I’m always fascinated by stories in trendy interior design magazines about people who live in incredibly small spaces. It’s easy to romanticize the idea of the perfect urban studio or tiny, rural cottage. Who doesn’t love that liberating feeling of cleaning out a cluttered closet and giving away a few tattered t-shirts or uncomfortable pairs of jeans? In the afterglow of a tantric spring-cleaning session, even the most materialistic among us can be seduced by the less-is-more mantra.

When my partner and I moved to Chicago, we bought a place that was well within our means and took pride in the fact that we could get by just fine sharing 700 square feet of space. Of course, living in a small space is just lovely—until it isn’t. Eventually, we became increasingly annoyed by the little inconveniences that come with living on a Japanese scale: no place to hide those extra boxes of cereal that were buy-three-get-one-free, no room for a treadmill, no way to dig the vacuum cleaner out of the closet without triggering an avalanche of suitcases, Swiffers, and half-empty cans of paint.

There comes a time in the life of every small-space dweller when you’ve reached your breaking point. Perhaps it’s after Christmas when you finally attempt to cram a new season of Fraggle Rock into a drawer that already won’t close without some elaborate, Jenga-style stacking of DVDs. Initially, there’s a sense of guilt. “Why do I need all this crap?” we ask. Then, anger. “I hate this dump. I work hard for my money and I should be able to watch Fraggle Rock whenever I want. And I shouldn’t have to throw out my copy of She Devil or Troop Beverly Hills just to make room for something new.” Then, at long last, we reach self-pitying acceptance. “I guess I’ll just add this to the pile of DVDs that sit in a permanent mound beside the TV. It’s not like anyone ever comes over here anyway.”

It’s bad enough not having the space to accommodate an adequate selection of 1989’s greatest woman-oriented comic films. Unfortunately, small spaces also subject us to a complete loss of privacy in our own homes. As much as I enjoy turning on Al Gore with my tiny carbon footprint, there are moments when I’m tempted to drive a Hummer to the heart of the Alaskan Wildlife Refuge just for ten minutes of peaceful, unrestrained poop time miles away from my significant other.

Living in a small space is appealing for many reasons—it’s cheap, it’s environmentally friendly, and it forces us to evaluate what’s truly valuable. I love to daydream about a simple life in an Airstream by the sea where I’ll be surrounded by carefully selected, precious things. At times, I’m certain that everything I could ever want should fit in a trailer that can go wherever the open road, a hybrid SUV, and an off-putting sense of hippie superiority will take me. But then I’m reminded that living in an Airstream would force me to choose between my greatest loves: my love of the idea of an ascetic life and my love of good water pressure and the option to watch The Witches of Eastwick on Blu-Ray whenever I feel like it. So until Al Gore is willing to memorize 1200 lines of dialogue and stop by my Airstream with a Cher wig, a bowl of cherries, and a bottle of ipecac, I’m going to continue to fantasize about a home as big as Daryl Van Horne’s.

A friend recently asked me which decision I regret most out of all the decisions I’ve made in my life so far. (I’ve always assumed other people ask their friends questions like this all the time, but I’m starting to suspect that isn’t the case. In any event, the point of this story isn’t to dwell on why he asked the question. We talk about depressing philosophical things regularly.) The first thing that popped into my mind was my decision to buy a condo at the height of the real estate boom in 2006. Anyone who knows me will tell you I love to discuss real estate and, for some reason, I never tire of listing all the reasons why my partner and I never should have bought our current home.

The short version of the story is this: we paid close to $200,000 in 2006. A few months ago, the unit below ours sold for $144,000. To add insult to injury, the unit above us has been on the market for almost two years and its current list price is $149,000.

Dwelling on past mistakes or lamenting circumstances that aren’t the way we’d like them to be must appeal to our brains for some reason. Perhaps my brain thinks if I can just tell one more person how awful this situation is, I’ll have some epiphany about how to dig myself out of it. Or maybe if I beat myself up about it just a little more, I’ll never make that mistake again. Or maybe I just like feeling sorry for myself because it’s easier than doing something about the problem.

