I used to do a gratitudes lists quite frequently, so don't ask me why I don't do them on a blog. Helloooooo, where better to list out the reasons you are grateful for the day?
Today is a really random day, filled with random things, random people, random thoughts that will slip in and out of my head, so none of this is going to make sense, and it has nothing to do with the Jack Daniels flavored ice cubes I'm sucking on.
Today, on this mid week slump day, I am thankful for....
Really cute shoes that are not sandals. Because I need a pedicure and I have felt like a sloth where my toes are concerned.
A hair appointment next week, because the easy breezy 3 minute prep haircut is now taking 5 minutes every morning and that is cutting in on my espresso time.
Quick reflexes (even with the Jack Daniels flavored ice cubes) so I can smash the random weird bug floating in front of my face while I type.
50 Cent rocks glasses from Goodwill so I don't feel like such a lush pouring a tall one. And another tall one. And another tall one.
Two layers of top coat so my nails don't look quite as heinous as they should. Heinous. Just not REALLY heinous.
Headphones so I don't have to type with the sound of endless Supernatural episodes in the background.
Old wavy glass windows so the neighbors can't quite tell that I'm watching their hillbilly gathering going on.
Cute clothes because it distracts the customers from the crazed look in my eyes.
Cool July weather so it makes it easier to justify buying (and selling) cute sweaters.
A Jack Daniels bottle that is not quite to a point of emergency level. Two more drinks and we'll have a problem.
THE purse. Because everything is better when I stick my head in the purse and sniff.
Spending too much money on purses, because I'm now downsized to only three and it freed up another shelf in the closet. A shelf I can fill with sweaters. Or shoes.
A boss with a sense of humor. She completely understands when my eyes go blank and I start laughing hysterically when asked a really simple question.
Realizing that some people can't stand next to something and say how big it is. Even when it's as tall as they are. And then they ask you, and you start laughing so hard you nearly pee your pants because your mind has gone completely blank and the obvious questions seem to be the hardest ones.
Empty bins. Because you won't have them for long. You're going to fill ALL of them while the boss is gone.
Tuition that did not increase. Because you just bought THE purse, and still feel no guilt over it.
A sense of humor. Because not everyone has one. What dull, sad lives they must lead. Laughter cures everything.
What are YOU grateful for today?
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Monday, July 28, 2014
Google It...Really.
Google "self righteous homophobic white male blogger".
No really. Google it.
The 4th result is the blogger who prompted me to get on my own high horse and type this out. My high horse is named Charlie. Because I name everything Charlie. And it's not really a horse, it's a miniature horse, because they're cute. But really, it's a miniature unicorn, because I've always wanted a unicorn. Actually, I think there's something out in internet land about a unicorn named Charlie, but that's so far off topic that I really need to slap myself back into reality and finish my original train of thought.
Mr. Self Righteous Homophobic White Male Blogger appeared on my news feed with his post about 50 Shades of Grey. His full blog post can be viewed HERE. I hate even linking to something so full of judgement and assumptions, but it would not be fair of me to express my own opinions without encouraging people to read his own.
I will preface this by saying, just like Mr. SRHWMB, I have not read the 50 Shades series. And that folks, is where our common denominator ends.
I chose not to read the series for one reason. I am an avid reader, but my reading genre lies in horror and crime. I've been a fan of Stephen King since early adolescence, and the crime reading has developed as I've gotten older. I like a good mystery, set in present day, filled with grit. I don't typically enjoy a love story, no matter what TYPE of love story it may be. So, regardless of it's popularity, I have had no interest in picking up the series for myself.
So, having said that, I do not live under a rock. I know what the book series is about. I know it is not my tastes, purely based on what I enjoy reading, and I look at it as what I refer to as "fluff" books. Not my style, but not anything that sticks out as something deserving of a blog post.
Until now.
In Mr. SRHWMB's post, he explains the four reasons women of America should hate the 50 Shades series. I don't know why he assumes only women need this explained, as I am sure there is at least a handful of men out there who have read it. But after reading his blog, obviously, his concern is the harmful effects this series has on the morality of women across our great country.
Of his reasons, he tops the list with saying women aren't stupid. I suppose you could say I agree with him on that. No, women are not stupid. Unfortunately though, his statement is in regards to why women should hate 50 Shades. In the same breath of admitting not reading anything more than various quotes from the book, he then goes on to say it was written by someone masquerading as an author, approved by someone masquerading as an editor, and published by someone masquerading as a publisher. Let alone the millions who read it who are masquerading as literate.
Wow. Holy Judgy McJudgerson of the book we did not read. I understand thinking it's tripe, badly written, or total crap, but this guy just lumped a whole lot of people into one giant definition of stupid and illiterate. That's a very strong feeling to have about millions of people reading a work of fiction you have not read yourself.
His second reason women should hate this series (and more specifically the film) is because film is art. And this is not art. My gawd, his DVD shelf must be boring as shit. Last I checked, film was entertainment. No one sat around in the early 20th century thinking of ways to put pictures to a string of film just to call it art. They did it for entertainment for the masses. And entertainment comes from what is popular to a culture at that given time. That's why we are saturated with zombie movies, why we went through a phase of gangster movies, sparkling vampires, aliens, and the age old standby of sport movies. I don't think anyone pays way too much money for a bucket of popcorn and lard and have an expectation of coming out feeling enlightened by an artistic masterpiece. Sometimes, we are pleasantly surprised and find that enlightenment, but in most moviegoers minds, they are just looking to be entertained.
I was told to move on from the 3rd point, as it's prefaced by saying if you are not a Christian, you need to just move on to the fourth and final point. I don't do what I'm told, and contrary to Judgy McJudgerson, I like to listen (or read) all viewpoints in order to try to fully understand where a person is coming from. This particular reason is filled with scripture, of course, as I would expect it to be. But really, the bible doesn't quite say what one should do in regards to being tied to a bedpost. I suppose since the blogger is very obviously a devout Christian, he could find it insulting that the sinful, lustful ways are taking place between two consenting adults who are not married to each other. He does clarify that the problem with the sex portrayed in this series is that it is self serving, and never honest, truthful, trusting, or protecting. I kind of had to snort at this, because let's just put aside the whole non-married sex thing for a moment and look at that statement. First of all, he's never read it, so he can only have a vague idea of the actual sex going on in these books, and not the actions or thought processes leading to it. But, the limited knowledge I have of any type of submissive sexual relations involving bondage are dependent on things like honesty, truthfulness, absolute trust and protection of your partners wants and needs. I have never spoken with anyone who has delved into this lifestyle and heard them say anything other than it takes complete openness, sharing, absolute trust, with a fierce desire to protect their partner in what they want out of the experience. I can only say that this blog author is highly misinformed in his tiny, narrow viewpoint of what sex should be in a piece of fiction.
His final viewpoint is that it should insult anyone who considers themselves a feminist. So if you are not a feminist you should love it? This point looks like he's grasping for straws in order to justify that squirmy uncomfortable feeling he's having about women enjoying being tied to a bedpost and whipped. He seems to believe (again without reading the books) that this woman is an unknowing player in her bedroom escapades. That she is a helpless female twisted and manipulated by the big bad wolf who just wants to eat her up. Even I, the feminist who has no interest in reading the series, knows that the story line doesn't quite go along those lines.
C'mon dude. Just admit it. You are outraged by the series because it makes you feel icky. Your viewpoints and morality dictate that this type of open sexuality between partners is a sin. It's ok to feel that way. In fact, I can not condemn you for that, nor will I pass judgement. I will, however, disagree with your reasoning on why the women of America should feel the same way as you. By addressing the women of America, you are addressing me. You address my friends, my female family members, my daughter, my neighbors. And the glorious thing about all of us is we are all INDIVIDUAL women. We are each unique. We come from all walks of life. We all have different upbringings, moral compasses, and we each have our own truths. Your truth is very clear in your post. However, your truth is not my truth. It is not the truth of the millions of women who have actually read and enjoyed this series of books. Your truth could be far more respected if you did not start your rant with women"are not stupid". Women are NOT stupid, I will give you that. But it has nothing to do with whether or not they have read a book series that you find so abhorrent. That's just a passive aggressive way of saying anyone who reads and enjoys the book is stupid. It's condescending. It's insulting. It's narrow minded. It's "your way is the right way", and for someone who has never read the books, I find that pretty laughable.
Relax. They're just books. It's entertainment. No one is going to start teaching bondage with sex education in our schools. You may see them as a gateway to hell, but your message is lost in your own self righteous attitude. Perhaps a gentler approach next time, no? Messages filled with why we should love one another, respect one another, and help those who ask for our help. Maybe start out with the top 5 reasons Americans SHOULD love Winnie the Pooh. Because your negativity and condescension is bringing me down, dude.
Peace out, Charlie.
No really. Google it.
The 4th result is the blogger who prompted me to get on my own high horse and type this out. My high horse is named Charlie. Because I name everything Charlie. And it's not really a horse, it's a miniature horse, because they're cute. But really, it's a miniature unicorn, because I've always wanted a unicorn. Actually, I think there's something out in internet land about a unicorn named Charlie, but that's so far off topic that I really need to slap myself back into reality and finish my original train of thought.
Mr. Self Righteous Homophobic White Male Blogger appeared on my news feed with his post about 50 Shades of Grey. His full blog post can be viewed HERE. I hate even linking to something so full of judgement and assumptions, but it would not be fair of me to express my own opinions without encouraging people to read his own.
I will preface this by saying, just like Mr. SRHWMB, I have not read the 50 Shades series. And that folks, is where our common denominator ends.
I chose not to read the series for one reason. I am an avid reader, but my reading genre lies in horror and crime. I've been a fan of Stephen King since early adolescence, and the crime reading has developed as I've gotten older. I like a good mystery, set in present day, filled with grit. I don't typically enjoy a love story, no matter what TYPE of love story it may be. So, regardless of it's popularity, I have had no interest in picking up the series for myself.
So, having said that, I do not live under a rock. I know what the book series is about. I know it is not my tastes, purely based on what I enjoy reading, and I look at it as what I refer to as "fluff" books. Not my style, but not anything that sticks out as something deserving of a blog post.
Until now.
In Mr. SRHWMB's post, he explains the four reasons women of America should hate the 50 Shades series. I don't know why he assumes only women need this explained, as I am sure there is at least a handful of men out there who have read it. But after reading his blog, obviously, his concern is the harmful effects this series has on the morality of women across our great country.
Of his reasons, he tops the list with saying women aren't stupid. I suppose you could say I agree with him on that. No, women are not stupid. Unfortunately though, his statement is in regards to why women should hate 50 Shades. In the same breath of admitting not reading anything more than various quotes from the book, he then goes on to say it was written by someone masquerading as an author, approved by someone masquerading as an editor, and published by someone masquerading as a publisher. Let alone the millions who read it who are masquerading as literate.
Wow. Holy Judgy McJudgerson of the book we did not read. I understand thinking it's tripe, badly written, or total crap, but this guy just lumped a whole lot of people into one giant definition of stupid and illiterate. That's a very strong feeling to have about millions of people reading a work of fiction you have not read yourself.
His second reason women should hate this series (and more specifically the film) is because film is art. And this is not art. My gawd, his DVD shelf must be boring as shit. Last I checked, film was entertainment. No one sat around in the early 20th century thinking of ways to put pictures to a string of film just to call it art. They did it for entertainment for the masses. And entertainment comes from what is popular to a culture at that given time. That's why we are saturated with zombie movies, why we went through a phase of gangster movies, sparkling vampires, aliens, and the age old standby of sport movies. I don't think anyone pays way too much money for a bucket of popcorn and lard and have an expectation of coming out feeling enlightened by an artistic masterpiece. Sometimes, we are pleasantly surprised and find that enlightenment, but in most moviegoers minds, they are just looking to be entertained.
I was told to move on from the 3rd point, as it's prefaced by saying if you are not a Christian, you need to just move on to the fourth and final point. I don't do what I'm told, and contrary to Judgy McJudgerson, I like to listen (or read) all viewpoints in order to try to fully understand where a person is coming from. This particular reason is filled with scripture, of course, as I would expect it to be. But really, the bible doesn't quite say what one should do in regards to being tied to a bedpost. I suppose since the blogger is very obviously a devout Christian, he could find it insulting that the sinful, lustful ways are taking place between two consenting adults who are not married to each other. He does clarify that the problem with the sex portrayed in this series is that it is self serving, and never honest, truthful, trusting, or protecting. I kind of had to snort at this, because let's just put aside the whole non-married sex thing for a moment and look at that statement. First of all, he's never read it, so he can only have a vague idea of the actual sex going on in these books, and not the actions or thought processes leading to it. But, the limited knowledge I have of any type of submissive sexual relations involving bondage are dependent on things like honesty, truthfulness, absolute trust and protection of your partners wants and needs. I have never spoken with anyone who has delved into this lifestyle and heard them say anything other than it takes complete openness, sharing, absolute trust, with a fierce desire to protect their partner in what they want out of the experience. I can only say that this blog author is highly misinformed in his tiny, narrow viewpoint of what sex should be in a piece of fiction.
His final viewpoint is that it should insult anyone who considers themselves a feminist. So if you are not a feminist you should love it? This point looks like he's grasping for straws in order to justify that squirmy uncomfortable feeling he's having about women enjoying being tied to a bedpost and whipped. He seems to believe (again without reading the books) that this woman is an unknowing player in her bedroom escapades. That she is a helpless female twisted and manipulated by the big bad wolf who just wants to eat her up. Even I, the feminist who has no interest in reading the series, knows that the story line doesn't quite go along those lines.
C'mon dude. Just admit it. You are outraged by the series because it makes you feel icky. Your viewpoints and morality dictate that this type of open sexuality between partners is a sin. It's ok to feel that way. In fact, I can not condemn you for that, nor will I pass judgement. I will, however, disagree with your reasoning on why the women of America should feel the same way as you. By addressing the women of America, you are addressing me. You address my friends, my female family members, my daughter, my neighbors. And the glorious thing about all of us is we are all INDIVIDUAL women. We are each unique. We come from all walks of life. We all have different upbringings, moral compasses, and we each have our own truths. Your truth is very clear in your post. However, your truth is not my truth. It is not the truth of the millions of women who have actually read and enjoyed this series of books. Your truth could be far more respected if you did not start your rant with women"are not stupid". Women are NOT stupid, I will give you that. But it has nothing to do with whether or not they have read a book series that you find so abhorrent. That's just a passive aggressive way of saying anyone who reads and enjoys the book is stupid. It's condescending. It's insulting. It's narrow minded. It's "your way is the right way", and for someone who has never read the books, I find that pretty laughable.
Relax. They're just books. It's entertainment. No one is going to start teaching bondage with sex education in our schools. You may see them as a gateway to hell, but your message is lost in your own self righteous attitude. Perhaps a gentler approach next time, no? Messages filled with why we should love one another, respect one another, and help those who ask for our help. Maybe start out with the top 5 reasons Americans SHOULD love Winnie the Pooh. Because your negativity and condescension is bringing me down, dude.
Peace out, Charlie.
 | |
| He DOES exist! |
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Huh?
I slept funny last night, and though the thudding in the head is mostly gone, I have a odd pain in my neck when I turn my head a certain way. Maybe I just have a pain in my neck. Maybe, perhaps, this day gave me a pain in the neck, because it was just one of THOSE days.
But....
IT'S COFFEE DAY!
Should have been Jack Daniels day.
The day started out fine and dandy, with a morning view of the Hoarders episode going on next door. Piles of kaka strewn about the neighbor's yard, but at least they covered the kaka with tarps, so I have no idea if I should have spent the wee hours of dawn picking through shite like a crazy person. Considering the cleanout is being done with masks on, it's probably not anything I'd be thrilled over anyway.
