testy at this whole 'move' thing?


In better news: we now have a DISHWASHER! DISHWASHER!! YAY!

OMG y'all. Wow. It's awesome. However....

I still hate putting the dishes away when the machine is done with them. It's been almost 4 years since I had a dishwasher, and my maturity level where putting dishes away is concerned hasn't budged on bit.

Old-school Tiny House had limited counter space and no dishwasher. Therefore, when the dishes were washed and set on the rack to dry, approximately half (yes, half) the available counter space was used up with clean and drying dishes. This situation made putting the dishes away a necessity if any cookery was to happen.

New-school Tiny House had a buffet/small appliance corral to put the toaster oven and mixer on, and a shelf for the microwave, so we've gotten back about 2+ linear feet of counter space (whee!), and there's no dish rack (double whee!), so cooking can happen at any time, even WITH a fully loaded dishwasher going on just under the countertop. So, Mr Upshot says that there's now no NEED to put away those clean dishes - just let 'em sit! And while they're sitting, let the dirty ones pile up in the sink(s) as an added fabulous touch!

Yep, I knew there was a reason I hesitated about that dang dishwasher.

However, it's is beautiful and gorgeous and makes almost no noise (and it's not even a Bosch, but equally as quiet (I know I've shilled for Bosch before, but apparently the domestic makers got a whiff of that selling point (the quiet, not me shilling) and stepped up their game so that the less expensive Kenmores and such also have super-quiet machines)) and really does do a nice job on the dishes, which is good because now there's no reason to have a slick of grease on pans or silverware that....isn't, or fingerprints and whatnot besmirching our tableware, which is not at all like it was when certain people in our house were asked to do the dishes and rushed through doing them so fast that it's likely the plates never really got all that wet or soapy. Seems that teenaged boys are not all that fussy when it comes to dish-doing, and thus deemed 'done' a rack full of still-grunky items. Bleah to that, and hooray to the dishwasher!

So you might wonder 'hey, if the dishwasher is in, is the remodel is actually, finally, at long last finished after a good 2 months of being in progress?' and I will happily scream out YES!

Once it really IS done.

We're just, uh, unsure about the paint colors. And don't have a table that works with the new look of the room. Heck, a new back door just went in yesterday. And, well, there are a few pieces of flooring that still need to be whacked into place. And a new spice rack made so we can stop pawing through the grocery bag full of jars and tubs and grinders that house the 300 bucks worth of tasty tasty herrrrrrrrrbs n' spices we keep on hand in case of a garam masala emergency or turmeric tragedy happening (seriously, would-be robbers, we have a lot of expensive spices in the house. You'd be better off stealing those than the BluRay). Also, we have to find the couple of boxes of kitchen implements we decided in December we could live without and try to repatriate them into the space available.

So yeah, we're close enough to basically move back into the kitchen, but are still thisclose to being truly and really 'all done.'


Let me just say right here that it's danged handy being married to a remodeling expert in times like these. If he wasn't a pro, I'd have worried about even starting this process, much less remaining unconcerned when I came home to find things like a huge hole cut into the floor or the walls literally ripped off. Having the expertise that resides in his noggin, and the ability and willingness to use that expertise on our house rather than seeking out (much) other paying work is a HUGE boon, and so I'd like to say thanks to Biff for being capable, strong, untiring, and patient. Seriously, man, I'd have been totally off my rocker trying to do this thing any other way.

And with that, it's Tiff out time. Y'all have a wonderful hump-afternoon.

Thursday, February 03, 2011

once again - recipe time

Tiny House meatylicious vodka sauce

Once again, the Tiny House, who has recently been undergoing a kitchen renovation, has begun to smell like someone loves it. This recipe is one reason why.

If you have about 40 minutes to hang out and cook, give this sucker a shot - from start to eating it took just about that much time and is yummy. This recipe is presented 'stepwise,' with ingredients listed in italics. I hear it's the new thing in recipes. I'm all for it, as it obviates the need for producing a long list of ingredients right off the bat. Efficient!

