Is this anyway for a grown woman to behave?

Yesterday I was feeling quite virtuous after doing 8 laps around the running track at the local high school. I was moving rather briskly back home because I was looking forward to squeezing in a refreshing shower before settling down in front of the TV to watch Jennifer Aniston on Live with Regis and Kelly. (Hey! It was my day off! I'm entitled to watch junk TV if I want to!)

As I approached my building, I saw one of my neighbors, Mr. B. He's sweet and elderly, and has some of the more unfortunate traits that can beset the elderly. For example, he's always trying to get me to buy Avon products from him. At first I thought this was cute. Not any more. He always gets the orders wrong and sometimes forgets to send them in at all. Last time he handed me a multi-page printout from Avon and asked me to go through it to see if I could figure out what I received and what of mine was backordered. As respectfully as possible, I declined. I've been trying to be supportive because I thought, "hey, old guy on a fixed income, trying to get by." I could be in the same boat someday, right?

Turns out Mr. B. not only owns his condo unit outright, he also owns the one next door and is renting it out at a nice profit. I hope I can afford to be in that same cushy boat someday!

Now that I know this, my patience with Mr. B. is waning. I just didn't feel like standing there, all sweaty, hearing him say that he needs me to "order, order, order," and that he is always looking out for his best customers, like me. So I ... um ... turned on my heel and walked in the other direction. Two blocks out of my way. Hoping to avoid eye contact and conversation with him.

I was successful. But I feel so childish! Will I never grow up?

The "joys" of being a homeowner

This weekend I hate owning this condo. It won't cool off! We're close to breaking a record for Memorial Day heat and humidity – since the mercury isn't dipping much overnight, this brick building is like a brick oven. With the AC going fullblast 24/7, the coolest my bedroom has gotten is 79º. My refrigerator isn't working very well, but the freezer is. The manual suggests this might be because "the room temperature is too hot." I KNOW! I KNOW! I believe my cable box is possessed. It's the only logical explanation for the way fuses have blown with frightening regularity two nights in a row (about six times between 7:00 and 10:30 PM) and the box eerily chooses channels on its own. (Very Poltergeist.) And I still need to have the bathtub faucet replaced.

Let's see now: That's hopefully just a visit from the cable guy, but perhaps a visit from an electrician. Maybe a new refrigerator. I know I need to have the plumber back here. That's potentially a big expense, and definitely a lot of waiting around for workmen. Oh, for the glory days when all I had to do was place a single call to my janitor and ask him to take care of it! (Of course, I've had to deal with some pretty wretched janitors during my career as a renter; my favorite one used to approach everything – no matter what the problem was – by accusing me of flushing a tampon down the toilet.)

I thought I was a wee bit ahead financially, so I updated my wardrobe with some nice pieces and bought a Roomba. Now I wish I hadn't. I have a fund especially for household mishaps, but I so hating dipping into it. (Yes, I know that's what it's for. I still hate touching it.) And if I need to, I can skip a mortgage payment or two, as I'm paid through the end of year. But.But I'd rather not; I would love to get this place paid off.

Oh, well. I will try to keep my own personal thermostat low as I work through these problems by repeating my personal mantra, "tax-deductible mortgage interest, tax-deductible mortgage interest."

At this very moment, I'm a happy Cub fan

It's the first inning. We're playing Atlanta. They are putting the legendary John Smoltz on the mound, against some little puppy pitcher we just brought up, Ryu. Ryu gave a homerun up to the second batter he faced. Oh Lord, thought I, here we go again …

Oh, Laur of Little Faith. Right now, at this moment, at the end of the first, we're up 4 to 1! That's 4 runs on 3 hits. Against John Smoltz!

I am not writing any more. I've been a Cub fan too long. I know it's still early. I know we can blow it. I don't want history to diminish this happy moment. We've had so few this month. Right now, we're ahead 4 to 1. And I'm going to savor it.

Stuff, stuff, and more stuff!

This month alone I've visited Goodwill three times and divested myself of 8 t-shirts, 9 jackets, 6 sweaters, 2 dresses and a pair of shoes. You might assume that this means my dressers and armoire and closets are now spacious and organized. You would be so wrong. This entire condo is still a mess, overrun with STUFF.

I have a terrible time parting with things. Going through my clothes, I imagined I was with Clinton and Stacy from TLC's What Not to Wear, and they're encouraging me to toss the obsolete, inappropriate and season-after-season unworn pieces. That helped a little. But I still suffer from "donater's remorse," and wonder would it really be so awful to go into Goodwill and buy some of my stuff back.

