Steel Wool, Brownies, and A Friend

You would think with a title like that, I'm about to tell you about a fascinating Pinterest project I accomplished in my spare time.

Of course, the mere mention of spare time makes me dissolve into hysterical giggles that progress quite quickly to sobbing and screams of terror.

Not that I've got a flair for the dramatic, or anything.

A dramatic person would regale you with the tale of a sale.  That little email telling me my favorite online store for eye glasses is having a 2 for $99 sale.  I didn't quite believe it when I read it, and clicked on the little link thinking the extras would come in when it was time to put lenses in those suckers.  Nope, lenses included.  Let's throw in some free shipping, and I totally forget that I actually don't need glasses, having bought new ones just this spring.  Instead, I start dreaming of the ways I could actually start coordinating what clothing I wear with the glasses on my face.  And as I'm perusing various frames that qualify for this spectacular deal on glasses I don't need, I come across something that looks like a gaudy blob on my screen.  I nearly peruse right on by, but something said "hey loser who doesn't need glasses, take a look at me!".  Clicking on this particular frame, I am greeted with skulls.  I'm not even in to skulls, but these are SPARKLING skulls.  Skulls covered in rhinestones.  Complete with additional colorful graphics on the stems.

Mine mine mine mine mine.

Being a 2fer sale, I of course had to peruse more, and picked a gaudy but not nearly as gaudy pair of black glasses to go with my glittery skull glasses, to put on my face that already has glasses.

There is no point to this story, other than I've been sucking back alcohol and the mention of dramatics made me think of the skull glasses.  I may have to carry them with me at all times, so if things start getting dramatic, I can whip them out and switch them out with whatever other glasses happen to be sitting on my resting bitch face.

And speaking of resting bitch face, I have perfected it.  Even when the screams are going on in my head.  Even when I want to make a gloriously perfect flashback to the 80's gesture of "gag me with a spoon", the resting bitch face prevails.  When I'm being leered at by a man who makes me want to take a hatchet to his appendages, the resting bitch face wins.  Seeing shorts that look like underwear, in fact, boy short underwear is longer, and inside my head my mouth is hanging open, the resting bitch face greets you.

I only have a ten minute drive home.  But ten minutes is plenty of time for a plethora of thoughts.  I hissed at the random stray Kitty of the Corn crouched in the weeds.  I tailgated the corn viewers.  I had a brief moment of sorrow seeing a combine in one of the fields harvesting the corn, knowing that means the land of snow and ice is coming (as is heavy layers and boots, if we're going to look on the bright side).  I rejoiced knowing I was going home to an empty house, and I briefly thought my teenage son knows when mommy has had a straight-jacket day because I'm completely agreeable to nearly anything that allows me to come home to an empty house and straight to the full liquor bottle.  I wondered for a moment if going home to an empty house meant eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and was able to decide that warm brownies fresh out of the oven was a perfectly acceptable dinner to go with my pal Jack.  I was amused at the sprinkling of rain that had held off all day until that ten minute drive home, thinking how typical because that eliminated any chance of doing yard work once I arrived.  I then enjoyed a hearty laugh thinking I would actually do any yard work today, when all I cared about was putting on slouchy clothes and getting liquored up the moment I entered the house.

However, I was a good girl.  Yes, no drinky poo for you until you get your little chores done.  I folded laundry, scooped cat litter, emptied the dishwasher, loaded the few dishes in the sink, mixed up brownies and put them in the oven, and ripped off my layers of clothing and jewelry and got into the most unacceptable clothing I own before dropping one single ice cube into that glass.  Good girl. 

Sadly, I was so eager for that drink by the time I was done with all my little good girl chores that I sucked it back in nearly one gulp, poured another, and am well on my way to being a lush.  All while perfecting that resting bitch face.

The only thing remaining for me is snarfing down brownies to enhance the liquor, and scrubbing myself raw in the shower.  With steel wool.  Because it has been the kind of week that makes me want to shower myself in bleach and then take a power grinder to myself to try and rid myself of the heinous things I have seen, touched, and experienced.  Bandaging my whole body is just fine with me, since it can then be used as a barrier against whatever is to come the rest of this week.

But it no longer matters.  I am pleasantly mellowed by a friend.  And even if there was a problem, you'd never know it.  You would just wonder what that bitchy look on my face was.

While I mentally scream.

It Begins

Day one.

Technically, day two, but yesterday was my day off, so I did not get the joy of the first work day of the boss lady's vacation.

