She's Not As Big As You...And Yes, They're Mine...

After my hellish evening last night, I thought today at work would be a cake walk.

Boy, was I wrong.

I get to work and after the raucous evening with Carl, (my car) I think that all is well in the lock world.

Notsomuch.

I get out of the car, lock the door, and shut it.

It bounces off the hinges. It doesn't close, in other words.

After about 10 minutes of hip shakin', door bumpin' fun, I get the damn thing closed.

I go about my morning business in the store, trudging through leftover boxes from the night before, markdowns, phone calls, the usual shit.

About midday, a lovely 197 year old lady comes in the store.

She's hard of hearing, partially blind, and completely lacking in the tact gene.

After asking me for an "oversized shirt", (Which loosely translates to nightgown) I show her EVERY single thing in the store to no avail.

I ask her what size the girl is. (Standard question when senile old bags are looking for clothing for other people)

She turns to me and says:

"Well, she's not as big as you..."

I'm thinking; "Okay lady, back the fuck up before you say something you regret... I can kick that walker out from under you faster than you can say Depends."

She continues with: "I don't mean you, I mean your boobs, they're huge..."

My eyes widen for a fraction of a second before settling to their original width and I smile politely and say maybe she'd like to go to Wal-Mart. They're sure to have what she's looking for.

Cue melancholy music.

My boobs are huge. Yeah, so?

I'll take numb hands for $1000 Alex...

Holy &%$@.

Seriously. Yesterday was the day from Hell.

Hell frozen over.

Seriously. We got our first snowfall of the year yesterday and it was bad. It was cold, windy, slushy, slippery, shitty snow. The kind you'd rather be sitting in your warm house NOT watching.

Instead, I drove to work in it.

I parked my tin can in the mall parking lot at around 11:30 am.

I didn't get back out to my car until 9:10 pm.

At this point, my car looked like it had been snowed on for approximately 10 hours. Go figure.

I skate out to my car and lo and behold, I'm parked in the only fucking puddle in the entire lot.

My shoe had a hole in the sole.

Again, go figure.

I am not wearing gloves since I think that the entering the car and warming it up portion of the evening is going to go off without a hitch.

Wouldn't you know it? I'm wrong.

It's -139287124978 degrees outside, I'm not wearing mittens and son of a bitch, my key won't turn in the lock.

I thought I might be able to warm up the car before I started chipping away at it. Not so much.

I go to the trunk to retrieve my scraper. I leave it open in case I have to crawl through it later.

*&^$!!

I scrape for a few and re-attempt to enter the vehicle.

MY. KEY. WILL. NOT. TURN. IN. THE. LOCK...

I'm growing more numb every second, swearing loudly while people leaving work click their fancy pants automatic lock buttons, auto-starts, and open their doors with relative ease.

I suck.

So does the tuna can I call a car.

At about 9:30, some other girls come out of the mall, seemingly stifling laughter at the sight of the poor latch-key kid with the hole in her shoe scraping a frozen slab of tin.

They offer to drive me home (God love them) and then to bring me back to work in the morning.

I politely refuse (near tears) since I don't want to risk someone stealing (yeah right) my car over night. (please??)

I throw myself half in the trunk and heat up my key heroin-style with a lighter. ( I heard that's how people cook it...)

I run to the door, slip the key in, try to turn it. (It budged, I swear)

Nothing.

I scurry back to the trunk (slide is more like it, I think I threw my back out in a near slip and fall accident) and re-light my key.

After repeated failed attempts, I finally manage to unlock the passenger side door.

That's right, I entered the shitmobile via the passenger side. Don't laugh. You'd do it too.

I lean over, start the fucking thing and since it's warmer outside than in, I hover outside the car, scraping the rest of Mother Nature's Ass© off my car.

After a few minutes, I get in the passenger side again.

I hop the bucket seats, slam my ass/tailbone on the gear shift (ow) and start the fucking car.

I get home (just barely, since I can't steer with icicle hands) and think; "Hmm, maybe I'll try to unlock my door".

Guess what?

The fucker opens.

I exit the vehicle, squoosh up the stairs, shimmy out of my pants, peel off my socks, go to the bathroom, shut the door, sit on the edge of the tub, turn the hairdryer on full blasted heat, thaw out my toes and fingers and finally collapse on the couch.

*UPDATE*
My fingers regained their full range of motion and color this morning at approximately 9:00 am.

As I prepare for Monday...

I am considering this fine gentleman's take on life. I really wonder if it's wrong to tell the majority of your customers that they suck ass..


Is it really wrong???

I thought so, but still...

Sometimes, it would be so cathartic to say this to every douchebag that crosses the threshhold.

Holy...

SHIT! Christmas in T minus 21 days.

"Are you there God? It's me, Giraffe..."

So I've developed a new addiction.

No, it's not porn.

That's not a new addiction.

It's youtube.

Seriously. Have you checked it out? I could seriously watch it for a living. You can find anything there.

Please partake in this glorious clip, courtesy of Robot Chicken. One of the best shows ever made.

Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dGvw6WpHSF4

Who knew?/Wow!

Who Knew? http://ebaumsworld.com/2006/11/trained-bees.html

Wow! http://www.ebaumsworld.com/2005/12/2legdog.html

Thank You Maine...

The following is a photograhic dramatization of my evening. I must say, it was quite enjoyable.

First: Second:

Third:

Fourth:

And Finally:

**All identifying names and places have been changed to protect all individuals involved in this glorious, glorious evening. **

An Open Letter to All Christmas Shoppers...

The season is upon us, dear readers...

That's right, Christmas shopping season is in full swing.

They're coming out of the woodwork now. They're animals. Get in the way, and you're hamburger. Old ladies pushing empty carts will check you out of the way without lifting a cane.

This is an open letter to all of you lovely people out there who make working retail such a joy. Don't get me wrong, I looooove my job, but seriously, come on, would it really hurt that bad if you smiled?
-------------------------------
Dear Christmas Shopper,

Please don't hurt me. What did I ever do to you? (Besides provide extraordinary customer service, that is.)

First, the thank you's.

Thank you for shopping at my store.

Thank you for spending lots of money at my store for your wife, girlfriend, mother, and/or sister, whatever.

Thank you for being in the store all day, this makes my day go fast, which in turn, means I'm that much closer to leaving.

That's it. I'm wiped.

Second.

Fuck you.

Fuck you for not even AKNOWLEDGING my presence. When I say: "Hello, how are you doing today?" and you respond with: "I'm just looking..." and then you turn away from me? Not cool. I didn't ask if you needed help, I asked you how you were. Be nice.

