Okay, so maybe a month was a bit optimistic.

I have a bit of a problem (oh really?) I found out this weekend. When it comes to shopping, my morals completely disappear. Oh no, I'm not like a kleptomanic or anything. Nor am I one of those people who switch price tags, or haggle over little things to get a discount. I hate those kinds of people. No, my problem lies in the fact that I'm inconsiderate and have screwy priorities when it comes to shopping.

I remember one time, in high school, I was asked to the winter formal by A Really Cute Boy. I was so excited, I ran home and told my mother The Really Cute Boy asked me to the dance, we're going to make out, woo hoo! And having nothing that wasn't either punk rock or made of spandex in my closet, my mother generously gave me some money to get a fancy-schmancy dress in which to impress said Cute Boy to rip it off. And remember, my mother wasn't/isn't made of disposable income either, so this was ultra special. More special than the day I got my braces off and Another Cute Boy said to me, "wow, you look older today." But this time was MORE special, because that Another Cute Boy had to ruin it and follow up his comment with, "You musta got yer period or something." On THIS special occasion, I was ready to go ALL out. I knew my dress had to be satiny, pastelly, and have at least TWO layers of crinoline (for the boys, it's that scratchy stuff under the skirt that makes it poofy, and you always ripped it when you were trying to shove your hands under it, but it would get caught on your watch, or if you were ultra-swank, your cuff links, and then your date would freak out that her dress was ruined, but you convinced her that she looked more like Madonna that way, and then she said okay, but if Salt-and-Pepa comes on, she wants to dance. Well, except if you're gay. Then you already know what crinoline is, and instead of shoving your hands up your dates skirts you just pictured yourself in it.). I was going to curl my hair with spiral rollers, wear blue eyeshadow with pink mascara, even though it made me look like I had pink eye. Even though I'm ASIAN, and the whole get up would make me look jaundiced. I was going to be cool. I went to the mall motivated and ready to buy a dress with bows. But on the two mile walk to the mall, I got sidetracked, as in so many of those cautionary fairy tales that involve children getting waylaid because they didn't listen to their parents and they succumbed to temptation. Yes kids, I've become a cautionary tale. But in my version, the wicked witch came in the form of a jolly old man named Wally. He owned the dustiest, most unorganized, creepiest bookstore I've ever seen. And I loved it. And I loved Wally. He was the one who introduced me to The Hobbit in fourth grade. I would sit in his store, with all of the other latch-key kids, both smart and not, and take turns reading while he interpreted it in elementary school terms. From then on, I was an avid reader. Even before that, he taught me geometry in third grade. He had a box of pre-tangoe tangoes and we'd all race to make pictures out of them. He was better than a library, because we could be loud, we could eat there, and he didn't smell like Listerine and act like the living incarnation of Satan, as the local librarian did. I spent a lot of post-divorce time at that store. Even in high school, when I passed his store on my way to the mall, I couldn't help but go in. He showed me his new find, the entire chronicles of Narnia first editions in Hardback. I loved those books, even though CS Lewis was a bible thumper. My enthusiasm for the dance suddenly waned, and I bought the books instead. And like Jack and his beans, my mom was pissed. She knew I wouldn't take the books back, it would hurt Wally's feelings. And like all parents, it would be irresponsible to punish one for choosing education over sex. So the dance came and went, with out me. I didn't go. I had nothing to wear. But I read every one of those books until some years later, someone offered me a pretty penny for them. I don't regret not going to the dance. I'm not entirely comfortable at those kinds of functions, and in the long run, I made my money back and then some. The Really Cute Boy was held back for two years because of his cocaine problem that developed later. I don't think I missed out on any thing.

And what does that have to do with the present, you ask? Well, that was just one event of a long list of pattern related occurrences that has constantly put me on a path of irresponsibility and romantic ruin, if you want to call it that. So there was a big shin-dig I was to attend this weekend. The Publicist took me out to get some duds, and we went to an area of lots of shopping, and immediately, I got a headache. I like shopping as much as I like a head cold during the summer. Shopping is about as enjoyable to me as an evening at Chuck E Cheese with 10 kids in my care yelling for more tokens. I enjoy shopping slightly more than I like getting rammed up the ass by a 300-lb, 6'3" inmate named Peaches. I sent the publicist to get a dress for me (which he did, and it fit, he is so gay). Then he gave me a handful of cash and ushered me to a two-story department store that specializes in cosmetics. Who the hell needs two isles of cosmetics, much less two stories? The Publicist propped me in front of the Super Helpful Salesgirl, and went to get my dress. As she went into her spiel and my eyes glazed over, not only did I mentally plan my entire week, menus and all, but I think I meditated a bit. I asked her for brown. All I need is brown. But she insisted brown was not in now. I need color. I need pizzazz. No, I said. I need brown. She showed me colors I would not wish on Tammy Faye, at prices I wouldn't wish on Bill Gates. I asked what products that were available that wasn't tested on animals. She told me not to worry, and she didn't know anyway. She sat me down and sashayed off to find animal-cruel products and torture devices in which to apply them. I slipped out of the chair and out of the store, only to find a Rite Aid with familiar two dollar products and a big pile of money in my pockets. So after using about $10, I finally found a coffee shop for some much needed caffeine, and lo and behold, like the great monolith beckoning to me, there stood a Home Depot. And like that great ape, I lost control of my humanity and beat my chest to show that money burning a hole in my pocket, just what I could do to it. And I bought me a really cool cordless drill. Needless to say, the Publicist was pissed. But this time, he made me take back the drill. I couldn't go back to that torture chamber of girly crap, so we compromised and he let me keep my Rite Aid cosmetics (but look what I got for ten dollars, and that includes the contact lens solution that WASN'T on sale!). This time, I did go to my dance. But I was bored as hell, with not one mildly amusing writer who likes to act like he's smarter than everyone because he looks like a ferret and all the other men are attractive or wealthy.

So that's the end of my Hollywood romance. While the Actor was charming, hot, well-mannered, and made me feel like a freakin' genius, I really don't like the lifestyle. It takes up too much of my study time. And with the Publicist, it was like having a Chinese Grandmother or Jewish mom, either way, it got irritating. And to top it all off, I didn't even get any nookie out of it. This whole, "I respect you" thing can really get in the way of a good time.