Sometimes I can be girly

I'm not a particularly girly girl, but I do have a strange obsession with make-up. I have no idea where it came from and why I love it so. And, yet, Sephora! I am not a shopper, but I cannot go past a Sephora and not stop in (and most likely buy something). It's really a problem.

The weird thing is that I wasn't one of those girls who wanted to wear make-up when I was 12 or one of those girls who had to hide make-up in my locker to put it on when I got to school. Around the time I started high school, my mom took me to one of those places that taught you how to actually use the stuff, and that was that. I don't remember asking if I could wear make-up. And, even though I love the stuff, I've never worn a lot of make-up (although, for full disclosure, I did go through an unfortunate blue eye shadow phase. It was the '80s, so it wasn't entirely my fault.)

I sort of blame Nana. I once told her that when I started making money, I would buy good make-up. When I got my first "real" job, she reminded me of this. (I think she just wanted the freebees that came with buying Estee Lauder or Clinque make-up.) It's not really her fault, but I think of her when I overspend. And I do like having an excuse to thinking of my Nana.

I have this great lace-covered train case full of make-up in my closet. It smells so good. Lip balms, perfume samples, eye shadows, powders, funny little brushes. And I have the most ridiculous stuff. False eyelashes, green glitter eye liner, white eye liner (I'm not even sure what that one's about), lip balm that changes color depending on "your mood." All very practical. Alan Moses does like my green glitter eye liner, though.

This is not my beautiful house!

Living in my apartment is a weird thing. There's this feeling of going back in time. Am I really back to apartment living? Am I back in grad school? It's one of those things that, once you live in a house, you think you'll always live in a house. That you'll always have all that space. Now it's all so compact. Of course, on the flip side, every time I get groceries, I've got to haul them up to the third floor.

Yes, this is a temporary arrangement. Hopefully no more than 6 months. But 6 months is still a pretty long time. I'm renting furniture, which only increases the weirdness factor. It's not my comfy bed, and it's more coordinated than I would go. And more brown. It's single-guy furniture. Not that that's a bad thing, but it's not me.

Anyway, it's better than it was when I first moved in. We've rearranged the furniture, and I've brought some stuff from home that has made it feel more like mine, as opposed to some weird hotel. I'm tempted to bring more things in, but everything that gets moved in has to be moved out, so I'm trying to resist those temptations. 

I have a loft and I'll be damned if I have any idea what to do with it. It seems like a good idea, but then there's this spiral staircase...

Too much stuff

So, I just read about this "100 things challenge". The idea is to trim your stuff to 100 things, and live on it for a year. There's a couple exceptions to the rule: underwear and socks each count as one thing, the 100 things are "personal" things (so I guess things like "bed" do not count), and the guy I've read about is keeping tools as "household" items. I guess it's his challenge, he can make the rules. It's still a crazy idea, trimming your life to 100 things.

Having just hauled a bunch of stuff down to a new apartment, I know I have too much stuff; I've got about 100 things on my coffee table alone (how do I have 2 notebooks on the table already?) My clothes alone, good God, the clothes I have. (So why am I stumped as to what to wear every morning when I'm getting ready for work?) And will someone please stop me the next time I go to buy another pair of shoes?

But looking at Dave Bruno's list (the guy who apparently started this), I certainly have opinions about his 100 things. Apparently his camera and the SD card count as 2 items. Really?! But his Mac is just one item (what about all the cords and adapters and stuff? Does software count? Because if my Word crashes, I need that case it came in with my serial number.) He's got 3 bibles on his list. (Three?! Insert offensive godless comment.) He's in San Diego, so no coats and only one sweater, which is sort of unfair to anyone who is doing this challenge and actually has seasons. 

Criticism aside, I suppose it is a good idea to try to trim down the amount of stuff I have. No, I don't need all those shoes (but they're so pretty). It'll probably even make my next move easier, if we approach from a completely selfish perspective. Maybe I should try to get rid of 100 things. That would be a good start.

On a completely unrelated note, I-95 in Delaware, you can bite my ass. 

A month late...

November is supposed to be "a post a day" month. As one can see, I have not been doing this. Not even close. Oh, the excuses I have... but, honestly, these are just excuses. Yes, I still have time to write silly notes to friends. Yes, I have time to buy useless crap that I don't need. But, somehow, no time to write. So, I am going to do a post a day for a month starting now.

