Booka's Tale

Talking with Booka.

In the late spring of 2001 my mother and I were driving home from Kent. At the main (nonresidential) intersection of the tiny city we live in we encountered a litter of puppies running for their lives across five lanes of busy traffic. No one was stopping for them. No one was even bothering to slow down. Like where ever they needed to be was more important than what was going on right in front of them.

My mom and I stopped, holding up traffic behind us, and corralled the puppies into the back seat of her car. Our living arrangements were tight at the time and we didn't have time or space to actively raise a litter of puppies. In our modest three bedroom abode lived four people and three cats already. We didn't have a fenced in yard. The means to provide for them all just wasn't there.

Unsure of what to do, but not wanting to condemn them to the pound, we drove to a nearby family-run pet store to tell the owner of our dilemma. En route, one of the puppies wiggled her way from the back seat into my lap where she promptly laid down and hid her face in the palm of my hand. The puppies were unharmed, but terrified. Someone had not only abandoned them, but had probably thrown them from a moving vehicle.

Arms full of puppies, we entered the local pet store. The owner was very understanding of the situation and eager to help. He agreed to keep the puppies on site, see they were taken care of and house broken, and sell them to people in the market for a family dog once they were old enough and had been to a vet. It was more than we could've hoped for, really. He could have just as easily turned us away. These weren't purebred champion stock dogs or anything he could make good money off of selling. They were quite obviously just mutts.

I'd only ever had one dog in my life, truly. A German Shepherd I had grown up with as a baby and lost tragically around the age of thirteen to bone cancer. Her loss was still fresh in our minds even so many years later and we were not interested in 'replacing' her. Yet here I was, holding this last puppy, unwilling to put her down. My mother turned to look at me like maybe I'd lost a little bit of my mind, but still I refused to put this puppy down. In the short drive over, with her face nuzzled into my palm I had absolutely fallen in love. Putting her down to a fate unknown would break my heart. So I began pleading.

My mother was more adamant about not being ready for another dog than I would have liked, and though I understood completely, I could not give up. I promised to take care of her, all by myself if I had to. It was only a couple of years until I'd be 18, and I swore to her that as soon as I moved out I'd take her with me. I'd do chores, homework, whatever. I swore all kinds of things. Finally, not wholly convinced but willing to give it a shot, my mom relented and we drove for home with a puppy in my lap.

She was a cute thing, half Golden Retriever and Half German Shepherd by the look of her, with long, soft black and brown fur. Normally it takes some time to name a new pet. You need to get to know them a little. But I could think of only one name for her, due to her little brown face and fuzzy body: Booka. No one could argue with me about this. Upon sight of her, they immediately understood and accepted as fact that this animal's name was Booka. As if it had always been so.

Booka. And that was that.

Everything was going splendidly until we walked into the house and my mother's husband-to-be saw what I had in my arms. "NO!" he boomed, "Not in this house!" But by this point, we had no where else to take her, so we managed to argue with reason she should be allowed to stay at least until we could find her a new home. I was devastated and angry. Who the hell was this guy, this newcomer, to tell us what could and couldn't stay in our house? And why were we listening?

He was angry and mostly without reason, threatening that he would throw her out the second he heard any noise from her whatsoever. The cats had reacted better to the dog's presence than he had. So I sat up, diligently, all night with this puppy in my bedroom to prevent her from making any noise. I fed her promptly, kept her entertained until sleepy, then watched over her as she slept. Just in case. The moment she woke I snuck her outside to go to the bathroom, so she wouldn't have to whine to tell me. This went on for days. I was thoroughly exhausted. The tiny dog sleeping in my lap, on my bed reminded me what I was fighting for and I stuck it out.

My mother's husband-to-be put ads in the newspaper to be rid of Booka. There was mild interest but ultimately only one person came to see her. We'd spoken to him briefly over the phone about it, at least ensuring that she would be going to a mature home where she would not immediately be carted off to the pound for growing to a size unexpected or barking at rabbits.

I was very upset the day the guy came for her, but I'd been assured it was for the best and so I was doing my best to be understanding. I was with her in my room, as usual, when the man arrived. He was speaking with my mother and her husband-to-be when I came out to meet him. All seemed to be going well until the man mentioned wanting to modify the dog. Have her ears clipped and the like. I was over joyed. This, for everyone, was a deal breaker. The man was sent away empty-handed.

