Have Yourself a Very Ugly Christmas- Part 2: Attack of the Christmas Music

Now this is a story all about how my life got flipped, turned upside down. And I'd like to take a minute just sit right there and I'll tell you how I became the princess of why the hell are we open till midnight?

Holiday hours are in full swing and I've had far too much time to be alone with the holiday tunes. Yes, alone as in not a customer in sight and tumbleweeds made of fallen sequins and dust bunnies because who in their right mind would be interested in shopping at the hellhole after 10 pm... it's scary enough in the daytime. Since there are no crickets to emphasize how alone the associates actually are after dark, the cheery holiday music seems to amplify and I've had far too much time to think about their true meaning. The dark truth is they're not so cheery after all. A customer told me that "Baby, It's Cold Outside" (which the store plays at least 20 times a day) is her favorite Christmas song. First, nowhere in this tune does it state that it is Christmas, it is simply "cold outside." The song could be set in the Twilight Zone where the earth is moving out of its orbit and away from the sun for all the listener knows. Second, is it me or is there the implication of date rape in this merry winter melody? Nothing spells Christmas like roofinol in your eggnog.

I'd have to say one of my favorite Christmas songs is the one where the kids build a human effigy out of snow and it comes to life with the help of a magical top hat. Then they begin to wreak havoc and terrify the town. Sign me up to work on that horror movie. Oh it's a children's cartoon? You're shitting me. Does no one else see the terror in this except for the creators of Jack Frost (the horror movie)? Bottom line is snow should not be sentient unless it is channeling Michael Keaton.

Don't be a drag, just be a Dairy Queen

I found out recently that my mom doesn't like my kind. It's not fair to discriminate, Lady Gaga would say we're born this way. People who just can't control their urges and they just keep going, wanting more and more. And if we can't have it, we just start twitching like we're tweaking out, in need of a good fix. Apparently there's a lady that she works with who is like me. But her drug of choice is Reeses. While those are good, I've never delved into how many pounds of the chocolate peanut buttery goodness I can eat in one sitting. However, I'm good for about a pound and a half of Twizzlers... and only a few of those were made into straws.

Abs of steel? Please, I'd rather have a stomach of steel, able to finish Ritas Italian ice or a delicious milkshake in mere seconds. Capable of handling 8+ bowls of Olive Garden soup (my friends made me leave). I see the words "all you can eat" and I readily accept the challenge. Endless soup, salad and breadsticks? Bring it on! And I will not give in to your smaller bowls of soup or one breadstick per person after the first round trickery. You might as well cut your losses and fill up my bowl the entire way up with delicious soup and bring me an entire pan of breadsticks. Apparently my passion for eating is starting to show.

Recently I was helping a customer out in the athletic wear department. She asked me where the "microfiber" pants were. I've heard of "microfiber" before, but never really knew what it was because after a few horrifying incidents with spandex and a Richard Simmons video, anything remotely related to "working out" terrifies me. So I asked if the customer could explain "microfiber" to me because I'm not familiar with the athletic department. Her response? "Well, obviously." Although, a friend did point out she could have just been implying that I'm an idiot, not calling me rotund. However, I'd rather be called fat because at least I earned that title fair and square... well, fair and round?

My Own Personal American Horror Story

T'is the season to make millions of Christmas cookies in order to supplement my income and to buy my loved ones Christmas gifts that don't consist of a piece of paper stating, "IOU One gold bar when I become rich and famous" or whatever I can find laying around my room to regift. Yes, sir, I am pretty much an escapee of the Martha Stewart cooking school. So I have spent the past two days at my loving parents' house or as I like to call it, my own personal American Horror Story.

Give me the murder house any day. I ain't afraid of no ghost. The Leonard household with mere weeks to go before Christmas, however, is a different story. My next visit, I am planning to bring some Midol in hopes to control my father's mood swings and getting angry at the most trivial things. And I should probably just figure out where to get some horse tranquilizers for my mom. Unfortunately, I'd lose my baking buddy that way, but I wouldn't have to hear the same overly caffeinated story from the lady zip zooming around the kitchen leaving a trail of flour along the way. A trivial thing my father gets angry over? Trails of flour in the kitchen... which he doesn't really even use. I know it doesn't sound too horrifying yet, but did I mention my mother is once again addicted to the made for menopause TV movies on the Hallmark channel? And Sidney Crosby is out indefinitely. Again. I had to hear about that... from both the cougar and the angry one. On the plus side, I did find a rocking horse cookie cutter. Coming this Christmas to the Leonard household- the four rocking horses of the apocalypse! Perfect for ringing in 2012

I did get to go pick out the family Christmas tree though... It was a lot like that scene from Christmas Vacation, but take out the fun. And add this...

Holy backseat driver, Batman!

My mother keeps it in her backseat. I guess she wants Jesus, Mary and Joseph to take the wheel? I didn't want to get too close in fear of being struck by lightning and my eyes being burned out of my head, I saw that X-Files episode. However, the thing is truly horrifying. There's a Jesus one too, which was even creepier, but I made her leave it on the lawn so I could sit without genuflecting first.

After about an hour at the tree lot, we finally found the perfect one... or at least one that will do since it was dark by the time we left. And the ground was nicely aerated thanks to my boots. That's right, I was wearing heeled boots in mud to pick out a Christmas tree. I'm on my way to becoming a real girl!

Dance of the Sugar Plum Customer

Today, one of my worst Christmas nightmares came true. And I don't mean the axe-murdering Santa Claus from Tales from the Crypt. No, this creature was much, much worse. I saw it out of the corner of my eye while waiting on a customer. I was too scared to look directly at it, not sure if I would scare it, embarrass it, or just encourage it. I took customer after customer and it just kept getting closer and closer till it was finally at my register. To my absolute horror, it did not quantum lock when I looked at it and continued on its terrifying dance. Yes, dance. As in of the sugar plump (not a typo, she was on the larger side) fairy. A customer was dancing to Christmas music right in front of me. And encouraging me to join her, exclaiming, "How could you not dance to this all day?" Aw, well, I used to, but I broke myself doing the fork in the garbage disposal and now they make me wear cement shoes.

