Horse-trading means saving money

The art of saving money is an acquired skill. One’s ability to do so can be best characterized as a sliding scale of attitude that ranges from thrifty to penny-pinching, tight and cheap, the ultimate insult.

The first description is polite, responsible and implies sound financial management. Frugal isn't so bad. Saving here and there, going without extravagant expenditures. Penny-pinching describes the person who wants to go dutch, but you roll with it, although it's irritating. Cheap describes the individual who pulls out the calculator at the burger joint to tally the split for the tip. It’s also the person who figures out the cost of a square on the toilet paper.

Cheap describes my husband.

And by the way, he says “I proudly admit it!” (Prime minister/The Saint). He grew up eating what he and his father could catch from the stream or shoot in the woods, in a postage-size home, the child of two artists. When the family needed work done on the home, his father put a saw in his six-year old hands and told him to watch his fingers.  It didn’t help he went on to acquire a degree in economics and finance, further cementing his philosophy abt getting the most for the least, even when money is available. In his mind, money is never available. Ever.

After I got over the 'I’m-going-to-kill-him' for continuous complaints about the cost of Charmin over Kirkland brand toilet paper, and me cataloging in an excel spreadsheet how many squares I use to wipe my arse, we compromised that I wouldn't "throw away money" as long as I always, always, asked for a trade. 



Be the ball,
I mean, horse Danny (Caddyshack)

“See what you can do to lower the cost,” he's say to me before I called up for a bid. "It's just horse-trading."

Couldn’t I just pay the bill and be done with it? No. Rog would ask for a ‘report’ to which I’d have to respond honestly (I can't lie for beans, though I gave it my best shot early on).

Over the years, my acumen for wheedling down a price has gotten pretty good. But then, I’m always scouting something to give away as an enticement, even if it’s food. Certain circumstances call for what’s in my head (business advice), other times, it’s a old sink in my garage. All depends. What entices one individual doesn’t work for another.

For instance, two weekends ago my author site required an upgrade and new code work. The bill was to be a few hundred bucks, and I’d set aside my sheckles to pay for this (it took months, since Rog insisted I pay for it with the nickels and dimes from on-line book sales—another topic. Suffice it to say it’s in increments of .10cents).  Even though I saved the money, I wanted it for free. Fortune smiled upon me, and the web development firm asked for my assistance on helping their proposal process (so they could win more business). Creating proposals is second nature for me, and I took the opportunity to offer a trade= their work for mine, assuming the numbers were approximately the same. No cash out. It was awesome.

This shouldn’t be suprising. When Methusala roamed the Earth in loin clothes and sandals, coinage wasn’t used. A farmer traded wheat for a goat in order to have milk. Now in my baby food stained sweats, I traded a week of vacation stay to the kid (25yr old man actually) getting married so he could tape, pressure wash and stain our home before the cedar shakes disintegrated.

Here are a few more examples of cheapness-delivers-good-outcomes:

1- Offered to host a wedding shower for a quasi neighbor/acquaintance in return for her husband helping us clear some trees. It may sound lame, but it saved both of us hundreds of dollars in cash. We (the collective 4 of us) did hard labor, and had no hard costs per se.

2-Two years ago, part of our roof was leaking. The material cost was minimal, but the labor expensive ($50+ an hour). Me, being my shameless self, made chit-chat with the two burley guys that showed up for the bid.  (Well, 2 sets of burley guys showed up actually). My personal mission was to cut out $1200 dollars from the price, for no reason other than I wanted to impress Rog. We had two, barely used 2-stroke motorcycles sitting in our garage. I offered to provide the bikes and the trailer for a reduction in the labor cost. The first guys said no, the second set yes. Turns out one had a teenage son and this was a perfect gift. It was great!

Other examples of trading….

3- I provided PR services in the Seattle area for a CNN producer (who contacted me over the Internet--totally blind cold call on his part) and he in turn, gave me his contact database for a marketing program. He came out a little ahead, by a few hundred bucks, but I wasn’t going to quibble. His database was worth far more than an hour or two of my time.

4-Graphic design for my book, website and other projects. Good designers are expensive and hard to come by. I traded a part of revenue from each source in return for a low or, in some cases, no cost up front fee for my projects. By the end of the program, the designers received much more money than they would have in taking an upfront fee.

In this economic environment, I’m even more creative on what I’ll offer up, ask for and consider. Believe you me, people are always asking me off-the-wall questions, coming up with crazy propositions. The worst someone can say is no.

Final thoughts…

1-what do you have to offer?

2-what’s in your garage, home etc you can live without?

3-is labor interesting? Are you, or your husband w/work? Labor is expensive, and folks will eagerly pay or trade for honest, hard-working hands.

Slimmer thighs fast!

When it comes to fitting in jeans, I live by a simple mantra: saddlebags are for horses, not women.

Christy Brinkley, she of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit covers, has ridden horses for years. She credits riding for giving her thin "inner" thighs. For the outer thighs, she has to work it off, the same as us mere mortals, the hard way. Lots of repetitive exercises, all of which can be done without bands, weights or other convenient excuses. In three days, you'll feel a difference in your jeans (assuming you don't gorge in the process). In five days, you're pants will be looser, and in a week, your butt and thighs will be noticeably smaller.

