Monthly Archives: September 2011

Chicken Strips Rule and Other Reasons Why


I decided to write this post when I found myself snarfing down left-over KFC at 5:30 this morning.

Why chicken strips rule: not only are they essentially the only food a restaraunt can’t screw up, the fact that you don’t have to check first to make sure you’re not going to take a giant bite of chicken fat makes them very appealing. And as I’m trying to pull chicken off the bone, I can’t help but start to think, “This used to have a head.”

Why I no longer care to go to the movie theatre: because people are assholes. I myself prefer to go to a movie during a matinee, so as to avoid the screaming masses. (which makes me even more upset that my theatre doesn’t have daytime showings during the school year.) So you can understand my utter dissatisfaction when I go into an empty theatre, find a spot where nobody usually likes to sit, and then have some ass-hat come and sit in the seat RIGHT behind me. In theatre with even only 100 seats, if there is only one other person sitting there, what possesses these people to sit so close? Are they feeling lonely? Are they sitting near in case they become frightened during the movie and wish to be consoled? (even though the movie is Mamma Mia) and I cannot tell you how many times I’ve wanted to turn around and shove that bag of candy that they’re rustling so far up their ass that it comes out their face. And being that open-mouthed eating is my biggest pet peeve (more on that another time), what a coincidence it is that these same inconsiderate jack-holes are chomping the noisiest thing to listen to being eaten, popcorn. Therefore, I stay home and pay for Netflix.

Why I adore duct tape and closets: when you live with a 9 year old who isn’t yours, corporal punishments such as spankings are not an option. This is where these 2 supplies come in handy.

Why I wear ridiculously tall heels to work: Until someone invites me to a ball, I must get use out of my 47 pairs of beauteous shoes. Also, they come in handy when trying to reach books on the top shelf. But I STILL would like to go to a ball…

Why Angelina is still on my top 5 list of gorgeous celebs: Yes, I admit, she is greatly over-rated, and a little too skinny nowadays, but anyone who adopts a bunch of kids from wherever and takes the time to help other people is beautiful in my book. Even if they DID do it for publicity. I knew about her BEFORE she was famous and I want to kiss those crazy-big lips, so there.

Why I believe state patrol officers should all be laid off:  I can honestly say I’ve never seen a state patrol officer doing something useful, such as catching bad guys- instead, they seem to think that I am the bad guy, and are dumb enough to think that I’m going to slow down if they give me a ticket. Of course, they are dumb enough to sometimes NOT give me tickets too, when I flash a bit of cleavage. Since our country and states are having a difficult time with their creditors (us taxpayers), wouldn’t it make sense to rid ourselves of these nuisances and give them jobs as real cops in big cities who are short handed?

Ok, I guess that’s it for now. Have a lovely day, I may post something later. XOXO

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Filed under Beauty, Children, Entertainment, Family, Fashion, Food, Humor, Life, Uncategorized, Work

Customer of the Day: The Schizo


I have decided to begin a new portion of my blog dedicated to the customers that come into my store who A. Annoy the piss out of me; B. Make me smile; or C. in any other way stand out to me.  Please refer to a former post entitled

The Irritating, The Obnoxious, and the Grotesque

if you wish to read my first ranting of my lovely clientele.

Today’s rant shall be about The Schizo, since he was just here, and my shitty mood made him irritating to me today.

The Schizo is a man in his mid-to-late-30’s who walks my mall every day with a 100 lb headphone set on his skull. My first face-to-face experience with him occurred on a day when he hadn’t taken his meds, and came in to buy a book on Egyptian history, which ended with him ranting about how ” America is stupid and he can’t get a job here because he has a felony”; how “Russia has the right idea and everybody should get paid the same,” and how “he was trying to figure out a way to move TO Russia.” While The Schizo is quite an intelligent fellow,  when he gives his opinions, his voice raises about 9 decibals, so that he sounds like a raving lunatic. I got him to change the subject, and he calmed down enough to re-engage his headset and continue his walk.

The next time he didn’t take his meds, he came in and immediately began ranting about the fact that his son doesn’t listen to him, and that HE is the boss, and his son needs to heed him. I agree with this wholly, however, when your dad is an unstable nut who forgets to take his pills, I understand where at times this might not be the thing you would want to do.

FYI, I do not in any way condone forcing anyone with schizophrenia to take medication, but in some cases I believe it would be beneficial, to those taking it and those coming in contact with them.

There are plenty of times when The Schizo has come in and we have had highly intelligent conversations on a variety of subjects, but more often than not, I sit behind my counter and listen to him rave on.

