For one thing, I�d have greater access to find a replacement for my Perfect Pants. Target, and Wal-Mart would be actual options instead of 65 minute treks by public transportation that still left me with a half mile run in a zigzag pattern to avoid the bullets from some of Chicago�s tougher �hoods.

This invention called the mall (which I once referred to as the maul because I disliked it so much) would also be an option. I�d traipse from store-to-store, easily shielding myself from the elements (bite-your-ass cold, the rain Texas blew up here, this crazy fog that�s set Weather Bug off every fifteen minutes for the past three days, just to name a few examples), finding my replacement pants with ease.

Alas, I have the lovely but truly useless Magnificent Mile, Water Tower Plaza with smaller versions of all of those same stores on the Mag Mile, and various unique boutiques with pants that cost more than I�d whore myself out for.

I also realized how little I leave this city -- fully understanding both its limitations and its benefits. My trip to Peoria was the first time I left the city, ignoring the mini-vacations I took by plane to Houston, Dallas, and San Diego.

I miss hopping in the car and driving two hours to snuggle up with one of my many favorite friends after sharing frou-frou vodka drinks at a favorite hangout. I miss knowing that if shit hit my fan, my family -- people who are contractually bound to love me no matter what -- were 186 miles away. I miss having the opportunity to take random road trips, even if it was something I only did once before.

The trip to Peoria indeed gave a glimpse at a more relaxed atmosphere, but it reminded me how comatose my previous hometown was and how this wasn�t necessarily a place to visit again.

With nothing really to do in Peoria, we made our way to Wal-Mart where I took full advantage of having Happy�s car to take my loot home. Yes, that was seriously part of the excitement that was Peoria. Ignore the drunken fun, making the club's DJ my personal jukebox, and making out with someone who turned out to be a 35-year-old who lives three blocks from me, I most enjoyed my trip to Wal-Mart.

For only $40 I walked out of there with two months worth of vitamins, two $3 umbrellas, some salt body scrub, tampons, clippy earphones for my MP3 player, and nail polish to replace my current goopy bottle. I fully intended on telling the ghetto grocery store it can kiss my ass the next time they want me to spend $4 on a $1.50 bottle of shampoo.

Can I get a triumphant MUHAHAHA from the chorus?

Thank you chorus.

With no car to haul my treasures, I�ve found that the maximum amount of anything I can carry is $30 worth of items. It doesn�t matter what I�m purchasing, $30 is the maximum.

The first time I ever went grocery shopping here, I bought $45 worth of groceries. I had no idea. This was all new to me. After all, it was cold and I didn�t want to make that two-block trek more than once every two weeks. My dumb ass had to stop every thirty feet to rest my poor, stretching arms. I was surprised that they didn�t hang to my knees when I was finished, but I recovered nicely and learned my lesson then.

Thirty dollars of anything and no more!

A few weeks ago there was a sale on soup at my local grocery store. I did my regular shopping, keeping the $30 rule in-mind, but picked up the soup anyway. I had so much that I had to pay a homeless man $2 to help me carry it all back. Now, really. Was the $2 add-on worth saving 35 cents on soup and possibly throwing my already-aching back out?

Another instance of this $30 rule in effect is when I went thrift shopping a while back. I bought and I bought and I bought. I spent an entire $20 at this awesome thrift store, only to see a shoe sale on the way back. Silly me spent $15 on shoes and completely blew wind to my $30 limit. Wouldn�t ya know that I had to abandon my precious red faux snakeskin shoes at Brian�s house to make the trip home safely? I truly believe that if they were $10 shoes, I�d have made it.

Today I went to the store, knowing fully what to expect and trying to factor in any differences to account for holding an umbrella as a shield to the evening�s slight drizzle. I carefully made my choices, throwing in $4 of avocados, $1.50 of broccoli, and some on-sale Triscuts. I got the paper towels with the Xmas print. I got the cheap-ass cat food Hambone prefers to the $7 Science Diet. I ignored that the $3 instant peanut sauce has no real weight, knowing that $30 was key here.

And there it was, shining, glistening, and looking oh-so-wonderful. It mocked me, yet it beckoned to me: a 12-pack of Diet Coke for $2. Dare I ruin my rule? Push my luck? Take this unnecessary chance? Break that which I have faith in?

I bit the bullet and selected a pack (in that retarded new shape, much to my chagrin) of the bubbly, fizzy, calorie-free goodness.

I made my way to the self-checkout counter, scanning, weighing, and sacking my own groceries to avoid the scornful glares and air of contempt from the grocery bitches that work at my local ghetto-ass Jewel.

I loaded the heavy items into my backpack.

I tossed the paper towels, instant peanut sauce, and the delicate ripened avocados into a plastic bag.

I readied my arms to carry the light items and the cokes while balancing the umbrella on my shoulder.

I easily made my walk home with $26 in groceries, once again proving that the $30 rule is an accurate science. �