SAVVY SAVING BYTES

I didn’t need a calendar to tell me Labor Day was on the horizon. The corn told me. Up until two weeks ago the corn on the cob at the farmer’s market had been pristinely golden. Then the week before last, a few brownish kernels popped up along the golden rows. And last weekend, I had to race a bunch of equally aggressive Manhattan women to the bottom of the corn barrels searching for corn without brown, dried-out tips. We all knew the corn honeymoon was over for that year.

Yet I for one am happy to wave goodbye to summer with its brain-frying heat and to welcome cool Autumn with the hopes of a little gray cell regeneration. So as Labor Day sails closer, here are some global quotes on the subject of work:

• “This is the real secret of life – to be completely engaged with what you are doing in the here and now. And instead of calling it work, realize it is play.”– Alan Watts
• “It’s easy to say no.  But to say yes, you have to sweat and roll up your sleeves and plunge both hands into life up to the elbows.” — Jean Anouilh
• “There are two kinds of people, those who do the work and those who take the credit. Try to be in the first group; there is less competition there.”– Indira Gandhi
• “Hold yourself responsible for a higher standard than anybody else expects of you. Never excuse yourself. Never pity yourself. Be a hard taskmaster to yourself — and be lenient with everybody else.” — Henry Ward Beecher
• “Personally, I have nothing against work, particularly when performed quietly and unobtrusively by someone else.” — Barbara Ehrenreich
• “The man who doesn’t relax and hoot a few hoots voluntarily, now and then, is in great danger of hooting hoots and standing on his head for the edification of the pathologist and trained nurse, a little later on.” — Elbert Hubbard
• “The grand essentials to happiness in this life are something to do, something to love, and something to hope for.” — Joseph Addison
• “How to attract honey from the flower of the world – that is my everyday business. I am busy as a bee about it.” — Henry David Thoreau

Summer Reading:

• Liberty Quotes, Parades and Potato Salad
• A Splurge Feeds the Soul
• Breezy Grilled Meals Easy on the Wallet

Selling stuff on the streets of New York City is for the strong, the tough and the relatively young. Along with the daily setting-up, selling and repacking of merchandise, vendors also have to deal with the city’s light-fingered and mentally unbalanced. So when I saw her selling used books on a Lexington Avenue street corner, a frail old woman who looked to be FAR north of 80 years old, I wondered how she was physically and mentally up to the job. I had already walked a few blocks past her when curiosity reversed my course and I returned to her book-covered table.

Up close, she was quite the snappy dresser, a beige corduroy cap rakishly tilted over an eye, a big shirt layered over a tee shirt and narrow black pants. She was sitting beside a collapsible table, surrounded by boxes of hard and soft-covered books, each selling for a big buck. Propped up among them were pen drawings of stylized heads in black and white with touches of red. In the illustration game myself, I asked her who had created them. Perking up, she sat up straight, her sharp blue eyes looking straight into mine. They were her drawings she said and the main things she was selling. The old books were there more or less as add-ons. This started a conversation about the problem of storing artwork, which we both shared, having small apartments, the resemblance of artist’s faces to the art faces they created and a new clothes designer we both admired, who had recently opened a nearby shop.

Abruptly interrupting us, a tall, chunky man in a big brimmed Panama hat, shorts and sandals stepped between the woman and me. “Guess I’m not so smart today!” he exclaimed. “I just lost $12,000 option trading this morning.”

She gazed at him, politely listening…

Not many things bore me more than option trading so I only picked up scraps of his explanation: “The Chinese bought…and I bought…then they sold…”

I could see the old woman was as disinterested as I was, but she was good at not showing it.  Not that it would have mattered. Panama Hat was so wrapped up in his own center stage story, he seemed beyond noticing anyone’s reaction or lack there of.

After he dashed off as briskly as he had dashed up, she told me he had been an actor in the days before she met him. “All he talks about now is the market,” she said regretfully. “It’s a shame. I’d really like to hear more about his acting and stories about who he worked with, but money is all he seems to care about these days.”

Which got us into a discussion about plays and from there into Broadway stars who stayed at the top of their game at ages when most of their colleagues had packed it in.  During our chat, more neighbors stopped by to say hello. And it was these people, she said, and all the fascinating strangers she met, who were the best part of her outdoor gig.  Completely focused on the moment and relishing her interaction with such a wide variety of passers-by, she was clearly not one to waste time on any of the possible negatives her situation suggested.  Her intelligence and effervescence softening her deep wrinkles, she slowly transformed my initial concern for her situation and stamina into admiration.

She lived across the street and only set up shop in nice weather. When I inquired how she managed to get those heavy boxes of books back and forth, she breezily replied she hired someone to do it. No, this was not a woman to be stopped by any obstacles, big or small.

