Monday, April 30, 2007
Love the one you're with
It's probably a good thing that Robert E. Lee had a more firm definition of the word "surrender" than I do. Remember when I said I was giving up my apartment to the mice? Yeah, I haven't so much followed through on that.
It's not that I haven't thought about it. I've become well-acquainted with my old pal Craigslist again, and I've even made a few inquiries and dropped by some places. All of which has only served to reinforce the fact that pretty much every apartment building in my price range in my neighborhood is exactly the same as the one I'm living in now. The only difference is, those other buildings may not have rodent problems. But once my parents told me that the entire city of Washington is apparently being plagued by a rat and mouse epidemic (surely one of the signs of the apocalypse), it seemed to make more and more sense to fight it from my current location, rather than undertake the expense and stress of moving, only to find myself at the mercy of the mice once again.
So when my family comes to visit in June, my dad is going to help me with a permanent solution for sealing off the apartment, since my landlord doesn't seem to understand this concept. (When I asked them to come fix a huge gap in my closet that was clearly a primary mouse entry point, they again suggested that I put out more bait, seemingly unable to grasp the fact that I don't want the mice coming into my apartment at all.) Until then, I guess I'll just have to continue sleeping with one eye open.
It's probably a good thing that Robert E. Lee had a more firm definition of the word "surrender" than I do. Remember when I said I was giving up my apartment to the mice? Yeah, I haven't so much followed through on that.
It's not that I haven't thought about it. I've become well-acquainted with my old pal Craigslist again, and I've even made a few inquiries and dropped by some places. All of which has only served to reinforce the fact that pretty much every apartment building in my price range in my neighborhood is exactly the same as the one I'm living in now. The only difference is, those other buildings may not have rodent problems. But once my parents told me that the entire city of Washington is apparently being plagued by a rat and mouse epidemic (surely one of the signs of the apocalypse), it seemed to make more and more sense to fight it from my current location, rather than undertake the expense and stress of moving, only to find myself at the mercy of the mice once again.
So when my family comes to visit in June, my dad is going to help me with a permanent solution for sealing off the apartment, since my landlord doesn't seem to understand this concept. (When I asked them to come fix a huge gap in my closet that was clearly a primary mouse entry point, they again suggested that I put out more bait, seemingly unable to grasp the fact that I don't want the mice coming into my apartment at all.) Until then, I guess I'll just have to continue sleeping with one eye open.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Fun with PMS
I've never really considered myself to be particularly susceptible to PMS. So apparently 15 years' worth of pent-up PMS chose to come roaring out of me today. All day during work, I was scarfing up every morsel of food I could find, only to find myself ravenous again within like an hour. And this afternoon at the gym, I got so frustrated by other people's complete disregard for the elliptical trainer sign-up system (I signed up third on the wait list, so I politely stepped aside even though no one appeared to be laying claim to the two open machines, only to watch a couple of johnny-come-latelys grab the machines as soon as I did) that I scratched my name off the list and stormed out of the gym. By the time I got to the parking lot, I was in tears. I managed to get it together by the time I got home, only to find a letter in the mailbox from my mom, which contained the high-school graduation announcement of the first little girl I ever baby-sat. She was the sweetest, most adorable kid, but her family moved away after I'd been sitting for her a year or two, so I literally haven't seen her since she was about 5. When I saw how beautiful she had become and read that she was planning to major in journalism, I totally lost it again. Man. I need to pull myself together, or I may not have any tears left for tonight's Grey's Anatomy.