A few hours later, what I thought to be a kindred spirit came to my register. "I hate this music," she stated. My day immediately brightened, finally, a fellow Ebenezer to share my cynicism. "I know," I replied, "Me too. I can't wait till January." The customer's eyes narrowed into a seething glare, "No," she snarled, "I don't like this kind of Christmas music." Yes, techno club remixes of "Rudolph" are somewhat strange, but I will hold my ground with N'Sync's Christmas album being a classic. It's bad when you're praying for N'Sync to come blaring through the store speakers. I even hear Justin Beiber has a new Christmas album. Giving customers Beiber fever is a risk I would be willing to take. At least it would be a little more upbeat than Satan's children singing a round of the top ten most depressing Christmas songs followed by Josh Groban hitting my brain like a tranquilizer dart telling it to "sleeeeep, sleeeeeeep" while all the cougars in the store begin swooning. I would like to personally put out a hit on this man for aiding the torture of MC Nickels associates. However, if you do find him, bring him to me first so I can use my Josh Groban pick up line, (said in my sultry, seductive voice only slightly reminiscent of a drag queen,) "Hey, Josh Groban, I'll raise you up."... wink.

Raiders of the Lost Sweatsuits

Ah, Christmas time. A time to gather together with loved ones.... or with the local swamp things and zombie folk, just praying for the end of your shift to come so you can go home and sit by your lonesome, marathoning the nerdy show of the week. Which I am completely and totally fine with. I mean, that's totally not referring to me. I have a happening social life.... it just happens to involve fictional characters... still trying to figure out exactly how sad this is.

The Christmas rush should be in full swing, but it has been unseasonably quiet. And I'm not complaining. I even had two customers who absolutely adored me this weekend. But in every silver lining, there is a cloud. And this cloud consisted of two customers I got roped in to helping (thanks, n00b!). These two lovely ladies were on an epic game of "Where's Waldo" for the thing they most desired and they were willing to Amazing Race it to the ends of the earth to obtain this precious item. What could this Holy Grail of women's clothing be? Sweatpants. Well, sweat outfits to be exact. Basically the same ones that can be purchased at any department store, Wal Mart, Target, drug stores and select supermarkets. The younger adventurer made us look not only on the website, but to search stores within 150 miles to try to find these sweatpants for her elderly counterpart. When we told her that these rare pieces of attire are sold out at every possible location, she demanded to speak to someone who would be able to obtain these unusual artifacts for her. The overly dramatic attitude finally became clear when the young Indiana Jones of sweatpants told the catalogue department worker, "I've been driving around with my (seething tone) mother in law all day." And check in the "I'm OK with being a lonely nerd" column.

After these customers left, I ran straight to the fitting room, but was almost run over by a stroller. I dodged the oncoming baby-mobile just in time, but did not get a good look at the occupant. Leaving the fitting room, I realized that I was almost the victim of a hit and run with a doggy stroller... complete with doggy inside and tupperware container of treats in the back, reminiscent of a baby's Cheerio container. We'll count this as a check in the "Maybe I should get a life" column.

Driving home from the hell hole, I was in a decent mood... mostly because of the pretty damn mild temperature for December. I could even drive with the windows down... and blasting "Wannabe" by the Spice Girls and serenading the nice folk leaving the mall, complete with attempting to change my voice for each girl of the spice variety. Hey, most of those people make my life a living hell for 8 hours a day, I can torture them for a few minutes. Check in the "lonely nerd is a-ok" column. Then, "Someone like You" came on, which I dare not try to sing along to. This was not the "zig-a-zig-ah" I was looking for and I did not even have my favorite men, Ben and Jerry to cry to... well, into. Still trying to figure out which column to check...

Does Hating Black Friday Make Me Racist?

Oh, Black Friday, how I hate thee, let me count the ways... No, really, let me count them. I'm exhausted, worked almost 20 hours in two days and have to watch a few very important Disney movies to make me feel better.

1. The parking lot. If you aren't tired and cranky having to come into work at 4:00 in the morning, then you're angry and disgruntled coming in for a later shift and having to fight for a parking spot. I suppose my parents' car almost getting hit four times isn't the worst thing that could have happened (Pepper spray? Stun gun, anyone? Stampede? Anyone? Mufassa... Mufassa? No?) I drove around for about 20 minutes when I gave up and made a sign that said "Just trying to get to work, please take pity on me" and held it out the window. Luckily it worked and I got a prime parking spot smack dab in the middle of bumfuck Egypt.

2. Stupid sales, stupid exclusions. Some items are on sale all day, some end at 1:00 pm. Some things are on sale till the next day. The coupons don't start till 2:00 pm. This is far too much for me to keep track of and far too much for me care one iota about. This brings me to...

3. Stupid people thinking I'm stupid and trying to make up their own stupid sale/ discount. I was asked to give out the "Canadian discount." I have never heard of this. Are we supposed to feel bad for you because you're from our very cold attic? Well, m'am, on the worst shopping day of the year, I do not. Please take your so-called "bacon," maple syrup, Celine Dion and ride that barrel right back up the falls. On second thought, leave the maple syrup. The only people getting the "Canadian discount" here are on a little team called the Pittsburgh Penguins. And they'd have to pry me off his leg first.

4. Well, more like 3 1/2. Sleep deprived, loopy people turning the lightbulb in their head off for the day. We had a coupon that was $10 off of $50. It's very simple. You spend $50 and you get $10 off. A first grader would comprehend this. However, many times yesterday I got handed the coupon for a purchase less than $50. When I told the customer they had to buy a few more things, they just stared at me with those vacant eyes and stated, "But it says no exclusions." Well, I think if you spend less than $50 on a coupon meant for $50 or more, it's an exclusion.

5. This is just the start of one hellish season. Bah freaking humbug indeed.

Obviously these are just a few of the many reasons why I hate Black Friday. However, the others are mostly unfunny rants about how awful it is that consumerism has taken over Christmas, a holiday about peace and goodwill towards men now kicks off with people actually getting kicked and punched, shot, trampled, etc. all in the name of the latest cheap plastic gadget or the only $200 tv in the whole store. You know, that kinda thing. Normally I'd be happy to rant about such a thing, but there goes the baker with his tray, like always. The same old bread and rolls to sell...