My mother's husband-to-be gave up trying to find her a new home. Booka was staying. I couldn't have been happier. I saved up money to have her taken to the vet. She needed her shots and to be spayed. I saved up for those too. I chipped in for dog food. I walked her since we didn't have a yard. She was my responsibility. I met her needs to the best of my teenage ability.

At no time did I expect her, as a puppy, to repay my effort. She was happy and healthy and that was good enough for me. Yet one night, she was presented that opportunity. It was shortly after September 11th, very late in the night. I had just come home from a concert and decided to take Booka out since I had woken her up coming home.

While outside, I heard a ruckus from our shed. My brother had a lot of questionable friends, so I expected to find one of them trying to break in for a place to sleep. It had happened before. I looped Booka's leash over the hand rail at the bottom of the stairs and went to investigate. What I found however was a crazy guy with a knife at my ribs (because honestly if you're willing to stab another human being you're insane). I was crippled with fear, certain that this guy was about to stab me in my own yard and no one would even know what had happened until morning.

Then Booka, impatient and curious as puppies are, started protesting her tether. The sound made the guy think twice, buying me precious time to not immediately get stabbed. He probably mistook her noise as someone coming. This was Ohio, most people in Ohio have guns. He backed away, though the knife was still pointed at me and then booked it when headlights from my brother's car hit the end of our driveway.

I have very little doubt that the only reason I did not get stabbed is because of that little dog. Because in those few minutes before my brother arrived, there was nothing else to stop him. As if I needed a reason to love this animal any more. We were inseparable after that. If I was outside, Booka was with me. If I was inside, Booka was right beside me.

We moved out of that house shortly after that incident, to a place with a nice big, forested yard. Booka loved it. In the morning we'd get up really early to watch the birds and the deer parade through, undoubtedly while eating pancakes.

A shared love of syrup.

After a time, my mother and her husband-to-be got a second dog, from the Animal Protective League. An Aussie/German Shepherd mix we named Ruby due to her bright pink nose. She and Booka became fast friends. Ruby was, for want of another word, neurotic. Probably due to whatever circumstance she had been in prior to the animal shelter. Booka kept her calm. Such a part of the family did she become that when my mother and her husband-to-be finally got married, Booka was a bride's maid. Which she showed her appreciation for by following my mom around sitting on the train of her expensive wedding dress.

When it came time for me to actually move out, my mother didn't want me to take Booka with me. Understandably, though I didn't like it. Removing her from the household would devastate Ruby, who could not remember a time before having Booka as a constant. Regrettably, when I moved out, I left her behind. I did not move far however, and would visit every weekend, making both Booka and my childhood cat Odin's week.

Every Sunday afternoon, without fail, the two of them would move to my mother's large picture window at the front of her house and wait for me to arrive. No matter what. Over the years she got a little slower with age and gray hairs started to crop up along her face, but she would always be a puppy in my heart. I could see her no other way.

Eventually I moved out of state and could not visit but a couple times per year. During that time I think I missed my dog and my cat more than anything else from Ohio (family aside). When making my decision to finally move back home again, she was a deciding factor. When I met the love of my life and was faced with moving out of state again, she remained a deciding factor. I wanted more than anything to take her with me, but could not. I did not have the space or the means to get a dog that size (she had grown quite large!) 3000 miles, and her reason for not going with me the first time was still in effect. Ruby needed her. The guilt of removing her from her 'pack' and the yard she loved so very much wasn't something I could bear selfishly.

So I made due with what I could. Visiting when able and a surplus of photographs sent by my mother to update me about her well-being. Last November I nearly flew back East when I was notified that someone had shot Booka while she was out sitting in the yard.

Who does something like this?

My mother insists it must have been an accident, as people are fond of hunting in Ohio. But I fail to see how a hunter could have possibly mistaken a dog her size and coloration as anything but in the middle of autumn where the ground is clear and there are no leaves on the trees to obstruct your view. While furthermore she was in someone's nice open yard midday. Perhaps I'm just something of a pessimist when it comes to people, but I'm confident some jerk just decided to shoot whatever animals they could find nearby and trusting, relaxed Booka was a perfect target.

Thankfully it was not a mortal wound. The bullet had gone in through her flank and stopped just short of her spine. Recovery was slow, both physically and emotionally. This big fluffy dog that never knew fear beyond that of thunderstorms, was now scared of the unknown. She did recover though and fully. Police never found out who shot her or why.

