My First Job: Other Golden Nuggets From My Time at EFC

My First Job: Part 4 of 4

Other Golden Nuggets from my time at EFC

It was common knowledge to the general high school population that if you knew someone who worked at EFC, you could get a free meal or at least part of your meal free. That was partly due to high schooler shenanigans and partly due to the archaic ordering system. While the folks at McDonald's enjoyed the luxury of modern technologies such as cash registers that dummy-proofed things by calculating and posting change due to customers, we at EFC did things the old-fashioned way. Which is to say, we got out our stone tablets and chiseled out the customer's order. Instead of typing in specifics that was delivered electronically or even in "ticket form" the cooks in the back, we had to turn around and yell toward the door, "Hey, Bubba! I need a chicken-with-cheese and a no-pic!" ("No-pic" means chicken without a pickle. What kind of place would pair chicken with pickles, anyway?) And we even had to learn how to count back change mentally. The horror! Who KNOWS how many customers were ripped off and/or how much profit the EFC Corporation lost....probably enough money lost, surely, to justify cash registers that calculated change for the customer. Having said that, I did get pretty good at counting back change, which is kind of a lost art and cult skill these days. It's also a fun game to whip out at parties. I dare you to try to figure out how much change to give for an item that costs $9.37 if handed a twenty-dollar bill and fifty cents while being stared down by a very hangry person with eight screaming, tantrum-ing children in tow. Tick-tock!

I was just reminded by a fellow Chicken Compadre that back then, we handled filth-infested money and then immediately dished up your fries and handled your food without any pause to wash our hands. Hungry, anyone?

One magical evening, Dude, a guy from my high school, walked up to the counter. I had a hard-core crush on Dude, what with his mohawk and punk/skater-ly ways. (Before you classmates pull out your yearbooks or start flipping through my Facebook friends, "Dude" is not really his name, derrrr... And he doesn't have a mohawk these days, anyway - that I know of.) I literally got weak in the knees when he was around. That's not just a saying, people. That shit actually happens! I leaned seductively across the counter (which was really more to brace my wobbly-kneed self than to be seductive) in my oversized polo shirt, looked Dude squarely in the neck (i.e., me being short and too nervous to meet his eye), cocked my EFC baseball cap (i.e., hairnet substitute), and took that Fine Specimen's order. And then I did what any self-respecting fast food employee who has a crush on a customer would: I proceeded to load him up with other free food and kids meal toys. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, says "I'm both cool and hot for you" like giving an 18-year-old guy who appears way out of your league free kids meal toys! Dude needed a sherpa or pack mule or something to carry away all of his "I love you! Mwah!" prizes when he walked away from me. Not that I was trying too hard or anything. He walked out of that restaurant and out of my life forever...Or until Monday, when I stalked him in the hallways of our high school.

But it wasn't all love and goodness to and from customers at EFC. While I was mild-mannered and generally go-with-the-flow-and-don't-cause-trouble, my friend Beffy was kind of a badass: pretty, tough as nails, quick-witted, and quick-tempered to boot. She had a low, low threshold for BS. I have no idea how she lasted more than a few seconds at EFC. One busy Saturday, a lady with two-feet long fake nails and an attitude showed up in her line and repeatedly yelled at Beffy that she didn't want the fries that were furthest from the warmer, or those that were more crispy, and on and on. Fingernails threw one last rude-tongued barb at Beffy, and Beffy blew! Muttering angrily and surely loudly enough for the Fingernails to hear, she lunged toward Fingernails and was about to head over the counter before two of the fry guys ran over and restrained her. I could hear one of the fry guys telling Beffy, "It's not worth it!" as they ushered her quickly into the back room to allow her to cool off. Me? I just stood there, watching the whole thing unfold, giggling nervously and soaking up floor grease with my dropped chin. I go into "totally worthless freeze mode" in a crisis. Note this for future reference.

Ah, yes. EFC. There was something about that place that...lingered. And it was the stinch. Strange how the smell of liquified butter-like substance (on the bread slices) and peanut-oil drenched food frying could both lure in customers and repulse its employees. Mostly because the smell haunted us employees once we left. It permeated my hair and clothes. It infiltrated the inside of my car, clinging to me like a certain person's (read: not mine) passed gas that doesn't follow directions to stay on the outside of the vehicle. If I didn't take the Biohazard shower immediately upon arrival once home after work, the smell would wind up in my sheets and on my pillow, which meant I would continue to re-absorb the smell when I went to bed. My work clothes had to be burned in a metal garbage bin in the back yard. Okay, that last part is hyperbole a bit, but I did have to quarantine the offensively-smelling clothes until they could be washed. And even then, the smell was still there! After my nine-month stint at EFC, it was years before I could even hunger for EFC food again or not trigger a gag reflex upon smelling it.

EFC even had (has?) its own college, somewhere in the Midwest, to develop stellar future food service employees, I suppose. I can't even imagine what more I could learn after mastering fast food in nine months. My time working there overlapped with my college search. My totally hi-LAR-ious parents got a kick out of suggesting that I "could always go to EFC University!" (insert parents collapsing into uproarious laughter at their own witticisms). This was as funny to me as a smack on the ass by a breading-coated hand. To this day, they remind me that I am always welcome to continue my education. If that ever happens, the Zombie Apocalypse will surely be imminent. I'll just say "No" to Cluck U.

