Moving into a new apartment and fielding questions from strangers like,

“how much are you paying?”

even though everyone knows you should never ask a woman her wage…

Wondering about what I need and realizing that ‘need’ is a strong word

like, does anyone really need a paper towel holder?

Painfully committed to maintaining my public persona and also privately deeply fulfilled by a treasure-hunt that saves the world, I shop second-hand as much as I can manage. Recently though, as a result of my best friend’s housesitting job; a gig which inevitably makes one think they can afford things they cannot; I became obsessed with a very specific glass. The elusive 7-oz. bodega glass (which they do not sell in red or green, only clear, thank you Cristina for your help) I found only at Crate and Barrel, so the Google search read.

Which meant I had to go to the m*ll.

And so I gritted my teeth and I went.

I hate the m*ll. I hate the m*all but not like I hate the zoo; the zoo I can and always will avoid but the m*ll is a place I know I should hate and also still houses, under fluorescent soul-sucking lights, the potential of a dopamine hit like no other. I hate the acoustics and I love the smell of Auntie Anne’s pretzels and I love to hate wander Anthropologie, just for inspiration, is what I say before I enter, before I get a whiff of the figs and frankenscence candle, before I wade deeper and deeper, all the way to the sale section obviously, where I can’t hear the Beyoncé (we’re talking 4 Beyoncé) on the speakers over the pair of white women talking about how guilty they feel for… eating their lunch?

guilty

or over the other faceless trio to my right, a sea of color-categorized XL tops separated us but did nothing to block the sound of,

“How cute is this? Obviously it won’t fit you. You’re way too tiny.”

“It looks like it would be too hard to get on and off anyway, hahahahaha”

“Oh, I’d be just fine, struggling by myself! Not like anyone would see!”

Some seriously uncomfortable laughs followed, from both parties, for different reasons, I can only imagine.

I’m exhausted even re-reading that

Sorry

I parked the car as far as possible from the entrance to the mall, obviously too good for the blinker-on-just-waiting-for-the-trunk-to-close-and-kids-to-get-in-the-car games of the m*ll parking lot. As I power-strode past the Dillard’s doors to find an entrance that did not require I walk through clouds of Polo Ralph Lauren cologne or past the Michael Kors sale rack because as enticing as last season’s size 5’s may be, I don’t have time for this today. I remind myself of my mission, muttering softly,

In and out, Alex. Glassware and out. Maybe some hangers for the closet but also, you can do that later. Ask the salesperson if you really think it’s necessary but do not, under any circumstances, do not even take one look at the espresso machines. Do you understand, kid?

I did escape unscathed, with only glassware. And decided I would head to target for hangers but got intensely aggravated in the parking lot, profanities sailing within the vehicle, just me and my many flying fucks.

And so I decided my clothes could live on the floor for a little while longer.

I mean, do we really need hangers?

Until You Know Better

I LOVE to draw conclusions about someone’s morning by their coffee takeaways —

Two flat-whites, one with almond milk, one with normal milk

This guy is in sweatpants and flip flops and he’s not almond milk …

almond milk is at home, hopefully lounging and scrolling and hopefully eternally grateful this man has gone to get them a coffee on this fine Sunday morning. And that he remembered to make a point about the almond milk.

Great Artists Steal

Someone with the Instagram handle @amykaypoetry posted a piece titled “Hot Girl Shit” and it made me smile:)