I quickly loaded my arms, tired on a dress, three pairs of pants and two skirts. I banter with the clerk about the length of the pants. I carry two items to check out and pay. Total shopping time: approx 15 minutes that felt like eternity.

In contrast, as I was leaving, he was leaning up against a different wall, still looking miserable still watching her and waiting for Death to come through the door with his hood and his sickle and strike him down.

I can’t think of a voluntary activity I detest and avoid more than shopping. Scaling or deep root planning, you say? Nah. I sucked it up, went to the appointment, and it was over before I knew it. Shopping? It’s voluntary punishment, inflicted at your own discretion. I have long preferred my Garanimals for Grown-Ups ™ from J.Crew: I go on line, throw a couple tees and khaki’s in my cart and I’m set. Total pain time: less than 10 minutes, and I know on the other end I can grab any two items out of my closet in the dark with crusty eyes and crazy person bed hair and they’ll match. Giraffe + giraffe = WIN! Only not win, because a woman my age shouldn’t really be wearing chinos and tees with flips to work every day, should she? (See also: reason for trip in the first place.)

On the other hand, I no longer get hives when I pull into a store parking lot, and it’s been AT LEAST 9 months since a trip ended in tears. So that’s progress.

Women who don’t like to shop are inadvertently conditioned by society to feel they’re missing something as important as a strand of DNA. For me, it translates to an alternate reality – as if I’m a woman without a vagina in a gynecologists office. Any minute, someone is going to stand up, point at me and scream “What are YOU doing here? You don’t even have a vagina!”. (To which I would probably respond: Thanks for that, lady. I might not have a vagina, but you’re rocking a mustache. Kindly FO.)

There is something implied socially (which is an early BS indicator) that there is a fundamental glitch in a woman who doesn’t enjoy shopping. This time, I remembered that for each woman I saw – call it 200 – there were about 200,000 women I didn’t see.

Maybe they all hate it as much as I do.

The Mc doesn’t fly…ever. Most of you already know about his aversion, and that we just don’t talk about it because there’s not much point and your $.02 about what he should try in order to “get over it” isn’t going to do anything but make you feel better.

With that, our vacations are always driving distance from Atlanta. If there’s a plane involved you can bet I’m going it alone or with a friend – case in point – in September I’ll be traveling to Ireland with my buddy John.

The arrangement of separate and/or solo vacations isn’t exactly perfect, but it’s something I’ve come to know and accept (and actually enjoy)…most of the time.

For over two and a half decades I’ve wandered through life with few constants but this: my yellow tablet and my happy little goal list (which some might call a life to-do list or a bucket list) with items scribbled and scratched and checked off and waiting for their day in the sun. One of the more senior items on the list is this: swimming with turtles. Big, slow, gentle, graceful turtles in the wild. Watching them truck and float and glide and dance while I marvel in their beauty and hope that being in their presence can last and last and last.

Since 1+1 = negative pi, I figured this swim would be something I’d do on my own. Long before The Mc fell into my heart (and since), I looked into volunteer vacations in South America where they want $5k for the honor. I tried to volunteer with east coast turtle rescue and rehab centers who are elitist butt munches who want locals only. I’d put it aside for a rainy day, until The Mc suggested we go on a cruise so we could wind up somewhere with turtles and I could have my wish.

That was probably a year ago, and next weekend we leave on said cruise out of Port Canaveral. The other port visits en route to my green friends aren’t horrible, but in reality they’re just a means to an end: I get to swim with turtles.

Or not.

We were locked and loaded right up until some pig fu*ker in Mexcio went all retro on us and brought the N1H1 back to keep disco and bell bottoms company.

So I’m pissy and I’m switching gears and we’re totally going to make the most of it, and I don’t for one second envy The Mc for having to deal with the likes of me and my IwanttofightitbutIcan’tpoutyness in the wake of the non-start for the graduation of my dream.

I guess it’s back to summer school.

PS I’m fully aware my life doesn’t suck and I hate to sound like a whiny little beyotch, but I am kinda broken hearted.

