goodgravy

I think I have to temper my whole that’s sexist!/budding feminism thing. Because guess what. Today I got a job offer! For a secretary position!

I totally thought I bombed the interview, but you know what, I dressed up all nice. Plus I am a lady, and honestly, I think we have better chances than men when it comes to getting receptionist jobs. So dudes, I’m sorry if I took a job from you. It is not my fault that I have a classy $12/hr sense of style. However, I’m sure they will take you over at the shoe department, for like $15/hr. Jerks.

If this all rolls through, I’m going to be a two jobs kind of girl. The sad thing is my current job pays twice as much, and it is fun and easy, but I only work 8 hours a week :<. So two jobs it is. Having real dollars is going to be cool. Finally I can buy real energy drinks, instead of that disgusting panda juice I got. Made from 100% plants, although it is more like, 100% barf town.

I’m starting to feel rather feminist. It’s not that I have anything personal against men. I think you are all solid dudes. But I’m not very happy about some of the crap I’ve been getting just because I’m female. First there was the whole Nordstrom thing, where they will only hire males to work in the shoe department. Then I just got a retarded bill from my health insurance company, raising my rate $50 a month because of “medical issues.” And pray tell, what are my medical issues? I experience “painful cramps” and “PMS” on occasion. Ohhh hell no. I called them up, and I was like, are you serious?! How can you rationally justify that charge? EVERY WOMAN HAS A PERIOD. GET OVER IT. They said I need to get a doctor’s note to challenge the charges. Ridiculous, just ridiculous. I have better things to do than read old issues of Highlights for Kids and cover my face with mosquito netting while I wait for an hour at the doctor’s office.

So I am pretty mad about that, plus old men seem to think they can ask me out on dates which is mad creepy and I need some sort of visual equivalent of a wedding ring to keep them from approaching. Maybe like a gold broach that says “back off gramps I listen to the rap music.” It’s not really true, but white lies are okay in these situations.

Also I was driving and this slow car got up in my area and I was like, “What a douche.” And then I got mad, because I was calling someone a feminine cleansing product and that is not even a really good insult. It’s sexist, that’s what is. Like, you’re so stupid, you clean out vaginas! That’s lame. I mean, douches aren’t actually that hygienic and aren’t recommended because they can irritate the vaginal canal and all that, but still. There is no male equivalent to the insult and that bugs me. What can I say? “You’re a penis cleaner.” “Wow you’re such a prostate exam.” “Check out that dude. What a urethral probe!”

No. It doesn’t work. You can call someone a dick, which I do often, but that just implies they are mean. Calling someone a douche is like saying they are sleazy or super retarded or both, and I think that’s worse. So please, if you are going to use words concerned with the genitals as insults, think about the women. The next retard who takes your parking spot is not a “douche,” but a “painful bleeding circumsion.”

The internet showed me this awesome alarm clock. If it was a real thing I would buy it in a heartbeat. Except I might want more options. Like you could get the YEEEAAAAH one or a WHOA HOLD ON SHE’S A LADY one or even a WHAT’S NEW PUSSYCAT DANG CHECK OUT THAT MORNING BREATH version. I am such a huge fan of Tom Jones, I would buy all three and probably get kicked out of the apartment by my roommate.

Remember, I have been feeling entrepreneurial lately, so if nobody hops on that deal I might very well start making my own. I would even go international and make a Mexican AYIIIIIIIEEEEE version and a French EEEUUUUUUHHHHH model. Très expensif, mais oui!

Today I got three rejections but I’m not very upset. I’m actually feeling pretty fine. My mom might say this is a sign of maturity or something. I think it’s more like a sign of gross slothfulness. I want more money but I don’t really want to work more. I want to get published but I don’t want to spend more hours revising something I am already satisfied with.

OH WELL. Also can I add that Nordstrom is SEXIST. Jerks. When the heck do you ever see women working in the shoe department? I’ve seen like a grand total of three, and they were just standing around saying hello or slumping at the register.  Come on. If you aren’t going to hire ladies, maybe you should specify it in your jobs listing. Oh wait, that’s illegal. Jerks. I was all about the discount.

