Category Archives: Life

The Easter Bunny Can Suck It

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It’s Easter.  I’m sitting next to my dad in church.  All of the sudden, right before the service starts he turns to me and grabs my arm:

Dad: Oh, you know what?

Me: What’s that?

Dad: I heard Yanni is coming out with a new CD.

If this conversation isn’t the right way to kick off Easter, I don’t know anything.  You know, I don’t know if any of you have noticed, but Easter just isn’t what it used to be.  Nice new bonnet.  An Easter basket half the size of my room, with giant, oversized pixie stix and Reese’s eggs cascading out of it like a waterfall...it’s beauty only to be matched by the monstrocity of a stuffed rabbit that accompanied the basket.  All these things are but a distant memory, like braces, and Big League Chew.

scan00011So I’m chillin with the fam.  UPDATE: In case it crossed your mind, my grandma was wearing the same polyester, frog green pants that she wore on Thanksgiving, as chronicled in Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair.  So I go to sit next to my aunt on the couch and this happens:

Me: HGTV?  Really?

Aunt:  Well, we could watch a movie.  I have Marley and Me, did you say you’ve seen that already?

Me: Yea.  It was good, and I don’t think anyone else has seen it.

Aunt: So it was good?  Want me to put that in then?

Me: I mean, I don’t care.  I’m just working on these articles.  So it makes no difference, whatever everyone else wants to do.

Aunt: [turns to my uncle] Honey, Britteny said for you to put in Marley and Me.  She wants to watch it.

Me: [interrupts] No, I did not.  That’s not what I said.  I said I’ve already seen it and I don’t care.  You said you wanted to watch it.

Aunt: Well, I know.  But if I say that you’re the one who wants to watch it, he’ll just put it in.

Me: Sigh.

Aunt: Uh oh.  Is this conversation going to be a blob now?

Me: Well, it wasn’t until you called it a blob.

Throughout the whole movie my grandma keeps whispering to my aunt that she’s seen this movie before.  We all know this isn’t true.  For the sake of illustration, I’ve dubbed my grandma “frog pants.”  When the movie is over, everyone is teary eyed, yet a fight breaks loose:

Frog Pants:  Oh goodness, you guys are getting this sad? It’s just a dog for Pete’s sake. [as my aunt’s two boxers are staring up at her from the floor]

Aunt: Dogs are like part of the family, Ma.

Frog Pants:  Well, not ones that act like that thing.  I’ve seen this before, I could have told you every thing that was going to happen.

Me: No.  No you haven’t. I promise.  You don’t go to movies.  You don’t rent them.  And you live in an assisted living complex.  Where did you see it?

Frog Pants:  I don’t recall when I saw it, but I’m not gonna sit there while you guys make me out to be some kind of liar.  I remember that dog hanging out the window of the car.

Me & Aunt: [simultaneously]  That was a commercial!

Me:  When did you watch it then?  Because it just came out on DVD.

Aunt:  Ma, are you getting Alzheimers?

Frog Pants:  Goodness gracious. Just drop it.

   

Oh Yea, That Time I Got Dysentery In Mexico

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I’m putting on the cloak of honesty right now.  It’s not even mine, I borrowed it permanently from a friend.  But still, you know what’s coming.

Please listen carefully:  All my Facebook amigos, I love you.  Really, I do.  Because of this ingenious billion dollar idea, [that again, I couldn’t seem to have thought of because I was too busy planning other people’s weddings or dating inappropriate men or getting dysentery in Mexico] I’ve gotten in touch with a lot of you who I probably would have never heard from again.  Ok, so maybe it wasn’t so genius.  That being said, you should know that the very moment you completed one of those ridiculous quizzes you were deleted from my status updates…

You have not and will not be given a second chance.  I apologize, I wish I were as kind as God.  I have so many tragic and exciting updates to scroll through, that I can’t take time to read about “What Your Favorite Color Says About You” or “What Breed Of Dog Are You Most Like.” Well guess the heck what?  That’s pretty fricken lame and you’re never gonna be a Jane Austin character OR a country.

