Survey Says… Patty Pack Rat

It’s official.

I took a five question on-line survey and in a cyber nano-flash, was informed that I’m a saver, -- a “Patty Pack Rat”!  This wasn’t exactly news (just ask my husband or children) and not to sound defensive, but, most creatives are.

This multiple choice assessment hit just a few of my buttons -- the clothes dryer, my garage, my pantry, grocery shopping, and the inside of my car.  After taking countless standardized tests and magazine quizzes over the years I can usually spot the pattern, and answer accordingly to achieve the desired profile – but, this time I played along. Really.

Question number 1… “When your dryer buzzes, you:

-- Leave clothes piled on the bed so long you use the guest bedroom as a wardrobe… (Isn’t that what that room is for?)

-- Take clothes out immediately, fold or hang them and put them away.”  (Ha-ha. That’s why wrinkle release cycles were invented.)

.           -- Toss clothes on the bed in the guest room while you do other chores but make sure to sort and put away the same day.  

      --Are immune to the sound and may not remember you started a load until days later.”     

            What sound?  Are they kidding?  Who’s at home to hear it?  Which begs the question, if the dryer buzzes and no one hears it, is the laundry ever really done?

Number 2… “Your garage is…

--The July centerfold of Spotless Garage Monthly.

--A catchall for everything.

            --Very neat and organized, save for a small junk corner.

-- A dark mysterious area…” 

OK, the garage holds stuff that the husband uses. He organizes along the perimeter, ladders, lawnmower, snow blower… things like that and uses a corner for the leftovers of our nineteen-year renovation project that is our house.  So, that one shouldn’t even count toward my score!

Number 3 …“Your pantry is:

--An organized commissary stocked with family favorites.”  

Right! I’m the one running through the supermarket between the hours of four and six pm planning dinner as I toss stuff in the cart.

 --“A stockpile of partially consumed boxes of cereal and stale crackers.”  Hmmmmmmm. Well…

-- “Kept full at all times, with each item placed in see-through Tupperware, dated and labeled.”  

My name’s not Martha! That would so stress me out. And, just think, those boxes in the way-back are quickly approaching vintage collectible. I recently found a bottle of Karo syrup, circa 1980-something. The label was so quaint! E-bay anyone?

Number 4… “When grocery shopping you:

--Go right after work when you’re starving so you’ll be sure not to dawdle or buy junk food.

-- Grab corn dogs, chips and sodas down at the Gulp-n-Go.

-- Diligently compile a list all week long then leave it stuck on the refrigerator when you go to the store.

-- Make a list and sort through your coupons ahead of time, then, head out.”

I tried making a list once in 1997. Besides, if I had time to make a list, I’d only lose it anyway. And, as for those so-called coupons in the coupon drawer… Most of them expired three years ago. Note to self: (that I’m sure to lose) dump the drawer… And, see above, I’ve really already answered this!

Number 5… “The inside of your car is:

--So dirty you can jot directions in the dust on the dashboard.  

--Spotless on the inside but not so much on the outside.

--So full of trash you’ve had to put in roach motels.  

--So clean the manufacturer tries to buy it back from you for their museum.”

 Uh, when we moved the snow blower last month boxes that were balanced on top are now in my car. Has anyone heard the extended forecast? Is spring near or was last week's 70 degree day a figment of my imagination.

After answering honestly (really!), my personality summary appeared and illustrated me as “Talented and artistic.” Yes, I’ve been drawing, writing and making messes since birth. It went on to say that I have the “Hey, I can use that someday gene”. I wonder if that’s been mapped on my genome?  Perhaps it’s adjacent to my brown eye gene or maybe it’s a slightly altered state of the left-handed gene.

I’ll admit it.  It’s the DNA I received directly from my father, who received his from my Grandmother etc, etc, etc. I come from a long line of “someday” savers.  My father was handy in crafting organizers out of baby food jars to sort his screws and other assorted hardware thingies. I now buy those simplifying accessories at any number of large chain stores and never put them to use. And, Grandmom, let’s just say that most everything had a second or third life in her hands.

