Well Pull Out My Teeth and Call Me Enos, It's... DEAR APRON!

Bitches, this is officially the last Dear Apron column...

OF MY TWENTY-NINTH YEAR!

Oh, man-- you shoulda seen your face! Covered in jit!

I love you.

DEAR APRON:

I recently got genital herpes. I am very depressed over it and am experiencing a lot of difficulties, not to mention the expense.

The man I caught the virus from, "Jack," claims he didn't know he had herpes. I don't know what to believe, except that I should be compensated. My life has been destroyed. I hate the fact that this happened and, to top it off, Jack has changed his phone number! Is this a criminal act? Should I take action? -- OUTRAGED IN MISSOURI

DEAR ZOSTER-PUSS:

Look, honey, as you now very well know, you can't change the fact that you have the genny herps. What you can change is your attitude about it. You can choose to live the rest of your life in burning, itching, weeping shame, and that's your choice, or you can make a different choice: to be proud of your herpes.

That's right, I said it. Proud.

The next time you have an outbreak, take pictures and put them up on Facebook. Let your FB buds "Like" your sores and pustules. Get a t-shirt made that says "I'm With Herps" with an arrow pointing down to your crotch. And wear that motherfucker proudly. Herpes is only something to be ashamed of if you're ashamed of it. See what I mean?

And of course "Jack" changed his phone number. You were fucking calling him every six minutes going, "MEH! YOU GAVE ME HERPES! I FUCKING HATE YOU, YOU BUMPY-ASSED DOWEL-DICK!" I mean, wouldn't you change your number if someone was doing that to you? And no, what he did isn't a crime, but harrassment by telephone is.

DEAR APRON:

Early this year, my mother went to the curb to collect the empty trash bin and put it away for the week. As she wheeled it behind her home, she slipped on the ice and broke her hip. She lives alone and was in the back of her property where nobody could see or hear her.

Fortunately, she'd had the foresight to grab her cell phone before she went outside. Because she was unable to stand up she could have frozen to death. She called 911 and within minutes an ambulance arrived to take her to the hospital.

Mom had surgery to repair the hip and is recovering, but it was a close call. This is a reminder to your readers that if they live alone -- or have parents who do -- to make sure to have a cell phone available at all times. -- RELIEVED SON IN ELKHART, IND.

DEAR RELIEVED SON:

Um.... great. Thanks.

I guess.

DEAR APRON:

My wife was hired for an administrative position. On her first day of work, they called her into the human resources director's office and told her she was being "let go" because of her website. The site has photos of her when she worked as a model for a large department store. They are in no way provocative or overly revealing. Photos of our children are also on the site.

The HR director told her that one of the other (internal) applicants had Googled her and had seen the site. An image so upset the other applicant that she made a formal complaint, which caused my wife's dismissal!

We consulted a lawyer and contacted the local Equal Employment Opportunity Commission only to be told that North Carolina is an "at will" employment state and that the employer did nothing wrong. We feel their actions were wrong. Is there anything that can be done? -- YANKEE IN CONFEDERATE COUNTRY

DEAR YANKEE:

Just so we're all clear on our history-- the Civil War ended 145 years ago, and I'm pretty sure the North won. Southerners aren't allowed on network television unless they are toothless, intoxicated and wearing wifebeaters that are at least 85% stained with sweat and beer.

I like how you are indirectly, though clearly blaming the fact that your slutty wife got fired from her job because you live below the Mason-Dixon line. Look-- nobody told her to pose for Lane Bryant bustenhalter ads-- I'm pretty sure that was her choice. By the way, will you email me privately and tell me what the website is? I'm not usually into fat chicks, but if those pics were hot enough to get her shitcanned on the first day-- I don't know... I might be willing to give that a shot.

By the way: why do your children appear online wearing Lane Bryant underwear? That's just wrong.

DEAR APRON:

My mother got drunk at a family function and started a fight with me. I ended up leaving before it could escalate, but I feel I ruined the host's day. Would it be appropriate to send an "I'm sorry" note, and how would I word it? -- MAKING AMENDS IN TENNESSEE

DEAR MAKING AMENDS:

Fucking. Excellent.

Here's what I suggest:

"Dear (Insert Party Host's Name Here),

Thank you very much for inviting my mother and I to Dale Earnhardt, Jr XI's Bar-Mitzvah. Dale looked so handsome and grown up with his back-parting and his moustache. You can barely see his nostrilectomy scar anymore-- and I'm sure the photographer can airbrush it out anyway. I really enjoyed myself, and those mini T-Bone steak appetizers were just divine. You'd be amazed at how well they keep inside a dark purse, even days later!