Of course it would! A family of three once lived in this condo, which I – just only me – have filled to the brim with my crap.

It's my goal this weekend to get my wardrobe completely in shape. Everything that goes back into a closet or a drawer has to fit, be in style and be wearable. That may mean a little rendezvous with the tailor or dry cleaner, but so be it. I have got to get a handle on this clutter and mess.

And so far, we've only discussed the clothes. I can no longer eat at my dining room table because of all the paperwork strewn across it. I can't spread out on my sofa without kicking a stack of magazines onto the floor. This condo is overrun with STUFF. I wonder at what critical juncture I will cross from the line, going from merely messy packrat to pathological hoarder. I wonder if I have crossed that line already.

Well, wish me luck. I fully intend to spend today, tomorrow, and Monday if I must, getting this condo presentable. I'm not talking House Beautiful or Martha Stewart Living. I'm saying that I should be starting the summer in a home that wouldn't leave you shaking your head and wondering, "How does she live that way?"

Hooked on Pogo, Hooked on Next Time

I love Pogo. I love Word Whomp, the slots, solitaire and most of all, Turbo 21. These online games of chance have me obsessed. I play them whenever I can (though, just in case anyone from the office comes across this blog, NEVER during work). I am not very good at any of these games, but that does not deter me from spending as much time as I can playing them. Before work in the morning, while watching the news, and truth to tell, right now. Turbo 21 is open on another screen right now, and I'm hastily typing this entry during the intermission. If I get carpal tunnel, it won't be from writing scintillating financial services copy, it will be from Pogo.

What is it about casino games that hook us? Is it the promise that next time it will be better? I think so. Next time I'll be successful. Next time I'll win. It's the romance of next time.

And, if you dare, www.pogo.com

A glimpse of the old Mad Dog

As of yesterday, the Cubs losing streak has officially stopped being funny. Future Hall of Famer #31, Greg Maddux, was inept. When that happens, you know the wheels have come off.

The 40-year-old whiz kid has been the only bright spot, the only source of pride, for the North Side lately. The NL pitcher of the month in April, he was 5-0. Now in May, he's 0-4. This is soooo not like him.

I cannot find it in my heart to be angry at #31, though. Or even disappointed. Because he loves the game, and he cares so much. The quiet, controlled Professor of the past decade or so gave way yesterday to the old Mad Dog of this rookie years. When he left the game in the 6th, he grabbed a bat and put a water cooler out of its misery.

He wasn't mad at the umpire. He didn't blame the weather. There were no complaints about how lukewarm Cub bats have been without D. Lee. Not from #31. When asked how the Cubs could snap this streak, he said, "Play better and win. Win. That's the only way to do it. Talk is cheap." No alibis. Just professional pride.

I know that for him, the next game is the key. And that the next time he takes the mound, he'll be the pitcher that Jane Fonda praised for his ability to be mentally and physically relaxed, regardless of the pressure. That's the Professor I've gotten used to, and admire so.

But I also admired the passion I saw when he took that water cooler out. As long as that fire is still burning inside of him, I know someday there will again be joy in Wrigleyville.

Shopping for a life I don't have

I live in a very nice 2BR condo on the top floor of a very nice building. The neighborhood is terrific. While I long to redo the bathroom someday, this is a perfectly adequate home.

It's not the home I shop for, though.

Right now I'm charging my brand-new Roomba. This place is not so big that I shouldn't be able to vacuum it myself. I just wanted a Roomba.

I have a catalog right here called Art & Artifacts. I can't part with it because I love so many of the items in it. Like the Chicken Coop Cubbies. These vintage cubbies are great for storing all kinds of stuff, and this condo is certainly overrun by stuff. And the sage green color would look great in here. Except it measures 34" x 30" and I have absolutely nowhere to put it. (Too much stuff, wouldn't you know.) There's a limestone serenity angel in here that is enchanting, but I don't have a garden. In the Sundance Catalog, I came upon a bronze bed that is just too intense and cool. It doesn't match any of my bedroom furniture, though. My furniture is perfectly serviceable, I chose it myself and have no real desire to change it. I just wish I had an additional bedroom that I could decorate around this divine bronze bed.

What does it mean that I gaze at items I can't afford or can't use? Does hanging onto these catalogs hold me back, weigh me down with paper and keep me from organizing my surroundings and getting on with my life? Or am I just indulging in harmless daydreams?

You never give me your money ...

