My Pants. My Pants. My Pants are on Fire.

Ahhh, this made me laugh so much, that all the photos I attempted to take of these pants turned out like CRAP. 

 

 So, they are this faux crushed velvet things. Brown. BROWN. With white stitching. I wish I had gotten a pic of the pockets on the arse. They made them even worse. Just, tackalicious.  I mean, maybe a bit sexy in their softness. Nice to rub up next to if your DRY, but the minute ANYONE gets wet, you just know they are going to SQUEAK. But heaven forbid things start getting hot and heavy, and the dry rub creates any HEAT, because....

...there's THIS.

 This means YOU, 43!

Seriously. I laughed so hard. 

I just pictured the spontaneous combustion, and how that would put a real damper on any sexy faux crushed velvet action. And then Erotic City by Prince was in my head and... well, that was it. No clear pictures. 

Grace.

P.S. The Universe has an AMAZING sense of timing and humour, too. 

Squeeching.

Sooo. Sometimes the thrift store gets perfumes. Or purfumey things. And, never knowing what I will react to, it's a good idea for them to NOT be sprayed around me. We USED to keep them behind the counter. But then you'd get the woman who wants to sniff every single one, while there's a line up.

So, Boss Lady made a sign. And then I made another:

I hoped that the RED warning, with the drawn yellow warning liney signs would make people understand. ASTHMATIC on staff. PLEASE DO NOT SPRAY PERFUMES!!

But there's always that ONE. She'll be old, stubborn, and give me the whole "how do you expect me to smell it to see if I like it?" My response is "smell the cap."

We sell the fuckers for no more than $1 for the cheapie ones, and $5ish for brand named ones that come in.

But she'll spray it anyway when she thinks I'm not looking. As if I'm not going to NOTICE. And the stink invades the whole store, and I start choking. Sometimes I AM a little more dramatic than I need to be - What, with the doubling over and red faced gasping coughs while I hang onto the counter for dear life, and the loud squeeching use of the inhalers. (Squeeching. I just made that up. It's mine. It's like squealing, but backwards, because you are trying to breath IN.)

It freaks peoples shit out. But I totally do it. Because even though mostly I am SO. FUCKING. CUSTOMER. SERVICE. AWESOME.... Sometimes there's just no other way to SAY a thing to stubborn ladies who want to smell ALL THE FUCKING PERFUMES at once.

And yet. There's a boy I've been spending time with who wears a very distinct cologne, and I seem to be JUST FINE with getting my nose all up in that without wheezing even a little.


Grace.

Adam and Eve. He's Got Balls.

Dirty Old Man (aka DOM) and the Ex Man (Boss Lady's Ex, who for some reason EVERYONE assumes is MY husband. Weird. *shivers*) were in the back room today, while Ex Man was going through STUFF. I hear manly yet goofy laughter come from the back room, and then out on the floor "We found something for you!!!"

What a big dowel you have. Hubba Hubba.

A bottle opener, and a can opener. They fit together sooo nicely. and LOOK at the balls on Adam. I think that's my favourite bit. I don't even drink beer or cola, so never have occasion to NEED an Adam. I DO however drink a bit of apple or pineapple juice from a can, so an Eve would come in PRETTY HANDY.

Eve would come
in pretty handy.

There's a bit of beautiful dirty poetry in there. 

Anyway. It was a longish day today. Still the same amount of hours, it's just for the SECOND time this year, I'm slightly under the weather.

It's my own fault, I know. My adrenals have been racing with all the adventure.  Did an improv night, I was on stage being silly! Met my Steve Martin! Did I tell you about my Steve Martin dream back on Dec 30? Probably  not. Anyway. I met him. Went dancing with the Boss Lady and some other girls, got hit on by drunk ladies of a certain age. But I stayed up too late. (And I only drank water!)

The next morning, connected with a man who used to be a boy when I was a girl, and THAT was thrilling! We spent 5 hours chatting in a coffee shop, and could have gone longer except the shop had to CLOSE. They totally kicked us out. Heh. 

I'm working on getting the use of my sinuses back, and my voice is pretty much just a hissy squeak.

Good times.

Maybe I need a little Adam to loosen things up. Or maybe some Eve. But probably Adam. Yes. Adam.

Grace.