Ready, set, GO!

Exercise	Side	Reps	Note
Inner thigh	Left	25 reps/3 times	Alternate sides between each rep
Inner thigh	Right	25 reps/3 sets
Outer thigh	Left	25 reps/3 times	Alternate sides between each rep
Outer thigh	Right	25 reps/3 sets
Donkey kick-side	Left	25 reps/3 sets	On knees and hands, lift knee to shoulder height
Donkey kick-side	Right	25 reps/3 sets	On knees and hands, lift knee to shoulder height
Donkey kick-back	Left	25 reps/3 sets	On knees and hands, lift knee straight up (leg parallel back)
Donkey kick-back	Right	25 reps/3 sets	On knees and hands, lift knee straight up (leg parallel back)
Donkey cross	Left	25 reps/3 sets	On knees and hands, lift knee straight up 1x, then cross to leg on floor (works inner thigh)
Donkey cross	Right	25 reps/3 sets	On knees and hands, lift knee straight up 1x, then cross to leg on floor (works inner thigh)
Butt-ups		50 reps/2 sets	Lying on back, lift butt so its angled with the knees. Tilt pelvis up and down in sets of 10-15. Switch up pressings knees together, then apart for extra benefit.

Going to the mat w/Contractors

As much as I've been on tv, the radio, and even written books about successful contract negotiations, I've had years of failure negotiating simple, contracting jobs for my own home. I'd like to attribute this to a lot of things: not talking the contractor-babble-language, feeling overwhelming, being blond. But it comes right down to not being equipped with the tips that helped me be so confident and successful in the workplace.  I was determined not to get screwed at the drive-thru again (Joe Pesci/Lethal Weapon).

With this vision in mind, I knew I had to approach home contracting like a mixed martial arts fighter about to enter the Octogan ring. I had to practice my skills by writing out a pitch and preparing a strategy to win. This meant outlining the business terms (budget) and how to set myself for victory by guiding the discussion. Finally, I had to be ready to go for the throat when I closed the deal. This meant the contractor had to earn the business by throwing in something extra. I was determined to be my man Machida, the last person standing, the celebrated victor, gold belt waving above my head.

Tip one--Qualify the contractor...ask the five questions you'd use to hire a full-time employee

1. What type of project to they prefer?
2. What are their differentiating skills/capabilities?
3. How would they rank/rate themselves against their competitors, and why?
4. What would their last client say about them?
5. What is their guarantee policy?

Talk to at least 2 or 3 contractors. Mention the others by name if they ask. Forgive the pun, but always enlightening to hear if a contractor will build or, or tear down their peer.

Tip two--Get an estimate, or an approximate in writing before the contractor shows up. 

This might require you to provide details on line or over the phone, which is fine. 

The reason for this tip is to prevent a bait and switch. Three of the last four times I talked to a contractor over the phone, the phone cost for a project was estimated at one range--high to low. When the contractor showed up, the price increased by a third to a half. In the fourth case, the contractor gave me the same price in person as he had on the phone, but when I received the written proposal, the bid was just shy of double what he'd quoted.

In every case, I thought at least I'd get the courtesy of understanding why I was being screwed, but a logical reason wasn't even provided. This is when I came to the conclusion the contractor(s), who were all male, determined I wasn't paying attention, didn't care, or was rubber-stamping a bid. This leads to tip three.

Tip three--Dispel notions of grandeur. 

Do this by stating that you are 'cheap' and 'like to do a lot of work yourself.' 

In our case, it's true. But even if it wasn't, I'd say it for effect.  When a potential contractor comes on the property, I make small talk, tell the person about Rog's youth fishing for food in Colorado, building a room on the house ourselves, and how we watch pennies in order to save for our children's college fund. They start to get the picture that a) I'm not going to be a person that signs the order and disappears back in to the home and b) I'm sensitive to every penny. The risk on this tip is that a contractor won't bid the project at all because it's not easy money. 

I'm willing to take that risk. More often than not, I've found a contractor will artificially raise the price as a way to compensate with a pain-in-the-butt client like me. It's a polite way of telling me I'm not worth the effort. I'm completely OK with that, and it leads to a vital aspect of negotiating for a fair deal.

Tip four-be upfront about the price!

Just like negotiations for buying or selling a business, set expectations right up front about the project budget. Forget the whole 'you-tell-me-first-then-I'll-tell-you-second' thing. That's bunk and doesn't work. On the phone, do your best to describe the project and your budget. This allows the contractor to pre-qualify him or herself, saving either of you a lot of wasted time and effort.

When the person comes to your house, you restate the budget, go through the project, then re-ask the contractor if the project fits within the budget. Tell the contractor you are weighing the benefits of one project over another.

Top-notch contractors are going to be honest, and say yes it's possible, or no, it's not. The best contractors will give you options--do this, save here, don't do that, save there. Bottom line, let the contractor tell you if he/she will take the project at your budget price, even if it's below market. 

This happened two times this summer, when we had critical home repairs that came out of nowhere. We had some wood-damaged, rotting poles that had to be fixed. We had a budget, we called in potential contractors, and where one wouldn't budge on a bid, the other gave us alternatives: remove the damaged wood piece entirely or cut and replace the damaged section. Further, the second contractor said he could save us additional money if we were patient, and he coupled the trip with an existing project in the area, thereby saving travel fees.