The dear, sweet woman takes off every September, typically for the entire month, but this year, delayed that by a couple weeks.  We're looking at three weeks divided between three of us, with a fourth week of maybe the boss returning for a handful of days before taking off again.

Chaos is not quite the proper term to use.  In fact, I'm not sure there is a term in the English language quite colorful enough to describe it.

Tomfuckery, clusterfuck, fuckaroo...whatever I use to describe it somehow uses the f-bomb in one way or another.

Yes, I understand, it is our busy season.  It was our busy season last week when the boss was present.  It was still the busy season up until she left an hour early on Saturday to hit the road.

And then the alarms, sirens, bells, and warnings sound state wide. 

Yes, I think somehow, in some way, people are notified the moment the boss is gone, and they are told to not only go to our store, but to get their asses there as quickly as possible and then create the biggest possible fuckaroo, clusterfuck, tomfuckery they can.

Even that one hour on Saturday was complete chaos, so I really think I'm on to something here.  Monday's are typically hectic, with the rushing to get those items cleaned out over the weekend into our store as quickly as possible.  But you would think that would mean that Tuesday would see it starting to settle down.

Oh hell no.

I should have known.  I had all the signs glaring at me yesterday, forewarning me of the insanity that was about to take over my life.  In my day off, I managed to get so much cleaning, rearranging, organizing, and decorating done in my own home.  Even FatBastard taking a shit on my new rug didn't slow me down.  And I have to admit, he was right...that rug looked like kaka.  But by the end of the day, I had a home that made me want to just sit and enjoy.  I even rounded out the day baking a cake.  From scratch.  Merely because I felt like it.  I had my shit together and perfected life better than Martha Stewart on crack.  It was like Pinterest took over my soul and navigated my day for me.   Yesterday was a big, giant WIN.

Today was breaking in new boots that wanted to give me a big fat blister.  Ending up in display windows under the pressure of changing them out before I got strung up from a light pole by salivating customers.  Making such a gigantor mess that I then had to rearrange and redecorate the entire front half of the store.  Feeling the accusing eyes on me when I don't immediately respond to where the orange pillows have gone to.  Knowing in my heart of hearts that the orange pillows would nicely tie together my Country Living magazine spread living room, and feeling myself break out into a cold sweat until the customer puts them back down.  Having to tell someone that saving merchandise for them is not an employee perk we are allowed.  Being met with dead silence when I try to keep the humor in the day.   Better yet, when I say the job is more a hobby, being taken seriously and garnering sympathy for working for pennies...nope, not looking for sympathy, just trying to say it's FUN, you funsucking twit.

I've got to find that billboard, or community announcement, and take it down, shut them up, and for the sake of all that is holy, let us get just ONE thing done in a day.

But the highlight of the day?  No, it wasn't the child trying to crawl in our window.  It wasn't having to ask two young women why they kept looking at the ceiling.  It wasn't having to alert parents that their children were tearing toy packaging open.

It was providing one on one service to a very special young woman who will be the Grand Marshall in our homecoming parade.  We've got her dressed in a trendy, fun, adorable outfit tailored to her love of sparkles that comes out in her shining personality.  From greeting her at the door with a fall leaf garland wrapped around my neck, complete with a dance and twirl, to dressing her head to toe and soaking up that smile on her face, I couldn't have asked for a better day.

That's what it's all about.

Penny pay, tomfuckery, chaos while the boss is gone.

And joy.

Blurred Lines

No, not the song.  My brain.

But that's ok, because it was COFFEE DAY!

Coffee day saved the day, because the day started with one of those monster headaches.  A headache that required gulping ibuprofen as soon as I got to work and then disappearing to rearrange the lower level just because the lighting down there isn't as harsh as the main level.  Luckily, it was work that actually needed to be done, so I suppose I should look at that headache as great timing.  I guess.  Kinda fucked up logic, but it works.

Damn weather changes.  It's the source of the monster headache.  Along with not being able to remember if I've been taking my allergy medicine every morning.  I could get one of those Monday through Sunday pill sorters, but it would only have the one pill in it, so it seems a little ludicrous.  Plus, I'm 42 (and 358 days but who's counting), so I really don't need a pill sorter at this stage of my life.

