My friends at Design Boner recently blogged about saving money on groceries by using Peapod.com—not by actually buying their groceries through the service, but by using Peapod to make their lists before heading to their local grocery store. One of the things they found helpful about this approach was that they can easily see how much each item costs in advance and clearly spot a pricey budget-killer before they hit the store where all rational thinking seems to go out the window.

Whether your budget is derailed by a six-dollar wheel of smoked Gouda or a Sara Lee cheesecake you had no intention of buying, a list and a good pair of blinders can be your best friend in the fight to keep your financial resolutions. Although I believe in the value of lists, I rarely make them myself. When I do, it’s only to ensure I don’t forget an essential item like toilet paper or Olay Regenerist Thermal Skin Polisher. For me, grocery store impulse buys are one of the few indulgences that never give me buyer’s remorse. I love wandering the aisles slowly and examining any product that catches my eye. I figure I have to buy food anyway, so I might as well view it as a chance to live a little. With that said, I have a few techniques to keep my grocery costs down.

1) I use my boyfriend’s Target card. Wait, it’s not what you think. Every time you spend $1000 on a Target credit card, you get a coupon for 10% off your next purchase. So, my boyfriend and I have started putting all the groceries on his Target card (to get to the $1000 mark faster), then we try to buy as much as we can when we have the coupon. Of course, if you can find a guy who will let you put all your groceries on his Target card and not expect you to pay him back, that’s even better than the occasional 10% off—assuming you’re into that whole “being taken care of and never having to work again” lifestyle, but God knows gay men aren’t into that.

2) I go on a coupon kick. I only do this once in a blue moon because it always seems even with a coupon, brand-name items still cost more than the generic versions I usually buy. So, coupons only help on items that don’t have an acceptable generic alternative.

3) I buy whatever is on sale. Seriously, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried to make dinner with a can of buy-one-get-one-free water chestnuts, a dented bottle of Newman’s Own ranch dressing, five-for-a-dollar kiwi fruit, and three pounds of red-tagged popcorn shrimp. Four words: best…stir…fry…ever. My great great grandma used to say live frugally on surprise, and I couldn’t agree more. (Yes, my great great grandmother was still alive when I was born. My mother was 16 when she had me. Don’t judge us. I have 2.3 pounds of popcorn shrimp in my freezer and I’m not afraid to smear it all over your car and write nasty things about you in cocktail sauce on your rear window. And let me tell you, Val-U-Way cocktail sauce doesn’t just wash off with a little soap and water like that fancy Heinz shit.) The moral here is if you’re open to letting the wonders of capitalism determine what you should eat for the next week or two, you can get some great deals and treat each shopping trip like a little taste of Christmas morning.

I just learned that the Cosi near my office is closing. The email from Cosi corporate was especially depressing because I just received it today, but the store actually closed on the 15th. Apparently the most devoted are always the last to know. On the plus side, I did get this coupon for $3 off any Cosi salad, sandwich, or pizza. I think it should work for anyone, even though the little script that customizes the coupon just shows “@first_name@” where my name should be.

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I didn’t do anything special for my boyfriend on Valentine’s Day. In my defense, I did fulfill one of his fantasies the night before by taking him to his favorite sushi restaurant for an all-you-can-eat Wednesday special. It truly was a match made in heaven, combining his love of raw fish and sticky rice with my love of flat-fee dining. I thought I was off the hook until he gave me a card after we got home from dinner. In the card, he listed a few of the reasons why he still adores me and I felt that special mix of appreciation and dread that can only come from being one-upped in the romantic-gesture department. In the ongoing dance-off that is our relationship, it was clear that I had just been served.

At first, I spent a few minutes looking around the house for suitable raw materials to make him a card. I considered gluing a few magazine subscription cards together and lining them with a lovingly folded Bounty paper towel, but decided I’d be better off buying a real card the next day. Sadly, several days went by and I still hadn’t found the time to pick up a card, let alone fill it with my trademark brand of sentimental hilarity. So, to redeem myself, I thought I’d share with all of you a few things that I’ve learned about love, and how you, too, can know if you’ve found your soul mate.

