You want to know what the lamest thing to spend money on is?  A vacuum cleaner.  I am currently researching the suckers, and it’s even less exciting than spending money on a beige bra.

Speaking of annoying purchases, I don’t think that dryer sheets make any difference.  They are a scam – a dishonest scheme to make you spend more money.

For a lot of years, I followed the instructions on the tube of toothpaste: “Squeeze 1 inch of toothpaste onto brush.”  One inch?  One INCH?  I was going through a tube of toothpaste every 3 weeks.

We are encouraged to get the oil changed in our cars every 3,000 miles.  I will typically wait until somewhere between 4-5,000.  My car is swiftly approaching the two-decade marker, but I never pay the extra money for the oil for my old (I prefer to call her “mature”) car.  And guess what: the Honda is holding together just fine.  Still.

I wonder how often we’re supposed to change our Brita water filters?  I’ve probably had the same one in my pitcher for a year.  I might as well just strain my water through some rocks or something.

I can’t help it.  I like to make my money go as far as it can.

However, there is one thing that I have recently decided is worth letting go of before I’ve squeezed every possible ounce of use out of it.  And that is…

The bar of soap.

When it reaches that flimsy, frail thinness, and you can’t use it without breaking it in half, then just let it go.  Because it’s gone.

On Saturday, I had an idea: “I should go to Forever 21!”  This always sounds like a good idea – cheap clothes, cute ruffles, trends that will go out of style tomorrow but you must have them today, etc.  However, upon my arrival at the front doors, I was reminded of the cold, hard truth – a truth that I already knew, since I have learned it many times before, but I always forget when I get swept up in the moment.

I HATE Forever 21.

It is my own personal hell.

First of all, is there any rhyme or reason to the way that the clothes are arranged?  It is impossible to find anything in that store.  Racks of magenta clubbing attire next to bins of mesh t-shirts beside half-clothed mannequins on top of tables piled high with plastic belted cardigans…  It’s like the cast of “High School Musical” set off a dirty bomb.

Secondly, the music is unbelievably obnoxious.  I can’t decide if it makes me want to curl into the fetal position or open fire.  Must shoppers be subjected to songs that include panting?  Panting?

And finally, do any of the clothes even fit me?   I mean, I know that technically, these items are made for pre-pubescent, hipless anorexics, but I have plenty of curvy lady friends who find treasures there.  I don’t expect that a Forever 21 medium will fit me like an Actual Normal Sized Woman medium might, so I have no problem looking at the larges, and even extra-larges.  But honestly?  Extra-extra-large?

That’s just rude.

I bought nothing.

I’m in the grocery store of dreams
No less than once a week
To sample cheese and hummus dips
And try to sneak a peek
At you, the tall and scruffy boy
Who works the checkout lines;
You scan the produce and the bread
But sadly, not the wine
(For Tennessee is far too strict
Regarding grocery sales:
No wine or liquor on the shelves,
But only Pumpkin Ales).
You’re cute and quiet, have good shoes,
And always wear a smile,
I wait in your line even if
It’s backed up for a mile.

The end.

In her memoir “Eat, Pray, Love,” Elizabeth Gilbert succinctly defines the human condition as simply “the heartbreaking inability to sustain contentment.”

Any attempt that I throw at happiness will eventually fade. No amount of money, power, fame, clout, success, wit, possessions, or H-O-double-T hottness is going to be enough to fulfill that eternally aching place in my spirit. I know that on my own, I cannot make and keep myself content – it’s impossible.

But I thought I would try, anyway.

Behold! My new shoes!

The picture shows the color to be greyish, but trust me, these babies are teal. As soon as I set eyes on these gems, I thought, “Now, those are Annie Shoes if I’ve ever seen them.” And since I had a gift card given to me on my birthday, they were free (thanks, Becca!).

Whoever said that you can’t buy happiness has obviously never been to Target.

Searching high and low
For one to keep me lifted
I’m brassiere shopping

White is so boring
But practical and useful
When it comes to bras

No black negligee
Or polka-dot straps for me
Just a simple one

Remember the time
When my underwire popped up
At the grocery store?