Weather change...as in the last summer hurrah.  Maybe.  It's nearly 90 degrees today.  Makes perfect sense, because it's that first week of September and we always seem to get some kind of last minute heat wave.  However, this single hot day is going to suddenly drop so that tomorrow we MIGHT reach a whopping 70 degrees.  And what that becomes is me being obstinate about running air conditioning.  Especially when no one is home all day.  But it's HOT in this house.  So now, with the headache hangover firmly entrenched in my brain, I'm also feeling slightly cranky.  I might just go do some yard work, because hey, I'm already feeling cranky, hot, sweaty, and I think I should regale all my neighbors with the glorious sight of my striped pajama shorts and ragged tshirt with a hole in it.

This time of year is angst time.  Not your typical angst either.  I'm not feeling that anxiety over finances, home, marriage, children, or even about the current sad state of my manicure.  No, this angst is over fashion choices.  Why?  Because I bought glorious boots.  Boots so divine that I actually went through my closets and got rid of two pairs.  (really, a 42 year and 358 day old should NOT be wearing fur boots that make you look like a Yeti)  And while I was at it, I decided to check out those super deep, massively wide drawers I have, because when fall and winter clothes were packed away this spring, I had plenty of room.  And they are now overflowing.

Not only do I have a boot problem, I have a sweater problem.  Never ask me how many sweaters one person can possibly own, because I will cackle wildly and tell you not to ask stupid questions.  In fact, my sweater problem is so bad that it now has caused a problem called "not enough shirts" problem.  The number of sweaters now make me feel like I don't have enough shirts to layer under said sweaters.

But I have boots.  Oh yes I do.  And I'm ready for the cooler weather, because as much as I love and adore having my toes free, I adore boots even more.

Plus, according to FatBastard, it's time for a weather change.  Not because he's lying in a heap of gluttonous fur on the floor since I won't turn on the air.  No, he told me exactly what he thinks of my sandal problem.  But first, the back story...blame coffee day and headache hangover as I ramble all over the place on this one.

Have you ever owned the perfect pair of shoes?  Of course, when buying them, you don't know they are the perfect pair of shoes, so you only buy that single pair.    And then, you wear them, break them in to perfectly fit your feet, and you feel like you have died and gone to heaven.  Or hell, when you realize you should have bought five pairs so you will always have a pair of these perfect shoes in your closet.

Yup, I own one of those.  It's a simple little flip flop.  But not so simple when you attempt to replace it.  A brown leather Reef flip flop with the perfect wide strap (but not too wide) placed at the perfect spot on your feet.  Because they are leather, they mold to your feet perfectly, and even the worst heinous day at work can be spent in these flip flops without feeling like your feet have been reduced to bloody stumps by closing time.  I have owned these sandals for three years, and they are now so worn out that I should be ashamed to wear them.  But I'm not.  The brown leather is nearly black in spots now, because they are really wretched with the constant wear.  But they are PERFECT, other than looking as if I should toss them onto the road so that someone can wonder why there are random shoes on the highway.

At least, they WERE perfect.

I wasn't going to wear them today, but they were sitting at the back door next to another pair of sandals I was looking for.  And when I went to retrieve said sandals, I saw the trail of cat yak.  And could FatBastard yak the chunky hairball on the shoes so that there might be hope of possibly salvaging them?  Oh hell no.  FatBastard yaked the hairball onto the floor, and then yaked that gross liquid like substance I call "after yak" right onto the perfect sandals.  The perfect leather sandals that because they are leather, will absorb the liquid.  Even my love for them can not save them now.

Fine, ya asshole, I'll throw them away.

Jerk.

But, putting aside my sorrow, this is yet one more sign that the season will be changing.  A season that calls for all those bargain finds through the summer of sweaters, boots, scarves, and layers.  I will avoid thinking about what can follow, like a never ending polar vortex that freezes the vitreous fluid in your eyeballs the moment you step outside.  For now, I will dream of my favorite season...autumn.  The smell of the leaves, the bright orange, yellow, and red leaves, the endless raking, the huge fires.

But first, a memorial service for the sandals.  I will bury them in the backyard, and mark them with a shoebox gravestone.  I will mourn their loss, at least, until that first 63 degree day when I can wear the glorious boots.  Or the bitch boots.  Or the sexy beast boots.  I think this year I will name all my boots.  Yes, name them all.  It's good to have goals

Until then, I will keep crafting my fall decorations.  Playing with glitter leaves.  Getting hot glue all over myself and hissing in pain every time I touch the hot glue gun.  You would think I would learn, but I get a little excited and carried away when glitter and hot glue are involved.  And since the heat wave will be over by then, I believe this weekend will be the perfect time to adorn the house in fall/bring on the cooler weather decor.  If I can scrape the hot glue off my fingers.

Never too much glitter.