Tuesday he came in and was talking about I don’t know what. His thoughts were so scattered, I don’t even think HE knew what he was talking about. And during these times, he stands in front of the cash register and raves on, many times when a line of people is waiting to pay. It takes much nodding and mm-hmm-ing to get him to leave.

My brother is diagnosed as a schizo, so I realize a person sometimes needs extreme patience to deal with someone with this disease, but seriously, Schizo, if I have to hear another rant about Napoleon, or the Celts, I may just end up ranting to mall security.

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The Allure of J.B.F. Hair


Having lived my entire life as one of the Unfortunates Born With Naturally Curly Hair, I understand the struggle that we, as so named, collectively endure. Not to say that the curly-headed people are unattractive; in fact, I would say quite the opposite is true. For example, Beyonce resembled African Royalty when she wore her hair in the full glory of her natural afro, (in my opinion) where as, Paris Hilton with her skinny stick-straight hair resembles a corpse that’s been buried for at least a month. (also my opinion.) The hardships we face are as such: which professional hair-care products do we dare spend our hard-earned money on, when any one of them may leave our curls weighed down, greasy, or resembling the crunch on a piece of blackened chicken? There is always the option to go au naturale, but then one runs the risk of being mistaken for an un-evolved cavewoman.

When I was small, I remember an incident when my momma took me to the salon to get my bangs trimmed. Now, when I see pictures of myself as a child, I am ashamed to say that I do not believe my mother ever made me brush my hair. But for some reason, I remember quite a few haircuts from back then. Anyhoo, I informed the woman about to trim my bangs that I wanted them cut so they would be straight. Obviously, this was not an option. She did attempt to straighten them with product and a round brush, but I left the beauty shop in tears because “I just wanted straight bangs.” I believe that event has scarred me for life.

When I was 13, I FINALLY convinced my parents to allow me to get a perm. This may seem strange, since my hair was curly already, but at the time, I didn’t have the nice spirally curls I wanted. My tresses actually looked like I went to bed with my hair wet. So I spent my teen years paying to have acceptable -looking curls. When I was 18, I went to the salon again and told the woman to chop it all off. That was probably the cutest haircut I ever had. I still get compliments about my senior pictures.

From 18 until now, I have had nearly every color of hair imaginable. (most recently Wildfire Orange) Mostly, this is because I get bored easily, but partly it is because I am trying to find a color that compliments my riotous curls. On my 28th birthday, I went to the salon and got a haircut inspired by Rihanna’s fauxhawk. I must say that I got many many compliments on that style, and the ones that followed. I think it was because there are not many people I know that are willing to almost shave there head, and my personality matches my hair.

I have now decided that I will grow my hair out, and though I straighten it sometimes, (which is ALOT of work) I mostly just let it be curly. (which is also alot of work) Every morning, I must spritz leave-in conditioner (because curly hair is dry), goop some gel in, spray some spray-n-play, scrunch it, blow dry it, and add hairspray while my head is flipped upside down, just to get my mane looking like J.B.F. hair. For those of you who have been under rocks, J.B.F. stands for Just Been Fucked. Yes, I now go to work every day looking like I’ve just done sex. Apparently, this is becoming, as I have many customers tell me, “Oh! Your hair is so cute!” My gramma also raves about it every Sunday at church to anyone who will listen. So, I guess my point is, I shall not try to be someone I’m not. I shall go through life looking as though my Rockstar just got done shagging me.

To all you Curly-Headed People, I salute you.

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First Page


This is the first pages of one of the books I’ve started writing. I would have posted the prologue, but I couldn’t find it. You all should read it and let me know if it’s worth finishing. Any comments or feedback would be lovely!