The windows are open again, and I get to bask in the glory of whistling. Every damn morning. I don't know what the problem is across the road, but they might want to consider a leash. In fact, if I have to listen to the incessant whistling for the dog too many more mornings, I am going to go buy a leash and tape it to their back door. Don't they get tired of whistling for the stupid dog every morning? Are they completely oblivious to the invention of leashes? I don't understand this, as the whistling for the dog to come home happens daily, and goes on for over 20 minutes at a minimum. Maybe there is NO dog. That would actually make the whole scenario vastly more interesting, but alas, judging by the piles of steaming poo I occasionally find in our yard, I know that Rover exists and is a very healthy LARGE dog with a big appetite.
I had an AHA moment last night about the glorious leather belt, and once again, life comes full circle to THE purse. If you have no clue what I'm talking about, just keep reading through my senseless ramblings of the last week. And you'll see...oh yes, you WILL see. It's ALL about THE purse.
After the staggering to bed Friday night in a happy daze of new purse ownership, you would think I would have taken the day Saturday for some sloth time. However, true to any planned slothdom in my life, something always comes up. Like yet another Goodwill sale. 50% off everything in a small little town about half an hour from me. So, out of the pajamas, into the well loved jeans that do not require a belt, and I was on the road again. Because I had already been gleefully shopping on Wednesday, I knew that Maurices was having a 75% off clearance sale...as in and ADDITIONAL 75% off their sale prices. This little burg I was heading to actually still has a Maurices in their downtown, though the rest of the town seems to be dying a slow death. So, silly little me thought I would check out their clearance and see what goodies they had.
My wallet is screaming at me now. Because not only did they have a large selection, it was actually a HUGE selection. Bigger than I've ever seen in any other Maurices. And it was one of those magical days where even the random stuff I piled into the dressing room on a whim was fitting perfectly. I was hitting the motherload, and texting pictures to my daughter on the things that were not quite my style. (I now know what floral leggings look like on me, and it's downright frightening.) So, by the time I was done with this bargain bonanza, I could have cared less about the Goodwill sale and just decided to head home before I ended up in a position of feeding my children Ramen noodles for the next month.
As I loaded my haul upstairs, I was determined to put it all away in my closet and the daughter's closet, but there was the hanger shortage to consider. And because there really are an obscene amount of hangers in the closet, this meant that before I hung my own purchases, I was going to force myself to clean out my closet once again. I actually did pretty good, purging even more than I bought, and it even included purging out the handful of so-so purses I had hung on to before the purchase of THE purse. Everything was neatly stacked and organized and just went straight into the large shopping bags I had emptied.
Now, rambling even further into the twilight zone, there WAS a rather nice brown leather purse at our store when we restocked. It was not THE purse, but at the price marked, I considered it briefly. The one obstacle I couldn't get past though, was the short handles. But, since the handles were mounted on very strong metal hardware, I thought MAYBE, I could match the brown leather with a purse I had at home with a removable shoulder strap. So, in the days of job obsession, I actually remembered to grab that strap and attempt to match it to the purse, but, obviously failed badly. But, also in the job obsession, I had forgotten to attach the strap back on to it's correct purse at home, so it was just sitting on the table in that horrid pile I had accumulated through the week.
When I brought my purge downstairs from the bedroom, I saw that strap, and knowing the purse was in the bags I was hauling, grabbed it and shoved it in. I remember having a moment of confusion, but wrote it off as not taking any sloth time and my brain being fried.
Fast forward to the glorious leather belt debacle. I not only searched the house in the morning, I searched it later that night. I nearly accused my family of taking my glorious leather belt, but thankfully, refrained from letting that amount of bitchy grumpypants leave my mouth. I even had a brief moment of considering the household ghost and it's antics, but it has not made an appearance, pulled a prank, or spoken in about a year.
So, of course, right before going to bed, when I seem to have the most wits about me (which basically is like admitting that I'm brain dead the remainder of my day), I thought STOP THE PRESSES. Could that glorious leather belt have ended up in my purge? Could it now be sitting in the storeroom of the store, buried in one of MANY bins, waiting to be priced with the rest of my purges? Why would I even do such a thing? That would mean that Friday night, when I whipped it off, I left it somewhere at the end of the bed and did NOT put it in it's spot. And I'm the OCD freak that has a spot for EVERYTHING. I would have to admit that I did not put it away, and it is one thing to admit to the shame of filth piles all over my table, but in the bedroom, where clothes, accessories, and shoes are concerned? SHAMEFUL.
After fueling for the day, I made it my mission to find my bin of purge stuff amongst all the bins. I ran the errands I needed to for work, and then grunted, pouring sweat, as I moved and shifted around bins in the store room. And lo, and behold, I found THE GLORIOUS LEATHER BELT. Stuck inside the purse like it was the missing strap.
Though I was wearing my last capri that didn't need a belt, you can be sure I put that sucker on so I could guarantee I would not forget it at work. And hell yes, I danced a little jig in that dressing room.
All because of THE purse. At least, that's my story, and I think I will stick with it. Because I have decided that now everything is because of THE purse. It is a magical purse. And it smells sooooo good.
The recovery of the glorious leather belt should have charmed the day into being one of sunshine, glitter, and rainbows. But oh no....we are only allowed a max of two shining moments a day, and I should have realized that with it being COFFEE DAY, my glory was going to be the belt, and that afternoon coffee run.
I spent entirely too much time today, trying fruitlessly to explain to someone that all our merchandise is consignment. No, the multitudes of purses are not "made" by someone. No, we don't order them. No, people aren't crafting them. I don't know why, but she was really STUCK on these purses being homemade. Which was really difficult to understand on my part, because these are the average (and way above average) purses you see in stores everywhere you go. Leather, faux leather, fringed, studded, chained, logos everywhere. Why was she so obsessed over thinking they were homemade? Short of sticking her head into a purse and making her read the "Made in China" label personal and up close, I just was NOT going to get through to her. I was confused, my coworker was confused, the customer was REALLY confused. I had to give up, and I hate having to leave a customer confused, but it was truly a lost cause.
Of course, this same customer attempted to leave the store with her UNPAID jewelry selections, so I think we were dealing with general confusion all around. Believe it or not, I actually really like to believe in the inherent goodness of people, so I'm going to go with "confused" here, and not "thieving little shit". Though it really was a case of appearing to be "thieving little shit", but I'm still going to give her the benefit of the doubt so I can stay on the positive side of life.
It was a very strange day, filled with very strange people. People who talked WAY too much. Obviously, I'm a chatty little shit myself, but in the store today, it was ALOT of chatter about personal things. Gossip. Personal dramas. WAY too much information. Information that was not requested, but the "hello, how are you" was obviously an invitation to share. And share. And share. Therapy sessions are $1 extra on your total, by the way.
I enjoyed giving a scarf demonstration to my aunt and her friend. Until I had a woman join in and offer to model said scarf. And then decided to whip off some of her clothing down to her tank top in order to model it better. All with the pretty scarf that my aunt's friend was considering buying. And I don't know about them, but I was starting to feel a bit AWKWARD passing around this scarf to people that were NOT considering buying it and just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I mean, we are not a store with multiples of anything, so if something had happened to this scarf while I was demonstrating, that's one thing, but then what if this model/customer decided SHE wanted the scarf? Or what if she ripped it because she grabbed it out of my hands a little too eagerly? I was thankful when my aunt's friend calmly suggested we just put the scarf on her pile of goodies and just forgo the scarf demonstration that everyone seemed to be joining in on.
Along with the normal oddball crazies that seemed to be wandering in, I had a moment when a customer was asking about a duvet set. She was talking to my coworker, so I was not catching the entire conversation, but it was something about a puppy. I was really confused what this would have to do with a duvet, and a really nice one at that, because last I knew, puppies pee randomly and you wouldn't want them to do that on a really nice duvet. This somehow led to her asking if we allowed puppies in the store, and I firmly (but nicely) said no. She asked if she could take the duvet out to the car to show it to _____? At this point, I had to assume there was a person waiting in the car, and that she was not going to be seeking purchase approval from a puppy. I told her that was fine, and she was gone a few moments. When she came back in, she had another person with her, answering my mental question about who she was showing it to, but then my coworker and I realized that her shopping partner had a puppy in her hands.
Wait a minute.
Didn't I already say a puppy could NOT come in the store?
Apparently, in the span of three minutes, that answer was forgotten. Not by me, so I very sweetly exclaimed how cute this puppy was, immediately followed by a "but we can't have a puppy in the store". The woman seemed a bit confused by this request, so I elaborated by telling her the obvious..."puppies piddle". She promptly planted herself at the door on the tiled floor and off the carpet, I'm sure showing how willing she was to make it easier for me to clean up any potential piddle. At that moment, I chose to pick my battles and thanked her. What exactly I was thanking her for, I am not sure, but at least no merchandise was piddled on. And the duvet was purchased. Maybe for the puppy. Maybe for the shopping partner. I have no idea.
The crazy day thankfully ended, and I came home to more viewings of the Hoarders episode. I also wonder if there are exotic birds hoarded in the house, because there were parrot like screechings when I got out of my car. However, after the day I just had, I was not about to turn around to see what all the screeching ruckus was about. After all, yesterday was the shirtless mullet man, and maybe this was some kind of strange mating call I was not aware of.
My doors are locked. I closed the curtains. I really don't want to deal with anymore strangeness today. Which probably will mean an early bedtime, so I can be sure to have escaped to the sanctuary of the bedroom before my children get home.
And the belt is hanging in it's SPOT.
But....
IT'S COFFEE DAY!
Should have been Jack Daniels day.
The day started out fine and dandy, with a morning view of the Hoarders episode going on next door. Piles of kaka strewn about the neighbor's yard, but at least they covered the kaka with tarps, so I have no idea if I should have spent the wee hours of dawn picking through shite like a crazy person. Considering the cleanout is being done with masks on, it's probably not anything I'd be thrilled over anyway.
The windows are open again, and I get to bask in the glory of whistling. Every damn morning. I don't know what the problem is across the road, but they might want to consider a leash. In fact, if I have to listen to the incessant whistling for the dog too many more mornings, I am going to go buy a leash and tape it to their back door. Don't they get tired of whistling for the stupid dog every morning? Are they completely oblivious to the invention of leashes? I don't understand this, as the whistling for the dog to come home happens daily, and goes on for over 20 minutes at a minimum. Maybe there is NO dog. That would actually make the whole scenario vastly more interesting, but alas, judging by the piles of steaming poo I occasionally find in our yard, I know that Rover exists and is a very healthy LARGE dog with a big appetite.
I had an AHA moment last night about the glorious leather belt, and once again, life comes full circle to THE purse. If you have no clue what I'm talking about, just keep reading through my senseless ramblings of the last week. And you'll see...oh yes, you WILL see. It's ALL about THE purse.
After the staggering to bed Friday night in a happy daze of new purse ownership, you would think I would have taken the day Saturday for some sloth time. However, true to any planned slothdom in my life, something always comes up. Like yet another Goodwill sale. 50% off everything in a small little town about half an hour from me. So, out of the pajamas, into the well loved jeans that do not require a belt, and I was on the road again. Because I had already been gleefully shopping on Wednesday, I knew that Maurices was having a 75% off clearance sale...as in and ADDITIONAL 75% off their sale prices. This little burg I was heading to actually still has a Maurices in their downtown, though the rest of the town seems to be dying a slow death. So, silly little me thought I would check out their clearance and see what goodies they had.
My wallet is screaming at me now. Because not only did they have a large selection, it was actually a HUGE selection. Bigger than I've ever seen in any other Maurices. And it was one of those magical days where even the random stuff I piled into the dressing room on a whim was fitting perfectly. I was hitting the motherload, and texting pictures to my daughter on the things that were not quite my style. (I now know what floral leggings look like on me, and it's downright frightening.) So, by the time I was done with this bargain bonanza, I could have cared less about the Goodwill sale and just decided to head home before I ended up in a position of feeding my children Ramen noodles for the next month.
As I loaded my haul upstairs, I was determined to put it all away in my closet and the daughter's closet, but there was the hanger shortage to consider. And because there really are an obscene amount of hangers in the closet, this meant that before I hung my own purchases, I was going to force myself to clean out my closet once again. I actually did pretty good, purging even more than I bought, and it even included purging out the handful of so-so purses I had hung on to before the purchase of THE purse. Everything was neatly stacked and organized and just went straight into the large shopping bags I had emptied.
Now, rambling even further into the twilight zone, there WAS a rather nice brown leather purse at our store when we restocked. It was not THE purse, but at the price marked, I considered it briefly. The one obstacle I couldn't get past though, was the short handles. But, since the handles were mounted on very strong metal hardware, I thought MAYBE, I could match the brown leather with a purse I had at home with a removable shoulder strap. So, in the days of job obsession, I actually remembered to grab that strap and attempt to match it to the purse, but, obviously failed badly. But, also in the job obsession, I had forgotten to attach the strap back on to it's correct purse at home, so it was just sitting on the table in that horrid pile I had accumulated through the week.
When I brought my purge downstairs from the bedroom, I saw that strap, and knowing the purse was in the bags I was hauling, grabbed it and shoved it in. I remember having a moment of confusion, but wrote it off as not taking any sloth time and my brain being fried.
Fast forward to the glorious leather belt debacle. I not only searched the house in the morning, I searched it later that night. I nearly accused my family of taking my glorious leather belt, but thankfully, refrained from letting that amount of bitchy grumpypants leave my mouth. I even had a brief moment of considering the household ghost and it's antics, but it has not made an appearance, pulled a prank, or spoken in about a year.
So, of course, right before going to bed, when I seem to have the most wits about me (which basically is like admitting that I'm brain dead the remainder of my day), I thought STOP THE PRESSES. Could that glorious leather belt have ended up in my purge? Could it now be sitting in the storeroom of the store, buried in one of MANY bins, waiting to be priced with the rest of my purges? Why would I even do such a thing? That would mean that Friday night, when I whipped it off, I left it somewhere at the end of the bed and did NOT put it in it's spot. And I'm the OCD freak that has a spot for EVERYTHING. I would have to admit that I did not put it away, and it is one thing to admit to the shame of filth piles all over my table, but in the bedroom, where clothes, accessories, and shoes are concerned? SHAMEFUL.
After fueling for the day, I made it my mission to find my bin of purge stuff amongst all the bins. I ran the errands I needed to for work, and then grunted, pouring sweat, as I moved and shifted around bins in the store room. And lo, and behold, I found THE GLORIOUS LEATHER BELT. Stuck inside the purse like it was the missing strap.
Though I was wearing my last capri that didn't need a belt, you can be sure I put that sucker on so I could guarantee I would not forget it at work. And hell yes, I danced a little jig in that dressing room.
All because of THE purse. At least, that's my story, and I think I will stick with it. Because I have decided that now everything is because of THE purse. It is a magical purse. And it smells sooooo good.
The recovery of the glorious leather belt should have charmed the day into being one of sunshine, glitter, and rainbows. But oh no....we are only allowed a max of two shining moments a day, and I should have realized that with it being COFFEE DAY, my glory was going to be the belt, and that afternoon coffee run.
I spent entirely too much time today, trying fruitlessly to explain to someone that all our merchandise is consignment. No, the multitudes of purses are not "made" by someone. No, we don't order them. No, people aren't crafting them. I don't know why, but she was really STUCK on these purses being homemade. Which was really difficult to understand on my part, because these are the average (and way above average) purses you see in stores everywhere you go. Leather, faux leather, fringed, studded, chained, logos everywhere. Why was she so obsessed over thinking they were homemade? Short of sticking her head into a purse and making her read the "Made in China" label personal and up close, I just was NOT going to get through to her. I was confused, my coworker was confused, the customer was REALLY confused. I had to give up, and I hate having to leave a customer confused, but it was truly a lost cause.
Of course, this same customer attempted to leave the store with her UNPAID jewelry selections, so I think we were dealing with general confusion all around. Believe it or not, I actually really like to believe in the inherent goodness of people, so I'm going to go with "confused" here, and not "thieving little shit". Though it really was a case of appearing to be "thieving little shit", but I'm still going to give her the benefit of the doubt so I can stay on the positive side of life.