I've never really considered myself to be particularly susceptible to PMS. So apparently 15 years' worth of pent-up PMS chose to come roaring out of me today. All day during work, I was scarfing up every morsel of food I could find, only to find myself ravenous again within like an hour. And this afternoon at the gym, I got so frustrated by other people's complete disregard for the elliptical trainer sign-up system (I signed up third on the wait list, so I politely stepped aside even though no one appeared to be laying claim to the two open machines, only to watch a couple of johnny-come-latelys grab the machines as soon as I did) that I scratched my name off the list and stormed out of the gym. By the time I got to the parking lot, I was in tears. I managed to get it together by the time I got home, only to find a letter in the mailbox from my mom, which contained the high-school graduation announcement of the first little girl I ever baby-sat. She was the sweetest, most adorable kid, but her family moved away after I'd been sitting for her a year or two, so I literally haven't seen her since she was about 5. When I saw how beautiful she had become and read that she was planning to major in journalism, I totally lost it again. Man. I need to pull myself together, or I may not have any tears left for tonight's Grey's Anatomy.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Better than a Word-a-Day calendar
Every so often, a new blog comes along that captures my heart and provides yet another excuse to avoid actually doing work. Yesterday, I discovered my new favorite blog, The Lunxicon, after receiving an e-mail about it from Danielle. The site is maintained by her friend Vincent, who's on a one-man quest to bring back awesome words (such as "nincompoop" and "toots") that have sadly fallen out of use in modern times. Lest you think that such a premise can only be entertaining to extreme dorks like me who have been known to get lost in a dictionary a time or two (or pretty much every time I open it to look something up, if we're being honest), I can assure you that it's nothing short of hilarious in its execution. (No, really. It is. I'm not just saying that because I'm secretly hoping Vincent will help me on my quest to obliterate "baby" and reinstate "darling" as the choice term of endearment.)
Every so often, a new blog comes along that captures my heart and provides yet another excuse to avoid actually doing work. Yesterday, I discovered my new favorite blog, The Lunxicon, after receiving an e-mail about it from Danielle. The site is maintained by her friend Vincent, who's on a one-man quest to bring back awesome words (such as "nincompoop" and "toots") that have sadly fallen out of use in modern times. Lest you think that such a premise can only be entertaining to extreme dorks like me who have been known to get lost in a dictionary a time or two (or pretty much every time I open it to look something up, if we're being honest), I can assure you that it's nothing short of hilarious in its execution. (No, really. It is. I'm not just saying that because I'm secretly hoping Vincent will help me on my quest to obliterate "baby" and reinstate "darling" as the choice term of endearment.)
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Signs
If you're a regular reader of Francesca's blog, you're probably familiar with the vet clinic sign she passes on her way to work, which regularly annoys her with its "clever" messages (most of which I secretly think are kind of funny--shh!). Anyway, I have never mentioned it, but I have a similar sign that I pass on my drive home from work. It sits on top of this darling little farm stand and, while not as outright wacky as Francesca's vet-clinic sign, it can get a little sassy at times. (Lately, it's been ragging on the winter redux we've been having with messages like "We are so over winter" and "Hey, winter! Get outta here!")
Anyway, yesterday I noticed that the sign had a new message, one that I found quite confusing. It said, "It's safe to come out now!" At first I figured this must be yet another comment on the weather (you can't blame a farm-stand sign for being a tad bit weather-obsessed, I guess), but that didn't make a whole lot of sense. Yes, the weather's supposed to finally turn nice again this weekend, but we're still a bit removed from that at this point. And while the fabled nor'easter (I love saying "nor'easter") had abated by yesterday afternoon, it was still cloudy and cool--not exactly conditions in which delicate plants and flowers should be given the all-clear.
So then I wondered if perhaps it was a message of reassurance following the Virginia Tech shootings. I mean, we're nowhere near Blacksburg (although apparently the gunman went to high school just down the road from my office and therefore in the vicinity of the farm stand), but perhaps they just wanted to show solidarity as fellow Virginians. That's cool. But, not to get all Elaine Benes here or anything, if that was their intention, doesn't the exclamation point seem just a little glib?
On a somewhat related note, if the world is ever going to end, I'm pretty sure it will happen on this week in April. More and more, it just seems like this is the chosen week for mass tragedy. (Although late August/early September was a close runner-up, with both Hurricane Katrina and 9/11 happening in that time frame.) Not only did Columbine happen on this same week (a fact that you've probably heard repeated ad nauseam by now), but it's also the anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing, the sinking of the Titanic and the birth of Hitler. Yeah, this week is evil. And it's only halfway over. Be safe out there, kids.
