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?

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.

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.”

I’m not wearing push-up bras anymore, and neither are you.

The sisterhood of the absorbing bullet and where the fuck are my tampons?

I'll find you, O.B.

On the way home from a sister sister sister sister bike ride, my sister and I were travelling along and the next thing we knew we became two close girlfriends talking about our periods! And these guys came up chawing and yaking and said,  “I don’t trust anything that bleeds for seven days and doesn’t die.”  And we were like, “oh that’s funny.  I’ve never heard that joke before.”  And then we started laughing all sneaky like  while I pulled my secret sword out of my hidden Raleigh sheath, and I yelled, “Trust this!” and stabbed both of them.  The meadow of Watching them bleed to death was a good place to stop and talk about tampons, so that’s what we did, and we kept it classy by making sure to overpronounce our ssssssses. 

Anyways she brought something up which proved to be and which remains very disturbing.  Our distinctive and amazing brand of tampons is in a crisis.  I had no idea and was under the assumption that the last couple of times I had to buy them, that I had somehow wound up at the one retail chain that does not sell them.  But no!  This had been  happening to her too, so we googled it and found out that there is an O.B. shortage.  In this article, O.B. tampons are described as having a cult-like following.  Reading that made me realize how cool and indie our vaginas are.  They’re so gaddamn cool, that their tampon of choice is having some mysterious shortage and boxes are being sold on the black market for four times the retail value. 

I thought about all my friends who refuse to make the switch and take the O.B. road, and realized that I needed to write this.  They say,  ”EW! there’s no applicator!  What do I do?” It’s easy to use your finger.  I mean my finger is better friends with my vag than a piece of cardboard.  Everyone knows that.  My finger ORIGINATED in the general area of the vagina and had to actually pass through a bloody one to become a part of the Earth.  People are all about getting “back to nature” and returning to the “homeland” and “masterbating,” so now what’s your finger’s problem?    Nothing.  I bet your fingers now have a problem with you having a problem with O.B.s.  Also, tampon applicators are destroying the Earth. 

How do you like your precious pearls now?

<–This statue is made out out of 4,000 washed up tampon applicators.  You don’t see a bunch of fingers washing up onto shore do you?  Nope.  Because fingers stay attached to your hand!  Why would you flush a finger down the toilet?  You would have to chop it and then find something to stop that from bleeding.  Doesn’t make any sense!

Something else that makes the little bullets wonderful is that they actually do what they are supposed to.  Blood is sneaky and every other tampon ever just lets it by like that suck-ass security guard failing at his job again.  That’s exactly what those applicator tampons are like. 

I guess in the end, none of this matters because it seems like my tampons are lost to me forever.  From what I see in the stores, it looks like we are going to have to be like everyone else and settle for run-of-the-mill menstrual protection.

At least we went and got feather extensions in our pubic hair. 

Why did you read this?

Nothing that a ski mask can’t fix

What I’m about to write is both very stupid and very real.  It almost makes me want to pull my own uterus out and burn that piece of ridiculous-maker.  I’ve recently decided to refrain from the spirits (not the evil ones–the EVIL ones), and as a result I’ve been spending more than my usual amount of time in the house playing bejewelled and cleaning the catbox. 

Friday night is so hot right now

This is all fine, and I’m okay with it, but there is this protest happening in my brain.     The protest involves not having any social events at which I can wear my outfits!  I go for a DP RUN, come home, take a shower, draw another face on top of my face and look at all the pretty things I could wear, but guess what.  I have nowhere to go.  The really sad part is that the places I would normally go and the people I would normally see when I’m playing party person, they really aren’t that interesting.  I’m more concerned with the fact that my appearance doesn’t make an appearance than I want to talk to most of the people I usually drink with.  I think that means I’m deranged right?  Kind of sick in the head?  Sadly though, I don’t think I’m alone.  In fact, I’m pretty sure that I share gender identification with a large body of sick people who think about their outfits, weight, hair, and skin condition  more than we think about anything.  Imagine we all stopped being asses.

 This makes me also think how strange it is to get dressed up for boozing.  If you go out at night, you’ll typically see women in high heels, wide-belts, skirts, and sometimes intricate hairdos with birds and tiny hats.  All of this requires a certain amount of poise–which after a certain amount of alcohol becomes somewhat depleted, and after another certain amount of alcohol becomes even more than somewhat depleted.  I think the perfect outfit for weekend drinking would include some kind of lightweight armor (toned-down football pads), long pants ALWAYS, athletic shoes (for escaping rapists), an adult diaper, and some kind of shock collar that activates when you step out of the radius of whatever group you happen to be with.  As far as the hair and make-up go, the drinking outfit for stupeh types I think would need a ski mask, so that no one would attempt to have social interactions with or even want to be around you.  When that outfit I just described comes into fashion, I think that would be a good time to get back in the partygame.   Wine-tastings, keg stands–whatever. 

I told my fifty year old coworker about my fashion dilemna and he told me to wear my dresses to the grocery store, and the people will say, “all the good ones are married.”  I don’t know what he meant by that, but I think I’m supposed to go shopping in heels so people will think I’m married.  This benefits everyone because I’m probably buying cat food, and that is less sad when people think you have a husband and a cat.  This whole matter is so shallow that I just broke my neck, and now I’m dead.  I guess in the end the most important thing to remember is that somewhere out there, someone is inadvertently flashing beave, and that it isn’t me. 

I apologize to any children I may have produced in the past or will produce in the future for the comment about my uterus.  It is most certainly an excellent place, and I’m sure it misses you or welcomes you.