Napolean Dynomite is really just a low grade Butthead from Beavis and Butthead. Think about it.

You Make My Motor Run, My Motor Run

Today is the one year anniversary of my first post. To celebrate its birthday, my blog went out to get smashed and do several kareoke versions of "My Sharona." Its been a good year. We still haven't risen above three readers, but we're always optimistic.
Oooh, my little pretty one...pretty one...

I went shopping this weekend. There's nothing like shopping to remind me why exactly I so avidly despise shopping. And malls. I didn't want to believe that I hated shopping because I was still desperately grasping to the idea that I was Cher Horowitz. When in fact, I am not. Nor will I ever be.
This is partially because as a child, clothes shopping meant following behind my father while he picked out shorts that Denise Huxtable rejected because they were, quote, "too eighties." And so I trudge to school in these abominations that my parents called outfits, whether it be the shorts, floral vests (vests!), or a pink floppy hat that my mother made. Yes, I was that kid. Everyone knows that kid.
The older I got, the worse it became. There was a point in my life when I thought it was acceptable to wear overalls. Plaid ones. And everyday of 10th grade I insisted on wearing sparkly tie belts and an ever-present metallic green "clippie," (def: clippie, noun, women's hair accessory used to pull back hair in unattractive manner, the evil second cousin of the scrunchie, sets forth illusion that hair is being suppressed by the claw of an alien life form) Oh, it wasn't pretty.
Now that my fashion sense has improved (slightly), my problem lies not with the clothes that I own, but with the clothes they are selling at the mall. Such as lo-rise hip huggers. Just when I thought they had gone the way of the stirrup pants. I will never in a million years get those things over my hips, and even if I did they would create this... waist cleavage which is, to say the least, never good.
But I haven't even gotten to the worst part. The stores. The stores! With their stereos blasting Black Eyed Peas music and their half naked buff manequins propped up against a surf board. There isn't a beach within a hundred miles,Buffy McBuff. Maybe if we ignore her, the person with the ginormous ass, will just. go. away. And I do. Past the store of elitist employees who express their angst by wearing an array of paperclips on their clothing. I don't dare go in there because I haven't listened to enough Sum 41 that day. Or ever.
And then, like a beacon in the night, Old Navy. Sure, you become a walking paradody of those "superskirt, superskirt...superflirty!" commercials. But look, real people sizes. Enjoy your shopping experience and don't forget to pick up your free t-shirt on the way out. Thank you and goodnight.

How sad and pathetic are you if you find yourself in hysterics over the end of You've Got Mail? I was just sitting there minding my business, having a perfectly normal day, not one in which included turning into a blubbering mess of estrogen. Then, what happened? I'll tell you what happened. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan happened. And there was magic. And I start to think things like, why can't I find a Joe Fox?
It was at that moment I knew I had hit rock bottom.
I need to start watching movies with more guns. And aliens. But I'll probably just watch Beaches instead.