Christine—I think you are so eloquent—especially when you speak of being "nothinged to death."  In your case, and the case of this reprehensible marketing ploy for a $100 doll, I think many people just don’t run into others with dire needs on a daily basis, and don’t understand how prevalent the homeless are.  

I recently had visitors from a well-to-do suburb visit me.  They wanted to do the typical tourist sights.  Once they were out of their comfort zone, and became aware of the presence of the homeless, they had a visible shock.  Like so many others, they were alternately helpful or judgmental—two totally opposite reactions.  At least it opened up a dialogue, one I sincerely hope they do not forget when tallying up their charitable donations.  If that doll company does not give at least a percentage of its profits to the homeless, after exploiting them in the guise of an expensive doll, they should be boycotted, loudly.

Even addicts who claim to have "gotten over" their addiction (although every day is a struggle for them) are difficult to deal with as colleagues. There was a woman with whom I worked (call her C.), who had been addicted to Heroin while at an expensive Ivy League college, said she cleaned herself up by going to India, got a lot of Sanskrit tattoos, came back to the states, became a Buddhist, and very un-Buddha-like, acted superior to everyone around her ("You haven’t gone through what I went through!").  C. told her story to everyone, I mean everyone, around her, until we tired of hearing it.  But everyone was still supportive, very much so, and gave her accolades whenever she brought up new details to the patchwork of her life, on a daily basis.  I think she felt she had to make the stories more interesting, even at the expense of the truth.

She soon started in with the lies, unless everything she said before was a lie.  Addicts (I never consider them ex-addicts) are so used to lying, it becomes second nature.  Once C. started telling obvious lies, lies that harmed other people, the support was still there, but dwindling.  Eventually she found a position in a different firm.  I tried to stay in touch with her (she had been very kind, and was capable of very generous acts) but she didn’t want reminders of that workplace or the people.  She moved from NYC and I wasn’t able to find her; I believe she wanted it that way.

I still wonder about C., worried that she started using again, hoping that she found her faith in Buddhism enough to get her through. 

I have known other addicts, one especially who constantly "borrowed" money ("My kids need food" was a constant plaint) for her drug of choice, alcohol, and when I refused she got violently angry (in an office setting no less), moved onto other people, until we all compared notes—she had done this to at least 30 other people.  It was suggested she leave on her own or be fired.  She left, but came back to "visit"; she was not exactly welcome.  

Addictive behavior is difficult to fathom.  Perhaps there is an addiction gene to be discovered.  IMO, it is not a moral failing as suggested in the above article, nor is it treatable unless the addict wants to change.  There are so many wrenching, sad, stories.  I believe everyone has run into at least one addict in their lives, whether or not they know it. 

I pay for COBRA insurance through my previous employer.  Paying for insurance when one is unemployed is difficult enough, but when the emergency room I visited, two months after the fact, insisted I needed to pay for part of my bill out-of-pocket (I twisted my ankle in the subway), I was livid.  I received the bill in the mail with a shock; no one said anything at the hospital at the time they took my insurance info; they said everything would be fine.  Do you ever feel like you should have a hidden tape recorder with you at all times?

I called the rep and said, "No, I am not paying this bill."  After ten minutes on hold they said, "Okay, it’s taken care of."  I was not going to back down, so this was good news.

If I had just paid the bill they sent me, I would have been out a chunk of money.  But I complained and settled it.  It was an unfair situation, but it is only a small example of what the author here is speaking about—I read the link.  The billing people count on folks to be intimidated and just pay the thing.  When people fight back against unfair costs tacked on, it can work.  I am not saying it works in all situations, but the specialized one she writes about with her "Aunt Sylvia" certainly qualifies.  She was being screwed and was prepared to take the situation on and not give up.  Doctors depend on the public to just pony up unfair (negotiable) fees.  

I recently got big deductions on eye doctor and dental fees after explaining I am unemployed and my insurance does not cover them.  It cannot hurt to ask.  They are being hit by the economy also, and want to keep the loyalty of their past customers.  

It hit home when Lily said: "It was the practice at our grade school in those days to stand and tell the class what you’d received for Christmas that year and it was gruesome because it was clear when a kid was lying or exaggerating out of shame, and I can remember being one of them."