My First Job: Prank and Rile, Part 3 of 4


Oh, there were as many pranks going down at EFC as there were baskets of chicken breasts being fried. That's what happens when teenagers are running the show. My favorite falls somewhere between flirting and sexual harassment, depending on your perspective. The uniform at EFC at the time was navy blue pants and some 1990s-esque color-block polo shirt. Oh, and an EFC baseball cap, because later there would be a company baseball team practice. (Nah.) So, some of the guys working in the back would lay in wait, their gloved hands covered in flour and breading stickiness. I (or some other female employee - this was definitely not just a "me" thing) would come slide-running to the back on a film of fry grease to get chicken that was finally ready for someone's order. Once I had the goods, I'd turn to leave, and said guy would smack the back of my pants with a breaded hand. This left me with a beautiful white handprint or two on my backside for all of my customers to admire. Have you ever wiped your wet, breading-covered hands on your clothes? It's pretty much stuck like white paste until you can get it to a washing machine. Not cool, boys. Kinda funny if it's not you, maybe, but definitely not cool.


If you like the pie at EFC, this one's for you: One night I was closing the store with three other guys. We were clowning around (who, us?) in the back. One thing led to another, and suddenly, I found myself pinned to a refrigerator and having a pie shoved in my face. If that sounds like something that went too far, it was. I don't think the pie-to-the-face was as offensive as "three guys versus me" felt at the time. I walked out of there that night in the middle of closing, I was so pissed. I believe that was riiiight about the time that I gave my two-weeks' notice and refused to work a closing shift, much to the irritation of the other Chicken Slaves.


I think it was the combination of the slickness of the fry-grease coated floor, the narrowness of the area behind the counter, and the pheromones of teenage employees that led to "The Grope." The Grope was another one of those nebulous concepts that may or may have not been appropriate in a workplace setting, depending upon whom you ask and the particular situation. I mean, groping your partner while dancing is one thing, but doing it while doling out chicken nuggets is another, I think. In the bustle of activity behind the ordering counter, it was easy to collide with someone, particularly when we were in a rush ("fast" food, right?) to get someone's order and get them out of our faces and/or when we were ensnared in a flood of oil from a leaky machine. Either way, I was probably going to hit something (like the floor...with my face) or someone. Many of the fellas who came to deliver chicken to the front line workers "snuck around" us by putting a hand or two of theirs on our waists to make their way past us. It seemed to be part of the culture. When I worked my next job - also behind a food counter, but this time at a movie concession stand - I remember being fully surprised that the guys behind the counter did not touch me at all when moving around (in spite of limited space and an occasionally leaky butter dispenser). I asked myself the question, "Why does nobody touch anyone else here?" And it finally occurred to me that maybe not everyone gets groped at their job! Maybe EFC is just a Special Place for Groping! It is truly embarrassing that I became so used to being groped that it didn't occur to me that maybe it was not really part of the job description.


It didn't help, either, that there was a rumor that one of the managers refused to sign the new sexual harassment paperwork handed out by the owner, allegedly on the grounds that "It would take all of the fun out of my job!" (Thankfully, like some people have the good fortune of doing, said manager grew up well and is now a respectable member of society.)


We also "Stuck It to the Man" (who, in our case, was the Annoying Customer - meaning everyone but our friends and loved ones who dared approach our counter space) when we had the chance. Many folks who approached us to order nuggets were stuck on McDonald's lingo, and often requested "Chicken McNuggets." Being minimum-wage paid teenagers and trying to exert any control and authority over our crappy job at the bottom of the totem pole, Beffy (my best friend who helped land me this cushy job) and I would reply in a snarky tone, "I'm sorry, we don't sell 'Chicken McNuggets' here," leaving that customer confused for a few seconds. If we were feeling generous, we might add, "This is EFC, not McDonalds; we don't sell McNuggets." Subsequently, we'd make their hungry faces ask for chicken nuggets the correct way, the "EFC" way. And then we'd have to get them to specify if they wanted a 6-pack, an 8-pack, or a 12-pack of nuggets, because that's the EFC quantity in which they were sold. So there, suckers!


Sometimes we (and I say "we," but I really mean those fry guys making the big bucks in the back room) got behind on our chicken orders when we were particularly busy. We'd pull one over on the customer by going "to the back" under the guise of "checking to see if their order was ready." But really, we went back there and inhaled as many nuggets as we possibly could get away with. We really liked to test the outer limits of "being right back" with someone's order. But here's the thing: no matter how much food I ate before I left for work, really gorging myself and everything, I would inevitably be overtaken by standing in Ground Zero of fried chicken aroma. Every. Time! So when work breaks didn't come for hours, and a meal time approached while I was on the clock, I had no willpower to resist a freshly fried batch of goodness. So...I'm sorry that I scarfed those nuggets you were waiting for instead of giving them directly to you, but it was only an extra five minutes, right? What would you have done with that time anyway, gone to The Limited?


