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Seen and Heard, Volume 1

January 8, 2010 by thelitterbox

Overheard conversations can be incredibly entertaining. This one took place in the Detroit Metro Airport between one extremely patient gate attendant and one elderly lady whose social filter has obviously rusted with age…

Excuse me. Did you know I came in on the 3:15? I’ve always wanted to say that. I came in on the 3:15. I feel so important.

That’s nice, ma’am. Did you have a good flight?

I do not know if it was good. You’d have to ask the pilot that. Can you talk to the pilot? Can I talk to the pilot?

I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know who piloted your earlier flight.

Neither do I. Why don’t you know? Don’t they tell you these things? Why don’t they tell you these things?!!

There are many flights, ma’am, and thousands of airline personnel. I’m sure you were in safe hands.

…

Excuse me. Why is that loud speaker speaking Chinese? I’m not in China, am I?

We often have international passengers fly through here, ma’am. Our announcements are spoken in many languages to accommodate all our passengers.

International passengers? You mean foreigners? Are they welcome here?

Yes, ma’am. We welcome passengers from many countries.

 Are there any foreigners on this flight?

I couldn’t say ma’am. We are just flying from Detroit to Grand Rapids.

…

Excuse me. Do I have time to get a drink before my jet plane takes off? I need a dirty martini.

We will be boarding in about twenty minutes, ma’am.

…

Excuse me. Do you know where that plane is going? What about that one? Are they going to Hawaii? I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii, but I never have because I only speak English, not Indian.

I’m pretty sure they speak English in Hawaii, too.

…

Excuse me. Will we be served chicken or fish for dinner?

I’m sorry ma’am, there is no food service on this flight due to its short duration.

No food?! Not even a dirty martini?

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Big News

December 18, 2009 by thelitterbox

You didn’t know there was a big announcement coming… I’ve kept it a surprise… for all 8 of you who actually read this blog.

So here it is: The Litter Box can now be found at mylitterbox.net. I’ve taken the plunge and registered the domain.

Along the way, I spruced things up a bit. If you know me, you know I’m not a fan of clutter (though you wouldn’t have guessed that if you could see what my desk looks like right now). But it’s true. I’m not a huge fan of those blogs that have all that clutter in their gutters, those that have things pop out at you, or—worse yet—the blogs that start blasting songs that make you jump higher than the heavens.  You won’t find any of that here. Just keepin’ it simple. Clean and neat. Uncluttered. At least for now…

I’ve edited a few of the posts, deleted a few of the ones that, as I read through them this morning, couldn’t understand why I posted in the first place. But I’ve kept some of my favorites, too. And I will soon add more, of course.

After all, no one likes a dirty litter box.

Posted in This Only Ever Happens to Me | Tagged | 1 Comment »

Midlife Crisis

November 19, 2009 by thelitterbox

I think the world is coming to an end. Really. Little girls everywhere are crying, myself included. And how could they NOT… after seeing this…

Branded Like a Cow

Do you know what you’re looking at, folks? It’s a tattooed doll. But not any doll, mind you. It’s Barbie.

Barbie!

The little innocent doll I spent hours playing with as a child. Oh, Barbie, what HAVE you done??

Posted in Opinions from the Cat | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment »

Edumacate Me, Ma

November 19, 2009 by thelitterbox

Working on the weekends is not usually my idea of fun. After being cooped up in an office for 40-60 hours a week, I’m ready to stretch my legs and run (well, not literally—you don’t want to see what that looks like). Occasionally, though, my company needs me to sacrifice my weekends to meet up with a very important author, travel to far away lands, negotiate world peace, or—in this case—go to Minnesota to sell books to homeschoolers. While my company has been a part of this community for a couple years, this was my first foray into home-based education. And I think it’s safe to say…

 

I HAD NO IDEA.