It was a very strange day, filled with very strange people. People who talked WAY too much. Obviously, I'm a chatty little shit myself, but in the store today, it was ALOT of chatter about personal things. Gossip. Personal dramas. WAY too much information. Information that was not requested, but the "hello, how are you" was obviously an invitation to share. And share. And share. Therapy sessions are $1 extra on your total, by the way.
I enjoyed giving a scarf demonstration to my aunt and her friend. Until I had a woman join in and offer to model said scarf. And then decided to whip off some of her clothing down to her tank top in order to model it better. All with the pretty scarf that my aunt's friend was considering buying. And I don't know about them, but I was starting to feel a bit AWKWARD passing around this scarf to people that were NOT considering buying it and just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I mean, we are not a store with multiples of anything, so if something had happened to this scarf while I was demonstrating, that's one thing, but then what if this model/customer decided SHE wanted the scarf? Or what if she ripped it because she grabbed it out of my hands a little too eagerly? I was thankful when my aunt's friend calmly suggested we just put the scarf on her pile of goodies and just forgo the scarf demonstration that everyone seemed to be joining in on.
Along with the normal oddball crazies that seemed to be wandering in, I had a moment when a customer was asking about a duvet set. She was talking to my coworker, so I was not catching the entire conversation, but it was something about a puppy. I was really confused what this would have to do with a duvet, and a really nice one at that, because last I knew, puppies pee randomly and you wouldn't want them to do that on a really nice duvet. This somehow led to her asking if we allowed puppies in the store, and I firmly (but nicely) said no. She asked if she could take the duvet out to the car to show it to _____? At this point, I had to assume there was a person waiting in the car, and that she was not going to be seeking purchase approval from a puppy. I told her that was fine, and she was gone a few moments. When she came back in, she had another person with her, answering my mental question about who she was showing it to, but then my coworker and I realized that her shopping partner had a puppy in her hands.
Wait a minute.
Didn't I already say a puppy could NOT come in the store?
Apparently, in the span of three minutes, that answer was forgotten. Not by me, so I very sweetly exclaimed how cute this puppy was, immediately followed by a "but we can't have a puppy in the store". The woman seemed a bit confused by this request, so I elaborated by telling her the obvious..."puppies piddle". She promptly planted herself at the door on the tiled floor and off the carpet, I'm sure showing how willing she was to make it easier for me to clean up any potential piddle. At that moment, I chose to pick my battles and thanked her. What exactly I was thanking her for, I am not sure, but at least no merchandise was piddled on. And the duvet was purchased. Maybe for the puppy. Maybe for the shopping partner. I have no idea.
The crazy day thankfully ended, and I came home to more viewings of the Hoarders episode. I also wonder if there are exotic birds hoarded in the house, because there were parrot like screechings when I got out of my car. However, after the day I just had, I was not about to turn around to see what all the screeching ruckus was about. After all, yesterday was the shirtless mullet man, and maybe this was some kind of strange mating call I was not aware of.
My doors are locked. I closed the curtains. I really don't want to deal with anymore strangeness today. Which probably will mean an early bedtime, so I can be sure to have escaped to the sanctuary of the bedroom before my children get home.
And the belt is hanging in it's SPOT.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Who's Afraid of the Mullet Man?
It's Monday. No, it really is. When you're off work for four days, that first day back is a Monday no matter what day of the week it falls on.
Motherfucking Monday.
These damn allergies are kicking my ass, and I finally turned the air back on when we had temps hitting 90 degrees the last couple of days. You would think that would clear the snot out of my eyeballs, but I had to peel those eyelids back when that alarm so rudely interrupted my sleep this morning. Already feeling blurry eyed, I nearly fell down the stairs when I convinced myself in the no-espresso haze that there was cat yak on the top step. After getting the espresso maker going, I stumbled up the stairs with a plastic bag in hand, prepared to start my day with cat goo.
Nada. Nothing was there. And instead of looking at that as a sign of a lucky day, I muttered profanities. Because imagining cat yak that makes you nearly tumble onto your already pounding noggin is just not the way I want to start my day.
Fortunately, pounding noggin did not interfere with my ability to select my clothing for the day. Until I realized I cannot find my belt anywhere. I only own one belt, and it is a glorious leather belt that has lasted me over five years. Suddenly, without that belt in hand, I realized I only own one pair of jeans and one cropped jean that don't need the belt. And that one pair of jeans is on its last leg...they are so well loved and adored that one of these days, they're just going to disintegrate right off my ass from loving and adoring them for three years. I ended up in a "sort of" ok pair of capris, but by the end of the day, I was a muttering, cursing fool yanking up my pants every time I moved more than three inches.
Since it's a glorious leather belt (there is a huge difference between just leather, and glorious leather, and if you don't understand what I'm talking about, I'm not going to waste time trying to explain), I thought there might be the chance that one of the men folk mistakenly picked it up thinking it was one of their leather belts. I searched high and low. I even remember when I last wore it. Friday night, I whipped that baby off in a fit of "get these work clothes off of me" and haven't seen it since. It is glorious enough that it has it's own special spot...oh who the hell am I kidding. Everything of mine has a "spot" because I'm OCD as fuck when it comes to my clothing, shoes, and accessories. That's why this is driving me absolutely bonkers. It's not in it's SPOT. It's not even close to it's spot. In fact, it's NOWHERE to be found. And no one should be mistaking it for their own glorious leather belt because it has a very girly belt buckle on it. There's no mistaking it for a man-belt, no matter how glorious that leather is. Unless, a man belt broke at the last minute and a person of the male persuasion just TOOK my belt thinking I'd never miss it. Well let me tell you, with all this spandex and poly blend in jeans these days, I FUCKING NOTICE. They may still be making nearly all men's jeans in 100% cotton, but women's jeans? Hell no...we've got that glorious stretch cotton going on which means the need for a glorious leather belt.
I've looked everywhere. And it doesn't take long to look everywhere considering I am the only person living in this house who puts anything away in its SPOT. And EVERYTHING has its SPOT.
So, let's add this up. Nearly falling down the stairs, near migraine strength headache, and no belt. All by 7:30 am.
Great fucking start to the day.
I get to work, and the reality hits that the bookwork I ignored (HAD to ignore) through our sale, restocking, and reopening is now at critical mass. Did I mention that I forgot to make more espresso to take with me to work? I think I'm going to survive the day drinking water, and at that point, I'm not caring because I've got that pounding noggin and just need something, anything, to gulp down a handful of Tylenol with. The morning is slow going, because I'm buried in numbers and feel like I'm drowning, and by lunch time, I realize why I don't drink nearly as much water as I do espresso. I am peeing. And peeing. And peeing. I suppose I could have looked at the bright side of things and been thankful for no belt, because I was able to avoid that extra step of unbuckling every time I am racing to the bathroom from water overflow. Though, it's becoming apparent that this Monday really Wednesday doesn't have too many bright sides because pounding noggin has now subsided to headache hangover.
With these allergies, I get headaches. Not too much of a big deal, because they are usually minor or just sinus pressure. However, when I occasionally get these migraines, or the next step down of really bad fucking headache but I'll survive, I end up with what I call a headache hangover when the pain subsides to a dull roar. It literally is that sick, run over by a train feeling that I would normally associate with a night of drinking that ended crouched in front of a toilet. So yes, the pounding subsided down to a dull thud (there's that happy go lucky bright fucking side) but in turn, I felt like hurling. Constantly. While dealing with the public. With a smile on my face that felt just a wee bit forced. But I faked that shit like a pro. Until I was in the privacy of the bathroom, yet again peeing from too much water. I spent alot of time mouthing profanities with my pants around my ankles.
Lunch was a special treat. I tried a new yogurt, and I'm not a huge fan of yogurt but it's an easy thing to eat when it's common to be interrupted 8 times during lunch. Maybe it was the headache hangover, maybe it was dull thudding noggin, maybe it was anxiety over where that fucking belt is, but I had a hard time liking this yogurt that so many people say they love. It didn't make me feel Australian, though it's supposed to be a big giant Aussie secret recipe, and the cows in Colorado supplying the milk don't seem to be better than Iowa cows. And then I'm just getting grouchy that I spent more money than usual on yogurt because it was such special yogurt. Maybe, just maybe, I'm in a fucking mood (gee, really?) because I didn't think my grapes were doing it for me, and those cherry pistachio granola bars made me want to gag. Damn, I think the world makes me want to gag. I'm making myself want to gag with this petulant, whiny bullshit over a simple little lunch.
The brightest spot of my day was a coffee run. It's not even Coffee Thursday, but by this point, I'm willing to donate a kidney if it means I can get some goddamn espresso. And it was glorious espresso. It even made me momentarily forget about my missing glorious belt.
By the way, every time I had to reach under our work counter, I got a nice big whiff of my glorious brown leather purse. Yup, I am still totally gaga over that purse.
So, dull throbbing, headache hangover, and then I see the dirt on my arm. What the hell. I pull the old mom trick and lick my finger and try to rub it off. OUCH. That's not dirt, its a bruise. And there's a goddamn lump under it. Do I remember ramming my forearm into something? Of course not. But there's a big old knot there, and what looks like a really colorful bruise appearing.
Sigh. What next?
Well, let me tell you what next. The afternoon got quite busy, with the usual usage of our dressing rooms, and even with the dull throbbing headache hangover, I am pleasant, smiling, and cheerfully informing people to bring their items to the counter and we will put them back on the racks. Maybe next time, I will just go berserk bitch hag on them and scream it in their faces, because I got to spend too much of my time this afternoon cleaning up items in the wrong areas of the store, picking up hangers, picking up clothing left on the floor, replacing broken hangers, and rearranging all the jeans that got tried on and shoved back on the racks with zippers hanging wide open and barley hanging on to the clips. Hell, some were just thrown over the rack, and under the rack.
Filthy swine.
There's enough shit left piled from the end of the day, I just need to get out of here and go hide from people, rush out that door, that I will probably feel the need to go in a tad early tomorrow just to get some work done behind locked doors. Because as we were closing up, I viewed all the purses with stuffing hanging out, shoes that looked like they had been thrown, and bizarre messes that made no sense and I realized that there are days when a person can feel like they are just feeding the hogs at the trough. Not everyday, not even most days, but when it happens, of course it's on a day when you're not feeling 100% perky...hell, not even 50%.
Not that I'm grouchy or anything.
I get home, and see some kind of hillbilly gathering going on at the neighbor's. He's a harmless old fool, and really is a nice guy even if he will talk your ear off for hours on end if you allow it. And though we've only seen the inside of his house once (and one room at that), I know he is a hoarder. I looked for the film crews, because it really looks like an episode of Hoarders going on. There's a dumpster, tarps on the ground covered in stuff, and people going in and out of the house wearing safety masks. But the best part, is the shirtless mullet man.
I don't know if he's actually helping, or just hanging out shirtless, but I feel like throwing on some REO Speedwagon and sewing shoulder pads into some shirts. Except my head is still at a dull roar and they are making too much noise with their dumpster diving and shop vacs.
I made another round through the house, looking for the glorious belt, and it appears I will have to take a chance and wear the threadbare jeans tomorrow. But, I succeeded in picking up some bobby pins, and didn't fulfill the cat yak prophecy, so I guess I could say this day is ending on a high note.
Tomorrow will be a better day. Laws yes, even if it kills me.
Motherfucking Monday.
These damn allergies are kicking my ass, and I finally turned the air back on when we had temps hitting 90 degrees the last couple of days. You would think that would clear the snot out of my eyeballs, but I had to peel those eyelids back when that alarm so rudely interrupted my sleep this morning. Already feeling blurry eyed, I nearly fell down the stairs when I convinced myself in the no-espresso haze that there was cat yak on the top step. After getting the espresso maker going, I stumbled up the stairs with a plastic bag in hand, prepared to start my day with cat goo.
Nada. Nothing was there. And instead of looking at that as a sign of a lucky day, I muttered profanities. Because imagining cat yak that makes you nearly tumble onto your already pounding noggin is just not the way I want to start my day.
Fortunately, pounding noggin did not interfere with my ability to select my clothing for the day. Until I realized I cannot find my belt anywhere. I only own one belt, and it is a glorious leather belt that has lasted me over five years. Suddenly, without that belt in hand, I realized I only own one pair of jeans and one cropped jean that don't need the belt. And that one pair of jeans is on its last leg...they are so well loved and adored that one of these days, they're just going to disintegrate right off my ass from loving and adoring them for three years. I ended up in a "sort of" ok pair of capris, but by the end of the day, I was a muttering, cursing fool yanking up my pants every time I moved more than three inches.
Since it's a glorious leather belt (there is a huge difference between just leather, and glorious leather, and if you don't understand what I'm talking about, I'm not going to waste time trying to explain), I thought there might be the chance that one of the men folk mistakenly picked it up thinking it was one of their leather belts. I searched high and low. I even remember when I last wore it. Friday night, I whipped that baby off in a fit of "get these work clothes off of me" and haven't seen it since. It is glorious enough that it has it's own special spot...oh who the hell am I kidding. Everything of mine has a "spot" because I'm OCD as fuck when it comes to my clothing, shoes, and accessories. That's why this is driving me absolutely bonkers. It's not in it's SPOT. It's not even close to it's spot. In fact, it's NOWHERE to be found. And no one should be mistaking it for their own glorious leather belt because it has a very girly belt buckle on it. There's no mistaking it for a man-belt, no matter how glorious that leather is. Unless, a man belt broke at the last minute and a person of the male persuasion just TOOK my belt thinking I'd never miss it. Well let me tell you, with all this spandex and poly blend in jeans these days, I FUCKING NOTICE. They may still be making nearly all men's jeans in 100% cotton, but women's jeans? Hell no...we've got that glorious stretch cotton going on which means the need for a glorious leather belt.
I've looked everywhere. And it doesn't take long to look everywhere considering I am the only person living in this house who puts anything away in its SPOT. And EVERYTHING has its SPOT.
So, let's add this up. Nearly falling down the stairs, near migraine strength headache, and no belt. All by 7:30 am.
Great fucking start to the day.
I get to work, and the reality hits that the bookwork I ignored (HAD to ignore) through our sale, restocking, and reopening is now at critical mass. Did I mention that I forgot to make more espresso to take with me to work? I think I'm going to survive the day drinking water, and at that point, I'm not caring because I've got that pounding noggin and just need something, anything, to gulp down a handful of Tylenol with. The morning is slow going, because I'm buried in numbers and feel like I'm drowning, and by lunch time, I realize why I don't drink nearly as much water as I do espresso. I am peeing. And peeing. And peeing. I suppose I could have looked at the bright side of things and been thankful for no belt, because I was able to avoid that extra step of unbuckling every time I am racing to the bathroom from water overflow. Though, it's becoming apparent that this Monday really Wednesday doesn't have too many bright sides because pounding noggin has now subsided to headache hangover.
With these allergies, I get headaches. Not too much of a big deal, because they are usually minor or just sinus pressure. However, when I occasionally get these migraines, or the next step down of really bad fucking headache but I'll survive, I end up with what I call a headache hangover when the pain subsides to a dull roar. It literally is that sick, run over by a train feeling that I would normally associate with a night of drinking that ended crouched in front of a toilet. So yes, the pounding subsided down to a dull thud (there's that happy go lucky bright fucking side) but in turn, I felt like hurling. Constantly. While dealing with the public. With a smile on my face that felt just a wee bit forced. But I faked that shit like a pro. Until I was in the privacy of the bathroom, yet again peeing from too much water. I spent alot of time mouthing profanities with my pants around my ankles.