I swear, sometimes, I think I'm the Assistant Manager's invisible friend and only she can see me.

Fuck you for only coming in to my store when I'm on a ladder (With proper supervision of course...) and there're racks and pyjamas all over the place.

How bout you come in when it's nice and clean. And quiet. It gives me something to do.

Fuck you for shopping at my store with your piss poor, woe is me attitude. What happened to "Holiday Spirit"? What about common decency towards man? Did your mother raise you that badly?

I don't care that you lost your list, or that the "other" store is cheaper.

Go there.

It'll fall apart.

A week after Christmas.

Tops.

Don't come running back to me.

Fuck you for getting mad at me when I can't break a hundred dollar bill. Sorry Daddy Warbucks, but Little Orphan Annie's cash register is not stacked. (Unlike herself...)

Fuck you for getting mad at me because I ran out of boxes. You think you're out shopping early? Not a chance.

I've got 110 year old ladies that were done in October.

Of 2005.

For this year.

Fuck you for asking me to show you something that you've been searching for, showing you a dozen of said item, and then complain that it's not "Exactly what you were looking for" and leave without buying something.

Fuck you for getting mad at me because the debit machine is down. It's not my fault. I just work there. I don't run the banks.

Next time, bring cash just in case.

Most of all, Fuck you for being rotten first thing in the morning before I've had my caffeine and sugar dosage. This has to happen before I plant the fake smile on my face for the rest of the day.

That is all.

Merry Chrismukkahwanzaa to all.

A Walk Down Memory Lane...

I thought I'd share with everyone a lovely moment from my childhood.

I came across this gem last weekend while I was visiting with my out of town grandmother while I was on a hiatus from a work conference.

Fuck, I was hot. (not that I'm still not, but you get the idea...)

Seriously, check out the sweet threads I'm sporting.

I mean, really.

Who could have known that Ghostbusters sweats were to 1985 what Juicy Couture is to the 2000's...

I know, you're jealous.

It even looks like I'm hovering.

Don't ask. I wouldn't tell my secret, even if I knew how I did it.

It takes great pains to be so cool. Trust me, I know. I've been working for over 20 years to get it back.

I could write a book, or a screenplay: "How Slimer Got Jenn Her Groove Back".

It's catchy, I like it.

Try and bite your tongues though. The mushroom/bowl cut combo is a lot to take in at once.

Don't hate.

**Sidenote: The adorable fat kid who looks like he's taking a dump at the end of the couch is my brother. God love him.

Boo Monday...

Oops..

This may or may not be the reason I got an extra special patdown at the airport last week.

I'm not sayin' see...

Umm...

I'll let this one speak for itself. Don't worry, I got you ALL one for Christmas!! Hooray!!

**Please note the honky on the left with the rat tail and the lazy eye. And is he missing a finger? Is he sporting a nubbin? Or is he simply hiding the "golden nugget" he dug out of his nose three seconds to this photo being taken?**

***Please also note the three young male models are holding hands***

****Also note the young man in the middle doing the patented "Look how hot I am, biting my lower lip" bit.****

You knew I wouldn't be able to let this photo speak for itself.

Holy Snow Balls..

Mi madre, mi perro, y un "shitload" de la nieve...

Taken today, this photograph depicts what it's like to walk outside.

In November.

With lots of snow.

And a happy Black Labrador.

And a possibly not so happy Mema.

Sir Links A Lot

I was going through and re-reading all the blogs that I frequent this evening, even though I've read them all to their fullest extent. While reading them, I thought, why not share the joys that I experience each day with others. Sharing does mean caring you know. That being said, they're all on the right. I'll add some more soon, I'm tired though, and getting cranky, and we don't want that. Well, you don't anyway...

Let Us Pray...

Come one, come all.

My Babies!!

Just thought I'd share some photos of my children. They are too cute not to share. I swear, sometimes it's like I done birthed 'em mahself!!


Here they are IN the laundry basket. Together. On my clean clothes. Fuckers. :)

Here's Todd, the kitten, sitting IN a basket ON the microwave. Kooky!

They're too cute aren't they? The have to be together all the time. This picture was taken as I sat at the computer. They had to be nearby.

These two crazy cats love sleeping in my Roots bag together. They're nuts. I love it.

Oh MiPod!

I have re-fallen in love with my iPod.

Technically I never fell out of love with Randy, but I did neglect him for a while. We're back together.

I've never been happier.

Right now, I'm listening to a lot of Wintersleep. This is a band from out in these parts, and they're excellent. I very much enjoy them.

I'm also bopping to some Nas, The Stills, The Rogers Sisters, (Who I've recently been introduced to and very much enjoy), Sufjan, as usual, and I threw in a little bit more to keep me on my toes.

My most played songs this weekend are probably:

Chicago- Sufjan Stevens
Hands Open- Snow Patrol
Hip Hop is Dead- Nas
Avalanche- Wintersleep
Danse Macabre- Wintersleep
A Good Man is Hard to Find- Sufjan Stevens

That's my two cents for today!

If

if i called you, would you answer?

if i moved you, would you tell me?

if i needed you, would you hold me?

if i touched you, would you kiss me?

if i told you, would you believe me?

if i asked you, would you come?

Home!

I am finally here! Just as I suspected, there is a SHITLOAD of snow, and the temperature is well below zero.

When I left my home yesterday, it had been close to 15 degrees above zero. (Celcius for all your Fahrenheit folks) It was glorious.

I wore flip flops all the way to the hotel in Montreal last night.

I knew, however, that my mother would murder me if I got off the airplane without wearing shoes, so I sucked it up, put on socks and shoes, and suffered through it.

Let it be known that I DO NOT wear shoes. Or socks for that matter. I loathe them.

I put on my sandals in February and wear them until approximately the middle of November, sometimes December if I am lucky. Not so much this year.

There are snow drifts.

There are skidoos out.

There are people wearing *gasp* winter coats, hats, and mittens. And don't forget the shoes. Dammit, I think I saw boots too.

I will wear socks and shoes until I leave, just so that my mother continues to feed and love me.

Once I get back to Montreal however, the shoes are off. The toes come back out.

I will supply some photographs tomorrow. Maybe I'll send some squalls and blizzards your way.

Finally!

A small, albeit well-deserved vacation starts tomorrow.

I am going to visit my parents in Northern Canada.

I will be away until Thursday of next week, but have no fear loyal readers.

I shall update with tales of snow and frolicking. Anyone need some snowballs?

