New York, New York!

This blog entry should be called, "despite the fact I'm pretty, I am just a tiny speck in this grandiose world, seriously, I know, it's hard to believe."
On Christmas Eve I flew to New York for a 36 hour vacation extravaganza! Well, "extravaganza" may be an exaggeration... which I am known to do. Sue me. Anywhosies, I went to NYC for Thanksgiving in a similar manner, flew in, flew out, squeezed it in during my hectic work schedule and loved every second of it. So for Christmas I decided to do it again. The first trip really represented more than a trip to the city, it was the first time in a long time, maybe ever, that I didn't hold myself back, hindering my own happiness for no good reason. Or the habit of always "playing it safe." Aka, boring.  Holidays at the Country Manse are typically spent with a party of two. Myself, and a Bloody Mary. Why? Because I work a lot, I work retail, I am tired, and my family isn't around, and my friends have families of their own--blee blah bloo! So many excuses. So I decided to live a little and book a 36 hour trip to New York, flying home in time for the glorious Black Friday. I was so proud of myself.  Then I decided if I could make that happen, why not fulfill an even bigger dream-- Christmas in New York!  For as many years as I can remember, I have said that I would know I really made it in life, if I could spend Christmas in New York. Part of this dream was the actual thrill of the city, but it was more about me not being a martyr. I assumed because I work retail, and likely always will, there was no way I could ever do what I really wanted. Big fat lie. Anything is possible. Sounds cliche. But most things truly are possible, you just have to figure out how to do it, and then actually do it. And I did. I must admit, a few days before my Christmas trip I was wondering if it was a mistake because I was feeling much more tired, and slightly overwhelmed at the end of the holiday season in comparison to the beginning of the season when I went over Thanksgiving. But by the time I arrived at the airport in Detroit I had full energy, and by the time I reached New York, I had not one bit of regret.
My Christmas trip was a little different in the fact my sister had to work, so I was in the city alone. I did not have keys to her apartment, so once I left, I was gone for the day. I knew my sister would be really disappointed in me if I just spent the day at her place, or even just in her neighborhood. And really, I would have been disappointed in myself too. But, I have never been in the city alone either. So I made my way to the subway, bought a metro card, hopped on with no real plan. Except to remember exactly the way I was going, so I could back track in the exact way home. I got off on the 34th street stop because Miracle on 34th Street seemed like a place to be on Christmas. I cannot tell you how exhilarating it was to wander the city and take it all in. There is so much to look at and nothing looks like anything I typically see. No one knows who you are, and no one really cares. Coming off a work season of having to be up all the time, and being what sometimes feels like everything to everyone, it felt so good to be quiet and anonymous with no one demanding anything from me. No one looked to me for a solution, a reaction, a need--no one looked at me. I would stop into Starbucks to get warm during my journey, and I loved that too. It felt familiar, because it's Starbucks for shit's sake, but the people were all so different. Half the people spoke in another language, half looked wealthier than I could imagine, and still many looked like eccentric bums. You could only imagine every one's story, and that was fascinating to me.
It's easy to be bored by your surroundings, but it is far worse to get bored by thought. For me, I needed to see other people, who even though I was not interacting with, had different lives, different stories. The typical scenario I deal with at work is angry unhappy woman, with an angry unhappy life, no ambition, no drive, hasn't really lived outside of their own angry selfish life. Sounds harsh, and it doesn't represent everyone, but it's a big reality of what I deal with daily. Sometimes you want to engage with something beyond, "she stole my sale, you go fix it." Or, "I call in once a week but it's your fault you've cut my hours and I don't have enough money to eat." And don't get me wrong, New York is not Utopia, but that's just it, there are far worse things happening everywhere, and we really are just a tiny speck in this world. And I think that's a reminder that everyone could benefit from.
So in conclusion of my serious boring post, what's really the point? For me, it's realizing that you really can have it all. You just have to define what that means to you, and actually take a step to make it happen. You cannot be afraid to be who you are, and know you are the driver and control where you go. Negativity needs to be put on the conveyor belt and let go. People matter above all, and you should never let yourself get too busy where you ignore the good people. To be better, you must do better. And you should always try to do better. Life is too short to not live the life you truly want.

I'm busy.

I'm not too busy for facials and crime shows.

Wow, you must be pretty pulverized that I haven't updated in awhile. You probably thought I quit my blog. Well, this isn't the clarinet, or volleyball or a relationship. You don't just throw in the towel because you're bored and too pretty--oh no. I have just been a little" busy." Usually I get annoyed when people talk about how busy they are, because most people are. In fact, everyone in my life, except maybe my diva misfits who stand around doing nothing all ding blasted day, are quite busy. But that's another blog, another day.  More often than not we exaggerate how busy we are to sound superior or get out of doing things we don't want to do. Like attend  baby showers or my dad's wedding. Things we really want to do, we make time for no matter how busy or tired we are. For example, this time a year I get one day off a week (Wednesdays if you are nosy) and I typically work one of two shifts, either 8am-6pm or 2pm-10pm. If you factor in my drive time, and time it takes to close the store, I work either a 7am-7pm or a 1pm-11:30pm, 6 days a week. I am not complaining because I am not a lazy asshole, and I like to be busy. So anywhosies, we could say by most standards, this schedule alone could be categorized as "busy." But there are things I will always make time for. Like true crime documentaries on my laptop. I usually start and end my day this way, sitting on the couch like a psychopath. Beauty treatments. I perform an elaborate facial 3-4 times a week with a substantial amount of time watching the facial in a mirror. This does not include my daily regimen or body treatments. I put lotion on my skin like the girl in the well who is about to get the hose again. I don't care if I am running late or not. Dry skin is sick, and one step away from not shaving your legs and growing a mustache. I also always make time for necessary household chores. This include making the bed daily. I think the day you stop making your bed is the day you should be killed. I mean, what's next, eating Arby's in the bathtub? Obviously.



