I recently turned 25, which couldn’t have made me feel more decrepit. To top off my frustration, anyone a mere second older than me has said to me “Oh I remember being 25! I’d give anything to be that age again”. This got me thinking… exactly what age would I give “anything” to be. And having given it a lot of thought, I’ve landed on the dream age: 86. Now, you might wonder, exactly what person in their right mind would choose the “twilight of their life” as the primo age. Well, I’ve backed my decision up with quite a few reasons, and I feel that after you read this post, you might agree with me.

Reason 1: The Hoveround

There might not be any item in this world better than all the geriatric gizmos we’ve got on the market today. The one gadget that literally blows my mind is the Hoveround. To the point where, I’m not exactly sure why we don’t see every person over the age of 65 scootin’ themselves any and everywhere. The Hoveround is an electric power chair that allows you to go off-roading, make tight turns around corners, and chase your grandson around the house. But, I’m not going to describe everything about it, I’ll let the commercial do that for me.

Sold. First of all, what they didn’t tell you about this commercial was that the batteries ran out on Bernice and Joy’s Hoverounds, and they are actually still at the Grand Canyon. Aside from that, this power chair is a God send. And I don’t mean a God send for people who are disabled. I mean a God send for people like me, who will actually hold it because they’re too lazy to walk to the bathroom 10 feet away. And to think, if I had one of these bad boys I wouldn’t have to pretend to not be a sloth, and I’d be “free to see the world”. But everyone will get real judgy if abled-body Ainsley starts scooting to work. Old people – 1, Ainsley – 0.

Reason 2: Handicapped Spaces

What happens when a borderline blind, 4 foot 2, 85 year old man goes to get his driver’s license renewed? Do they take the license away, for fear that he will back into his closed garage door for the 5^th time this year? Nope. They give Mr. Magoo a new license good for 10 years and a handicapped permit. And let’s face it, people with handicapped stickers really get all the luck. Primo parking spaces, they get to ride the electric cart in the airport, people will literally push them wherever they want to go. I’m not saying I wish I couldn’t walk. I’m just saying when I’m 76 years old, maybe I can walk and maybe I fake it to get these diamond medallion level perks.

Reason 3: The End-All Be-All Excuse

“She’s old. She doesn’t know any better.” This phrase will literally get you out of everything. With this in your titanium-hip pocket, you are allowed to forget everyone’s name because you call everyone “dear”, you are allowed to write your grandchildren birthday checks for a mere $7 (one dollar for every year they’ve been alive), and you are allowed to wear adult diapers (See my reasoning for this perk in the “Hoveround” section). You’re also allowed to say literally everything that comes to your mind as loudly as you want, which is the apex of my dream pile if you ask me. Say some girl walks into a room wearing very little clothing and a little too much make-up. Any 80+ year old woman has the 100% right to scream “Well, doesn’t she look like a hooker!”. We were all thinking it Nana, I’m just glad you get away with saying it.

Reason 4: They start turning you into a robot

Knee replacements, hip replacements, you name it. Sure, they’re time consuming and not the most comfortable situation, but exactly who said that getting robot legs was going to be easy? I absolutely love the concept that once your bones turn to glass, ready to shatter at any moment, doctors start replacing them with titanium. So, by the age of 76, I intend to be at least 50% Wolverine from XMEN.

Reason 5: Wigs and fake teeth

It’s like Halloween every day. I feel like our elderly aren’t seeing the silver lining of the fact that they don’t have teeth and hair anymore. They get the regular old people dentures, which rival the smile of Mr. Ed the horse, and they get the typical grey curly poof wig. You know what I’m going to do when I’m in that position? Vampire teeth and a Marge Simpson wig. You can go crazy! You’re like a real life Mr. Potato head.

And let’s not forget this beaut. It simply needs no explanation. You don’t have to walk up stairs. Done. Also, I’d like to point out that the lady in this picture looks pretty capable of walking. She’s cheating the system.

At the end of the day, some might think I’m making fun of old people. And that couldn’t be further from what I’m doing. These are all the “gold medal at the end of the race” scenarios that I’ve painted. They’ve earned the right to scoot around, screaming at people. And while I’m going to enjoy every year of my life up til this point, I’m surely not dreading the sunset years. Bring ‘em on.

