Costco Peace of Mind

I was shopping at Costco the other day, and I was walking around carrying a 24-pack of low-moisture mozzarella string cheese and six EPT tests and I thought, “I should really start writing in my shopping blog again.”

So here I am, back after a long hiatus, ready to write about my life which seems to center around shopping for food, clothes, and pregnancy tests.

I bet you want to ask, “Why were you buying 24 mozzarella string cheeses?” Well, first of all, each string cheese is like only 80 calories, offers 7 grams of protein, and serves as a wonderful snack. Second of all, my live-in-boyfriend and I eat them constantly. (Yes, I now live with a real life man – he has a penis and everything.)

And now maybe you’re wondering about the six EPT’s (AKA “Early Pregnancy Tests”). Is Ashley trying to get pregnant? Is she having mass unprotected sex? Does she enjoy peeing on a piece of plastic and watching the blue line appear?

No, I am simply extremely paranoid about getting pregnant. In fact, I am terrified of even the IDEA of being pregnant. Despite being on birth control and currently having a sex drive that would justify my boyfriend hiring consorts, I am still convinced that I can get pregnant just being near a man. I am afraid that men have rogue sperm that can transverse any sort of environment, somehow enter my vagina, and hook up with my waiting-to-be-fertilized egg. Now that I am living with a real life man and his real life penis, I am even more paranoid that these sperm will have even greater opportunity for a sneak attack now that I am in constant close proximity to a highly-virile (viral?) man.

Fortunately, the cost of six EPT tests is like only $30, versus the normal $15 pharmacy cost PER each test. This is a savings of at least $60. Paranoia was never cheaper.

It seems silly to spend money on these tests, I know. It’s like I missed out on every sex education class that was offered during elementary, middle, and high school which clearly stated just being near a penis won’t get you pregnant. But as any hypochondriac will tell you, “Better safe than sorry.” And I would be very sorry if I were pregnant.

I don’t want kids. It’s not that I don’t like them – I do, I like them very much. But I also really like a good movie. And I like it for about two hours, and then I want to go do something else. But unlike a movie, with kids you can’t just leave during the credits and exit the theater. Kids require constant attention in the form of food, shelter, and emotional support – something I am not convinced I could do for an ongoing time period. I was able to keep one plant alive for around 5 years, but even the plant had a few emergency interventions from my mother who had to take the plant away from me and nurse it back to health after I forgot to water it for, I dunno, 6-22 weeks.

I’ve told people this and they’ve said, “But kids let you know when they are hungry!” Ah yes, that. The noise. The crying. The constant neediness. This is exactly what I don’t want – I can barely deal with my own noise, crying and neediness, much less that of another person.

My boyfriend and I have had many discussions about having children, and fortunately, he seems to be on the same page as I am – string cheese good, kids bad. I think this might be due to the fact that he’s seen my neglectful lifestyle ways and doesn’t want the mother of his child to forget about his child like I forget about the bathtub. For men considering having children, a good rule of thumb is not to have children with a woman who doesn’t clean her tub. Just FYI.

In my ongoing campaign to keep my boyfriend anti-kid, my next purchase is going to be old episodes of “Hart to Hart” – a fun-filled dramedy show from the 80’s where a rich, childless couple solved mysteries in their spare time between tennis lessons and dinner parties. Mrs. Hart had a fabulous yellow Mercedes convertible, and Mr. Hart was always tan and happy. They even had a butler man named Max who took care of the one dog they owned.
Perfect. Ideal. And once my boyfriend watches these episodes, he will know just how great our life can be without kids. We just need a Mercedes, a houseman, and some occasional mysteries to solve.

I think I can pick-up the Mercedes and houseman at Costco, but I'll need to check about the mystery. Not all stores carry it.

GUI

I launched iTunes this morning to spend with reckless abandon the $15 iTunes gift card I recently received. I was excited at the prospect of adding to my ever-growing library of MP3’s which I can play on either my 60GB iPod, or my more modest take-everywhere Nano.

