On the way home Thursday night

With apologies and thanks to Wendy for the form...

Scout (noticing a dashboard light): Hey, the airbag is on. That's good.

Sporks: Yeah, but that's one thing I've discovered I don't like about my new car

Scout: What?

Sporks: Well the car will turn off the airbag for a child or small adult based on a weight sensor in the seat. And the other day I went to the store and put two fridge packs of soda on the seat. The car thought they were a small child and beeped at me to put the seatbelt on the whole way home.

Scout: Well, that would be ok if it were a sack of onions or something.

Sporks: I guess I could have just fastened the seat belt.

Scout: Yes, if you sat them vertically, they would be ok.

Sporks: (Laughing) Honey, you just need to fasten the belt. You don't actually have to fasten them in like a child... Hey wait, is that why you thought a sack of onions would be ok? Because they're child shaped and belt would fit nicely around them?

Scout: (Also laughing) I can be a little dim.

Sporks: Can I do a Wendy-like dialogue post?

Scout: (laughing) Sure.

Happy Friday. Keep your sodas and onions safe. Like children, they travel best in the back seat. Car seats optional.

Insurance and religion

Yesterday I read Suburban Lesbian's latest post about religion and homosexuality. It got me to thinking. I've had a long and complicated relationship with religion as the daughter of a prominent woman minister. That my very straight brother followed her into the ministry makes things all the more complicated.

Last Easter I felt very guilty about not going to church though I had no actual interest in doing so. I worked out instead. My anxiety level went down after my workout. My therapist says that's a normal physiological reaction. So one lesson to take away from my blog today is that a workout can decrease your anxiety level. I should never stop working out given my general level of anxiety.

My mother worries about my not finding a church home. My brother stopped asking. I know many people who struggle within organized religion about and around homosexuality. I am not sure I will want to do so again.

In a secular vein...

This morning, I was the model of efficiency. I went to the credit union affiliated with my university, applied for and received an auto loan at 1% below the one the dealer had offered me, got the check, drove it to the dealership (25 miles away in L.A. traffic), and was at my desk before noon. I then called my insurance agent to delete the old car and add the new.

My insurance agent called me back and in a very matter-of-fact way inquired whether Honey and I were domestic partners and registered thusly with the state. I allowed as how we were. She announced brightly that our insurance company offered married policies to registered domestic partners and that we could get deeper discounts on our auto and homeowners' policies. "No exclusions!" she announced brightly.

We're in trouble, I think, when insurance companies are more forward thinking than religious and political institutions. Of course, in our capitalistic environment, industry often leads the way in social change. And saving money? Who's opposed to that? Not me. I wonder, though, about feeling more validated in my relationship when buying a car than I do in thinking about issues of faith and religion. It shouldn't take a leap of faith for me to want my minister and fellow congregants to have more trust in who I love and share my life with than my insurance agent does.

Circumnavigation

The building I work in is small. This is especially true for a campus building. Campus buildings, even here in second-floor-pancake-earthquake-zone-SoCal, are fairly large, multiple story deals. My building is not. It is one floor and has two entrances: one for my office and another on the south side of the building and a second entrance on the north side of the building.

The two offices on the south side of the building are busy student service centered ones. The north side of the building holds a number of community service offices.

I should also note that the building my office is in belongs to a college of which we are not a part. (My University, like many, is divided into sub-colleges, each with its own Dean, buildings, and money). I get reminded that the space is someone else's with some frequency when we have money conflicts. I control the money for a joint program administered by that college and my own. It's a good deal for me, actually. I'd rather have money than space. Anyway...

The north side of the building underwent a face-lift this summer. It looks really nice--new carpet, new paint, new furniture.

Standard pattern for south-siders is to park in the parking lot on the north side of the building, enter through the north entrance, and come through the rear entrance to our office. It's what I did. It's what everyone did.

Ok, so Other College and I are having one of our regular "let's all get along" meetings and they invite the guy who's in charge of the money and the space to come to the meeting. In a very roundabout way, he asks if we can stop using the north entrance. It's a reasonable request actually. They do counseling in that half of the building. They do work with children and adults with disabilities. They don't need 25 or 30 people walking through the lobby like it's a thoroughfare.

So, I get back from the meeting and write a very carefully worded request to my staff.

Keep in mind please that I am asking them to walk MAYBE 100 feet farther than they have been.

You'd have thought I asked them to run the L.A. Marathon. Or slog through a jungle on their knees. The hostility with which the request was greeted was palpable.