Before I apologize for not bringing a card or a check, I wanted to apologize for Mom's behavior. As you know, she can be a bit unpredictable when she has been drinking, which is why I strongly suggested that little Dale's affair be dry. And I appreciate your listening to me. However, Ma somehow procured some wood varnish that was being used to shine up the synagogue's bema and, well, you know Ma and wood varnish.

Fortunately, she made it through the ceremony only shouting the "N-word" twice, I think, and, for that I think we can all be grateful. It could have been a lot worse. As for her rugby-tackling the rabbi as he was about to give little Dale those candlesticks, well, we all tried to hold her back-- but she is, as Dad used to say, "Strong like bull, dumb like tractor."

Besides, I hear that radically dislocated shoulders heal relatively quickly for men aged 42-56.

Now, I am the first to admit that her behavior at the party afterwards was extreme, even for Ma. But you know how she is when her genital herpes are acting up.

Admittedly, there was no alcohol there, and I appreciate you making the party dry, but did you have to invite Robert Downey, Jr? Once Ma got him in the corner and sucked on his neck skin for an hour-and-a-half, she was as drunk as a fucking loon on Friday night. I was embarrassed for everyone when she tied one of the tablecloths around her face and shouted, "I AM UNDER THE BURQUA!" and urinated all over the band. When she commandeered the microphone and regaled us with her hyper-pornographic version of "My Way", well, I just wanted to hide behind Robert Downey, Jr's unconscious body. And, as we all know, I did.

And it's a good thing, too, because I have no idea where Ma got that paint-ball gun from, but those things really hurt.

Love,
Eunice

P.S. I'm sorry I didn't bring a card or a check.

On Porn

This was originally going to be called "Ode to Porn" because I think that the poetic form most accurately encapsulates how I feel about pornography. But you know that I don't write much poetry, and I tend to shy away from things that are challenging from me. This is why I didn't take math my senior year of high school and why I try not to go food shopping alone.

A porn poem was a nice idea, though. There are lots of words that rhyme with "porn."

born
corn
adorn
forlorn
horn
bjorn (with the slash through the "o", of course)
mourn (what I would do if there was no more porn)
torn
Pete Yorn's last name totally rhymes with porn

See? A poem probably would have been no sweat. I mean, if you look at the word "poem" really quickly while squinting your eyes a little bit and jamming your fingernail into the back of your left ear, it even looks like the word "porn." That, bitchlettes, is how easy writing a poem about porn would probably be.

Note the word probably. Pornably. I just can't take the chance that it might actually be hard.

Hahahahaha. Hard.

So, there are people out there who are offended by porn. I understand that, I suppose. It's hard to imagine seating an 87-year-old Amish grammaw in front of a laptop, showing her Tommy Lee tattoo-fucking Pamela Anderson on his boat and having her not be offended. I mean, I kind of know how she feels. I'm offended that Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson even exist.

But, the Amish aren't normal, so normal laws-- just like taxes-- don't apply to them. When a normal person gets offended by pornography, it raises a red flag in my pants-- book. Sorry.

Are they offended-- or are they grossed out?

Are they grossed out-- or are they weirdly fascinated, inwardly ashamed of that weird fascination, and then, out of sheer embarrassment and guilt, take to the streets with big posters featuring the word "VAG" with a red line through it?

You know who you are, you red vag slashers, you.

The complaint I hear most about porn is that it "dehumanizes women." I don't know about that. First of all, I probably shouldn't comment on this at all, you know, because I'm not a woman and, sometimes, especially in the morning before coffee has been surgically inserted into my bloodstream and bone-marrow, I'm probably not especially human, either. However, I challenge porn-opponents to present empirical data that pornography has been directly responsible to one, just one, incidence of a woman being turned into a vole, a 1987 Ford Taurus GL, a poplar tree, or a public park drinking fountain.

Dehumanizing? Show me the evidence. Preferably in a locked room with lots of tissues.

I don't like the "dehumanizing" argument for another reason besides the lack of hard (hee-hee) evidence: it's always used in reference to women.

Um-- hi. There are guys in porn. Who do you think is always fucking them in all those annoying, shitty, 1 minute-29-second-long clips that are just long enough to pique your interest but you have to watch on loop on Windows Media Player just to be able to sustain a halfway decent erection but then it just gets annoying to listen to the stupid bitch saying, "No-- that's the wrong hole" seven times in the space of six minutes?

