I don't have anything.

On a blustery Saturday afternoon, I walk along the sidewalk, approaching a homeless person. The unshaved face of a man peers towards me, and he reaches his hand out. He wears gloves with holes, which are wrapped around a coffee-stained paper cup jingling with a few coins. He mumbles at me. His toothless mouth barely murmurs the words, but I respond anyways: "I'm sorry, I don't have anything."

I continue on my walk and those words hang in the air.

My feet hurt in the heels I chose to wear. The tall, crinkly leather boots, warming me to my knees. The boots my parents bought for me a few Christmases ago. I have several pairs of shoes, so if these bother me, I can go home and change into a variety of others.

I have a warm coat on my back and money in my purse. I have a credit card and a driver's license. I don't have a car, but if I wanted to, I could buy one on a loan. I could get a loan. I have a job, and it's in a career that I enjoy.

I have a craving for a drink. I am not thirsty. I could definitely survive with this hankering. I could suppress it if I wanted to. It was more of a want than a need.

I walk another block towards my apartment. I have an apartment. I have a heated shelter, that I sometimes choose not to heat so I can save money. I use that money to splurge myself. I buy things for my hobbies, like skateboarding or doing crafts. I can have hobbies, because I have the time.

I have friends who share in my hobbies. I have a best friend who trusts me and whom I trust. We can keep each other company, but we can stay apart and know that we will be able to see each other again. We share common interests and a background. We have known each other for a long time, and we will know each other for many more years.

We met in school. I have an education. I went to school, and I graduated from school. I can read. I can write. I can speak two languages. I have traveled abroad to practice that non-native language. I have friends and families who live in other countries who reach out to me to share special moments in their lives, and with whom I can share mine.

I have a family with whom I keep in touch and wishes no harm to me. I have a family whom I can call if something bad were to happen, and they would drive 30 miles to help me. If they were farther, they would get on an airplane or on a train or in a car to get to me. They call on a regular basis just to check on me. They care about my well-being.

I don't live very close to my family, but I do live somewhat near them. I can have independence. I have independence. I can live alone, with no desperate reliance on another. I have rights. I have privacy. I can vote on my leaders. I can boycott things. I can express my opinion without fear of physical harm.

I continue to walk.

I can walk. I have two legs. I have two arms, which I can use to hug the people I love and who love me. I have lungs that breathe, eyes that see, ears that hear and a mouth that speaks. I have my mental health, or so I believe. I have ten fingers and ten toes, which function perfectly well.


He may also have a family and a home to go to, but I don't know for sure. I do know that I most definitely do not have nothing.


This essay was first published by Melissa Weinmann on inyournaturahabitat.blogspot.com

I got my boobs fitted for some bras and this is what it was like

The other day I got a coupon in the mail for $10 off an Aerie bra, so today I headed over to Aerie at American Eagle to see if I could find a match. They have this new campaign where they don't photoshop the girls in the ads or the models' pictures that are posted around the store as this "real you" idea.

To the guys out there, bra shopping is quite the ordeal, as much as jean or swimsuit shopping is. I am not sure which of those three is the worst, but just trust me that it's pretty hard. Since guys' bodies don't seem to come in as many shapes and sizes as they do for us ladies, I can't make an understandable comparison to something that you would understand. Maybe tuxedo shopping? I give up.

Another thing for guys to know about bras: the size is a number and a letter. The number is the inches measured around the woman's rib cage, right under the breasts. The letter is determined by some magical formula that basically says how big your breast is. 

Summary: 

Number=rib cage size

Letter(cup size)=boob protrusion

So I went to the store wearing my best-fitting bra so I could do a comparison and also remember my size. Just like with clothing, your bra size can change from year to year based on your weight. I usually shop at Victoria's Secret (VS) so the bra I was wearing was of course from there. I feel like VS is most common bra store since they have such a huge variety and their stuff is good quality. Your boobs feel like they are on a soft fluffy cloud instead of strapped onto your chest with elastic and padding. 

The first thing I noticed at American Eagle was this weird cover version of "Under the Bridge" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers playing on the overhead speakers. The cover was by some girl (not sure of the artist) with a cutesy voice, which was off-putting since the song is about drug addiction, so it's like listening to Zooey Deschanel sing about a heroin overdose. I felt like it would inappropriately play in a makeout scene of Pretty Little Liars or something.

