Archive for the ‘Social Injustice’ Category

BUMMED 2.0

June 20, 2011

OK, I was sitting here at the dining room table working, glanced outside, and saw the following:

bum's bum

AWESOME!

Then he got up and picked up some trash in his area. “Well, at least he’s cleaning up,” I thought. “That’s something.”

No. he threw the trash on the street. Isn’t it cool how he doesn’t want trash, his own trash, in his little area, but he’ll put it out for the rest of us to enjoy?

Street, trash can -- so hard to tell those pesky things apart.

I’ve had enough. What do I do???

Do I shout out the window at him? Leave him a note of warning? Do I call someone? Who do I call? Opinions, please. I’m done getting bummed.

BUMMED

June 19, 2011

If you know me at all, you know that I have great care and sympathy for homeless people, and that the homeless problem in LA makes me very upset. I know that many of these people are mentally ill and are literally dropped off on skid row in mental hospital vans, left to fend for themselves in a world in which they can’t possibly do that. I also feel for the ones who, for whatever reason, have become so heavily addicted to drugs that they can’t see any way out. I have a homeless friend whom I pass when I walk to and from the metro, and sometimes I bring him treats from the farmer’s market. I know he’s addicted to something, and whatever it is, it ain’t pretty — but he’s nice, and I like him. (Plus, his eyes look in two different directions, which is kind of endearing.)

But… then there’s the third kind. These are the ones who, for one reason or the other, choose to be homeless. Maybe they think the world owes them something. Maybe they fancy themselves as being off the grid, not controlled by anyone else. Or maybe they are just plain lazy. I know it’s super un-PC to say that, and I truly believe that the majority of the homeless population, especially in LA, falls into the first two categories. But this third category does exist. I used to pay them no mind, but starting recently, they’ve really started to grind my gears.

I will pinpoint for you the exact moment when this shift in my perspective occurred.

The shift occurred a few months ago when I walked over to the living room window and saw a 60-something-year-old bum get up from where he was sitting on the bench in front of the church across the street, walk to the edge of the sidewalk, pull out his floppy little willy, and pee right into the street. Right into the street, on my nice, residential street. Then he SHOOK OFF his disgusting, floppy weiner, tucked it in, and sauntered back to the bench like he hadn’t just PEED INTO THE STREET IN BROAD, BRIGHT, SUNNY DAYLIGHT. And people, that is a sight that I can never un-see.

That was the first day I saw him, and he was with a woman, and they had backpacks, and they sat on that bench in front of the church and smoked cigarettes. So I guess he’d just gotten into town from somewhere, and decided that this was his new home? Indeed, he has since taken up residence right next to the church, on a small piece of sidewalk in front of a side door to the next building, which I assume isn’t used. And he’s got all the setup. It’s like he’s taking a camping trip. Tarp, blankets, clothes, all the goods. The other day I came home and he had all his clothes laid out all over all the bushes nearby. He’s reeeeeallly getting comfortable. And oh yeah, that whole side of the street is awash with the delicous, acrid smell of fresh urine mixed with dry, stale urine. Mmmm.

And tonight, folks… tonight he reeeeally upped the ante. Yes. The ante was upped. I came home and noticed that the “money spot” was free… that is, the best parking spot near my apartment. It’s not under any trees or power lines, and there aren’t any spaces in front or behind it, and when I leave for work in the morning, I’m already facing the right direction, so I just hop in and go. When I get that spot, it is a victory. It’s right across the street.

Right in front of the homeless man’s new “home.”

SON of a bitch.

So I moved. I moved my EFFING car, because you know why? Because when I saw him peeing into the street, he stood right next to someone’s car, so close that I would be surprised if some pee didn’t splatter on that poor, unsuspecting, tax-paying citizen’s automobile. There are quite a few substances I don’t want on my car. And can you guess what’s on the short list of those substances? Correct. BUM URINE.

So I parked in our garage behind my roommate Mary, but now I realize that she’s probably leaving early in the morning and I’ll be blocking her in, so I have to go move it again right now, in the black of night (OK, 11:15, whatever) to a different spot on the street. A spot under both a tree and a power line. So that the bum will not pee on my car.

