Registry

Have you ever picked out a china pattern?

I'm lost. So forlorn, in fact, that I've come to this blog--the one I haven't touched in months--because I'm so lost.

Here's the thing about wedding planning: it's exhausting.

Rob and I work a lot. On days off, the last thing we want to do is plan our wedding (one interesting exception: wedding rings. Just because diamonds are fun.)

The good news is that there is only so much procrastination one can do. Wedding planning is well underway and I'm happy to report that I like how our special day is coming together.

But now I'm sitting here, just about four months from our wedding, and I'm doing some preliminary selection of what will become the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner vessels for our future family.

And there are 100,000 choices just at Bloomingdales!

Flowers, bows, butterflies, hummingbirds, camels.
There's actually china with camels on it.
Camels are cute but I don't want them under my mashed potatoes for the rest of my life.

Pretty sure I feel the same way about the elephants and carousel horses.

For now, maybe I'll go back to looking at diamonds :)

L-O-V-E

I got this from Rob's mom just now, and I had to share:

"Andy darling, thank you so much for the note. You and Robert are the best kids parents can be blessed with. I wish I was there.
Love,
Kathy, your future mother-in-law
It is so beautiful to be conversing with the woman I've been praying for to come into our son's life."

Right now I feel like the luckiest girl in the whole world.

Bridal fitness

The good news: I joined a new gym.

The bad news: They believe me to be tremendously out of shape.

They had me come in for a "fitness assessment."

And it was like a bad middle school flashback.

Remember the tests in school where you had to do as many sit-ups as you could in a minute, stretch as far as you can to test flexibility, and do pull-ups (or in my case, desperately attempt to do ONE pull-up)?

Essentially the worst days of my teenage years.
I had to do that again the other day at my new gym.

I kicked ass on the cardio portion of the test, falling into the "excellent" category.

That's where the good news ended, unfortunately.

I rated average to poor in every other category.

If this was a sales tactic to get me to purchase personal training sessions (and I have to tell myself this very thing to get through the day), it worked.

My fitness rating was something like 14 out of 40. Ouch.

I have some work to do. Trying to bump it up to the mid 20s by my wedding day.
I'll let you know how it goes.

Bridal Fairs

Has anyone ever been to one?

Rob and I went to our first one this Sunday (he wasn't supposed to go, but in an unfortunate turn of events, he got the pleasure of being one in four men in a sea of aggressive brides-to-be.)

We don't like bridal fairs.

We felt like the vendors were sharks and we were guppies in the middle awaiting attack and there was no escape.

They make you fill out these forms to win a free honeymoon to Paris and a free wedding registry and a free washer/dryer set and your hand starts to cramp up from writing your email address one too many times.

I ate more than one pastry that I had to spit out (vegan cookies will not touch the lips of my wedding guests.)

And in my opinion, bridal fairs are fairly unnecessary unless you are starting completely from scratch. If you have an idea of what you want and vendors somewhat picked out, bridal fairs are a nightmare because they just confuse you and make you question any decision you've made.

And you see things like this:

And you think it's an amazing idea (possibly fueled by the free champagne they give you). And then you go home and show the brochure to your mom and she throws it back into your face and tells you you're ridiculous.

(Not that this has ever happened to me. I'm just sayin'...)


Also, I love this: 5 Tips for Guys on Surviving a Bridal Show

I love how they say that he shouldn't be hung over but he should be drinking (I know Rob was very thankful for his free champagne offering.)

Good news!

We have a venue we've decided to commit to. Whew, that took longer than I would have liked, but we're very happy with our 3-month-long decision.

Even better news:

I found a wedding dress!

Kind of.

I found it online.

And there are two small problems with what has quickly become my day in-day out dress obsession (it's true: I watch wedding videos of people I don't know that feature this dress.)

1. It's Vera Wang. (Of course it is. I have expensive taste with everything else--I don't know why I ever thought wedding dresses would be any different.)

2. It's from Spring 2010.

So, my options are finding it used or ordering it from any number of very shady websites out of China who claim they can tailor it to my body for $273.

I always thought people wanted Vera Wang dresses just because they're Vera Wang dresses dresses.

But that's not true!

They're amazing!


All other dresses now look radically inferior in comparison.

Fortunately, I had always thought I'd buy a used wedding dress. To me, it just makes sense. So now instead of paying $1,000 on a used designer dress, I just have to shell out about $3,000 more than that.

Not the best plan for the world's most frugal bride.

