Who's got two thumbs and is terrible at blogging? This guy. I mean, really.
I'm buying a bed today. A big one. An EXPENSIVE one. It's the king size Sleep to Live blue 400 series, and with the boxspring, frame and mattress protector it's probably going to be about $2,500.
We worked it out yesterday and decided if we have it for 10 years that's $250 a year, a little less than $20 a month. I am not used to thinking about beds in this way. Wherever I have gone there has either been a bed already there or a bed purchased for me. The things I think about in terms of broken down cashmoney are cars, pants, foods, and gym memberships. Not beds or furniture. I know I'll be laying in this new bed thinking, "all right, I plan on sleeping for seven hours tonight, which will make good use of the 79cents this night is costing me. Well done, frugal-me." Hooray, adulthood.
We didn't plan on buying something so expensive, but here's what happened: there is this one guy who scraps metal who has some kind of special back door relationship with Costco. I don't know what it is, but every now and then he'll bring us danishes or boxes of cookies from costco that no one bought and were in danger of going stale, and he'll have other things from Costco like ripped sweaters or opened boxes of sharpies...and mattresses. Apparently, if a mattress is returned Costco can't re-sell it. I can appreciate this, because who knows what kinds of health hazards happened on that bed before it was returned? For all we know, someone opened that mattress, killed someone else on it, doused it in cocaine and gave it back saying it was uncomfortable. And then replace it with another mattress from somewhere else. It would be a great way to cover your trail.
"Detective Finder!"
"Yes, Apprentice Gumshoe?"
"This mattress is completely clean of all evidence! It's a mystery...we did find a receipt for a mattress purchased at Costco, but that club is so exclusive. We'll never get in with out a club card."
"You'll learn the ropes one day, Gumshoe....let this be your first lesson. Always join the discount clubs-" *whips Costco card out of wallet and throws it onto bed with two fingers*
*gasp* "you're the whole enchilada, Detective Finder."
So this guy came to the yard after going to Costco, and they had given him two mattresses they couldn't sell again- a king and a queen memory foam. He sold them to two of our employees for $100. ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS for a memory foam mattress. Despite the danger of crime scene contamination I almost bought the queen but had absolutely no way to get it home. Everybody else who works there has a truck and I have a wimpy (but economical) honda civic, so the only way I was getting that mattress home was by bribing somebody or bungee-cording it to the top of my car and praying it was a police holiday. So I didn't buy it. My friend M was the one who bought it, and the scrapper delivered it directly to his house.
I came home and told CS this story who told me I should have bought it anyway and we'd figure out the rest later (cest la vie) but we got all giddy over mattresses and started looking online to find Sears offering a 50% MLKjr sale (which, I'm sure, is exactly how he would like to be remembered). So we went to Sears and found some eh-so-so mattresses for $600 and aroundabouts and decided to price some mattresses at a store like Sleepy's.
It was either a big mistake or the best idea ever. As soon as we walked in the door we were escorted to a lumbar profiling machine by a salesman named Tom which we laid down onto and discovered I need a firmer mattress and CS needs a not so firm mattress, so Tom led us to a Sleep to Live with two separate coil firmness sides and we fell for it. After that one, no other bed was going to live up. It was about $2,400 more than I wanted to pay for a mattress, now knowing that scrappers can pick them up from Costco and sell them for $100, but whatever. Just money, right?
Tom tried to wheel and deal us to close yesterday but we wouldn't. He was sad because he wasn't going to be in that Sleepy's store today when we said we'd come back, so he wouldn't get our sale. It must be hard to be a salesman. I don't care if you enjoy it. I don't think anyone enjoys it, really. I was a telemarketer for about three weeks and I thought I was going to kill myself. I just hate the sales culture in general. Somehow this entire method of interaction has evolved where the buyer is conditioned to be immediately hostile from the beginning and the seller is conditioned to be immediately....I don't know, sales-y from the beginning. Both of you know what's going on and both of you are determined to come out the winner in the end, and you will fight for it with smiles and handshakes. It's like a placid lake with a raging water tornado right underneath that only now and then disturbs the surface. I don't get it. I even wanted to buy a bed yesterday and still I found myself saying things like "watch him, he's shady, he's a salesman." and "how do you know this bed isn't $100 at some other store?" and "see that smile? he thinks he has you." It's terrible. Tom was a nice guy. I'm sure he loves his grandkids and has a hobby like model airplanes or train sets.