I made the request last Wednesday, when Office Manager was off. Monday when she came in after the holiday, the drama re-emerged. I'm talking coup d'etat level drama. Because they have to walk around a very small building.

I've been contemplating buying them all Table-Mate IIs so they can just live in the office. Or maybe Hover-Rounds?

Change can be hard. I admit as much. When minor change brings such consternation, imagine how they'll feel when we have to move our offices across campus. Actually don't imagine it, the horror is too much for the faint of heart.

Maybe Segways?

On following my emotions into a car dealership

Honey says I lead with my emotions and she's probably right. We were cataloging my car decisions yesterday for reasons that will become obvious. I asked her if she would do what I was thinking about doing.

"We have to back up. I never would have done what you did three years ago."

So, let's back up shall we? Some years ago I bought I car that I really liked. It was a Volkswagen Passat. Honey and I name our cars. The Passat's name was Otto. Some years after I bought Otto, my mother, who was living rather miserably in Chicago at the time, offered to sell me her Audi A6 for whatever I could get for the Passat. Sounded good to me. The Audi was a year older but had fewer miles on it. Because it was my mother's car, it had many of bells and whistles. It was also a lemon. My dad even admitted that to me after the fact. However much you love them, my advice to you is to not buy a car from your relatives. That Audi cost me thousands of dollars in the year I owned it in repair bills. Plus, with both the Audi and VW, there was the whole, "ju must use ze hi test gas because zese are Deutsch ottos" thing. Anyway...I was sick of how much the Audi was costing me and during the heady days of 0% financing (that would be 2003, for those of you who lost track), I acted emotionally and bought a Saturn Vue. It was bright blue and Honey and I called it Butchy. Ironically, you understand.

Butchy never suited me. It had REALLY uncomfortable seats and an uber plasticy interior. It was comfortable enough for four people (I guess--I never rode in the back seat). I kept doing things to it to make myself like it better. Roof rails, aftermarket stereo, rubber floor mats. The blue was a bad choice, too. I thought I would think it was fun. After a while, though, I would walk out to get in it and think to myself, "you're a grown woman getting into a bright blue car." This is not to slam anyone else's car color choice, by the way. The car and I didn't get along. I think I probably would have liked the color had the rest of the car been satisfying.

Anyway, emotions have led me hither and yon to car desires since. I lusted after the Nissan Murano for a while and then soured on the egg car thing. I then decided that the Audi A3 was just the thing for me until I read reviews of its "narrow cockpit." Since I am less than narrow, that seemed like a bad fit.

And, then...

And, then...

Well, Toyota came out with the new FJ cruiser. Oh, it was just the thing. Not too big, not too small. Cute AND tough all at the same time. I have the "big car" for Honey and I. I read reviews. I watched MotorWeek on PBS hoping to see the review of it. I checked ebay to see what the slightly used ones were going for. I downloaded a plugin so I could build my own. Once I built my virtual one, I spun it around and around.

Honey and I talked about it some. I was at one of those moments. I still owed money on the Vue, but because it was three years old and didn't have much mileage on it, it had value. I could drive it for two more years. Or...

I tried to resist wanting to go to a Toyota dealer. I didn't ask for a free quote on the internet. I was going to be good. Then, Honey and I were meeting some friends yesterday at the Museum of Jurassic Technology. Never heard of it? Weird place. Totally worth a visit if you're ever in L.A.

Anyway...there's a Toyota dealer near the MJT that I knew had been a good dealer once upon a time. I asked Honey if we could stop by after the museum.

Here's what I thought would happen: they would have a couple of FJs. They would be blue, yellow, or black 4x4s. They would have a sticker price I could not afford. I would drive one. I would like it. I would go home and obsess about it and maybe, in a moment of weakness, ask for some free price quotes on the one I had virtually built from edmunds.

The one I built virtually? Oh, it was a silver 4x2 with alloy wheels and the basic upgrade package. And floor mats. I wanted floor mats.

We walk onto the lot and are greeted. Nicely. There's an FJ sitting up front. It's silver. It's a 4x2. Features? Why, yes, yes indeed. The basic upgrade package, alloy wheels and---you're never going to guess--floor mats.

We test drive it. Honey says, "this is everything you wanted to Vue to be and it isn't."

Oh, I know, there are a million reasons to NOT buy the car. It's an SUV. It doesn't improve gas mileage over the Vue. Shouldn't I get a hybrid? There's nothing wrong with the Vue other than my emergent searing hatred of it. And then...