Say you really love something that’s hard to come by—like a condor-egg quiche or a photo of Matthew McConaughey with his shirt on. Or maybe you really love Green Giant Steam-in-Bag Extra Sweet Corn Niblets and your local Target stops carrying them. Against all odds, love finds a way. Your true soul mate will get you that extra-sweet corn at any cost. True, there might be setbacks. Initially, your soul mate might bring home an inferior corn product that is only of average sweetness. And, in a fit of blind rage, you might strike your soul mate in the face with said inferior corn, causing golden niblets to scatter across the kitchen floor you finished Swiffering only hours ago. Your true soul mate would understand that you beat him with those niblets out of love. Your soul mate would scour every grocery store and Sam’s Club in four counties and return home days later, weary and haggard. Yet, though his back may ache under the weight of his precious, frozen treasure, your soul mate would smile as you ripped open the first bag and tossed handfuls of the sparkling, yellow booty into the air, for your joy is your soul mate’s joy.

Also, I think a true soul mate must:

1. give the dog her antibiotics so you can sleep in.
2. let you buy a really heavy down comforter even though it will make him sweat in his sleep.
3. tell you you’re not nearly as annoying as some really queeny guy on a reality TV show, even though other people like to joke around and say you’re just like him when you’re totally not.

I’m currently finishing up House Lust: America’s Obsession with Our Homes. I was really excited when I first heard about the book around New Year’s, but it hasn’t quite lived up to my expectations. It’s mostly a loose collection of anecdotes about people who’ve gotten caught up in the housing boom of the last seven years or so and the professionals and companies that keep the wheels of the market turning. The author makes a few interesting points here and there, but overall, he keeps referring to the same handful of trends people have already been pointing out for years. He talks about the rise of home-valuation site zillow.com, the emergence of HGTV as a major cable network, the unexpected success of relatively uneventful shows like House Hunters, huge jumps in the number of licensed real estate agents nationwide, dramatic increases in the square footage of the average American home over the last 50 years or so, and the nation’s growing obsession with renovation and new construction.

The only issue addressed in House Lust that gave me pause was a section early in the book that mentions how ridiculously large American homes have become and how so many of us fantasize about having a home filled with the latest conveniences. The average American home was 983 square feet in 1950. By 2005, the average home had grown to 2,434 square feet. Of course, that leaves a lot of people with homes over 2500 square feet, which I find deeply disturbing. I always see people on House Hunters moving out of 3 bedroom, 2 bath “starter homes” because they’re about to have a second child and claim they need more space. These buyers usually move into giant mcmansions, presumably to spare their kids the horror of sharing a bathroom with a sibling. Good ol’ Suzanne Wong checks back in three months later, and the happy couple always sings the praises of their new sparkly granite countertops, durable laminate flooring, supersized playroom, and mammoth walk-in closets. They never seem even remotely concerned about all the burdens that come with a larger home—from higher property taxes and utility bills to more time-consuming cleaning and costly maintenance.

Of course, it’s easy for me to wag my finger at these folks while my boyfriend and I live the simple life in our cozy, 700-square foot love nest. But I do dream of a day when my vacuum cleaner can be removed from my guest-room closet without causing an avalanche of luggage and linens, and I think about how nice it would be to have my own secluded bathroom in which to take a private, soundproof poo. (In my daydream, the toilet emits soothing white noise and converts foul odors into hazelnut truffles.) I fantasize about having a basement retreat complete with ping-pong table and a Dance Dance Revolution nook where I can stomp around as hard as I like, and I know eventually I’ll live in a home that studio-apartment dwellers could decry as an act of real estate gluttony.