UPDATE: Apparently someone at the farm stand saw this blog post. (Let's just ignore the logistics of how someone at a farm stand I've never patronized and didn't mention by name might have happened across my blog.) This afternoon when I drove past the sign, it read "We're all Hokies today." Still a little awkward in my opinion (why today? Why weren't we all Hokies on Monday?), but at least it's clearer in its intention. (Incidentally, when in this media blitz are we going to find out what the heck a "hokie" is? I've been wondering since I moved here a year ago.)
If you're a regular reader of Francesca's blog, you're probably familiar with the vet clinic sign she passes on her way to work, which regularly annoys her with its "clever" messages (most of which I secretly think are kind of funny--shh!). Anyway, I have never mentioned it, but I have a similar sign that I pass on my drive home from work. It sits on top of this darling little farm stand and, while not as outright wacky as Francesca's vet-clinic sign, it can get a little sassy at times. (Lately, it's been ragging on the winter redux we've been having with messages like "We are so over winter" and "Hey, winter! Get outta here!")
Anyway, yesterday I noticed that the sign had a new message, one that I found quite confusing. It said, "It's safe to come out now!" At first I figured this must be yet another comment on the weather (you can't blame a farm-stand sign for being a tad bit weather-obsessed, I guess), but that didn't make a whole lot of sense. Yes, the weather's supposed to finally turn nice again this weekend, but we're still a bit removed from that at this point. And while the fabled nor'easter (I love saying "nor'easter") had abated by yesterday afternoon, it was still cloudy and cool--not exactly conditions in which delicate plants and flowers should be given the all-clear.
So then I wondered if perhaps it was a message of reassurance following the Virginia Tech shootings. I mean, we're nowhere near Blacksburg (although apparently the gunman went to high school just down the road from my office and therefore in the vicinity of the farm stand), but perhaps they just wanted to show solidarity as fellow Virginians. That's cool. But, not to get all Elaine Benes here or anything, if that was their intention, doesn't the exclamation point seem just a little glib?
On a somewhat related note, if the world is ever going to end, I'm pretty sure it will happen on this week in April. More and more, it just seems like this is the chosen week for mass tragedy. (Although late August/early September was a close runner-up, with both Hurricane Katrina and 9/11 happening in that time frame.) Not only did Columbine happen on this same week (a fact that you've probably heard repeated ad nauseam by now), but it's also the anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing, the sinking of the Titanic and the birth of Hitler. Yeah, this week is evil. And it's only halfway over. Be safe out there, kids.
UPDATE: Apparently someone at the farm stand saw this blog post. (Let's just ignore the logistics of how someone at a farm stand I've never patronized and didn't mention by name might have happened across my blog.) This afternoon when I drove past the sign, it read "We're all Hokies today." Still a little awkward in my opinion (why today? Why weren't we all Hokies on Monday?), but at least it's clearer in its intention. (Incidentally, when in this media blitz are we going to find out what the heck a "hokie" is? I've been wondering since I moved here a year ago.)
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Sharp shooter
I am not a photographer. My one brush with a photography class in college drove me to tears on numerous occasions. I know what makes a great picture, but I'm rarely able to execute it. I'm also not the type to play group sports. I've been talked into playing group sports a time or two, and I've sometimes (gasp!) even had fun, but mostly group sports make me nervous, causing me to flash back to high-school gym class and obsess over my inadequacies. So I suppose if I had to adopt one of these personalities for an afternoon, I'd pick photographer.
That's why, when Dave asked me if I wanted to photograph his Ultimate game yesterday, I agreed. I figured that I had to be better at photographing Ultimate than I am at playing it. However, the opposite was true--at first. Ultimate is fairly easy to learn (you run, you catch the disc, you try to prevent other people from catching it); sports shooting is considerably harder. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth point, I finally figured it out--the key is to follow the action with your eyes while keeping your camera at approximately the same level. And so it ended up that I pretty much used the same M.O. for sports shooting as I do for the rest of my photographic endeavors--click away and fervently hope I manage to catch something. As it turns out, my philosophies on what constitutes a good Ultimate game and what constitutes a good day of shooting are pretty similar: If I manage to get at least one moment of glory, the rest of it is worth it.