I was so close to just blowing through my savings to have Booka brought to me. To a place where I could keep her safe. It was an illogical impulse, but one I had none-the-less. There was nothing anyone could have done to spare her that bullet, aside from predict the future and jump in front of it first.

Everything returned to normal and was great again until April 15th, this year. My birthday. On April 16th I received a voicemail from my mother sounding concerned telling me to call her.  She had waited to call until after my celebrations, which should have spoken volumes as to the severity of her call. Though it's something I am grateful for.

My mother's voice has a typical Irish-mom sort of ring to it where she often sounds far more serious than she needs to, so I kind of thought maybe I was over reacting when I got that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Then I called her and realized quickly it was legit. I could hear the sorrow in her voice in her hello and knew whatever she was about to tell me was going to break my heart. Booka had suffered a severe stroke and was too far gone by the time they'd gotten her to the emergency vet to be saved. She had died on my birthday.

The stubborn Irish part of me refused to acknowledge my grief over the phone. My mother was upset and it was my duty as her daughter to be strong for her. So I was. Immediately afterward though I basically hung up and shriveled up on the bed in a mess of weepy tears. This lasted all night. So complete was my sadness that it had the ability to make other people sad just by proximity. I am still sad. There are days where I can be nothing but, despite best efforts to be productive.

R.I.P

I'm sure it will pass, as all things do. Time makes it easier. In the meanwhile I just need to distract myself and work around it. This entry is in memory of Booka, who was a good dog. No, a great dog.

Angry Birds

I told you guys a while back that I had a funny (and creepy) story about Angry Birds, an ipad, and a camcorder to tell, but I wanted to illustrate it so it wound up getting delayed by procrastination. Well, here it is...

Aaron and I went to L.A. for Spring Break. While there we took a trip to Best Buy to look for a case for his new Smart Phone as well as for him to surprise buy me a super cool tablet for my birthday. While he was sneakily off looking at tablets, I was standing in the ipad aisle playing Angry Birds and looking up videos of Slow Loris.Which, you know, is the primary function of Best Buy.

Totally oblivious.

Unbeknownst to me there was a man several aisles back in the camcorder section video taping me as I did this. To make it worse, he was uploading the footage from the store camera onto his iphone. Why? I do not know. My only comfort was in knowing that, at least at the time of this event, both of his hands were occupied by technology.

Not creepy at all...

I watched three or four Slow Loris videos and completed several stages of Angry Birds, then decided to look around to find out where Aaron was. That's when I noticed the guy recording me, shot him the dirtiest look, and then basically fled the scene. By the time I'd made it to where Aaron was, the dude from the camcorder section was gone.

I'm going to Angry Birds your face!

And... situations like this, are probably why I hate going anywhere alone.

By The Way, You're an Immigrant

I find it laughable when someone thinks I do not belong in a place (in this country) because they don't find the color of my skin to be appropriate.

Need I remind you that you're all a bunch of immigrants? By compassion you're all new here, so you can kindly get bent. Being that, technically, my people were here first -- if anyone doesn't belong somewhere around here it's all of you.

So before you open your mouth, maybe you should just stfu with your dark versus light racism and your light versus dark racism and remember that neither of you even belong here to begin with; yet we accept your presence just fine (except when you say profoundly stupid shit).

Sincerely, Native America.

Golf Drinking Games

This sundae is bigger than my head!

For my birthday this year we had a small party Saturday and Sunday. We had plans for nine or more people, justifying rental of The Pope Room for dinner, but scheduling didn't pan out. So we wound up with four: Aaron, Josh, Sean, and me. Saturday evening we played a Magic The Gathering drinking game, where any time a creature was sent to the graveyard you had to drink. Sean probably drank the most, since he died early on, but he didn't drink all that much since he was defeated so quickly. Thanks to Spore Frog, I did not get very drunk.

Reign of Frogs held out well, and by held out I mean could've stomped through the world if I had more mana to start, but ultimately we all lost to being lobotomized by Aaron's deck. No library to draw from. Ho-hum. We also watched the strangest video ever. No really. It was very very strange.How strange? Cannot even begin trying to describe it.