The biggest prank of all was the one that the actual menu played on unsuspecting customers. Or maybe it was just the customers' denial and/or ignorance at play. It seemed a lot of health-conscious folks (and usually women, really) gravitated toward the one menu item with the word "salad" in it: The Chicken Salad Sandwich. (There are many more options for real salads on the menu today, to EFC's credit.) Remember, this was the mid-1990's, and there wasn't quite as much information passed around about how bad mayo-based salads were or the nutritional content of anything on the menu, for that matter...So here was the typical "I'm on a diet" order: "I'd like a chicken salad sandwich on whole wheat, toasted, with a diet lemonade/diet coke." Somehow, us worker grunts were the ones who had access to a secret pamphlet of nutritional information. This may be a reach, but if those dieters knew that the chicken salad sandwich had about FOUR TIMES as many grams of fat and calories as the regular fried chicken dealio does, and that whole wheat is NOT necessarily good for you like whole grain is, and that toasting does absolutely nothing for nutritional value (I have no idea why this "toasting" phenomenon happened; I think these customers just liked the darker look of toasted bread and the extra calories that we burned by running back and forth to the toaster oven)...Well, that might have helped to explain why they weren't losing weight. So we let them live happily in their delusion and snickered about them when they left.

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: My First Job: Rank and File (Part 2 of 4)

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: My First Job: Rank and File (Part 2 of 4): All of this hullabaloo about fast food chains supporting anti-gay causes and the ensuing controversy has stirred up some more of my own memo...

My First Job: Rank and File (Part 2 of 4)

All of this hullabaloo about fast food chains supporting anti-gay causes and the ensuing controversy has stirred up some more of my own memories about working at Everyone's Favorite Chicken or "EFC," which is not really its name. (Names have been changed, as Tina Fey would say, "to protect the awesome.") See my earlier post, "Keep Calm and Carry On," for more on the background and chuckles on how I came to work at EFC and other adventures in fast food.


Rank and File


It was very interesting to learn the power dynamic at EFC. There was the single-shade-of-grey-haired gentleman who owned the joint and hired me. Let's call him "Mr. Smith." Mr. Smith was a genuinely nice man. As a boss, however, he really effed up the system when he came out of his upstairs office to "help out front." He was much more effective as a figure head than a manager or a front-line employee of any sort. There was a collective inward groan when he surfaced out front to lend a hand. The front line crew had mastered our communication and chain of productivity (or non-productivity, depending on our mood at the moment), and having to deal with the Interloper and slap a smile on our face to please this authority figure really slowed down our rhythm. Also, it made it slightly more challenging to give away free food to our friends when he was around. (More about that later.) If we played our parts well enough, however, he never knew a thing.


Mr. Smith's favorite expression was, "If you've got time to lean, you've got time to clean." Clever. I do remember one spectacular cleaning Mr. Smith performed. We had a Very Special Visitor, the Health Inspector, stop by to evaluate the restaurant. I witnessed Mr. Smith dust off the top of an exhaust fan, scattering dust and debris into the basket of food frying in oil below it and onto the fries waiting in the warmer while simultaneously sweet-talking the inspector. The restaurant passed the inspection with flying colors, I kid you not.


The true management was entrusted to college-age kids -- some of whom were recent high-school grads from my own school, meaning that I already knew them in a previous social hierarchy of power. Or if I didn't know them previously, then these kids (I mean, let's call them what they really were: slightly older kids than me - with definitely more facial hair than me) automatically earned credit with us as older college students. At least one of the two women college students ran all of the books. I think that's called "accounting," but math has never been my bag, so I have repressed such vocabulary if I ever knew it at all. (Do I have any friends who are accountants? If so, my apologies, but I have no idea what it is that you do, really.) And then there was the good ol' boy, "Charlie," our charismatic college-age manager whom many of the females, at least, both resented and revered for his ability to boss us around, his smug charm, his good looks, and his flirty ways. He and whichever guy was working often mildly hazed the newbie employees by having them go around to the other stores in the mall and ask to borrow their "left-handed shelf stretcher." I'm disappointed that such a thing does not exist because I am left-handed, and I do try to appreciate the advances in left-handed technologies that our modern world offers. He and a few of the other males who adopted the good ol' boy mentality exerted enough influence over me and Beffy (my best friend who helped land me this cushy job) that for a period of time, we even listened to country music. Like anthropologists trying to assimilate to a new culture, there we were: hardcore Cure and Morrissey fans-turned-modern-country-music listeners. These were crazy (and short-lived) times.


Most of the positions at EFC were very gender-divided without great explanation. The girls typically worked out front on the literal "front lines" as cashiers and order-takers, and the guys were in the back, cooking chicken and presumably talking smack. Oh, and concocting crazy combinations of food that they dared each other to eat. It was a primitive form of "Fear Factor" going on back there...After enough hangry* people came at me demanding food, suddenly lurking around in a back room - even if it means slaving over vats of frying chicken - seems like a welcome alternative. The real kicker is that us ladies watched as the guys slinging chicken and having fun times in the back got raises and we did not. I do not know the justification for this, but it seemed incredibly unfair. That I did not commit murder during the entirety of the Christmas season when I worked at the busiest (and only) mall restaurant full of endlessly crabby children and adults was definitely grounds for a raise, if you ask me.

 "Hungry" plus "angry" equals "hangry." Thank you, Betsy Lavin, for creating this most appropriate, descriptive term.

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: My "glory days" were my college years spent workin...

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: My "glory days" were my college years spent workin...: My "glory days" were my college years spent working in a music store. (Remember music stores? Physical structures where people would go sole...