 

It wasn’t a large convention, but the aisles were packed with parents and kids of all ages—some children who appeared only days old and were slumped in what looked like dreadfully uncomfortable sling-like contraptions around their parents shoulders. I saw many different religious associations (ranging from Mennonite moms to Catholic priests) and a variety of clothing styles, some of them dating back to the early 90s (ankle-length skirts, lacey shalls, layered socks, and what I call the butt braid—braided hair that is woven so tight and so long that it finally ends at butt-height). BTW, when DID tassels go out of style and why? Clothing and a toy all wrapped into one—it doesn’t get any more entertaining than that!

 

But I digress…

 

The point is, it only took a matter of seconds for me to be inundated with hundreds of products, hundreds of parents… and hundreds of children. Two things became immediately clear:

1. I was going to have fun blogging about this, and

2. I was about to get a very large headache

 

You see, kids and Cat don’t usually mix very well. It’s not that I don’t like them. It’s just that I get a distinct feeling that they don’t like me. They frown when I make funny faces or cry when I try to get them to laugh—basically the exact opposite of my intent. My little sister has made a living out of caring for kiddos, but they just aren’t my forte.

 

I needed to make a quick decision. Wait until the screaming gave me the migraine of the century… or join the screaming and give said migraine to the parentals. It was a genius plan: set out to have the loudest, most entertaining day possible.

 

-First, I asked Elijah, the son of a nearby exhibitor, to help me build Noah’s Giant Floor Puzzle. We loudly voiced all the animal noises as the puzzle came together, much to the pleasure (or dismay?) of passers by.

-Later he and I built Noah’s Fantastic Boat (you’d be surprised how many Noah products are marketed in Christian retail these days)

-I challenged another boy to a game of Pilgrim’s Progress, which proved to be a bad idea after the third time I got sent back to the City of Destruction.

-I made up for my loss by participating in a science experiment across the aisle where dozens of kids laughed when they saw what happened to my hair when I touched a friction energy converter (No, I will NOT post pictures).

-After being scolded by the crotchety Grandma exhibiting next to me, I recruited a few kids to variously and occasionally bring her Tootsie Rolls. By mid-afternoon, she had received and eaten so much sugar, that she was all smiles (I think my cohorts may have snuck a few for themselves as well).

-I asked a few homeschooling mamas to watch my booth (a quick shout out to them—thanks Marla, Londa, Glenda, and Reatha) while I rooted for my buddy Elijah in the INDOOR Civil War reenactment, complete with canon firing. Yes, I said INDOOR.

-Later in the afternoon, I challenged a tired little boy to a sword fight using swords made of blown-up Diaper Jeenie bags. I lost, but he got a new burst of energy and ran around yelling ON GUARD!

-When a man walked by carrying—but not leaning on—a set of crutches, I jumped in front of him and yelled IT’S A MIRACLE! HE CAN WALK! (Turns out the crutches belonged to his wife who was propped against a check-out counter a few feet behind him).

-Perhaps the highlight of my day was when I snuck around the corner to find 2 of my new grade school friends kissing. Yes… kissing! Caught in the act, they jumped back and awkwardly stammered an excuse… they were discussing politics. I nodded my approval and stifled my laughter until I was safely back in my booth.

-Realizing this might be the social event of the year for some of those families, I started winking at a few of the shy teenage boys who trailed their moms through the aisles and even… gasp… showed some teeth to the other boys who wandered about on their own. Heaven forbid a woman should smile at them!

 

Oh what have I done?

 

Exhausted but migraine averted, I trudged into my hotel room that night satisfied with a long day’s work. I had survived… and given a few teenage boys something to talk about for a while—at least until next year’s convention.

 

What WILL that be like? Dare I even wonder?

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A Purse-Driven Adventure

March 29, 2009 by thelitterbox

I like purses. Almost as much as I like shoes. In fact, I rarely get new shoes without also picking out some sort of coordinating handbag. But my most recent handbag purchase might have broken me of that habit.

 

Icky Purse

Icky Purse

 

 

It was a cute purse. And it called me from the other side of the store (which is not an easy thing to do). What’s more, it was on sale. How could I resist? 

