We're Really Doing It to Save Lives

What I Told Brian About Donating Platelets

"It's definitely not any more painful than donating blood. They even give you your blood back, so you won't even think you're missing anything."

"You get three free movie tickets! Three! And if we both donate we get six! We can go watch THREE movies together!"

"You just sit in this media center and watch movies or go online while you're donating. It's just like being in your living room. It's really fun. They have great movies."

"You get free cookies and juice at the end."

"And stickers."

What the Blood Center People Told Me

"I'm sorry, we're going to have to defer you. Your platelet count is too low."

What the Blood Center People Told Brian

"Come on in."

What I Told Brian at the Blood Center

"Well then can I take your keys? I'm going home to take a shower and maybe do my nails."

What Brian Told Me After Donating Platelets

"You didn't tell me that when they give you your blood back, it's COLD. And it hurts. I wish they had just kept the blood too."

"I got three movie tickets and you didn't get any. We can only go see one and a half movies."

"Media center??? What did you mean by media center?? Because all I got was a chair and a tv monitor. You made it sound futuristic, like a pod. And I watched 'Get Him to the Greek'. I only laughed once. I think it was at P. Diddy but I don't remember."

"I ate two cookies and drank three juices but I'm still thirsty."

"I got you a sticker that says 'Be Nice to Me, I Tried to Donate Blood Today'."

Things Brian's Doctor Told Him a Week Later When His 3 Day Fever Wouldn't Go Away

"Well, you don't have strep throat... but for some reason your platelet count is low."

A Pretty Compelling Reason I Shouldn't Have Kids

I have decided to give up on any semblance of chronological...ity? in anything I do. I've come to realize that it's really just too big a commitment for a girl who is reluctant to buy an entire serving of mushrooms because she knows very well that she is unlikely to cook and eat them all before the inevitable rotting sets in. This commitment-phobia extends to even the smallest of tasks.

A month or so ago I was browsing in a store near my apartment that specialized in selling whimsical things at seven times the price anyone in their right mind would consider paying. I came across a little notebook with some clever name which I no longer remember, but the concept of it was simple: a diary in which you write one sentence a day. Each page is marked with month and date, with enough room for about five sentences. The idea was to write five years worth of one-liners in that one notebook, so that on the same day every year you only need to look a space above to see what you were doing exactly 12 months ago.

The idea intrigued me. It was like conducting one of those long term experiments on yourself, or like that guy who took a picture of himself every day for six years and set it to somber music. So of course (because I was unwilling to pay $15 for something I could put together myself in three seconds, although I do owe the inventor some points for using his idea and so he is free to come and take one of my ideas any time -- like that one I have about, when I eventually own a gigantic mansion, setting library book collection bins in every room so as to avoid the troubling problem of losing a wayward book under a couch every time I'm too lazy to go to the bookshelf, a problem that consistently plagued my childhood) I went straight home (well, not straight home, I had some noodles in a nice little restaurant nearby first but that's not really conducive to the narrative) and got out my prettiest notebook and wrote very firmly, on the first page, September 12th. The notebook was a full size one, so I had enough space for eight years worth of one-liners. Imagine -- eight years from now I would be 30 years old, and the possibilities of the routes my life will have taken by then were endless. I COULD BE QUEEN OF THE WORLD. And such a journey should not be left undocumented.

Oh sure, things went well for a week or two. Every day I faithfully wrote down a brief summary of my day. Invariably the results were along the lines of, "Today I burned dinner so I ate three cookies and went to bed," or, "If that girl at work doesn't stop being so annoying I will probably smack her and get fired but it will be worth it." As is the problem with many long-term experiments, my journal seemed to require patience and diligence, with no promise of instant gratification in sight.

It was abandoned within a month.

I occasionally still think about it, of course. In fact, I'm thinking about it now, having just written more on the topic than I've written in the journal to date. But the thought of all those backlogged dates, those empty pages, is too daunting. Going back to it now would be like texting a friend you haven't spoken to in months -- it seems a little more trouble than it's worth, you can't ensure the outcome, and life has been going on just fine so why bother?