Then, we get into negotiations. Honey has wandered away and is sitting in the waiting room for the service department watching (despite her total lack of interest) the USC/Notre Dame football game. The entire sales staff seems to be actively rooting for USC. Honey and I went to UCLA. Honey doesn't like football anyway. It's a thing.

They show up with their first offer. It's not even close to what I imagined. Not even. I'll spare you the back and forth. I had to go get Honey and she was amazing. She yelled and stood up and I yelled and demanded the keys to the Vue back. Then they switched guys. It was a good move, because guy number 1 was the king of fuzzy math. Finally, they got to showing us the actual price of the car with the actual "value" of the trade in. After the Saturn experience, where the get out the blue book and figure out the value of the trade with you, this was very different. It was hostile and antagonistic.

Finally, we got to a price I could afford and there were no random charges. I wasn't giving them any money down, just the Vue. I still hemmed and fretted.

They're just things, cars. Big, expensive things.

It's awfully pretty, my new FJ. The process was less than fun. But like all pain, the memory of it will fade and I will be left with a car I really like. Emotions win, after all. That happens when you follow them around.

Wandering in the office wilderness

While my recent office troubles do not match my Honey's, I have nevertheless been in a state of flux in my day-to-day environs. Over the past two years, I have let everyone in the office order new office furniture. I demurred because until this summer, I was in my current position as an interim. I thought it would look untoward to order furniture until such time as I got the job forever and ever. And thus it came to pass that I did. One morning early this fall, I went up to the furniture store which must exist solely on the revenue it generates from my institution. They saw me coming.

I fretted, measured, and ordered. I chose modern looking furniture with "white aluminum legs" and speckled gray tops. No need to pretend something is wood. Speckled gray pretends to be nothing but what it is--speckled gray.

Twice a month the physical plant people will remove furniture for free. Office Manager was worried that there might be some overlap between the old furniture and the new. So, a month ago they took away my old desk and chair. I hated them both. Buh Bye.



Once they were gone, my office seemed empty. Ok, let's be honest, my office was empty.

I should note that one more "free take away" day happened between the take away and the arrival of the new furniture. I refrained from pointing this out to OM. I screamed it internally some and said it to other people, but didn't say anything to her. Instead I would occasionally say things like, "can you tell me the status on the furniture?" See how brave and restrained I am?



A month and no desk? Wherever did I go? Well, I have a small conference table in my office and I set my computer up in the corner. It seemed pitiful. It was pitiful. I climbed over boxes of desk stuff to get to the corner. My gynormous monitor is wider than the table on which it sat.



Monday, my new desk and chair finally arrived. I immediately set up my computer and unloaded every box. I am a happy office dweller.



Instead of drawers, I got rolling half file cabinets with padded tops. Occasional office seating for all!



Admittedly late afternoon is not a great time for taking pictures out bright windows.

My new bag looks good in context.

Herewith some details.


My picture of Red, my sweetgrass basket with sequoia cones, and my Sequoia National Park Nalgene bottle.


Biscuit has her picture on the desk, too.


My bendy squishy avocado guy, the gel-e star I ordered to promote my program, my teeny Zen Garden and the pot that used to hold my bamboo. Also, emollient. Gotta emmolliate.


The devil ducks really want to See Rock City but never have. The chiflera is dying, but I'm efforting keeping it alive.

Obviously, there's more in my office, but better to show too little than too much. I happy to be out of the corner and firmly ensconced in my new gray and white aluminum world.

Mr. Bond and me

We did fun things in my family when I was a kid, I'm sure we did. My brother claims we didn't, but that's him and I'm me. I remember vacations and holidays and the occasional visit to Stone Mountain. We also went out to eat dinner a lot. The "family dinner" at the Chinese place was a big thing--it involved sweet and sour pork, of that I am sure. But when I reflect back on my childhood, I don't remember my family going to the movies as a group much when I was younger. By the time I was a teenager we did--my mother and I would go to the occasional movie together. My dad took me to see movies, too. He and I still really like to go see movies. On his visit here last January, we saw three in three days. I don't however, remember all four of us going to the movie very often until we were older. One exception to this (perhaps skewed) view of the past, was one Saturday afternoon in 1979. My dad suggested that we all go to see Moonraker. It was my first James Bond experience. He told us about James Bond, the Cold War, and what the movies were like on the way to the theater.

No one in their right mind would claim that Moonraker was anything but second-rate Bond. In fact, it may be the worst Bond movie ever. Hard to say. There are so many bad Bond movies. After the movie we went to have chili cheesburgers and Dad told us more about the books, the movies, and the legend. I loved it. The whole thing. Truth be told, I never stopped loving Bond. In part, I think, because that day my family seemed happy and content. It must have been James Bond's doing.

