Smart Phones and Credit Card Fraud

About six months ago, I was perusing the Cracked website when I came across an article in their "personal experience" series. The personal experiences range from being a professional dominatrix to what it's like to have a hand transplant (that's rejected).

Six months ago, the personal experience series was about a guy who spent $9,000 playing Game of War, famously advertised using the breasts of Kate Upton and Mariah Carey.

And can I just say that it's awesome that they're using Mariah Carey as a sex symbol? I mean, aside from the whole "objectifying women to get money" thing, she's 46 (or 45, depending on who you ask), and she totally rocks that metal bustier. Look out, Wonder Woman, she's gunning for you!

More to the point, though, I thought that someone spending $9,000 to play a game on their phone was absolutely stupid. How the hell could someone sink that much money into their phone? I thought there was no game on earth that could make me drop that much cash - or, you know, credit - on a silly game. That was what happened to people who had no self control.

Ahem.

No, I haven't lost $9,000 to an iPhone game, but I did spend about $50 over the course of 3 days, without even realizing it. I was playing Bejeweled a lot, and kept seeing ads for Township, which seemed like a more involved version of the Farmville game that initially launched on Facebook 8 years ago (and which I enjoyed playing for a while). I thought, 'That would be a nice change. Something I can dip in and out of periodically throughout the day." I downloaded it. It was free, after all!

Within about three hours, I was out of the valuable T-Bills (not treasury bills, but Township bills) that are required for... everything. Almost everything. I'd misunderstood how they were used, and only realized my error when they were all gone.

No worries, I thought. I'll just buy some more, just this once. Two dollars later, I was charged up, again. Easy.

But things have a way of snowballing, don't they? Instead of checking it occasionally, the game is timed so that some things are ready to be harvested after 1 minute, and some after hours have passed. So if you didn't constantly check in, you might miss the harvest, and with it the opportunity to earn more coins - not T-Bills - that were needed to do... stuff.

You could pay to build a market using the coins, but when you don't have enough building materials at the end of construction - and no contractor to chew out and threaten with a lawsuit - you have to use the T-Bills to buy materials.

And they go quickly.

One building required 100 T-Bills to complete, because the damned train kept delivering the wrong materials. (100 T-Bills is about equal to $5.00)

Fortunately, despite the fact that I eventually spent $50 on the game, I stopped myself after only three days. Three obsessive, can-hardly-watch-Sherlock-because-I'm-playing-the-game days.

This morning, I deleted the game - and the 1500 citizens for whom I'd worked so hard to create a lovely town. I'd started thinking, the night before, 'I need to delete this app. It's a money pit." But I didn't, because then the money I'd already spent would be wasted.

But I decided to drop the game at 6 am, after suffering a night of severe insomnia, possibly (probably) worsened by the game that had become somewhat addictive.

And then it happened.

At 9 a.m. I received a phone call from my credit card company, alerting me to possible fraud.

'Oh, good grief!' I thought. 'This is just what I need!'

Can you see where this is going?

The credit card company had noticed two suspicious transactions from 'a record store' (also known as the iTunes App Store), close together and for larger amounts than were typically charged 'at that location.'

So this afternoon, after guiltily informing my husband that the app had been deleted, and looking sheepish when he said, "It's not like you spent $20 on the game, or anything, right?", I called the credit card company and said, "Nope, that was me."

Except I said it to an automaton, not a real person.

Granted, I downloaded Tetris for my phone, but that doesn't require in-game payments to get ahead, just quick fingers.

Hey, a girl needs some variety in her digital life, right?

"Just Okay" is Sometimes Awesome

One of the things about being chronically ill is that I have a lot of bad days. There are a lot of days where I'm stuck in bed all day, feeling as if a vise is squeezing my temples, and the pain medicine I take only gives me so-so relief. And don't even get me started on migraine medications... Triptans are useless.

So when a day like today comes around, and I'm headache-free (knock on wood), and my neck is only hurting a little bit, it's an okay day.

Before this all started - AKA 6 years ago - if I woke up bloated and hormonal, with two or three zits sprouting on my forehead, it was disastrous.

Now, if I wake up bloated and hormonal, with a single zit on my forehead (being Paleo means I rarely break out, now), some slight back/neck pain, and sore legs, that's an okay day. It isn't great, but it's okay.

Okay has become, for me, the new great, is what I'm saying.