Sunday morning we had a croissant feast followed by a trip downtown to eat at Shoki Ramen House. I'm not sure you can get better ramen without leaving the country. After lunch we headed over to Scandia to play miniature golf and arcade games. Naturally we had a miniature golf drinking game where any time you went over par you had to take a shot and anytime someone else hit under par they got to choose someone to take a shot. If someone got a hole in one, everyone else had to take a shot.

I was doing pretty good for the first four holes. But it was my birthday and therefor everyone chose me to drink when they hit under par. After that I kind of just stumbled from hole to hole playing worse and worse which meant I had to drink more and more. I decided rather than play the 18th hole, where you lose your ball, to pocket my ball and keep it as a souvenir.

At the end, I had the worst score and had to finish off both flasks.

We made it through eighteen holes of golf without getting caught and there at the very end a security guard managed to spawn on us like an agent from The Matrix and get me in trouble. He demanded Sean and I go put the flasks in the car, oblivious to the fact that by now they were both completely empty. Herp.

So we're headed through the building to go to the car and this security guard is following behind me like I'm some delinquent reminding me every three feet that I have to go put the flask in the car. The funny thing was, at this point I didn't even have the flask on me anymore, it was in Aaron's jacket pocket! I can only walk so fast. It got so irritating that at one point when the man's like, "GO PUT IT IN THE CAR." I turned around and was like, "YOU GO PUT IT IN THE CAR!" Immediately I regretted that however and followed it with an apologetic, "I'm going..."

Because seriously, I was going! While he was clearly capable of teleporting wherever he wished, I had to use my legs to travel. And legs are slow, especially when you are drunk. So off to the car Sean and I go, though I've nothing to put in the car because I don't even have the flask. Then we return tot he arcade and get our game on. We manage to make thirty-nine tickets despite several of the games being broken and not rewarding us. The woman behind the gift counter was nice though and let me get a Lick-a-Stick anyway.

Once we'd concluded our golfing adventure we returned home for a bit, played a little more Magic and then headed to Buca di Beppo's for dinner. Amazing food. For dessert we got the colossal sundae. It's as big as it sounds. It took all four of us to eat it. Stuffed and exhausted we returned home to be surprised by Washington Sean as well, who just so happened to be in town.

As for presents...
Aaron got me a fancy tablet -- the Intuos 5 Touch, which you can see in action on my deviant.
Sean gave me a rubber ducky tea infuser, because I love tea so good.
Josh forgot his gift but gave me delicious chocolate as a proxy.
And my grandfather sent me a bracelet and earrings to match the necklace he had given me for Christmas.

Much to my dismay, back East at my mother's house, my childhood dog Booka suffered a major stroke and died.  So while I had an amazing birthday, turns out it was also a really really sad day.

CAPTCHA!

I'm going to just go ahead and throw this rant out here before my head explodes. I'm sure you've all dealt with it enough to know what I mean, even if not quite to the same extent.

There's something about the whole Captcha system that will just never get along with me. I appreciate the effort to cut back on the amount of spam we see on the internet, but it's getting somewhat out of hand. Why should I have to prove that I am a human every time I want to say anything? I had to prove I was a human to create an account to begin with, why isn't that enough? Must I prove my humanity every time I type? Here's a fact: it lowers every time I have to type a Captcha.

Whose idea was this?!

To make matters worse, most Captcha systems are so bad that I actually need someone else to sit down at my desk and type them in for me. Recent advances have done little to absolve my issues. Captcha too convoluted to actually read? Click this button for audio Captcha! Not very helpful to a deaf person, sorry. As I sit here helplessly rolling my face across my keyboard in an effort to login, whatever I had to say is lost to frustration. My time would've been better spent typing to myself in Wordpad and then hitting delete.

Were they actual words, at the very least I could make out whatever letters I was able to and then use my autism powers to figure out what the hell it is I'm expected to type in. But they aren't actually words, not usually, so I've no way to solve the puzzle.

Is there a particular need to smoosh it all together unintelligibly? Are lines, spots, and shadows really doing anything except pissing people off? What's with the Captchas that are multiple colors? Do you know what that crap looks like to a color blind person? It looks like a fucking Matisse! Chill out, guys. We're not trying to combat Skynet or Cylons here.

