Dick looks fine, clean-cut and handsome in his black tuxedo and electric-blue cummerbund.  You can’t go wrong with a simple black tuxedo because it’s a timeless, classic fashion statement.

On the other hand, there was me.  Like many teenage girls in the late 1980’s, I was not interested in timeless, classic fashion statements.  Those were for my mom.  I had just scrimped and saved most of my $88 weekly paychecks for 2 months to buy myself an evening of fun aboard a rockin’ party boat cruising Long Beach Harbor.  For a girl raised on a steady diet of Dance Fever, Solid Gold and Dallas, it goes without saying that only the look I wanted to wear was one of glamour & glitz.

Being a 16-year old female in 1988 in search of a formal dress and with only two criteria for selecting said dress being 1)  It must scream “glamour” and 2) It must scream it for under $80, naturally I was drawn to dresses made with the shiniest and most highly flammable synthetic materials of the day.  If, like me, you were limited by experience, taste and budget you may have found yourself wearing the strapless electric-blue lame mini-dress I ended up wearing to my Winter Formal.

As an adult with an appreciation for the balance that is achieved with great design, I can tell you that the trick to pulling off a brilliant color with a bold texture is all in the execution of balance.  By keeping the rest of the look understated hair & makeup aren’t in competition with the dress.  But that’s the me of today.  The me of yesteryear, without a fashion fairy godmother, a design aesthetic or a clue, embraced flashy & trashy over classy at every turn.

Accessorized with garish Sally Hansen stick-on red fingernails and some seriously rainbow-bright eyeshadow, one hardly notices my make-up when compared to the disaster that was my hair.  Reddish-gold from too much Sun-In hair lightener and with a body wave that was on its last wave by the time we actually had our photos taken, my “look” was completed by gravity-defying bangs that were cemented in place by a generous application of my mom’s AquaNet hairspray.

My look screamed 1980’s for certain, but it also screamed “paid escort”. In more forgiving terms, my look spoke to the impulsivity and naivete of youth and of a vulnerability  - a desperate need for acceptance that I long ago swathed under layers of black fabric, and concealed by mineral foundation, mascara and sarcasm.

*****

Losing 40 pounds this year is a great accomplishment that deserves to be rewarded with new clothes that fit properly -at least until I’m down another 40 pounds.

As I strolled through the racks of my local department store, a navy pin-striped blazer caught my eye.  The navy blue with grey pin stripe was cute at first glance, but as I reached for it, I noticed something oddly familiar about its cut.  As I pulled the blazer off the hanger, it hit me – the tell-tale sponginess of shoulder pads.

It was as if I’d stumbled upon a used condom on a hanger.  I shuddered with revulsion as I flung the hideously padded jacket over the rack.  I mean, shoulder pads?  Really?  This has to be the one sign of “arm-ageddon” that no one saw coming.

“Isn’t that an adorable jacket?” a young sales girl remarked from the other side of the aisle.  ”If you roll up the sleeves it’s a totally cool boyfriend jacket.  A friend of mine bought it with one of the boyfriend tee shirts two aisles over and she paired it with a few of our plaid scarves for this really cute retro look.”

“Excuse me, but It has shoulder pads,” I said, still in disbelief.

“Oh, I know! They’re in all the jackets this season. I can’t believe how much they shape you.  I think I look ten pounds thinner in mine.”

(Naturally, she was a stick-figure – size 2 at most.)

I rolled my eyes at her enthusiasm for the trend of volume in clothing.

“Maybe they make you look thin because you’re already thin.  Besides, I’m 6′ tall.  I don’t need to look like a linebacker. I bring natural volume to everything I wear in the form of bulk.”

The sales girl, apparently unequipped to counter my frank bitterness and clearly bored with trying to sell me on the hipness of shoulder pads, left me to assist another customer as I rounded the corner and to look for jeans.

To my horror pair after pair of acid-washed monstrosities – some of them “pegged”, some of them “bedazzled” – hung in row upon row of retro tackiness.

On the next aisle over I spotted what looked like fitted black pants on an end cap next to a mannequin. When I rounded the aisle, I noticed that the mannequin was dressed in an over-sized sweater with a chunky v-belt and black booties. What I thought were black pants were actually stirrup leggings.

“Isn’t it just SOOO Rihanna goes shopping at Fred Segal?” another plucky young sales girl commented.

“It’s an outfit I owned 20 years ago, actually.  I even had one over-sized hoop earring with a key on it as an homage to Janet Jackson.”

