Swimsuit Foresight from the Marshalls Dressing Room Lady

“Good Luck”

That phrase, buckling under the weight of a Ukranian accent, were the last words the dressing room attendant at Marshalls uttered before she handed me the five swimsuits I had chosen to try on.

Really?  Good Luck?

She could have said a myriad of things:

  • Thank you
  • Here you go
  • Don’t try stealing anything, I’m watching you
  • Nice selection
  • Call me, maybe?

But to say “good luck”, as if sliding the latch on the dressing room door could be the last thing my pasty wintered body might ever do…What was she expecting the end result to be?

Image

Please.  Happy swimsuit season, everyone!

Have you ever had a bizarre shopping experience? Tell me about it in the comments section

Joke Time

I am currently reading the book “Comedy Writing Secrets” by Melvin Helitzer to sharpen my humor writing skills. My thoughtful boyfriend got it for me and I must admit: I love it. You can check it out here.

Tonight I practiced word play and came up with two original jokes that I think pass as “not terrible”. Tell me what you think:

Where does the First Lady’s gynecologist hold his exams?

The Ovum Office.

And lastly,

Who provides the body guards for the cast of ‘American Idol?’

The Seacrest Service.

Well, what did you think? Be nice honest.

The Witch Hunt for Beauty

I’m no Kim Kardashian. In addition to never having made a sex tape that shot me and my galaxy-quaking booty to celebrity status, I’m not a girly-girl. Kim loves make-up, dresses, shoes, hair products and glamour. I’m what can best be described as a “guyly girl.” I take the man approach to my appearance.

Do I have toothpaste on my face?” Are inappropriate parts of my body showing? Is my mustache unkempt?

If the answer to all of these questions is ‘no’, I’m ready to head outside-and honestly, I’d be lying if I said I never found little speckles of Crest on my face hours into my day.

I’ve always respected girls who take the time to get gussied up, and know how to get gussied up well. That has never been a forte of mine. Don’t get me wrong, I think I’m an attractive person, but I just have never cared enough to make an effort to look nice on most days. I credit my loving family and my inherent naiveté for bestowing to me an impressive amount of self-esteem for my physical self.

When I was a child I used to think that wearing make up was a type of sin. Side note: I went to a Catholic school grades K-12, so I literally thought it could be a sin.

Why would anyone want to change the way they look? God wanted you to look a certain way, and you’re perfect the way you are. Makeup changes what you’re supposed to look like. Why mess with something that’s already perfect?

That feeling lasted right up until I got my first set of volcanic pimple colonies that decided to loudly and proudly take residence on my forehead. They still visit me three to four times a month. Bastards.

Even when puberty started deflating my confidence and made me crave attention from boys, I just couldn’t bring myself to make the effort to spruce up my looks. There were rumors that some girls woke up three hours before they had to leave just to curl their hair and make sure their make up was perfect. Was I jealous of their perfectly coiffed hair and glossy lips? Of course. But Holy-Beauty-Sleep-Batman, who has time for that?

When I was in college, I thought I would take my newly found freedom and my years of nonexistent beauty expertise out for a test drive. I was going to attempt the mecca of all beauty adventures: it was time to dye my hair. (Mistake #1)

My reasoning: My hair is brown but my eye brows are black. Shouldn’t the curtains match the valances?

Before I reveal how horrific this endeavor proved to be, let me say this: thank God I didn’t attempt to dye my eyebrows brown! I’m sure I would have ended up looking like this guy:

hey sexy

I, Lady Beautynoob, needed assistance with this quest, so I quickly appointed the two most qualified candidates for the job: my two dude friends. Their skateboarding skills and insatiable competitive drive to out-fart each other didn’t seem to align with the beauty aspect of this adventure, but they were endearing.

I let them pick out the box of dye. (Mistake #2)

The color: Black Pearl. (Mistake #3). Did you know that the word “pearl” ,as related to hair dye, is not a noun but an adjective? As in “Shiny as a pearl.” As in “So shiny you will look like you used Turtle Wax as conditioner.” As in “Your hair will look like a Halloween witch’s wig.”

The resounding silence after I finished drying my new noir locks should have been my first hint that I had made a terrible mistake. Re-cue my naiveté; it couldn’t be that bad.

Dudefriend #1: It….looks…good?

Dudefriend #2: Yea…..I think you…..you pull it off?….yeah, you totally pull it off…

Dudefriend #1: …..Totally…

Hair that has been treated by a box of grocery store hair dye feels like a bale of hay that has been microwaved, sliced with rusty sporks and laid out to bake in the Sahara.  My mane was very, very mad at me.

So I did the only thing a girl who doesn’t care about her appearance can do when her witch hair is crying out for respite: nothing.  For seven months I just let my hair do it’s thing.  It grew and grew and before I knew it I had about four inches of brown roots on top of my head, trying to catch up to the 12+ inches of witch hair below.