(I now have this picture of Kramer when he made a vow of silence "starting...now!" Bangs leg, makes hurt noise. "Starting...now!") 

It has been an eventful time, not only with actual stuff, but with things in my head. New job, new place to live, stuff just happening. I'm still getting used to all of the change going on. It still seems like a break or a trip that I'm on, and soon I'll rejoin my real life. It's just a really weird conference. 

There are a lot of other new people of Medi, so at least there are people to talk to about the whole experience. It's always good to chat with someone who is going through the same thing. And it's very nice to talk to people who are a few months or more into the whole thing, and know that everything will work out to be okay. 

So, a post a day. Starting now. Good timing, with Christmas and all. But I'm going to try to do it. 

Birthday

Well, today is my birthday. I suppose we all get reflective on our birthdays. Was it a good year? Would I do things different? What about next year? Am I on the right track? It's like your own, personal New Year's Day. With cake!

It's been a busy year for me, mostly work-related. New bosses, new jobs, traveling, sick cat, soon-to-be moving. It's been a while since so much has happened in such a short period. A year ago, Cliff was in charge of my group, I was planning to work for Novo for the rest of my career. Now, I am moving and starting a new job next week, and Cliff, well, poor Cliff.

Overall, it was a good but stressful year. Not the best, but certainly not the worst. I've learned a bit about myself. I am doubting things about my life as it is currently, but I'm willing to try new things. I am trying to change my attitude towards life in general. More "yes", less hesitation. I suppose how successful this whole job change is will affect how long I keep up this attitude. I doubt if I'll be bored.

Dear idiots in the lobby

I was here first. And I ordered a drink. So stop knocking into my foot. And talking so damn loud. Yes, I'm the dumb ass who's on her computer in a bar, so I should expect some hardship. But you people are really pissing me off.

You clearly have some money and are adults. You should order something if you're taking up a corner of a bar. There's 12 of you and you're going to a show. Just order one drink. It is just not fair to the waitress. Yes, they charge too much, but it's not her fault. And stop stealing my munchies. Yeah, I'm not eating them, but I hate you. They're my munchies. If you ordered one drink, like you should, you would have your own.

And, honey, you are wearing way too much perfume. And, no, that top doesn't work.

I am not used to winning

The past couple of weeks have been weird for me. My guys have won. I can't get my mind around it. I am way too used to backing the loser and being able to shout, "Wait until next time! Then we'll get you!" And then I can feel sorry for myself. But now, my world is upside down.

First it was the Phils. The Phils!? Wait a minute, did they even break .500? They were in the play-offs? Really? When did that even happen? And then they actually win the World Series. I have lived in the Philadelphia area for 20 years and Philadelphia teams do not win world championships. Sorry. That's for other cities, cities I don't live near. 

Sure, we got close a few times. I went to the World Series in 1993. Very exciting, fun for us all, but the Phils lost. To Canadians. Sigh. I remember when the Flyers were in the Stanley Cup finals and the trophies were on display at 30th Street Station. (Yes, I stood in line with all the sports guys to ooh and aah at the pretty, pretty trophies). But they lost. As did the Sixers when they were in the finals and the Eagles did in the Super Bowl. It's not that we're used to it, it's expected. Seriously, we won something?

The legend is that once a building in Philadelphia was built taller than the William Penn statue on top of City Hall, no Philadelphia team would win a championship. And sure enough, that's what happened. So, a little over a year ago, they put a William Penn statue on top of the new Comcast building (which is now the tallest). And looked what happened! Which is kind of hilarious.

Sports are fun, but the election of a president, that's amazing! I'm still getting used to the fact that I actually voted for the guy who got elected! This is just very weird for me. I'm just so happy that we actually picked the smart ones! There's still a part of me that can't believe it. How did the US go from voting for such an idiot to Obama? I am so proud of the US!

A side note. My spellcheck still does not recognized Obama. But will correct it to Osama. 

Jammie pants for Obama

The other day, Bru and I were discussing that, with the non-stop campaigning, Barack and Michelle Obama probably have to be good-to-go at all times. That means all dressed up, make-up for Michelle, etc. No trips to the grocery store in sweats. No walks in ratty jeans and and old t-shirt. No bad hair days.

I'm sure everyone associated with this election is looking forward to Wednesday, and the chance to actually relax. To sleep in. To not wear a suit. And that's when Bru said that she wants to see Obama in jammie pants. 

