The weirdest thing in the world.

I know, perhaps better than anyone, the vast assortment of products, wrappers, foreign money, and ticket stubs that most women discard in their purses, never to see again. With this in mind, I've become downright diligent about checking the inner compartments of each and every purse before I tag or clean it. I find a lot of quarters, gum wrappers, Tylenol, and Canadian pennies, most of which I throw out. Every now and then, I'll find an expensive lipstick or a ten dollar bill or a prescription or something, and I'll put it in the back of the cash drawer and try to remember to return it the next time its owner wanders in. Needless to say, this process isn't exactly rocket science; it's just not a perilous or time-consuming job.

So the other day -- as usual -- there I am, sifting through a handful of new purses, wiping a couple clean, shaking change out of them as I go. I get to the last one and it's huge -- some half nylon, half leather purse-duffel combo. I jiggled it around to check for contents. There was a muted clinking sound, like coins at the far bottom or something. I was talking away to my co-worker (as I am wont to do on my good days), eyeballing some people that just walked in the store, and trying to clean purses all at once. I was a real multi-tasker. I plunged my hand into the bag, groping for the clinky contents at the bottom. Uh-oh, I realized. Something was not right. I was holding something, but it was not change, or gum wrappers, or ticket stubs. I pulled my hand out in curiosity.

"OH MY GOD!!!!!!" I shrieked in horror. I did a little knee-jerkish jump and looked at what I'd dropped on the floor in front of me. It was -- and it pains me to relate this -- a pastel blue octupus vibrator with a tail. More disturbing yet, the tail was proportionately... large. And kind of bead-like. And in dropping the little montrosity against the floor, I had turned it on. There it was, a little sex-bead octopus buzzing and twitching all over the floor, a gruesome remnant of someone's fun time with the duffel bag.

At this point, I froze. I'm a moderate germophobe. I don't like touching door handles and public bathrooms make me a little uneasy, so it follows naturally that inadvertantly touching someone's sex toy that goes God-knows-where is enough to make my delicately balanced psyche basically implode. I couldn't touch it again, that was for sure. But I couldn't let it lie there on the new carpet, either, buzzing around with its creepy little tentacles. I had to pull myself together in this moment of crisis. And most importantly, I had to turn it off.

I grabbed the roll of paper towels off the shelf behind the counter and ripped off about three handfuls. I tried to gather myself mentally, and then, looking prepared to mop up a sea-swell in Venice, I went in for the kill. I grabbed the octopus by its tail with one clump of tissues. I dangled it in front of me, burying my other hand within a second forest of paper towels, and pressed the only thing I could find that even marginally resembled a button. It clicked. Woo! Success! I waited nervously, watching the octopus suspended there in tension.

Something worse happened. After pausing for a few seconds, the thing started pulsing. BRR BRR BRR. I poked the little button again. Faster and faster pulsing. At this point, I lost it. It became clear that someone had fed this thing after midnight or something, and it was never going to turn off. It was probably going to multiply in the dark crevaces of the store, and I couldn't stand idly by and watch it happen. I ran. I ran past the art gallery, the hair salon, and the travel agency, two hands full of paper towels and one clutching a pulsating rubber octopus. I probably had a vaguely maniacal look of terror on my face. I heaved my upper body over the edge of the dumpster fence and threw my gyrating antithesis into the furthest corner of the bin. I could hear it rattling horrifically against the other trash as I walked away, and I felt a (probably disproportionate) rush of relief as I scuttled out of earshot.

Hopefully the owner of that nice trinket doesn't come in and ask for her vibrating octopus, because it's definitely not safely tucked away in the register drawer. Most importantly, though, if you EVER do ANYTHING with a handbag/piece of luggage other than dropping it into the nearest industrial incinerator, please get all of your sex toys out of it. While you're at it, Lysol-wipe that shit to cover your tracks.

Whyyyyyy?

