A few days ago, I was on a message board I frequent and a woman asked the general population if anyone had been in a sorority in college. I proudly posted that I was (and am) a member of Alpha Delta Pi social sorority, and several others posted their own house affiliations.

Then the thread turned, well, ugly. One woman posted that she would never pay to have friends. Another had a bad experience and would not recommend going Greek. And others seem to have the stereotypical television view of sororities — you know, the ones in which girls wear pink, have blonde hair, are mean and force pledges to perform stupid stunts for entrance. (For the record, I was never once hazed.)

I pointed out the simple reason I joined a sorority: I went to college four hours away from home and didn’t know a soul on campus. Joining a sorority gave me an instant connection with a group of women whose faces suddenly became familiar in huge lecture halls, walking across campus and in the school’s cafeteria. Instead of sitting in my dorm room with a roommate I hated (still do), I had activities to attend, study groups in the library and dinner plans nearly every night. …CONTINUE READING »

We have a man room. Scratch that, an entire man floor. We speak of it as The Basement. And, yes, we refer to it in such reverential terms because it’s JUST. THAT. IMPORTANT.

A big basement was one of our required features while we house-hunted in 2006. We imagined ourselves living the good life, playing pool, throwing darts, drinking beer from the tap in our bar and lounging on the sofa with three different football games on three different TVs. When we found our dream home, it had a large, unfinished basement and we could imagine the possibilities.

Fast forward one year. We were going to make our recreational dreams come true. We would finish The Basement. We found a fantastic remodeling company on Kudzu. They made The Basement a reality.

Our recreational dreams had come true.

Then came September, 2009. Two things of note happened that month:

1. Our son was born (awesome)

2. Our city was utterly drowned in torrential rainfall, the likes of which had never before been seen (not awesome).

To my dismay and my husband’s absolute horror, water inundated our basement, transforming it into a swamp. I half expected to see beady swamp creature eyes staring up at me whenever I ventured down there. Distracted by our newborn, we didn’t deal properly with the mess that had become our beloved Basement. Carpet was pulled back. Padding was removed. Industrial-sized fans were brought in. Dehumidifiers were employed, all in a futile effort to dry out our basement swamp.

But our swamp stubbornly revisited us each time it rained. Every time the extended forecast showed sprinkles, Jeremy would grumble, gripe, wring his hands and begin the laying out of the towels.

For six months this was how we held back the waters. But now that our lives with a baby have settled into a bit of normalcy, we have decided towels are not enough. We need to do something. Something permanent. Something expensive. We must restore the former glory of The Basement.

However, from what we’ve been told, our options are either an expensive drainage system or an even more expensive foundation repair and waterproofing. We’ll try Option A first.
Once we’ve made the leap, I’ll let you guys know if it worked. Actually, we may not know for a long time whether this is a permanent solution or not. Hopefully in 15 years our basement swamp will be a distant memory and The Basement once again will take its rightful place in our lives.
I fear the only Basement-related worry we’ll have in 2025 is putting a lock on that beer tap to keep our teenage boy out! Hmmm… wonder if anyone on Kudzu performs that service?

Gotten your tax refund yet?

If so, what do you plan to do with it? Do you treat it like “found” money and splurge? Do you stay frugal and pare down debt or build up your rainy day fund?

I know around here Kudzilla deploys his refund to replace his replica toy monster collection. (Then, we have to use a portion of ours to remove the melted plastic from the carpet after he stages his mock battles.)

Personally?

I always aim to be in position to plunk it all into my Roth IRA. I enjoy the irony — would Alanis Morisette agree? — of taking money the taxman couldn’t keep and putting it where he can’t get it.

However, if you overpaid your taxes by a healthy margin, you might want to talk to a financial planner or your tax accountant.

Here at the Kudzu lair, we’re straightening up a bit. Sorting through drawers and file cabinets. Rearranging the storage closet. Kudzilla’s even shining his patent leathers.

Just wondering. How come there’s no summer cleaning campaign?

I mean, it makes sense that a season of rebirth would prompt us to clean house, but did you know that there are religious and rural rituals that re-enforced the behavior?

From the Persian New Year to the Jewish Passover or the Greek Orthodox Lent to farmers, spring was the time to chase out winter’s grime.

It’s perfect timing for many in the northern hemisphere. When else can you open windows and doors without letting in the cold or insects?