Romping around the mountains in North Carolina, playing in the leaves of the Smoky Mountains and wandering around its vast expanse inhaling all its fresh air (don’t worry, we left a little for you) we found ourselves among the worn out, hungry and thirsty. Before heading back to our cottage at Lake View, we opted for a spontaneous stop.

What could present a bigger shift for our mellow, tree huggin trip than an overpriced cocktail, noms and loosing a handful of bills at blackjack?

The casino and hotel are out of place to begin with, two dozen stories of glass with an amusement park lot for cars complete with shuttle bus in the middle of nowhere America. Dozens of once thriving motels dot the road before and after the casino, their pools empty, weeds as high as my shoulder eking out through the cracks in the pavement. Reminders of a simpler time when people visited to get away, not to gamble their life savings.

The first experiential assault beyond the landscape interruption: the casino is dry. No beer, no wine, no adult beverages of any kind. How does that work? They expect people to gamble sober? This has to be a challenge to the house odds of success. Still, the sandwich consumed at one of the two restaurants wasn’t all bad and the cheese fries consumed were a gamble of their own – with our cholesterol.

The casino itself is a sad, sad place. Visitors have to sign up to play, and are equipped with an ATMesque piece of plastic with their name printed on it. The card is attached to a coiled tether with a clip on one end – when playing a game the card must be plugged into the machine. Big Brother meets child leash…beyond demeaning and creepy.

Wandering around the floor, I was nearly toppled over by the sheer tragedy of the other patrons. Grandmothers and grandfathers abounded with their tracksuits, oxygen tanks, walkers and cigarettes dangling from their fingers and lips. All plugged into machines, fixated on the screens. Both the hope and hopelessness of the scene floored me.

The card tables added another level of disappointment. Crammed in tightly, our parents (and parents parents) were fixated on the computer displays in the table. Computer displays because there were *no cards* present…the dealer merely hit a Simple Simon style button on their console to deal, hit, stay.

We were in and out in one lap, one slot (to say we did) and less than 20 minutes. If this visit and this exposure to the death of America is what I get for being spontaneous, you can have it. I’ll stick to my plan from now on.

In this age of technological and scientific breakthroughs, you’d think someone would have perfected this by now.

Yesterday, I spent a lot of time with that fantasy, kicked off when The Mc got from our real estate agent yesterday morning, which began something like this: “Good morning!” “I have terrible news!”

Oy.

We aren’t the only people who fell in love with the house (even though I fell in love two weeks ago, I mean really, what is wrong with them? Can’t they see I’m clearly committed to the house? How rude.) and we aren’t the only people who made an offer this weekend. In fact, two other people made offers, the sellers have selected who they’re going to work with, and it’s not us.

My self esteem is in the toilet. Did I do something wrong? Did I have a boog? Do I offend? Was it my potty mouth or was it the being mean to Sarah on the playground in 3rd grade coming back to haunt me? Did they find my blog? Do they not like us because we aren’t married and don’t have/want kids?

*sigh*

We’ve accepted the jagged painful shard of truth being jammed in our hearts after a not-so-healthy dose of mourning, whining, cursing, pouting, and blaming. I’m pretty sure we covered most of the phases of grief in spades and a sprint. We had a wee wake and consumed the better part of a jumbo bottle of red wine, reminiscing about how lovely the house was, recounting our visits and it’s adorable quirky qualities and how we’re going to miss it. Then talked about which apartments I need to go look at tomorrow on my “day off”, ate some stupid yummy frozen pizza (all I remember is garlic and bacon…) and passed out before 8pm.

Everything happens for a reason. There is clearly an even more fabulous house waiting for us, even if it’s as hard for me to fathom that such a thing could exist any more than I can imagine myself liking prison. Hm. Then again, I’d have plenty of time to knit and read…

The anti-Barbie dream house must be out there somewhere, because here we are. Here we are on the verge of saving mortgage money by paying rent at a fraction of the amount, cowering at the threat of moving twice, and taking our sweet southern summer time waiting for it to be time. Waiting for it to be not too hard, not too soft, but just right.

Oh, and BTW…whoever said there’s a housing crisis [in Atlanta] is full of dirty kitty litter and old lady roll down knee high pantyhose. So there.