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!!!”

Unfriendship Bracelet

Holy fuck, we all got colds. I couldn’t have timed it any better and it was likely a direct result from the ending to my Shoulder Pad Hug post. Every time I kiss my kids’ little noses I get snot on my lips. I am eating snot on top of it all.

Since were all sick, physically and mentally for myself, we have been inside for days, afraid we could become worse by going out where its chilly.  All this down time has got me crafting like a mother fucker. I joined Pinterest only a couple months ago, and now I am a freaking addict. I am a master of fringe t-shirts with sequin embellishments, and have been making them for all my relative friends (my only friends)

I thought I would make them all cool friendship bracelets because it seems simple enough. I have attempted to make them a number of times. The first attempt was a fucking disaster, and it is only slightly improving after probably 6 hours of trying. How can something be so difficult for me when 12 year olds can do while watching Jersey Shore, reading 50 Shades, texting and sexting, while blind folded! I thought I was good at multitasking. No! These fucking bracelets require complete attention. With laser focus I tie these knots, thousands of them, and fuck up once the entire thing is shot.

After 6 hours of trying, I am not making these for Christmas gifts because I am getting frustrated. They sell these damn bracelets for like a fucking dollar at forever 21, so I am putting all this blood, sweat and tears in for something that is amounting to not even half as good as a dollar bracelet! I can imagine handing them these janky ass bracelets, with the card saying something like, “these bracelets remind me of our friendship, fucked up. Merry Christmas.” My sister will look at this bracelet, and tell me that I am a cheap asshole, and I need to pluck my eyebrows more often.

I hope that we are feeling better tomorrow because I will likely attempt at these bracelets again, and there is so much more I could be doing with my time, like cleaning my shower that has a mold spot growing. I am going to spray bleach on it before bed tonight because right as I typed that I felt mold spores coming through my nasal passage and multiplying in my brain.

Totes Sequin Totes

Holidays are coming, fast. I have already settled on all the kids’ toys for Christmas and next weekend I am placing my amazon order, after which all the toys will sit in my closet until Christmas Eve night when I decide I can’t put off wrapping anymore. Then I will wrap presents until 2am and be tired and easily annoyed on Christmas day. Being easily annoyed around family is not wise because the fighting gloves come on, and before you know it half the room will be in tears and the other half screaming at the top of their lungs. When this happens we all throw in the towel and decide to get drunk in order to perk up. It generally works.

This year I am making my woman friends dope ass handbags with sequin messages.  When I say woman friends I really mean my mom, sisters and cousin because I don’t have much space for any other person to be close to. I already spend the next couple months thinking of ways to avoid every social event I am invited to, and I usually blame it on one of my woman friend/relatives. I usually say, “I’m so sorry I can’t come to your party that starts in 15 minutes. My sister has seriously bad diarrhea, and I have to watch her baby, who has diarrhea too.”

I started making a bag for myself, as a tester, and it is much more work than I anticipated. While sewing on sequins I watched 4 episodes of House Hunters International and because I sew like I’m in a sweat shop, I don’t have the time to put the needle down and fast forward through commercials. I saw the commercial for Prego Spaghetti Sauce about 20 times. It reminds me of my parents who made us eat Ragu, which is its equally cheap counter part probably made in a factory where workers are encouraged to pee in the vats of tomatoes instead of take breaks to use the bathroom.

My parents were 23 when they started having kids, and stopped at 29, when they had their fifth and final bundle of joy. So they were poor, and we ate shit that is considered gross by much of middle class today. The smart thing about having kids at the young age of 20 is that by the time you start making big bucks your kids are out the door, so you don’t have to spend it on them by buying the next step up pasta sauce, like Bertolli.

Now as my parents jet set around the globe, probably dining on fine imported sauce from Italy, they can think about how they sacrificed, scrimped and scraped by with 5 little rats sucking the life out of them. They went from rags to riches. I went about things differently, by having kids in my 30’s. So I went from world traveling and eating at gastro pubs every night to boxed mac and cheese and saying things like “it’s the thought that counts.” My life of leisure will be bimodal, as theirs is exponentially growing.

I can thank them though for setting the bar pretty low on what’s acceptable to eat. I probably spent $40 a week on groceries in college and was able to subsist off of hot pockets and soda, without complaint. It was a step up, actually. This helped tremendously, since I didn’t spend student loan money on wood burning pizza and micro brew.

My Mom’s tote is going to say “Money Bags” so she won't Scrooge McDuck on me this holiday season. I am going to bring my kids to see Santa at the mall, and after they each hand them their list of things that I will buy on Amazon, I am going to hand him a list from me. My letter will go something like this, “Dear Santa, I have been extra good, and here is my list. # 1 - a check made out to me for $10,000,000. There is no number 2 because I am trying to minimize my life. Thanks Santa, you are so sweet, and don’t let those stupid assholes get you down in regards to your waistline. They don’t fucking realize how cold it is on your sleigh at night, and that you eat all those cookies because you are polite. Why else would anyone eat nasty oatmeal cookies? I will only have chocolate chip for you. Thanks for making everyone sofa king happy this year. Love, Alicia”

My Mad Men Coat

When Mad Men started in 2007 Kate Spade stock must have sky rocketed because that show is basically what she imagines the world to look like. I picture KS wondering around her house with a

martini in hand wearing one of those crazy ostrich feather hats on her head, looking like she just stumbled out of a Breakfast at Tiffany’s themed costume party. Its so over the top and maintaining a look like that shows serious class and sophistication. I say FUPA way too much to feel like such a classy lady. Just the other day I said the super ladylike post sex comment, “That was a queef, not a fart.” Good god, whoever farts during sex can just pack it in and call it a life because they are fucking helpless.

I bought this jacket at a senior center about 10 years ago. I really love the color, feminine collar, sleeve length, and the big buttons, however I never wore it! I think I was hesitant to dress it down, but it certainly is a pretty coat and very Mad Men.

 

To modernize the look, class it down, I paired it with a romper and Ray Bans. Got to be careful with those rompers though. Eat half a sandwich and then a FUPA explodes out on you, like an unexpected flat tire. Needless to say, not a great beer-drinking outfit, but then again, this look is for martinis and chain smoking, classy stuff.

The coat is for sale on my eBay site for $50. I was going to make it cheaper, but then I googled the brand, and it is some high quality shit, Pendleton. I might even keep the fucker now, especially since it is made from “virgin wool” which sounds pretty... gross, actually. Link to eBay sale