Eat the turkey before it eats you!

Well, another year, another failed turkey genocide. These vicious dinosaur descendants are still out there and it seems that every year on the last Thursday in November, we fail to eradicate them. However, may Thanksgiving always stand as a symbol of triumph of man over dinosaur until Raptor Jesus' second coming. I'm not quite sure why "family time" must be a part of this victorious celebration, but I must gather together with my slightly insane family and my mom's crazy cat lady friend (oh, if only I were joking about that one) and state what I am thankful for. This year, I said I was thankful for "indoor voices," but unfortunately my family still didn't learn how to use them. I just sat, staring at my glass of apple cider, hoping it would ferment so I could better cope with this forced togetherness. Or as I like to call it, Christmas without the presents.

However, the evening calmed down and I got to sit for hours on end and watch Arrested Development because I'm a nerd like that. Little did I know that the next day, I'd be begging for more family time. Eh, who the hell am I kidding? I've worked like 5 black Fridays, I knew what I was in for. But, still, I'm going to hold you in suspense until tomorrow because I freaking worked a 10 hour day after my darling mother woke me up to go to the mall before I had to drive an hour and a half back to the Burgh (hour and 45 minutes if you count the Dunkin Donuts drive through). So I'll keep you waiting on the edge of your seat for tomorrow's "Does hating Black Friday Make Me Racist?" Dunnn dunnn duuuuuunnnnnnn

Singular Poverty-Stricken Gal

You might be wondering why I stay in retail. Well, it's one of the few menial jobs where I can openly insult people to their faces, give snarky remarks, or just plain hide from customers and managers while not having it affect my pay rate. If I was a much nicer person and had the ability to muster up caring two shits about a job robots will perform in the future, I would be a waitress and possibly make more money. But after seeing my friend study for a waitressing TEST, I realize this just not possible. I now thank my lucky stars that I did not have to take a test on folding or the proper color palette for setting the tables... oh, wait, I know that one. Thanks, art direction class! At least I'm using it for something. I can pay off the credits from that course in...hmmm... a decade?

However, I have finally found a gal made from my same sarcastic mold. A mirror image of myself, if you will. A sistah from another mistah. OK, so she might be a fictional character, but she acts pretty much how I would if I were forced to wait tables. That's right, Kat Dennings from Two Broke Girls. Yup, I'm somewhat of a sucker for sitcoms too. I'm one of the few people who are cheering Tim Allen's return to prime time because I can watch it and just pretend like I'm back in the 90s or watching an alternate universe version of Home Improvement. These shows make me realize one integral part of my life that has been missing since day one- a laugh track. For example, when a customer asks me, "Do you work here?" I've now started replying with, "I try not to." I can't imagine why, but sometimes people almost seem offended by this response. However, with a laugh track, they would have to give a simple chuckle and pause awkwardly to let the laughter die down, while it cuts back to me giving the customer my patented patented raised eyebrow stare, then it would cut back to the customer for his/her next line. I'm not going to lie, I often have Scrubs- like fantasies with this exact scenario. Yup, I watch that show too. If TV rots your brain, I'll need to go see the Wizard for a new one cause my original is probably long gone.

Strangely enough, my real life- waitress friend

is a tall blonde. And I am the short, curvy, curly-

haired brunette... So much for developing a sitcom

about my life.

I would drive my Chevy to the levy, but I don't think he'd make it that far.

I wish I could say I'm one of those people who get knocked down, but get up again and never let anyone keep them down. I'm not. (I will, however, take a whiskey drink, vodka drink, lager drink and a cider drink, please.) My Danny boy is the same way... except he got knocked down, got back up again, got knocked back down and really just stayed down... for a good long time.

I guess I should explain. Danny Boy is my car. And the above paragraph was an allusion to the Chumbawamba song, "Tubthumping." No, I did not just name my car "Danny Boy" so I could reference another horrible 90s song, the car belonged to my grandfather, who was Irish and I thought it was an appropriate name. Another reason why I haven't written in a long time is because I had some epic car trouble.

It all started with the emergency brake had a complete BRAKEdown.... as in, it really just snapped and fell out of the bottom of my car. I finally saved up enough money to get that fixed and have it looked over so I could go through the winter with no problem besides my absolute hatred of snow and cold. Immediately after I had the car in the shop, my coolant light came on while driving into the city. Thinking it was only a minor problem and being a girl who knows nothing about cars, I kept driving. Then, driving to work the next day, my loyal Cavy completely ignored all the PSAs I forced him to watch about how smoking is bad for your health. He finally went kaput in the parking lot of the evil place. And, yes, I had to call a tow truck to tow it from one side of the parking lot to the opposing Sears' lot, but they claimed it was the head gasket without even looking at my car. So the tow truck driver was nice and recommended another place to take it to. Turns out my thermostat went all emo teenager and sealed itself off from the rest of the car. I'm currently selling pumpkin rolls to pay off this repair. (They're tasty! Buy one!)

For the next repair, I'm currently looking for a brothel where I can sell... well, you know. (Just kidding!...maybe). Thank God I am now in possession of a voodoo doll so I can exact revenge on Sears. I finally got a call from a real honest-to-goodness tv gig... for one day. But it's a start. And whaddayaknow, that day my car decides to get in the Christmas spirit early and light up the pretty red "Check engine" light and pretty much break down...and stayed down this time. He was towed to Latrobe because there is a mechanic there I trust who gives me a really good deals. Turns out it really was the head gasket this time. I blame Sears. This was an incredibly costly repair, which probably wasn't even worth it, but might I reiterate it was my grandfather's car and I really don't want to get rid of it. So after a lot of driving back and forth with my parents car and begging for rides, I could have had him back last week, but I am a yellow bellied coward and forced my father to drive my poor, poor Cavy for a week before taking it back. That way he could deal with any problems.

