Sunday, November 14, 2010


So, today, like so many days before, a totally weird couple came into my store. Sorta- the dude, actually, was hilarious, like, truly, very quick and very funny. His girlfriend, however, ignored him entirely aside from quietely admonishing him for touching books and warning him to "not annoy the salesgirls."

"He's fine," I said, realizing that I'd said the exact same thing to mothers about their children and to dog owners about their dogs. I half expected her to exclaim "Gentle Hands! Gentle Hands! Let's use our Gentle Hands!" like this one mom said to her kid one time. So that was weird. I of course started thinking about the other weird couples I've seen in my time on the floor... and I tried to think of one time it wasn't weird or awkward in some way. I could not.

Sometimes it's the girls that you think are there shopping with their dads... and then they start making out with the gross bullfrog you thought was their dad at the counter while you're ringing them up. That's awkward. Also, it is enough to forever erase that whole idea you had in the back of your head that you might say someday "Fuck it, I'm getting me a sugar daddy!" because man, man.... so not worth it.

Sometimes it's the body shaming boyfriend who will actually say things like "Oh, that's too short for you, you have bad legs" and criticize everything the girl puts on and in those instances it is difficult to control the slapping impulse, nevermind the look on your face. You imagine for a second having some Julia Sugarbaker type outburst where you call the dude out on being a giant d-bag and the lady dumps him right then and there. But instead you plaintively tell her she looks lovely and try to use your facial muscles to signal to her that this guy is terrible and that she probably deserves better. It does not work. And then you feel even weirder about the whole situation when she apologizes for his behavior afterwards because she could tell how uncomfortable you were. "Don't apologize to me," you think, "just run."

Sometimes it's the girl whose boyfriend or husband isn't there, but who puts something on hold until she can show it to him for his approval, or, even more weirdly, sends him a picture text of the dress. Can you just imagine? Because I picture some dude watching football with his friends or whatever, getting a picture of a dress on his phone and being either embarassed or confused. I mean, that has to be weird, right?

These are fairly extreme situations, granted. But I seriously cannot remember any instance in which a lady has brought her significant other in the store and it has been in any way normal or not awkward. The least weird are the dudes who just sit on the couch and flip through magazines, and even that is awkward because you feel like they're having a bad time. And then there's the whole thing where you want to talk to them and include them, but not too much because you don't want the girl to think that you're coming onto them. It's always weird.

I have never dated anyone who has had the balls to tell me what to wear, or, more accurately, has really been any kind of invested in my sartorial choices. I think mostly they figure I know how to dress myself given that I work in fashion. I have never actually taken a dude with me when I have gone shopping for myself and cannot imagine a future where that might occur. I would highly reccomend that others do the same. If only because it really magnifies whatever weirdness you've got going on in your relationship and you really don't need to be sharing any of that with a shopgirl.

Monday, August 9, 2010

I Have Some Things About Things

I have a lot of "things." I wouldn't necessarily classify them as phobias, because if you sat me up on the Maury stage and chased me down with them, I probably wouldn't start screaming and crying hysterically or anything like that. I would probably just feel awkward. I was just discussing my "things" with the guy at Atomix who also has "things," and our friend who has a genuine phobia of snakes.

I have a thing about Nazis. Which, you know, duh, everyone has a thing about Nazis, right? That's pretty normal. But seriously, this one time, at work, I was helping an Argentinian woman shop, found her a dress, blah blah blah... but then she handed me her credit card to pay and her last name was Eichmann. Which of course caused me to shake uncontrollably while ringing her up and then subsequently run to the bathroom to vomit and sob. Because it was really all too possible that I had just helped Nazi spawn purchase a cocktail dress. What kind of a situation is that to be in? Could I even have reasonably said "I'm sorry, I cannot sell you this dress because it is entirely probable that you are related to Adolph Eichmann (who by the way, hid out in Argentina for years before he was caught) and that just makes me feel physically ill?" Not really. That would be inappropriate.

This also manifests itself in the way that children that happen to be blonde twins sort of freak me out. It's terrible, I know. They just make me feel a little ill. Especially if they are in matching outfits. I like children in glasses. I like children with floppy hair. I do not like little boys with white blonde crew cuts and find them unfriendly looking.

I also have a thing about needles- but not so much the part that you get stuck with as the part where you can see your blood or whatever they're injecting you with in body of the needle. That's the part that makes me sick. I really feel importantly about my insides remaining intact.
Speaking of my insides, I prefer to think that I am solid. I never made it through a whole biology class on the subject of the digestive system without wanting to die. All I have to hear is "the saliva begins to break down the food" and I want to jump out of my body. I hate the idea of organs.

I am not afraid of the dentist, exactly. I am more afraid of dental hygienists. Because they're always so perky and trying to make me talk while they have sharp objects in my mouth. Also, all the dental hygienists at my old dentists office were named Judy, and that made me really uncomfortable for some reason. It seemed cultish.