Tomorrow I'm off to Chicago on election day. Very exciting. I was trying to get Bru to join me, so we could go down to Grant Park for the (cross fingers) celebration. She said we'd probably get arrested. For what? She's said, we'd shout out "Jammie pants for Obama!" The Secret Service would think it was some code, we'd be hauled away. She makes a good point.

Sorting through my Stuff

The days are ticking by and I am realizing that I don't have too much time until I've got to be down south. And I have a lot of stuff. Too much, most likely. Which, of course, makes me feel guilty and frivolous. Meanwhile, Mom's on the phone telling me not to get rid of anything until I run it past her (and my Dad's behind her grumbling that they need less stuff, not more and he better not be seeing any of my stuff coming their way.)

One of the issues I have is that I'm moving in stages. I'm first going down for a week and a half and staying in a hotel. Then to an apartment, and, eventually, to permanent digs. As I sort through things, I have to decide if it's worth keeping (which is the easy part). Then, I have to determine when I will need it. Will I need it in the future apartment? Can I put it away for an unknown amount of time? And if I can put it away that long, maybe I should get rid of it. 

Unfortunately, making these kind of choices has somewhat paralyzed me during this process. I head towards a closet, full of energy, ready to sort, dragging everything out. And then I start. Am I going to need this in the next few weeks? Next few months? Ever again? Sure, I haven't worn it in 6 months, but I kind of forgot about it. It's kind of cute. And I've lost a little weight since I last wore it... Of course, logic like that is why I have so much crap in the first place.

It's not just clothes. I've got plenty of other, well, just stuff. Notebooks, little stuffed animals, toys the kids may or may not ever be interested in playing with, keychains, computer stuff, resume paper (how quaint!), instruction books to things I may or may not still have around. Most of it is at least potentially useful, but I think it is the volume that's the issue. Having a notebook or two around is a good idea, but I probably have 20, in various sizes. Will I ever need 20 notebooks? How did this happen? (In all fairness, some of them were free, so that's a bit of an excuse.) And then there's the guilt of deciding to get rid of something that I bought years ago but never used. "But, it's brand new!" screams the voice in my head. So wasteful, but how many times can I move an unused item?

And my books. Good Lord, the volume of books I have around the house. It occurs to me that books are my primary clutter. I've got them scattered around the various rooms in the house, piles in the guest rooms, next to my bed, somewhat organized in the study, bags of them in the basement. It's a problem. I've done a pretty good job of keeping the textbooks down to a minimum (well, they're really heavy), but the other books... How do I get rid of my guide to France from 1994? I can't just get rid of books. It's so wrong. I need to know that they may be used by someone else.

Time to make some choices.  I'll still move too much, but I'll try to cut back.

Oh, it's somewhere...

Today I started to pack up the study and it occurs to me that I don't really respect my education. Don't get me wrong, I am proud of getting a PhD and it was probably the single hardest thing I've done. But the props of my education, I don't respect those.

My diploma from grad school is in a dusty envelope on top of a bookcase. I had lost track of it for about 5 years. After I found it, my mom asked to see it, and noticed that my name was misspelled. And I've been too lazy to bother to get a new one. The copies of my manuscripts are scattered in different drawers, some water-damaged, some just copies with missing pages. My college diploma is upstairs somewhere (I think).

I've always insisted that I went to grad school for me, that it was something I needed to do. I guess it must be true.

Changing my life

I have taken a new job in a new area of the country. I'm excited, scared, and a bit in a state of denial. My life is going to change, a lot. Of course, I am assuming it's for the better, that it will all be interesting and wonderful. Okay, that's what I hope, but I know there will be days I'll be thinking, "What the hell did I do?"

(When I was typing that last sentence, I was going to put "when I get home at night..." and I thought "home? For the next few months, what will be home? Back in PA? The apartment I'm renting?" And I may have freaked out a bit. Again.)

I've only done two major moves in my life: one when I was six and my move to Philadelphia 20 years ago. Of course, the move when I was six was just part of the whole growing-up gig, but the move to Philadelphia, well, that was a big one. My parents had moved a few months before. I finished the school year (I was teaching high school), packed up the apartment, and decided to give it a go out here. The trip out was a nightmare. My Civic was completely packed (my roommate cleared out a tunnel through my crap so that I would have some use of my rear-view mirror), it was 90+ degrees, I had no air conditioning. I cried pretty much the whole way. 