I've seen every Bond movie since except for Die Another Day. I liked Brosnan when I was a teenager and he was on Remington Steele, and have liked him in other things like The Thomas Crowne Affair, but that business of him straightening his bow tie while driving around in a tank in Tomorrow Never Dies was just stupid. Oh, I know, there so much stupid to Bond. Bad actors (Timothy Dalton, George Lazenby), sexism (pick the movie), cheesy effects (ditto), bad pop themes (Duran Duran), etc. Still, that afternoon in 1979 made a place for Bond in my heart that I have never let go. He's there, despite so much. I don't like martinis. I've never been able to bring myself to play Baccarat in Las Vegas. He's so male. So many problems. One happy Saturday afternoon in a family with very few happy Saturday afternoons was all it took...

Oh, sure Connery was good, in his very Connery way, of course. On Her Majesty's Secret Service had Diana Rigg (love her). There were little pieces to hold on to. One Saturday.

A few years ago, I came back to Bond by reading a few of the books. They're not the greatest novels and spy stories are not my preferred genre, but I started at the beginning with Ian Fleming's first Bond book, Casino Royale, and enjoyed it thoroughly. I've read a couple since, but that one was the best of the handful I've read.

Honey was actually interested in seeing Casino Royale since she had heard good things about it. So today she and I headed out to see it. I'm no critic and there are many folks who have said lots of smarter things about Bond than me, but let me just say that I was glad to reacquaint myself with 007. The movie was everything I wanted it to be. Honey and I have had lots of nice Sunday afternoons, but it was nice to remember that Saturday 27 years ago while watching a good movie. Daniel Craig reminds me a lot of the Bond that Fleming wrote about in the book. And, take this for what it is, both Honey and I noted that he is a VERY sexy man. The movie is human, well written, and complicated. The action sequences are good, the lead woman is a real character, and there's no overt sexism. I think it's the best Bond movie ever.

Not that anyone in Hollywood cares what I think, and I guess "Bond 22" is already underway, but I think they should just remake the actual Fleming books again. And this time do it in order. Live and Let Die (way down there in the bad pantheon of Bond films) was the second book. Craig as Bond in the Caribbean and in a post-Katrina New Orleans? Sounds perfect to me.

We're not having chili cheeseburgers tonight, which is just as well. I don't need a movie or a meal to remind me that my life now is much closer to the ideal than my life was then. Still, I was glad to meet Mr. Bond again. He looks better than he used to and I'm still grateful to him for a happy day.

SportsCenter Blues

So, Honey is sleeping in a chair. And she keeps saying that I don’t want her to come back to the bed because I like watching SportsCenter on ESPN to fall asleep to. I told her yesterday that I would give up SportsCenter forever if she would come back. I wrote a song about it. It sounds ok in my head, but I’m sure the meter on it is just shit. Still, it has all the classic elements: abandonment, sports, and dogs. Oh and hope. It also has hope. ☺


SportsCenter Blues

My sweet baby loves me truly,
Woo-woo
But she’s been sleepin’ in the chair
Mmm Hmmm
Her back ain’t so good no more, nooo
And the bed hurts her sumpin fierce

So late at night I lie there
All alone and sad
Watching on the tee vee
About the sports of ball

Base and foot are best
Though girls’ hoops is
Ok too

Spare me the hockey
And those stupid cars
Going round and round and round
MMM HMM

Who do I have for solace?
Well my good old Biscuit dog
She’s all black and spaniel soft
But it ain’t like my sweet girl

Now those Relax the Back
Folks seemed nice
Til they took my girl away
Now all I got is SportsCenter
And things just ain’t the same.

Someday she’ll come back to me
That sweet girl of mine
And then I’ll give up teevee
And lie in her arms
Dreaming of sports no more.

Woo-Woo.

Yay!

On this very day some years ago, something happened for which I am deeply grateful.

My Honey was born.

At least we think she was. A few years ago, she tried to file her taxes online and the IRS rejected the filing. When she called to find out why, they told her that her birthday was November 13th, not November 15th. Being the investigative type, she called her mother. "Did you check you birth certificate?" When Honey pushed the issue, her mother said she was "pretty sure" that she had, in fact, been born on the 15th.

Ever since we've celebrated Honey's "social security birthday" and her "real birthday." Today is the latter.