As I started do my search for songs, I noticed that iTunes had recently launched a new application called, “Just for you”. Apparently it makes suggestions for music based on your previous purchases.

My list of personalized suggestions contained the new album by Ashleee Simpson.

Ashlee Simpson.

The poor sibling of that buffoon Jessica Simpson, the sister who truly got ALL the looks. The same girl who prides herself on live performances and lip-synced on SNL. The one person who gives all of us hope that you need neither talent or looks to make it, but just some relative with connections.

Ashlee Simpson. My God, what have I done to deserve this type of public humiliation? Then it hit me: I had purchased Britney Spears’ greatest hits on iTunes. Little did I know that my private purchase, my personal shame, my illicit dalliance, would be databased and then spit out into some new fangled user interface that would tell the world that I had bad taste in music.

I can only imagine if all my bad decisions became the source of some sort of customized life-interface. Suddenly my life would be becomes a series of events that included a do-it-at-home perm, nautically-themed outfits with unprotected white-suede flats, and dates with Latin actors who had a wife and two kids.

If I logged onto Amazon, my “Gold Box” would present me with options like, “Do you want a bikini trimmer or some fat loss pills?” On Google, my homepage would be customized with a picture of Simon LeBon and a quote from Marianne Moore: “We are suffering from far too much sarcasm.” CNN’s weather would tell me about current conditions in Iowa City, the home of my first online crush. Nordstrom.com’s “You might also like...” would suggest a $69 t-shirt with a British flag, a testament to the time and money I spent on some silly fool in London. eBay’s search returns would only show me all the clothes I owned with the headline, “NWT! No reserve!” reminding me specifically of a never-worn $400 DKNY dress I recently sold for $20 at Buffalo Exchange.

I’m not sure if I want to live in a Web that continually attempts to serve me information based on my previous choices. Truth be told, I’ve made a lot of bad decisions, and the last thing I need is this cookie monster storing my personal information and preferences into the archives of the one place I thought I might be free of judgment: The World Wide Web.

Alas, it appears that you can’t escape your past, no matter how many times you delete your history, remove temporary internet files or clear your cache.

You must always pay the price of the choices you’ve made, even if they are decisions you would never make again.

All I wanted was Britney’s cover of Bobby Brown’s “My Prerogative”. Now I am going to have to actually go to the store to buy Earth, Wind and Fire.

- A

I Will Survive

Yesterday, I ended one of the longest relationships of my life: my cell phone provider.

Since 1993, I’ve been with the same company. It started out as Cingular One, which got bought by AT&T, which then got bought (again?) by Cingular, but whatever it is, I have never left.

In 1993, I was one of the first people to have a cell phone. My mother bought me a gigantic grey Motorola phone (the latest and greatest at the time) and I paid $39.95/month for up to – get this – FIVE WHOLE MINUTES PER MONTH. Every minute thereafter was like $4.56 and did not include any phone sex.

My customer loyalty to my cell phone company went unrivaled for the next 13 years. I was completely committed. Of course, I have gone through probably 10 different cell phones in that time, but those were just playthings, things that kept our relationship lively. The important thing was that I have always been a one-cell phone company woman.

And then I moved to Chicago.

As you may recall, I recently bought a lovely pink Motorola Razr. I loved it, I bought the matching Bluetooth headset in pink, and I was one well-coordinated cell phone woman. When I got to Chicago, however, I quickly discovered that I had maybe one bar in my apartment, making it virtually impossible to call anyone. I kept thinking, “Oh, this is just a passing phase. My cell phone is just getting used to being in Chicago. Pretty soon he’ll have lots of bars!”

No matter how many calls I missed from family, friends or potential employers/lovers, I hung in there, not wanting to give up on my longest relationship. I called Cingular many times, trying to figure out how to fix our relationship, only to find out I was in cell phone coverage no-man’s land – “a cross between orange and blue” they said. (I am assuming they meant the area Cingular and AT&T didn’t quite cover, and they were not referring to my former state’s overly-beloved football team’s colors.)

