Vanessa "Kaczynski" T.'s Profile

I'm not one to buy polka dotted plungers and frilly oven mitts, but I dig this store. It has a small town, general-store feel with a modern, cosmopolitan air. Among the neatly lined rows of the customary serious hardware supplies, you'll also find an independent line of greeting cards, retro magnets, and neat toys.  

Whether you have a home improvement project that's wearing on your soul or just need a new set of Decatur license plates, this little store can make your dreams come true, instead of handily crushing them like they do at some other corporate giant hardware places. Service is friendly, unrushed, and knowledgeable.  Honestly, I'd just be happy with knowledgeable. The fact that they know what they're talking about AND are nice about it is just hug-inducing.

We went for their Benjamin Moore paint selection but stayed for the whimsical paper straws, array of grills, and unbeatable service.

This doctor came highly, highly recommended at a different review site that shall go unnamed.  Unfortunately, Yelp hasn't the breadth of doctors and specialist reviews that some other sites have or else I probably would've had a more tempered expectation and/or selected differently.  I don't consider myself a high maintenance client/patient in the sense that I very rarely reach out for medical attention. I'm very healthy and only get screened yearly as recommended by the AMA. Therefore, choosing a doctor with a decent disposition and good follow up is important to me for the 15 minutes a year I spend with him/her.  

My first visit, last year, was pleasant enough, despite the intensely stressful atmosphere in the front office and in the practice itself [suffering through a nurse shortage]. We went over my entire medical history, had a physical exam and pap performed, and the few questions I had were satisfactorily addressed.  I received a prompt call with routine test results a short while later and didn't have another interaction with the practice again until this year.

While only there to receive my annual exam and pap, I had a very specific concerns about an ongoing prescription that I brought up early on in the visit. The visit was awkward and uncomfortable. I don't know if Dr. Banks was having another bad day or what, but there was a palpable unease in the air. And I don't like being uneasy where my vagina's involved.  

Her bedside manner was inexplicably salty.  I sat there, feeling bad about stuff that really needn't be brought up as one slips her feet into cold stirrups: the recession, my aging eggs, the big scary mammograms in my future. She scolded me about wearing sun block despite the fact I wear it every day of my life.  I can't help it if I'm not Norwegian. I tan with little provocation. I told her as much and she essentially shrugged it off.  

My concerns about my prescription [which I did a lot of research on with the help of a regarded medical researcher] were more or less ignored. She changed my prescription, per my request, but not to what I requested.  I tried what she gave me for two months - for the sake of not injuring ego - and the side effects were horrendous. I called in and left a message stating so [it's very difficult to get a hold  of anyone] and I eventually got a prescription for what I wanted.  But I felt like I had to jump through hoops.  

I know doctors get annoyed with all the self-diagnosed hypochondriacs who spend their time on Web M.D but I'm not one of them. Despite how infrequently I go to the doctor, I am proactive in my care.  I don't like being treated or spoken to like a child.  Also, I'm not much of a hoop-jumper. As such, the search for a pcp/gynecologist continues.

Why 3 stars instead of 2 or 1? While I think she's not the right fit for me, Dr. Banks would suit some -- perhaps the vast majority -- of people just fine.  If you implicitly trust your doctor or don't have much cause for exploring alternatives to your current regimen, she'd work as well as any of the other of hundreds of other options.

Due to a last minute gift-giving malfunction, I found myself in dire need of juggling balls.  Despite not ever having been to The Toy Store, I felt relatively certain they'd carry them.  A friendly woman greeted me at the door [they were just opening] and asked if I needed help finding anything. Typically, I'd just wander the store, browsing at my own pace, but I just cut straight to the chase: "I need juggling balls."  

"We have them," she said.

Except there wasn't a clearly demarcated juggling ball / awesome people overcoming childhood awkwardness section.  We looked through different areas, scoured the walls, and I started reconsidering my gut feeling about the place.  Another customer needed to be helped, so I kept looking for them on my own.  I didn't find them, either.  