Shit That SHOULD Be In The Thrift Store!

Today I went out for Poutine and Tea. All by myself. Yes I did.

You'd think I'd be weirder about a secretish current addiction, but I'm not really. It will pass. I'm sure.

Anyway, I sit alone and write. I do this probably more often than the average bear. I like sitting by myself.

Today, the little dish that the milkers for my tea arrived in was... bizarre and cute.

 I swear. I glanced at them, and then really LOOKED:

 OMG. Little Ping Pong players. And, all different. And then I imagined some woman sitting in a factory, painting these little guys on. Day in, day out. Over and over. I totally almost asked the waitress if she'd sell it to me. And if this ended up in the thrift store, I would TOTALLY buy it. But, my girlfriend Gigi just came over to the house and purged a bunch of my kitchen STUFF, so filling it all back in would probably not be productive.

 I finished the entire plate of poutine. I think this is supposed to be a family sharing serving. What Evah. I do belly dancing tummy rolls while I sit here and type all the time anyway. Totally makes up for it.

Grace.

Reindeer Hooves.

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Pretty Men in Corsets.

What do you do when a Pretty Young Man comes into the Thrift Store and inquires about corsets?

Well, first you tell that Pretty Young Man in your sexiest voice that yes indeed you own corsets personally, but there are none in the store. Then when that Pretty Young Man asks you many questions, you give him ALL the advice, and then some. And when he gives you a website to check out, you do that. Being sure to maintain eye contact.

And when the Pretty Young Man comes back the next day, and you are OFCOURSE NOW wearing your corset and he tells you it is very sexy, you purr and smile. And when that Pretty Young Man shows you his tablet and all sorts corsets to choose from on an online store, you help him make a purchase based on what will fit his delightful torso, and what will give him the waist training results he's looking for. From as close to his person as you can reasonably get, all the while trying to quietly breathe in the smell of his skin and sweat.

And when he comes back AGAIN on the same day to show you what he has chosen, and to thank you for being SO cool and knowledgable, you flirt just a little, breasts jutting out thanks to an amazing push up bra and the lift of your own sexy steel boned corset.

And then you tell him that he MUST show you the end result, and he agrees completely. And you suggest very casually that you would gladly help him lace it up for the first time and get it ready for conditioning, and squeal a little inside when he agrees that would be wonderful help. 

And after that, you try to encourage him to put on a pair of heels. And pray to the Deviant Goddess that drives you like a sleek sexy car, that the Pretty Young Man is of legal age.

I fucking love my job. I love adventure. And I love a beautiful man dressed in sexy women's garb.

Ann. Tissa. Pashion.
Frankenfurter, you've RUINED me. Or made me better. 

*shivers*

Grace.

Country Music in the Back Room. Eff Off.

Okay. So, the radios at the thrift store get SHIT for reception. The only thing that was coming in today was country. A horrible country channel, where every dude was singing about chicks in short jean shorts and did they wanna get with them. And women who I'm guessing at some point must have been wearing short jean shorts, got with a dude, and burned them.

For fack sakes.

I was stuck alone in the big back room with Mount Clothesmore, hanging up groovy things to put in the store. But shit. Country songs that go on and on in terribly predictable ways. Drinking, Trucks, Love, Hate. 

And the effing TWANG. What is UP with teh effing TWANG that every country singer sings with. There is no way in hell all of those singers were born and raised in a place where that TWANG is part of their natural speaking pattern.

Have you ever heard Sting sing? That dude is british. Oh, how about David Gray? Listen to those guys sing. They NEVER have an accent slipping in their sing-song prose.

I live in Canada. There are people who were kids in my town, who would have been exposed to more French accents than anything else... They go off an record country songs, and BOOM. Effing TWANG.

Da Fuck. I'm serious. 

Anyway, by the end of the day being stuck in the back sorting clothing, I was singing along to that shit.

Complete with false Twang.

Bullshit.

Grace.

Summer is Busy as Tits.

I live in cottage country. We rely on the money from the TOURISTS in the summer (And in winter, we rely on the money generated by moving ridiculous piles of snow... but I digress.)

So, I haven't made a post in ages. Also, my hosting was expiring. I got my domain and hosting through a godaddy special. Hosting was, like, A-buck-fifty for the year. I get my renewal notice, and it's OVER A HUNDRED BUCKS. Bastards.