Okay is when I have the energy to go to the grocery store by myself, to put a roast in the crock pot, to clean out my car, and work on our taxes.

I need to take a moment to just process the fact that I'm filing an income tax return with a husband this year. Ack!

The thing about being "okay", though, is that I still have to pace myself. When I was huffing and puffing by the time I got to the car, my plans to take the groceries home and head out from the house again had to be cancelled. I realized I needed to rest, lest I work myself into a migraine, so my trip to Williams-Sonoma would just have to wait.

So, today was "okay", and I'm fine with that. I'm fine with the burning in my back muscles and neck from leaning over a pile of papers that desperately needed to be filed properly.

I'm fine with the fact that cleaning out my car left me winded - despite the fact that I sat down the whole time.

I'm fine with the sore legs, and the puffy stomach that's retaining water.

I'm fine with it all.

In fact, I'm more than fine: I'm great.

All Quiet on the Southeastern Front... and Etymology

It's been a while. It's been at least a month.

This grad school thing is totally interfering with my literary life.

No, really. I can hardly indulge my creative writing proclivities, these days, be they blog-geared or otherwise.

Heck, even my interior design magazines are on the back-burner, mostly flipped through hastily while I wait for the shower water to heat up, or while I scarf down some Whole Foods rotisserie chicken - because like heck I have time to cook!

So between school work and migraines - because, yes, those are back in full swing - it's been difficult to get to the ole blog for some writing.

Part of what's made my recent life so hectic is the nature of the projects we have in design studio. They've been 2 week charettes - I'll explain what a charette is, in a bit - that have required all the graphical and model-building dexterity of the more usual 6-8 week project, and they've been killers. A pavilion for a site near downtown Houston, a hikers' refuge in Death Valley, and then a film center, built for the director/video artist of my choice (I chose Tom Twyker and Run Lola Run for the film center. The exterior involved lots of red splashes).



A charette, for those not in the know, is what a short, flurried burst of design activity is called. The term comes from the French word for "cart."

"Huh," you say. "That makes no sense at all."

Oh, Dear Reader, but it does, if you know your architectural history.

The term originated with the Ecole des Beaux Arts in France. In those days, the school had projects due all at once: and when it was due, it was due. Every bit of it. The instructors sent a cart through the corridors of the school, and students put their projects on the cart. Occasionally, a student wouldn't be finished, and so they would put their project on the cart, and put themselves on the cart, as well, so they could finish their assignment while it rolled down the hall.

Seriously. How gutsy was that?

So, if you are working feverishly in the last few hours before your project is due in architecture school, you are en charette, or as we now say, "on charette."

You learn something new every day, don't you?

It's Been A While

Yes, it's been a while, but I've been busy. Busy booking movers for the Big Move to Houston next week (eep!). Busy arranging for telecommunications services for the Big Move to Houston next week (eep!). Busy boxing up my apartment for the Big Move to Houston next week.

Busy wrecking my car and having to deal with insurance, body shops, and renting a car.

NOT for the Big Move to Houston next week.

Tonight's post: AUTOMOTIVE REVIEW.

I rented a Chevy Malibu, today. My usual vehicle is a 2005 Honda Civic.

Cue the disinformation:

You: I thought architects made a lot of money?

Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!! (crying, wipes away tears) Oh, you're funny! And seriously, man: have you seen my health insurance premiums? Hah. You're funny.

Anywho, I'm currently driving a Chevy Malibu.

It accelerates when you don't want it to (i.e. right before you hit an intersection)

It does not speed up when you want it to (i.e. right as you turn in front of a car, full of confidence because it accelerates when you don't expect it to so it must have tons of unused horsepower, right? RIGHT????).

Its radio decreases in volume whenever you take your foot off the gas, so you can't rock out to "Big Pimpin' " when it magically comes on the radio while you're en route from Container Store to your apartment to finish packing boxes (but you run out of tape, so call it quits after an hour).

Its interior finishes look like a gallon of Neapolitan ice cream just threw up everywhere.

My next-to-final recommendation: don't buy one, unless you need to fit large boxes in the back (while your friend from work kind of bends the boxes so they'll fit; friend from work not included with car rental).

My final recommendation: if you forget to buy more packing tape, just remember: you still have a 1/4 bottle red wine to finish before you go to bed! It's just something else to move!!!

Buzz Buzz

I'm still in busy busy bee mode. I'm beginning to think it's the new norm, as opposed to the old norm, which was having plenty of time to do everything, plus hours to lie around in bed and read.

