Out of Work Graphic Designer Takes Up Housekeeping?

The Christnukkah cards are starting to roll in and this one left me wishing I could still afford a cleaning lady/womyn/dude/service. And curious...

This card is genius. It's really a work of art.

Frankly, I think it rivals that awesome subway map inspired Hanukkah card we had up the other day.

In fact, I would venture to say this is the best housecleaning offer I've ever, ever, ever received (and note the twenty five buck discount if you book before Xmas).

So, I'm going to give Mina's Green Cleaning a plug, though I have absolutely no idea of whether Mina can clean to save her life, or if she really has a mean green team.

Per the card, Mina's is "environment safe, child & pet friendly" and specially trained in quality green toilet bowl cleansing and floor mopping etc.

Merry Christmas, Mina! And can you please clarify if you are, indeed, in the middle of a career change from art directing or graphic designing?

Who Gives A Shit: Wax On, Wax Off?

Do you get waxed? If so, where? (and not like WHERE on your body...where in the hood?). We have a FIPS reader in need:

"So my previously beloved bikini waxer at Rompal has taken to talking on her bluetooth during the whole procedure.  She's done it twice and has done it with my friend too.  She is speaking Russian, so in addition to feeling slighted, I feel paranoid.  

Is she talkin' smack about my admittedly long neglected short and curlies? What if the person she is talking to says something shocking, and then she rips the waxing strip off me all crooked in surprise?" 

Can someone help a sista out??

[ed note: if you want, I can totes hook you up with Foreign Dude! He can sit out in the waiting room (i.e. with his ear glued to the door) and we can try and uncover whether or not this bitch is making fun of your cooch the whole time??].

WHO GIVES A SHIT: Where Do You Get Your Hair Cut?

So, I cheat on my normal hairstylist for a simple trim and what do I come away with?  Bangs that make me look like I'm flirting with some sort of horrible Bettie Page time warp.  And no, I can't recover any charm in the situation now that I've been told, "Yeah, you've definitely looked better."

I'm not going to name the stylist or shit on his/her reputation because I'm fairly certain we just had a (massively epic appearance-aleringly bad) miscommunication, but needless to say I'm looking to move on.  And not just to another person at that salon--this was the second stylist I'd tried at this particular Slope establishment, of which I adore the atmosphere, staff, prices, and general upscale-ness, so naturally, I'm disappointed.  But clearly, we're just not on the same (Bettie) page.

So, I pass the torch to you, ladies: Where do you go in the 'hood to get your hair cut?  I have my ninja-levels-of-awesome-fancy-stylist at a salon embarrassingly far from Brooklyn (read: literally in another state), but I need to find a new place where I can go to make sure I avoid the wet dog look on a monthly basis when my bangs take over my face.

Suggestion box open.

Who Gives A Shit: Movin' On Up?

It's moving day for our soon-to-be dearly departed neighbors. Who will rampage through the halls with the rug rats shooting unwitting BALLER neighbors in the ass with nerf guns? Who will chalk up the sidewalks and leave love letters written in glitter glue?

Not the new neighbor, I fear.  Single woman, kid-free and loving it (?), paid in cash. Well, who knows? You BALLERS can be a juvenile crowd! 

In a now familiar spate of downward mobility for the hood's recessionista crowd, our family-friendly neighbors are selling up. Moving down the hill to a rental. Mortgage-free and loving it! But, you know what I lurve about them—aside from the fact that they hang with wine on the front stoop and act like people used to, as a rule, in Park Slope (aka decent and friendly)—they did it with a shrug and good humor. A mortgage doesn't make a house a home. 

Okay, enough of the preaching. 

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The Com-POST

See what I did in the post title?  See it?  A famous blogger am I.

Compost: A seven letter word I associate with my housemates from college, who decided they'd store their banana peels in open, cardboard boxes indoors for weeks at a time, making the house so wreak so badly that I retched each time I walked through the door.  True story.

Obviously, this isn't actually what composting is like.  In reality, it's a wonderful thing that doesn't need to be associated with weirdos or hippies or people living in vegan communes.  So, now that I'm moving into my own place, I figured there was no better time to start doing it the right way--and no better place than the Slope, where all of my favorite flaming liberals reside.

Turns out it's not so friggin' easy to compost here.  Well, not the throwing-the-carrots-into-the-fancy-bamboo-vessel part, but once that thing's full, where do I throw that shit?  Here's where I turn to you, you Coop-belonging, tree-hugging FIPS readers: Where's a gal to throw her compost (without having to pay a nine billion dollar membership fee to save the earth)?