The following excerpt is one of the most enjoyable reads this writer has found. And this writer is educated, ya'll.
Extracted from Forbes.com, the following few paragraphs yield the following bounty:
1. Consumer rip-off alert
2. Excellent recipe
3. Soul-satisfying snark.
All of the above from Forbes. Who knew? We heartily endorse the fine writers at The Entrepreneurs Staff. Well-done.
From "Ways You're Getting Ripped Off"
High-end Guacamole
The Rip-off: This savory starter is all the rage, and it mints money. Consider a serving size for two-to-four people, for which Rosa Mexicano, a ritzy Mexican outpost in Manhattan, charges a stiff $14. While ingredients typically gobble 30% to 40% of the menu price for food items at most restaurants, we estimate Rosa's guacamole clocks in at 19%--and probably a lot less than that.
Our formula yields the same batch for $2.65, based on retail grocery prices (wholesale distributors wouldn't talk) and, given reasonable volume purchases at the local A&P, there would be plenty of ingredients leftover to make another batch or two. The recipe:
--Three avocados, at $4.99 for a bag of eight to 10 ($1.65)
--Two tablespoons of onions, at $1.79 a pound (11.2 cents)
--Three tablespoons of cilantro, at $1.99 per bunch (24.9 cents)
--Two teaspoons of jalapeño peppers, at $3.99 per pound (8.3 cents)
--Three tablespoons of tomatoes, at $1.99 a pound (18.7 cents)
--One squeezed lime, at $3.99 for a 2-pound bag (36.3 cents)
--One teaspoon of salt (less than a penny)
Total: $2.65, or 19% of $14.
How To Avoid It: Make your own green stuff. Or have another $11 margarita to ease the pain.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Crying on Cue
Are any of you readers aspiring performance artists? I have news you can use.
She Who Oversees this site took my BFF Vivian Beauchamp off to a meeting about some new web venture. This leaves me with a blog post deadline to meet, on my own, with no help from you know who, and so--in lieu of something pithy and profound--I'll share some newfound wisdom with all aspiring actors out there.
Everyone around me seems to work harder at keeping me sober than I do. That's odd, isn't it? Our Creative Director (She Who Oversees) suggested I acquire a new skill set in order to focus on something other than etoh. And so, Vivi and I have embarked upon a career in theatre.
Legitimate theatre, mind you, not some creepy burlesque hidden in a concrete building.
Open auditions for legitimate and highly regarded venues were held last Saturday.
La Viv and I had prepared our two monologues, one funny and one depressing. This is to prove we have "range."
Friday morning, I began to feel a rising tide of panic. When in such dire emotional straits, I immediately turn to two sources of support:
1. The Bible
2. my sponsor Blade.
Having gotten John 3:16 out of the way, I hit speed dial, and connected with Blade. I explained about the auditions, my outfit, and the unrelenting paralysis of fright.
"What ya scared of?" Blade says.
"The dramatic recitation," I replied. "I'm going to choke."
"What do you need in this moment?" He sounded distracted. I heard beauty shop clientele yapping away in the background.
"I need to be able to cry on demand," I explained, in a very bleating sheep kind of tone. "Blade, I can't do it. I've got the comedic routine down pat [he grunted], but I cannot seem to summon up a tear for the heart-rending dramatic piece."
There was a pause. One could visualize Blade putting down his shears, giving his client the just one tiny second hand signal, and stepping to the shampoo room to focus.
"Let me see if I understand," he said. "You are saying that you cannot produce tears."
"That's right," I said.
"You need to be able to channel some kind of traumatic memory that will make you cry? On Saturday?" Then he went quiet, and this means he is busy assessing.
Wanting to be helpful, I threw in, "I even took a class, Blade. A crying on cue workshop and it didn't work. I must be dead inside."
"Just think about your childhood," he offered. "That certainly makes me cry."
"You know I've suppressed all that. I need a fresh memory, but nothing truly horrifying has happened lately. Thank God."
Just then Blade snapped his fingers. "Come to the salon right this very minute," he commanded. "If you can be here by 3:15, Sonia can fit you in!"
"For what?"