If you've ever been friends with a girl on Facebook or Myspace or something, you've undoubtedly stumbled upon that Marilyn Monroe quote -- the, "A wise girl listens but doesn't believe blah blah blah" one. You know. But why? Why has Marilyn Monroe, of all female public figures, become the quide post for wise girls? You know what else wise girls don't do? They don't OVERDOSE IN THEIR FUCKING THIRTIES OR SOMETHING. So maybe that could be worked into the quote.

Statistically, the number of girls that imply they live by this quote indicates that 98% of womanity is not believing anything ever ("But I will always love you!"), not being emotionally attached to whomever they're merely kissing, and breaking up with their boyfriends two and a half weeks into every relationship. So how come 53% of my peers are knocked up? How can these things be reconciled? HOWWWW??

Would you go to a twestival?

I might, if I thought there would be more Twitter-related hilarity -- that is, if I'm ever able to recover from the fact that while I'm applying to grad school and writing cover letter after cover letter (and learning the hard way not to recycle them), someone's job description boils down to combining "tw-" with unlikely words. To add insult to injury, that person's salary is probably unbelievable. This person that makes innumerable words sound kinda sorta dirty is probably on the guest lists at really awesome parties.

Initially, this realization makes me go, "Yeah, the world is without justice." Honestly, though, I'm not gonna hate the playa -- it is not that person's fault that they thought to write a letter to the "Hiring Commtwittee" before I did.

The Career Aptitude Test.

Those close to me seem to have picked up on the fact that I'm drowning in a sea of uncertainty, impending adultness, and impossible standards. This has probably been evidenced by my frantic register-and-study routine for basically every grad school entrance exam ever created (except for the MCAT -- I was an English major, come on) in an attempt to fall back into the comfortable role of successful student.

My poor mother has (understandably) gotten basically exhausted of watching me flounder around the dining room, moodily clutching Princeton Review books and information packets from NYU. After probably convening with all of her friends about what to do with 22 year old children that occasionally collapse on the couch wailing about success and the American dream, she decided to make an appointment for me with a career counselor. Since my alma mater(s) are extensible drives, my mom went for the next best option and had me penciled in at the local community college (FML).

Truth be told, however, I've been getting desperate also, and I grudgingly agreed to drag myself into the highly, uh, diverse  part of town in hopes of a magic solution from some sort of magic eight ball of life. This particular eight ball, it turned out, was named Edith, and Edith didn't really understand me.

"So, what do you want to do?" she asked me.

"I don't know," I told her. "I thought about law school, but I don't know if I see myself doing that. I like to write, but I just don't know."

"So you don't know what you want to do?"

"No..."

"You don't know at all?"

Edith was really not getting the answers she wanted, and with time she started to see where this was going (i.e., that I didn't know what I wanted to do). She decided to move to a new tactic.

"Let's use our school job search!"

"Okay," I said, getting hopeful again. This sounded like it could lead to some definitive answers.

"Now you get to search by how much money you want to make," Edith said slowly, over-enunciating as if she was explaining why it's important to write in cursive. She swirled the cursor around, making sure to highlight each step of the process. "See, you can click on $40,000, and it will show you jobs in Florida that pay that much."

Now I was getting kind of confused. The little option boxes started at $30,000 and ended at "$100,000 and up."

"Um, I want $100,000 and up," I said, clicking the lowermost box.

"Are you sure?" Edith asked me, narrowing her eyes. "Are you sure those are the jobs you're interested in?"

"Yeah, I'd rather make $100,000 and up, if I had to choose."

Edith looked exasperated. She wanted us to move on to a computerized career aptitude test instead. I was starting to think that a desk-bound chunk of technology might be more on-point than Edith, so I agreed.

 Foiled again! This test was created sometime in the dark ages, and it set right out to figure out whether I was a MAN or not. Would you enjoy laying tile? Nope. Would you enjoy overseeing a construction site? No. Would you enjoy building cabinets? No. Would you enjoy operating heavy machinery? Fuck no. At this point the computer suddenly caught on, and it decided to put this goddam woman in her place. Would you enjoy posing for photographers? No.... Would you enjoy caring for the elderly? No. Would you enjoy caring for the sick? Nope. Would you enjoy comforting the injured? No? What the fuck? Would you like to be a nurse? I gave up. I told Edith I really wanted to finish this test, but I needed to save it so I could log in from home when I had more time. She agreed. She handed me a brochure on vocational education (a common path after you've invested four years' time and money on a bachelor's?) and I hurried out, glancing at my watch as though I'd forgotten an appointment for life-saving surgery.