My only white bra
Is now in the garbage can
Bra-less is trashy

Sick of wearing black
I have nice white shirts to wear
But they are see-through

So I’m on the hunt
Like a stealthy lioness
One that needs a lift

But do not be fooled
By my cat-like behavior
Leopard print? No thanks

You can keep your lace
And your strapless push-up wares
Sensible will do

These are expensive
I do not have sixty bucks
I’ll go to Target

All of my money
Would be better spent on gas
But I need support

Thirty-four C cup
Or a thirty-six B cup?
Always a toss-up

I have been sitting here for almost 4 hours, trying to write something. Anything. It doesn’t need to be a blog, it doesn’t need to be a song – but could I just find the right words to communicate something? My creativity seems to have ground to a halt.

However, here is what I know today:

1) I am incredibly happy to see fall attire showing up in department stores and boutiques. I have not had expendable income for some time, and so I don’t expect that I’ll be getting my grubby little mitts on any new clothes anytime soon. But just the sight of light-weight sweaters, muted colors, and “transition pieces” gives me hope that the autumn is (slowly, painfully) on its way. THANK GOD.

2) The other day, I found myself casually chatting with Kix Brooks about his recent experience running with the bulls. A few hours later, I baked cookies for the ex-cons across the street. When I moved here, there was no way for me to know what sorts of people would be brought into my life. But I have been delightedly surprised by the variety.

3) There are billboards next to the Nashville Zoo boasting “Tim Macaw!” and “Zebra McEntire!”

4) I have not been to Seattle for over 3 months now, which is the longest in 8 years I’ve gone without a visit. I have no current plans for a visit, and no resources to make a trip happen. It makes me so sad, especially when I think of breathable air. I have to live there again at some point. When it comes down to it, Seattle is home. Seattle will always be home.

5) I am grateful for my little buddy’s life, and hopeful for his future.

6) I have another show lined up for next week – which means that I’d better get busy practicing my guitar. I can’t play the same songs again! Oh, the stress…

7) Are my brother and sister-in-law rocking the house these days, or what?

8) I am feeling ready to end my much-longer-than-anticipated stint as The Temptress. But I will only take another job if it’s a good fit. Does anyone want to hire me? I’m like a Swiss Army Knife – I can do whatever you need me to do.

9) Sarah came and got her bed yesterday, so I am reduced to sleeping on an air mattress (not this one) until further notice. It’s not so bad. It’s like fancy camping. This morning, I drank my coffee in bed while watching an episode of “Felicity” on my laptop. So, really fancy camping.

10) I really love horses. I think that most little girls go through a “horse phase” – usually sometime between the “doll phase” and the “boy phase.” I went through the “boy phase,” and am weirded out to say that I THINK I CAME OUT OF IT. No more “boy phase” – too much drama. Back to horses.

I own a lot of things that I like. I like my chocolate brown towels. I like my two little glass bowls that are just the right size for a little bit of yogurt. I like my tall green vase. I like so many of my books. I like the quilt on my bed, and the Camelback pack I take hiking, and my game of Scrabble that came in a wooden box.

But I own a couple of things that I really, really love. My 1950’s floral chair. My sexy Macbook. My Martin guitar. My beaten down, worse-for-the-wear, “just hold it together, sister” Honda Accord. And my black Michael Stars turtleneck.

If you’re not familiar, Michael Stars is a brand that makes “one size fits most” clothing. I do not know what this means, since sometimes their shirts fit me, and other times, well, I suppose I’m not one of the “most.” I just did a little research, and apparently, to Michael Stars, “most” means sizes extra-small to medium. I do not think that is an accurate assessment of “most,” but that’s just me: a solid medium with boobs.

When shopping, my eye is always drawn toward Michael Stars t-shirts – especially the ones that are infused with “Shine.” I do not know what they do to make their shirts glow with an effervescent luminescence, but I’m all over it. Like a slug on wet pavement, I am all over it.

Last August, I was shopping on old Ballard Ave. in Seattle, and came across a black Michael Stars turtleneck. Overpriced, but well-made. Elbow-length sleeves, and slim-cut down to just past the hip bone. Thick, stretchy cotton – no “Shine,” but magnetic, all the same. I bought it on that hot August day in anticipation of the upcoming dreary season, and this has been my go-to shirt all fall and winter.

I want to wear it every day. I’m wearing it today. And I can’t promise that I won’t be wearing it tomorrow, too.