As I was sitting on a plane waiting to take off, I was wondering what my next blog topic was going to be. And then, as if in a movie, I simply opened my eyes and saw a beacon shining back at me. I'm talking about Sky Mall magazine. Now, were I to delve into all the crazy stuff they've jam packed into this phenomenal catalogue I wouldn't be able to succesfully capture an accurate snapshot. So instead I'm going to highlight their marketing scheme by discussing the apparent target demographics they've been aiming at.

The Germaphobe

The first group of people they're hoping to gain revenue from are the people who more than likely cried for joy when they came out with portable hand sanitizers. I'm assuming that they also feel a huge sense of relief when they open this magazine and turn through page after page of travel toothbrush sanitizers, ultraviolet denture cleaners, and that wand you're supposed to wave over your bed to kill dust mites. Finally, a magazine that knows their pain! My favorite item that speaks to these people is the "keep your distance" bug vacuum. I'm sorry, exactly how much moth extermination are you doing that you need a vacuum to assist, yet you can't be risking contact with the bug, you need a good 2 feet of space. All for the rock bottom price of $60. Here's a thought, maybe shut the front door. Also, Sky Mall, you're really missing the boat on playing to the germaphobic community, because the last thing those people are going to do is flip though a public use magazine in an airplane. This periodical is practically a cesspool.

The Pet Psycho

We all love pets, but sky mall is directly speaking to the crazies. The ones that are convinced that their pets talk to them, and probably need every luxury that could be afforded to an animal. So in keeping with that mentality, this magazine has offered 13 bathroom options for your cat or dog. 13. A cat box hidden in the base of a very life like yet still fake potted plant, an AstroTurf pad to simulate grass for your indoor dog, a cat potty training system. The list goes on. And every picture has a pet who is getting ready to take advantage of this dreamscape bathroom situation. But this isn't even my favorite part of the animal section of sky mall. The best is the pet barrier section. I actually laughed out loud when I saw this picture.

That cat couldnt be closer to knocking that entire barrier over and sitting on the keyboard. My dream for this scenario is that the cat actually goes to the bathroom on the keyboard, as if to say to it's owner, "that's what you get for making me use a potted plant. Also I hate you."

People with orthopedic issues

These people have severe to extremely severe orthopedic challenges, and in the arthritis community instead of making a magazine that highlights items for relieving these pains, they just distribute sky mall. Also, apparently public humiliation is not a barrier for these customers. They need to get their backs in traction and they need to do it on a plane. My favorite item for these folks are the pillows that wouldn't do anything but actually give you scoliosis. Maybe your back hurts because you think it's appropriate to sleep on something like this.

Spies

The economy is tough and we've all taken a hit in some way. And those involved in international espionage are not immune either. So instead of getting the latest 007 gear from headquarters, they save money and go straight to sky mall. Here you can get a pen, snorkel mask, and sunglasses that will all video tape and record up to two hours of footage. These devices don't compare to the elusive nature of the "next best thing to being a fly on the wall". Their suggestion is that you give this pen holder slash digital clock slash calendar slash thermostat to a coworker as a gift. Then you can call the device and listen to whatever is happening in the vicinity. Really, office creeper? You're gonna pull a Watergate and Richard Nixon me like that? I'm pretty sure that's wire tapping. I'm pretty sure that's illegal, and I'm pretty sure your boss reads sky mall and knows exactly what this "gift" is and you're toasty pants.

People who couldn't have a more disgusting foot situation and are practically freezing to death but would like to drink their pains away have found a retail jackpot. Because with sky mall you can instantly fix that toe that in my opinion you're better off amputating.

You can also bundle up for the arctic temperatures you'd have to be facing to wear this and not sweat to death.

And you can show your artsy yet alcoholic side with these fine and stylish wine decanters. This one is called "bliss".

Last but not least, if you're under the impression that decorating with an Egyptian sarcophagus, big foot garden statue, or battle armor is appropriate, and you have no qualms with spending literally thousands of dollars on these historical treasure replicas, you've finally found a one-stop-shop. 