Food is a big, big problem for me. I am horrified by most of it. I do not like food that masquerades as food it is not. I am perfectly happy to eat edamame or soy nuts- I do not want to eat soy that is pretending to be a hot dog. If I do not want to eat meat, I will happily eat regular, non-lying vegetables. I also do not like most white foods. I am a food racist. I have never eaten Wonderbread, sour cream, cottage cheese, or straight up mayonnaise (I will eat it in the form of a tuna fish sandwich or aioli). I will only eat tuna fish sandwiches that I make myself. I will only consume milk as part of a cereal or coffee type situation, and even then, if it has been in my fridge for more than three days I will throw it out. I fear food getting old. I do not want food to make me sick. I do not want to ever accidentally eat something that has gone bad. I will not eat food, such as cottage cheese, that has gone bad on purpose. I do not care how much you extoll the glory of cheese curds, I do not want you to take me on a trip to Wisconsin (wherever that is) to consume them. I will not eat them because they are called curds and that is gross. There are probably spiders in them, because I have heard via nursery rhymes that they are a thing spiders enjoy. I will also not be eating whey.

I will not drink beer because I believe I can taste the barley and somehow that seems wrong to me.

I am not exactly claustrophobic. I just fear not being able to leave a place. I cannot go to the Metro because they do not allow you to leave and then come back- and you probably think this has to do with smoking, but it doesn't, really. I can bring my fake indoor cigarette if I like. I just do not like the idea of being trapped anywhere. I like to be able to come and go as I please.

I hate dolls. I don't want to be around them and their dead, dead eyes. When I was a kid, I never played with dolls, as I preferred talking to people with things to say, not things that went around looking like people but were not. One time, back when I was young and worked in the mall, there was this weird "make your own baby doll" kiosk, with all these heads and arms and things lined up and it was very disturbing. I am horrified by kids who get the American Girl dolls that look like them and then wear matching outfits with said doll. It's just wrong. Precious Moments figurines are the worst, as not only are they terrifying looking, but I find them to be smug.

I also loathe birds. I feel like birds and I are at odds as to whether they should peck my eyes out and leave me blind and bloody. I do not want them to flap their wings against my skin. I do not want to find their spare parts in my alley. I do not want to be Tippi Hedren.

I hate cotton balls. They make a very disturbing noise, and also when you take your nail polish off with them they get all stringy and stick to your nails and it's gross.

I hate voicemail. Because I can look at my phone and tell that you called and do not need you to leave a message telling me so. I will call you back.

I immediately dislike people the moment they tell me they are sensitive. Sensitive people make terrible friends, and I would vastly prefer that they just come out and say "I find my problems to be more important than yours or anyone else's." Because that is basically true.

I think it's creepy when dudes talk about how they like girls who are crazy. It makes my skin crawl, and there is something about the fetishization of mental disorders that I am altogether uncomfortable with. I find it sleazy and not in a good way. They say it's because "crazy girls are better in bed" and I am always suspicious of that because most of the chicks I know with serious mental problems like to talk to me about how they cry after sex- and personally, I would find that awkward. Personally, I think it's because said dudes are basically terrible and you would *have* to be crazy to date them. I think that what they're really after is poor judgement. I also think that men like to blame things going wrong on women being "crazy." And, you know, call *me* crazy, but there is not a lot about basically saying "I prefer my women mentally incapacitated" that I don't find terrible.
I don't like people to tell me about how they saw a ghost one time. It's really, really uncomfortable because I do not believe in them, but at the same time do not want to accuse people of lying or being delusional.
I do not want to be in rural areas. If I am going to be murdered, I would prefer it be in the city where the serial killer attacking me would be on a time crunch and would just like, shoot me in the head or something. In rural areas, they have cellars and lots of space between houses, and thus more room for a long drawn out murder. I have to think about these things, you know.

So, yes- my life is a whirlwhind of neuroses. Offensive neuroses, many of them. I realize this, and I am working on it. So if you love birds, or if you are very sensitive, or have blonde twins, or if you think my fear of cottage cheese is stupid, I apologize and I promise you I am working on it.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

A Special Place in Hell

Never trust a girl that wants to get in with the boys. Who tells you when she meets you that she’s never friends with girls. Who tells she likes to hang out with guys because they’re “low drama“. Who says that she thinks women are shallow. Who says she likes drinking and sports and crude jokes and not make-up and dresses and gossip. Says she thinks all feminists are whiny, and that there’s no reason for any of that shit anymore. Look at me, she says, I’m one of the boys and they treat me as such.

Never trust a woman who wants to get in with the men. Because she will happily push you down a flight of stairs to get to any of them. If you tell her that any man she has met in passing has assaulted you or anyone you know, if you say that this or any man has harassed you or anyone you know, has mistreated you or anyone you know, she will quickly inform you that she does not like gossip, does not like it when people talk shit. She will call you a whore/slut/bitch/tease behind your back when you leave, her eyes darting for approval. Should she see something with her own eyes, she will tell herself that woman deserved it, brought it upon herself. That shit doesn’t happen to you when you’re in with the guys.