So back when I was 19, I was in a wedding. Three weeks later I ended up in Xalapa, Veracruz with a girl who was also in the wedding.  Alright, well I guess that’s it.  Have a good day!  …So this girl had studied abroad in Mexico and wanted to go back.  For some ungodly reason, I cleared out my bank account and volunteered to go with her to a foreign country, known for human trafficking and drug smuggling.

hair-gel-mexicoI’m going to go ahead and say that this was one of the best times of my life. We had absolutely no agenda for our trip except eating enchiladas, getting tan, not throwing up, and salsa dancing every night.

I’d like to take a moment to point out some of the the highlights of my trip.  If you’ll notice in the picture, that is me standing atop one of the oldest and steepest Mayan Pyramids, which was a five mile hike from civilization, in 100% humidity and 110 degree weather.  Have I mentioned that I can’t usually walk to my kitchen without needing a puff from my inhaler?  You’ll also notice that I’m wearing platform sandals, which I wouldn’t recommend for such an ambitious feat.  You should also know that I’m scared of heights. You should also know that this is the exact moment when I started to get amoebic dysentery, or something akin to it, from accidentally using tap water to brush my teeth.

I had to be carried half of the way back.  Oh, did I mention there are no toilet seats in this part of Mexico? And did I mention that a mean lady rations you one square of toilet paper when you walk in the bathroom?

We stayed with some college guys.  They were possibly the nicest and most hilarious people I’ve ever met – I couldn’t understand a word they said.  Hold the phone…I may have just discovered the secret to marital bliss. They constantly played these ridiculous Cd’s of American top 100 love ballads – like the discontinued ones that they throw in the dollar bin along with Amy Grant cassettes. They tried to sing along.  It sounded absolutely ludicrous.  You better believe when I left, I gave them a Michael Bolton Greatest Hits CD.

I spent the majority of my days trying to get them to say the word Walmart, because they couldn’t pronounce the letter “w” and for some reason, I found it to be the best free entertainment I’d ever had.  Actually I think I might pull out those videos tonight, I could use a cheap laugh.

mangosOh yea, then there was that time that the boys took us to a random person’s mom’s house and she cooked us a Mexican feast.  I happened to mention that I liked mangoes and some guy spider monkeyed up a tree to hack some down with a machete. I have no idea what his name was.  He was forever memorialized as Tarzan mango guy.

I have so many more stories, it’s a shame.  Honestly though, I’ve never met kinder people in all my life.  It was a fabulous time.  I’ve never been so sick, yet so afraid to seek medical help.  I thought I was going to throw up my spleen.

Paris Can Bite Me

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I want you all to know that it’s so deliriously late right now that I don’t even have any midnight oil left, I’m running on fumes.  Or smoke.  Or whatever would be left after you’ve burnt a crap ton of oil.  Coldplay is my only companion at such an hour, so consider yourselves a priority.  And I’m about to mesmerize you with an amazing story much like the late night infomercial I’m currently watching that has rendered me speechless with it’s magical powers of persuasion.

But, wait, don’t you always burn the midnight oil, therefore, this blog right now really isn’t much of a sacrifice?

What is this CSI?