Whenever I feel unable to let go of regret over a bad investment or a missed opportunity to make money, the thing that bothers me most is the thought that I’ve wasted time. I know it’s only money and money can always be replaced, but there’s a nagging feeling that I can’t get back the week or the month or the year it took me to earn and save that money.

Eventually, I snap out of it and remember that I’m lucky to be in perfect health. As cliché as it sounds, there really is nothing more valuable. When you’re healthy, you have all the time in the world and you can do whatever you want with that time. You can join the Peace Corps, go back to school, adopt a baby, start a band, or become an astronaut. In the end, no one knows for sure when their time will come. The universe could see fit to let me live to be 120, and in that time I could have experiences that would have taken others two or three lifetimes to accumulate. I could live long enough to become a millionaire, lose it all, and make it all back again.

Of course, I realize at some point I might not always be in perfect health, but that day isn’t today. More importantly, it’s possible that even dying young and wasting time aren’t worth regretting. If there’s life after death, then there’s really no rush to cram in as much adventure and accomplishment as possible into the time we have on Earth. And if life is over when our hearts stop beating, then I should probably accept that I am less important than I think I am, and that my existence is a grain of sand on a beach ten million miles long. And by that logic, the universe probably won’t notice if I squeeze an extra 40 or 50 years out of my life expectancy and visit more places and accumulate more stuff than the average human being.

So, as Thanksgiving approaches, I’m going to try very hard to let go of my regrets about the lost money and time that my condo represents. I’m going to be more thankful for my health, and when I’m sick, I’m going to try to remember that time erases every trace of all our accomplishments—from the construction of the pyramids to the time I was second runner up in my third-grade spelling bee. 10,000 years from now, our entire civilization might be forgotten. And even now, the residents of the Alpha Centauri star system have no idea who anyone on Earth is. They’ve never even heard of Oprah, and they probably never will. And if Oprah can’t reach her stubby index finger through a black hole and scratch out “I was here” on the face of some nameless nebula as a permanent record of her existence on the space-time continuum, then nobody can.

I spent the Fourth of July with friends in Minneapolis. While I was there, we did a lot of relatively ordinary things. They threw a small party and made some wonderful food. We roasted marshmallows over the fire pit in their backyard and made smores. We ate at a great Mexican restaurant downtown, watched fireworks from a bridge over the Mississippi River, and barhopped until 2:00 a.m. We watched house porn reruns on HGTV. We drove by a house made out of metal shipping containers, examining it from every angle until the owner came outside and scared us away. We walked their greyhound and we talked about the future.

The Backyard Party Buffet

There were several moments during the trip when I felt completely at peace—the kind of moments that you try to enjoy quietly so as not to scare the feeling away. I told myself perhaps this is the meaning of life: good food, good friends, and simple pleasures. Who needs a life of constant surprise when you’re surrounded by people you love? Why do I need to live in Tokyo or Buenos Aires when there’s so much to marvel at right here in my own backyard (or the backyards of nearby friends)?

During the visit, my friends talked about looking for new jobs and moving. For the first time, they even seemed open to the idea of moving to Chicago. It wasn’t long before we were scouring job boards online together, discussing how to update and polish their resumes, and searching Chicago real estate listings for affordable two-unit buildings we could rehab together.

Would we drive each other crazy? Probably. But that’s not going to stop me from fantasizing about how wonderful life would be if my friends moved here. We used to live less than a mile away from each other before our careers pulled us apart, and I often regret that we didn’t spend more time together then. We saw each other somewhat regularly, but typically only with advanced planning that lead up to some special event or celebration. While I fondly remember the great parties and the nights on the town, what I really treasure are the mundane and, in many cases, completely ridiculous things we did together. I miss our impromptu trips to Chili’s. I miss playing with the abandoned flying squirrel baby we tried to raise it as a pet. I miss playing Scattergories and arguing over whether or not “Fergie Fear” is an acceptable response for “Phobias that start with F”. (And if so, does it merit two points?)