I vaguely explained to my mom that I'd "gained insight" and slunk defeatedly away to mass-produce more coverletters and pore over my GMAT, GRE, and LSAT books, respectively.

8 o'clock magic

I'm kind of inert in the afternoon. I feel heavy and sluggish and sometimes have to pump myself full of sugary coffee drinks and hope I can ride out the last of the workday on a mid-level sugar high. I get home around 5:15 and I collapse on the couch, not allowing myself to be roused for food, phone calls, or possibly even James Franco.

I always take my running clothes to work in the trunk of my car because I think each day will be different and I'll go running immediately after work, but 5 PM rolls around and I look at those Nikes and die a little inside. The weird part, however, is that my lethargy turns magically into ADD between 7:45 and 8 PM. I wake up from my post-work coma and skitter around the house like a squirrel on speed. I can run miles, just feeling like a weightless ball of energy. OMG! SO FUN! I CAN DO AAANYTHING!


While I'm busy feeling hyperactive and borderline vibrating with the excitement of 8 o'clock, I do what makes sense. I text every single person I know and try to make plans. Late night plans! Early night plans! It doesn't matter, because I'm soaring on a cloud of limitless energy. It feels like life could not get any better, but in the good way.


Then the interesting part comes up. At 11, when I should be on my way to the exciting plans I made (movies, food, or banging James Franco, usually), I go all comatose again and rarely hear so much as my ringtone. My glory hours are too brief, and I don't know what the hell kind of career would match this lifestyle, but that's extraneous information. Right now it's 10:42, my phone is ringing, and I'm struggling to crawl across the bed and answer it.

Girl code

So here's a different kind of deal-breaker: what are the basic rules of conduct that make or break a friendship? More specifically, I've been trying to determine those particular criteria that apply only to female friends -- the things that may be written off as normal if nonchalantly demonstrated by a guy, but which showcase a glaring insensitivity in the delicate ecosystem of the Girl Community.

I know "Girl Code" is loosely defined as not stealing your friend's significant other, but really, that's just Basic Human Decency Code. I've come up with a few ideas to better-define the blurred lines of this terminology -- and, as with everything, there are exceptions to each demand (infinitely more than I've listed, I'm sure).

If someone does something significantly hurtful and/or malicious to your friend, you are pissed also. Because you have to be. People are social creatures, and women perhaps especially so. Having emotional support when you've been cheated on/insulted/shoved off a bridge can often be the next best thing to not having someone treat you like shit to begin with. One must note, however, that simply saying, "What an asshole!" to your friend and then paling around with the offender in public is really not even an effort. For integrity's sake, imagine you're the victim here. You're ashamed, offended, hurt -- maybe wet from falling off the bridge -- and you don't want to hear someone tell you they saw your BFFE buddying up to your mortal enemy at the mall.

*EXCEPTIONS*

- You've known the offender longer and more closely than the "friend" (and this still depends on whom has been more reliably friend-like)

- The friend is a psycho drama queen who gets intensely emotionally wounded every time someone raises their eyebrows funny and the offender's offense was accidentally spilling a drink on her shoe or something.

- You have to maintain contact with the offender for the sake of professionalism in the work place or science lab or whatever. In this case, however, make it EXPLICITLY CLEAR that you will not serve as a sounding board and/or communication channel. None of that shit.

Don't be an overly competitive freak. And I say this as a borderline competitive freak, but, PLEASE, know the time and place. For example, I may concern people at the gym with my need to have the highest MPH reading in the treadmill room. I know, however, not to try to sidle over to a friend's date and fish for compliments. You're not winning when you try your hand -- or succeed -- at taking romantic attention away from a friend. You're losing big-time, because that friend will no longer feel badly about doing the same thing to you every chance she gets.