I suppose it is possible that eight years from now I will look at my notebook with half the pages used but less than fifty sentences written, and regret it the way I might regret not picking up the phone and moving my thumbs to get in touch someone I may end up missing after all.

But then again, I doubt such things will even cross the mind of the QUEEN OF THE WORLD.

Stop Asking What I'm Going to Do After Graduation, Please.

When I was in England last summer, I spent the first few weeks so homesick it was practically a physical illness. The strange thing was, I loved England. I still think about it all the time, even though it's been over a year since I came back. When I was with my friends out shopping and converting to pounds or eating pastries or strolling through the English greenery I was having an amazing time. I can still picture the funny little flowers that grew outside my dorm, and I can practically count the (four flights of) stairs from my room to the shower in the basement.

But still, I would get so homesick missing my family and friends and the California warmth that I would go three days without sleeping, because I was staying up all night to talk to them.

And the hardest part was that no one really seemed to get it. Everyone else in the program was having an amazing time getting wasted and hooking up with the English TAs or at least clubbing every other night. My family and friends went on with their daily routines and marveled at how lucky I was to be experiencing something so amazing. They sent me postcards and letters and I wrote back telling them about how wonderful my professor's accent was, or how I went to see the cafe where J.K. Rowling began Harry Potter. Even Mango was busy taking classes back at UCLA. He told me how strange it felt for him to be on campus without having me around, but always had to break off our conversation to go to class or dinner or bed. The only person who really seemed to if not empathize then at least sympathize with me was Stuffin. He'd stay up with me when I couldn't fall asleep and tease me about all the good food I couldn't get across the pond. And to just have one person understand made a lot of difference.

The reason I'm thinking of all this is because I don't get homesick at school anymore. I definitely think about home (especially of all the food there, I'm starving) but I don't yearn to go back. In fact, often when I do visit northern California I wish wholeheartedly (and guiltily) that I were back in L.A. The shift is strange but I suppose inevitable; after four years most of my life has been built up here. And I'm lucky in that it's not a lonely life.

Take tonight, for example. I get home around midnight and my apartment is empty. And I realized that I don't mind. I have Mango to walk me home when it's dark and check my empty room for monsters before he leaves; in the mornings I have Jenn to chat with while we eat brunch. At some point tomorrow the Y will stumble in all raspy voiced from having just woken up, and then over the weekend I get to hang out with my Watts kids at a museum before catching up with my roommates at night.

And then I wonder how I'm considering leaving all this behind.

I don't have a post-graduation plan. I do, however, have a backup graduation plan (in case I don't magically get offered the job of my dreams right after receiving my diploma)(hm, I guess that's my post-graduation plan). I figure that to avoid moving back home (for my own sanity -- I'll explain next time) I could always flee the state. I love my parents, it's no reflection on them. It's all me, and I have this strange desire for change and excitement when England has already proved that I should really only be taking such things in small doses. A part of me wants to just move to a brand new city and start all over and maybe end up having the kind of life I was meant to have, but the (small, but) rational part of me is saying: whoa, hold on there, cowgirl.

Say I move to Seattle or Connecticut or Washington D.C. Okay, what then? I won't know a single person there. I won't have a job. I won't know what neighborhood to live in, where to find decent Chinese food, or which bus line to take. I'll end up huddled up in front of my computer all day, bemoaning the time difference between me and California and wondering what all my friends are up to back home. And I might, god forbid, be lonely.

I'm a pretty independent person (Jesus, how did that happen? I have no idea either), but at times like this it would be really handy to have a boyfriend. I'm still young enough to think that there would be nothing more romantic than moving to a strange city with the love of my life and setting up a little loft somewhere filled with post-its and secondhand furniture and colorful bedsheets. We'd slowly but surely accumulate a circle of quirky but loveable friends. We'd have a bar we go to every Thursday night and a cafe we go to on Sunday mornings.

