Blog Archives

You could fit a small child in there. I’m talking about my purse.*

A few new blogs that I’ve been reading have done this post where they take the contents of their purse, and artfully display what’s in it, and it’s actually very fascinating to me.

I’m like…wow. They’re so organized. Their purses are so cute. They carry around very little. Meanwhile, I’m walking around with so much stuff that I could get kidnapped and be fine for the next few days by the amount of stuff I carry around.

Their blogs are aptly titled: What’s in my bag: Vacation/School/Uni/Etc Edition.

What’s in Camie’s Bag — from

So, after some hemming and hawing I decided to do my own post of this.

Mine will be aptly titled:

What’s in my bag: I’m a hoarder Edition 

Here is my purse. My kid fits inside it.

Here is my purse. My kid fits inside it.

Or maybe: What’s in my bag: Why I have back problems edition.

Here is all the shit inside it.



This is what is in my purse in no particular order.

  • Matching wallet — I’m particular. I like my bra to match my underwear. I like my wallet to match my purse.
  • Random receipts — because a trash can is always too far away.
  • #LettersFromLA — if I’m out shopping, or not shopping, or doing something that’s not shopping while I’m actually really shopping and see something kitschy that I want to mail to a pen pal, I’ll throw it in my purse to remind me to mail it. And then probably forget about it.
  • Guitar picks — because the guitar just didn’t fit in the bag.
  • Ticket Stubs — I always say that I’ll scrapbook things like this so I save them. Plus, they’re fun to mail off sometimes.
  • Make up — when I say make up, I mean “lots of chapstick because I forget I already had one in my bag.”
  • Sunglasses — Multiple pairs. See make up.
  • Cameras — Multiple cameras, multiple medias.
  • Hockey laces — just because.
  • ALSO: snacks, a blue power ranger, my missing set of spare keys, mittens, my kid’s hat, passport pictures, and A DOLLAR, GUYS. I FOUND A DOLLAR.


*Yes, my uterus also applies, as I have had a small child basically growing** in my uterus.

**Full-on growing. Not basically growing. Growing babies is hard.


Black Friday, you scare me.

I absolutely love a great deal like the next person, but I think it’s psychotic to look for deals on Black Friday. So I opted not to take part in this year’s chaos.
Instead, I chose to sleep off my ‘night before Thanksgiving partying’ hangover and Thanksgiving’s food coma, while moms in mini-vans battled each other for the great sales.

I enjoyed my Black Friday by laying around the house and stuffing my face with leftovers. The day was very uneventful.
Around 6pm, I assumed it was safe to venture to the store. All the mini van moms would have returned to their homes to count their inventory of Christmas presents.

I intended to purchase a few holiday cards. I need to get rid of huge amount of stamps I own since the price of stamps will increase in January.
I made my way to card aisle. Picked my cards, and went to an open check-out line. Everything was normal and safe until this point. No random attack of a mini-van mom still possessed by a Black Friday demon.


The cashier seemed normal… She greeted me and scanned my purchases. When she got to my holiday cards everything changed.

She opened each one and read the greetings before scanning the cards.

I found this very strange.

First, she was a slow reader so the patron waiting behind me was annoyed.

Second, they’re my greeting cards. It’s my business what is inside them.

Am I the only one who thinks I was violated???

She didn’t say if she liked the cards or not. I feel like I was being judged for my choices.

This is why I don’t shop on Black Friday.


Winter, snow, and other things that are coming.

I drove to Target yesterday to pick up some food and things for the office. Coffee creamer, chicken pot pie, random stickers from the dollar know.

I was driving through the parking lot, enjoying the end of the nice days, sunglasses on, windows down. Right as I was about to park, a car pulled out in one those really nice spots that make you feel really important and incredibly lazy.

“Rockstar parking,” I thought to myself. “Score. Lucky day. Winning. Etc.”

I was about to pull in when I saw another car. Creeping and the like. 

I knew he saw me. The spot too.

We were about the same distance away. We met eyes and it was just like a scene out of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

“You can’t have my spot, you yellow banana car’d man,” I said to myself. “I saw it first.”

Cue tumbleweed.

But then, the nice man in the yellow banana car smiled at me, holstered his imaginary shot gun, and mentioned to me to take the spot.

I parked and walked into the store. I was perusing the dollar section when Banana car man came up to me.

“Hey,” he says.

“Oh hey,” I respond. “Thanks for the spot.”

He grins at me. “No problem. Just so you know, in a month, I’ll run you over to get that spot.”

That reminded me. This is the last week of calm driving and normal traffic. The last of normal people not high strung from holiday music, stress, cocoa, and shopping deals. The last of polite lines in Target and not having to wait a half hour to buy a gallon of milk. The last of the rockstar parking.

And that’s about when I decided to do my holiday shopping online.



Billy told me that honesty is such a lonely word

There was a news report that I saw once, where the crew left iPods around the city, clearly marked with the owner’s information, and able to be returned.