I'm too busy to do the back of my hair.

Ok, so we all have the non-negotiables of what we will never be too busy for. But what about the things we let slide when our schedules fill up?  Easy. Baby showers, wedding showers, births, weddings. Combing the back of my hair. Wearing pants. Five minute work outs on the treadmill.  Eating. Anything hard. Anything boring. Things requiring an attention span...hey I gotta go, I'm busy.

My Office



Exhibit 1: My old office.

My office has always been like a second home (or a glamorous episode of Hoarders, you pick).  One, because I work a lot, and two, because I like everything to be visually appealing-- often an extension of my unique and charming personality. However, my job isn't the type where you sit in a cubicle working on TPS reports, (Way. Too. Pretty. For. That.) So the contents of my office are often least what most expect. Because my place of biz is not a typical office, the actual structure of our offices are just made from any old space one can fit a desk, and a 1968 government issued IBM. (Mine is named Dolores) Exhibit 1 is my old office, and has been for 5 years. I am not sure what it was before it was an office, but it has a counter top, broken cupboards, and a sink filled with hair. Maybe a cafeteria, maybe an embalming room.

The desk was split down the center, (and was like that from the start,) hoisted up on some old hunks of wood, with the drawers taped close. I always assumed it would collapse on me rendering me paralyzed from the waist  down requiring a powder blue Shetland pony dyed powder blue to match my eyes so I wouldn't feel so bad being a cripple, to pull me around in a mini chariot. This would of course be the alternative to an unsightly wheel chair, because everyone knows wheel chairs smell like band aids and pee. Well this tragedy did not happen exactly like I always dreamed it would, but nonetheless the desk  came crashing down like a major natural disaster! I had to think quick because I knew unless I hauled the way the debris on my back like a work donkey, it wasn't going anywhere, and I had TPS reports...to report. So I did the best any very feminine McGyver type would do--I formed the junk into a new shape, covered it with an old Estee Lauder table cloth, and called it a bistro table. It got me through a couple of weeks, as I was too busy with Black Friday and all, to really work on my TPS reports. But yesterday morning things took a turn. Due to the tragic demise of the desk, the rubble left an unpleasant odor that could only be described as dusty makeup rotten smelly dead animal carcinogens. Because this is not a "real" office, there are not Molly Maids who come late at night and cleaner 'er up. You try to just make due when faced with adversity. That's why I wore gloves to type, and wore a surgical mask if I was going to be back there longer than usual. You know, if I was interviewing someone, or making decoupage. I try to take the trash out nightly, because with my 23 diva misfits, it is not uncommon for them to stash away a meaty onion sandwich in my trash. And the holidays really are quite lovely for the copious quantities of ethnic foods brought in by my diva misfit step children. I love tabbouleh as much as the next, but it can get quite pungent after being out for 6 days straight. Everyone knows I have OCD and like everything clean, neat and orderly, but 23 kids and their constant mess often pushes me to my breaking point. And the kids' mess doesn't even count the eleventy billion signs, posters and boxes that get thrown in there too. Not too long ago, a coffin sized box fell over on me wedging me into a wall for over 16 seconds. I was just like that baby that fell into a well... If the baby in the well wore high heels and had to ruin her mani digging herself out while maintaining some sort of lady-like decorum. Obviously way worse for me.

 

 

Exhibit 2: My new office.

 

So yesterday I decided, unless I was going to start wearing some flat, thick rubber soled sad nurse shoe, I could not live like this. So I grabbed my clipboard of fake documents, and went "real estate shopping" before the store opened. I wanted my new office to be  far enough from my 23 diva misfits that their lazy tails couldn't find me, but not too far that I couldn't find them. My only other true requirement was a 1968 gov't issued IBM, as Dolores had become disconnected during the desk disaster of 2012. Finally after an hour and a half (an hour and 20 I was trying on dresses) I found a new home under the stairs  I am a glamorous treasure troll. The walls aren't painted, I don't think there is heat, but there is a desk, 43 old mini lockers and a computer from my grandparents era! So vintage.  I was over come with joy! I hung up my coat, threw my handbag in the third locker to the left, under the one that smelled like roast beef, and spun around with glee! And you realize when I say "spun around" I mean tip toed in a half circle so as not to lose an eye from an old fixture or slip on the unfinished concrete.

Because it's still really difficult to think about my loss with the old office, I haven't really returned for too many belongings. I moved in with just the important things I would need on a daily basis. As you can see from Exhibit 2, that included a mirror, a straightening iron, and my Detroit souvenir multi tipped pen.
The moral of the story is this, I may not have a secretary, or a view, or a ceiling or a a floor... *looks left, looks right.* That's all.

 