***I should also mention, that this is literally the "highway" (and I use the term highway very, very loosely) where I am from. I shit you not.

Day Off?

The dictionary describes a day off in the following two ways:

Day Off:
A day away from work, school, or a similar obligation; a free day.

Day Off:
n : a day when you are not required to work; "Thursday is his day off"

Bullshit.

This is a farce. The dictionary is full of bold faced lies.

On my day off, I did the following:

Made bed
Did dishes
Swept floors
Vacuumed carpets
Put away dishes
Paid Bills
Cleaned up after messy cats
Dusted
Prepared ingredients for supper
Went to store to buy treats for said messy cats
Typed Blog
Surfed net for about 10 minutes
Cleaned up after messy cats
Checked email
Sent email
Checked other blogs
Listened to iPod while doing all of the above
Talked to Mother, Brother, and Friend
Cleaned up after messy cats

Day off? I did more work today then I do AT work. And it's not even half over yet.
I've yet to shower, or read. I need to read to relax.

I'm off to read before getting in the shower so that I can read again after I'm clean.

**UPDATE**
I am now clean.

Friday's Playlist

My Friday is over and I plan on relaxing for the rest of the evening (Until I return to work tomorrow). I will curl up with a good book and slap on some tunes. Here is my choice playlist (In no particular order) for aforementioned event.

1. Bright Eyes - On My Way To Work
2. Rilo Kiley - With Arms Outstretched
3. Aqualung - Falling Out Of Love
4. Wintersleep - Butterfly
5. Foo Fighters - Razor
6. Rilo Kiley - Glendora
7. Gary Jules - Mad World
8. John Legend - Do What I Gotta Do
9. Prince - Seven
10. Mobile - See Right Through Me
11. Queens of the Stone Age - Little Sister (One of these things just doesn't belong here)
12. Sparta - Breaking the Broker
13. Sufjan Stevens - The Dress Looks Nice On You
14. Sufjan Stevens - To Be Alone With You
15. David Gray - Babylon
16. The Stills - Still In Love Song
17. Pilate - Lover Come In
18. Sarah McLaughlan - Posession
19. Sarah McLaughlan - Good Enough

Come

Sharp- intake of breath
Arched back, lips pursed

Slow- release of air, fireworks
Toes Curled, eyes closed

Tight- calves, teeth clenched
Heaving chest, curling smile

Hair- falling softly across pillows
Sheets tangled up in limbs.

Crescendo- of rain, outside windows
Dark creeps in, sleep comes.

Minions Deux..

My night is almost over.

I am exhausted.

I am eating Twizzlers one after the other.

I am secretly reading my book behind a rack of robes so that the security cameras can't see me.

I am chugging Pepsi.

I hear screaming.

I hear whining.

I see minions.

Two of them. Dear God no.

I say a silent prayer. Nobody answers it.

They come in.

Their mother is not at fault for giving birth to two of Rosemary's babies, she just needed to go shopping.

In they roll, I am frozen. I can't hide anymore. There's nowhere for me to go. I contemplate hiding in a change room, but can't leave the store unattended. I straighten up, and greet the family.

Mom came by to tell me that her purchase was fantastic, and that she was very pleased, and more people should be like me. It made me happy to know that I'd done a good job with Rosemary, and even though I had to put up with the blond brats, she bought something.

On their way out, one of the pint sized brats says:

"Can I have some candy nice lady?"

How could I resist.

Plus, Mom will have to get them down off their sugar high later.

Duffle Shuffle

It's me.

I know that now.

I alone attract the weirdos.

As usual, it was a pretty uneventful day.

That is until I went to grab some supper.

I went to the store to grab a Pepsi, and while waiting in line behind a 143 year old lady counting out coupons and pennies for her Depends, I noticed that there was a tall black man standing eerily close to me.

Carrying a large green duffle bag.

I thought nothing of it, that is, until said duffle bag man yells in my ear:

"What kind of music do you like just askin'."

There was no break in the sentence. No punctuation mark between the question about my taste in music and the statement that he was "just askin'."

I look at the cashier nervously, she almost imperceptibly shrugs, while stifling a giggle, and then turn slightly to duffle man.

He is looking directly into my eyes and being a close talker. He repeats the question.

I do not like close talkers, I back up. I feel awkward. So should you.

He comes closer and starts to open his bag. At this point, I've paid, I'm ready to go eat, and I'm slightly terrified.

Once his duffle is open, he is closer to me, and he begins to lift the flap of the bag. Inside, he tells me, are clocks. With posters of "my favorite" bands on them. Or, at least, someone's favorite bands.

He tells me they are selling for $30.00 a piece, and asks me if I want one.

I politely decline, and go for supper.

Random much?

Playlist

Since everyone else was doing it, and since I always answered "Yes" when my mother asked me if I would jump off a bridge if everyone else was doing it too, I decided to grace you all with my playlist for today. (More or less the same playlist I've been listening too all week, but mostly today...)

1) This Could Be Anywhere - Alexisonfire
2) Brighter Than Sunshine - Aqualung
3) Together - The Raconteurs
4) Slow Dancing in a Burning Room - John Mayer
5) Chasing Cars - Snow Patrol
6) Can You Feel It - Nelly Furtado
7) How To Save A Life - The Fray
8) Doctor Blind - Emily Haines
9) Diary Of Jane - Breaking Benjamins
10) Hole In The Earth - Deftones
11) Lover Come In - Pilate
12) Psycho Ball and Chain - The Creepshow
13) Comin' Home - City and Color
14) Possession (Cover) - Evans Blue
15) Sidewalk When She Walks - Alexisonfire
16) She's Walking Out - The Stills
17) We Might Fall - Ryan Star
18) Roxanne - Sting and the Police
19) Africa - Toto
20) Into Temptation - Crowded House
21) Son's Gonna Rise - Citizen Cope
22) What's the Altitude - Cut Chemist
23) Enjoy The Silence - Depeche Mode
24) Mushaboom - Feist
25) Lover, You Should Have Come Over - Jeff Buckley

Satan's Minions

I've been to Hell. Let me tell you, it ain't pretty.

On the eve of Friday the 13th, I was to work the morning shift.

I went through most of my day without distraction, accident, or disturbance.

That is until one of my girls had to go home sick and there was no replacement.

Let me rephrase that. I was the only replacement.

So, instead of getting off at 6 like I was supposed to, I worked a double. With no pee break.

And no supper.

Then I had to schedule myself to work ON Friday the 13th.

My day off.

