Sans somnolence and the A.M. reclamation project

Experts say over the course of a lifetime we will spend an average of 1/3^rd of our lives asleep. Am I the only one who feels like I’ll need to develop hibernation skills to approach anywhere near that number? I still feel like I’m paying the body-clock price for burning the candle at both ends during my UVIC years and being a Madden and NFL Gameday juggernaut is little consolation when I feel like dung at 7am on a daily basis. Fact is, I’m not a morning person and that die was cast long ago – so very long ago.

I’ve poured orange juice on my cereal. I’ve started to brush my teeth with a dry toothbrush. I’ve arrived at work only to be snickered at on account of my belt passing through only two of the five loops on my khakis. You get the idea; I’m an pre-10A.M. zombie and I’m resigned to the fact that if it wasn’t for the venerable Juan Valdez and his Colombian Supremo such incidents might pale in comparison to the manifestations of incoherency I could muster up.

It was a few years back that a friend made some sort of feng shui- ish suggestion that I orient my bed northwards to “align” myself or something along those lines. Apparently it would allow me more restful and rejuvenative sleep. I was up ‘till two-thirty wondering if I was comfortable with my noggin being right below the window in a ground floor apartment. ‘Nuff said.

Lately I’ve been thinking – What if I had had an aesthetically pleasing bedroom to repose in during those late teen / early twenties formative years? Granted my financial shortcomings had much to do with it but, having recently become aware of the expanse of competitively priced, stylish and well made bedroom furniture available through Cymax Stores, I’m beginning to realize things could’ve been very different for me.

As a result, I’m here for the next generation with a most sincere plea. Don’t be like me. Don’t be in a fog from 7 to 10 each morning. Get the sleep you need under the stylish security of a sparkling new headboard – something conducive to your catching some Zs.

Perhaps your bed feels overwhelmed with the scrutiny of being the focal point of your downtime. Why not provide it with a sidekick in the form of a nightstand? Bedside tables on either side of your crash pad would surely do the trick, and adding a bedside table lamp might also be a consideration if you’re too cool to ask your parents if they still have your Smokey the Bear nightlight. Only YOU can prevent forest fires, remember that.

Still watching Jerry Springer’s choreographed white-trash gong show banished to the witching hour? Still testing the resolve of the snooze bar every morning? (Futility I assure you) You may well need a whole new spread of bedroom furniture and to that end I recommend investing in a selection of South Shore furniture. South Shore beds are a great place to start. They’re solid, reasonably priced and easy on the eyes. What about your immediate surroundings? South Shore nightstands and South Shore dressers are equally as appealing. I’d recommend a South Shore TV stand but I don’t know how helpful that would be unless it housed a personal stereo with an “ocean sounds” CD rather than a TV. Who knows – but be open to suggestion unless you want to end up as a slumber-challenged individual like me.

Lastly, if all else fails there’s the pharmacological band-aid known as Nytol, but I strongly recommend trying furniture first.

Ahhh, tax season.

It’s the time of year when people start to madly grope their way to the back of closets in search of receipts, papers from workplaces and a dog-eared, highlighted, underlined copies of Taxes for Dummies. And face it, you are a dummy. Most people are when it comes to their taxes. Did you know that the number one reason people receive a delayed tax return is because they’ve forgotten to sign their papers or have written down their Social Insurance Numbers incorrectly. Seriously.

The worst part is the advertisements hawking easy do-it-yourself tax packages that show a happy couple on the front, her holding a calculator and him with a pen. Installing a program into your computer may solve simple problems, like organization, but when it comes down to it, no one – NO ONE – understands taxes. Even accountants feel their collars get a little tight at this time of year. And it has nothing to do with the volume of clients they serve; it’s more to do with them trying to hide their own copies of Taxes for Dummies without clients seeing them.