The Beatle puns are starting to turn up everywhere, even in the legitimate press like TIME and NEWSWEEK, in reports on the McCartney-Mills break-up. So far I've seen, "Baby, You're a Rich Man, and Now I'm a Rich Woman," and "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Man," and, of course, "Can't Buy Me Love."

I may be in the minority here, but I believe the official statement about how media attention broke them up. The second Lady Mac seems to suffer from Carolyn Bessette Syndrome. You know, "when my husband said the press would criticize everything about me, I had no idea he meant that the press would criticize everything about me." I'm not minimizing how demoralizing that level of scrutiny must be. It just surprises me that Heather Mac, like Carolyn Bessette, didn't see it coming. Beatle wives have historically had a rough time of it. Isn't "Yoko" the universal synonym for "bitch?"

I get the impression that, unlike Linda, Heather wanted her own identity and resented being regarded not as the new Princess Diana, but instead as a little tart with a shady past who is really not good enough for Paul.

Oh well, as the poet and philosopher Carrie Fisher once wrote, "If it didn't end badly, it wouldn't end at all." Maybe the McCartney-Mills marriage was never supposed to last forever. After Linda died, Paul looked more than an open wound than like a romantic troubadour. If Heather and baby Beatrice brought him back to the living, then we should all be grateful for this short-lived union.

Besides, it gave us this bad joke (courtesy of Martin):
"Why won't Heather get anything in the settlement?"
"Because she doesn't have a leg to stand on."

It's OK to laugh as long as you know you should feel bad about it.

I could listen to him all day

Former Senator John Edwards is being interviewed on ABC right now. Love the blue eyes, love the hair, love the voice. Oh, I completely approve of everything he is saying about Iraq, Katrina, immigration, etc. But it's incidental to the blue eyes, shiny hair and moonlight-and-magnolias voice.

I could not have been more passionately for Senator Kerry. His career, his ideology, his dedication to public service inspired me. I worked hard for him, raised as much money as I could for him, and still cannot believe he didn't win. He was the right man for this time, and it breaks my heart to think of what we rejected when we chose Bush.

But I never found myself resting my chin on the heel of my hand, gazing upon Senator John Kerry.

Oh God, he's mentioning his lovely wife Elizabeth. I love how he loves her. And look, there's his late son's Outward Bound pin, right there on his lapel. I have such a crush on John Edwards.

I don't know how I feel about the possibility of a President I'm hot for. It seems wrong somehow. Like being attracted to your minister. Or your uncle. Ick.

On the other hand, those eyes, that hair, that voice ...

Be careful who you Google

Decades ago I was involved with two very different men. One was sweet, stable, sensitive. The other was charming, gorgeous and tormented. A Glenn Fry song was popular at the time, "Are you gonna stay with the one who loves you, or are you going back to the one you love?" That's kinda how I ended up with Bachelor #2. The results were disastrous. But I learned a lot, about myself and others, so I refuse to regret my decision.

This past week I received an invitation to a graduation party. Bachelor #1 has not been a bachelor for a long time and his son is graduating from high school. I was enormously touched that he invited me to the party. He's one of those guys who said we'd remain friends, and meant it. What a classy guy.

This did, however, get me thinking about Bachelor #2. So I Googled him. Oh ... my ... God. The sexual narcissist who dealt and used coke is now a devout Catholic who writes enjoys writing letters to the editor. By the ton. He's against gay marriage, and wonders why the United States Government doesn't wise up and follow Catholic teachings. That the whole separation of Church and State thing is beyond him doesn't surprise me -- he never was very bright. But when I think of how he used to tease and encourage the affection of gay men to further his drug business (and I've never been 100% sure that tease is all he did), I am amused and amazed. He's also against anti-smoking laws, raising the minimum wage, and divorce. Considering how promiscuous he was back in the day, this also leaves me amused and amazed.

I'd like to believe that he has found God and turned his life around. But instead I honestly think that this is a chameleon who is adopting whatever pose suits his purposes.

The funniest thing I found was information about a lawsuit he filed. He bought a house beside an airport and was in court because he had no idea it would be so noisy. (Like I said, he was never that bright.) In addition to wanting money related to the real estate and house itself, he was suing for "loss of consortium." It was tossed out of court, as well it should have been. I had sex with him for years (when he was younger) and know it was not worth that much.

I admit it. I'm hooked.

I'm writing this as I watch American Idol. I've assiduously avoided it the first four or five seasons -- just as I've avoided Survivor and The Apprentice.

But I admit it. Now they've got me.

