Tag Archives: Things CCB Says

Money-Saving Tips

Some of the ways I’m making $80 last two weeks this pay period.


Starbuck’s tasty Greek yogurt breakfast parfait with honey and the special no-sog packet of granola and slivers of toasted coconut? Easy enough: a big container of Greek yogurt, some honey (or agave nectar you have lying around after your homemade margaritas adventure), box of granola cereal and some shaved coconut. Mix the yogurt and honey in a Tupperware container, then lay some cellophane on top and put the granola and coconut in there.


Put the lid on, and everything’s ready to go for whenever you wanna mix it all together.

Find things that are awesome and appetizing when reheated, and cook a shit-ton of them: Black beans and rice, brandied chicken breasts, spaghetti carbonara, stroganoff. The kicker for me is that they have to be super-appetizing, otherwise after-work dining out wins. Which tends to mean they’re pretty fattening, too. This is where money-saving runs headlong into calorie-saving. Money wins. As does my tummy.

Volunteer for food contest judging.


Gourmet lamb meat loaf with roasted tomato jam, goat cheese and asparagus risotto. For? Free.

We’ve got weekly contests for finding various local food “bests,” and week before last, it was meatloaf. I’m not saying it’s the healthiest thing to do, but traveling all over town to sample four different kinds of meatloaf saves you money on dinner, that’s for sure.

Likewise, embrace the work luncheons you’re obligated to attend.


Any time you’re getting free risotto, you’re doing something right.

I wasn’t exactly psyched about today’s cancer luncheon, but teriyaki chicken on creamy risotto with asparagus from the Ritz? Yeah, that’s a deal.

choc cake…oh, and there was chocolate cake.

Biking to the grocery store encourages limited and lightweight purchases. I am not a motivated enough beer-drinker to ride 4.5 miles with a case of Bud Light on my back. Plus, this works in favor of calorie-consumption, too.


Invite considerate, lightweight friends over who will bring a 12-pack, drink one, and leave the rest for you.

Take a chance on a $2 hockey raffle ticket.

raffle beer

Hoptical Illusion alone is worth the $2. Plus: bonus mugs!

The key here is that “improving my chances” was too close to “throwing my money away,” so I took a single, low-risk chance and got myself eight fancy beers. Win.

And lastly, obey these booze-buying words of wisdom: “You should always think about cost per ounce vs. credit card interest.” In other words, don’t buy the smaller bottle just because you’re short on cash; put the handle on the Visa and congratulate yourself for being a smart shopper.

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Weird Wordstuffs

Been an odd week, starting with the full moon/ring ‘round the sun combo on Monday. It seems to be affecting us in weird ways, here in the World of Words. Grown professionals keep trying to use phrases like “golden shower” and “canoodling” in totally incorrect contexts.

And yet today I still know the perfect syntax for ordering my iced triple-grande nonfat vanilla latte.


Yesterday McD described a group of dolphins (perhaps not incorrectly) as “cheeky.”


An ESPN writer wrote that Lebron James’ passes are “as soft and buttery as croissants.” And thus was born the weirdest French pastry craving trigger in the history of behavioral science.


During an interview with me on Tuesday, a man who was trying to identify himself as a “Francophile” accidentally called himself a “pedophile” instead. Try coming up with a follow-up question for that one.


In another phone conversation with an older woman regarding a link in an email, she asked me, “And how will the two computers know each other?” Never before has my brain short-circuited me into paralysis. They should use that question as a counterterrorism technique. Cops should yell it at fleeing criminals instead of “Stop!” “This is the police: AND HOW WILL THE TWO COMPUTERS KNOW EACH OTHER.” And the criminals just fall down.


ME: How did you measure the rum for this mai tai?

CCB: I just guessed.

ME: Y’know, we have a jigger.

CCB: Those always make me feel so racist.

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Oh, Adulthood

It’s a helluva balance. I think my astoundment really kicked in on St. Patrick’s Day, one of those blissful, leisurely whirlwind nights out that started with limerick recitations and plastic pints of beer, wound through hat-wearing Chihuahuas and shiny beads, through Mr. Deelio lounging on couches at the bowling alley and me falling over the ball return, through Irish car bombs and fried ravioli. We went to Wal-Mart; people fell down and sat in the ice machine. (OK, that was the same person.) We bought cheese, frozen hashbrowns, bacon, sugar-free Canadian sparkling scarywater, a case of Bud Light and Manischewitz.

Who goes to Wal-Mart at midnight and buys pork products and Seder wine? Us. We do.

And then I awoke in the Deelios’ condo at 3 a.m. to CCB chuckling, “There’s a Deelio in my bed!”

Fair warning, a good host (who has earlier fallen down and then sat in a Wal-Mart ice machine) will sometimes unknowingly wander into his guest room in the middle of the night and catch some Zs betwixt his guests.

CCB: “Dude, seriously, you’re such a cock block.

MR. DEELIO: “What am I doing in here?!”

Y’see, from that you might think I was living a life of irreparable degradation. Except:

Not a week later, I find myself at a granite conference room table. Others there: three company presidents (“The Triumvirate,” I call them), associate publisher, executive editor, production manager and the owner of the company, seated across from me, asking about the nature of special advertising sections in relation to editorial content, paper weight, polybagging,  year-round distribution, designing a cover to accommodate a promotional sticker used for newsstand sales,  edit-to-ad ratios, and the like.

EXECUTIVE 1: “We can’t use their logo on advertising pages.”

EXECUTIVE 2: “We’ll use ours.”

1: “Do we have a logo for this section?”

2: “We’ll make one.”

[ART DIRECTOR sighs and scribbles a note on her pad.]

It was like a masters class in magazines; like my freshman year when I signed up for a 400-level course about Middle English literature—I mostly sat quietly and tried to soak in everything that I could understand, but even managed to contribute here in there. “This line from Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde obviously directly influenced Shakespeare’s version of the story.”

“We’ve presented that information in sidebar Q&A format in the past; by contract, the disclaimer copy is supplied by the company.”

Maybe it was because it was 10 a.m. on a Friday and I was on my third cup of coffee, but I felt this strange sense of professionalism, like I’d opened the wrong door and stumbled into an established career while I was looking for my Burger King orientation class. I was wearing flip-flops, for god’s sake.

And so it goes, I guess: Afternoon PJs and Wii golf; production meetings and proof corrections.

Take a shot of tequila to help the trivia team’s turnaround; schmooze a benefactor at my table for a nonprofit luncheon.

Lift up my skirt to show my coworker the puck bruise on my thigh; interview a cardiologist at 3:30.

They’re nominating a couple of my stories for statewide awards. Imagine that. On Saturday I could go to Hungry Howie’s, sweaty and grass-stained in my soccer uniform, and then on Monday win a trophy at my job.

If they only knew…


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