And so I present my greatest from yesterday's game:
I am not a photographer. My one brush with a photography class in college drove me to tears on numerous occasions. I know what makes a great picture, but I'm rarely able to execute it. I'm also not the type to play group sports. I've been talked into playing group sports a time or two, and I've sometimes (gasp!) even had fun, but mostly group sports make me nervous, causing me to flash back to high-school gym class and obsess over my inadequacies. So I suppose if I had to adopt one of these personalities for an afternoon, I'd pick photographer.
That's why, when Dave asked me if I wanted to photograph his Ultimate game yesterday, I agreed. I figured that I had to be better at photographing Ultimate than I am at playing it. However, the opposite was true--at first. Ultimate is fairly easy to learn (you run, you catch the disc, you try to prevent other people from catching it); sports shooting is considerably harder. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth point, I finally figured it out--the key is to follow the action with your eyes while keeping your camera at approximately the same level. And so it ended up that I pretty much used the same M.O. for sports shooting as I do for the rest of my photographic endeavors--click away and fervently hope I manage to catch something. As it turns out, my philosophies on what constitutes a good Ultimate game and what constitutes a good day of shooting are pretty similar: If I manage to get at least one moment of glory, the rest of it is worth it.
And so I present my greatest from yesterday's game:
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Baby fever
Unlike some of my friends, this is not an ailment from which I am currently suffering. I'm pretty happy with my life the way it is right now (mice notwithstanding), and I have no desire to add another person of my own making into the mix.
Yet it seems that, for some reason, everywhere I turn, I am inundated by babies. I'm currently reading a novel that's set at a home for unwed mothers, right on the heels of one that was all about pregnancy and new motherhood. Yesterday at the gym, I selected an old issue of People to read while on the elliptical trainer, and it had a huge spread in it about celebrity babies. (In case you're wondering, Joely Fisher's baby is really ugly. I'm sorry, but it's true.) On America's Next Top Model, two of the three girls who have kids got a chance to see their babies, and consequently, the third one wouldn't shut up about how she didn't get to see hers. Also, last night's episode of Lost was all about pregnant women, and it was interspersed with copious ads for that new Notes From the Underbelly show (which I kind of want to watch now that I realized that the girl who played Jessica Stein in Kissing Jessica Stein is in it). And of course there's the daily Anya show, which, most days, is pretty much the best part of my workday.
So is it any wonder that I dreamt that I had a baby last night? The baby was very cute (in fact, I think my first thought upon seeing my baby was something along the lines of, "Score! My baby's as cute as Anya!") and very well-behaved...in fact, I don't think it cried once during the entire dream, although it may have let out a small whine at some point. And while I remember thinking in the dream, "Wow, this baby stuff isn't all that bad," I was still pretty relieved when I woke up.
Is this my biological clock trying desperately to tick, to the point that it's resorted to reaching out to me via various mediums of entertainment? If so, I wish it would stop it already.
Unlike some of my friends, this is not an ailment from which I am currently suffering. I'm pretty happy with my life the way it is right now (mice notwithstanding), and I have no desire to add another person of my own making into the mix.
Yet it seems that, for some reason, everywhere I turn, I am inundated by babies. I'm currently reading a novel that's set at a home for unwed mothers, right on the heels of one that was all about pregnancy and new motherhood. Yesterday at the gym, I selected an old issue of People to read while on the elliptical trainer, and it had a huge spread in it about celebrity babies. (In case you're wondering, Joely Fisher's baby is really ugly. I'm sorry, but it's true.) On America's Next Top Model, two of the three girls who have kids got a chance to see their babies, and consequently, the third one wouldn't shut up about how she didn't get to see hers. Also, last night's episode of Lost was all about pregnant women, and it was interspersed with copious ads for that new Notes From the Underbelly show (which I kind of want to watch now that I realized that the girl who played Jessica Stein in Kissing Jessica Stein is in it). And of course there's the daily Anya show, which, most days, is pretty much the best part of my workday.