If only I had x-ray vision…

The stripes on the purse were intoxicating but what I found inside the purse was sobering. The next morning as I cleaned out the paper that was stuffed inside to give the purse shape, I noticed an unusual heaviness to the bag. Something else was in my new purse. 

I turned the purse upside down and shook it. Nothing. I turned the purse inside out and shook it. Nothing. Whatever was in the bag was between the pocket layer and the outside fabric of the purse. 

How is that possible? The only explanation was that there was some sort of tear or hole in one of the pockets.  

Sure enough. The corner of the small zipper pocket was shredded. For a moment I was angered by the fact that my new purse was flawed. But seconds later, my anger was replaced by shock when I discovered the source of the unwanted weight.

A few rusty pennies.

A few strips of shredded paper, like what you might see as evidence that a mouse is inhabiting your residence.

A small, travel-size bottle of hand lotion.

A stick of stale gum.

On a normal day, all of these things could be found in any of my other purses. But these items did not belong to me. 

I suddenly felt icky. The feeling you get when you’re totally creeped out by something–like when you see a dead rodent or a really big spider where it shouldn’t be.

Needless to say, I was a little late for work that morning, between my little investigation and the trip back to the store where I purchased someone else’s personal belongings. The clerk didn’t seem overly surprised, which annoyed me just a little. Her only explanation: someone must have returned this purse without realizing there was a hole that had swallowed her lotion and gum. That’s why I got it on sale–because it was used merchandise. Her reasoning did little to comfort me, but she did take the purse back, replace it with another from stock, and give me a 25% coupon off my next purchase.

But that purchase may never come… at least not until the ickyness has subsided and definitely not until I’ve thoroughly inspected every millimeter of every inch of every cloth inside and outside of the new product.

In the words of Ian Hunter, once bitten and twice shy, baby.

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Elementary, My Dear Watson

February 2, 2009 by thelitterbox

I’m a fan of Sherlock Holmes: The mystery… The intrigue… The unusually large mustache. But what’s really impressive is the fact that he had to rely on his knowledge to solve his cases. Unlike more contemporary police work that uses a bunch of scientific gadgets, Holmes was armed with little more than his brainpower, a pistol, and a long pipe. He was one smart guy (or as my grandma might say “he had his wits about him”).

I need some of those wits right now because I have a case for Mr. Holmes.

I spent the entire weekend at my parents house, in their laundry room, doing one load of laundry after another. Why would I drag three very heavy bags of dirty clothes ALL the way to Holland, you ask? I’m not SO cheap as to go through all that hassle just to save a few bucks in quarters at a laundromat.

Well, OK, maybe I am… but I was really there because the laundry room in my association seems to be… unavailable. It’s located directly across the road from my townhouse, has eight washers and eight dryers, and as such is convenient and rarely busy. Just one problem.

I’m locked out.

See, my association refuses to give me the key code for the new lock that was installed a few months ago. Yes, months… It was one day last October that I sat a basket of clothes on my hip and last approached the infamous laundry only to find that I couldn’t get in. Naturally, the first step I SHOULD have taken to secure the new code was to visit the association office. But I thought I could avoid all that by visiting one of the other two laundromats in the neighborhood. Guess what? The locks had been changed all around.

Now don’t you think this is something the association should have notified us about?

My devious attempt to avoid the association office didn’t work. So a trip to said office seemed inevitable. These visits never go well–I swear they see me coming and put on a sour attitude just so they can enjoy giving me a hard time. So off I went, both to ask the reason for the lock change and to inquire about the new access code.

Some of the locks had worn out, they said.

We needed to keep our equipment safe, they said.

It was the perfect opportunity to update all the locks to a newer, safer model, they said.

All fine reasons; just nothing that explains why this wasn’t communicated to the neighborhood.

Oh, it was, they said. Just not to you and a few others who don’t use the laundromat that often. We didn’t think you’d notice.

I wouldn’t notice?? That’s logic that would bury Mr. Holmes.

“So I can’t have the code because I don’t use the laundromat often enough?” I asked.

Something like that.

“I’m confused; is it that? Or not?”

