Overheard At Work Today

"I was tempted to take my bra off. It was bothering me."

That is all.

Ambrosia

An Open Letter to Every Tattoo Artist I've Ever tried to Work With

To get a little philosophical for just a brief moment, everyone in the world, regardless of physical appearance, monetary wealth, societal desirability or even time period in history, wants and needs a way to show their inward feelings and propensities with their outward appearance (this is exactly why there are furries). Throughout time, body modification has been a medium that has transcended geography as well as all of the other aforementioned factors to provide for those innate needs. Even now, tattooing and piercing, in the modern world, are more popular than ever (well, maybe not EVER, but the point of this is not statistics. The point is that I'm pissed off). It seems as though every outlaw, inlaw, hiker, biker, outhouse, doghouse, hoghouse, henhouse, bimbo, kimbo, tramp, MILF, DILF, and middle-managment paper-pusher wants something that translate into their hopes and dreams. Soemthing to make them look introspective and edgy. Something that makes them look like more than themselves. In a way, I want that too. I guess.

What is probably even more popular than totally twee and hipster body modification (besides Affliction shirts and looking like a dime-bag sleaze with skunk-colored flat-ironed hair) is supporting small business, by buying things from places like Etsy online, or trying your best to buy apple-bourbon-cornflake fritter-goat cheese ice cream from a local computer-programmer/turned ice creamer that has a knack for making flavours that supercede "Superman" icecream. While there tattoo empires like the ones that are featured on LA Ink and whatever that other show is where everyone looks like they've taken seven hours to get ready to go to work and have a really fucking awesome time, tattoo shops are the pinnacle of small business ownership. You've got a really small staff of supposedly talented people that have thrown-off the chains of big business's oppression and are going to make their livelihood out of selling body modification to people that want to throw off the chains of whatever kind of oppression they've got going on by getting some kind of body modification that they'll surely place strategically, in order to still be employable in the cube (myself included on this one). It's a cluster-fuck, but it's better than buying your recycled bamboo sheets at Wal-Mart, right? The key, though, that tattoo shops seem to miss about being a small business: customer service. While this isn't the kind of business that forces you to rim all of your customers in the way that businesses like Starbucks, etc., do, a little bit of organization, decorum, professionalism and basic human kindness can go a long way in making a profitable and admirable business that is still standing when body modification is less fad-ulous. Maybe, too, try keeping a date-book and maintaining website...thanks.

I've heard, time after time, about how they've been burned in 'x' situation, or how this dude did 'y' and now they don't take checks or some other ridiculous policy. Somehow, I fail to see how those people's inadequacies are really my problem and why I should be privvy to some blanket policy because some drug-addict stiffed you five years ago. I can venture to bet that you probably hate that kind of predjudice when it is exerted upon you. Remember that the next time you can't be bothered to turn down your screamo-y "Bullet in my Forehead my guts spilling out on your newly restored Chesterfield," (or whatever those bands are called that have all of those ugly neon t-shirts at Hot Topic for three-hundred dollars) and talk to me about something that I'd like to have done. You know what, I can extend this message to any kind of service I've ever received at a tattoo shop.

There are people that often frequent tattoo shops even when they're not getting anything modified,those people that bring fifteen friends with them when they're getting a tattoo and those tattoo artists that have girlfriends that look like prostitutes that never seen to have any gentlemen callers to entertain. All of these people are annoying and don't make the tattoo shop any money...but still, they're allowed to loiter with unmitigated gall: smoking cigarettes right in the doorway so that I smell like American Spirits when I leave (thanks a lot!). I guess my problem in receiving any kind of appropriate service or communication from an average tattoo shop is that I fall into none of the above categories. Because I don't look like tarted-up skeletal remains, a paint-by-number coloring book or a tackle box, I must not be a legitimate customer that understands the "vision" of their methods of body modification. You know what, you're totally right. Much like the last tattoo shop I visited, where really classy guy in front of me wanted a Papa Smurf tattoo, I am not the kind of person that frequents these places and makes it my business to try be "cool," like that dude that's getting a half-sleeve of skeletons coming out of a rockabillyish, naked Pandora's "box."

Part of people a small business owner is being able to read people and respond to their needs accordingly. In fact, that's the goal over every business. I fail to see why tattoo shops feel as though they've escaped this basic part of every other businesses' model. Please, explain it to me. That's probably the most irritating of all of the complaints that I have. Tattoo artists present this sort of flippant and very blase attitude about everything that you could ever want to be tattooed on your body, unless you give them complete and utter freedom to do whatever they want and don't critique them about any drawings or suggestions that they give. WHAT?!  Cut the attutide buddy, before I rip the "Prince Albert," right off of your body. The next time that I suggest a scent to someone at the candle shoppe and they don't like it...I'm going to try out this behavior on my customer and see how things go down.