The shadows from the torches danced hellishly against the stony walls. The giant’s steps echoed down the dark hallway as he lumbered, his steps so big that he was essentially dragging her to keep her by his side. His vice-like grip on her shoulder tightened, drawing a squeal from her lips, which she tried to suppress. The giant grunted in amusement. A fetid smell reached her nostrils, just as a hand reached out from the darkness and snatched her wrist. She did nothing this time to suppress the scream that had formed in her throat as she pulled her arm back from the skeletal grasp. As her eyes adjusted to the dim, she saw that the hand was not a spectre, but was connected to the body of a man that looked to be on the edge of death. His watery eyes were sunken deep in his skull, and his emaciated body was supported by the filthy bars he was behind. A gutteral sound came from the prisoner’s throat, as though he was trying to speak, but was to exhausted to form words. She felt a second of pity for the man before she was yanked further down the hall. Her heart began to beat furiously as she realized there were many more bodies in cells on either side of her.  Abruptly, the monster next to her stopped, and she blinked her eyes several times, waiting for them to adjust to the sudden brightness. When her mind understood what her eyes were seeing, her chest tightened as though she had been punched in the gut, and she tried desperately to take a breath. Her mother’s hands were chained and she hung slightly suspended so that the weight of her body made the chains dig grotesquely into her wrists, turning her hands a dark purple, Her beautiful hair had been shorn off, leaving her bloodied and naked body completely exposed. Fairon shrieked and tore herself from her captor’s hold, running to her mother. Completely oblivious to everything around her, she wrapped her arms around her mother’s legs, trying to lift her enough to put some slack in the chains binding her. Her tears mingled with the blood that made her hold slip, and she looked up at her beloved mother helplessly.
“What is this? What an undersized runt of a plaything you have brought me, Kamus. I shan’t be able to do much with this one.”
The voice was purely evil, and it sent a chill to the deepest part of Fairon’s bones. She turned, and  met the fascinated gaze of a man holding  a barbaric-looking whip. She wiped her eyes and met his look with a defiant one of her own. He raised an eyebrow and took a step forward.
“Then again, there might be enough fight in this one to amuse me for a moment.”
Fairon was rooted to the spot in fear, but she bit her lip to keep from crying out, even when she felt the whip like a bolt of lightning streak across her back as she protected what was left of her mother…
Fairon jerked awake and took a deep breath to calm the frantic beating of her heart. Her bedclothes were twisted around her and soaked with sweat, and she stood up quickly to rid herself of the restricted feeling. She looked out the window and saw no hint of the sun’s awakening. No, she thought, there will be no more sleep tonight. She slid out of her nightgown and into her everyday garb, suede leggings and a rough-spun man’s shirt, the collar of silver she wore tinkling softly as she did so. The riotous mass of curls on her head she yanked a brush through; swiftly and efficiently working the hair  into a braid that hung past her waist. She tied it off with a leather strap and pulled her boots on, grabbed her bow,then silently slipped through the cabin and out into the night.
The cabin sat in the middle of a clearing , along with a humble stable and a large corral. The forest surrounding the clearing was dense with trees and wildlife, and Fairon listened to the night’s music as she made her way to the stable. The night was clear and the moon shone brightly, so Fairon didn’t bother lighting the lantern that hung near the door. She stepped into the first stall and was greeted with an affectionate whinny by her horse, Sango. She slid her arms around his neck and breathed in the scent of horse deeply. The smell had a calming effect on her, and she relaxed slightly as Sango nuzzled her.
“Good morning, my Lovely. Sleep evades us both, hmm?” The horse nodded his head as if in agreement. “What say you to visiting an old friend?” She led Sango out of the stable and closed the creaking door quietly. The she grabbed a handful of darkest black mane and mounted the horse with the ease of a lifetime of riding horses. She leaned down, running a hand up the stallion’s glossy neck lovingly, and whispered into his ear. The two had been paired together for so long, they seemed as one as the horse obeyed her whispered command, and they rode into the trees on a path they both knew well.
As the horse followed the well-worn trail, Fairon tried to push the disturbing images of her night terror out of her mind, so she turned her thoughts to the old friend she was going to visit.
Bavrone had been a figure in Fairon’s life for as long as she could remember. When he was young, had been the King’s Bard during the rule of King Worlent, his days filled with spinning tales and singing songs of battles past to the court. His talent for weaving a heart-stopping story was impressive, but the politics of court and the celebrity that came with his position were not to his liking. His nights became dedicated to the study of herbs and medicines, something he had dabbled in before coming to court. Gossip spread that the Royal entertainer had become a healer, and soon he was overrun with nobility requesting cures for various ailments. Celebrity had once again got in the way of his plans, and he relinquished his title as King’s Bard, returning to the highlands of his youth. He had spent his next years concocting new healing potions and selling them to whoever found him. His fame had kept him in business for many years, until he mischeviously started a rumor that he had expired. Occasionally, someone would come looking for the fabled bard-turned-healer, and he would treat their illness; their payment being that they remain silent about the fact that he still lived.
As a child, Fairon had been completely enamoured with the old man, her every waking moment spent at his side. He had been old then; his bent back seeming to carry the weight of the world, yet he moved with a quickness that belied his age. His eyes were buried beneath heavy wrinkles and even heavier eyebrows, but when Fairon looked into them, she saw someone her own age. He had taught her everything about potions and ointments, all the while reverting back to his bard days, regalling her with intriguing tales of great battles and lost loves. In Fairon, Bavrone had found something he had never found in all his years at court; and audience who was enthralled with his tales who cared not a wit about politics or notoriety. By fulfilling his ambition, he had become quite a substantial factor in Fairon’s education.
Sango broke through the tree, and the moonglow gave Fairon a perfect view of Bavrone’s dilapidated cabin. One would never guess by looking at the exhausted building that the man who lived inside had once entertained kings. Fairon smiled to herself as she had the thought, and dismounted. Sango wandered a few steps away, searching for something to graze on. Fairon knocked on the rickety door, but got no response, so she gingerly pushed it open, cringing as it screached in protest. She had urged Bavrone numerous times to repair the door, as it was hanging only on one hinge, but Bavrone had dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand and the response, “If somethin’ ur somain wants tae gie in, they will if it’s fixed ur nae.” Fairon made her way easily thought the cabin, undaunted by the familiar messes that made up the decor. Herbs and vegetables hung drying from the rafters giving the room a rich, organic odor. Shelves of jars and viles lines the walls, and in one corner a brightly-colored bird blinked expectantly at Fairon. She drew some seeds she had collected on her ride from her pocket and offered them to the bird. It quickly took them from her outstretched hand and gave a satisfied nod.
Mumbling came from behind a table covered in plants. Fairon bent down to get a better look at the source.
“Having troubles, Old Man?” she said teasingly.
“Thes pest years ife lived in peace an’ noo fowk come tae test mah patience.” The wizened face peeped above the table for a moment. “Some plants Ah need can scarce be foond near haur anymair. Aam tay auld tae be traipsin’ in th’ wey o’ see ‘at some hen can keep ‘er guidman frae strayin’. Bavrone straightened. “Keep heem fat oan guid food ,Ah say, an’ he’ll be tay lazy tae wander.”
Fairon laughed. “Ah, but what good is a fat husband too lazy for love?”

