Ross is a Legal Religion, Right?

So last Saturday Mango and I went to the mall because we are poor and occasionally like to be in air-conditioned places where everything is clean and no bugs fly though open windows to buzz around your head for hours on end while you watch your third consecutive episode of "Suite Life on Deck."

On our way back from the mall we decided to walk because we didn't have enough change for the bus (you see now that I am not joking when I say we are poor) and we just happened to pass by a Ross. Completely unplanned. Wink wink.

Let me explain that I love Ross. I know a lot of people don't share my passion for bargain hunting, and I'll admit that the messy aisles can be disheartening. Not to mention that weird smell on your fingers after you've touched the clothing. Wait, let me start over.

I love Ross because they sell brand name things for way below what it would cost at some cooler store at the mall. Case in point:

Mango's Adidas cleats.

Well, they're not really his, in that he didn't purchase them. But if possession could be won by a person longingly lingering in an aisle for the better part of an hour, turning the shoes over in his hands and coming up with increasingly far-fetched reasons why he would need cleats, then they are definitely his.

After efficiently speed-browsing through the "juniors" aisle (and trying to suppress the realization that I am way too old to be wearing this stuff -- no way am I ready for Women's World) and coming up with nothing, I realized that I had lost Mango. I backtracked to find him standing in front of the same pair of black Adidas cleats he had been staring at for a while now.

"Look," he finally said reverently. "Adidas cleats."
"Yeah?" They didn't look special to me. "So?"
"They're only $16."
"Told you Ross was cheap." I felt proud. I had converted another.
"$16 for Adidas cleats!" Mango said fervently. "Do you know how much this regularly costs?"
"So what?" I said. "You don't need cleats. What would you use them for?"
"Like.. running," he replied finally. "on grass."
"When do you ever run on grass?"
"I could," he said defensively.

This went on for some time before I was able to gently extract him from the allure that is Ross: Dress for Less.

I thought it was over. Then on Wednesday, while driving to dinner with our friend RoRo, we passed by a GIANT ROSS. It was like the mother of all Rosses. It was the size of a Walmart. This prompted Mango to tell RoRo the story of his cleats.

"Isn't it cheap??" Mango concluded.
"Yeah.." RoRo said dubiously. "I guess so. I mean I don't really know the market value of cleats."
"It's CHEAP." Mango insistented.
"Okay," RoRo said, slightly annoyed. "why didn't you buy it then?"
"Apparently I don't need it." Mango replied sulkily.

I don't know why they say girls are crazy shoppers. I have never had the urge to buy cleats. So in conclusion: Ross rocks.

Marriage Made in My Confusion.

Yesterday Mango and I were perusing the stationery department of the UCLA store when I came across something that was simultaneously delightful and worrying.

OUR SCHOOL IS SELLING ED HARDY STUFF!

Let me back up a little. I have a love-hate relationship with Ed Hardy. I love the tattoo-inspired style, I hate the heavy use of skulls. I love the "love kills slowly" slogan, I hate how emo it sounds. I love the colors, I hate the exorbitant prices. (Side note: I once saw an "Ed Hardy" stand at a Hawaiian swap meet-- the Ed Hardy is in quotations because while I was browsing the owner of the stand came over to inform me that his products were all fakes. Encouraged, I inquired about the prices. Apparently Ed Hardy knock-offs are still out of my budget.)

So when I saw the Ed Hardy notebooks, binders and pencil boxes, I wasn't sure what to think. But I soon realized that the prices (everything under $10? who are you and what have you done with Ed?) were actually ... well, reasonable. My bitterness evaporated. I was ready to purchase.

That is, until I slowed down and looked at the pencil box in my hand. I felt a sneaking suspicion. "Mango," I called to where he was slowly inching towards the electronics. "Mango, what does this remind you of?"

"Uhm," he said nervously, one eye on the bright purple and pink in my hand and one eye on sweet escape in the form of manly technology. "Nothing. Ed Hardy?"

"No," I said grimly. "This looks like Lisa Frank. Remember Lisa Frank? All those sparkly stickers little girls had in the '90s?"

"No," Mango said, confused. "I wasn't a little girl in the '90s."

I waved him away. As much as I was eager to actually make an Ed Hardy purchase for the first time in my life, I felt.. reluctant. Why was this pencil box so glaringly pink? Why did it have equally bright purple accents? Why did I feel that if I bought this I should also remember to bring a check for the lunch lady and put on my sticker earrings?

I was in a pickle. I spent the next five minutes glumly contemplating the fate of my $7 and the sparkling new pencil box in front of me. As I was giving it one last one-over, I made a discovery.