Never trust a girl who wants to get in with the boys. She never learned to be a friend, never wanted to be anyone’s friend, least of all the men.

Monday, July 19, 2010

OMG Sharktopus!

Can a Roger Corman movie starring a half shark, half octopus (and Eric Roberts!) be anything but awesome? I should say not. I'm way excited to see it- especially because.... hear that freakin' awesome theme song going on in the background there? THAT IS MY FRIEND'S BAND. The Cheetah Whores! YAY!

Therese is way more awesome than most people, she will tell you the future and rock your face (she won't drive though... so you're SOL if you get pulled over and your friend who is driving does not have a valid license and you are way the hell too drunk to drive). She won't judge you too much when you almost cry from excitement over having the same shoes as Jello Biafra, and she will also be the only one who believes you at first when you say your mutual friend is, in fact, a sociopath. She plays lap steel guitar, and her sister Lizz- whom I fondly remember having dressed up as Tom Cruise from Risky Business one year for Halloween- does the vocals. Their Uncle is actually directing the film, which is also a thing that is bad ass. Freak out over this song and movie as much as possible, because I'm hoping they'll come to Chicago on tour!

Go Sharktopus! Go friends!

Monday, July 12, 2010

Letter to a Craigslist Nice Guy (TM)

I have a habit of looking on Craigslist for ads from hilariously terrible people in order to post them on my friends' walls and declare them as their new boyfriend/girlfriend. Because I have a full and meaningful life, of course. Anyway, whilst trolling the "misc romance" section- always the most... special, I found THIS special fella. A real, honest to goodness "Nice Guy (TM)."

I sent him the following letter:

"The World Does Not Owe You Pussy, My Friend"

Dear Nice Guy (TM),

I am sure you think you're really nice, or that you were at some point. Sadly, dear, you are mistaken. There is nothing "nice" about pretending to be someone's platonic friend and then being angry and bitter because they don't fuck you. That's dishonest, and frankly, pretty shitty. If you like someone, you tell them. You don't let them go on thinking you're some great friend when you have ulterior motives.

Sure- I get it. You've seen a thousand movies and television shows featuring gross looking, carfone-ish men with supermodel/rocket scientist girlfriends and wives. That's been going on since The Honeymooners, and maybe, doll, you're not swift enough to get that it's not real life and that no, you are not personally entitled to your very own supermodel/rocket scientist girlfriend. The world doesn't owe you that. The world does not owe you pussy.

My pussy is not something that can be purchased with a dowry of a conversation and a thoughtful Christmas present. I am free- unbelievably- to fuck whomever I choose. I do not have to sleep with someone I am not attracted to or interested in. I do not have to date them, I do not have to marry them. I am not required to "reciprocate emotional intimacy with physical intimacy." I do not have to tear my clothes off and scream "do me!" every time someone who is supposed to be my friend acts like one.

Everyone gets crushes, asshole. And the majority of the time they're not going to work out. So what? The difference is, that as we live in a patriarchical society, when it doesn't work out for you, you have the privilege of blaming the woman for being "shallow."When it doesn't work out for a woman, she's supposed to blame herself. I have never, in my life, heard a woman say "That guy is such a shallow asshole for not dating me. Who does he think he is?" Have you?

You aren't an asshole because you're bitter because the mean women hurt you. You're an asshole because you're a misogynist. Because you hated women to begin with, because you never really were being "nice."

I hope this will prevent you from shooting up an LA Fitness Center.



Monday, June 7, 2010

No Babies!

So.... It seems I'm finally getting to that point in life where some of my friends are actually having babies and getting married and crap. Which is weird, at least to me. Mostly because my average relationship lasts about a month (I'm a quick study, it doesn't take me that long to realize they're terrible), and because, well, taking care of Mr. Catface is responsibility enough for me at this point. Maturity wise, I am still at the point where, if someone tells me they are pregnant, my initial reaction is "Oh my god- what are you going to do about it???" rather than "Congratulations!"

Personally, I don't understand why anyone who wanted a child would have one personally when you can just order out. Lots of kids need to be adopted, and that doesn't require giving up smoking and drinking for a full nine months whilst some alien being feeds off of your predigested food. Call me crazy, but that seems pretty gross. The grossest thing of all, however, is this thing my friend Linday told me about one time- a thing so gross it caused us to shudder on and off for days, months, weeks afterwards:

Do you know what that is? That is a mucous plug. THAT happens in your vag while you are pregnant. How much does the idea of your lady parts having post-nasal drip make you want to die? How much does the fact that someone took a picture of their mucous plug make you want to die? How much does the fact that I actually copied and pasted that into my blog make you want to die? I bet it is a lot.

