Like, I was watching Showcase the other day and there was an infomercial for the Handy Stitch. And it was so ridiculous because the logical part of my brain was like "You will never, ever use that. Ever. It will be found among your possessions when you die, still in its original box and some distant relative will get it and take it to Antiques Roadshow and it'll turn out to be worth ten thousand pounds or something (cause we'll all be British by then.)"
Meanwhile, my frivolous, idiotic, side was watching an older lady holding a regular sewing machine up to a pair of drapes, trying to sew her curtains while they were still hanging and thinking: "Look at that woman hefting that HUGE sewing machine up to her curtains! What if you need to sew your curtains? Do you think you could do it with that big, bulky sewing machine you've got? Not bloody likely!"
As usual, logic hardly put up much of a fight. I wanted it. And how. Good thing the people at Visa recognize this condition I have and declined to issue my student loan paying ass a card.
Today, I was in our town's pathetic mall, called the Centerville Square (which is sorta funny because it's more of an 'L' shape.) There was a table from Capital City visiting, displaying the wares of the Clinique make-up counter and various perfumes that they must be doing away with or getting new stock in or something. Or maybe not. Maybe this was a rogue band of cosmeticists traveling from town to town, visiting beauty, scent and the secret to young and supple skin on the toady residents of Centerville, a great place to raise your kids up, but not necessarily to get a decent moisturizer.
I was there to get a card for my mom. (Cause tomorrow is Mother's Day, don't ya know. Perhaps another reason why the expensive perfume and make-up people were visiting our backwater berg.) But I walked by the table and was enticed by the pretty jars and shiney objects and found myself spraying perfume on little cards, sniffing coffee beans like some addict, and then moving to the next bouquet of B.O. eradicator.
I was spritzing some Clinique Happy into the air and sereptitiously trying to walk through it like they do in the movies when a cosmeticist snuck up on me.
"It's nice, isn't it?" (Ahhh. Fresh meat...)
"Huh? Oh. This? Yes. I suppose." (Augh! Headlights! Help! I can't move!)
"You like it?" (That's it. Reel it in nice and slow. Goooood mark. Easy mark. Come to momma.)
"I, uh..." (The mammal tenses, preparing to sprint away into the brush. Or the Zellers. Whatever.)
"I use that myself." (Patience. The trick is patience!)
"Oh. Well, how much is this?" (Quick! A diversionary tactic!)
"That one? Let me check...yes. $39." (Any moment now! I've cornered her! She has nowhere to go!)
"Hmmm... well, I don't really... I mean... I just think it's a little... strong." (Sweet Christ! Leave! Leave now! Fight or Flight, sister! And let's face it, you fight like a girl! Now run!)
"Yes, well." (Oh, you small town cretins! So very, very gauche! Beauty has no price!)
"Maybe...this?" (Maybe the body mist is less expensive and I can leave without doing too much more damage!)
"Is that the...body spray?" (Circle her slowly now. Slooooowly. Keep swimming, or you'll die...)
"Ummm. Hydrating body spray mist. Yes." (They probably don't take interact anyway. I'll be okay. I don't really want it. I don't. I mean, I don't even like perfumes.)
"That one is $42 dollars." (I'm through playing games. Buy it, or be gone. I have other toady townies to beautify.)
"Oh." (Well it does smell nice. And it's not a perfume.)
"It's not as strong as the perfume. You'll like it." (You. Will. Like. It.)
"Right. You don't take interact, do you?" (Quick! She's on to us! She knows you'll buy whatever she puts in front of you! Use the damn escape hatch!)
"No. We don't. Do you want to go get some money?" (You want to go get some money.)
"Yes. Where's the nearest bank machine?" (Oh, man! You caved! You unbelievable wuss! Well look, just put it down, pretend to go to the bank machine and just don't come back.)
"Right down the street. I'll just put this away so we don't sell it out from under you. We don't have very many left, after all." (Oh, you'll be back! They all come back eventually! Muah-ha-ha-ha!!!)
"Er. Right then." (Damn. She totally called your bluff. Go get your money and buy the stupid thing. God. You are so her bitch.)
So I walked down the street, took out $42 dollars (Which, if you're counting, is three dollars more than I would have spent if I had went with my first instincts) and then went back to the bank machine to take out more money to buy some flowers for my mom and some more flowers for my three grandmas (A divorce, resulting in two second marriages, in case you're curious) because hey, it is mother's day. And if I buy flowers for my mom and my grandma's then I assuage myself of the guilt of spending money on myself the day before mother's day.
Why that was some lovely rationalizing there. (And I don't mean that in an Eddie Haskell kind of way.)
Why thank you. (I'll get you next time.)
I also won a "free" designer plate. It's so gawd-awful fugly. Bright orange with a cala lily painted on it. I tried to give it to my mom, but no dice. I'd really like to be the kind of person who could see something like that and go "With the right light and a fresh coat of paint, I could design a whole room around it!" But sadly, I am not. At least I didn't win a free Celine Dion CD. I wouldn't have been able to pay somebody to take it from me.
As you are all aware, I also have a problem with procrastination. Meet my newest foe: The Poetry Generator. It's been taking the diarist/blog world by storm lately. It takes the text of your entries and from them, generates poetry. Like magic. Or programming. Here are three of the best ones it came up with for me.
Chic to huff
of slips
out
their snot all
the first step to go to
beat me apparently paying his damn mortgage!
Like, rolling
Stone what look? thinking
Delices du mer,
dinde et poule, pat�
au crevettes. Yum.
My prime method of Alias
was just...stop
watching now. I like when I
rolled my head and finger the merchandise and
I catch myself rolling my eyes.
- That was from my essay about eye-rollers annonymous. I like the french inserted randomly here.
is � hurting the
merchandise and let me
there! sister.
And count for Swinging
You know, the first step
is
inherent in that I...
I needed to deal
with my God!
*!*
Oh yeah!
I been there, sister. See,
her bazillion tiny tins
of an admission of time
I was that
effigy of tofu and
I breathe on you and get twenty bucks from the New
Pornographers, All over the
store
me either! No! do it
just stop
watching now.
- From the same entry. I was that effigy of tofu! Also, *!* Apparently, I'm ee cummings and I didn't even know it. Gotta love those new pornographers. Giving me $20 for breathing on people!
Geek Chic. Cooler Than
others. What? why yes,
I've not broached the freezer.
Yet.
Mood: Impatient.
-I don't remember what entry that was from, but hee! It was too perfect not to include.
Pages: Love in the Time of Cholera.
Tunes: Morphine, The Night
Tube: CSI reruns. Now on Showcase at 3:00 in the morning on weekends! Yay!
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