Holiday Season Glitter Metallic Suit of Armor

Suiting Up

Ding ding dong, or, dong dong dong. Either way (ding with a side of dong, or dong with a side of dong), holiday season has officially begun. It is Thanksgiving. The next month is an absolute shit show of endless parties, and the fun of dressing up for the festivities. Now is the time to wear all the metallic and glitter in your wardrobe, and by the time January 1st rolls around there will be metallic burn out. Nonetheless, by next Thanksgiving an insatiable jonesing to dazzle in head to toe glittery sparkly shit will come out of nowhere.

I hate this time of year because on the surface it is the time to let loose and show all your office friends the “real you,” but in reality it is the only time hob nobbing with the higher higher ups is acceptable so its time to pull on the serious pants and act like a career oriented bitch. Not going to happen because of the open bar. I am the person who goes to a party to drink, so a holiday work party is my worst nightmare. I am the woman dancing with a lampshade on her head as all my colleagues look on in judgmental pity.

The face of a woman about to go wild!

The two months following my inevitable scenes of embarrassment are usually filled with shame and regret which add to the post holiday blues, but at least I know I was dressed for the occasion. Maybe my “dancing by myself” dance moves made it a little too clear to my boss’s boss’s boss that I am le freak. The mask comes off this time of year, and I guess the “real me” might be a bit much for all my stuffy ass office mates.

Holiday parties suck balls because the concept of letting loose is really all a sham and there are expectations of being supremely proper. The open bars always do me in and I end up a source of gossip for months. Bad publicity is still publicity, and Im looking good while I act like a fool, so ha! Plus, I am having loads of fun, even though it comes off as desperate and sad to people who seem to have their shit together. But they are just jealous, and I really mean it! They can’t ever let loose, it’s a control problem. The real them is buried too deep under their cute little business suits. I put it all out there, and it might be ugly to see, but I wrap it up in sparkles and glitter to make it a little more dazzling than disastrous.

Happy holidays!! Let the shit show commence!

Glitter looks good the next morning

#FreeTheNipple Cost Savings

I ordered the Christmas presents for the kids today from Amazon. Online shopping really takes the stress out of “Christmas Stress.” I am going to hide the toys in my closet for a month and start wrapping them the day before Christmas just to put the stress back in “Christmas Stress.” Of course, I had to look at some things for myself as I picked out Play Dough, Magic Dolls, and other things kids are wildly impressed with for 15 minutes before they decide to fight over a whisk they found in the kitchen.

A couple months ago I found a really cute bathing suit on Etsy, and followed the link to an independent retailer’s site where the suit was listed for $90. Its online, so I assumed the retailer must be high end because the suit looked pretty no frills, thick straps, no bra cups and simple print, a cosmic scene with purples and silver. I pinned it, and moved on. Since I am off to Mexico in a month, I thought I’d look at bathing suits, and I remembered the cosmic suit from Pinterest, so I type a description in the amazon search engine, and wham, there it is. The exact same bathing suit for $18 with free shipping!!! I almost fell out of my chair. The fucking audacity that a retailer is likely buying the suits from this Amazon source, and then turning around and selling them for $70 more. All they probably do is take the suit out of its plastic wrap, cut off the made in China sticker, and let the factory smell air out with a couple spritzes of Febreze.

Merry Christmas to me; I am getting my bathing suit at the straight off the loading dock bargain rate. It might be a bit fusty getting a one piece, but the shrinkage on my stomach has not fully recovered from the gaining and loosing of 85 pounds during each pregnancy. My kids were each 9 pound babies, and they can thank me because this is an actual factor in determining intelligence (well, until they’re 30, so relax parents of tiny babies, your kid will catch up after they have settled into a life based on their menial intelligence). My tummy looks a bit like a wrinkled balloon that has been blown up and deflated but it is all for a greater good! Hopefully in a couple years I can manage dealing with a two piece again, but who wants to fuss with that at a Mexico all inclusive resort. You start your day at a fucking breakfast buffet and then drink Corona all day long. A bikini would only take away from the level of nirvana I am trying to attain.

Here is a ink to the bathing suit on Amazon. I am not sure why they didn’t Photoshop the nipslip, but I guess those costs would only make the suit more expensive. Good on them for passing the savings onto the customers. #freethenipple

Sociopathic Dreams of an Aspiring Shop Girl

I woke up at 3 am from a freaky ass dream and then sat awake for an hour thinking I might be dying because my throat has a swollen gland. In my dream I was in a TV contest and whoever killed off all the other contestants won. I felt confident I was going to win even though my tactic for killing people was hardly cinematic. I’d just touch them and then they lay down with their tongue out, dead. I had no guilt or conscious about killing people and spent most the time admiring my beautiful house. I was wearing a hooded sweatshirt with white bikini bottoms while running around killing people and pleased with my lovely modern town home and personal grotto. This dream reflects that I am a vain greedy sociopath, which isn’t news to me. The dream must be the aftermath of my part time job search. Since the weekend is the only time I can put in billable hours I thought retail would be perfect. I’m used to people talking to me like a servant, I like looking at pretty things, and shooting the shit in an impersonal way is one of my greatest assets. However, once the stranger goes in for a hug or starts to tell me about a dying relative, I cringe and walk away.