“You can’t help seeing future possibilities for all the items your keeping”…

Again, true, I’m an innovator. I swear that I’m going to use all those jars, pudding cups and tiny containers to hold paint, or something, someday.

“…and you plan to use them all—someday!  See?

“Set aside a weekend and plan to get organized soon!”

LOL.  If it could be done that quickly, don’t you think I would have done it already?  Besides, I may be close to needing an intervention to achieve that goal, but spring cleaning reminders are just around the corner. Maybe I’ll find time to do it then. Until then, I know what’s in my piles, so don’t anyone dare touch them.  I might need that stuff someday.

Carol A. Sabik-Jaffe lives, writes, and really does occasionally try to organize her life near Philadelphia, PA.

It's time to bake the cookies

It’s a week before Christmas and all through the house, focus and presents are scattered about… nothing is hung by the chimney with care, and according to the calendar St. Nicholas will soon be here…

And so, even though I have too many things to do, I’ve been wondering about traditions. By definition, a tradition is the passing down of elements of a culture from generation to generation… A mode of thought or behavior followed by a people continuously from generation to generation; a custom or usage… A time-honored practice or set of practices.

Okay. We have time honored practices. We have passing down elements of culture from generation to generation. We have traditions.

Yesterday, when I mentioned to my son that I wanted the family to go out and pick a Christmas tree, he informed me he had plans to be out of town this weekend with his friends. “Besides, Mom, I just stand there until you decide which tree we bring home. You don’t need me.” Okay, we’ve never traipsed out to the woods to cut one down like some holiday ideal we see advertised. We live near a large metropolitan area. We go to the nearest corner lot that’s sprouted pine trees and pick one. It’s our tradition. And, this tradition requires that we do it together. Except maybe this year, because it seems that my young adults are creating traditions of their own. Okay, things evolve.

So, what is my tradition? Maybe my scramble to do last minute shopping and the walking in circles dazed and confused is as much a part of my tradition as anything.

Food is associated with most holidays. It is one of the elements of culture handed from generation to generation. Like Thanksgiving when a lot of us are comforted by knowing that the green bean casserole will most likely make an appearance next to the cranberry sauce because it is tradition, in my house it is expected that I will bake Christmas cookies.

I usually crank out Toll House cookies, Peanut Butter Supremes with Hershey’s Kisses blossoming in the center, along with raspberry jam Thumbprints and chocolate and coconut macaroon bars. There might even be an Italian pine nut macaroon that rivals those remembered from the corner bakery in northern New Jersey frequented by my Grandmother, aunts, and even my Uncle Al. That said, what everyone in my house waits for is my famous almond butter pretzel cookie.

It’s just not Christmas until I bake the pretzel cookies.

The pretzel cookie is a two day event, a confection requiring timing, utmost control and patience. A cookie that many have tried, most have failed and somehow, in my family only I have mastered. I tore the recipe out of one of my mother’s Family Circle magazines in 1981. The almost-thirty-year-old stained, torn, very used pages are now preserved in plastic binder sheets in my recipe organizer. I’ve consulted these pages and baked this cookie routinely -- through my single days, my newlywed years, even through my kid's baby years -- never missing one.

I’ve thought about giving up this tradition. Who needs the calories, the cholesterol, the sugar, or the gluten anyway?  Maybe I could skip it. No more crazy-lady baking. I thought about how it all came to be, this being my tradition. My mother never baked cookies. Once we were old enough, the cookie baking was left to her three daughters. Hmmmm…  Three daughters, baking cookies… you get the picture.

Thoughts of cookie retirement danced in my head. Is it time to hand over this tradition to my own daughter just home from school?

I was excited until I remembered that sometime over this past summer my father had handed me the festively decorated cookie tin that I gave him last year. He had said he hoped he got it back filled again this year.

The pretzels are one of his favorites.

I don’t have a prayer.

It’s time to bake the cookies.

Sooo… hear me exclaim as I sign off tonight…

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”

(and, Peace to all you bakers out there.)

Where have all the spokespeople gone?