On Saturday, I had my hair cut - which took forever - while my mom waited for me at my apartment.

She got bored.

When I get bored, I surf the internet and fantasize about all the Elizabeth and James or J. Crew clothes I could buy.

When my mom gets bored - at my apartment, at any rate - she cleans house.

Ahem.

I returned home to a kitchen sink devoid of greasy pans, the relics of my self-inflicted burn-wound-thingy. Also, my TV console was dusted and my bathtub sparkled like a herd of Scrubbing Bubbles just had a party in there.

Afterwards, we took Major Tom Shadowmaker's (Ret.) Official State Portrait to be framed. Of course, the only frame that looked good with his portrait happened to be one of the priciest ones in the framer's shop.

Nothing but the best for the distinguished World War I flying ace.

Afterwards, my mother helped me to hang a few pictures I had lying around, so there's now a lovely salon-style wall of pictures in my living room with a set of antlers thrown in for good measure.

It's Texas, okay?

After a week of dinners with friends, and baseball games with friends, and running hither and thither to see various doctors, my apartment is now, alas, back to its state of normalcy: a bedroom littered with clothes waiting to be sorted and laundered; the remains of this evening's dinner languishing on the kitchen counter, awaiting their journey to their final resting place (a.k.a. the trash can).

I've filed my most recent medical receipts and have checked the usual web-comics. It is now, I suppose, time to attend to those languishing pots and pans.

Fear not, mashed sweet potatoes and post-buffalo-steak skillet! Here I come!

Two Big Accomplishments

First big accomplishment (okay, not that big):

I finished reading Shantaram.

READ IT...

SERIOUSLY.

It took me a while to get through, but it was worth it. And it only took me a few weeks because I got bogged down with the 15 design magazines I had not read in the past two months, and the needlepoint, and my own creative writing magicalness.

Magicalness: officially a word since... today.

Second big accomplishment:

I finished my income tax amendment forms and am now ready to ship them off to Austin, where some poor schmuck can... crud, I didn't sign them. Okay, time to rip open the envelope, address a new envelope, and then whisk them off to Austin.

Argh.

Okay, now they're signed and dated, and that Herculean task is finished. I swear, every year it gets harder and harder to file my taxes.

Granted, it's my own fault that they're hard to file, but I'm investing for my future, here, IRS! Give me a break! That whole "simplification of the tax code thing" the people on Capitol Hill keep talking about? I am right there with you! Please, simplify!

It makes the idea of hiring an accountant really attractive, right now. Except I'm unemployed, so I can't afford to hire an accountant.

Them's the breaks.

(SEE? It's so terrible that my grammar is breaking down. Seriously, they must be stopped!)

Bum Elbow

Today, I had my third session of physical therapy.

The first session was uneventful, and consisted mostly of Physical Therapist #1 pointing out that although my hips are perfectly aligned vertically, my left shoulder is higher than my right, and my sacrum is slightly rotated out of place, towards my left side.

I have a C-shaped bend in my spine just above my waist, but that's old news, and it's been there since 7th grade, prominent enough to attract notice, but not severe enough to warrant surgical treatment.

After listing off my physical failings ("You have very weak thigh muscles"), I was given a few stretches to do and sent home.

On my second day of treatment, the muscle that appears to be giving me trouble was identified by Physical Therapist #2 - the piriformis - and a few more stretches were added to the daily regimen. After which PT #2 gave me a butt massage.

Yes, really.

The massage was actually referred to as trigger-point therapy, and involved finding those spots on my gluteus that are tender, placing her elbow on them, and pushing down with her body weight. She gave me a tennis ball wrapped in a long gauzy tube so I can do the same thing at home using the wall.

Today's therapy consisted of doing some exercises in the physical therapists' gym. I wasn't the only one in there, either. Nope, an elderly gentleman named Ed arrived a few minutes into my workout and joined me. I was riding the stationary bike, at that point - which is the only kind of bike I'll ever be able to ride - and he hopped onto the cross-country skiing simulator next to me.

There was an additional therapist, too, one that I had not yet met. It might just be my opinion, but I want my therapists to be in excellent physical condition, not overweight and wearing khakis without a belt. Could just be me, though.