Growing up, my dad did the taxes. He refused to take the road most traveled and stop in at the local H & R Block, which led to the quietest weekend ever in our house. That was the one weekend a year when we literally had to tip toe though the kitchen to avoid disturbing dear old Dad, whose hand did not leave his forehead for two days straight. My brother and I had a normal childhood relationship (read: we hated each other) but for that fateful spring weekend, we were like best friends in a silent movie. It was also the only weekend we were allowed to eat in front of the TV. There was no other option; the kitchen was splayed with papers and receipts. For us, eating in the living room was like magic. It symbolized hell for my mother who kept a dust-buster in the living room as if it were a piece of furniture to prevent any crumbs from trying to trick her into letting them stay a while on the brown shag.

It wasn’t for a few years when a file cabinet was purchased and the weekend o’silence ceased. Suddenly, every day was back to its regular zoo-like atmosphere and my dad didn’t spend a week looking like the victim of a forehead slapping. The filing cabinet reduced the papers normally stuffed between the flour and sugar canisters and created space in what I later learned was a china cabinet; up until then, it was the paper cabinet.

Turns out china looks nicer when properly displayed and taxes are easier to file when everything is neatly organized into a file cabinet. There you have it: the gist of Taxes for Dummies. I just saved you twenty dollars and a lifetime of headaches.

I. Am. An Ascot Wearer!

I decided many years ago that I was destined to write the next great novel. I walked around town saying “I. Am. A writer!” and awaited applause. I quoted famous novelists at McDonalds while ordering my McNuggets and began wearing an ascot. I started smoking pipes and toted around leather-bound notebooks. I. Was. A writer!

I went on sabbatical from school, and locked myself in my house. I bought a typewriter in order to produce an authentic looking manuscript. Fitzgerald, be damned! You too, Hemingway, I thought. I was the writer now. People will make movies out of my work, much to everyone’s disappointment because, as we all know, the movie pales in comparison to the book. I lit candles and an oil lantern and discussed with myself how smart I was. Or was I?

How could I, a soon to be critically acclaimed writer, forever doomed to become a shot-gun wielding hermit, even attempt to write what would be a brilliant novel without a proper writing desk? Dickens must be rolling over in his grave! My old TV tray with a decorative floral pattern surrounding a boat harbor just wouldn’t do.

I perused Cymax.com for a while, and discovered the perfect writing desk. It had an antique finish and plenty of room for my typewriter, so I ordered it immediately. When it arrived, creative juices flowed through my veins once again. I cracked my fingers and stretched my neck in preparation. I sat down and marveled at my new desk; the key to my would-be success was before me.

After staring at the keyboard for roughly eight hours, I decided maybe writing wasn’t my true calling; that wearing an ascot could be a fashion statement on its own. But what would my new passion be? I sat down at my writer’s desk and made a list:

• Basketball player
• Florist
• Sailor
• Trumpeter
• Juggler

I weighed the pros and cons of all, and have now, finally discovered my real passion; the true reason I was born. I am forever destined to search the internet and find great deals on quality furniture items. Everything else is too difficult. But I’m keeping the ascot.

The Good, The Bad and The Leather

It was a quiet evening at Dorothy’s Saloon. A relaxed game of poker was being played at the table in the corner; everyone was breaking even so there were no hard feelings tonight. The player piano filled the smoky room with a happy melody that had even the usual grimacing customers tapping their feet on the dirty wooden floor. Ice cold brew and warm whiskey flowed, keeping Dorothy busy and the atmosphere light. All was well tonight. That is, until Charlie Daniels walked in.

He pushed through the swinging doors with such speed and force, a loud bang made everyone stop in their tracks. Charlie Daniels had on dirty chaps and a dirtier hat. His shirt, once of a fine quality, looked like it had seen him through several rough nights. The whiskers on his cheeks cast a dark shadow on his face, implying several days on the road without stopping to clean up. Charlie was on a mission, and no one in the saloon wanted to find out what it was.

Ladies averted their eyes to the floor as he approached the bar. Cards were quietly laid on the table while hands slyly fingered their revolvers. Everyone tried to act natural in this most unnatural setting. No one dared speak; no one dared move. Nervous patrons quietly slugged back their beverages to make time at the bar disappear.