The sales girl gave me a blank, smokey-eyed stare.  I realized she had probably been a fetus in the late 1980’s and thus, had no clue who Janet Jackson was.

Changing the subject, I inquired, “Does this stuff really sell?”

“It sells incredibly well, actually. You wouldn’t believe how quickly those stirrup leggings are selling out,” she said folding sweaters on a nearby table.

“Who is buying this?” I asked incredulously as I pointed to a pile of folded neon pink leg warmers.

But the sales girl was gone – off assisting other female customers who were happily buying color-blocked over-sized shirts with shoulder pads, chunky belts and probably even those ridiculous leg warmers.

For a moment, I felt old.  Really old.

Then I had a little epiphany; I felt sorry for the women who would choose to endure this 1988 flashback in an attempt to get it right the second time.  So rather than try on all of those clothes in a vain attempt to make its resurrected trendiness fit into my life today, I turned my back and left it all behind – again.  Goodbye 1988.  Goodbye shoulder pads.  Goodbye leggings.  Been there and done that.

“Let them have it,” I thought, not really knowing yet who “they” are or understanding why they would want to be seen in public wearing acid-washed, bedazzled denim.

Yes; I’m older – that’s true.  Yes; I don’t “get” the whims of fashion trends.  Seems to me that some ideas are better off dead.  As for me, I may not know who I am yet, but at least I know when to let trends dress my past and pad my future with the confidence that only years of experience (and a lot of bad fashion) can bring.  To age gracefully is not, as I had always thought, to be a good sport about the process.  Aging gracefully is about stepping out in public wearing the sexiest, most glamourous thing you will ever own – your self-confidence.  You can never go wrong making that most timeless and classic fashion statement.

I won’t go into great detail here but gluten has been linked to the incidence of autoimmune diseases such as hypothyroidism, diabetes, rheumatoid arthritis, and many other diseases and disorders, although the extent of that linkage is still up for debate among scientists.  Because of the uncertain nature about the role gluten plays in autoimmune disease, if any, the elimination of gluten from my diet was not a decision I reached lightly and it’s one I reserve the right to rescind or alter should additional, compelling evidence come to light pointing towards a smarter choice.  This is not a fad for me, nor is it a weight loss tool.  Living gluten free is (along with a healthy diet, some meditation, and yes – exercise) one way to respect my body and my history and hopefully achieve a fuller, longer life with my family.

When people learn that I’ve chosen to go gluten-less, they automatically assume I have a disease. I don’t. What I do have is a family medical history that leaves me fearful and most of my doctors deeply concerned. The laundry list of illness in my family is frightening…

• Cancers? Check.
• Heart disease? Check.
• Diabetes? Check.
• Obesity? Check.
• High Blood Pressure/High Cholesterol? Check.
• Endocrine disorders? Check.
• Asthma? Check.
• Mental illnesses? Um, goes without saying…

What’s worse for me is that these diseases aren’t part of my family’s distant past. I’m talking about my mother, brother, and grandmother dealing with these things today.  I know genetics plays a role in everything, so I figure odds are fair that I’ll be afflicted with one or several of these diseases in my lifetime.  In my mom’s case, she was struck down with colon cancer in her early forties. While she survived her encounter with the big C, the persistence with which it reoccurs every few years has her perpetually confronting her own mortality in ways us non-survivors of cancer cannot (and do not want to) comprehend.  This confrontation, above all other impacts of her cancer, has left her deeply scarred. I’m 37 and I don’t want to be deeply scarred. I don’t want to make the sacrifices she’s had to make or deal with the agony of a life & death battle before I’ve ever really lived.  I realize whether or not I get cancer isn’t exactly up to me.  But if I have some power in this complex process that is genetic inheritance or even if I just buy myself some peace of mind for a few more years – isn’t that worth some bread and pasta?  Is my life what I eat, or how I live?

*****

Svetlana and I were having some rare chick chat over drinks the other night when she mentioned she was hungry.  I was starving too.

“Let’s order some nibbles?” I offered.

We grabbed the bar menu.  I was drawn to the two 3 oz. fillet Mignon’s – a tasting portion if shared with a friend - served with garlic mashed potatoes on the side.  They looked delicious.  Svetlana agreed with me.

When the waiter came by to take our order I ordered the fillet as Svetlana urgently texted a missing friend who was supposed to have joined us.  When it came time to decide between potatoes or “something else” on the side, I asked Svet if she was okay sharing potatoes with me.

