Bite Me. (Haha. I made a vampire funny)

So sometimes interesting and exciting things can happen when you work in a giant ass mall right near an airport (for an easy escape route). Unfortunately, the perfect mall robbery/ escape to another country via plane waiting on the runway did not happen and today as mundane as the rest... unless you are a Twilight fan. And I mean a die-hard Twilight fan, even swooning over supporting characters. Peter Facinelli, the man who plays the vampire doctor in the Twlight series visited his adoring underage (and middle age) fans right outside my unfortunate place of employment. I couldn't see all of what was going on, but I could hear screaming and then a couple times girls walked off the stage crying. So I'm guessing he was beating them? Either that or the girls were actually screaming/ crying from excitement from seeing this vampire doc. I decided that they deserved to be punished for this display of idiocy and continuously questioned fellow employees about the "Twilight Saga" in front of the obsessed fans. For example...

why is there a doctor vampire? Vampires are undead, therefore don't really need doctors. Oh. He's a human doctor? Isn't that like having an alcoholic be a bartender? I would not trust a vampire as a doctor. Especially if I can only visit him at night? What?! He can come out during the day? And sparkles? That's not gay. I prefer to go with the original Dracula myth and pretty much everything else dealing with vampires and say they burn up in sunlight. The only thing that can save that sparkly rubbish is if David Bowie left a glitter trail behind on his visit to Switzerland. The story's set in Oregon? Then what is "Team Switzerland?" The people who want this Bella chick to grow a pair and stop being such and emo little bitch who's into necrophilia and bestiality? Speaking of bestiality, does the werewolf need a doctor or a vet? Or both? He might have heartworms, he should get that checked out.

I could continue the rant (like how she stole my Wolverine baby idea basically), but I shall digress and hopefully not be hunted down by some crazed Twilight fan.

After all the excitement died down (I was disappointed no punches were thrown), I started aimlessly wandering, minding my own business when a wine colored Anna Nicole Smith hobbit walked up to me and asked for my help. She needed my help deciding "Is this, like totally cute or what?" And continued to hold me hostage as her shopping buddy while her elderly mother waited at the desk. I've seen several episodes of "My Super Sweet Sixteen" on MTV, but this was more like "My Spoiled Rotten, Don't Know How to Take Care of Myself Thirty Four." Still, I used the whining sixteen year olds as an example of how to deal with the whiny, possibly on cocaine (or TrimSpa) hobbit. Seriously. This little round woman was dressed in an all burgundy outfit, about 5 feet tall, but her platinum blonde hair added on about 3 inches so I was eye level with the top of her head as she pulled me in every direction around the store trying to find the most "adorable" pieces of clothing in the smallest size one of her thighs could fit in. I finally escaped when she carried her own weight in clothes to into the fitting room to try on. Then I found out the best news of the evening- this woman's a regular. I can't say this enough- Fuck. My. Life.



Retarded Starbucks drinks they made a fortune off of.

Anyone can be a couch potato, but not everyone can sprout roots on their couch and get airlifted out of their house.

So for the past 2 days I have been safe from the moronic public (or more well-known as the "general public"). Well, for the most part. I did have an almost literal run in with a Mount Washington fire truck. Why use the siren when you're approaching a blind corner? A wreck would ensure job security! OK, that was crossing the line. I can't say anything bad about firemen. Especially the ones on Mount Washington, we do have crackheads that like to set things on fire.

Sunday my goal was simple. I want to become one of those giant fat ladies that are grafted to their couch and need a crane to lift them (and their couch) out of the house. Since I fit into the 1x belt at work, I am very close to achieving at least this goal (cause I am going nowhere fast with the rest of mine). I spent a grand total of 10 hours on my couch watching the magic black box in the living room that melts my brain and tells me what to do and what to buy.... this is commonly referred to as the "television." Actually, this isn't too impressive, I've done a lot better (23 hours watching "The Twilight Zone" on New Years, hollah!). However, this time I did discover "Sir Patrick," the hoarder, who I need to find and make him my own. And by my own I mean my gay best almost midget friend who I take shopping at Baby Gaga (it's like Baby Gap, but specializing in children's clothing based on the styles of Lady Gaga). Since that is never going to happen I had to extinguish that dream early on and decided to switch to the Video Music Awards on MTV. This made me feel incredibly old. I did make a few observations though:

-OK, Rihanna= battered woman, Eminem=woman beater. Their wonder twin powers unite in a song about an abusive relationship. These two need a puppy or something cuddly. C'mon, it's a recession and you're singing about that? I thought you were supposed to be wishing on a shooting star... oh, wait, that's an airplane. Let's pretend. Hey! That should be a song.