Charlie Daniels clomped up to the bar. His boots jangled and banged with each step, causing everyone to wince with his rhythm. Doc Holloway was shaking so badly, his eye glasses nearly fell off his face. He knew he should stay to tend to the impending injured, but he was a small man and carried no weapon. He jumped up and flew out the door in one fell swoop, careful not to cross paths with Charlie.

The sudden commotion from Doc caused a ruckus in the saloon. Every man cocked his gun; every woman gasped and shielded her eyes. Dorothy stood bravely behind the bar, like a captain about to go down with her ship. Charlie chuckled at the sudden sight of the room, even though every gun was pointed at him.

Dorothy’s son Jackson peeked out from behind the bar. He was a brave boy; losing your dad at a young age will do that to you. Dorothy whispered his name, but he didn’t listen. Jackson approached Charlie, and with his toughest, meanest voice said “You can sit in this chair, Mr. Daniels,” and pointed to Doc Holloway’s abandoned barstool. Charlie tilted his head to one side. He pulled out the stool and walked a full circle around it, nodding his head. It had a fine leather seat that, despite its age, looked brand new. The wooden legs were sturdy and had a lower foot rest for comfort. “Thanks, boy,” said Charlie as he settled in to his chair. A deep exhale of relaxation blew out of his mouth. He adjusted himself and discovered most happily that this leather barstool also had a swivel. His eyes widened in appreciation and declared, “Miss Dorothy, this is the best dang barstool I’ve ever sat on in my life! Whiskey for everyone, on me!”

A cheer rang out that could be heard for miles. Men who had contemplated shooting him on site gave him an approving pat on the shoulder. Things at Dorothy’s Saloon returned to normal – cards were dealt, music was playing, and every toe was tapping on the peanut shell-filled floor . . . even Charlie Daniels’.

A Brief and Completely Untrue History of Futons

It was the year 1612 and Japanese Emperor Makaturaki, known as Empy M for short, kept insisting that he was hearing strange noises in his room at night. He was convinced that they were coming from underneath the bed, though numerous inspections proved without a doubt that there was nothing there. He was tired and irritable as these noises, coupled with his intense suspicions of the underside of his handsome king size bed had kept him anxiously awake for nearly a week. He demanded that one of his many servants devise a solution for him, and quickly. Empy M didn’t like to threaten death but he would if it came down to it.

Luckily, one of his men was in the process of developing a space saving mattress that could simply roll out onto a tatami mat and roll back up in the morning. It was made from thick, comfortable cotton batting and, in those days, left absolutely no space between the floor and the bed. It was a dream come true for Empy M. Pleased as punch, he had his sleeping quarters prepared with this newly invented futon and readied himself for his first deep sleep in a week.

Unfortunately, Empy M didn’t last the night. Incidentally something really was in his room; however he was hiding in the closet, not under the bed. He was an assassin and had been attempting to poison Emperor Makaturaki for the past week, but developed an incessant case of hick-ups. These hick-ups are what caused Empy M’s debilitating paranoia and his inability to sleep prevented the assassin from quietly poisoning his victim and making a clean escape.

However, as soon as Empy M nestled into his new futon, his fiery anxieties were cooled, and he zonked out like a drunk baby as soon as his head touched the pillow. A whole week of restless sleep can really do a number on a guy, especially a busy emperor. The assassin took this rare, slumberous opportunity to deliver his lethal poison; just a drop in Empy M’s wide mouth, down his open snoring throat and that was that. Empy M was no longer.

The tale itself is certainly not one to be boastful of. If I were a futon mattress, I would be somewhat ashamed of my treacherous roots. But I am not a futon mattress and if I was I would be an inanimate object…so…there you go.

Most people find themselves a little wary of the futon mattress despite the fact that they are unaware of its scandalous beginnings. They have recollections of staying overnight at friends’ house or spending the weekend at hip Uncle Bernie’s and waking up with an aching spine and riddled with knots the size of cantaloupes. Fortunately those days are over. Today’s futon mattress is much different from how they were made in the 70s, the 80s, and even the 90s. And there are a multitude of options too; not just a fat slab of padding like they once were. Today you can get mattresses filled with memory foam, or mattresses reinforced with a cotton crown.