We went with the second contractor, who did such a great job (and came under budget by a few hundred bucks) that we asked him to bid on another project. This leads to tip five--

Tip five--ask about other services.

We had no idea that a wood contractor could handle metal sheeting. A ten-foot section of our roof was weather damaged, the shingles black from rot. Once again, we'd put it off to the point the inside of our home was going to be irreversibly damaged. 

"Call the Creasey guys," he suggested. The thought never occurred to me. 

Sure enough, the company had years of experience, since they actually built log homes (we'd only had repairs done). Their bid was nearly half what others had quoted me the year prior due to their volume. And once again, we saved hundreds of dollars by being patient, as the crew coupled our project with another.

Losing it all---twice

As I pondered writing a pithy note about today being my 12^th wedding anniversary, I am inspired to write about losing everything. Actually, losing everything twice. Isn’t that a lot more interesting than reading a ditty about my wedding date?

In my early twenties, I was too proud to admit any type of shortcoming, and I didn’t have an abundance of compassion on those less fortunate around me. Clearly, the good Lord knew I had to grow up, and decided to smash me to the ground a few times in order to let go of these ‘minor’ weaknesses.

At twenty-one came a marriage that I insisted upon, largely because my parents were against it. Then came an unexpected pregnancy about three months later, right around the time I realized my parents were right and I was terribly wrong. After a divorce, the first in my extended family to do so, I had the joy of declaring bankruptcy, taking care of a child and working full time.

I was only twenty-three, and still endowed with enough pride to prevent me from asking my parents for help. If I was going to work, by darn, I was going to do it on my own and do it well. No dating. No social life. No nothing, other than paying the bills, seeing my child and moving up the corporate ladder (starting as a receptionist btw, which was all I was qualified to do).

For years, I drove crappy cars, had to fork over hundreds of dollars to finance companies for the privilege of getting a measly two hundred dollar credit line. When I traveled on company business, I had to ask for a cash advance, because neither my card or cash situation could cover it. It was humiliating, and it lasted for nearly four years. The worst part was feeling judged by my circle of family and friends. It was as though I was Lydia, the errant, crazy sister to Lizzy and Jane’s Bennett, whose situation was hurting the rest of the spotless clan. The only positive I could see in the situation was that the block of experiences meant I’d start over and never go back.

Boy, was I wrong.

Seven years later, the “BK Burger” as Rog referred to the bankruptcy, was off my record, my new business was doing well and I figured I was mature enough to enter into another relationship. This time, I fell for a man who dressed like a straight-man's Tom Ford, had a great job, and was everything my first husband wasn’t. The only downside was after 11 months, he told me he didn’t love me, and the following day, moved out of the condo. The topper was he tried to saddle me with a 5-year tax bill he’d never paid (that I’d not known about, along with his secret PO Box etcetc). The only reason it didn’t stick was because our divorce papers were filed two days prior to when the IRS came knocking on my door.

I had to hock everything I’d gained over the last seven years while the IRS took 30 days to pour through paperwork proving I wasn’t part of some scam. Doesn’t this sound Maddoff-ish? 

I wasn’t yet thrity. I’d been rode hard and put away wet. Life was not good. Mom’s oft-repeated phrase that we continue to experience the same events until we learn and change rung in my ears. How many times was I going to have to go through this until I “got it?”

That was when Rog came into my life as a friend. Rog helped me see that people appreciate others who wear failure as a point of pride.

“Fail fast,” he suggested. The faster I try something, the faster I fail, the faster I learn, the faster I grow.

Failing was brutal, and I excelled at it. I followed my dream and wrote a book. With the exception of Harvard, who hailed it, and the intended audience of business executives, the criticism for the first book was so horrendous, so absolutely toxic, I didn’t leave the house for a nearly a month. Granted, the vitriol was on Amazon, from people I’d never met and didn’t know me personally. Evenso, the savage reviews were emotionally devastating.

It took me three years to get back my mojo. Only when I realized I had nothing more to lose did I start writing again. Now I’m now on book eight. That’s what people see today—not the work or challenges that preceded the present.

(PS- I immortalized the entire ten-years of succulent, juicy (and true) stories in two books that have just been released on line. It’s now all out for the world to read about.

Regret is a stupid, counterproductive emotion. Yet I have my share, and I'm big enough to admit it. I'm forever regretting I hadn’t lost twenty years of my life growing up. At the same time, I don’t regret picking up dimes from the street to buy a potato, or walking to work because I couldn’t pay for car insurance. Those were character-building, life changing events for me. They are the reasons why I can empathize with someone out of work or out on the streets. It’s the same reason why I believe in hope, perseverance and the power of self-determination. It’s what I’ve lived and what I now believe.  

The things I have now I appreciate, more so because I know what the loss is like.Twice over.

Improve your complexion-increase metabolism

Facial issues don’t begin and end with puberty. The course of life means changing hormones. With that reality a face and skin with different needs and problems.