From wikipedia- "Normally during human pregnancy, the mucus is cloudy, clear, thick, and sticky. Toward the end of the pregnancy, when the cervix thins, some blood is released into the cervix which causes the mucus to become bloody. As the woman gets closer to labor, the mucus plug discharges as the cervix begins to dilate. The plug may come out as a plug, a lump, or simply as increased vaginal discharge over several days. The mucus may be tinged with brown, pink, or red blood, which is why the event is sometimes referred to as 'bloody show'"

No thank you!

If I were in charge of sex education, this would be the first thing I would talk about. There would be no pregnancy pacts in my classroom. Only girls who looked forward to a bright, mucous plug free future of getting to spend days off in their 20's fighting off a hangover, eating cold pizza, and writing about how gross pregnancy is, while wearing a tiara and hanging out with some awesome cats. That is what I am doing anyway, and it's pretty sweet. I would say "Having children only adds to the amount of laundry you have to put off doing!" I would show them pictures of tapeworms, and tell them that that is pretty much what pregnancy is, except that it does not make you thin. I would show them pictures of popped out belly buttons, which is the third grossest thing that can happen to you while pregnant. I would say "Do you know that it is possible that your lady parts will turn a different color afterwards? Because one time I heard that was a thing that could happen!" I would show them the movie Alien.

I know, I know. Talking about how gross having a baby is is a touchy subject. Much like the subject of talking about how hilarious artsy-ish/professionally done hipster couple photos are, as I found out the other day. Sheesh. I won't even touch that one because apparently it's something I am not deep enough to understand. Just like you'll probably tell me that the miracle of birth is some wonderful thing that I will someday want to experience. Neither of these things are true. Nevertheless, if I end up either getting pregnant, or taking a black and white picture with a gentleman caller up against a brick wall, holding cigarettes and looking chock full of ennui, I advise you to feel free to push me down the stairs. I'm just sayin'.

Monday, May 10, 2010

Mother's Day- A Day Late and Many Dollars Short

(One of my mother's favorite songs, decided whilst sitting at the kitchen table and listening to the entire Great Rock and Roll Swindle album with my best friend and I in 6th grade.)

You always hear stories about women freaking out over "becoming their mothers"- or at least, this is an old schtick in the same vein as women eating pints of Ben and Jerry's while crying, buying lots of shoes, and freaking out over never getting married. So, being that I'm not Cathy and this particular schema doesn't apply to me, you shouldn't be too surprised to hear that, hell, if I were to turn into my mother, that would be freaking awesome. My mom is pretty bad ass.

Here's a story: Back in elementary school, they had these "Santa's Workshops" during Christmas time and kids were taken down there one group at a time to go buy some crappy sweatshop made gifts for their parents and siblings. Whatever. Anyway, one year my mother got roped into volunteering. It was not long before I had all these kids coming up to me saying "Your mom is so awesome! She taught me how to shoplift!"

Now, let me explain. See, I went to a *really* classy school. Except not. See, at Santa's Sweatshop, the kids who didn't have any money with which to purchase tacky paperweights and compasses had to stand up against the wall while the other kids shopped. Nice, huh? Because that's not anything that could embarass the crap out of a 10 year old or anything. Anyway, my mother, horrified by the situation, goes up to the kids up against the wall and tells them that they're going to be in her group. She then takes them on a tour of Santa's Sweatshop, flamboyantly showing them how to shove the various knicknacks up their sleeves. After that, even the kids that had money pretended they didn't so they could be in her group and learn how to shoplift.

This has always been one of my favorite examples, among many, of "how my mother is." Because it's not just that she's funny and silly and a bit rebellious- it's that she has this innate sense of justice and a talent for making people feel special.

My friends were always way excited to see my mother when they came over to visit, which is something I was always so proud of. She wasn't the cookie baking mom, and she wasn't the "Cool Mom" who wanted to smoke pot with teenagers or anything (thank god). We all just sat at the kitchen table and talked about school, and friends, and boys and politics and other things with her. And she was hilarious, and she made people feel important, and worthwhile, and smart, and funny. Even now, when people are going through a rough patch, I always wish they could talk to her.

Another thing people are supposed to say a lot is that their parents don't understand them. I think I'm pretty easy to understand in general, but if there is one person that always "gets it," it's my mother.

One of her sayings, of which she has many, is that people love you for the way you make them feel about themselves- and she's living proof of that. In my life I've never known anyone else that people loved as exuberantly and automatically as they love her. People just want to be around her- my friends, people on planes, people at CVS, Mormon missionaries... It's an amazing quality, and one that I've always, admittedly, been a bit jealous of.