Futons are no longer something to dread, which is nice considering trips to hip Uncle Bernie’s have revealed themselves to be trips to my creepy, trying-too-hard Uncle Bernie’s and sleep is my only real escape from his never-ending acoustic renditions of Berlin’s 1987 mega hit, Take My Breath Away.

So there you have it. The very brief and very untrue history of futons.

Keep the Sand, Lose the Chamber Pot

When I was a kid, I always wanted to go to one of those hotels that had theme rooms. My parents, who were more interested in being practical than having fun, thought that a room with sand on the floor or a round bed or a heart-shaped tub was a bit much for a family, outing, so we were stuck with the classic two bed room with a ghastly flower bedspread and complimentary soaps and shampoo that smelled like almonds. I can recall, almost gagging, the gold-framed photos of boats in a harbor or gardens overflowing with pink roses and watering cans. Ugh. I longed for real glass cups instead of ribbed plastic ones in an odd shade of beige, or an ice bucket shaped like a genie lamp instead of one with a “coke” insignia.

So now that I’m all grown up, and my putrid, trashy tastes haven’t yet escaped me, I am going to have a theme-room house. Yep, all of the bedrooms are going to have names like “Arabian Nights” or “Victorian Elegance” or “Western Hoe-down”. Heck, why not all three! With bedroom furniture from Cymax, I can make all of these rooms! And maybe even a “Space Odyssey” kitchen and “Down on the Farm” living room.

Let’s start with Arabian Nights: the most important thing will be a canopy pole bed with long flowing draperies. It’ll have to have poles tall enough to impale a man on stilts with a bronze finish and purple or red curtains. I’ll rip out the carpet and have a sand floor. Yes. Could I add a camel? Just in case he spits on guests, I’ll pass. I’ve heard they’re mean.

Next, the Victorian room. After I remove all electricity, I’ll wheel in my new metal bed. Add in a wooden rocking chair and a vanity, I’ll be finished. Except for the chamber pot. We’ll have none of that. Eww.

And, my personal favorite, the square-dancin’, hoe-down room. Swing ‘yer partner round and round, then throw them
down on an oak bed. Add a matching wooden dresser, a plaid duvet and a scarecrow to complete this western look.

Throw handfuls of hay into the corners, but no sheep. This isn’t that kind of bedroom.
There you have it. My theme-roomed home dreams can come true! All it takes is a little sand, some plaid and strong rules about animals and bathroom etiquette.

Get Over The Hump This Winter

Right around this time of year, we suffer. We suffer because the major winter holidays are over, but winter is not. When we refer to Christmas, we have to say “last Christmas . . .” and looking forward to Easter isn’t as fun, because it’s too cold to envision searching through bushes for brightly colored eggs and chocolate rabbits. So, here we are, in the throes of hump season; an entire month of Wednesdays.

How can we make summer come sooner? If not full-blown summer, then at least spring with its warm days and crisp nights. Punxsutawney Phil says winter will be over soon. But When? When?

Right now. Yep, that’s right folks. Today is the last day of winter. Tomorrow will be July! Perhaps not according to the calendar, but work with me here . . .

The first thing you have to do to feel like it’s summer is dress like it. Throw down your sweaters, laugh and point at your mittens and grab the nearest pair of flip flops and a t-shirt. Who’s to know, right? Crank up the heat, blast the Beach Boys, and grab a cold one from the fridge.

Doesn’t it feel like summer already? What more can we do, let’s see . . . Try calling someone you know who works for the government. They definitely won’t be in the office if it’s summer. Go to a movie! With kids out of school, movie theaters are always conquered by teenagers from June through August. Try going camping at a national park. Good luck getting a camp site though; a good park is always full, especially on a holiday weekend.

Well, this isn’t looking very good. Summer’s not so great after all. People you need are away, and leisure activities get sucked up by teens and RVs.

But wait!