The final incident occurred tonight when I stopped to get gas and put in a whole $1.02 before the tank started overflowing. Now, I gave my parents back their car with almost a full tank of gas... my loving father left me mine with a quarter tank. So I took the nozzle out and tried it again only to spill a few more cents on the ground. I might be rather inept around cars, but really, all you have to do is put the stick into the hole and while I might be challenged with that concept in other areas of my life, it's the one automobile thing I am completely capable of... although I did just learn where to put the windshield wiper fluid! So I did what most other girls would do- call up her father and yell because clearly something else was wrong with my car. And he did fix the problem for me. He told me to move to another pump. It worked.

I have a new lease on life, but I'm not sure if I want to resign the one on my house.

I'm baaa-aaack! My loyal readers (all what? 2 of you?) might have been wondering where I've been the past few weeks. Well, I danced the devious dance with death and survived unscathed. Well, mostly. I'm hoping this isn't a Final Destination- the grimm reaper is after me-type thing.

The chimney in my house crumbled in on itself and we had we turned on the heat, the exhaust would have backed up into the house, filling it with carbon monoxide. And we would have followed Billy Joel line of thinking that only the good die young. Or something like that. I only really know the version Glee ruined. Yes, Glee ruined a Billy Joel song. Quite a feat. Anyway, I could have died leaving only a legacy of disgruntled blog postings and a DVD/ book collection that belongs in a hoarder's house. I would have fallen very short of my goal of writing for a late night talk show or SNL or working on a TV show or at least having people read what I write. And putting my massive DVD/book collection in a library which would rival Belle's in Beauty and the Beast. This library would be all mine too... in my Scottish castle.

I allowed myself a short time to mope and contemplate my own mortality. It got to be real deep at times- like would I rather die quickly being blown up in the CDC or try to survive, but be eaten by a hoard of zombies? Well, I probably would have picked the CDC, but it seems as though I missed that chance. So I picked up my non-zombified pieces and carried on. Today I looked around at the customers shambling around the hell hole, confused by the make up counter at the center of the store and realized it could be worse- at least I have a brain instead of craving them. So in the words of lip synching drag queens everywhere- I will survive... and get a career I actually like... and a castle in Scotland. Ok, I might have embellished it a little.

Ugly Christmas Pt. 1- Have Yourself a Very Ugly Christmas (Dress)

Leave it to MC Nickels to prove that sweaters and jackass customers aren't the only things that get uglier around Christmas time. Little demons have been delivering the hellish holiday splendor by the truckloads recently. I'm really beginning to wonder if they picked up some of the dresses at a yard sale thrown by Paula Abdul and Tiffany. A picture is worth a thousand words and I risked my life, limb and unfortunate choice of career for these lovelies, so let's take a gander, shall we?

Wrap your right boob up in a lovely bright red taffeta bow for the holidays leaving almost as much mystery and intrigue as a dick in a box.

Welcome to the 80s, Molly Ringwald!

For all your Charles Dickens/ Victorian ghost haunting needs.

Did someone say Molly Ringwald? Pretty in Pink? No? What? Oh, sugar plum fairy? Screw that, I'm the cotton candy fairy.

Well, if you can't afford Christmas presents, you could always become a streetwalker.

Speaking of streetwalker, this dress is for the "Pretty Woman" in all of us.

You might have noticed in my long, yet clever title of this post, I stated this is merely part one of what I expect to be a very long series spotlighting the more eclectic holiday items MC Nickels carries. These items will more than likely be available for $1.97 in January. Oh, the anticipation. Not for the $1.97 holiday deals, for January when this hellish time is coming to a close.

Keep your Savage Garden to Yourself.

My name might be Jennifer, but it's not Jennifer Lopez. I might wear v-necks, but I'm not Simon Cowell. I might slur my words a bit and have a very complicated relationship with a cartoon cat sidekick that raps with me, but I'm not Paula Abdul. So please, do not treat my register like the American Idol audition room. Serenading your cashier will not make the poor unfortunate soul sing a rip roaring duet with you. I also refuse to create a back beat for your epic ballad with the dinging of the scanner and keystrokes. This isn't Glee. Thank God.

It doesn't help that hell has one of the worst musical selections ever. And if I don't initially hate the song, I grow to despise it. Sure, there are a few exceptions besides the obvious Queen and Sprinsteen. I do often request that you tell me what you want, what you really, really want. I still like to live la vida loca while being indecisive about two princes who adore me. And, yes, I do pretend to work at Empire Records when Gin Blossoms come on, mainly because that movie so lied to me about the level of awesomeness in part time jobs. What can I say? I guess I'm still a 90s kid through and through. But, please, keep your Savage Garden to yourself. Unless you are standing outside of my window next a Vespa holding a boombox in the air playing a burnt CD of your mix for me (The 90s version of Say Anything). Even then I might call the cops or throw things at you.

Pittsburgh! By all means, Pittsburgh. I will cherish my visit here... oh crap, it's where I live.

Shocking news! I actually had a Sunday off. And it was a lovely day. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, the Steelers won and it was nothing but blue skies all day. And no, that's not sarcasm. I even got to see one of my favorite films, Roman Holiday, on "the big screen." I know, I really let my pink, ruffly, girly flag fly with this one. So the visions of Gregory Peck (my love from another generation) and magical moped rides through Rome danced in my head and made it easier to go into the hell hole this morning.

I adore every single frame of this film. I can put it on and instantly feel that warm, fuzzy feeling, like a kid about to fall asleep on Christmas Eve. Completely comforted, at peace, yet the butterfly wings of anticipation are starting to stir. The running time is 118 minutes, but for me it feels like five. I've even come to love the film's ending because it's such a pull back to reality. (SPOILER ALERT!) She's a princess, he's a common reporter. They could never actually be together. Especially since the entire film they tried to hide their true identities from each other. In the end, the masks come off and they go their separate ways with only the memory of the one magical day they spent together. When I first saw this movie oh-so-long- ago when I was a real youngin', I hated the end. How could such a happy film have such an unhappy ending? I came up with many scenarios where Princess Anne runs away again to find Joe and they live happily ever after. But as I grew older, I realized not everything has a storybook ending. To quote Gregory Peck in the film "Life isn't always what one likes, is it?" Your whole life can't be a fairy tale.... but one day can. And, oh, what days those can be. We all need our "Roman holidays" every now and then, they're what get us by. So I might not be cruising on a Vespa in Rome with the love of my life anytime soon. But I won't lose hope. It is, after all, my girly dream. For now, I'll take a kayak ride down the Allegheny River on a beautiful fall day. My Pittsburgh Holiday.

