Keep calm and put your bitchface on

Hip hip hooray! I have health insurance now. However, the one ailment that I suffer from that actually is an apparent hinderance to my job performance is the one that cannot be cured by a doctor. I have what is commonly referred to as "bitchface." The symptoms are somewhat angular facial features, a snarl, one raised eyebrow and glares that could kill. The only known cure is getting out of the hell hole.

Today, I was in a somewhat decent mood for once. I've been sleeping about 14 hours a day and I actually had caffeine to try to counteract this overdose on sleep so I was pretty hyper and not at all my usual disgruntled self. Until I discovered that a customer decided to complain about me because I was talking to another associate and gave her a "dirty look." Really? What are you, like 12? I didn't realize that MC Nickels is actually a playground at recess. I can't stand immature women.

Now, I could see if the "talking" consisted of a string of dirty jokes and me dropping the f bomb like it was "Little Boy" on Hiroshima, but I was talking to another customer in my high pitched, nice little innocent girl voice. And the only time I turned around was when the other associate told me she accidentally ripped the hold tag I had on a few items. I didn't even see this customer until after she told the other associate to call the manager on duty. I even tried to help her out when the manager was taking awhile and I told the associate to call again. Luckily, the manager to respond was my little dancing Polish lady (yup, she got promoted), who I'm sure rolled her eyes and called the customer a bitch as soon as she walked away. And there were no repercussions for me. So there. Nana nana boo boo, stick your head in doo doo.

The Late Night War Rages in the Leonard House

Many feel that for some reason my comedic genius is best suited for late night television (more than likely so it will be hidden far, far out of sight and mind). My parents are starting to agree. Like most parents, they only want what is best for their daughter so they are trying to find the perfect suitor their little comedian and both seem to have such differing perspectives that it has caused a rift in my once happy childhood home as vast as the one in the opening credits of Land of the Lost.

I have mentioned mommy dearest many times before, but not much on my dad. So here's a summary of him. He's the quieter, more reposed of the two. He is logic and my mom is chaos. He taught me a love for classic rock at a young age (I wasn't allowed to listen to 90s pop music under his watch... but my mom and aunt snuck me CDs anyway). He passed on not only his skill for visual arts (he's actually a pretty good photographer), but also the incredibly geeky gene that seems to run in the Leonard family. This penchant for anything nerdy combined with my mom's hippiness to form me.

Of course I had to go home this weekend to honor the man who introduced me to the first love of my life, Fox Mulder. While we were at dinner, surrounded by other happy families celebrating their fathers, my parents decided it was the best place to break the news to me. They're in a war with each other. A battle between late night talk show hosts (they might be a little behind on the times). My mother has latched onto Jimmy Fallon like she latched onto Sidney Crosby. Well, what else is a cougar to do in the off-season? And my father has always watched Craig Ferguson. They both believe that they have found my future boss-man... as if both hosts are just clamoring to have me on their writing team. Of course I heard all about Jimmy Fallon (she watched him on Piers Morgan) and every skit he does on his show, since my mom is the louder, slightly more talkative one of the two... even if most of what she says is just repeating what she said 5 minutes before. Hey, she partied hard in the 70s, more (flower) power to her. My dad did have a pretty good argument for Craig though- "He has a robot skeleton sidekick.... and puppets."

This late night feud has gotten so bad that they're starting to sleep in separate bedrooms.... not so much out of anger for each other, but because they each put on their late night talk show of choice and fall asleep to it. Maybe it's not so bad after all. After all those sex ed classes in junior high, I've dreamed of them having separate rooms. I just thought that I would feel more comfortable in my house that way. Well, thanks Jimmy and Craig, you've made one of my dreams come true... now hire me? Please?

The early bird gets the pissed off associate

I haven't gotten the call to action from Batman yet, so I'm still stuck at the hell hole. I'm pretty sure I don't even need an apartment anymore, I might as well just shack up at work. They love to do the infamous "clopen." It's not as fun as it sounds. I was stuck closing last night till 10:00 (about 10:30 when I finally leave, 11:00 when I get home and 2:00 till I get to sleep) and then I got to come in at 9:00 this morning (about 7:00 my alarm goes off, it's 7:30 after I hit the "snooze" button a million times, 7:45 till I actually get out of bed after contemplating what a strange word "snooze" is, etc.) After all of that nonsense, the hell hole is the last place I want to be. So if you are ever looking to barter in a retail store, as soon as it opens would be your best bet. Just be sure to go to the associate who barely has his/her eyes open.

If you happen to be a morning person, try not to rub it in. Some of us with menial jobs like to live in a dream world instead of our hellish realities and it's not very nice to force us to be at work when we could be dreaming about having dinner with David Tennant in Jurassic Park. First, a customer decided to wander from the juniors' department to misses and proceed to argue the prices of almost every item. Of course they wouldn't accept me calling the other department to verify the prices. Nope, I had to walk over there too. Far too much work at such an ungodly hour to be stuck in retail hell.