Meat and Pop

You know I try to keep up with current events, not because I care that much, but with the invention of the smart phone it is imperative people search/play with every possible app at every possible second. It's a chic way of saying, "I have a phone, and no attention span." Surprisingly, these constant searches and button pushings, includes *gasp* the news. So Hostess is closing and I.  Could.  Not . Be.  More.  Devastated.  I'm joking.  If I couldn't jest about fat people, my material would be cut substantially. But I can see why the world is so saddened, because people will put anything in their pie holes.  Is a pie hole a mouth, or a vagina? It's a mouth, right?
Just last night I made the horrific decision to stop at a small grocer on my way home, located in an even smaller town than I reside.  (Sick.)  I cannot really figure out why I would choose this backwoods store other than the fact I am lazy, I wanted an avocado, and I didn't want to drive 2 more feet past my typical drive home, because, as I said, I am lazy.
I find the avocado without too much trouble, which is shocking because there were few items that did not contain high fructose corn syrup as ingredient numero uno, or come in a dented label-less can. I quickly made  my way to the register hoping the smell of dirty pennies and food stamps would not stick to my hair. I was pleased to see the express isle (8 items of less) was open. I was not pleased to see a fat man with a cart filled with hamburger and orange pop. I lost count of the two items at 27. At first I was more pulverized by the fact he exceeded the 8 limit by at least 19. Then I switched my anger to the contents of his cart. What in the Sam hell was he going to cook? Obviously a heavily influenced hamburger dish, and obviously for the next 67 days. And who drinks orange pop? Why does it even exist? Yeah, I went through a phase in middle school where I would buy a can of orange Sunkist as my lunch. But this was just my juvenile attempt to look chic and aloof, like I was far too cool to be bothered with packing a lunch, or grabbing more than 1 item in the cafeteria. I guess I have always been chic and lazy. I can only presume that if you are buying 2liters of orange pop, you probably guzzle them straight from the bottle, all though I would seriously recommend a petite juice glass if I was held at gunpoint and told I had to drink orange pop. But then again, on the flip side, I don't judge (yes I do) and I suppose we all have secret foods we eat that maybe we aren't super proud of. What are mine you ask? Well, I can't lie to you all, I never could. I sometimes (like a lot) eat a classic ice cream sandwich for breakie. And while yes, I used to openly make fun of fat dad for buying the day care sized peanut butter, I have been known to eat a few spoonfuls on occasion (like every day, in my bed).  So I guess the moral of the story is this, I am going to start growing my food on my own plantation so I don't have to be grossed out at the back woods little grocers ran by inbreds who eat four times their weight in cow pies. Daily.

Cars!

This post is called, "I don't own a car, because I'm a lady, Ass Face." I thought I should document this tale, as it is looking more likely that my sister is going to move to California and require her luxury Honda back.
So in the beginning....I was raised that being skinny and pretty is essential, followed closely with the idea that the car you drive is a direct link to whether or not you will get into heaven. Or in other words, "the important things."
My first car was a BMW named Olive that I received from fat dad when I was 15. It was sold several years later when I decided I did not drive, I was driven. Don't get your panties in a bundle, the car was an '81, and I was a terrible driver. Several years later I bought myself a Jetta named Gretta. She was quite the looker, especially in these parts. But then I decided to play the Ouiji board at Ghost Trestle, and consequently, Gretta never worked again. Don't bother asking questions on that tale, you are too big of a sissy-la-la to know.
After that, I decided I needed an SUV named Marty Maraschino, ( after the slutty pink lady.) I paid the king's ransom for her over the course of several years, and she was a beaut. At some point during my ownership of Marty, I realized I was too pretty to care so much about my car. Or maybe I became  poorer in my quest to be defined by my killer wardrobe instead. Either, way, we will say I grew up and became wise to the world.  So I paid off Marty, kept her impeccably clean, and drove the shit out of her for over 10 years. Well, like everything else, she got run down and started to break. I shelled out some dough for a plethora of repairs before turning to fat dad for guidance. You must know, that fat dad is schooled particularly well on two things: he is a gas station hamburger connoisseur, and he knows his cars. He has always collected cars like women (for him that's a lot of both). As a kid he would buy carpet for under his cars,  and stanchions to go around them, as if we would dare touch them anyway as our step mother, Satan, did not allow us to make direct eye contact with people. Or cars, we will say. Present day he has a little black car, I would call Brad, one of those hideous toaster shaped cars hipsters drive, and a tiny 80's porche he barely fits in.  I never ask anything of fat dad, except maybe he not eat his cow pies in front of me. Is a cow pie a hamburger? Or poop? I don't know what you meat eaters call them nowadays. You get the point. But I needed his advice.
 Anywhosies, I turn to fat dad and say, "hey Mcfatty, what do you think is wrong with Marty?" F.D. says, "oh Sis, Marty is a boat anchor at this point. Why don't you push her off into your woods, you'd be lucky to get $800 for her."  That is a quote.  And apparently $800 is chump change to my father, P.Diddy. *insert sarcasm*
So I whined to anyone who would listen about my car debacle. And all of a sudden, every gd person I knew was a car expert. Most of the advice was to just simply sell Marty, and buy a Benz.  I too, also have P.Diddy's salary, so this was excellent advice. Those few who didn't recommend simply buying a Benz, offered me their brother, cousin, neighbor, uncle to car shop with me. I don't even like to girl shop at the mall with other people because it's too damn annoying, and that's for dresses or handbags. The idea of shopping for a car with your great  uncle's neighbor who could allegedly get me a good deal, sounded disgusting and gross.
But Marty needed to go before she really did die on the side of the road inevitably leaving me in the country to be raised by some hillbillies who would make my back skin into a prairie skirt. Yes, you should see what I drive through to get to my glamorous mall job. And then one day she stopped moving in my driveway and water came out of her head lights. I shit you not, like freaking tears!!
So I put Marty on Craig's list from the pressure of my smarter friends. The idea still made me nervous and scared of the freaks who would call. But I like money and I wanted to make some. The following is my Craig's list posting:

My beautiful 2002 GMC Envoy SLT, named Marty, died in my driveway. She looks stunning, perfect condition in looks. I have polished her leather interior every week for 10 years. But she does not run at all. I don't know why. Before she stopped completely, she had a leaky gas valve. She has 170,000 miles. I bet you know how to make her run, I do not, so please come get her.