I kept calling Cingular, though, and they kept resetting my phone to somehow get better reception. But each time I called, it seemed like I would lose another feature. I stopped getting text messages, then I stopped being able to send them, and then photo mail wouldn’t work. No matter how much I reached out for help to save this flailing cell service, nothing worked.

After one particular long and frustrating phone call, the Cingular rep quietly told me, “I’m sorry it’s not working. We’ve done all we can. I just want you to know that it’s okay if you want to turn in your phone and sign-up with another service. You have until June 2nd to do so without a penalty.”

Sign up with another service? Are you kidding me? I’ve been with Cingular for 13 years! And now because Cingular is having coverage issues, I am the one who is supposed to leave??? I told him, “It will be a cold day in hell before I leave you!” and I hung up.

And it seemed to get better for a while. If I stood at my window in the living room facing the street in a northwest manner while slowly rotating counter-clockwise in 30-second intervals, I could get two bars and check voicemail. But it was not to last. My two bars quickly went to one bar, which then quickly went to no signal. I was on my last straw.

On May 31st, with less than 48 hours left to get out of my contract without a hefty penalty, I called Cingular and said, “Let’s give it one last shot, shall we?” Cingular reset the phone and I tried again to get the ever-elusive signal that had been so abundant when we were together in Colorado.

I took my phone into every room of my 1600 square-foot apartment. Surely I could find some strong signal in a big town like Chicago! I didn’t care if I had to stand with one foot on the toilet and my left hand wrapped around a big box of foil, I was going to get full service, damnit. I wasn’t giving up on 13 years of commitment without a fight.

But it was all too no avail. There was no signal. Even stripping down naked and drenching myself in apple juice and capers did nothing to help this cell phone service.

It was clearly time to move on.

I packed my beautiful pink Razr back in its box, found my 10-page contract, and rode my scooter to the Cingular store. I slowly walked up the counter, each step an act in courage, each step a testament to my own self-preservation. Yes, Cingular needed me, yes, Cingular saw me as a valued customer, and yes, Cingular would be more than willing to take my money even if they provided absolutely no service in my home – but this was no longer enough for me. I needed more.

I told these things to the man at the counter. It was probably a longer and more emotional version than what I am writing here, but you get the idea. To my surprise, he seemed unmoved by my well-thought out speech.

Frustrated by his apathy towards me ending our 13-year relationship, I said, “You do realize I am going someplace else, right?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, like I AM LEAVING YOU and I am going to ANOTHER network.”

“I understand.”

“And I plan on spending even more money on my NEW plan.”

“Okay.”

“AND I am probably going to even get the EXACT same phone that I had before.”

“It’s a good phone.”

“Don’t you get it? I am leaving you for you! Not for your plans, not for your phones, but for YOU! It’s YOU who has the problem! It’s you who lied and said you were the ALL OVER NETWORK! But you know what? You and me – we’re ALL OVER!”

The Cingular man paused.

“So do you want to take your old number with you?”

“YES!”

The Cingular man wrote down my account number on my refund receipt, telling me it would be easier to start with a new network that way. I thought he was quite gracious, considering the circumstances. It would be like calling up the new girlfriend of your ex-boyfriend and giving her tips: “So, if you cup his left testicle and stroke him on the right side in a fast-slow-fast-fast-slow way, and hum the theme from CHiPs, he will absolutely go crazy!” You gotta hand it to Cingular, they’ve got class.

After 13 years of always having a cell phone, I was suddenly alone. I felt scared. Here I was, a single woman in her 30’s, completely cell-phoneless. All my friends had cell phones, and they certainly weren’t having coverage problems. I didn’t even own a cat, and now I had no cell phone. But it didn’t matter what other people had. It was what I had inside that mattered. I wasn’t going to take only partial coverage; I wanted the whole thing or nothing at all.

