Flashback 2: Punch and mushrooms

This one's from 1972, when I could still walk into a church without bursting into flames (I'm not saying the occasional spark didn't cause a little discomfort here and there, but the whole "Your hair and body are engulfed in flames!" thing hadn't yet started to happen).




My First Communion; this was obviously before the painful, expensive, labor-intensive removal of that unsightly mushroom.

Flashback (now with red ribbons)!

I'll tell you what: we really knew how to dress in 1975.




Left to right: Bride's sister, looking like I just farted in her face; groom's sister (me), looking like I might perhaps have just farted in her face; best man, looking like he just wants his damned drink so he can get back to all the babes in the forest-green hooded bridemaids' dresses.

It's too bad this picture doesn't adequately capture the level of frill that is on my dress. Wearing it in a public place was slightly mortifying for me, and when the night was over, I couldn't wait to wriggle into a pair of bluejeans and pee standing up.

Poor horsey just wanted a drink from the Red River Valley

As seen in Meijer late one evening. I won't tell you which one I was shopping for, horses or feminine hygiene products.

If I hear those fucking dogs barking "Jingle Bells" one more time...

Christmas, for me, is like an ice-water enema: you dread it, you do it, you get it over with, and then you shiver in the corner for a week afterward.

Really, if you can work in retail this time of year and still enjoy Christmas, then you're made of stronger and more tolerant stuff than I am. Go forth in your reindeer sweater and Star of Bethlehem scrunchie and enjoy yourself.

For the rest of you, I ask that you be kind to those of us who must slap on the nametag today and deal with your last-minute shopping panic.

• Please don't try to haggle; buy it or don't buy it, but understand that I cannot do a damned thing about the marked price.
  
  
• Don't bring your fifteen children into the store and just turn them loose to destroy everything in sight; also, consider birth control.
  
  
• Don't make me accompany you to the parts drawers, then basically ask me "How do I build [whatever complicated electronic device you are considering]?" Seriously, if I could build that shit, don't you think I'd be doing that for a living? I can show you where the parts are stocked, but if you have no idea what part performs which function, or how to tie them together, then you probably need to stay the fuck away from the parts drawers. (Okay, this bothers me any time of the year, but at Christmas, I really really don't have time for that shit.)
  
  
• Do not wander into the store two minutes before the posted closing time, and then say "I'm just looking" when I try to wait on you; the time for "just looking" was over an hour ago. We are not a fucking library, and we'd like to go home now, not watch you mouth breathe all over the store with no sense of time or purpose.
  
  
• Don't be a douche. I know that's a tall order, but if you want me to care about the quality of service I give you, then it's a good idea not to needlessly antagonize me right off the bat. I'll bet waitresses piss in your soup, too.

There. Now you've had the full benefit of my Christmas cheer. In closing, I'd like to leave you with a little musical number that I hope touches your heart the way it touched mine:

The only thing missing is the hairless pussy

It just dawned on me that my fifth blogiversary was a couple of weeks ago. It's too late to celebrate that milestone in human culture (but if you do feel like paying tribute, go out for a pap smear and have the doc yell "Hello...hello...hello...hello..." next to your monkey).

Instead, let me celebrate this warm and fuzzy holiday by presenting to you:

Real Thanksgiving of New Jersey (click on the image to view larger):

A short bus story

When Friday does this, I feel like a midget at a puppet show.


It's hard to follow the migration pattern of the free-range idiot. Sometimes the idiots show up singly, sometimes they come in pairs, and quite often an idiot is accompanied by a semi-willing/semi-mortified/just-used-to-it-and-ignoring-it companion. One thing that can be predicted about the species, however, is that each and every idiot within a 50-mile radius of here will, eventually, will find me where I work and will annoy the living shit out of me.

**************

I've already introduced you to Motormouth Gramps. This would be as good a time as any, I reckon, to have you meet The TV Bitch.

She and her husband arrived via bus, and as I always do when customers are dropped off by the bus, I said a little prayer to the retail gods that these people would not be assholes. In Grand Haven, you see, the bus does not run on a set schedule - it's a dial-a-ride service, so when someone has to call the bus to come fetch him or her, there's no guarantee that it will be there in anything resembling a timely fashion. Since there were no other businesses within walk-in distance, it wasn't like they could really wait for the bus anywhere other than in my store.

So, the couple disembarked, entered the store, and made straight for me. I either have a sympathetic face, or I look like a complete and utter sucker, because the weirdos will inevitably zero in on me. These two didn't seem outright weird; but you know how some people look...not quite right? Yeah. That.

They were nice as could be, though, and I chastised myself for pre-judging them based on their bus ridership and not-quite-rightness. Quick and pleasant transaction made, bus called, my customers wandered the store awaiting the chariot of mass transit.