I hate to say what I’m about to say, for so many reasons.

But seriously.

Get a job.

A Metaphorical Spank on the Back

June 8, 2011

When I was little, I had a book, and a record that went along with it, called “The Story About Ping.” It was about a duck who lived on a fishing boat with his extended duck family and their human master, and every evening, the boat master would call, “La-la-la-la-lei!” And the ducks would run back to the boat, and the last one back would get a spank on his or her back. (Yeah, kind of a weird situation overall; don’t think about it too hard.) Well, Ping understandibly never wanted to be that last duck, to the extent that one evening he realized he was going to be last and didn’t go back at all — and adventures, of course, ensued.

Well, last night I started a writing class that is held at the teacher’s apartment. This apartment is in a lovely neighborhood with a heinus, heinus parking situation. Like, I guess the first two or three people actually get to park on his street, then the next six or eight find spaces a couple blocks away after circling twice or thrice, and then, there’s me. And I can’t really get there much sooner, because I’m coming from work. So by the time I got there, (and I was not yet late, mind you; when I got to the apartment and started looking for parking, I still had a couple minutes to spare), all the good, fair, and mediocre spots were taken; all that was left was a metered spot, blocks and blocks away and down a steep series of hills, and I only found it after driving around for 15 minutes. And I can’t help thinking this is like a modern-day, non-fishing-boat Ping situation, except that the last person, instead of getting a spank on the back, gets the shittiest parking space of all time.

La-la-la-la-lei!

Addendum to Insurance Rant

October 6, 2010

I got to thinking just now. I wonder what the executives at my insurance company (American Heritage Life Insurance Company, part of Allstate Workplace Division) (in case anyone is googling it to see if it’s any good) (it isn’t) is doing with all the money I’m sending them each week. I know one thing they’re NOT doing with it, and that is helping me pay for my medical expenses. So what do you reckon they’re using it for?

Maybe they go to the zoo each week — the whole company just takes a zoo day. Hey, that might also explain why I have to wait on hold for so long when I call! They can’t answer the phone, because they’re all at the zoo buying lemonades with my money! I think we’re getting somewhere with this.

Maybe they order things out of those catalogs for old people, like rubber mats you put in front of the sink, or theraputic toe-separating slippers, or suction-cup handles you stick on the shower wall to help you get in and out of the tub. You think? They sure could buy a lot of those things with my money, because I sure do send them a lot of it!

Maybe they rent limousines every weekend and get dressed up and drive around their cities drinking booze, hanging out the sunroof, and catcalling passersby.

Maybe they buy ugly, gaudy gold jewelry, or bad Christmas sweaters, or golf shoes. Or maybe they just put it toward their country club memberships. Or maybe they get their shoes shined 10 times a day.

Or maybe they give it to charity, because they’re so interested in helping people and making the world a better place. HAHAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHA! Ohhhhh.

Do y’all have any speculations? I’d love to hear them!

Insurance Rant

October 6, 2010

Hi! I’m mad, so I’m going to rant about it on my blog. I just found out that my claim for a basic, yearly lady visit to the OB-GYN was denied by my health insurance plan (American Heritage Life Insurance Company, part of Allstate Worksplace Division). Sure this was a mistake, I called them, only to be told that they don’t cover preventive care. No, they’d rather that I never go to the gynecologist, get cervical cancer, and then ask them to pay to get that fixed. That is what seems logical to them.

I am paying $160 every month out of my own shallow little pocket for health insurance that gives me next to no coverage for anything. And there are groups of politicians who are trying to repeal Obama’s healthcare reform, which isn’t nearly as perfect as it could have been, but it’s still a giant step in the right direction, and in many ways, it’s holding insurance companies responsible for their behavior. Anyway, if you are one of these people, I urge you to come and tell me to my face that you want me to have to continue to pay out the nose for nothing in exchange, and that you’d rather have me get cancer than have “big government” in your business. Yeah, because, um… big, evil, greedy business is so much better. Insurance companies don’t give a flying f**k about you or me, and yet they have all the power.