"Mango!" I shrieked. "Mango, come here!" He sprinted over. "What's wrong?" he asked worriedly.
"Look at this!" I shoved the Ed Hardy pencil box under his nose. "Look! IT SAYS LISA FRANK. RIGHT NEXT TO THE ED HARDY LOGO. WHAT DID I TELL YOU?"
Mango did not have a satisfactory response. He gave me a look of mixed confusion and annoyance and meandered away.

So now I am here, letting off steam and wondering WHAT ED HARDY IS DOING. First advertising on the back of a recently divorced father of eight who spends his days ho-ing around on boats, and now making products aimed at tween girls, the same demographic that created the menace that is Twilight?

Come on, Ed. I stuck with you throughout the realization that a lot of people think "Ed Hardy" is another name for "supreme d-bag,"and throughout your "sales" that marked tshirts down from $150 to a mere $75. I even generously overlooked the fact that I don't relate to or even like most of the other people who wear your clothing. I thought it could be different with me. I thought I could pull off your brand without seeming lame. But this? This might be the last straw.

I am a loyal if poor consumer but even I'm starting to be glad I can't afford any of your stuff.

Imposter Alert. Sort of.

I recently gave a friend the link to this blog. Like literally copied and pasted the link into her chat window. Somehow this happened:

Friend: Weird.
Friend: I clicked on the thing you typed
Friend: and it brought me to a blog named
Friend: seven
Friend: instead
Me: What?
Friend: and it's only post is
Friend: TUESDAY, APRIL 10, 2001
I roll wit catz wit iced-out headbandz wit loose bracketz.That'z how I got KNOW-LEDGE.
droppin Jewelz

I was vaguely alarmed at this mysterious blog intercepting my traffic. I went to see it for myself and what I saw only slightly cleared things up. The blog was entitled "SEVEN CIPHER: Freestyle Rhymez and Poetry."

So not only does this seven cipher guy get direct access through my link, but he gets to roll with cats with iced-out headbands with loose brackets. Life is so unfair.

Literally a Crappy Day.

My day thus far can be summed up in one sentence: "SOMETHING POOPED ON MY ICE CREAM."

This is how it came about.

I got to work today planning to take lunch at 12 noon. It was my usual time, and I had made plans with Mango to get free yogurt (our school newspaper had coupons, and we had gathered about half a dozen copies -- our living room table was currently covered in unread Daily Bruins). Through an unfortunate series of miscommunications, my lunchtime was shifted to the 1:00 spot. I was unhappy. I was close to throwing what Teenerz would call a BF. Only remembering that I was neither a child nor a diva (not to mention the fact that I desperately need the income this job generates) kept the bitch fit from erupting. Also I would like to cling to my dignity for as long as possible -- at least until I go to Vegas with my coworkers next week.

With that said, I was resigned to my fate. I allowed my coworker to cajole me into walking down to get ice cream. Despite reservations (weight, money, what else is new?) I got a single scoop of Medieval Madness. I was on my way to being content, even happy. Then what happens? SOMETHING POOPS ON MY ICE CREAM.

The worst part is I don't even know what did it. The.. substance was brown, and my coworker swore it looked more like tree sap than bird feces (perhaps a self-serving belief, as it splattered onto his shirt and pants after terrorizing my ice cream) but I had my doubts. Especially since it happened in the middle of a crosswalk, and there would have had to be a mighty breeze to carry one glop of sap all the way to where we were.

The bright side of all this is that hopefully the day will only get better. I mean, as soon as I go wash my hands.

Brazilian Wax, Korean BBQ and Chinese Karaoke-- how much more multicultural can you get?

Yesterday night was the last Friday all our friends would be in town for a while, so we decided to paint it red.

After work Teenerz and I had an appointment at a small studio for Brazilians. It was her first and my third, and when the lady found out she assumed I had gotten my previous two done at her place, and thanked me for the referral. It was awkward to deny her gratitude, and also I was secretly hoping for a thank-you discount, so I kind of just glossed over that moment. At least this supported my assurance to Teenerz that the wax wouldn't be embarassing or awkward because the lady "probably saw like a thousand of it a day and she's not going to remember yours." This belief was confirmed when I semi-disrobed and she didn't yell out "aha! I've never seen that before-- you didn't refer a friend at all!"
While lying on the table in a position very few people in the world have seen me in, I wondered what possessed me to go through this incredible painful ritual over and over. I mean, a waxed body feels nice in a streamlined, clean kind of way, but it wasn't something I couldn't live without --and I certainly had better ways to spend the $27. But even when my entire body convulsed off the table in a spasm of pain, I realized I'd probably be back. Maybe it's a mental disorder.