-Justin Bieber is a 30 year old woman in disguise. Anyone see Orphan? I don't think it got very good ratings, so probably not, but Mr. Maggie Gyllenhaal is in it so I did. Anyway, the kid in it is actually a 30-something midget pretending to be 8 to seduce the dad and kill the mom. That's not fucked up. Midgets should use their power for good, not evil. Justin Bieber seems to be using his midget power for evil and must be stopped. Either that or they are pumping him so full of hormones that either he will 1. Never be able to reproduce (and there was much rejoicing!) 2. Become a woman 3. Become Lady Gaga.
-Lady Gaga could be Justin Bieber from the future come here to warn him to stop taking those hormones. This also explains her choice of outfits.

-Lady Gaga did not get enough attention as a child.

-Robots are taking over the music industry... or someone is using autotune to stave off their crack addiction and they can't wait to get their next fix. I mean, really, can these people actually sing or does that not matter anymore as long as you dress like a hooker?


That's pretty much all I saw since I had to get my fat ass moving and I felt far too old and unhip anyway.

Adventures in Women's Lingerie

So they moved me to the lingerie department where the air conditioning actually works and a small army of Hello Kitties stare me down with their demon possessed eyes. Oh well, you win some, you lose some. Why girls want a kitten who is clearly a minion of Lucier on their underwear boggles my mind. Oh, wait, I Just figured it out.

I am slightly excited about being stuck up here. Although, probably not as excited as the "Chococat" on a 13 year old's crotch. Sorry, some of the stuff up here just makes me question the sanity of the human race. A lot of it explains "16 and Pregnant." Finally! All the questions and mythology answered! Except what the heck is that light on the island and is that guy really wearing eyeliner? Oh. Wait. Wrong show. (Diary of a Lostaholic: Breaking the Addiction coming soon!)

So I should explain why I am content to stand among the old lady bras and panties that dance in a pedophile's wet dream. It's simple. Everytime I work in this otherwise dreaded department, something completely batshit insane happens (See- woman calling me a slut and almost giving me the swine flu). Usually it's an aggravating, slightly annoying, or disgusting (see- old women flashing me. Poor old biddies must think I have Mardi Gras beads behind the register). Tonight is different. Tonight, if something happens I can write about it on here and use it as comedic material for a better job. All of this means it's going to be another mundane night. This is ok too because the first draft of this entry was written on a piece of scrap paper I found near the register.

So one hour left and nothing interesting has happened so far. Except finding a pair of underwear with monkeys on it that says "Paul Frank is you friend"... cause that's not creepy brainwashing or anything.

At 7:18 (42 minutes left) I learned who buys the Hello Kitty underwear... women in their 30s.

At 7:23 I finally looked behind me and discovered a mannequin clad in leopard print grandma pjs. I guess if you can't be a cougar, you might as well be a leopard?

At 7:26 a Goo Goo Dolls song came on! Yay! And a guy with his girlfriend (speculating) walk by. She checks out the pajama pants with funny animals on them, he checks out the mannequin. Dear girl, stop blue balling him, honey, he's checking out plastic... the entirely fake kind.

At 7:36 I discovered the "denim look" leggings. Now if "jeggings" weren't bad enough, these are basically leggings printed to look like jeans complete with printed on pockets. Once again! Leggings. Are. NOT. PANTS!

At 7:40- Finished my grocery list.

At 7:50- Wife returns something while husband sings "I Melt with You." If only it were unusual to have people confuse the register for the American Idol judges, but I usually get a live performance at least once a day.

And FINALLY at 8:12- I leave.

I decided to take only the first three letters of "associate" seriously this Labor Day.

Yesterday was Labor Day- the day the rest of America had off except those in the retail and food business (save for the police, firemen, doctors/ nurses, etc. But we actually NEED those people... going to buy clothes everyday? No, that is not a necessity). Of course we were busy because it was a beautiful day and why go to a silly thing like a picnic when you can be inside with the spectacular fluorescent lighting and the grandiose nature of the mannequin displays nobly standing before the entrance. As I robotically put away the dresses, doing my best to keep the glitter dandruff out of my eyes and off my clothes, a woman told me to "Wake up." My initial response was "It's better to sleep walk through this job (you bitch.)" But then I thought about it more. Ok, I'll listen to her and wake up... but that was too much to bear. So I decided to stay awake, but be a different person....

Sometimes those crazy fitting rooms just get so excited clothes just seem to seep from the walls and the floor and just go everywhere! Sometimes they get so excited, they even pee a little. Or maybe that's just from the asshole customers who inside the fitting room. Most of the managers agree that keeping a "customer service associate" in the fitting room will stop the customers not only from urinating (or worse) in the room, but will also make them reconsider building their own version of Everest out of prom dresses. Luckily on Labor day, I got to be the associate to stand guard. Now, most of the people (putting it politely) in the fitting room that day were little high school girls giggling about going to their homecoming dance. Oh, what a joy that was for me to hear. Some even brought their own tunes in so they can pretend like they're in a movie montage (sigh. If only I could cut them). Most brought their mothers who would stand outside the door and try to make small talk with me about how awesome and gorgeous their daughters are. Well, that just wouldn't do. I had to prove them wrong and be more interesting than the mother/daughter duo combined... even if it meant telling a few white lies:


-To one mother I was a Canadian exchange student, eh? My favorite food is maple syrup and I trekked down from the Great White North to see what an American part time job is like. So far it's not as fun as training the sled dogs for the summer Olympics. I like curling, but not as much as hockey, of course. Eh?