So, you know, even if it means developing a habit of walking around TJ Maxx for two hours, filling up a shopping carriage and then not buying anything, I couldn't ask for anything more awesome than to turn into my mother someday.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Seasons of Awkward: How Do You Measure A Year In The Life? In Carats, duh)

Ok, so I was getting my eyebrows done at the cheapo nail salon across the street the other day (they're actually not terrible. Plus it only costs 7 dollars, and it's not like anyone really sees my eyebrows anyway, what with my bangs and all. Just so long as I don't look like Jo-Jo the Dogfaced Girl- which was a thing on the verge of happening.), when all of a sudden I hear "Seasons of Love" from Rent playing on the television behind me. Of course, my ears perk up because I'm thinking "SWEET. Another Rent tour!" I've only seen it like, 525,600 times in my life and I could probably stand to see it again, right? But no. No, it was a commercial for Macy's. For jewelry. Diamond jewelry from Macy's. Ostensibly for your mother for Mother's Day, or for your June bride, or simply because you're feeling way guilty about that "business trip" you took to Bangkok. And sure, the song, out of context, seems like a lovely tribute to life and love and living and such. Good things. Daylight? Sunsets? Cups of coffee? Who doesn't like those things? And diamonds! Diamonds are pretty! I mean, SURE- the whole child slavery aspect of it is a little icky, but diamonds are so shiny and sparkly, and you know, if you're making an omelet...

Ok. But the fact remains that uh, this is pretty much a song about a person, dying of AIDS, with a year to live. Awkward! Right? But the kids at this advertising agency don't know that. They just remember all those happy, multicultural people holding hands and singing it on the Today Show back when they were in 6th grade, sitting at the breakfast table, eating a bowl of Cinnamon Apple porridge. It was a heartwarming moment- almost made you forget about the fact that you still had to build a stupid desert in a stupid shoebox for science class instead of spending the weekend happily bouncing around on your pogo ball.

What will they come up with next? I wonder! I thought of some neat ideas on the bus on the way home from work yesterday, after having had several margaritas in awkward celebration of Cinco de Mayo, a holiday I admittedly know little to nothing about, other than that it has something to do with some battle between Mexico and France, possibly over beaded necklaces with strobelighting Corona bottle pendants.


Sam Cooke's Civil Rights era classic "A Change is Gonna Come" would work wonderfully as an ad for estrogen treatments for menopausal women! Picture it- a white suburban looking lady standing in the bathroom, looking wistfully at the half empty box of Tampax. She doesn't need them anymore, but hasn't had the heart to throw them in the trash. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Maybe she will save them and give them to her daughter, little Emmakenziejadenava when she reaches that cusp of womanhood that she herself is leaving behind forever. Maybe she will have them bronzed. Maybe she will stab the child as she slumbers and harvest her skin and... what? No. Time for a hormone patch!


Hot Child in The City by Nick Gilder. Pretty sure it's about a child prostitute. However, it's association with Sex and The City (True story! Every time this comes on my Ipod in the store, someone squeals "This is the song from that Sex and The City episode! Weee!" And then they buy things! Because that is what you would do if you were a character on that show, which some people still think they are.) and the word "pretty" pops up a lot, so really, it would be ideal for a Garnier Nutrisse commercial. I think that's the one SJP is the spokesperson for. She could spin around and toss her hair alot, because that's pretty much what one does in hair commercials. And this song could play, and people would think "Ooh. I too would like to be runnin' wild and lookin' pretty!" Like SJP! Or a child prostitute.


Lou Reed's Walk on The Wild Side would be AWESOME for "Dave and Busters." Because this is how the suburbanites in my mind, and in the mind of advertisers, get totally wild. In reality they're more into key parties, I think. It's pretty wild in the city too, actually, but mostly because I hear that if you go there you've got a pretty good chance of getting shot. I've considered risking it due to my love of skee-ball.


Picture it! A woman wanders towards the fruit section of the Jewel-Osco. She can only get one kind of fruit because her obsessive compulsive husband cannot live in the same house with two kinds of fruit, because that's like, one of his things or something. Or she's poor and only has money to get one variety of fruit. Does she want apples? Does she want grapes? My god. It's like Sophie's Choice up in here! And then, as we hear the low moan of Billie Holiday's voice singing "Strange Fruit"- her eyes fix on some apples in a weird plastic container. But these are no ordinary apples. These are Grapples. Half apples, half grapes. Or apples that taste like grapes. A fruit chimera, if you will. Problem solved! She proudly brings that crate of strange fruit up to the counter, and she's totally not thinking about lynching or anything like that. She's just thinking about fruit- delicious, genetically modified fruit. How happy her husband will be!