My "glory days" were my college years spent working in a music store. (Remember music stores? Physical structures where people would go solely for the purpose of buying cassette tapes, compact discs, and vinyl?) I loved that job and all of its perks - knowing the little-known bands and often getting prime tickets to live shows. Although...Maybe I'm getting too damn old for the nonsense that comes with seeing live music in clubs: All that beer spilled on me by people nearby (rather, all of the beer I spill on myself), the eternal wait for the band to actually take the stage while everyone endures the mediocre opener, the jockeying for a good, unobstructed viewing spot to watch the band, the still-not-being-able-to-see when the band finally does take the stage, the fear of going to the bathroom and missing a favorite song,and the painful bladder repercussions (given the intake of both beer and caffeinated drinks to stay awake past 9 p.m.). Add to that the recent stat of affairs: our kids, Bless their souls! - who still wake up at 6 a.m., even though I'll make it home after 2 a.m...All of these things. Hmmm...Now that I think about it, I never want to go see live music again.

Having said that, I recently went with a friend to see the Indigo Girls. (Yes, I admit that the Girls are a guilty pleasure, but those ladies are part of my childhood audioscape.) They played at a tickets-still-remaining show in Richmond, VA in one of those standing-room-only venues. If I went to a few more shows like this - a mellow, good-natured, happy crowd primarily composed of lesbians or friends-of-lesbians - I might have a rosier perspective about going to see a show. Being there was therapeutic when compared to the days of attending punk shows where some big dude cranked up on something repeatedly slammed into me in his crazed attempt to start a mosh. (Thankfully, one time there was an even bigger dude, who reached out from behind me, and in one deft move, grabbed the meth-head by the neck and convinced him to take it down a notch. Chivalry lives!)

The good ol' days...Was this really where I went to see live music? I don't even recognize this place in the daylight.

So that's where I come from, which brings me to now: My review of Stageit, an online interactive concert. I learned of it from a Facebook update from Bob Schneider advertising a few remaining spots left to join up and see him on stageit.com. From digging around a bit, I learned that the concept was created by a musician to help artists make some money in a music culture that (these days) rarely pays well. For most artists, touring extensively is cost and time-prohibitive. So, stageit.com provides another way for artists to get their music to the masses as well as to connect with fans in more of an intimate way. Concert-goers don't have to physically go anywhere; a log-in is provided on a certain day, at a certain time, and the fan watches where ever he and his internet-connected computer are.

I was curious: What makes this different from watching a youtube video of the artist's live show, or streaming concerts from channels that allow consumers to access archived shows? On stageit.com, no shows are ever archived; in fact, they are one-time shows, much like an authentic concert. A person can certainly purchase multiple shows (what is, in essence, "touring with the artist"). Also, fans can send questions to the artist in a scrolling feed during the performance. If a viewer likes what she she hears, she can respond by tipping the artist, tossing money into his virtual hat while he plays. Or, she could grease the palm of the artist by tipping while requesting a song. Also, the view watches the artist perform where ever the artist wants. The chosen venue often ends up being somewhere in their own home or studio -- kitchen, bedroom, wherever.

So I paid all of $5 to see Bob Schneider. Once I registered with the site and paid my fee, stageit.com sent me a link to the "show." We logged on a few minutes before the 9:00 start time and watched the scroll feed as people enjoyed their fifteen seconds of fame without Bob present, even: "We want Bob! We want Bob!" and "Let's get effed up and do some effing!" And this, which still has me puzzled: "I need to pee like I hate porcelain!" Finally, the screen blipped, and there sat Bob: "Let's get this Mother____ started!"

Waiting for showtime.

Really, there is some similarity to watching an artist on Skype, with better filming equipment on the part of the artist, I imagine. The picture quality was only but so good (even on our decent HD television), and the streaming paused at times and then sped up to "catch back up" with itself. In between songs, Bob addressed the people making requests online, noting where they were from and making fun of them for saying/doing inane things. Also, the volume fluctuated: It was hard to hear his comments in between songs, and we had to jack up the volume when he was talking. Then, the sound was uncomfortably loud when he was actually singing, and we again adjusted the volume accordingly.

Also, unlike a live show, it was pretty awesome that I could yell, "Hey! You're in my way!" to the guy blocking my view, and he sat down cooperatively....Because he's my husband. Oh, and we spent the show lounging around on couches. And we used bathrooms that were closer and much cleaner (so I'll have people believe, anyway...) than the ones in clubs or arenas.

Greg rocks out to the show.

Mark swoons to Bob's tunes.

The Stageit format for an artist seems to be less pressure than a live concert. When playing from a request, Bob didn't always remember words from some of his songs. Sometimes he got through a few lines and then had to move on to another song because he admittedly didn't remember the rest.

But it was cool to feel like we were in close quarters with an artist and to hear his silly banter. The dude is hilarious and has the sense of humor on par with an 18-year-old frat boy. And we could smell some sort of substance coming off of him, even with the barrier of the television. If I was a betting woman, I'd guess he was loaded. Maybe that's what it takes to play a show for a camera, which must seem artificial.


Live show vs. Stageit.com -


Bottom line: For Superfans jones-ing for any glimpse of an artist or for those who are highly curious and short on money and/or time to go see live music, I'd definitely recommend giving stageit.com a whirl. It's still hard to compete with a live show, though.

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Keep Calm and Carry On: Lessons from my first real...