-To another mother I used to weigh close to 200 pounds until I started working in retail. It's such a great workout. They actually even keep the place sweltering hot because they're encouraging employees to lose weight. I've never felt healthier!... I think she applied for a job.

- To another mother, I absolutely, like totally love this job. It is like soooo awesome and like I get to go like shopping like all the time and like it's just really cool. That one was hard to get through. She didn't seem phased at all... then, she did have a teenage daughter.

-And finally to another mother, I am 33 years old and took the job because I'm too ugly to be a trophy wife and that was really my only goal. So I'm trying to find a rich old man who can't see well. (Ok. Maybe part of that is true).



And it all amused me. Can't say it helped the customer service scores when they'll get them back with comments about the "nice Canadian girl in the fitting room" and won't be able to figure out who the hell it is. What can I say? I'm an asshole.

Can we pretend that the Penn Dot workers are traffic cones? I could really hit them right now, hit them right now...

So I just had to change all of my posts about the retail establishment I currently work at to "MC Nickels" to protect the only source of income I have at the moment and I figured "Why not complain about Penn Dot for a bit?"

If anyone has driven the lovely Pennsylvania roads, you would know that it's basically like driving over a greasy teenager's face with all the bumps and pores. So what does the state use for the "zit zapping" creme so to speak? Penn Dot. These little fuckers are not very "Pro Active." In fact, I'm pretty sure they're against forms of activity whatsoever... unless' it's staring down at a hole in the road and wondering how exactly it got there. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they're actually great philosophers on the great road of life and are pondering if the hole is in existence or if it's actually nonexistent since, well, it's a hole. I guess you have to do something with a philosophy degree, why not work for Penn Dot? (No, I'm not applying, I went for cinema and I get can get a film job, damnit!)

However, during rush hour on a rather busy back road is not the place to be "working" And if you do have to "work" at this time, please do not put the rookies directing traffic. Just because he has a mullet does mean he understands everything about manual labor or waving a flag. More than likely he will just sit there, stare at some cables and contemplate his heart, his achy breaky heart and how he just doesn't think it understands. Then apparently whenever he breaks out what could be: 1. a line dance move 2. swatting a fly away from his face or 3. The signal that traffic is supposed to start moving (because why would you use that silly red flag in your hand?) the confused PA driver is automatically supposed to assume that it is number 3 and continue on their way without getting yelled at. Oh, and continue on their way to ANOTHER detour... without a detour sign. Really? I mean, really? As my friend said (who I will not name unless she gives me permission) "I'm glad they're giving jobs to the mentally handicapped, but can they not be directing traffic?"... and playing on the road.

There are so many more stories regarding Penn Dot workers, but some are just too traumatizing to relive. But they say a picture is worth a thousand words so coming soon...

"Portraits of Penn Dot!"

A hostage situation never strikes twice... right?

Today some crazy anti-baby man held people hostage in the Discovery Channel building due to the surplus of baby shows on their networks. Now, I am no fan of screaming children myself, but I do not blame the Discovery Channel for promoting procreation... I mostly blame (in order) 1. stupidity and 2. Well, we need to keep the human race going... right? Case in point, "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" is STILL going strong with new women pooping babies into toilets. Yup, stupidity wins. Unfortunately for the second part, cloning has not been perfected and babies can't be completely made in factories. Well, they can be, but it would be old fashioned baby making not robots piecing together premade appendages to make a human being.

Aaaanyway, Mike Rowe was not injured so I don't see how this situation really pertains to me... oh, wait, I'm trying to break into the mass media field and at least one of those people probably quit their job or at least took a leave. So I'm being a horrible person trying to bank off of someone else's misfortune (to put it mildly) and am applying to the Discovery Channel. Isn't that what you have to be to be in the film/ television industry? And I'm not Jewish so that's one strike against me already. However, thanks to my Catholic school/ X-files upbringing I have turned into the sweet little innocent, yet conniving and cunning lady that I am today. But I do like animals (particularly sharks), dirty jobs (bow chicka wow wow), busting myths and winning cash in a cab so I'd fit in there. Plus the Discovery Channel building was located in Silver Springs, Maryland where my uncle used to live. Clearly it's a sign...


Speaking of signs, on Sunday's episode of Mad Men it is revealed that Don Draper became the womanizing ad guru he is (was?) by basically stalking Roger Sterling and pouring martinis down his throat till Roger gave into his debonair advances. I wonder how the writers of Mad Men will feel when I pull the same tactic on them. Don't plant ideas into my head if you are not prepared for the repercussions.


Dear Writers of Mad Men,

I got the secret message behind Sunday's show! Hold onto your Emmys, I'm on my way!

Love and a bucketful of martinis,
Jen