Lunch was a special treat. I tried a new yogurt, and I'm not a huge fan of yogurt but it's an easy thing to eat when it's common to be interrupted 8 times during lunch. Maybe it was the headache hangover, maybe it was dull thudding noggin, maybe it was anxiety over where that fucking belt is, but I had a hard time liking this yogurt that so many people say they love. It didn't make me feel Australian, though it's supposed to be a big giant Aussie secret recipe, and the cows in Colorado supplying the milk don't seem to be better than Iowa cows. And then I'm just getting grouchy that I spent more money than usual on yogurt because it was such special yogurt. Maybe, just maybe, I'm in a fucking mood (gee, really?) because I didn't think my grapes were doing it for me, and those cherry pistachio granola bars made me want to gag. Damn, I think the world makes me want to gag. I'm making myself want to gag with this petulant, whiny bullshit over a simple little lunch.
The brightest spot of my day was a coffee run. It's not even Coffee Thursday, but by this point, I'm willing to donate a kidney if it means I can get some goddamn espresso. And it was glorious espresso. It even made me momentarily forget about my missing glorious belt.
By the way, every time I had to reach under our work counter, I got a nice big whiff of my glorious brown leather purse. Yup, I am still totally gaga over that purse.
So, dull throbbing, headache hangover, and then I see the dirt on my arm. What the hell. I pull the old mom trick and lick my finger and try to rub it off. OUCH. That's not dirt, its a bruise. And there's a goddamn lump under it. Do I remember ramming my forearm into something? Of course not. But there's a big old knot there, and what looks like a really colorful bruise appearing.
Sigh. What next?
Well, let me tell you what next. The afternoon got quite busy, with the usual usage of our dressing rooms, and even with the dull throbbing headache hangover, I am pleasant, smiling, and cheerfully informing people to bring their items to the counter and we will put them back on the racks. Maybe next time, I will just go berserk bitch hag on them and scream it in their faces, because I got to spend too much of my time this afternoon cleaning up items in the wrong areas of the store, picking up hangers, picking up clothing left on the floor, replacing broken hangers, and rearranging all the jeans that got tried on and shoved back on the racks with zippers hanging wide open and barley hanging on to the clips. Hell, some were just thrown over the rack, and under the rack.
Filthy swine.
There's enough shit left piled from the end of the day, I just need to get out of here and go hide from people, rush out that door, that I will probably feel the need to go in a tad early tomorrow just to get some work done behind locked doors. Because as we were closing up, I viewed all the purses with stuffing hanging out, shoes that looked like they had been thrown, and bizarre messes that made no sense and I realized that there are days when a person can feel like they are just feeding the hogs at the trough. Not everyday, not even most days, but when it happens, of course it's on a day when you're not feeling 100% perky...hell, not even 50%.
Not that I'm grouchy or anything.
I get home, and see some kind of hillbilly gathering going on at the neighbor's. He's a harmless old fool, and really is a nice guy even if he will talk your ear off for hours on end if you allow it. And though we've only seen the inside of his house once (and one room at that), I know he is a hoarder. I looked for the film crews, because it really looks like an episode of Hoarders going on. There's a dumpster, tarps on the ground covered in stuff, and people going in and out of the house wearing safety masks. But the best part, is the shirtless mullet man.
I don't know if he's actually helping, or just hanging out shirtless, but I feel like throwing on some REO Speedwagon and sewing shoulder pads into some shirts. Except my head is still at a dull roar and they are making too much noise with their dumpster diving and shop vacs.
I made another round through the house, looking for the glorious belt, and it appears I will have to take a chance and wear the threadbare jeans tomorrow. But, I succeeded in picking up some bobby pins, and didn't fulfill the cat yak prophecy, so I guess I could say this day is ending on a high note.
Tomorrow will be a better day. Laws yes, even if it kills me.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Welcome Back Kotter
Welcome back to the real world, missy.
I have spent the last ten days as not much more than an employee. I took off my mom hat, threw out the housewife uniform, and concentrated solely on THE JOB. It happens twice a year, and then the hectic pace slows down at least a smidgen, and it's back to life as I know it.
Maybe I'm just getting old. Maybe it's because I'm not aging one iota, but the kids are magically getting older without me adding one more day to my _____ years of age. Maybe I didn't drink enough through this period of job-obsession.
Maybe that fly sitting on my monitor needs to die. Are those his legs rubbing together or is he just happy to see me?
Random distraction.
It's a little tougher this year getting back to my version of normal in this house. It's always different for the summer sale anyway, because kids are home on break from school. But THIS year, both kids are working. The days of leaving a "mom list" on the fridge to be completed while I'm at work are pretty much gone. My son actually works more hours than I do, and he has finally hit that stage of the occasional big sigh and rolling of the eyes. Being the eternal "nice kid", the random attitude doesn't last long, and I usually get an apology within about 3 minutes of the 'tude, but combine that with the hours he's working, and I'm having to play drill sergeant to stay on top of the chores he's expected to do, let alone anything I would LIKE him to do.
And then, we have the bobby pin queen. The last ten days of removing the mom hat means I have also not tracked the trail of bobby pins throughout the house. I know they are there, because I have felt them underfoot as I've hobbled through the house with aching feet. The joys of living with a waitress have also meant finding random cash strewn about as if my house were a strip club at 4am. Waitress girl also came down with a head cold, which didn't stop her from spending the hours before a shift in a tattoo shop, but did stop her from picking up after herself, and the tables are now strewn with random girl shit once again.
Granted, I basically turned into a teenager myself. I have crap strewn all over one table. I have yet to open the box of espresso beans I ordered, which in my mind, is just criminal. Thank gawd for online bill pay, because I haven't looked at a single piece of mail for over a week, and I know the pile is buried somewhere under purse stuffing I eagerly threw all over the table to get my belongings into THE PURSE as quickly as possible.
I bought new curtains while on that shopping frenzy last week, and I did manage to put them up, but now, I question the remainder of the room. Through the haze of work-obsession, it dawned on me that once I slowed down, I'm probably going to find my mind obsessing over what to do about the busy pattern on the windows that now makes the entire space seem busy busy busy. Not that I obsess over things until they drive my brain absolutely bonkers. Nope, not me. *glances over at THE PURSE* I do LOVE these curtains, but now I don't love the room. Suddenly, the room looks like it has too much STUFF, and I'm trying to ignore this and adjust to the curtains, because this really could be a side effect of spending ten days handling, rearranging, and dealing with too much STUFF at THE JOB.
This really is something I need to let go of right now, because there are more pressing matters at hand. The table piles. The layers of dust on every surface. The kitchen that looks like a bio hazard dumping ground. The laundry I have not touched. But my brain keeps returning to the curtains. And I wonder why I have the computer desk in the north corner and not in the south. If I recall correctly, it has something to do with cords reaching, but my mind is too distracted by the pattern on the windows to actually remember the details. I vaguely think back to other times I moved that behemoth desk and swearing and having fits over having to move it back, so my intellect tells me NO, do NOT even go there. And then I glance at the curtains again and try to focus. Just focus. Do something with the room so I can stop obsessing.
But there are crumbs all over the counter tops. The stainless appliances need a chisel and hammer before I attempt to wipe them down. The last request to empty the dishwasher must have happened, but the sinks have managed to fill up again. I'm fairly sure the floors are filthy, because it can not possibly be my need for a pedicure that is causing my feet to stick to the floor.
And when I'm not distracted by the pattern framing the windows, I actually see outside to all the work that waits for my motivation outdoors. The huge clumps of grass from mowing because whatever fertilizer hubby used this year works a little TOO well and the grass is out of control within three days of mowing. The weeds...oh mah sweet baby Cheezits...the weeds are insane, and I haven't touched my zen garden in nearly a month because there has been NO ZEN other than what I find at the bottom of a bottle.
College starts back up in slightly more than a month, and that means the pile of college stuff that manages to fit in a small dorm room but doesn't fit anywhere but my kitchen, will be gone. But in the meantime, I really should dust it off and at least make it look like an organized pile. AND reassure my overwrought brain that I only have to live with it for 31 more days.
Have I mentioned that my oven is busted? This happened shortly before the job-obsession, and of course, right in the middle of preparing a meal that required its use. I wasn't too concerned with it, as I knew the days of job-obsession were approaching, which is the time of year when the grocery list includes every quick fix, microwave delight my children could ever want but I never buy. But now job-obsession has turned down a notch, and the oven is still busted. I have the DIY hubby, who is also the OnTheRoad hubby, so he's been trying to diagnose the problem when he is home, which isn't a huge amount of time. Meanwhile, as he runs his little tests and then leaves for another week, it means a non-working oven for at least the next five days. And, when I'm not job-obsessed, I'm a rabid meal planner, so this planning that can not include the use of an oven means I have to think twice as hard. And I don't like having to think very hard when I'm coming down off a job-obsession high. I had a brief thought of just ordering a new stove and having it installed while hubby is off in nowhere land, but then he'd probably come home and take the new one apart too, thinking it was the old one and that I had just cleaned the non-working oven. There's also the problem of the bio hazard kitchen, and having a new oven installed would mean letting people in my filthy house and then having to deal with them catching some kind of rare disease while touching my kitchen surfaces.
There's probably a bobby pin stuck inside a gas valve.
What has the endless rambling accomplished other than to whine incessantly that the days of teenage maid service aren't what they used to be? Nothing. Avoidance. The opportunity to make more espresso, ignoring the crumbs of some unknown substance sitting next to the bean grinder. Briefly thinking that crumbs near the toaster are one thing, but leaving crumbs near the espresso corner is just UNACCEPTABLE, and having random thoughts of just torching the place. Seeing that the bathroom is NOT the dirtiest room in the house, and that's just a disgusting statement considering I have moments when I would prefer to pee with my eyes closed so I don't have to look at it. I realize I have far too much going through my brain that needs to be done, and it's shutting down on overload. Internal error. Fatal error. System crash.
I gaze outside and daydream. I briefly consider it is an absolutely gorgeous day. The breeze coming into the house is absolutely lovely. It gently sways the curtains. The patterned curtains. The busy curtains. In the busy room.
STOP IT STUPID BRAIN.
Maybe if I just move around rugs?
*whimper*
I have spent the last ten days as not much more than an employee. I took off my mom hat, threw out the housewife uniform, and concentrated solely on THE JOB. It happens twice a year, and then the hectic pace slows down at least a smidgen, and it's back to life as I know it.
Maybe I'm just getting old. Maybe it's because I'm not aging one iota, but the kids are magically getting older without me adding one more day to my _____ years of age. Maybe I didn't drink enough through this period of job-obsession.
Maybe that fly sitting on my monitor needs to die. Are those his legs rubbing together or is he just happy to see me?
Random distraction.
It's a little tougher this year getting back to my version of normal in this house. It's always different for the summer sale anyway, because kids are home on break from school. But THIS year, both kids are working. The days of leaving a "mom list" on the fridge to be completed while I'm at work are pretty much gone. My son actually works more hours than I do, and he has finally hit that stage of the occasional big sigh and rolling of the eyes. Being the eternal "nice kid", the random attitude doesn't last long, and I usually get an apology within about 3 minutes of the 'tude, but combine that with the hours he's working, and I'm having to play drill sergeant to stay on top of the chores he's expected to do, let alone anything I would LIKE him to do.
And then, we have the bobby pin queen. The last ten days of removing the mom hat means I have also not tracked the trail of bobby pins throughout the house. I know they are there, because I have felt them underfoot as I've hobbled through the house with aching feet. The joys of living with a waitress have also meant finding random cash strewn about as if my house were a strip club at 4am. Waitress girl also came down with a head cold, which didn't stop her from spending the hours before a shift in a tattoo shop, but did stop her from picking up after herself, and the tables are now strewn with random girl shit once again.
Granted, I basically turned into a teenager myself. I have crap strewn all over one table. I have yet to open the box of espresso beans I ordered, which in my mind, is just criminal. Thank gawd for online bill pay, because I haven't looked at a single piece of mail for over a week, and I know the pile is buried somewhere under purse stuffing I eagerly threw all over the table to get my belongings into THE PURSE as quickly as possible.
I bought new curtains while on that shopping frenzy last week, and I did manage to put them up, but now, I question the remainder of the room. Through the haze of work-obsession, it dawned on me that once I slowed down, I'm probably going to find my mind obsessing over what to do about the busy pattern on the windows that now makes the entire space seem busy busy busy. Not that I obsess over things until they drive my brain absolutely bonkers. Nope, not me. *glances over at THE PURSE* I do LOVE these curtains, but now I don't love the room. Suddenly, the room looks like it has too much STUFF, and I'm trying to ignore this and adjust to the curtains, because this really could be a side effect of spending ten days handling, rearranging, and dealing with too much STUFF at THE JOB.
This really is something I need to let go of right now, because there are more pressing matters at hand. The table piles. The layers of dust on every surface. The kitchen that looks like a bio hazard dumping ground. The laundry I have not touched. But my brain keeps returning to the curtains. And I wonder why I have the computer desk in the north corner and not in the south. If I recall correctly, it has something to do with cords reaching, but my mind is too distracted by the pattern on the windows to actually remember the details. I vaguely think back to other times I moved that behemoth desk and swearing and having fits over having to move it back, so my intellect tells me NO, do NOT even go there. And then I glance at the curtains again and try to focus. Just focus. Do something with the room so I can stop obsessing.
But there are crumbs all over the counter tops. The stainless appliances need a chisel and hammer before I attempt to wipe them down. The last request to empty the dishwasher must have happened, but the sinks have managed to fill up again. I'm fairly sure the floors are filthy, because it can not possibly be my need for a pedicure that is causing my feet to stick to the floor.
And when I'm not distracted by the pattern framing the windows, I actually see outside to all the work that waits for my motivation outdoors. The huge clumps of grass from mowing because whatever fertilizer hubby used this year works a little TOO well and the grass is out of control within three days of mowing. The weeds...oh mah sweet baby Cheezits...the weeds are insane, and I haven't touched my zen garden in nearly a month because there has been NO ZEN other than what I find at the bottom of a bottle.
College starts back up in slightly more than a month, and that means the pile of college stuff that manages to fit in a small dorm room but doesn't fit anywhere but my kitchen, will be gone. But in the meantime, I really should dust it off and at least make it look like an organized pile. AND reassure my overwrought brain that I only have to live with it for 31 more days.
Have I mentioned that my oven is busted? This happened shortly before the job-obsession, and of course, right in the middle of preparing a meal that required its use. I wasn't too concerned with it, as I knew the days of job-obsession were approaching, which is the time of year when the grocery list includes every quick fix, microwave delight my children could ever want but I never buy. But now job-obsession has turned down a notch, and the oven is still busted. I have the DIY hubby, who is also the OnTheRoad hubby, so he's been trying to diagnose the problem when he is home, which isn't a huge amount of time. Meanwhile, as he runs his little tests and then leaves for another week, it means a non-working oven for at least the next five days. And, when I'm not job-obsessed, I'm a rabid meal planner, so this planning that can not include the use of an oven means I have to think twice as hard. And I don't like having to think very hard when I'm coming down off a job-obsession high. I had a brief thought of just ordering a new stove and having it installed while hubby is off in nowhere land, but then he'd probably come home and take the new one apart too, thinking it was the old one and that I had just cleaned the non-working oven. There's also the problem of the bio hazard kitchen, and having a new oven installed would mean letting people in my filthy house and then having to deal with them catching some kind of rare disease while touching my kitchen surfaces.
There's probably a bobby pin stuck inside a gas valve.
What has the endless rambling accomplished other than to whine incessantly that the days of teenage maid service aren't what they used to be? Nothing. Avoidance. The opportunity to make more espresso, ignoring the crumbs of some unknown substance sitting next to the bean grinder. Briefly thinking that crumbs near the toaster are one thing, but leaving crumbs near the espresso corner is just UNACCEPTABLE, and having random thoughts of just torching the place. Seeing that the bathroom is NOT the dirtiest room in the house, and that's just a disgusting statement considering I have moments when I would prefer to pee with my eyes closed so I don't have to look at it. I realize I have far too much going through my brain that needs to be done, and it's shutting down on overload. Internal error. Fatal error. System crash.