I walked out of the Cingular store and worked hard to keep the tears from flowing. I wiped away the one single tear that had escaped, put on my helmet, and hopped onto my scooter and headed home.

A door had closed, but now a window was wide open. Verizon, Sprint, T-Mobile – even USA Cellular – they were all now options in my life. “Free at last,” I thought, “Free at last.”

- A

Shopping for a change.

Well, I made it. I’m here. I live in Chicago, Illinois.

It’s amazing how quickly you can change your life.

A few weeks ago, I was living alone in my two-story townhouse in quiet neighborhood in Denver, Colorado, and now I am living in large 1600 square foot-flat above a restaurant in uber-trendy Wicker Park (yes, that same place as the movie) with a roommate I met on Craig’s list and her two dogs.

To quote David Bryne, “How did I get here?”

A U-haul, actually. A 17-foot U-haul with an 8-foot trailer that my best friend Amedee and I drove from Denver through Nebraska, Iowa and finally to the great state of Illinois (home state of Ronald Reagan, oh snap!).

Since arriving here on May 8th, I have spent my time doing an inordinate amount of interviews, getting lost downtown on my red Vespa, and trying to figure out where the hell I put my shoes.

It’s said that moving and changing jobs are two of the most stressful things one can do and I’ve done two at the same time. I think the two other major life stressers are - obviously - death and marriage, marriage being probably a lot more stressful because Lord knows when that will be over.

I’m stressed, overwhelmed, and my main focus right now is how soon I will be able to take a nap. As such, I haven’t had time to do much shopping and I think it’s starting to wear on me.

Fortunately, I just got the job thing resolved. I just landed some rockin' job at some rockin' ad agency on some rockin' avenue called “Michigan”. Which means I need to get out today to buy something appropriate for my new job. Given my recent 20lb weight gain (thanks, stress!), none of my clothes fit me and if I were to wear what does fit me, I’d shop up tomorrow, my first day, wearing my black and pink Adidas sweat pants and a black t-shirt that I got when I played Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web back in 1993. While wearing a t-shirt that promotes a play about a loving swine does seem appropriate given my current appearance, I doubt it will fly at the big-time ad agency. “Don’t you get it? Charlotte’s Web? I’m a pig? Hahahaha...yes, I see the door. Thank you.”

I am amazed that they hired me. I didn’t wear that cool of an outfit to my interview. My boss-to-be is stylish AND British, something I am sure she will look to me to be sometime soon. I can imitate her accent and plan to demonstrate this to her this tomorrow, but I’ve yet to match her ‘cross the pond sensibility.

I am entertaining a fantasy of me walking in on the first day and she looking at me and my pathetic ensemble and saying, “Bloody hell.” She’d pick up her phone and say, “Richard! Get in here! We’re taking Ashley SHOPPING...” and I would be swooped away by her handsome and gay personal assistant to some store that would be able to magically make me look hot and hide my fat at the same time. Richard and I would giggle as I tried on size 6 couture (couture runs big, why do you think they can charge so much), and swoon and sway as we tried to pick out which Manolo’s to wear with each outfit. I think I’d personally stick with black patent Mary Jane’s for most things, but I am sure I’d just have to also take the beautiful red 3-inch slingbacks. Oh snap. Richard would reassure me that not only was I beautiful, but that I looked fabulous and that I wasn’t under-qualified for my new position. He’d even look like he might be questioning his own sexuality, given how amazing and wonderful I was (couture can actually make gay men straight, why do you think they charge so much), but we’d be snapped back to reality as my pink Razr phone would play “My Humps” and it would be my English boss telling me to hurry and get back to the office, because we were needed on set. Something about an issue with Snoop and him being bored and they needed some fabulous and funny with an ass that would make a black man truly happy. That’s me.
Oh snap.