I was rejected after my first interview, so when I was called for an interview with a different department I took a completely different approach. When asked how I handle competition with coworkers, I took off my soft gloves. During the first interview I spouted out all this crap about camaraderie and teamwork, but during the second interview, I was cut throat, and basically said, “Were all here to work, so I don’t care if I step on toes. I am not here to make friends.” Right after I said it, the lady gave an ear-to-ear grin, confirming that this was exactly what she wanted to hear. Another question was asked about what inspires me. During the first interview I gave some sincere, but completely boring, answer about my kids. During the second interview when they asked what inspires me I answered with straight face seriousness, “money inspires me. I want to make more and more money.” Again, big ass smile on interview lady’s face. She shook her head in agreement, like, “yep, you finally got it, bitch. We want power hungry, cut throat ass holes working here. And you better have a fucking smile, like this shit eating grin, on your face all day long while your selling these expensive ass clothes that were made for pennies on the dollar by children in 3^rd world countries.”

optimistic and demoralized

The job was in the bag but then she looked at my availability and basically said, “we don’t hire people to only work Saturday and Sunday so get the fuck out of here.”

Rejected again. It has become a pattern in my life, and the really amazing thing about it is that I am becoming immune to it. I write essays and stories that I submit and they all get rejected, which at first was troublesome but now its expected so just getting a personalized rejection letter is on par with being published in the New Yorker. The most surprising part of my dream was not that I was going around killing people, but my confidence in winning. Not even a shred of doubt. When in reality my

expectations are set at “Not eva gonna happen, bitch” Clearly my psyche has not gotten onboard with my new downtrodden disposition. After I woke up I had a terrible sore throat from my cough and a swollen glad that had me questioning if I am dying. I climbed out of bed, went to the kitchen for a throat lozenge and threw out my cigarettes. My heightened anxiety about death would surely be forgotten the next night when I’m looking to unwind before bed. I’ll take this amnesia as a sign of optimism in a time of demoralization. Even though I’m drowning in rejection, deep down I’m still certain the rejection won’t last forever. It just took a dream about murdering people followed by restless fears that I’m terminally ill to reaffirm my confidence.

Mom Jeans

I love to put my toddler boy in jeans because he looks so adorable in them, just like a tiny man. My heart actually skips a beat when he’s in his jeans, polo shirt and adidas shoes like he just wandered out of the country club after playing tennis and having an Arnold Palmer and turkey club. The problem with putting him in jeans is that his mobility is restricted. His strides are shortened significantly, he walks around almost like a penguin. When he tries to get onto his little baby motorcycle (melt my heart a little more) his leg can barely make it over the seat so I have to lift him on to it and off of it, which is annoying since he will want to do this over and over for... the rest of time. Whenever we get home from our outings, I have to take his pants off so he can roam around and play freely without needed assistance. He likely associates home with stripping down to his diaper.

This limited mobility is how I feel when I try to squeeze into all these mom jeans I bought in attempt to get cute ass high waist pants. I am trying to attain a sexy look, but all the pants I am trying to get into make me look like I am carrying around an inner tube  under my waist. Today was probably not a good day to try and tackle this task because I had two bowls of Chocolate Malted Crunch for lunch (I shared with my kids, but to be honest I can eat 8 tremendous bites by the time they get one tiny spoonful to their mouth, so that doesn’t negate many calories) and I started my flowjo. Flowjo came on completely unexpected, a week early, because I am a period interloper and hung out with my hormonal cousin on Monday and jumped right onto her cycle. I should have known this would happen because we were having the greatest time and pumping ourselves up for the week, but the next morning when I woke up I had fire burning in me, and wanted to see head rolls. That afternoon my period came and I took a sigh of relief knowing that I didn’t actually hate everyone, and want to kidnap my kids and book the next flight to Berlin where we can sell sequin embellished t-shirts in the streets.

I am probably going to have to cough up the 100 buck and get the 1981 high waisted black skinny jeans from Guess because they are exactly what I am looking for. If I loose ten pounds maybe my mom jean collection will look better on me. I am not too optimistic since dropping 10 pounds will only decrease my chances of not passing out when wearing them for long periods of time. My butt is like unreal in these things! It reminds me of Ace Ventura, “Would you care for a breath mint?” It has a mind of its own back there. Forget about embroidering the word “Juicy” on this derriere. No words needed, this butt is basically speaking for itself, and it’s saying, “give me some air!!!”