Well, it’s also partially due to what you did in the laundromat.

“What did I do?”

And then came the sarcastic eye roll that was meant to communicate exasperation and possibly also make me feel stupid. You know what you did! You KNOW what you did.

It sounded as accusatory as LC does when approaching Heidi on the MTV hit show The Hills.

Trouble is, I DON’T know what I did. They made my accused actions sound atrocious–like I had used someone else’s laundry to teepee the room, had stripped naked to wash the clothes I was wearing, or had dumped a gallon of bleach in one of the machines mid-wash. I can see it now… the headline of the association newsletter declaring…

It was Cat. In the Laundry Room. With the BLEACH!!

Whatever their reason, I’m wondering how it is they came to the conclusion that whatever happened was MY fault. What evidence did they have? What motive? These are questions Mr. Holmes would surely ask.

Needless to say, the rest of the conversation didn’t go well, especially the part where I demanded a refund in my association dues that went towards maintenance of the laundry rooms–I mean, if I wasn’t using them, I wasn’t going to pay for them! That’s my true dutchness coming out.

In the end, I was put on what they called “a laundromat probation of indeterminate length” (Yes, I’m serious). So friends, that is why I spent the entire weekend at my parents house using their laundry room. Because THEY won’t lock me out.

Mr. Holmes, I welcome your advice.

Posted in This Only Ever Happens to Me | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments »

All I Want for Christmas is a Semi-Automatic Shotgun

December 2, 2008 by thelitterbox

I don’t really want a shot gun for Christmas. But I wonder what my mother would say if I asked for one. I’m usually the daughter who lists very predictable things on her Christmas list. And my mom is thrilled–I’m really very easy to shop for. My dad and brothers, however… not so much. 

This is the time of year when everyone is looking for the perfect gift… or at least thinking about what that gift might be. If you have a man in your life, you’re probably thinking a lot because if your man is like most men, buying a gift for him isn’t exactly easy. Clothes and ties are so impersonal, movies can be hit or miss, books are boring (sorry publishing friends), and electronics are so expensive. So what are you to do? 

Never fear, the catalogs are here. Skinny catalogs, thick catalogs, specialty catalogs, big box catalogs, sales catalogs–about this time of year, your mailbox is stuffed with them all. At any other time you might get annoyed, wonder how the heck they got your address, or simply ignore the mass of mail. But now, right now, you need a gift. And not just any gift. The perfect gift. And every one of those catalogs is claiming that they can provide it. 

So you think, oh, I’ll just take a quick look. You casually flip through the pages but discard every idea because they are all so… so… so not right. You see binoculars, thermometers, wallets, and money clips. You’ll pass on phone gadgets, computer gadgets, grill gadgets, and grooming kits. Just say no to the chess sets and tool sets and please don’t be amused by the sports mugs or sports rugs. And don’t forget the razors and radios, army knives and ugly ties. Why, oh why, can’t you find something original? Something unique? Something he totally wouldn’t expect but will totally love? So even though you toss more catalogs than keep, you still look hoping that something magical will appear. 

I got a catalog the other day and flipped it open, hoping to find that magic. Sure, there were the usual gifts–all boring, of course. Until… until… yep, there it was… a large picture of it on page 16. It wasn’t my idea of a perfect gift, but it was different. Finally! Something unique! 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t unique in a good way. As I sat there looking at it and marveling, I suddenly questioned… was this unique or was this absurd? 

I bet you’re wondering what I was looking at. 

Care to venture a guess? 

It wasn’t a semi-automatic shotgun. But you’d be close. 

Give up? 

I was looking at a bullet-proof vest. 

Cost-effective LIFE INSURANCE

Cost-effective LIFE INSURANCE

 

A bullet-proof vest. For sale. For just under $550 to be exact. Fascinating. Who knew you could put a price on your life… and price it for just a few hundred bucks? 

It’s also fascinating to consider who might buy this. A hunter, maybe? But then again, the purpose of hunting is to hit the animal, not the man. If you’re not skilled enough to notice the difference between a four-legged, antlered buck and an orange-clad, bullet-proof vest-wearing adult, then you have no business yielding a gun. 