Now whenever it seems possible that old friends might move to Chicago, I find myself vowing to spend more purposeless time with them if God will just get them here. I swear we’ll order pizza and watch bad reality TV together. I tell myself I’ll knock on their door just to show them my new shoes or drop off some brownies or gossip about the neighbors. Then I remember I haven’t baked brownies in over a year. (But surely I’d bake brownies every day if I had gluttonous neighbors to help me eat a whole pan.)

Obviously the joy we experience when visiting friends who live far away is not sustainable. There’s usually a moment during most of my visits with old friends when we look at each other and, in our best Brokeback accents, one of us says, “It could be like this. Always.” Of course, we know that’s just not true. It’s easy to forget all the little things that drive us crazy about people we only see for a few days at a time a few times a year. And it’s easy to get accustomed to having someone nearby and forget all our promises to visit each other every day and savor every mundane moment. But that’s not going to stop me from fantasizing about the day when my friends and I live in our own little Melrose Place and all is right with the world. Of course, to truly recapture my youth, I need our Melrose Place to be above a Chili’s and be infested with flying squirrels. But I’m sure that can be arranged.

Somewhere in Tina Turner’s attic, an oil painting of her must look like the crypt keeper because, as this month’s Ebony cover demonstrates, this woman does not age.

Many people have noted that it’s ironic and a bit sad that Michael Jackson’s passing should resolve all of his estate’s financial problems and then some. I, for one, find it comforting to know his children can now afford the llamas and surgical masks they so desperately need.

I loved Michael just as much as those kids he saved in the 1990 Sega Genesis classic Moonwalker (see below). But how long do we have to wait for some autopsy photos to be released? And when is someone going to point out that Michael’s parents are the last people who should be raising children?

Lastly, I have to give it up yet again to Robyn. Whenever I hear “The Girl and the Robot,” I suddenly want to go to the gym, which is no small feat. Take note, Lady Gaga. This is how it’s done.

I spend a lot of time obsessing about what to do with my life and whining about other bourgeois problems common to over-educated white people with no real problems to fret about. So, I thought I’d take a minute to post a few miracles that I’m thankful for.

1) The train brought me home today on time and unharmed, just as it has done roughly 700 times in the past three years.

2) When I turn on the faucet, clean water comes out. (I often wonder how it got here, what kind of massive pump is required to push it all the way up to my sink or shower, and where it goes when it disappears down the drain. Indoor plumbing is truly a modern marvel.)

3) Someone made dinner for me tonight and it was ready the minute I walked in the door.

4) Everyone (and every pet) I love is healthy.

5) I have a job.

6) I don’t dread going to work every day.

7) If I lost my job, I’d be ok.

8) There’s a huge tree outside my living room windows. It blocks the sun in the summer, lets in the sun in the winter, and makes me feel like I live in a treehouse.

9) My parents know that I’m gay and they love me anyway. They even love my boyfriend.

10) My upper wisdom teeth continue to honor the agreement I made with them as a teenager—they leave me alone, I leave them alone. I keep waiting for them to burst through my gums like some alien spawn ripping through Sigourney Weaver’s sternum, but so far, so good.

Does anyone know if there’s a site out there that lets people maintain a list of things they’re grateful for and share them with others? I know just asking this question could cause the National Cynicism Association to revoke my membership card. Or perhaps there’s some kind of facebook application available? If not, would anyone actually want to read stuff that other people are thankful for? Or do sites like this only succeed when they’re based on horrible secrets and schadenfreude?

When I was in high school, I felt sorry for Paula Abdul. She hadn’t had a hit in years. Head Over Heels (possibly her greatest artistic achievement) was a flop and I wondered if the world would ever hear from her again. Obviously we all know how this story ends: Paula boards the American Idol money train and laughs at me all the way to the bank (assuming she knows where she is at the time).

Still, I felt that twinge of pity when I went to PaulaAbdul.com after hearing that Paula has a new album in the works. I wondered what possessed Paula to keep milking American Idol for all it’s worth in such shameless ways—particularly after the country showed little interest in “Dance Like There’s No Tomorrow.”

