culture

NYC: A Much Needed Break From… Absolutely Nothing

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So I took a little blogcation for a few days in order to get away from the hectic pace that is my life these days. The so-called hectic pace being largely comprised of job hunting, unpacking sweaters and tuning in to watch The View every morning. During this blogcation I am excited to say that we took a real vacation to the very place that embodies the truest of hectic paces — The Isle of Manhattan.

I have never been to New York City (since I am told that my little pass over the GW bridge last summer doesn’t count) and it was an amazingly adventurous and eye-opening treat! I hopefully gathered a bit of fodder in which to share with you here as I jotted a few things down… at the hotel, on the subway, while my pizza cooled in Little Italy and in my seat at the Garden—waiting for the Rangers to take to the ice.

As incredible as it was to finally visit the famous, fabled, pulsing, living, breathing city that never sleeps… it has also been refreshing to come home to a world where I need only hop in my car to get anywhere I need to be and enjoy a bathroom in which I can actually turn around.

I hope you’ll check back in the days ahead as I promise to do my best to share a few little bites of a very Big Apple.

Reality Bytes

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It seems that since I’ve temporarily traded an ergonomically-correct chair parked in front of a computer for nine hours a day for a slightly more active lifestyle moving boxes and doing actual housework (like scrubbing, washing and cooking things)… my body wants to remind me that it is NO longer 24.

I can do all the yoga in the world—which I’ve been doing faithfully on a daily basis—but every night some part or another complains to me that it has been strained, sprained, wrenched, tweeked or ticked-off during the course of the day. And it punishes me. And it pushes me to reach for two Aleve, a heating pad, the recliner… and the remote.

I’m not a huge fan of the offerings made by the Tuesday Night TV Gods, so I thought I’d puruse some different options for a change this past Tuesday. The so-called “reality” options. As I sat there in the recliner—held prisoner by either an unhappy muscle in my lower right back or overnight kidney cancer—I was exposed to some rather interesting worlds.

The first place I landed was MTV’s Teen Mom 2 where I witnessed three children acting like children whilst they discussed the so-called “parenting” of an actual child. Oh and I also stuck around long enough to watch as another one of the “moms” had a full-scale meltdown in her car because she was forbidden (by the rules of her probation) to smoke pot for 12 whole months! And yes, it really WAS as tragic and gut-wrenching and tear-jerking as it sounds.

After about five to 10 minutes of the whole baby mama drama thing I wandered over to the disturbing-on-a-WHOLE-OTHER-LEVEL show that is TLC’s 19 Kids and Counting. About the only good thing to come from watching 15 minutes of this show was that it provided both my ocular and pulmonary muscles terrific workouts what with all of the heavy sighing and eye-rolling.

My final destination after being totally disgusted by the previous two, wound up being A&E’s Storage Wars. Which is, (in case you are unfamiliar with it’s schtick) colorful characters engaged in even more colorful bidding wars for large containers full of someone else’s abandoned and unknown crap. All the while hoping to find that ever-elusive diamond-in-the-rough or in the case of Tuesday’s episode… a hopefully-not-a-knock-off, dusty Louis Vuitton wedged between a cardboard box and a yellowish-brown mattress set.

Now, I would be remiss if I didn’t at least mention that I found the last one to be somewhat entertaining and interesting. Kind of like an Antiques Road Show taking place in hundreds of storage lockers in the hot, desert southwest. You can’t help but be curious as to whether or not the people who have invested hundreds or thousands of dollars in the contents of these mysterious, metal sheds wind up with trash or treasure in the end.

But all, and I mean ALL of my encounters with Tuesday night’s “reality” TV left me questioning… Which is MORE sad… The fact that these types of programs are actually ON television? Or the fact that WE actually watch them?

The Power of a Smile

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Smiling from beneath a Taco Bell visor she handed me my change and exclaimed: “Have a great day, honey!” As she always did every day that I appeared at her drive-thru window. I never knew her name, but I knew that she was one of the friendliest people I have ever encountered working at a fast food restaurant.

Several times a week I used to drive to the Taco Bell near my office to get lunch. On most days she would be the one to take my order and money. She looked to be about mid-forties but there was something in her appearance that hinted at the fact that life had not been kind to her. No matter what, each day, she always smiled a wide grin and made a little small talk. It was a welcome change to deal with a pleasant person at a drive-thru window, plus I liked the way that I could always count on her being there, wearing that welcoming smile…

Until one day she wasn’t there.

