The Land Of Race Car Ya-Yas

Caketastic, yos.

So I had to go to Scottsdale this past Saturday to get a bridesmaid dress altered. After spending 30 minutes being poked and pinned and talked to in rapid Español by the seamstress (my four years of high school Spanish failed me miserably) and leaving my dress in her capable hands, I decided to drive around a bit. I've been to Scottsdale several times but have never really spent any time there. It's well-known as the snooty, upscale suburb of Phoenix - the witty, witty locals have dubbed it "Snotsdale."

At any rate, it seems to be packed full of wealthy, retirement-age individuals and more than one white-haired gentleman going through some sort of midlife crisis. In the ten or fifteen minutes I spent driving around, I counted no less than six different convertible sports cars being driven (tops down, of course) by leathery, tanned, polo-shirt-wearing, older men. Their images just screamed "I try so hard to be cool, how could I be anything but?" They revved their engines at stoplights. They peeled from red light to red light, a la the car race home between Ben Stiller and Robert De Niro on Meet the Parents. You could almost see them surreptitiously checking their reflections in the rear view mirrors, eyes hidden behind expensive-looking sunglasses.

ANYway. I've been at a loss for things to write about lately. Oh well.

PS - Maybe this is only funny because I draw brains for a living. Prefrontal boretex indeed.