I didn’t realize I had done anything wrong until I came home on summer break.  I hadn’t seen my high school friend in about a year and was excited to have her come over.  When I opened the door to let her in the first words out of her mouth were not “Hi! I missed you!”  Instead, she immediately blurted “Oh no.  We need to fix this.”

I’m so glad I have women in my life that know what to do in hairy beauty situations.  Under the steady hand of a trained hair professional my locks returned to brown.  But my beauty apathy levels have stayed relatively the same.

My hair keeps slowly wrapping itself around my neck, which means it’s almost time for a haircut.  I think it’s just trying to enact revenge for the black pearl incident.  Honestly, I don’t blame it.  I think I’ll just ask the stylist to do whatever she thinks would look the best.  I wonder what Kim Kardashian would have to say.

Do you have any hilarious beauty mishap stories?  Are you a ‘Guyly Girl’ too?  Comment below!

Girl Brains- The Delinquents

*Author’s Note* Girlbrains is a section of this blog where I write commentary on actual diary entries and/or notes that young girls write.  It’s funny because they’re insane.*

Warning! If you are thinking of having children, read with caution.  This post may make you want to hire a med student to take out your uterus and sell it on the black market.  Take a moment and read a note sent from one wild child to another during the dreaded teenage years.  Having trouble reading the note?  You can read a typed out version here.

Where do I even begin?

First of all, I want to speak directly to any new parents reading this.  Don’t worry.  Not all teenagers will scoff at your parental guidelines and reject your care for their well being like Simon Cowell rejects special needs singers.  Then again, I’m sure the mother of this bull-minded young lady never thought that her child would grow up to be such a defiant delinquent.  Ha.  I’m still amused that she called her parents delinquents.

Lets get down to business now.  While reading and re-reading this note, I couldn’t get over the injustice this poor girl is suffering at the hands of the monsters that call themselves her ‘parents’.  Thank goodness there was a child brave enough to stare down the evil entities and ‘put them in their place’.

A curfew?! What do you think this is?  Some sort of system where you provide me with food and shelter and I am expected-nay-DEMANDED to adhere to guidelines ensuring my safety?!? Oh the inhumanity!

How dare these ingrates demand to know where their daughter is going!  William Wallace could have found a life partner with the author.

“They may give me a curfew, but they will never take my freedom!”

Actually, to be completely honest, I kind of admire her conviction.  She is sassy, strong, and won’t stand for injustice.  If she headed up the Occupy Wall Street movement I’m pretty positive the demands would have been met three months ago.

I would also like to thank the author of this note for clearing up a controversial subject: This is clear evidence that corporal punishment does not work.  Do you want to punish your children by hitting them? Apparently the pain only lasts for a minute, and after they endure the pain, they win.  Spanking leads to  calloused-bottomed children running amok in the neighborhood, doing laundry and keeping their rooms clean.  For the love of humanity, use the time-out method- USE THE TIME-OUT METHOD!

Some of my friends have recently had babies, and for a nano second I began to think  “oh, wouldn’t it be so much fun to be a mom?”  But this letter reminded me that cute babies turn into egotistical, irrational, LUNATIC teenagers that are capable of speaking.  No babies for this girl.  Crisis averted.

Did you drive your parents crazy? Tell me how in the comments section!

Why I’m Not Ashamed to Love Pop Music

Ok, my cool points might go down in the eyes of all you hipsters and indie rockers out there, but I need to get something off my sequin and lace chest.  I love pop music.  There.  I said it.  Stop shaking your heads in disgust.  My mother taught me to be proud of who I am, and I’m not going to live in the shame shadows any longer!

I used to find myself trying to hide my beat-loving tendencies from people I respected. I didn’t want them to think I was uncultured or shallow or dumb, so I programmed the last preset button of my radio to NPR.  That way I could quickly hit the fifth button on my console to impress the socially elite travelers who found themselves climbing into my Honda Accord.

But Danielle, you are 28 years old.  How on earth can you listen to such drivel?

The answer is simple, friends.

Press here for more images by this artist

Sometimes I don’t want to think anymore.  

I work all day, and have to deal with very difficult people.  I come home and read the news and realize that the world is going down the toilet faster than a brick-eating troll’s daily bowel movements.  Sometimes there is no better release from the tortures of every day life than listening to repetitive bass lines with catchy hooks that have no profound impact on the world around me.  Yes, Kelis, your milkshake undoubtedly bring all the boys to the yard.  Of course they prefer your milkshake to mine.  I’m glad you charge a fee for your teaching services.  Ahhh. Sweet, sweet release.