The thing about this fantasy is that it thrives on youth. What happens in ten years, or twenty years? Will we still be living off caffeine and poetry, or making plans to backpack through Australia? I have no idea what I want that far into the future, but I don't think it's that. I suppose the thing would be to find a boy who could make the transition with you from pseudo-starving artist to respectable suburbanite.

And that's no easy feat. But until then I still have ten months left on the lease to a Westwood apartment and (hopefully) enough savings to keep me afloat and out of Union City for a few months after graduation. And who knows? Maybe even enough to make that move.

For Teenie.

I'm taking an honors class right now on "Stress and Coping." I just had the class for the first time today, so I've only learned two things so far:

1. The class is in the exact same classroom as an honors class I had last quarter that I dropped after a week because there were only like twelve people in the class, sitting in a circle around the teacher, and I had already fallen asleep three times in the first hour. I figured it would be all downhill from there. I'm crossing my fingers that this quarter will be better.

2. Compared to what I learned about every single other student in the class during those awkward self-intro speeches, I am really behind on life. Like there was a girl who was interning for the Conan O'Brien show (this coming on the heels of her internship with the Make-A-Wish Foundation), and a guy who spent part of his summer in Haiti volunteering in hospitals. Over half the class had taken either the MCAT, the LSAT or the GRE. A typical 'what I did over summer' speech would go like this: "I spent this summer putting in over 40 hours a week at my internship with a sports agent representing dozens of professional athletes. In my spare time, I studied for the LSAT and did some volunteer legal work on the side. I took the test last week and now I'm working on a few dozen applications for law schools across the country." And then there was me: "This summer I worked until I saved up enough money to go to Hawaii. And then I did and it was awesome."

After that whole thing, the professor went through some of the logistics of the class. It was all very basic, but one question she asked stuck with me. It might just be because it's the topic of a quarter-long assignment and I like to do my worrying in advance, but this is the question: "how do you deal with stress?"

It sounds simple, right? No. Sucker. At least not for me. I thought it was obvious at first. "Oh," I thought to myself, "well, that's easy. When I'm stressed I snack a lot. Ugh weight gain. Maybe I should start going to the gym. But I have no time and I hate being sweaty and moving around. Maybe I should just stop buying snacks." But then I realized that this isn't always necessarily true. Sometimes when I'm stressed I stop eating. Like there would be stretches of time where I'd be too busy to cook or grocery shop and I'd subsist on whatever non-perishables I have left in the back of the pantry. Unfortunately, if you're thinking "oh at least that helps her weight balance back out" this does not seem to be true. Apparently my body is in a kind of lose-lose situation -- or should I say gain-gain?-- where if I don't eat it goes on survival mode and manages to wrangle 300 calories out of a single stalk of celery. And then when I do eat it rejoices by safely tucking all these incoming calories in little pockets of fat known as my appendages.

So my point is I was trying to figure out how I personally cope with stress. And I was drawing a blank until just now, when I was having a conversation with Teenie about how confusing and annoying feelings are, and basically just bitching about life in general to the point where she had to calm me down by quoting Red Hot Chili Peppers and telling me that I'm pretty. I'm not saying I'm superficial, but just fyi: telling me I'm pretty often has a calming effect on me. It's like what a tranquilizer dart does to a charging bear. Song lyrics are optional.

Anyway, we started talking about this ongoing fantasy I have where I uproot my life and move to somewhere exotic and romantic and then do something charmingly destitute like be a waitress in a small cafe by the ocean. And then I realized: this is my coping mechanism. Like when I'm in my beautiful apartment in Westwood, which at the moment might not seem so beautiful because there is nothing in the refrigerator and I have a pile of unfinished assignments and hundreds of pages to read and nothing more exciting than Shakespeare on my horizon, I think "well you know what? in a year I'll have graduated and I can do whatever I want and if what I want to do is buy a one way ticket to France and spend my life savings on a small apartment over a bookshop and work in a bakery selling cupcakes, then what's stopping me?" Or sometimes it's Bath, an apartment over a shoe store, working at the spa; Hong Kong, in a high-rise penthouse, something with banking and investments where I get to wear killer heels and flattering suits. My fantasies about the future aren't always so far-fetched, however. Once in a while I'll be feeling tame and domestic, and it'll be something more along the lines of a Victorian house in San Francisco, where I sell antiques; a cottage in Maine where I lead tour groups through historic landmarks; an apartment overlooking the cityscape in Seattle where I, of course, work in a coffee shop.