It’s official. It’s time to bring back the spokesperson, the pitch man, the all knowing professional whose job it is to advise the world on why his or her product is superior. And, I don’t mean talking lizards or those animated bears that hide rolls of T.P. in the woods.  I mean a good old fashioned Madge, Mr. Whipple, Fred the Baker, Aunt Jemima, Betty Crocker. I’ll even take the little old lady who once asked the world, “Where’s the beef?” … somebody to inform us consumers of the attributes of things most of us take for granted, like toilet tissue.

Enough with the cartoons.

Somebody find today’s Mr. Whipple, please.

Charmin’s animated bears are now advertising “Enjoy the Go” while stashing their rolls of squeezably soft Charmin on low hanging branches somewhere in the forest. Ok, bears in the woods… enjoy the go… huh? For me, this campaign only brings to mind that age old question “Do bears s*#t in the woods,” not what makes the product better than your average two ply sheets. These bears are not convincing me to buy this product. 

In the recent past, Procter & Gamble has shown us these bears with scraps of tissue on their bottoms. Horrors. Thank goodness the bears thought to switch to Charmin. How though? Did they pillage a pic-a-nic basket or station wagon parked at a campground? Wait. That was Yogi, another famous animated bear. Anyway, I’m pretty sure that these days this Papa bear should be advertising recycled paper to save the trees surrounding and protecting his home that’s being destroyed by suburban sprawl.

Recently, the bears, Mamma and Papa (post “go”) join hands and with a Barry White like song seductively playing in the background, snuggle on a sofa in front of a crackling fire and wink at the viewer suggesting perhaps a romantic interlude. Charmin, parodying an erectile dysfunction Viagra like ad, huh? Perhaps I should be grateful that Momma and Papa didn’t sit in matching claw foot tubs watching a sunset. There seems to be quite a few of those tossed out on beaches, overlooking lakes, and in the woods.

Dennis Legault, a Procter & Gamble Charmin brand manager, once said that actor Dick Wilson deserved much of the credit for the product's success. Wilson’s, Mr. Whipple character was "one of the most recognizable faces in the history of American advertising." I agree. I’d also add that the uptight grocer who begged customers “Please don’t squeeze the Charmin” made some sense. Soft T.P. in a grocery store guarded by a curmudgeon who was himself a lover of that squeezably soft paper -- brilliant. When was the last time you saw a bear in your local supermarket purchasing dry goods?

I’m sure Mr. Whipple must have a grandson, a nephew, somebody that can take over the store and remind us NOT to squeeze the Charmin, somebody so devoted to the product that they can give us guidance.

Come on Madison Avenue, give me an expert. Flo can’t do it all.

 

Does She... or Doesn't She?

“Do You Need Product?”

It was a simple question really, but as I heard the words, I felt my head cock to one side like my dog, Jack when I ask if he wants to go for a walk.  

I listened, and then my eyes glazed over for a moment or two.  I pondered the word need… Necessary?  Required?  To be in want?  Hmmmmmm. Aren’t most of us women “in want” of the perfect hairstyle, color, makeover, man?

I thought about the countertop, drawers, and cabinets in my not very large bathroom already crammed and overflowing with bottles, jars, tins, in various shapes and sizes. Most tried once or twice and then discarded. Not discarded all together mind you, just living in the land of oops, that didn’t work like in the salon discarded.

Still I heard the words, what was that small spritz bottle you used, come out of someone’s mouth. Apparently, it was mine. “Volumizer,” she responded, smiling that all knowing smile while the loud and shrill otherworld cha-ching rang somewhere in the salon’s altered state background. I could have sworn that she glanced at all of the other gurus who were busy snipping, shaping, or straightening someone’s style. A small smirk seemed to graze all of their faces in one synchronized swoop.

“Sure, I’ll take a bottle of that.” What could it hurt? Somehow, she’d managed to make my new look seem as thick and full as twenty years ago.  Okay, so I already knew I was buying a bottle of something I’d use once, maybe twice, hopefully three times, and that would be that. Still, I could dream, couldn’t I?

I returned home and my son went straight into his usual bout of snickers. “What?” I wanted to know.

“Got your hair cut?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Just that, it’ll never look like that again.”

“Now, wait a minute.” I countered. “I can do this one.”

“Yeah right,” he chuckled, and flew out the door.