So, I just (like, JUST) transfered all my entries that were on the wordpress blog hosted there over to Blogger. As it's FREE. Renewing the domain (so I could point it to blogger.) was about $17 Canadian.

THAT I could afford. As I had some PayPal cash.

Riveting shit. I know.

Anyway. I had held off on more blog entires, also, because I wasn't sure I was going to continue. I mean, I'm all about the positive affirmations and shit, and this blog is ranty and sometimes ugly and definately an asshole. How can I manifest all the POSITIVE ABUNDANCE If i'm swearing and being a jerk?

But then I had the urge to write a blog about how many VHS movies I watch in a day at the Thrift Store, and I knew I'd miss it. I also created some hair art in the shower a few days ago, and thought "I really do need a place to SHOWcase this effing brilliance."

So. Give me an awkward moment to breathe. There will be more pics of epic Thrift Store shit, and Conditioned Hair Art! Summer is almost over, the tourists will be gone, and I will require entertainment.

Grace.

Bitch Bitch Bitch.

Do I even have a pic to post on a rant entry? Lemme check…..

There. It’s a Cock towel. Did I ever show you my Cock towel? I totally embroidered that shit. Not listed for sale yet.

I wouldn’t use it for drying dishes. It’s a flippin COCK towel.

Okay. So, there are good things happening. And yet I’m bitchy.

I’m 2 days a week at the thrift store. The Universe wants me there for reasons I’ve yet to fully work out. I’m trying to just TRUST that shit, and let all the good things happen. What I’m HOPING the good thing is, is that a rich dude comes in and gives me riches, and I can pay off debts and live happily ever after, in a gypsy wagon, touring the country reading tarot cards with a beautiful man and a tambourine, and writing the novel.

However…

I’ve mentioned I have other jobs, right? Part time/occasionally I work at a wellness centre. Touching feet.

And, I read Tarot Cards. Anyway, every other day this work week has been filled with the feets or the cards. And that IS awesome (see previous sentence re: debts.) however, it is also SUMMER.Why can’t they fill up like this in winter?

Summer. In cottage country. It’s when all the best stuff happens, but also all the best MONEYS to be had.
I may just be bitchy because I’m effin’ too tired to take part in the fun stuff. Or to cook foods. Which in turn makes me too tired. Viscious. I’ve been in jammy pants since 6:30 pm.

Also, I have no idea where my mentsrual cicle. Wait. Cycle. Holy Cock Towel, I’m so tired I’m forgetting how to spell.

Dear Universe: I know you’re listening. I KNOW it. Thanks for the money. I appreciate it. How about a few BIG reveals soon, kay? Awesome. And, show me where the millions are coming from. I know they are out there just waiting for me!

Okay. This was supposed to be far more rewarding. Or revealing. I dunno.

Grace.

Thinkin 'Bout a Life of Crime.

So. A few weeks ago I got myself a new tattoo. Queen of Hearts, on the inside of my left finger. You know. The ring finger. The MARRIAGE ring finger.

Queen of Hearts Finger Tattoo. Yeah. I did it.

All by myself. I was asked if there was gonna be a K of <3 tattoo coming. I said no. But if anybody showed up wanting one because of me, to charge them double. Ha!

I was supposed to be off from the Thrift Store from the summer. But, Boss Lady had to let go of the lady who was supposed to ‘replace’ me over the summer. And because I love my Boss Lady, I’m staying a few days a week.

I’ve been told that this colour, in this placement, is going to need a shit tonne of touch ups. So you know, it was either keep on at the thrift store, or take up some life of crime.

And I mean, come on. As if I could ever be replaced. Hehe.

Grace

Becky. Look At That Cock.

Oh my Gawd. Becky, look at that cock.

It’s just so Big.

Big Cock Arrived.

I LAUGHED out loud. To myself. Mostly.

Again. Sometimes, Twelve.

I mean, look at it.

It’s just so. Big.

Eff You Very Much. Come Again.

SO often things come into the Thrift Store that are just EFFING FANTASTIC. 

This lovely piece of art would look wonderful on any professionals desk, in a place of honour in customer service, or even in the kitchen, or beside the washer and dryer. A diverse piece of work carved out of wood. Look how large it is, compared to the VHS tapes stacked beside it. No one will miss your special message carved in wood.