So, I start the second leg of my double, and all seems to be going relatively smoothly, considering.

About a half an hour into the pee-less, supper-less evening, a mother and her two young boys came into the store.

They were adorable, they looked like little twins, although they were about two years apart.

Blond hair, blue eyes, little angels right?

WRONG!!!!!!!

The two little beasts started to run around the store while mom was asking me about bras and matching panties.

When I say running, I mean, bobbing, weaving, interlacing themselves within my racks. They were rolling on the floor, giggling maniacally.

I swear, at one point, one of them had red eyes.

Mom excuses herself, turns to the brats, and scolds them appropriately.

Wrong again.

Next, younger Satan spawn starts to circle the panty table like a shark circling its prey.

As mom continues talking, I'm nodding and smiling, all the while keeping my eyes on the little hellion.

Next thing I know, I've gasped out loud.

Mom turns around just in time to see Bratty McBratterson clawing at clumps of panties and dropping them in piles on the floor.

We're talking about 175 pairs of panties.

I shit you not.

Mother promptly turns away, apologizing profusely and tells me she will return once she has them restrained.

About 15 minutes later, mom and the Bobbsey Twins come back.

Mother is calmer, the twins are strapped into a stroller so that they can't properly move any extremities and/or wreak havoc.

A sigh of relief escapes my lips and I am able to make a sale.

This is the first time in my entire life that I seriously contemplated bodily harm against a person under the age of 3.

Pray for my soul.

Do You Have Any Silkier Ones?

A seemingly ordinary day at work today quickly turned into one of the funniest days I've had in a very long time.

The unequivocal highlight of my day came at approximately 3 pm. This is the time when a small french gentleman of about 30 came into the store.

He wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, (As most of them do) and had initially refused our attempts to aid him with his purchase.

Moments passed, we went about our business, helping other customers, moving things, generally trying to look busy.

Finally, the gentleman went over to T, asked her if we had any of a particular panty that might be a little silkier than the ones on display.

She showed him an array of underwear, but still, he wasn't satisfied.

It should be known that we try our damndest to assist gentlemen shoppers with a purchase for their women. We have a great success rate.

T went about her business, showing the panty man some of our finer selections, while the gentleman nodded, smiled, generally seeming normal.

He spoke about being out shopping with his sister, having to meet her, things like that.

It wasn't until right before he left that he mentioned that one particular pair wasn't far off the pair that he was wearing, and did T think that the medium would fit him.

I only caught the tail end of the conversation, but apparently, depending on who you ask, I came in at either the right, or wrong time.

After he left, (Without purchasing) T looked over at me, made sure that I had caught the exchange, and like the professional she is, went back about her business.

We stole glances and snickers from eachother for the rest of the day.

Mental Picture of the Day

I recently had a mature woman come in to the store looking for bathing suits for an upcoming trip down south.

I showed her my selection and she asked if she could try some on.

I gathered her choices and set them in the fitting room. Not expecting to see her for some time.

A few moments later, I hear a hushed "Psst.. Excuse me Miss?"

"Yes, what can I do for you?"

"Can you tell me how this looks?"

"Sure." I reply.

Dear Lord above. I truly, truly wish I hadn't agreed to offer my opinion.

I am an honest worker, I tell my customers the truth. Which is part of the reason most of them are repeats.

This time, however, I wish that I had been with someone else at the time.

*****************Disturbing Mental Picture Begin*****************

The bathing suit was 3 sizes too small, hugged said "Mature" woman in all the wrong spots, gave her what I have termed "Hungry Bum", and the ever present camel toe.

Also, there were several tufts of unruly short and curlies peeking out from the bikini line.

All of our customers are aware that they must keep on their undergarments before trying on items of "intimate" nature, and this woman obliged, but I could see her underwear, under the bathing suit, and this STILL didn't stop the little buggers from showing themselves.

*****************End Disturbing Mental Picture*****************

I stifled a sob, smiled politely, told her that the suit looked fantastic, and that she should definitely buy it.

And the matching cover-up.

And some slippers. (Why slippers you ask? Why not slippers?)

Hell, if you're going to make my eyes bleed, the very least you can do is spend some money.

Where am I?

I have no concept of time anymore.

All of my days run together, my weekends are actually one day, usually smack dab in the middle of the week.

Not that I can complain. I make the scedules after all, but that's the beauty of being the manager.

You'd think with a fancy title like that, that I'd be able to swing weekends off and great shifts.

Not so.

Someone today mentioned that they were happy that it was Friday since they could start their weekend.

"It's Friday?" I sputtered.

I honestly thought it was Wednesday.

I was so mad I could have spit.

I was thisclose to giving them a roundhouse kick, Chuck Norris style.

Picture it. You know you want to.

An open letter to all job applicants...

So, you've decided to apply for a job.

Good for you.

Whether it's your first time, or you've done it before, you must know some basic rules. Don't be fooled. As much as they may seem like common sense, to many, they are not.

I don't know how, I don't know why, but some people seem to think that going for a job interview is almost like going to the bar.

It is not.

Basic Rules:

1. No Jeans *If you come to a job interview wearing jeans, you are more than likely not going to get the job. Unless you're applying at some sort of denim ranch. Even then, you are probably not going to get the job.*

2. No Tube/Halter/Backless/Pleather/Leather Tops *If I can see most of your rack, any prospect of a nipple slip, your back fat, or your bra, you are probably not going to get the job.*

3. Clothing That Fits *If I can see you're sporting a thong, a "muffin top", any form of "double boob", or, again, your back fat, you are probably not going to get the job.*

4. Camel Toe *Enough said.*

5. Interest In The Advertised Position *If you don't remember where you've applied, you're probably not going to get the job.*

6. Ability To Work Shifts *If you come into the interview and open by saying: " I can't work on ... or... and I need this off..., you're probably not going to get the job.*

7. Come Alone *If you come in with your posse, you are probably not going to get the job.*

Although this is only a small portion of the basic rules, I feel that this is sufficient to cover at least the resume drop off/interview portion of the evening..

I will add as I see fit, and/or, as more tards drop me off resumes.

Jezzebel!

Unfortunately, I couldn't get a front on photo of the poor harlot in the lightbox. My camera ran out of batteries, and I had to work with it plugged in.

*Gasp*

If you look really close, with one squinty eye, you can almost see the tootsie roll.. Almost..

At least you get the idea.

Slut.

Hiatus Complete..

After a much needed and well deserved hiatus, I am back.

I guess I just needed time to gather some new material. (Not that it's not around me for every second of every day, but still..)