I went to Aerie's bra section and they have a  huge variety of bras in different cuts and perkiness. Seriously, they all are measured in a perkiness factor to show you how perky they make your boobs on a scale of "Perky" (obviously) to "DOUBLE WHOA!!" of which the latter describes boobs that appear 2 cup sizes larger. 

What's a girl to do? Try on every single style, that's what. 

I grabbed a bra from every single collection they offered in the store in the same size as the VS bra I was wearing. I had a total of 8 in the dressing room with me, but according to their website there are 24 total styles. The store I was in obviously didn't stock all of these, and also there were one or two styles that didn't carry my size. Try-on time!

All the bras are named after girls, so Aerie can say "shop all girls" on the bra webpage and have a winky wink pun with girls and "girls" i.e. boobs. I think. Also, the girls' names are all hip and cool like "Abigail" and "Reese" and "Harper." No Sarah or Mary here. Sorry to the Sarah's and Mary's out there, but those names just aren't hip enough to name bras after them, 'kay?

The girls' names are hip and cool so you can also feel like you have a hip cool friend named Brooke or Lexi that helps support your ta tas all day long. Like a friend who is really grope-y. Or maybe not grope-y because you're a girl comfortable with your sexuality so much so that you share everything with your friend, even the task of supporting your boobs. Either way, this made it super weird when the one of the best fitting bras I got was named after my mom. 

Bridget was the first winner.

I tried on the Emma which is a  "WHOA!" on the perky scale, and includes removable "air padding." And by air padding, I mean little plastic pouches filled with air. I felt like I had bubble wrap stuffed in my bra, so I tossed that one aside almost immediately. 

Some of the bra straps were the killing point for many bras. There was one bra in particular that had a ribbed bra strap that made it almost impossible to adjust. As most bras are on the tightest setting when on the shelf display, it requires lots of adjusting to open it up to a length that renders it wearable. The bra I struggled with was so difficult that I gave up and just didn't try it on. That could have been the perfect bra, but the straps were impossible, so TO THE FLOOR IT WENT. Actually, not really...I neatly put it back on the hanger and hung it on the REJECT HOOK. Most of the straps felt rough and itchy and they left red marks on my skin from all the scratching they did in the 20 seconds of wearing them. I think twist ties would make better bra straps than these things. I kept putting my VS bra on after trying on the Aerie ones for comparison and also to remind myself that better bras do exist. There IS a bra that can make me feel like Katy Perry's boobs did on that cotton candy cloud.

Pictured: Boob Heaven.

Aerie is on the cheaper spectrum compared to VS, so there's no denying that the quality will be affected. The sale I encountered had all bras between $20 and $30 which is a STEAL when you think about how VS bras can be anywhere from $35-$65. The cushiony heavenly one I was wearing today was $50 at VS. 

To be honest, for most of the Aerie bras I had to go a number size larger compared to my VS size since they all were squeezing a little too much. That's something to note if you go bra shopping at Aerie vs. VS. I don't know which company has more accurate sizing since I didn't ask to be measured at Aerie and because I never trust the measurements at VS. I could go into VS one day and the dressing room attendant could confidently tell me I am one size and all other bras that I have worn in my life have been wrong and that this is the One True Size, then three days later a different girl measures me and is like "No no no no no NO! You have been mislead, THIS is your One True Size!" And I think they just make up how the bra should fit so you buy more bras every time you come in since every time you enter the store you are convinced that all other previous bra shopping wasn't real and true but this time it's DIFFERENT.

However, with the "Drew" bra (DOUBLE WHOA!! perkiness factor) I kept my number size but I had to go down a cup size to make my girlies fit in with all that padding. When they say DOUBLE WHOA!! they really mean it. This bra is amazing in the way that it makes anyone and everyone look like Katy Perry. It is a must try. Even if you appreciate your current bra preferences or little padding, you must try this bra on so you can have your chest region protrude to the point of knocking stuff over when you turn around. If, instead of girls' names, the creators of these bra styles just named each style after a different boob nickname, then I think the Drew would be called "BOZONGAS." I feel that if you put all the padding from one football uniform into a single bra, the Drew would be the result. I think your boobs are bulletproof in this thing. While wearing it, I felt like a character in a Robert Rodriguez movie that has machine guns strapped onto her boobs.