I wasn't even in the world when this great day happened. But when good days happen, they happen. And this particular November 15th (maybe the 13th) was a good day, indeed.



So, Happy birthday, sweet Honey of mine. Thanks for being born.

Sense memory

When I was in my early twenties, I lived in the D.C. suburbs of Maryland. I had just graduated from college and had a job working at my University's library. One night, about a month into working the job, I began to feel very sick. I hurt like I had never hurt before. The pain started and then got worse and worse.

I drove myself home and to the hospital (stopping off for a change of clothes just in case--my momma always said to change your underwear before going to the hospital). Fourteen hours later, I no longer had an appendix. I'll spare you the details of my grabbing the nurse and demanding more demerol.

The one thing that really bothered me after the surgery was that I kept smelling this smell I had never smelled before. While convalescing some days after the surgery, I happened to touch the stapled wound. A few minutes later, I had my hand near my nose. Lo and behold, I smelled the smell. I decided that I was smelling the inside of me.

I didn't mind the way it smelled, actually. But it did smell foreign. And (believe me if you want) it gradually went away as the surgery incision healed. This was in the days before laproscopic surgery, so the incision was several inches long. I have not had surgery since and I have not smelled that smell.

For the past few months, however, things have smelled different to me. Not all the time. But some of the time. I can't put my finger (or my olfactory senses on, if you'd like me to be precise) on it. I can say that I think my nose is either picking up something different or has had a sea change in the way it smells. Sometimes it smells a little like garlic, sometimes it just smells funny.

At first my (considerable) paranoia made me ask Honey to smell me over and over to make sure I wasn't the one who smelled funny. She said it wasn't me.

I don't know if my sense of smell will return to normal. I miss trusting it.

Smell, "they" say, is the strongest memory trigger of the senses. I believe that to be true. Smelling a certain kind of sewage makes me think of Rome, which, in turn, makes me happy. I think if I ever smelled the "inside of me" smell again, I would remember what it was like to be young and scared and excited. Appendectomy as adventure, I guess.

This past weekend, I was on the east coast (more on that later). The leaves had changed and when it rained Sunday, I went out on the famous bloggers' back porch and smelled the fresh morning. It smelled right and lovely and not like the inside of anything.

Loser (on being one, sort of)

I played soccer throughout my childhood. My first team, the Ladybugs, became the Eagles when we got a little older. I also played on my High School team (the Lady Bulldogs). I was part of a group of people who lobbied the high school for girls soccer and then felt obliged to play after the lobbying effort.

My career on the pitch was less than illustrious. Being the awkward big kid meant playing left fullback and doing it badly. The Ladybugs weren't winners. Neither were the Eagles. The Lady Bulldogs were also less than spectacular. And my efforts didn't contribute much. The worst part of the Bulldog experience was that the Geometry teacher we had recruited to coach knew less about soccer than I did and didn't like me much. The result? I practiced a lot and didn't play much. Geometry coach toyed with not giving me a letter. She didn't follow through. So, somewhere I have three big fuzzy D's. I played soccer in the age before there were trophies. So, my childhood sports acknowledgement is restricted to those D's.

In college, I was too into being in college to do much sporting. I did play on a co-ed intramural soccer team and we won the championship. Again, no thanks to me, but I did play most of the games. I had a friend who had been on the University's soccer team. They had played (and lost) for the National Championship. He was INTENSELY jealous of my intramural championship shirt. So, I gave it to him. There went my one real "trophy."

I played tennis some with my roommate in college. She wouldn't keep score.

In my adult life, I haven't done much in the way of competition of a sports kind. Graduate school was competitive. I was recently talking to treecup about how much we had to compete with one another over the scant resources while we were working on our PhDs. I remember being very angry that I was ranked third for a dissertation fellowship behind a woman who has since gone on to become one of the real bright lights in my field. I should have been third. It didn't seem right at the time. Now it seems just. She teaches at a prestigious institution and has a book forthcoming from a major press. I administrate at a regional institution and just had an article published in an online journal. In academic score-keeping, she's "winning." But I'm not keep score. I like my job and my little article.

This week, weese and I both won for the first time in the blogger fantasy football league. I even moved out of last place.

Honey and I have not yet begun the process of picking out the trophy for the blogger league. Halfway through the football season, it is safe to say that it will not be at our home.

It's too early to say how election day is going.

In 2000, Honey and I lived in an apartment above some horrible Republican bitches. That may be repetitive. Anyway, we went to bed thinking Gore had won and woke up to their screaming in joy. Laying aside the fact that Gore did actually win, it was a bleak moment.