At the end of the day, the true gift that is Sky Mall magazine is that you don't have to make these life changing purchases during your flight. They even ask you on the cover to take the magazine with you, it's free. So think it over, if it's not immediately obvious that you need everything in the entire book. So to you I say, "Thank you sky mall. From all of us. Thank you."

 

I’m the kind of person that isn’t afraid to ask questions. There’s really no way to learn and understand something unless you find out “Why?” and “How?” to as many things as you can. Which is why I feel like I should post the top questions on my mind these days. Maybe someone else knows the answer. Maybe others are wondering the exact same thing. Maybe you SHOULD be asking this question too.

Question 1 has to do with the famous children’s show “Dora the Explorer”. From what little I’ve seen of this show I’ve gleaned that the premise is a young girl, Dora, who goes gallivanting through what I can only assume is a forest similar to the Amazon with her friend Diego. They go on adventures, and along the way, the yell out random words in Spanish so as to teach children at a young age how to be those ignorant Americans who say “HOLA AMIGO! WHERE IS THE BANO?” Great. So my question is this; while this presumably under 5 year old child is running amuck with her pal, EXACTLY WHERE ARE HER PARENTS?! Far be it from my mom to even let me meander away from the street I grew up on when I was playing, and this little toddler gets to run wild in a jungle? No wonder she’s screaming out words in Spanish, it’s probably her coping mechanism for the feelings of abandonment she’s going through. Poor little latch-key kid. It’s not a TV show, it’s a travesty.

Question 2 has to do with the conspiracy that is Stevie Wonder. Now, do not get me wrong, I love me some Stevie, but I’m 100% convinced that he was faking it. And you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about: That guy wasn’t blind for one red-hot second. Every year around this time I remember this fact because I hear that song that he sings “That’s What Christmas Means to Me My Love”. There’s a part where he sings “Lots and lots of mistletoe”. Seemingly normal except he says “Lots and lots of mist-tle-toe”. He almost OVERLY pronounces the silent “t”. Now I ask you this “WHY IS A BLIND MAN PHONETICALLY READING LYRICS?”. How did he even know the “t” was there? He wasn’t reading Braille when he was singing it, because he was playing the piano too. I can’t for the life of me understand how he wasn’t busted after this. If I could talk to him I’d tell him “you don’t need the blind gimmick. I would have bought your CD anyways”.

Question 3 involves something that we all participate in: Facebook. I honestly have multiple questions about facebook, so I’ll rapid fire them: 1) Why do people make status updates every hour? Stop clogging my News Feed and get yourself a Twitter account. 2)Why do people who are merely dating have a picture of them and their significant other as their profile picture, and the same picture is used for both accounts? Are you really fusing your lives together to this extent after 4 months of dating? Maybe slow down crazy. Slow down. 3)Why are heterosexual girls in relationships with other girls because they are friends? Is it awkward when y’all have to “break up” on facebook because one gets married? That little broken heart shows up on the news feed, telling everyone that y’all both regret making that your status when you were freshmen and didn’t know how to break it to the other person.

                 ( I don’t even know who this couple is, but I know they need to settle down)

Question 4 involves the reverse racism that is going on by just about everyone on the planet towards blonde girls. I’m not talking about the stereotype that “blondes are dumb”. That’s pretty accurate for the most part. I’m talking about exactly why can’t people tell blondes apart? What, we all look alike? Just about every time I’m with a blonde friend of mine people ask if we’re sisters. As if the genetic mutation of having blonde hair has forced two sisters to cling to each other in friendship and support. No, I do not look like any of my friends. No, I do not look anything like Carrie Underwood or Jenny McCarthy or Chelsea Handler. I’m going to ask Black Eyed Peas to write a song about the trails and tribulations we go through being lumped into one person. Here’s some pictures of my friends that, when I hang out with them, I am asked if we’re sisters.

Here’s Allison, not my sister. I put her first here because we get this the most, to the point where a guy that she used to date got us confused. Get a grip, guy. She’s 5’9 and I’m 5’4. Also, our faces have just about zero of the same features, different color eyes… the list goes on.

Here’s Jordan. The discrepancy between our looks couldn’t be more blatantly obvious. Yet we get asked regularly if we’re sisters. Again, she’s 5’10.