I must stop. I am putting myself into a frenzy, when I should really be jumping on my little 49cc scooter and heading down North where I can use my $200 gift card at the very Limited Express to try to find some poly-blend stretch fabric fat-hiding black thing to buy and wear this week.

I miss you guys in Denver, truly, deeply, always. I thank you for being wonderful friends and offering me the kind of love and support that lets you know you really can come home again, even if you know you probably never will.

I have changed my life. And now I am going shopping for a change.

- A

Coming Soon!

Dudes.

I am so sorry for the lack of updates. Yes, I've heard your complaints, blah blah blah, but I AM FUCKING BUSY RIGHT NOW, OKAY?

I just moved to Chicago, in the process of finalizing a job, and I don't even have a local gym.

Things are hard right now.

New Blog coming soon.

Much love,
Ashley

Okay, I have a problem.

I shop too much.

I just spent the past two hours going through my closet in my ongoing preparation for the move to Chicago this week.

Let me start by saying the obvious: I own a lot of clothes. It’s shocking and a bit offensive to own so much I don't even use. Talk about feeling like a Republican.

16% of my clothes still have the tags on them and have never been worn.
24% of my clothes have been worn once.
35% of my clothes I rarely wear.
14% of my clothes I only wear at night.
1% of my clothes are for, uh, in-house costume events.

The remaining 10% comprises what I would wear to work.

That still leaves me with about 100 items of clothing. (Yes, Kirk, that means I have 1000 items of clothing, good job.)

Side note: My friend Kirk is one of those guys who will actually check your math, your spelling, and the facts surrounding things that just simply don’t need to be verified. Click here for an example of such pointless fact-finding missions.

But back to me and my important life:

I have cleared out one huge closet, and 10 drawers. I have thrown away old socks, weird underwear, and I am wondering what the hell made me ever wear those jeans.

As a result, I now have a huge black trash bag full of clothes to give away. I have two clothing bags full of clothes I am hoping the people at Buffalo Exchange will buy.

Side note two: I am scared to go down to Buffalo Exchange. There’s nothing worse than some emaciated hipster going through your clothes and determining if they are cool or not. Part of me wants to accidentally put in a “Go NRA” t-shirt in my pile or a “Go Bush in ’04!” G-string – not that I own that stuff, but I would be willing to buy it just to upset the dirty little hipster chick who will undoubtedly make me question my coolness, my weight and my non-organic eating habits.

I also have a box I’ve created called “Lost 40lbs and these can be yours again”. It is a large (ha ha) size U-Haul box and the box itself currently weighs, ironically enough, around 40lbs. While cleaning out my closet, I found an immense number of clothes that I love, but can’t wear due to my current size. I decided to create a separate storage place for these clothes as some sort of symbolic motivating tool. I am hoping that staring at this box will be enough to entice me back to my size 4-6 days when my body alone was enough to get me some of that 20-somethin' action, versus now where I have to use a lot of cash and booze just to get them to come over and play Xbox.

The other weird thing I found in my closet was “Amnesia Clothes”. These are clothes you don’t even remember you own, and sometimes you actually end up buying the same thing months or years later, completely forgetting you even own that. I once spent 2+ weeks shopping for some silver shoes, only to realize one day I actually owned the very same silver shoes I wanted to buy. Today I found these black pair of pants which I almost bought almost the exact same pair week ago.

This is like almost sleeping with the same guy again, thinking that he’s someone new. (Some people refer to this as “Oops, I slept with my ex because I was really horny”). You just don’t do this. It’s very important to remember the clothes you own and the people with whom you’ve had coitus. Like the old saying sorta goes, “If you forget history, you are doomed to repeat it.”

Of course, this rule doesn’t always apply because sometimes ex’s get hotter after you break up and some pants you really should own two of the almost exact same style, but as a general guideline, I think it works.

Side note three: There’s some weird hippy outside my window right now drawing some sort of chalk art in my ally for the rest of his hippy brood. My God, how do these people live? Do you think it’s all the flaxseed they eat that makes their men have ponytails into their 40's? Do you think they own a lot of clothes or sleep with their ex’s in a desperate act to feel whole again?