I could literally feel his eyes roll through the phone. In his most imperious voice, Blade intoned, "Baby Child, you don't need no acting class to cry on cue. You need a Brazilian Bikini Wax. Sonia is doing them half-price this week, and I'll knock off another 30 percent for your angst alone."
Long, long, pause. I had heard of this thing before, and did not feel good about it.
Blade snapped, "Well, come on."
"Uh, Blade, will it be terribly painful?"
"Of course," he hissed. "Isn't that what you want? To cry? And have a fresh bad memory?"
"Cry, yes," I said, "but not shriek like vermin caught in a bear trap."
"We'll stuff a rag in your mouth and you'll be fine." Then he hung up.
I received a most respectable callback the day after Open Auditions. Any future success in the performance media I owe to Blade, one of the great loves of my life, and 12 Step sponsor extraordinaire. (Oh, and Sonia.)
Respectfully submitted,
L'il Viv
She Who Oversees this site took my BFF Vivian Beauchamp off to a meeting about some new web venture. This leaves me with a blog post deadline to meet, on my own, with no help from you know who, and so--in lieu of something pithy and profound--I'll share some newfound wisdom with all aspiring actors out there.
Everyone around me seems to work harder at keeping me sober than I do. That's odd, isn't it? Our Creative Director (She Who Oversees) suggested I acquire a new skill set in order to focus on something other than etoh. And so, Vivi and I have embarked upon a career in theatre.
Legitimate theatre, mind you, not some creepy burlesque hidden in a concrete building.
Open auditions for legitimate and highly regarded venues were held last Saturday.
La Viv and I had prepared our two monologues, one funny and one depressing. This is to prove we have "range."
Friday morning, I began to feel a rising tide of panic. When in such dire emotional straits, I immediately turn to two sources of support:
1. The Bible
2. my sponsor Blade.
Having gotten John 3:16 out of the way, I hit speed dial, and connected with Blade. I explained about the auditions, my outfit, and the unrelenting paralysis of fright.
"What ya scared of?" Blade says.
"The dramatic recitation," I replied. "I'm going to choke."
"What do you need in this moment?" He sounded distracted. I heard beauty shop clientele yapping away in the background.
"I need to be able to cry on demand," I explained, in a very bleating sheep kind of tone. "Blade, I can't do it. I've got the comedic routine down pat [he grunted], but I cannot seem to summon up a tear for the heart-rending dramatic piece."
There was a pause. One could visualize Blade putting down his shears, giving his client the just one tiny second hand signal, and stepping to the shampoo room to focus.
"Let me see if I understand," he said. "You are saying that you cannot produce tears."
"That's right," I said.
"You need to be able to channel some kind of traumatic memory that will make you cry? On Saturday?" Then he went quiet, and this means he is busy assessing.
Wanting to be helpful, I threw in, "I even took a class, Blade. A crying on cue workshop and it didn't work. I must be dead inside."
"Just think about your childhood," he offered. "That certainly makes me cry."
"You know I've suppressed all that. I need a fresh memory, but nothing truly horrifying has happened lately. Thank God."
Just then Blade snapped his fingers. "Come to the salon right this very minute," he commanded. "If you can be here by 3:15, Sonia can fit you in!"
"For what?"
I could literally feel his eyes roll through the phone. In his most imperious voice, Blade intoned, "Baby Child, you don't need no acting class to cry on cue. You need a Brazilian Bikini Wax. Sonia is doing them half-price this week, and I'll knock off another 30 percent for your angst alone."
Long, long, pause. I had heard of this thing before, and did not feel good about it.
Blade snapped, "Well, come on."
"Uh, Blade, will it be terribly painful?"
"Of course," he hissed. "Isn't that what you want? To cry? And have a fresh bad memory?"
"Cry, yes," I said, "but not shriek like vermin caught in a bear trap."
"We'll stuff a rag in your mouth and you'll be fine." Then he hung up.
I received a most respectable callback the day after Open Auditions. Any future success in the performance media I owe to Blade, one of the great loves of my life, and 12 Step sponsor extraordinaire. (Oh, and Sonia.)
Respectfully submitted,
L'il Viv
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Get Over Your Gosselin Hair
There was an incident this morning which reminded me that I am not the only one feeling undone by life and other people's reactions to it.
