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.