My dad and I are flying to Richland, WA, today to say our goodbyes to my grandpa. We bought last-minute tickets, and needless to say, the past 24 hours have been chaotic.

One of the tasks I had last night was to find something appropriate to wear to a memorial service. Now, given the circumstances, perhaps this should have been the last thing on my mind. Maybe this was a vain endeavor. But when it comes down to it, I simply do not own anything appropriate to wear to a funeral. Period. The only black dress that I own is a saucy little number that someone once called my “sex on a stick” dress. And can you imagine? The blatant impropriety? It would be the horrifying equivalent of wearing white to someone else’s wedding, or saying “bomb” on a plane.

And yes, even if I wore a shawl.

Earlier yesterday, at Dooce’s recommendation, I went out and bought these shoes – and on a terrific sale, I might add. So last night, I was searching for something that would complement my new wedges. Perhaps I was working backwards?

Here’s the problem with shopping for a funeral dress during the holidays: nothing is basic. Everything is flashy. Everything is jewel-toned and sparkly and velvet and see-through. Rule of thumb: funeral attire should not be capable of doubling as your New Years’ get-up. In fact, if you can even refer to something as “get-up,” then it should get the proverbial trap door.

In a brief hour and a half period, I searched high and low: Nordstrom, Macy’s, Dillard’s, Banana Republic, Ann Taylor, Target, even Kohl’s (gasp) and Wal-Mart (scandal!). I ventured into stores playing music featuring backup singers who were panting. I saw sheaths that appeared to be shredded, but were, in fact, “meant to look that way.” What ever happened to a basic, affordable, modest-yet-well-cut dress? That I could possibly wear again?

I returned home defeated, empty-handed, with a blister from my new shoes. And I went up to my room, opened some boxes, and searched until I found a black skirt and top. That’ll do.

Perhaps my urgency in insisting that I find a new dress was in order to distract my mind from the fact that I am about to see death up close – something that has never happened before. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t a little bit scared.

And yet, selfishly, I pray that we arrive in time. I hope we’re not too late.

The American shopping mall is my own personal version of a gauntlet, a house of horrors, a labyrinth of doom. How exactly one is supposed to successfully navigate her way from one end to the other is a concept that eludes me.

It is hard to believe that when I was a child, “going to the mall” was an idea that evoked such frenzied ecstasy that I would not be able to sleep the night before. Mesa Mall was in Grand Junction, CO, about an hour from my mall-less hometown of Montrose, and my I spent my elementary school years living from one “big city” trip to the next. I would scrape together my nickels and dimes to buy giant jawbreakers at Gumballs Candy Store, and The Baby-Sitter’s Club books at B. Dalton, and naturally, neon-haired trolls at KB Toys. I was convinced that Sbarro translated to “gourmet meal,” and that Orange Julius was the very elixir of life itself. Mesa Mall was one place that I was allowed to roam free, and then meet back up with my parents at the clock tower in the center at a certain time.

My, how things have changed.

I avoid the mall at all costs. To some of my friends, shopping is a sport, a recreational activity. For me, shopping is an irritating inconvenience, a necessary nuisance on par with pap smears. I find myself at Northgate Mall fairly frequently for various essentials, and each time, I am filled with more and more disdain.

Aside from the fact that Express has recently changed its target market from “professional” to “ho-bag,” I have a major annoyance with the American mall. Is it the fact that a single Cinnabon is 730 calories? The 12-year old boys gawking at the posters in Victoria’s Secret? The store Papaya… just in general?

No. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the number one reason that I hate the American mall: the vendors in the center.

These people are tenacious, despicable predators who refuse to let shoppers go about their business – oh no. They interfere with seemingly innocuous questions such as, “How are you doing today?” DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT. Once acknowledged with a smile or a “Fine, thanks,” they have already ensnared their prey, and will follow up with a “Would you like to switch to Sprint / try a Dell / have your hair straightened / subscribe to a magazine / have your child’s face airbrushed onto a throw pillow?” IF I DON’T LOOK AT THEM THEY DON’T EXIST IF I DON’T LOOK AT THEM THEY DON’T EXIST. Even when I pretend to talk on the phone while walking from one store to the next, they talk to me anyway.

Really, sir? You are really going to interrupt my incredibly important (fake) phone conversation to try to convince me that I should pierce my cartilage? Because I would rather rip my already existing earrings straight from the lobes.