Be reliable. If you say you're going to do something, do it by the time that you've given yourself. I'm not asking for something overnight, but you've set the parameters for your own business, not me. If you say you're going to be open, you better be there. If you have a website/facebook page/email address, respond to the messages that I send. I have to shower and be at work sober...so should you. If body modification is ever to become something that is accepted in mainstream society (it's practically there, although some SAHM's still use butterfly and purple rose tattoos as a means of rebelling against the fact that they hate the life that they so desperately wanted before they actually had children), then tattoo shop owners must create their own legitimacy.

With all of my anger and resentment at the tattooing industry as a whole, I'm sure that there are owners and artists that don't run this kind of show. I just haven't met them, tried to email them, called them or tried to set-up an appointment or get a drawing done of a custom tattoo I've wanted for three years. If you're reading this and you're a tattoo artists and you can actually keep your shit together, bravo! Send me a message and maybe I can give you my money. I mean, that's the bottom-line isn't it? They must not need my money that badly.

When I want a cup of coffee and I can't make it myself, I go to a coffeeshop and there's no hassle about what kind of coffee you want, if you want a work-up of the coffee with an estimate for how much it's going to cost, that you need to put down a deposit on the coffee and wait a year for an appointment to receive the coffee or how you've got to wade through a dozen hangers-on blowing organic, hand-rolled cigarette smoke in your face, talking about all of the awesome coffee that they've had in the past. You just buy the coffee and drink the coffee. That's it.

Whatever...I'm done with this topic. Working hard is for every other small business owner. You guys must've gotten a carte-blanche and didn't tell me about it.

Retro Frou Frou

One of our Christmas card photos: circa 2007.



Happy Holidays!

Pumpkin Butter Cranberry Chutney Apple Fruitcake Twig Potpourri

So I went to Volant, PA yesterday. I'd heard that it was a fancy place to spend a Sunday, even though I should've probably waited until it wasn't hotter than Hades. I found this photo of what I want Volant to look like. So upon first inspection, Volant looks like a cute little creekside town smattered with pretty houses that have been converted into pretty shoppes with porch swings, curtains, and lots of things that smell.

This morning, I was looking in my purse for my awesome Clinique Black Honey lip gloss and all I could smell was that smell. That smelly smell. That smelly smell that smells smelly.

Working in the candle shoppe, I'm the victim of a lot of smells that I don't want to smell. (Who wants a candle that smells like Banana Cream Pie? Dear GAWD)? None, though, are as offensive as the smell that comes from country prim stores. It's like a mixture of those grubby candles that always smell like vanilla buttercream and fake peaches or pumpkin, lacquered twigs, silk flowers and lots and LOTS of outdated potpourri. It's like the candle shoppe married the craft store and had millions of really fragrant babies.

I should clarify, country prim is lovely if you like that kind of thing. I like looking at country prim and thinking about what it would be like to have the kind of house that would be charmed-up with country prim, but I don't buy country prim and I don't want to SMELL like country prim.

Why, you ask, did I go to Volant? I've been trying to do something different every week. The Furry Convention once week, Pride Parade the next and if Nemacolin Woodlands Resort wasn't $400/night, I'd go there, too. (Who do they think they are, anyway? They're in PENNSYLVANIA. HELLO?!) Doing something that I've never done before has really helped me deal with the day-in and the day-out of missing Dustin and juggling the household chores and goings-on.

I was hoping for more antique stores/junk shops full of retro junk or a old-fashioned, but completely functional, percolator. Instead, I got a lot of crinkly snowman faces painted on fenceposts.

I did get some Highlander Grogg, though, and that was awesome. This flavour reminds me of mornings hanging out with Mr. Dustin.  I'm not a huge fan of flavoured coffee, but this one is exceptional. In my new (and unfortunately brand new) percolator, this is quite a treat.

Break out your bagpipes and don your kilts. This butterscotch and Irish cream flavor is sure to bring out the Scot in anyone.

Highlander Grog is one our oldest and most popular flavors. A very creamy, rich butterscotch flavor. Maple, butterscotch, yummy.

Don't let people dissuade you from the percolator. Coffee snobs say that it doesn't work with high-end coffee, but with the right grind and knowing your place in the world, it's delicious. If it's good enough for your grandparents, it's good enough for you...so remove that stick from your ass and have a cup of coffee for chrissakes.

I've seen some wonderful recipes featuring this coffee. I may have to check it 'aht! Well, not this one. It has chocolate in it.

From this awesome site!