So, if porn dehumanizes women, shouldn't it also dehumanize guys? Funnily enough, I don't think I've ever heard of a male porn-star complain that porn "dehumanized him." Actually, I don't know that I've of a female porn star claiming that either. Seems mostly to be uptight poly-sci majors.

(Uh-oh-- let me get my helmet and my Taser X12 to prepare myself for the onslaught of saucy comments! Last time I took a gentle barb at English majors on this blog I was probably burned in effigy on Vassar's quad.)

Oh, porn-- you couldn't offend me if you tried. There is, however, lots of porn that I just won't watch.

Porn featuring

* midgets, dwarves, munchkins, little folks, ever-teenies, hydrant-people or whatever the P.C. term for Weebles is these days.

* members of the animal kingdom-- furry or otherwise. I mean, if I really wanted to watch that, I could just turn on "NOVA" or book a flight to Juarez, Mexico and see a "really good show" featuring "la virgin y la vaca. Todos se mojan!"

(Look that up if you have to-- it's gross.)

* talking. Charlie Chaplin was right-- talkies will be the death of the Tramp. And tramps. Girls in porn should never be permitted to speak anything other than "Fuck me!" because, when they do, well, it's straight to Flaccidtown. I would say that porn starlettes should all have their tongues removed, but then they wouldn't be nearly as fun-- and I'll bet some poly-sci major would be offended by that.

* copious amounts of what appears to be salad dressing being poured into a woman's gaping asshole. I mean-- why?

* plots. Please don't pretend to be fixing the rich peoples' dishwasher while the babysitter is home with, inexplicably, no baby around anywhere. Just fuck. On the table-- and put a tarp down, for Christ's sake.

* chicks or dudes dressed up as Nazis. I mean, come on. Who thinks that's a good idea?

* gynecology offices/tables/instruments. Gross.

* conjoined twins. I mean, regular twins is okay. You know-- I have some standards. Actually, maybe conjoined twins would be okay, too, depending on where they're connected, of course.

Tase Me Out to the Ballgame

So, your little Apron is conflicted.

See, as a blogger who frequently takes interest in and writes about issues surrounding law enforcement, I feel compelled to write about the kid who got tased by Philly PD at a Phillies game as he ran around on the field.

Then, as someone generally resists the urge to involve himself in and comment on moronic antics that somehow always become water-cooler issues the following day, I feel compelled to ignore the kid who got tased by Philly PD at a Phillies game as he ran around on the field.

But, on the other hand, as someone who thinks tasers are FUCKING AWESOME-BALLS (my birthday is May 12, visit www.taser.com for details), I feel compelled to write about the kid who got tased by Philly PD at a Phillies game as he ran around on the field.

Of course, as someone who knows that this is, in essence, a silly story that will most likely blow over by the time I hit "Publish," I feel compelled to ignore the kid who got tased by Philly PD at a Phillies game as he ran around on the field.

But, as a Philadelphia-centered blogger, I feel compelled to write about it.

Yet, as someone who knows nothing and cares nothing about sports, I feel compelled to ignore it.

FUCK!

Well, I think we all know by now that I'm not ignoring it.

Because, let's face it: when some jerkoff gets bejouled in front of 44,817 semi-inebriated sports fans, it's pretty hard to ignore.

I struggled with how I feel about this one-- and I struggled hard. It might surprise some, or most, of you to know that my gut reaction was that the officer acted in the wrong. From the video (which people are watching on YouTube more often than they're watching the "30 Rock" clip where Alec Baldwin impersonates various members of Tracy Jordan's family-- "Now do the white dude that my moms left my dad for!") it's clear that Steve Consalvi, 17, known as "The Tased" was not acting in any threatening manner that put the pursuing officer, the other security personnel, the overpaid players, or any of the 44,817 semi-inebriated sports fans in serious jeopardy. He wasn't involved in a struggle with the officer, where the officer's gun could have become intentionally or accidentally torn from its holster and used against him, or any of the other aforementioned individuals. Consalvi was just acting like an asshole, like lots of 17-year-old high school students have done before him, and will likely do after him.

Should you get tased for acting like an asshole?

It's an interesting philosophical question. Had the officer been a little more fit, a little more fleet-of-foot, he would have easily caught up to Consalvi and tackled him to the ground and arrested him, the way streakers, etc were dealt with back in the bad old days, before hand-held devices that fired Neuro-Muscular Incapacitation jobbies that made you dance, Monkey.