And I guess one of those rejections wasn’t really a rejection, but I don’t see myself getting the job. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to make a career out of being a receptionist, and I wasn’t very convincing when I said I did. It’s the whole service job/sucking up to richer people sort of thing. I can fake it for a while but after a few months it gets hard. It would most likely end like it did when I worked at Subway and I stuffed my purse with a bunch of bags of chips and left. Then I called and said “I quit” and handed out my goods to people like a real live Robin Hood of Chips. Take that, franchise owners.

I’ve been thinking of starting up a restaurant. Not that I have any money at the moment (panhandlers rake in more dough than I do), but I’m thinking about future endeavors. What are my passions? I asked myself. Well, there’s making sure my stinky pets don’t die, going out on the town, wearing weird clothes, eating cheese…

AHA, I thought. The best way to combine my passions is…to open up a restaurant! A CHEESE RESTAURANT.

Introducing The Olde Cheese Plantation, circa 2017. I’m going to model it after my favorite fatty family dine-in, Fuddruckers.  It’s going to have a retro 1995 vibe, and there will be special booths to sit in, like the Leonardo DiCaprio So Dreamy Booth and the Rosie O’Donnell Booth for Large Families. That’s not even the important part though. The main attraction is going to be the menu, which is 100% cheese friendly. That’s right. We’re not going to skimp like some sort of Applebees. You can get whatever cheese-centric dish you desire, like mac n’ cheese, or fruit n’ cheese, or steak-fried cheese, or whatever, and we will cook with only the finest cheeses. We’re talking awesome cheddars from around the world, like Old Amsterdam and shit. Oh so savory! Also, because I am the captain of the ship here, instead of soda fountains there will be beer and hard cider fountains, and kids get cheese milkshakes free after they order a lot of food and pay money for it.

So I’m pretty excited for this. Get on the streets and spread the hype about The Olde Cheese Plantation, only ten delicious years away. However, I know this is a real money maker and you are probably tempted, but don’t steal my idea man. If you do I am going to send you an angry letter and litter your driveway with cigarette butts.

I’ve been told I am too nice (okay start laughing) and that I’ll wind up in bad situations because of it. Poppycock, is what I said to that. Am I going to get shanked because I held open the door for someone? No way.

Today however, made me start to think those Negative Nancys were right. It was a nice day, and I was wearing my unflattering, high-waisted shorts and doing laundry. I left to go to the bank so I could pay for some fruitylicious frozen yogurt. While I was at the ATM, an old man waddled right up to me and set his upturned palm on the machine. I should have said, “get out of town old man,” and kicked him in the shin like a regular city folk would, but instead I tried to be polite. “Sorry,” I said, trying to ignore him so he would get out of my business.

“Just kidding,” the old man said, and then he stroked me on the arm with his raisiny old man hand. Creepy town. “You have a nice body,” he said. “I’d like to have it.” Old Man Grabbins was probably trying to be smooth, but to me it sounded like he literally wanted my body so he could transplant his head on in it and walk up stairs like it was the good old days.

So I was pretty grossed out, but I still had to finish my transaction. Instead of punching Old Man G, I just hunched up and scooted over. “You look upset,” he said. I should have said, “it’s because you’re touching me with those yellow ass nails,” but I am too nice. Instead I was just like “I’m busy now.” Then I got my money out and made a run for it. Luckily I am a fast walker, when it comes to birds and old men, so I left Old Man Grabbins there like a baby in a toilet. That old creeper even tried to slap my derrière, but like I said, I’m a fast walker. I don’t think he was very coordinated either, and he ended up tapping my purse. With those nails.

So that incident, along with the hobo that smooched me the other week, has led to believe I really need to toughen up my act. From now on, if an old man comes my way I am going to run to the other side of the street and scream CALL THE COPS HE’S NOT MY DAD! I will also be carrying a bottle of antibacterial spray so if any hobos get up in my area they will get a a big fat spritz. You all best recognize. I will be wearing my fake leather jacket if that helps.