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Creepies The Sequal: Drunk Tom


Happy frickin’ Thursday, People. My boss has been a complete Assface today, so I’m a bit moody, but I shall bring you stories to brighten your day anyway. Due to popular demand, I have decided to bring you yet another story from Creepies Inc. To prove that the bizarreness of my life does not entirely transpire at my bookstore, I shall tell you a little story about a man I have dubbed Drunk Tom.

When I left my husband, I scrambled around desperately trying to find a place to live, so as not to infringe upon any of my friends. I happened to get a lease on an apartment in a building I lived in when I first moved away from home. I do believe every tennant that lived there was either on disability or social security. When I moved in, I was just happy to have a place of my own again, but this feeling quickly diminished when I realized the 3 apartments next to mine were occupied by 3 drunk lonely men. Now, I did not come to know this by osmosis, but by the most persistant of these 3 men, Drunk Tom.

The day I was moving in, a little man resembling Smoegol from Lord of the Rings was getting his mail and introduced himself as Tom. He informed me that if I ever needed anything, he was just down the hall. In my mind, I was thinking, “Why, isn’t that lovely? I have a friendly neighbor.” A few days later, a knock sounded on my door, and who could it be but my friendly neighbor Tom. Drunk.  I opened my door slightly, and he burst on through when he saw my stacks of books everywhere.

“You are a freak!” He proclaimed.

“Yes, well, books are my thing.” I replied.

He then proceeded to light up a cigarette, in my apartment, in my non-smoking building, without asking.

“Dude, if you’re gonna smoke can you do it on the balcony?” I asked politely, even though at this point I was a bit annoyed that drunken near-stranger was standing in my home.

He immediately went to the sink and put out his smoke.

“I am SO sorry! I am such a fuckin’ idiot! You don’t want me here, do you? I am so sorry!” He was on the verge of tears and his head hung down in utter defeat. I immediately felt remorse for having spoken to him in a less than Emily-Post- like manner.

“It’s ok. Just smoke on the balcony, cuz I don’t smoke and I think the smell is kinda gross.”

He recovered quickly enough. “Oh! OK! You are so nice! I’m going to hug you!”

Before I had a chance to blink, this man whose head wasperfectly level with my busooms was squeezing the life outta me. After I extracated myself from his arduous embrace, I told him it was nice to chat, but I had to get to sleep. He left and I was slightly relieved.