Here’s Erin. When coupled with Jordan and Allison above, the assumption is that we’re quadruplets. Yes, quadruplets. Because that happens every day, 4 blonde sisters waltzing into your life. Grow up, and maybe stop watching so much porn if you think that’s a realistic scenario. Also, in reference to this picture, maybe next time I spray tan, I go "light" instead of "medium".

Christmas Toys of Yesteryear

Now that it’s Christmas time even for those Scrooges and Grinches that waited til after Thanksgiving to start celebrating, and since we’ve been on the Childhood memories kick, I’ve decided to merge the two concepts. This post will be about what would truly make or break Christmas for a child: The Christmas presents. And I contend, like most everything else, kids toys just aren’t bringing the fury like they used to.

Crayons

Nothing solidified your status in 1^st grade more firmly than the quantity of your Crayola Crayons. This caste system was pretty consistent across the board, and Crayola was very much aware of this fact. You have your 64 pack which was an 8x8 cube. This would slap you right in the middle of the social ladder. You got your 98 pack, which was pretty impressive with the built in sharpener, and this meant that you had the orange “Macaroni and Cheese” Crayon, which was pretty bad ass should you ever need to color a picture of noodles or make a portrait of a ginger. AND THEN you get your 120 pack. This miracle from Heaven came in a large booklet form, where each crayon had its own gravity defying slot. You could open the booklet up and turn it upside down and no crayons would even fall out! This luxury edition was only received on Christmas, and was complete with not only Macaroni and Cheese but also Purple Mountain’s Majesty and 3 or 4 unnamed colors with the option to submit your name idea to Crayola. Boom, you’re popular with this bad boy.

Conversely, the fastest way to the bottom of the totem pole is with RoseArt crayons. To this day I’m convinced that only Church Sunday School classrooms are keeping this horrible excuse for an art supply manufacturer in business. Even as a child I knew from just touching these little horror sticks that my masterpiece was going to end up a globby, waxy mess. To the point where I’m convinced their business plan is to rip the wick out of a colored candle, slap some paper around the middle and call it a day. And don’t act like they had packs that exceeded 8 colors. They might have pretended too, but all the greens were the same color once committed to paper. If you’re getting RoseArt crayons for Christmas, well I’m sorry your parents hate you.

                                                     (Just look how waxy they are!)

Barbie Fashion Designer

Now I know this will not apply to any heterosexual male that is reading this post, but maybe if you had a little sister, you’ll remember them screaming at the top of their lungs and sprinting to the computer after opening a present on Christmas morning. This was because they just received Barbie Fashion Designer. This incredible feat of technology allowed little girls (or boys, don’t act like you didn’t check it out when your sister wasn’t around) to create outfits for their Barbies on the computer, with various colors, patterns and outfit options, and then print their “mangnum opus” as it were onto polyester covered paper. Then, we’d cut the pattern out, use the stickers provided to adhere the seams, and presto, you have a new outfit for your doll. Little did we know the headache this would cause our parents, as each outfit would suck a brand new ink cartridge dry, the fabric paper was impossible to replace, and the adhesive for the stickers was so sub-par, it was really more “Barbie Stripper Designer” than anything. You’d just be playing with your newly dressed Barbie and she’d be on a date with Aladdin and boom, naked. Clothes fell apart. It was embarrassing to say the least.

Sock-Em Boppers

Apparently the makers of this product were all under the age of 10, had an annoying sibling, and needed a way to punch them in the face repeatedly without getting in trouble. Enter the Sock-em Bopper. This toy was just an inflatable glove that fit on your hand and gave you carte blanche to sucker punch anyone else. The unspoken rule was you could only hit someone that also had a sock-em bopper on, as if that was them admitting they’re ready for a concussion. The blow to the head, although not as severe as direct contact with a fist, wasn’t exactly like getting hit with a cloud. But should someone ever complain to a parent about how hard you hit, you’d completely get away with it because you’d say “I used the sock-em bopper and he had one on too!”. Boom, not in trouble. Even in the commercial, all the kids are just furiously attacking each other and smiling. I wonder how many takes some of those shots took, pausing for bloody nose clean up. Needless to say, I never got this toy because my mom smelled the true purpose of this game from a mile away.