So better yet, if you don’t want health-insurance reform, why don’t I send you my $260 doctor’s bill?

On a lighter, yet related, note, watch my friend Jonathan’s video, which is one of my favorites ever.

Love on the L.A. Metro

July 8, 2010

Please read the title to the tune of Aerosmith’s “Love in an elevator.” And now that we have that taken care of:

I’ve been reading a self-help book, as I am wont to do, that told me to look for love everywhere I went, and to look for the connections between others and myself, and between others and other otherses. This was very good for me, because lately I’ve been witnessing a lot of hate in the world, and it’s started to get me down in a major way. I’ve gotten so tired of experiencing all the aggression that occurs 1,000 times a second on the freeways, for example, and it all culminated a couple weeks ago when someone put a pre-printed business card on my car that said it hoped I got cancer, because I was parked a little bit over the line in the tiny compact car space that my compact car does not fit into properly. Yes, I will repeat that: Someone went to the trouble of ordering and purchasing business cards that say on the front, “Way to park, asshole.” And on the back, “I hope you get cancer.” It was actually quite a visually appealing card, with a lovely combination of fonts printed on a nice brick-red color. But the point is, feeling that malice directed at me was the straw on the camel’s back of hate that I’d been witnessing, and it made me really, really sad.

So, back to the self-help book. The day after I read the section about looking for love everywhere, it was “one of those mornings” where all forces of the universe were determined to slow me down, and after running to catch the metro, I got there a minute too late, and had to wait, all sweaty-like, for the next one. When I finally got on, a woman using a walker (with difficulty) got on, too. A youngerish woman and a blind man both got up for her to take their seats. (Side note: The question has been raised as to how the blind man knew to get up for her, and my guess is that the youngerish woman said something, or maybe he’s just that good.) Well, the walker woman (henceforth referred to as Walker Woman or WW) took the blind man’s seat and began talking with him and the youngerish woman (YW). When the blind man got off, he said goodbye to YW, and she and WW kept talking. Throughout their conversation, I unabashedly eavesdropped and exchanged eye contact and smiles with both of them at various points. When it was time for me to get off at my stop, I said goodbye to Walker Woman, and Youngerish woman got off there, too. And here comes the best part: Youngerish woman crossed to the other side of the platform to wait for the train going in the opposite direction. She had gone past her stop, and I believe it was out of love, because she didn’t want to prematurely end her conversation with Walker Woman. She wanted to make sure WW was taken care of, and then and only then did she get off and make her way back to where she needed to go.

Love.

I’m so glad I missed my train that morning and ended up on the one I ended up on.

That day marked a new chapter for me, one of looking everywhere for love and kindness, and finding it. I make a point to make eye contact, smile at, and talk with more strangers, and I’m making new friends all over town. I still see the hate, and it still bums me out, but now I have something with which to balance it.

I think you should try it, too. We’ll fill the world with love, one person at a time. Then one day, we’ll realize that we don’t see any hate, because there won’t be any.

(Do I sound like a hippy, or what?)

Making Sense

April 20, 2010

I was just reminded of a conversation I had a few months ago that reminded me of how much I hate being talked down to. There aren’t a lot of things I enjoy less than being patronized. I get it a lot, being a. a girl, b. a girl who has a young, innocent-looking face, and c. a girl who is polite and not too loud. Not many people are scared of me, and a lot of people think this gives them clearance to treat me like they’re my kindergarten teacher. And then, there are the people who talk that way to everyone, and I think the woman I’m about to discuss falls into the latter category.

