I refuse to watch violent or scary TV shows. I just can’t seem to carve out precious free time to sit down in front of an oversized screen and watch a nightmare in living color. I can’t look at zombies with their faces missing as they drag their half-chewed-off limbs and other dripping parts through some dark and creepy parking lot, on their way to have a beer with their wacky next-door neighbors who run the local meth lab.

Those heinous and bloody scenes are not for me. I’ve discovered that one quick accidental glance at any yucky visual will subliminally plant those horrifying messages inside my brain, where they will sit dormant and quiet until some future date, when the subsequent free-floating anxiety will randomly surface and convince me that the tall and handsome dryer repairman is, in fact, an alien who’s wielding a nuclear power pack disguised as a Pringles can. He’ll offer me a Pringle, knowing full well that I can’t refuse a potato chip, and after one bite, I’ll morph into an alien girl and become his drippy love slave, as he blows up my house and kills my husband and children.

Nope, I’ll stick to watching cartoons, sitcoms, and my beloved late-night talk shows.

When it comes to my psyche, I need things easy and smooth, polite and lovely, charming and confrontation-free. I do not spend money on violent films, roller coasters, or the stock market. I'm all out of nerve. I used up my lifetime supply of bravery while raising children. I am now a lazy weenie.

I start each day hoping that the following twelve to sixteen hours will be worry- and chaos-free. But then I always seem to encounter random and silly aggravations that throw me into an antagonizing downward spiral, from which only red Twizzlers, M&M’s, or pharmaceuticals can save me.

For instance, I’m entirely unable to tolerate any clothing that feels—even slightly—scratchy. I must wear my socks and underpants inside out, as I suffer from extreme tactile sensitivity. In recent years, I have found that many people have this same problem.

As a shopper and consumer, my nutty physical comfort issues are a challenge. Thankfully, I’ve discovered the perfect bra for me. I’ve worn the same style for years. I love it, know it, need it, want it, and I’m willing to pay the sixty-three dollars, plus tax, for it.

One day, it was time to refresh my supply, and I planned a nice outing to the mall to visit the one store that carries my brand. After an hour of frustration and inefficient foraging in the lingerie section, I panicked. I couldn’t find my bra anywhere on the racks. (Oooh, snap! Oooh, pardon the double pun! )

I cornered the buxom saleslady. “What happened to Wacoal #3205? I’ve been wearing the same model for nine years. I can’t find it anywhere!”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what they were thinking, but they’ve discontinued some of their best sellers. Everyone is in a snit over this, me included.” The saleslady pointed to her own significant chestal area to show solidarity.

She motioned me over to another rack, loaded with a different brand, and pointed to several bras. “Here try these. They might work for you like the old Wacoals. Let me know what you think.”

I searched for my size among these foreign-looking bras. After grabbing three possibilities, I headed for the dressing room.

I angrily tossed my purse on the floor, took off my coat, and began the tortuous trying-on process. One bra’s straps weren’t stretchy enough for a comfortable wear. Another bra’s underwire gouged me so high in the armpit that I couldn’t put my arms down at my sides. The last bra I had chosen had a four-inch band around the back and with a row of five hook fasteners. What the hell—this was my mother’s bra!

“How you doin’, honey?” the saleswoman shouted over the fitting room door.

“Not good.”

“Oh dear, let me see what I can come up with.” She sounded pathetic.

For the next thirty minutes, I stood in front of the mirror, slowly sinking into a despair I hadn’t felt since the last time I went through this—nine years ago. Bra after bra after bra, the saleslady proceeded to bring me everything in her department that had potential, but nothing fit—nothing worked. Finally, I could take no more. I put on my clothes, thanked the frazzled woman, and left the lingerie department.

I headed down the escalator to the first-floor makeup department to pick up a lipstick, hoping to salvage this shopping trip. I’d been wearing MAC’s SeaSheer for an eternity. It was the perfect lip cover for me, with just the right pigment and level of glossy sheen, without being too oily or heavy. MAC products are pricey, so I had finished up every last drop by scooping out the remnants of lipstick with my fingernail and schmearing it on my lips.

When I say there was nothing left in the tube, believe me, even a bobby pin couldn’t glean a thing.

“Hi, can I get a new SeaSheer, please?” I handed my empty tube of lipstick to the twentysomething beauty by the shelves of beautiful MAC products. Dressed in a short black skirt, black sweater, black tights, black shoes, and black hair, the only color she was sporting was on her face. Nice touch.

She took the tube and immediately frowned. “They stopped making this a while back. Let’s find you a new color!”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” I stared at her.

“Follow me.” She motioned at a display case. “We have tons of wonderful new shades and textures!”

Her perky attitude was gonna kill me.

“Seriously?” It was sinking in. “I have to start all over?”

“You’ll be fine! Come on, it’ll be fun!”

FUN?

This is what I wanted to say: “No, it will not be fun. I don’t give a lab rat’s ass about beautiful new shades. I want what I want, I want what I had, and I don’t want to hear about anything new or anything discontinued. I have just spent an unsuccessful hour in a dressing room hoisting my girls every which way, and now you want me to be flexible and open to change—to go with the cosmetic flow? What happened to retail therapy? There is no therapy here, only issues. There is only hell now. It appears that I have discovered that there is, indeed, a hell right here in Nordstrom—which, by the way, I have always considered to be the Mecca of Retail Heaven. Until now. Peace out, bitches.”

Thank goodness, this rant was only a silent thought bubble floating above my head. Otherwise, mall security might have gotten involved. I plucked my empty SeaSheer lipstick tube out of her hands and did my best nice-lady impression:

“Thanks, darling, but today’s not a good day. I’m in a rush, but I’ll be back.”

Never. ~~

And then there’s my tea.

I have a tea that I love. It’s called Lipton’s Gentle Orange, and it’s delightful. It’s herbal, caffeine-free, and not expensive. I’ve been drinking it for years.

Lately, Lipton’s Gentle Orange has been very hard to find. Certain stores won’t stock it, while other stores had only one box, abandoned behind the more current flavors.

Of course, everyone suggested that I go online and just order the damn tea already, instead of chasing around town and complaining loudly. They were right. I found my tea on Lipton’s official website and ordered a case that contained twelve boxes of tea with twenty teabags per box. Score one for the pushy geeks who shop online.

Eight months later, I went back to my favorite tea’s website to order more, but there was no more. Lipton had discontinued Gentle Orange. They make something called raspberry-mango-butterfly-chamomile-lemon-flavored tea. They offer a tangerine-mango-rosehip-beeswax-zinger-flavored tea. They boast about their most popular orange-mango-passionfruit-jasmine-free-range-green-hay-flavored tea, but they have discontinued my Gentle Orange. I have vowed to forsake Lipton brand tea altogether. I have reached the end of my teabag string rope.~~