It's funny, but thinking back on it, I really didn't want to leave Toledo (I know, that simply can't be right.) But it was the only life I knew. All my friends, most of my relatives, all of my history, it was all in Toledo. And, yet, I knew leaving was absolutely the right thing to do. I can't say that there weren't times that I wanted to go back, but I had to leave. I had to seek the new life. And it was the single best thing I did. 

I sometimes wonder what I would have been if I would have stayed in Toledo. All I know is the best things about my life now are because I have left. There's a group of us from my old high school who left Toledo (sort of a weird fraternity), and we all talk about how the best decision of our life was getting the hell out. And when we go back, we look around and think, "There but the grace of God..."

So, my life is changing. I'm freaking out. But I'm choosing to believe that this will be the best thing.

Did it have to be Toledo?

Let's talk about poor Joe the Plumber. Let's say that Joe's business makes $250,000. Apparently there is no difference between what his business makes and what he makes. So, he makes $250,000/year. Let's do some math:

That's $20,833/month. This is the 33% tax bracket, which brings it down to $13,888. The Ohio tax rate at that income is 7.5% which means he pays out another $1563.

Take a minute and go to realtor.com and see what's available in Holland, Ohio. Let's say he lives in one of the more expensive houses (I've pick the one on 636 Anastasia Court for $274,900). That's another $1500/month.

According to McCain, his health insurance will be about $485/month for the whole family. Yep, that's what he said last night and we should believe him. So take that out.

So, what does that leave for poor Joe the Plumber? Only $10,340/month for all other expenses. In Toledo. Sorry, dude, that's a lot of money. Congratulations, you get to pay more taxes. 

Joe the Plumber. Joe Six-pack. What about the chicks, man?

6-4-3

I used to love baseball. Love it. I can't remember not having baseball as part of my life. Listening to the Tigers at my grandparents, Papa bitching about the Yankees, Nana's crazy crush on Mark Fidrych. And, sure, I was a Tigers fan, but I was also a fan of The Big Red Machine. Because The Big Red Machine was managed by Sparky Anderson. Yes, I was the dorky kid that was into the manager of the team. Oh George, never step on those foul lines! Needless to say, the day that Sparky Anderson went on to manage the Tigers -- bliss!

I just loved watching every little bit of the game. Following the count. Listening to the announcers spout out the crazy statistics ("The Phils are 1 and 3 when the count is full after 2 outs in the 8th inning...") The dorky sayings  ("a little chin music!") I'd watch every game during the season. It was the background of my summers.

The Roar of '84! The best year ever. Alan Trammel! Lou Whitaker! Chet Lemon! I love them all. Bless you, boys! It was so much fun to follow such gloriousness. When we moved to Philadelphia, following the Phils was a way to pass the time. We'd all watch the games and wonder if moving was the right thing to do. 

Although I enjoyed going to games, it wasn't a big part of my fan-dom. I was actually just as happy to watch them on television or listen on the radio. When I was in grad school, listening on the radio was a way to calm down. The rhythm of the game, the cadence of the announcers, it was all very zen to me. 

So, what changed? Well, the strike didn't help. I know, you've probably forgotten all about the strike, but it broke my baseball rhythm. Once I stopped watching and got used to baseball not being there, it was easy to stay away. Baseball is about sticking it out for the long run. It's a game almost every day. It's nine innings, full counts, hundreds of pitches, no clock. You got to stick it out. I just haven't been able to pick it back up.

But yay for the Phils for now!

Pandora, Revisited

Despite its shortcomings, I have not completely given up on Pandora. Also, my ipod battery has died a few times while I was at work, and I have to listen to something. Anyway, I have some additional thoughts on it.

First off, there's an update to the whole system. There's a bar that shows you how much of the song has played (actually, that may have been there all along, but I've just discovered it. Okay, I'm just not that bright.) This I like. Instead of the "skip" function, it's a "don't play this song for a month" function. I'm not sure how I feel about it. Sometimes you just want to skip it, not shelf it. So, a yay and a meh.

Now, I supposedly have only one station (cleverly called "Angie Radio." So creative.) It's hooked to my e-mail, right? But when I listen to Pandora at work, it's definitely, well, harder than when I listen at home. So, is it computer-linked? Time-linked? (It's a workday; she needs X. She's at home; bring on George Harrison.) I thought it was supposed to be my only account, but it definitely behaves differently. Ah, mystery.

