Thanks, I got it for $3.00

I don’t remember when my perception of thrift stores changed. My mom would pull up to Value Village and I’d sink in my chair, praying that no one would see me walking in that gross, smelly place. To my preteen self, shopping at the thrift shop meant we were poor. Nowadays, I frequent about five of them on the regular, one being my favorite.

It’s quaint, run by nice old folks who I assume all attend the same church. Probably nondenominational because they don’t judge me when I come in with yesterdays makeup and sweats. Why would I go there like that? Do I have no self-respect? Typically I do, I think… either way, it’s across the street from my house obviously giving me a free pass.

Everyday isn’t Christmas. I don’t find adorable Banana Republic 3/4 sleeve pale pink classy sweatshirts for $2.50 everyday, but that doesn’t stop me from looking. If your norm is buying new shirts with fresh, crispy edges and a tag for $45, you do you, but it hurts my soul. Handing over money for something brand spankin’ new makes me feel like a failure, I didn’t try hard enough.

If you have the patience and time, you can find anything you need for under $15.

It’s not all about the bargain though, there’s some curious nature behind it too. Who wore this? Who owned this? Where has it been? How much was spent on it originally? Was it given away out of pure lack of room, ill fit, or maybe even a bad memory prompted the donation. I don’t know. But there is something intriguing about something new to you, but not necessarily new at all.

Assuming there are thrifting gods, I’ve appeased them. How do I know? Because when I need a certain piece of attire, more often than not I stroll in and voilà, there it is.

Christmas party for work. Nothing in my closet was appealing, it’s the day of and instead of going to the mall, I walk into a local thrift shop. I found myself a red dress, black tights (brand new – because I have standards), and a pair of tall black heels. My entire holiday outfit was assembled for under $10.00.

I’m on the left. That dress, those tights, and those shoes for under $10. I’m impressed, if you’re not – you’re clearly wealthy, and that’s okay too. I’m not hear to judge, but if you need any good thrifting tips or tricks…

I’m your girl.

Meijer, Mimosas, and Men’s Vests

Ask anyone, I love Meijer. The aisles are wide, the lights are bright, and now this:

That’s Prosecco, next to orange juice. Not that I think you’re blind, I just have to keep saying it. This quickly prompted a conversation that began with only a picture:

Four things about this:

  1. Operation Find Mimosa Bitch is on. I don’t care if it’s a he or a she, they deserve the title of Mimosa Bitch. I appreciate Lizzy giving me he/she aspect, automatically I assumed it was a female – if it’s a male, I will still call the individual Mimosa Bitch.
  2. It was at the Meijer in Appleton, Wisconsin, and I am more than serious to know who was responsible for this act of brilliance. If you know this person – please get them in contact with me. (JenWritesStuff@outlook.com)
  3. Why is this the first time I’m seeing this sort of marketing prowess? I feel like if Lizzy or I were in charge of product placement in a grocery store, we’d have been on top of it, and I’d be writing about our acceptance into Mensa.
  4. I corrected my type-o as if I thought Lizzy actually might have thought I meant what I typed … we need to stop doing that.

Another thing that happened at Meijer that day? I noticed that every man over 30 was in a vest. Missed the memo that this is now the dress code for the cool dudes. There was the man with the flannel under the vest, the guy whose hat matched the vest, the gut whose hat matched the flannel under the vest. My man asked me why I didn’t get him one for Christmas. He noticed too. 

It would take quite a lot for me to stop shopping at Meijer. I can’t count to the number of vests that would keep me away from making my toilet paper, makeup, and everything else purchases from the place with such perfect marketing of mimosas.

Before leaving I went to the bathroom, and before entering saw this:

Why are there not changing stations for men to use everywhere? Men have babies, too. Why is this even exciting to me? Why does there need to be a sign for this? So many questions. This should be normal, which is just another reason Meijer is the best (with lots of vests).

For real though, someone find me that mimosa bitch.

Where have you been?

I actually meant me… not you. Where have I been? Clearly not here, seeing as my last post was in July and while I sit here pretending to be baffled as to why it went so long, I’m well aware. I know exactly where I’ve been and it includes a few things I’m not super proud of.

I mean, it’s not all television related. I also really love to nap, which is something I have always been very open about.

I like to think of it as going on an adventure, as a vivid dreamer I refuse to downplay my nap as simple sleep.

When the keyboard and I have spent quality time together, we’ve been working on my book that will (fingers crossed) be finished by summer. There’s a constant struggle between thinking the words I’m coming up with are borderline genius or complete garbage. Writing is hard, and I’m not going to say anything else about it because I refuse to make this about promises, guarantees, or anything that is not just throwing some shit out there because it’s been a minute.