Then, of course, another one of the first customers I had practically waltzed up to the register singing the store's praises. I do not take kindly to such nonsense. I could hear the "customer service scores" plummeting with each grunt. Luckily, it was an older person who agreed that us youngin's shouldn't have to work at such an awful hour... unless it's on a film set, of course (or at least a job I like.) Speaking of...

Mirror, mirror on the wall, I'm the fairest of them all? Bitch, please!

As I've mentioned before, I'm pretty much a Disney princess. But the cool kind, like Belle... minus the Stockholm syndrome. I live on the third floor of my house with my dog who at least tries to speak, even if it's not English. And I have two sparrows, who I named Jack and Sally, that come to my window almost every morning. If only they could team up with the mice infestation to make me pretty dresses and a suit jacket to put on the chair next to me for my missing Prince Charming. I mean, he totally exists, he's just in the bathroom. Aaanyway, clearly there are many people who are just plain jealous of this:

Am I right?! So I was quite confused when a customer, who I will now refer to as the "Evil Queen" came up to me and after I asked if she found everything she was looking for completely flipped her lid and exclaimed, "I want a new body!" I was somewhat afraid she was a serial killer so I didn't say anything and tried not to make any sudden movements while ringing up her purchase. This didn't stop her from continuing her rant though, stating that I "think (I'm) young and pretty now, but just wait till (I) get old and fat. It'll happen! Some people escape it, but it'll happen eventually!" Several things went through my head at this point. The first one, obviously, was "You think I'm pretty?!" But the thought she was going to take me up to the food court and force feed me wasn't far behind. However, since I'm pretty damn poor, I'd actually be ok with this. The third and most rational thought was "I hope I don't care what I look like when I'm old." Vanity is for the young, I hope that when I'm fifty, I have more in my life to care about than just my looks. Like my Prince Charming, for example.... oh, damnit, that's right... he's just a jacket.... thaaat he left on the chair when he went to the restroom. He totally exists.

I'm a Brick (pause) House!

Since I've been judged on my weight/looks so much at the hell hole, I decided to to a more appropriate setting for such prejudice. What brought my usual lazy, skin-graft off the couch, air lift out of the house self to dust off the Lucky Charms and head out into proper society? Well, my little demons... errr, customers, of course. Oh, and the fact that I'll get on The Dark Knight Rises set one way or another.

Yup, I sucked up my cinema kid pride and went to the extras casting. The only advice I got (besides my mother's, who was decidedly not sober when I spoke to her) was to be "normal." I'm not quite sure what normal is, but they were casting prisoners (presumably from Arkham) so hopefully this is close enough:

Don't worry. I went as a "business person" (yawn) But that works out because I got to strut around in a dress all day- the bad part was it was also Pride Fest, so I'm not sure if they knew I was actually born female or just a pretty decent impersonator. I just needed a small confidence boost since I had a conversation that went something like this the day before:

Customer: "Where is the petite department?"

Me: *Points* and grunts (My linguistic skills at the hell hole are equivalent to those of Frankenstein's Monster)

Customer: "Well, I'm looking for something for my friend who's about your height, do you wear petites?"

Me: "Well, my height is right, but my proportions are off."

Customer: (in a hushed tone) "Oh, is it because you're wider?"

Next time I'm going to be like "Yeah, I'm a brick (pause) house..." who is desperately trying to claw her way out of the hell hole. Hey, any position on The Dark Knight Rises would be perfect for that. When I returned to work Tuesday after the casting call, it was as if the universe decided to show me a sign and I found this little guy on my register...

...did I mention I'm desperate?

Only YOU can prevent microwave fires

So I've been a bit blue with no place to go to and I'm always stuck at the place where fashion sits. Alas, I have not been putting on the ritz. Seriously, I have been a bit glum lately, but several events of today just turned my frown right upside down with choirs of angels singing:

The microwave, the microwave, the microwave's on fire

We don't need no water let the motherfucker burn

Burn, MC Nickels, burn.

At least I was close to seeing one of my dreams come to fruition today- seeing that place burn and go straight back to hell where it belongs. Unfortunately, it was only a small microwave fire contained in the Chick Fil A wrapper and the enclosed sandwich. I'm sure it could have spread into a glorious sight, but my manager, who I will now refer to as Smokey the Bear (killjoy), just had to walk through the break room while the little flame that could was still growing. Amazingly, 'twas not I who was the thiiiis close arsonist, but I really wish I would have thought of that earlier- "What? You mean I can't put this drawer of silverware in the microwave? And I shouldn't have had those bins of lighter fluid right next to it? Oooops."

Then, as if a burning microwave wasn't enough of a sign from God that MC Nickels should prepare for the end, the children's department was flooded without warning or at least a suggestion to gather a couple pets and build an ark. Don't worry, big man in the sky, I'm paying attention to your signs and am eagerly awaiting the plague of locusts.