I’m not sure what the fate of this carving is. It’s still sitting in the back at work. The Boss Lady might be keeping it as a special award. Or to give to a very special customer. hehehe.

I love this job.

Grace

Witches HATE IT When They Run Out of Jizzle.

I totally bought this today from the Thrift Store.

Yes. Most days I have the comedic genius of a twelve year old.

 

 

Swords and Dragons

It was a sword. It was pretty good too. And fast to create. However, I did it about 4 days ago. It probably shouldn’t still actually be stuck there, but because I’ve been having Whore Baths** instead of full-on-showers for the last 4 days, there it is.

And I figured since I’ve been slacking with the Conditioned Hair Art, I probably shouldn’t let this one get away.

Dragons. Then Swords. Next, I’ll have armor. And THEN we’re all going on a proper adventure. It’s been some months since proper adventure, after all.

You know too much. Lucky You.

Grace.

**Whore Baths: When you get naked with your hair tied up, in front of the running bathtub faucet. Splash, soap, and rinse ONLY your Pits, Ass Crack, Cunny, and then get the fuck out of the tub to start your day. 

The Dragon Goes Rrar.

It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these. But, I’ve been seeing these guys all over the place, so….

They’ve been SPEAKING to me. Of strength and trust and wisdom… Which I find VERY very interesting, considering all-the-things. They were in the habit of not so much speaking, but being threatening things to stick swords into.

In highschool, I carried around a dragon shaped eraser in my red and black Lumber Jacket, under my white leather jacket with all the tassels. He was purple. He came from a cereal box. I think it was Lucky Charms, but I could be wrong. (I’ll have to Google that shit later. ) I would pull him out, look deep into the eyes of the person who he was being presented to, and in a deep gravelly voice, go :

“Rrrrarrrrr!”

Anyway. Not exactly sure what they want of me NOW. But, it has something to do with timelines, reconciliations lit by Blue Light, and gifts for ultimate choices.

Rrar.

Grace.

Tim Hortons Roll Up the Rim to…

…. just spill that shit all over the place.

So. Tim Hortons. It’s a donut and coffee shop of Habitual Epicness, incase you are reading from NOT CANADA. Rumour has it they put nicotine in their cups to make people crave tea and coffee. The Roll up the Rim contest they have going on isn’t helping the habit.

Look at the floor.

 It’s my habit to stop in before the thrift store, and get a large tea. Today, I knocked that effin’ thing over, in the small space I share with the cash and all the effin’ hangers. I had to wipe off EVERY damn hanger.

 Because you KNOW they’re all going to smell like vomit in a locked hot car if I don’t. And they’d be STICKY when Boss Lady tries to hang stuff on them.

And I didn’t even win a damn donut.

Grace.

It’s All About Da Money Money Money…

So. Because I normally get laid off at the Thrift Store over winter, and was led to believe the same thing was happening this year, I freaked out and booked a shit load of other appointments for the OTHER things I do for money. (I don’t do THAT for money. But I have seriously considered it. If it didn’t take me so effing long to SHAVE everything I’ve got, I would probably be all over the Oldest Profession… because, I’m a pretty awesome lay. That skill has to be worth SOMETHING. )

Anyway. Then Boss Lady needs me, but I’ve booked a tit load of stuff. (which pays more per  hour than being at the thrift store by 2 and 3 times as much…) So, now Boss Lady is looking for more part time help.
Which I’m guessing will mean there probably won’t be too much room for me. Because I book clients where I can get them, and that leaves her to work around my schedule. And that doesn’t always work for her. I get it.

But I’m freaking out a little bit. Feeling less playful, and a bit more burdened. Haven’t made hair art in ages.
I have SERIOUSLY racked up my credit card in the last 2 months, just in food and gas. I STILL haven’t fixed the car since smacking it up… when was that… 6 weeks ago? Anyway, the ice that is holding all the front bits together is starting to melt. I am going to have to fix that SOON, too. I expect that will also go on the credit card.

I bought a lotto ticket on Friday. Using my credit card. Yep.

You know… I have Love, and I have some skills, and I have a pretty good imagination. I can make the best out of just about any situation.