I must get back to my closet and finish the fun task of sorting the past, making plans for the future, and figuring out which t-shirt the snotty ass Buffalo Exchange Junior Buyer will find cool enough to give me a $1.50.

I need to buy less, wear what I have, and only sleep with new people.

- A

Chicago Trip

Hi.

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything and I apologize. My friend Justin has claimed my Blog is going the way of most Blogs: Nowhere.

But here’s what I say to you Justin: At least I shower on a regular basis.

That said, it has been somewhat stressful preparing for the Chicago move (I actually just typed “Chicago trip” and then it occurred to me this isn’t a TRIP, it’s a damn MOVE, not a damn TRIP. Now I have a title for my Blog entry.)

My car broke down on Monday after leaving my 5:30 one-hour Step Class. I had gone about a block, and I was sitting at the light at Alameda and Leetsdale, listening to a very funny voicemail from my friend Michelle (yes, THE Michelle Miracle), and then my car stopped running.
“Oh. My car stopped”, I thought and then tried the engine again and again and again, and nothing. Nada. Zip. These things don’t tend to throw me, since I have always owned VW’s, and I am used to them breaking down, except this was the first time my Passat had really broken down. (Ah, the joys of owning a 1969 VW Bug, 1983 and 1989 Jetta – talk about car hell.) Meanwhile, I start noticing the traffic piling up behind me, despite the fact that I had just put on my hazards and my car was not moving. Just a note for those of you who aren’t clear on stalled-car protocol:

If a car is sitting at a green light AND not moving AND it has its hazards on, then assume something is wrong and you should GO AROUND their car instead of sitting there like some dumbass.

I absolutely loved the people who honked at me while I was calling for help. I could almost hear them behind me: “Damn you, person in a VW Passat, for making your timing belt break right at the light when I wasn’t paying attention and didn’t notice your hazards were blinking for a good 3 minutes and then got frustrated because I missed my opportunity to go around because I was busy talking on the phone to my friend who wants me to go to this lame club in LoDo tonight, and I am not sure if I want to go, because I did just break up with Mike, and I am not sure if I am ready or not to date again, but then again I need to get out and meet some new people, especially since I just bought those hot red patent sling backs from Aldo, and HEY, your car is stalled and it’s in my way! HONK!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Fortunately, I have AAA and knowing that I was stranded and blocking traffic, they showed up in a 52 minutes.

FIFTY TWO MINUTES. I could have bought 6 pairs of shoes in 52 minutes, Jesus. I met my soul mate within 5 minutes the other night. In 30 minutes, you can watch “The Office”, with 22 minutes left over to start to get into “Medium” and realize you’ve seen this episode before. 52 minutes is a damn long time, but I was very grateful when the two truck guy showed up. Turns out the tow truck’s girlfriend is 10 years older than he is – he’s 28 and she’s 38 – and all I could think, “That must be so hot when he comes home with grease on his hands and lovin’ on his mind...YUM!” God, I love younger men. Anyway. He gave me a good tow, and took me to the garage where I was met by my much younger friend Justin (yes, the same one who needs to shower) who rescued me despite me writing a huge Blog about his personal appearance. That is indeed friendship.

So then yesterday, (God I hate Blogs where people go on about their day, but seriously, there’s a shopping tie-in here coming), my cool cell phone broke-down again. It’s the 3rd or 4th cell phone I’ve had of this exact same model, and I LOVE it, but it’s a piece of crap phone and breaks all the time, but I love it anyhow and I keep buying new ones from EBay at $200 a pop. It’s like some damn exboyfriend who cheated on you every chance he got, but you still take him back not because the sex is so great, but because you just like the way he smells. In other words, despite all evidence pointing to the fact that you need to get rid of something, you keep it in your life for a stupid reason. I keep this phone because I like it, it feels familiar, and it keeps screwing me over. Hurts so good.