If I had not been so lazy, and prioritized my time better, there are a few things I would have maybe written about between July of last year and now – so I’ll run through a condensed version of what I probably would have had to say.

  1. My kid started middle school and the only thing I’ll touch on here is that I always thought this parenting thing would get easier as my child got older and independent. Apparently, his ability to make his own breakfast, and stay home alone does not have anything to do with my fears surrounding every single thing that is now out of my control. With that being said he still tells me I look pretty before I go to work, and I have yet to hear him cuss, which if you know me, that’s a fucking miracle.
  2. The Vikings let me down again.
  3. A dog showed up on our doorstep one day, found out her name was Rudy after I’d lovingly called her Brenda for a few days. An adorable little puggle who scarfed food so fast she choked it back up and then ate it again. We started coming up with stories for her like she traveled all this way because she was clearly starving – when in all reality she lives the next block over, and “that’s just how she eats”. I’ve never reunited a dog with anyone before, but I hope I get to do it again at some point.
  4. I voted in the midterm elections and I hope you did too.
  5. I participated in another Storycatchers event and had all the feels while I was up on the stage again. There really is something indescribable about having all eyes on you and swallowing up every single reaction you’re able to catch a glimpse of while you tell your story into a microphone.
Storycatchers/Theme: Unreliable Narrator

So, it’s January. Hopefully, I’ll find myself here before July 2019. If not, I’m sure I’m working on my book, and not making sure I’ve watched every single episode of Dateline that’s ever aired.

That Georgia Waitress Is My Hero

On two separate occasions in the last two years I’ve been violated by men who clearly felt entitled to me and my body. Me. Fucking. Too. I won’t get into too much detail in regards to the first time it happened, because I don’t have to. All I’ll say is that a grotesque gesture, and a joke was made at my expense, in front of a group of men, in an environment that was supposed to be in my favor.

The other instance? Feel free to read all about it.

explicitlanguage someone grabbed my

And then that video went viral of that waitress in Georgia who body slammed a man for grabbing her tush… and she’s my fucking hero.

H.E.R.O.

Don’t get me started on her work uniform or her choice of career, honestly, fuck you if you even bring it up. She did what any woman in her position wished they could do themselves.

When I talk about my experiences the question I get everytime is, in some way, did you stick up for yourself? No. I didn’t. Both times, I froze. I did nothing in the moment other than stare wide eyed in disbelief. I hate that. As much as I wish I would have body slammed them, or made a scene exposing their nasty entitlement, I know that’s not the norm.

With that being said, the next time some guy wants to rub his dick on me, or grab my lady parts, I have a plan…and it includes more than just a verbal lashing.

Don’t touch people if they don’t want to be touched. Don’t assume a stranger will welcome your advances. Don’t allow acquaintances to over step their boundaries. Speak up, use your voice, or just body slam those bitches.

Georgia waitress, I love you. I’m also super awesome and we can be friends if you want. Totally up to you though.

Operation MILF by Fall [Update #2]

So I know in the first update I said I was going to post and discuss the triumphs and tribulations of Operation MILF by Fall every Monday, but the thing is, I’m just an habitually late person. So it’s now Friday and here we are. I’ll probably give some false deadline for every upcoming post, take it or leave it, the chances I’ll ever grow out of that are fairly slim.

I actually went Sunday to Sunday last week with zero adult beverages. That’s a big deal, maybe it shouldn’t be, but it is and I lost 4 fucking pounds. So, I mean, that’s motivation. I tracked all week, was real concious of my intake VS outtake of calories so I’m sure the four pounds lost wasn’t just the lack of booze, regardless, it’s pretty substantial.

Fast forward to this week and I’ve tracked every day again, stayed under my calorie/fat/carbs/sugar goals, but to say that I’ve made the best choices would be a bold faced lie.

This was Tuesday. Don’t judge me.

But, I am remaining confident in my progress. I just want to be feeling real good about myself by October. I’m going to be 34. 34. THIRTY FOUR. Damn. Legal drinking age at this point consists of kids people born in 1997. In 1997 I was in the sixth grade, getting in-school suspension for skipping recess. How does one skip recess? It was a stairwell thing.

But that’s a story for a different day.

Next week I’m going to weigh in on Monday, which keeps me accountable over the weekend, and I’m going to take my measurements. If I continue to only look at the number on the scale my, slow-metabolism-over-thirty-year-old self will end up real frustrated . Plateaus and shit. I need multiple reassurances that my efforts to curb my crazy cheesecake cravings are worth it.

For now, I’m just keeping one goal in mind, and that is to keep the fried haddock outta my mouth at work tonight.

SmartSelect_20180720-095145_Instagram.jpg
Fuck. My. Life.

If you’ve never experienced a good ol’ Wisconsin fish fry you might not understand this struggle, but trust me, it’s real.

#OperationMILFbyFall