*EXCEPTIONS*

- If your friend does, in fact, do this to you, then you have every right to return the favor. This may not be a particularly prudent idea, and it may or may not lead to World War 3, but you are within your rights, either way.

- There aren't really any other exceptions I can think of right now. It's just a fucking annoying thing to do.

Don't get nosy about money.  You really have to keep in mind the level of intimacy in your friendship to assess your boundaries, but, basically, you can follow some simple conversational rules.

If your friend compliments you on your shoes or something, or even asks where you got it:

DO say, "Thanks, I got it at _____."
DON'T say, "Thanks, it was $435."

Conversely, if you like something your friend has:

DO say: "I like your new car!"
DON'T say, "Nice car. How much did you pay for it?"

Essentially, too much direct money-talk makes you seem, once again, competitive -- as well as braggy and possibly insecure.

*EXCEPTIONS*

- You want to brag about how inexpensive something is (if it's your own, of course). Example:

Friend: Cute purse!
You: Thanks! It was only $12.99 at Target!
Friend: Wow, I'm so excited! Yay!

Friends are entitled to vent to you sometimes within a total cone of silence. If your friend is like, "OMG! I hate that Jenna girl from my work! She is a horrible person," you need to be understanding and empathetic about the situation -- this can be accomplished by NOT TELLING JENNA FROM WORK THAT YOUR FRIEND IS PISSED. In fact, do not even hint that your friend has ever mentioned her coworker, even under the guise of "making peace." We're all entitled to a moment of anger every now and then, and sometimes we need to vent while also reserving our right to be un-angry with the offender in five and a half minutes. No exceptions for this one.

A guide to dating through Facebook

Lately I've been hearing a lot of negativity about social networking/Internet and its impact on modern dating. An ever-growing number of my peers seems to feel that Googling/Facebook-stalking/county-jail-records-ing potential friends or dates is totally counterproductive to developing meaningful relationships. From what I can tell, the basic gist of their objections is that these sorts of things stifle your ability to accurately assess someone in a traditional way; essentially, you will shoot down potential LuUv connections because of a misrepresentative Facebook profile.

This idea is totally wrong. Mildly cyber-stalking your dates and acquaintances is not detrimental -- au contraire, it is a TIME-SAVER. Aside from Bubble Shooter for all and free online essay sites, I'd hazard to say the abundance of trivial information about everyone else is one of the best opportunities the Internet has effected.

For a while, I avoided this sort of predetermination, so I speak from experience. I have "friended" plenty of dudes whose profile pictures involve keg stands and gay shirts ("Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by again?"). Never, however, has even one of these types aced the real-life-hang-out phase and made me think, Wow, that guy was not a douche at all! Good thing I didn't heed all the tell-tale signs blatantly screaming otherwise!

I've narrowed down my personal social networking deal breakers (for now) to the list below:

1. "Extreme" political orientations of any kind (i.e., "extremely liberal," "extremely conservative," whatever). In my experience, people who use these phrases can absolutely not be taken out in public. They will want to argue with your friends, your parents, some homeless guy, or anyone else who they suspect may harbor even the most slightly differential opinion. It takes copious amounts of time and energy to monitor these types as vigilantly as needed: they like to scratch Bush/Cheney stickers off peoples' cars, or make rude comments to people wearing Obama t-shirts at the bar. Bottom line: these people are exhausting and make me feel stressed out.

2.) Hidden relationship statuses. This is for me to do, not you. Girls that hide their relationship statuses usually just don't want creepers to feel like it's a free-for-all. Guys who do this, on the other hand, are either a) clinging to the smoldering remnants of  a past relationship, b) talking to as many girls at once as humanly possible, or c) hoping to be schmoozing the maximal number of girls and praying the universe one day supplies this opportunity. Bottom line: guys like this are sneaky and likely to be dirty cheaters.