But what I did find were wonderful toys I used to play with as a kid, and kites, and the bigger flying disk that I've been looking for that Richard's Variety doesn't carry, and sanrio stuffs and . . .  just as I noticed my hands were full with everything BUT my intended purchase, the woman shouted she found the juggling  balls. Yeeeeee!  I picked up two sets [they were really cheap. They also weren't the really legit balls with evenly distributed weight that break in deliciously, but who cares, they were cheap].  

They have all sorts of novelty knick knack, stocking stuffer doodads that will terrorize the most a.d.d-ridden of individuals.  It's a really solid independent toy store and a pleasure to have in the community. I was definitely psyched.

But what truly puts The Toy Store over the top is that they carry the elusive and amazing German-made Pustefix bubble solution - the longest lasting bubble in the world. And they're iridescent and shit. I normally have to score this stuff online or esoteric underground shops that know what's up.

Now I have a dealer in my own neighborhood.  No need for shady transactions in hippie hangouts.

It looks like I'm alone in my outrage.

Here we have yet another example of a wonderful tradition lost to the Fast Foodization of All Things Once Righteous.

Unbeknownst to me,  cantankerous 19th century-er that I am, the quintessential American pumpkin patch has disappeared and been replaced with pumpkin pallets and pumpkin parking lots.  No longer do you walk the rows of meandering harvest, searching for the perfect specimen, readily whipping out your machete to cut your chosen pumpkin off the vine.  

No, now you just grab one from a pre-plucked sanitized stash like you do at your neighborhood grocery store.

Basically, they line up pumpkins on the ground in neat, symmetrical rows. You pick one  that isn't being crawled on by children.   You leave.  Yeah, you drive all the way up there for that.  

What's next? Raspberry and blueberry picking where the little plastic tubs are placed on the ground or on shelves in a field?  

Shortly after suffering personal devastation at this pumpkin "patch" revelation, I was told a gross rumor that that's what has already happened with the "apple picking" in North Georgia. You just pick up a BAG OF APPLES from a counter instead of OFF THE TREES.  Look what it's doing to me.  It's making me USE CAPS LOCK a day before INTERNATIONAL CAPS LOCK DAY.  

Count me out.

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My personal objection to mock pumpkin picking aside, Burt's Farm had a lot of pumpkin varieties . . . and a lot of people.  I specifically waited to go in the middle of the week so as to avoid hordes of people but we still managed to encounter them. The parking lot was nearly full at 1 pm on a Wednesday.

Lots of grandparents. Lots of parents. Lots of little kids who will never know the joy of struggling with a vine.

MEH.

Traitor Joe.

::stink eye::

I cannot explain away the multiple* rotten, seemingly expired frozen meals I've encountered in my freezer -- purchased only two days ago -- as anything other than systemic and deeply pervasive treachery.

How are you gonna do me like that, Joe?

I know you have a great return policy but when I'm standing by the microwave, starved for a quick bite before I go back to digging ditches, the last thing I'm interested in is getting my money back on chicken tikka masala.  

What I want is for you to not suck in the first place.

- Bright blue spots on my buffalo burgers. Cutesy polka dots on my meat make me incredibly uncomfortable. The FDA agrees.

- Meals that come with no expiration date anywhere on them.

- Meals that come with an expiration date but it's arbitrary and means nothing because the contents were aborted sometime in the third trimester.

- Meals with clearly stamped old expiration dates gleefully line the shelves instead of being removed or at least moved to a clearly marked bargain bin: "40% off! Take chances with your intestinal lining!" like other first world nations do.

I guess the lesson to extrapolate from my lost lunchtime dollars, dear reader, is to always, always check the expiration date on things you've never even considered checking the expiration date on before.  

And even then, have a backup plan.

Damn, Joe, I can't even look at you right now.

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* Once I found one, I started going through the 2 week stockpile I purchased.  Sure enough: TRAITOR.

I've never had so much fun getting brutalized before.

I managed not one, but two, severe hematomas* in my first WhirlyBall experience.  I can't think of a better way to acknowledge the anniversary of my expulsion from my mother's womb.

All you need to have an equally epic adventure:

+ At least 10 decidedly awesome people.  [10 is the minimum, but unless you rent for more than an hour, I wouldn't suggest more than 15]

+ A full belly.  There's no food on the premises unless you order in-house catering and who wants to do that?  Oof. Eat beforehand.  Beverages are readily available, though.

