Spendy McSpendalot

So yesterday was National If You're a Woman Don't Spend Any Money Day. I know this because the radio told me, and the radio never lies. Thus, apparently in honor of this fact, I went out and spent a crap-load of money on pretty things to make my life more enjoyable.

First, I rocked Best Buy for the first season of Arrested Development (which made me inadvertently laugh so loud that Crazy Neighbor from across the breezeway was all "what the hell was going on last night?" when I saw him leaving for work today. (Quiet, Crazy Neighbor, how's about you stop creeping me out with your blacked out windows and pitch black apartment interior and excessive computer equipment? (I seem to have fallen off track. Exeunt Parentheses.)))

However, my love for Best Buy continues to wane. First, they run out of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind on the day it comes out, then they totally lie to me when I call to ask if they had the AV cable I needed for work. Then yesterday I had to dig through the DVD box sets to find the AD because they can't be bothered to put it with the rest of the new releases.

Bad form, y'all. Keep this up and I'm totally gonna start going to that craptacular Circuit City (even though the salespeople there are so dumb that I have to resist the urge to clap my hand to my forehead and gasp everytime they say anything. Swear to God: "I don't know if this computer has RAM. I think it only plays DVDs") a mile down the road. But AD was on sale, so the tenuous love affair continues.

Next, I hit the mall (have I mentioned I hate malls? Because I do. With the fiery passion of a thousand suns. Full of all those damn punk kids with the damn loud music and their long hippie hair. Hi, I'm bitter and old. And only slightly kidding.) because Jason for serious needs some new work clothes. Exactly five business outfits is no way to go through life. (And it means you have to do laundry every Sunday, no matter what.)

So I get three awesome new shirts that cost roughly what I pay for my entire months worth of groceries, after my personal shopper (not really my personal shopper, but this too-cool Iranian saleslady who has been working at the store everytime I've bought something and has consulted on it all, thus seeming to know me intimately) declares me "flawlessly accented." Which I'm pretty sure is complete gibberish, but sounded like a great thing at the time.

I rounded off my spending extravaganza with some new socks, a full tank of premium gasoline, and a night of daiquiris with Devon.

Meet Jason, single-handedly keeping capitalism alive, one Tuesday at a time.