I gaze outside and daydream. I briefly consider it is an absolutely gorgeous day. The breeze coming into the house is absolutely lovely. It gently sways the curtains. The patterned curtains. The busy curtains. In the busy room.
STOP IT STUPID BRAIN.
Maybe if I just move around rugs?
*whimper*
Saturday, July 19, 2014
If I Lick It, It's Mine
I don't think I can really put into words the exhaustion and frenzied whirlwind that the last week has been. I CAN, however, talk about a single purse, and the shining beacon of hope it was in an otherwise black pit of despair.
Gee, dramatic much?
We got the store prepared for our new season after long hours of espresso consumption, and found we had a day off in the middle of the mayhem. So, going with the lunacy we already had coursing through our veins, we decided that the best way to spend that time off would be to all go shopping together. The four of us headed to the big city, and proceeded to nearly fall over in sticker shock as we were reminded how much things really cost in comparison to the store we just completely recreated back at home. The day was filled with craziness, which could have been the total exhaustion we were all feeling, or getting all four of us in the confines of a car. Much shopping was done, as we gleefully hit clearance racks, and we managed, somehow, not to get booted from any stores for our antics.
In the mayhem of restocking the store, I had been in charge of organizing the purses, and once again, mourned my inability to find the perfect brown leather purse. This has been an ongoing saga in my life for the last couple years. I had started spending a little more money on my purses, thinking that would keep my purse acquisitions down to a minimum, but the perfect brown purse was eluding me. I had a black one that I loved, a summer purse with some pink on it, and then a small handful of "so so" purses I had picked up cheap in order to avoid thinking about the now legendary brown leather purse I didn't yet own.
As we were shopping, I made sure to check out purses wherever we went. I didn't have too much to pick from, as most places we were frequenting had faux poly nightmares that did not even begin to touch that brown leather purse itch.
By the time we got to TJMaxx, I was determined. Out of all the stores we had been in, surely the glorious TJMaxx would be able to supply me with the dream purse. As the others made their way into the store, I hit a beeline straight for the purses and started perusing. Contrary to how I normally shop, I avoided looking at brands or price tags and merely just viewed the purses for anything that caught my eye. About halfway in to my viewings, the smell of leather hit my brain. I began sniffing the air, wondering which of these beauties could be delighting me with their aroma. And then...THERE...like a glorious little star in the sky, I see this perfectly shaped purse. I grab it quickly, hoping no one has spotted it's beauty but me. Yes, I nod to myself, it has the perfect handles, with options for both arm carrying and a shoulder strap. I gaze inside, seeing inside pockets, feel the leather and nearly faint at the softness. Now the ultimate test of purse selection...I bring it to my nose and sniff. Ooooooooooh. Yes, it's is leather. I caress it across my cheek and sigh in contentment. This is it. I have found THE brown leather purse. In my excitement, the little pieces of shiny hardware and logos all over the lining have escaped me, and I stupidly begin to the think I may be owning this purse. I grab the tag, expecting a 70-80$ tag and SHRIEK when I see $229. I exclaim out loud "what the fuck is this????" and then see the brand. It's a Michael Kors purse. REALLY? Out of ALL the numerous purses in TJMaxx, I manage to fall head over heels for the most expensive one??? And aren't all their MK purses normally covered in logos so it's easy to skip over them?
Whyyyyyyyyyy? I begin to wail, doing a pretty damn good imitation of Nancy Kerrigan on the floor, clutching the purse to my chest and rocking back and forth. The tears flow freely, but of course, not ON the glorious, perfect purse. Oh no, there's still a rational part of my brain that protects my precious.
I move on, grumbling. Now, my TJMaxx experience is not as glorious as it could be. I'm downtrodden, shuffling through the store with my head hung low. Could be that my feet were hurting by this time from too many hours on my feet once again, but no, I believe it was the homeless purse tugging at my heartstrings.
I meet up with my comrades and tell them all about THE purse. It's not just a pretty purse. It is THE purse. I feel it in my bones. All other brown leather purses will now be compared to this one.
Fortunately, by the time I'm home, I'm too exhausted to do more than describe THE purse to my daughter, and then go to bed and pass out.
The next morning, I decide to take a chance and see if THE purse is on eBay. And, lo and behold, like a sign from gods, it shows up as the 5th listing. I nearly piss myself in excitement when I see the $130 price tag. I do a mental dance of "should I-shouldn't I" until I see the flashing red numbers counting down. 30...29...28...27... The auction is ENDING! My fingers fumble, trying to get signed in and once again, am left forever scarred over not having THE purse. Now I at least have the style name of the purse, and start doing searches all over the internet looking for it. Nope, nada. The remaining ones listed on eBay are going for nearly $300. Every other store I find is saying "out of stock".
I have to get back to work, and the purse is never far from my mind. As I put the final touches on displays and take a look around the store before we let the lineup of people in, I am again reminded that not a single one of the 200 purses I have seen in there are even coming close to the THE purse. I am able to push back the despair once again as I get sucked into the whirlwind that is also known as one of our reopening events.
That evening, my head is filled with THE purse. No, really, it is. Even sinking into bed in total exhaustion, and the only dreams I remember are dreams of THE purse. Dreams that were filled with other people buying it in front of me while I stood helplessly by.
This is becoming insane. As if it already wasn't.
Friday morning, and I text my husband that the purse has now invaded my dreams. He keeps telling me to buy it. I keep thinking how insanely expensive it is. I search eBay again, only to have even higher prices slapping me across the face. I google TJMaxx and see the closing time of 10PM, and briefly consider going there after work. But I'm already bone tired, and the work day has not even begun. I ask my friends online what they think, and get a chorus of "go for it", including a meme saying "if I lick it, it's mine". I briefly recall salivating over the purse while I had my head stuck inside it, and then rationalize, YES, it IS mine.
The sick feeling begins to form in the pit of my stomach. It's TJMaxx. I was there Wednesday. It's now Friday. I can't even think about driving there until the end of the work day at 5:00. Will it be there? It was the only one, and being a TJMaxx pro, I know things disappear from there quickly.
Fortunately, the day goes by in a blur. A blur of complete insanity, where it's so busy, I forget to pee. I forget my own name. I almost forget the purse. As 5:00 nears, in walks one of our clients, who has a truckload parked out front. I'm already beyond exhausted, but we get her unloaded, she looks at the time, and says "I've got more, I'm running home and will be right back". Meanwhile, her stuff is scattered all over the store. I start putting stuff away in bins, she shows up with the next load, piles get higher, we feel the hysteria setting in. I look at the clock, see it's 5:00, and know that the dreams of hopping over to TJMaxx 40 miles away are going to have to wait. I continue packing her items away in our storage bins, come across some purses, smell the leather wafting up from the pile, and yes, right there, is a Michael Kors purse and wallet. It's far too small for my needs, and it's black, not brown, but it's like yet another reminder of THE purse.
6:00 rolls around and we all agree that this is just too much...the day has been hellacious, the majority of the mess is put away, to hell with getting anything else done, and FINALLY. I am out the door. I hit the road, in a daze, and throw on some loud music to keep myself alert for the drive to TJMaxx. I see the angry looking clouds, and wonder if THE purse is worth driving through a tornado for. Why yes, it is.
As I finally pull in to town, "Under Pressure" by Queen comes across the speakers, and the sick pit in my stomach is reminding me that I may be going through all this to find out THE purse is gone and in the hands of someone else.
I try not to limp too much rushing into the store. Not only are my feet screaming at me from being on them all day, but I had also dropped a large frame across my toes, and I'm fairly sure I may have broken it. I'm hobbling, and it's an eager hobble, and I can only imagine what it must look like with me shuffling into the purses.
THERE it is is. Next to other Michael Kors leather purses they must have just put out. I briefly wonder if I like the others more (they are, in fact, slightly cheaper) and then the angels singing overpowers that thought process and I grab THE purse. I hug it. I welcome it home. I don't even flinch much when I get the total and pay. I take it to the car, and consider buckling it into the front seat so it stays safe.
I briefly consider that I am truly, totally, insane. But then I look at IT. MINE. Forever.
I sigh in contentment, and say goodbye to purse shopping. I have three perfect purses. The purse door is officially closed.
Gee, dramatic much?
We got the store prepared for our new season after long hours of espresso consumption, and found we had a day off in the middle of the mayhem. So, going with the lunacy we already had coursing through our veins, we decided that the best way to spend that time off would be to all go shopping together. The four of us headed to the big city, and proceeded to nearly fall over in sticker shock as we were reminded how much things really cost in comparison to the store we just completely recreated back at home. The day was filled with craziness, which could have been the total exhaustion we were all feeling, or getting all four of us in the confines of a car. Much shopping was done, as we gleefully hit clearance racks, and we managed, somehow, not to get booted from any stores for our antics.
In the mayhem of restocking the store, I had been in charge of organizing the purses, and once again, mourned my inability to find the perfect brown leather purse. This has been an ongoing saga in my life for the last couple years. I had started spending a little more money on my purses, thinking that would keep my purse acquisitions down to a minimum, but the perfect brown purse was eluding me. I had a black one that I loved, a summer purse with some pink on it, and then a small handful of "so so" purses I had picked up cheap in order to avoid thinking about the now legendary brown leather purse I didn't yet own.
As we were shopping, I made sure to check out purses wherever we went. I didn't have too much to pick from, as most places we were frequenting had faux poly nightmares that did not even begin to touch that brown leather purse itch.
By the time we got to TJMaxx, I was determined. Out of all the stores we had been in, surely the glorious TJMaxx would be able to supply me with the dream purse. As the others made their way into the store, I hit a beeline straight for the purses and started perusing. Contrary to how I normally shop, I avoided looking at brands or price tags and merely just viewed the purses for anything that caught my eye. About halfway in to my viewings, the smell of leather hit my brain. I began sniffing the air, wondering which of these beauties could be delighting me with their aroma. And then...THERE...like a glorious little star in the sky, I see this perfectly shaped purse. I grab it quickly, hoping no one has spotted it's beauty but me. Yes, I nod to myself, it has the perfect handles, with options for both arm carrying and a shoulder strap. I gaze inside, seeing inside pockets, feel the leather and nearly faint at the softness. Now the ultimate test of purse selection...I bring it to my nose and sniff. Ooooooooooh. Yes, it's is leather. I caress it across my cheek and sigh in contentment. This is it. I have found THE brown leather purse. In my excitement, the little pieces of shiny hardware and logos all over the lining have escaped me, and I stupidly begin to the think I may be owning this purse. I grab the tag, expecting a 70-80$ tag and SHRIEK when I see $229. I exclaim out loud "what the fuck is this????" and then see the brand. It's a Michael Kors purse. REALLY? Out of ALL the numerous purses in TJMaxx, I manage to fall head over heels for the most expensive one??? And aren't all their MK purses normally covered in logos so it's easy to skip over them?
Whyyyyyyyyyy? I begin to wail, doing a pretty damn good imitation of Nancy Kerrigan on the floor, clutching the purse to my chest and rocking back and forth. The tears flow freely, but of course, not ON the glorious, perfect purse. Oh no, there's still a rational part of my brain that protects my precious.
I move on, grumbling. Now, my TJMaxx experience is not as glorious as it could be. I'm downtrodden, shuffling through the store with my head hung low. Could be that my feet were hurting by this time from too many hours on my feet once again, but no, I believe it was the homeless purse tugging at my heartstrings.
I meet up with my comrades and tell them all about THE purse. It's not just a pretty purse. It is THE purse. I feel it in my bones. All other brown leather purses will now be compared to this one.
Fortunately, by the time I'm home, I'm too exhausted to do more than describe THE purse to my daughter, and then go to bed and pass out.
The next morning, I decide to take a chance and see if THE purse is on eBay. And, lo and behold, like a sign from gods, it shows up as the 5th listing. I nearly piss myself in excitement when I see the $130 price tag. I do a mental dance of "should I-shouldn't I" until I see the flashing red numbers counting down. 30...29...28...27... The auction is ENDING! My fingers fumble, trying to get signed in and once again, am left forever scarred over not having THE purse. Now I at least have the style name of the purse, and start doing searches all over the internet looking for it. Nope, nada. The remaining ones listed on eBay are going for nearly $300. Every other store I find is saying "out of stock".
I have to get back to work, and the purse is never far from my mind. As I put the final touches on displays and take a look around the store before we let the lineup of people in, I am again reminded that not a single one of the 200 purses I have seen in there are even coming close to the THE purse. I am able to push back the despair once again as I get sucked into the whirlwind that is also known as one of our reopening events.
That evening, my head is filled with THE purse. No, really, it is. Even sinking into bed in total exhaustion, and the only dreams I remember are dreams of THE purse. Dreams that were filled with other people buying it in front of me while I stood helplessly by.
This is becoming insane. As if it already wasn't.
Friday morning, and I text my husband that the purse has now invaded my dreams. He keeps telling me to buy it. I keep thinking how insanely expensive it is. I search eBay again, only to have even higher prices slapping me across the face. I google TJMaxx and see the closing time of 10PM, and briefly consider going there after work. But I'm already bone tired, and the work day has not even begun. I ask my friends online what they think, and get a chorus of "go for it", including a meme saying "if I lick it, it's mine". I briefly recall salivating over the purse while I had my head stuck inside it, and then rationalize, YES, it IS mine.
The sick feeling begins to form in the pit of my stomach. It's TJMaxx. I was there Wednesday. It's now Friday. I can't even think about driving there until the end of the work day at 5:00. Will it be there? It was the only one, and being a TJMaxx pro, I know things disappear from there quickly.
Fortunately, the day goes by in a blur. A blur of complete insanity, where it's so busy, I forget to pee. I forget my own name. I almost forget the purse. As 5:00 nears, in walks one of our clients, who has a truckload parked out front. I'm already beyond exhausted, but we get her unloaded, she looks at the time, and says "I've got more, I'm running home and will be right back". Meanwhile, her stuff is scattered all over the store. I start putting stuff away in bins, she shows up with the next load, piles get higher, we feel the hysteria setting in. I look at the clock, see it's 5:00, and know that the dreams of hopping over to TJMaxx 40 miles away are going to have to wait. I continue packing her items away in our storage bins, come across some purses, smell the leather wafting up from the pile, and yes, right there, is a Michael Kors purse and wallet. It's far too small for my needs, and it's black, not brown, but it's like yet another reminder of THE purse.
6:00 rolls around and we all agree that this is just too much...the day has been hellacious, the majority of the mess is put away, to hell with getting anything else done, and FINALLY. I am out the door. I hit the road, in a daze, and throw on some loud music to keep myself alert for the drive to TJMaxx. I see the angry looking clouds, and wonder if THE purse is worth driving through a tornado for. Why yes, it is.
As I finally pull in to town, "Under Pressure" by Queen comes across the speakers, and the sick pit in my stomach is reminding me that I may be going through all this to find out THE purse is gone and in the hands of someone else.
I try not to limp too much rushing into the store. Not only are my feet screaming at me from being on them all day, but I had also dropped a large frame across my toes, and I'm fairly sure I may have broken it. I'm hobbling, and it's an eager hobble, and I can only imagine what it must look like with me shuffling into the purses.
THERE it is is. Next to other Michael Kors leather purses they must have just put out. I briefly wonder if I like the others more (they are, in fact, slightly cheaper) and then the angels singing overpowers that thought process and I grab THE purse. I hug it. I welcome it home. I don't even flinch much when I get the total and pay. I take it to the car, and consider buckling it into the front seat so it stays safe.
I briefly consider that I am truly, totally, insane. But then I look at IT. MINE. Forever.
I sigh in contentment, and say goodbye to purse shopping. I have three perfect purses. The purse door is officially closed.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Stardate 835852.6209
I think I would do better remembering what day it is if this were a Star Trek episode instead of a day in July. For one, the weather is similar to what we see in mid-September, when the last of a late summer warmup brings 70 degree for a few moments and then whips 60 something temps and winds through your house. As the evening progresses, I have had to grab a sweatshirt and am grudgingly admitting that I may just have to close my windows tonight. I may choose to look at Facebook polar vortex pictures from January and skip the window closing. After all, the mattress heater is still plugged in, so I can always use that. In July. For chrissakes.