My particular issue has been a dry face, dry skin, dry hair. Not cracking, mind you. But dry. Lo and behold, in my twenties, I clue into the fact I’m not eating the right kinds of foods. I need(ed) those high in good oils, like olives, not bad oils, like the kind found on pizza. Even so, sometimes my skin was blotchy, like a patchwork quilt of browns and tans. Worst off, the skin started to show natural signs of aging. No mystery here. Men and women both suffer from collagen loss after forty.

So to the books I went, searching for answers. The moment I found a solution, I tried it out, refined and refined for the best answer, and walla. Women started complimenting my skin and I happily gave away my secrets. Soon enough, I learned my little concoctions were being used in other parts of the country.

Dry Skin Elixer (homemade, inexpensive and won’t clog the poors).

In a glass bottle (small, $2.99 at Michaels) prick the ends of Borage, Primrose capsules, Vitamin E and Vitamin A and squeeze into the bottle. My mixture varies, since I like less Borage in the winter, for a thicker concoction, and more in the summer, for a thinner concoction. The biggest expense will be the capsules. Get the organic kind from PCC or Whole Foods. Each will run @$8.00 or so.  A and E strengthen the skin, Borage helps heal the skin and Primrose gets rid of dark circles. I use this morning and night, before I put on my make-up and after I remove make-up and tone my skin.

My cousin who lives in Vegas has oily skin, but it gets dry in the dessert. Even she uses the above recipe and it doesn’t clog her pores or make her skin oily. She increases the amount of Borage so the mixture is light enough to wear day and night.

Toner

Most women don’t use toner, and that’s a tragedy. Toner is ESSENTIAL to tightening and toning the skin—hence, the use of the word Toner. However, most off the shelf toners are full of crap that do nothing (if I had time I’d digress on this subject, but am skipping the details). Suffice it to say that the best toner, hands-down, can be found in your supermarket in the dressing aisle.

Organic, apple cider vinegar.

Yep. You read that right. It stinks. It’s quasi-orange. It has the meat at the bottom of the bottle (you need to shake the bottle). But here’s what you do.

Application:

Take the bottle, shake it, put a teaspoon in a half cup of water, or thereabouts. This waters it down. With a Kleenex or preferably something softer, dip the tissue in the mixture and wipe it around your face. Yes, it will reek. But you will immediately notice the oils disappear and the skin tighten. This is a freaking miracle worker.

After years of purchasing the most expensive toners on the market, this has been one of the greatest finds ever. My friends with perpetual acne problems swear by this as well. In fact, I haven’t found a single skin type that doesn’t benefit from this little miracle in a bottle.

Increasing Metabolism—a side benefit.

While you’re at, slurp 2 tablespoons full of the stuff. It increases circulation and speeds metabolism. Takes like H—L, but ok if you chase it with some orange juice.

One last point on improving circulation and increasing metabolism.

My Grandmother Olson swore by her chamomile tea with cayenne pepper. In my thirties, when the wheels of metabolism started slowing, I remembered what my tall, lean Grandma used. Like most women back in the day, she had a home-grown remedy for every ailment. This one happened to be vanity, but she swore it made her arms and feet warmer. Us Swedes have cold feet. To my husband’s delight, it worked. No more cold feet. Nothing kills the bedroom deal than cold feet.

Swedes don’t cry

Grandpa Olson passed away this morning. He was just shy of a hundred.

He was my mother's father, the formality of the title enduring until the day he died. Last month, I stopped by the nursing home to see him with my mom and one of my daughters. The scene was classic. Passing through a corridor of old men in barco-loungers, he was in his room, sitting straight up, asleep, a pack of Marlboro’s in his right pocket. A half-empty mug of coffee by his hand. His white hair, still thick and lush, needed a trim. Grandpa’s arms were nearly black, belying the myth that us Swedes don’t tan.

Summer 2 yrs ago

“It takes a lot of time to smoke four packs a day,” my mom said in an undertone, noting the chair outside, facing the mid-day sun. Tanning alone didn't get that purple-tint. When one gets to three-digits, the walls of the veins thin, and seepage occurs, darkening the skin.

“Too much information,” I said to my mom, feeling a wave of nausea. Better not to know what awaits me sixty years hence. I'm still coming to grips with the notion of menopause and hot flashes that will be hitting me this decade (us Swedes have schedules to keep).

When I asked Grandpa about getting out and about, going to his favorite breakfast joint, or why his room lacked a bed, he said he didn’t need one.

“This is just fine,” he said. That was when I noticed a ‘smell.’ When I put Sophia on the floor to crawl around, mom looked at me like I was crazy, waited a few more seconds then bent down and picked her up. Not wanting to bother her, I walked to get Sophia, and on the return, saw a bunch of stains on my chair. In horror, I shot my mom a look, raising an eyebrow.

Grandpa, Sophia and mom, 8/27/10

She nodded.

Another wave of nausea. My pants were new. The seat, as evidenced by the various color and shapes of stains, was not. Mom had told me about 'accidents' happening, despite my Grandfather’s diapers.

Still, Grandpa was sharp. He caught the silence, the looks, sweeping the child from the floor, my resistance to sitting down on the padded chair.

He burst out laughing. “Getting old is hell!” he barked, and we all laughed as only family in on the same joke can.

It was tough seeing him age, but he was a Swede through and through. He held it well. No complaints, and no tears.