And guess what, freaks began calling in after 2.5 seconds. Most were manly men who used car lingo I had never heard of. I debated on altering my voice to sound like a lez, giving me more credibility--but that's one "accent" I just can't seem to perfect. So I invited Bill to my home to check out Marty, based on the fact he referenced the 80's horror flick, "Christine."
Bill showed up to the Country Manse with his fat ginger brother and was polite as pie, despite the fact he looked like he was raised in a barn and had a gray tooth. I had decided on the price of $2000 based on extensive inter webs research. This was also decided on despite the fact my baby did not run. Ginger McFat pants offered me $1500 cash in crisp $100 bills and I agreed. After all that was still almost double what fat dad claimed Marty was worth. So I snatched up the cash, handed over the title with the complementary Bath and Body Works creamy nutmeg car freshener, and was off to the pool while the hillbillies allegedly made arrangements for a tow.
An hour later my friend and I returned from the pool to see Marty speed out of my drive on two wheels while the ginger McFatties just roared. I shook my head in a way that implied, "awe shucks, I just lost a game of neighborhood dodge ball." Actually that's a weird analogy and I would never play with the neighbors, or dodge ball. But you get the point. It was like no biggie!
But the damage was done, I sold my boat anchor, that drove out of my driveway with the same vigor she drove off the lot years and years ago.
So that was 3 months ago.  Luckily my sister who lives in New York, left behind her hunter green luxury Honda. Both bumpers are dented and her left mirror looks to be a bike mirror. It is tiny and does the opposite of magnify. So if a car is 4 feet away, it looks like it's 4 miles away. Hmmm...safe.  My sister has also spilled coffee on ever square inch, and a blackberry stain on the passenger floor looks like someone died. I just hate when I go blackberry picking and spill a bucket in my car and then step on them mashing them into the floor to be stained for all eternity. But we will blog about lil' Sis another day.
I tried car shopping on several occasions. But unless you have a gruff uncle neighbor cousin who is a man or a bull dyke--good luck. If you are not willing to buy a Benz, you are shown maroon grandma cars that were for sure, once cop cars. Every car I was shown I named. I test drove a Peggy, a Shirley, a Dolores, a Judy and a Marge. Those are all elderly, or fill their trunks with canned foods from Aldi's. After that I test drove a white Tiffany, to which the car man looked pleased by my naming. No. Tiffany wears scrunchies, blares Nicki Minaj and sprays herself with anything coconut flavored she can find. So I stopped with that hobby, and have just been driving the ol' luxury Honda. I find it hard to believe I am the first woman who does not have a vast knowledge or interest in cars who also doesn't have an uncle neighbor cousin lesbian lover, to help me.
But that's where we are today, proving once again, that I shouldn't drive--I should be driven.

Wear yo' makeup!

It's a well known fact I like the least amount of conflict as possible. Some view this as a major weakness, some acknowledge the fact I grew up being stuffed in suit cases and thrown down the stairs--so maybe I just want to take it easy, and not sweat the small stuff.  Nonetheless, my job is to boss people around. And while this is certainly not my favorite part of my job, I also don't want to be known as some asshole who can't do her job. So as with everything in life, I try to put my own spin on it.
As you know, I work with 20 diva misfits. Their job is quite easy, sell, be pleasant, and look pretty doing it. It is my job to make sure they have all the tools necessary to make this happen. Along the way, like every minute of every single day, we have a snafu here and there. And sometimes my darlings forget what they are suppose to do. If they forget to sell, I yell at them. If they forget to be pleasant, I beat them. If they forget to be pretty--well, that often takes a little more elbow grease on my part. 
And here's the tale of, "When My Darlings Forgot Being Pretty is the Most Important Thing."

It's hard to believe I am not drop dead gorgeous at every moment--naturally. But this blog is based on truths I just have to tell, so I will let you know, I have to work at this mug. Some people are naturally gorg, and require little effort, and *gasp* little makeup. But these people are plain with no personalities and wear yoga pants... as pants. Most of us require 16-87 products not including tools. And if you say you don't, you are lying or get Botox. And if it's the latter, good for you! *high five* In my humble opinion, the only thing worse than a homely woman who can't be helped, is a lazy woman, who can be helped. And trust me, we are all a little lazy, but lazy and unattractive does not work for me.
Every so often one of my diva misfits forgets the third prong on their three prong job description. They roll into work with either their hair combed with a garden rake, or a mug devoid of pretty. This is not only failure to meet a job requirement, this hinders them from goal number one--SELL. No one wants to buy pretties from an ugly. So, to make a medium length story into a long one, I had to use myself as a visual for those of my darlings who are as dumb as a box of hair, and not quite getting it.
The following pictures were snapped in a series to prove an age old lesson, ugly people do not make it far in life.

 

Exhibit 1: I didn't do my hair or makeup and look like a sad soccer mom who hates herself.

 

Exhibit 2: Doing yo' hair is an improvement, but how do you forget yo' mug?

Exhibit 3: Makeup gives you a soul, but what lady forgets her lipstick?

Exhibit 4: Confidence is key. Your facial expression with makeup can hide the fact you eat frosting from a can while crying in the bathtub.

Exhibit 5: Wear yo' damn makeup!