Friday Night Frights

High school football is in full swing. Haunted houses are scaring the bejeezus out of the lucky bastards who don't already work in hell (and aren't poor). If that's not enough to entertain the average, everyday person, the weather has been unseasonably warm so outdoor activities are still an option. But it's not the average, everyday person that shops at MC Nickels Friday nights, they stop by in between howling at the moon and chilling at the Overlook Hotel. So the mall looks like a scene out of Dawn of the Dead with how many hobgoblins decide to shop Friday nights. At least it was not a full moon.

George Romero let one of his zombies loose again. I was fixing the business casual area along the wall when I heard a woman stage whispering "Miss? Miss?" I looked over and there was a woman in the aisle way looking everywhere except at me saying over and over again, "Miss? Miss?" So figured that maybe possibly she was looking for someone named Missy (Miss). Nope, she was looking for me. She ambled over to the rack I was fixing and asked for some help with pants. I understand that the undead really aren't supposed to say much more besides utter a few "Braaaains" and maybe a few guttural noises, but it was like pulling teeth to figure out what pants she wanted. Turns out the ones on the mannequin. Which were just basic black pants. The basic black pants that fill two racks. Two racks that are right near the mannequin.

Then, hillbillies from Deliverance rolled down the mountain to do a bit o' shoppin' at ye ole trading post. I didn't really encounter them till the end of their journey. I hope to God they made it back and aren't waiting for me in the morning. It's looking pretty grim though since one exclaimed, "I don't know where I am. I had a couple Woodchucks before coming here!" while trying to find the exit where they parked their car. Or tractor. At least Billy Joe or Bobby Joe didn't try to hit on me. I'm not one of those girls who think they're extremely attractive and deeply desired by anyone with a penis. I'm not and I don't, but I do tend to attract men of the toothless variety. Hockey player? Please?

My Own Personal Nightmare Before Christmas

It all starts with one strand of garland, a piece of tinsel, a quiet "ho, ho, ho," one single jingle bell... and then it all snowballs into this gruesome scene.

Soon the Christmas bells will ring and choirs of Satanic children will be drowned out by the overpowering techno music blaring from the make up counter. My own personal nightmare (3 months) before Christmas. Completely ignoring the best holiday of all time- Halloween. It's only a matter of time before the normally ghoulish customers will be clocking in overtime. I already had one shriveled goblin tell me that she was going to "keel over by the time I finished typing in her coupon." I just smiled, told her I couldn't get the coupon to work and I'm not allowed to override them anymore, while silently adding "bitch" (a la- Jesse Pinkman). It would have been easy to manually take off $10 and it would have been "legal" since her purchase was $24.99 and it was a $10 off $25 coupon. It would have also been easy for her to be a little more patient and a little nicer to me. Lesson learned, bitch. (No, not really, but at least I got her to buy a $3 candy bar)

Soooo... anyone want to work with me?

(Enticing flyer complete with Comic Sans)

I got 99 problems... and they're all bitches.

I'm not good at being "girly." I clomp around like a Clydesdale drunk on Budweiser when I wear heels and frankly, I don't understand the point of them. I only wear dresses because I hate wearing pants. My head looks more like a rat's nest than long, streaming locks. And I only wear make up because it's kind of like art...on my face. So halfway decent make up and pretty awesome nails are the only "girly" things that I can actually claim to be good at...except for putting on an awkwardly high pitched "nice voice" whenever I actually want to dive over the counter and strangle the person.

I am a master of the liquid eye-liner. And you twitchy gals have to admit, it is somewhat difficult. So maybe I don't blame the somewhat older customer who asked me all about my eyeliner. And I mean- All. About. My Eyeliner. I had hoped that if I replied "Oh, it's the liquid liner from Sephora," it would be enough, especially since Sephora is directly in front of the register. Well, it wasn't exactly enough. The customer walked up to the make up counter, grabbed the eye liner, brought it back to the counter and asked me to show her how to put it on. Number one- the tester make up freaks me out, I sit there all day and watch small children painting themselves with it. You don't know where those children have been- you want to put what they touched on your face? Number two- I'd need a mirror. Number three- Holy awkwardness, Batman! So I just made a sweeping motion with my hands and said that the ladies in Sephora would be happy to show her how to work with the liquid eyeliner. She wanted to make sure that they could do it exactly like mine. I replied that I'm sure they could. So she went inside their little area and proudly walked out with a new pair of cat eye liner-ed eyes. At least my littlest hipster alter-ego now has a sidekick, the oldest hipster.

Being a not girly-girl, I don't care what I look like...much. My self esteem has started to dwindle

since random strangers comment on my appearance so much. This past Sunday though, I realized how lucky I am to have grown up with a mother who cares more about "what's inside" than how I look. I never went to school dances, except for the ones that didn't require a big poofy dress. She didn't care. I never cried over what size jeans I wore. She didn't care, I was still healthy. I never cared much for clothes shopping, I'd rather go to Best Buy. And, well, she did care about that one because she has no interest in electronics. She was never like the mother I encountered this past weekend.

The fitting room is a bit of a sanctuary for me. Quite often, I just take a lean against the wall and chill for a bit... or roast since it's hot as hell. Sometimes I even overhear some entertaining conversations coming from inside the rooms. There was a mother or aunt or guardian standing outside of one of the rooms who said "You're getting to be a big girl, it's time for big girl sizes." There was something off about the tone of her voice, but I still assumed that she was speaking to a small child. Then the girl walked out of the room and I saw she was maybe 14-15 and trying on ordinary jeans. "You're getting bigger, you have to wear big sizes now," the mother continued in her condescending tone. Then, nodding my way, stated, "That girl has big hips, ask her what kind of jeans she wears." The girl looked like she was about to cry so the only input that I could think to add was "The more appropriate word would be 'curvy.'" The mother looked aghast and claimed that she was just trying to get her daughter

used to her "womanly figure." More like trying to get her used to an eating disorder. Guess what, lady, the Marilyn Monroe figure is coming back. Healthy women with healthy curves. Just because we have hips, tits and an ass doesn't mean we're one step away from having to be airlifted out of a house. If anything, we're happier because we allow ourselves to have a damn cookie every once in awhile.

