To the Douchebag who Stole My Wallet

I was in Chili's. Because my mother-in-law had given us a gift certificate. It's not a fancy place--there aren't hooks under the bar for your purse. So the bag went on the floor. Little did I know that the bartender would actually card me--leading me to reach down and pull up my bag with one strap. Was that the moment my wallet fell on the floor? I'll never know.

What I DO know is that, if I found a wallet on the floor of the bar, I'd hand it to the bartender and say, "Hey, I found this on the floor. We should take care of it so that some douchebag doesn't abuse it."

So, hey, douchebag who took my wallet and used my check card, then my credit card, then my other credit card...

I volunteer with my church's youth group. I donate to ASPCA. I work for an organization that strives for affordable housing. No, I'm not perfect...but I gotta think karma's on my side. So, "Gird your loins," Douche Bag. We're on to you.

And I'm cuter.

They said I was a valued customer. Now they send me hate mail.

Have we discussed how annoying it is that Ann Taylor only has one hook per dressing room? I mean, never mind if you have so much stuff you need two hooks-—what about the sorting system? This hook for keepers, that hook for “crap that makes you look like Martha Stewart on a Cheetos bender.” You wind up juggling piles of clothing in an attempt to make some sense of order out of them, and end up buried under a pile of sensible slacks and merino wool sweaters. I bet they don’t put up with such crap at Bergdorf’s (but I wouldn’t know. I don’t think they let people like me in there).

In other news, I've finally decided what I will wear to the Oscars, should I ever live out my fantasy of winning an award for a behind-the-scenes category such as "Art Direction," then being so charming and beautiful during my acceptance speech that I am pronounced "America's Darling" in the following day's People magazine. (What? It could happen!)

David Meister and Bvlgari:













Sadly, they don't sell those at Ann Taylor.

I don't like the dark here, it keeps eating my pencils.

I had some blood drawn at the doctor’s office the other day. No big deal. So when I heard the message on my voicemail that asked me to call them, instead of them just leaving the “don’t worry, everything’s good” message, I freaked out a bit. Good God, what’s wrong with me? Cancer? Leprosy? Hemorrhoids?

Turns out I have a vitamin D deficiency--no big deal, just have to take a prescription supplement. I do wonder if this deficiency has contributed to my general depressive state as of late--it'd be nice to have an excuse, anyway.

Still, I'm baffled. Even in the dead of winter, wearing SPF 28, this chick's pale, pale skin can suck up the sun. In spin class the other day, the instructor was trying to help the class gauge when they're working too hard. "When you look in the mirror, and your face is bright red...then you're working too hard." Yes, pretty simple. And yet, she continued, "Unless, of course, you are Scottish or Irish in origin."

And, I am not exaggerating, the woman looked directly at me while saying this. Anyway, good news! I'm not out of shape--I'm merely Irish. That's a relief.

Bring on the potatoes and the Guinness.