3.) Pictures of all their Apple products. Obsessive Apple fans are kind of like the extreme political people, except possibly worse. They will tell you over and over and over how their MacBook was $200 more than, say, a Toshiba or something, they will want to use weird apps on their iPhones NON-STOP, and, perhaps most importantly, they will have little Apple decals bonded to every surface they own, from their fair trade hoodies to their retro bikes or the bumper of their fucking Prius. Bottom line: these people are ridiculously self-congratulatory considering all they did was buy some electronics.

Use your resources.

Hipsters Vs. Hobos

Sometimes I see a person walking down the sidewalk or loitering at the bus stop or something, and they'll have this particular look about them -- colored jeans, clashing stripes, kind of old-looking sweaters, slightly unkempt hair -- and I'll be faced with the ever-growing dilemma: hipster or homeless person?

There are a couple fool-proof ways to differentiate, but both require somewhat extensive time and effort. You either have to trail the person until you get a face-view (in which case, parties over 35 are usually homeless), or long enough to see if they arrive at A) a bike with copious quantities of plastic bags attached to the handle bars or B) a 1992 Volvo wagon. Either way, you're following around a dubious looking character for a possibly inconvenient length of time. In an attempt to find a shortcut in this situation, I've compiled some key points to bear in mind.

1) Both hipsters and hobos are often very fond of cheap beer. This rules out identifying them on the prestige of their malt beverage alone. The brands of the beer, however, are key in this situation: bums like Steel Reserve, while hipsters like PBR.

2) Hipsters and hobos share a love of ridiculously outdated bicycles; the difference between the two in this case lies in the color scheme. While hobos' bikes are likely to be entirely made of rust, hipsters' bikes are 100% likely to be painted a trendy yet antique-worthy color, like "vintage teal."

3) Hipsters are generally the younger of the two. Generally.

4) Hobos' plaid shirts, upon closer inspection, generally turn out to be a thicker, rougher flannel-y material than the lighter-weight fabrics of their counterparts'. (Hipsters' plaid shirts are usually made by any company with a bird logo [Hollister, American Eagle, etc].)

**BONUS TIP**
A caribeaner (also known as CLIPPY THINGS) instantly signifies a hipster. Spotting this will greatly shorten your inquisitive process and allow you to proceed to work/date/movie/whatever with minimal delay.

The deaf bowling league.

If there is one thing I've learned from media outlets and popular culture, it's that those damn bleeding-heart liberals get nowhere. So throughout my young adulthood, I cultivated a very successful, frosty exterior: I am rarely PC, I can fake a very authoritative phone voice, and I like to make frequent self-deprecating jokes about being the "ice queen."

This is all crazy talk.  I feel bad for everyone and, as I've described previously, everything. If a Publix cashier asks me to donate $5 to a homeless baby campaign, I do it; if a credit card machine gives me the option to donate a dollar to injured penguins, I press the necessary button; play the Sara McLachlan animal ad and I will -- quite literally -- sob every single time.

In a way, this quality isn't a bad thing -- it means I care about homeless babies and injured penguins and puppies with dirty fur. The problem is, if I don't work to cover this up around friends and acquaintances, I will almost definitely be stomped on like a welcome mat. I just can't have it getting out that telling me you need money to treat your dog's kidney disease  will have me cracking the nearest ATM open with a keychain bottle opener. I mean, think about it: there are pretty much endless ways to take advantage of a person as weak and intensely sympathetic as myself. I have the kind of temperament that pretty much shatters my ranking in survival of the fittest.

After dealing with me sporadically for about seven years now, the owner of my place of employment has, naturally, kind of caught on to my inherent weakness, and I have slowly but surely been discouraged from making company donations to any sad-looking child that walks through the door with a collection jar. As a result, I've developed a relatively painless deferment plan: "I'm so sorry, but I can't take money out of the drawer and the owner isn't in!" I smile empathatically and give the pity-inducing party a business card with which to contact the owner with further donation inquiries, and boom, situation resolved.