For example, the other Vivian had just posted a note to her Facebook condemning posers with Gosselin hair who have no real credentials to back up their snobbishness. Or snobbery, whatever. She and I have embarked upon a "fitness program" involving break-of-dawn cardio walks around her semi-upscale development.
Having harshly criticized "posers" on her Facebook page, we left the house this morning for our cardio walk. Whereupon we discovered that, in anticipation of an overnight rainstorm, he who must be obeyed had covered his convertible with the tarp from their Seadoo. And he had fastened this tarp to the car in a very redneck way, with some sort of bungee cords, which greatly embarrassed La Vivian. (I am the humble one. Jussayin.)
It looked odd, but was no skin off my nose, so we stretched and I told her to get over it. Vivi said, "I cannot simply get over it. It looks janky." She was grouchy at me all two miles of speed walking, due to my failure to empathize with he who's jankiness.
My point was that she had condemned--in a very public way--superficial people who do not, in actual fact, belong to the Junior League, nor are they actual card-carrying members of DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution). And yet she felt the right to be all lofty about a car wrapped securely in a boat tarp. What's the big deal?
We cardio-trudged for four blocks in silence, hostility radiating from her body, until at last she said, "The tarp says Seadoo on it."
I gave her a shrug and palms up. (Words were not an option at that point; this was serious exercise.)
Vivian's eyes filled with tears as she reminded me, and the solitary neighbor woman pruning some butterfly bushes, that her family's Seadoo is an actual "multi-passenger-bearing watercraft, and not a motorcycle thing on floats."
Bottom line: we each have showdog hair, in some area of our lives. Either own it and represent in a genuine way, or shave your head. (Your own personal Yoda.)
Respectfully submitted,
Vivian Carter
For example, the other Vivian had just posted a note to her Facebook condemning posers with Gosselin hair who have no real credentials to back up their snobbishness. Or snobbery, whatever. She and I have embarked upon a "fitness program" involving break-of-dawn cardio walks around her semi-upscale development.
Having harshly criticized "posers" on her Facebook page, we left the house this morning for our cardio walk. Whereupon we discovered that, in anticipation of an overnight rainstorm, he who must be obeyed had covered his convertible with the tarp from their Seadoo. And he had fastened this tarp to the car in a very redneck way, with some sort of bungee cords, which greatly embarrassed La Vivian. (I am the humble one. Jussayin.)
It looked odd, but was no skin off my nose, so we stretched and I told her to get over it. Vivi said, "I cannot simply get over it. It looks janky." She was grouchy at me all two miles of speed walking, due to my failure to empathize with he who's jankiness.
My point was that she had condemned--in a very public way--superficial people who do not, in actual fact, belong to the Junior League, nor are they actual card-carrying members of DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution). And yet she felt the right to be all lofty about a car wrapped securely in a boat tarp. What's the big deal?
We cardio-trudged for four blocks in silence, hostility radiating from her body, until at last she said, "The tarp says Seadoo on it."
I gave her a shrug and palms up. (Words were not an option at that point; this was serious exercise.)
Vivian's eyes filled with tears as she reminded me, and the solitary neighbor woman pruning some butterfly bushes, that her family's Seadoo is an actual "multi-passenger-bearing watercraft, and not a motorcycle thing on floats."
Bottom line: we each have showdog hair, in some area of our lives. Either own it and represent in a genuine way, or shave your head. (Your own personal Yoda.)
Respectfully submitted,
Vivian Carter
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Vivian Carter's Blog
My fingers hurt.
This is Aaron the Sadistic (yet highly motivational) Trainer's fault. Well, fault carries a negative connotation. Let's say that my aches and pains are his "doing."
Vivian Beauchamp and I have a very important function to attend in the near future, and we told Aaron tonight that we must be hotties by September 9. Aaron Who Does Not Smile said, "Ladies, you are halfway there."
This pleased us. I asked, "So we're warmies now?"
Aaron skipped a beat and quipped, "Maybe room temp."
You know what, I'll take it. Progress has already been made. I am currently shopping in the Juniors Department at Macy's. Jussayin.