+ A credit card. For that bar tab, son.

+ Thick skin. Not only for the likely bruising, but for the employees.  We were treated relatively well, but I could see where some of the previous reviewers' complaints were coming from.

+ A willingness, nay, a WISH to encounter head on collisions, sideswipes, and pile drives.  

The most fun you can have in Georgia without involving livestock.

*The doctors expect me to fully recover. But, yeah, it's been a month? WTF?

I've dined at Top Flr a half dozen times. My first visit there was enough to satisfy my curiosity. I wasn't overly excited about it, but I thought it was fine.  My five subsequent visits as a result of group gatherings have all been :: fine:: as well.  As such, I don't have any real complaints. It's just that "fine" isn't something to which I aspire or where I like to drop dollars.

Consistency doesn't seem their strong suit.  Sometimes the mac & cheese is the pinnacle of human achievement, sometimes it's impossibly lame.  The hanger steak is almost always good but the portion is Lilliputian. I mean, even by my standards.  I'm a lawn gnome.  

That steak - and all their entrees, for that matter  - simply isn't going to cut it.  Sides aren't included with the entrees so you have to scan the small  menu for some accompaniments.  And those babies ring in at $6 a piece. You need several of them to round out your meal and your stomach. It's too nickel and dimey for me.

I won't gut someone in the stomach for choosing this place for dinner, but I won't ever be the one to suggest it, either.

I've never been much of a sandwich person. I've never even had peanut butter.  My lunchbox was the subject of much discussion and derision in grade school.

The only reason you need to know that is to learn that the 20+ year Sandwich Opposition I've led was in direct response to the Tyranny of Weak Sandwiches. Nothing obliterates my enthusiasm for life like limp lettuce, processed cheese, and infidel pickles.

But for a sandwich from Star Provisions, or any other purveyor that recognizes the brilliance of robust, fresh breads, clean meats, in season tomatoes and warm presses, I'd punch you in the face.  Repeatedly.

They're bugging with the prices, though.  The shrimp po' boy is worth it, but some of the other offerings are blatantly making fun of your devotion to their product.  $11.08 for a meatless sandwich [tomato and mozarella] and a baby coke? Pfft.

The most un-Colombian Colombian restaurant I've ever been to. Not a judgment, just an observation. The unColombian aspects aren't of any consequence because they don't pertain to the food but to the decor and personnel.

Who cares if the walls aren't covered in an abundance of the typical crafts and iconography of the country, complete with miniature baskets of highly lacquered fake coffee beans? Well, my mother, probably, but she's not here to give me any lip.  

But if she were visiting, I wouldn't hesitate to take her to this unassuming, sparsely decorated space that serves up tasty food and familiar flavors.  

I settled for the mini bandeja paisa, after learning the dish I was craving isn't something they ever even offer.  The normal sized bandeja is something that feeds an unapologetic glutton or a family of 3. So the mini was just the perfect size for this mini-sized individual. But non-mini-sized individuals like Ivan S. also ordered this dish, so don't think it's not a generous amount.

The bandeja came equipped with the usual suspects: rice, beans, plantains, avocado, steak, chorizo, and the very necessary pork rinds.  I usually skip the fried-egg-sitting-on-top-of-it-all aspect, but the mini version doesn't come with it, anyway.  All of this glory for $6.95.  

I paired it with the guanabana [sour sop] shake, which was wonderful and served in an embarrassingly huge glass, which I love.

I was excited to see they carry baked and deep fried goods and snacks that I've grown accustomed to not having since I moved here.  The menu isn't strictly Colombian, and includes a small amount of Cuban, Mexican, and pan-Latin American selections.  Those dishes are probably fine [haven't had any of it], but it's likely not their forte. I'm a finicky splinter in the eyeball like that, though.

Immediately take a left.

Walk down the long, brightly lit passage and ignore the paperback books with vampires on the cover.

Take a right onto the next to last aisle.  

Right hand side.
Directly under the Goya frijoles.
To the left of the sofrito.
To the right of Jamaican clam juice.
On the very last shelf, lies a very small row of Sugar Cane Shangri-La: slender bottles of Mexican Coca Cola.