Signs that I haven't quite rejected our consumer culture in its entirety

1. My incessant urges to have my hands on my new computer. I keep toting it outside to check out the indoor/outdoor screen, screwing the monitor around so I can use it as a notepad (will I ever need it? Who cares?!), and fabricating excuses to surf the internet because the web's become cooler since I found a computer with wireless capabilities. Kelli gave me EndNote as a wedding gift, and I started salivating. I was more excited about a freaking bibliography program than I think I was about getting into some of my grad programs...though that may not say much, since they were in LA. I also keep telling people that I purchased a new computer and then insisting that they come over to see it, because I don't feel like exposing it to the dangers of the outside world yet. My own father was forced to follow up a perfectly nice sushi dinner with a trip to our current house so I could show him the twisty-screen feature. Amazingly, he's still willing to help me fly home for Christmas. Someone. Please. Help.

2. The pathetic thrill I feel when I purchase a new bike jersey or pair of gloves. They're woven, cheap fabric in gaudy shades your colorblind aunt wouldn't wear, for god's sake. It's not like I stumbled onto that mint-condition Prada top hanging in the back of Buffalo (although I think I'd prefer the bike gloves). Now, I'm drooling over the bikes in the latest Trek catalogue -- for the price of a semester at graduate school, I could own Lance Armstrong's freaking model racing bike. And when I skidded across the wet cobblestones of British roads at 40 mph and wrapped the bike around a telephone booth, well, at least I'd have the sweetest wreck you've ever seen. Seriously, this obssession must stop. I'm starting to see the appeal of those insane multicolored jerseys that weekend warriors wear -- and from there, it's really just a quick slide down the slope to purchasing bike socks with flashy designs and spandex pants for every occasion.

3. Tortoise supplements. Laugh as you will, but it's no different than buying expensive cat toys or humiliating your dog by having its nails painted. Okay, so I technically did that, too, when my husband made Ndugu this swanky tux for his wedding day role. Anyway, by this time next year, Ndugu will be sequestered in an outdoor pen where at least 10 varieties of weeds, greens and grasses will sprout for his consumption. And yes, I did in fact spend the weekend building an outdoor tortoise pen -- which he hates. It's not interesting enough, or big enough, nor does it have a little button he can push to make worms pop out of the ground. Still, I'm trying to make up for it with the pasture mix, the feather grass, the dandelions and the "krunchy krouton" all-natural nutritional food topping. I don't need a child, thank you: I have a chelonian.

4. Did I mention my new computer?