Maybe it’s for law-enforcement personnel. But somehow I question whether or not government employees really buy equipment and supplies from a consumer catalog. Seems odd, no? 

Perhaps this is for the paintball enthusiast. Is paintball still as popular as it was in high school? I’ve heard those paint balls can whip out pretty hard and leave you with bruises and bumps the size of walnuts. But if that’s the case, why is the product called a bullet-proof vest? And why does the product description talk about bullets not paintballs? 

Oh yeah, the description… that was pretty fascinating, too. 

This inconspicuous vest blends in with the clothes in your closet. Light weight material but durable build. Will protect you from any standard-issue bullet. Perfect for every guy on your list. 

Now, for argument sake, let’s stop thinking about WHO would buy such a thing and WHY they would buy it. Instead, let’s actually appreciate the important qualities that were described in the product notes. I’m so incredibly glad, for example, that the vest is inconspicuous because there’s nothing worse than a bullet-proof vest that clashes with your shirt! I’m also incredibly glad that it’s durable, because if it wasn’t… well then, it kinda sucks to be you. 

I’m still a little befuddled. While I’m comforted by the idea that something unique still exists, I’m a little disturbed by all this. Is it for real? I can only assume so because the product was actually printed, priced, and promoted. Who knows, maybe there is someone out there who, on Christmas morning, will be tickled pink to unwrap and try on their very own, very durable, inconspicuous bullet-proof vest. But for my peace of mind–and for there’s–I hope they’ll never have to use their perfect Christmas gift.

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Twang It, Dang It

October 27, 2008 by thelitterbox

I’ve spent quite a bit of time in Texas this past month on two back-to-back business trips–first to Austin for a week and then to Dallas for another 4 days. I encountered many adventures on these two trips, my excursions with my GPS for starters. I’m still a little confused by the Texas roadways, especially why they are all so similar. Why, for example, are there 6 Oak Groves, 6 River Oaks, and 6 Royal Oaks?  Why do they need 2 Mountain Springs and 3 Mountain Views? Don’t they confuse their 7 Pleasant Groves with their 4 Pleasant Hills or 4 Pleasant Valleys? I can’t understand why there are 5 Four Corners (that makes 20… and is just ridiculous). And then there is a Timber Lake and a Timberlake, a Timberlake Acres, a Timberlake Estate, and–the best one–Justin Timberlake. Plus there’s a Cold Spring, Coldsprings, and Cold Water. Who was the genius that thought of all this?

Two trips to the Texas heartland was not enough time to figure this out, but I did accomplish something else. I’m proud to report that I’m now proficient in speaking the Texas twang. On all of my other visits to that area, I was never there long enough to really get a handle on the local speak. This past month, however, there was no avoiding it.

The minute I stepped off the plane, I hear “guhHALLleeee, that’s sum hayur thayur.” After pausing for a minute to make sure no banshee was after me, I realized the flight attendant was looking at me as if he was expecting a response. Was he talking to me? What did he say? When in doubt, just smile and nod.

Then, waiting in line at the baggage check, the man next to me started talking about the “daggon gummit”. “Daggone” I’ve heard, but what in the blazes was “gummit?” The man sounded like my grandpa when he forgets to put his teeth in. Be polite, Cat. Just smile and nod.

Before I even made it to my hotel, I had one person tell me he was “fixin to bobwar” something, heard someone else talk about the “Cowlboys weeyunnin”, and head my cabbie discuss his latest run-in with the “dagnabit shurf whoda arREYust ya faster than a rattlesnake will kill ya.” Smile and nod. Smile and nod. Smile and nod.

(And P.S. I’m never riding with THAT cabbie again).

Then, the next day, when I was stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire, the Hertz Rental Car driver who came to my rescue asked if I needed a “plug”. NO SIR! I’ll show you what to plug!