The possibilities are really endless, you know, when you totally ignore silly things like context and such. I mean, "What's Going On?" could totally work for Boost Mobile. Perhaps Sylvan Learning Center might want to use Pearl Jam's "Jeremy!" Advertising agencies, take note.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010


(A picture from the old days of Pandora/Michael and I with Kate Pierson from the B-52's and our dear friend Louis)

Ok, so, because I haven't written too much in here for a while, I somehow neglected to mention on here that one of my dearest friends from back in Rochester was on RuPaul's Drag Race- the incomparable Miss Pandora Boxx! Which is funny because in real life I never shut up about it throughout the season! If you've been reading this thing for a while, you might know that she co-blogged with me for a bit as The New Jan Brady. Anyway, I am insanely proud of her!!!! She didn't win, but she was definitely the break-out star of the show (as she should be). And I'm not just saying that because we're friends and I love him to death- the blogging universe was in an uproar at her elimination. Fact.
Anyway, what I was going to say, is that everyone should be VERY excited because Pandora is going to be performing at Berlin on Thursday, May 13! If you don't go, you'll regret it now, tomorrow and the rest of your life.
It's so funny. People always say things like "It couldn't have happened to a better person"- but I can't think of a trite saying more appropriate in this instance. If you watched the show, it's obvious that Michael not only has talent coming out the wazoo, but is also one of the nicest people you could ever meet. He's just worked so hard for so long that it's wonderful to see great things happening for him- no one deserves this more. I cannot tell you how proud I am of him, and how excited I am that I get to see him in a couple weeks! SQUEE!!!!!

Sunday, April 18, 2010

Let Me Just Tell You About The Day I Had Today.

I am home right now, which is a place, quite honestly, I am surprised that I ever got to.

The day started out a bit like any other- I was a bit more hungover than usual, having spent the previous night drinking too many varieties of booze. White wine at work, PBR at this art show I went to with Miss Melissa featuring various paintings based on the movie The Last Unicorn, a dark and stormy at dinner, and vodka and soda at the Innertown for Miss Mary's birthday. Oy. But, you know, everything was fine at work, except that we were of course, severely understaffed. But we were doing interviews! Interviews!!! Which was awesome, because as much as I love my job, I do not so much like working 10 days in a row. Crazy, I know.

ANYWAY, so, after we interview this one girl, she seems promising so we put her on the floor for a sec to see how she is with customers. Poor thing! It wasn't so much the lady she was helping, but the lady I was helping that was the problem. Now, this lady is a regular, and I love her, but she was definitely going on for an especially long amount of time about her stepdaughter's Dissociative Identity Disorder. Like, in detail. About each of the personalities she'd met, and how they all have different handwriting, and how there's one named Robyn who is five, and how the girl had telekenetic powers, and how she probably originally split at 18 months old. Yup.

THEN, the cash register system breaks- which means we have to do manual receipts- which takes a longer time and pisses people off. THEN, I realize that my Ipod is not in fact on the "Work Appropriate" playlist, and is now, to the dismay of many fancy ladies in the store, definitely playing "Pussy Control." Can you just imagine? I felt terrible for the girl, but she totally held up- which was impressive to say the least.

The day continued in that fashion. One of my best customers came in around 5:45, and despite the fact that we close at six, I stayed there until 7:30 with her. Because, you know, she's pretty awesome and I actually like her. So, afterwards, she wanted to go get a drink. And I was like, oh, well, I can just have one, because the band I sometimes sing with, comprised mostly of my dearest friends, has a show and I want to go and be supportive and such. But then, the dude who was supposed to come with me- in order to create a very much desired buffer zone between me and the creepiest dude in the history of ever- could not come with me due to having to write an article. So I was like "Well, I can in fact have more drinks now, because I am not going to go by myself and feel a lot like I am going to throw up the whole time." Luckily, my friends understood. Yay friends!

So, anyway, we go to a bar in the neighborhood where I work, which is naturally filled with many terrible people. Including a white dude wearing a dashiki and track pants. My client is totally pissed because her bf is being a douche, and thus there's a lot of drinking, and a lot of me saying "Oh my god, you're a bad ass lady! You don't need that shit! Whatever, go find someone more awesome!" Because I totally am awesome at being "that friend," you know. But the bill comes to like, $90, which I was way unprepared for, and sincerely hope that my boss will reimburse me for part of (at least more than the $20 I did a payout for), because otherwise I will seriously cry. SIGH.

SO, light in wallet and dizzy in head, I jump in cab to get back home. Maybe in one of the worst moods ever, because I am a very cheap person, and also unsure of my abilities regarding being comforting. However, as I was walking over to my apartment, I saw more friends! Good friends! Amanda and Rachel and Steph and Sam and others! And I freak out to them about my day of insanity, and now it sounds less insane the more I tell it, which was just what I was hoping for!

STILL. I am tired. And going to bed. And I love you, you're awesome, and you don't need that shit.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Holiday Lives of the Saints

St. Patrick's Day is kind of a funny thing. I know I say this every year, but the whole celebration of old timey racism, coupled with the fact that people go around saying that "everyone is Irish on St. Patrick's Day!" which is not true and it would be weird if it were, tripled by the fact that most people in this country, probably most people celebrating St. Patrick's day are not even Catholic strikes me as odd.

Then again, I'm not Catholic either, but I really like doing Lent because I feel like it's a good idea. I like a challenge.