While they waited, I walked over to talk to my boss toward the front of the store. She and I were deep in conversation, probably about something completely inappropriate, when the lady of the bus couple appeared next to us fairly abruptly.

"Hi, did you have a question?" I asked her, hoping it wasn't the "Do you have a bathroom?" question.

"I don't like those TVs." She said it emphatically, firmly, with great conviction in her voice and a fervor in her eyes that burned like jalapeño ass lube.

My boss and I were caught totally off guard. Confused, we asked her which TVs, and why the hate, hon?

She gestured at the three TVs we had on display. "All of those. I don't like those TVs." Still totally serious and not to be fucked with.

We finally figured out, after many interjections of "I don't like those TVs." that she was not a fan of the flat-screen TV.

"What if they fall over? Who's gonna put that on my wall? Why don't you have the regular TVs in here?"

She just kept at it and kept at it, always coming back to her questioning of why we didn't have any of the old, square, hella-heavy TVs in stock. Well, ma'am, it's because most sane people prefer a TV with a better picture, and one that can be moved without a fucking crane.

Finally, I tired of the question and said, "Neither of us has any say in what is or isn't stocked in the stores. You'd have to ask someone a lot higher up on the corporate food chain about the decisions made." That's the standard joke I make each time I encounter an idiot customer who's under the impression that I have any control of any part of the company for which I work. See the name tag, pal? People who make the decisions don't usually have to sport a "Welcome to...My Name is..." lapel-side.

TV Bitch looked a little confused by my statement, and my boss translated for me. "You'd have to talk to our CEO."

TV Bitch rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah, that'll take a hundred years..."

Boss and I briefly exchanged raised-eyebrow looks.

TV Bitch rolled on, "...and then the ghosts will come in and knock over this building."

We had a moment of silence in memory of any true direction this conversation was taking. Boss and I had no idea what to say at this point, and TV Bitch/Ghost-Demolition lady looked like she was winding herself up to continue down the path of whatthefuck-ness. I glanced over at her husband and the expression on his face said many things, but mostly it said Oh, crap, she's doin' it again, and I have to be married to her, you guys, and please just entertain her so I can shop in peace for a few minutes, 'kay?

I have never in my life been so overjoyed to see the bus pull up in front of the store.

September: rhymes with dismember

Well, shove another statue in my ass, how the hell did it get to be September already? I thought I was bein' all productive, putting up a post early in August, thinking I'd follow it with at least one or two more...and then BAM. Now it's cold and my ass is all jiggly with the shivers, and not in a good way.

First things first (because it's more arrangey that way): The winners of my caption contest are Bone Machine, for the timeless "She's got Sandy Duncan Eyes." and Sheryl Stephen for the heartwarming sentiment, "Oh, Sonny, you just dislodged my mucus plug with your teeth!" I couldn't pick just one, so I am crowning Bone and Sheryl the King and Queen of the Cotillion Prom. Or is "Cotillion Prom" redundant? Either way, I'm forced to wear something made of taffeta and to put my hair up into ridiculous turd curls. Go on and dance your spotlight dance, you two.


In other news: Now that my local store has closed, I'm driving a half hour each way to a different store, and working an average of six hours a week. Like a 30-year case of diarrhea, it's gettin' old. So, my chaps and I are actively back on the job hunt. I'd really like to find employment as a court jester, or perhaps the pastie technician at a strip club; I'll keep you informed on my career progress.

Speaking of progress, how awesomely fucking awesome is it to have Project Runway back on the air? I'll give Bravo props for trying to give us a substitute, but let's face it: The Fashion Show was nothing more than a scrap of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of Tim Gunn's always-polished shoe. It was like asking for a Classic Coke and instead being handed a warm glass of piss. Well, maybe I'm being too harsh here; warm piss isn't as bad as The Fashion Show, not if it's fairly fresh, and doesn't have those lemonade fleaks in it.

Also, I did, in fact, make it to the zoo this summer. Here, have a camel's ass:





And, finally, I'd like to offer proof that just because you're about a thousand years old (in cat years) doesn't mean you ain't still cute enough to stop traffic.















Eeyore prefers to summer at the Monkey-Head Hilton condo. And where's that catnip julep he ordered ten minutes ago, hmmmmm?

That is all. Transmission ended.

Do it. Do it.

Caption this picture!
(Bonus points if you know who this is and can work a General Hospital reference into your caption.)




The winner of this contest will NOT receive any Rice-a-Roni. Just thought that ought to be clear, as I have no desire to dress like Bucky Crocker again.

It's that time of the month

Damn, how did I get to this point, this "oh, crap, it's the last day of the month and I haven't posted anything" point? Maybe I should start a policy of drunken blogging; the content might not make sense, but there would be content.

The last couple of weeks have been a blur, as the hammer came down on my store and we closed shop. The company has been assuring us for months and months, "Oh, yeah, we're gonna move you to a better location in town, we wouldn't just close your store, heavens, no!" Sure. And the Tooth Fairy is gonna respect me in the morning. I know bullshit when I hear it.