So, how do we know when enough is enough and when are we entitled to an upgrade? As much as I complain about the lack of storage space in my current condo, I’ve lived here for almost two years and I still haven’t installed closet organizers to maximize the space I already have. I have piles of clothes I haven’t worn in over a year and a junk drawer full of expired coupons. What if a bigger space only forces me to buy more furniture I don’t really need and takes my pack-rat tendencies to the next level? Are we all just like goldfish, expanding to fill whatever size bowl we’re in? (If that’s the case, goldfish are probably still a step ahead of us since they don’t accuse the new bowl of becoming too small or complain that it’s not close enough to a good Thai restaurant.)

I worry that my next move will only leave me with a new kind of buyer’s remorse and a new set of fantasies about a bigger, better home. But, I also think a lot of the things I’m looking forward to in my next place are legitimate wish-list items that I’ll definitely appreciate long after I’ve settled in. I also think I know myself well enough to know that I need lofty goals to keep me from obsessing too much about where my life is going and what it all means. Climbing the property ladder seems like a a good fit for goal-oriented people, since the rewards are tangible and there’s always another rung to reach for. Of course, I’m not sure where you go once you find yourself living in a 3/4-size replica of the White House in Atlanta. Perhaps you just have to run for President once your existing digs start to feel stale.

Back in August, I was looking forward to seeing Jodie Foster in her victim-turned-vigilante thriller The Brave One. Like so many things that catch my attention, I lost interest in the movie almost immediately, which is why I didn’t see it until just a few days ago. In short, it was pretty forgettable and most of the dialogue was awful, so I won’t waste time promoting it any further. However, I remain fascinated with the concept of vigilante justice. The older I get, the more I feel like everyone should probably carry some type of concealed, non-lethal weapon. While I’m not going to join the NRA any time soon, I would like the right to pepper spray people who are a threat to my personal well being—like those assholes who stand outside my office every day aggressively soliciting donations for Save The Children. I told one once that I already made a donation, to which he replied, “Oh really? How much?” Seriously, them and those pushy Greenpeace activists—a little spritz every once in a while might teach those bastards that no means no. That’s all I’m sayin’.

The day after I saw The Brave One, I finally made it to a theater and saw Juno (which was as charming as everyone says it is). That night, my boyfriend and I wound up riding home from the movies at around 8:30. Because our train line runs through a lot of bad neighborhoods on its way to ours, we usually sit in the first car, put on our best “don’t-fuck-with-me” faces, and make it home without any problems. This Saturday, however, a group of hoodlum kids started tormenting my boyfriend about the natural white streak in his hair from the minute we sat down. At first they weren’t particularly obvious. I thought they were just yelling some kind of nonsensical ghetto slang, but it quickly became clear they were shouting the word “spot” over and over and trying to get our attention. They eventually got louder and started moving closer to us, so we got off the train way before our stop. As I stepped onto the platform, one of the guys leaned over me and shouted “Spot!” in my ear. Thanks to years of ignoring similar bullshit as an adolescent trapped in the Alabama public school system, I didn’t flinch too noticeably and just kept walking. A few guys got off behind us, and we weren’t sure if they were a part of the same crowd, so we walked all the way up to the station entrance and waited for them to leave.

We got on the next train home, and my fear turned quickly to anger once I was safe inside my place. I thought about what would have happened if we weren’t able to get off the train. I thought about how stupid it was that neither of us carry pepper spray or a stun gun—especially since I seem to be a gay-basher magnet even in the most unlikely of circumstances. Then I remembered that the reason why I’ve never bought mace or pepper spray or a stun gun is because they’re illegal in the city of Chicago. While looking for more info on concealed weapons laws, I found this hilarious video describing some of the items the Illinois state police suggest a woman should use to ward off an attacker. (I love the serious 80s stock music. It sounded like something that would be perfect to work up a sweat to in Body Fuzion.)