Last week, we decided that we needed a new lightbox poster. Not really out of the ordinary, since technically, swimsuit season is over in my neck of the woods and the bathing suit that was in there had to go.

Let it be known that I have very little in the way of poster selection in my back room. Head office has been claiming for approximately 3 months that new ones were on their way, but alas, there are no new ones.

So, rather than put in a different swimsuit poster, I rooted around for one of my old bra ones.

They're bad. They're really bad.

And old.

But I digress.. As usual.

I put in the best poster of the bunch. Some of them were, I'm sure, circa 1985 or before, and that's just unacceptable.

If you are a store owner and feel the need to have strange men of all ages and pre-pubescent boys stop, stare, and leer into your store suggestively, the following is a list of things that the skank on your lightbox poster must posess:

Bearskin rug
Slutty hosiery
Skanky hairdo
Greasy body
Come hither stare
Pillow lips
Extraordinary amount of makeup
Fake tits
Brazilian wax
Lollipop Head (Tiny body, huge head.. Anyone?)
Tootsie Roll

If, and when, you have all of the above, you are able to either pose, or photograph a lovely lightbox poster all your own.

What's a tootsie roll doing in the poster you ask?

That's what it looks like the skankbox in the picture is sporting in her brazilian waxed bikini! I swear to you. It looks like she's got a chub and is playing hide-the-vienna-sausage.

Still want one?



And...

Scene.

I rescind my thank you to Oprah...

Remember my thank you to Oprah the other day for all of the business her bra show sent to my small boutique?

I take it back.

Wholeheartedly.

It's hard to thank someone when she is single-handedly responsible for bringing the entire city's population of card carrying short bus riders into your store.

Honest.

It all started with the onion soup lady. Honest to Christ, she smelled like onion soup mix. And wanted me to fit her for a bra with her shirt off.

Oh. My. God.

When I asked her what size bra she was wearing, she couldn't tell me because she wasn't sure. I soon saw why.

The "sports bra" (And I use the quotes loosely) she was wearing was see-through thin. And worn to shit. It was so stretched, her boobs were hanging somewhere near or on her waist band.

While trying to simultaneously not laugh and/or gag, I covered her circumference with my measuring tape and quickly got the numbers I needed.

I put her in a couple of bras that matched the measurements I took and tried and tried to get her in one that would be suitable. In the end, I didn't have a bra in the store to fit her properly.

The rest of my day was pretty similar to the onion soup lady. Unfortunately, the day soon came to a close and I got, I mean, had to go home.

It's a shame really.

Thank you Oprah!

Recently, as some of you may know, Oprah had an episode where she told women all around the world that they were wearing the wrong size bras.

This was the third or fourth time that this particular episode had aired, but that didn't stop the swarms of crazy women from coming into my store to harrass me for fittings and proper bras.

It all started last Monday. The day of the episode's airing.

Sweet Jesus, they all came in droves. One by one. Two by two. I was flat out for about 3 hours.

Don't get me wrong, Oprah drummed up a lot of business for our store that day, but at a costly price.

The first came at around 10:30 am. The offender in question was a stout woman, of about 5'2. She came in for a fitting and I obliged.

I have a couple of opening questions that I ask to ensure that I will be able to properly fit for a bra.

I ask what size bra she thinks she is, if she's wearing a padded bra, what size bra she's wearing, at the moment, and what style of bra she's looking for.

This woman claimed to "not really" know what size bra she needed, but that she thought it was around a 36 B, that she was not wearing a padded bra, that she was wearing a 34 C, and that she wanted something to push her up and in.

Fair Enough.

Good Start.

Bra measurements are determined by the following:

1) Measure yourself around the underside of the bust, more precisely, around your ribcage. If your measurement is an even number, (ie: 30) add 4 inches. (Thus giving you a measurement of 34. If you measure an odd number, (ie: 31) add 5 inches. (Thus giving you a measurement of 36.

2) Measure yourself around the fullest part of your bust. More precisely, around your back and across the nipple while holding your arms at your sides. The bra size is determined by figuring out the difference between the band and cup sizes. A difference of 1 inch means you are an A, 2 inches means B, 3 inches means C, and so on.

Now that we've got the fitting lesson over, read on.

I whip out the measuring tape and prepare to measure.

The woman proceeds to look around with darty eyes, shifty glances, and awkward arm motions. I wasn't sure if she was looking to take flight, or simply give me more room to work.

All in all it takes about 30 seconds to fit someone.

Once I had the measuring tape around her considerable girth, I determined that she was not a 34 or a 36 as she thought. She measured a 38 around which meant she was a 42 band. She also measured at a D cup, possibly a DD depending on the bra.

I told her my numbers, watched her look at me incredulously, nodded my head to show her it was right, and offered to grab a couple of bras to get her started.

She looked at me with pure hatred, assumed I was lying, was totally convinced (Self-Convinced at that) that she was sooo not a 42 D and told me that she didn't care what the tape said, that she was a 36 C at most.

I told her I couldn't make her buy the best fitting bra, that I was only there to assist in the fitting and shopping of said bra, and told her she was welcome to do as she pleased.

She promptly left.

It's only 11:00.

*Sob*

The Show

TM's third art show was on the 22nd. He's had two others, one in June of 2005, and another in November of '05. I was excited since it was the first one that I was actually able to go to.

I'd heard lots of stories about the past shows, and was a little scared to go to this one. I'd heard that the people there went nuts for his work. (Which I knew would happen, but I didn't realize to what extent some would go)

Stories of people stealing prints from eachother and guarding paintings had me a little nervous. The level of my nervousness only escalated when TM asked me to work the cash.

The show was slated to open at 6pm sharp. It was calm from about 5:30-5:45pm. Then, all hell broke loose.

I'm serious.

People started streaming in early and hunting for their favorite painting(s) or print(s).

The bigger crowds came at exactly 6pm. It was nuts. People were running up and down stairs yelling the names of the paintings out, telling people to stay away, yelling at me to mark it sold. There was nothing I could do. I was merely the money taker.

2 hours and 15 minutes later, all was over. It felt like a big ball of tumbleweed should have rolled by. He had sold almost all 60 pieces that he had there and the majority of his prints. It got to be so that I couldn't close the cash box.

It was nuts. I loved it.

So proud TM, I love you.

(P.S: I'm famous by association....)

www.scottpynnart.com

Vaca Time....

I'm on vacation. A spontaneous one at that. A few days after TM left to go home for his art show, my father made me an offer I couldn't refuse.

