A Button Today for a Hamburger Tomorrow

I haven't shopped in a clothes store since Gore invented the Internet.

Do you remember those commercials where a man in a department store would look under a clothes rack and find a few other men hiding in the rack watching football while their wives or otherwise female escorts shopped? That didn't exist when I was growing up. In fact, the advent of chairs in the women's department didn't cross some brilliant marketers head until I was in my late 20s. I am from the generation of males who grew up with their mom dragging them to those giant department stores like Macy's in the women's section while she shopped for herself. It always started on a bright Saturday morning with "Cary, you need a shirt" and ended up, many (many) hours later, driving home with a car trunk full of clothes. I might have a new shirt, but usually not.

Yes folks, I lived the nightmare. It was a bad enough childhood ordeal that I have a sister with the same condition I have - IFreakingHateShoppingophobia. This is extremely rare - not that I have a sister, but that a female has the same issue from the traumatic events growing up.

When I returned from NYC I decided to freshen my wardrobe with the latest in fashion. Of course this was done online, like anyone else who has IFreakingHateShoppingophobia. The shirts fit like a glove, except in a shirt type of way. I might add that I look fabulous in them. It's easy to buy online... you go to your closet, pick out a shirt or pants that fit you, look at the size and order the same size. Two or three days later you too can walk down the runway.

Unfortunantly they apparently changed the size of pants since I ordered the same size I always do and they were too tight. Tight as in I had to unzip the zipper so my jewels could breath. Anyone who knows me (I'm looking at both of you) would understand instantly that I didn't return them. Instead I took a different tact and decided to go on a diet so that I could continue ordering the same pant-size I have since I was in my 20s. Okay 30s.

This morning I woke up a little down since I knew I needed a haircut; Since my hair started it's journey of thinning this means the time-in-chair gets shorter even as the cost gets larger. As an aside, why can't inflation work on my hair also?

As I get ready to shower for my trip to Haircuts-R-Us I eyed those pants that refused to fit. I looked at my belly... the pants... the belly... the pants. I recklessly dived into the ill-fitting pants and low and behold they finally fit after months of military-like dieting (without the military or hard-core dieting part)!

Now that I know they fit and I'm looking sharp with my new haircut there's only one thing left to do: I dressed up in my new pants and went to McDonalds for a celebration feast.

Does anyone have an extra button... about 3/4 in diameter for a pair of brown pants?

One for the reader(s)...

Both of my readers independently told me this week that they were going to stop reading my blog unless I met their demands. One was simple: add another blog post (check).

The other reader was more demanding.... he required a follow up to my break-out blog post and expose "Recycle This" that rocked the nation and created an internet storm. I almost retired from that one blog post, but in the end I decided a $10 bribe from my mom wasn't enough to stop blogging. Besides, I don't think she's good for the money.

He's proud of his composter. In a weird way. Then again, anyone who is proud of their composter has to have a mental defect. This probably explains a) why he reads my blog and b) he not only took pictures of his composter, but sent them to me.

Those who are squeamish seeing vegetables slowly degenerating into soil, avert your eyes now. Children under 10 should be asked to leave the room. For here, my reader(s), is the composter in all it's glory:

I still get shivers when I see the beautiful soil.  Compost... it's not just for lunch anymore.
 
 

For those who are wondering how you too can get into some composting action, here's the make and model.  I find it ironic that it uses electricity.
 
 
As an aside, I thought long and hard about doctoring the photos and to add a little poo... in the end I decided while my composting reader would get it, my other read might be grossed out.