Iconic hipstorer bag is merely a sequel to the baby-sling

Last week I worried everyone with talk of my running career being over because of leg and back pain, and although no one came over and massaged my aching body, someone did give me some excellent advice which actually seems to have remedied the problem.  This person was my mom and her advice was to buy new shoes.  Let this be a lesson to all of you Googlers out there who don’t know what you’re doing.  Sometimes you just have to ask your mom what you should do.  Unless your mom is a dumb-ass.

In other news, I made this amazing Coach fanny pack for my rugged male companion for his birthday:

It's a Coach Hipstorer. It doesn't need a caption.

After the making of this, I laid in bed thinking about fanny packs, which we will now refer to as hipstorers.  I thought to myself about different materials I could use to make more hipstorers for the betterment of the world.  The thing is, though that I don’t really want to be the one to make them.  I want other people to make them because I’m really less of a manufacturer and more of a thinker.

Remember the other day when I was thinking about this memory in my head of the last time I had an idea to make something useful to people?  Of course you don’t because it was going of inside of me, and you’re out there.  This other useful thing that I made was a babysling which is a bag for carrying your baby.  I wanted to make a line of slings that matched the mother’s style of dress and wasn’t baby-themed.  This was around the time that I was in the slave portion of my motherhood, which is very different from this period of motherhood where I just have this ten-year-old person that just kind of hangs out with me.  In the beginning, I had to carry her.  Something strange happens when you carry a person around for a couple of years.  Your arms become tired, and your brain becomes full of ideas for giving your tired arms a break.   I actually made a prototype of a sling that copied the design of the Dr. Sears babysling, but was a fashionable black with red paisley trim.  I’m so cutting edge.  My mom mostly made that bag because I was the thinker and she knew how to sew.

This lifetime of making two bags made me realise that maybe I’m just incredibly tired of carrying things.  Maybe my mom shouldn’t have made me carry groceries in from the driveway to the house.  Even though she solved my back problem with her shoe-buying advice, I think it’s only fair that I blame my mom for this fatigue I feel.  I mean, she sent me a text message this morning that said I needed to make pancakes for my daughter every morning and stop buying soy milk.  I know my daughter was speaking through her, and because of this I feel incredibly sandwiched by the surrounding generations.  They are squishing me with their pancake demands.  I now blame both of them.  The Coach Hipstorer is their fault.

My job of professionally carrying things is also to blame.  I basically wear a hipstorer to work everyday.  In the restaurant biz, we call it an apron, but it’s a hipstorer.  It’s a waste-fastening method of carrying all your crap around, so now what?  I get enough practice carrying things around at work.  Why do I have to carry them here in the outside world?  I don’t think it ever stops either.  Old people have to carry their walkers and iron lungs.  We have to carry our smart phones.

We have to carry our smart phones.

Yesterday I was sitting on a couch in the middle off the mall with my phone on my lap when I looked over at one of the guys who was about to fall asleep at the mall.  He had his phone on his lap.  I think I’m not so different from the people who fall asleep at the mall.  I’m addicted to my electronic device too.  I’ve had this idea to go through electronic device deprivation for a few days and then to write about it.  I’ve had this idea for two years but am so incapable of not being in contact with the rest of the world via my smart phone that I can’t even go  through with it.  What is that?

This blog has lost its innocence, Katy Perry style.

 I have to tell you firstly that I haven’t written because I was really busy doing loser things like joining the gym, eating doughnuts, and going boot-shopping.  I may have also played phone games and trolled Facebook for God knows what, and I’m really sincerely sorry because I realise that no one knew what to do without my gentle words of eternal wisdom.

Wellll….here I am.

I don’t know if you guys know this about me, but you’re about to find out that I strongly dislike Katy Perry and other similar creatures.  This isn’t a case of the playa’ hatin but the result of being forced by everyone and my daughter to listen to popular songs.   Due to circumstances beyond my control, my lovely and intelligent young daughter has developed a taste for top 40 hits.  I understand that the popularity of anything at her age has a great influence on whether or not she will see the value in it.  I also have a number of peers who are fans of pop music.  It is not my job to correct the lack of taste in my peers, but as far as my child goes, it is a never-ending war, and I’m pleased to announce that my side won the battle against Katy Perry.  