KAPOW!

I asked the dressing room attendant for a tank top because sometimes trying on bras with a shirt on is what people do since that's usually how they are worn in everyday settings. It also helps to see if/where the bra makes you ooze out. Clean lines! It's all about clean lines with bras. The Drew passed the clean line test, and also the "don't wear in a porcelain shop because you'll knock over those tea cups on the top shelf when you turn around" test.

The Drew was a definite winner. 

After all that trying on, it was time to get dressed. You know how when you repeat a word over and over again, it stops making sense? Well, I felt like I was staring at my chest so much in the mirror that it was making me think my boobs were located too high on my torso. 

**this was not endorsed by Aerie or Victoria's Secret in any way. I doubt either of them would want me to have pictures of boob cannons as the descriptive images for their bras.

Magic Sunglasses!

You know the movie They Live?

No?

Ok, without spending too much time on it, it is a movie (starring a wrestler as an actor, so you know it's great acting) about a man who finds that the world he lives in has been taken over by aliens. And he puts on these sunglasses and normal people now look like these skeletal aliens, and billboards/advertisements turn into black and white messages that say "OBEY!" and other generic threats.

It's a bit ridiculous and the people who live in this world are completely unphased by the alien takeover that has already ocurred (been occuring?) since they don't have magic sunglasses and can't see that the aliens took over. Which of course results in this wrestler-actor just yelling at people throughout the movie trying to convince them that there are aliens and weird signs, to which people really don't care. Also, the aliens are not threatening. If you live in a normal world populated by aliens, but they aren't threatening and nothing has changed, then why make a big stink? It is like there's some underlying message about race or something in there, but the writers of this movie didn't even realize it.

Speaking of stink, there is a great line where the lead character is wearing his magic sunglasses and sees an alien woman put on lipstick in a mirror. He shouts at her "IT´S LIKE PUTTING PERFUME ON A PIG!" Of course, the other surrounding people are just like "Dude, wtf?" Which is basically like the entire movie.

So, where am I going with this, you might ask?

I saw one of those banner ads today that has a splotchy-skinned girl magically airbrushed to a smooth-skinned beauty with some "photo software" that I am sure is just a virus when you click on the banner ad.

It got me into thinking about They Live for some reason, because I think I once read something about a girl who was like "If only people could see the airbrushed me all the time!"

What if the They Live glasses really existed, and we all wore them all the time? Then we could use them for the opposite effect, allowing for the entire world to see airbrushed, abnormally perfect versions of ourselves! If someone dared take them off, they might see people's pimples or other "imperfections." So, of course, no one would ever take them off.


Just thinking out loud.

Flea Markets are interesting places.

This past Saturday I went with my dad and uncle to the nearby flea market that has taken over what used to be a massive hardware store.

If you have never been to a flea market, I will have you know that you can find ANYTHING, literally anything, at this type of market.

The idea is much like having a ton of garage sales all crammed under one roof. There are booths run by different individuals who come back every week to that same booth to peddle their wares. And their wares range from VHS players to bicycles to magazines to candy. Yes, people sell food in this place.

The smell of a flea market is much like that of your attic or crawlspace, if there had been a hobo living in it for the past few years. Like when you find a box of newspapers in your closet, for example, and you get the stagnant odor of old paper and possibly mold. That is just one of many stenches you will encounter at the local flea market.

Much like a garage sale, you encounter the types of people who attend garage sales. If you have had a garage sale, you know what I mean. You could live in the richest of suburban neighborhoods in the yuppiest of communities and you would still encounter the type of people who scour the newspaper listings for garage sales, hoping to find a non-functional fondue set from 1976 to make those summer driveway BBQs on mismatched lawn chairs that much more classy. Or the type of person who finds your how-did-I-end-up-with-this Budweiser bar mirror the most treasured find of all their hunting.

After visually assessing the surroundings of the flea market, I wondered to myself, then aloud to my uncle and father "Which is worse/creepier/seedier: the people who work at the flea market, or the people who frequent the flea market?" Then, after making a decision, I posed the next question "Are they worse/creepier/seedier than carnies?"