PS. I'm not featuring a photo of the dress on the slight chance that I may actually find it used. In my size. For a reasonable price.

It could happen.

Places to sleep

Today's post is not necessarily about wedding planning, but it is about my cheapness, which is, let's face it, an unfortunate bi-product of wedding planning.

Today's post is about how it seems I'll sacrifice rest, sanitation, and the respect of the man I'm going to marry...

All to save a buck.

This sounds dramatic, and perhaps it is, but bear with me while I tell the story.

We're so fortunate to work for a wonderful company that provides us with many perks--a good medical and dental plan, free language classes, and cheap hotel rooms! It's a frugal bride's dream!

As avid skiers, we often take the 4-hour drive up to the mountains of Lake Tahoe to ski. Here we are:


We usually stay here:


But this time, our super special associate (read: cheap) rate wasn't available.

This time, we stayed here:



It' s the Alpine Inn & Spa, and it'll set you back $35/night.

But it's not really a spa. Not in the traditional sense of the word, anyway. Unless you're one of the few who consider an above ground jacuzzi surrounded by caution tape a spa, you'll be disappointed.

It kept us warm from the cold, but unfortunately that's the end of its accolades. It was loud and uncomfortable, and Rob made me wear flip flops when I took a shower.

It was also very evident by the condition of the lock that our door been previously kicked in, perhaps by a tenant that was frusterated by the "spa" nomenclature.

It only took a couple of runs on the hill the next day to feel how little sleep we had actually gotten. For now, I'm assuming and praying that Rob's fears of any shower-born illness are just an overreaction.

I'm hoping (and Rob even more) that this was my low point, that maybe this was my "aha" moment that will turn this cheapness thing around.

Yeah, maybe so.

I'm going up again with weekend with some girlfriends, and we're staying here:



See? I'm getting better already.

I'm going to be a bride!

The love of my life asked me to marry him.

Sometimes I wonder why. Most of the time, I'm just in awe that the crazy road I've been walking brought me to him.

The hardest part is over. I met a man who I love and who loves me back and has decided for better or for worse to be with me forever.

But there's just one thing.

It turns out I'm not so good at wedding planning.

My mother can't believe she raised such a frugal daughter.

She thinks I may need therapy to deal with aforementioned frugality.

But here I am, planning our wedding, therapy free (mostly because it's too expensive.)

Welcome to my ride.

A new post.

But...
I can't for the life of me think of anything interesting to write about.

You'd think after not having written for a month, and for months before that, I'd be full of insightful musings, life lessons, brilliant commentary on our times, or at the very least a funny story or two.

But I think writing is one of those "the more you do it the easier it is" type things, and aside from limosine reservations, dining recommendations, and my rent check, I haven't been writing much of anything.

What I can say is that I'm more than a little excited that it's the holiday season.

It's crazy that in all my 30 years this is the first where I truly have my own house to decorate. Most unfortunately, it's also the year that I have next to no money to spend on decorations.

Either way, I'm so happy with our coastal Christmas decor. Here's our living room:

Note: there is a now a real stocking where Rob's blue sock once was.

And I've decorated frugally!
Exhibit A: Pumpkin (photo above) I couldn't stand to throw away + stupid hat Rob was given at work = magical transformation into special Christmas elf.
Exhibit B:
Autumn decor and some metallic paint from Michael's and you got yourself some nice little economical Christmas decorations, am I right?

Finally, I'm proud to announce that I live with someone who loves Christmas music as much, if not more, than I do (don't tell him I told you--I could see him getting embarassed by this type of thing.) And all this time I thought I was Christmas music's foremost devotee. He also has an unprecedented love of egg nog, a fact of which I think he wouldn't be embarassed at all.

Bing Crosby and Elivs Christmas songs are on when we wake up so he can jam in the shower, and on as soon as we come home at night. And I love it.

If I don't write before then (which I aspire to but, let's be honest, very possibly may not) I hope everyone has a very happy holiday season!

One year ago today...

So here I am.
It was one year ago today that I started my life at The Ritz-Carlton, Half Moon Bay.
(And not coincidentally, one year ago today that my commitment to blogging went the way of the dinosaur.)

It wasn't my ideal job.
Not even close.
Like, pretty damn far from what I wanted to do or even envisioned myself doing.

It was something to fill my time and simply earn a paycheck, with self sufficiency (and not living at home) as my ultimate goals (with a stringent deadline of before my 30th birthday.)

