I'm sitting on my porch swing right now, having just picked a used hair scrunchie from the trash across the street. (It was closer than going upstairs to my apartment. That's true laziness: I'd rather pick trash than climb stairs.) Today I went to a few different garage sales, but they sound so much more alluring on Craigslist. "Everything must go! Tons of cool stuff!" Then you get there and realize the reason everything hasn't gone already. No one wants those old Lionel Richie CDs, okay? I've owned that same wooden dishrack from Ikea five times already. I'm not buying yours.

Speaking of Ikea, my mother, an inveterate shopper and decorator, had never been there. A shanda, as we say in Yiddish. I felt it was time, so I called her up and we took the trip. Her mouth was hanging open the whole time, but she didn't really like the relentlessness of the aesthetic.

Now I'm going to eat some more Pop Tarts. When I'm by myself I do nothing but binge on crap food. And I love it. I mean, have you had the new Strawberry Cream variety? You don't know happiness till you've tasted that gooey pink crud on your tongue.