 

Politics and shit

It  would seem ignorant not to make some sort of post about the coming Presidential election. As you know, despite the fact I am quite attractive, I do have a mind. A pretty intelligent mind with many opinions that would surprise many who are just shown my darling picture, and have never had the opportunity to know me for a couple of years, (which is the length of time it typically takes me to warm up and acknowledge your presence.)
Anywhosies, yes, I know what's going on in this world--I might not enjoy talking about it every second of the day, because that's boring, nor am I making homemade signs in my basement like a psycho--but I am aware.
I also went to the most conservative college in the universe-- Hillsdale College. Google that shit if you are unfamiliar. I chose it because of the glamorous accommodations, and the fact that the only two adults who gave two licks about my existence, were both mean Republicans. That would be my fat dad, and a distant Aunt that sent me Ann Coulter books as coming of age gifts. And who wouldn't?  As a young adult you assume that your elders are wise and want nothing more than to guide you towards success. I mean, that's not what I thought, after all fat dad owned a pizza joint, toted his small children around in a white corvette and wore a members only jacket. My Auntie lived in DC, wore fake hair to "lessen her attractiveness in an effort to prevent muggings and rape," and locked me in a room with the Wall Street Journal when I came to visit. Obviously I knew these two, all though meaning well, were not the two to emulate. And I knew this at birth. As stated before, I chose my mean republican college because of the maids and lush carpeting.
So to make a long story into a medium length one, I have been schooled on politics, from a young age. And even though I will be paying that bitch Sallie Mae until I am 66 years old, I don't totally regret choosing my incredibly conservative Grecco Roman Judeo Christian education. It has allowed me to make an educated choice when it comes to my opinions and beliefs, specifically on politics (and religion, but that's another blog, another day). And it has gotten me my esteemed job at the mall. And I jest. No matter what you believe, I think it's important to learn all sides, all views. And lucky for me, I not only grew up to realize overalls and Keds do not a cute outfit make, no matter how many Kappa Kappa Gammas are wearing them, I learned that being a mean Baptist Republican is the furthest down on my list of, "yes, that makes sense to me." One notch below, Santy Claus and the Easter bunny really existing.  And I know, I know, you think Obama wants everyone on welfare, poor people are lazy and should be thrown into the sea, you hate abortion, love guns, and hate the gays because Jesus said so. I could go into the details on my political choices, but I will some it up by simply saying I believe in giving when you have more than you need, equality and rights for all, and the idea of the greater good, for the greater number. I also despise a simple solution for a complex problem, and don't want to ever be so far up my own ass, that I don't know how others live. Because my world is pretty privileged... and I am also pretty.
The moral of the story is this: believe whatever you want, but try not to judge people who wear red shoes on a Thursday.

Rent

This is the card that I have sent my rent check in, every month for the past two years You do the math--that's like 24 cards. I first found the Halloween version of this card a couple of years ago, and mailed it to my sister. She found the card to be so disgusting, that she sent it back. I found that gesture to be quite clever, so I began to keep my eyes peeled for funny greeting cards. That's when I realized that they make this card for almost every occasion, just simply changing the background. I cannot even tell you what it says on the inside, because I always am laughing too hard to notice, when I am slipping in my rent check, and popping it in the mail. I cannot think of what is more facetious than receiving this card every single month for two years--but for me, it's not commenting on receiving the card every month for two years! This might just add fuel to my fire, motivating me to continue on as long as this cheeky card exists. Because my landlord prefers not to communicate in any way, (even though she was my old boss and good friend for many years,) I have to imagine her reaction to the monthly card. I like to think she has saved every one, and keeps them in an old photo album, that she gets out during parties to entertain her guests. I imagine her running to the mailbox and jumping for joy when the card finally arrives. And maybe her man lover beats her to the mailbox some months. To which he probably then calls her at work, laughing and throwing his head back like a Pez dispenser, letting her know it arrived. Then she probably tells him that she can't wait to open it, and asks him to drive it to her work. So then he does, but he opens it on the drive because he is too excited to see what holiday version of the card they are making now. When he arrives to her job, her co-workers are all gathered, laughing with anticipation, to see if I have continued with the greeting card charade. After she opens it, there is a raucous laughter that disturbs the business, but my landlord just shares with the customers the hilarious tale, standing on a table and raising the card above her head for all to see. Everyone snaps pictures with their cell phones and sends it to no fewer than 16 friends. Hours later the crowds calm down, and my landlord sneaks out of her work with the card in tow. She smiles all the way home, shaking her head, pleased that she has such a clever tenant.

Trees glorious trees

It's very hard for me to sit still. I like to be moving almost every second of everyday because I don't like to waste time when there is something that needs to get done. And there is ALWAYS something that needs to get done. And if I am forced to sit, which often times I am, my mind thinks and plans the next 14 things. So it should be of no surprise that I have begun thinking about my Christmas tree. As most of you know, I am not a God fearing gorgeous girl of 26, so really Christmas should be a weird holiday to celebrate. I also work retail, and have my whole life, so that also makes it peculiar that I enjoy Christmas. But I am not one of those angry, bitter, fat folks who hate things to be cute. I like the holiday season because I love to decorate anything, especially with bright colors and lights. I love the home, so any opportunity to make a home a place of comfort and joy--well, I am all over that shit. I also like to wrap up little trinkets I find about the house, and pass them off as gifts. I love things that smell like warm spices and food, which Christmas sure as shit does. And at the expense of sounding like a rube, I like the idea of giving and expressing cheer.
I do not care for people who obsessively shop, and buy thoughtless gifts in abundance. This is despite the fact my pay check depends on this. The idea of rushing Thanksgiving, so you can get up and shop when it's still dark, for electronics, is disgusting and gross. Can't I just enjoy a pitcher of Bloody Mary's for a full 24 hours while giving thanks?! No. Wrapping up ties, socks, candles or sweaters is also disgusting and gross to me, and the equivalent of wrapping up a loaf a of bread, a box a cereal or a toothbrush. Those are the thoughtless things I will buy myself on my trip to the local grocer, Aunt Rose Ann.
So on to my glorious tree. It has been my dream since I was young to go to a charming Christmas tree farm, dressed in a Burberry scarf, sipping a latte, and cut down my own tree while snow flakes get caught in my lengthy eye lashes. But, the truth of the matter is, I work insane holiday hours and have yet to get someone who also wanted to chop down a tree with me. Usually I think there is nothing I can't do myself, but as I have mentioned, I'm a darling petite, and not built like a lumberjack, or a work donkey.  So even the logisticsi of buying a real tree has been difficult the last few years.  Consequently,  I have been forced to haul up the artificial tree that came with the Country Manse. It's tall and slender and has a unique country vibe to it. A little too country, but nothing my creativity can't drastically alter with blue lights and a Barbie doll topper. Ick, that description made my tree sound pukey--it is not, I assure you. However, I need a new idea this year, as I cannot bare the idea of the same tree for a third year. I have been toying with the idea of pink lights, but would rather chew off my arm that have something that looked like a college girl decorated. I  mean I don't collect Hello Kitty or use $2 coconut shampoo, so that's something to consider. I don't like anything too red and green, and Santa is forbidden on my tree. Mostly because I don't like fat people. I'm kidding, Santa is just tacky. And I would never decorate my house with anything tacky. *wink, wink* I like the idea of a white tree, but nothing too modern, because I do live in a Country Manse. And I don't own a white tree, and why would I want to waste money on a big glamorous Christmas tree when I could buy more colored tights, and 26 varieties of beer?  Blue really is my favorite color, and it makes for a unique tree...The moral of the story is this, your boring tree over there is offensive. God is coming, and she is pissed.