Well my first attempts during the auditory invasion that has been Miss Perry were just weak declarations of disgust.  When ‘California Girls’ came on I  would just tell her, “this song is awful.”  Unfortunately, ten-year-old girls are not concerned with their mothers’ opinions on music.  This is one of the reasons why I don’t understand the point of children.  In fact, I think I’ll ask her what the point of her is when I pick her up from school today.  Maybe she’ll make one of her confused  ’what do you mean?’ faces, and I can answer my own question by being amused at her looks. 

I’m kind of a shit-head.  This is why I make a better personinpilatesclass than a writer. 

So I finally broke Katy’s lyrics down to the child when the song ‘Last Friday night’ just became too much .  You dug your own grave, Katy Perry, because every time the child plays this song I have a new opportunity to disgust her at what is actually happening in the lyrics.  I’m like, “Hey guess what a menage a trois is! That is where three people have sex with each-other!” 

At first she just pretended it didn’t affect her and that she had total loyalty to the song, but my full disclosure must have sunk in because a week after she found out that this song was mostly about getting drunk, my daughter told me she didn’t like Katy Perry anymore.  Whoop.

The Lens Crafters Racket

But I'm sure that dictionary would look a lot better crumpled up on my bedroom floor.

I don’t know how they did it, but I’m pretty sure Lens Crafters ruined my vision.  I was doing just fine all plain-faced and hairy-headed, when I walked in and got zapped by their eye exam.  Now I’m chained to this pair of glasses, and they keep me coming back to try on a different pair of contact lenses every week.  Every week I get a new pair that actually seems to make my vision worse by wearing it.  One of my coworkers actually told me I look mean with them on because I’m squinting all the time to see.  It feels like if I hadn’t had my eyes examined in the first place, I would still have 20/20 vision.  Not only do my glasses feel like they limit my vision, but they also limit my “look.”  Oh, it was a fine novelty to have people say ‘oh cool! sexy librarian,’ but I’m tired of the sexy librarian.  I’m not going to be discovered as a 19-year-old starlet in a soda shop if I’m hobbling around town looking like I want to shush people and issue them cards for the checking out of books. 

Oh, you didn’t know I was going to be discovered?  That’s weird since I just discovered how hilarious I can be when my daughter asked me what happens when you lose a game of Hanging With Friends, and I told her, “you die in real life.” 

She is frustrated with that answer, but I don’t know what she wants to hear. 

I guess the moral of the story is to never get your eyes examined, if you’re not prepared to have less than perfect vision.

And don’t answer daughters’ questions.  They are never satisfied.

The Conclusion of Summer Footwear

So, I’m always right.  This time I’m right about the dangers of sandals.  I’m showing you something that might be disturbing, and you should ask any small children to leave the room and stop being interested in the internet. 

now you know. Now you know.

It’s my foot, and a piece of its toe was cut off because I did not take my own advice.  See, my child is harassing me every day to get a pedicure with her.  We can be mommy and daughter and have Chinese ladies wash our feet.  Do you know that pedicures make your toenails cute, but they also make you feel really creepy?  I also think that the tiny little Asian ladies think I’m a big bulky American with nasty toenails, and they feel sorry for themselves that they have to clean the monsters.  Regardless of all that going on in my head, I told my munchie that we could get pedicures together.  To justify my pedicure and also because it was hot and I went to the beach in boots and thought how much more convenient it would be to wear sandals, I bought some sandals.  SANDals.  You wear them in the sand.  The sandals I bought are an okay pair except for the fact that it’s a full-on 24/7 toe-flash when I wear them. 

So I was wearing my new fuglies at this strip mall yesterday where Munch and I were about to get our toes done.  I went to the ATM because of the need for some nice hot machine-cash.  Someone had left their leather planner book/giant wallet-looking thingy at the machine, so I made sure to be extra-awesome and bring it into the bank for someone.  BAD IDEA.  On the way into the bank, I misjudged the distance between my foot and the door, and when I let the door swing shut, it totally shaved off the top of one of my toes.  The worst part is that toes have all the nerves in your body located inside of them.  I was in so much pain that I handed the teller the planner with a bitchy attitude which was the opposite of the hero/sweet/looks really young for her age attitude which I had planned on using.  I barely enjoyed my accolades and hobbled out of the bank to my daughter who was standing in front of the nail salon looking like someone cute who was about to become someone who was disappointed. 