This happened, of course.
I make money (I could stand to make more, but that's a post for another day.)
I have an apartment.
And just about a month ago, I turned 30.

But so many other good things have come out of my start here 365 days ago.

I remembered how much I love this company, and its philosophy behind the treatment of its guests and employees.

I've met a lot of really really cool people that I get to work with every day. I've said it before: this company knows how to hire cool peeps.

Even during my time at the Ritz Carlton in Colorado, people there made me laugh every day. I really hope I never see a workplace where I don't laugh every day.

Most importantly found someone I really really love just about two months after I started at this hotel. It feels like a lot longer ago, but in a good way. As those of you who have gotten to meet Rob know, he has a very big heart--the biggest and kindest I've come across in all my 30 years.

We live in a nice, homey apartment about 3 miles from work. It's in Half Moon Bay, CA, which is about as far from where I saw myself as could be.
Its a small coastal community that my coworkers call "social suicide" if you're single and ready to mingle.

For us, it's perfect. We have beaches and hiking and restaurants and pumpkins. And each other.

Work's still not perfect. But satisfaction (and pay) are improving as my responsibilities increase.

All in all, not a bad year.
Not bad at all.

Jiffy Loser

I'm irritated that I don't know anything about cars.

I'm even more irritated that the guys at Jiffy Lube know I don't know anything about cars.

The worst part is that I can't even fake it. This is very disheartening for a girl who pretends to know a lot about a lot. Who can name every state capital and actually has a master's degree, but can't change her own tire.

Once in a while I'm reminded of how little I know about my trusty 11-year-old SUV.

Like today.

Today, I needed to get an oil change. My car (at close to 120,000 miles) was way overdue. Like, 3,000 miles overdue. The silver bullet's still got some miles left in 'er, but she needs some high mileage, synthetic TLC.

Before he left for work this morning, my boyfriend Rob, who happens to know and adore all things about cars (he's from Detroit), gave me some sound advice.

"They'll try to sell you a lot of stuff," he warned. "Just get the oil changed."
"Just the oil," he repeated.

$350 dollars later, I'm home from my oil change. Albeit with new transmission fluid and some radiator work, but $350 poorer nonetheless.

Mr. Lube explained what the car needed, and the total came to close to $500. I got it down to $350.

I thought I deserved a pat on the back. Or at least a cookie.
Well I just talked to Rob, still at work, and told him about my feat.

He wasn't as pleased as I was. Not nearly. He's disappointed that I didn't listen to him, and even more disappointed that they would "screw me over."

Assuming he's right, how do these people sleep at night?
The guy seemed nice enough. He commented on my dog. I thanked him when I left. He smiled.

I'm going to go forward believing that my car actually did need all and more than what I bought.

I'm going to pay my credit card bill happily, knowing that at least I'm practicing preventative medicine on the old girl.

That way, at least I'll be able to sleep at night.

Stories about love....

Terrified of marriage though I am, I've always enjoyed reading The New York Times Wedding/Celebration section. I love reading about the ways people met, the way they fell in love, and the extravagence with which they sealed the deal.

So it didn't seem too out of sorts to read the San Francisco Chronicle equivalent during a late evening slow time at work (shhhh...).

I won't make that mistake again.

It was a love story. Just two good looking, super bubbly college students who, despite a bad first date over underage cocktails, fell in love and finally became Mr. and Mrs. and just wanted to read a nice story about it in their hometown newspaper.

The story was sappy and kind of lame. It was. But it didn't bug me. If you don't like love stories don't read the wedding section, right? But it apparently pissed off the majority of the Chonicle's online reader base.

What attracted me to the story in the first place was the fact that it had 97 comments made about it. 97! 97 readers had something to say about Mr. and Mrs. Happy Newleywed.

I've included below a few of my favorites (and by favorites, I mean the ones that upset me the most).

"Yes, I suppose it is sweet to be young and in love and living in this city with the hundreds of civil rights you get to enjoy by being legally married. It's too bad that that same opportunity isn't available to equally deserving same-sex couples." Not place like someone else's wedding announcent to display your political beliefs.

"I just threw up in my mouth a little."

"Get back to me when he's bangin' his secretary and she's raising their five kids and is depressed."

Straight-up character attacks: "He looks gay in that picture" followed by "awesome funbags" and "nice rack."

And my favorite:

"This comment violated SFgate's terms and conditions, and was removed." Really? A comment was so bad that the staff had to remove it. Wow.