“Swedes don’t cry,” was a phrase my mom often used growing up.  Just ask Elin Nordgren. Last month, I couldn’t help myself, and read the People Magazine where she was on the cover. She wrote that through the anihalation of her marriage, she didn’t cry once. Not during. Not after. Still hadn’t.

“We’re Swedish,” she said, as if we lacked tear ducts.

The phrase served us well. On vacations with Grandpa, he’d put us to work, believing free time was wasted time. Once my brother and I made the mistake of complaining to Grandpa we were bored. He said he had a fun project. He led us to the dirt road and told us to pick out the big rocks.

“What will you give us?” my enterprising brother asked shamelessly.

“A glass of milk.” Three hours later, when we finished, we got it.

“How can you be done?” he asked.

My brother had the insight to define what “big” meant. When he explained his definition, Grandpa let us off the hook. Otherwise, we’d still be there, thirty years later. It served it’s purpose. We never complained again.

Mom took the don’t cry philosophy a bit further. The true English translation can be summed up thus: If a bone isnt’ jutting out, stop complaining.

This lesson was exemplified when I fell of Grandpa’s front porch, falling on the top of my left wrist. The angled bricks broke my hand in three places. But no bones were poking out.

“If it’s still hurting in a couple of hours, we’ll go to the doctor.”

I don’t remember the next few hours. It was a haze of pain as I clamped my mouth to prevent tears. I was a Swede, and we didn’t do that. Suffice it to say I finally got a cast and the luxury of Asprin.

A few years later, I woke up with a buzzing in my left ear. I’d never felt anything like it and told her it hurt really bad.

“If it was an earache, you’d be screaming in pain,” mom said, telling me to have a good day.

That night, I’m playing basketball and I can’t hear a darn thing the coach is yelling at me. It was like I’d gone deaf.



“Hey!” he yells at me. “You have blood coming out your ear!”

I felt like Sulu in the Wrath of Kahn, my brain having been hijacked by a giant worm that was now lurking out my ear drum.

Turns out my eardrum had burst, a preventable condition had I made it to the doctor in the morning hours of the day.

Yet did I cry? Nope. Not a tear. I'm thankful for my Grandfather and mother emphasizing the Swedish way. It's helped me overcome defeat on the track field, crushing disappointment in my career and devastating personal issues. Who cared if the guys at Microsoft announced "the ice queen cometh," when I entered the meeting room? The whole non-emotional thing has served me well in most facets of my life.

Today, at church, I learned one other man passed from this mortal life. He was briefly eulogized by a son-in-law, who figured the man was already asking to be put to work upstairs. I wanted to raise my hand and ask if he was Swedish, but I figured that would be bad form.



The last photo of Grandpa
taken before his death



At home, Rog and I scrapped about the funeral arrangements. He is preparing to leave for a trip, perhaps the most important one of the year. He reminded me the journey to Grandpa’s house is long. He voiced concern about me traveling with kids. I just couldn’t take him telling me he didn’t want me to go. I was on the verge of napalistic (Don-kingisom for napalming+ballistic=napalistic).

I prepared to retreat to my corner before I let off on him.

“But I know he meant the world to you," he said, catching me by the arm before I can leave. "If it’s really that important, I’ll cancel my trip and drive you.”

“You’d do that?” I asked, knowing it would mean he’d lose the money spent on the trip, the business opportunity during the trip and maybe a client in the process.

“Of course. I love you," he says, with that aren't-you'-silly-voice.  "You’re everything to me.”

For all the diatribe of protecting the heart, the practice of mind over pain, forty years of wasn't enough to hold back the tears. The Swedish heritage finally had a weak link in the DNA thread, and it was mine. Yet just this once, I figured my Grandfather would be ok with it.

Baby food for dummies & ROI

When I recently went to LA for a 3 day trip, the lives of my daughters relied upon Rog's father skills. He was covered during the day, when the kids were with our local Grandma. It was the twelve hours from 6-6 that had me a bit worried.

Sure enough, as I dined on Sushi in Beverly Hills, I get this text : 'Baby food out. What now??'

The stores weren't closed you see. He'd gone, revolted at the price of baby food, and determined our daughter was going to be the Ghandi of Maple Valley by staging a hunger strike. When her limit reached two hours, he calls me.

"Make it," I texted. Someone who is so cheap as to decline buying sustanance doesn't warrant the cost of a phone call.

Back he goes to the store, diving her preferred foods of sweet potatoes and carrots were enough. He splurged, and went organic. The following day, he said I needed to blog this for all the fathers who don't know how to make baby food, and their mother's who are "spending outrageous amounts of money on baby food!" (my long-suffering family knows this little factoid abt Rog. He doesn't care about the big things in life. It's the little nickle-and-diming that drives his soul deep into the woods).

3 Steps to the best, organic baby food

1. Purchase the stuff.

2. Boil until you can insert and remove a knife.

3. Blanche. This means--pour out the hot liquid and immediately fill with cold water. This ensures the peel comes off from the root.

4. Let cool in a bowl.

5. Place in cuisinart w/a bit of liquid. Get the consistency nice and mushy, especially if your baby has no, or some teeth. **carrots and other things, such as peas, are better in the Osterizer, and then strained-particularly the peas.

