Whether you’ve already done your spring cleaning or you’re still avoiding it, your home probably has lots of stuff you don’t need anymore — Junk. Stuff. Crapola. Where to get started separating the keepers from the junk? [More]
The horrible thing about screw-cap bottles of wine, says the website butterflywineopener.com, is that they suck all the romance out of bottle opening. But lucky you! “The Butterflyâ„¢ solves that by flawlessly and expediently opening any screw cap bottle while retaining the elegance of traditional wine service.” [More]
New legislation proposed in Congress today would require the U.S. Department of Education to study the nutritional value of foods available in schools, as well as the forms of food marketing. Sponsored by Representatives Carolyn McCarthy (D-NY) and Todd Platt (R-PA), the National School Food Marketing Assessment Act has a large roster of supporters, including the American Academy of Pediatrics, National Parent Teacher Association, American Heart Association, and the Center for Science in the Public Interest.
The Times has a write-up of the Smart Choices campaign, an industry-supported healthy foods labeling program that generously designates foods like Fruit Roll-Ups, mayonnaise, and Cocoa Puffs as good for you. “These are horrible choices,” says the head of the nutrition department at Harvard School of Public Health.
Over at WalletPop, they’ve made a lovely slideshow of what are, in their opinion, the “20 Most Worthless Pieces of Junk.” A few, I agree with, and most of them I quite emphatically don’t. Living without books or an iron would be such a fundamental change in my life that I can’t contemplate it.
The world of late night TV (and now prime time too) has never had a shortage of stupid exercise machines guaranteed to make you look like a dehydrated, sauced-up infomercial model. ObsessionFitness has put together a quick list of 8 of the worst offenders, including our favorite, the hula-inducing Hawaii Chair.
Although I do not exhibit the same obsessive-compulsive qualities, my family is comprised of notorious pack rats. Every drawer overfloweth with random bobs and crusty old bits that may, in the delusional corners of my parents’ minds, yet be the solution to some future need. Jars of keys sit as sad testaments to decades of left-behind suitcases, cars, lockers and apartments. Pee-Wee-Herman-like, an enormous boulder of tin foil bulges the closet door forward pregnantly. The basement is full of thousands of unlabeled VHS tapes; the stairs are stacked with hundreds of romance novels that my mother always commanded me never to tell anyone she actually read.