It would be sad if it weren't so ridiculously funny. And now, the count is up to 125.

Tahoe '10

Man, I love skiing.

I love everything about it. I love the speed and the smell and the views. I love the memories I have of skiing with amazing people in Colorado. I love the prospect of skiing with new people.

Fortunately, thanks to a willing boyfriend and a killer hotel discount, I've been able to make it to the mountains two times in the past couple weeks.

This is where we were:


It was 50 degrees. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. If heaven exists, I'm convinced it looks like this.

Rob loves skiing too, though he's not quite the die hard I am. Apparently, the slopes in Detroit's suburbs (built on old trash dumps--seriously) just don't quite measure up to the Rockies.

On our first day out, he said, "Can't you see how this would be intimidating? Propelling down a mountain with two skinny planks attached to your feet?"

I guess I can see it. There are trees and icy parts and random moguls and careless beginners and reckless snowboarders, all potentially available to put a dent in your day.

So the second time around, he asked for a bit of instruction.

I affectionately call it the "Andy School of Pain."

It's a simple regimen of pre-skiing Bloody Marys (for liquid courage purposes), yelling at the student on the hill ("skis down!" and "beach ball arms...pole plant!" are the most common), leading them down unexpected tree runs (exposed rocks and icy terrain add to the challenge), and additional beers at lunch (more liquid courage).

In essence, it's a combination of tough love and good old fashioned public humiliation.

Here we are during the 'barley and hops' portion of the training. Pupil is still smiling:


In my limited experience, I've found the program to be quite effective.

I noted unquestionable improvement in Rob's form. Being the modest and gracious coach that I am, I take full credit for said improvement.

Should be interesting to see if he re-enrolls....

Back in the saddle....

I'm sorry it's been so long since I've written! But it's so nice to know that you people somehow, someway miss me! Unfortunately, today I'm sick and the creative juices aren't necessarily flowing.

My joints and muscles hurt like hell and it feels like someone lodged a spiky golf ball in my throat. I'm reluctantly revisiting the days of unemployment on my trusty family room couch.

But in the spirit of optimism (inspired by tonight's State of the Union Address, notwithstanding boos from angry republicans), I thought I'd make a list of things making me happy while I'm sick:

Ocean Spray sugar-free blueberry (blueberry!!!) juice. Straight up deliciousness.

Alleve and all the other members of the pain-killing family.

The 3rd season of "Big Love." Gotta love that crazy family and their polygamist shenanigans.

Hulu and missed episodes of "30 Rock" and "Modern Family." By far the best sitcoms on TV.

Egg white omelettes with old friends who live far away (and tell you how you're "not learning to be sick very well.")

My new subscription to "The Wine Spectator:" making me more of a vino snob than I already was. And you thought that wasn't possible....

Thoughts of being up in Tahoe in a week from now with my amazing new boyfriend, skiing, eating, drinking, and repeating. My sore throat and achy muscles aren't invited.

And, for venting purposes, a short list of the things not making me happy:

The "homemade" chicken noodle soup from our grocery store that is slimy and tastes like it came out of a can that's been sitting on a pantry shelf for the better part of a decade.

The end of Brett Favre's season. That guy fought the good fight and came up just a bit short. Sad.

Does anyone else think that our vice president looks like Guy Smiley of Sesame Street fame?


Twilight.
That movie flat out sucks.

Bacon.

I wish I knew what transpired in my head to drive me to publicly pay respect in the form of an entire blog post to this unfailingly welcome addition to any meal.

But if you haven't played around with the term "bacon flavored" on Google, and you have some time on your hands, it's fun, and like bacon itself, a bit addictive.

Turns out there exists a Holy Church of Bacon, aiming to "promote consumption of, and unfaltering love for, the holiest of holy foods: Bacon." They abide by the "Five Baconic Laws," bacommandments if you will, and I love them so much I had to share them:

* Thou shalt not consider Bacon on the same level as any other food, as it is above all.
* Thou shalt not consume imitation Bacon.
* Thou shalt not stop pursuing Baconlightenment until it is reached.
* Thou shalt not forget to consume Bacon for ten days.
* Thou shalt spread the word of Bacon to all.

And now for a few enjoyable bacon things I found that I may or may not like to try someday:

"Bakon" Vodka: "clean, crisp, and delicious." Really? Some of the recipes look great, but clean and crisp are just about the last possible adjectives I would use to describe any pork-flavored alcohol.