False Sense of Security

I'd like to preface this by saying it is not typical for me to be left stranded places, but sometimes shit happens. I have a late class 8:00PM - 10:00 PM twice a week. Campus is also only a mile or so from home, so the term stranded is used loosely here. Also tales in which there are an enraged Inari are rare, so they should be shared. With that out of the way, here's the story.

So last night, as with every Monday, I went to class. The plan, as with every Monday, is that after class Aaron would pick me up so that I do not have to walk home alone. This was especially imperative last night as I spent the better part of the day rolling around on the floor miserable and sick. Not to mention that it is, in general, a terrible idea for a young woman to go walking alone so late after dark in any city and ours is no exception. Even in as nice of an area as we live. On top of that, it was cold since out here temperatures dip well under the 50's after sunset, even in the summer and expecting my ride to be there in a timely fashion -- I was not bundled half as well as I should've been.

I was sick enough that even despite my flawless attendance record at college, I was entertaining the idea of staying home. Unfortunately, my professor is a man of rebellious nature who does not believe in keeping schedules. On a plus note this means he does not mind if you are late or even absent entirely. On the negative this means I had no idea when the midterm exam will be. I tried to send him an email to find out, but as a terrible hippy, he apparently doesn't much bother with things like reading his business email prior to business. In short: I had to go to class.

So to class I went, only to discover the exam would be later in the week. Since I was already there, I decided to just seclude myself in a corner as to not spread my plague and tough it out. Class always wraps up at about 9:45PM, so I sent Aaron a text to come get me and headed for the parking lot. For whatever reason, he always arrives around 10:00PM anyway so as the minutes passed I really thought nothing of it. Then however more minutes passed.

And more.

And then more...

Bringing the time to 10:30PM. I sent a few other texts, but all went unanswered. Now I have to make this clear: had this not happened once before, I would not have been mad at him. A few weeks ago he had fallen asleep and left me stranded on a particularly cold night for over half an hour, but I couldn't really blame him for falling asleep. People get tired. They fall asleep. I figured AFTER that incident however that he would at least, in the future, have the foresight to keep his phone on or near him just in case. But yeah, apparently not.

I started texting a friend of mine to pass the time before finally deciding to pick myself up off the curb, cross the vast now-empty parking lot, and walk home. Livid. The combination of being sick, exhausted, and famished was enough to make the mere prospect bring me to seethe. The fact that Aaron was fully aware of these three things set me to a boiling inner rage. I dared some transient to try to mug me. I was going to ruin their fucking night with a combination of relentless feet to the groin and mace.

During my trek of anger I kept in contact with my friend just in case. So someone would be conscious and aware of my absence if worse came to pass. I grew up in Detroit. You make the best of a dangerous situation. However narrow the prospect of danger may actually be.

About halfway I get a call. It's Aaron, who is by the sound of it getting in the car right then. I bark at him that, "I'M WALKING!" and consider hanging up. Thus was my rage. However he sounds apologetic enough that I agree to just stay where I am so he can come get me. I was pissed off, not unreasonable. This was a calculated fury, not blind.

Earlier in the day we had made plans to go out together to get some dinner after class, so he extends that offer. As mad as I am though, hunger is far from my mind and I insist I just want a can of soup. At home. He also extends the offer to let me punch him, but I refuse out of fear that I may somehow damage him irreparably with my spindly noodle-arms.

At the turn-off to the road which leads to home, he stops the car to ask me again if I'm sure I don't want something else. Pho, to-go, perhaps. Hm...

I had wanted pho earlier, being sick and all, but did not want to sit in a restaurant angry and sick. Take-out hadn't been something I considered. I hesitate a moment before agreeing to go to our favorite pho place, that just so happens to be open late, and get some pho to-go. On the way and in the waiting area he continues to be apologetic enough that my rage has simmered down to a quiet seething once more and when he offers to walk with me across the street to get an Icee and whatever else of my choosing, while our order is being cooked for us at the pho place. I find my altogether bad mood lifted enough by this point to find this arrangement acceptable and we head across the street to the convenience store where I get a Coke, a large cherry flavored Icee, a little tub of icecream, and cookies with brightly colored M&M's baked into them.

Prize in hand, safely accompanied and ready to return home with our food, we cross back across the street and Aaron heads inside to pick up our order. I unlock the car to get in. That's when the creepiest creepy hobo staggers up behind me, totally obliterating personal space, and rasps something unintelligible at me. The dimly lit parking lot does little to make this situation anything other than something you see on an episode of America's Most Wanted, so I'm kind of eager to make him go the hell away.