There is an Inner Freak Inside Us All

Go on, admit it.  You love to hate the outrageous fashion of pop icons.  There is a reason why the fabric (or lack thereof) draping  singers’ bodies can make it to the front page of cnn.com.  We all have a secret burning desire to ruffle our peacock feathers and make bold and daring wardrobe decisions…..but only a select few are brave enough (and paid enough) to do it.  While I don my standard jeans, sneakers, sports bra and t-shirt, I live vicariously through pop stars who wear things like this:

And this:

     And this:

And lets not forget this:     

Who knew fashion could be so bold…so delicious…so nutritious!

If I’m Going Through A Hard Time I Don’t Want To Be Reminded Of All My Pain…I Want To Dance My Feelings Away

I have the utmost respect for singer/songwriters.  I do.  But when things in my life are more poison ivy and monsoons than roses and sunshine I don’t want to listen to someone accurately articulate the misery that is brewing within me.  I would much rather find a song that I can blast in my car while driving down the highway entertaining passers by with my interpretive steering wheel dance moves.

When this song plays it makes me feel like I’m being slowly crushed to death by a group of sad pandas:

But this song makes me want to assault any woodwind playing schmuck that dares get close enough to my gyrating pelvis.

I love all kinds of music: country, rap, jazz, folk, indie.  Now is the time to come out of my pop music closet and let my Rihannagagaspears flag fly!  If you are ready to embrace the pop in you, say it with me now: Ra ra ah ah ahhh…..

Do you have any guilty pleasures? Share them in the comments section below!

Letter to Marty O’Neil

Author’s Note:  This is a writing exercise using antique photographs.  The following is an imaginary letter written by the woman in the picture.

Dearest Marty,

It has taken me the entire month of this bitter cold February to fill my hand with the strength to write this letter to you.  It is most likely a quarter past six as you are reading this letter and I am sure that your stomach is empty from your day at the mill.

I am afraid your stomach is not the only thing in this household that is feeling neglected.  My capacity for the nonsense of this family has been exceeded and I will no longer be able to fulfill my wifely and motherly duties.

I wonder if this comes as a shock to you or if you saw this coming.  Your actions suggest that you assumed things were as they should be.  However, you come from a learned family and I find it hard to believe that the devilish escapades of our eleven children slipped past even your contented eyes.

I know that children will be children and some actions are no doubt unavoidable as our little ones grow, but the rash of ludicrous behavior that has taken over the household I work so hard to upkeep has forced me to take respite.

If you are recounting the past months and have come to no conclusion as to why I left, let me refresh your memory:

I receive great joy in laundering the clothes of my family; making sure my children are clean and presentable.  I do not, however, receive any joy from being awoken in the middle of the night to Wyatt and Jonathan hurling their dirtied socks and under drawers atop of me crying “You better get to work now or these will never be cleaned in time.”  It also displeases me to watch you pretend to be sleeping next to me as they use me and my bed space as their personal hamper.  I have slept next to you for twenty years, and when your breathing becomes shallow I know you are awake.

I understand that you are a man and men are not familiar with the responsibilities of daughters in a household, but let me remind you:  just because your daughter sheds a tear does not mean it is proper to give in to her every whim.  It would not hurt you to support your wife, either.  For example, I spent six hours of my day trying to instill Elizabeth, Mary and Elena with the values of being a respected woman of society.  I was trying to teach them to mend their own clothes, cook family meals and upkeep a house.  When you came home to your three teary-eyed daughters your comment “Don’t worry, your mother will take care of the chores” was not helpful in the least bit.

Furthermore, when I took in the stray cat, Mitzy, I finally found a creature in this world that showed me the affection I had been longing for.  After my many scoldings Robert, Michael, Walter and Marty Jr. continued to terrorize the poor animal with the hose, clothes pins and chases (and God knows what else).  Judging by the look on her face when I found her, I’m sure she died of fright.  It took every ounce of strength I had to give that soul a proper burial, and save it from the “Kitty bon fire” that you so generously offered up to your malevolent sons.

Besides dealing with the antics of our older children, I have been rearing two little ones under the age of two.  James and Charles are sweet babies, but between the feedings, changings and pacifying that must be done to ensure that you have happy, bouncing babies when you return home from work I have no time to care for my looks.  I do the best that I can, and have bore you eleven children.  Eleven.  I filled with rage every time your calloused hands grasped the fat around my waist and I heard “Ho! Ho! Ho!  If you didn’t look so ugly I’d think you were Santa!”  Your children squealed with every delivery of the line, but a piece of me hardened with every jiggle of my belly.

It is because of this treatment and other actions that I have decided to leave the household in your hands.  I may return after I rejuvenate my body and spirit.  I may decide that the best action I can take to ensure our family’s safety is to never return.  It is now time to prove to the men at the mill that you really do “run a tight ship.”

There are plenty of chickens in the pen and potatoes to peel in the basement.  Marty Jr., Elena, and Robert prefer soup.  The rest prefer casserole.  We need milk for the babies.  Mary needs her dress mended for church tomorrow and Charles has a stomach bug.  I’ve left his soiled diaper cloths on your side of the bed.

Happy sailing,

Jillian