Archive for shopping

Summer Photos

Posted in Photography with tags , , , , on August 17, 2013 by Mj Rains

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Page 116

Posted in Kate Moss, Rumi with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 14, 2012 by Mj Rains

I honor those who try
to rid themselves of any lying,

who empty the self
and have only clear being there.

~Rumi, The Core of Masculinity

image: Kate Moss in Moschino

10 Reasons to Skip Christmas

Posted in "Wit"icisms" with tags , , , , , , , , , on December 1, 2011 by Mj Rains

So it’s December 1, the unofficial first day of winter, according to my local weather man, and this Wit’s official day to start thinking about Christmas, though I’ve been thinking about it, honestly, for a few weeks now… this post is part of the results of such prolific thinking.¬† I’ve been hinting around the Continuum household that I’d love to be away for Christmas. Strange thing is, everyone agrees with me…but I know we won’t be going anywhere. Don’t get me wrong, I truly love Christmas, but don’t we all think sometimes, let it slip into our overworked brains, wouldn’t it be nice to just go to_________[insert your own Christmas dream vacation here].

That said, here are 10 Reasons to Skip Christmas…of course I have to follow up on this and give you 10 reasons why skipping Christmas is a bad idea, forgive me. ūüôā

10 Reasons to Skip Christmas:

  1. Saving Money. (who couldn’t use some extra cash now, you know, to buy a Kindle for yourself, or a new computer, or just pay off that credit card!)
  2. Save a tree!
  3. No writing Christmas cards. (Who are half these people anyway?)
  4. No waiting in store check-out lines. (Wait, what, that’s the line to get in line? I have to go all the way back there? But I have to pee!)
  5. Traffic.
  6. Did I mention the traffic? (good reason to buy plane tickets online and hire a car to take you out to the airport!)
  7. Seeing and being nice to people you don’t really care about. (you all know what I mean…)
  8. Decorating the tree, and dealing with tangled Christmas lights, half of which go out during Christmas week.
  9. Wrapping presents. (Seriously, all those paper cuts and tape sticking to everything but the fucking wrapping paper, who need it?)
  10. That guy giving you the finger because you took his parking spot at Target. Merry Christmas asshole!

Okay, so here are 10 reasons Not to Skip Christmas:

  1. Shopping, because it really is fun when you get into it.
  2. Opening presents. (The kid in all of us needs this!)
  3. Drinking. Christmas gives you an excuse to buy really expensive liquor, plus, all that liquor makes those people you don’t really care about a whole lot lovelier.
  4. Seeing old friends and relatives.
  5. Experiencing Peace and Love emotionally and spiritually.
  6. Eating great food! (forget the diet! You look great as you are!)
  7. Baking cookies with your kids, and eating half of them before you put them away.
  8. Decorating the tree. We put on music. We sometimes drink wine. We make it a little party, just for us.
  9. Preparing Christmas Eve dinner and pretending that you are Martha Stewart (or Gwyneth Paltrow, the new Martha Stewart).
  10. Kissing under the mistletoe.

What are your reasons to skip Christmas? Or not too? Let me know.

Shopping With the Princesses Today…

Posted in "Wit"icisms" with tags , , , , , , , , on November 25, 2011 by Mj Rains

Today I’m off to shop with my Princesses…on Black Friday…I must be insane…or at my wit’s end, finally….I’ll be back tomorrow…if I make it….if I’m still alive….if some bitch doesn’t get in my way at Express….

image: Princess Shoe Shopping by Durnesque

A Christmas Story

Posted in Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 22, 2009 by Mj Rains

A Christmas Story

by Katherine Anne Porter

(an excerpt)

¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† When she was five years old, my niece asked me why we celebrated Christmas. She had asked when she was three and when she was four, and each time had listened with a shining, believing face, learning the songs and gazing enchanted at the pictures which I displayed as proof of my stories…..

¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† …then she told me she had a dollar of her own and would I take her to buy a Christmas present for her mother.

        We wandered from shop to shop, and I admired the way the little girl, surrounded by tons of seductive, specially manufactured holiday merchandise for children, kept her attention fixed resolutely on objects appropriate to the grown-up world. She considered seriously in turn a silver tea service, one thousand dollars; an embroidered handkerchief with lace on it, five dollars; a dressing table mirror framed in porcelain flowers, eighty-five dollars; a preposterously showy crystal flask of perfume, one hundred twenty dollars; a gadget for curling the eyelashes, seventy-five cents; a large plaque of colored glass jewelry, thirty dollars; a cigarette case of some fraudulent material, two dollars and fifty cents.  She weakened, but only for a moment, before a mechanical monkey with real fur who did calisthenics on a crossbar if you wound him up, one dollar and ninety-eight cents.
¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† The prices of these objects did not influence their relative value to her and bore no connection whatever to the dollar she carried in her hand.¬† Our shopping had also no connection with the birthday of the Child or the legends and pictures…..
        Christmas is what we make of it and this is what we have so cynically made of it; not the feast of the Child in the straw-filled crib, nor even the homely winter bounty of the old pagan with the reindeer, but a great glittering commercial fair, gay enough with music and food and extravagance of feeling and behavior and expense, more and more on the order of the ancient Saturnalia. I have nothing against Saturnalia, it belongs to this season of the year: but how do we get so confused about the true meaning of even our simplest-apprearing pastimes?
¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† Meanwhile, for our money we found a present for the little girl’s mother.¬† It turned out to be a small green pottery shell with a colored bird perched on the rim which the little girl took for an ash tray, which it may as well have been.
¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† “We’ll wrap it up and hang it on the tree and say it came from Santa Claus,” she said, trustfully making of me a fellow conspirator.
¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† “You don’t believe in Santa Claus any more?” I asked carefully, for we had taken her infant credulity for granted.¬† I had already seen in her face that morning a skeptical view of my sentimental legends, she was plainly trying to sort out one thing from another in them;¬† and I was turning over in my mind the notion of beginning again with her on other grounds, of lines between fact and fancy, which is not so difficult;¬† but also further to show where truth and poetry were, if not the same being, at least twins who would wear each other’s clothes.¬† But that couldn’t be done in a day nor with pedantic intention.¬† I was perfectly prepared for the first half of her answer, but the second took me by surprise.
¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† “No, I don’t,” she said, with the freedom of her natural candor, “but please don’t tell my mother, for she still does.”
¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† For herself, then, she rejected the gigantic hoax which a whole powerful society had organized and was sustaining at the vastest pains and expense, and she was yet to find the grain of truth lying lost in the gaudy debris around her, but there remained her immediate human situation, and that she could deal with, or so she believed:¬† her mother believed in Santa Claus, or she would not have said so.¬† The little girl did not believe in what her mother had told her, yet her mother’s illusions must not be disturbed.¬† In the moment of decision her infancy was gone forever, it had vanished there before my eyes.
        Very thoughtfully I took the hand of by budding little diplomat, whom we had so lovingly, unconsciously prepared for her career, which no doubt would be quite a successful one;  and we walked along in the bright sweet-smelling Christmas dusk, myself for once completely silenced.

Photograph: Brown’s Christmas 1940s by
                   Doug Loudenback Рphotobucket

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