But no more. I was ready to pull a Tina Turner and get out. I had to shop for a new phone.

Thing is, I HATE shopping for a cell phone.

Cell phone shopping is just stressful. It’s too big of a deal, it’s too personal, and it usually requires a multi-year commitment to bring the cost of the phone down to a still very-profitable level for the cell phone companies. I just love new cell-phone math. They attempt to show you what a great deal you will get.

See example:

Retail: $1,567.89
Mail-in Rebate: -$6.78
Instant Rebate: -$.39
Discount if you sign a 7-year agreement: -$1410.73
Cost of phone: $149.99*

*Does not include $30 activation fee, $18 upgrade fee, $9.95 for shipping, and then $50 just because we want even more money fee.

I couldn’t make up my mind on which cell phone to buy. There are so many fancy ones with cameras, video games, and voice activation crap. I had a camera phone years ago and I found myself using it to take pictures of cute dogs I saw in parking lots. As far as the voice activation feature, my mom uses it all the time, and it makes her look insane because she keeps escalating the issue when the phone doesn’t respond.

“Call Tom Home.”

Nothing.

“CALL TOM HOME”.

Nothing.

“I SAID CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALL TOM HOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMME DAMNIT!”

(Phone melts from the stress of hearing my mom yell at it.)

Plus my mom wears this goofy Bluetooth wireless headset which makes her look like a Borg. My former boss wore one and he looked like a tool because he kept it on all day. He looked like he was taking orders for the Time-Life “Soul Hits of the 80’s” or something.

All I care about with my cell phone is that it has two main features: Flip-phone and syncs with Outlook. My dad doesn’t have a Flip-phone and I can’t tell you how many times he accidentally calls me. The phone rings and all I can hear are the Beach Boys and farting in the background. As far as getting it to sync with Outlook, it’s basically impossible to find a phone that does this unless you get something like a Blackberry. Fuck Blackberry and Fuck people who use a Blackberry. I’ve yet to meet a good person who uses a Blackberry. People who use a Blackberry are obsessive about their email, and abuse their power to check and reply to email at any time. They get into this game of responding to emails just to show they are responding. “Look at me, I said, ‘Thx.’ in response to your email that didn’t require a response, I am so cool!” Years ago, I thought it made me look super-competent to answer work emails at 11pm. Then I realized that it looks like you have a lot of free time because your boyfriend refuses to do you because he’s busy playing WoW, so you have to check email just to get some form of attention since you can’t figure out how to use the remote on The Rabbit.

Not able to find a phone that met all my specific needs, I finally ended up following my own advice when it comes to a purchase-impasse: When it doubt, purchase it for looks. So I bought the Motorola RAZR3 in light pink and made a 2-year commitment to bring the cost down to a mere $99.99 (with $50 mail-in rebate). I also bought the monthly insurance plan so I can do something dramatic with my phone and get a new one. Under this insurance plan, they will replace your phone if it gets stolen, lost or broken for only a $50 deductible. When they told me that, I immediately pictured myself standing by some river in Chicago, with the wind and rain blowing my long dark hair into my face, as I gripped my black Prada coat around me saying to my new boyfriend I met on Match.com, “This means nothing to me! It’s just a phone! I love only you!” and then tossing it in the water to show just how much I love that man I barely know, but thinking in the back of my head, “Okay, that just cost me $50, but maybe I’ll get a big ring out of it because him seeing me throw away a light-pink RAZR3 is a pretty impressive move when it comes to love.”

The phone arrives in 3-5 business days, my car should be fixed today around 5pm at the mere cost of $1000+, and thanks to my friend Chris, my Vespa is now running again.

Chicago is getting closer, and no matter what, I am going. My scooter broke, my car broke, and my cell phone broke, but I won’t be broken.

She tosses her Passat, Vespa and light-pink RAZR3 into the cold and wet river, never looking back...

- A