For most of the session, I lay on what amounted to a naugahyde upholstered king-sized bed, contorting my body this way and that and informing Physical Therapist #3 that, no, in fact, I did not feel any muscles stretching in that position. Nope, still no stretch. (sigh) No, I am not made out of rubber. Okay, yes, I feel that. OhdearGodmakeitstopthathurts!

PT #3 commented that I seem to be stressed, seeing as I kept my fists clenched so tight my knuckles turned white. He was amused when I told him I had to consciously relax my muscles at night before I was able to go to sleep.

I was okay with the supine exercises until good old Ed joined me. On the king-sized naugahyde bed.

You could tell he wasn't 100% A-OK with it, either.

I finished up my exercising with some heel-lifts (also known as Hell Lifts), and was delighted to be told that my exercising was over.

Stretching, cycling, and humiliation weren't all they had in store for me. No, there was more butt manipulation to be had.

PT #2 had me lie down on my stomach on a table - in a room apart from Ed and PT #3 - and used a tennis ball to do trigger-point therapy once more.

Afterwards, she treated me with ultrasound, which involved slapping a wet papertowel on my bare backside and placing a ring-shaped instrument on top of that. Ultrasound waves beamed into my bum, and twenty minutes later, I was allowed to leave.

I had to leave my dignity behind, though. Heh. Heh heh.

Really, it's not that bad, but it's a bit embarrassing. I'm the youngest person in the therapists' office every time I go, and the elder folks who are there for post-hip-replacement therapy, or who sit so much (by the looks of them, eating Cheetos and frosting) that they can no longer function properly look at me funny. Why are you here? I know they want to ask. You look perfectly fine.

Yes, yes I do look fine (except today, because something happened with my undereye concealer, so I looked exhausted), but I'm not entirely fine. Better than I was previously, but still not great.

Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

And bum massages.

An Intimate Dinner

For one.

I had planned to go to Happy Hour, this evening, to watch the baseball game and pretend to be a Rangers fan along with the rest of the normally apathetic architects, but when I checked my account balance - it was pay day, after all, and I needed to make sure my money was deposited - I discovered that I'd paid more on my credit card bill this month than I realized.

Quite a bit more.

On what? Well, replacing the clothes that fell apart (and which I will be paying off for a couple of months, it seems), but mostly on... you guessed it: Doctors' bills. $600 worth.

Woohoo! Yes! $600 in one month! So I stayed home and watched "North by Northwest" on the DVD and ate a meal comprised of random food from my refrigerator, cobbled into a "wholesome meal."

Awesome!

Almost as awesome as being accused of "ganging up" with the contractors against Oldsmobile, today. Who accused me? Oldsmobile. My cohorts in this gang? Pacman and Connie.

Hmmmm.... Neither Pacman nor I like Connie. We both have a low opinion of him.

Why was I accused of "ganging up" against Oldsmobile? Well, the contractor ordered the wrong stone, we think, for the house. The contractor pointed to the mock-up of the stone and said, "But it's the same color under all that dirt. The mock-up's just dirty."

During a discussion with Connie - at which Oldsmobile was not present, because he had to leave - Pacman and I requested that the mock-up be power-washed. But only half of it should be power-washed. Then, we could compare the stones properly.

We - Pacman and I - were attempting to explain the logic of this to Oldsmobile, and he began accusing us of colluding with the contractor to prove that the stone on the site was the correct stone.

He would not let us explain ourselves.

He left for an appointment in a snit, as he is wont to do, and returned later, even angrier, because his appointment was delayed by a lax employee at the City of Dallas, and he started in on us again. When we tried to explain, he cut us off, accusing us of colluding.

We finally stopped trying to explain.

We let him tire himself out roaring at us, accusing us of deception, trying to change his opinion, conspiring with the contractor (who we don't like or trust, mind you) against him.

And then when he was good and out of breath, we explained.

We are somewhat back in his good graces.

I have a feeling, however, that I am no longer seen as an innocuous presence in the office; that I have become "one of the guys" at last, meaning that I am finally to be subject to the same fits of temper they are subject to regularly.

I'm used to high maintenance employers. I excel at high maintenance employers. But they're usually of the benevolent kind, who are high maintenance in a "I carry granola bars and spare pens and pads of paper in my bag to keep them fed/supplied" kind of way. The kind who expect you to wipe Wite-Out off their face before meetings.

That kind of high maintenance. Not yelling, accusing high maintenance.

Maybe I'll keep my head down for a few days. Beginning Tuesday. Because Monday, we go look at the stone again.