So is it any wonder that I dreamt that I had a baby last night? The baby was very cute (in fact, I think my first thought upon seeing my baby was something along the lines of, "Score! My baby's as cute as Anya!") and very well-behaved...in fact, I don't think it cried once during the entire dream, although it may have let out a small whine at some point. And while I remember thinking in the dream, "Wow, this baby stuff isn't all that bad," I was still pretty relieved when I woke up.
Is this my biological clock trying desperately to tick, to the point that it's resorted to reaching out to me via various mediums of entertainment? If so, I wish it would stop it already.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Buy what you love
This is my new philosophy. It's one that I've tried to adopt in the past, but after more unfruitful shopping trips lately than I care to recount (trips that usually result in me coming home either empty-handed or with a "pity purchase," i.e., that item you don't really love but buy anyway because it's cheap and the alternative is coming home empty-handed), I'm determined to make it stick this time. When I see something that catches my eye and makes my heart flutter, I'm buying it. I don't care if it's not the right season for it, or if I don't already have an occasion in mind for which I can wear it, or if it hasn't gone on sale yet. I feel like I've spent too much time lately waiting for one or all of those parameters to be true before making a purchase, and most of the time, I've ended up with something subpar because of it. But not anymore!
The inception of my new philosophy this weekend netted me a fabulous new purse and an awesome dress to wear to Francesca's wedding (both purchased for full price at H&M, which, granted, isn't that great of an expense), plus some super-cute BCBG wedge heels from Loehmann's. (I did have to fight the guilt reflex over those, as they were $60 and close-toed, and I really don't need to be spending $60 on shoes that I won't be able to wear in the coming months, but I was able to talk myself into it by repeating the mantra "Carrie Bradshaw spends $400 on her designer shoes.")
There is one caveat for my new shopping philosophy, though: It's null and void in Anthropologie. Because pretty much everything in that store makes my heart flutter, including $500 dresses that I really don't need to talk myself into buying, no matter how many more-expensive dresses Carrie Bradshaw may have bought before me.
This is my new philosophy. It's one that I've tried to adopt in the past, but after more unfruitful shopping trips lately than I care to recount (trips that usually result in me coming home either empty-handed or with a "pity purchase," i.e., that item you don't really love but buy anyway because it's cheap and the alternative is coming home empty-handed), I'm determined to make it stick this time. When I see something that catches my eye and makes my heart flutter, I'm buying it. I don't care if it's not the right season for it, or if I don't already have an occasion in mind for which I can wear it, or if it hasn't gone on sale yet. I feel like I've spent too much time lately waiting for one or all of those parameters to be true before making a purchase, and most of the time, I've ended up with something subpar because of it. But not anymore!
The inception of my new philosophy this weekend netted me a fabulous new purse and an awesome dress to wear to Francesca's wedding (both purchased for full price at H&M, which, granted, isn't that great of an expense), plus some super-cute BCBG wedge heels from Loehmann's. (I did have to fight the guilt reflex over those, as they were $60 and close-toed, and I really don't need to be spending $60 on shoes that I won't be able to wear in the coming months, but I was able to talk myself into it by repeating the mantra "Carrie Bradshaw spends $400 on her designer shoes.")
There is one caveat for my new shopping philosophy, though: It's null and void in Anthropologie. Because pretty much everything in that store makes my heart flutter, including $500 dresses that I really don't need to talk myself into buying, no matter how many more-expensive dresses Carrie Bradshaw may have bought before me.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Is that ironic?
I never thought I'd say this, but oh my God, Alanis Morissette is hilarious. If you haven't done it already, get thyself to YouTube immediately and watch her parody of "My Humps." If you can stomach watching the original Black-Eyed Peas version first, it makes it even funnier.