The surest sign of all that summer is here has yet to be explored. Head down to your local pub, and perch yourself on the patio; don’t worry that you’re still in your Hawaiian-print shorts. Order a nice, cold pint and wait for it. Wait a minute or two until you feel the glorious heat from the patio heater blowing your way. The only thing that’s still cold is your frosty, delicious beer. Now that’s summer.

The suffering has ended. No more hump month. Everyday is Saturday during the summer, and summer never goes away if you’re on a patio with a beer. Everybody knows that!

Dr. Screenlove, or: How I Learned to Start Worrying and Clean the House

For many of us, with age comes the realization that a great many of our parents’ insistences which seemed completely absurd to us as youth do, in fact, have some logical basis to them. I am no longer thoroughly perplexed by why I needed to always put the twist-tie back on the bread or why it was constantly unacceptable to my father that the driveway was a beautiful collage of bicycles, G.I. Joes and hockey sticks when he needed to put the car in the garage at the end of the work day. Notice I said many, not all; the fact my parents would chastise me with “What’s wrong with you, we didn’t raise you this way” and force me to walk home from the rink every time I got into a fight still seems ridiculous to me.

My sister and I used to joke that our house was not a home, it was a museum. Now, credit where it’s due, my mother has impeccable décor taste and an impressive collection of antiques, curios and well-appointed home accent pieces. When you’re ten it’s all just stuff. In the same way of thinking, both of us thought it was so non-sensical that we had to assist in fervently cleaning the house every time guests were expected that evening. Sweeping floors that had not even so much as a speck of dirt or dust and mopping others that gleamed with cleanliness, etc. etc.

This perspective never rang more true than some point in the evening when we ventured upstairs from our self-imposed (and welcome) banishment to the basement, only to find the foyer littered with shoes while coats and other garments of all types hung from every available door knob and banister post with likely many more strewn on the bed in the guest room. What had been the very picture of spic n’ span cleanliness and order now had become domestic chaos so very not the hallmark of the curator, a.k.a. mom.

If I would have had some measure of insight at such a tender age, I would have used the money they gave me to buy them (still get a kick out of that) Christmas gifts to pick up a coat rack from CoatRackSelect.com, where they provide aesthetically pleasing means of garment retention. Considering the large number of guests they would often entertain, perhaps a hall tree would have been more appropriate. A storage bench would have been thoughtful as a means of containing the sprawl of footwear. Come to think of it, my father could have uses a set of coat hooks or a wall coat rack for the garage as well as my mother would frequently nag him about the mechanic’s pull-ons that were often strewn on the top of freezer out there.

Relatedly, if I would have had the foresight to buy them a fireplace screen from FireScreenSelect.com, I would have unwittingly averted the time a particularly motivated ember shot far from the hearth and left a permanent singe in mom’s antique Turkish area rug. Considering her fear of such an incident occurring again, perhaps I could have been the one to recommend the set of fireplace doors they purchased shortly thereafter. There is a wide variety of fireplace accessories and fireplace tools that I could have given to show I cared about the museum just as much as she did. A fireplace grate might have suggested maturity beyond my years in “being prepared for the worst” if, heaven forbid, an entire log should roll out onto the aforementioned much-cherished rug.

Twenty – twenty hindsight I guess, but one can’t help but wonder how much more of a “thoughtful son” I could have been if I had strayed from the routine of socks, bath salts and neckties for even so much as a year.

Class Yourself Up

This is really hard for me to say. To be perfectly honest, I am not even 100% comfortable talking about the information that I am about to disclose, but I want to help other people the way that I was helped. It has taken me a really long time to say this out loud, but…here goes nothing. Before I got my wine rack, I was…how can I put this delicately…an utterly classless swine; a stinking, cultureless abscess; a vacuous, moronic philistine.

In the mornings I would turn on Maury Povich and watch with wide, engaged eyes and a sympathetic ear; not the normal laughter and harsh judgment that I do now.

I would ferociously tease my bangs every morning, to the point of perspiring - the bigger the better. I would apply copious amounts of foul smelling, dollar store-caliber hair spray that would solidify my coif for days.

In addition to this, my morning primping routine consisted of slathering myself in offensive, cheap perfume that had a known allergen in it. It would cause people in passing to sneeze or suddenly grab their stinging, watering eyes. I didn’t care.