He asked me to come home for a week and to surprise my mother in the process. I came up with every excuse in the book why I couldn't, but in the end, with very little persuasion, and an offer for monetary assistance, I accepted.

I switched around the schedule at work, organized a kitty sitter, packed, did all necessary car adjustments, and got myself on the road.

That's right. The road. It's approximately a 16 hour drive to get to my home. 7 of them on a dirt road.

I was skeptical about whether my tuna can would make the trip, but alas, he did. Without failure I should add.

I arrive in my hometown, (While driving a wee bit above the speed limit because of my excitement) and whip around the corner to my cul-de-sac.

The music was really loud so I thought I would draw some attention to myself or that someone (Mem) would see or hear me pull up. She did not.

I get out, go to the door, knock loudly, and hide behind the mailbox. I hear the dog barking in a frenzy. Mother opens the door while trying to hold the beast back, looks out but doesn't see me. She peeks out a little farther and catches a glimpse of me. All the while, the dog barking and shaking all over the porch.

Mother then reaches out from the doorway, her wingspan terrifying, grabs me by the collar, and pulls me into the house.

Thus begins a fantastic but all too quick week.

Lonely Days

The man left me a week ago today to go back to our homeland to have an art show. I drove him to the airport last Wednesday and gave him a goodbye kiss. I may or may not have shed a tear or two.

TM crossed through the security gate without incident and a few minutes later, boarded a plane that would take him away for almost three weeks.

I'm bad when I'm alone. Very bad.

I'm living like a bachelor. I now know what it's like to be a single man.

I swear, if I were a man and I were single, I'd be living like I am at this very moment.

For one, the bed isn't made. Well, my side isn't.

My side looks like I have rehashed the best fight I have ever seen.

In my sleep.

Then, before I go to work in the morning, I tidy the covers so that it looks barely slept in. (Because you never know when someone might be there to look in your bedroom right?)

I've been eating chips in bed, ( I know, sad...) Pepsi cans litter my computer desk, a wide array of granola bar wrappers and books are also strewn about.

The cat won't even hang out with me.

He hangs out in the kitchen hoping to catch a glimpse of the neighbour's cat so that they can stare and meow at eachother.

It looks like a scene from a prison movie where the couple has to touch palms through the bulletproof glass to prove their love to one another.

I play computer games in my underwear and dance in the living room in a wife beater. I also burp really loudly and then laugh.

At myself.

Then last night it hit me...

When you burp really loud and it's a good one, (we're talking Richter Scale quality), and there's nobody around to hear you, it's not funny.

In the least.

Last Call....

Me and the man went to the wedding of some good friends of ours a couple of weekends ago and had an excellent time. The man was a groomsman, I was a spectator, and we hooked up with friends we hadn't seen since our high school graduation. It was a blast.

Cut to the reception.

We were all having a grand ol' time, reminiscing, drinking, laughing, smoking, the works. A few of us even got up and cut a rug.

The man didn't. He doesn't like to make appearances on the dance floor with me. But I digress....

Cut to "Last Call"....

A bunch of us are sitting around the table chatting it up when the DJ announces that it's last call. I should tell you that this announcement came at approximately 12:30 am and that none of us were prepared to call it a night.

After multiple moans and groans, most of the boys went up to the bar to collect what would be the last paid drinks of the evening. The man followed suit.

I had a couple of sips left of my beer and anticipated that the man would grab me a couple of drinks as I knew he would do for himself.

Well...

I got a drink.

Singular.

Uno.

The man had so generously purchased me one cool glass of Budweiser beer. He, with full hands, put his 4 double rum and cokes down on the table in front of him.

What?

That's right folks. You give a man the best almost three years of your life and what do you get at one of your best friends' weddings?

One fucking Bud.

Love you TM. Love you

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service...

Last week I was all alone in the apartment as the man was away for the week.

Normally, I'm okay with being alone, but that particular week it seemed as though I couldn't get my bearings.

Prime and best example of this? Read on...

I was getting ready to go to work on Wednesday and when I woke up, started going through the usual routine of my preparation for the work day. I got up, hopped in the shower, made my lunch, fed the cat, cleaned the litter box, dried and straightened my hair, and ironed my shirt.

There's always lots to do in the short hour between wake up and departure, but I always manage to get it done.

I puttered around the house in my wife-beater while I gathered my belongings; cigarettes, wallet, purse, and the bag which carried all my goodies for the work day: book, notebook, good pen, and goodies.

Once I had completed all of my tasks, I set about putting on my jacket, grabbed my keys, rubbed Jack's belly and slid into my flip flops.

I arrive at work, turn on the lights, music, and front window display, and prepare to run down the hall to grab my staple breakfast of Pepsi and an A&W Ham and Egger.

I pop outside for a quick smoke before work, chat with some of the other poor slags that have to work too, and go in to start my open.

I clock in, stash my bags in the back, and take off my coat.

Alas, I am not wearing a shirt.

WTF?

How did I forget my shirt you ask? I have no flippin' clue. At all.

I went to work in my wife-beater. Nothing more.

Feck. What do I do now?

What any other retard who forgot to wear a shirt to work would do of course; I bought a pyjama top and put that on.

I repeat...

FECK.

Grubby Grab

If you're an avid reader, I'm sure you've noticed that work for me is rarely uneventful. It may be quiet, but it's NEVER boring.

There's always some fool you can make fun of as he/she walks by with a mullet, or wearing spandex and sandals with socks.

On what can only be called a "Special Day" last week, I was working away, minding my own business (as per usual) when a regular customer walked in. I walked over to begin the long task of helping her (She is a handful) when I noticed that unbeknownst to me, she had brought her young son.

Now, I normally enjoy children. Alot.

Not this child. At all.

He was, I'm sure, grown from the demon seed and has quite obviously grown into the devil incarnate in his short 4 and a half years.

So, I'm helping his mother, walking them both around the store, showing her the usual. Pyjamas, nighties, and the like, when demon-child starts to bounce around like a friggin' ball.

I'm serious, he wouldn't stand still. He was bouncing around, bobbing and weaving through racks, rolling on the floor, and jumping on the counter.

This, in the first 4 minutes of their arrival.

So, mom goes into the changeroom, and starts putting on her stuff. All the while, I can hear spawn chattering away.

They come out so ma can model her pj's (like I give a shit) and spawn starts running again. Ma wants a set of pj's that are on the wall, so I grab my trusty long hook and attempt to get them down with little to no effort.

That is, until spawn comes over.

He asks if I can show him how to use the hook. I oblige. Only because I think it may get them out of the store quickly.

