*scowls*

I've always been a picky eater.  Something smelled yucky, and I would swear up and down that I didn't like it for twenty years after, even if I never tasted it.  The only thing about this that has changed is my tastes ... I can still "dislike" something if I've never let it pass my lips.

The concept of a burrito grossed me out for years.  I didn't like beans until I started to frequent Super Mex on a sort-of regular basis when I was at my previous job, and the idea of everything getting stuffed into a tortilla like that just seemed weird.  But now that I want to try making one, I can't seem to find any basic instructions on the Internet.  Fancy recipes, yes, but I guess everyone assumes you either buy frozen burritos (yuck) or else you already know how to make them.

So I shall experiment tonight.  If all else fails, I have other stuff in my fridge and can make steak tacos instead.

Jeans shopping this afternoon.  I almost bought some online today.  They're beautiful, they look like they would work on my body, and they come in black and navy.  Their major selling point is that the fabric is soft, "like butter."  (A certain Mike Myers SNL character comes to mind.)  Perfect, I thought!  But when I saw that they have fake front pockets -- the designers think I would rather have a smoother line on my already-lumpy body than something I can actually use -- I raised the middle finger at the monitor.  This is yet another example of designers preferring appearance over utility when it comes to women's clothing.  Of a corporation thinking I will pay through the nose for a pair of jeans that don't even have what I'm looking for.  I wear jeans to work more than my pocketless trousers (no thanks to Lane Bryant) or all my pocketless dresses and skirts (ditto to all their designers) because I have keys I carry around with me at work, and those jelly-like bracelets with key rings just scream "loser bank teller."  Been there, done that.  Putting my keys in my back pockets don't work, either, because I prefer to not have something jabbing me in the butt when I sit down.

So heed this, Avenue: GIVE ME FRONT POCKETS -- BIG POCKETS I CAN PUT A WHOLE CHECKBOOK INTO -- OR GIVE ME DEATH.

Rant over ... at least until I hit the mall later.  Heaven help the first sales associate who looks in my direction if I find a single pair of jeans with minuscule or nonexistent pockets.  (I won't go off on her, but she'll get an earful about why I wouldn't buy it.)

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