I would speak loudly and use nasty language with little to no regard for those around me. Children and the elderly were subject to whatever verbal fancy I wanted to satisfy.

I used to pretend that I didn’t realize you couldn’t smoke in the mall or in movie theatres.

I once sent my niece to school with Cheez Whiz and a sleeve of saltine crackers for a bake sale.

I used to wear clothes that were far too tight and was convinced that my fanny pack concealed my growing muffin top (Muffin top: Referring to the spillage of unattractive back and abdominal fat (see: love handles) over tight, ill fitting, hip hugging pants).

I tipped poorly and accused most waiters and waitresses of rudeness and poor service to excuse my excessive cheapness.

I waited for excruciatingly long stretches of time between showers and would only finally bathe when I started to notice people casually raising their hands to their noses in my presence. Nor did I change my underwear or socks with any kind of regularity.

If you can believe it, these revolting facts are only the surface scrapings of my seemingly incurable trashiness. Until I got my wine rack, I didn’t even see anything wrong with dark red lip liner and bright pink lipstick. I thought blue eye shadow was all the rage and that black stirrup tights paired with oversized Boca sweatshirts were perfectly acceptable evening attire.

It was a fateful trip to the library which finally taught me the powers of the wine rack. I scoped out a good computer and readied myself for a day’s worth of hilarious You Tube videos: people falling, people crying, any and all kinds of human misery, despite the clear and glaring sign that forbid steaming videos and spending longer than an hour on any one computer. I didn’t care whatsoever. My general unpleasantness would deter any library employee from enforcing this measly stipulation, so I was set for the day. It was here that I discovered morewineracks.com. I thought that a wine rack would be the perfect device to hold my wealth of homemade wines as well as wines I had stolen from various weddings and post-funeral services at the event hall down the road from my trailer. I decided to make it my first online purchase and when it arrived it changed my life. It was as though I had been transformed; a wine rack spell had been placed on me and I was on my way to becoming a sophisticated lady.

At the grocery store I completely avoided the canned meat section and went straight for the real deal. I bought genuine, aged cheddar cheese and didn’t look twice at the cheese in the aerosol can, though I would miss its biting aftertaste. I threw away my teasing comb and purchased a lovely smelling perfume from a nice, respectable department store.

Things were changing for me more and more every day. The second I put the wine rack in my home and filled it with high-class, legally purchased wine, it was as though as though it released powerful anti-trailer park trash supersonic waves and they began cooking away all of my trailer trashy things and tendencies. I starting paying my bills on time and filling the house with good food and good books and before I knew it, my trailer was a palace! The nicest in the park! I threw away all of my ceramic cat ornaments and various Las Vegas knick knacks and statuettes (I had never even been). I incinerated my glass clowns and my Days of Our Lives wall calendar. These are things I no longer needed thanks to my wonderful wine rack. I wholeheartedly suggest that anyone reading this visit morewineracks.com and allow a brand new wine rack to class up your home your wardrobe and your life. Their massive selection of wrought iron wine racks to stunning wood wine racks will certainly carry a cure for even the most severe cases of TPT (Trailer Park Trashiness).

Hi my name is Brianna and I’m a bookaholic.

It’s a tough life being a bookaholic. Really, it is. I could argue that the amount of books I own makes me worldly and that it expands my intellectual horizons as well as my vocabulary, but the truth is, I buy more books in a year than I can read in five. I made a New Years Resolution to stop buying books and to read one a week, which, if I stop buying now, I’ll finish all the books in my collection by the year 2023. I bought a book on January 3rd. I’m sure I’ll get around to it…

I have six copies of The Catcher in the Rye. Not because I’m a huge Holden Caulfield fan, or even an extreme fan of J.D. Salinger. Although I’ve read the book five times, and think that Holden would be an okay guy to hang around for a while – hell, I can even empathize with his cynicism sometimes – I have no inclination to assassinate either of the remaining two Beatles and blame it on poor Holden. He’s only fictional, after all. No, the reason I have six copies of The Catcher in the Rye is simple: the dimensions of the book are perfect.