So due to Aaron's schedule, and our own commitment to fitness, we walked from Big Vivi's home up to the gym, and thus had to walk back to her home in the dark.
Limping along, we passed under a streetlamp, and as we passed by a FROG jumped out at Big Vivi, causing her to levitate in shock and horror. (Give us spiders and snakes any day, we're cool. But frogs frighten us. Badly.)
So the frog launched itself in her direction, BV was startled into the air, whereupon she unleashed a torrent of verbal abuse upon the thing.
As Aaron had complimented my form in the weight room, this room temperature cougariffic soul was moved with compassion for the frog. Feeling it did not deserve to be called out hatefully by BV, I rebuked her.
I said, "Poor little toad. He ain't never done you no wrong. Why you gotta throw him shade like that?"
BV for some reason experienced this as unbearably hilarious, and so what happened next is "in the vault."
The point is, frog or no frog, we are on our way. In the vernacular: we is fixing to be HOT. Look out world.
This is Aaron the Sadistic (yet highly motivational) Trainer's fault. Well, fault carries a negative connotation. Let's say that my aches and pains are his "doing."
Vivian Beauchamp and I have a very important function to attend in the near future, and we told Aaron tonight that we must be hotties by September 9. Aaron Who Does Not Smile said, "Ladies, you are halfway there."
This pleased us. I asked, "So we're warmies now?"
Aaron skipped a beat and quipped, "Maybe room temp."
You know what, I'll take it. Progress has already been made. I am currently shopping in the Juniors Department at Macy's. Jussayin.
So due to Aaron's schedule, and our own commitment to fitness, we walked from Big Vivi's home up to the gym, and thus had to walk back to her home in the dark.
Limping along, we passed under a streetlamp, and as we passed by a FROG jumped out at Big Vivi, causing her to levitate in shock and horror. (Give us spiders and snakes any day, we're cool. But frogs frighten us. Badly.)
So the frog launched itself in her direction, BV was startled into the air, whereupon she unleashed a torrent of verbal abuse upon the thing.
As Aaron had complimented my form in the weight room, this room temperature cougariffic soul was moved with compassion for the frog. Feeling it did not deserve to be called out hatefully by BV, I rebuked her.
I said, "Poor little toad. He ain't never done you no wrong. Why you gotta throw him shade like that?"
BV for some reason experienced this as unbearably hilarious, and so what happened next is "in the vault."
The point is, frog or no frog, we are on our way. In the vernacular: we is fixing to be HOT. Look out world.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Vivian Carter's Blog
Our Creative Director keeps blasting emails about our needing to post anecdotes that encourage Christian women. I dunno. We may need to switch genres to "things that frighten Christian women." That's more of our niche.
Many disturbing things happened today. It's a lot to process. Ponder this:
1. Early this morning Big Viv and I embarked upon a fitness regime with our new personal trainer, Aaron Who Does Not Smile. I can no longer navigate stairs, and will have to sleep on the downstairs sofa. During this odd little number called "the pec fly" we discovered that Aaron--while he does not smile much--is nonetheless capable of barking out a laugh.
2. At lunch, well-deserved after this morning's trauma, Viv's cousin David announced that he is planning a video blog, which he will film while sitting on the toilet. The camera will face David, straight on, as he sits and ponders life aloud.
Can you even believe it? (Not a Christian project BTW.)
3. Vivian's husband, driving his work van, happened to see us in my Honda on Clement and chased us down the street honking his horn and waving a fistful of cash. Evidently it was pay day. Although Big Viv yowled about needing the money for her hair appointment, I was not about to pull over for any man waving a fistful of greenbacks while honking the horn at us. (We dusted him. BV not currently speaking to me, since her roots are still showing.)
So as far as posting something spiritual, I don't know? "Hangeth thou in there" works well for me.
Many disturbing things happened today. It's a lot to process. Ponder this:
1. Early this morning Big Viv and I embarked upon a fitness regime with our new personal trainer, Aaron Who Does Not Smile. I can no longer navigate stairs, and will have to sleep on the downstairs sofa. During this odd little number called "the pec fly" we discovered that Aaron--while he does not smile much--is nonetheless capable of barking out a laugh.