Which brings me back to my original point: I don't get paid enough for this job.

Dr. Pain

When I was little, my pediatrician was named Dr. Paine.

I'm not making this up.

We used to laugh about it, as much as a 4 year old can when she goes to see a man called Dr. Paine who jabs her with needles.

On Tuesday, I will see a whole different kind of Dr. Pain (not his real name, natch, and hopefully nothing like T-Pain, featured above - a grill does not lend itself to a professional appearance). This doctor will, supposedly, help relieve my pain. This past week has been pretty atrocious, and I feel the worst I've been since I started back to work at the beginning of August.

Before I called to schedule my appointment, I Googled the new Dr. Pain, because I was curious about him: why my neurologist referred me to him, how long he'd been practicing, where he did his residency.

She referred me to one hell of a pain doctor.

Dr. Pain did his residency at Walter Reed Medical Center, and he is board certified by a bazillion different boards of specialization. A bazillion. That's a lot of certifications, Dear Reader. His website listed a bunch of different types of therapies he uses - most of which I didn't recognize, but none of which were "pills", so I felt better about that. I've been terrified of going to the type of doctor who just shoves a bottle at you and says, "Have fun with the narcotics. Don't drive too much."

Much like tequila and Coca-Cola, narcotics and construction sites don't go well together.

Not that I know from experience. About either of the above.

Hopefully, though, come Tuesday, there will be some path forward towards feeling better, again. Because this constant pain in the left half of my body is starting to become a royal pain in the-

I think you get the idea.

Cut and Paste

Pacman returned to the office, today, and immediately expressed his satisfaction at how I'd been running our current project. He then left me to continue running the project, while he and Scooter deal with some tricky questions and needy contractors who are bidding a church addition. Let's hear it for earning more Intern Development Program hours for Contract Administration! Woohoo!

I decided to celebrate by... treating myself to a shower caddy. And a little plastic organizer thingy for my medicine cabinet so my tubes of face cream and tweezers don't rain down on my head when I open it to pull out my toothbrush in the morning. I threw in a new cutting board as a prize, too.

Once my shower caddy was installed, and my tubes and tweezers and extractors were all safe and sound in their cubbies, I cleaned my makeup brushes, and decided I'd indulged in enough obsessive behavior for one evening.

Let me rephrase that: enough non-creative obsessive behavior.

Shall I explain?

I'm a scrapbooker. Now, before you decide Ms. Strainedconsciousness has turned into a suburban mother of twelve, I should clarify that it is a highly curated design scrapbook, encompassing multiple facets of design: interiors, architecture (the two are inextricably linked, in my not-so-humble-opinion), fashion, and product design.

My "scrapbooks" are Moleskine A3 sketchbooks and/or watercolor books. They can fit a full 9x12 magazine page, or a multitude of tiny pictures. Recently, I've been arranging - carefully, methodically - the latter.

The pages containing multiple images and are arranged similarly to the salon walls of 18th and 19th century manor houses, with one central painting/image surrounded by smaller ones that are more or less related. I tend to related things by color. For that reason, this lady:

(okay, dame) is surrounded by interior images, all of which have a decidedly orange or red tinge, like so:

And an image of Iris Apfel - who wears the world's most amazing jewelry and spectacles - is accompanied by images of a marine hue. As long as that marine area is not Galveston.

Are you catching what I'm throwing, here? It's a wonderful exercise in the study of interiors and architecture and how they relate to individuals' tastes. In addition to Great Personalities, I also collect images off The Sartorialist website (http://thesartorialist.blogspot.com/), firstly to help me in expanding my personal wardrobe horizons and in targeting my wardrobe goals, but also because the way people design themselves can have an impact on the way I design interiors and architectural spaces. The following images are all from the above website.

And I'm in good company, it seems. A collection of Cecil Beaton's scrapbooks is slated to be published in the near future - November, if memory serves. He created his scrapbooks from magazines, movie posters, and snapshots to help him in his studies of lighting photography shoots and how to pose people, and to study how they interacted with their surroundings.

Ms. Strainedconsciousness and Cecil Beaton. Whodathunkit?

Is It Friday, Yet?

I know it's not Friday, and I'm honestly glad it isn't, but good gracious, this week is fraught with difficulties, already!