I don't understand people who are so preoccupied with other's appearances. Sure, sometimes I judge the girls who walk around with furry Ugg boots and a mini skirt, but I'm more concerned that they might be suffering from CIPA and are unable to tell what the temperature is outside. Or the ones that walk around with leggings as pants or a short tunic as a dress- but that is just public indecency. Can't we all just become a little more self-involved? And I don't mean rank yourself among other people, just be completely, totally 100% enamored with yourself. At least that way if someone does try to bring you down, your justified arrogance will be too great to even pay them any thought.

No Coupons for You!

So the evil overlords of MC Nickels decided to take all coupons away from the customers. It was easy for them. Like taking candy from a baby. Rosemary's Baby, maybe.

A new group of associates, who I will lovingly refer to as "the strangelings" (draw your own conclusions), recently arrived at the gates of hell. Thanks to them, I don't have to be on the register as often. Unfortunately, when I do end up thrust into the middle of the the coupon hungry demon swarm, I have even less patience than before.

Thanks to The Princess Diaries, I learned that Eleanor Roosevelt said "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." I usually take advice from Julie Andrews movies so I often dress in drag to get jobs and am eagerly awaiting adult onset diabetes due to the many spoonfuls of sugar. However, I feel like this is actually something to live by- especially when you work in retail. Unfortunately for customers, I am not so gracious to just let it go- I feel the need to snap back and let them know I am not the subhuman life form they believe me to be.

I will let people complain about the new coupon policy once, then tell them there's simply nothing I can do about it. If they press the issue, I'm not so nice the second go around. Then, the third time's a charm- they win the grand prize of a heaping dose of sarcasm. My newest and favorite response is that I will tell the CEOs at the next MC Nickels convention in Texas. The sad thing is, they gobble this up like a hungry zombie with a smorgasbord of entrails and amble away one satisfied little demon. I'm just stuck left with the leftover carnage.

No Thanks, Miley Cyrus, I'd Rather Party in Sweden

Call it a strange case of Stolkholm syndrome, but I love Sweden. Because I'm poor and can't actually go there, I've always been fascinated by other countries, mostly the romantic ones like Italy and France and... Scotland (love by the loch). But now I've developed a soft spot in my heart for the land of the midnight sun. It's taken me awhile to put all the pieces together. I love IKEA. I love the Swedish meatballs they serve at IKEA. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo compelled me to read more Swedish literature. I love The Sounds, Peter Bjorn and John, and Jose Gonzalez (don't let the name fool you- he's Swedish). Who doesn't love Swedish Fish? And my favorite Muppet? Well, Animal. But THEN... well, Kermit. But the Swedish Chef is probably in my top 10 somewhere. Mostly what I love about Sweden is this news story, which was very well incorporated into the coverage of the set up for the set up of the 9/11 memorial (what? It was like 2 in the morning):

It was a dark, windy and rainy night when Per Johansson returned from work to his home in Saro just south of Gothenburg, Sweden.

"It was raining really bad. In the wind I heard something screaming with a very dark voice," Johansson told CNN. "At first I wondered if it was the crazy neighbors, but then I heard it again and went and checked. I saw something really big up in a tree in my neighbors' yard and it was a moose. It must have been drunk after eating fermented apples and as it was reaching out for more fruit it must have slipped and fallen into the tree."

The rest of the story can be found here

Blame it on the vodka. Blame it on the henny. Blame it on the blue top. Got you feeling dizzy. Blame it on the a a a a a apples. Boy, the Swedes must really know how to party if even their moose have a tendency to have a bit of a stumble into a tree. Makes you wonder what the Swedish chef was really cooking up and his "speech impediment." I think I smell a plot cooking for The Hangover 3- Balls Deep in Sweden

But mostly I love Mr. Moose's drunken escapade is that for me it brought a lighter tone to what was going to be a long, somber day. With a reminder of the past that will not be forgotten, a nation changed forever and the present that is spiraling downward, it's nice to have a news story that easily puts a smile to any person's face. Except for the moose because I'm sure he was rocking an awful hangover.

It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do him... I mean, it.

The menopausal woman in me is acting up again. I still have not found a furry soul mate and it's really wearing on me. Now not only do I want to steal dogs from their poor, unsuspecting walkers, but since I had to end my unhealthy relationship with Netflix, I spend my free time on youtube watching puppy videos. And openly weeping onto my keyboard wondering why I can't find that special someone. However, thanks to the other day at work, I have more pressing matters- how to convince Mike Rowe that working in retail is, in fact, a dirty job and worthy of being on his show. Or at least convince him to come visit Pittsburgh...

So what prompted this new mission? I found shit in the fitting room. Not shit as in "someone left a shit load of clothes in there," but shit as in human excrement. Actually, I didn't find it, another customer did and almost vomited on her way out of the room. It was not a pretty sight. I've given up wondering why people do what they doo doo in the fitting room and sometimes (if I'm not the one who found it) I even chuckle to myself because, well, in the words of Danny Devito in It's Always Sunny, "Poop is funny." This was serious though. Poop is not funny if you're the one who found it/ smelt it. So now I'm just trying to turn lemons into lemonade. Well, they make lemonade in the fitting room too. I guess I really am trying to polish a turd...

So maybe it's still the menopausal woman in me, but I have an awkward crush obsession with Mike Rowe. Don't tell the cool kids cause then they would think I'm a total nerd, but I am an avid watcher of The Discovery Channel and have seen almost every episode of Dirty Jobs. And I have dug up almost every clip of Mike Rowe from his days at QVC. Oh, Mike, QVC was pretty much retail- revisit those days and come to my store.