But enough about my homicidal tendencies and spatial preferences – back to the books: I buy every book that Oprah Winfrey tells me to buy, anything that has a pretty cover or a cute author. And as for supporting my addiction, I ration out the money from my paycheck. Rent is important, and of course the electricity bill (I’ve tried reading with a flashlight, but I got a major cramp in my wrist), and I’ll even feed myself to get through the month, but my bookaholicism disrupts my ability to function in my daily routine. I wouldn’t call it a real “ism” if it didn’t. I’m serious here.

Buying books surely isn’t along the same lines as losing your life savings at a casino or drinking your life away at the Drink ‘n Drown. Of all addictions, it seems to be the most acceptable, but maybe that’s because the only “people” who know about my addiction are Spotty, Dottie Blotty, and Stripes. Call me the crazy cat lady all you want, but I prefer WELL-READ crazy cat lady. When I come home to my girls with a fresh hardcover book, crack open to the first page, and start reading, they purr like a Shelby Cobra on race day.

Granted, my kitties get a little tired of the daily routine, and are getting more and more annoyed at the lack of space to lounge in my apartment. It is a bachelor loft (it was either the Harry Potter Collector’s Edition or the deposit for a one-bedroom suite… an easy decision for me). But I think it’s finally time to pick my book collection up off the floor, sofa, kitchen counter, sofa bed and the edge of my bathtub and get myself a roomy bookshelf from www.morebookcases.com . That way, I can keep up the book buying, while my furry friends can finally spread their fluffy selves out on the floor.

As for my six copies The Catcher in the Rye, I’ve already decided – they will make perfect bookends on my new bookshelf.

When the Chips are Down…

In these irritatingly health conscious times when everyone is making sure that their antioxidants are detoxifying and their Omegas are Omega-ing, one can find themselves a little overwhelmed amongst the obnoxiously fit and the pompously healthy. One might even find themselves so irritated that they want to go out and buy a bag of chips just to spite those endlessly athletic goons who seem to be absolutely everywhere. So you go to the local 7-11 and buy yourself a delicious bag of Doritos. Oh Doritos, you think to yourself, you would never tell me that I need to drop a few pounds. You pull open the bag and that glorious whoosh of Nacho Cheese, Cool Ranch or Sweet Chili Heat wraps your face in deliciousness. You look inside the bag and, what is this? Your hard earned scratch (for some reason, Doritos always seem staggeringly expensive compared to the rest), has been spent on half a bag of chips and half a bag of air. Don’t get me wrong, that first sweet gust of nacho breeze is a delight, but a five dollar delight? No thank you.

This is only the tip of the iceberg and this reporter has had enough. At 22 years old, I feel as though I am far too young to be saying, “I remember when you got a whooole bag of chips for only $2.50! That’s right! Doritos! And I had walk up a massive hill, there and back in my bare feet…in the snow…chased by wildebeests…just to get them.” All of that is true.

Seriously though, if I am buying a pricey bag of quality potato chips, I want a full ass bag, not this half air foolishness. Hey, I wish I didn’t have to spend close to five dollars on a bag of chips, but unfortunately, Doritos have made their chips so delicious and irresistible, there is really nothing I can do about it now. They are far superior to any other kind of chip, let alone nacho chip, and whether that is due to an addictive chemical sprinkled in with the Cool Ranch, I don’t know. But what I do know is myself - and I’m sure many others - find ourselves craving them nightly. There is a reason that 7-11 is open all night, and believe me friend, it has nothing to do with convenience. It has to do with the financial liabilities related to nacho-crazed fiends tearing up the front of your store every night. You think insurance covers that? As well as the fact that 7-11 probably makes a sixth of its entire revenue based on nightly Doritos sales alone. Think about it.