Moon Shoes

According to the commercial, you could strap glorified shoe boxes to your feet with industrial strength rubber bands, and you were practically transported to a zero gravity situation, i.e. the moon. Hardly, but that still didn’t keep each and every kid from stomping around in these bad boys. The only thing that would cause us to again walk as if we were on planet Earth would be for one of the rubber bands to break. And that would generally happen within 1 day of purchase. Nevertheless, kids would flip out for these bad boys, regardless of the fact that I’m beyond convinced that these shoes are the sole reason for childhood scoliosis.

Skip-it

At first glance, one would assume that purchasing this product was right up there with purchasing a pet rock, since all this “game” really is achieving is playing with the physics concept of torque. Why would someone purchase a simple machine such as this when they could recreate it with any number of household items? I’ll tell you why. Because it came with a counter that kept track of how many times you could successfully skip it. Hardly accurate, this counter still made you feel like a champion. One of the darkest days of my childhood was when I was skipping-it in the driveway, and I lost a little control of my path, and slammed my skip-it ball right into the trashcan. I was devastated, it was destroyed. To the point where my mom went out and got me another one almost immediately. As an adult I realize that my mom was probably actually dying with laughter behind my back that I could entertain myself with this for hours. But to be fair, at one point they came out with a jeweled skip-it and the heavy part was a big “jewel”. Beat that.

Settle Down, Neiman Marcus

As a subtopic of my last post involving shopping in the mall, I’ve decided to highlight the store at the mall that I hate the most. I want to go on the record that I think hate is a strong word, and I’d never just throw that out there without backing my statements up. Every facet of this store screams “The Emperor’s New Clothes” personified. Let me elaborate:

 (This picture couldn’t make me laugh more, because why exactly are they Jewish? I don’t remember that part of the story….)

First of all, do not act like you can waltz in there with just any major credit card and make a purchase. You will be snarkily greeted with a $8.50/hour worker who apparently moonlights as judge and jury to the value of other human beings, saying “I’m sorry. We only accept Neiman Marcus credit cards or American Express, thank you”. This will be the first instance that you realize your Visa, Discover and Master Cards are apparently on par with the refillable charge card that is sponsored by Baby Phat and simply using Monopoly money as currency.

If you’re fortunate to have the Amex, please continue shopping. If you’re not interested in laying down a ton of cash, the kind folks at this establishment have obliged for the downturn economy and set up a “Under $100” table. This is where you can buy a small, pear scented votive candle, paperweight, or a rhinestone picture frame that is so small that the only picture I have that will fit into this contraption is, unfortunately, my drivers license picture. Cute. And all for the rock bottom price of “under $100” before taxes. Besides the fact that all these items couldn’t be crappier, I’m pretty sure my mom can get them all for you at Tuesday Morning. And even then, she’d probably try to talk you out of something so tacky.

As you meander over to the shoes, be forewarned. The designers of these shoes, in cahoots with the buyers for this store, are completely crazy pants this year. As most people know, far be it from me to disrespect the designers of fine footwear. I would be a hypocrite since I will consistently be able to justify a $700 pair of shoes should the need arise. And to be fair, they’re an investment piece you can give to your grandchildren. But this year, they’ve gone banana hammock. (I know the phrase is actually “bananas”, but I never get the chance to say “banana hammock” otherwise, so I just use that instead).

Let’s start with these little beauties:

First of all, maybe you don’t wear them to the airport. Because you’re going to have about 30 buttons per shoe to undo and then redo. If you’re not familiar with the challenges that face you in the security line, please see my post referencing this excursion and leave your thigh-high olive-drab suede 4 inch heel boots at home. Or leave them anyways as I cannot for the life of me puzzle-piece together an outfit that would warrant this item.

Chanel: Stop trying to channel Mrs. Havisham from Great Expectations. Really? Lace rain boots? No, I am not getting married in a puddle, and no I am not 86 years old. Lace is not appropriate. Ever.