2. At lunch, well-deserved after this morning's trauma, Viv's cousin David announced that he is planning a video blog, which he will film while sitting on the toilet. The camera will face David, straight on, as he sits and ponders life aloud.
Can you even believe it? (Not a Christian project BTW.)
3. Vivian's husband, driving his work van, happened to see us in my Honda on Clement and chased us down the street honking his horn and waving a fistful of cash. Evidently it was pay day. Although Big Viv yowled about needing the money for her hair appointment, I was not about to pull over for any man waving a fistful of greenbacks while honking the horn at us. (We dusted him. BV not currently speaking to me, since her roots are still showing.)
So as far as posting something spiritual, I don't know? "Hangeth thou in there" works well for me.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Danger at Discount Dan's
God opposes my pride by allowing humiliations into my life almost daily. Many I do not even bring upon myself. Some just fall upon me, or roll right up behind and blow an air horn.
For example: Hot French Bread.
If you have known me long, you know that I periodically blitz through my favorite blue collar discount retailer, an iconic store containing acres of bargains and a few blown gaskets.
Last week I decided to peruse the aisles of said store in peace, as the man had our children at a Chinese buffet. As I was quietly attempting to choose new pajamas, an older man rolled up behind me on a little girl's purple bicycle, beeped a loud clown horn, and hollered--I kid you not--"Hot French bread!"
You may be assured that I jumped out of my skin. Haven given birth to two chubby babies, I even peed on myself a little bit.
This guy proceeded to roll all around Discount Dan's beeping his horn at folks and shouting about "hot french bread!" By the time I got to check-out, I had a massive headache.
You know that I do not seek out crazies. They find me.
So as Bouncer Lady was checking my purchase receipt against bagged items in the cart, I mentioned that the horn, bike, and pepaw had to go; unless Pepaw were unhinged, in which case grace could be extended to a store willing to hire the challenged.
Bouncer Lady blinked at me and said, "That's the assistant store manager. He just like to have some fun."
I suggested that he lock himself in his office and have fun alone, because the air horn, bike, and bread-shouting were obnoxious.
Bouncer Lady primly recited a toll-free number, which I could use to report my lack of appreciation for "the bike experience."
Does anyone have the toll-free number for the Nut Magnet Help Line? Because that's what I really need.
Happy mall shopping, and stay away from Discount Dan's.
God opposes my pride by allowing humiliations into my life almost daily. Many I do not even bring upon myself. Some just fall upon me, or roll right up behind and blow an air horn.
For example: Hot French Bread.
If you have known me long, you know that I periodically blitz through my favorite blue collar discount retailer, an iconic store containing acres of bargains and a few blown gaskets.
Last week I decided to peruse the aisles of said store in peace, as the man had our children at a Chinese buffet. As I was quietly attempting to choose new pajamas, an older man rolled up behind me on a little girl's purple bicycle, beeped a loud clown horn, and hollered--I kid you not--"Hot French bread!"
You may be assured that I jumped out of my skin. Haven given birth to two chubby babies, I even peed on myself a little bit.
This guy proceeded to roll all around Discount Dan's beeping his horn at folks and shouting about "hot french bread!" By the time I got to check-out, I had a massive headache.
You know that I do not seek out crazies. They find me.
So as Bouncer Lady was checking my purchase receipt against bagged items in the cart, I mentioned that the horn, bike, and pepaw had to go; unless Pepaw were unhinged, in which case grace could be extended to a store willing to hire the challenged.
Bouncer Lady blinked at me and said, "That's the assistant store manager. He just like to have some fun."
I suggested that he lock himself in his office and have fun alone, because the air horn, bike, and bread-shouting were obnoxious.
Bouncer Lady primly recited a toll-free number, which I could use to report my lack of appreciation for "the bike experience."
Does anyone have the toll-free number for the Nut Magnet Help Line? Because that's what I really need.
Happy mall shopping, and stay away from Discount Dan's.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Vivian Carter's Blog
Shortly before being sent away for my “vacation,” I met with Greg the Graphics Man (and his wife Sue, a stenographer) to discuss branding my assorted entrepreneurial ventures.