At one time a few years ago my dad wound up in a Honda Dealership four times in a six month span, either to buy himself a new car, my mom a new car, help me buy a new car, or buy another car, and every time the ride there was like prepping for a football game where the losing team was murdered for the crime of failure. "Ok, you gotta go there and act like you don't care, got it? Don't be too interested, or they'll swarm down on you. You gotta pretend like you're not gonna buy - don't say you like this one, or you like that one, just nod and agree to test drive it without giving too much away. He's going to try to swindle us, they all do. Their entire job is to get as much money from you as possible, and we can't let them do that. These guys are jerks. Terrible, terrible people. Just watch me and follow my lead, ok?"
And I'm sitting in the passenger's seat thinking, "Is this necessary? The check is signed, here. We're buying a car today. We are leaving this lot with a new vehicle. I feel like this could be a much more positive experience for all involved." Am I naive to think if I walk up to a salesman and say "hello, I am buying a bed today. I want you to know that. I want to trust you not to screw me on a price or I'll just go to Mattress Discounters and buy a bed over there. Can you show me what you have?" am I naive to think that will work? That that is the way we can do things as a sales culture?
Maybe it is. Maybe it's silly to think we can all be nicer to each other. I saved up enough money last year to make possible the things that need to happen this year, like moving and buying furniture. I think we deserve a luxurious bed, and I don't really care what else is out there. I don't care about the reviews I read online where people were dissatisfied with their beds. After sleeping on it for a night (in a bed that is no comparison for the Sleep to Live), I'm pretty resolved I want this bed, and we're going to go to the other Sleepy's store today where Tom will be working and buy it from him there so he'll get our sale after all, because I think human beings have a responsibility to treat each other civilly, even if it's just some guy trying to sell you something.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Gym.
I could be homeless as long as I had a gym membership. I don't mean the carless kind of homeless, just the homeless homeless. You shower there, have something to do during your long hours of not working, can swipe energy bars from the display case, and drink all the fountain water you want. Just have to panhandle $24.99 a month to cover the membership, and you're golden. If I was homeless with a car and a gym membership I'd probably reach my goal weight too (doing nothing but eating weight loss bars, drinking water, and working out) and I'm fairly confident I'd have supermodel good looks if I didn't love food so much, so I could then get a job modeling, buy a house with my millions, and I wouldn't be homeless anymore. Homeless is another word that stops being a word the more times you look at it. If I look at it too long I want to start saying hom-ee-leess, like homilies, which I think is some kind of worship song. Dictionary says: sermon. Which is a word that looks like "salmon," but as if someone was saying "salmon" with with a mouth full of marbles. What a horrifying thought. I hope I never find myself with a mouth full of marbles. I choked on mouthwash the other day and I'm so shellshocked I haven't been able to gargle since.
My dad put me on his gym membership for the few months that we're here, and I forgot how much I love the gym. I really do. It's so clean and everybody is sweaty and everybody else looks just like you. I don't know where this image of gyms filled with perfect sweatless bodies came from - must be the west coast because here on the east coast (in Maryland at least) we all park our crabbin' boats at the pier (all MD establishments have piers), strip off our waders and Gordon's fisherman raincoats, drop our natty at the door and make our doughy asses move on treadmills while we cringe at each other's massive sweat stains on the weight equipment. It's great.
This gym is really big and clean and open. It's very, very new, has a pool, and fantastic locker rooms. Really classy, like deep mahogany wood locker doors and lovely tile backsplashes. No scales, though. Which is weird. Yesterday was my first time going and I looked everywhere for the scale, and on my way up to the front desk to ask where it was I passed the trainer desk and a regular old K-mart style bathroom scale on the floor. I puzzled at it and kept walking, but it turns out this is the only scale in the joint, in this wonderful new gym, a scale someone picked up at the store on a toilet paper run and brought to work, in the middle of the main floor.
Um, no.
There was a spin class going on when I got there this morning - people never look so miserable as the people taking a spin class. Some people swear by them, but whenever I see a spin class it's just a sea of misery. That said, there's something mesmerizing about them, and I want to try one. I think it's the spinning silver thingies. They are hypnotizing. They look like the future, when everybody is bioengineered to be the perfect weight and build and no one has to work out ever again. Ahh, the future. Fingers crossed it happens next Wednesday.