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The only thing this monstrosity could possibly accompany is a set of large black men attempting to dress like white, blonde socialites. Yes, this shoe is only to be featured on “White Chicks” with the Waynes Brothers. Calm Down pink velvet and rhinestones.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Ohhh we’re back to Chanel. Karl Lagerfeld, I love you to death, but all those diet cokes have impaired your design capabilities. Did you really just create the love child of the CLASSIC Chanel ballet flat and a cork board and call it a day?

And THIS shoe is the quintessential offence to me. A kitten heel. Stop pussy footin’ around with your 1 ½ inch excuse for a heel, calling yourself a girl. Kitten heels are disgusting. If you’re main goal in life is to achieve the perfect cankle (which is a calf that flows into an ankle with no apparent sign of circumference reduction) then more power to you. And let’s top this little beauty off with a tie dye theme.

The list really goes on for this store. I will only venture into this horrid establishment if I feel like making fun of items or they have a shoe sale (FAR, FAR away from the Chanel section apparently). In conclusion, I would like to point out one major point that is apparently escaping all Neiman Marcus employees. You’re not Saks Fifth Avenue. They’re too busy being more high end than you and accepting all major credit cards. Across the street.

Why the Mall is a Christmas Joy Death Trap

I had the misfortune of, this week, heading to Lenox mall to shop around. For some reason, knowing that every high schooler in the Nation was out of school this week didn't dissuade me. This lapse in judgement did, almost, massacre the Christmas joy I generally have starting in about mid August. Let me walk you through it.

I usually park on the top of the parking deck at the mall. Reason: unknown, but I'm a creature of habit. Big mistake, since the Pink Pig gigantic tent has been planted up there for a solid month already. The Pink Pig couldn't make less sense. It's a gigantic tent with pink, doo-wop themed pigs running around and a choo choo train that goes in a circle at a glacial pace while parents take pictures of their miserable, matching children that are riding it. These parents are COMMIT ED to getting this photo taken. They will wait in a line that wraps all the way around the deck if they need to. Might I remind you, this has literally nothing to do with Christmas. It's just trying to steal the spotlight from Santa. Rude.

Once you maneuver your way into the mall, you better stay alert. It will forever be beyond my level of comprehension why I am always 100% responsible for avoiding people running into me. If someone is walking towards me and neither one of us notice til we're too close and one of us has to dodge the other, it's always me. I actually tested this, refusing to dodge, pretty much playing chicken with the on comer. Head on collision, followed by an "EXCUSE YOU!" Alright, Terry Tate, Office Linebacker, I'll dodge you! Maybe THAT'S the life lesson talent we took from dodge ball in 2nd grade.

The stores, in preparation for the Holiday crowds, will attempt to reinvent the wheel of line-forming processes. Aside from the ropes used to make the lines being formed from garland or Christmas lights (so as to be festive) that will instantaneously fall to the ground and create a tripping hazard, the challenge of the check out doesn't stop there. There's always a counter-intuitive protocol that you're to follow, and a snooty, minimum wage employee directing traffic that MUST get an extra nickel every time he rolls his eyes at a customer. This guy only works at this time of year. The quantity of nickels he receives during these few weeks will tide him over for the rest of the year. Oh, I'll follow your crazy line rules, guy.

Also, this dodging applies to the mall cops. There once was a time when cops of any genre had to be fit. No more: introducing robo-cop. The mall cops now scoot around the entire place on a Segway. Which I'm convinced is the only way that company is still in business. The best is that they have helmets and everything. I'm 100% sure that "Paul Blart: Mall Cop" is equally as inspirational to these folks as "Rudy" is to the 2nd string football player. I haven't yet gotten to see them enforce the mall law yet: one day I will, and my life just might be complete.

All this walking will inevitably make you thirsty, and getting a beverage will lead to needing to go to the bathroom. The only bathroom I'm aware of is the one at the entrance to the Pink Pig. Yep, we're back at that freak show. I can't comment on the men's room, but I know it's a general rule of thumb that those are usually grosser than the ladies rooms. Should that be the case here, Lenox mall might be condemned by the CDC soon, so get your Christmas shopping done early. The ladies room is a horror show. Once I walk in, I immediately start gagging, which will garner a look of judgement from the friend that I am with, and my reminding them "You know I get gaggy.". The friend will usually already be aware of this, and press on. I've magically managed to accomplish the entire process in the ladies room with 1 hand, because far be it from me to put anything I'm carrying on any surface in that horrid place. Washing your hands is beyond a health requirement, it's almost the law. For the brief moment after you've washed your hands, you are germ free. That's until you go to dry your hands. No paper towels, just blow dryers. I HATE these devices. They don't dry my hands as much as they just blow poop air all over them. Gross. Can't wait to eat a pretzel now.