So. Paris guy.  I’ve briefly mentioned him a couple times, and many of you have asked for further detail.   Well, I’m going to give it to you so you can stop your begging already… you’re more pathetic than my Italian grandma on Thanksgiving.

grandma

grandma:  Look at all this food.  Oh goodness sakes, what am I gonna do with all of this FOOD?  Will someone eat something, please?  Britteny,  can I dish you up some more potatoes, doll?

me:  I can’t breathe.

grandma:  [sounding as if she might burst into the ugly cry] Well, what did I make all this food for then? I don’t have anywhere to put it.  I thought I told you kids to bring your appetites.  Doesn’t anything taste good?  Oh, now it’s going to go to waste.  We can’t waste food, God won’t appreciate that.

me:  It tastes great. Exactly like every Thanksgiving for the past 26 years of my life when we’ve had this conversation.

grandma:  This is terrible. And so is my food. [welling up]

So Paris Guy and I dated a little over a year. He would also be the ex that inspired the blog “Teenage Acne and an Italian Boyfriend” in case you’re wondering.  I discovered he had proposed to his previous fiance in Disneyland.  Wha?

ex: You haven’t ever been to Disneyland?  I can’t BELIEVE that!  I’m taking you there soon.

me: No you’re not.  I am not going to Disneyland.

ex:  But it’s so much fun.

me: How would that be fun for me?  I throw up on rides and Mickey Mouse creeps me out and I hate fairy tales.

Anyway, things were getting rough.  I needed to breathe.  I did what any sensible girl would do in my situation:  I ran away to London.  Of all the great lengths I’ve gone to in my life, I’d have to award myself 5 stars for pulling off this shennanigan.  But then, he came to take me to Paris on Valentine’s Day and my roommate accidentally told me he wanted to propose.  Great.

paris1

I had specifically warned him that I was not ready for marriage.  I wanted to be done with school first.  When we arrived in Paris, I came down with influenza almost instantaneously after setting foot on French soil (my stomach was either rejecting the vast amount of grease I was about to consume, or the impending proposal, or just the French in general).  As we toured the city, in pouring down hail, I could barely hold my head up.  He then took me to see a show at the Moulin Rouge, which ended with him leaving his wallet in the cab and us wandering around the red light district for several hours with no money or way to get home.  The romance was so thick in the air, that I nearly said yes.

cinderellas_castleHe left me with the ring, I don’t know why. Then he went off the deep end and tried to sabotage all my friendships back home… some of the not as close friends actually fell for it.  After I got back, he coerced me into couple’s therapy, but I eventually tried returning the ring, but it got stolen out of my glovebox when I let one of my friends borrow my car.

And I lived happily ever after without him.

 

Dear Rickety Old Lady,

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I think now would be a perfect time to discuss goals.  Making them, keeping them.  For example, one of my goals in the New Year was to stop procrastinating. Actually, you know what?  I don’t have time for this, let’s talk about it next week.  But what I DO think we should talk about today is the fact that any attempt I’ve made in the last week to “eat on the lighter side” has been shot to heck after polishing off that entire pepperoni pizza and order of bread sticks.  Pizza hut, no less, which means I might as well have just hooked up an IV of Country Crock to my veins.

But on a super serious note, I’d like to take this moment to formally apologize to someone near and dear to my heart.

Dear Rickety Old Lady From Whom I Bought My First Car,

You probably don’t remember me considering you were old as dirt at the time.  When I was a Sophomore, you had a 1964 Dodge for sale.  It was in perfect condition since it had been sitting in your garage for the better half of the 20th century.   For some ungodly reason, I wanted that car more than I wanted to see Titanic for the eleventh time.  I remember I came to you with a stack of cash and told you that was all I had to my name.  I might of teared up a bit.  And there’s also a good possibility that may have all been a lie. 

1964-dodge-440

But listen Irene, I want you to know that I had many fond memories in that car.  I could practically transport the entire school choir in my backseat.  Except, of course, for the time that it completely died on me in the middle of an intersection at the bottom of a hill and a car slammed right into me at 70 mph, nearly taking my life.  But thankfully, the car was so enormous that the accident left merely a scratch on my bumper – although the other person’s car was completely totaled.  Anyway, stop side-tracking me, Doris.  My point in writing to you is that I want you to know that I sold that car a month later and quadrupled my money.   I know it may seem like I took advantage of your oldness, but really, I think it shows my rather astounding eye for investment opportunities and savvy business sense at such a tender age.  Twas only a sign of what would follow.  And really, you have to admit that it was grossly under priced -anyone would have known that Margaret.