I wasn’t surprised to find Paula hawking fan club memberships for $34.99 on her homepage, but I was a little dismayed that the membership provided a bag of swag that looked like it was assembled from random crap Paula found in her garage: a signed photo, a “personal” letter from Paula, and a tote bag? (For an extra $10, you can get a star-shaped ring that looks like it was purchased with skeeball tickets from the prize counter of a Chuck-E-Cheese.) Then there’s all the crap she’s shilling on the Home Shopping Network, like this blanket with giant buttons and this woodland creature neck brace. Just as I started to sigh and wonder why Paula keeps humiliating herself and selling her soul in $34.99 increments, I thought, “I can work my entire life doing the most lucrative thing I know how to do and I will never be as rich as Paula Abdul.”

But it gets worse. You see, Paula sets the bar far too high. The truth is, despite the fact that I make a respectable salary at my white-collar job, despite my employer’s generous 401K matching, and despite my best efforts to invest wisely, I will probably work for several decades and still not amass the amount of money Melissa Joan Heart was paid for two seasons of Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Hell, I probably won’t make as much money this year as Kathy Najimy was paid for her supporting role in Hocus Pocus. I can’t even remember the name of the actress who played Topenga on Boy Meets World, but I can almost guarantee you she has made more money in her lifetime than I have.

It’s easy to make peace with the fact that I’ll never be Olsen-twins rich. Obviously their level of success is one-in-a-billion and I can tell myself that a certain level of fame and fortune comes with many strings attached. However, it’s a little harder to accept that my current net worth might be less than that of the girl who played Kimmy Gibler on Full House.

Maybe it’s just me. Perhaps everyone else is fine with the knowledge that while they’re ordering water to keep their Applebee’s check under control, Mayim Bialik is buying another vacation house with her Blossom royalties. However, I, for one, will not shed another tear for celebs who’ve passed their prime. From this day forward, I won’t worry whether or not Toni Braxton is going to be able to make her mortgage payments. I won’t lose sleep wondering if Gates McFadden has had trouble getting work since Star Trek: The Next Generation went off the air. And I certainly won’t ask God to send Paula Abdul some dignity and a new hit single. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go stuff some tote bags in preparation for the launch of my Frugal Fag Goody Bag collection. They come complete with a letter thanking you for buying the bag, an autographed photo, and a plastic kazoo or equivalent Dollar-Store party favor, e.g., a troll-doll pencil topper or spooky spider ring.

A few days ago, I received a small package addressed to Frugal Fashion. My first thought was that someone had finally decided to send me an envelope full of anthrax for one of my scathing exposes that brought me (and my tens of readers) too close to the truth. After pondering how great I’d be as Julia Roberts’ character in a sequel to The Pelican Brief, I took a deep breath and opened the envelope to discover a very sweet thank-you note from a reader who purchased one of my Nights the Lights Went Out in Georgia T-shirts. He even included a homemade DVD full of Bernice-related clips from Designing Women. This stranger’s act of love was almost as gratifying as that time I gave a homeless lady a can of slightly expired garbanzo beans that I never found a use for after three changes of address.

So, before you spend your hard-earned money on pricey therapy or try to improve your relationships with friends and family, remember that there is no substitute for the adoration of a stranger. It truly is, as Whitney said, the greatest love of all.

I just noticed a big ol’ pile of comments in my spam filter that seem perfectly legit, so I’ve been going through them and approving anything that looks like it wasn’t written by a staff member at a Russian mail-order bride service or a Nigerian prince. Some of them are really old, so my apologies to any loyal readers who thought I was giving them the cold shoulder. Once you have one comment approved, you should be able to comment any time without approval. (Although clearing your browser cookies might undo this. I’m not entirely sure how it works.)

If you have any trouble commenting in the future, feel free to send me a heads up at frugal[at]frugalfag[dot]com.

Gay-man-loving straight girls like to complain that all the hot guys are gay, but I’m here to tell you that simply isn’t true. All the hot guys are straight. And by hot, I’m not talking “tweezed metrosexual with plump, androgynous lips” hot. I’m talking “toned, brawny man with sun-kissed skin, a chest lightly peppered with hair, and a five o’clock shadow that hugs an angular jawline” hot. I’m talking Hugh Jackman / Matthew Fox hot.