I never thought I'd say this, but oh my God, Alanis Morissette is hilarious. If you haven't done it already, get thyself to YouTube immediately and watch her parody of "My Humps." If you can stomach watching the original Black-Eyed Peas version first, it makes it even funnier.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Celebrity dreamin' on such a [non-] winter's day
I have no explanation as to why I should have dreamt about John Mayer last night, other than that I received a birthday package from Holly yesterday containing a shirt that says "Orange is the New Tan," which naturally got me thinking about Jessica Simpson, and from there it was only a short jump to John Mayer. At any rate, I was sitting backstage at an outdoor concert (at which "backstage" amounted to a semi-circle of lawn chairs somewhere behind the stage) with a bunch of people I didn't know, some of whom were famous. At one point, I know Ryan Adams was hanging out with us, which officially cements his status as my most-dreamed-about celebrity. (Seriously, this is like the fourth or fifth dream of mine that he's appeared in.) Anyway, eventually John showed up, and I guess he took a liking to me, because he asked me to accompany him the next day to a lunch interview in New York.
The following day, we're walking down the streets of the city, and John Mayer is complaining because the interviewer is meeting him at a fancy restaurant and therefore he has to dress up. I try to argue the "I thought musicians could get away with wearing whatever the hell they want" tack, but it's a moot point since he's already in the suit anyway. It's at about this time that I notice that John Mayer's definition of "suit" is some ridiculously ugly gray thing that may or may not have been fleece, which he's paired with grubby white tennis shoes. I give him the ol' "Oh my God, what are you wearing?!" and he indignantly insists that this is a designer suit, extending his wrist to show me the Tommy Hilfiger label that's sewn on the underside of the sleeve. I gently break it to him that, in the world of designer suits, Tommy Hilfiger doesn't really count, and suggest that, since he's a famous musician and probably has lots of money, he should really invest in an Ermenegildo Zegna suit, which would look really hot on him. Only since I can't pronounce Ermenegildo Zegna, I have to explain it by referencing the Nicholas Cage movie The Family Man. Yeah, I'm a dork. But at least I wasn't the one wearing an ugly, possibly fleece suit and white tennis shoes.
I have no explanation as to why I should have dreamt about John Mayer last night, other than that I received a birthday package from Holly yesterday containing a shirt that says "Orange is the New Tan," which naturally got me thinking about Jessica Simpson, and from there it was only a short jump to John Mayer. At any rate, I was sitting backstage at an outdoor concert (at which "backstage" amounted to a semi-circle of lawn chairs somewhere behind the stage) with a bunch of people I didn't know, some of whom were famous. At one point, I know Ryan Adams was hanging out with us, which officially cements his status as my most-dreamed-about celebrity. (Seriously, this is like the fourth or fifth dream of mine that he's appeared in.) Anyway, eventually John showed up, and I guess he took a liking to me, because he asked me to accompany him the next day to a lunch interview in New York.
The following day, we're walking down the streets of the city, and John Mayer is complaining because the interviewer is meeting him at a fancy restaurant and therefore he has to dress up. I try to argue the "I thought musicians could get away with wearing whatever the hell they want" tack, but it's a moot point since he's already in the suit anyway. It's at about this time that I notice that John Mayer's definition of "suit" is some ridiculously ugly gray thing that may or may not have been fleece, which he's paired with grubby white tennis shoes. I give him the ol' "Oh my God, what are you wearing?!" and he indignantly insists that this is a designer suit, extending his wrist to show me the Tommy Hilfiger label that's sewn on the underside of the sleeve. I gently break it to him that, in the world of designer suits, Tommy Hilfiger doesn't really count, and suggest that, since he's a famous musician and probably has lots of money, he should really invest in an Ermenegildo Zegna suit, which would look really hot on him. Only since I can't pronounce Ermenegildo Zegna, I have to explain it by referencing the Nicholas Cage movie The Family Man. Yeah, I'm a dork. But at least I wasn't the one wearing an ugly, possibly fleece suit and white tennis shoes.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Bag lady
In my continuing attempt to live my life (or at least certain parts of it) by the What Would Al Gore Do? philosophy, this weekend in New York I purchased a large, plastic-lined tote bag (coincidentally, from the exact same West Village Tibetan shop where I'd bought the coin purse that now holds my laundry money several years before) for the purpose of carrying my groceries home from the store. However, I was feeling a little self-conscious about having to actually tell the bagger at the grocery store that I'd brought my own bag. It's not that I'm embarrassed to be saving the planet. It's just that bringing your own tote to the grocery store, especially in the semi-suburban neighborhood where I live, seems like it's part of a lifestyle of driving a Volvo and donating money to public radio that I'm not sure I'm ready to adopt (even though I did convince Dave to donate his car to public radio, and if I had kids I'd totally want to cart them around in a Volvo station wagon).