Ok.  Well, I guess that’s about it then.  Just wanted to clear the air, sorry for the harsh delivery.  We cool?
Stay young,

Blunt.

The Hole In My Head: Explained

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The only thing that I might find creepier than Neil Diamond or V8 juice would be toddler beauty pageants. That being said, let’s discuss the hole in my head.  Since mention of the injury in my last post seemed to cause a great deal of stress for most of you, I thought I’d take a brief moment to explain this before your blood pressure rises to unprecedented levels.

It was the Spring of 1997.  The air was hot and so was her white fiberglass Saturn sport coupe.  It was a stick shift (which was a really bad idea since she could barely drive the lawn mower).  This very car would eventually lead to her almost-death.

One rainy night, Blunt was driving around aimlessly.  The next thing she remembers is laying on a stretcher and staring up into the night sky, thinking “Is this a dream?  Why can’t I feel my body?  Crap. I’m about to die.  Or maybe I did drugs? No. I’m dying. Here we go.” [[[[back to unconsciousness]]]]    The next thing she remembers is being in an ambulance with 6, possibly 7, very hot paramedics.

Hot Paramedics: Do you have any pets?

Blunt:  Um, I have 4 cats: Pebbles, Bam Bam, Mittens, and Muffin.  … I named them when I was five okay?

Hot Paramedics:  You were in an accident.

Blunt:  You’re kidding. Was it my fault?!?  My dad is going to KILL ME. [[[[back to unconsciousness]]]]]

saturn-sport-coupeThe next day she would awake to find herself in the ICU wearing a neck brace, with various tubes coming out of her and over a hundred stitches in her head.  Apparently, she had been struck by a drunk driver in a large Astrovan, directly on the driver’s side.  But would you expect anything less from someone in an Astrovan? The impact was so hard that it somehow managed to cause a piece of her skull (about the size of a half dollar) to break off and press on her brain.   “Oh you’ve got to be kidding me,” she thought, “three weeks before prom?” The doctors weren’t sure if she would be normal and said if it was a millimeter closer she would be paralyzed for life.    ***Status on the car: lets just say that pieces of it were scattered in various directions.  Bye bye sweet Saturn sport coupe.

Doctor:  We might have to do brain surgery.

Me:  WHAT? Why?

Doctor:  Well to relieve pressure on your brain.   And to extract the bone and glue it back to your head.

Me: Will I have to shave my head?

Doctor:  Only the left side.

Me:  Well, that’s out of the question.  What if I don’t have the surgery?

Doctor:  Well, you could have several side effects and if you ever get hit in that spot again you’ll die.   That means, no accidents, no “rough housing,”  NO SPORTS.

Me:  Doctor, no offense, but do you know me at all?   That certainly won’t be a problem.

For a month I could not move, shower, or wash my bloody, crusty hair.  Tons of visitors came, only to be kicked out by the nurses.  It was a great time.  So, I left my head as it was.  I have had none of the anticipated side effects of the injury, except some VERY BAD headaches and some memory loss.  Oh, and the occasional panic attack, which probably has less to do with the hole in my skull and more to do with the crippling insanity of my daily life.

After much prodding, I was released the DAY OF PROM. Phew.   My first stop: the tanning salon.  Please, I had a white dress okay.  Then, I passed out from overheating and not having any food in my system.

Then there were a plethora of “airhead” jokes at school, and every other possible reference to how I was missing part of my head.  Don’t feel bad, I came up with most of them.