For the next few weeks, EVERY DAY he was knocking at my door, asking if I wanted to have a beer, (which I don’t drink) or if I wanted to come over and listen to tunes, or whatever. I declined. From the conversations we had while I was standing at my door blocking his entry, I found out he liked to draw, he was a Vietnam vet, he took pills for an injury he sustained, and a 40 mixed with his pills gave him a good buzz. (That explained ALOT)

After realizing that this was just a lonely man who didn’t do much, one evening I desired to bake cookies, and since I only like eating them directly from the oven, I figured I’d jaunt down the hall and give a couple to Drunk Tom. When he answered my knock, he was so blissfully thankful for the cookies that he invited me in so he could show his appreciation by sharing a Coke with me. I thought, “What the hell.” As I stepped into the world of Drunk Tom, I felt as if I had entered one of those Hoarder episodes. His apartment was filled, literally to the ceiling, with crap. And many many drawing he had done were tacked up everywhere. He asked me to sit, which I did, gingerly on his stinky couch. After a few minutes of talking about art and drawing, he decided I was worthy to see his “special” art. He escorted me to his bedroom door, which I did NOT enter, and came face to face with dozens and dozens of drawings of women giving head. Now, I am all about sexually explicit art, (Frida Kahlo being my fave artist) but I was not expecting this.

“Okveryniceit’stimeformetogo.” I stuttered. Tom had to make sure to try to get a hug as I was walking out the door.

After that, Tom started sticking drawings of a more PG rated nature under my door.

A while later, caught me in the hallway as I was coming back from work. He apologized for an uncomfortableness he may have caused, and explained that he didn’t mean anything by showing me his drawings, but that “If I ever dumped that tall red-head, he’d be will to…” ( imagine here a hobbit-like man thrusting his hips at you in a very lascivious manner). As I attempted to keep from spewing my breakfast everywhere, Drunk Tom let me know he had something for me.

I bet,”  I thought, rolling my eyes.

“It’s just a little thing,” Tom said. Then he pulled out a little magnet with a picture on it. It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at.

“I got a pretty cute ass for an old guy, don’t I?” Tom asked proudly.

There, in my hand, was a magnet of Drunk Tom posing like a Playboy girl with his ass staring me right in the face. I handed it back.

“No, that’s ok. It’s such a nice picture you’d better keep it, Tom.”

“But look!” He reached over and stuck it on my metal doorframe. “You could just stick it there and then you wouldn’t have to see it all the time, but when you go to work, then you can look and say ‘Hey! There’s Tom!'”

“Well, it really would be very distracting if I looked at that every day, Man.” I said, honestly. “You should keep it.”

This is the end of the story, but I will say that Tom was quite devoted about knocking on my door until I moved out. Though this post was written with a fictional vibe, all parties mentioned DO exist and there is no way I could make this shit up. XOXO

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A Drunken Love Song To Me


So, I was just deleting old texts from my phone and came across this. I’ve told my Rockstar that he isn’t the perfect man until he writes me a song.When he sent this, he was away for the night and drank half a bottle of Evan Williams. It’s sooo romantic….

“My baby got triple D’s.

Ya know those tities too much 4 me.

But I like to bury my face in them anyway.

I do the tity wap slap tity squeez grab

fuck the mountains on you.”

P.S. I never said he could spell. 😉

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Filed under Family, Humor, Life, Love, music, Poem, Uncategorized

Beautifically-Impaired


Hello, My Lovelys! My blog today shall be a little harsh, but I just can’t put it off any longer. I shall be addressing the fact of how unfortunate-looking my Rockstar’s ex is. (the one he has a daughter with, NOT his model ex-wife) I’m not saying this because I harbor a secret vendetta against her, because I don’t; I must mention it simply because I cannot understand how he could have kissed (or MORE-ed) someone who makes me go “Eeesh!” when I look at her. And as they say, “If you can’t say anything nice, come sit next to me!”

Last evening was my Rockstar’s Daughter’s first soccer game, or as she put it, “The best day of my LIFE!”. It actually ended up being the night I realized that there are freezing mini-hurricanes in Minnesota, but that’s beside the point. While we were watching the game,(the Daughter was easy to spot on the field because her jersey hung down past her shorts, so she looked like she hadn’t any pants on) her Mom came up around half-time and started watching with us. I have already mentioned in past blogs how accutely curious I am about my Rockstar’s exes, and this one is no exception. I actually got aquainted with her when they were dating about 11 years ago, when I was still dating my not yet Ex-hubby. The only thing I remember about her back then is that she was the oldest person at the party we were at, and a complete Fun-Dud. (I suppose that comes sometimes with age, but thinking about it, she would have been around the age I am now, and I’m the funnest person I know.) I remember my Ex telling me at the time that this woman and my Rockstar started dating because she just started coming over to his house and taking her clothes off. Makes sense to me- after all, he IS a rockstar…

