Viking Aggression.

So. Netflix has a groovy ass show called The Last Kingdom.. or some shit like that. It's about Vikings. Sexy sexy assed vikings with motherfucking face tattoos, who describe the sex act in words like "Plowing" and "Humping."

These things make my aggressive and somewhat pissed self happy.

Someone had the balls to suggest that I NEEDED Unconditional Love in my life. And I don't know if it's because I watched two episodes of this viking show last night, or if this is pure offense, but MOTHER FUCKER, who says I don't HAVE unconditional love in my life???

Just because my life looks like nothing this person was used to seeing, doesn't mean I'm not well rounded in my own, very unique way.

Fuck that noise.

And fuck this axe that came into the thrift store, that I DIDN'T buy, because the weird grade-2 style skull put me off. WHO am I going to SMITE with that thing? They'll laugh me off the battle field.

Just fuck it.

G.

The Effin Stairs.

There they are. I got a photo. Of the EFFIN STAIRS.

I do not like them. I want to write a Doctor Suess like poem about how much I do not like them here or there, but I don't like them enough to even do that.

Ass of Steel. I had BETTER have one helluvan ass by summer. I swear it.

Time Traveller. That's me.

I took this home from the Thrift Store. I knew it was mine as soon as I saw it. And, the Ex-Man priced it SO low. Probably KNOWING I would take it home. 

1970's cheesy self portrait. I'm a time traveller.

I had it stashed behind the counter, and the Boss Lady saw it and said "Oh, it looks like you!" And we joked about how I'll just use it as my mirror in the morning. But when I come in with unplucked eyebrows and chin hairs, she was to pretend that I look JUST LIKE THIS. Every damn day.

I also joked about pencilling in my facial scar. heh. 

I don't know about the Feng Shui of it - Hanging pictures of single ladies in my house energetically keeps me a one woman army. But, I love her.

Grace. 

Willie Nelson.

There's a man who comes into the store who looks so much like Willie Nelson, that in my head, that's just become his name. Willie Nelson.

Normally, Willie Nelson keeps to himself. Rarely smiles. I have to coax a "hello" out of him on a normal day. He's quiet.

Except for the days I wear a corset in to the Thrift Store.

Then, Look out. He's a Chatty Cathy. or Chatty Willie.

The first time he saw me in a corset, he had been coming to the store for at LEAST 2 years. Never said more than the minimum I would let him get away with. I'd have to nearly force the "Thank you" out of him at the end of a transaction.

The first time he saw me in a corset, he came out with a resounding "Nice figure!" Which made me cackle.

I've put this to the test. No corset, no wording from Willie Nelson.

With Corset:

"How are you? Oh, can you believe this weather? I'm looking for a such and such. How's it going around here? Things look great in the store! What's new upstairs?" on and on and ON.

I just don't know what to make of him. He's Always On My Mind.
But Only when I'm corseted.

Grace.

Buns of Steel.

I just spent 10 minutes looking through old photos of the Thrift Store, for a picture of the stairs. I don't have one! I'll have to get one on my next shift.

We have a second floor. With the reworking of the store, a lot more shit has moved upstairs.
Dishes. Books. The entirety of the kids section. More dishes. Kitchenware. Heavy ass breadmakers. Picture Frames. An ungodly amount of them. Puzzles and games. More fucking dishes. Lamps. Up the effing stairs.

I'm doing those stairs, on a SLOW stair day, about 10 times. Putting things away. Helping customers up and down them, either physically or helping them carry dish sets and piles of books or arms of kids clothing down them. On a busy stair day, I've done them about 30 times.

They are narrow. By this I mean both that there is only room for one person on them at a time. AND that my entire size 7 ladies foot doesn't fit on the stair.

By the end of the day, I'm doing them 2 at a time. Both because I'm impatient, and I'm working on my Ass of Steel.

To be fair, though, I DO sometimes go up there to get WARM. All the heat from the first floor fills up the upstairs first. I have been wearing a sweater over a long sleeved shirt, and usually my scarf and a hat until It warms up half way through the day. So, I could probably be doing them one or two less times than I do them.

I may start to wear ankle weights to work, though. So the ass will get steelier, faster. 

I'm not sure the ankle weights I have will match any of my corsets, though.
I could totally just put them underneath my legwarmers though. 

ASS OF STEEL!

Grace.

Cocks. They're Everywhere.

Mostly, I see the poetry in things. And then I see the cocks in things. 

Here we have a most beautiful triptych. 

First, the little blue vase shows a man making all the gestures to a lady, who is completely smitten. (Okay, he's not making ALL the gestures, but you just know he's talking the talk.) How do you know she's smitten? Her ankles are out. That broad is totally putting out.

Second, we have the Giant Cock. The giant cock standing on a piece of wood. Mounted, on a piece of WOOD. There's a split in the wood. WOOD. Giant Eager Cock.

Third, we have the dirtly old man holding onto his tomatoes. There's some rod like corn in there, too. By the time your eye scans over this trio of unintentional artistic endeavor, you know what the old guy is asking. You KNOW it.

The only way to improve upon this art, is to paint his blue pants skin colour.

This is how I entertain myself in the Thrift Store.

Giant Cocks.

Grace.

Lemme See Your Package, Part 2.

What was REALLY funny about these underwear, is that they had such a small WAIST on them. 25? 28" waist? So, that would have made the Whopper enclosed look even BIGGER.