Rubbish

I hate the smell of banana peels in my trash, so I throw them out my back door into my neighbor's yard. And if the truth be told, banana peels aren't the only thing I throw over the fence. I had one of those decorative mini pumpkins sitting on my kitchen windowsill, and it looked sort of geriatric, yet also reminiscent of my ex-boyfriend, so I gave that a toss too. And this past summer I had a couple of ears of corn I didn't like the looks of--over the fence they went. I like being able to throw rubbish out my door, and I don't plan on stopping anytime soon. In fact, I don't want to live in a place that I cannot continue on with my wayward ways. You'd think you'd be able to do this easier in the city, since big cities are known for their massive amounts of trash...but I don't think so. For instance, my sissy lives in NYC and before my first visit, she gave me a stern talking to about the amount of trash and other dirty things I would experience. She is familiar with my OCD tendencies, and wanted to warn me before hand, so I could try to reel it in, as to not annoy her with my incessant complaining and foot washing  I had visited her several times in Chicago, so I wasn't so backwoods I hadn't been to a city--but nothing is quite as dirty as New York. Or at least nothing my cleaned and sanitized self has experienced. Anyway, I don't think I could live in New York despite my love to throw trash out my window, because it would just be throwing it on another mound of trash. And here at The Country Manse, I am, very comfortable with knowing exactly when trash day is--Tuesday. In New York, I don't think there is a trash day. Or maybe it's everyday, because people set their trash out all the gd time. In the Country there are strict rules, you must not put your trash out before 6pm Monday night. I'm not sure how this is exactly enforced, but it's a rule I sure as shit am not interested in breaking. But this is probably because I throw away excess trash out my door, over the fence whenever I damn well please. I am a trash rebel. But don't get your panties in a bundle, I am not littering up the joint, ruining the fuck out of Earth.  Despite the fact I couldn't give two licks about the environment, I only throw old produce out my door. I am a very green litterer. The moral of the story is this blogging about trash should be boring, but I'm petite, and used the 'f' word.

I certainly am not affraid.

A few days ago I was talking to one of my dim witted co-workers about how I have trouble sleeping at night. It's pretty much been the case my whole life, and thanks to The Hot Indian, and his drug pushing ways, it's not too big of a concern anymore. However, the said dim witted co-worker was pretty concerned about it, due to my young age, and slender stature. Actually she didn't mention my figure, but I thought I should. She was convinced she could diagnose my problem, despite the fact she wears red skinny pants and Danskos-- and decided that because I live alone, I was probably just too scared to sleep. I thought I could squash her asinine explanation with a simple, "um, no, I don't think that's the case...*whispers* moron." But she was persistent and continued to repeat herself over and over, "yes, Jennifer, you are just scared and probably need a boyfriend." Puke.  Barf.  Puke and barf. After that statement, I had no choice but to convince her of all the reasons why I am probably the least "too scared to sleep without a boyfriend kinda girl." So this is what I explained:
I live at The Country Manse. An old house, perfect and charming as the day is long, but old, and most likely haunted. How do I know? In my basement I one day removed a shelf. And behind the shelf was an old room, that obviously was no longer a room after the basement became finished, and the only way into the room was from a hole behind a built in shelf. What was in the room? Oh just two old carousal horses that obviously belonged to the murdered children.
What do I live next to? An empty house. I haven't been inside the house, but my imagination tells me it is filled with cats and raccoons and hobos and feral children with tails. Next to this, is the woods filled with coyotes and cougars and honey badgers and Honey Boo Boo.  Do I lock my doors? Only when I am home because I don't like to carry a ring of keys like a janitor or prison guard. Which means I most likely lock the murderer in with me at night. I also work 30 miles away, and nearly my whole drive is back country roads. I do this at night several times a week with the protection of  solely the luxury Honda.  I also love scary movies and crime shows, and have no problem watching them at night before bed, or anytime for that matter. And if it is at night, I watch by the illumination of the moon shining through The County Mans windows.  So obviously I am not the type to scare easily. So let's discuss how a live in boyfriend would fix any of this...
Actually let's not. The moral of the story is this: there's nothing I can't do, and I look great in all shades of blue.

