If you are my mother, your response would be “How many camels is good?” to which you would rightly respond, “MOM!??!” and she would reply, “Well, honey, I don’t want to make you look cheap and sell you for only three cigarettes or something” and then you would say (if you were me) “It’s not prison, mom…they mean real camels.”

This actually happened to me on the way into the Turkish Bazaar in May of 2001.

I’ve traveled, you see. I’m a world traveler and this makes me better than you.

I only bring this up because I’m beginning to believe that I will never go anywhere ever again. I’m done. I wear my pajamas twenty out of the twenty four or twenty eight hours of every day (I don’t know how time works). And now I have a cold or maybe it’s a staph infection or a crisis d’identite or an intense sandwich yearning but what matters most is my impending shut in status and how BORING it is making my blog.

Luckily, we are going to a karaoke event with Dane’s colleagues on Tuesday. I think I’ll begin planning my outfit today. Why not? What else am I going to do?

Tell me what I should wear, cookies frookies.

FOR INSTANCE, I was buying earrings and maybe a hoodie (for nineteen dollars which is basically free) at The Brass Plum the other day and doing a pretty good job of avoiding my tall, tan salesgirl who really, really wanted to talk about what I was looking for in particular and this other woman (I’ll admit I thought she was about 40 years old or so) was standing in front of me holding a tee shirt with a bird or a fox or something on it. Her salesgirl (saleswoman, WHATEVER) snatched it out of her hand to put in her dressing room and the older woman blurted out, “Am I too old to wear that?” And I thought to myself, “Oh my lord, am I too old to even be in here? Is it just sad or creepy or what? And am I being rude to my salesgirl who is just doing her job for which she gets paid 9 dollars an hour to feign interest in what I am looking for in particular? And also, no one else in this world has ever cared enough to ask me that question and maybe I should take a good hard look at myself and think about why I would reject someone who may possibly love me in a way no one else ever will.”

The salesgirls both laughed and said to the woman, “No! Don’t be silly!” and I was nodding my head vigorously in a kind of desperate support, to which the woman replied, “Well, I’m turning 36 next week so it’s not out of the question.”

This age number confused and frightened the salesgirls but one of them, the other tall tan one, said, “See, even this girl agrees with you and she doesn’t even know you” and pointed at me.

And then I said, “Well, I’m turning 35 this year, so I kind of have to.”

I must tell you, I have never seen a woman in her mid forties who is also soon to be turning 36, turn on her heel and huff her way towards the dressing room so FAST. She was like a puma or a leopard or whatever moves fast and has age spots. I stood there for a minute, trying to think of something I could say to mend the damage I had just done with my stupid honesty but she was already gone and my salesgirl had disappeared and I realized I was alone in Nordstrom and free to rifle through a whole pile of skinny jeans looking for my real size and not the size I say out loud and no one would be there to ask me what I was looking for in particular and that Billy Joel was right about honesty and that song makes so much sense to me now.