Serves 4, probably.

  1. Start a big pot of water to boiling.
  2. While that's getting going, fry up a pound of lean ground beef. When that's about half done and busted up into little nommy chunks, throw in a diced onion, a half a green pepper also diced, and three cloves of mashed garlic in with the meat. Saute for 5 minutes over medium heat until onions are translucent.
  3. Add 2 tsp dry parsley, 1 tsp dry oregano. 1 tsp dry basil, 1/2 tsp ground pepper (also dry!), stir, and let cook for a minute.
  4. Add a small can of tomato paste, sans can, and stir into meat mixture.
  5. Add 1/2 cup light half and half to meat, let cook until no moisture remains (about 4 minutes).
  6. Dump a jar of prepared sauce on top of all that, stir, then add 1/4 cup good vodka and the 'rinsing' of the sauce jar (about 1/4 cup water swished around in the jar to get all the stubborn sauce off the sides and into the pan) to the pan. Stir again, turn heat to low, and simmer.
  7. By this time the pasta water should be boiling. Add 8 oz dry spaghetti to the boiling water and cook for 8-10 mins until tender. Drain, return to pot, coat with a little olive oil.
  8. Serve sauce over pasta. In individual bowls. or plates - you pick. Just not in the pasta pot. That would be wildly inefficient, unless you're cooking for one, then have at it you hedonist!
  9. Enjoy!


I was surprised how fast this cooked up, and how tasty it was without adding any salt or much in the way of herbs. I suppose the cream and booze had something to do with it. :) Cream and booze pretty much make anything better, wouldn't you agree?

Tuesday, February 01, 2011


Hey – remember a week or so ago when I went to the dermatologist’s office and had a couple of spots frozen off and the spot on my wrist swelled up like an ol’ tick so I busted it and it swelled up again? Well, the top of that tick fell off over the weekend, and now it looks more like a big ol boogie on the back of my wrist. I know, I’m a constant source of beauty in an otherwise dull world.


Also – how can someone spend time talking with another person and NOT tell them they have mascara smeared all under their eyes like a raccoon? I swear, some people don’t know how to help a girl out by just gently suggesting she might want to go refresh herself a little so as not to look like the first victim of the flippin’ zombie incursion! Sheesh!


In other news, I bought a bottle of grapeseed oil at the Sally’s beauty supply place the other day. I’ve been looking for a moisturizer that doesn’t have a smell and that I can also use on my hair after showering to keep the winter dryness from splitting the tips or just snapping the dry ends right off. After using it a couple of times, it’s clear that I made the right decision, even if it DID cost 8 bucks a bottle. NO smell, at all, it’s nice and light, sinks in fast, and does a great job on the frizzy hair. My legs, normally a wasteland of dry skin below the knees (again - I bring the glamour!), are nice and smooth now, the oil is great as a facial moisturizer, and the hair thing is clearly working out nicely. So, yay! Finally, a way to beat back the evil static demons that have run rampant through my closet and tresses this devilishly dry winter!

I’m digging on the Sally’s lately. You can buy FAKE HAIR there! Awesome. Also, there are about 10 times more options for the truly needy among us with, um, PROBLEM hair, and it’s a browser’s delight for things like fancy shower caps and smocks and fake eyelashes and custom haircolor and truly luxe eyebrow pencils.

What? You don’t shop for eyebrow pencils and squeal like a little piggy when you find one that not only is the just-right shade but also comes with a little brush attachment to get those brows in order? If you’re a girl, even a tomboyish girl like me, there are still a few girlie atoms floating around that once in a while collide and explode wee showers of femmedust all over us, making us coo and giggle over something like the perfect shade of lip stain or the best conditioner EVAR.

Don’t judge. I’m married to someone who has a favorite utility knife, so I KNOW you guys get surges of squee too, only for power tools or roller covers or cars or beer.

Hey - What’s made you squee lately? Do tell us about it (keep it clean, yo!), and I’ll see you around. It’s meetin’ time again.

Tiff out.