And, sure, that would have been cool to watch, too-- might have even seen a replay or five on the Jumbotron, but it never would have made headline news on www.philly.com, where the kid's father states, shockingly, that his son should never have been tased. (One eloquent comment on that site stated that Consalvi's father should be tased as well. I laughed. Tases for all involved!)

But, getting back to the question: (Should you get tased for acting like an asshole?) I'm just not sure. You can act like an asshole in your basement all you want, of course, and it's nobody's business but your own. Want to sit on your basement floor, cover yourself in creosote and a wool blanket and bang pots and pans together while singing the Chinese national anthem? Hey, this is America, brother-- and a man's basement is his castle/porn-trove. Of course, when you step out into the public (and the public arena, I might add) the rules change a little bit, don't they? We can't just walk up to every beautiful woman we see strolling about in a tank-top, honk her right breast and shout "A.M.!" and honk her left breast and shout "F.M.!" because we think it's fucking hilarious and a fitting tribute to Marchese Marconi.

No.

In public, we must exercise something called restraint. And that's a challenging concept for most of us, especially seventeen-year-old kids who have hormones leaking out of their eye-sockets on a regular basis.

(.) A.M. (.) F.M.

N'yah mean?

Everybody knows stepping onto a baseball diamond while a game is in play is a bad idea. Consalvi knew it, that's why he called his daddy to tell him he was going to do it before he did it. (Dad advised against it, just so you know-- before you weigh in with whether or not Papa Consalvi ought to be visited in the night by a Taser X12.) He knew it was wrong, but he did it anyway. And then, when a police officer got behind him and shouted "STOP!", well, I'm sure Consalvi knew it was wrong to keep running.

Here's a little lesson in police vs. civilian etiquette:

When the police officer says "STOP!" that means it's game over time. Because now you're not just acting like an asshole, you're fleeing and eluding and resisting lawful arrest.

In the '70s, they shot you in the back for that. Fortunately, there were no Jumbotrons in the '70s.

Did the officer have a legal right to fire that Taser round into Consalvi's back? Most likely. Was there another alternative avenue of force to explore besides firing the Taser? Most likely. Taking out his legs with an asp (retractable baton) is always fun-- but isn't possibly breaking this kid's leg on national television maybe worse than momentarily stunning him and having him involuntarily piss himself with no after-effects other than soaked shorts and bruised pride?

Truthfully, I don't know what the answer is-- and that's rare for me, as an insufferable fucking knowitall.

Maybe, because this happened to Consalvi, people will think twice before trying to get in on the action at a sports game. Maybe, because this happened to Consalvi, people will do it more. Maybe the officer fired his Taser because he knew he couldn't catch Consalvi on his own steam, and he was worried about being embarrassed in front of his fellow officers, and 44,817 semi-inebriated sports fans. Maybe he tased Consalvi because that's what it says to do in the procedures manual that we civilians don't get to read. Maybe there are consequences to our actions, even if, to some, it's just a case of "boys being boys."

Maybe you'll really buy me a Taser for my birthday. Don't bother with the wrapping paper, Bro.

In Case You Were Wondering, It's All About Me

A friend of mine got married on Saturday.

I am very proud of her.

My sister-in-law graduated from college on Sunday.

I am very proud of her.

I didn't like the officiant at my friend's wedding. You know why? Because most of what he did was talk about himself.

I didn't like the commencement speaker at my sister-in-law's graduation. You know why? Because most of what she did was talk about herself.

Love talking about yourself? Here's some acceptable outlets for that particular preference:

1.) Go to therapy.

Yes, it is expensive, and it sure takes forever to stop picturing your therapist naked and doing the mambo inside a gigantic parakeet cage, but you get to sit in a comfortable, climate-controlled room with lots of plants, inoffensive wall-art and talk about yourself until the bell dings! What could be better?

2.) Go on lots of job interviews.

Like telling balding men in Today's Man suits all about how wonderful you are? Take that resume to Staples and pound that pavement. You might not make a dent in that unemployment statistic, but, really, you're just in it to talk about yourself-- so what does it matter? As long as the water's still running, the lights are still on, and you're not reduced to eating cat food-- or the cat-- you'll be just fine. I think I hear H.R. calling!

3.) Go on lots of first dates.

Yeah, playa!