Not so.

Mom and spawn are tottering around the store looking at more things, when spawn grabs the hook, runs over to his own wall, and attempts to take down some bras.

I am, at this point, cringing, as would you, I promise. I am envisioning things flying off the walls, landing on the floor, and being left there for me to fix. I pray that this doesn't happen.

To my dismay, it doesn't.

What does happen however, is that Ma needs another pair of pj's. They've been here for approximately a half hour at this point.

I grab the hook, spawn follows. I think he's merely going to help me get the pj's down.

Not so much.

Instead, I am mid-reach, aiming for the pj's, while spawn is also in mid-reach.

For my boob.

That's right. My right boob.

It was also very clearly it was pre-meditated, as it was not his arm that brushed up against my boob, or his hand reaching for the pole while grazing a little boob edge.

It was a full-on, reach up, open handed, boob squeeze.

I didn't know what to do. What does one do when the spawn of Satan grabs one of your mammaries? I felt like I needed a shower.

Do I tell his mother? (Who, by the way, is completely oblivious.) Do I grab spawn, put him in a headlock and throw down?

I didn't know.

So, instead, I grabbed the pj's, gave them to Ma, threw the kid an evil look, and walked away.

I did however contemplate asking spawn out for dinner afterwards.

Is that wrong?

I'll get you good....

Twas a quiet day at work the other day, so when it came time to go for a break, I was good and ready.

I took my first break at around 2:30 that afternoon and proceeded to go about my usual routine. I went to my favorite sitting spot, opened my book, and lit my smoke.

As I'm relaxing, I notice the resident crazy (We'll call him RC for short) sitting on the bench by the wall, mumbling, and staring off into space.

I promptly finish my break, which takes about 15 minutes, and as I'm going back into the mall, I notice that RC is still sitting there.

I work for a couple more hours, and then a few of the girls from other stores come recruit me for another break.

Three of us proceed outside and sit in my favorite spot. RC is still sitting on the bench, either keeping it warm or holding it up. At this point, I'm not sure.

So, we proceed with our smoke, we're chatting away, discussing the events of the day, when we're off, the usual.

All of a sudden, RC, who has been silent up until this point, bolts up from the bench, grabs his bags, and runs half way into the parking lot.

This is the part of the blog, where, if you must use the washroom, go now.

So, we're sitting there, all alerted to the fact that RC has run into the middle of the parking lot, and wondering what the hell is going on.

All of a sudden, RC starts shaking his fist in the air.

We snicker.

Then, out of nowhere, RC yells:

"FUCK YOU!!! I'll get you next time you cocksucker!!"

All three of us look at the others, wonder who is going to lose it first, and all burst out laughing together. At this point, we're not sure who or what RC is yelling at, and we're all a little scared of him at the same time, so we stifle our laughter quickly. We're not sure if when he notices we're laughing at him if he'll:

A) Come over and beat us up
B) Come over and talk to us
C) Come ask for smokes
D) All of the above

Instead, he saunters back to the bench, hoists his bags beside him, and settles back in.

We're not entirely sure if he was shaking his fist at the fact that a bus left, presumably without him on it, the air, which is entirely possible, or at something completely different.

I guess we'll never know.

But, it was still the laugh of the day.

And the next day.

And the day after that.

The Girl in the Bubble

So, the man says I should be in a bubble.

All the time.

I am starting to think he's right. Let's see; I'm always sick, sore, and/or sick AND sore. I fall alot, bang into things, walk into walls, and roll my ankles.

Bubble? Starting to look promising.

Picture this: I was leaving for work on Tuesday morning. It was raining. Heavily. My back stairs are slimy.

(I attribute this to the fact that when the stairs were newly built, they were not treated with any sort of stain or whatever else it is that you put on new stairs when built.)

Soooo.... I'm carefully descending the staircase while holding on to the side rail, my pants (so I don't get too wet at the bottoms), and bags. I am thinking the whole time that I am going to go tits up down the entire flight.

Lo and Behold, I make it to the bottom in one piece and relatively dry to boot.

This success was short lived.

Once I get to the safety of the landing, in what seems like it can only be occurring in slow motion, one foot crosses behind the other, causing the foot in the front to kick forward. I see my purse gliding to the left, my lunch/carry-all bag soaring to the right, and my arms looking for something other than air to grab ahold of.

No such luck.

I hear a muffled snap (my spine I believe), as my upper body twisted in such a way I never thought possible, a whoooshing sound, (my body in flight), and a sort of "Shucking" sound. (The rest of me sliding along the slime covered landing)

Imagine a newborn giraffe.

Limbs, neck, wierd noises. The whole nine yards.

I didn't fall per se, I more like caught my body, mid-air from crumpling into a heap on the stairway.

It was certainly a close call. I was able to regain my composure before walking around the building to go to my car.

I was also able to hide this hilarity from the man who was looking out the window on the other side of the building. He was none the wiser to my close-call.

The only side effect of the complete disarray that my poor body was in?

Bad back and lack of bending skills for the better part of the day.

Who needs to bend anyway?

Hoppin' Homos Batman!

You know when you see something or someone that you just can't tear your eyes away from?

You really want to, but you just can't seem to stop staring?

That happened to me today, but it wasn't pleasant to look at. Not even a little.

I'm working hard in the store, minding my own business, when I look across the hall at Le Chateau. Let it be known that I usually love looking over there.

For research and professional purposes only.

Today unfortunately, something other than pretty tank tops and shiny things caught my eye.

It was someone who closely resembled a cross between Don Johnson circa 1984, George Michael circa 1992, and maybe Keith Urban. (Who I know only because I love gossip mags and websites, and know that he is marrying Cruiseazy's ex-wife.)

Don Michael Urban was wearing a turquoise top (one which can only be described as a blouse), a pair of flared bottom jeans (which were extremely distressed, grate holes, faded in all the right places, and so extremely tight on the thigh that I thought I would either see cock and balls, or pull a hamstring), a puka shell choker-style necklace, multiple silver rings, an earring, and shiny shoes.

Very shiny shoes.

DMU was also in possession of the latest hairstyle.

For women.

If it weren't for the lightning shaped sideburns, I would have guessed that he was sporting a weave. These sideburns were precision cut. We're talking, he must have taken a nose hair trimmer and gotten so close to the mirror, (Which I'm guessing he does anyway) that he could see every hair follicle and root.

A recent purchase of "Frost & Glow" must have been on his grocery list, because this guy was frosted to the tips. Holy Feck. He had a full-blown Farrah on the go. Flips, wings, frost, and just the right amount of mousse.