“I’m fine with potatoes, but I don’t know about you.  Shouldn’t we get something you can eat too?”, she asked.

“Huh?”

“Potatoes? Don’t they have gluten?”

I looked at her with what I’m sure was a puzzled expression.  “Potatoes don’t have gluten in them.  They have starch, but no gluten.”

Svet looked relieved.  I finished relaying our order.

When our petite steaks arrived they were seated on a grilled garlic toast.  I pushed my garlic toast aside as I cut into my steak. “You can have my toast if you want it,”  I said to Svet.

“You can’t have toast?  Does that have gluten in it?”

“Um, yes.  Toast is bread.  Bread is usually made of wheat so I can’t have it.”

“You can’t eat wheat?”

“Yes; that’s right. It has gluten in it.”

“So, is gluten-free kind of like Atkins?” she asked.

“No, it’s not really a diet; it’s more of a lifestyle change.  I’ve chosen not to eat anything with gluten in it for health reasons. Gluten is present in wheat, and thus most breads, pastas & cereals,” I explained.

With that, Svet nodded in understanding and the conversation shifted to another topic.

As I tucked into my juicy bite of steak I began to tell Svetlana about the last steak I had eaten, on Dick’s birthday.  For his birthday I took him to an upscale restaurant where we shared a delicious chateu briand and a french onion soup that I’ve been craving ever since.

“…the worst part about the whole dinner was that I had to pull the fabulous, cheesy, crouton from the french onion soup and give it to Dick. I’m telling you it was pure torture!” I said dramatically.

“Um, why? Why did you give him your crouton?”

“Well, because it was bread.”

“Croutons are made of bread?” Svet asked with wide eyes.

“Are you joking?  Are you being serious?” I asked her.

She was serious.

“Yes! Yes! Croutons are toasted bread.”

“Oh…”, her voice trailed off as the realization sunk in.

Later, as we mulled over desserts, Svetlana asked me out of the blue, “How about rice? Does that have gluten in it?”

“No. Rice is a grain. Gluten is a protein found in other types of grain like wheat or barley for instance,” I explained patiently.

“Rice is a grain?”

“Yes.”

And then I realized…

“Oh my god!  Did you think rice was manufactured? Made with flour and eggs, with like, little Keebler Elves shaping tiny pellets of rice in a factory?”

She blushed ever so slightly and gave me an awkward smile.

“I guess I never gave it much thought,” she admitted.

For the record, I laughed at her.  Not with her, but at her.  And yes, we’re still friends.

*****

On the phone with my mom earlier this month, she inquired about my weight – like she does every time we talk.  I told her I was down nearly 40 pounds since we last saw each other in May.

“Great job, sweetie!” she responded enthusiastically.  “What are you doing to take the weight off?  NutriSystem, Weight Watchers?”

“Well, I’ve just been focusing on eating smaller portions of healthier foods, getting in more regular exercise and, to try to stave off the autoimmune diseases which run in our family, I’ve given up gluten.”

“My friend Donna West did that gluten free dieting thing and she got diabetes anyway.  It doesn’t work, you know.  Barely 60 and her whole life is upside down with the diabetes.  Such a shame,” she said, her voice trailing off with the word “shame”.

“I’m sorry to hear about Donna, but I’m quite a bit younger than she was when she changed her diet so I’m hoping for the best,” I explained.

“Yes, but think of all the lovely baked goods you’re missing out on.  You’ll never bake cookies with the kids again on that silly diet.”

“It’s not a diet, mom; it’s a lifestyle change.”

“Well, whatever you wanna call it.  I can’t see how eliminating fiber is going to keep you from getting diabetes.”

“Actually mom, it’s not the fiber that’s the concern – and eliminating gluten may not just prevent diabetes.  It’s thought that the gluten protein that gives bread it’s elasticity is the cause of a state of chronic inflammation in certain people’s immune systems.  The unfortunate complication with eliminating gluten from your diet is that you need to find other sources of fiber, so I’m doubling down on my veggies,” I explained.

“Hm. Well, mark my words: you’re going to get whatever you get as far as disease goes – that’s just life.  No amount of not eating bread is going to prevent God’s wishes from being carried out.”

“Are you saying that God is going to give me a terrible autoimmune disease just to prove a point about his omnipotence?”

(silence)

“So how are those grandkids of mine?”

“Thanks for the support, mom…”

*****

Look, I’m the first to admit that my gluten-free lifestyle may be all for naught.  But if I’ve lost some weight and made some smarter food choices as a result of being more informed about my health, than isn’t that a good thing?  I think so.