Back East, where I grew up, Saints Days are a bigger deal, sorta. Or at least there are more of them. I loved going to them when I was a kid, even though we weren't Catholic, because they usually involved a lot of free food. True story, when I was 9 years old, we went to the festival of St. Anthony in Boston's North End, and I lost my wallet. A month or so later, it was mailed back to me (from Florida!), complete with my $40 dollars and my Mighty Mouse Fan Club Membership Card. St. Anthony, if you didn't know, is the patron saint of lost things ("St. Anthony, St. Anthony won't you please look around, something is lost and can't be found" is, I think, his official prayer), and my Noni thought it was a miracle and bragged about it at family gatherings for months, until either another miracle happened or someone died.

Anyway, back to the thing I originally intended to write! I figure, if we're going to celebrate St. Patrick's Day, we might as well celebrate other Saints Days as well. Because celebrating is fun!

August 30th- St. Fiacre's Day- Patron saint of Cab Drivers, Florists, Hosiers, Box Makers, and against Venereal Disease, Piles and Hemorrhoids.

How to Celebrate!: Do a cab driver. A cab driver with hemorrhoids and a pantyhose fetish whom, when getting romantic, will sometimes refer to your lady parts as a "box," perhaps one that he would like to get inside and curl up in like he does for three hours at a time in his taxi over by the park. But make sure to use a condom, and make sure he buys you flowers first (because you're a lady)! Also, for god sakes, pick up the pile of clothes in your room by your closet!

April 16- St. Drogo's Day- Patron Saint of Coffeehouses and Unattractive People, The Mentally Ill, and against Muteness, Hernias, Gallstones, Ruptures and Sickness

How to Celebrate!: Step 1- Go to Filter! Step 2- Ask The Muffin Lady how her day was.

August 24- St. Bartholemew's Day- Patron saint of cobblers, tanners, whiteners, cheese makers, against twitching!

How to Celebrate: OMG Makeovers and shoe shopping!!! At a fancy spa where they have cheese plates!

February 6th- St. Amand's Day- Patron saint of Barkeepers, Bar Staff, Bartenders, Winemakers, Brewers, Wine Merchants, Vintners, Vine growers... and Boy Scouts.

How To Celebrate!: The same way you celebrate St. Patrick's Day! Except that it makes sense, because you're drinking because St. Amand is apparently the patron Saint of all things boozey (and, um, Boy Scouts. Let's not delve into that one.), not because Irish people are drunks! But, you know, if it's not as fun without dressing up like an ethnicity you are not, you can always wear a beret, because dude was French. Also, berets look way cuter than plastic green derbies.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Talk of Bullying Makes Me A Little Janis Ian-y, But Not Too Much

I just read this post on Jezebel about whether or not bullying victims have poor social skills. My question is- does it really matter? Being an asshole to a person with bad social skills doesn't make you any less of an asshole than being a jerk to a person with good social skills. You're still an asshole. What?

I've written before about my time served as a social pariah- not because it's necessarily something I'm still terribly upset by or still coming to terms with- but because it has a way of occasionally being relative to my life now and the perspective I have on things (which, oddly, is mostly positive). It took me a long time to stop just joking about having been "Carrie without the telekenetic powers" and to actually say that yeah, it was a fucking godawful thing that happened to me for ten years. For so long, I had this thing in my head telling me that there was something terribly wrong about me that I didn't and couldn't understand, the thing that had made me a target. For so long, I didn't realize that it wasn't me, it was them, and they were assholes.

I was unlucky enough to have grown up in a time before bullying was something that was taken at all seriously. Every time I ended up in the Principal's office with whomever was torturing me at the time (once a week, at least), the focus was not on what they had done but what I had done to provoke it and "make myself a target". The things I did consisted primarily of dressing strangely, having opinions, and defending other students from bullying. I cannot tell you how many special conferences my parents had with the school staff over this time in which they were told the exact same thing.

I was different, sure, but I don't think I had social issues going into it. Not bad ones anyway. I was always kind to people, but I didn't ever quite pick up on what I was even supposed to do to blend in. I don't think I ever have, and that's not something I regret. I also don't regret the fact that I really did wake up every day and think things were going to be different and maybe even awesome. I don't even regret having been bullied, because I think that for the most part it's made me a better person. If I spy now, on the Facebook pages of those who bullied me, I certainly came out on top. Sadly, because I have to go and be me, I don't even get any of that schadenfreude that I'd so looked forward too whilst planning my appearances on "Geek to Chic" episodes of 90's talk shows.

I didn't get, and still do not get, how certain social things work. When people comment on the fact that I don't so much seem to care what others think of me, I smile and nod, but I truly have no idea what they're even talking about. Like, in the way that I don't know how I would act differently if I did, or how I am supposed to predict what they might think of me. Even thinking about attempting this makes me feel crazy.
I will cop to the fact that I do not pick up on like, nuance. I do not pick up on social manipulation. My mother doesn't either, so basically a lot of our conversations end up sounding like we're some brand of noble savages exploring this new and crazy world. This leads, inevitably, to this ridiculous Abbot and Costello routine that I tend to have, eventually, with every dude I ever date. They say or do something to try to make me jealous, and I feel like crap and don't want to see them anymore. Then they get all "But it was because I really like you and I just wanted to make you jealous" and I get all "Wait, no. If you like me, why would you want me to feel bad? I want people I like to feel good" and then "I wasn't trying to make you feel bad, I was trying to make you jealous" and it makes perfect sense to them, and no sense at all to me because in no way do I like feeling bad OR confused, and so I get the fuck out of there.