I told her I couldn’t get a pedicure because I hurt my big toe while we walked in the nail salon.  There were already two ugly American monsters sitting on toe thrones, and only one tiny little Asian lady tending to all of their piggies. 

“Hi ca I hep you?”

I said, “we want pedicures,” even though I knew I wasn’t getting one.  My toe was bleeding, and I wasn’t about to put it in a toe-bath and end up with the top of my toe floating in blood water in this strip-mall nail salon. 

“Okay!  Pick colo.”

So Munch and I stood in front of the wall of nail polish discussing what we were going to do.  “I can’t get one.  My foot is bleeding.”

“Well I’m not getting one if you don’t get one.”

“We can come back after the lake and get one.”  So it was decided.  We left the nail salon without saying anything to the nail-lady.  After we were about thirty feet away, I heard someone yell, “Miss!”  I turned around, and the nail lady was standing at the door with her arms out like, ‘what the fuck?’

I yelled back at her, “I hurt my toe!” and pointed down at my foot. 

She still just stood there like that, but I didn’t want to go back and explain because my toe hurt, and I’m a jerk.  Munch said, “We should have not even gone in there.  She looked really upset.”

A lot of people were hurt by sandals yesterday.

The blog that pooped on your face, and being a mean mother.

I was going to write about waiting tables because that seems to be all I do anymore, and you’re supposed to write what you know.  I know something besides that though.  I know my daughter.  She is a female child that I made all by myself with my biology kit and an assistant primate.  Daughter wanted me to post this drawing on my blog, and she asks me whether I’ve done it or not at least once a week.  I was so unnecessarily cranky at her this morning for putting her damn swim clothes in the washing machine and thereby ensuring that they would not be ready to wear in time for jr. lifeguards.  I was such a bitch mom about it that my guilt has compelled me to publish her campaign poster for the office of World Ruler.  The unfortunate thing about her declaration of world tyranny is that it happened in the middle of a country highway where the cars have oversized bumpers that drag on the road and are about to run her over. 

Daughters and lingerie manufacturers prove to be less than supportive.

Look under your shirt to find out what you're worth. Mkay.

So after I decided to save the boobies and the babies, I took my number one future person with boobs bra-shopping with me so that she could witness the importance of embracing one’s God-given form.   I told her what I was looking for and why, and my daughter helped me as I searched the lingerie section of Macy’s for a bra with no lining, padding, or any sort of other contraption which would make my breasts seem more of a foreign object on my chest rather than just what they are.  We found two kinds of bras which fit my criteria.  Ugly ones that were too large, and pretty ones that were too large.  It seems that the powers that be do not believe that a small-chested woman would not want some kind of padding.  Even when I went to Victoria’s Secret, the bras with ‘no lining’ had lining.  Also, while shopping, I googled ‘bras without lining’  and what I learned is that Victoria’s Secret has started making nipple-bras…these are padded bras with fake nipple-erections built-in.  Guess what, though!  I already have built in nipples, and I think it would be more cost-effective to just go somewhere cold or think about something sexy in a bra that doesn’t have any lining!

I finally found something similar to what I was kind of looking for in the girls section of Target, and at the one time when I really needed my daughter to be there, she decided it was cooler to look for stretchy pants for herselfish.  This meant that I had to have the attendendant unlock the dressing room so I could enter alone with little girl bras and feel like a supercreep.   Unfortunately, tween bras do not provide adequate support for thirty year-old boobs.  

I found one at Khol’s which was the last place I looked because finding one meant I no longer had to keep on looking.  When I tried on the final bras, I had to shrug my shoulders and say “it’s just me,” in Hillary Duff’s voice.  My unhelpful mini-person told me to stop doing that.  She also kept telling me how cute the padded ones were and that I “should just get the padded ones.”

Don’t let your babies grow up to wait tables

Ordering hot tea gets you bludgeoned. I'm sorry. It's just un-American.