Anyway, that's why I was so pleased when I arrived at the grocery store, clutching my new tote bag, and realized I could now use the self-checkout machines, which I had previously eschewed because of the lack of paper bags at their bagging station. However, what I forgot to take into account is that the scales at self-checkout are ridiculously sensitive, meaning that I couldn't actually set my own bag on the bagging station without the machine reprimanding me for not scanning it first. It also meant I couldn't remove any items from the bagging station and transfer them to my own bag elsewhere until I had paid for everything. So I ended up having to stack all of my groceries up next to the plastic bags, then transfer everything to my tote bag after I'd paid. Meanwhile, a huge line was forming behind me, and no doubt every person in it was thinking, "Hey, tree hugger! Go get in your Volvo and crank up the NPR, and get the heck out of my way!"
My trip to the store did have one bright spot, which is that I bought some new Nivea lotion that is both self-tanning and firming. This is genius! You can get rid of pastiness and dimpliness at the same time. Why hasn't anyone thought of this before? Plus, unlike other self-tanning and/or firming lotions, most of which have a smell that can be classified as "weird" at best, this lotion has a lovely citrus-y scent. Of course, it remains to be seen whether the lotion does actually have any tanning and/or firming benefits, but I'm definitely a fan so far.
In my continuing attempt to live my life (or at least certain parts of it) by the What Would Al Gore Do? philosophy, this weekend in New York I purchased a large, plastic-lined tote bag (coincidentally, from the exact same West Village Tibetan shop where I'd bought the coin purse that now holds my laundry money several years before) for the purpose of carrying my groceries home from the store. However, I was feeling a little self-conscious about having to actually tell the bagger at the grocery store that I'd brought my own bag. It's not that I'm embarrassed to be saving the planet. It's just that bringing your own tote to the grocery store, especially in the semi-suburban neighborhood where I live, seems like it's part of a lifestyle of driving a Volvo and donating money to public radio that I'm not sure I'm ready to adopt (even though I did convince Dave to donate his car to public radio, and if I had kids I'd totally want to cart them around in a Volvo station wagon).
Anyway, that's why I was so pleased when I arrived at the grocery store, clutching my new tote bag, and realized I could now use the self-checkout machines, which I had previously eschewed because of the lack of paper bags at their bagging station. However, what I forgot to take into account is that the scales at self-checkout are ridiculously sensitive, meaning that I couldn't actually set my own bag on the bagging station without the machine reprimanding me for not scanning it first. It also meant I couldn't remove any items from the bagging station and transfer them to my own bag elsewhere until I had paid for everything. So I ended up having to stack all of my groceries up next to the plastic bags, then transfer everything to my tote bag after I'd paid. Meanwhile, a huge line was forming behind me, and no doubt every person in it was thinking, "Hey, tree hugger! Go get in your Volvo and crank up the NPR, and get the heck out of my way!"
My trip to the store did have one bright spot, which is that I bought some new Nivea lotion that is both self-tanning and firming. This is genius! You can get rid of pastiness and dimpliness at the same time. Why hasn't anyone thought of this before? Plus, unlike other self-tanning and/or firming lotions, most of which have a smell that can be classified as "weird" at best, this lotion has a lovely citrus-y scent. Of course, it remains to be seen whether the lotion does actually have any tanning and/or firming benefits, but I'm definitely a fan so far.
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