We had two weeks to pack up every last bit of merchandise in the place and ship it out to other stores, remove all the shelving and fixtures, and sweep and vacuum a building that is going to be demolished in a few days. Up until mid-day last Saturday, we were also doing all this with customers coming in to make purchases from our ever-dwindling inventory. Some of them felt the need to come in to gawk and generally get right in our way as we were trying to get shit done. We so desperately needed Officer Barbrady to come in with a cattle prod. "Nothing to see here, move along, all you lookie-loos." Really, folks - if watching a few people pack up a store is your idea of entertainment, I would suggest going home and jabbing a crab fork into your eyes; it's the next logical step.

Even after we put a sign on the door that explained the fact that we were closed, people would not stop coming in and asking about it, as if the sign were some kind of joke and we were withholding their precious batteries. Customers would phone us, and on average, would make us repeat "No, this location is no longer in business" at least five times during the conversation. Yes, we're closed, so get the fuck out of my way and have a blessed day.

It's all been a bit more physical work than I'm used to; it's made me realize, "Hey! I'm a middle-aged woman who's grossly out of shape!" And then I go get some pizza. Yesterday, we finally got the dumpster that we'd been trying to acquire for days, and the only two of us who were on site that day happened to be the two oldest employees in the store. I have to say, though, that the two of us kicked ass, kicked paunchy, varicose-veined, silver-haired ass. My muscles are still not on speaking terms with me, my knees are on strike, and my feet are in negotiations with a different, younger body, but the worst of my injuries out of all that lifting and tossing is the giant hole I ripped in the armpit of my RENT t-shirt when I hooked it with a bracket attached to the rather weighty shelf I was tossing over the side of the dumpster. If that shelf had been half an inch closer to my body when I heaved it up and over, I'd be typing this with stitches in my side.

Starting tomorrow, I'll be working at another of our locations. My drive will be half an hour instead of seven to ten minutes, but at least they're keeping me, and I'll no longer be working with Annoying Boy. Today we wrapped things up, took the last of the keep-it crap out of the building, and shut off the lights for the last time. Last Sunday was my one-year anniversary at this job, but I really didn't think I harbored any sentimentality toward the location, save for the fact that it was a short commute. But damned if I didn't spill some tears as I was driving out of the lot.

Shit, I'm gonna miss that crappy little store!

Because I'm a grownup

The best-laid plans of mice and men never get laid. I'm living proof of that.

I had my day off all planned out: Tuesday would be My Day at the Zoo. I love the zoo. I haven't been to the zoo in years. Nobody fucks with my day at the zoo.

I would spy on the spider monkeys, drink beer with the bears, stroke the stingrays, badger the budgies, hump the camels, all the while working up the nerve to ride the four-story zip line that would send me in glorious pseudo flight over the petting corral. I would be five years old all over again, except for the driver's license and wrinkles, but those were mere technicalities. It would be a glorious summer day wherein I pestered animals besides my own with a camera and my insane, delighted giggles.

Somebody fucked with my day at the zoo.

Somewhere around the get-the-fuck-outta-here-on-my-day-off hour of 7:30 a.m., an hour that doesn't even technically exist on one's weekend, I was awakened by what seemed to be a marching band but was just my phone. I was just awake enough to mutter "Fuuuuuuuuck..." in a sleep-raspy voice when I saw on the caller ID that it was my boss. There had been an emergency in her family, and could I work for a few hours?

Now, you'll never meet an asshole who's more selfish than I am, but even I have a tiny sliver of decency when it comes to family medical emergencies, having lived through enough of them myself, so work was on and Operation GiggleZoo was aborted. My inner five-year-old went off into the corner to pout and draw pictures of me with a pig nose, and off to work I went.

Though rain had been predicted for the day, it turned out to be sunny and a little cool - the perfect day for a middle-aged woman to go compare necks with the giraffes for a few hours. I couldn't help but fantasize how my day would've gone had I not been called to cashier duty...



Monkeys! I love monkeys!















Aw, dammit, I knew I should've buttoned my shirt before I wandered over here. Sorry 'bout the stray nipples, guys.




Well, monkeys are just rude anyway. I'll go visit the elephants and see if they want these peanuts I shoved down my pants.















Hmmmmm...guess not.




There's a pretty polar bear. Oh, look - the polar bear wants to give me kisses! Butt kisses!



















There's no way I could be misreading that signal, right?




















Wrong!




Not my best zoo day ever. Even the puma hates my display of too much belly.





















"Oh, I want a LOT of lumps!"


The point to all this is...there's no fucking point. The only way I can keep myself from having a pouty hissy fit over going to work and missing the zoo is to imagine massive amounts of animal vomit.

That, my friends, is maturity.