I now believe in marrying for money.  I realized this weekend that I was on some kind of drugs when I posted a blog that was kind of optimistic about being a waitress forever.  After working on Memorial day, I’m ready to find a sugar daddy.  I doubt that Farmville will approve of this, but I will support him if he decides to find a sugar-momma, so I just won that argument.  It’s just that instead of pleasantly serving people their food and smiling, I was trying all day not to serve plates being cracked over everyone’s heads.  Maybe that’s just the result of the establishment I was working at being understaffed for a holiday.  I think that when restaurants under-staff, they are just slowly trying to kill their employees.  The thing is that I like doing a good job.  I like having customers walk away satiated and happy.  Sometimes, though, that is just physically impossible.  Retardedly impossible, and people don’t care.  People are stupid.  I would understand the anger of the food-eating people if I was chatting on my cell phone or walking around drinking mimosas and getting a massage instead of getting them their turkey bacon.  The thing is that I’m making seven different kinds of champagne cocktails, refilling ten coffees in three different rooms, making and buttering their goddamn English muffins, getting a bowl of water for their goddamn dogs and carrying 27 eggs out of the kitchen ALL AT THE SAME TIME, so how about maybe relaxing and enjoying your day off?  Do you see me dying?  Have you noticed that I’m dead, and you all killed me with your demands?  YOU PEOPLE ARE ASSHOLES!   Also I’ve noticed that the people who complain to the manager are just generally unhappy people.  They don’t like each other and can’t think of any way to entertain themselves or each other during the pauses and don’t realize that they mostly are a bunch of crybabies that I hate.  ALSO complaining to the manager AND writing a note on your credit card slip is REALLY going to change the world.  Yeah, fuckers.

Also I must tell you about the bar experience that also made me need to be rich.  Its called just wanting to play a game of pool with your homies.  I know I suck at pool and am not trying to show anyone up or “run” the pool table, but when none of me or your friends have a pool table at home, we sometimes have to deal with people at the bar.  There’s something about some dopey 21 year-old in a fedora and flip-flops being the next in line with his quarters at the table which makes winning actually feel like losing.  Pool bar is annoying in that way.  The other way that pool bar is annoying is when a blonde Alicia Silverstone looking girl comes up every ten minutes to say that she is next in this really high-pitched blonde voice, acts indignant that someone else is playing, and then disappears for another 20 minutes while you hope that maybe something bad happens to her while she’s at the other end of the bar. 

I think that the problem of being a waitress and the problem of annoying bar people can be doubly solved by a large sum of money.  I think I find this large sum of money by selling myself to a wealthy landowner, and I also think that people shouldn’t be so judgmental about selling your soul for money.  FOR REAL.  Is it really compromising my ‘morals’ if I enter into a contract with some rich old guy so that I can have a pool table and a pool?  Aren’t I compromising myself by serving people even when they are rude to me.  I think that rudeness is immoral and would not retrieve things for assholes if I weren’t being paid money to do it.  The fact that I apologize for things when I’m not sorry and say ‘of course’ when I’d rather find their cars and key them in the parking lot makes me a liar.  Everyone in the hospitality business is a liar, and lying is wrong.  I also think that playing pool with a 21-year-old in flip flops who constantly pounds the pool-stick on the ground like he’s the Thor the god of thunder is immoral, but I did it anyways because I put my hard-earned 75 cents in that table and I wanted to stretch my dollar.  Holler.  I’m already compromising my morals, and I’m still poor.  Why not compromise my morals and make some real money off of it?  Anna Smith did it, and she’s awesome.  She got to make that great reality show after, so we could all see how not crazy she is.  I want to show everyone how not crazy I am, too!

Fuck it.  Let me know if you guys meet any rich bachelors or bachelorettes.

Nevermind the ramen. Here’s the toilet paper.

Half woman/half camel. Eat your peanut butter and jealous sandwich.

You’re right, Jerky. My search is over.

Not so jerky to my tastebuds.

I must tell you about the jerky I’m eating right now.  It is Trader Joe’s Natural Buffalo Jerky, and it is almost all gone.  This bag of jerky made me grateful that people invented cutting large animals into small pieces and dehydrating the bejeesus out of them.  In fact, I love this Buffalo Jerky so much that I want to be it.  When I die, I want Trader Joe to cut me up and dehydrate me.  I want my dehydrated sweet and spicy jerky body to be given to my daughter as punishment for being annoying to me this morning.