I want to be a yoga instructor. Mom and I went to yoga yesterday for the first time (we've gone before, but it was run by this enormously fat man in his attic so I don't count it) and the yoga instructor was toned and thin but not, like, overwhelming to us who are not toned and thin. I can see how she got that way, because after 15 seconds of kneeling on the ground in a dog pose with my left arm straight out and my right leg straight back I felt like my body was screaming at me. According to the yoga instructor, at that point I should have listened to my body, respected what it was saying and changed position, but come on. 15 seconds? My body will have to deal with it. I'm tired of it being a brat.
I really liked the yoga stretches. They felt really nice. I don't think I could do the hardcore yoga with the crazy poses or the hot yoga (EFF THAT, seriously) but the stretchy yoga, I'm in. Although I couldn't be an instructor because I don't have yoga toes. Every yoga instructor I've seen has had yoga toes, so it must be a thing. Yoga toes are thick and reedy, and the big toe is the longest. The tendons stand out a little and you can see the veins, but yoga toes and yoga feet are thick and heavy like they were carved out of wood, and no, they are not something you acquire by doing yoga. My feet will always be flat like pancakes and really smooth, and my big toe will never be longer than the toe next to it, which hangs out of peep-toe shoes and thus I hate peep-toe shoes. My other toes are kind of smallish and bent-y, like they don't know what they're supposed to be doing. "Yeah, we're here, but why?" Yoga toes are like frog toes, and each toe is straight and has a flat part that makes steady contact with the ground like a suction pad. Next time you're in yoga, check it out. The people who are really good have yoga toes.
So I could never be a yoga instructor. But I could be homeless, because I have a gym membership. And a car. And you can have any kind of toes to be homeless.
My dad put me on his gym membership for the few months that we're here, and I forgot how much I love the gym. I really do. It's so clean and everybody is sweaty and everybody else looks just like you. I don't know where this image of gyms filled with perfect sweatless bodies came from - must be the west coast because here on the east coast (in Maryland at least) we all park our crabbin' boats at the pier (all MD establishments have piers), strip off our waders and Gordon's fisherman raincoats, drop our natty at the door and make our doughy asses move on treadmills while we cringe at each other's massive sweat stains on the weight equipment. It's great.
This gym is really big and clean and open. It's very, very new, has a pool, and fantastic locker rooms. Really classy, like deep mahogany wood locker doors and lovely tile backsplashes. No scales, though. Which is weird. Yesterday was my first time going and I looked everywhere for the scale, and on my way up to the front desk to ask where it was I passed the trainer desk and a regular old K-mart style bathroom scale on the floor. I puzzled at it and kept walking, but it turns out this is the only scale in the joint, in this wonderful new gym, a scale someone picked up at the store on a toilet paper run and brought to work, in the middle of the main floor.
Um, no.
There was a spin class going on when I got there this morning - people never look so miserable as the people taking a spin class. Some people swear by them, but whenever I see a spin class it's just a sea of misery. That said, there's something mesmerizing about them, and I want to try one. I think it's the spinning silver thingies. They are hypnotizing. They look like the future, when everybody is bioengineered to be the perfect weight and build and no one has to work out ever again. Ahh, the future. Fingers crossed it happens next Wednesday.
I want to be a yoga instructor. Mom and I went to yoga yesterday for the first time (we've gone before, but it was run by this enormously fat man in his attic so I don't count it) and the yoga instructor was toned and thin but not, like, overwhelming to us who are not toned and thin. I can see how she got that way, because after 15 seconds of kneeling on the ground in a dog pose with my left arm straight out and my right leg straight back I felt like my body was screaming at me. According to the yoga instructor, at that point I should have listened to my body, respected what it was saying and changed position, but come on. 15 seconds? My body will have to deal with it. I'm tired of it being a brat.