My hair has NEVER looked so good. Ever. I felt like Rumplestiltskin compared to this beauty.

Now that I'm on the hair, let's picture something together shall we? If you're good, you might even want to try it at home...

Slow motion now...

Look to the left.

Slowly bring your head to face the front.

Put your chin against your chest in the process.

Flip to the right while arcing your head up.

You have all just done the ultimate hair flip. Be proud of yourselves. Applaud yourselves. Give yourselves a cookie.

You can up your pace if you think that you can pull it off.

If you're talented, REALLY talented, you might even want to try it from right to left.

I promise you, it CAN be done.

I've never in my entire 25 and a half years experienced anything quite so gay.

And...... Scene.

Holy Mackerel!

Just a couple of funny anecdotes to keep you coming back...

Saturday past. Long day, not real busy. Loads of rotten hooligans, senior citizens, and young mothers. The day goes as planned, helping customers, taking breaks, listening to screaming children and swearing young ones.

All day, as you may know, the poor woman/girl/man/boy that is sitting at the information booth/guest services area of the mall are announcing things.

"Joe Blow, please return to the tire department at Sears, you forgot your baby."

"Sally Mae, please return to La Senza, you left your furry thong."

"Will the woman who just purchased the extra large condoms and the Preparation H please return to Shoppers."

"Would the person with license plate BLO-ME please return to your car, you left your headlights on."

And so on and so forth...

Well, this particular Saturday afternoon, things on the P.A front were pretty normal until about 4 pm. This is the announcement that was heard mall round.

"Anita Beaver, please come to guest services... ANITA BEAVER."

It should be said that I have a perverse mind. Extremely perverse. But still.. Come on!! Anita Beaver??

As soon as the poor woman, who clearly got duped into announcing this utterly hilarious name, was finished saying this over the loud speaker, I whipped my head around to see if anyone else heard this.

It appeared that I was the sole witness to the hilarity. I look to the employee that was working with me. She did not respond. In the least. I was devastated.

Said employee is also in her 60's so I didn't think that she would actually get the importance of such an announcement. But still. I thought maybe, just maybe, she would get it. No such luck.

Since I had nobody to share this moment with, I hurried to the back room and sent a quick text message to my brother, who I knew would get the joke.

He didn't get the joke. He didn't even get the message. All that typing I did on the tiniest keypad imaginable. I was too lazy to send it again later, so I called my mom.

At least she laughed. I'm convinced that I get my sick sense of humour from her.

Amen. Thanks Mom! You make me proud.

xo

I'm such a slacker!

I'm sorry! I'll be back soon!!

Pizza and Hairballs

Yesterday afternoon while I was at work, I got an exciting yet disturbing call from the man. He called to see if I wanted him to make me a pizza that would be ready when I got home from work at 9.

I jumped at that offer.

Free homemade pizza? That I don't have to make myself?

Hell Yes.

So I proceed with my evening as normal, quietly excited at the fact that I am going to get a nice warm meal after work. (This isn't a regular occurrance if you are wondering...)

The pizza eating passes without incident.

That is until about 25 minutes after the eating has subsided.

The man turns off the lights in the living room (Which is where we eat) so that the television watching can be done just so. We watch the first little bit of Lost, and all of a sudden, I hear:

"Hmm.. What's this?"

A few moments pass.

"Eww, what IS this?"

A few more seconds pass.

I turn on the light and look over to the source of the "Eww-ing".

The man is holding in his hand a real life, genuine, cat-made furball. We're talking fur, the loogie he may or may not have horked not long before the pick-up was made, and other various cat rejections.

I wish someone other than me could have been there to witness the face that was made.

It was a fine blend of the following:

Disgust
Horror
Possible Vomit Scrunch Face
Impending Tears
Nostril Flare
Half Smile (probably because he thought it wasn't real)
And finally,
Possible Vomit Scrunch Face

I looked over at him, contemplated bursting into laughter, and instead, sympathetically offered my open palm for the discarding of the furball.

When I came back, the man said something that no person should ever say, no matter what the circumstances, or what may or may not have been on the floor at any given time.

"I thought it was cheese."

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm all for the "Five Second Rule", but cheese?

Never.

Especially if it has come off the floor.

When you own a cat.

Who sheds alot.


Enough said.

Holy Crap Balls

I woke up this morning with the intention of making myself a delicious sandwich for work, and leaving on time.

I made the sandwich. Not without problems though. First, the bread that was left had a hole in it. How? I don't know. I made due with what I had though, and continued to prepare my delicious sandwich.

I go to the fridge to get my condiments next. I got the mayo, turkey, cheese, and mustard. Everything was going smoothly. I got the mayo, turkey, and cheese on without incident. When it came to putting on the mustard however, I had some problems.

I shook the bottle. As you do. Usually. I thought.

I should have known something was amiss by the clunk sound that eminated from said mustard bottle, but alas, I proceeded. I turned it over to face the bread.

I squeezed.

I wondered where it was.

It came.

Fast.

And spray-like.

Feck.

All over my beautiful navy blue, perfectly worn in, shouldn't have been wearing it in the morning Roots hoodie.

I didn't notice until I came home today after work and put it on (As I usually do) and the boy asked me what was all over me. I then looked down and noticed that I had tarnished my beauty.

Sob.

Here's to hoping that tomorrow's lunch preparation goes more smoothly.

Feckitty Feck

The day started with a groan and a shock. I rolled over and looked at the clock and saw that it said 11:30.

Which was 10:30.

Which was confusing.

First, I thought that I had to work and that I was going to be late.

Second, I was upset that I might have to get out of bed to go to said place of employment.

I quickly came to realize that I was neither late, or in danger of having to go to work.

Once I was perfectly clear on the fact that the time had gone ahead last night and that I was in no danger of having to leave my apartment, I was able to go on with my day.

I did approximately 5 loads of laundry, 1 extremely full load of dishes, I gave the tub a good scrub, and I made supper. It was delicious if I do say so myself.

The cat and I also had a photo shoot. It was quite fun. He's rather photogenic and loves to pose. (Not really, but it looks like it. )

I played some online poker with my mother, promptly gave her most of the money that I had won in the past couple of days and am now back at 0. Zero. Nada.

*sniff*

The countdown to work tomorrow is on. I am not looking forward to it. I imagine it will be filled with such wondrous things as saggy boobs, cranky seniors, and lurky men in coveralls who walk by the bathing suit lightbox and smile.

Goody.