I guess I take after my mother for awkward obsessions that might go a bit too far (and the age gap that goes with them). However, I do feel that the public needs to see the dirty side of working in retail. Maybe then they won't want to try on clothes. Plus, it's only fair since he spotlighted a mannequin factory for one episode and it was a total cliffhanger- where do the mannequins go after they're made?! To one of the dirtiest places around. Seriously. Name any type of bodily fluid and it has been found in the fitting room and it's probably ground into the carpet (keep your shoes on!). Also, the store has pretty much turned into a giant garbage dump. Done with your chicken wings? Throw them on groooound. Don't be a part of the system, maaaan. Have a small child? Change their diapers in the fitting room and don't worry about picking the dirty ones up. Or have an itty bitty child? Well, there's chairs right out in the open- perfect for breast feeding! Yeah, that's right. All of that happens at least once a week. So take that, pig farm!

This would make me watch QVC.

Attention MC Nickels Customers, the Time Is Now Get the Frell Out, It's a Holiday

Ah, Labor Day. The last gasp of summer. So it's fitting that I spent it in retail hell. It's OK, it was raining so I didn't feel too bad. Neither did the customers who flooded the store. Except they were actually quite angry they were missing that last backyard barbeque. Thankfully, I had the newbies to stay on the register and I was free to roam the store. Well, kind of. I still had to clean up after the piggies and listen to one lady complain that the mall was closed and she had to walk in the rain. I explained that every store gave ample time to customers to exit before the mall closed early because of the holiday and maybe she should have given herself time to make it down to our store before we had to close the mall gates. This really brought the attitude out, "Oh, is it a holiday?" she sarcastically snarled.

....

Out of all the things she could have picked in my statement to be smart alecky about she picked the one that made her seem the least... well, smart. I replied that yes, it's Labor Day. This time I knew my bold statement could easily be backed up by calendars and sane people. She did not take the hint to insert her foot into her mouth and continued to complain that her paper bag tore in the treacherous downpour she had to face in her long journey through the mall parking lot. I told her it was a shame, he seemed like a good bag.

I waited until her and her gaggle of gals left the fitting room to return. I found the poor, torn bag unceremoniously shoved in the corner of the back room. I hope they accept paper bags across the rainbow bridge. This one clearly meant a lot to the lady. The way she was going on and on and on about how he tore in that horrible rain. It must have been hard to lose him. But what a way for him to go- drowned and torn apart then shoved in the fitting room. He was like the Rasputin of paper bags. May he rest in peace.

< emo > My Life Is a Universal Face Palm. I'm so Deep. < / emo >

When the balance shifts from self deprecating to self pity, I usually try to shut my mouth and Anne Frank in my attic room. But ol' Annie had a diary, so why shouldn't I write too? Granted, she wasn't wearing black eye liner and listening to My Chemical Romance (not really) and had bigger problems to worry about than not getting into the film industry and having a rather large vet bill. Nevertheless, my nails are painted black, I've got my skinny jeans on and have new and improved swooping bangs. So it's ready.... set... emo a go go!

Now, these so called "emo kids" are all about really deep poetry. You know, the kind you snap at after hearing it read aloud. I hate poetry. Unless, of course, it is by Shel Silverstein. Seriously, the Emily Dickinson unit in Honors English made me weep openly- and not because it was so moving. In place of a slit my wrists and stick my head in the oven poem, might I present to a haiku about the first situation that plagues my normal happy-go-lucky demeanor.

Oh, brown Cavalier

Why did your brake cable snap?

Goddamn, bill of doom

Yes, my 1999 Cavi gave out again. After we've been through so much together recently- erratic driving is totally OK when the police are busy with the Batman crazies. The emergency brake decided to dislodge itself from my car and pop out its underbelly like an alien baby. This shouldn't be too upsetting, but my life is a universal facepalm. When an opportunity presents itself, I inevitably screw it up. Case in point, interview for "Magnus Rex" aka "Dark Knight Rises. Yes, I actually got one. Did I get the job? Nope, I got a date... which never actually happened. (Aaaand face palm) The opportunity this time was tagging along with my uncle to the wonderful, exciting, alcoholic, not-Pittsburgh world of New Orleans. How did I screw it up? By doing what I thought was the sensible, noble thing and ask for the money he would have spent on me to put towards the vet bill. Where did the money go? Towards my car, which I am convinced would have never broken had I gone on the trip.

"Aladdin," I Dream of Jeannie and the short story "The Monkey's Paw" taught me be careful what you wish for because it might not turn out the way you intended. However, I am still hoping for a zombie apocalypse. Take that, W.W. Jacobs (thanks, wikipedia!). All I wanted was some time in Latrobe to relax. I got it. Five long, grueling day so if it. Without a car, I might add. I got some pretty, pretty pictures out of it though.

Then, in the long, dark tunnel of depression, a small flicker of light. A new, ridiculous celebrity meltdown. Matthew Fox punched a lady party bus driver. In Cleveland. Now, I'm not promoting woman beating or violence towards bus drivers, but the lady was clearly an Other. Or perhaps he was angry because the party on the bus consisted of more than five and he was not invited. Either way, he probably cried about it afterwards. Now, let's take this full circle, shall we?

Beat up by Lost's Jack

I'd feel like such a pussy

We have to go back!

The 90s Really Are All That...And a Bag of Chips

I've been trying to for almost a week to figure out how to write about this customer without sounding like the whiny little bitch I am. Well, even more so than usual. I've had customers insult me by picking on my looks, weight and intelligence, but I've been able to turn the other cheek (after blowing off some steam by writing a totally unbiased account of the incident). But I've never been as angry as I was at this customer, who insulted not only my intelligence, but my entire generation.