What day is it again?
Speaking of Facebook, I see posts about Monday. Now I know it's Monday.
The restocking at the store continues. And with this unseasonably cool weather, we could not resist having our doors open. We worried this would encourage people to come in while we were closed, but only one made the attempt to poke their head in. The rest were actually deterred by the giant sign blocking the door and a gigantor mess just inside that looks like the Jolly Green Giant puked up a meal of about 150 purses and 200 pairs of shoes.
Speaking of shoes and purses, you would think that I would be in heaven being assigned the chore of sorting and selecting which shoes and purses are seen during the preview event we have Thursday night. Well, let me tell you...after about the 40th brown shoe and 29th black purse, you just kind of are OVER IT. Yes, the purse fiend and shoe whore just does not care. It's all about matching, selecting, inserting into a display, stuffing the purse, stuffing the boots so they stand upright, move to the next display, match, select, insert, stuff. Move along, match, select, insert, stuff. Sometimes, it's match, select, insert, stuff, realize it just does not flow quite right (have I ever mentioned I'm a perfectionist?) and the whole thing is scrapped, and the match, select, insert and stuff starts all over again. And this goes on for HOURS.
Our customers, and those who beg to work for us are really convinced these restocking days are spent with us getting our hands on merchandise to buy first, and that our hours and days creating an entirely new store are like a private shopping event held in our honor. Ummmm....NO. I personally have spent the last two days of stocking hauling countless bins. Unwrapping breakables. Loading large prints, metal art, and large deco pieces out of storage. Scattering it throughout the front of the store, staring at it until I'm inspired, slowly putting pieces together into displays until I am completely satisfied that it just can NOT look any better than what I've accomplished. I then move on to shoes and purses, working them into our displays of home decor, building more displays within the clothing, storing away everything I did not use after I sort all remaining merchandise into "premiere #2 and premiere #3" bins. Throwing what remains outside of that into storage bins to be worked throughout the store as pieces sell. Yes...there IS that much. Which means I don't see a single piece of clothing, jewelry, or accessories because I've been buried in decorating, purses, and shoes. I have no clue what everyone else working has seen. I don't even THINK about shopping, except for the goal to finish so that there's a little time to get away and go to TJ Maxx for some down time. I get paid to do this because it is WORK, and I may absolutely love and adore what I do, but these little rascals begging to work for us really just have NO CLUE.
What day is it again?
I kind of miss life right now. I'm not missing cooking. I miss the half glass of a Jack and Coke that disappeared way too quickly in a short amount of time. I'm a pretty damn optimistic person, but I look at that glass and think, yeah, that's definitely half empty. I even miss the bobby pin queen, because she's working oodles of hours, I'm working oodles of hours, and I think I see her sleeping in the early morning more than I actually see her with her eyes open. I miss the yard work I could be doing, but after being on my knees sorting through purses and shoes most of the day, I know kneeling in a flowerbed weeding is probably not the best idea. I miss TJ Maxx. I miss the Sirius radio that shut off automatically because apparently my free subscription ran out on the drive home tonight. My ear started hurting the moment the music went off, and I don't know if that's some kind of weird withdrawl happening already or it's because I missed my allergy pill this morning.
However, I balanced my checkbook, put gas in my car, poured a cocktail, and remembered to go to the bank, so I feel like I am superhuman-got-my-shit-together woman. And I now know it is July 14th...a Monday, no less.
And I caught myself looking at purses online tonight.
Please, feel free to slap me now.
What day is it again?
Speaking of Facebook, I see posts about Monday. Now I know it's Monday.
The restocking at the store continues. And with this unseasonably cool weather, we could not resist having our doors open. We worried this would encourage people to come in while we were closed, but only one made the attempt to poke their head in. The rest were actually deterred by the giant sign blocking the door and a gigantor mess just inside that looks like the Jolly Green Giant puked up a meal of about 150 purses and 200 pairs of shoes.
Speaking of shoes and purses, you would think that I would be in heaven being assigned the chore of sorting and selecting which shoes and purses are seen during the preview event we have Thursday night. Well, let me tell you...after about the 40th brown shoe and 29th black purse, you just kind of are OVER IT. Yes, the purse fiend and shoe whore just does not care. It's all about matching, selecting, inserting into a display, stuffing the purse, stuffing the boots so they stand upright, move to the next display, match, select, insert, stuff. Move along, match, select, insert, stuff. Sometimes, it's match, select, insert, stuff, realize it just does not flow quite right (have I ever mentioned I'm a perfectionist?) and the whole thing is scrapped, and the match, select, insert and stuff starts all over again. And this goes on for HOURS.
Our customers, and those who beg to work for us are really convinced these restocking days are spent with us getting our hands on merchandise to buy first, and that our hours and days creating an entirely new store are like a private shopping event held in our honor. Ummmm....NO. I personally have spent the last two days of stocking hauling countless bins. Unwrapping breakables. Loading large prints, metal art, and large deco pieces out of storage. Scattering it throughout the front of the store, staring at it until I'm inspired, slowly putting pieces together into displays until I am completely satisfied that it just can NOT look any better than what I've accomplished. I then move on to shoes and purses, working them into our displays of home decor, building more displays within the clothing, storing away everything I did not use after I sort all remaining merchandise into "premiere #2 and premiere #3" bins. Throwing what remains outside of that into storage bins to be worked throughout the store as pieces sell. Yes...there IS that much. Which means I don't see a single piece of clothing, jewelry, or accessories because I've been buried in decorating, purses, and shoes. I have no clue what everyone else working has seen. I don't even THINK about shopping, except for the goal to finish so that there's a little time to get away and go to TJ Maxx for some down time. I get paid to do this because it is WORK, and I may absolutely love and adore what I do, but these little rascals begging to work for us really just have NO CLUE.
What day is it again?
I kind of miss life right now. I'm not missing cooking. I miss the half glass of a Jack and Coke that disappeared way too quickly in a short amount of time. I'm a pretty damn optimistic person, but I look at that glass and think, yeah, that's definitely half empty. I even miss the bobby pin queen, because she's working oodles of hours, I'm working oodles of hours, and I think I see her sleeping in the early morning more than I actually see her with her eyes open. I miss the yard work I could be doing, but after being on my knees sorting through purses and shoes most of the day, I know kneeling in a flowerbed weeding is probably not the best idea. I miss TJ Maxx. I miss the Sirius radio that shut off automatically because apparently my free subscription ran out on the drive home tonight. My ear started hurting the moment the music went off, and I don't know if that's some kind of weird withdrawl happening already or it's because I missed my allergy pill this morning.
However, I balanced my checkbook, put gas in my car, poured a cocktail, and remembered to go to the bank, so I feel like I am superhuman-got-my-shit-together woman. And I now know it is July 14th...a Monday, no less.
And I caught myself looking at purses online tonight.
Please, feel free to slap me now.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Sit Your Ass Down!
You would think that nearly 12 hours of a frenetic pace on Friday, and another 9 hour day yesterday, all done in a daze of chanting "get it done, get it done, get it done", would pretty much guarantee that this gorgeous Sunday means just sitting back and relaxing before I get back to it tomorrow.
Nope.
I perused Facebook this morning with a cup of espresso, enjoying reading and not scanning, checking in with friends, and seeing what the world has been up to outside of the confines of our store.
There it was.
TODAY ONLY. $1 sale at Goodwill.
The Goodwill that is only 20 minutes from my house.
Really, you nitwit? You've just survived a fast and furious, crazy, hectic, zombie-state-inducing sale of your own in just three short days. You would think I want nothing to do with a sale. Especially one that people line up for. One that includes frantic digging, reaching, and pulling.
But...but....it's ONE DOLLAR.
That means no dressing rooms. No picture messages asking if someone likes something. No thinking. It means picking up those ugly picture frames and wooden shelves because painting them and a little bit of cut and chop, and they become window boxes and more windows for my troll tree. It means work clothes for the boys. Funky clothes for the girl child. Baby clothes for FatCat because his mouse hunting strike means some cat shaming is due.
I hurriedly got my laundry going. Calculated out how much shopping time I could give myself and still visit family I desperately want to see. Whipped out a grocery list, that with the week I'm about to put in means a total mom fail filled with foods that require the use of our microwave and a can opener. Loaded the dishwasher, realizing it was almost nothing but coffee cups, travel cups, and glasses used for alcohol. Story of my life this week. Made another round of espresso because if I'm going to do this, I'm going to DO it. Jacked up on caffeine, music blaring while I throw on barely acceptable clothing, hell, I might even throw on some spackle so the dark circles under my eyes aren't quite as noticeable.
I'll hit the road in about 15 minutes, which will get my timing perfectly to grab a nice little spot in line. Not in front, not in back, so as not to appear too eager. My mind starts calculating out the best approach of what racks to zoom to first, and yes, GET THAT CART. I look at the nails on my hands already wrecked from work and think, what the hell, wreck them a little more with that strategy of grab, dump in cart, look at it later. I practice my resting bitch face, so the other frantic shoppers around me will know I mean business, and don't fuck with me sister, this is my only day off, and this is serious relaxation time going on.
Yes, I can do this. And I can do it in a short amount of time that also means I get some girl time in, grocery shopping done, and still come home and finish laundry with a drink in hand. Perhaps in a new drinking glass that makes me feel like less of a lush while still consuming copious amounts of liquor.
I relaxed this weekend. Oh yes I did. After all, I WAS sitting on my ass perusing Facebook when I saw the post for the dollar sale.
Adios motherfuckers.
Nope.
I perused Facebook this morning with a cup of espresso, enjoying reading and not scanning, checking in with friends, and seeing what the world has been up to outside of the confines of our store.
There it was.
TODAY ONLY. $1 sale at Goodwill.
The Goodwill that is only 20 minutes from my house.
Really, you nitwit? You've just survived a fast and furious, crazy, hectic, zombie-state-inducing sale of your own in just three short days. You would think I want nothing to do with a sale. Especially one that people line up for. One that includes frantic digging, reaching, and pulling.
But...but....it's ONE DOLLAR.
That means no dressing rooms. No picture messages asking if someone likes something. No thinking. It means picking up those ugly picture frames and wooden shelves because painting them and a little bit of cut and chop, and they become window boxes and more windows for my troll tree. It means work clothes for the boys. Funky clothes for the girl child. Baby clothes for FatCat because his mouse hunting strike means some cat shaming is due.
I hurriedly got my laundry going. Calculated out how much shopping time I could give myself and still visit family I desperately want to see. Whipped out a grocery list, that with the week I'm about to put in means a total mom fail filled with foods that require the use of our microwave and a can opener. Loaded the dishwasher, realizing it was almost nothing but coffee cups, travel cups, and glasses used for alcohol. Story of my life this week. Made another round of espresso because if I'm going to do this, I'm going to DO it. Jacked up on caffeine, music blaring while I throw on barely acceptable clothing, hell, I might even throw on some spackle so the dark circles under my eyes aren't quite as noticeable.
I'll hit the road in about 15 minutes, which will get my timing perfectly to grab a nice little spot in line. Not in front, not in back, so as not to appear too eager. My mind starts calculating out the best approach of what racks to zoom to first, and yes, GET THAT CART. I look at the nails on my hands already wrecked from work and think, what the hell, wreck them a little more with that strategy of grab, dump in cart, look at it later. I practice my resting bitch face, so the other frantic shoppers around me will know I mean business, and don't fuck with me sister, this is my only day off, and this is serious relaxation time going on.
Yes, I can do this. And I can do it in a short amount of time that also means I get some girl time in, grocery shopping done, and still come home and finish laundry with a drink in hand. Perhaps in a new drinking glass that makes me feel like less of a lush while still consuming copious amounts of liquor.
I relaxed this weekend. Oh yes I did. After all, I WAS sitting on my ass perusing Facebook when I saw the post for the dollar sale.
Adios motherfuckers.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Espresso + Jack = Blabbity Bloo
It was COFFEE DAY today, so it's time for some senseless rambling!
We've got that gigantor sale going on at work, and I'm realizing that my alcohol intake needs to increase when I'm supremely busy. Apparently, my tolerance levels go up the more I need to chillax, because that very large amount of Mr. Jack I poured into my glass has only succeeded to relax my fingers on the keyboard and not my brain. However, because it was coffee day, which means ZING BOOM WHEEEEE, throwing even more Coke into the gullet is probably not a good idea for a person who limits the caffeine intake to ZERO once 7PM hits. I look at the clock, seeing it inch closer to 8PM and wonder if maybe I should just throw some Jack over the remaining ice cubes in the glass and call it good enough and then maybe the brain will begin to catch up to the fingers (which initially was typed as finers). The very small part of my brain (typed bain before spellcheck) that remains a responsible adult tells me I should just call it quits for the night on the drinky poo and reserve the fuckit option for Saturday night when I won't have to get up the next morning to haul, rearrange, smile pleasantly or even think.
Along those thought processes, I do sit here wondering if tonight is yet another sleepless night because I refuse to run air conditioning when the temps are below 80 degrees. I suffer through waking up with eyeballs full of snot because of allergies because I just like open windows that much (blame the polar vortex). But, in the rambled mess of thoughts racing through my brain, I think of the happy little birds that decide to sing their good morning song at 4:30 in the morning, then switch gears to putting my fan on high to hopefully drown out that homicide inducing squall well before the alarm is set to go off. Of course, if I run JUST the window air upstairs instead of the central air, I get the noise of not just the a/c, but also the fan, closed windows, and tweet tweet motherfucker, I can't hear you. Unless the a/c has shifted in that creaky old money pit window which in that case, I'll be listening to a shake, rattle, and roll the whole night long. Fuck it, instead of more Jack I can just pop some of that happy pill Benadryl sinus medication and drool on myself all night long in a peaceful slumber.
I do wonder if No Child Left Behind also means No Child Learns Two Syllable Words. I kind of always thought a "storewide" sale meant the whole store.
Storewide: adj: Involving, applying to, or occurring throughout a whole store
What's the number one question I have answered the last two days? Yup, you guessed it..."Is this on sale too?" I think that one has been asked at least two dozen times. I even thought ahead and instead of putting "storewide" on all the signs, exchanged it for "everything" on two of them. Nope, didn't help. Still answering that question. With a smile on my face, because copious amounts of espresso and a replenishing of the liquor cabinet does that for a person.
There's been some kaka shit floating around Facebook about children and the joy of and blabbity blah blah. Actually, there probably always is, but I've noticed it more this week. Maybe I'm actually doing more than the typical scanning and actually comprehending what I'm skipping over. Whatever the case, I've been seeing all the joys, adorations, and rainbows over having boys, having girls, birthing babies, having more than one child, etc etc. Nope. Not having it. Like I said before, pretty sure that mommy gene skipped a generation, but really, I gotta ask, is that ALL there is to talk about? Blech. Let's talk about the flavor of Jack once watered down with ice cubes. Or wearing pajamas in public. Or why preteen girls are dressing like a cheap two dollar hooker to go to the county fair. Or why all the construction workers wore shirts EXCEPT the one that looked like Gerard Butler had eaten a years worth of Hot Pockets while guzzling back a case of Schlitz every night?
On the other side of the spectrum, there have been some ADORABLE mini people in the store this week. The kind of mini's that make me want to hug and squish them endlessly and not just because I want them to be quiet. The kind that make me pause and think "awwwww" and feel the slightest twinge in the baby making machine until I realize that's really me needing to pee because I haven't had time to go to the bathroom since I arrived to work.