There's nothing in this world that's better than talking about yourself, unless it's talking about yourself while staring down unfamiliar cleavage! Now that's what's up! Not only do you get to talk about yourself endlessly on first dates, you get to make shit up, because, really, your date has no idea that you didn't win the big game in high school while doing push-ups with your dick and simultaneously rescuing an inchworm from certain death by a roving gang of carpenter ants.

4.) Get a blog.

Um, hello?

Look, I know the drill. I understand that even the most piteous of us creatures, with asthma and scoliosis and fucked up teeth and poor self-worth just want to talk about ourselves. And that's okay. But, really-- when you're marrying a couple, try your best to make it about them. You know, sketch out what you're going to say, and then, if you're a visual learner, make a fucking pie-chart.

If the piece of the pie that contains remarks about your own wedding and your own wife is appreciably larger than the slice of pie about the couple who is getting married, maybe it's time to take a fork and knife and eat some of your own fucking slice-- you know, slim that somebitch down a little. Nobody attending this wedding cares that you had a "non-traditional wedding" (what does that mean, exactly? Were you both in wetsuits and fright-wigs?), and I'm absolutely sure that nobody cares that you were married by your bartender.

You pathetic fucking lush.

And you, Ms. Commence-Speaker: shut up. Just shut up. I hate you. I would rather have listened to Miss Piggy sing Verdi oratorios.

My Towel Smells Like Doritos (and Other Domestic Profundities)

I was recently taken to task (in a nice way, of course) for not revealing enough about my so-called "personal life" on this blog.

This comment struck me as strange, unexpected, paradoxical, and boasting other emetic properties.

I was, I don't mind admitting, confused.

See, I thought that I oftentimes revealed far too much on this blog. Sure, I keep my name hidden (from all except a super-lucky few!) and my physical identity is represented by an acerbic little drawing penned by (who else but) W. S. Gilbert maybe 140 years or so ago, but, aside from that, I think, in 453 posts that you've learned an appreciable amount about my personal life.

Whatever that is.

I'm not quite sure how much more there is left to tell, actually. Our generalized age group is a TMI culture. Hell, we invented the term, for fuck's sake, and Lilu gave it a day of the week-- God bless her. We love talking about blowjobs and urine on the ceiling and the "weirdest place we've done it" and how we used to practice kissing with the basement radiator.

Um....

I'm not quite sure how this obsessively revelatory culture got its start-- but, if anything, it's certainly cured us of any latent repressive tendencies, and it's totally bumfucked the tight-lipped prudes in our midst.

You know who you are, Prudie McTudie.

Of course, I don't know that current-generation Americans can ever really claim to be very repressed, as a whole. Maybe Americans were in the fifties. There was something about skinny ties, crew-cuts, and Mamie Eisenhower that probably didn't exactly encourage people to dance about en masse, revealing their sexcapades on the town square in a veritable snowshower of crusty tissues and Modess pads.

See what I mean? We're disgusting and should all be shot. I blame Sarah Silverman and her fundelicious breasts.

She (and they) was/were almost reason enough to watch "The Marriage Ref" on Thursday night.

Almost.

The thing about me is that, while there are certain tiddiebitties about my life that may seem passingly interesting or possibly relevant to people in Denton, Texas (really?), I tend more often than not to find the petty details of my own personal life to be rather, well, petty. As in, not even barely worth my own time, and decidedly not worth yours.

More than that, I find the goingsons in the outside world (current and historical) to be far more engaging, juicy, and bite-into-able. I mean, that oil spill? Fanfuckingtastic. My towel smelling like Doritos? Probably less-so.

During my senior year of college, I took an independent study in playwriting with the chair of the theatre department. This is only something you can do at a small liberal arts college where they treat you like you're something special and worthy of bronzing. I met with him in his office for an hour-and-a-half, once a week, for ten weeks. I had a new 10-minute play ready for him each week. Never in my life have I ever been so productive.

Well, except for this blog, if you count that.

Far more often than we'd talk about playwriting, we would talk about the Middle East, my family, his family, gossip about fellow students-- who was fucking whom, who was gay, who had absolutely no talent, etc, etc. It's hard to believe that I actually got a grade and credit for this. An "A," and three credits, in case you were wondering.

Anyway, I wrote plays about a variety of subjects, all of them having to do with events happening in the outside world.

"Let me tell you something," my professor said to me, "nobody gives a shit what you think about all this stuff-- except maybe me and your mother. What I love hearing about is your family-- your personal life-- the fucked up way you think and talk about things. Why don't you write a play about that?"