Speaker Pelosi would be a bright one. It's nice when your team wins, even if you don't get a trophy.

1986 Senate.

1995 Braves.

2002 Angels.

2006 Dems (?).

Meantime, my three fuzzy D's and my one fantasy football win attest to the fact that I am not a total loser. If only I had something to put on my mantle. Never mind, since I never outgrew the big or the awkward, I'd probably just break it.




Go team!

Friday randomness

According to my goofy gynecologist, I have "uncontested estrogen." That is not something you want apparently. That stuff needs competition or you're in trouble. I don't know who to send in to contest it. Any ideas?

The surly guy at my local bike shop is really nice under the surly. Bike fix in five minutes! A good local bike shop is good.

Some hangnails are harder to "fix" than others.

Our office first aid kit has teeny weeny and massively large bandages. Why?

I broke my watch band. The repair was handled terrifically. If you're looking for a sporty watch from a cool L.A. company, check out Reactor. They're chunky watches. But I like me a chunky watch.

Oh and this business of teens and twenty-something not wanting to wear watches because cell phones tell time is a cultural shift I don't like. Watches say a lot about a person.

I was at a meeting this week, in fact, and noticed that a guy had a woman's Timex on his right wrist. It gave me an alternate contemplation source than the meeting. I made up several stories, most of them sweet, about why he had on a woman's watch.

I remembered, too, my boss from my first full-time job, wore a very similar Timex. She died a couple of years ago (at a young age) of breast cancer. I miss her. And I like that his watch reminded me of her.

There is, seemingly, a worldwide shortage of Kashi GoLean Crunch. Honey and I are in mourning. Honey may begin to panic.

I'm sorry Tower Records is going out of business. But...the markdowns need to happen more quickly.

It reminds me a little of when the local woman's bookstore went out of business in L.A. I went to get some books and commented on how sorry I was it was happening. The woman behind the counter looked at me over her glasses, "you don't have to take the discount, you know." I did, though. I'm sorry it closed, but a bargain is a bargain.

Lost is going away after Wednesday. I heart me some Lost.

The show has been made all the better this season by Elizabeth Mitchell. I really heart me some Elizabeth Mitchell.

Getting apples from an orchard makes for an exponentially better apple experience than anything else.

Don't believe all of what you hear (like, "there are no apples this year."). That may mean there are five kinds to choose from instead of 12. Drive on up to the orchard to see.

It's nice to have a copy-editor Honey to whom you can ask questions like, "can you tell me the rule for spelling out numbers?"

Her answer:

"It's more a style thing, mostly in journalism, so it isn't ever incorrect to spell out numbers or make them cardinal. But yes, we spell out one through nine and style 10 and up as cardinals, but there are exceptions. Like, when we're stating ages of people and dates and the like, numbers are always cardinal, though when we're stating ages of things, the primary rule applies. Fiction follows different rules. There, numbers are almost always spelled out unless they refer to dates, monetary amounts, etc. Is that a suitably convoluted answer to what should have been a simple question?"

I do so love that woman. Isn't that fantastic?

Happy weekend. Go ride your bike! Here's mine again. So purty.

On shoes and morality

Recently, Honey found a pair of shoes after which she lusted. I, too, found them appealing. In anticipation of our upcoming trip to cold climates, I ordered them for her birthday (for her) and just because (for me). We got them. We tried them on. We loved them. In fact, my Croc wearing has significantly decreased since they arrived. They are magnificent.

I got an e-mail from the retailer thanking me for my return of the shoes. The shoes I am wearing right now. Odd, I thought. I figured there was a mix-up. Then I got a credit for the shoes to my card. Both pair.

Thusly...a moral dilemma. Should I:

1) Tell the retailer?

2) Not tell the retailer?

Honey and I discussed. I should say that the retailer is large and charges what honey would call "full-pop retail" for the shoes. In fact, they charge $10 more than the website of the company that made the shoes. I use the retailer occasionally because they have a huge selection and don't charge for shipping.

Meantime, I grew more fond of the shoes. So did Honey.

In finally decided I could live with the following scenario...

Don't tell them, but order another two pair of shoes from them. Then, it's like Honey and I got our very own two-for-one sale. Honey even picked out MORE expensive shoes for the second go-around.

If you feel moved to comment, tell me what you would have done.

Oh, and here are the shoes in question:



____
We got no trick-or-treaters last night. Honey thinks it's because our neighbors think we're witches. Or lesbians. Whatever.