So I’ll continue to read and educate myself (and everyone else, apparently) on this topic knowing that as a mother, a daughter, a friend, and a wife – my lot in life appears to be that of an educator – only with even less glory than my public school counterparts and for almost no pay.  If it weren’t for the  fact that I got a blog post at my dear friend’s expense, this whole inglorious side-career of ”educator” might not be worth all the effort.  But then again, if I can bust just one person’s mistaken belief that, somewhere, rice is being manufactured from wheat in a factory full of elves, maybe I will have done my part for the greater good.

In the meantime, I hope you’ll enjoy this hilarious little diversion I stumbled upon…

P.S. And yes, I was totally crushing on Tom Selleck when I was 12.  Still crushing on Harrison Ford – despite  the tragically bad “Indiana Jones & the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull”.

*****

There seem to be a few words with the power to trip-up even the most sophisticated individual.  Words like “armoire”…

Personally dude, I'd save some of those exclamation points for the day you accidently spell a real word.Â

A "That's Amoir-ay!" approach to spelling armoire

*****

Looks like another tough word is “suede”.

Okay, so a simple transposition of letters could account for "seude" instead of suede, but how do you explain "coach" instead of couch and "conditon" instead of condition? One or two errors is sloppiness. Three errors suggests a few too many pre-Craigslist Appletinis.

As a writer, it's painful to see a word murdered so egregiously. The only thing worse would be...

...a double-murder. "Rod Iron"? Isn't he a a professional wrestler? Oh, you were going for "wrought" iron, you say? Â Okay, but how do you explain "swade"? Scratch that. Â Better question: how do you explain paying $150 retail per chair for 4 pineapple chairs? WTFWYT?

*****

Tricky words are one thing, but even the worst spelling can be overcome with some masterful selling.

I'd really love to SEE your two neat stools, but since you weren't thoughtful enough to actually include a photo of the world's neatest stools I guess they will be the two neatest stools I've NEVER SEEN.

Now this is some compelling ad copy. "House Stuff" tells me there's more than one thing and that it's from someone's house. Let me drop everything and give this guy a call RIGHT NOW!

Hm. Perhaps this guy is a little confused about basic marketing techniques. Rather than point out the flaws in your merchandise, you're supposed to highlight a few benefits for the consumer.

He does score points for honesty though.

Despite the throngs of people, one woman managed to distinguish herself from the pack. This woman looked to me as if she had rolled out of bed in a foreign country where toplessness in stores is acceptable and somehow wandered into my local Ikea by mistake. With wildly disheveled hair and wearing nothing but a semi-demi-bra and a low-slung ethnic print sarong (which was so-wrong for her rather generous curves), I might’ve thought she was dressed for a beach day if she hadn’t looked so much like she needed to turn a few more tricks before she could afford bus fare back to her country of origin.

Her crazy countenance was accentuated by her cluelessness. Apparently no one cc:’d her on the memo explaining that Ikea is A) open to the general public (including small children who ask many questions about dangling body parts), B) a store, and as such C) sells “things” and provides free receptacles for patrons to carry around said “things” prior to purchase.

As she moved languidly through the store spontaneously stopping mid-walkway to shove items into the ever-growing pile in her arms, she impeded traffic flow as often for her ADD shopping as for her periodically exposed nipples. It seemed to me that she was a housewares scavenger, hording random home decor items like food provisions – three $1.50 place mats, two $5 halogen desk lamps, and four $3 plastic CD storage boxes – just enough to get her through until next week.

One thing was obvious from her choices: no longer would her abode lack those certain homey touches so often missing from caves.

*****

While this bizarre woman made for great people-watching, being stuck behind her was painful. After seeing her drop merchandise and pop a nip for the third time in 5 minutes, I couldn’t take it any longer.

“Goodness. Go get a cart,” I found myself saying out loud.

She turned and faced me with wide eyes. “Wow. You mean they have carts? They’ve got everything here. They just need to make a map of this place or something. I can’t find anything in here.”

Ah-ha! I knew it! An Ikea Virgin. Possibly an idiot, too. But definitely the former.