I wish there was a master playlist. I can't remember which artists I suggested, songs I gave a "thumbs up" or "down", etc. I kind of want to add some artists to the list, but I can't remember who I've already added. Or maybe add more music by an artist I gave a "thumbs up" to earlier.  I guess I feel that if I had a master list, I could play with it a bit. 

So I haven't given up on it yet, but I'm still not happy with it. But you can't beat the price.

Floating

Not that I buy into the whole Oprah thing, but she often talks about "living in the moment." Yeah, sure, great theory, but I doubt that anyone sane could actually do that. Do you want to be "in the moment" of the last traffic jam you were in? No. Just zone out and listen to music, my friend. 

But there are times you should be there. When you should be feeling what is going on around you, what is happening to you. And I realize that at many of those times, I am just floating by. A few months ago, I was with my family at the Franklin Institute, in front of a perpetual motion machine, and I was numb. My family can make me nuts, but I also want to see them. I love me a science museum, and I really love those perpetual motion machines like the nerd I am, but I was feeling nothing. I was watching the balls go through the machine, and it was washing over me. And when I realized what was happening (or not happening), I nearly started crying. 

Thinking about it, I realized that I have been allowing this lack of feeling into my life more and more, this floating through life. And I have been calling this realization my mid-life crisis, for lack of a better name. (I suppose "mid-life crisis" is more acceptable than "dead inside.") The past few months have been an attempt to stop floating through life, changing some things up. So far, it's been working. Scary, but working. I think.

Although there is something somewhat childish about this whole thing. Shouldn't I just be happy? What is wrong with what I have? Do I have to change things in order to feel things? And yet, staying the same wasn't working. 

It's still a work in progress, but I suppose it always is. Just keep moving along. This time, with feeling.

Aiming for Seven

What makes for a happy life? Let's say there's a rating system: one to ten, ten being as happy as you can imagine. Okay, no one is going to be at that ten all the time, that's just crazy. And we'll say that five is just content, so aiming for seven, that seems like a good goal. Thinking about it, I'd say that's what I'm going for. Yeah, that's about right. And assessing the situation, I'd say that I've been hanging out there.

What has occurred to me recently is that there's more to it than just aiming for seven. Yes, seven is the average I would want, but there's two ways to hit that. One way is to hang out at seven pretty much full time: maybe hit eight on a good day, go down to four if something bugs you. But there's the second option of going for ten, and sometimes hitting two. Both ways, you can get that overall seven.

So, which way do I want to hit seven? Looking back on the past few years, I've definitely chosen that first option. Steady, but not too many highs or lows. It's been good, but lately I wonder if it's been good for me. Perhaps I should embrace a life of the second option. But it's so risky. What if I get stuck at two? What if I never see that ten? Can I even change to do this? Have I been hanging out at seven for too long?

An aside: I've been listening to "Is this Desire?" which is rapidly becoming a favorite. 

No regrets (maybe)

I've been thinking about regrets. I know there are people out there who make choices and are confident that it was the right way to go. Always. I don't know the philosophy behind this: are these folks just that happy with every decision? Do they just simply not think about it? Do they convince themselves that it was the right choice ("The powder blue tux with the blue velvet bow tie was absolutely the right choice for our wedding. In 1998.") I am not one of those people.

I reanalyze my choices. A lot. Which is, on one hand, a really stupid thing to waste time on. The decision has been made, can't go back in time, etc. Of course, I am crazy. Sure, I can wrap it in "next time I am faced with a choice like this..." but, honestly, I overanalyze things. I do it before, I do it after. Oh, I know it's not healthy.

The funny thing is that, even with the unhealthy obsessing, overall, I don't have too many regrets. Maybe my obsessing is an attempt to convince myself that it was the right choice. But I'm pretty happy with how the story has turned out so far. Now, onto the next set of choices.

I do regret the perm I got my sophomore year in high school. How did I get any dates?

Chumpie's

Every night when we walk, we pass Chumpie's. You might call Chumpie's a convenience store, but it's not really that convenient. Unlike a 7-11 or a Wawa (oh, how I love you, Wawa!), Chumpie's has limited hours and is closed on holidays. Which is actually fine because they don't really carry that much. No matter, we rarely actually enter Chumpie's.

