Fess up. One time or another, you’ve played with your food. We all have.
   Maybe it was just taking Auntie’s inedibles and moving them around the plate so it looked like you’re digging into a helping of overcooked whatnot.
   Or perhaps you were lucky enough to have a dog at your knee beneath the table. You’d secretly feed him the vegetables you had to eat or not be allowed to leave the table—ever.
   Some of us learned to juggle by using items from the produce department: oranges, apples, and, for the advanced students, bananas.
    Is there a toddler in the land who didn’t spread spaghetti and tomato sauce from the highchair to the walls to the kitchen ceiling? Usually more than once.
  And doesn’t every baby album just have to feature at least one embarrassing photo of you with your face smeared in some colorful mess, like carrots, pureed peas or chocolate cake?
  Which brings us to the jolly items in the picture. It’s a Buddha Jell-O mold—and two cheery, cherry offspring. These molds come in a colorful set of four identical Buddhas ($68, Elements, 741 N. Wells St., elementschicago.com), gelatin and spoon not included.
    For those who aren’t familiar with the teachings, aboutbuddha.org is a basic primer starting with, “Every living being has the same basic wish—to be happy and to avoid suffering.”
    Buddha, we learn, generally means “Awakened One” and that “It is impossible to describe all the good qualities of Buddha. A Buddha’s compassion, wisdom, and power are completely beyond conception.”
   Not beyond conception, however, is the fun of spooning up a big dose of jiggling fruity goodness with the help of Buddha shown here. 
   The website tells us that Buddhas can manifest themselves as men or women, animals, wind or rain, mountains or islands.
   Well, why not also as a desert that, at least in the time it takes to devour it, offers an inner peace—of a good-in-the-tummy kind.

Tribune photo by Bill Hogan

        Nosy, as usual, I wanted to know how Chicago area shoppers were coping with these miserable economic times.  So, I went to shopping Ground Zero--the corner of State and Madison Streets--to ask people how they were coping and what are their money-saving tips. Click here to see what they told me.

We all have skills. Some are just more useful than others. 
   Parallel parking with only inches to spare is a big deal in the big city.
   Blaming it on your brother—no matter what “it” is—comes in mighty handy in your formative years.
   Credible dance moves and the wherewithal to cook a decent dinner are huge if you’re a man looking for a mate.
    But of all the skills acquired in a lifetime, one of the most underrated and useful is the simplest: Sewing on a button.
   With that in your arsenal, you can swoop in and save the day. You hero, you!
    Assembling the pieces of what it takes to do this small task is the hard part.
   How many times have you (miraculously!) located the button after it falls off only to go on a search-and-destroy mission to find a needle and thread?
   Untangling the thread, once you’ve found it in the jumble of the junk drawer, is a struggle.
   Then comes the part where you have to lick it and stick it through the eye of the needle which, somehow, you also have managed to put your hands on.
   Now you’ve got all the equipment you need but…wait.  You’re scrambling for a decent light and your reading glasses.
   How great it is to have a mom, spouse or dry cleaner who will do all this for you? Apparently, not great enough.
   We want it to be simpler still.
   Look closely at this photo (in good light, with your reading glasses perched on your nose). You’ll notice something unique about the button shown here.
   It’s actually a photograph of a button turned into a handy pin you can poke into the spot from whence the original button disappeared ($11.20 for four, www.atypyk.com).
  The packaging says, “No need for needle and thread.” Sounds good.
  The website promises, “Never sew again.”  That sounds even better.

Tribune photo by Bill Hogan   

Summer is a great time to invest in some new flirty sleepwear. And today's trends mirror what you see in daywear. Check out the latest offerings here!

It’s almost time to grab the remote and settle in for some serious couch time watching the Olympics.
  Well, maybe not all that serious. There are some Olympics competitions that just can’t get much respect. But they do make you smile.
  Synchronized swimming is one of them.
   I’m looking at the fluffy orange thing in the photo and thinking of the endeavor once known as water ballet.
   Suddenly, I’m remembering old Esther Williams movies. She’s diving into an Olympic-size pool in a gold lame swimsuit, a gilded crown miraculously staying put as she cavorts like a dolphin.
   Synchronized swimming quite probably is the only sport that got to the Olympics via Hollywood.
    It was Williams and her popular MGM movies in the ‘40s and ‘50s—“Bathing Beauty,” “Neptune’s Daughter,” “Million Dollar Mermaid”—that popularized this particular variation of swimming competition.
      From an Olympic standpoint it took awhile for the games to fully embrace the idea of competitive synchro—like 40 years. It’s only been an official event since 1984.
  Incidentally, if you think it’s easy to gracefully point your legs in the air while holding your breath under water, not touching bottom and doing it at exactly the same time as your teammates—while looking positively beautiful—well, give it a try. 
  But back to the swim cap shown here. It’s a vintage Kleinert’s Sava-Wave. An old ad anointed it, “The guaranteed watertight cap!”
   However, any swimmer who thinks that one of these will keep her hair dry is all wet.
   Think of it instead as fashion accessory. (You can never have too many of those.) Want one of your own? Headcovers.com offers its “famous petal swim cap” almost identical to the one shown here for $15.99 in a dizzying 27 different colors and combos.
   Slap one of those babies on your noggin (the patriotic red, white and blue might be a fitting choice this Olympic season), holler, “U.S.A., U.S.A.” And then what? It’s everybody into the pool.

