Financial irresponsibility

Here's my head-up for everyone: if you hear me complaining about how I can't afford snow tires for my car, feel free to bitch-slap me. And call me a dirty whore. I will have earned that. (Uh, not literally.)

I went shopping with my friend Robin today. The goal of the shopping trip was two-fold: first, to allow Robin to spend her gift cards (which she did not do) and second, to get caught up since she lives in the Dirty South now and we only see each other a few times a year.

By the way, "Dirty South" is a phrase she taught me today. I plan on using it. A lot.

Watch me use it in a sentence: "Women in the Dirty South like to use hairspray and watch Golden Girls."

Now watch me get bitch-slapped by Maryanne. What are the odds that I could use that phrase twice in the same post? Pretty damn good.__Pretty.___Damn. ___Good. (That's an impression of one of my professors, and only a few people will be laughing at that. If you're not, you should be. It was dead on.__Dead. ___On.)

Ok, back to the shopping trip and my lack of snow tires.

I'll sum up more of the trip later (including my pimp hat), but here's the background you need to know before I get to when you can slap me. This Saturday is New Year's Eve and because I'm all about kickin' it with the homeboys, I am going to a fancy dance. A fancy-pants dance, for which I need a fancy-pants, formal dress. (For an added bonus, it is called the Snow Ball. Mmm. Hmmm.)

I found one today that kicked some hard-core ass. I plan on wearing it with some of the highest, strappiest, fanciest, bitch ass heels that I own. And then I will own the Snow Ball.

Back to the first sentence in this post, though. The dress was pretty damn expensive. And out of my price range. But it was hot. And not just hot, hot. I mean H-O-T, hot. So I bought it, thus ruling out any practical purchase of said snow tires. If I get in a car wreck this winter, please to be burying me in my new dress.

My bitchin' new dress.