A batch will last a few days. Refigeration is required, as the vegies will spoil quickly if left out.

Total Return on Investment: Man-speak for savings 

Cost of 7 days worth of food: 3 feedings, 4 bottles/day (organice baby food): $18.00 / day or $126/wk

Making it yourself: $12 for 2 lbs of food.

Total savings? $114

The only downside of this adventure was then I was forced to acknowledge the convenience had far outweighed the cost factor in my personal hierarchy of needs. We played Rock Paper Scissors to determine how much our child should be fed what, end on our own 99%, but having the back-up for emergencies. I'm down with that, particularly since I manage the grocery budget. Thanks to Rog, I now have more pin-money for other things.

4-Step Garage FaceLift

There I was, enjoying my special ‘day after time’ with him, head on his shoulder—which is somewhat rare for me—and Rog literally jumps up.

“Grab your camera!” he says and goes outside. “Take this picture”, and he starts expounding on the benefits of giving the garage a do-it-yourself facelift. “Everybody needs to know this,” he passionately explains, evangelically spouting how he loves Home Depot, the Internet, and ability to save thousands of dollars. He walks around the garage like an art director pointing at the angles I need to take and tells me what he did. 

Completing the garage took three days and ten years. It was so vile, I needed a hasmat suit to enter the thing when we purchased the house. Over the years, Rog did his best to stuff up holes in the walls with duck tape reminiscent of McGyver and his all-purpose bubblegum fix. He attempted to prevent the rain from rotting the solid log poles that held the shack together, and it worked to a degree. Our cars survived, as did the parts cemetery that bore testament to his never-ending quest to give his car “just ten more horsepower.” 

Yet nothing solved “the stink” of the floor, besotten with mice droppings, the errant bird nest and untold critter corpses. Finally, at the beginning of this summer, I had it. I entered the pit of despair, on a quest for an item I’d put in a box by the far wall, and ran into a blackened muffler that nearly sheered of a toe. Screaming in pain, I reeled back, narrowly missing a mousetrap with Rog’s special brand of cheeto-peanut-butter-cyanide mix.

That was it. I didn’t care what had to be done. I was going to do it. I knew the only way to inspire was to do the hard labor of sorting, moving, organizing and dumping out these precious boxes of junk. Rog is great at directing, but bad at cleaning. He’s a closet horder. 



There. I’ve outted him. Anyone who keeps textbooks from college and a sweat-stained jersey from high school needs professional help. 

I waited until he left for work, put the baby in the Bjorn, and with P-dog looking on, tackled the garage. Four dump runs and three Goodwill drop-offs later, the pit was an empty space, ready to be cleaned and prepped.

This was where Rog took over. All in, the project was $260 over the last thirty days.  

Before and after Walls

Step 1-Walls…

Priming the walls. 



Check out the before and after shots. 7 cans were $54 bucks, and are perfectly fine for our needs. Rog sanded and did the painting with some help from little P.

Step 2-Floor



Left-after shot of speckles, Middle - before- Right- the pavement



This was the most time consuming, as it had 3 mini-sub steps. He had to wash 25 years of slop from the floor, which was a rusty brown-black. He purchased two kits for about $100 each and with tax was $207 total. (see photo). It entailed acid washing the floor, which meant we kept the cats inside until it dried, then washed it again. Finally, he used the floor paint and spent the extra $20 on these speckles from Home Depot.

Rog's Fav product



Step 3-Shelving

This is where we are taking our time. While we ogled a the nice pieces from California Closet, we couldn’t’ stomach spending $3,500 on a section when we get enough storage for the entire garage at Home Depot for less than a grand. Here and there, we’ve picked up a long shelf or metal shelving to store the dozens of boxes that hold our holiday stuff, important business items or car necessities. Going with the HD solution also gives us lots of flexibility for the weird angles in our garage.

Home Depot Shelves and  Hockey stink be gone!

Shelving is also fantastic because after five years and three gallons of detoxifying liquid used to remove the God-awful stench of sweaty hockey gear from our downstairs, it's banished to its rightful place in the garage.

Step 4-decoration

See those colored “happy-time” lights? That was my add In the din of Northwest winter, I turn on the lights and immediately feel better about life.

Oh, and the lights were $11.95 at Target, 2 sets total. (the pic got cropped! will add in soon)

Dad, marital victory and intuition

Three weeks ago, I did an evil thing to Rog. I started planting the seeds of a Halloween Party.

“Boy, the guys at the school sure love hanging out with you,” or “hey, we’ve been talking about what fun it was to get together for Halloween last year.”

“I’m smarter than that,” he replied, brushing off my comments.

I let it go for a week. I made sure the house was tidy, the kids were clean. His fishing tackle wasn’t used as a cat toy. I bided my time, then waiting until he gave a great client presentation. He was in the mood for celebration.

When he got home, I actually had on make up, my hair was brushed and teeth were glinty-white. As he leaned against the wall, I smiled my widest, waited until he finished telling me his glory story, then closed the deal.

“Since everything is going so well, what do you say about a party? My friends will help, it will be potluck. No worries. No stress. You can even wear your Power Ranger costume,” reminding him how good he looks in the puffed up yellow and black costume; a mini-Arnold wrapped in fleece.