Tribune photo by Bill Hogan

   If you're hankering for some water fun and thinking of buying a kayak, let me help! Here's everything you  need to know before you plunk down your hard earned cash.

There is nothing like a beautiful, sunny Saturday in Chicago.
Window boxes spilling over with flowers. Front stoops abundant with potted blossoms. Back yard vegetable gardens, the tomato plants heavy with juicy red fruit. Nature’s abundance.
   Loving it.
   Even the growl of the lawn mower is welcome. At least it signals that there’s something growing—it’s about time—out of the frozen hellscape that passed for a front yard all winter long.
   (Don’t’ get carried away with the sounds of summer: The high-pitched whine of the weed whacker remains an assault on human dignity.) 
    We’ve endured such a long, long winter that we treasure these fleeting moments of communing with our gardens, large or small.
    Like photographers, audiophiles and serious chefs, gardeners are gear heads. We like our tillers, our trowels, our special gloves, hose caddies, shears, dibbers, hoes and aerators. Spades and kneeling pads, soil testers and moisture meters.
   Give us a good widger, an edger, a trimmer, a pruner and some new sheers, throw in a trake and a cultivator and we’re good to go.
    To go after the weeds, I mean.
    Gerard Manley Hopkins had nothing but extravagant, misguided praise for those lawn and garden intruders.
   “Long live the weeds,” he wrote in his poem, “Inversnaid.”  In his sonnet, “Spring,” the poet enthuses, “Nothing is so beautiful as spring—when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush.”
      Lovely? Lush? He must have never been a gardener.
      Those infernal interlopers are a personal affront to all that gardeners cherish. Imagine how much more time we’d have to enjoy the glories of the garden if we didn’t have to yank and scrabble after all the unwelcome green things.
   The gizmo shown here looks ornery enough—imagine those pointy things are teeth—to attack the hardiest weed.
   What you see actually is a high style made-in-Italy three-piece garden tool set that fits together neatly in a shapely wall mount holder ($48, aplusrstore.com  ). 
         Ciao, dandelions!

Tribune photo by Bill Hogan

   Don't let them do it! Don't let stores harsh your summer mellow by forcing you to think about fall fashions and back-to-school. Check out these fun items to make your sunny times continue as long as the weather holds.

   They say that breaking up is hard to do.
   But that classic Neil Sedaka song lyric doesn’t even come close to getting at the gut roiling, cry a river, can’t eat (or, worse, can’t stop eating), horror of it all. So I’ve heard.
   As for all those amicable divorces you read about? Let’s just say that depends on your definition of what “amicable” is.
   Of course you don’t have to be married to suffer the heartache of a bad breakup. Far from it.
    For many of us, the breakup is a painful rite of passage that can color relationships forever.
   And you happy couples out there who somehow escaped relationships that ended badly, don’t get smug. 
    There are so many moms and dads who’ve held their sobbing grown up children in their arms, helpless to make it better for the next generation of broken hearts. 
   Despite shelves of self-help books and boundless online advice, there is no statute of limitations on when it stops hurting.
  It doesn’t matter if you’re doing the dumping or being dumped, either way is tough. However, it you’ve got a choice, you be the one who’s calling it off.
     There’s no right way to tell someone it’s over (although voicemail, texting, email or just never calling again are so wrong that you might rot in hell).
    Leave it to the French, those notorious lovers, to come up with a unique way of saying au revoir to your amour.
  This breakup letter handkerchief comes pre-printed in convincing handwriting with whole chunks of end-of-the-affair clichés:
  “Maybe you’re just too good for me…Maybe its (sic) not you, but me…Maybe I’m simply not ready to commit myself…Maybe we’ve grown apart.”
    If you’re so soulless that you need someone (a French someone no less) to write your Dear John/Jane letter for you, this one will set you back $21(www.atypyk.com).
   And when the newly ex’ed finishes reading it, how very thoughtful of you—to provide the handy mouchoir to mop up the tears.

Tribune photo by Bill Hogan

   The summer's hottest (or coolest) fashion is the long dress. Want to be like Angelina and the Olsen twins? Or better?  Click here for the latest.

 The ritual begins sweetly and with such promise. You’re 10 or 11 and you’re shopping with mom for a new swimsuit.

   At this stage,

the

 It’s all about

the

 The only questions are should you choose a one-piece or two, and does it come in your favorite color? That would be brilliant turquoise. Or perhaps petal pink.

 Then puberty strikes and

the

 But she’s paying and swimsuits aren’t returnable. So, ma gets  her say and you’re stuck with her. For now.