I'm a big Taylor fan. He's such a sweet-natured, original goofball, and his sound reminds me a little of Johnny Rivers. Before tonight I couldn't stand Kat. But she just finished "Ain't Got Nothing But the Blues" and "Over the Rainbow" and she sounds less like a Mariah wannabe. Elliott seems like a nice enough guy, but he doesn't seem at all special to me. Go Taylor. Go Taylor.

And now I feel like I'm one with the rest of the country. All I have to do is vote and then I'll be an official citizen of Idol Nation.

What's a friend to do?

I have a close friend who has been dear to me from the moment we met in 1992. We couldn't be more different. He's male, I'm female. He's gay and I'm straight. He's been in a serious relationship for decades, and my commitment/compromise issues are legendary. He's Puerto Rican, I'm German-Irish. And yet somehow, almost immediately upon meeting, we connected. As he likes to say, "We're family."

He moved down to South Florida ten years ago, and every year he welcomes me as his guest for New Year's. I write to him weekly. We work hard to stay relevant in one another's lives.

Which is why I'm so upset this morning. His last note to me (received yesterday) is almost incoherent. I suspect he was loaded when he sat down to put pen to paper.

I was surprised and saddened by how much he drank while I visited him over the holidays. One day he had four glasses of wine BEFORE dinner. One he sipped while he was getting dressed. Then, of course, he had his Campari with dinner and another glass of wine with dessert. Six drinks in about nine hours. And he did stupid things -- like forever forgetting where he left his bike. Make that "bikes." He had two in the parking lot of the motel where I was staying, and his lover had to come by with the car to get the bikes home. The booze also made him a bit argumentative. (We actually almost had an argument over -- I'm not kidding about this -- whether or not Natalie Wood was a schizophrenic.)

Because I love him so, and usually enjoy him so, I felt it was important to mention my concerns to him. Maybe there was an underlying work stress, or a problem in his romantic relationship that I wasn't privy to. No, he said. He was simply indulging more during my visit because it was his holiday, too, and this is what one does on holiday. I didn't want to argue, I wanted to enjoy the rest of my visit, so I let it go. And I saw no reason to bring it up again.

Until I got the note yesterday.

Should I mention it? Should I send the note back to him so he can see how silly and difficult he is when he drinks? Or should I just keep my mouth shut?

The latter, I guess. People don't stop drinking because their friends recommend that course of action; they stop drinking because they are ready to stop drinking.

Butmy silence doesn't mean I don't care. I care enormously. This is breaking my heart.

And I Love Him

A rather startlingly unretouched photo of Paul McCartney recently appeared on the cover of AARP magazine. Next month Macca turns 64 and because he immortalized that age in song, I imagine a good many mags will feature him the way AARP did.

Now that we're down to just two Beatles, seeing the passage of time and the mortality it implies etched on his face made me a little uncomfortable. Then I dug it. We all know how old he is, so why should he pretend otherwise? He's Sir Paul, dammit. He's entirely too cool to have to bother with anything as superficial as cosmetic surgery. (Which is not to say I wouldn't have it done if I could afford it, but I'm nowhere near as cool as Sir Paul.) I do remember reading somewhere that when he's not performing he wears fake nails because 50 years of plucking and strumming have worn his away. Of course, I also read somewhere that Jackie and Onassis were behind JFK's assassination.

But I digress.

Paul. My Paul. Paulie. Macca. The man has provided the soundtrack of my entire life. I fell in love with him when I was 6 years old, sitting in front of my parents' console TV, and I heard him sing, "Close your eyes and I'll kiss you/tomorrow I'll miss you/remember I'll always be true." He sang about romance in an innocent, tender, uncomplicated way that even a first grader could relate to. And oh, how he looked while he sang! Those big brown eyes, that perfectly straight nose, that tiny rosebud mouth. I told my mother, "He's so pretty it hurts to look."I still feel that way. Even when I look at the AARP cover.

In HELP!, during "Another Girl," Paul strums a bathing suit clad "bird" like a guitar. His hand slips and he looks so naughty and delighted. At that age I wasn't completely sure what breasts were for, but if Paul liked them, I would concentrate very hard on growing them.

By high school "the lads" had gone there separate ways. But I returned to The White Album again and again. "Who knows how long I've loved you/you know I love you still/shall I wait a lonely lifetime/if you want me to, I will." A love song to someone I hadn't met. Only Paul understood how cold all those shallow and clumsy teenage boys left me. But his song reassured me that the fault wasn't mine. I simply hadn't met my soulmate yet.