Like many others, she had needed some extra cash. At her age, her choices for getting it had narrowed. Yet without complaint or any diminishment of self, she had found a way. And had come out of it considerably richer than she had gone in.

More on NYC Street Life and Shopping

• Street Treasures Found and Lost
• Tales of Big City Shoplifters
• You get what you pay for…Baloney!
• Picnic in NYC with a King and a Guitar

All comfy and relaxed, I was watching a movie way past bedtime when a mouse streaked into my living room and disappeared under the couch. I have lived in my apartment a zillion years with not a mouse in sight, so this critter brought me to my feet FAST.  As I leaped up, he dashed from the cover of one piece of furniture to another, zoomed around the room and vanished back in the kitchen.  After a tense apartment search brought up zero, I was sitting there debating what to do next when ANOTHER mouse — a BIGGER one shot around my feet and commenced another circle run  — but at a less frenetic pace, vanishing behind furniture for unnerving long minutes.

The next morning my landlord, who also lives in this more than 100-year-old brownstone, reacted to my mouse visits with concern. Major Construction had been going on in the adjoining brownstone for months and they had just started tearing out the interior of the brownstone on the OTHER side of us, so we were now sandwiched between two ancient brownstones with crumbling walls and who knew how many mice evictions. An hour later an exterminator found a few mouse droppings below my kitchen sink cabinet, but no entrance holes. Confident the problem was minor, he left behind some old fashion spring traps and newer glue traps. After quick research indicated the glue traps caused mice to die slow, painful deaths, I chose the spring traps. Snapping a neck wasn’t a swell way to go either, but at least it was quick.

Managing to set up the trap springs without taking off a finger, I added dabs of peanut butter that my freeloading roommates apparently enjoyed, snatching it off without springing the traps. But still no dead mice: I beefed up my attack, adding mouse motels to the kitchen arsenal. Theoretically the mice wouldn’t die in there; after eating the poisoned bait, they’d have the courtesy to go off and die in private. In bed later that night, I heard a sharp clattering noise in the kitchen. The clattering got louder and sharper. Jeez — what were they doing out there? I was trying to get up the nerve to investigate when — yikes — I figured it out. In their zeal to devour the bait, the mice were battering the rock-hard bait cakes against the sides of the plastic motels. With each frenetic chomp, they seemed to be squealing “Party time! Come and get it!”  And come their buddies did. All night long. Spooked by their frenzied feasting, I was afraid to get up and ruin their fun. AND get between hungry rodents and their food.

The next morning an unpleasant, pungent odor filled my kitchen. After spotting numerous mice droppings and chucking the motel traps (they could kiss their nocturnal orgies good bye), I could see I was in big trouble. The exterminator bent down under the sink cabinet and agreed. He took one whiff and announced, “It’s mouse urine. Smells like a whole nest — like they moved into the space underneath your cabinet floor.”

My stove had only been partially moved away from the wall during the initial search, but now it was moved completely back to reveal the entire wall.  And there it was! An entrance hole near the floor large enough for tanker trucks. I half expected to see mice barreling through it. “Nah,” he said. “They like the dark. That’s when they come out to see what’s what.”

When I inquired how long it would take him to get rid of the vermin I was dismayed to hear this was now a contractor’s job. And unfortunately, said the landlord, the contractor couldn’t show for a few days. There was NO WAY I was staying in that apartment till then, I informed him. I’d move out and come back when the work was finished and the mice had packed their bags and vamoosed.

“But you can’t leave now!” protested the landlord. ” They’ll take over the whole apartment.”

He’s not given to hyperbole and his tone produced scary visions of mice swarming like locusts through my deserted apartment.

From then on It was open war. Now that I knew where the little devils were entering, I placed the traps along their route, memorizing a few of the trickier spots to prevent my toes from making any sudden bone snapping contact. From their tunnel, the critters had to skitter along a ledge beside the stove, then leap to the floor. A perfect spot for a direct hit. Not one mouse was caught that day, however, almost as though their spies had discovered my strategy,

That night I hit the sack with practically every light shining. If I couldn’t kill the buggers at least I could confuse them. In the early morning hours just as it was getting light, a thunderously loud snapping noise instantly woke me. I stalled getting up, having to look at that dead mouse and — ugh — pick the vile thing up. When I finally edged into the kitchen, eyes squinched almost shut, I made out a dark gray shape on top of my prime target trap. And I’m here to tell you it IS possible to pick up a dead mouse, swaddle it in newspaper and dispose of it without once looking directly at it.