Home of the Whopper. No cheese, please.

Home of the Whopper.
No cheese, please.
Extra special sauce.
Hold the Pickle. HOLD THE PICKLE!!!
I'd like to eat in, please.

Where are the napkins?

I could go on and on.
Just like this guys package probably did.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

EFFING Craft Section ATTACKED Me.

Boss Lady and Ex Man were deep in discussions about what they should do with the store. How they should move stuff, what they should promote… About an hour in, I stopped participating, and the Boss Lady said “Clean up the craft section.”

Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh.

I like crafts. I am an artist. I see potential in all the things! But cleaning this wall is a total pain in the ass. 

AND I got attacked by a pink wicker basket that was shoved in here, RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE FINGER.

And although it was fun to show my “Eff You” finger with a tiny pink splinter all day, it was all the Sweet Effing Painful. And I still had to clean this fucking disaster.

I did it. But there was a cartload of garbage in there, and shit that was shoved in there that didn’t belong in crafts at all. But I touched all the damned things! ALL THE DAMNED THINGS!

This is how I spent my last day before Christmas horrordays, and before layoffs.

Luckily, a handsome man who loves me helped me attack the pink splinter in my “Eff You” finger and we got that fucker out.

Eff You, Pink Splinter. Eff You.

Grace.

Hulk Smashy Smashy

So, I whip around the corner and almost run into THIS:

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding.

?????????

Incase you are not sure of what you are seeing, just as I was, THIS, my friends, is a TOWER OF PLATES. Also known as TOWER OF SMASHY SMASHY ALL OVER THE TILE FLOOR.

Now, the Ex-Man in general is PRETTY good at displaying shit. He’s good with moving shit around so it all fits, and deciding where to put the big stuff, and sometimes he’s pretty ingenious. But, What The Fuck? Sometimes.. no. Just no.

The plates are wedged into a thin and light metal stand intended for DVD’s or maybe video games. And just barely. If you take a good look at the pic, you can see that the little black metal piece hangs on to basically a little more than the lip.

No one is going to shop for plates this way. I know I wouldn’t. And I’m going to bet the first person who DOES try to remove some plates from this monstrosity will surely take them from the bottom, making this bitch top heavy, and SMASHY SMASHY. All over the tile floor.

I just can’t go on. I mean, I COULD, but it would be more of the same.

Grace.

Merry CHRIStmas and Yule Tide Greetingz. With a Zed.

So, I arrived at work to see that the Boss Lady broke out the window crayons, and decorated the front door. With “Merry Chrismas.” I laughed. Because there was no T. Personally, I thought it somewhat appropriate that she should wish me to have mass over Chris’, but I fixed it anyway. Because I knew we’d catch flack from the Jesus People.  Check out how artistically I squeezed in that T.

Then, I decided, since I’m pagan, I should add my own sentiment. Yule Tide Greetings! And I laughed equally at myself for fucking up the S.  I totally left it there. Like a Zed.

Also, if you look, you’ll see my reflection in the window. Those are some sexy little work boots I have going on with my jeans. It’s a wonder I leave work without a date every day. Ha!

Grace.

The New Bo.

So, Bo the Asshole Cat ran away. Again. And we haven’t heard from him since… well, it’s been a while.
I’m not sure he’ll be back. He never really liked the store anyway. However, it’s -14 (that’s celsius) so I hope the jerk has found somewhere to keep warm.

Anyway, meet the NEW Bo.

He’s just chilling with Angelic Garfield. He’s QUIET and lets me PET him, and hangs out at cash NICELY.

I suppose he’ll probably be sold before too long. That’s how it works around here anyway.

Grace

VHS Movies, Take Out, and Dirty Old Grace.

At the thrift store, we get a butt tonne of VHS movies in. (You know, tapes. Big bulky things, containing movies magically on the inside.)

We get some really awesome throw back films. And some films I’ve never seen, and I go all “Whaaat? How have I not seen his yet?” And then it gives me VCR envy. As I don’t own a VCR. (VCR’s. Big blocky things with buttons. Eats VHS tapes. And grilled cheese sammiches and hot wheels if kept too close to the floor with toddlers in the house. Follow along.)

Anywhere, there’s one particular fellow who comes in the store. Almost always comes in near the end of my shift, and routinely purchases, like, 15 movies at a time. We sell them 3 for a buck. So, it’s not about him being a big spender. This is about me thinking:

“Hey. This guy is in work clothes. So, I’m gonna assume he’s got a job. Also, he buys a butt tonne of films. Meaning, he’s got a lot of time on his hands. He’s also wearing no wedding ring. And he’s handsome, in that work-hard-get-dirty, 50-year-old kinda way. Clearly, he’s lonely and would be eager for company. And he’d probably also spring for take-out. So, I wonder if I ask him, if he’ll let me come over and watch cool VHS movies on his VCR. Since I don’t have one.”

But ofcourse, that trails my dirty mind into all the shenanegans I’d get up to that probably have nothing to do with watching VHS movies from the 80′s. It has everything to do with MISCHIEF. And adventure. And Butt Tonnes.

And THEN I hear the phrase “You don’t shit where you eat.” in the voice of a dear friend. Which translated means “Grace, you do NOT get up to shenanegans with customers. In their lonely lonely homes or otherwise.”

Gah. Do you know how hard it is to keep this stuff in my HEAD all day?

Grace.

P.S. Now I want take out.