A site dedicated to "bacon porn." Photos of everything from bacon cinnamon rolls to bacon lubricant to good old fashioned plates of cooked bacon. Bacon porn for every taste.

There's scarves, watches, underwear, wallets, mints, and toothpicks. And there's this:



Pretty awesome, right? That's a guy who loves his bacon and isn't afraid to show it. Bonus: it smells like bacon. Hopefully homegirl in the red enjoys cured pork as much as he does.

Christmas memories

Does anyone else find the day after Christmas vaguely depressing? It's always such a bummer, realizing I have to wait another 9-10 months to begin listening to Christmas music again.

Fortunately, I have copious memories of this Christmas with my amazing family and friends to keep me company until then.

I thought I would write a bit about a dream I realized this week: the dream of eating the biggest, most delicious pancakes I've ever seen.

While I agree that there is no need to elaborate further on my pancake issues, risking personal embarrassment and complete dissatisfaction on the part of you, the reader, I feel the need to share it with you.

Rapidly working their way into an elite premier holiday eating list that includes my grandmother's sausage stuffing, apple pie on Christmas morning, and triple cream cheeses that wouldn't warrant a gaze at any other time of year, I think pancakes of this magnitude may become a holiday tradition for me and my future family. If breakfast addiction is at all hereditary, my future kids are sure to grapple with similar breakfast pastry issues.

My pancakes this particular morning had brown sugar-baked bananas, caramel, walnuts, and streusel, all baked into buttermilk batter, topped with caramel, walnuts, streusel, and a portion of whipped cream that, if eaten alone, would be sufficient as a meal in itself.

We didn't eat until noon. We were hungry and I was getting grumpy (an inevitable and sure-fire sign of my hunger.)

Three pancakes come in an order. I ordered two (pancakes, not orders), and I ate about half of one. This is what it looked like:

It was an admittedly pathetic display of my "off putting pancake gluttony." But they were massive. Just looking at the plate as it arrived at the table began my journey to that familiar uncomfortable fullness native to this time of year.

I was so full.

A friend I spoke with on the phone a while afterward asked if I was having trouble breathing. Seriously.

Still, it was one of the best breakfasts I've ever had, and certainly the best (half) pancake I've ever eaten.

Bonus: each customer's coffee is individually french pressed. When it's noon and I haven't had coffee yet, I'd consider licking it off the floor of Grand Central Station. But great coffee is always a welcome addition to an already fantastic breakfast.

I'm not sure I'll ever be crazy about LA. But places like this certainly don't hurt the cause.

It's Onion Friday--a day late

Early Humans Finally Drunk Enough to Invent Dancing.

Even though it's The Onion, would this story really surprise you if it came out of the Smithsonian, Popular Science, or any similarly respectable publication?

Only when early humans consumed an adequate amount of fermented fruits and vegetables did they "develop the impulsive series of rhythmic movements known today as dancing."

While friends who think making fun of my dancing is a sport speak to the contrary, I imagine that my dance moves are no more graceful than those of early man.

I'm talkin' people who didn't quite walk erect or spoke strictly in monosyllabic grunts.

But the first step toward improvement, on the dance floor or anywhere, is acceptance or wrongdoing. Sometimes, in a desperate effort to avoid subsequent humiliation, I issue a disclaimer before getting down so that people aren't surprised by my unadulterated lack of rhythm.

Sometimes, if the drinks have been flowing for a while, I don't.

Which is why this story is not at all off the mark.

The Cougar

Ah, cougars. The term is everywhere these days, creeping it's way into American vernacular quicker than "sexting" and "celebutante."

But as it turns out, the definition of cougar is actually quite subjective.

Most typically, it looks like this:

"A 35+ year old female who is on the "hunt" for a much younger, energetic, willing-to-do-anything male."

But here's a different one:

"An attractive middle-aged woman who is fit, active, confident, independent, somewhat bohemian and not yet brain dead who is attracted to younger men because most of the available men her age are opinionated lazy slugs with beer guts."

I'll let you make your own judgments.

Anyway, I read this morning that the world's first ever "cougar cruise" set sail from San Diego last week.

Promoted as a trip for "the woman who knows what she wants and what she doesn't want is children, cohabitation, and commitment" the cruise headed to Mexico for three days of "what happens on the cougar cruise stays on the cougar cruise" good times.

It even featured a visit by Miss Cougar America (yep, she actually exists), an honor given by the annual Cougar Convention (yep, that exists also.) Bonus: she's from my from my neck of the woods. Apparently the Bay Area is quite the cougar habitat. Who knew?