 Maybe you’re one of those girls whose mom does not have

the

 “You look like you’ve got chicken legs.”

 “My daughter is not going out in public like that.”

 “Do you want to look flat-chested?”

 Or

the

  A few years later on this timeline of swimsuit acquisition, you’re liberated from adult oversight and yet your woes only multiply. You can’t fall back on restrictions imposed by a parent.

  Now it’s just you (and maybe a girlfriend or two),

the

 Even if

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 As human beings, women get better with age but, sadly, not better-looking in a bathing suit.

 The teens, 20s and 30s are

the

  But just as you’re finally old enough to choose your own scanty swimwear, what happens?

 You start requisitioning garments to pile on top of

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  Bring on

the

 The most popular is a beach towel, knotted at

the

 The towel often is partnered with a raggedy t-shirt on top. This too is to be resisted.

 On a recent trip to

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 Several mature women said

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  A quartet of college girls visiting from

Ireland

   They favored Daisy Dukes cutoffs, denim skirts and little cotton tops, not

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 “My mo

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 The consensus was that

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 A math expert could probably come up with a precise formula to help you calculate your cover-up.

 But no matter what

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 Tribune senior correspondent

Ellen Warren

   Which of these two great bargain stores is for you. Click here and find out!

From A to Z, Giorgio Armani to Ermenegildo Zegna, luxury brands have one thing in common: They cost an arm and a leg.
     In fact, considering the ever shrinking buying power of the dollar, make that two arms, a leg and a few toes.   
   The “Sex and the City” movie underscores the point. When Carrie’s assistant tells her not to leave behind her new blue $400 Manolo Blahnik stilettos, Carrie corrects her. “$525.”
    (Now we learn that the shoes, originally designed especially for the movie, actually sold for $945 at the New York Manolo boutique—if you could get your hands on a pair.)
   When you buy Manolos and other designer labels, sure, you’re paying for craftsmanship and fine materials. 
   But you’re also paying for the high-end signature, like the LV (Louis Vuitton) initials, interlocking Cs (Chanel), Gucci’s double Gs and the H (Hermès).
    By spending the big bucks on such totems, you’re telling the world you’re well-dressed, well off or, at least, willing to spend major cash on shoes you don’t dare wear in the rain or a handbag no bigger than a piece of toast.
   Now comes the subversive Belgian designer whose Maison Martin Margiela footwear is shown here.
   With these beauties, iconoclast Margiela takes designer accessories in a totally unexpected—deliciously honest—direction.
   After all, a large part of the “high” in “high end” is preening over spending a giant wad of cash for your fashions. So why not just wear the dough on your toe?
  The shoes shown here are from Margiela’s “Currency” collection. The money on the shoe feels and looks like the real thing—except that those are $22 bills, 15 of them on each foot
   That’s $330 adorning each sandal—totaling just $25 shy shy of the $685 the pair costs at Chicago’s Ikram boutique.
  But when you buy, don’t try and pay in that Martin Margiela funny money.
  However, credit cards and greenbacks in all legitimate denominations are always welcome. 

Tribune photo by Bill Hogan

   It was so much more convenient when you could tell good from evil just by looking.
   Cowboys with black hats were the villains. The good guys wore white.
   Similarly, blonds were the hussies. Brunets were the virtuous ones.
   If a man hadn’t shaved or sported a 5o’clock shadow, beware! (Richard Nixon learned the hard way about that one.)
   And the classic of them all—something Catholic school kids learn early on—the glistening golden platter around anyone’s head is a tip off that you’re looking at an angel, a saint or, even the Deity himself.
   Whether gleaming from a Renaissance painting or the holy card Sister dispensed for good deportment, a halo has always been a reliable indicator that those so equipped had streets in heaven named after them. 
       Needless to say, a legitimate halo is hard to come by. The number of new saints has slowed to a trickle so it’s ever less likely that you’ll acquire one on merit.
   But there still are some sources if you want to fake it. Phony halos fashioned of white marabou or sparkly tinsel are steady sellers around Halloween.
     And the kids in Christmas plays and religious pageants have long relied on a paper plate and some yellow paint to signify their saintly side.
    But all these substitutes for real halos have had one drawback: They’re uncomfortable to sleep in.  That is, until now.
   Here comes the glow-in-the-dark halo pillowcase to fill the nighttime void (juvieshop.com, $28).
   The naughtiest among us can undo a day of devilish behavior by falling asleep on the universally recognized symbol of all that is beatific.
   Surely a tousled head resting peacefully on the pillow, surrounded by the glow of goodness, will melt even the most hard- hearted parent or special someone. 
   And if there’s somebody at your house who tends toward nightmares, you might want to give this item a whirl. If it keeps the monsters away, you can take full credit.
    What a dream angel you are!

   Will fashionable women give up their great looking shoes for something a little less...crippling?  See what they say and check out some options from women who love their cute footwear.