There are bobby pins everywhere. Still. One tried to fry my vacuum cleaner. One came in handy while I was wrapping plastic around the bleach experiment I was performing on my head last night. The rest sit in the dish in the bathroom. Waiting for rescue. Won't she run out eventually? Won't she have scattered so many around the house that someday before she goes back to college she'll wonder where all her bobby pin friends have gone? Won't I eventually look at that pretty dish, see it is empty, and feel the emptiness within my soul that is the absence of the adult female child? Ok, maybe not, but I'll feel the empty ache when I realize I can no longer text a "empty and reload the dishwasher" to anyone. Or have to clean up the FatCat puke myself. But the bright side is I won't go into the bathroom two days after laundry day and wonder where all my nice, fluffy clean towels went. I might even pee with the door open. Except for those moneypit windows directly across from the bathroom.
What was I saying?
The reward for the end of this madness otherwise known as the gigantor sale and restock is TJMaxx. Oh TJMaxx, how I love thee. It's my happy place. Must look at ALL the things. Touch them all. Sniff them all. Unless I'm looking at underwear or shoes. That would be gross. Though it could be interesting to just pretend to sniff them and see what kind of looks I get.
I wish I had a tutu. I would wear it to work tomorrow.
I'm only joking.
I don't believe a thing I said.
What are you smoking.
I'm just fucking with your head.
I love the Kongos. I wonder if we can get away with having that one on the CD player at work tomorrow. It would go well with a tutu.
No, I did not refill the Jack.
We've got that gigantor sale going on at work, and I'm realizing that my alcohol intake needs to increase when I'm supremely busy. Apparently, my tolerance levels go up the more I need to chillax, because that very large amount of Mr. Jack I poured into my glass has only succeeded to relax my fingers on the keyboard and not my brain. However, because it was coffee day, which means ZING BOOM WHEEEEE, throwing even more Coke into the gullet is probably not a good idea for a person who limits the caffeine intake to ZERO once 7PM hits. I look at the clock, seeing it inch closer to 8PM and wonder if maybe I should just throw some Jack over the remaining ice cubes in the glass and call it good enough and then maybe the brain will begin to catch up to the fingers (which initially was typed as finers). The very small part of my brain (typed bain before spellcheck) that remains a responsible adult tells me I should just call it quits for the night on the drinky poo and reserve the fuckit option for Saturday night when I won't have to get up the next morning to haul, rearrange, smile pleasantly or even think.
Along those thought processes, I do sit here wondering if tonight is yet another sleepless night because I refuse to run air conditioning when the temps are below 80 degrees. I suffer through waking up with eyeballs full of snot because of allergies because I just like open windows that much (blame the polar vortex). But, in the rambled mess of thoughts racing through my brain, I think of the happy little birds that decide to sing their good morning song at 4:30 in the morning, then switch gears to putting my fan on high to hopefully drown out that homicide inducing squall well before the alarm is set to go off. Of course, if I run JUST the window air upstairs instead of the central air, I get the noise of not just the a/c, but also the fan, closed windows, and tweet tweet motherfucker, I can't hear you. Unless the a/c has shifted in that creaky old money pit window which in that case, I'll be listening to a shake, rattle, and roll the whole night long. Fuck it, instead of more Jack I can just pop some of that happy pill Benadryl sinus medication and drool on myself all night long in a peaceful slumber.
I do wonder if No Child Left Behind also means No Child Learns Two Syllable Words. I kind of always thought a "storewide" sale meant the whole store.
Storewide: adj: Involving, applying to, or occurring throughout a whole store
What's the number one question I have answered the last two days? Yup, you guessed it..."Is this on sale too?" I think that one has been asked at least two dozen times. I even thought ahead and instead of putting "storewide" on all the signs, exchanged it for "everything" on two of them. Nope, didn't help. Still answering that question. With a smile on my face, because copious amounts of espresso and a replenishing of the liquor cabinet does that for a person.
There's been some kaka shit floating around Facebook about children and the joy of and blabbity blah blah. Actually, there probably always is, but I've noticed it more this week. Maybe I'm actually doing more than the typical scanning and actually comprehending what I'm skipping over. Whatever the case, I've been seeing all the joys, adorations, and rainbows over having boys, having girls, birthing babies, having more than one child, etc etc. Nope. Not having it. Like I said before, pretty sure that mommy gene skipped a generation, but really, I gotta ask, is that ALL there is to talk about? Blech. Let's talk about the flavor of Jack once watered down with ice cubes. Or wearing pajamas in public. Or why preteen girls are dressing like a cheap two dollar hooker to go to the county fair. Or why all the construction workers wore shirts EXCEPT the one that looked like Gerard Butler had eaten a years worth of Hot Pockets while guzzling back a case of Schlitz every night?
On the other side of the spectrum, there have been some ADORABLE mini people in the store this week. The kind of mini's that make me want to hug and squish them endlessly and not just because I want them to be quiet. The kind that make me pause and think "awwwww" and feel the slightest twinge in the baby making machine until I realize that's really me needing to pee because I haven't had time to go to the bathroom since I arrived to work.
There are bobby pins everywhere. Still. One tried to fry my vacuum cleaner. One came in handy while I was wrapping plastic around the bleach experiment I was performing on my head last night. The rest sit in the dish in the bathroom. Waiting for rescue. Won't she run out eventually? Won't she have scattered so many around the house that someday before she goes back to college she'll wonder where all her bobby pin friends have gone? Won't I eventually look at that pretty dish, see it is empty, and feel the emptiness within my soul that is the absence of the adult female child? Ok, maybe not, but I'll feel the empty ache when I realize I can no longer text a "empty and reload the dishwasher" to anyone. Or have to clean up the FatCat puke myself. But the bright side is I won't go into the bathroom two days after laundry day and wonder where all my nice, fluffy clean towels went. I might even pee with the door open. Except for those moneypit windows directly across from the bathroom.
What was I saying?
The reward for the end of this madness otherwise known as the gigantor sale and restock is TJMaxx. Oh TJMaxx, how I love thee. It's my happy place. Must look at ALL the things. Touch them all. Sniff them all. Unless I'm looking at underwear or shoes. That would be gross. Though it could be interesting to just pretend to sniff them and see what kind of looks I get.
I wish I had a tutu. I would wear it to work tomorrow.
I'm only joking.
I don't believe a thing I said.
What are you smoking.
I'm just fucking with your head.
I love the Kongos. I wonder if we can get away with having that one on the CD player at work tomorrow. It would go well with a tutu.
No, I did not refill the Jack.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Thank a Shopaholic Today
It's a cool and windy Tuesday morning, and I'm sitting on my ass enjoying the breeze coming into the house. I'm going to continue to enjoy whatever sloth behavior comes my way today (actually, I'm going to do some yard work, but a girl can dream) because I'm not going to work. Yup, it's another one of those long weekends that's a trade off for working Saturday.
With all this time, my brain is wandering. In reality, my brain wanders all the time, but now it's racing-wandering, because the BIG one is approaching. The monster mother of all clearance sales. The "you might want to consider wearing an adult diaper for the day" sale. The finger food for lunch sale, so it can be eaten standing up. The day that ends with a tall icy glass of Jack and Coke and a foot massage.
We do this really cool thing at work where twice a year, we empty the store. EMPTY it. There won't be a thing left, except racks and hangers. And we do it in 3 1/2 days. It's an F5 tornado whipping through the place and showing no mercy. 50% off, 75% off, and then a $2 bag sale to round it out, with anything left going to charity. Children get lost, pregnant women puke, a dazed expression of terror mixed with euphoria is on the customers faces. There's bins of merchandise just waiting to go on the sales floor, and we'll load that shit and make it all perfectly pretty in three days time. It's an insane whirlwind of activity and we do it all from start to finish in less than a week's time. And we love it, even though it sucks the life right out of us.
But, what does this have to do with Shopaholics, like the title suggests? Just hang on, little pumpkin...I'll tell you.
By the time the bag sale arrives on Saturday morning, a shopper will have been able to clothe a family of four for well under $100, regardless of what day they shop. It is a bargain hunter's wet dream. It makes Black Friday deals look like a silly little 20% off coupon sale. When you're starting with merchandise already priced at 1/3 of retail, and you start discounting 50 and 75%, you're talking pennies. Well, maybe not pennies, but quarters. Or less dollar bills than a bachelor party uses at a strip club.
And trust me, there are oodles of bargain shoppers out there. The people that are always looking for a deal. The person that scoffs at paying retail. We see them twice a year when we do this sale. They line up at the doors, scratching to get in like a clown that's just risen from the storm drains. Not only do they do it for the sale, but they'll do it for the re-opening, because like I said, we're talking stuff at 1/3 of retail, and they can't wait to get their hands on it.
I'm sure, even if you aren't the type, you know some who are. It's all about the SCORE. The deal of the day, the people that live for a good find. And along with that, I'm willing to guess you might know a handful who even think that the shopaholics, the people who don't always care about the latest bargain, or those that may even not consider what that day's sale is, are horrid money wasters without a single brain cell in their head. They scoff at the people that they believe spend foolishly, or excessively. They turn their noses up at the person spending over $100 on a pair of shoes, jeans, or a purse. This kind of person revels in their enlightened state of saving money and bargain shopping.
I've got one thing to say to the bargain shopper....
You owe the shopaholic a big, giant, THANK YOU.
Without the shopaholics, you wouldn't get the bargains.
When you shop used, resale, or consignment, the merchandise isn't just being shit out of a unicorn's ass. It's coming from somewhere, and more times than not, it's coming from the shopaholic with the overflowing closets. Without their spending habits, you are screwed. You won't have the chance to score the to die for clothes, or refurnish an entire room. Your bargains were someone else's excessive purchases.
So the next time you want to put your nose in the air and feel enlightened over your thrifty thinking, you might actually want to THINK. And give a big thank you to the very thing you scorn.
Thank the shopaholic. They put the clothes on your back. And they're damn cute clothes.
With all this time, my brain is wandering. In reality, my brain wanders all the time, but now it's racing-wandering, because the BIG one is approaching. The monster mother of all clearance sales. The "you might want to consider wearing an adult diaper for the day" sale. The finger food for lunch sale, so it can be eaten standing up. The day that ends with a tall icy glass of Jack and Coke and a foot massage.
We do this really cool thing at work where twice a year, we empty the store. EMPTY it. There won't be a thing left, except racks and hangers. And we do it in 3 1/2 days. It's an F5 tornado whipping through the place and showing no mercy. 50% off, 75% off, and then a $2 bag sale to round it out, with anything left going to charity. Children get lost, pregnant women puke, a dazed expression of terror mixed with euphoria is on the customers faces. There's bins of merchandise just waiting to go on the sales floor, and we'll load that shit and make it all perfectly pretty in three days time. It's an insane whirlwind of activity and we do it all from start to finish in less than a week's time. And we love it, even though it sucks the life right out of us.
But, what does this have to do with Shopaholics, like the title suggests? Just hang on, little pumpkin...I'll tell you.
By the time the bag sale arrives on Saturday morning, a shopper will have been able to clothe a family of four for well under $100, regardless of what day they shop. It is a bargain hunter's wet dream. It makes Black Friday deals look like a silly little 20% off coupon sale. When you're starting with merchandise already priced at 1/3 of retail, and you start discounting 50 and 75%, you're talking pennies. Well, maybe not pennies, but quarters. Or less dollar bills than a bachelor party uses at a strip club.
And trust me, there are oodles of bargain shoppers out there. The people that are always looking for a deal. The person that scoffs at paying retail. We see them twice a year when we do this sale. They line up at the doors, scratching to get in like a clown that's just risen from the storm drains. Not only do they do it for the sale, but they'll do it for the re-opening, because like I said, we're talking stuff at 1/3 of retail, and they can't wait to get their hands on it.
I'm sure, even if you aren't the type, you know some who are. It's all about the SCORE. The deal of the day, the people that live for a good find. And along with that, I'm willing to guess you might know a handful who even think that the shopaholics, the people who don't always care about the latest bargain, or those that may even not consider what that day's sale is, are horrid money wasters without a single brain cell in their head. They scoff at the people that they believe spend foolishly, or excessively. They turn their noses up at the person spending over $100 on a pair of shoes, jeans, or a purse. This kind of person revels in their enlightened state of saving money and bargain shopping.
I've got one thing to say to the bargain shopper....
You owe the shopaholic a big, giant, THANK YOU.
Without the shopaholics, you wouldn't get the bargains.
When you shop used, resale, or consignment, the merchandise isn't just being shit out of a unicorn's ass. It's coming from somewhere, and more times than not, it's coming from the shopaholic with the overflowing closets. Without their spending habits, you are screwed. You won't have the chance to score the to die for clothes, or refurnish an entire room. Your bargains were someone else's excessive purchases.
So the next time you want to put your nose in the air and feel enlightened over your thrifty thinking, you might actually want to THINK. And give a big thank you to the very thing you scorn.
Thank the shopaholic. They put the clothes on your back. And they're damn cute clothes.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Take Your Phone and Shove It....Or Not
I work with the public. That in itself can satisfy my fascination with people watching. And of course, I'm not an absolute hermit when not working...I join the human race in my small little bubble of needing groceries and the occasional bag of cat food. So, short of living off of Amazon groceries and quitting my job, I interact with the world nearly every day. And with this interaction comes being witness to THEIR interactions, or lack of in some cases.
My cousin recently blogged about cell phone usage and abuse-age (is that a word? No? It has a nice little jingle to it) as she finds herself in the world of data phones. You can find her complete post HERE.
It IS very easy to see the downfall or negative side of the cellular world. There are times I have seen cellular usage that gives you mental pictures of taking hammers to all the cell phones of the world. When you work with the public, you encounter all walks of life that behave in all sorts of ways. Some, I may agree with, some I may not.
I have heard the clicking of camera phones in our dressing rooms. I have heard multitudes of conversations that would be best left for their ears only. I will never forget hearing the saga of the uncomfortable jail beds while that "stupid bitch" had the balls to take out a restraining order while he was locked up. I have heard the drama, the spouse fighting, the itinerary of the day, and the medical issues, medications, and treatments. Sometimes I hear it because a shopper stops and has the conversation right in front of me. Sometimes they do manage to peruse our racks while carrying on an entire conversation totally unrelated to looking for a summer shirt. (This one I don't understand, because the shopaholic in me could never manage to focus on two things at once...especially where shopping is concerned.) Sometimes, I think they are talking to me, until I reply repeatedly and then see the black little worm protruding from their ear. Occasionally, I hear the state of a person's finances, and trust me, that's not really something you want to be discussing in a store you are about to spend money in. I have attempted (too many times to count) to give a total, run a credit card, or count back change, all the while wondering if this person is paying any attention to me handling their money while they tell Sally all about what a bitch Jenny was last night. Many times, I have to excuse myself while trying to get to a section of the store, with a teenager standing stock still right in my way with her nose in her phone while her mother shops. And then hear the same teen tell mumsie that she didn't see anything on the racks that she wants after she just spent 20 minutes doing whatever it is teens do on cell phones these days. I see (HEAR) people who refuse to ever put the phone to their ear, and instead just always take every call on speakerphone, amplifying the already inappropriate conversation for the entire store full of shoppers to hear. I have transactions interrupted mid-payment so a text message can be answered, or at the very least, so the phone can at least be looked at.
But you know what? Shit happens.
Yes, it is annoying and rude. Yes, it can make my job more difficult to do. But this is a public rudeness that is only amplified by technology...not caused by it. These people would be lacking in manners and etiquette without the phone as well. I can't blame an object for what people do. A person is making the choice to act that way.
I could delve into how technology has progressed far greater than the speed in which humans can become adjusted to it. I could say that in a world where even bowel movements are shared on social media, is it any wonder that personal conversations and interactions with the rest of the world are handled so badly. I could even venture a guess that this age of oversharing has encouraged the general public to have no regards for privacy or boundaries. Hell, working in a small business, in a small community, I am witness to this almost daily. But I'm only allowing myself the time it takes to finish that first load of laundry to type this, so I'll flip a switch and look a this in a different light.
For all the negatives technology brings, so come the positives. And there are ALOT of positives.