*****

Here’s the thing about Ikea that gets heterosexual men and other Ikea virgins all messed up: the perpetual mob scene, the weird maze-like shopping – this is all part of the unique Ikea experience. When $5 plates of meatballs and $50 complete bedroom sets come together under one gigantic roof, the space planners & the marketing guys have got to do something to make the shopping experience seem memorable, efficient AND cohesive. It all seems very complicated, but it’s actually quite easy with a bit of planning. Here are a few things you can do to prepare yourself, or your virgin loved one, for an Ikea shopping trip:

1. Set aside ample time for parking, shopping, waiting, loading & unloading. Much like life, Ikea is all about the journey.
2. Dress appropriately – sensible walking shoes, breathable fabrics, etc. No nipples, please.
3. Fuel up with some snacks at home, or downstairs in the Marketplace before you head upstairs to shop.
4. Review the store map and do some basic route planning – know where you’re going in the store and how to get there; learn the shortcuts Ikea helpfully builds into their floor plans.
5. Gather required (and I might add, FREE) materials such as catalog, paper measuring tape, shopping list, and of course a cart or a shopping bag. Even if you don’t plan on buying anything, having these things with you will save you from having to work your way back to the entrance of the store against the flow of traffic.

Follow these few simple tips and you and your virgin will be fine. After all, it’s just shopping. It’s not raketen vetenskap, people.

Thus one might conclude that I’m wise to the ways of the sales force, or at the very least, smart enough to have adopted some basic sales resistance & redirection techniques.  But alas, my apathy in the face of potential conflict with others (especially those unfortunate enough to make their living on commission) makes me the perfect mark for a sneaky conversational dead-end.

*****

I had only stepped into the store to buy some new eye shadow but the next thing I knew I was sitting down in a make-up chair about to have my eyes “done”.  The make-up artist was a petite, buxom girl in her early twenties with gigantic, perfectly lined green eyes and wearing a tight-fitting goth version of a Catholic school girl’s uniform.  She looked like one of the Japanese anime girls from Dick’s comic books – coltish, young, fierce and overtly sexual.

As anime girl removed my faded eye make up, the pitch began; she extolled the virtues of her company’s “amazing” eye make-up remover.

“It’s, um, like, totally chemical free and all natural,” she reassured me.

“Uh-huh,” I replied dispassionately.

“I have women who come in with really sensitive skin and who use long-wearing mascara and they swear by this product.”

“Hm…Interesting.”

Anime girl never took the pitch to the next level by asking me questions. Her deliver of product features & benefits was informative, but hardly meaningful. I dismissed her.

But then I thought better of being so dismissive.  Perhaps I should use this encounter as a teaching moment for myself?  Such a young woman of her limited life experience would surely be a good place to start building my confidence – an easy mark for a trained sales professional such as moi. I’d be helping anime girl refine her technique.

Predictably, I wimped out on taking a hard stance, electing instead to get my eye shadow and get the heck out of there. Besides, withholding comment could help me score some freebie samples.

Finally sensing my complete disinterest in eye make-up remover, anime girl moved on to another approach.

“You know, you’ve got great skin.  How old are you?”

“37,” I reluctantly volunteered.

“Wow!  You look, like, totally amazing!  You must use a pretty intense sunblock to keep your skin looking like this…”

(Okay.  I admit it. I was flattered.  Everyone likes to be told they look younger than their actual age.)

“Thanks. I just use Oil of Olay with SPF30.”

I looked up and saw a faint glimmer in her eye.  Through clever questioning, I had just given her an “in” to my consumer psyche – a “sales clue” as it were.  It did not go unnoticed.

“We make an outstanding daily moisturizer with SPF45.  It has a Chinese wild mushroom extract that’s been proven to brighten the skin, increase moisture retention and fade sunspots. It’s great for Florida. I’ll put some on you so you can see what it feels like.”

She dabbed a small amount on my face and gently patted it into my forehead, chin & eye area.

“The best part about our moisturizer is that you only use a very tiny amount.  So you can get a lot more mileage out of it – unlike the store-bought brands which require a heavier application to get the benefit.  In the end, you actually spend less on our product.”

I remained silent, waiting for her to go for the kill, “Would you like me to set some of this amazing moisturizer aside for you?”

She never did.  Instead, she moved back to working on my eyes and I began to relax and let my guard down.

“Do you use a shadow primer?” she asked.

“Yes…”

“What brand?”

Hm. Unexpected. Now she’s back in the game!  Seems she wants to up the ante and go for a more confrontational approach. Touché anime girl!  Asking me to name a specific brand is a direct challenge. She wants to engage me in a game of name dropping as a show of her superior product knowledge. If she wins, I must defer to her expertise by buying her products.  If I win, she backs off and I leave with my favorite green eye shadow (some freebies) and my self-esteem intact.  Thankfully, when it comes to make up, I’m no slacker. I knew I was up for the challenge.