I have noticed that the Walgreens near my office sells something that looks like pepper spray, but it must be some sort of kinder, gentler alternative. Personally, when I’m about to have my brains bashed in, I don’t want to be using a watered-down version of pepper spray. I figure it kind of defeats the purpose if the product is less debilitating than a blast of Aqua Net to the cornea. I want some maximum-strength shit that causes instant death in lab mice and induces heart palpitations in Olympic athletes—something that reduces my sperm count just by carrying it in my pocket and, ideally, makes grown men lose control of their bowels on contact. I guess for now, I’ll have to settle for a pointy comb or try to induce vomiting to discourage my attackers from raping me.

I found this chart today over at gawker.com that shows the results of a recent poll in which Democrats and Republicans were asked to name their favorite and least favorite TV news personalities. I thought it was interesting that even Republicans seem to like Anderson Cooper. I was also shocked to find that Republicans hate—or at least dislike—Katie Couric. I thought she was America’s sweetheart. Clearly, her PR team really needs to do some damage control. Maybe she and Nancy grace could team up for some kind of goodwill tour. I’m picturing the two of them appearing at county fairs and mall food courts wearing matching American-flag-print pant suits and hats full of lit sparklers and singing “You’re a Grand Old Flag” while dancing the Charleston.

It’s hard to find cheap artwork that doesn’t make your home look like a Quizno’s or a Holiday Inn, but some mass-produced art is actually quite tolerable. I just got a print catalog from AllPosters.com (don’t ask me how my address made it on their mailing list) and I was surprised to find they had a lot more to offer than just the usual cubicle posters featuring soaring eagles and kittens having bad hair days.

If you’re an Anthropologie/Urban Outfitters fan, you might like these lithograph-esque prints of birds and flowers. It should come as no surprise that I also liked this series of Warhol quote prints, and I thought these canvas prints by Yuko Lau would be great for a baby’s room. Finally, for you Pottery Barn lovers, I spotted these framed ferns and other preserved plant life.

I didn’t bother watching the SuperBowl this year because I knew the only part I really wanted to see would be all over YouTube within hours. I’m talking, of course, about Paula’s big comeback performance. Obviously a lot of people are going to make comparisons to the Britney VMA performance which is ridiculous. That’s like comparing apples with older, slightly less crazy apples. I think we can all agree that all Paula had to do to one-up Britney was show up for the taping and not soil herself on stage…and even that could have been removed in post-production. So, what did she do right and what did she do wrong?

First, the good:

• The show started off strong. She opened with a snippet of “Forever Your Girl,” which totally took me back to my elementary school days, riding my Huffy bike around town while listening to that delightful cassingle on my Sony walkman.
• She wore a hat, which is always good for throwing dramatically into a crowd.
• Her backup dancers were able to lift her into the air on the first try.
• Justin Timberlake did not rip off any part of her costume. We’ll never know if she was wearing a sunburst-shaped nipple piercing that day, and that’s a good thing.

And now, the bad:

• The weeble-wobble-style mic stand was underused. She clearly didn’t need it to amplify any sound coming out of her throat, so why not kick it around more? At the very least, she could have used it to bludgeon a few of those overly eager fans in the crowd.
• There was far too much crossing and spreading of the arms. Of course, there could be a perfectly good explanation for this. She has had several back surgeries, so maybe arm spreading and jazz hands are her new choreographic bread and butter. Maybe she got her appointments confused and thought this was an audition for The Price is Right and she was just asked to show off imaginary items in a showcase showdown. Whatever the case may be, it could have been a lot worse.

PS: Don’t hate me for admitting that I kind of like Paula’s new single. Rest assured, Paula haters, that I don’t like it enough to pay for it. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. I just downloaded it here.

I’m not sure if this is a good thing for Hillary or not, but Ann Coulter recently announced that she’d vote for Hillary over McCain. The most shocking thing about this is that Ann actually seemed quite reasonable and matter-of-fact about the whole thing. She didn’t take any jabs at Hillary or include some kind of inflammatory caveat like, “…but I’m sure as hell not voting for that faggot Edwards for VP!” She actually sounded rational, which I found quite unnerving. All I can say is this has to be a sign of the apocalypse and if you’re not already voting for Obama, get your affairs in order.