My spouse began driving truck 15 years ago....even then, the technology was there, but it was nowhere near as widespread as it is today. So conversations with the kids were limited to the affordability and availability of calling cards. I could not just pick up a phone and find him in the middle of Montana. If there were a family emergency, I would have had to track down his boss (and after hours that would mean calling them at home), and hope to get a dispatch to him that would only let him know to call home as soon as possible. I was truly on my own where daily decisions were concerned, and many times, they were the kind of daily decisions that involved a furnace on fire, a basement flooding, or frozen pipes. Because of technology, my children were suddenly able to say good night to their father every night, to tell him about their day, and I was able to learn how to quickly solve an issue that I had no knowledge or power to resolve. We get to see pictures of Devil's Tower on a misty morning, or the blizzard whipping through the Dakotas, or the most perfect sunset ever.
Obviously, my children had cell phones at a younger age. My son was in grade school and my daughter a middle schooler when they got their first phones. The old fashioned, resistant to technology me was not very pleased, until I realized the bargaining chip I just had thrown into my lap. Yes, they had to learn proper cell phone usage, which included no phones at meals, and what was considered appropriate and safe. We had our issues, but we also had THE POWER. *evil laugh* One of my shining moments was dealing with 15 year old mouth and strife, feeling at my wits end, and having my husband make one call to our cellular company from the comforts of some godforsaken state that shut off her phone mid-conversation. I will forever remember the look of shock and horror on her face when I took the now-dead phone out of her hands and gave her a brief instruction on how to use the ancient phone attached to our wall...with a cord, no less. Because in our house, cell phones are a privilege that is earned. They come with conditions and rules, and those conditions are not just about how the phone is used. It's also about how they behave as members of this household when they are NOT using their phone. Are they attached to their phones? Maybe at one time they were. But these days, it's more common to hear that their phone battery is dead, or to have a message go unanswered for hours because they are doing things where it is forgotten.
Personally, being resistant to the latest and greatest technology, I still appreciate what my own cell phone does for me. It has kept me connected with far away friends. In an instant, regardless of where I am at or what I am doing, I can be available to someone in crisis or need. I use it regularly at work, to update our business Facebook page, which has connected us to hundreds, and occasionally thousands of people, all completely free of charge and gives us a reach that no newspaper ad could ever touch. I also find it invaluable when looking up a product I've never seen before, or needing to know exactly how much money to charge for something...it's a benefit to me AND our clients. It has allowed me instant access to my children, like when my daughter was in a serious car accident, or my son found himself blocks away from home with a broken leg.
Not so long ago, I found myself with the frame of mind that if I wasn't posting to my own Facebook page, it meant that I was having entirely too much fun to bother with social media. But that thought changed when I realized that with that phone with the camera and social media apps, I was toting around a memory maker. Yes, yes, the memories are in my head, and nothing will take that away. But damn, I'm not having to carry around a purse filled with my usual belongings PLUS a camera, whose batteries are questionable and settings I don't understand. I have that handy little camera right there on my phone, which I can actually stick in my pocket and just go. And I can think back to several occasions when that boring digital camera never got picked up and I missed out taking photos. Photos that I would love to look back on to this day. Now, I tell myself to go ahead and be that person sharing all the moments on Facebook. Because Facebook isn't just about sharing, but also about recording the things I may want to remember. *DING!* Epiphany!
So, all that being said....yes, it can be a love/hate relationship with cell phones. Occasionally, I give myself a "no contact" day, which means my phone will either be silenced or shut off for the day. Sometimes, I take a break from all the technology, but only because that is what MY brain needs. But the etiquette comes from each and every one of us. Much of it is common sense, and some of it has to be taught. Some will never learn...that's just the way the cookie crumbles when it comes to common sense. Not just with technology, but with life. But, I think that just as with life, it's all in how you choose to look at it. For me, it's a good thing.
Until I hear another conversation about the mattress on a jail bed, at least.
My cousin recently blogged about cell phone usage and abuse-age (is that a word? No? It has a nice little jingle to it) as she finds herself in the world of data phones. You can find her complete post HERE.
It IS very easy to see the downfall or negative side of the cellular world. There are times I have seen cellular usage that gives you mental pictures of taking hammers to all the cell phones of the world. When you work with the public, you encounter all walks of life that behave in all sorts of ways. Some, I may agree with, some I may not.
I have heard the clicking of camera phones in our dressing rooms. I have heard multitudes of conversations that would be best left for their ears only. I will never forget hearing the saga of the uncomfortable jail beds while that "stupid bitch" had the balls to take out a restraining order while he was locked up. I have heard the drama, the spouse fighting, the itinerary of the day, and the medical issues, medications, and treatments. Sometimes I hear it because a shopper stops and has the conversation right in front of me. Sometimes they do manage to peruse our racks while carrying on an entire conversation totally unrelated to looking for a summer shirt. (This one I don't understand, because the shopaholic in me could never manage to focus on two things at once...especially where shopping is concerned.) Sometimes, I think they are talking to me, until I reply repeatedly and then see the black little worm protruding from their ear. Occasionally, I hear the state of a person's finances, and trust me, that's not really something you want to be discussing in a store you are about to spend money in. I have attempted (too many times to count) to give a total, run a credit card, or count back change, all the while wondering if this person is paying any attention to me handling their money while they tell Sally all about what a bitch Jenny was last night. Many times, I have to excuse myself while trying to get to a section of the store, with a teenager standing stock still right in my way with her nose in her phone while her mother shops. And then hear the same teen tell mumsie that she didn't see anything on the racks that she wants after she just spent 20 minutes doing whatever it is teens do on cell phones these days. I see (HEAR) people who refuse to ever put the phone to their ear, and instead just always take every call on speakerphone, amplifying the already inappropriate conversation for the entire store full of shoppers to hear. I have transactions interrupted mid-payment so a text message can be answered, or at the very least, so the phone can at least be looked at.
But you know what? Shit happens.
Yes, it is annoying and rude. Yes, it can make my job more difficult to do. But this is a public rudeness that is only amplified by technology...not caused by it. These people would be lacking in manners and etiquette without the phone as well. I can't blame an object for what people do. A person is making the choice to act that way.
I could delve into how technology has progressed far greater than the speed in which humans can become adjusted to it. I could say that in a world where even bowel movements are shared on social media, is it any wonder that personal conversations and interactions with the rest of the world are handled so badly. I could even venture a guess that this age of oversharing has encouraged the general public to have no regards for privacy or boundaries. Hell, working in a small business, in a small community, I am witness to this almost daily. But I'm only allowing myself the time it takes to finish that first load of laundry to type this, so I'll flip a switch and look a this in a different light.
For all the negatives technology brings, so come the positives. And there are ALOT of positives.
My spouse began driving truck 15 years ago....even then, the technology was there, but it was nowhere near as widespread as it is today. So conversations with the kids were limited to the affordability and availability of calling cards. I could not just pick up a phone and find him in the middle of Montana. If there were a family emergency, I would have had to track down his boss (and after hours that would mean calling them at home), and hope to get a dispatch to him that would only let him know to call home as soon as possible. I was truly on my own where daily decisions were concerned, and many times, they were the kind of daily decisions that involved a furnace on fire, a basement flooding, or frozen pipes. Because of technology, my children were suddenly able to say good night to their father every night, to tell him about their day, and I was able to learn how to quickly solve an issue that I had no knowledge or power to resolve. We get to see pictures of Devil's Tower on a misty morning, or the blizzard whipping through the Dakotas, or the most perfect sunset ever.
Obviously, my children had cell phones at a younger age. My son was in grade school and my daughter a middle schooler when they got their first phones. The old fashioned, resistant to technology me was not very pleased, until I realized the bargaining chip I just had thrown into my lap. Yes, they had to learn proper cell phone usage, which included no phones at meals, and what was considered appropriate and safe. We had our issues, but we also had THE POWER. *evil laugh* One of my shining moments was dealing with 15 year old mouth and strife, feeling at my wits end, and having my husband make one call to our cellular company from the comforts of some godforsaken state that shut off her phone mid-conversation. I will forever remember the look of shock and horror on her face when I took the now-dead phone out of her hands and gave her a brief instruction on how to use the ancient phone attached to our wall...with a cord, no less. Because in our house, cell phones are a privilege that is earned. They come with conditions and rules, and those conditions are not just about how the phone is used. It's also about how they behave as members of this household when they are NOT using their phone. Are they attached to their phones? Maybe at one time they were. But these days, it's more common to hear that their phone battery is dead, or to have a message go unanswered for hours because they are doing things where it is forgotten.
Personally, being resistant to the latest and greatest technology, I still appreciate what my own cell phone does for me. It has kept me connected with far away friends. In an instant, regardless of where I am at or what I am doing, I can be available to someone in crisis or need. I use it regularly at work, to update our business Facebook page, which has connected us to hundreds, and occasionally thousands of people, all completely free of charge and gives us a reach that no newspaper ad could ever touch. I also find it invaluable when looking up a product I've never seen before, or needing to know exactly how much money to charge for something...it's a benefit to me AND our clients. It has allowed me instant access to my children, like when my daughter was in a serious car accident, or my son found himself blocks away from home with a broken leg.
Not so long ago, I found myself with the frame of mind that if I wasn't posting to my own Facebook page, it meant that I was having entirely too much fun to bother with social media. But that thought changed when I realized that with that phone with the camera and social media apps, I was toting around a memory maker. Yes, yes, the memories are in my head, and nothing will take that away. But damn, I'm not having to carry around a purse filled with my usual belongings PLUS a camera, whose batteries are questionable and settings I don't understand. I have that handy little camera right there on my phone, which I can actually stick in my pocket and just go. And I can think back to several occasions when that boring digital camera never got picked up and I missed out taking photos. Photos that I would love to look back on to this day. Now, I tell myself to go ahead and be that person sharing all the moments on Facebook. Because Facebook isn't just about sharing, but also about recording the things I may want to remember. *DING!* Epiphany!
So, all that being said....yes, it can be a love/hate relationship with cell phones. Occasionally, I give myself a "no contact" day, which means my phone will either be silenced or shut off for the day. Sometimes, I take a break from all the technology, but only because that is what MY brain needs. But the etiquette comes from each and every one of us. Much of it is common sense, and some of it has to be taught. Some will never learn...that's just the way the cookie crumbles when it comes to common sense. Not just with technology, but with life. But, I think that just as with life, it's all in how you choose to look at it. For me, it's a good thing.
Until I hear another conversation about the mattress on a jail bed, at least.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Glue Sticks, IUD's, and Markers
Granted, without a TV antenna or cable, my news is delivered via internet. The lovely thing about the internet, is I can choose what I read or view. With that in mind, I freely confess that I read nearly zero news. Yup, I am admitting it...nearly none. Why be so willfully ignorant? Because I'm happier that way.
This does not stop the random news link from popping up on my Facebook page, so occasionally I hear about something I may want to read more about. Or not. Depends on my involvement on Pinterest at the time.
And, every once in awhile, something BIG happens. HUGE. GI-GAN-TOR. And it's everywhere on Facebook. Links to news stories, opinion pieces, status updates, memes, you get the drift.
There was a BIG one this week...the Supreme Court decision to allow Hobby Lobby to deny birth control coverage in their insurance plan.
*screeching brakes*
HOLY SHIT. The Supreme Court had to decide this?
Yeah, yeah, I know. If I was at all familiar with Obamacare/National Health Plan//Communist Chemtrail Directive or whatever it is you people are calling it, I would assume that all birth control is now considered a covered expense. Or is it? My own insurance company must have missed that memo, because they've never covered birth control of any kind. Didn't stop me from getting a shot in my ass every three months to make sure the baby making machine was shut down. But whatever the case, my limited knowledge of such things tells me this was something Hobby Lobby felt they should be exempt from covering, and took it all the way to the Supreme Court to defend their stance.
I'll be honest. I do not understand what has people so up in arms over this. Again, in my limited ignorance, I believe Hobby Lobby based their argument upon religious beliefs. Is THAT what has people so twisted into knots? Is it because Jesus loves all the little children so they think that means more children? Is this about contraceptives like Plan B and they feel they have a religious right to defend their pro-life stance? From the few things I have read, they DO cover some contraceptives, just not all.
You know what? I actually don't care what their reasoning is. They felt they had a defense against required coverage, and they took legal action to enforce it. Apparently, the Justices felt the same. End of story.
No.
Not the end of the story, at least not on Facebook. People are shouting and screaming from the rooftops about women's rights.
Women's rights?
Did my right to go to my OB/GYN and get a pill just disappear?
No. It did not. Funny, I STILL have that choice, just as I've had that choice for the past 35 years.
Choices are a funny, quirky little thing. I have the choice to never shop at a Hobby Lobby if I find them a disgrace to women all over the world. I have a choice to feel that they are corporate pigs. I have the choice to work for them or not work for them. Should I choose to work for them, I can choose to not take part in their uterus-mongering health insurance plan. I can choose instead to find a women's center that will base my contraceptive choices on my wages, which would probably equal to far less than a corporation's health insurance plan run by Jesus. I can choose. So tell me again, what rights did I just love over my baby making machine?
In the meantime, while Facebook (and the rest of the internet) continues to rant and rave, I wonder what legislation has been pushed through while we got pissed off over choices that we still have?
I think I'll go back to Pinterest and look for pictures of kittens. Willful ignorance. It's my happy place.
This does not stop the random news link from popping up on my Facebook page, so occasionally I hear about something I may want to read more about. Or not. Depends on my involvement on Pinterest at the time.
And, every once in awhile, something BIG happens. HUGE. GI-GAN-TOR. And it's everywhere on Facebook. Links to news stories, opinion pieces, status updates, memes, you get the drift.
There was a BIG one this week...the Supreme Court decision to allow Hobby Lobby to deny birth control coverage in their insurance plan.
*screeching brakes*
HOLY SHIT. The Supreme Court had to decide this?
Yeah, yeah, I know. If I was at all familiar with Obamacare/National Health Plan//Communist Chemtrail Directive or whatever it is you people are calling it, I would assume that all birth control is now considered a covered expense. Or is it? My own insurance company must have missed that memo, because they've never covered birth control of any kind. Didn't stop me from getting a shot in my ass every three months to make sure the baby making machine was shut down. But whatever the case, my limited knowledge of such things tells me this was something Hobby Lobby felt they should be exempt from covering, and took it all the way to the Supreme Court to defend their stance.
I'll be honest. I do not understand what has people so up in arms over this. Again, in my limited ignorance, I believe Hobby Lobby based their argument upon religious beliefs. Is THAT what has people so twisted into knots? Is it because Jesus loves all the little children so they think that means more children? Is this about contraceptives like Plan B and they feel they have a religious right to defend their pro-life stance? From the few things I have read, they DO cover some contraceptives, just not all.
You know what? I actually don't care what their reasoning is. They felt they had a defense against required coverage, and they took legal action to enforce it. Apparently, the Justices felt the same. End of story.
No.
Not the end of the story, at least not on Facebook. People are shouting and screaming from the rooftops about women's rights.
Women's rights?
Did my right to go to my OB/GYN and get a pill just disappear?
No. It did not. Funny, I STILL have that choice, just as I've had that choice for the past 35 years.
Choices are a funny, quirky little thing. I have the choice to never shop at a Hobby Lobby if I find them a disgrace to women all over the world. I have a choice to feel that they are corporate pigs. I have the choice to work for them or not work for them. Should I choose to work for them, I can choose to not take part in their uterus-mongering health insurance plan. I can choose instead to find a women's center that will base my contraceptive choices on my wages, which would probably equal to far less than a corporation's health insurance plan run by Jesus. I can choose. So tell me again, what rights did I just love over my baby making machine?
In the meantime, while Facebook (and the rest of the internet) continues to rant and rave, I wonder what legislation has been pushed through while we got pissed off over choices that we still have?
I think I'll go back to Pinterest and look for pictures of kittens. Willful ignorance. It's my happy place.
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