A few weeks ago, however, something went very, very wrong. I was perched behind the counter, submitting (very poignant) cover letters and resumes to various job postings while the sole customer dazedly turned the belt rack over and over. It was a slow afternoon, kind of rainy, and I had pretty much resigned myself to hanging around in case of a four o'clock rush, closing twenty minutes early, and moving my "real job" search back home for the evening.

While I was mindlessly clicking "upload" and "send," a middle-aged guy in a sports jersey came in holding a clipboard and an envelope. Oh no, I was thinking. None of this today. By the time the poor guy was up to the register, I already had my mouth halfway opened and my sympathetic smile posed to deploy. Then he pointed at his ears. Huh. He stood there a minute, locking eyes with me, and then pushed a flier across the counter. Deaf Bowling League Seeking Donations for Community events. OMG! It was too late! My mind was clouded with a yearning to help this poor ear-pointing deaf man, and there was no possible way to say no if he had ix-nayed verbal communication from square one. I was overwhelmed with the peculiar ache of absorbing the outside world's problems into my own sense of guilt and responsibility. I did some instant math in my head. $20 would be kind of careless to take out of the drawer. $10 would probably be passable, and I could just take another $10 out of my own wallet -- because, somehow, I had already subconsciously ascertained that the deaf bowling league needed exactly $20 for its community events, and I couldn't send the poor deaf man away with any less. I gave him the "one moment!" finger and dug through my purse. I grabbed the money from the drawer and passed the wad toward him, writing the business' name on the blank line he pointed to.

The deaf bowler pulled a little sheet of sign language diagrams out of his pocket and uncrumpled it on the counter. He pointed to the "I love you" one and did it like three times at me. I didn't know how to communicate "I care about your bowling league deeply and want the best for you also," so I just nodded and smiled and wrote a very awkward sticky note about a deaf bowling league and a sad man and $10.

Afterward, when the dull ache of accepting responsibility for all the world's ills had worn off slightly, I started to think about it. Not to be unsupportive, but I can't really figure out why deaf people need a bowling league and donations for said league. What does a keen sense of hearing really have to do with bowling? And why would deaf people be unable to afford bowling? It's not like it's a bowling league for blind lepers who are unemployed -- that would make total sense. Blind lepers would need personal assistants to help them aim the bowling balls and control their spore-releasing condition, and unemployment would make it basically impossible to afford that. Deaf guys, on the other hand, would probably just need a tap on the shoulder at closing time.

But at least I can sleep well knowing I bought the deaf bowling league a pitcher of beer.

D-I-N-O-S-A-U-R

When older people run into me, say, at my work or in a safe setting (such as through family members), they will swear up and down that I am "sixteen years old -- if that!" I'll try to politely correct them and move the conversation forward, but no can do. They have to ask when I will graduate high school, or when I take my driving test, or what colleges I think I will want to attend. They just keep pushing it.

When the same older men run into me on the patio at Waldo's or something, however, the entire universe shifts. They want to talk to me. I try to escape the situation but they push forward, and I eventually say something like, "Um, I'm twenty-two years old?" Like I'm not even sure what it means but it seems like something they would like to know. And every fucking time, the older guy looks awe-struck for a moment, and then says something like, "NO! You look at least thirty-four!" ...And the subject will then attempt to impress me by shoving as many drinks as he can in my direction, presumably to prove that he can order drinks just as well as any youngster these days.

There are some basic problems with this situation. I want to lay them out here, as a sort of guide to which everyone can refer from time to time. Here goes:

Problem 1.) I do not look thirty-four years old, and the whole world knows it. Saying that I do is not an ethical fix-all. You are still contemplating making sexual advances toward someone who you think may very possibly be sixteen years old. In the worst-case scenario, "BUT I TOLD HER SHE LOOKED 42!!!" will probably not hold up very well in court.

Problem 2.) If I were 34 or 42 or 57, trying to feed me your rufiecoladas would still not be a good idea. There are legal consequences to these things, and it really doesn't matter how suavely you imagine you are pushing back your snow-white bangs.