But man, today I’m feeling REALLY heavy. And a little bit scared.

I’m hoping that the Universe will come through with the answer to relieving this monetary burden that I’ve created.

I do a lot of things. Each only brings me a little here and there. I need the ONE big thing.

Grace.

Eff You Sickness.

I am the woman who never gets sick. Seriously.

It HAD been 3 years since I’ve been ill. Three Frikkin’ Years.

I got CAUGHT by this damn THING that starts as a little chill, turns into full blown fever, stuffs up your nose… and then it hit my CHEST. I was a damn mess, and used my inhaler NO less than 20 times during the first 24 hours of this bullshit.

I called in sick on Thursday. The first shift I had had at the thrift store in a week. I went in on Friday. And tried not to breath on anyone.

I was pretty useless, sat on the stool behind the counter in my coat and hat (fever chills) and didn’t move much, as my lungs were totally twitchy. I drank a lot of soup. I brought an entire box of juice and drank right from the pour spout.

It was a shitty day. But the Boss Lady got some running around done, so I guess it wasn’t a total loss for  her.

Bullshit. Eff You Sickness.

Canadian Tire. Just Tires Today, Thanks.

Was SUPPOSED to go to the Thrift Store today to work.

(Bless me Thrift Store, for it has been 13 days since I’ve done a shift.)

My routine on Thrift Store day, is to stop at the Tim Hortons and get a tea and something gross to eat before heading in. Everything was fine, until I came OUT of the Timmies with my hands full of a LARGE tea and goobey stuff, and noticed my car seemed to look TIRED.

It was all LEANING over and slumpy.

Drivers side front tire was FLAT. Again. ( Yes, the same tire that did the same thing in the Awesome. Shit. post I wrote in November.) So, I call CAA.

I wait on the phone for 30 minutes for CAA to just pick up. Because it’s all the snowy weather up here and I’m sure they are busy as shit with people in ditches and stuff. Highways closed, school buses cancelled, blowing snow, and all that rot.)

Texted the Boss Lady to tell her I was going to be late.

Anyway, they came 45 minutes AFTER that. And the Handsome Garage Man in the flourescent orange suit from the garage gave me PROPER shit for even trying to drive on the tires in the first place. Told me I should have my husband make sure I have all my insurance up to date and that I have a will in place. What was I thinking?

(Mainly I was thinking I was told that the front ones were winter, and the back ones were all season when they went on… and what the fuck do I know about tires? This explains the fucking smack up on Sunday a little better though. And there IS no husband, thank you.)

Anyway, Handsome Garage Man put the sad looking donut wheel on, gave me explicit instructions on how to drive very very very slow straight to the garage and get some proper snow tires.

(Even though he was brutally honest, I guess I must have needed to hear that shit today.)

Home was closer than the garage. And, seeing how the garage I went to put those tires on in the first place, I figured a different place would be better. I totally called Canadian Tire.

They had tires. And if I could get up there NOW, They could fit me in ASAP.

Mary Mudder o’ Gawd, Yes, I’ll be right there.

Crawled my donut drivin car up to the CT, and wandered around buying shit I don’t need for an hour.
The Beautiful Man (not to be confused with the Handsome Garage Man…) texted me back and forth, encouraging me not to buy things like an Axe, or a Potty in a Box. He also texted at one point:

“If the Tire Police find you, tell them your HUSBAND sent you!” (which is a running gag about not being allowed into CT unescorted.)

Then I teased him mercilessly about the word HUSBAND, because… well, we both have issues with marriage. Yuck. And, it was the second time it came up today… The husband should get insurance and all…
Anyway, after about an hour, they paged me over the intercom to come to Automotive. (I felt like a real rock star hearing my name over the Canadian Tire loud speaker system. Ya know’s yer a player when dat goes down, eh.)

The tires with all the fees and blaa blaa blaa came to $530. But I have winter tires now.

Oh, and I was HOPING to get a fuck wad of Canadian Tire money from this… But I guess you don’t get that when you purchase actual tires at Canadian Tire.

Where's Ma Money, Bitch?

Oh, and $31 worth of shit in my hour of browsing. But all of it went on my credit card, so what-the-fuck anyway.

Didn’t make it to the Thrift Store at all for my $53 dollar shift.

