Cell phones

My parents have officially broken down and gotten a cell phone for each person in the family. Camera phones, no less. Mine is red and shiny and fits into a back pocket perfectly. It is gorgeous, and although I'm not paying for it (I wouldn't have a phone at all if I did), I'm sure it costs a pretty decent amount each month. There was a discount involved for getting a family plan, and the previous contract had expired, but I still feel wasteful. My old one (the one that is now Dad's, ha ha) worked just fine.
My brother, however, feels no guilt whatsoever, and has probably accumulated at least fifty pictures already, of subjects ranging from the inside of his mouth to his "six pack" to the giant turd discovered in the bathroom at his school. There is, however, a downside.
Nate has apparently been assigned the abandoned phone number of a very attractive high school girl. He is text-messaged constantly from multiple boys who are getting a little annoyed with Cally's playing hard to get. This will make the third consecutive night I have been wakened by his phone beeping, but at least this time it was something important. At three am, Jason decided to ask Cally to prom! You know, it would be fun. That is, if she didn't already have a date, of course.
Poor Cally, who after switching her phone number, and assumably procuring a restraining order, is still pursued. Poor Jason, who will never know whether to look into that tux or not. You know, he never sees her anymore. And poor Nate, who is not allowed to send any replies.

Garbage Sale

My youth group is having a huge garage sale at church this weekend, and though I will be conveniently out of town through the duration of the actual event, I did stick around Wednesday night to help set up. And I’ve gotta say—it’s pretty surprising what people are willing to donate to a church garage sale. For example: I would forfeit all the money from my twenty-two hours at work next week to know who brought in the slinky black strapless…thing. Or the gigantic pair of rubber pants, into each leg of which we figured two small children could reasonably be stuffed. Or the box of off-white undershirts with stains under the arms. Of course, though, it was the lingerie that intrigued me the most. Did you know lingerie is see-through? What is the point of it, when it’s obviously going to come off anyway and it doesn’t cover anything to begin with? And who is going to go to a garage sale to look for it, let alone one held at a church? I immediately began a lingerie display, pairing the flimsy pieces with seductive winter hats and golf gloves and hanging them up in the most prominent of places. (Did I mention I would forfeit two week’s salary to see the previous owners’ faces when they see my lovely display?) But there was so much of it, and I soon ran out of hats. That’s when it occurred to me to relocate the lesser members of my collection to an old refrigerator that was also for sale. A refrigerator, after all, isn’t so different from a dresser, and a big sign saying something gross like “cool eats, hot treats” could make for a not uninteresting display. And if the people still weren’t going for it, well, a refrigerator and a lifetime’s worth of very cold-looking pajamas would make a pretty sweet package deal.

Paranoid

Nothing much funnier than watching my little OCD routine before class every weekday. Pull car into parking space, usually at a perfect diagonal. Turn off radio. Turn off heater. Turn off lights. Remove key from ignition. Turn knob again to make sure radio is completely off. Check heater. Double-check to make sure the knob controlling lights is turned to “off,” but don’t trust it. Turn lights on and then off again to reassure myself. Make sure brights aren’t on. Attempt to turn them on to see the comparison, then think of unicorns or something else absurd while turning them off so I can remind myself later. Climb out of car, lock front door, grab stuff from backseat. Look back to make sure front door is locked, then lock back door as well. Start toward building, keeping keys in my hand so I know I haven’t forgotten them. Halfway to the door, run back and check the lights. Arrive late to zero hour. Again.