Rog was genuinely sweet as he leaned against the wall, and said “if it will make you happy, then I fully support it.”

I was gleeful. Downright giddy like a schoolgirl. The text and formatting of the evite was already complete in my head.  I couldn’t wait to send out the evites. But it was late, and I told myself I’d do it in the morning.

Then a funny thing happened on the road to marital victory. I had crossed the finish line, ready to pick up the trophy that would be our first-ever (adult-only) Halloween party, and I balked. I had this uncomfortable feeling about it.  

Mom, the shrink, thought it was reverse psychology. Rog gave me what I wanted. In so doing, I’d actually do what he wanted me to do, which was not have one. Another time, perhaps. This was different. He truly was giving and supportive when I suckered him in. He knew how much I wanted to throw a party for our friends and agreed to it.

I knew this was something else. It was the strange, weird feeling I’ve gotten over the years that I’ve learned to listen to—especially when it was a gut-churning feeling.

Let me give you some examples, and further share my life with complete strangers.

When I was thirteen, I was asked to go on a date with a certain boy. He was popular. Hot. I wanted to go out with him as much as I had kind of a sick feeling about him. He had a bad reputation. He was into a few things that were a bit on the edge (smoking in the back parking lot).

My Dad was never wrong about people, so I asked him if I could go. (I told him none of the questionable things). Dad didn’t know him, but proceeded to ask a few questions. After the interrogation was over, dad said “sometimes the things you don’t do are more important than those you do.”

I didn’t get it. I met the boy at a pizza parlor. We had pizza with friends. We played arcades. And in the middle of the room, he leaned over, shoved his tongue down my throat so far I was sure he hit my tonsils—I choked, nearly threw up on him, and ruined a perfectly new top wiping the slobber from my mouth. It was horrible. Ruined my vision of him, and robbed me of a perfectly good opportunity that was to be my first tongue-kiss (e.g. French-kissing). I’m still scarred.

Twenty or so years later, I’m running a consulting company. I’d been featured in Fortune, been on TV, blah blah (oh, the glory days before I had dogs farting on me and a newborn spitting up on my hair). I got a call to represent a well-publicized start-up. Once again, I was tempted by the opportunity, but had a sick feeling. I got on the bat phone to my father. By that time, I’d either forgotten his sage advice, or I’d not applied it to the business world.

“Sometimes, it’s not what you do, it’s what you don’t do that saves you.”

Here again, I failed to listen. I took the client on, had a stellar engagement. So much so that the CEO wrote a letter of recommendation. A few months later, the crap hit the fan. I receive a letter from an attorney demanding a refund for failure of completed work. They threatened to sue. I was shocked. I had to hire an attorney. I provided the letter of recommendation from the CEO. I was sick. I’d lost weight (that part was OK). Come to find out, the company had run out of money, and the venture capital firm that backed the start-up was going after every single service provider the CEO hired (and he was fired btw). If I hadn’t had the letter and all the other correspondence, I’d have been buried. As it was, every dime of profit I earned on the project was spent in legal fees.

Dad, the giver of all-wisdom

Oh, and if you’d like one more horror story of “not listening”….When we were on vacation in Mexico, hanging with Rog’s parents (who finally arrived, after getting lost at the Mexico City Airport!), it was the middle of March, 2000. The stock market was flying high, Rog was still with Microsoft. We were in the middle of remodeling our house. Life was good. I started to get this horrid feeling in my gut that we needed to sell every dime of stock and just sock it away.

“Are you crazy?” he said as we were poolside. The Microsoft stock was at an all-time high. “It will never drop below 108” he said confidently.

I begged. I pleaded. I argued. He ignored me. Two days later, the stock started to tank. He got nervous, but still held onto it. Day three. The stock had dropped more than a third. Day four, by more than half. Finally, he relented, and sold what he could. When the dust of the tech bubble bursting had settled, we had a fraction of what we’d had five days prior. Retirement? Gone. Ten years worth of work? Gone. Barely enough to cover the remainder to put the doors on our house.

So here we are, in the present, and talking about really important things like a Halloween party. This time, like all the others, I have no clue “why” I’m having a bad feeling. I have no idea what badness could possibly manifest itself. All I know is when I have this gut check, and I ignore it, I always live to regret it.

When I tell Rog, he didn’t think twice. He used history as his guide. Bad feelings=bad outcomes. Was it a drunk-driving accident we are preventing? Would someone or something be needed of us that night?  Who knows? It’s not worth wondering about. All I know is I want to have a party, but not at some horribly high cost.

Trusting your instinct is felt and identified by people differently. Just this morning, my hairdresser, told me she felt odd about a man who she later learned was a convicted sex offender. She called this her “mommy-instinct.” Intuition, or the ability to assess people is also a gift. An example of this is a principle who once told me about his knack for identifying when a child was a victim of abuse. I don’t want to digress into a completely boring topic, but the whole gut-check thing is an unsung hero that’s a great guide—if we listen. Because if listening doesn’t happen the first time around, I guarantee the opportunity will come again, and again, and again, until we do.