Holy Crapballs, That Was A Person

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Every single time I get into my car, first of all, I check for flooding (yes, my car floor fills with water when it rains) and second of all, I prepare myself for the possibility that I will commit involuntary manslaughter at some point.   I might be the WORST driver in this city.  Maybe even the tri-state area.  Well, at least the small radius from my house to Ohio.  Friends: I’m extending an invitation for you to leave a comment stating proof of this fact if you’d like.  (If you can’t focus cus you’re still stuck on that flooding car thing, I have no clue where the water comes from, why it’s there, or how to make it stop.)  (Friends: please note that invitation expires after this post.)

So the other day, I’m driving with one of my friends and this conversation takes place:

Friend: Holy crapballs, that was a person.

Me: Where? 

Friend: Behind us.  Standing in shock cus they almost died.  Did you not see them or what?

Me:  No.  I was looking for a sweet parking spot so you won’t have to walk in the rain.  

Friend:  How about I’ll be happy to walk in the rain in exchange for not assisting in murder.

Me: You say that now, but you’ll be singing a different tune when your hair starts to frizz.

Friend: Why do I continue to go places with you.

Me: Okay.  Do I not warn you every time you get in this car of my horrible driving skills and that you’re putting your life at risk?

Friend: Yes, you do.  But I…

Me:  And do I not always make it a fun experience?

Friend: I guess.  But you don’t obey any traffic laws, and…

Me: And do you not feel more alive and appreciative of your life after you get out of the car?  Is the sun, not a bit brighter?  The grass, a bit browner? 

Friend:  Definitely. more. appreciative.

Me: So can you stop already with the melodramatic whine fest.  I told you I haven’t gotten into an accident since I was 16.

Friend:  But you have a HOLE IN YOUR HEAD because of that accident.

Me:  That’s correct.  And I’m definately more appreciative of my head now.

Kenny Chronicles: Technologically Challenged

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So Kenny, my metrosexual best friend and I are doing some errands around town, when my mom calls:

Mom:  I have a pretty serious problem.

Me: What’s wrong?!?

Mom:  I can’t watch any of my shows.   And Dancing With The Stars is premiering tonight and I can’t watch that either!

Me:  Why? Do you want me to tape it?

Mom:  Well your dad said we need some kind of box to watch local channels now.  They’re all fuzzy.  Except I remind him to get one everyday, but he forgets to get one everyday.

Me:  A digital converter box?

Mom:  Is that the thing that will make the channels clear?

Me:  Yes.  Well, I could pick one up for you – I’m just running some errands.

Mom:  Well can you get it tonight?  I’ve already missed two weeks.

So Kenny and I go to Best Buy. Normally, my independent side refuses to ask for any kind of help from an associate.  I don’t know why, but we certainly don’t have time to diagnose that tonight.  I was in a HUGE rush, so as soon as we enter the door, I cringe a little and ask the security guy where the digital converter boxes are.  He says, “See the Home Theater sign?  Right under that.”  Sweet.  That doesn’t sound complicated.

Kenny and I reach the Home Theater section and wander up and down a few aisles.  Neither of us see anything resembling what we’re looking for.  We loiter around for a bit and I make eye contact with two associates, but they were helping other people.

digital-converter-boxMe:  Well, they HAVE to be here!  Do you see anything?

Kenny:  Really?  Look who you’re talking to.  Just ask someone or we’ll be here all day.

So a guy walks by and says he’ll be with me in a minute, but the minute never came.  Eventually, I can’t wait any longer so I told Kenny to wait where he was and I’d get some help.

Me:  Sir, I’m sorry.  I’m in a huge rush.  I just really need to find the digital converter boxes. I was told they’re in this section but I can’t find anything.

Best Buy Guy:  Oh, sure.  [he comes over to me and points] See right where that guys is?

Me: Yea.

Best Buy Guy:  He’s leaning right on em.  There’s a stack about 8’x4′.

And there it was.  The most gigantic pile of digital converter boxes that there ever was. And there was Kenny, just leaning on them with a confused look on his face.  Obviously, I had to snap a picture so I could make a public mockery of the moment.