That's the thing about being an English major, I think. On one hand, I have little to no prospects. On the other, I could be anywhere, doing anything.

And if nothing else, that makes me appreciate my sunny little apartment with its french doors, soft carpets and familiar, friendly residents for the short time that I have it.

Carolyn's Diet Days 3, 4, and 5 or, Why I (Still) Suck At Life

Day 3
Yeah I'm a really bad diet-diary keeper and can't remember what I did that day. Odds are it was like all the other days of my summer so here's what I probably did.

11 AM: Wake up to a text from Tando calling me lazy.

12 PM: Lay in bed thinking about how unlazy I am. Get up because I'm hungry.

12:30 PM: Watch The Game and eat the (rice-less) meal my mom has left for me on the kitchen table, usually accompanied by a nagging note because even she can't lecture me while she's at her office (at least not while I'm avoiding her calls! Carolyn: 1, Mom: 0).

4:00 PM: Wonder what's for dinner.

Day 4
6 AM: Fall asleep after reading Jodi Picoult's new 477 page novel in its entirety. This isn't really diet-related unless you consider how much I read as a child instead of playing kickball, which I'm sure is where all my problems started. Also I was like totally rebellious and rejected all the societal norms and was like "I'll be as fat as I want! Screw you world!" which leaves adult me to clean up the resulting mess while enviously recalling all the carefree ice cream of my youth.

5:45 PM: Vinyasa Yoga! My first time trying it. Basically they heat up the room and then you move non-stop. Best workout ever, you feel really productive because you sweat so much. Also gross. Again because of the sweat.

7:00 PM: I'm so sore I have trouble lifting my arms to shampoo my hair. Life is good.

Day 5

10 AM: I wake up and consider getting out of bed but realize that would require moving and all my muscles are screaming about the impossibility of this task.

12 PM: I make the disheartening discovery that food will not be coming to me, so I drag my battered body off my memory foam and trudge to the kitchen. It helps that The Game is on tv. I love BET. (Iz calls it "bet")

6 PM: Yoga again. I'm so sore my downward dog looks more like an abused puppy. On the bright side, while I'm doing my stretches the instructor introduces herself to me and asks if I'm a dancer. She was probably just looking at my tights-under-shorts look but I take this to be a compliment anyway.

7:30 PM: Oh my god. Soreness compounded.

9:00 PM: On the way home my mom asks me in all seriousness, "Carolyn, are you secretly taking diet pills?"
"No," I say regretfully.
"Good," she says, relieved. "because some of those pills cause depression, you know? It's bad to take too much medicine. Besides, you aren't that fat."
I consider throwing myself out of the moving car.

2:00 AM: I guess this is technically day 6 but I don't feel like another day has come if I haven't slept yet so this goes under day 5. My dad comes home after 7 hours of mahjong (no exaggeration required) and yells at us for having more than one light on ("ELECTRICITY BILL EXPENSIVE") and I secretly think "hey if you stop losing $200 a night maybe we can afford some electricity up in here." I guess this also has nothing to do with dieting unless I can somehow connect it to the fact that I think we are totally being "financially sound" on the wrong things (like electricity and low-fat food) while spending on unnecessary things (gambling problem?). Oh look, I just did.

Oh, I'm bitchy? YOU TRY BEING SORE AND THEN DENYING YOURSELF MCDONALDS ICED COFFEE BECAUSE IT IS OVER 200 CALORIES A SERVING. YEAH I LOOKED IT UP.

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.

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.