It must be her day off, I assumed, and went about my business. After the next visit and the next visit and the next, I began to wonder what had happened to her. Did she get let go? Did she quit? Did she simply change shifts? Did she get a better job somewhere? Anything was possible I guess, after all, I knew absolutely nothing about her. Several months went by and finally I just figured that she was gone. And odd as it seems to feel this way about a stranger… I hoped that wherever she was… she was happy.

Then one day she was back at the window, still smiling! I was so happy to see her again that I blurted out: “Hey! It’s you! You’re back! Where have you been!?!” I never gave a thought to the fact that I might be infringing on her privacy by asking such a question. She didn’t seem to mind one bit, she was as kind as ever.

Then I noticed it. Peeking out from the neckline of her purple polo, I could see the jagged edge of an angry red scar. “I had open heart surgery” she said matter-of-factly as she handed me my change. “There has been something wrong with my heart since I was a baby… but they finally fixed it.” And she grinned wider than ever.

We spoke to one another for a few moments. I inquired about her recovery and she explained that it had been a long and difficult one. She had experienced severe complications, gotten an infection and nearly died. I said how happy I was to see her again and that I’d keep her in my thoughts and prayers. She seemed genuinely touched by my words and appeared a little dumbfounded, but still managed to smile anyway.

I drove away thinking about her and how in ALL this time while I was shuffling back and forth to work and going out for lunch and running errands and stressing out and scurrying this way and that… she was battling for her life. I found myself praying for her — this woman whose name I did not know. And it made me stop and consider how much we rush and rush and race through life, so focused on the tasks that lay before us… the items on our To-Do lists… or the things that are troubling us… that we never stop to consider what the strangers whose paths we cross may be going through.

For all we know, the nasty woman in line at the check out counter may just have had her entire world turned upside down. Maybe they lost someone dear to them or lost a job. Maybe they’re battling illness, depression, defeat or heartbreak. Maybe they are lonely and longing for someone to simply look at them and NOTICE them.

For some reason, we’ve become so self-involved that we just don’t get it anymore. We don’t take the time to actually look and SEE one another. We don’t stop and ask someone how they’re doing. How they are REALLY doing. It seems all we really want is for them to just get out of our way. I know I am guilty of this.

Years ago, I read a bumper sticker that said: “Today: Give someone one of your smiles, it may be the only one they receive all day” and that has stayed with me. The woman at the drive-thru, who was so sick that she nearly died, yet always offered me one of HER smiles, gets it. She gets it. And thanks to her maybe I can finally get it too.

My Not-So Feminist Side

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Every woman wants to believe that she can and WILL take care of herself when the need arises. It is a notion of great value that my mother taught my sister and me and I have tried to impart the same wisdom to my nieces and younger female friends when applicable.

But let me be honest here. There is a part of me (and not a microscopic part either) that is MORE than happy to let a man do certain things for me.

Take cars for example. I don’t know what’s going on there. AT ALL. About the ONLY things I know how to do are pop open the trunk for groceries, prop up the hood so that someone else can poke around beneath it to figure out what’s wrong with it… and fill my own washer fluid. And the only reason I know how to take care of the washer fluid is because I go through about a gallon a week tailgating other drivers like I do.

Yesterday I experienced one of those “I-really-need-a-man-to-do-this-for-me-moments” when I had to put air in a couple of my tires that were low. It was my lunch hour… I was wearing heels… It was 18 degrees outside… In blizzard conditions… Snowing like a sonofabitch. Oh and I’d somehow managed to leave my Carhartts and ski mask at home.

Standing ankle-deep in frozen, muddy, gas station slush, struggling in gale-force winds to fill up my tires I must have looked every bit of a pathetic wretch because out of nowhere a man shows up (appropriately dressed for the harsh weather of course) and gently but firmly takes the hose from me as he says: “Honey, let me do that for you. You don’t need to be doing this. Look at the way you’re dressed.”

And you wanna know what I said?

“OK! Thank you soooo much sir!”

As I crawled back inside the shelter and embrace of my warm car and my cursing of Mother Nature ceased — I smiled to myself thinking just how nice it will be to permanently have a man around in the very near future. One who doesn’t mind braving the elements to fix a flat, change the oil and fill the washer fluid.