Well, okay, maybe he was right. I’ve never actually had the style the stylists gave me for more than a day.  It’s true. No matter what product I buy from them to ensure that I’ll achieve the result that they do, it just doesn’t happen. My hair has a life of its own. It does what it wants. Humidity… it’s big, wavy, curly, wild woman hair. Middle of winter… it’s as smooth as if I’d spent hours with the straightening iron. The color… well, these days, let’s just say that we’re never really sure what shade it’s going to be after a week or two.  Or three.  Or six.

You know what?  It’s so much effort, time, and energy. And for what?  My son is right. It’ll never look just walked out of the salon perfect when I do it.  After all, as my other resident expert, my daughter likes to remind me… “She’s a professional, Mom. Geeeeez.”

So, at my next appointment in six, eight, maybe ten weeks when I finally can’t take it anymore, and once again sit in that mesmerizing chair, staring at a face that I’m starting not to recognize, fanaticizing about a fabulous new look, I’ll be prepared. When she comes in for the close and I hear, do you need product? I’ll stay strong… for about a minute, I’m sure. Then, I’ll remember that she is a professional and somewhere in my brain the age old reminder that Only her hairdresser knows for sure will rewind and play.

You know where this will end. I’ll hand over my credit card because, mostly, I do need product. Don’t we all? Just ask your favorite professional.

Carol Sabik-Jaffe lives and writes near Philadelphia, PA, with her husband and two kids. She’s not sure if she’s ever liked her hair on day two.

Searching For Madge

   Lately I’ve been longing for the days when “Madge-the-Manicurist” informed us that an evergreen colored Palmolive liquid was special because it “softens hands while you do dishes”. Her catchphrase, “You’re soaking in it” was so simple, so serene, so, so… safe. I was only a child when that ad campaign launched, but she’s forever etched in my TV soaked brain. It seemed then that the only competition to her promise of soft hands was a lemon fresh scent that held an implied sense of Joy or a simple Ivory liquid so pure you could bathe an infant in it.

In today’s supermarket the plethora of choices to clean your dishes is overwhelming. Some dish soaps promise to take us on a ride into a land of revitalization offering a relaxing lavender (or apple, or lemon, or orange) scented escape. Some try to appeal to the enlightened green consumer and recommend chemical free above all else. Others attempt to attract your inner do-gooder and pledge an automatic donation to rescue wildlife with your purchase ensuring that if the formula can dissolve that grease and save the world, it can dissolve Thursdays night’s baked-on mess. If you prefer a supply of super hero ingredients: bleach, oxi, antibacterial, or baking soda, in liquid, spritz or foam to fight those evil germs lurking in your sink or those pesky odors lingering on your dishes, it’s all available on the shelves in any number of brands, colors, and packages.

Today’s ultra formulas are turbo charged multi-tasking liquids for today’s turbo charged and multi-tasking consumers. Newer better formulas now improve our hands look and feel with a multitude of miracle ingredients -- tropical shea butter, aloe vera, pomegranate (this super fruit is apparently known not only for its ingested health benefits, but now for its skin care too), or pomegranate with added vitamin e -- all engineered to battle cooked on foods while keeping our hands young.

Back in the day we never knew just what ingredient in that mild detergent softened our hands. It just did so because Madge said it did. With no spokeswoman to guide us, how will today’s consumer ever find their way? Did we really want all of this innovation in dishwashing? Do we need it? And, should we really expect so much from a bottle of dish soap? The most important thing for me is that it should get my pots and pans clean – after all, I put everything else in my dishwasher with that little double duty gel and powder packet.

I wondered just where Madge was and what she would think about all of this. Maybe she could set today’s consumers straight. So, I googled her. Sadly I found that Madge (iconic actress Jan Miner) had passed away in 2004 at the age of eighty six. This Lee Strasberg trained stage actress is most remembered for bringing to life our beloved wisecracking Madge the Manicurist, a role she embodied for twenty seven years. (Ha, go figure network executives, a character that was around for twenty seven years!) Once retired, Madge lived out her days in Connecticut far away from that chair in the Salon East Beauty Parlor that we remember.