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

How We Met

How to Talk Yourself Out of Dating Almost Anyone

A Conversation at Starbucks

A Metrosexual in a Yankees hat

A Bad Gordita and Some Classy Water

Black Friday, Depression, and a Salvation Army Chair

What Women Really Want

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Come on in.  Pop open a cold one (non-alcoholic, of course, cus I need you to keep it classy and focus on what I’m saying).  Grab all your friends and sit Indian style on the mat.  Please don’t be concerned if you can’t sit Indian style, the more important problem is, why don’t you have any friends?   Men, I especially want you to listen up.  Hurricane honesty is about to blow you away.   Sorry Mary, there’s no spoonful of sugar with this Robitussin.  Just the cold,  green, mystery flavor your mother used to shovel down your throat.  So let’s recap what we already know:

1. We want you to be nice. But not too nice, Nicey McCallaghan.

2. We want you to pay attention to us. But watch it, Smothery McFerguson.

3. We want you to give us our way. But only half the time, Doormat McPushoverPants.

Alright, so now that I’ve given you a month to digest that very scientific and logical information, we can move on to Part II:

christina-aguilera-and-husband4.  We want you to be funny. But not a comedian with a complex that has to make a joke out of everything or he has no self-worth because he used to get beaten up at the bus stop or something.  Got that?  If you can’t make us bust a gut, then it’s OVER, Snoresville McGee.  You know how you always get perplexed when you see a fine lookin lady with an awkward geek who is unfortunate looking?  Well that’s cus she just dumped her rich, gorgeous underwear model for the guy who works the late shift at Taco Bell because he cracked a joke when he handed over her Chalupa.   Yea.  I never said these were smart decisions.  But they are what we choose, nonetheless.

5. We want you to be manly. But over the years it seems that you’ve taken this to mean stubbly and un-showered with a beer belly?  No, no.  Just because you shower, shave regularly, and don’t wear brown shoes with black pants it doesn’t mean that you’re not a man.  P.S.  it won’t KILL you to do a face mask or a pore strip once in a while.  You’ll still be allowed to shoot people on Call of Duty.

6. We want you to be romantic. The problem is, you’ve taken this idea of “romance” and twisted it into a pretzel of ungodliness.  It’s downright scary, what you’ve done.  I think the underlying roses-with-babies-breathproblem is somewhere along the line there was a glitch in the matrix and you guys got terribly confused by the term: romantic.

I’ll tell you what it doesn’t mean: red roses with baby’s breath (and perhaps a fern), heart-shaped pendant necklaces (actually, heart-shaped anything), stuffed animals with mushy sayings, “gamble chocolates” with mystery fillings, or an attempt at writing us poetry.  [[Sigh]]   So really, the bottom line here is creativity.  So maybe we should rephrase this to say – we want you to be creative.

Can I get a witness ladies?

Remember it.  Write it down.  Fold it up.  Tuck it in your jockstrap.  And have a more successful life.

You’re welcome.

 

Are You The Sheriff Of Losertown?

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It’s time for some tough love.  This is one instance where I do encourage you to follow in the footsteps of my petite and sufficiently pumice-stoned feet. 

There comes a time in your life when you realize that the majority of your friends are on the slow train to nowhere.  Such a time came for me about three years ago.  My heartfelt apology to everyone I was hanging out with around that time. The problem is that when all of your friends are losers, it takes you quite awhile to realize it. 

This is because as a collective group of losers – you don’t seflowbee-haircutem so bad.  In fact, collectively, you’re pretty fun.   No steady job, no direction, no responsibility.  All the loserness makes for a rather exciting, carefree existence – but the problem is that it can suck you in like a Flowbee and start a downward spiral of which you may never see the end.   But, you ask, how do I know for certain if I am, indeed, the sheriff of Losertown?