This, of course, gets everyone wondering. What would you do if you found something like that, something expensive that you could return, but would also like to own? I answered the way anyone would: that I’d like to think I would. But under the circumstances, I know that I would at the very least consider keeping the item.

Last week, I took a trek to Target, you know, that store that you never really need to go to, but you do anyway, and end up throwing money down the black hole of Target and coming out with all sorts of random shit. Yeah, that Target.

I was standing in front of the nail polishes, debating if I needed to buy a new color because they were so pretty and they were there, and I was there. It’s that shopping addiction, it’ll get you everytime. I finally managed to drag myself away from the nail polishes and go buy some milk, because that’s all I really needed. I cashed out, walked out the door with my milk when I squinted in the sun and realized it. I’d left my sunglasses somewhere in the store.

I’m retracing my steps in the store, and just getting to the nail polish when I heard this*:

“Are those for sale?”

“OMFGZ, those are not from here. Those are Coach.”

“Nuh-uh, they are not!”

Silence in which I’m sure the girls are inspecting the glasses to see if they’re legit.

“Take them.”

“No, you take them.”



At this point, I found it necessary to interject. “Um, excuse me? You have my sunglasses…?” Something about the way I said it gave the girls question. All of a sudden it was like talking to things 1 and 2.

“These are your glasses?” One asks.

I nod. “I must’ve set them down when I was looking over here.”

They exchange a look. “Why would you set them down?”

I’m flabberglasted. Seriously? Just give me back my sunglasses, crazy. “I didn’t realize I had until I got outside.”

We stare at each other. The girls are still glancing back and forth and the one is clutching my precious sunnies in her grubby little teenage hands.

“Can I have my glasses?” I finally ask.

There’s another silence. One of them makes a noise in her throat, like they’re trying to communicate through grunts so I won’t notice. It’s at this point that I wished I had a more bitchy personality, and would just snatch the glasses and run. It’s not like that’s breaking any laws, after all. Since they were my sunglasses.

Finally, one of them speaks again. “How do we know that they’re yours?” she asks. “…I mean, finders keepers.”

At this point, I genuinely do not know what to do. I could offer to call store security, but they’re dumb high schoolers who weren’t even sure if they wanted to take my glasses. I could grab the glasses and run, but as previously mentioned, I didn’t really have the gall to do that. I could continue arguing with the two girls in tie dyed shirts and cut off shorts. Or there could be a really awkward silence where we just stare at each other for a long period of time — my glasses still clutched in the one girl’s hands.

It’s at this point I have a stroke of genius….and a few clicks later I’m holding up my iPhone…

This is me with GoldDust. I am wearing the sunglasses in question.

The girls don’t say a word. The one holding my glasses hands them back to me and we all turn wordlessly away from each other and walk away. I get stopped at the door so they can check my receipt and make sure I’m not stealing the gallon of milk I’ve been holding the whole time. As soon as I’m outside in the sunshine, protected from the elements by my once again mine sunglasses, I head to twitter.

I had to share this immediately.

After some time that day, and some talk back and forth about how I should have thrown nail polish at them to distract them, grabbed my glasses and run, I forgot about the debacle. I mean, I had gotten my glasses back. All’s well that end’s well, right? WRONG.

They gon’ get you.

Target. Getting all those preteen sunglass stealing bitches, one at a time.

Seriously though. If you find something, and you can return it, or are given the opportunity RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU to do the right thing…do you?

*The writer admits that these two chicks may not have used this exact dialogue. However, they were in tie dyed shirts and cut off shorts, and did, in fact, use the phrase “Finders Keepers.”

One of my dogs must really enjoy porn.

I hate doing laundry. There’s this whole process where I have to bring my laundry basket to the basement then go all the way upstairs and hang out while I wait for it to finish then go all the way back downstairs to change it out and bring it back upstairs and fold it and put it away, etc etc.




I’m in the middle of this tedious process and at some point, I forget to close the basement door. Now. I have two little shit dogs, that due to their immense stupidity and my father’s asthma, are kept in two rooms of the house: the kitchen and the living room. We keep all other doors closed to pin them in.

the little one looks like the creature from the neverending story.


The next day, I’m going to get dressed. My laundry had all been cleaned and put away in their specific drawers and compartments. I grab a pair of undies.

Clearly, I reached into my porn star drawer.

My panties are crotchless. Apparently, one of the damn dogs snuck into the basement when I left the door open. Not only that, he chewed out the crotch of my panties. I’m standing in a matching bra and homemade garter. Even the lingerie I buy isn’t this skanky.

Nearly ALL my underwear has been destroyed, with the exception of two black thongs and some white granny pants that are so old and ugly that I understand why the dogs didn’t go for them.

I’m reminded of those times in life where all your underwear are in the laundry basket. You have the choice: do you want to do laundry? Or do you want to spend some of your hard earned money on some new panties?

Victoria’s Secret is about some serious business from me.

Not that they haven’t before.