Today I’d love not only a glimpse of her table propped with her tiny bowls of sudsy green goo and a bottle of Palmolive nearby, but a sense of a time when soft hands were enough and wisdom was always dispensed with a polish change.

Life seemed so much simpler then.

We miss you Madge.

Aroma Therapy Run Amok

It began innocently while doing a last minute dash through the supermarket. I don’t actually shop; I usually just blow through the aisles grabbing essentials mostly between the hours of four and six pm when I realize that I have nothing in the house to fortify the troops.

This particular day happened toward the end of my kitchen renovation. The light at the end of the tunnel beckoned – we actually had use of a sink after four and a half months and I needed a bottle of liquid antibacterial soap.

I was doing my usual power-walk up and down the rows when I spied a bright purple bottle that would complement my new decor. I snatched it. Next, I reached for the “summer green” colored bottle that I normally buy (or so I thought).

When I arrived home and unpacked my haul I found that I had embarked on a strange trip indeed. The purple soap’s label promised an “anti-stress” remedy! Pure essential oils of Lavender, Ylang-ylang & Patchouli pledged to cure the pressures of day-to-day life. The green liquid wasn’t my usual watermelon scent, but some “energy” boosting slime.

Okay, I’d give it a shot. Purple would go in the kitchen as planned, though now to battle germs and stress. (Stress, while renovating an old house? Can you say understatement?) The green, for energy, well, I’ve got teenagers who are in a constant state of groggy most mornings. The green would take up residence in the bathroom. Its pure essential oils of Mandarin & Ginger, with Green Tea Extract sounded as if it should be ingested, but we’d suds up with it.

As I placed the soap in the bathroom, much to my surprise, I noticed that my deodorant had also been affected. I hadn’t noted when, but, according to the label, it had morphed into an “ambition” enhancing schmear. Now, I’ve worked in a few competitive and uber creative shops and I’ve smelled ambition. I guarantee it doesn’t smell as flowery as the unidentified fragrance in my platinum underarm protection. I pondered the process... Is ambition absorbed directly into the pores or inhaled at inconspicuous times during the course of a day to intensify one’s life experience? I wondered when Shower Fresh, Spring Breeze, and Powder Fresh had become passé.

A few days later, I returned for another aerobic jaunt through the grocery. I stopped dead in my tracks in aisle number nine. It was everywhere – aroma therapy run-amok. Bottles and containers beckoned from the shelves. I stared at the deodorants. I couldn’t believe that my platinum protection could now not only supply a fresh dose of “ambition” but “optimism” as well. Optimism captured in an underarm solid? Look out Prozac!

The jewel colored purple and green ooze had apparently also been incorporated into a dish formula and bodywash with the same stress and energy promises. A new line of cleansing products with a brand name that sounded conspicuously like a meditation mantra… “ooohhhhmmmm” offered an assortment of soaps, bodymists, bodywashes and exfoliating scrubs with scents like citrus & ginger, sandalwood & chamomile, and jasmine & rose to name a few… promising soothing tonics and calming aromas. Yes! Goodbye yoga, pilates, and transcendental anything. I’ve found enlightenment in a bottle.

And then, there it was, at the very end of the aisle as if standing guard -- the mother of all scent seducers -- that herbal shampoo that’s over 99% natural and plant derived and comes oh-so-close to guaranteeing ecstasy using only Chamomile, Aloe Vera, and Passion Flower immersed in mountain spring water. How did that little blue pill ever come to be when twenty-five ounces of this stuff can be had for $4.89 (even less with double or triple coupons)?

 

I blame all of this on that age-old slogan -- “Calgon, take me away,” – promising tired and overwrought women a short vacation in the tub long before spa retreats were in vogue. Today, in addition to their perennial non-foaming formula, they’re marketing tiny two ounce bottles of take-me-away bodymist promising “A burst of well-being” and “A feeling of bliss” with directions to “spritz all over, anytime for an uplifting ‘take me away’ experience.”

What’s next? With promises in plastic everywhere, the possibilities seem endless. Can “Ignore the in-laws - the Holiday Scent” be far away? Lucky Lotto lotion? Romance in a roll-on? Pot-o-gold potpourri? We can only hope.