It doesn’t get any better than this…

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I always knew I had certain “tendencies” toward the doing of absolutely nothing. But nothing quite confirms that suspicion like a nice, long holiday break.

It has been exactly one week since I’ve been at the office and four days since I had any obligation of any kind. And it feels great.

There is a little part of me (notice I said little) that feels I MUST be doing something… I SHOULD be doing something. And yet, I don’t. I’m sure this enjoyment of doing nothing will eventually wear off.

Perhaps I will tire of staying up until 2 a.m.—laughing and imbibing with friends—then sleeping until 10:30 a.m., getting dressed at 4 p.m. and doing it all again. Perhaps not.

Either way, come Monday I will have to get up and get back into the game.

Until then… there is a perfectly good spot for me… on the couch.

Made in the USA or… Ode to my White Corner Shelf Unit

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In this troubled economy, it seems to have become popular here in the U.S. to “buy American.” Now, I think it’s ideal and patriotic (and all that crap) to buy stuff that says “Made in the USA” whenever possible… However, apparently the mere EXISTENCE of these words on the package of a product, does NOT necessarily ensure that the product is of better quality than something that says: “Made in China.”

Recently I purchased a white, corner shelf unit to put in my dining room. Ohhhh, White-Corner-Shelf-Unit, how I’ve longed for this day when you and I would be united and you would stand up for me in the corner of my dining room and I could place lovely little knick-knacks upon your surfaces! You will make my dining room look like a page out of ‘Martha Stuart’s Living’, and I, in kind, promise to dust you, and clean you and protect you from children, pets or vacuum cleaners that might color on, spill on, scratch, chip or ding you.

OK, sorry to be so dramatic, but it is imperative that you understand the extent to which I have pined for this shelving unit. I dream of it… how perfectly it will complete the room. It is my passion. It is my madness. The day finally comes. I find it! I have a gift card! I purchase it! I take it home! I can’t wait to put it together! I collect and purchase JUST THE RIGHT bric-a-brac in which to place on the shelves once it’s assembled! I open the box! I slide out the contents! I locate the pieces! I read the directions! I do not see all of the pieces! What the #@%$?!?! How can this be? How can it be MISSING pieces? I PAID for it, did I not?

It was enclosed in a box, on the shelf of a reputable store, IN AMERICA! This IS America, after all, land of plenty. Meaning, there are PLENTY of foreign-made goods for us all! Let me be honest… I don’t REALLY care where it comes from, just so long as I can decorate the rooms of my dwelling with calm assurance that the purchased item will look just like it does on the box. America: We want It = We seek It = We find It = We buy It = We have It! How can this be happening? It is an outrage. It. Is. An. Injustice.

This is really terrible. My parents are coming over later this evening to see this thing assembled and adorned, and for crying out loud… My mom made BROWNIES! Now I will have nothing to show them… nothing but an empty corner with a stray ball of cat-hair in it… sort of reminds me of a tumble-weed blowing down a long, lonely desert road.

Several heavy sighs and slanderous-remarks-about-the-incompetent-retail-chain later, defeated, and with slumped shoulders, I pack up the box with the pieces that ARE there, and start to re-calculate my game plan. As if peering into a crystal ball… I can see my future… an agitated phone call to customer service (waiting on hold for at least 10 minutes)… an angry rummage to find the blasted receipt (IF I still even have it!!)… A trip BACK to the store (wasted gas money)…

So I’m angrily SHOVING pieces back INTO the box, packing it up and calling my Formerly-Cherished-White-Corner-Shelf-Unit all kinds of nasty names and I think I happen to include the phrase “stupid-Made-in-China-piece-of-crap”… when I happen to notice stamped right on the bottom of the box: “Made in the USA.”

Hummus: The New French Onion?

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“Excuse me,” Lee asked the weary Wal-Mart worker, “where can we find the hummus?” She gave him a blank stare and then squished up her face like he’d just asked for pickled pig’s feet and exclaimed that she did not know. A quick survey of the store and a few more fruitless inquiries later and we gave up on Wally-World as a potential place in which to find the dip that’s sweeping the nation.

“Maybe Meijer will have it.” Lee said while secretly nursing a new hatred for the en-vogue, Middle-Eastern staple since it was now interfering with his ability to watch the Big Ten Championship game. “Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned French Onion? Why, now does it have to be hummus? What the hell IS hummus anyway but a bunch of shitty, random, ground-up vegetables that ‘we’ as a culture have branded as the ‘thing’ to eat now?” he grumbled aloud while pointing the car in the direction of the next big box grocer.