Anyhoo, as we were watching the soccer game, I was more than slightly distracted by this woman, who we will now artlessly call Ugly Ex. Her profile itself was so disturbing, that I began to tune out the game and examine her more closely (and probably not very discreetly.) When I stare at people like this, (which I do quite often, I admit) I try to notice everything about them. Yes, this may seem unconventional, but it’s just one of my things, so there. Have you ever heard of the word jowls? Because in my extensive reading, I have come upon this word quite frequently, mostly describing Henry VIII or Elvis in their later drug-induced years. I have never encountered someone in real life who actually has them, until last night. Ugly Ex has them. The oddest part about this is that she is not really over-weight- in fact, I would say she probably weighs less than me- in her bra, in her hair, in her ass, and anywhere else where a few extra pounds would actually look exceptional. So, aside from the jowls, her facial skin is very ruddy looking, which I suppose may not be able to be helped. As she turned to say something to my Rockstar, I was startled by her teeth, which are quite yellowed (from much smoking and Coca-Cola), and the fact that they are crooked. Remember Jewel’s little snaggle tooth? Imagine that all the way across. Ok, I admit, they are maybe not THAT bad, but I can’t come up with a better example. At that point, I felt I had to look away from her facial area, as I had seen enough, although I will mention that she has a double chin, which I have noticed may carry down slighty to the Daughter, unfortuneatly. Moving down, my eyes slid right past her very flat ass to her feet. Feet are kinda important to me, as I am obsessed with shoes, though I have come across many unpleasant paws in my life. Sadly, this was one of those occassions. Her very gnarly toenails were painted with that sandy brownish color that old ladies wear. By then, I felt I had come to a decision. My Rockstar had better be DAMN happy he’s got me. even if, at times, I AM neurotic.

No, I do not feel threatened by her. I may resent her a bit for having got to have a child with MY Rockstar, but I know he loves me (he never even liked her much- his words). Do not feel bad that I have torn her to pieces, because her looks have not in any way hindered her ability in catching enough men to have spawned three daughters from three different men. I just can’t get over the fact that when I look at her, it makes me go “Eesh!” XOXO

P.S. I just walked by Maurices on the way to work, and their mannequin’s boobies are disturbingly perky.

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The Skin Man and Other Assorted Creepers


It is my belief that the most rejected and disconsolate men have made appearances at my bookstore. I will tell you now why I believe this. While, I admit I can be utterly adorable at times, I would never in any way describe myself as sexy or overly proficient in the the Bewitching of Men department. Nontheless, this seems to not matter one iota where the creepers of my store are concerned. Here is a short overview of just a few of them:

The Skin Man: I should point out- this one wasn’t a customer until AFTER he met me. In the times when I was employed with two jobs, my schedules were such that every day I worked I had 3 hours in between jobs. This wouldn’t have been much of an issue, except for the fact that I lived 45 minutes away from the town my jobs are in. So I got to figure out ingenious ways in which to spend my extra time. Luckily, there is a giant Caribou Coffee in the parking lot of my mall, so that is where I wasted time the majority of the winter months. I would bring a book and order a large Turtle Mocha, with milk chocolate, extra hot, with no Snickers. (I don’t like chunks in my beverages.) One afternoon, I was reading a book which was ,in hindsight, basically an adult version of How To Train Your Dragon, when an older man sat in the easy chair next to me. I realize that most people that venture into a coffee stable and stay are usually of the Yuppie variety, with their bluetooths, (blueteeth?) and laptops, but this man was just a man in his early 60’s with no digital devices to occupy him.

At first, I paid him no mind, as I was exerting myself trying to get into my dragon book, but then he asked what I was reading, so I began to converse with him. Now. my mother always taught me never to talk to strangers, but having worked in customer service since I’ve been old enough to have a job has kinda eroded  that thinking out of my brain.  The man introduced himself and started began telling me about climbing mountains or something equally interesting, so I deemed him as a man with stories to tell. As he rambled on, I was distracted by his tale when I noticed he kept looking at my arm, which made ME look at my arm, thinking a bug had alighted upon it or fuzzies had gotten stuck on it from my coat. The man then halted in the middle of his sentence and said, “You have really nice skin.”  Warning bells went off in my head immediately, as I recalled a much quoted line from a blockbuster movie, (“It rubs the lotion on it’s skin; It does this whenever It’s told”) and I judged myself to be having coffee face-to-face with a Buffalo Bill type. His observation,(while somewhat flattering in a skeezy way) was so odd I didn’t know how to respond so I just said, “Thank you, oh my, I must depart to work now.” I skedaddled outta there faster than a farmer with a case of the hershey squirts.