In my family if we got a Christmas present at all, it was to be shared (no arguments—my father was old-school scary), and thus, not really one’s own present.  I recall vividly grade school show and tell, where I kept bringing in the only toy I owned outright—my teddy bear.  One kid made fun of me because I had no other toys and tried to tear Fuzzy’s nose off.  I cried that day when I went home, my mother calmed me down, and promptly sewed the dangling nose back on.  I have had that bear since I was five years old.  I am now 53 and it is one of my most precious possessions.  Fuzzy is beloved, presently a threadbare bear, and he reminds me of the sterner stuff from which I came.  A little worse for wear, both of us, but very stubborn in the belief that possessions do not make the woman.

Chrome—I know the shoes you are talking about.  I bought a pair of MBT sneakers—they were about $300—after walking past a shoe store that had a video of how much these shoes will change your life.  I got them home and thought "Crap.  I’ve never paid $300 on sneakers, was I hypnotized?"  The instructions (yeah, instructions) that came with them (who wants to read a book before putting on their new sneaks?) said don’t wear for more than one hour a day until your legs get used to them.

That clinched it.  I took them back the next day and got my money back.  Best decision I ever made. 

Didn’t you folks see that scene in Pretty Woman?  Your feet are the same length as your elbow to your wrist, so everyone’s feet are actually in proportion to their height.  It’s true, try it.

I think a lot of foot problems also have to do with the woman’s weight.  When I was in my 20’s, I wore heels all the time and never felt discomfort.  I was also barely 100 pounds.  Now, I wear heels for formal occasions only, and sit or take them off as soon as feasible.  I do miss that pair of wine-colored high-heeled slingbacks that always got me compliments.  I found them in my closet and had to laugh when I attempted to try them on—not going to happen.  The heels in good condition go to charity and I now wear dress shoes with good support.  They can still be pretty, just not as pretty as those shoes I gave away.

I grew up in a family that had too many children and not enough resources. I never felt poor, because my parents made sure our clothes were clean, our shoes were polished, and we were clean and well-groomed. I knew kids who bragged about having maids and swimming pools, until in grade school, I gently commented to one girl, "But your parents earned that, not you, right?" Many of those same kids grew up not knowing how to clean their homes or wash a dish, while the kids in my family always had chores, and took pride in our sparkling, small, apartment. Those "rich" kids all grew up differently, some in trouble with the law, some lawyers, but those I chose to remain friends with treated me with respect. Poor does not equal poverty of mind.

All of my siblings have grown past our quite humble beginnings. We learned to pick our friends, like anyone else, from how they treated us as humans. In my point of view, there are not class differences—just differences in Class.

Count—The great butt is very important.  I agree.  And a goofy sense of humor.

What video?  I have three lines of HTML on my machine.  Anyone else?

Must be intelligent, play classical piano, genuinely like animals, generous with his time, patience, love, and stops asking "Where is the_____ (fill in the blank)?"  If he wants me to get him something from the kitchen while I am up, I wish he would just say that.

Nothing too specific.  

I was the geeky girl who sat in the front row; you knew me or were just like me.  I wouldn’t let you see my paper and I couldn’t wait for summer to end because I loved school.  Nyah, nyah.

Seriously, I couldn’t wait for school to start.  In the summer I would sneak out the window and meet my friends after dark.  That was high treason back in the day.  Night.  Whatever.  What do kids do now?  Go to websites?  Oops.  I’m a kid again.

I’m not puzzled; I think it is an insulting female stereotype.  Would one comment on a man’s thighs?

Who picks these?  Seriously.

In my experience, generally, when a women has a problem, and expresses it to her girlfriends, they listen and commiserate.  When the same problem is expressed to a man, he tells her exactly how to handle it, what to do and when, and sits back, satisfied with himself, unable to comprehend the woman, staring back, underwhelmed by his arrogance. 

Oh please, tell me you have never run into this scenario, people.  There are exceptions.  Glaring, jaw-dropping, exceptions.  When I was laid off from my job, my sister called, told me, "do this, this and this, and then get rid of your apartment in the city and come live with me Upstate."  

She couldn’t believe it when I burst out laughing at her insolent seriousness—she has tried to run my life since we were kids.  It didn’t happen then, and it isn’t going to happen, ever. 

Living with her is not an attractive prospect, never mind that my boyfriend of 15 years is in the city too, and I would never leave him.  He sat and listened (and poured the Pinot Grigio) when I lost my job, thereby reversing the roles.  

So, I guess it is a guideline, not a rule.  And my gay guy friends are just wonderful about this time in my life—the best of both worlds.  There are always folks who will support me emotionally no matter what.  They are not the ones who tell me to disrupt my life and move; they are the ones who listen and pass the Pinot.