“That’s a good question!” I exclaimed, laughing at his colorful outburst. “What DID ever happen to a good old tub of French Onion dip and a bag of Ruffles to take to a party?” I took off on a rant of my own… “Now it’s hummus this and hummus that… and hummus here and hummus there… Have you tried the HUMMUS? Oh you’ve GOT to try this hummus it is TO DIE FOR. And these are the BEST pita chips around, by the way. Have you TRIED them yet?”

All of the sudden the world around me seems to have fallen in love with hummus. For me, my awareness of this seemingly new love affair started at the office this past summer when my boss began bringing in pita bread and hummus from a local farmer’s market. Everyone tried it and almost everyone liked it (myself included.) Then while visiting a friend in Cleveland this fall, she offered me a snack of what else but pita chips and hummus. Two months later at a tailgate party before the Ohio State / Indiana game, pita chips and hummus sat on the table between the burgers and buns and the cheese plate… right smack dab in the spot where the French Onion used to be.

Now, here I was preparing for our office Christmas party by volunteering to bring pita chips and hummus. That’s right, folks, I have boldly and unabashedly jumped on board the hummus bus. But being on board does not negate the fact that the sudden surge of hummus’s popularity still puzzles me. How did this chickpea, lemon juice and garlic concoction from the Middle East dethrone a long-standing, all-American party favorite? When exactly did this happen?

In 1998, a season 9 episode of Seinfeld was my first exposure to the word. George is troubled by the fact that Kramer and Elaine think his new girlfriend looks exactly like Jerry. Thus indicating that George is “secretly in love” with his best friend by dating a “Lady Jerry.” Kramer even refers to Janet (the girlfriend) as a “Femme Jerry” and a “She-Jerry” further antagonizing an already-tormented George. Seeking some solace that there truly was some chemistry that brought them together, George questions Janet about the genesis of their relationship:

  • GEORGE: You know what’s great about our relationship?… It’s not about looks.
  • JANET: It’s not?
  • GEORGE: No, Can’t be… For instance I remember when we first met, we had a great conversation.
  • JANET: I remember you said I was the prettiest girl at the party.
  • GEORGE: … But after that we really talked didn’t we?
  • JANET: Well, you told me how familiar I looked and that you must have seen me somewhere before.
  • GEORGE: NO! … This relationship has… has got to be about something and fast or I’m in very serious and weird trouble… hmmmm… What else happened?
  • JANET: You asked for a piece of gum because you thought your breath smelled like hummus.

So there is was. And like many a word before it, hummus came to be known by me (and probably many others) simply because of that show. It would not be until much, MUCH later that I would actually try (much less like and embrace) hummus on a personal level.

A Google search on hummus’s skyrocketing fame in America revealed some very recent and fun headlines such as: U.S. Dips Into Hummus and There’s a Hummus Among Us. (Titles, I for one, wish hadn’t already been taken prior to this writing.) The presence of the articles proving the point that some things are definitely shifting in our culinary culture… even going as far as to infiltrate a famed spot on the tailgate table.

So, I guess there’s nothing left to say but: French Onion, you had quite a reign there for a while and damn if we didn’t have some good times in the 80’s and 90’s. Welcome hummus! Enjoy your 15 minutes of fare fame before you get bumped by something even more exotic of which we’ve yet to hear.

Spike my Egg Nog… Please

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Tis the season for beautiful twinkle lights and fancily-wrapped presents… A time to celebrate the joy of giving and count one’s blessings whilst surrrounded by those we hold dear. Yet for many people… Tis the Season of Overcommitment. Overcommitment of time. Overcommitment of money. Overcommitment of energy. Overcommitment of worry and resources.

Years ago, for me, this used to be (sing it with me, you know the tune) … The Most Stre-ess-ful Time of the Year… They’ll be much over-charging and customers barging for the Greatest Deal… Yes the most Stre-ess-ful Time of the Year!

I know it doesn’t exactly rhyme, but I think you get the idea.