This woman works at a place that does casting director workshops that last for several weeks at a time. So basically, you pay a few hundred bucks up front, and you go every week or whatever and take these workshops with casting directors. It’s a pretty cool idea I guess, but I’ve never heard of actors getting work from these particular workshops, and furthermore, they’re pretty expensive, especially if you’re trying to pay for other classes and whatnot. Sooooooo, a friend of mine had given this woman my information as someone who may be interested, and you know, I’m always up for hearing the details about an opportunity, so I was happy to listen and consider, but it was pretty annoying from the get-go. She was quizzing me about my talent and experience, emphasizing that they don’t just accept any Tom, Dick or Harry off the street, and you know, you have to take this seriously and you have to really be doing this as a career and have real potential, etc. But the most annoying, nails-on-the-chalkboard, whistle-in-your-ear, telemarketer, Jehovah’s witness-level of annoyance came from this: After everything, everything she said, she then said, “Does that make sense?” Everything. After every single sentence. I know that she must do this with everyone and must not even realize she does it at this point, but it comes across as so condescending, like, “Do you understand the meaning of the really simple thing I just said? I want to make sure, because you seem really dim, and it’s probably pretty hard to wrap your head around ideas. That must be tough.” Or maybe it’s more like, “Do you understand me? Because I know I’m talking way over your head right now, because you’re just a layperson, not a genius like me.” Either way, she must not have had any idea how irritating she was, so I thought I’d help her out by repeating it back to her to call her attention to it. So our conversation sounded a little like:

Her: We want to make sure that our actors are serious about their careers. Does that make sense?
Me: Yeees, yes, that does make sense.
Her: We need to know that you’ve worked, does that make sense, and that you’re taking active steps to get yourself more work, does that make sense?
Me: Yes, both of those things make sense, and I have, and I am.

And then came the part where she asked if I wanted to sign up.

Me: I’ll definitely keep it in mind for the future, but right now, unfortunately, I just don’t have the money.
Her: Well, we suggest that you have a separate bank account where you save money for acting, does that make sense?
Me: Yes, that does make sense, but you know, right now is just not a good time.
Her: Well, because if you’re serious about your career, you really need to be setting aside some money for it, does that make sense?
Me: Yes, it does make sense. Believe you me, if I were making enough money to have even a penny to set aside, I would.
Her: So we really suggest that you save some money, does that make sense?
Me: WELL, I SUGGEST THAT YOU GO FUCK YOURSELF; DOES THAT MAKE SENSE?

And then she was silent, and I said, “Make sense of this!” and hung up and smiled peacefully in the beams of benevolent sunlight filtering through the windows.

Just kidding. I didn’t say it. I didn’t say it because I’m polite, remember? Damn it. Damn it all. I’m so polite. But I thought it. You can bet your bottom dollar I thought it. I positively screamed it in my mind. But I didn’t say it, and now, thanks to my politeness, this awful woman is probably going around right now making sense of everyone she comes across.

So I apologize to you if you ever cross her path, and if she ever talks to you like you’re just now learning English and how to tie your shoes. Maybe someday when someone else is being a condescending jackass, I’ll say what I want to say, even if it’s not the politest thing ever. And if it doesn’t make sense… who gives a shit?

Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune, Brrrrrt!

November 13, 2009

Today as I was leaving the gym, I turned on the radio and heard the last of a story about a group picking out Hebrew names for all the planets or something. When they got to Uranus, both dj and guest admitted that the English word should be changed, too. There’s nothing good about that name; I think we can all agree on that. And it reminded me of a project in Mr. Hutchinson’s Earth Science class in high school. We were all assigned planets, and we had to give presentations on them. Uranus was assigned to me, and in my presentation, I did what I felt any self-respecting highschooler would and should do: I planned out my sentences to sound like I was talking about your butt. You’d do that, too, right? Things like, “Uranus has a pock-marked surface.” Gold, right? Well, nobody in that class so much as even snickered! Crickets! Literal crickets! I mean, correct me if I’m wrong here, but I was always under the impression that Uranus, like farts, is always funny. Yes, we’ve all heard it before. But it’s still funny! Just like farts! I have no doubt that farts have been funny since the dawn of time, and always will be. And the same goes for Uranus, as far as I’m concerned. And if I can’t count on my fellow highschoolers to laugh at those things, on whom then, can I rely? It’s an unsettling thought. Almost as unsettling as the toxic gases emitted from Uranus.

Those Wise Stars

July 8, 2009

I just had to check my horoscope for fun to see what it would say, because the last few weeks, and especially the last couple days, have been bat-shit crazy. I feel like it’s time for me to clean out my life like an attic, and time to stand up for myself and assert my rights, which is something I’ve tended to struggle with. People are coming at me like rabid bats in a dark cave (I’m going to try to use only analogies that include bats), and it’s wigging me out and making me think really hard about who I am and how people see me. Right now I’m done being the nice one, and I’m especially tired of keeping my thoughts to myself in order to appease others or keep from making waves.