Next on the itinerary in this night of fun was the Korean BBQ buffet. Only one out of 9 of us there spoke Korean, and as he was sitting at the other table, Teenerz, Jamerz, Tony, Mango and I were left to fend for ourselves. The futility of our attempts at communication became clear when we asked for this:


Steamed egg that is simple but that I am in love with and tried to recreate with some success in my apartment using a wok as a steamer and four chopsticks as a makeshift steam rack. I was afraid the chopsticks would melt and create a poisonous fume but Mango pointed out that they were wooden. Also the fifth time I asked for a refill of this the waitress started laughing in a scornful manner, probably because she thought we were fools for filling up on egg and not meat. You'd think she'd be grateful.
It's empty because of its deliciousness.

and received this:



Some weird cabbage thing that we didn't even eat the first serving of before she gave us the second (larger) dish.


Also everytime we asked for garlic she brought us more meat.


The last thing about this restaurant -- I found out just today that their $2 "valet parking" is just a few rotating waiters illegally parking the cars streetside and running to move them when parking enforcement appears. How can you not love this place?

P.S. Thank you, Mango, for buying me dinner. I have yet to pay for a meal at this place and in my opinion that's the best way to eat.

Finally, we went to karaoke. It was an Asian karaoke bar, so none of the music videos were actual videos featuring the artist. Instead there would be random touristy shots of things like San Francisco, boats, a woman fixing a roof and swans. These are all real examples. The best video was for R. Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly," which featured a young black boy alternately playing with a toy airplane in his room and flapping his arms in a flying motion on a grassy field.

After karaoke we squeezed seven of us into Jamerz' compact car -- I sat in the front seat with Teenerz crouching on the floor, and the four guys sat in the back -- and slowly chugged home. It was a good night.

Question of the Day

If anyone ever comes up to me and says, "Carolyn, why are you so fat and poor?" I am ready with the answer.

"Well, rude stranger," I would reply. "This is because I spend all my money on unnecessary culinary outings. Also I am addicted to internet shopping."

"Can you give me an example?" they might ask.

"Why, certainly." I would oblige. "Take yesterday for example. I had the brilliant idea of going out to dinner with my roommates, even though we had recently all gone grocery shopping together. I did this because I don't like slaving over a hot stove after a full day of work at the office."

"But," the stranger might interrupt. "you hardly ever do that. Doesn't Mango cook all the meals?"

"You have a strange and complete knowledge of my life, stranger." I would say. "But you are not wrong. Mango does do the cooking almost everyday. But I feel bad that he has to, so I sometimes stand in the kitchen offering emotional support. It is hot and tiring work."

"I'm sorry," the stranger would apologize. "Please go on."

"Well," I would continue. "I might have a weakness for throwing money away on restaurants, but I am fully aware of this problem. Which is why yesterday at work, between answering phone calls from irate or confused residents and/or their parents, I googled coupons for the place we were planning to have dinner. Except that while I was doing that, I also saw some coupons for free shipping at different clothing websites. This reminded me of the time two summers ago when I ordered clothes from urbanoutfitters.com and how excited I was to receive the package. This led to an urge within me to recreate those happy days. That is how I ended up five hours later, with a coupon that took $1 off my dinner and a $178 charge on my credit card. Does this clear things up for you?"

"Oh does it," the stranger would say, smug in the knowledge that he or she is much more in control of his or her finances than I am of mine. "And don't forget to talk about the $60 you're expecting to drop tonight."

"Shut up, stranger," I would say. "No one needs to know about the painful and expensive Brazilian wax followed by the delicious and expensive Korean barbeque buffet followed by the entertaining and expensive two hours at a karaoke bar."

Then I would frown at him/her for all his/her personal questions and go get more money from the ATM.

A Hot Mango is an Angry Mango.

Mango's mad at me. Maybe not mad. He's rarely mad at me. But he is annoyed, peeved, ticked. It may be because it is a hundred degrees in our sweltering little apartment (ridiculous considering that is has cooled down to a comfortable 70 outside), or it could be that I spent the last half an hour mulling over a series of quickly discarded pen names for a spanking new blog. He finds that I'm not paying enough attention to him, not ignoring the heat to move close to his shoulder or popping in the DVD of Moulin Rouge that I'd promised/threatened we'd watch.

Mango has retreated to the other, less comfortable couch, and satisfies himself by occasionally tossing baleful looks by way. Poor Mango. How do I explain to him that, contrary to what it must seem like to him, I'm not wasting our second to last Thursday night together? If I tell him I'm starting a blog, he'll ask me what I plan to write about, and how would I reply?

The not-quite-existent love life of a 21 year old, the excitement of my 8 to 5 days in an office job, the squabbles of an ordinary family, the everyday intricacies of boy friends and girlfriends?

Mango is sighing and murmuring about being unloved.

I'll be back.