Gay men who look like Hugh Jackman simply don’t exist. Now, I know what you’re going to say. I’m setting the bar too high. There just aren’t many men, straight or gay, who look like Hugh Jackman or Matthew Fox or that guy who played the human torch in The Fantastic Four. And you may be right. But I’ll even go out on a limb here and say that gay men never resemble approachable, ruggedly adorable men like John Corbett (Aidan Shaw of Sex and the City) or Dylan Walsh (Dr. Sean McNamara of Nip/Tuck) or Bobby Cannavale (Will’s boyfriend on Will & Grace). The terms “ruggedly handsome” or even “ruggedly cute” and “gay” just don’t appear in the same sentence (unless that sentence points out that the two terms don’t belong together).

Granted, there are cute gay guys out there, but they only come in a few flavors, and those flavors rarely include the term hot and NEVER include ruggedly handsome hotness. The sooner we all accept and this fact, the sooner we can all learn to love our cute (but not ruggedly hot) boyfriends and stop fantasizing about being verbally abused by Christian Bale. In an effort to identify, classify, and promote greater understanding of this strange occurrence, I submit for your approval FrugalFag’s General Taxonomy and Field Guide to Potentially Cute (but Not Hot) Gay Male Species:

1) The Pretty Lady
Fatal Flaws: excessive lip shine, feminine features or haircut, willowy frame, cheek puckering, and/or overuse of the word “girl”.
Cute (but not hot) Example: Lance Bass
Hot Exception: Dustin Lance Black (screenwriter of Milk)

2) The Nerd-’Mo-Tron 3000
Fatal Flaws: pasty skin, bad posture, and/or unremarkable features
Cute (but not hot) Examples: John Cameron Mitchell, T.R. Knight (Debatable cuteness level, I realize, but bear with me.)
Hot Exception: Anderson Cooper

3) The Emo She-’Mo
Fatal Flaws: flat-ironed hair, nail polish, eyeliner, and too many giant rings
Cute (but not hot) Example: Adam Lambert of American Idol Season 8
Hot Exception: Does Pete Wentz count?

4) The “Almost Ruggedly Hot but Something Is Kind of Wrong with His Face” Guy
Fatal Flaws: Neanderthal-esque forehead, thin lips, protruding granny chin, distracting nose and/or mole
Cute (but not hot) Examples: Rupert Everett, George Michael (but only BEFORE he came out and started sporting weird facial hair that made him look like one of those hair models from a hardcover look book you peruse at Mastercuts to show your stylist what NOT to do. George Michael further proves my point that gayness absorbs and removes all evidence of rugged hotness like a ShamWow.)
Hot Exception: Neil Patrick Harris

5) The “Almost Ruggedly Hot until He Speaks or Moves” guy, also known as the “Looks Like Tarzan, Sounds Like Jane” Guy
Fatal Flaws: wild flailing of hands and limbs, Mario-Cantone like vocal tone, catlike sauntering
Cute (but not hot) Example: Kyan Douglas from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
Hot Exceptions: Kyan Douglas (when not talking or moving), Nate Berkus (at all times), Luke Macfarlane from Brothers & Sisters (I only recently learned this guy is gay and now I fear he may ruin my entire theory.)

6) The Man-Bear-Pig
Fatal Flaws: overly hairy, balding, and/or too flabby to describe body type as “football player’s build”
Cute (but not hot) Example: The guy who plays Matt Parkman on Heroes? (Sorry, I couldn’t think of a gay example here. If you have a Christopher Lowell fetish or can think of an example most of us can agree on, feel free to make suggestions.)
Hot Exceptions: None that I could think of.

CuteOverload.com posted this commercial a few days back showcasing some alternative uses for one of Samsung’s new phones. The bunny desk computer example is worth the wait.

Now every time I hear this song, I’ll picture this animated elf instead of Celine Dion pounding her fist against her chest. Thanks, YouTube.