My main regrets, if you must know, are the social issues I had coming out of it.

Some of them aren't so bad, and are in fact just kind of funny. I need to make sure everyone feels included in a very, very complusive way. If I am at a party, and someone is sitting/standing by themselves, I will go make friends with them immediately. I so hate that feeling of not knowing where to sit, or stand, or whom to talk to that I cannot bear thinking that anyone else is feeling that way. I also feel weirdly important about other people feeling good about themselves.

The bad part, however, is that for a long time I was *so* thrilled whenever anyone was willing to be my friend that, shit, I bought them lunch, I drove them everywhere, I'd do anything just because I was so grateful that they would even deign to speak to me. I made a lot of bad friends that way. I have since corrected this.

The really bad part is the effect that "Psych!" had on my life. Oh my god, I can't even tell you how freakin' paranoid that can make a person- especially someone like me who tends to take things very seriously. In case you are unfamiliar, the "psych!" game goes like this- someone comes up to you and "pretends" to be nice to you- either a girl as a friend, or a boy pretending to like you, and then the second you believe them, they say "psych!" or, alternatively, just make fun of you for actually believing they would like you for a second. When I first moved to Rochester I thought that the people who were being friendly to me were actually making fun of me. I swear, I constantly think that this is a thing that might still happen, and the thought of it happening makes me want to throw up. It's why I also fear that thing people do in Chicago where they really don't like you but are nice to you because even though they don't like you they need you, and others, to think that they are nice. Quelle horreur! Thinking about it makes me panic and itch all over. I would seriously rather have someone punch me dead in the face than to go on assuming that we are friends and have that not be true.

So, yeah, social issues, I've got them. But so does everyone. It would be weirder if you didn't. At the end of the day, being a jerk is a way worse social issue than any I've ever had. If you ask me, the best way to cure bullying would be to show kids in highschool pictures of adults who were bullied as kids, and, to contrast, adults who were bullies. Let me tell you, we turn out significantly better (and like, WAY better looking). Swear to god- you'd have kids arguing about who got to be the social pariah, were that to be part of the curriculum. It ain't purty.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Vajazzling Back Into Your Hearts


So, if we are not friends in real life, or even on the book of faces, and if you are anything like my mother (I doubt it, but who knows), you may have thought I was dead. I'm not. I merely stopped writing in this blog for an especially long amount of time, both because of personal reasons, and because I am lazy in the winter and think nothing interesting anyway during this time. I wish I was Dostoevsky, but I'm not. Sad face.

But not today. Today, my mind has been blown. Blown by the concept of
Vajazzling! I can't even handle it. The possibilities for awkwardness are endless.

First off, one has to wonder about the whole supply and demand aspect of this. Was the inventor of Vajazzling in bed with her lover one day, when said lover said "Gee, your vadge is terrific, really it is. And I totally appreciate the fact that you spend a retarded amount of money on making it more prepubescent looking. Because seriously, if you didn't look just like a porn star, I'd throw up all over my Grizzly Adams beard and my beer gut. But it would be SO much better if it was a little more... I don't know, sparkly?" And then vajazzling was born?

I feel as though this is one of those things that we're all going to laugh at... at first, but may soon become "mandatory." Although, maybe not, because dudes hated glitter. Like, a lot. The glitter fad made it like, almost impossible to cheat on one's significant other (HEY. Your pubes were far less glittery the last time I saw them! WTF??), which was rather inconvenient for a subset of the population. Glitter never fucking goes away. It's totally possible that there are still traces of it in my old room at my parent's house, because, shit, I loved me some sparkles. Anyway, this could totally cause the same problem, in addition to possible chafing. Oh, and choking. Can you just imagine? Having to tell the police that your husband/boyfriend/drunken one night stand just died because he choked on the Swarovski crystals you had glued to your lady business? How awkward would that be?

I really feel like if you get vajazzled, you also have to have a device built into your pants that makes that high pitched, choral "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH" sound like you hear on tv when an angel appears or someone finds buried treasure or something. I kind of want that anyway, probably more than I want my lady parts to resemble a Bob Mackie gown. But then again, despite everything else, I've always got a bit of New England prude in me, so I'll probably refrain. My dear friend Jill, who was totally on top of the vajazzling trend before it even was one, is apparently way more exciting than I am and considering vajazzlement as a vagina decorating option. I couldn't do it. Besides, whenever I get my nails done, I totally fuck them up not ten minutes later. So I'd have like, a totally broken down and sad looking vajazzle, and that's never good.