Last Saturday, a man who looked like a Hawaiian tourist circa 1960 walked up to my fellow associate's register. He began waving his arms to get my attention, which he did- mainly because I wanted to see if Jimmy Buffet really threw himself into the washed up hippie look. I glanced over and he began his tyrade by thanking us "young girls for working and paying [his] social security." I rolled my eyes and continued with my customer, but still managed to overhear parts of his conversation with the other associate (who is around my age). He told her to save 20% paycheck because social security is going to run out and we're not going to see a dime of it. 20%? Really, sir? I can't save $20 from my paycheck. You realize you were talking to people in a retail store, correct? And, yes, we all realize social security is going to run out and we'll have to keep working till we're 80. He continued gloating about his paychecks from the government and basically blaming the young folks for the state of the economy until he left, turned back to me and said "Keep working, girls, keep the money rolling into my pockets" while making the "show me the money sign."

This incident occurred a week ago so I've had some time to cool off and begin my new quest-obtain a box of Dunkaroos at any cost. Well, not any cost, I am stuck in retail hell. For those of you who don't remember Dunkaroos, the tastiest treat of the 90s this side of Shark Bites, the snack consists of kangaroo shaped graham cracker cookies with a delicious icing dipping sauce garnished with sprinkles. Simply delectable. When I finally get my hands on the Holy Grail of lunchtime snacks, I will put my hair up in the classiest up-do (side pony), throw on my best long sweater and leggings and with the help of TeenNick's 90s line up, be transported back to that magical era of childhood. That time when the most I had to worry about was someone taking over my role as the Pink Ranger when we were playing Power Rangers or the great debate over which was better- TGIF or Snick? I was indecisive even then, I loved them both. I still dream of one day owning an orange couch. And thanks to TeenNicks line up of beloved 90s classic like All That, Kenan and Kel, Doug and Clarissa Explains It All, it appears I'm not the only one.

As my lovely customer pointed out, my generation got the short end of the stick. And I don't mean Stick Stickly, host of Nick in the Afternoon. According to Blink 182, "I guess this is growing up," but it still feels like my generation has been forced into an early sense of nostalgia for a time when everything seemed safe and you believed your elders when they told you "everything is going to be OK"- even if it was over a scraped knee. Those words are rare to hear nowadays and pretty hard to believe. I know I complain about my job, but at least I have one. And I'm not the only college educated person working a menial job, living at poverty level. We know what we are- a new "lost generation" of sorts. Unsure what is going to happen to us with all the problems of the past and present dumped in our laps. So, please, don't remind us at our crappy jobs that our future is as unstable as the dynamite from the Black Rock (ha! Lost reference in regards to "lost generation." Charlie Sheen would still call that winning). For now, I'll find some peace jumping to the left, stepping to the right and time warping back to the 90s- if only for the few hours at night I get to hang at the local Good Burger or listen to the musical stylings of The Beets. But in the words of Motion City Soundtrack, "The future freaks me out."

Leave the Batman, Take the Cannoli aka "Wax on, Wayne off"

So I survived the full moon without a scratch. Unfortunately, no one would jump in the Mon with me to see if we'd become mermaids. (H2O: Just Add Water- watch it!). In celebration of surviving the full moon/ meteor shower weekend, I took a long and treacherous journey through the bat n'at filming dahntahn in search of a cannoli from the Strip (to no avail, I might add.)

While putzing through the 2nd unit filming (Hello, people whose job I want), getting the stink eye from security guards (clearly jealous because they didn't get the cool security job and are stuck with the dudes filming buildings), I noticed that Pittsburgh pride is out in full force- along with the booties of females in leggings and baby doll fit Steeler jerseys. Ladies, just because you like football, does not mean you need to dress like a football player. Leggings are not pants. You know those signs in parking garages that say "Put your junk in your trunk?" That's to keep it hidden. Please take heed and hide your junk in your trunk with a long enough top. Just doing my part to help Pittsburgh get off the worst dressed list.

So with sore feet and a cannoli craving that will not be extinguished, I begrudgingly limped into work. Well, apparently a lot of folks are suffering from a full moon hang over in these waning phases... oh, wait Batman's still in town Wayne-ing phases? The mall opens at 10:00 am. The mall doors open before that so if people want to get to the mall, they don't have to wait for the 10:00 sharp opening of the department stores and the subsequent opening of their mall doors. Which is why at 10:02 I was ready to smack a whining little bitch... of an old man. Who sat there glaring at me, tapping his foot, looking at his watch and giving exasperated sighs asking me when the mall doors will open. I'm sorry, I'm not Aladdin, I don't have a magic lamp and this is not the Cave of Wonders, you'll just have to wait for a manager with a key.

The day didn't get much better from there. The pregnant girl was a no show again, so I was stuck by myself on the register. Which I usually don't mind because I stand there and write about how much I hate working in hell. But today there was a mass epidemic of people who woke up on the wrong side of the bed. The first customer got upset because I put her return amount on a gift card... which is what she paid with and which is what the computer told me to do. I saw 2001, you don't go against HAL. When I tried to explain this to her, she scoffed grabbed all of the receipts and tried to run away. When I asked her to please come back and give me the store copy, she yelled "I just took what you gave me!" Yes, you took the receipt that I told you to sign, give back to me and said "STORE COPY" with stars all around it. Then she is going to be nice enough to come back with the stuff that she bought a few days ago, return it and pay for it with a gift card. And she saw my name tag so she is going to ask for me by name. OK, go ahead and ask for "I have a zipper." Finding random tags is fun.

The rest of the day was full of lovely people. A hoverround lady with road rage was angry at me because I was only scanning one item at a time. As opposed to grabbing all of the scanners from the registers and going "Stick 'em up!... the tags, I mean." And a grandmother who taught her granddaughter some new words- including "Shit, fuck and goddamn" all over us not having the right size dress she wanted to exchange (she found one anyway). Who says you kids don't learn things in the summertime? The kindly old woman also thought it was precious when the granddaughter grabbed the receipt from the register and pretended she grew a beard. She did not think it was so adorable when I handed her the original receipt and accused me of stealing the receipt for the exchange. I just looked at her, pointed at her granddaughter and said "It's on her face." Then it was cute again.

So that's the last straw. I can't take people anymore. I've figured out what I want to do with my life. Next full moon, I'm becoming a mermaid. Cause I'm no ordinary girl, I'm from the deep blue under world and the world's my oyster, I'm the pearl....