Leggin's

If I had to pick the most fascinating thing about me, more specific than, everything--it would be my day-to-day revolutionary costumes. I have a wardrobe like no otha'! In fact, my two spare bedrooms at the Country Manse are mostly stuffed full with my clothes. And you realize when I say, "stuffed full, " I mean dry cleaned, organized, colorized and often admired on dull Saturday nights at home. My favorite genre of clothing is summer dresses, which also make up the largest percentage of my clothing, with a 2:1 ratio of summer dress to every other article of clothing.
But honestly, describing my wardrobe that won't quit, is quite boring, and probably seems overly boisterous. Despite the fact I am nearly perfect in every way, I am humble and modest, and am not trying to make my fans  cry themselves to sleep three nights a week. So let's  talk about how my wardrobe and style is terribly flawed, as people live for the horrors!
I have elevently billion dresses and dressy work type outfits. They are colorful and trendy, and bring about no fewer that 67 compliments a day. I also work more than the average person, which means I am dressed up and look darling most of the time. However, if I am not at work, I dress like a hobo.  If you are analyzing this blog, like I hope you are, you are probably thinking, "well, when Gin isn't working, she just wants a relaxed down home look." No, Gin is much more superficial than that. I. Don't. Know. How. To. Dress. Casual. Does this mean I don't try? Hell no. I am also too lazy to wear dress clothes when I don't have to. I don't understand casual clothes! I don't get the styles, I don't like the way they feel, fit--I just don't get it. For instance, jeans. Who doesn't have 97 pairs of jeans? I don't. I have a few pair and I only wear them in an emergency... like it's cold and rainy and I am going to break into an old abandoned house. But I hate it the whole time because it feels stiff and tight, and hinders me from being fast or bendy. And what if I need to curl up into a ball? It would probably hurt and not be cozy. And then what shoes do you wear? I certainly can't wear my usual dress shoes, because that would just look silly. And a boot would just make everything even harder to do fast and bendy. So in case of an emergency, I usually wear my hip hop shoes. You know, my pink and white high top Nikes that are made to look old school or ironic...or whatever you kids were doing 5 years ago when I bought them.
So what do I do when I am not at work and not in the one state of emergency that I could think of? I wear $8 Target leggin's as pants. (Please omit the last 'g' for proper pronunciation.) I prefer a couple sizes too big so they aren't skin tight--but truth be told, still not really a pant. I came about this find over a year ago when I wound up in Arkansas with no luggage and no access to a mall. So I went to a Target, and I shit you not, the only "pants" available were cropped leggin's, and the only size was an XL. At the time I thought I was in serious trouble.  But much to my chagrin, I stumbled upon a new way of life. The Target brand is my favorite because it has a thick band that really keeps your belly flat. And if your rear is going to be showcased in a non-pant, the least you can do as a lady, is keep your gut in. I usually wear them with a chic flip flop, or a dainty ballet flat, or a Western style boot if it's cold. I can move fast, kick, stretch, or roll into a ball and stuff myself into a tiny space if need be. If I suddenly don't feel well, I can lay down on the nearest couch and still be able to breath. And for $8, I can own 38 pairs--and I do. This means if they fade in the slightest--toss. If you don't want to do laundry--toss. If you suddenly need to change into real clothes, and you're far from home and you don't want to carry your leggin's in your handbag--toss. Or, you get stuck in Arkansas and your ill fitting cheap dress you had to buy at Target looks ugly and you hate it, and you want to fly home in comfort--toss the dress in an airport bathroom, and turn to the leggin's that you, this time, didn't mind carrying in your handbag.
The moral of the story is this, some of us can wear whatever we want, and still not look white trash. Advice for me--not you.

Creativity is a lost art.

I'm not one of those people who would ever dress like a sloot for Halloween. Nor am I one of those people who are going to drone on and on about how annoying it is that (nearly) all girls dress like sloots for Halloween. Mostly because girls nowadays, are sloots all year 'round, so I am personally not shocked when I see some sloot with low self esteem dress like an even bigger sloot for Halloween. Yes, most girls have low self esteem too, but that's another blog, another day. I mean, if you think it's a good idea to dress as a sexy crayon in public, than that's on you. I think a crayon as a Halloween costume is pretty ridic, sexy or not.  And, dressing like a sloot is way better than not dressing up at all.
Primarily, I am just saddened by the lack of creativity on Halloween. And not just by the sloots. Parents dress their kids up in the most ordinary, store bought costumes. Even the parents who let their kids choose, don't intervene often enough to jazz up the costume, or remind the kid they can dress up as anything, do they really want to be Spider Man or a princess with the eleventy billion other boring children? And I'm not blaming the small person, they smell like bologna and ketchup,  how are they to know they could be something creative or original when they have lazy dud parents? And God forbid a parent encourages their daughter to be something that isn't cute and girly. Those princesses and brides from childhood, grow up to be the French maid sloots. I am as girly as they come--364 days a year. Halloween you are supposed to dress up like something else.
But creativity is a lost art. Today people consider themselves creative based on what they've pinned on that gd Pintrest. People don't invent their own ideas anymore, they copy others. Unless you are designing an over the top fairy tell mansion, or planning a very detailed wedding, most people are too shy to truly label themselves, "creative."  More often you (me) gets labeled, "weird." Which a person that is truly creative embraces because "weird" is the opposite of "normal," and that's the last thing I want to be.  From normal it's  downhill to regular, average, simple, plain, boring!
But real creativity is so much more than an original Halloween costume. It's an everyday way of life that allows a person to always look at the alternative. A second way of doing things.  A new perspective. The invention of something original.
And to me, the best part of creativity, is that it breeds even more creativity. Despite the fact I believe I am perfect in almost every way, I am inspired when creativity is ignited in someone else. Especially when they were unaware they had it in them. It's a form of self expression, and when shared, it can be quite empowering.
So the moral of the story is this, you're boring, and I have legs.