A few hours later, I was in the safety of my very public bookstore, when the Skin Man made an appearance. I thought back to our conversation and realized I had mentioned working in a used bookstore, and since we are the only one in town, I suppose he wouldn’t have had to be overly brilliant to figure out where I was. He smoothly looked around for a few minutes and asked me book-related questions, then said it again, “You really do have the most beautiful skin.” While I was imagining how I would escape from the deep well he was sure to put me in, he placed a $10 bill on my counter and said, “That’s for you, because you have entertained me.” And he left before I ever got a chance to say, “You can’t pay me for my skin! It holds my muscles in and I need it!” I never saw him again. Now tell me that wasn’t  weird.

Next, Married Guy:  a very attractive tall man with curly hair who would come into my bookstore quite frequently and actually ask about books. Being the friendly Book Lady that I am, when pretty men who read books come in, I feel it is my duty to help them find what they are looking for. Unfortuneately, after he realized I wear high heels, he was no longer looking for books. He would, after that, come in to see what shoes I was wearing under the guise of looking for Dragonlance books. Yes, of course I love it when people notice my shoes- I am, after all, an attention whore. It wasn’t creepy until I was walking back from the park one day, whena car zoomed up next to me and stopped. It was Married Guy. Without a shirt. Now, forgive for this observation, but when a man is driving a mini-van that has toys from his kids dangling from the rear-view mirror, and his cell phone is ringing with a call from his wife, no ab muscles are going to make me say, “Hey, come on over to my place.” When I mentioned the absence of a shirt, he said, “Well, I saw you walking so I took it off.” To which I replied, “Because you thought I could use it as a parasol?”  He then informed me that he was married with kids (which I already knew) and that he would never do anything to jeopardize that. I still don’t get why he felt the need to inform me so, as I never once gave the impression that I needed his half-nude body crushed against me. Anyhoo, I said, “Good, go home to them and put your shirt back on.” and bid him goodbye. I crossed the street and went into my apartment building.

A week later, Married Guy showed up at my store again, flirty as always. He informed me that he had been to my apartment building looking for me and spoken with some of my neighbors. WTF?! This is by far the most stalkerish behavior I have encountered. I told him he’d best not come to my building anymore, as he was married and I had my Rockstar. And furthermore, if he wanted to continue coming to my store, he was going to have to buy a book. He bought a book. For the next few months he would show up occassionally stating how hot I was and how he wanted to “rip my panties off and do me.” Perhaps I should have called the Policia, but he was never physically threatening, except for the few times he showed up buzzing my apartment, to which I responded by pretending I wasn’t home. He finally got the point.

Cabinet Maker Guy: This was the first man to approach me after I started working at the bookstore. I was working evenings, and he would come in and just LOOK at books for hours at a time.(which alot of people do.) On one of these occassions, I asked him if there was anything I could help him find, and he began conversing with me, much the same way as the Skin Man did. He told me he was a cabinet maker and bla bla bla. When it was getting close to closing time, I told him if he wanted to buy anything he better cuz I was closing up. He then asked if he could give me his number. This was when I was yet married, and I let him know that my hubby woudn’t be very happy if I had the phone number of a strange man. The man said, “But I thought we just had a very good conversation, and I just want to talk, so I’m going to just leave my number for you.” As I was protesting, he wrote his number down and left. I threw it away.

A few weeks later, I was closing on a Saturday night, bending down to shelve a book on the bottom shelf, when I turned around and had the shit startled outta me by this man standing mere inches away from me. He said, “Hi, I was at a bachelor party and decided to walk over here and see if you were here.” My response? “So you left a bachelor party where you were having a good time to walk over to see if the married girl at the bookstore was working?” Yeah, the creepiest part is that it was closing time and he wouldn’t leave. I had a nightmare about him that night.

This post has carried on much too long now, and I am only beginning to get started. I am aware that my friendly, flirtatious nature may be what gets me into these situations, but I have always been clear that I have (before) a husband or a boyfriend, which does NOT deter these men. The only thing good that has come out of any of this is that I got paid $10 for having “really nice skin.”

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Thank You Note to Eve


Dear First Woman of the Earth, Eve-

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for being a complete dumbass, and NOT listening when God told you not to eat of the Tree. If you had never eaten the fruit, I would have never had this chance to acknowledge you, as we all would have been sauntering around naked in flawless bliss in the Garden of Eden. Instead, I shall mention just a few of the ways in which your transgression has affected my life…

Without you, Eve, I never would have gotten to suffer the utter embarrassment of getting my first period in 4th grade, at school, with my life-blood seeping through my skirt for all to see, or my mother announcing to the ENTIRE family at Labor Day brunch, “She’s a woman now!”

I would never have gotten to endure the past 20 years of excruciating menstrual cramps, or known about the joy of ass-piss without having had food poisoning. I look forward to the next approximate 20 years I have of enjoying these lovely side affects of having my moon-flow. Thank you, also, because only an entire bottle of brandy will keep me from curling up into a fetal position from the pain.