I really liked the yoga stretches. They felt really nice. I don't think I could do the hardcore yoga with the crazy poses or the hot yoga (EFF THAT, seriously) but the stretchy yoga, I'm in. Although I couldn't be an instructor because I don't have yoga toes. Every yoga instructor I've seen has had yoga toes, so it must be a thing. Yoga toes are thick and reedy, and the big toe is the longest. The tendons stand out a little and you can see the veins, but yoga toes and yoga feet are thick and heavy like they were carved out of wood, and no, they are not something you acquire by doing yoga. My feet will always be flat like pancakes and really smooth, and my big toe will never be longer than the toe next to it, which hangs out of peep-toe shoes and thus I hate peep-toe shoes. My other toes are kind of smallish and bent-y, like they don't know what they're supposed to be doing. "Yeah, we're here, but why?" Yoga toes are like frog toes, and each toe is straight and has a flat part that makes steady contact with the ground like a suction pad. Next time you're in yoga, check it out. The people who are really good have yoga toes.
So I could never be a yoga instructor. But I could be homeless, because I have a gym membership. And a car. And you can have any kind of toes to be homeless.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Nose.
I'm up at 7:11 on a Sunday because I'm congested. My nose if full of crap and my lungs are sick. I probably have something diagnoseable like bronchitis or a sinus infection but I'm going to ride this one out and see how it goes.
I don't understand noses. I mean, I understand them in that they are our smell receptors and they are very important. I understand them in that they have their defaults because we evolved from four legged creatures, now we're on two legs and our sinus system is still built for four legs and that's why it dams up and stuff. Our sinuses are supposed to be hanging down with our nostrils to the ground so all this garbage drips out as we go along hunting for gazelle and mongooses, or whatever our ancestors liked to eat. Whatever they ate, it was the sick ones because they were the slowest, so maybe some of our sinus sickness comes from that too. We have evolved into cold-catching creatures because our ancestors habitually caught snotty zebras.
I mean I don't understand noses in that when I blow mine, it should clear out. It doesn't. I see pictures of human skulls and right there are big sinus cavities, empty nothings with a straight shot out the nostrils. It's those suckers who are filling up with crap, so when I blow my nose, shouldn't all that mess rocket out like no big thing? It would fill up again and again because my nose glands would be activated to clear out whatever is irritating it, but the logic seems to be violated by my complete inability to blow out of my nose what is blocking my breathing. I understand that when I lay down, the stuff settles back to block my passages so my breathing is interrupted. I understand that when I stand up, it settles down into the bottom part of my sinus cavity and my passages are usually cleared. But WHAT IS BLOCKING IT FROM COMING OUT. Are there parts to noses that I'm not aware of? Are there cartilages in the sinus cavities like little hedge mazes that the goop needs to weedle through before it can escape? Is it some high-society garden party in my sinuses with minotaurs and droll mimes around every corner?
This explanation would explain the success of the neti pot. pour water in that pushes through the maze and exits through the front. I've only ever seen a neti pot in pop culture, but I guess that's not surprising. A lot of things I've only ever seen in pop culture, like lamborghinis and machine guns. The neti pot I saw on the Office when Dwight Schrute shoved the teapot Jim gave to Pam up his nose, and on Six Feet Under when Ruth found George's neti pot in the cupboard in the kitchen and it sparked a big fight. Oh, Ruth. You have such terrible taste in men. Hiram, Nikolai, George, Arthur (as played by Dwight Schrute).
It's not so bad being up early. I feel like my day is longer and I can do more. I used to hate getting up early on the weekends but now it's fun. And I hate snow, and I love roasting vegetables, and I'm totally responsible with my money. Must be old.
Roasting vegetables, man. I've never been so excited to make some potatoes and carrots. I've never, ever been excited about carrots. I don't even like carrots. But I've never had them roasted, so it'll be a whole new thing. I'm thinking about a little brown sugar. We have to do something with them, because I bought a whole bag and dad bought a whole bag. There was a lack of grocery communication. This also happened with a bottle of balsamic vinaigrette salad dressing. We also have a lot of tomato paste. I do not know what one does with so much tomato paste besides stirring a tablespoon into a huge pot of soup or some pasta sauce here and there. There is no tomato paste casserole and I do not think there is a great demand for one to be invented.
I think I'm turning a corner in my cooking ability where I don't need a printed recipe in front of me all the time. This is great, because now I can save trees while I cook. Less paper! I made butternut squash soup the other day and it was awesome. The recipe just called for butternut squash, chicken stock, salt and pepper, but I added allllll this other stuff and it was fab. I didn't have amounts, like teaspoons and stuff, and I hadn't seen it on the food network so much, so I was on my own and I succeeded! I can pretty much make anything now as long as it doesn't call for celery or fennel. I hate both of those things. They ruin everything. I also avoid meat now. I'll make it for people who eat it but I don't eat it. Mom and I are trying to go all organic, and she said to me yesterday, "I guess we're just going to have to go to Whole Foods from now on," which is a little like telling me we're going to celebrate my birthday once a week. Whole Foods...and Trader Joe's...all the time? Damn, I'll wake up at 7:11 every Sunday if you tell me I'll get to go to Whole Foods.