Keep Calm and Carry On: Lessons from my first real...: It all happened because I rear-ended Sarah's car in the Junior parking lot. She certainly didn't deserve it, not her or her pretty whit...

Keep Calm and Carry On: Lessons from my first real job

It all happened because I rear-ended Sarah's car in the Junior parking lot. She certainly didn't deserve it, not her or her pretty white 90's-model Honda with the painted white bumper. (I still don't get why cars are made with painted bumpers. Can any good really come of that? What is the purpose of a bumper, if not to protect? Painted bumpers are just asking to show off scars....I digress.) But I was newly licensed, poking along in school dismissal traffic, and yelling to friends out the side of the car instead of paying better attention to the stop-and-go action in front of me. Now not only was I legally authorized to drive a vehicle, but I had bills to pay (or a father to repay for car repairs, rather). It was time to start earning my keep. Necessity is the mother of invention, yes. And payback is a mother....

My BFF, "Beffy" let's call her, talked me into applying where she worked. It was definitely a Misery-Loves-Company suggestion. If I had to work, at least I could do it standing alongside a friend, making snarky comments about whatever we were doing. So I skipped off to apply at a fast food restaurant in the mall. Let's call it "Everybody's Favorite Chicken" or EFC. I think part of me naively romanticized EFC, since I had some strong, fond memories of eating there with my mom on shopping expeditions while growing up. How cute that I could work on the other side of the white counter! Also, given the make-up of its current employees, it was a high school cult of sorts. I would definitely be with familiar company, which I hoped would be good company, if I got hired. Given my sum total of zero experiences in a paid job beyond babysitting, I'd gladly take a few familiar faces as Chicken Compadres.

Oh, and what an education it was. And in so many ways...Since I've had a long, long time to reflect, I have come up with these little life lesson that I figure - even if somewhere bogged down and semi-repressed in my unconscious - stay with me today.

Keep Calm and Carry On

Every job has its hazards, obvious or not: Gossipy colleagues, crazy bosses, rude customers, snake pits disguised as assignments. EFC had the fry machine.

So it is a lot like what you see if ever you have been in a fast food joint: There are metal baskets full of starchy goodness pressed into fry shapes. The baskets are dropped into hot oil (peanut oil, if I recall correctly), and after a few minutes, a migraine-inducing shrill beep sounds when the fries have had enough of their hot oil bath.

For a long while, I had some lovely scars from fry grease and/or some clumsiness of mine that ended with branding my flesh on the sizzling metal basket. But the greater hazard was the oil that persistently dripped from the baskets and/or the fry machine. It would be a rookie move to wear any kind of good shoe to work, because the side effects of the job included all sorts of stains, gunk, and ruined clothing and shoes.

My mom's old Reeboks, retired from her aerobics class, were what I wore to work. Ugly and unfashionable in my opinion, or in other words: Perfect for the job! The problem was that there are few shoes out there except maybe metal cleats or ice clamps that could protect someone from the treachery of the oily floor. While those super-slippery rubber Reebok soles helped me to do some rad dance moves (on purpose or not) - a little Axel Rose side to side shuffle, or a Michael Jackson moonwalk - I also ended up doing some crazy acrobatics to stop myself from completely wiping out. I wasn't always successful, though. And if you've ever been to an EFC, it's rare for there to be a time during opening hours when a customer is not around. It's the perfect set-up for public humiliation.

Oh, and how! One minute, I was taking my next customer and having a very rote discussion about the specifics of her EFC order, and the next...I was in mid-air, feet above head for that split-second, until gravity had me pinned to the floor. My customer (nice lady that she was) leaned over the counter, eyes bugging out in horror: "Are you okay?" I quickly peeled myself up off of the floor and, without missing a beat, assumed the position of cashier, put that bored teenager look back on my face, and said, "Yeah. Happens all the time. Would you like a drink with that?"

No wonder the place was teeming with teenage and college-age kids as employees... Young whipper-snappers tend to have fresh, healthy backs and physical elasticity - and a likelihood of recovering (and not suing) when injured.

More of these little (chicken) nuggets to come...

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Crayon-Bit Hearts

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Crayon-Bit Hearts: In keeping with my ever-present theme of pursuing my "tragic craftiness," as my friend Neely calls it, I passed the time away with my kids o...

Crayon-Bit Hearts

In keeping with my ever-present theme of pursuing my "tragic craftiness," as my friend Neely calls it, I passed the time away with my kids on a rainy weekend by making something I found on pinterest: Crayon Hearts. It's a project that answers the question: "What ever shall I do with all of these broken, semi-worthless crayon bits that are taking up space in the crayon box, lest they get ground into the carpet by little hands and feet, making me resent them even more?"

Here is the link to the original post I read on Pinterest -
http://www.flickr.com/photos/61951289@N08/5672821563/sizes/l/in/photostream/

Basically, it involves this:

1. Round up crayons and free them from their papery confines.

2. Slice 'em and dice 'em. (Adults only - Knives involved!)

3. Throw them in a bowl or container.

4. Get one of those lovely floppy silicone baking molds, for ease of popping those suckers out. (I got mine from JoAnn Crafts. On sale! Woo-hoo!) Fill the cavities with different colors.

5. Preheat oven & bake at 230 degrees (F) for 15-ish minutes.

6. Take them out, let them cool, and work them out of the mold.

Note: They look better on the rounded side than the flat side, in my opinion.