Mr. HP is fascinated with the Chumpie's bike. For whatever reason, the braintrust at Chumpie's has put this huge sign advertising ice cream on the back of one of those adult tricycles. Not that anyone actually rides the bike anywhere. They just bring it to the road everyday, and back to the store at night. Mr. HP kind of wants to steal the bike. He always notes if it is locked up or not. I point out that if he started peddling off, it's not like (a) he would be hard to spot or (b) he could get away very quickly. No matter, he still kind of wants to snatch that bike. I keep imagining the kid behind the counter spotting him jumping on the bike, pedaling away. The kid sighs, shakes his head, mutters, "not again," grabs his car keys, and chases after Mr. HP. "Dude, you gotta bring the bike back."

A Surprising Old-People's Concert

Last week we saw Liz Phair and it turned out that it was an old-people's concert! I know! Am I sure it was an old-people's concert? Well, I was home before 11, even with traffic issues. 

Liz Phair is touring in honor of the 15th anniversary of "Exile in Guyville" which was just too tempting to turn down. She was playing the TLA, which I like because it's a small venue. I dragged Mr. HP along, assuring him that although there would be a bunch of angry chicks, it would be a bunch of angry chicks who like sex. Turns out a lot of really dorky guys like Liz Phair as well.

We were sure that a "special guest" would be wasting an hour or so of our time, but at 8:20 or so, Liz and her band took the stage and launched into "6'1"". Whoo-hoo! It was kind of weird, knowing exactly what she would play in and the order she would play it. She stayed fairly true to the album which I am mixed about. On one hand, it's always cool to hear new versions of the songs you've heard a hundred times, on the other hand, I don't want her "messing up" my favorites. 

One of the funny things about the concert was the fact that the album is 15 years old. Most of us in the audience bought the album back then, when we were, well, young, angry chicks. And Liz isn't that different from us. We've all read our old diaries and laughed and cringed at what was in them. I'm not sure how I'd feel about singing that diary on stage. 

A bit about "Flower": obviously she can't sing both parts, so during this tour, she pulls someone on stage to sing the back-up vocals. Earlier in the show, a couple of girls in the back had "whoo-hoo'd" that they would do it, but when it was time, they were not to be found. This young-ish (possibly drunk) guy in the front was like, "I'll do it! I'll do it!" Liz was looking at him, like, no way, dude. He starts begging, no one else volunteers, she's, like, oh, what the hell. Everyone else in the audience is thinking: disaster. And he was fantastic! Honestly, better than I ever thought. And you could tell the Liz was digging it, too. 

One last thing: I miss ticket stubs.

Bargain Hunt!

Let's discuss my love for "Bargain Hunt"! You've never seen it? Oh, you are missing out. It's a simple show: two teams of two go to an antiques fair and, assisted by an "expert", spend 200 pounds (oh, yes, it's very British) and then resell these items at an auction. The team that makes the most at auction wins the profit! Yes, the entire amount! It's crazy!

Now, if you have BBC America and catch this fabulous show, your first thought will be: "Oh, this is a show from the '70s," but you would be wrong. I would like to remind you that this is a British show. But how can you not think it's the '70s when you see the host, the wonderful David Dickinson. Yes, those are rainbow reading glasses. That feathered hair! Those suits! I am cooing with delight! 

My love for David is deep and true, but I also have a soft spot in my heart for some of the experts. The experts vary from show to show, so there is the anticipation of who will be on the show. Will I be stuck with one of the women (bleh, they're all horrible) or will we have one of my favorites? Philip Serrill is just cuddly, but David Barby is especially wonderful. Sometimes, after you have gotten over the disappointment that David Barby is not one of the experts, he will be the auctioneer! Joy!

The teams are actually the big throw-away of the show. They serve a couple of basic functions for me: the women provide someone for David to openly flirt with (oh, they love it!) and the men are always porcelain experts (not gay -- British.) Sometimes they show the expert obvious clunker items, which is always a bit amusing, especially when they've already bought the item. Of course, the expert is too polite to do anything but say, "Oh, dear."

But David makes the show sing. He offers his opinion on all of the purchases ("a bit dear..." "cheap as chips!") and, sometimes, other items up for auction. He hugs the ladies when items don't do well and will do the math for you ("You bought that vase for 40 pounds, it sold for 15, for a loss of [pause for thinking] 25 pounds.") He gives the winning team their cash prize (if there is one) and questions them about what they will do with their huge amount of cash (usually go to the pub. Of course.)

Oh, Bargain Hunt, never change!