Later in the day three more mice met their makers in the same spot. After dinner, a few more bought the course further down the line, which increased my uneasiness. Maybe I was killing off beloved relatives and angering their kin. Maybe there were vengeful mice down there right now gunning for me.

The next morning started with another snapping bang. From then on it was a massacre.  At one point, I killed four mice in one hour. By the time the contractor showed up the next day, I had lost count of the carnage. After surveying the situation the contractor said, “Once we plaster the wall I can’t guarantee they won’t tunnel back in. If they do, we’ll have to install a steel plate to keep them out.”

But the wall has held. Glory be and Hallelujah!

The first time I saw an image of the weird looking Chinese bus — a gigantic articulated vehicle transporting 1,200 riders in the upper level while passenger cars swooped through the open lower level as the bus traveled along the highway — I thought, what the heck IS this thing? The closer I looked though and the more I read about it on China Hush, the more off-the-wall brilliant the idea seemed.

Designed to ease China’s traffic congestion and travel OVER the traffic, the bus would be powered by solar energy and electricity that recharges as it moves along the highway. Riding on existing roads, the buses would cost much less to construct than underground subways or overhead rail lines.

In the video describing his company’s creative concept, Song Youzhou, the chairman of Shenzhen Hashi Future Parking Equipment Co. (they might consider shortening that moniker) pointed out the bus could save 860 tons of fuel a year, while reducing carbon emissions by 2,640 tons. In urban areas the buses would run on rails to prevent lane straying, while outside the city, cameras and a semi auto-pilot system would navigate painted line markers to reduce infrastructure cost. During non-peak hours the buses would simply be parked on roads allowing regular passenger car traffic to pass unimpeded beneath them. No need for garages or parking lots so another big saving there.

American’s reactions to the gigantic buses  (1,529 comments at last count in the Huffington Post) ranged from admiration to critical derision to dire predictions of horrendous, gargantuan-scale accidents. Many said US drivers couldn’t possibly cope with such close quarters beneath these buses because drivers were too often distracted by their ipods, cell phones, texting, make-up application and latte slurping, etc.

While I myself marveled at the Chinese brainstorm, I also felt disconcerted by it.  Where the heck were OUR visionary mass transportation planners?  First the Japanese come along with their bullet train — currently streaking across countries in Asia and Europe at speeds of 120 mph to 268 mph (in good old China again) while our puny little single, high speed rail line from Boston to Washington DC zips along at the average wow speed of 68 mph, only briefly touching speeds of 150 mph. And now here’s China introducing an even more revolutionary transportation concept to the world. While our traffic infrastructure is crumbling under decades of neglect, China appears to be blazing into their mass transportation future firing on all cylinders. As if this disparity weren’t unsettling enough, this morning I read in the New York Times that cash strapped US states are now actually tearing up their own roads, turning pavement into gravel surfaces because they can no longer afford the upkeep. Imagine — we are now destroying part of a highway system that was once the streamlined marvel and envy of the world.

In the mass transportation department, America — Like Bo Beep and her lost sheep — seems to have lost its innovative vision and get-up-and-go and doesn’t know where to find them

Further transportation Posts:

• Flying First Class on the Cheap
• LaGuardia to NYC on the Frugal M60
• Hoof It for Purse and Health

During the night at the end of a brutally hot July, the sizzling summer of hell finally took a powder. When I left my apartment the next morning I walked straight into a deliciously cool breeze. It had been so long since I had hit the street and not been assaulted by a blinding wall of sun and humidity, I stopped short to drink in the stunning coolness. Returning home and walking toward me, my third floor neighbor, who also always leaves early to buy his newspaper, smiled. Yes, we beamed. Wasn’t it a gorgeous morning.

At last New Yorkers could turn off their air conditioners, could walk in comfort on the streets again, amble anywhere, do anything outdoors we wanted. A celebration was in order. Maybe dinner at a restaurant with outside seating. Even better, a picnic in Central Park, the first of the Summer.

After consultation with a friend I offered to bring a pasta salad. Nice and simple to match my cooking level. But always impressive with lots of fresh veges from the farmer’s market and capers and olives thrown in. I’d also bring the wine. Thanks to biweekly trips to Trader Joe’s and their neighboring wine shop where I stock up on their ridiculously cheap, fine tasting, house brands, I always have an ample supply on hand.

My friend would bring a surprise dessert, something she is good at, always managing to find delectable, chocolate concoctions that hit the spot. She would also schlep the entire cutlery, dishes and cups, plus picnic blanket.

I checked my larder, which happily contained all dinner ingredients, so I’d have to buy zilch. Which meant a picnic both fun and frugal.