"Jet." "Silly Love Songs." "No More Lonely Nights." "My Brave Face." "Put It There." All the way to "Lonely Road" and "Fine Line." Each song inspires a specific memory of a time and place. And even the memories of heartache are bittersweet because they are accompanied by that timeless troubadour's voice.

So he's no longer young. That's okay. Neither am I. We've come down the road together this far. I look forward to enjoying the journey with him for many more years to come.

In Praise of 5 Missing Lbs.

I lost 5 lbs.! It's amazing how it has changed my outlook on life.

Years ago I was a size 6. At the time, I thought that was great. Looking back at old photos, I realize I was a bit too thin. Plus there's the fact that it didn't come naturally to me. I was a size 6 thanks to compulsive exercise and an unhealthy fixation on what I ate. I'm not a pretty woman and I wasn't a pretty girl. But I thought if I could have the best-possible body, I'd be attractive. It didn't help that in those days I was involved in a very destructive relationship and then trying to make sense of its aftermath. I weighed myself twice a morning (before I got into the tub and then again before I got dressed for work) and kept a diary of the lbs. My self worth was so dependent on my weight that I'd be filled with self loathing if the scale read anything over 109 lbs.

I grew up a bit and decided I was paying entirely too much attention to the bod. So I became a workaholic. Moved from copywriter to creative director and traded the stationery bike for a laptop computer. And found myself a size 14.

I hated how I looked, but I told people (and, less convincingly, myself) that this was a good thing. I should be defined by my brains and accomplishments, not my dress size. And besides, I had a nice bust for the first time in my life. I tried very hard to ignore that everything else developed, too. I was glad, even grateful, for my business success because it helped

Then I got my cholesterol results. As Paul sang with Wings, "Hi, hi, hi." So I decided to get healthy. In addition to Lipitor, I modified my diet and decided to move more. I bought a pedometer and tried my damnedest to get 10,000 steps in. I forsake the elevator and trot down the four flights of stairs every morning. I try to do 20 minutes of cardio 3x/week.

My cholesterol is down 100 points. I have lost 5 lbs. And I'm a size 12.

I'm going to try to keep regarding this as a health issue. I'm going to strive to think of this not as one aspect of my personality, not something that defines me. I'm going to work at keeping it in perspective.

But I'm also going to enjoy the fact that I have a waist again.

Lost and Found

Last weekend, while doing laundry in the machines I share with the other condo owners, I lost a black trouser sock. I kept the lone sock, unable to part with it, because its mate could turn up again. You never know … So I tossed it to the bottom of my laundry basket, along with the other lone socks.

Then, after my workout as I was changing back into my street clothes, I noticed I had lost an earring. A new earring. Since I'd only worn this pair once before, I just couldn't part with the single yet. So I slipped it into one of the pockets of my cavernous purse.

Yesterday I noticed someone had draped my black sock over the laundry room chair. Today I spotted something green and shiny beside the treadmill and recovered my earring.

It's remarkable how happy these instances have made me. I guess it's true that little things mean a lot. And that perhaps what I had lost and have since found is more than a sock and an earring. Keeping the single sock and the lone earring were unreasonable acts of hope that were rewarded. Maybe it was just God's way of reminding me to have faith in a positive future.

In the moment

The sky is clear and blue. The mercury is grazing 70º. The sun is bright. I downloaded my favorite Bob Dylan song ("Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts") onto my iPod, so life is good, right?

At times. If I can just stay in the moment. If I can just keep concentrating on the here and now of this sunny Sunday, I'm happy.

I'm wrestling with whether or not I currently have a career or just a job. I miss my best friend, who is moving and I feel so desolate and vulnerable without him. My mom's health is deteriorating in small but inexorable ways. Bird flu. Iraq. The Cubs have lost 5 games straight, and this 6th isn't looking too promising, either.

Two friends told me (independently, as they barely know each other and couldn't have compared notes) that they are worried about me, and that I should remember how many people I have in my life who care about me.

They're right. I have a hearty network of friends and I am grateful for them. And the sunshine. And cold beer when I'm watching baseball. And how adorable my cats are.

If only I can stay in the moment, if I can avoid worrying about tomorrow and Tuesday and Wednesday and beyond, if I can actually feel the good things that surround me, I'm happy. Focus, focus, focus. Don't let this moment slip away without enjoying it.