Once you decide that you are, in fact, done with this place, you get to find your way out of the deck. This might be why I park on the top: you can get a birds eye view of your escape route. Should you be the unlucky soul that parks IN the deck, don't make the mistake of following ANY signs. Those "Exit" signs are put up there by the mall to keep you trapped in the deck so that you will eventually give up and just go back in and keep shopping. I'm on to you, Lenox mall. Should you Copernicus your way out of the deck, high tail it down Lenox and do not look back. You've gotten out alive, possibly without being escorted out by security should you snap at any point.

This little excursion is not enough to ruin my holiday spirit, however. I know my limitations, so I don't put myself in a position to lose it this Christmas Season. I'm not a black Friday camper. More power to the "patience of Job" human being that is.

The Day of the Stake Out

This story is one that I’ve been meaning to tell for a while now, and today I feel inspired to share. I met my friend Allison Jackson a few months ago, and shortly after we met, she moved into the apartment she currently lives in now. Besides the fact that she lives on the tippity top floor of a no elevator apartment complex, everything was going fine. That is until one day, as we were walking her groceries up the steps, we came across something horrific. Some careless pet owner had allowed their animal to relive itself on the stairs and left it there.

Appalled by this lack of care for the community, we deduced that the person probably didn’t notice their animal had done this, and this was a one time thing. Boy, were we wrong. This little episode continued to happen, day after day, week after week.

My issues with this were, not only was this pet owner trying to reignite the E. Coli epidemic of White Water a decade ago, but concrete stairs are no place for a shit themed hopscotch game. One Sunday afternoon, Allison and I both snapped. We were fed up with borderline breaking our necks to avoid these little land mines. 

So we did what any normal yet crazed individual would do: We Nancy Drewed the situation.It started with pulling two chairs into the breezeway so as to set up a stake out environment. Granted, Allison didn’t have lawn chairs, so we had two upholstered chairs stationed next to the stairs. It was clear to us that the person responsible lived on Allison’s floor, given she lived on the top and no one would use those stairs unless they too lived up there. Since there’s only 14 apartments up there, we went door-to-door investigating.

Most people were not home. One extremely small woman in what appeared to be her early 30s was TERRIFIED of us. She even claimed that she was worried to open the door since she didn’t know who we are. Our response was “I’m sorry, this might not be politically correct of us to say, but why don’t you do a little profiling on us. We’re two, young, blonde girls who are unintentionally yet again wearing the same outfit. Not exactly axe murderer material”. This “Chicken Little” inspired woman however did not have a small dog.

Also, it’s important to note that the gentleman who lives in 1405 comes across as someone who would take your skin off and wear it to his birthday party. Maybe you steer clear of that door. Also, no dog.

The good thing about our posting up in the hallway was that we were able to convert other residents to the cause. We literally had people on the look out, putting up posters, using process of elimination to reduce the number of possible culprits down to just one apartment. And this crazy lady has been busted.

Now it’s a waiting game. The SECOND she pulls this little stunt again, she’s going to regret it. We’ve decided that instead of lashing out and physically attacking her, we’re going to be smart about this. We’re going to evict her. Yep. We’re going to, on the apartment “letter head” (or whatever we craft out of clip art and google) an eviction notice for this woman, given she cannot clean up after her pet and it’s causing sanitation issues. We’re also going to jump to the conclusion that she has NOT paid her pet deposit for her tea cup Chihuahua (of course that’s the dog it is) and demand that she pay double, so as to cover the clean up costs in the stairwells.

Maybe this makes us crazy pants. Or maybe this makes us renegades. They make movies about renegades like us. “V for Vendetta”, “Robin Hood”, “Rainbow Brite and the Star Stealer”. So, you can from now on call me V.