Problem 3.) Your wife is sitting next to you.

In conclusion, I don't want my own pet centarian. Feeding it bloody marys and taking it on boardwalk strolls would be too much of a responsibility at my age. 

The shoes.

If you were a child at some point during the nineties -- and if you also have become a properly-functioning adult -- you probably remember L.A. Gear. I am not yet a properly-functioning adult, and over the years, I have come to attribute this almost entirely to a tragic deprivation of these products. The story is as follows, although some inaccuracy may arise due to my age and the magnitude of the trauma at the time.

When I was about seven or eight years old, I had begun making strides in the self-improvement department. This was largely due to my friend Erin, who I thought embodied all the most ideal feminine attributes: hair past her shoulders, an impressive Sky Dancer collection, and really, really awesome sneakers. I had become sensitive to the fact that people sometimes thought I was a boy and I had already made a fervent effort in the campaign against bowl-cuts. I had accrued a significant amount of my own Sky Dancers (two), and I had even gotten a matchy-matchy pastel Osh Kosh outfit. I could just about be accepted by the girls in my Girl Scout troop despite being home-schooled and phosphorescently pale.

The only thing missing was that holy grail of '90s youth, L.A. Gear high-tops. Erin's shoes were not those loud, garish, light-up abominations of the less-refined. No, they were subtle tributes to craftsmanship, with their pastel pinks and lavenders laced with textured details. They blended effortlessly with softness of the ideal little girl. Real classics.

My shoes, on the other hand, seemed strikingly unimpressive in light of Erin's: navy Keds, a little soiled from constant mud puddle-related activities, and horrifically unisex -- as passe as they came, in my eyes. It was for these reasons that I could barely control myself when my mom scanned me on our way out the door one day, remarking, "Your shoes look worn out. I need to take you to get new ones." OHMYGOD OHMYGOD OHMYGOD. My body was vibrating with anticipation of this new lifestyle choice. This was my chance. We would go to the newly-erected mall, stroll confidently into the Dillards' kids section, and my mom would see the undeniable perfection of those pastel works of art.

When the evening rolled around -- my mom did things promptly -- a roadblock flung itself across my path. For some reason that still makes no sense to me, my dad was going to join in on my shoe-shopping escapade, despite shoe-shopping's ranking pretty low on the "family bonding" scale. Despite being temporarily befuddled, I didn't let this small change in plans interfere with my fervent excitement. We got to the mall shortly after dinner and I pretty much flew across the parking lot on a cloud of pure euphoria. My mom had to put some sort of icy death-grip on my arm to dampen my giddiness.

My parents first led me into some little shoe store with a decidedly blaise collection of children's products. I stared sullenly at the metal foot-sizer until they miraculously decided to go elsewhere. (This episode was during the unfortunate point in my childhood when I had very clearly-articulated ideas, but could not yet figure out how to put them into satisfactory words, so I was generally the hapless subject of other people's decisions.) We were now at the Dillard's end. Somehow I managed to make it clear that I really really really wanted to go in there, and my parents obliged.

The children's shoe department was everything I had hoped. There were bright lights, little Formica pillars holding shoe displays, and, my God! There they were! My shoes! They were perched up on one of the higher display pillars, and I remember having to tilt my head back a little to look at them. This display was conveniently rooted under one of the store's fluorescent spotlights, and as I stood there watching the best shoes in the world with the yellow light forming a magical little halo around them, I felt sure that I had reached some sort of Holy Grail of my childhood. My life could only get better from here. With those shoes, I would be guided down a road of popularity and, most importantly, the all-coveted normalcy. My peers would realize how incredibly normal I was and I would be rocketed into wealth and success. No one would ask my mom how old her son was again; they'd compliment her on her stunningly normal daughter. My perfect future seemed limitless.

While I heard angels' harps strike a triumphant symphony, however, my dad was hearing the loudly blaring Kidz Bop soundtrack -- and he was not a fan.

"This music is annoying," he announced. "It's too loud in here, let's go somewhere else."