It really was pretty stinkin' easy. I recommend it! And for the record, you can still color with them in rainbow-crayon form once you bake them. Niiiiice!

Here's the proof that we really did it:

Chop, chop!

A virtual kaleidescope of color. Wowie!

Evenly distributing the crayon bits.

Still a bit melted from the oven.

 Nice and dry. Popped out the first one.

What becomes of the broken-hearted? I don't know, but I can say this...These little guys don't make good fast-pitch baseballs.

Sukie Iron-Ons + Left-Over Onesies = FUN!

I bought a book of Sukie iron-on graphics from the San Francisco MOMA. I figured I'd find someone to give it to as a souvenir. A few months later, I came across a ba-zillion left-over onesies from my two boys' infancies. (Seriously. You would have thought they were disposable, with the quantity in which I bought them...Like, they might need 5 a day for the first year of their little lives. Sheesh. If only a new mother's love was measured by the number of onesies she bought her baby...)

Inspiration struck at the intersection of Hurricane Irene Path and Eastern Seaboard Way...So while we hunkered down and waited for the power to go out - which took a surprisingly long time, but also stayed off for nearly a week once we lost it - I got busy, ironing and patting myself on the back for my crafty geniusness. If you know me and you're having a baby in the future (or past), don't be surprised if you see one (or more) of these littled decal-icious masterpieces heading your way. And a word to your babies: These are not the ones(ies) upon which you may to spit up or poo.

Oh, Sukie, Sukie!....(Scandalous what other things turn up when you google "Sukie.")

Prep work: Fancy ironing board (tray table), fancy board cover (pillow case), iron, bodysuit, cut-out decals.





Iron those suckers for a few seconds, then give it a break for a few seconds. After a few minutes - Viola!

One for Baby Eliza.

Portlandia fans? "I put a bird on it!" (Well, two.)

Hedgehogs and mushrooms! Mushaboom!

I can't decide if this strikes me as feminine or masculine. The flower border says feminine, but the lion figure looks a bit masculine. Maybe it's androgynous? We'll go with that.

Squirrel-Nut-Treehouse. (There were no Zippers in the decals...So close!)

Who? Who? Who? Who...should this one be for?

Puttin' a bird on it (or a few) for a newborn.



Cat wearing a scarf...on a motor scooter?! I'm in love!

Cityscape.





Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Office Redux

Office Redux: I'm probably the only one who remembers my "Make Over My Office" Contest, and that's just because I have to look at those cubicle and cinder...

Office Redux

I'm probably the only one who remembers my "Make Over My Office" Contest, and that's just because I have to look at those cubicle and cinder block walls day after day to remind me... So to refresh you:

[Insert wavy flashback television scene and dream sequence music]

CONTEST: MAKE OVER MY NEW OFFICE'S UGLY WALL!! While I'm getting over the fact that I'm working in a flimsy cubicle (for reals), I can't get past this sludge-green wall. It's leading me to suicidal thoughts, and that irony isn't lost of me, given my profession. I'm not allowed to paint it, cut out a window or tear it down, but I can hang stuff. Seriously, I will pay you money, albeit meager, if you can come up with a good idea. HELP!!!

BEFORE...In all its glory. It took me a good 6-7 months to unpack, I was so paralyzed by Fugly.



Since I am slowly, begrudgingly accepting that no one is going to pay me to quit my job and complete all of my Pinterest pin projects, then I shall have to take matters into my own hands by turning my current job site into a Pinterest project. In doing so, I'm really just procrastinating (as usual), but who doesn't wait until the 11.5th hour to get the real work done?


BEHOLD..."AFTER"

 I bought some fabric I liked and had my mother-in-law sew them together. (Thanks, Coco!) Added heavy-duty velcro to the back side of the tapestry and the accompanying side to the uuuuuugly cinderblock wall, and I now *almost* forget how hideous that wall really is.

Like my new big-girl "How Am I Feeling?" flip chart? "Subversive," indeed.
(My former feelings chart was made of monkey faces. This is a step up. Sorta.)

 Zen Garden! Dollar Store score! It really is soothing.

 Just to prove I'm really no Maaaaahtha Stewart, here's the "imperfect" side of the room, still cluttered, and with my tapestry starting to fall off of the wall. This is good news -- More excuses and projects to foster procrastination!

It's the kind of place where you want to sit back and tell me all of your confidential details, right? That is, until you notice that it's a cubicle with walls that don't extend to the ceiling and absolutely no sound-proofing...Good thing that I usually spend my days in school buildings instead of my main office.   : /

Crafty Geniusness

Metal Washer and Satin Ribbon Necklace

Follow this link for the How-To:

http://www.cutoutandkeep.net/projects/washer-ribbon-necklace

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: A Brief History of My Preoccupation with Clothes

A Brief History of My Preoccupation with Clothes:

TODDLERHOOD
My parents kept me entertained with the glossy images in catalogs and Sunday's advertisements in honest attempt to build my vocabulary. I...

A Brief History of My Preoccupation with Clothes

My parents kept me entertained with the glossy images in catalogs and Sunday's advertisements in honest attempt to build my vocabulary. I suspect that these materials included all of the latest in men and women's fashion. Thus begins a life-long (?) love affair (?) with clothes.


CHILDHOOD:


AGE 4: I began to thwart my mom's efforts to dress me, complaining that the clothes she wanted me to wear were "too plain" and "didn't have a toy [appliqué] on them."