So anyway, I read my horoscope, and it made me laugh like a bat who’s just read her horoscope and found it very apropos: Here’s what it said:

The world is mad at Pisces today because you will no longer play their game. There will be those that try everything to turn you around. They all have their own reasons that they claim are for your best interests. Your path is in the stars not in the starry eyes of those that wish to control you.

Enough said.

Bats.

Made By 100% Douchebags

March 6, 2008

OK, y’all, riddle me this:

We got a bunch of these paper plates at work, and I looked at them and for a second was like, “Oh, good — recycled!”

Then I took a closer look…

GreenLabel2.jpg

Those little rats! Right? They’re trying to fool old people and people who don’t read things carefully by pretending to be environmentally friendly! #1, They call themselves “Green Label,” using a term traditionally used for earth-friendly merchandise. And even more ridiculous is this piece of BS: “Made from 100% paper; a renewable natural resource.” Well, what the hell else would paper plates be made of? Kittens?? And do they think we’re so dumb that we think trees are just totally renewable; that we can just chop them down willy nilly and re-plant them and immediatly have an insta-forest?

Those deceitful little rascals! Who are they trying to kid with this thing?! Me, obviously. Well, nice try, buttheads. I’m hip to your jive.

Cranky Pants

March 15, 2007

I’m wearing my cranky pants today. Or maybe cranky shoes is more accurate, because it’s mostly because of my feet. As some of you know, I injured both of my feet in early December for the dumbest reason: I wore the wrong shoes in Disneyland. Ironically, these ones, that I was so excited about and bought 2 pairs of. Which apparently have no shock absorption or arch support. And who knew, but apparently I am an old person and have to worry about ruining my feet by wearing the wrong m-f-ing shoes. And even more unfair, as evidenced here, I am very conscious about taking good care of my feet. It would be one thing if I didn’t try, but I do, and feel that this is entirely unjust.

When my sister April came to visit, we spent a day at Disneyland, and something you need to know about us is that we are never half-assed about Disney excursions. When we were little, Disney World was truly the happiest place on Earth for us, and we are used to long, hardcore days of fun (if anything involving anamatronic singing tiki-birds can be called “hardcore”). So when she came, we got a park hopper pass and spent about 4 hours in California Adventure and 6 hours in the Disneyland park. We do it right. Except… I wore those dang shoes, and my feet were fine until we were about to leave, and suddenly I just couldn’t walk. I could shuffle, but couldn’t bend my feet at all without excruciating pain. This went on for almost two weeks, so I went to the doctor who said I had damaged my ligaments. I spent the entire holiday season in sneakers with Dr. Scholl’s arch supports — I even found an outfit for our company holiday party that I could wear with cute sneakers. I have been so good, and have tried so hard to allow them to heal, and for a long time they got slowly better and better. I even went hiking twice, and wore heels one time and boots one time.
But apparently I got too cocky, because within the last week or so, they’ve been relapsing. Now even my cute sneakers hurt, and all I can wear is my dorky New Balance running shoes. I mean, at least I’m getting some wear out of them, because heaven knows I won’t be running anytime soon. I’m so tired of feeling unfashionable and flagrantly ignoring the dress code at work. I mean yeah, I kind of ignored it before, but not flagrantly, and at least that was my own choice.

Even with the dorky sneakers my feet hurt. Pushing on the gas pedal while driving causes sharp pains in my heel, and combined with heavy traffic and PMS, let’s just say that this morning I screamed out a not-so-nice word on my way to work. Grrrrr.