Just like that, the world seemed to go dark. I was led swiftly back to that original store of devil shit and fitted with a pair of shoes that seemed oddly... familiar.

I guess you could say I got on with my life, although for the next few nights I had dreams of those L.A. Gears lying on my bedroom floor. I would wake up filled to the brim with elation and hope, only to scan my surroundings with confusion and resign myself to a life of Keds.

It was in the days or maybe weeks after that -- I had lost track of time in my disillusionment -- that the unthinkable happened. Sitting dejectedly in the circle of "fun" at the all-important Girl Scout meeting, I moved my feet out from under me on the scratchy carpet for a just a moment. Some little bitch looked at me calculatingly and said quietly, "Those are boys' shoes, aren't they?"

No. No, they were not, you bitch. They were unisex, and sometimes overcoming adversity adds character depth that your pink-and-purple-shoe-wearing ass will never understand. At least that's what I've told myself over the years.

The time I got a neti pot.

It's during this season each year that my sinus cavities self-destruct in a sort of fiery explosion. This has been evidenced lately by my puffy face, inky under-eye circles, and aura of uncontrolled anger -- in short, it's gone too far, and my constantly throbbing brow bone is making me unfit to deal with the public. After failed attempts with a handful of nasal sprays and antihistamines, my mom decided to buy me a neti pot (only, of course, after I'86ed the idea of partaking in the family's communal neti pot, for obvious reasons).
As far as I have known, neti pots are generally neutral-hued ceramic teapot-looking thingys with linear spouts. What I found waiting on the kitchen table for me this evening, however, looked like this:

Of course, being the shrewd consumer I am, I realized promptly that my mom had mistakenly purchased a smurf dick. I wanted to broach the subjectly delicately, so as not to offend her -- after all, she had made a well-meaning effort.

"Thanks, Mom," I said perkily, and then paused a moment. "But... uh, doesn't this look a little ... WEIRD to you?" Blank stare. Then a flicker of understanding crossed her face. Ah-hah, I thought. Now she sees.

"Do you not like that it's plastic?" ... Or maybe not.

"No, um, plastic is fine." Not wanting to push the issue any further, I left well enough alone for the rest of the evening. By the time my dad came home, however, I was dying for a chance to remark about the Smurf wiener with someone who truly understood. I just wanted to skirt the issue gingerly so as not to be the first one to say, "IT'S A LITTLE BLUE WANG!!!!"

"So Mom got me a neti pot today."

"Uh-huh." Total disinterest -- but wait till he sees the montrosity! The hilarity! I push the boldly emblazoned box toward him. Dr. Neil's face is grinning peevishly above the pennacle of his genius.

"Does this look kind of... FUNNY to you?" He adjusts his glasses, still looking less-than-intrigued by my
topic. He takes the box in his hands and studies it for a moment.

"Did you not want a blue one?" My heart sank.

"No, the blue is fine... it's just... it's fine." Seriously? I'd like to take a moment to offer an important point of comparison:

My parents are, naturally, considerably older than myself. They've come quite a ways in life and, honestly, I don't understand how they could have made it this far without recognizing a little blue phallus when they see
one. I was almost beginning to think there was something wrong with me; I mean, it's no secret that liberal arts educations can imbue recipients with an unparalleled passion for identifying phallic objects.

Later that night, still haunted by my bizarrely unsupported impression of the neti pot, I fell asleep on a friend's couch during a stint of uncompelling programming. After an unknown length of time in that fitful, half-wakeful sleep that's punctuated by the lights and dialogue of late-night TV, I woke suddenly. I was tired. I needed to get home to my own bed. I looked around with drowsy curiosity, like I expected myself to have dozed off in any number of exotic places. How I Met Your Mother was stretched across the widescreen. As the images came into focus, something seemed strangely familiar. Barney was hunched over a kitchen sink next to some woman -- with the same NeilMed SmurfDick wedged up his nose.

I'll let you interpret this Neil Patrick Harris situation for yourself. As for my own dickpot, I'm still a little iffy.