That's funny - you don't LOOK like your picture on the Internet

I don't often buy things online. Mostly, this is because I'm cheap, and I simply do not buy things anywhere, ever, unless they are edible.

Time and the cruel streets of New York had other plans, though. My shoes - trusty since freshman year of college - had gotten so hole-y that my students were beginning to think I was a secret hobo who lived under my desk. And goodness knows you can't trust a secret desk hobo to teach proper sonnet explication.

Sexual violins on a Sunday

Per my weekend routine, I was watching CBS Sunday Morning a few hours ago. It was delightful.

The End.


JK dudes! I had to write something because, during the peaceful, simple hour and a half of CBSSM, a commercial came on that nearly shattered my conception of everything CBSSM is about.

There was a dark screen, and a fierce orchestral screeching struck up! Murky, quasi-religious symbols floated in the background, and then excited, deep-voiced announcer guy came on to tell us about, "a new CD, from the most exciting violinist OF ALL TIME."

Bold claim, deep-voiced announcer guy! I mean, there are so many truly thrilling classical musicians running around, titillating America these days!

This particular violinist has a secret weapon, though: he is SEXY. He emerges from the blackness, square jaw clenched, luxurious blond locks swept back into a Fabio-esque ponytail (except, of course, for a single, come-hither tendril, falling over his intense, jewel-like eyes). His black, button-down shirt has been rent apart (no doubt by hormonally crazed female fans) to show his smooth, muscular chest. And thus, HE PLAYS. Rhythmically, forcefully, EXCITINGLY.

I was so blown away, I neglected to catch the name of this classical Casanova, so, sadly, though I wanted nothing more than to share this soul-plumbing experience with you, I cannot find it on YouTube (although I searched "sexy violinist" "most exciting violinist" and even "violin, sexy, long hair"). Nor does this man exist on Amazon, where searches for America's favorite violin CDs (and who knew there would be so many?) yielded only track upon track of Joshua Bell  - a floppy-haired child! He cannot satisfy our violin needs!

Readers, please, be alert. If you hear a violin, and it touches your heart in a way no violin has before - take note! This is our man - the man who will lead the sexual violin revolution. Write down his name and then find his commercial. You will not be disappointed.

Post-script: I was looking for a picture to run with this, and, apparently, only women are allowed to be sexy violin players. DID I DREAM OF THIS MAN?

Look! I'm linking!

My friends over at Box Box Stick (annnnnnnnd...I just got what that means when you have two girls and one guy as your cast. Neat.), just put up their first podcast. It's basically just them talking about their days, their lives, their favorite drinks, etc., but they happen to be naturally delightful and funny people (as all my friends are. except that one -- you guys know who I'm talking about...). Moral of the story: you should check them out.

Anyways, Becca was talking about this lady who came in to return something at the baby boutique where she works. The problem with this interaction was that the return item was over a year old. The company whose name was on the onesie or the goofy hat -- or whatever it was that had come from the baby store in some forgotten and long-past era -- didn't even exist anymore. But the woman was quite insistent that it was within her rights to return it, and even got a little bit rude. All in all, it turned out to be a pretty horrible experience for poor Becca, and I felt bad for her, really, but at the same time...I kind of love that random return woman.

Really, who has the cajones to do something like that?

"Yes, I realize it was handsewn by palace maidens in the dark ages, and yes, I do realize that no self-respecting baby would wear this particular style of goofy hat in this day and age, but, you see, I simply don't want it anymore." Her kid had probably worn it and outgrown it ("Oh, the tooth-marks? And the fraying? I take no responsibility for the fact that your store sells raggedy things."). I just have to admire her a little bit.

I rarely return things, even when they are brand new. In fact, the entire shopping experience is something of a challenge for me because, rather than going into a store with the goal of purchasing something, I go in with only the overwhelming desire to make the salespeople like me.

It's probably disgusting to watch me in a store; I creep noiselessly from rack to rack, trying not to disturb the salespeople. They ask if I need help, and I say, "Oh! No need, I can get it!" as I try unsuccessfully to find things in my size or pull a box off the top shelf. I kowtow, I grimace, I scrape.

The dressing room is even worse, particularly in small stores, where you have to leave the safe confines of your personal cube and walk into the store to see a mirror. They always have an opinion (usually something along the lines of, "You should totally buy that!"), and it always kills me to disagree. "Yeah! I mean, the whole 'doesn't actually button right over my boobs' thing is totally in, right?!" or "Oh, definitely, I mean, I've been looking for a dress with strategically placed crotchal pockets [true story]!"

And then there are the returns. When asked why I am returning their perfectly fine product, I can never just say, "Buyer's remorse." or "Well, I didn't want it and was bullied into it by a salesperson." I always need a story. A favorite of mine is that I bought it for my sister (conceivably a twin, since the shirt or skirt being returned is obviously in my size), who decided she didn't like it. I like this one because it moves the blame onto someone else, and I can sit and commiserate with the checkout girl about what a fool the sister is to not want such a great item.

I don't know why I do this. Someday soon, I'm going to have to accept that it's the salespeople's job to accept returns. Or I'll just have to get over my aversion to the crotch-pocket dress that is currently taking up space in my closet.