Dear Universe: I am OPEN. I am LISTENING. Can you PULEEZE be exceedingly clear on what it is I am to be learning from this week? Kay, Thanks. It’s been a long ass week, and it’s only Tuesday.

Love, Gracie.

Sweatin’ With Gigi. Bitch, You Lucky I Love You.

I have this friend, Gigi.  She IM's to me last night over Facebook: “Hey, wanna come to Kick boxing with me?”

And I’m like “Holy Fuck Balls”

Gigi: LMAO

Grace: You are going to kick my ass aren’t you?

Gigi: No I’m not. You have pads. And you will burn serious calories.

Grace: (could give a shit about burning calories) I haven’t cleared my car or my driveway yet. I am still in jammie pants. (It was a shitty snow day. And also 4pm when this convo started.)

Gigi: I’ll pick you up.

Grace: You KNOW what sort of serious asshole I can be, right? What do I have to do?

Gigi: Yes! Wear comfy clothes, and do what we’re told to do.

Grace: hahahahhaa (what we’re told to do. Good lord, woman.) So we just follow along?

Gigi: It’s more of a workout than sparring.

Grace: That’s good, because I have a coldsore right now, and if you punch my face or kick it, it will explode and give everyone herpies. hahahahah

Gigi: LMAO. So, that’s a yes?

Grace: YES. But I warn you. I will sweat through my T shirt and stinnk up the place and everyone will know it’s me, and that I’m with you. Maybe this will start my period that I’ve been waiting on for 7 fucking days.

Gigi: Yeah!

Grace: okay ummmmm… do I wear shoes for this?

Gigi: I wear my vibrams and yoga pants

Grace: I don’t know what vibrams are… but it sounds like it could help my period come on too. hahaha. What the fuck are vibrams and why would you lend them out? Isn’t that kind of personal?

I learned that these are vibrams. They give me the creeps. I was not putting my toes into those. *shivers*

Oh hells no.

Upon arriving, the kickboxing lady, we discovered, couldn’t get in town due to the bad weather. So instead, the fellow who was stepping in had us doing other things..

Horrible things.

There were stations. Each station wanted you to do 50 of something. laps, jumping jacks, high kicks, throwing some impossibly  heavy ball onto the ground and then PICKING IT BACK UP. Then there were the steroid speed crunches, and side crunches, and some ridiculous half sitting legs in and outty crunches.

And then there were the Kettle Bells. DANGEROUS looking mofo’s.And you swing these things around onto your arm, basically. In 3 different sets of 50.

Also, I have no training, and very little instruction was given.

Yeah. Bashin’ Mah Radius wit mah homie Gigi.

This effin blog is long enough. We did the circut for almost an hour (I totally said “eff this” and like an asshole, watched all the others work out while I sat and wheezed. I maybe PERSONALLY lasted 30 minutes.)

Today, my effing thighs are asking me to please kill them.

Gigi and I had a good laugh after. “What a great work out! I lost my dignity, self respect, my bladder, the ability to walk down stairs or sit on the toilet, and a good friend!”

I love you Gigi. Don’t ever do that shit to me again.

I do YOGA for a reason.

Namaste, Mofo. Namaste.

Grace.

Booze Delivery Is An Asshole.

Today, I wasn’t supposed to deliver booze. But, my girl friend who runs this shit up here said:

I LOVE YOU

And like a total Disney Princess, I fell for the bait.

The Beautiful Man was with me for the running around, which was good. He kept me sane. (Or alternately, gives me permission to lose my fucking shit. )

There were only 3 runs I did. $15 in earnings.

The last run, the liquour store overcharged me. But I didn’t catch it till I got to the building where the guy who was buying the liqour pointed out that the charge was about $10 too much. So, I take all the shit back, thinking about the gas I’m wasting getting back. To find the liqour store closed. It’s Sunday. Ofcourse.

So back to the guys building. I’m about to eat $10, because even if I bring the reciept back to the liqour store tomorrow, they are gonna say “yeah, sure we overcharged you.” I’m upset.

Then I turn into the building. Well, I TRY to turn into the building, but the car decides it wants to drive straight.

STRAIGHT into an ice covered planter centre thing. BAM.

Snow all up my hood. Crunchy noises.

I pull back, pull up to the front. Go inside with booze to lose $10. The Beautiful Man gets out and looks at the damage.