I will not obsess; I will not obsess; I will not obsess

Clinique has discontinued the ONE PRODUCT that helps me win in my ongoing battle against adult acne: Quick Clearing Pads with Salicylic Acid. Naturally this filled me with dread. What happens when I run out?

So I've started buying it up. I got the last 50-pad tub they had at Carson's. Then I started looking online -- Sephora.com and Gloss.com both still have it. For now. But for how long? I have become obsessed with scoring as many tubs as I can. I've got 10 in my cabinet now, with 3 more on the way via mail order. Since this should be enough to carry me almost completely through 2008, perhaps I should stop now. But can I? (I haven't checked eBay yet ...)

This is only my most recent health/beauty obsession. I noticed that Nice and Easy is phasing in new packaging and my color (Natural Reddish Blonde #108) still appears on store shelves in the old box. At Osco, CVS and Walgreen's. Could it mean that (gasp) I'm soon going to have to shop around for a new shade? So I started buying. And buying. I have enough to keep my in titian locks through spring and summer and into fall. My stock piling may have made a difference, making room on store shelves for the new, redesigned #108 carton.

Neither of these buying sprees can hold a candle to my response when Elizabeth Taylor discontinued her Black Pearls scent.

Yes, I feel silly. Of course I know this is frivolous. But I'm soooooo insecure about my looks, and when I find something that works for me, I cling to it as if it were a lifeline. And I'm not alone. When I had eBay as a client, they told me that at first, when they were still just a fledgling online auction site, their most popular auctions were for Beanie Babies, and recently discontinued shades of nail polish.

And, God help me, I enjoyed it!

Yesterday I went to Marshall Field's to check out the petite career wear sales racks. New season + new job search = new suit. Was very happy with the black w/white and red pinstripe Anne Klein number I found. Less because of the suit itself (they always kinda make me feel like I'm wearing a Halloween costume) but because I got it for almost 50% off.

I went to pay and the associate was busy refolding and rehanging clothes from the fitting room. A friend of hers -- male, and also a Field's employee but from another department -- took over her register and rang me up. He complimented my choice and told me how great the jacket would look as a separate. "With jeans and a slutty blouse."

At first I was taken aback. "Slutty" is not your typical Field's associate adjective. Plus he seemed so straight and I wasn't expecting to get fashion tips from him. But then I got thinking about it. This 20-something thinks I can carry off a "slutty" blouse. I know it was an inappropriate comment, but instead of insulting me, it actually put a little spring in my step for the rest of the day.

Self Talk

Where did my discipline go?

When I was in my 30s, I used to work out 5x a week (alternating between cardio and machines). Now I am filled with self loathing because I can barely squeeze 10,000 steps a day. (And my size 12 shape is an unfortunate reflection of this.)

When I was in my 30s, I volunteered at two animals shelters (onsite in one, doing the newsletter for another). Since the Kerry campaign ended, all my contributions to the common good are by check.

When I was in my 30s, I could limit myself to one caffeinated beverage a day, regardless of the day's stress level or workload. Now there's a Red Bull or Classic Coke in my hand at all times.

I tell myself that I'm not as hard on myself as I once was. I remind myself that as I got older and my paychecks increased, so did my responsibilities, so I can't be expected to live at Bally's anymore. And in my head I hear Jeff Goldblum from The Big Chill:

"Don't knock rationalization. Where would we be without it? I don't know anyone who'd get through the day without two or three juicy rationalizations. They're more important than sex. Have you ever gone a week without a rationalization?"

Hardware Stores: The Land that Time Forgot

I know nothing about home improvement. I am the least handy person on the face of the planet. I am fine with this. But every once in a while, even I must go to the hardware store. And it always fills me with dread.

We have two hardware stores here in town. They both smell the same (that identical dark, musty, "you're in a hardware store" scent). Neither one is well lit. They both have a very eclectic mix of products (smoke detectors, Crayola crayons, vacuum cleaner bags, bike locks, etc.). Neither seems to have been touched by time -- I expect to see Andy and Barney wandering the aisles along with me.

And I hate asking for help in both stores.

In the first store, I'm "Little Lady." The store manager smiles too wide, talks a little too loud, and pretty much treats me as though I'm brave but benighted. Poor thing, all alone, no man to help her navigate the world of hardware.

In the second one, I'm invisible. I don't know enough, and I'm not going to spend enough, to bother with. The store clerk wordlessly pressed the replacement toilet flapper in my hand and then returned to his conversation with a coworker.

So what's worse -- to be condescended to, or ignored? And is this unique to hardware stores? Are there other establishments which seem determined to make their customers feel not worthy?