So what is going on around here? Has anyone taken a look at the Big Mac lately? Or should I say, Moderately-sized Mac? Those two all-beef patties would blow away if someone left a window open. The “special sauce” barely drips down my sesame seed buns. And don’t get me started on the lettuce. I have never seen such a mountain of shredded lettuce in my entire life. Did they think that no one would notice? That they could camouflage the declining Mac with heaps of watery lettuce? No way. I needs me meat. I may as well start getting the Filet O’ Fish; at least that has ALWAYS sucked. And there is something to be said for consistency.

Well luckily, there is one unhealthy outlet that will always remain consistent. And that my friends, is the bar. Regardless of where you go, the alcohol ratios are always the same. One mixed drink, by law, contains one ounce of alcohol and the alcohol percentages of beers are printed clearly on the label. Sometime you wanna go where everybody knows your name; where you know exactly how many gin and tonics it will take to get you nice and crunk. And there is nothing better than parking your caboose on a comfortable bar stool, whether it’s a chic and fancy leather bar stool or a sunny patio’s outdoor bar stool. A nice, consistently boozed-up cocktail is made that much better with a comfy barstool to relax on. Who doesn’t love a good swiveling bar stool? Now that is some sassy seating.

So take a good old fashioned trip to the bar, or, better yet, start construction on your own home bar and simply visit LeatherBarstoolSelect.com, SwivelBarstoolSelect.com or OutdoorBarstoolSelect.com and explore the vast selection of stylish swivel barstools, durable outdoor barstools and chic leather barstools. Start building your own personal drinking environment, where the drinks are always generously proportioned and the chip bags are half full…not half empty.

Furniture Bribery and the Toppling of Nepotism

The maxim of “it’s not what you know, it’s who you know” has never been more true in the spectrum of career and job searching as it is today, and projects to be even more painfully relevant in the future. I have no problem with the cut-throat nature of business, just as long as I have as equal an opportunity for a close shave as does Mr. Todd’s nephew but, regrettably, that’s not the way it works most often in the corporate Fleet Street of the twenty-first century.

Sure, it stings that much more when a) you’re qualified to the eyeballs, then b) make the second interview short-list only to learn you’ve been rejected in favor of the second cousin of the receptionist whose husband ceaselessly offers the “I’m sure you haven’t taken your mulligan yet, Mr. Hardy” to keep the boss from double bogeys during Friday’s extended “power lunches.”

I suppose you could tailor your job search to anywhere you might conceivably have a familial “in”, but for me that would mean another undergrad degree or wearing a name tag and little to nothing in between. For most of us, I imagine, the scenario would be disdainfully similar. So the question is – What can you do to give yourself an edge?

I haven’t come up with much so far, but I did happen across the Bestar furniture collection in search of affordable and pleasingly functional office furniture. After a short perusal, I (sheepishly) came up with this half-baked suggestion. What about bringing along a piece of office furniture to “curry their favor” as they say?

As ridiculous as this sounds, (and it does) what’s not to suggest that a particular hiring agent might be “touched” by the thoughtfulness of your bringing a ready-to-assemble Bestar corner desk up 8 flights of stairs? Or that your promise to bring back that most fashionable Bestar computer desk when (AND IF GOSH DARN IT!!) you start training on Monday morning sways the decision to your liking? Perhaps bribery is your thing and you combine a Bestar desk or maybe a Bestar workstation with a considerable dose of unfounded flattery to rig the outcome? Hmm?

What’s that you say? You’ve always dreamed of being a purchasing officer and the accountant’s drop-dead gorgeous daughter-in-law and her philosophy degree are, however incomprehensibly, massively intimidating? You need to up the ante my friend! How about a conference table as the proverbial carrot-on-a-string dangled in front of him or her? Maybe even a pair of office tables if you sense you’re in something of a dead heat.

Fast forward; now, assuming you are indeed the new purchasing officer, there’s no need to put to waste all of your ill-gotten knowledge of conference tables. Stand proudly at the round conference table (or maybe it’s a modular conference table – you are the purchasing officer after all, right?) you’ve so tastefully brought to the office and lay out your plans to furnish the entire place in just the right mix of traditional executive office furniture, contemporary office furniture and modern executive office furniture. Then soak up the accolades…

The end justifies the means, people, the ends justifies the means.