AGES 4 - 14: The Age of Tacky-ness (now that I was dressing myself) meetsThe Age of Self-Consciousness. Spoiler-Alert: The outcome is not pretty...


AGE 7: I have a vivid memory of wearing THIS on picture day:
Brown and orange Brownies uniform (blouse, brown vest, brown skirt, orange accents)
Red stockings
Black patent leather Mary Jane's
God knows what in my hair

ALSO AGE 7: I remember attempting to impress my grade-school crush (a fourth grader, whereas I was only a third grader! Scandalous!) by donning a light blue Care Bears sweat suit. Who can resist? (My crush went unnoticed - or, more likely, ignored. Shocker.)



MIDDLE SCHOOL
 As a late-bloomer, and also young in actual age compared to my grade-mates, and genetically pre-disposed to being short anyway, I remember the shame and disappointment that I couldn't wear the clothes from The Limited, etc., because they dwarfed my already dwarfish frame. (This was before the children's versions of these stores were prominent.) No, I would have to continue shopping in the Size 10/12 range within the Children's Department at Belk. I would squat and duck beneath or between the racks to hide whenever I saw someone I knew walking through the store nearby, for the shame of being "found out" as someone who still wore children's-sized clothes.


I also spent HOURS (and I do not exaggerate - just ask my folks) planning out what to wear for the day or week, in effort to not repeat an outfit within two or three weeks. I kept a weekly planner into which I carefully wrote out my potential outfits. I can still hear my Dad's eyes roll to the back of his head as he pounded on my door, only to learn that I was still trying on clothes in front of my mirror.


I was desperate to wear uber-cool Benetton clothes (in spite of the fact that they remained out of an appropriate size-range). I set my sights on a sweatshirt. Oversized sweat shirts were in style, anyway! I could get away with it! I still remember the price tag: $50.00. Back in the early 1990's, that was even more money than it is now. My Dad saw the foolishness in this and tried to talk me out of it, but I was determined. I bought a cream-colored sweatshirt with the rainbow of letters spelling "Benetton" embroidered across the chest...And lo and behold, the damn thing shrunk, leaving me (for once) in clothing that was too small! I wore it in denial of my terrible judgment and my discontent, tugging at the sleeves to stretch them out to a "normal" length, since it would be many years before 3/4-sleeve shirts were en vogue.


Memories of my clothing preoccupation at this point included my "favorite outfit": an oversized purple men's-style button down emblazoned with yellow lightning bolts and even a skinny, hot pink elastic-necked men's tie. This was worn with (close to) fluorescent yellow shorts (to match the lightning bolts in the shirt, of course) and fluorescent yellow high-top Chuck Taylor's. (I forgive myself for the shoes, which were kinda cool, at least.) I fell for 80's tween fashion hook, line, and sinker.


MIDDLE SCHOOL & HIGH SCHOOL: THE MALL


So there wasn't much to do for a tween/teen in her spare time (or so I remember), except to go to the mall (like, duh!...). I was finally able to wear some clothes from the popular stores where all of the teens shopped, even though I could rarely afford them. So in awe was I that I had finally grown into something vaguely reminiscent of a "normal size" (five feet, barely), that I'd spend hours in the stores' changing rooms, verifying again and again that things did fit (or did not, depending). And in those rare instances when I was able to con my Mom into buying clothes for me or the even rarer instances when I was able to save enough allowance money to buy my own duds, I basked in the warm-fuzzy glow of a coveted clothing purchase. It was so wrong, this love, but it felt so right. And wearing things that the other kids were wearing, shopping in the same stores where they shopped, it was all so validating!


COLLEGE:


I lived footsteps away from the GAP, and I was introduced to Old Navy and Barree Station (an outlet for J. Crew) as a college student. This only fueled my appetite for clothes. When I wasn't making my own money working at a music store, I was threatening my parents that I might sell my plasma, I was so broke (which I did consider at times). I could hear the tone of "Good Lord, our baby girl shouldn't have to sell her own plasma, communing with the homeless people of Chapel Hill, NC!" in their voices as they begged me not to do it and asked how much money I needed, thereby enabling my cycle of spending money on clothes. (Sorry Mom and Dad...Yeah, I just threw you under the bus.)


GRAD SCHOOL THROUGH D.I.N.K. (Dual Income, No Kids) Era:


This was a nice chunk of time during which I could afford my clothing habit. I surely overspent my money and and my time in clothing stores, just the same.


Fast Forward to the "HAVING KIDS" Era:


A rapidly expanding belly necessitates a whole new wardrobe. Then there are the post-baby clothes, or transitional sizes, as I prayed to deflate to something closer to pre-baby width. And then there's the part where I'd get back to something near my pre-baby size and I'd feel wholly unfashionable about the state of affairs of clothes that I was wearing two years prior.


Oh, and then there's all that shopping I loved to do for baby clothes. (And to think I didn't even have girls for whom to buy!) I still managed to buy about one outfit for every day of the year (per size worn, really) for my little guys. This, combined with store credit cards offering in-store rewards and discounts for spending on said cards, really sent me into a shopping spiral that I haven't quite been able to extinguish. (Yet, anyway...)