I don't understand noses. I mean, I understand them in that they are our smell receptors and they are very important. I understand them in that they have their defaults because we evolved from four legged creatures, now we're on two legs and our sinus system is still built for four legs and that's why it dams up and stuff. Our sinuses are supposed to be hanging down with our nostrils to the ground so all this garbage drips out as we go along hunting for gazelle and mongooses, or whatever our ancestors liked to eat. Whatever they ate, it was the sick ones because they were the slowest, so maybe some of our sinus sickness comes from that too. We have evolved into cold-catching creatures because our ancestors habitually caught snotty zebras.
I mean I don't understand noses in that when I blow mine, it should clear out. It doesn't. I see pictures of human skulls and right there are big sinus cavities, empty nothings with a straight shot out the nostrils. It's those suckers who are filling up with crap, so when I blow my nose, shouldn't all that mess rocket out like no big thing? It would fill up again and again because my nose glands would be activated to clear out whatever is irritating it, but the logic seems to be violated by my complete inability to blow out of my nose what is blocking my breathing. I understand that when I lay down, the stuff settles back to block my passages so my breathing is interrupted. I understand that when I stand up, it settles down into the bottom part of my sinus cavity and my passages are usually cleared. But WHAT IS BLOCKING IT FROM COMING OUT. Are there parts to noses that I'm not aware of? Are there cartilages in the sinus cavities like little hedge mazes that the goop needs to weedle through before it can escape? Is it some high-society garden party in my sinuses with minotaurs and droll mimes around every corner?
This explanation would explain the success of the neti pot. pour water in that pushes through the maze and exits through the front. I've only ever seen a neti pot in pop culture, but I guess that's not surprising. A lot of things I've only ever seen in pop culture, like lamborghinis and machine guns. The neti pot I saw on the Office when Dwight Schrute shoved the teapot Jim gave to Pam up his nose, and on Six Feet Under when Ruth found George's neti pot in the cupboard in the kitchen and it sparked a big fight. Oh, Ruth. You have such terrible taste in men. Hiram, Nikolai, George, Arthur (as played by Dwight Schrute).
It's not so bad being up early. I feel like my day is longer and I can do more. I used to hate getting up early on the weekends but now it's fun. And I hate snow, and I love roasting vegetables, and I'm totally responsible with my money. Must be old.
Roasting vegetables, man. I've never been so excited to make some potatoes and carrots. I've never, ever been excited about carrots. I don't even like carrots. But I've never had them roasted, so it'll be a whole new thing. I'm thinking about a little brown sugar. We have to do something with them, because I bought a whole bag and dad bought a whole bag. There was a lack of grocery communication. This also happened with a bottle of balsamic vinaigrette salad dressing. We also have a lot of tomato paste. I do not know what one does with so much tomato paste besides stirring a tablespoon into a huge pot of soup or some pasta sauce here and there. There is no tomato paste casserole and I do not think there is a great demand for one to be invented.
I think I'm turning a corner in my cooking ability where I don't need a printed recipe in front of me all the time. This is great, because now I can save trees while I cook. Less paper! I made butternut squash soup the other day and it was awesome. The recipe just called for butternut squash, chicken stock, salt and pepper, but I added allllll this other stuff and it was fab. I didn't have amounts, like teaspoons and stuff, and I hadn't seen it on the food network so much, so I was on my own and I succeeded! I can pretty much make anything now as long as it doesn't call for celery or fennel. I hate both of those things. They ruin everything. I also avoid meat now. I'll make it for people who eat it but I don't eat it. Mom and I are trying to go all organic, and she said to me yesterday, "I guess we're just going to have to go to Whole Foods from now on," which is a little like telling me we're going to celebrate my birthday once a week. Whole Foods...and Trader Joe's...all the time? Damn, I'll wake up at 7:11 every Sunday if you tell me I'll get to go to Whole Foods.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
New Year.