The smile-and-nod method maybe wasn’t the most effective, but it at least allowed me to listen without havingthe pressure of figuring out a response. By my second trip to Texas, I had listened enough to implement a few handy deciphering techniques. For example, I had figured out that AY always sounds like EH, that a Y sound can usually be taken out of any word it has been inserted into, that words ending in “ing” are pronounced without the “g”, and that Texans were skilled at shortening words by at least one syllable. I had also figured out that a twang and a draw were two different things (many thanks to my colleague who warned me to never get my twang caught in my draws… that’s dangerous, I’m sure).

With all of this information under my belt (which by the way, was about half the size of the belts worn by most Texans), I decided I was well equipped to carry on a conversation. Maybe a little practice would help, though. As luck would have it, the person checking me into my hotel had a thick twang. No better time than the present, right? I whipped out everything I had learned and threw out the best twang-filled sentence I knew how to create, then waited for a response.

But none came.

Well, not spoken anyway.

I looked at the hotel clerk waiting for a reply and you know what I saw?

The smile and nod.

Posted in This Only Ever Happens to Me | Tagged , , | 2 Comments »

Murphy’s Law of the Road

October 14, 2008 by thelitterbox

So if you haven’t heard by now, I was in a car accident last Friday on my way to work. I had taken a little detour so I could hit the Starbucks drive-thru (my usual Friday route) and had noticed how unusual the traffic was. It would probably make me late for work. Go figure.

About a block before the scene of the crime, I slowed to let a car turn into a parking lot. I heard tires squeal and looked into my rear-view mirror to see a large truck rocking to a stop just a few feet behind me. The driver was talking on his cell phone. I breathed a sigh of relief, thankful he hadn’t hit me, and gave the driver my most evil of all evil eyes, which I’m sure he couldn’t see. Go figure.

A block later, I was not so lucky. I crossed through an intersection and slowed to let a car turn into the gas station on the corner. I was at a complete stand still when I heard the squeals…

And then the crash.

Or maybe it was more of a crunch.

Okay, a crash and a crunch.

After the natural delayed reaction of “Oh crap, he hit me! The loser hit me!”, I managed to assess the damage. I’ll spare you the gory details (Choo would appreciate the privacy), but it was bad. Very VERY bad. Go figure.

And my neck was already throbbing. So this is what whiplash feels like… I thought. Not recommended.

An hour later, I was sitting in the back of an ambulance with an EMT buckling me into a big white neck brace. It was definitely not something I had planned on wearing–and, needless to say, it completely clashed with my outfit. Go figure.

I sat there thinking about it all and somehow managed to see the irony in the situation. Murphy must have been working over time. Think about it:

-Six weeks to the day that I took ownership of my shiny new car (aka Choo), it sat on the curb crunched on both ends.

-The car that hit me was huge. A big Dodge Ram. A manly man’s car. And yet it was painted sparkly purple. And the driver quite obviously uses more hair gel than I do. He was no manly man. Heck, I’m not sure he was a man at all.

-The third party (the woman driving the car in front of me that Mr. Purple Truck pushed me into) was swearing left and right in one sentence and praying out loud to Jesus in the next.

-That same woman was still complaining about all the terrible damage to her car. Yep, that busted tail light was pretty bad. Better pray some more.

-I had taken this route so I could get my Friday Chai Latte fix. That same Chai Latte was now splashed all over my dashboard and dripping on my floor mats. Some fix.

-I knew I would be visiting the ER at least once over the next couple of days, I knew I would need to show proof of health insurance, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to (I’m a new employee and while I do have insurance, the card confirming this fact had not yet arrived in the mail).

I should have been mad. Really mad. My new Choo had been pummeled. I was injured. I had no idea how to go about the whole insurance game because I have never been in an accident before. The man who hit me was on the phone with his significant other (which gender, I do not know), ignoring everything and everyone involved as if he were an innocent bystander, not the guilty party. And the woman was still swearing (Side note: I’ve never heard someone swear while praying before. It’s quite interesting). Any or all of this would have made most people very very angry.

I have no idea why I wasn’t. Delayed reaction, maybe.