On this particular day my focus was creating a Christian woman’s encouragement blog. I say this so you will know that I mean well. Sometimes, however, meaning well simply does not cut it. Example: the latest confab with Graphics Greg.
Graphics Greg has a brilliant mind, an efficient wife, and he navigates social media the way a teen navigates texting. I, on the other hand, tend to bumble. As I did this particular day, in a free Wifi coffee house near Greg’s home.
After reviewing my brand’s focus group results, Greg says to me (in an urgent tone), “To get where you want to go in media, you must immediately jump on top of bing, blip, and jason. Do you Digg?”
Sue took notes in her steno pad. I watched her write, “Have Viv do bing, blip, and jason.”
I go, “Yeah, Greg, I dig, but um, I don’t play that anymore.”
Greg gave palms up and a frowny face. His brain moves quickly, and he likes to make progress.
A quick glance around the coffee house revealed no eavesdroppers, so I leaned forward (which made Sue retract, interestingly).
I said, “Greg, something happened recently and I became this thing called an Evangelical. I don’t actually do people anymore. Let alone jump on top of them. God is not really down with that.”
Silence from the Graphics People.
Knowing I had done it again, but unsure of how, I stammered on. “Plus, Greg, I don’t actually know Bing, Blip, or Jason, and "Blip" sounds like he could potentially be a midget, and there’s an issue there.” I paused, then said, “For later.”
Greg’s face took on what can only be described as a hostile tone. No words, just a very severe look in his eyes and a flat-lined, mashed together mouth. You know the vibe.
He and Sue exchanged looks. She shrugged. Greg bowed his head and prayed.
The prayer went something like this: “Lord Jesus, I know you brought Vivian into our lives to shepherd as she finds her way, but today is particularly difficult for me. God help me. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
My eyes welled with tears. Sue began to pack up their laptop, matrices, and steno pad. Greg removed a 3 x 5 lined index card from his shirt pocket and wrote firmly upon it in black Sharpie.
He left the index card on the table, and commanded, “After your vacation, call me.”
Through a fine haze of tears I read the index card. It said simply:
Jason.tv
On this particular day my focus was creating a Christian woman’s encouragement blog. I say this so you will know that I mean well. Sometimes, however, meaning well simply does not cut it. Example: the latest confab with Graphics Greg.
Graphics Greg has a brilliant mind, an efficient wife, and he navigates social media the way a teen navigates texting. I, on the other hand, tend to bumble. As I did this particular day, in a free Wifi coffee house near Greg’s home.
After reviewing my brand’s focus group results, Greg says to me (in an urgent tone), “To get where you want to go in media, you must immediately jump on top of bing, blip, and jason. Do you Digg?”
Sue took notes in her steno pad. I watched her write, “Have Viv do bing, blip, and jason.”
I go, “Yeah, Greg, I dig, but um, I don’t play that anymore.”
Greg gave palms up and a frowny face. His brain moves quickly, and he likes to make progress.
A quick glance around the coffee house revealed no eavesdroppers, so I leaned forward (which made Sue retract, interestingly).
I said, “Greg, something happened recently and I became this thing called an Evangelical. I don’t actually do people anymore. Let alone jump on top of them. God is not really down with that.”
Silence from the Graphics People.
Knowing I had done it again, but unsure of how, I stammered on. “Plus, Greg, I don’t actually know Bing, Blip, or Jason, and "Blip" sounds like he could potentially be a midget, and there’s an issue there.” I paused, then said, “For later.”
Greg’s face took on what can only be described as a hostile tone. No words, just a very severe look in his eyes and a flat-lined, mashed together mouth. You know the vibe.
He and Sue exchanged looks. She shrugged. Greg bowed his head and prayed.
The prayer went something like this: “Lord Jesus, I know you brought Vivian into our lives to shepherd as she finds her way, but today is particularly difficult for me. God help me. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
My eyes welled with tears. Sue began to pack up their laptop, matrices, and steno pad. Greg removed a 3 x 5 lined index card from his shirt pocket and wrote firmly upon it in black Sharpie.
He left the index card on the table, and commanded, “After your vacation, call me.”
Through a fine haze of tears I read the index card. It said simply:
Jason.tv
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