So, there...It's more than anyone needs to know - or probably took the time to read - about my generally unhealthy relationship with and, at times, full-fledged obsession with clothes. I thought I'd lay out the past to understand the present. Plus, thinking about it so throughly is like a smack in the face: It's a necessary evil to recount this history, if only wake you up every so often. It also allows me to basically condemn my parents as the fault of whatever bad habits I have maintained. (See "Toddlerhood," above.) Freud would like that, I think. (Uh, just kidding, Mom and Dad. Kinda.)

A BRIEF HISTORY IN PICTURES

"C'mon, Mom...Only clothes with appliques will do!"

Sixth or seventh grade, with a dangerous mix of accessories - Gold and silver, leather and plastic.I am way in over my head...

For once, I wasn't the one wearing the Girl Scout costume (er, uniform) in the school picture. But I was wearing athletic socks with dress shoes.

Dreaming of a world free of tacky shirts and couches and carpets.

That coveted Benetton sweatshirt...It was dreadfully, unfashionably "too small" (fitted?) rather than oversized, by early 1990's standards. Let's not even "go there" with the statement my hair is making...

TODDLERHOOD:

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: 'Clothed Case' for a New Year's Resolution

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: 'Clothed Case' for a New Year's Resolution:  And to think that this is only about 1/8th of my clothes. (Greg wanted me to show how I color-code everything - which I do, and I'm pro...

'Clothed Case' for a New Year's Resolution



And to think that this is only about 1/8th of my clothes.
(Greg wanted me to show how I color-code everything - which I do, and I'm proud of it, thank you.)




Well, hello there, New Year! Here I go:


I resolve to not buy new clothes (including, but not limited to, shoes). I am nothing if not ambitious....And perhaps crazed.


In the never-ceasing pursuit called "Spend Less Money," I have faced the facts about myself: Damn, I'd save a lot of dough (hopefully) if I could just stop being a slave to the allure of buying clothes! Everyone has their vices. Some people over-eat, others drink or abuse substances/pastimes. Me? I go shopping.


I don't even think I'm particularly cutting-edge in what I wear. I'm not trying to out-style anyone but myself. And it's not lost on me (a.k.a. psychologist by trade) that I am probably compensating for some lack of something or perhaps trying to fill a void. While I work on these larger issues with my therapist, I'm going to do a little experiment this year in deprivation to see if I can kick a bad habit.


I know enough from my behavioral theory background that I am going to need a "replacement behavior": Something to do instead of pine away for the LOFT and Banana Republic's sale-o-rama. Something to counteract that craving when it hits me. Something that gives me some sort of outlet (but not the outlet mall) or positive direction in which to channel my energy.


In spite of being a member of a book club (that is named "Reading Between the Wines," which may tell you a little more about what we're about anyway), I don't think I read a complete book all year last year. Case-in-point: After raving on and on to people about The Hunger Games series, I have yet to finish the last book in the trilogy(!). Oh, the hypocrisy... (Side Bar: I have a theory about why that's taking me so long, and I think it's that I don't want the series to end, so this keeps it from being "over" for me... Same reason why I'm having such trouble wrapping up my blog series on my trip to Iceland. I don't want it to end. So if I don't conclude it, it doesn't.... But I digress.) My point is this: I need to read that damn book, because the Hunger Games movie is coming out in March of this year. I now have a deadline.


I have a ba-zillion crafty ideas just waiting in the wings (or in the recesses and corners of my room, gathering dust) for me to remember them and set aside some time to actually do them. Cork Wreath? You're next on my list. I got your number.


So there we have them - Two ideas for replacement behaviors that are fully legitimate. Oh, and I could devote more time to playing with my kids, though part of my desire to shop has to do with escapism, usually meaning escaping the house, kids, husband (Sorry, Greg), and all that reminds me of domestic responsibility. We all need a break; I just choose to run up my credit card bill during mine by escaping on "errands."


I wish I could say that my inspiration to conduct this experiment of will power is about the plight of America's dependence on material possessions (oh, so true) and accumulation of things we don't need ("Hoarders," anyone?) and how we should reduce our purchase of resources such as textiles, or at least recycle them. Yes, these are all very good points, but really, um, it's about me. Me, trying to not be so shallow in my interests, and me, trying to change a bad habit.


So here are the Rules of Play:


1. I will NOT buy new clothes this year (2012).


2. I CAN borrow from others.


3. I CAN re-sale my clothes at consignment stores/sales and potentially have the credit to use towards other things...But only necessities. (So if all of my underwear falls apart this very year, I will have the ability to buy new undies, but something else in my closet has to be traded for it; thus, I must use credit earned for re-sold items.)


4. I CAN continue to consign my sons' clothes for store credit as well.* However, all purchases for their clothes must be approved by Greg, my husband, who himself buys new clothes once every ten years or so, and not even that often if he doesn't "need them" - a very liberal definition. Yellow pit-stains and holes in his underwear? Not a problem. He's still rockin' the 90's grunge look (or whatever someone gave him for Christmas in 1992) without shame. He plays hard-ball.


*Note: I am adding my sons' clothes to this list because my habit of buying clothes often transforms itself into buying clothes for the boys. This affliction of mine that bleeds into their closets, too.


Wish me luck, and please, for God's sake, don't invite me to go shopping with you any time this year. Lead me not into the Valley of Temptation, y'all!

Skirts and pants and sweatshirts, oh my! It shouldn't be hard to stop accumulating these, right??