I looked at him like he was a fucking idiot.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," I said, "and I took Conflict Resolutions & Peace Studies last semester-- and I heard a lot of stupid goddamn things in there. Who the hell wants to hear about me and my family?"

He looked at me and smiled.

"Everyone."

To prove him wrong, I wrote a trilogy of short plays about my family. Three weeks later, on a Friday afternoon, I went into his office, threw them on his desk and said, "Enjoy. Hopefully you'll resist the urge to papercut your eyes out with them."

He emailed me back on Sunday night.

"beatiful."

He's dyslexic, so you can't really say anything about his spelling but, as always, the sentiment was there. A big cyber-bearhug from one of the loopiest, emotionally-stunted, socially-bizarre men I've ever known.

After graduation, I sent the plays to a bunch of small theatres. Nobody put them on, and practically none of my stage-writing has seen the light of day. But I don't blame my theatre professor, or my family, or myself, really. Well, I blame myself a little. If it was a little funnier, a little edgier, a little more pathos, if I wrote a slightly grippier pitch-letter. If I had the address on the envelope printed and not hand-written.

If.

Life's funny, you know? I don't know what's personal anymore and what isn't. I think a lot of us are that way these days. Our blogs are diaries with the lock busted wide open. We've got webcams on us 24 hours a day, we're G-chatting and Facebooking and cyberfucking our lives away. For all to see.

Hello, you beautiful, crazy fucking world. I'm going to wash my towel today.

My Volvo Problem

I have a Volvo.

And I have a Volvo problem.

Want to hear my Volvo problem?

I'm embarrassed by my Volvo.

This little problem of mine is especially annoying because my Volvo replaces my previous car, a PT Cruiser, which was also embarrassing, but for very different reasons.

The PT Cruiser was embarrassing because, well, it was a PT Cruiser. I don't need to say anything more about that, do I?

I didn't realize that the Volvo would embarrass me when I signed all of the contracts and papers and checks necessary to acquire said vehicle but, now that I have owned it for nearly a month, I now understand and am slowly accepting that I am now embarrassed by my own car.

Why?

It's too good for me.

Call this low self-esteem-- maybe that's what it is-- but I do not feel worthy of this particular vehicle. I feel ashamed when I drive it through gritty neighborhoods. When people ask me "Oh, you got a car? What is it?" I immediately start to feel warm and prickly underneath my shirt. I furrow my brow before answering, wet my lips and reply in any of the following ways,

"Oh, it's an old Volvo."

"A used Volvo."

"A 2002 Volvo."

"A small Volvo."

"It's just an old Volvo, an S-40-- you know that's the smallest one they made that year."

"An eight-year-old Volvo."

I hate apologizing for my car, but I do it, and I know that I'm doing it, but I can't stop myself.

Why?

* It has supple leather seats that I wouldn't particularly mind dying in.

* It has heated seats, and I've totally gotten over the I-just-pee-peed-in-my-pants feeling.

* It has faux wood all over the place.

* It has airbags all over the place.

* It has Dynamic Stability Control.

* It's a Volvo.

I'm proud of all of these things, and, yet, I'm also concurrently embarrassed by them. And very much so.

I guess I apologize for the car, or diminish it because I am afraid of being judged. When I told my boss what I got her response was, "Oh! Can you really afford that?" I was immediately ashamed and embarrassed, and I also immediately went online and checked my checking account balance. Still okay. But what she said had a deep impact on me, especially since she is the reason why I make practically nothing.

Could I really afford it?

It was $8,900. I traded in the Cruiser and they mercifully gave me $3,500 for it. $5,400 for a used car isn't really all that much money. Is it? So I bought it outright-- no payments, no nothing. Is what I did okay?

I keep questioning myself. And, everytime I see someone who knows that I work for a small, shitty non-profit and they ask me about what kind of car I drive, I want to fall on the ground and die at their feet rather than pronounce those two dreaded syllables....

Vol

vo.

Oh, God-- just don't make me say it.

I love the car. I really do. I love how precisely it handles, unlike the Cruiser, which was like trying to steer a Hippo on opium across a skating rink, I love the comfortable, supportive, lusciously leathery seats, I love the pick-up of the 1.9 liter turbo, I love the increased fuel economy. I think I love everything about it except for the fact that it's a Volvo. It's just too refined, too beautiful, too uptown.

If I had a homely, fat-chick friend, this is probably exactly how she would feel if we went clubbing together. Poor Gretchen.

Apron for President

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