A little after 7:00 in the evening we spread beach towels on a smooth, stone wall under a large weeping willow tree beside Turtle Lake. Across the path, created for the 1939 World’s Fair, an impressive statue of Poland’s King Jagiello mounted on his massive horse, his swords crossed high in victory, watched over us.  At this hour the park was quiet… and getting quieter. Most kids had been packed off home. Nearby someone was playing a guitar with an accomplished rhythm, a pleasant accompaniment to our leisurely meal. As the sun went down we also had the entertainment of checking out occasional strollers on the main path crossing the park from east to west. Taking advantage of the cool respite, other night revelers were also enjoying dinner on park benches and further away, on picnic tables among the trees.

The darker it got, the more peaceful and bucolic, the quiet broken by faint distant voices and occasional splashes of ducks diving in the lake. I thought of early childhood picnics when my family lived in an industrial city in a crowded six flat building with a tiny scrubby backyard. On Sundays we’d sometimes pack up picnic gear and escape to Sherwood Island, an oasis of beautiful lush trees with a beach on Long Island Sound. Bliss — a whole day of chowing down on grilled hot dogs and marshmallows, exploring the island and paddling around the clean inlet water, always impatiently waiting those 25 minutes after eating before jumping in the water again. Happy times…Like tonight.  Relaxed and with an all’s-right-with-the-world-wine-buzz, we slowly savored our desert.  My friend had done it again — luscious Belgian brownies from Le Pain Quoidien, a master Belgian bakery on Madison Avenue. Like those marsh-mellows of years go, a sweet ending to a perfect picnic.

More Food and Summer Treats:

• Free Summer Entertainment in New York. Enjoy!
• 103 Recipes to Spark up Packable Lunches
• Breezy Grilled Meals Easy on the Wallet
• A Splurge Feeds the Soul
• High Five to Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution

I hate to break it to those with golden tans colored by man-made potions and methods, but the final verdict is still out on some tanning practices and one sunless tanner has been labeled flat out “unsafe.”

Tanning pills, which usually contain an item called canthaxaxthin, have been called unsafe by the esteemed Mayo Clinic. Taken in large amounts, these pills can turn your skin orange and bring on hives. Even more worrisome, they can also cause crystals to form in the retina of the eye and lead to liver damage.

Tanning beds also come with negatives. According to a study by the American Association for Cancer Research, the frequent use of indoor tanning beds increases the risk of Melanoma up to four times, regardless of people’s ages when they first started using tanning beds. On a global note, The International Agency for Research on Cancer has classified these devices as “carcinogenic.” The FDA has chimed in by recommending that kids under 18 be barred from tanning beds unless they have a consent form signed by a parent. Interviewing tanning salon staffs in 2005, Consumer Reports found that 30% of those questioned denied that tanning beds could prematurely age skin or cause skin cancer. Which doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in their knowledge or credibility.

On to Salon Spray tans. The problems with these personalized airbrushed tans seem to center on the spray application itself rather than the spray ingredients, the main one being dihydroxyacetone (DHA), a colorless sugar derived carbohydrate that interacts with dead skin cells to darken them. Though DHA is approved by the FDA, the risks of inhaling or ingesting the stuff are still unknown. I myself have always wondered how people keep from breathing in that chemical mist while someone is spraying it over every inch of your body. The Mayo Clinic’s suggested solution is to close your eyes and hold your breath during the spraying which sounds like a heck of a feat for an operation that surely takes more than a minute. They further suggest that customers might want to utilize nose plugs or goggles while being spritzed. Frankly, just the mention of these protective items would be enough for me to give the process a pass.

Automated spray tanning booths bring on further complications. If customers don’t pivot fast enough in the correct position, they can end up with partially bronzed, striped bodies. Definitely not the golden effect they were aiming for.

Sunless tanning lotions and creams contain the same FDA approved DHA as tanning sprays, but don’t come with unresolved questions or after effects if correctly applied. The skin should always be first exfoliated with a wash cloth or sponge to remove excess dead cells. Used sparingly on dry or thickened skin around ankles, knees, elbows and toe joints to prevent dark patches, sunless tanning products should be lightly and evenly applied. It usually takes about an hour to start seeing results. Most of these sunless tanning products don’t contain protection against UV rays, so be sure to use sunscreen if you’ll be spending time outdoors.

When I stopped frying myself in the sun years ago, I started using these tanning lotions to avoid waltzing around in bare summer clothes showing skin that resembled raw chicken. But this summer’s sizzling heat inspired me to simplify my life and stick with my natural skin color (raw chicken be damned) and see what it was like going without a tan. The results so far: a terrific saving of time, effort and some greenbacks. Looks like I may have reached the age where looking cool has taken a back seat to keeping cool.

More on Health and Simplicity:

• Hoof it for Purse and Health
• The Simpler the Kitchen, the Greener