Out of the past six workdays, I have been on the site five days. Today, Tuesday, I was there twice: once for the regular Contract Administration meeting (guess who's contract administrator since Pacman's in NJ?), and once because the owner's son sent me an email loaded with questions, after I settled the Great Screws vs. Nails Debate of 2010. I felt the need to look at the framing to see exactly what he was talking about before fully addressing one of the issues.

Hmmm... maybe the owner's son needs a nickname... We'll call him Big'un, because he's a big'un (granted, he's tall, not fat).

At the meeting this morning, Big'un questioned the framer's use of nails to attach the joist hangers, instead of screws, like the contractor on the family's ranch house is doing (this being their Texas ranch, as opposed to their Montana ranch: keep them straight, okay?). I told him that nails were acceptable, I'd never seen joist hangers screwed into a studwall before, and that it wasn't necessary to screw all the framework together.

He pulled a framer, on me. "Maybe you could just call Adam and check?" I wanted to smack him right in his 24 year old bearded face. But I didn't, because he's the client's son. Instead, I hailed Scooter, put the question to him, and Scooter reiterated what I had just said.

Big'un didn't seem satisfied. The other contractor, the one at the ranch house, uses screws after all.

I have a hunch that the frames aren't the only things that contractor is screwing...over.

Once back in the office, I researched the exact joist hangers we're using - which specifically state NOT to use screws - and emailed the Big'un to let him know. He shot back a looooooooooong email, full of questions that compared the construction of the house in town to the ranch house (the Texas ranch house).

Apples and oranges, kiddo. Apples and oranges.

For starters, the ranch house is a renovation. Different methods must be used to construct the houses. They have different building envelopes. And if his email was accurate, which I doubt it was, then their ranch house is a mold/mildew factory waiting to happen, because it's being built to prevent the walls from breathing properly. It took me a full hour to fashion an email that defended the building envelope we've designed without impugning the design of the contractor and/or architect of the ranch house (I'm not entirely certain they have an architect).

One thing he did bring up was staining on some of the framework. I decided to check it out on my way home - so I left to go home an hour early - and took some photos. I'm not happy, because the staining appears to be not so much staining as mold and mildew on the framework. If that's the case, we'll want to rip out the affected pieces and replace them. And by "we'll want to" I mean "we'll make the framers do it."

I also scared the heck out of Lord Midget, the Electrician, who feared I had returned to give him additional directions. He seemed relieved that I was just there to look at the framing and the ceiling in one of the offices.

Just before leaving our office, I was indulging in a fair amount of griping about Big'un, and the somewhat idiotic questions he asked (with the exception of the staining), and Radio made the remark, "You know, you shouldn't be complaining about him. You're really missing an opportunity, here. Sure, he may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but he's rich and not a bad looking kid."

"He's illiterate," I replied, brandishing the typo-ridden email. "Enough said."

"You need to be more materialistic. Money can make up for lots of things, even being an illiterate idiot."

I sighed. "You've obviously never dated an illiterate idiot before."

"You've obviously never dated a rich one."

I smiled. "You obviously don't know my dating history." And with that, I left the office. I have a hunch Radio hasn't spoken the last in his attempt to get me to marry our client's son, however.

At least it would guarantee the firm more business, right?

The Gods Must Be... Kind of Mean

The Good News: I found my beloved teardrop necklace. It was sneaky, hiding under the stiffener-board in the bottom of my cowhide duffel bag.

You read that correctly: cowhide duffel bag.

The Bad News: The Gods of Lost and Found Articles decided to exact a price for my being able to locate my necklace. The price? An earring, sent into a death spiral down the drain of my sink.

I considered buying a wrench so I could save it. I went to Home Depot to price wrenches - the big kind, that you use to remove P-traps where your favorite earring lies, lonely and abandoned.

Buying a decent wrench - because I do not buy cheap tools - would cost more than buying a new pair of earrings.

I bought a new pair of earrings.

Ralph Lauren makes this particular pair every season. They're little silver pebble-shaped studs, and they're unobtrusive and classic. Like my teardrop necklace.

So I paid my pound of flesh to the Gods of Lost and Found. And then I paid about 6 pounds of flesh to Seven for All Mankind to buy a pair of new jeans, because they last a long time, and they're low maintenance, and they hem them for free.

So my clothing budget for the month is gone on a pair of earrings and a pair of trouser-cut jeans, and I will just have to wait until next month to buy anything else, I guess. Hopefully, it will cool off by that time, so I can break out my fall/winter clothes. Hopefully, but - this being Texas - doubtfully.