Eve, my gratitude is never-ending, for the sin you committed that day, and for the fact that I get to spend my last $5 of the week on super-absorbent tampons, instead of putting it toward the fabulous black patent-leather shoes with leopard-print stillettos that I had my eye on, because my cooch resembles the beginning battle scenes of Saving Private Ryan.

You have not only touched me. My Rockstar will also forever be indebted to you, as he is now subject to the mood swings of the Fiend -Formerly- Known- As-His- Girlfriend. I will attest to the fact that he basks in the recognition that at any given moment, I may just decide to whip a butcher knife in his direction, or burst into hysterics. Why would he ever look for another woman? He’s got 7 different personalities right here.

I appreciate the fact that because of you, Eve, I will not be having anything remotely resembling a Skinny Day for the next 5-7 days and that my face is shining radiantly with excess grease and pimples. Stretchy pants and zit cream are a fashionable necessity to my wardrobe.

All in all, Eve, if you had thought about what you were doing before your  narcissistic self disobeyed God, we women would have never had the joy of bleeding profusely from our twats, which would have been unanimously catostrophic. Period.

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How Brett Favre Ruined My Marriage


Since it is a Holy Day, that Day of St. Pigskin, I shall entertain you with a short tale of why I shall ever narrow my eyes at the mention or sight of  the celebrated Brett Favre.

When I was dating my not-yet ex-Husband, I felt relieved to find myself as one of the Elite Few Women Who Aren’t Ignored During Football Season. My guy, though quite manly in all other areas, lacked the gene most men are born with- that of hunkering down in front of the tube every Sunday afternoon and Monday night to bellow and squall at the little men running around, while swigging beer and snarfing down finger foods. There was an occasional lapse in attention toward me when Green Bay played the Vikes, but overall, Sundays were spent in less asinine ways.

A few years ago, Minnesota picked up a new quarterback. You may have heard of this player, though at the time, the only thing I really knew about him was that he had made a cameo appearance in the movie There’s Something About Mary, before he looked like a rotting corpse. His name was Brett Favre. Immediately, there was embroilment among fans.

Being from Minnesota, I have, from adolescence, been aware of the rivalry between the Green Bay Packers and the Minnesota Vikings. When Brett got picked up by the Vikes, Green Bay fans were enraged. How could he do that?! Is there so little honor in the sport of football, that a star quarterback could play for a rival team?! I suppose a giant paycheck and another chance at glory may have had something to do with it/My not-yet ex was thrilled. “I guess now I might be into football, since our team won’t suck so bad,” he announced. I guess that should have given me a clue….

It seemed, then that Brett Favre was EVERYWHERE. TV started airing Wrangler jean ads, thinking that “Yes, of course men will believe their asses will look like Brett’s if they buy our crapper jeans.” and JC Penney couldn’t keep in enough #4 jerseys. Perhaps I was over-reacting at that point, but I began to resent being told, “Just wait ’til the game is done, honey.” I believe it had more to do with the fact that while my hubby was recovering from back surgery, I was working 70+ to pay the bills, and Sunday was the only day I was home. Yes, I am very selfish.

The beginning of the end was when my birthday fell on a Monday. What the hell was I thinking, being born exactly 28 years before the game to end all games- the Vikes (with Brett Favre) vs. the Packers? My hubby informed me that I had a choice. I could celebrate my birthday the next day, (even though I had taken my birthday off from work and would be working 17 hrs the next day) or I could go with and watch the “super game” at my brother-in-law’s. Now, I have since been told that men are completely oblivious at times, but this was pretty much the most dim-witted thing a significant other could say to an over-worked histrionic. When the ultimatum was made to me, I still had hope in my heart that I wasn’t married to a complete nincompoop.

Sadly, my birthday came around, and I spent the entire day alone. Not to say that there were no chums that were breaking down my door to celebrate with me, but the fact that my hubby was so retarded as to go off and do whatever on MY day, when I wanted to spend it with him, had me moping on the couch, chowing down on Hardee’s, watching Sex and the City in my undies. It just so happened that he got plastered at his bro’s house during the game, so didn’t even come home that night. His reasoning was, “I told you I wouldn’t be around on your birthday.”

There were other reasons why I got divorced as well, but that night I realized that if I didn’t come first over a middle-aged Mississippian in a purple shirt, things were very sub-standard. In this day and age of VCRs and Tivos, (we had both) I never should have been left alone on my birthday. Yes, I need attention, and I do not apologize for it. I like to think that if Brett Favre had known that his one of his last losing seasons would have disassembled my marriage, he woulda just stayed home grilling gators.

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