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.