I assume the guy is asking for money, since that is what they always ask for, and inform him that I have no cash on me. Normally that isn't enough to placate them though and they either continue to hassle you or become belligerent, neither of which I wanted in the dark, so I reasoned that I had no money because Aaron had taken all the money into the restaurant with him. The guy had seen Aaron leave my side to go into the restaurant. This seems to work and the guy goes staggering off toward the pho place. I climb into the car and lock myself in.

Talk about a false sense of security. Granted, Aaron was fully prepared to come back outside when he noticed the guy had cornered me. But still. How ironic that my whole lonely abandoned experience, where I should have been in the most peril, turned out to be the time of the night up to this point where I was safest. wtf?

The rest of the night was pleasantly uneventful. We returned home, ate pho, watched Netflix on the sofa and then I curled up in a ball and fell asleep on the floor of the computer room. Perhaps tonight I'll break open the icecream, I think I'm feeling well enough now.

Zenni Optical

Today's the day I finally get around to writing this blog for you guys. I know I promised it like, three days ago, but then Star Wars happened. (That's an acceptable excuse right?) This is a review of my recent purchase from Zenni Optical.

As most of you know, I wear glasses -- even though I forget them more often than not. I don't have a reliable case for my glasses and only had a single pair, so unless I planned to keep them on my face at all times, it was kind of a bad idea to casually drag them with me places. To make matters worse, my health insurance only covers a single pair of glasses every ten years. Which means between the day I get my glasses and the ten years after that I damned well better be really careful with them.

To make matters worse, the frames covered by my insurance are inexcusable to anyone who does not live in a TARDIS. We're talking throw-backs not from the 90's, but the 80's. Thick round things in shades of taupe and faux animal horn. I could probably get away with wearing them, since I'm rather well known for my not giving a shit, but I shouldn't have to. Besides looking hideous, they're also heavy. With my tiny nose, heavy glasses just won't work as they'll simply slide right off my face.

Luckily the last time I went to the optometrist, the guy was super nice and gave me an employee discount so that I could get these frames:

Nothing fancy.

Rather than these frames:

What the fuck?

And they still cost me about $150 out of pocket. That's with just a regular lens and no fancy coatings such as scratch-resistant or anti-glare. So you can perhaps comprehend why I don't want to take them on vacation with me. If I forget them, or drop them off of a boat, I don't really have the cash to replace them. That's when a friend of mine suggested I look into a website she had heard about through an acquaintance.

Zenni Optical.

Now, I was extremely hesitant about this service at first because you could allegedly buy a pair of glasses for $6. If that doesn't make you skeptical in this day and age, you might have something wrong with you. So I hesitated for a while and then couldn't get my optometrist from back East to give me my prescription, so I hesitated a while more. Then I finally just went and got my prescription renewed out here and went ahead and bit the bullet.

I chose frames on the cheap end, just in case I was about to get screwed out of my money, and input my information. My total, with anti-glare coating, came out to be under $15 which also included shipping. I fully expected that at this juncture, I would pay them and then never hear from the company again. Which wouldn't have been a huge loss. I paid by credit card and could easily reverse the charges if I had to. It isn't rocket science.

About twelve days later however my package arrived. In it my new glasses, a cleaning cloth, and a case. Not bad considering I paid less than I would for a fast food meal. The glasses look nice, certainly like I paid more than $6 for the frames, and seem hardy enough. The anti-glare coating actually makes them easier to see with than the pair I paid $150 for. All in all, this is a website that I will be using again and would recommend to any of you who wear glasses.

As for the shopping experience, the hardest part (aside from picking which frames I wanted as there is quite a wide selection) was deciphering my eye prescription and measuring my own PD -- which is the distance between your pupils measured from the center of each. The prescription I decoded with help from Wikipedia and the PD was easily handled since the website itself has a guide to assist you in getting an accurate measurement. Even so I was still a little nervous, mostly about my prescription being entered incorrectly, but when the glasses arrived I could see out of them perfectly, so Wikipedia must've managed to explain it all well enough.

In summary: Zenni Optical is an easy to use website with fantastic selection and pricing. There's really no reason not to order from them if you wear glasses. If you've ordered from Zenni Optical yourself, whether due to this review or on your own, I'd love to hear about your experience.