“I use Laura Geller’s eye shadow primer.”

Anime girl stopped in her tracks.  Her stunned expression quickly dissolved into a smile.

“Laura Geller?  You use Laura Geller? So do I! That stuff is so good. I’ll totally give you that one…”

Check & mate!  Score one for Sam!

Newly confident, I relaxed again and enjoyed the silence as she worked on my eyes without throwing anymore pitches my way.  A few minutes later anime girl passed me a mirror. To my amazement, my finished eyes looked incredible…and I was sold.

*****

In retrospect, anime girl wasn’t such a naive young lady after all.  While her motives and approach were appropriately transparent for a salesperson, it was a stroke of genius to agree with me on the superiority of a competitor’s product.  With my ego falsely inflated and my guard down anime girl finally uncovered the key to selling me an entire palette of 4 eye shadows, a new brush, and mascara  - all to the tune of $75 and all while making me enjoy the experience of lining her pockets.  Once she figured out how to feed my ego and keep me sitting there, she let her products and her make-up application skills do the selling for her.

While I may not be sold on all of her company’s products, I’m definitely sold on my sparkly new eye makeup.  More so I learned that, when it comes to sales training, there’s nothing I can teach my learners that they can’t learn from being customers themselves. Knowing how to read people and discern their motivations is a gift, but one that can be developed over time and with lots of practice.  Hopefully, in time, I will develop the gift to outwit clever salespeople   – but first I’m going to have to figure out how to outwit myself.

Clearly I have no problem admitting my love of bake sales.  I’m a regular at all the local church & school bake sales, not out of a burning desire to support my community but out of a selfish compulsion to eat homemade baked goods that I don’t have to dirty a bowl to enjoy – all while feeling like I’ve given generously to others.  See what I mean?  Win & win.   But the problem with bake sales is the post-binge heartburn, the sugar headache and the inevitable guilt that comes from hiding 2 pounds of brownies from your family by stashing them in a stack of unmatched socks in the laundry room.  When it’s all said and done, the only thing that makes you feel slightly better about yourself is knowing your money went to a good cause.

So let’s cut out the charade.  I know you’re not out there prowling bake sales for the good of mankind and you know it too.  So I’ve decided to spare you the humiliation of having your secret brownie stash discovered by making my first annual bake sale a virtual one that’s all about raising funds to feed hungry kids.    

Seriously, the latest child hunger statistics are sobering.  According to Share Our Strength.org:

• By the end of 2009, more than 12 million children in the U.S. will be worried about where their next meal is coming from
• 500,000 more children live in poverty in the U.S. now than 1 year ago.
• The highest unemployment levels in 20 years mean that millions of Americans now rely on local food banks and pantries.
• More than 30 million Americans participate in federal nutritional assistance programs – the highest participation level in 40 years. The average benefit per person is $1.12.

Crushing, eh?  So I decided that it was time I stopped supporting my community by buying brownies or even baking brownies.  Instead, I’m participating in the Great American Bake Sale by holding a virtual bake sale.  My goal is to raise $500.

Some other reasons why I’m holding a virtual bake sale…

• 100% of funds I raise will help feed kids.
• It’s a fun solution with a large impact.
• I didn’t have to train for six months to run a marathon or make a large donation to make a big difference.  (Besides, you all know that I don’t run – ever.)

So Loyal Drips, won’t you join me in whipping up a fresh batch of love for the wee ones around us?  It’s been said a million times before but in a country with so much wealth (even now) there’s no reason children’s bellies should be empty.  If saving starving children or donating to a virtual bake sales just isn’t your thing or if you just blew your last bit of disposable income on ramen noodles because of your own scarce food supply situation, please do me the favor of passing on a link to this post or spreading the love via the social networking medium of your choice. 

Remember, this is the best kind of bake sale: guilt-free, fat-free, carb-free, and environmentally friendly!  Thanks for your support!

Love,

~Sam

Here’s the link to my donation site:

In a few short months, I’ve gone from an FB ignoramus, to a Someecard slut, to a Twitter twit.  My journey to the dark side is nearly complete…

Not to mix my metaphors, but when it comes to Twitter, resistance is futile.  I kid you not, it’s like Angel Dust in the 80’s – everyone is doing it.  So stop fighting it.  Stop trying to figure it out.  Just surrender to your inner stalker, join up and come follow me!  I promise to try to think of funny things to say and you pretend to care, okay?