In the meantime, when it comes to a Halloween party, we’ll be staying home, watching a movie, eating some spooky popcorn.

videos of abs-seriously?...seriously!...seriously.

I've been asked by she-who-refuses-to-be-named to provide short videos of my ab exercises. "Even professionals do this," said she. That, I assured her, I am not. But then, I like being the headless ab (see blog on abs for the inside joke). If I can get my 5 yr old to hold the camera still, I'll see what can be done.

Varicose vein fix

Age is a mean thing, especially as it relates to legs. Proportionately, the legs cover the most territory, get the most exposure, and get brutalized by sun, standing or knocks against doors and tables.

My Swedish family, the woman and men therein, seem to have a high rate of varicose veins. We may be tall, nordic beings that are cool with ebelskiva and swedish pancakes, but are so tightly wound we've cut off the circulation in our legs. These lovely red things come in different shapes and sizes, all of which mentally scarred me as a child. I remember sitting at the lake with my aunts, who were all in a circle. The lawn chairs were sat in water (the lagoon by the beach was high that year). Five sets of feet were in the water, and the women (including my mom) were yapping about their legs.(PS-ebelskiva's are wonderful, round little pancakes that look like oversized golf balls, made in a special cast iron pan. yum. us Swedes and our pancakes)

“Don’t ever cross your legs,” one opined.

“And don’t stand too long,” said she with eleven children.

“Make sure to exercise,” said another one, the shortest, who was a professional speed walker, “and don’t sit for too long without moving.”

“Eat your greens,” said the jovial, rotund one, who was gave this planet eight boys and one girl.

“Eh, it’s all hogwash,” disputed my mother.  “You can’t do anything about it. You’ll either get them or you won’t.” Leave it to my mom, the shrink, to cut through the crap. “And by the way, they will either come when you have kids or they won’t. Your choice.”

Turns out, they were all right to varying degrees. Starting at that moment, I tried to listen to them all, while taking my mom’s comment with a degree of salt. As a teen, I rarely crossed my legs, exercised through sports in school until I left for college and ate cabbage.

However, my good habits went downhill at college, and moreso when I entered the workforce. I crossed my legs during meetings or when I thought it was going to be sexy (that happens when you date). I went through years of not-really exercising (San Francisco + hills + the high cost of gyms didn’t incentivize me to workout)

Photo credit of Beautyfactor

The little spider veins came first. On the top of my left thigh, little, bitty red lines that extend out, exactly in the spot where my right leg rested. Clearly, my thighs had some girth to push down and pop those suckers.

The ugly, blue and purple lines started on the back of my left leg, just below the knee after my second child. With the third, they became more pronounced. They also started to hurt a bit, at odd times. Noting aunts and cousins with veins that popped out to the point of being external arteries coursing up and down, I freaked, and asked my mom.

She then told me twenty years before, she’d had her legs stripped of a lot of veins to get rid of hers. So, heredity had me by the legs, she said, and I was doomed.

Not so! I vowed. I read. I wasn't about to go get shot up with saline solution, burned up with a laser or have my actual blood-pumping pipelines excavated. So I tested myself like the medical guinea pigs of yore, and found some natural and cheap fixes.

1. Horse Chestnut Oil.

Stinky, but it works, on both the little spider veins as well as the purple/blue varicose veins. It’s available at PCC, Whole Foods and on-line. I’ve used the oil application as well as the spray. When I started putting it on morning and night, brushing then rubbing it in vigorously. It took four months, but the spider veins  on my thigh have almost entirely disappeared. The ones on the back of my leg have reduced to the point they don’t bother me.

2. Rosemary by Dr. Haushkah did the final trick. This is great for making sure the spider and varicose veins stay at bay, since it increases circulation/stimulation. Thus, I also put this stuff on the back of my arms if I’m feeling flabby, as well as the back of my legs (don’t tell).  Check out Dr. Hauschka’s homeopathic section. This whole product line rocks. I’ve been using it for about 10 yrs, and I have nothing but good things to say about the products. 

When these two things fail (as in, your legs are too far gone, or you don't have the time or patience to apply this stuff) I have one word for you. Cheat.

Go for make-up to hide the damage.

1.Dr. Haushka has this product for cover-up.

2. Professional make-up works best, though you can use Mac cover make-up pro line works (it's available at most Mac counters). Love this pro-make up site. Personally, I like the Ben Nye products. A very teeny tiny bit goes a long long way. Perfect for tattoos and things you want to keep, but don't want to show at Aunt Myrna's fourth wedding.

3. Bananas. My father-in-law heard me mention my sore legs one time, whilst we were shimmying up a rock wall in Colorado. 

"Eat bananas," he said. "Lots of potassium." Of course I internally scoffed. What would a long-haired hippy know about leg aching. Alot, it turns out. I was in pain, he had a banana. I ate. He was right. How is it that all my elders know this stuff?

Since then (12 yrs ago), I eat a 1/2 a banana every day. The day after I've forgotten, or told myself I was 'over it', sure enough, the pain returns. 

Despite my bad genes, three kids and not-so-perfect stretch of eating and exercising in for a decade, I've managed to turn back the tide a bit on the legs. I figure at some point, the vessels will pop like a done turkey, but for now, I'm going to stick with my stinky process. It's worth it.