I know I’m being a total baby about this, because I could actually have much worse things to be cranky about, like oh, I don’t know, a terminal illness, and in the grand scheme of things, this is not that bad and doesn’t interfere with my life THAT much. But I can’t do any of the physical activites that make me feel good and not irritable, like hiking, spinning, or anything that involves my feet in any way. That pretty much rules out… everything except swimming, yoga, and pilates, and swimming is usually more trouble than it’s worth because the pool at the gym is almost always packed. So that means I am getting no aerobic exercise and am about to jump out of my skin. And most frustrating of all is that on April first I am flying to Vancouver for a week of skiing with my family at Whistler. I have been looking forward to this trip forever, and if I can’t ski life will be so unfair. I have lots of trouble with ski boots anyway, so I’m kind of feeling like the odds are stacked against me.

You want to know the other reason I’m cranky? For over a year I have been asking for a keyboard tray under my desk at work so I don’t have to hunch my shoulders up when typing. Finally, yesterday I got it. My desk is like a curvy corner, and the dude said he was going to install it right in the bend. Except he didn’t put it right in the middle, he put it like 5 inches over to one side, and it is HURTING MY OCD. I NEED IT TO BE IN THE MIDDLE. It is making me crazy.

So, to recap for you: My feet hurt, my body is fidgety, and my brain hurts because it really wants the keyboard tray to be dead center. It hurts so much, like when I drive over bump after bump with the left wheels of my car, and until I drive over enough bumps with my right wheels, the entire right side of my body screams in panic and agony.

Am I a brat? I sure sound like one. “Waaah, waaah, I might not be able to ski at this amazing ski resort I’m going to. My life is soooooo hard. Waaaaah, my keyboard tray is off center.” I know, I know. But writing about it makes me feel better, so thanks for reading. Know what would make me feel even better? A bloody mary. Hmmmm…

I-Am-A-Robot-Would-You-Like-A-Coke-Madam

February 15, 2007

You may be familiar with my stance on the horrible injustice that is this: It is seven years past “the future” (the year 2000), and we still do not have personal robots to do our bidding and talk in adorable robot voices. If you’re not familiar with said stance, here’s a refresher.

Today on my morning commute, the radio was talking about something that made my heart skip seventeen beats and made me squeal with joy.

Yes. It is finally almost here, for all of us.

The personal robot.

On the radio, the one phrase that especially excited me was when the DJ said, “Yeah, they say in the next few years they’ll be rolling out robots that will do your housework — answer your phone, get you a beer out of the fridge.”

Specifically, a robot scientist in Korea has designed a robot named EveR-1 who can “hold a conversation, make eye contact, and express joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness.” (Story here).

I cannot believe it. I’ve been waiting for this for so long! I have to admit, I kind of had my heart set on a robot that looked a little more robotty, like how I pictured it in the 80s — much like this little guy, but perhaps with eyes that are slightly less creepy:

cute_robot.jpg

And something rather unsettling is that according to the radio, the folks in Korea say EveR-1 is too ugly! Something about her hands being too big, among other things. I personally think she’s gorgeous, and if she has man-hands, all the better to fix things around the house! And the more I think about it, the more I get a little terrified, if a small amount of terror is possible. Are the personal robots going to set the bar that much higher for women’s appearances? Is my future husband going to leave me for a perpetually young robot with giant cartoon eyes, fish lips, a microscopic waist and ginormous gazongas, like an anime character or one of those hideous Bratz dolls? Will he be like, “OMG, Marcy, Why can’t you look more like Lindabot 8,000?” Will he fantasize about her while we do it? Will she be able to do it with him???

OK, now I’m in a panic. Seeing as how the future is here, I’d better go brush up on my science so I can design my own robot, one who looks like a combination of Val Kilmer and Tom Cruise in the Top Gun volleyball scene, and also like Johnny Depp, and also with the approachable, dorky-chic appeal of John Krasinski from The Office.

All I know is: The future is finally here, people, and I don’t know whether to be excited or scared. “Be careful what you wish for” has never seemed like such good advice.

Two Things:

February 1, 2007

I have some adorable new sneakers that I’ve been wearing nonstop since I got them, but there’s one problem. The fabric on the inside of them is a nice fuzzy felt-y fabric. It feels delightful to the touch, but it grips my socks and tugs them down as soon as I start walking. I can’t go more than ten paces before I feel the heel of the sock slip down over the heel of my foot, and thus begins the quick progression of the sock, shimmying its way down until it forms a lumpy, uncomfortable sock mass right under my arch.

