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!