Several booths caught my eye. And when I say booths, I really just mean squares drawn with masking tape on the floor that divide the each vendor's property from the next. Although, about 80% choose to supply a tent or curtains of some sort to block sight of neighboring sellers. Many vendors are the type of people who couldn't work a normal sales job. By this, I mean that they sit watching a TV (for sale!) playing an old DVD of Full House episodes (also for sale!) with absolutely no interest in trying to get you to buy anything. Their signs, which are black sharpie scrawled on torn pieces of cardboard, exclaim GREAT DEAL!!! and ONLY ONE DOLLAR!!! You wonder if the people running the booth are the same excited people who created those hopeful signs. Their facial expression is apathy, without a care to be there or sell goods. At this point, right now, their only thought is focusing on merely existing, to just being there and breathing.

Other vendors, however, take it to the next level. One in particular, let's call him Cowboy Ned, with his grey ZZ Top beard falling over his shirt and cutoff jean shorts (for sale?) , was sleeping. My dad and uncle looked over some things of his, like some mechanical doodad (for sale!) that only dads and uncles know what it could possibly be used for since they probably had six of them in their house in 1961. We picked things up, looked them over, and put them back down again, all without a stir from Cowboy Ned, who uncomfortably slumped in his metal chair with nothing to lean his head on.

That's another thing. There is so much junk and distraction that you could be looking at stuff in a booth and not even realize that you are standing right next to the vendor. It is as though they lurk in the shadows and pounce when you least expect. Some human-like things like dolls and mannequins start to make you edgy, when you begin to wonder if that doll in the corner is going to start trying to sell you some belt buckles made out of lead.

At one point in our shopping excursion, we passed by a man playing some indistinguishable tunes on his guitar, while a woman danced. The woman, possibly pushing 100 years old, was wearing a flowing multicolored dress and a red cowboy hat (for sale!) and moving off-beat to the guitar strums as she greeted passing customers with "Hello!" "How do you do!" and "Good evening!" It should be noted that it was noon.

The things people are selling, and the quantities in which they are selling them, are unimaginable. You have not one, not two, but 60 pairs of gardening gloves? How did you come across that many? Did you collect them? Who collects gardening gloves? Some people don't just sell old things that they found in their basement, their attic, the garbage cans, or other garage sales, but instead sell NEW things. Not good quality new things, but knockoffs of new things. Like "Nicke" shoes and "Calvin Cline" underwear. Again, in cases like these it is best to not ask questions.

You wonder if the $100 mattresses sold by vendor D-6 are the reason why the market is in fact called a "flea" market. After seeing so many things of weird origin, and metal objects like knives intended for food use that probably contain unimaginable amounts of lead, my mind wanders to the horrific and maybe not-so-unlikely origins of these things. I turn to my dad and say that if you committed a crime, this would be the easiest place to get rid of evidence. Cash exchange, object never to be seen again. What are those, some bloodstained leather gloves? For only $2? I'll take 'em!

One vendor is even selling Thin Mint cookies. In jest, my dad says we should look for the hidden Girl Scout's body. A joke with serious afterthoughts.

Speaking of food, the Flea Market even has a food court in the back, selling the type of food you'd see at a movie theater or skating rink. Soft pretzels, popcorn and hot dogs are some of the many unhealthy options offered. As we walk past, a man walks up to the cashier and says "Now, did I hear you announce this morning that you were having $2 burgers for lunch?" One might ignore such a comment until you think about it little more in depth: how long has this man been here? He says "this morning" as though it were more than an hour ago. Has he been waiting all morning for flea market burgers? Considering that entering the flea market costs $1, could he possibly have paid that dollar to have access to flea market burgers? How good could flea market burgers possibly be? What kind of meat are those burgers? Where IS that girl scout?!

Female writers are ugly

This is hilarious.

hurt vs. injured

"So are you hurt or injured? Hurt means you can play. Injured means you can't. If someone steps on my foot, I am hurt. If my bone is sticking out of my thigh, then I am injured."--Eric

SHOUT!

GET OUT OF MY SHIRT, STAIN! Oh, you didn't mean that "shout?"

Hey, Idiot.

Hey Idiot,

They're called U-turns. Not "four-points-in-the-freaking-middle-of-the-road-turns."