Someone once told me that the thing you do when the new year hits is the thing you will do that entire year. Therefore I am glad I was sleeping instead of puking out my guts, which is what I was doing for 4 hours before the new year. Was it a migraine? Was it food poisoning? Was it the thing that everybody is getting? I don't know. But I felt wonky driving home, laid down for half an hour, and then life was just awful. An eternity of awful. I always forget just how outrageously terrible throwing up is. Every second is a thousand years of pain and nausea. And it ALWAYS RUINS MY PLANS. I'd rather be sick on Christmas.
At least my first conscious action in the new year was to self assess - "phone is ringing...am I sick? What hurts?....nothing. Ok, sit up a little....nothing. I think I'm good. Walk around. We're ok. It's over." I looked at the time and it was 12:05. So if my friend of years past was correct in any way, and the thing you do as the new year hits is the thing you do all year, I'll be realizing over and over again that I'm ok. I can live with that, even if I didn't get to drink champagne with my friends.
Once the worst was over and I was hanging out with CS waiting for my parents to get home from their friends' house (party animals), he said "you look really pretty, though!" which is very sweet to say to someone who just very violently eliminated every bit of sustenance from her innards. Is it brash to say I actually did look kind of pretty? Is that weird? My skin gets all pale when I'm sick and my eyes get really bright and glassy, and sweat forced out of my pores by the strength of my dry heaves humidifies the air around my head and my hair curls right up like some freckled kid on a beach in the summer. The end effect is the kind of thing I would spend hours trying to achieve with curlers and makeup, if I ever took the time to do my hair or makeup. I've been wondering whether this is a silver lining to being sick and I have decided it is not. I'd rather be well and hideous than sick and attractive. Looking pretty as a byproduct of extreme illness is kind of like losing everything you own in a fire and collecting the insurance money.
Watching sports today with mom, dad, and CS (who is now officially a computer scientist and already has a job offer - happy graduation, CS!), I have realized that commercials really love to use Vampire Weekend's music, and Vampire Weekend has no qualms about selling out to commercials. It has made me not really enjoy Vampire Weekend anymore. I feel like I knew about Vampire Weekend before lots of other people did, but I don't like to say things like that because it sounds snobby. But really, Oxford Comma and Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa and A-punk were on my shuffle playlists years ago. Now I don't want to listen to them because all I see are Subarus and GPSs.
More later, maybe. Gonna go call all the people who need calling. Happy New Year!
At least my first conscious action in the new year was to self assess - "phone is ringing...am I sick? What hurts?....nothing. Ok, sit up a little....nothing. I think I'm good. Walk around. We're ok. It's over." I looked at the time and it was 12:05. So if my friend of years past was correct in any way, and the thing you do as the new year hits is the thing you do all year, I'll be realizing over and over again that I'm ok. I can live with that, even if I didn't get to drink champagne with my friends.
Once the worst was over and I was hanging out with CS waiting for my parents to get home from their friends' house (party animals), he said "you look really pretty, though!" which is very sweet to say to someone who just very violently eliminated every bit of sustenance from her innards. Is it brash to say I actually did look kind of pretty? Is that weird? My skin gets all pale when I'm sick and my eyes get really bright and glassy, and sweat forced out of my pores by the strength of my dry heaves humidifies the air around my head and my hair curls right up like some freckled kid on a beach in the summer. The end effect is the kind of thing I would spend hours trying to achieve with curlers and makeup, if I ever took the time to do my hair or makeup. I've been wondering whether this is a silver lining to being sick and I have decided it is not. I'd rather be well and hideous than sick and attractive. Looking pretty as a byproduct of extreme illness is kind of like losing everything you own in a fire and collecting the insurance money.
Watching sports today with mom, dad, and CS (who is now officially a computer scientist and already has a job offer - happy graduation, CS!), I have realized that commercials really love to use Vampire Weekend's music, and Vampire Weekend has no qualms about selling out to commercials. It has made me not really enjoy Vampire Weekend anymore. I feel like I knew about Vampire Weekend before lots of other people did, but I don't like to say things like that because it sounds snobby. But really, Oxford Comma and Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa and A-punk were on my shuffle playlists years ago. Now I don't want to listen to them because all I see are Subarus and GPSs.
More later, maybe. Gonna go call all the people who need calling. Happy New Year!
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