In two words: It sucked. There were cards to be sent… Shopping to be done… Pageants to rehearse… Concerts and live nativities and office parties and gatherings with friends and gatherings with family to attend… Obscene amounts of food and wine and chocolate followed by more obscene amounts of food and wine and chocolate to be consumed… and before I knew it I didn’t know what was buldging more… The bags under my eyes, my muffin top over my favorite pair of jeans or my Visa envelope come January.

I am now on a personal mission—you might say—to restore the joy and peace that is, by the way, SUPPOSED to be the purpose of the season in the first place by ridding myself of the commitments, obsessions and stresses that typically accompany holiday-related things.

I don’t send cards. My friends and family don’t need to hear me paint a far-prettier-than-reality picture of my life by reading some fluffed-up letter full of superlatives and exclamation points.

I set limits on gifts and I stick to them. And when in doubt about what to give to my seven (COUNT THEM… S-E-V-E-N) nieces and nephews… money is always a safe bet — and an amount of money that I can actually afford as well.

I don’t do pageants. Someone else can stay up until midnight every night for the three weeks leading up to Christmas and sing the solo. I’m done. I much prefer the sleep. I might attend the pageant… if I feel like it.

I choose carefully the events that I commit to. At 36, I am beginning to understand my physical and mental limits when it comes to the amount of myself that I have to “spread around.” If I feel too thinly spread. I just say no.

The food, wine and chocolate… OK… THOSE are OK. They are called “coping mechanisms” and that’s why I’ve learned to keep a larger size of jeans in the closet. That can be our little secret. Let’s just call it Christmas Grace, shall we?

Please don’t misunderstand. I am not a scrooge or anti-holiday. I do find infinite joy in lounging on the couch and staring at the twinkle lights on the tree late at night while watching Cousin Eddie slurp egg nog from a moose cup in his black dickie / white sweater combo on National Lampoons Christmas Vacation…

I do find infinite peace in closing my eyes during the Christmas Eve candlelight service while the soloist (who isn’t me) sings my favorite Christmas Hymn, Oh Holy Night…

And I absolutely find infinite enjoyment in watching my nieces and nephews glow as they show me their loot on Christmas morning with all the excitement they can possibly muster after only four hours of sleep.

But just in case you DO see me at a party or pageant or family gathering this holiday season, please do me one solid favor… and spike my drink already. Trust me, it’s really best for all of us.

The Day Before Black Friday

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Do you remember it? You probably do… C’mon… think! Think! You know, it’s that day in late November where we all stop what we’re doing, get together with our families and friends, eat obscene amounts of food and watch football. We stuff ourselves with loads of turkey and dressing and mashed potatoes and candied yams and green bean casserole and hot, buttered rolls and of course, pumpkin pie. And many of us also take some time to pause and reflect upon that for which we are thankful. I guess that’s why it is generally referred to as Thanksgiving.

However, for some strange reason, in recent years the term “Thanksgiving” seems to have eluded us. Despite the fact that our country remains deep in a recession and we’re still seeing some of the highest unemployment numbers in decades, I noticed a disturbing trend emerging even stronger than in years past. The trend being that what was formerly referred to as Thanksgiving is now merely The Day Before Black Friday.

I’m not an idiot and I don’t live under a rock. I’ve known for years that here in America we worship the almighty dollar more than anything else. And in direct correlation with that, we worship things. We see it… we like it… we want it… we HAVE to have it! After all, the neighbors do. And by all means we must keep up with our neighbors and our relatives and our friends and our co-workers. But even with the knowledge that “things” are so important to us… I am still shocked by what I hear at the very top of every newscast during the holiday season (which, by the way, NOW begins immediately following Halloween.)

Notice there is ZERO mention of: “How to Prepare The Most Succulent Turkey,” or “10 Tips for Fixing a Feast Fit for 20,” or even the ever-popular: “How to Avoid Gaining 10 Pounds While Still Ingesting All The Carbs Your Body Can Possibly Handle Without Winding Up in a Coma”

Instead of those all-time favorite Holiday Classics, we are bombarded with: “How to Be the First in Line To Get Your Air Swimmers Giant Flying Fish” or “10 Self-Defense Tips for Fighting the Frantic 3 a.m. Traffic at Wal-Mart” and the NOW popular: “How to Best Manage Your Credit in Order to Still Provide a Magical Material Christmas for Your Child Even Though You’re Broke and Haven’t the Money to Make Your Subprime Mortgage Payment.”

I'm fairly certain THIS is Dante's 9th circle of hell.