Considering that 2009 is "the year of the cougar" according to Newsweek, this type of cruise makes perfect sense from a business standpoint.

In better news, 2009 is almost over.

On a more serious note, though, I believe there is unequivocal and rampant age and gender discrimination inherent in the "cougar" term.

People don't blink an eye at older men dating younger women. And I should know. I work at a Ritz-Carlton.

But behold, the male equivalent to the cougar.

Meet "the Rhino."

"An older man on the prowl for a younger woman. The rhino is usually found in warmer locales and can be spotted wearing either a flowered or pastel shirt (with 3 buttons opened to expose a mature mane of chest hair) tucked into khaki shorts and sporting boat shoes. Also look for horrendous dance moves, a white man's overbite, male pattern baldness and a penchant for picking up the bar tab."

The best part is the photo of Rod Stewart next to the definition.

It won't catch on like "cougar." It doesn't have the predatory innuendo or derogatory insinuation of "cougar."

But I still have to commend whoever wrote it for at least attempting to find a male equivalent.

Education and wine....

I've always been of the mindset that you should learn something new every day.

For instance, the other day at work I learned that Brentwood, CA, is actually not a town but a neighborhood made famous by OJ Simpson in the early 90s.

But today I learned about something even more fantastic.

There's a winery by my house where there's cheap wine. Really cheap wine. Good, cheap wine.

Great wine at an killer price ($4.99 a bottle!!!!!!) as long as you bring your own bottle. It's called Bottle & Cork Day, and you should be angry that there's no such thing in your neck of the woods.

The description of the event on the website is delightfully, if not a bit dissatisfyingly vague, "premium wine at a great price."

It's delicious. And I'm proud to report that it has earned the Stark family seal of approval, something that is coveted and quite rare when applied to inexpensive booze of any kind.

Needless to say, it was a good day.

I work tomorrow morning, and all I really wanted to do tonight was sit on my couch, drink wine, pet my dog, and watch college football followed by Christmas movies that will make me laugh and cry simultaneously.

Now I have the perfect excuse:

I drank a whole lot of wine earlier.

I'm not old and boring.I'm just an early bird, ahead of the curve, and in bed on time for work in the morning.

Nice and refreshed and ready to learn something new.

San Francisco Living...

Now that I've received my first paycheck, I'm thinking realistically about where I'm going to live--away from home--like a regular, functional, self-sustaining 29-year-old.

Fortunately, I found this handy map to assist me in my increasingly frequent forages through Craigslist (yep, I'm already back on Craigslist):


It's San Francisco's "yuppie index" wherein the red signifies the highest concentration of yuppies in a given neighborhood. Their definition designates a "yuppie" as a young professional making more than $100,000/year. While the entire city is clearly blanketed by a pinkish hue, it is not surprising to me that my brother's neighborhood, the Marina, is #1. Equally as unsurprising is the fact that I have a long way to go before I fit this description, at which point, I'll no longer be young.

Digging further, I found a fantastic website--TownMe--where other maps are available for like minded curious real estate shoppers. In addition to yuppies, there are maps for populations of cougars (also highly crimson in my brother's hood), sugar daddies, starving students, single moms, single dads, and most relevant to me, people overextending themselves on rent, which sadly, will inevitably include me, as well as most people in the city.

At least I can rest assured, though, that Manhattan is more in the red on this front than San Francisco.

I'm still actively working to overcome lingering sticker shock from my time in the Midwest, a magical and glorious land of sub-$500 rents. Once the prospect of writing a monthly rent check with more than three digits doesn't make my heart race and my eyes tear, there will be no stopping me.

Shopping!

Are you guys Black Friday shoppers?

Hell hath no fury like herds of bargain-lovers who have waited in the cold for 12-plus hours on Thanksgiving Day.

While I thought about complaining that I had to work yesterday evening, I stopped to consider retail employees who spent their Thanksgiving evening preparing to deal with overzealous shoppers who would sell their own mother up the river for a good deal on an electronic pet hamster

I don't ever intend to subject myself to such things. But thanks to the Internet, I'm the proud owner of two new sweaters from JCrew. Bought 'em for 20% off sittin' in my PJs eating leftover sweet potatoes.

And for the record, 9:30 am is fast approaching, and I've read nothing about old ladies getting trampled or gunfire breaking out over the last Craftsman Drill Set.

I'm considering it a successful day.