Psych and Psychic

I don't seek medical attention in the way most people do.  I tend to only two things-- my mental health, and my future. Yes, I have a psych and a psychic. Hi, my name is Ginnifer, and I am crazy and lazy. You may be asking yourself, "is Gin really going to blog about something so personal?" Yes, yes she is.  After all, is anything really that sacred anymore?  People blab their tragic life stories to anyone who will listen. And worse yet, people will blab their boring life stories to anyone who will listen. Most people nowadays are whack-a-doos, and they don't even know it. I am a highly functioning lune. I am aware of my idiosyncrasies, and am doing something about it! Well...sort of.
So let's discuss my shrink, aka "The Hot Indian." Maybe I should back up to why I decided I needed to see a psychiatrist....Actually, stop being nosy, you don't need to know every detail of my glamorous life. I will say, that winters are hard on me, I play mother to 20 diva misfits who suck the life out of me, and I am incredibly intelligent. I include the latter because I am a firm believer in, "happy people are too stupid to know better." Or, as in my case, see their own version of a Hot Indian Doctor.
As a fully functioning crazy, the first visit to the shrink is nerve racking. You sit in a waiting room judging the other crazies around you, with the presumptuous assumption that they are all sociopaths or schizophrenics. They could not possibly be pretty young things who get sad when it snows. When you finally get called back to the Hot Indian you are asked a series of introductory questions. Basically two questions asked a hundred different ways..."do you want to kill yourself," and "are you anorexic?"  In my head I thought of all the times I passive aggressively wrote "kill myself" on my to do list to make my co-workers feel like I work harder than them. And I wish I had the dedication and will power to be anorexic. So after that, The Hot Indian asks vague questions of how I feel. This is the part where I rehearse all possible answers in my head to come across as the right amount of crazy. I don't want to be too crazy because this doctor is good looking with a very lush head of hair. But I want to be a little crazy as to not waste his time. Yes, his time is much more important than my mental stability. He is good looking, and everyone knows good looking people are better than ugly people--no matta' what. So after a good 10 minutes of me flip flopping from, "yeah, I'm cool," to, "yeah sometimes I sort of feel like everything is stupid and boring," I stop talking and smile with teeth. A tip I learned in a Clinique seminar to make people feel happy. All incredibly intelligent people describe things as "stupid and boring," and smile awkwardly.  I think I may have also said, "there are many people in my life I want to kick until they die."  "Why?" Hot Indian asks. "Um, because they are stupid and boring," I reply, adding a commical wink.
Then we move onto anxiety. Of course I have anxiety. Everyone does because the world tells us to do as many things as possible while over indulging in Red Bull and Starboos. And people always want or need something from me, forcing me to play deaf and or blind when faced with a person or situation I am not interested in. Did I mention I hate winter? Obviously I don't like being cold, or driving through a snowy tundra almost dying everyday on my way to work, but let's also be honest...I don't care for how I look in layers. Yes, I prefer to be wearing the least amount of clothes in the most modest way possible. I specifically get depressed when I see scarves. I sure as shit don't wear them myself, how terribly uncomfortable, but I also get sad and rageful looking at others in scarves. Especially when it's the type of scarf worn all day as part of an outfit. And especially if it is large and bulky. The tiny little silk scarves Carol Brady wore in the 70's are fine, but those melancholy scarves hipsters wear year round, really grind my ass. Yes, a scarf can be melancholy.
Did I just disclose too much info on my crazy? I'm a unique kind of crazy, aren't I? So after Hot Indian stared at me in confusion while typing into his laptop, (hopefully he quoted me right) he did what all drug pushers do these days, wrote me a scrip that he warned could potentially make me fat, and give me little interest in making sweet love. Awesome. Two side effects that would make any crazy person feel so much better about life. Ahh, whatever, I'll try anything twice, so I drove directly to my local CVS and began my new chapter in life called, "If you don't like the current version of yourself, take meds until you feel like someone else."
So it's been 6 months today, that I have taken the drugs sporadically when I feel like it, a few times.  I feel so super terrific and everything is euphoric and perfect! I'm joking. He didn't prescribe me crack cocaine. Things are fine enough. Or at least they will be after October 7, 2012, according to my psychic, Janet! Oh wait, that date has already passed, and I am not sure how my life became tremendously better? Oh well, if it's not in the cards, I'm not gonna do it.
Let me tell you about my psychic. Her office is in a building with other doctors, down an average hall much similar to Hot Indian's office. It's what's behind the door that makes it  quite different. The waiting room is dimly lit with shelves and shelves of astrology books, an old couch and numerous hand written signs that say, "No gum, no cell phones, and keep your feet off the couch." The couch looks like it belongs on the porch in a trailer park. I don't think it would matter if you put your feet on it. But then again, was she having a problem with grown ups putting their feet on the couch? That seems like an awkward way to sit. Especially if you're a lady.
 Janet greets you behind a window just like a doctors office were she too feverishly types your info into a laptop. After she pulls up your chart she calls you back to her office, like she isn't herself, as well as the receptionist. In her office is another old couch for me, and a big old recliner for her. Once again several hand written signs like in the waiting room. Janet's last name, "Amid" implies she is of some middle Eastern decent, but really she looks like a big cabbage patch doll from the eighties. Pleasantly plump with wild black hair, usually in some sort of patio dress.
Janet really likes me because she says I have a great and unique chart. I don't fully understand what this means, but I interpret it to mean, I am an after school special, and I can be whatever I want in life. But then again, I am not sure why I would want to be a buyer in Novi then... Who knows, who cares... I just love Janet because she makes me feel like a million bucks, and always leaves me with a special date that's coming soon that will change my life. Earlier in the year it was June 2012. Then October 7, 2012. Both days past and I didn't become Queen of the world, but this will not stop me from seeing Janet, and abiding by the rule of not putting my shoes on the couch.
The moral of the story is this, I am a hoot and half, with a personality adored by millions. That's all.