Well, as you may have guessed, I have the answer.  I’ve developed a fool-proof 5 point questionnaire, entitled:  How To Know If You Are The Sheriff Of Losertown

1.  Are at least 75% of your friends college dropouts or permanently “taking off a year to save money / experience life / figure out what they want to do?“

2.  Is grabbing food from anywhere but the dollar menu with them just not an option?

3. Do most of your friends avoid going to the doctor for what could be a life threatening illness because they “can’t afford health insurance?”

4.  Do you notice that these same friends always have the latest and greatest phone/crackberry, video gaming system, or Apple product- yet continue to whine about not being able to afford their own place, an oil change, or dentist visit for their skankalicious teeth?

5.  When you talk about long term goals and aspirations [while you guys are hanging out at Perkins / Ihop / or Dennys at 3 a.m. where only half of you are actually ordering food] are you often met with looks of disorientation?

Now.  I definitely fit in to some or ALL of these categories at one point, but I broke free – which is especially hard in my piece of crap town, where all you want to do is find ways to kill time until you hopefully end up in a nursing home with a courtyard view.  So that means you can do it too.  Chin up.

How to Live the Best Fake Life You Can Imagine

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So the other day I wander into the Salvation Army.  Why?  Because it’s across the street from where I work.  And because I’m looking for some props for a photo shoot.  Ok.  And because I’m poor.  Why do our conversations always consist of you making me feel like crap?

Anyway, WHY I went there isn’t what’s important Inspector Gadget.  As I’m strolling around and sifting through the ginormous pile of other people’s crap, I am taken aback by the smell of mildew and grandmas.  I started to walk over to the book section, just to see if i could find some good looking books, and what happened next was completely out of my control;  thus, I do not take responsibility whatsoever.  [much like with everything in my life]

So I’m standing there staring at a huge wall of books and so I start doing what any person such as myself would do: peeling off all the sleeves to see if there are any books that match the colors in my living room and/or office area (they’re only a buck, and how can you ever have enough?).  In case I haven’t mentioned it, I collect books.  No, not antique ones, or special ones, or limited editions – just ones that match my color scheme.   I don’t actually read them, so much as I  admire them on my shelves and let them give the impression to all the world that I am mind-blowingly intelligent.  Because in all actuality, I hate to read.  And queue the following conversation between you and I:

you:  but, wait, weren’t you an English major?

me:  why, yes.  yes i was.

you: isn’t that kind of a weird choice of major for someone who doesn’t like to read?

me:  why yes.  yes it is.

you:  so how did you get through that if you hate to read?

me:  well, first I used cliffs notes and then i just quit.

you: oh.  so this all goes back to you being a loser then?

me:  wait, what?  how are you cutting me down again? this is a hypothetical conversation!

Alright, so to recap:  I like pretty books to put on my pretty shelves for my big, fat, fake life.  okay?  I can’t get enough.  So as I’m browsing the books, this man comes running down the ramp and says “wow, $0.10 a book today, can’t beat that huh?”  To which my response was “you’ve GOT to be kidding me!”  No.  folks, this was no joke.  Immediately, I started stockpiling them.   As I am racing to tear off every book sleeve possible before they closed, i am distracted by the following conversation between him and I:

book man:  find anything interesting?

me:  uh not really.  i mean, i really don’t care what they say.

book man:  (takes out a little gadget and scans a book)  well, i’m actually in the book business.  I sell used books.  This one is worth $94.00.  Anything I can help you find?

me:  well, I’m just looking for certain colors.  I only need them for my fake life.

book man:  (just laughing hysterically and sort of staring in awe)

me:  ( after ten minutes of conversation and filling up TWO carts of books) ….well, I think this is all I can fit in my car, but i got some really good ones.

book man:  well good.  good for you.  it was nice meeting you.  you are a very unique and interesting woman. 

….And when i got home I sorted all 52 books into piles by color on my ottoman and sat down on my couch to stare at the victory I had just won.  As I was staring, I realized that now my own living room had acquired the smell of mildew and grandmas.  But it was worth it, all $5.41.