Anywho, the ER experience wasn’t all that bad–although it took me much longer on account of my missing insurance card. The following day was equally as long. I was instructed to come back to get the neck brace removed and had to go through the whole insurance debacle again because there was a diffrent nurse on duty. But I made it. In pain and very tired, but I made it.

When I got home, my mail had arrived. And guess what was there.

My insurance card. Go figure.

Posted in This Only Ever Happens to Me | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment »

For the Love of Shoes

October 5, 2008 by thelitterbox

I could be Carrie Bradshaw. Well, minus the recreational sexual escapades part. But I am a single gal in a city (albeit a smaller one). I’ve got the curly hair. I’ve got the cute midtown condo. I’ve got the writing thing down. I’ve got the small group of girlfriends who know me so well it’s scary.

And oh yeah, I’ve got the shoes. The shoooooes.

Granted, they aren’t designed by Jimmy Choo or Manolo Blahnik, but the are just as cute. See for your yourself.

Cute.

Cute.

Cuter.

Cuter.

Cutest.

Cutest.

Tied for Cutest.

Tied for Cutest.

See what I mean? Exactly like Carrie. I get excited just looking at these. It’s no surprise, then, that I got really (and I mean REALLY) excited last weekend. I was out for ice cram with one of my best friends when we saw the sign. THE sign. 4 letters. 1 word. It’s quite possibly the best 4-letter word that exists in the English language. You know what I’m talking about don’t you?

BOGO.

If you don’t know what BOGO is, shame on you. Go look it up. Now. Go quickly.

It’s hard for me to resist a BOGO weekend. I don’t necessarily need to buy; I can simply peruse the merchandise and be just as happy. Because when I’m just perusing, there’s no pressure. No decisions. Just happiness. Lots and lots of happiness. So that’s what I was going to do this weekend. I would help my friend pick out a pair or two, gush on how cute everything looked on her, and maybe salivate at a couple pair myself. But there would be no purchase. Not this weekend.

Do you believe any of this? Because I don’t.

Let’s face it. Decisions are hard, but “just perusing” is pretty darn tough, too. And besides, I had some birthday money left over for a rainy day. Granted, it was bright sunny, but I figured I could stretch the rules, right? I tried on no less than a dozen pair of shoes… and loved every single one. How is that possible? To narrow it down, I decided I had to take them for a test walk. So, with a green shoe on one foot and a grey boot on the other, I took off across the store. Going to the purse aisle, of course.

As luck would have it, the cutest (and I mean CUTEST) purses were on sale. Within minutes I had three of them hanging on my arms. But I couldn’t buy all three. Could I? No, I had to choose. Again! I quickly decided I needed to test these as well. So, with a green shoe on one foot, a grey boot on the other, a red purse on my right arm, a purple bag on my left, and an olive satchel in my hand, I set off for the corner of the store. Going to the jewelry racks, of course.

At this point, I began to think the BOGO people were conspiring against me. The jewelry was on sale too! I mean, c’mon. Give me a flippin’ chance, would ya? I don’t think I need to tell you what happened next. With a green shoe on one foot, a grey boot on the other, a red purse on my right arm, a purple bag on my left, an olive satchel in my hand, a green necklace loosely draped around my neck, and a set of dangles on my wrist, I took off for the other side of the store. Back to the shoe aisle.

It was decision time. And thank goodness I had a shopping companion. After a few giggle-filled minutes of consultation, I had come to a conclusion. The green shoes and the grey boots were just too attached to me at this point–they had been with me the longest and it wouldn’t be fair to separate us now. And the green shoes deserved the green satchel. And the green necklace completed the ensemble. And ooookay, the red purse was icing on the cake.

And all this for less than what I had available to spend (birthday money, remember). Did I mention that I love BOGO?

Considering this list was once three handbags, a necklace, a set of bracelets, and… count them… twelve pairs of shoes, I’d say I did a pretty good job.

Carrie Bradshaw would think so. And what’s good enough for Carrie is good enough for me.

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