But back to our cleaning.

Hey, where’s the “on” switch for this broom?

Have I grown so adult that I needed a calendar to notice spring’s arrival?

As a kid, I counted the days after New Year’s until winter ended. I couldn’t wait to shed layers of clothing and run barefoot in the grass again.

As a teenager, I let baseball herald it. I knew spring’s appearance neared when pitchers and catchers reported. Warm days approached on the next pitch.

In college, spring break and the beach turned my seasonal clock. Bonding with friends and, hopefully, flirting with someone who would become more than a friend meant something bloomed.

But somewhere among the ensuing years, I misplaced my passion for spring. My glee grew into a growl.

The season now required more effort. It became fighting traffic in the rain, enduring pollen and unleashing my lawn mower on grass grown wild. Gone were the moments I noted the glorious colors bursting forth, the wonder of renewal or neighbors sauntering to the mailbox without a buttoned-up scowl.

It’s time to recapture my sense of the season.

Let’s see if Kudzu.com can help. First, a little me time.

Next, let’s smell the roses, then see if the yard needs some.

Maybe, since spring — as A.E. Housman wrote — “was sent for lass and lad,/’Tis now the blood runs gold,” I should mix in a little romance.

I might be on to something here.

Legend has it that St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland and into the sea.

Since that may be more myth than fact, he might not be much help removing vermin from your neck of the woods.

But here’s some folks who can.

Raise your hand if you’re going green on St. Patrick’s Day.

And I don’t mean in an environmentally-friendly way. (OK, my boss says I do mean that and you should search Kudzu.com for the best merchants in your area to green your home or office. Or at least review one who has.)

But speaking of the day we honor the patron saint of Ireland, how many of you are opting for olive socks, an ivy shirt, emerald sweater or shamrock undies to avoid being pinched on the 17th? Maybe tinting the hair with a wee bit of forest hue or a banshee shout of loud lime?

If you possess the willpower to pose as a green lantern, be forewarned.

According to Bridget Haggerty’s Irish Culture and Customs website, wearing green actually may get you pinched.

As in kidnapped.

You see, Irish folklore maintains that green is the favorite color of faeries, who are likely to steal people who wear too much of it.

I plan to tempt fate.

After a magically delicious breakfast, I’m garbing out in all green.

Anybody seen my “Kiss Me I’m Irish” button?

I started a diet a week ago, and I’m down 4.6 lbs. (In the immortal words of London Tipton from Disney’s “The Suite Life on Deck”… “yay, me!”) Basically, I’m doing an old-school version of Weight Watchers by counting points and keeping my calories at about 1,500 a day.

So far, so good.

My husband, Bill, is doing a Atkins/ South Beach/ carbs-are-the-enemy diet, and he’s lost nearly 50 pounds. (Mama likes her carbs too much — if i had to choose between a chunk o’ beef or a slice of bread, well, that bread is GOING DOWN.)

We’re eating a lot of fresh and steamed veggies, fish and chicken. Our biggest challenge is to keep it fun — the first time I did Weight Watchers, I ate a frozen dinner and a pudding cup for lunch. Every day. Now, I can’t look at a frozen lasagna dish without wanting to hurl.

At the office, it’s still easiest to toss a frozen meal in the microwave and pair it with a small salad or a piece of fruit. I just opened a Weight Watchers Smart Ones Chicken Parmesan meal today. It looked pretty tasty on the cover of the box. I took half a hot dog bun and sprayed non-fat butter spray on it, then topped the bun with garlic salt and one tablespoon of low-fat mozzarella cheese. I placed that under the broiler in the oven for about two minutes until the cheese was nice and bubbly, and I popped my frozen meal into the microwave.

Five-and-a-half minutes later, I took my lunch out of the microwave and, well, as you can see from the photo at left, the results were a small cry from the breaded chicken cutlet perched atop a lovely bed of noodles and smothered in sauce as I’d expected. Even though I added a tablespoon of mozzarella cheese to the dish, it never quite lived up to my expectations. I guess that’s what I get for trusting a photo on a box, eh? It’s less false advertising and most false hope — I guess the manufacturers suppose dieters will eat anything.

And, they’re right. I ate it. At least I still had my hot dog bun turned cheese bread. Homemade for the win!