There is damage. I have cracked the grill, and the bumper is crushed. Okay. It could have been worse.
I do not cry. Because I still have to drive to my friends house to put all the things in her hands and not deliver booze anymore ever.

So, let’s recap.

Up early on Sunday, on one of the rare occasions The Beautiful Man and I get to have no kid sleepovers.
 No lazing around.
+$15 in earnings
+$3 in my single tip of the day.
-$6 in gas.
-$10 in getting overcharged at Liqour Store
-$250 in car repairs (estimate.)
= $248 in the hole for being on call and running for booze delivery , instead of cozy in bed making smoochy faces with my lover.

Assholery.

Draggy Assed.

I am TIRED. TIIIRRREEED!

Uh. So, normally in my world, THIS time of year is DREAM time. By this, I mean, sleep is screwy anyway, and I spend lots of time in lucid dreams… Going to sleep is no problem. STAYING  asleep is a definate challenge.

I’ve been going to bed at ‘normal’ time… for me, that’s anywhere between 10:30 and 11:30… but I’m waking between 1 and 4am. And then, I LAY THERE. This would not be so bad if I didn’t have to get up in the morning and GO places. By the time the 7am alarm goes off, I’ve drifted back to sleep.

And then what happens is I’ll convince myself in a half asleep dream state, that there is NOTHING in the world I REALLY need to do, so I can turn the alarm off and go back to sleep.

UGH.

I dreamed about the Thrift Store last night. That it was a junk yard, and the Ex Man and Boss Lady were really going separate ways and dividing the business, and they were both wanting me to come with them into their new ventures. It was frustrating. There was so much stuff to sort through before they could go, but there was a big push to leave, a deadline. Like, they couldn’t afford to stay, or had to leave. They were trying to sublease it to someone, but the property wasn’t suitable for anything else.

I suggested they ask some mechanics.

ANYWAY. Have I mentioned I’m TIRED. So effing Tired? Just all around draggy ass?

Haven’t been to the Thrift Store (in waking life,anyway.) since Saturday. We had a few days were the town was literally shut down due to blizzard.

Also, haven’t done any hair art this week. My arms hurt too much from all the shovelling. Its been long hot baths this week.

Grace. Tired Grace.

Booze Delivery And The Beautiful Man.

It’s a Booze Bottle, in the snowbank. My camera is an asshole, but I suppose it’s okay for a booze bottle to be blurry.

I was having not-a-coffee with a girlfriend, just before shitmas, yammering about my layoff at the thrift store. And, she comes back with “You can help me with the booze delivery business I manage.”

I want to help her. And it sounded good. I’m thinking “hey, maybe the Universe is trying to give me a SIGN!”

I did a few days of training with her, driving around town making her laugh. But it felt all wrong. It feels all wrong. I’ve done a few days  – one on my own, and New Years Eve I did a few deliveries before the snow storm got so effing bad that I had to back out.

It’s not worth the effort. And one of the last stop I did, there was a big sign on the apartment complexes door saying “oh, hey, we’ve got bedbugs. Like, lots of them.” and the dude that I was delivering to had 6 empty cases for me to take with me. Which I imagined were laden with bedbugs.

Fucking fuck. Oh, and he stiffed me .95cents, because he didn’t have it, and the alternative was to take the 12 pack of beer back to the beer store, NOT get paid for the delivery, and be out the gas it took to drive it there, and back…

Anyway. Boss Lady asked me if I could come to the store for possibly 2 days a week. I say possibly, because Boss Lady isn’t sure there will be much business, and not much business means not much pay for Mz. Gracie.

So, anyway. ALSO.

The one I’ve been referring to as “A Beautiful Man” has been in 

my life one way or another for almost 2 years. He has turned into “THE Beautiful Man.” We did New Years together, and I actually DRANK. Might be all the time I was around the liquour and beer stores, and it was only a half a glass of sparkling white.  But I hadn’t had a real drink since July. And that last real drink was half a glass of red.

ANYWAY. Can I still consider myself polyamourous when all my amour is poured into The Beautiful Man?

 Dunno. But I’m all stupified with Love and Shit. It feels good, now that I’ve let go of the Fear.

We can ponder more on that later. Right now, I have to pee.

Grace.