Also, I posted a blentry days and days ago, but lo and behold, it wasn’t posted after all! I could see it when I was signed into my WordPress account, so I assumed it was there, but it was tricking me. So I have re-added it for your enjoyment. Scroll down a couple blentries to “Linkies, Not Minkies,” and enjoy. My favorite link today is the Brick Testament one. Click on “The Law,” and read all of them. They are awesome. Once you click a picture, be sure to click the arrow in the upper right-hand corner of it to view the whole little story. Awesome.

Temptation

January 23, 2007

I had a store credit at Bloomingdales for a super fun amount, and I went there yesterday to try to spend it. I never usually shop at Bloomie’s, and at first I couldn’t find anything that I loved. I tried on tons of stuff, and the more I tried on, the less I could tell what I liked. I ended up getting a $96 hoodie — yes, a sweatshirt hoodie, which I already have tons of — but I kind of fell in love with it. I also got some makeup and put a cute dress on hold. Well… I left the mall and went home, and started thinking I should go back and get the dress, so I went back a few hours later. But on my way to where the dress was, I decided to try on some jeans. And I had just recently been thinking to myself, “I don’t care if I buy cheap jeans, because the really expensive ones aren’t that much better anyway.” Well. I pulled out three pairs of Sevens and one pair of Joe’s jeans, and I am telling you, every single one made my butt look SMOKIN’ AWESOME. Better than it has ever looked, ever. I narrowed it down to two: One pair of Sevens and the Joe’s Jeans, and put them on hold. But the problem is, if I keep the hoodie and the makeup, AND get a pair of jeans, I will exceed my store credit and will spend $100 of my own money, which I absolutely should not do right now. And won’t. I won’t! I won’t do it. I will choose. I can make this decision.

But I can’t stop picturing myself wearing the jeans WITH the hoodie. They would look so cute together!

I’m realizing something that I’ve really always known, but if I had doubts they’ve been extinguished. With very few exceptions, there is a direct ratio between cute and expensive. The cuter something is, the more outrageously expensive it is. It doesn’t always work the other way, because I’ve seen some butt-ugly expensive stuff. However, the fact remains: If I had boundless stores of money, I would look positively darling, every single day of my life, even at the grocery store!

Temptation. This is why it’s best for me to just not go shopping. If I never look at expensive clothes, I won’t feel that I need the expensive clothes.

Or maybe I can pick up some freelancing work.

Hmmm…

What do you people do? Do you face this beast of desire? Someone tell me how to kill it!

Sometimes It’s Good Not to Know What You’re Missing… On the Other Hand, Warm Buns Are Nice

December 29, 2006

Joanna and Jay, your requests and dedications are coming soon, but first we must discuss how I drove my roommate’s newish SAAB to work today while my oldish Mazda is in the shop, and how I am now spoiled forever.

I shall discuss some points of the newish SAAB and also some items regarding my oldish Mazda.

First, so as not to hurt my Mazda’s feelings, I would like to give it props for having a V-6 engine and being very powerful, and also providing a notably smooth ride for both driver and passenger. Also, I enjoy the way I can adjust my seat up to the tiniest minutia with the automatic and user-friendly seat adjusting buttons, one of which is shaped like a peanut, which I find charming. And finally, my Mazda has a great-sounding stereo system.

However: Within mere seconds of turning on the SAAB this morning, my butt began to feel cozy and warm, due to the amazing seat warming device. Today was the coldest morning in a while, but my warm butt made me feel snuggly and contented, like a cat in the sun. Also, the reason my Mazda is in the shop is because it’s doing this lurching thing when going from idling to moving, and it’s getting super annoying. The SAAB, on the other hand, zips along powerfully yet shifts smoothly in all gears. Thirdly, the SAAB smells like new leather and refinement, and conjures images of smoking jackets and mint juleps on the veranda, whereas my Mazda smells like dirty socks, invoking visions of… dirty socks.

In conclusion, I like refinement and warm buns, and therefore must get a new car STAT.