What is wrong with this picture? Surely I am not the only one who has made note of this and found it a teensy-bit troubling, unsettling, nerve-wracking or nauseating? Hello? Can I get an Amen?

It doesn’t feel like that long ago news programs, talk shows and magazines served up extra helpings of wisdom on how to have an enjoyable Thanksgiving with the people who mattered most. But seemingly overnight this once-favorite holiday has yielded it’s prominent position to the day after. I’m not exactly sure who is to blame. Whether it’s us—the consumers? Or whether it’s the big-box stores, manufacturers and credit-card companies? I suspect it is probably both… A marketing match made in heaven… Or hell. Depending on how you look at it.

I may be part of a minority here, but I think I’ll stick with the day before Black Friday as my holiday of choice. After all, there is no waiting in line, no angry mobs to deal with and no anguish over paying the bill for those stupid Air Swimmers when it comes due in January, February and March. You see, on The Day Before Black Friday there is only the warm, lazy feeling of being lulled to sleep in front of a football game surrounded (hopefully) by people you love… with a tummy full of turkey.

And I much prefer that.

P.S. By the time the credit card statement comes… that “must-have” flying fish is most likely enjoying the company of dust bunnies… somewhere underneath a bed.

P.P.S. THIS is how I plan on spending my Black Friday…

The Stupidity of the American Consumer: An All Time Low

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Yesterday I found myself in desperate need of chocolate while on my lunch hour so I stopped in Walgreens to peruse the aisles looking for that certain something that would curb my craving. After careful consideration and deliberation I chose a pack of Rolos and headed for the check out.

There’s always been something I have found infinitely fascinating about the items lining the check out area. They are those last-minute impulse buy items… you know, batteries, lighters, matches, decks of cards, emery boards and toenail clippers… candy, gum, mints, Rolaids, miniature tools, scotch tape, pens and lint removers… chapstick, hand lotion, miniature bottles of Jack Daniels (depending on your state’s laws) and tiny packets of aspirin.

I’ll bet stores make a killing off of these items. If you don’t actually need them right then, you certainly will think that you do immediately upon seeing them. They are practical, every day items that will probably never go to waste. So what’s the harm?

Though it was during this time while casing the cache of goods otherwise known as the Gullible Buyer’s Trap, patiently waiting my turn in line (because only ONE of the THREE cashier lines are actually OPEN — which I’ve decided, by the way, is totally a ploy by upper management to move more of this nickel and dime crap) my eyes fell upon something new!

In the center of all of those must-have trinkets was a little display simply called: “help.” It was colorful and unique with kind of a cool design which is probably why it grabbed my attention in the first place. However, upon closer inspection, I discovered how completely ridiculous this thing actually was. In fact, I found it to be so completely stupid that I laughed out loud as I whipped out my camera to document this odd and asinine find.

Oh yeah… and I knew without a doubt that it would also be the subject of my very next post. Which, as you see, it has become.

The rack held six different color-coded boxes each containing a different product for a different “need” spelled out in very simple letters on a plain white cover. They were (yes, in all lower case lettering—probably because some focus group of imbeciles told them it looked cool): “help I have a headache, ” “help I have a stuffy nose,” “help I can’t sleep,” “help I have allergies,” “help I have a blister” and “help I have an aching body.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Are we really THAT stupid that we either A. Don’t know what the hell to buy for what ails us? Or B. Don’t know how the hell to ASK the pharmacist for a suggestion on what to buy for what ails us?

Listen people, if you don’t know what to buy then you should be talking to a doctor not searching for boxes at the check out counter as though it were some sort of pharmaceutical Magic 8 Ball!

So, I thought that perhaps I could help by offering a bit of advice of my own to assist anyone who feels that THIS is indeed the place to go for medical “help”…

  1. Problem: You have a headache. Solution: You have a hammer in the shed?
  2. Problem: You have a stuffy nose. Solution: Suck it up. It will pass.
  3. Problem: You can’t sleep. Solution: Try a bottle of wine and some Leno. His jokes put me to sleep every time.
  4. Problem: You have allergies. Solution: That hammer still lying around? Seasons will change soon enough.
  5. Problem: You have a blister. Solution: Ever heard of gloves?
  6. Problem: You have an aching body. Solution: Stop doing the thing that makes your body ache.

See how simple that was? And it didn’t even cost you a trip to the store or God forbid — interaction with another human being.