Marbled Mocha Highlander Grogg Cupcakes

makes 24

3 oz bittersweet chocolate

3 3/4 cups cake flour

1/2 cup Highlander Grogg coffee beans, ground

seeds of 1 vanilla bean

2 Tbsp baking powder

1 tsp salt

2 cups granulated sugar

2 sticks organic butter, softened

4 large organic eggs, at room temperature

1 Tbsp pure vanilla extract

2 tsp coffee extract

2 Tbsp bourbon

1 1/3 cups milk

Frosting:

2 sticks organic butter at room temperature

4 cups powdered sugar

2 Tbsp milk

2 tsp coffee extract

Tbsp pure vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Place liners in two 12 cup standard muffin tins. Melt chocolate and set aside. In a medium mixing bowl, mix together the flour, coffee grounds, vanilla bean, baking powder, and salt, and set aside. In a large bowl, cream the butter and sugar together on medium high speed until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time and beat well after each addition. Add extracts and bourbon and mix until incorporated. Add flour mixture in 3 additions, alternating with milk until all is added, and well blended. Divide batter into approximately half mix chocolate into one half until well blended. Drop batter into muffin tins alternating plain and chocolate, then swirl with a toothpick. Bake at 350 for 20 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, but do not over bake. Cool completely on a rack before frosting. To frost cupcakes, place butter in a large bowl, and beat with an electric mixer until light and fluffy. Add about 2 Tbsp milk, the coffee extract and vanilla extract. Beat until combined, then add powdered sugar about a cup at a time until frosting is a spreadable consistency. You may need more then the 4 cups, and if it becomes too thick add a little milk. Spread frosting atop cupcakes and serve!

When You're Driving Home from Volant, PA.

Nick and Phyllis

One of the only good parts about the summertime is garage sales. While the thrift store is alive and well all the days of the year, the garage sale is a seasonal animal that begins to rear its head in the end of spring and beds down in the early fall.

Because I now have a cube job that affords me the "opportunity" to be out of work when everyone else in the "free" world is, I find that my Saturday mornings, for the most part, are available for the treasure hunting. This was the first Saturday this year that I got up early enough to bother. I was out the door by 800am!

What I've found is that most people like to think that they have good stuff to sell, when in all actuality they have crap that I don't want. This list includes the following:

1. Baby items (if you have a bunch of baby clothes, you should have to put that on the signs that you hang up or the ads that you place).
2. Various broken or outdated pieces of exercise equipment.
3. Broken or warped Ikea furniture (as Gina pointed out, why would I buy this when I can spend ten more dollars and get a brand new one that doesn't have a coffee ring on it?).
4. A CD Tower of ANY kind.
5. Ceramic ducks or geese with country blue bows.
6. Particle board microwave carts.

Anyway, I found an Estate Sale in the newspaper, collected Gina and found my way to streets of Brentwood. When we finally got to the house, we opened the door and found a sale that was organized by one of those professional companies that sells items for families that don't want to deal with the items that have been collected by their loved ones over the years. Immediately, a smell of Anise pizzelles filled my nose. You know, the kind that your grandmother used to make at Christmastime that smelled divine and tasted horrifying (unless you like Anise, of course). I could tell, by so many of the items, that this was a lifetime of items and memories. Specifically, there were two plates, that were clearly handmade, that showed the names Nick and Phyllis. While part of me was madly in love with all of the vintage and retro items that this household contained, part of me was so upset by the notion that I was in this woman's house and rifling through the items that she cared for throughout her life. It seemed as though the door was thrust open and everything was left as it was when they were alive, but instead of "a place for everything and everything it its place," it seemed as though time had stood still and price tags were affixed. Devastating.

In the half an hour that we spent in that house, I really grew to love Phyllis and I really grew to hate her relatives for letting her home by ransacked by strangers. Where was her family? Why was I buying her coffee mug that said, "The Democratic Women's Club Christmas 1975?" I found some great plastic Christmas tschotskes, and I'm leaving them up forever...because then I've got the opportunity to think of Phyllis. Someone should. I also purchased a vintage chopper that is reminiscent of the slap chopper of today, but actually works and self-contains, so that you don't have to try to find a chopping board and the whole nine yards just to slap a few walnuts. Thanks Phyllis, because I'm happy to share your memory in this kitchen item, as well as the memory of my gram's own walnut chopping.

The whole thing was horrible and wonderful and...why can't I even go to an estate sale without having an emotional experience?

After we left Phyllis and Nick, we visited a giant thrift store that is notorious for having shady patrons, no dressing rooms and crappy parking. We did, however, manage to happen upon a great half-off sale. I actually found some wonderful Miss Marple-esque dress shoes that will go swimmingly with the shirt that I purchased last week. For only three dollars, these are quite a steal! With the right skirt and cardigan, I'll have quite a wonderful outfit that reaches well outside my comfort zone. I might even be mistaken for a woman.

With a shine and a new set of laces, they'll be as if they were new!

There is this part of me, even several hours later, that is dying to go back and buy more of the memories that are Nick and Phyllis, but I won't. Some things are better left as they are.