I love my pet rats, but sometimes they are a little disappointing. I mean, they don’t even play basketball. They’d rather lie around and yawn and poop wherever they fancy. So lazy

I tend to favor a different one each day, depending on who is the most active.  Today Bobo is the best, not just because I like her belly, but because she is being a trooper and coming out of the cage. The other day Peaches was my little buddy. She has the least amount of inertia and will just sit in the crook of my cardigan and chatter to herself until it is potty time.

Mrs. Frisby has pretty much always been my favorite though. She has the biggest head and thus the biggest brains. She doesn’t mind being picked up and she lets me do her hair too. Mostly I just give her a middle part all ’90s casual because it reminds me of a young me, greasing around in 7th grade. She does not seem to share my enthusiasm though. I hope that one day she will be fat enough to fit into a ferret harness, and then we can stroll along the park like two good gentlewomen. She’ll wear a little top hat to look extra dapper.

Hotdogs, you are quite dear to me. You are more than “lips and assholes.” Sometimes you are even filled with preprocessed cheese, and I really appreciate that. I would eat you everyday if it didn’t make me sick.

You, like bananas, come with your own packaging. You know what I’m talking about dogs. I’m talking about that thin skin. You are so perfect in your packaging that you become the ultimate portable snack. I can eat you on the bus, in class, while shopping, and so on. Hotdogs, I can take you anywhere.

With the introduction of turkey you can also be a good, non dubious source of protein. At 16 grams per dog, you are even better than eggs! Seriously, screw eggs. Who wants to deal with all those germs? Hotdogs, you are so processed there is no room for a germ to breathe. I find that very attractive.

I have to admit, I don’t really like it when you dress up in “all natural” casings. Having to pop through tough skin just to get to the hotdoggy goodness is a real turn off. So please, hotdogs, save that fancy stuff for the players. You can be real with me.

Love,

Miss D

Oh boy it was nice outside today. The blessed sun finally came out and shined down upon us all. A jolly old accordion man was standing around singing Mary Had a Little Lamb, the birds were chirping, and the cars were honking. Additionally, I didn’t take the wrong bus or lock myself out of the apartment for three hours, so I would say that today, indeed, was a good day.

I am more used to the city now and the homeless men say I am beautiful, so I’ve been feeling pretty good. Pretty sassy, even. Sassy enough to wear my Ross clothes on the right bus and if someone toots next to me I will smile and pat them on the shoulder and say “here’s looking at you, stinkbug.”

I also feel sassy enough to go to the Tim Burton marathon this weekend without dressing like some hot topic kid. Oh boy am I excited, gonna see some Batmans and Danny DeVito dribbling crap out of his mouth like a real fine gentleman.

Today I was at Ross, scrimping as best as I could and looking for work clothes. I think that is the only situation where I will shop at Ross for clothes. Don’t get me wrong, they have nice socks and curtain rods, but I’m not really into natty fabrics and t-shirts that say PRINCESS IN THE HOUZ. So anyway, I was checking out the shoes for some secretary-like duds (hell yeah I got an interview for next week) and I wound up browsing in the Ladies’ 9.5 section. Most days require size 10s, but on a good day I can squeeze into those 9.5s. I thought today might be a good day.

There was another person in the same aisle, which is pretty much the Ross standard, although usually it is more like five other people in the aisle, all trying to grab what you are looking at. I was not finding anything worthwhile in the 9.5s and then I noticed the dude next to me was busy trying on shoes. I didn’t see what he tried on, but I saw him putting back on his sneakers and taking a gander at the heels. For a brief moment I stood there, wondering why there was a gangster-looking dude next to me trying on ladies heels. Then I remembered where I am living. I was still a little freaked out though, I’m not going to lie, because the shoes I was looking at were a whole size bigger than the ones he was checking out.

I ended up getting some swanky black peep toes. I hesitated at first, because I pretty much hate kitten heels, but I figured if a tough bro can wear high heels then a non-forty-year-old-over-tanned-mom can wear kitten heels. Wish me luck on my interview.