That’s a Lovely Set of Pomelos Ya Got There!

 

I needed to go to the farmers market today so I recruited my friend Tams who has a food blog and she was willing to go with me.  Upon arrival, right out of the cage we saw two old people unloading their electric scooters and sporting twin “I love Jesus” baseball caps, which struck me as odd that they didn’t smile or greet us when we said hello.  (Probably spent all their love on Jesus and had none left for regular people).  Right away we were captivated by what looked like the biggest-ass grapefruits we had ever seen!  We asked what they were and unexcitedly we were told they were Pomelos.  They taste sweet and just a tad like a grapefruit, we bought two.  Tams, a foodie, was there to take pics for her blog “Flip Flop Foodie” and she asked the gal, “What do you do with them?” (as in, share some creative culinary uses for this magical citrus delight!)   The vendor looked at her like, “wtf do you THINK you do with it!  You can cram it up your ass for all I care!”  On to the booth where they sell the tiny little crinkle knit shiny tops that could fit folded into a matchbox.  Down the produce aisle, a vendor quizzed Tams about where her bag was for the Pomelos (like she had stolen them), she quickly found me and bummed a bag off the sock lady booth.  At the sock booth we were hacking around taking pics of the pomelos.  (Tammy made a lovely set of knockers for herself and we spoofed the Twilight apple shot)  The sock booth man became very interested in the Pomelos that he must see 100 times a day and asked us about them..after seeing us take boob shots with them I was afraid he was going to try to buy us a funnel cake and ask for a hummer.  I do love the sock booth…you can get like 100 pair of “real” Nike socks  for two bucks and this is valuable to me because my younguns go through them like Kleenex.

We stopped at the god-awful-gawdy “miracle” comb both that had the smallest mannequin head ever, made with real  hair weave, when the clerk was all up in our business like we were going to steal them.  I really was there to crack on them but the clerk killed my erection for making fun of them since she was almost glued to my ass.  Last stop was the tweezer, dental instrument, scissor man booth where all of Polk’s dental do-it-yourselfer’s  get the goods.   I asked the man about uses for a 12” bent tweezer and he told me:  Motor cycle part grabber, aquarium cleaner and pasta tester.. c’mon dude…we both know they are for meth cooking and  for bootleg organ harvesting.  The afternoon produced 2 pomellos, 2 pics, a sack of strawberries and some cherry tomatoes which I sat on in the car.

Good times.

Once Urine, Twice You’re Out

For more than a dozen years my office has been in the “Historic” (homeless) district filled with quaint shoppes, brick -paved streets and the dude on the bike with urine.  The first time I met him was 10 years ago.  I had just got out of the car and  was burdened with a purse, briefcase and a box of files and teetering on cute but unsmart shoes in the metered parking lot downtown.  Briskly and much like a ninja this grown-ass man on a kids bike scrambled up to me like a crackhead tornado and he said, “Hey ladyladylady, give me all your money or I am gonna throw all this pee on you!”  In his free hand  was a cup of yellow liquid with a rubberbanded  tin foil for a lid. I dropped everything and gave him all my cash…and I mean every red cent..and it was all the money I had to my name for a week (and I had small children to feed…does that make it worse?  Good!  Because that’s how it was!)  He left and I picked up all of my thrown belongings and walked to my office with my heart racing and aching that he had taken all the money I had, even though it was not a large amount.

Pitiful, huh?

Fast forward to April of this year after I had been called into the office to hear that our doors were closing that day.  I left in the sunlight wondering what I was going to do.  Up rolls this guy on the bike (probably a different guy by now but the same scam).  “Hey ladyheyladyladylady!” he screamed, ushering me to attention. “Give me what you got for money right now or I am gonna throw this pee all over you!”  I threw everything down except my purse and I rared my head back and just belted out, “HHHHEEEEEEEEEELLLLPPPPPP!”  It was so loud that I think I burped in the process and it sounded like a lion’s roar!  His face was priceless.  He was afraid.  I said, “Bring it, BITCH!  Let’s go!  What cha got!?!?”  I was a crazy woman! I even think I was trying to pull off one of those Fred Sanford fancy footwork boxing deals..I dunno, I was in a zone. (Mind you, this was 100 feet from the police station).   My would-be assailant scooted off faster than Moody’s goose.  I gathered my things from the pavement and walked bravely to my car, feeling fearless and amused.  I knew I would be okay.

P.S.  The photo is not my actual would-be assailant, I think it’s of of them Walberg boys.

What a Heiffer will do for Weigh-In Day

effie

Today was my 1 week weigh-in day at Weight Watchers. I joined last week with a friend (her idea). I showed up for weigh in (she did not). In my planning of how to make the most of this day I wore the lightest clothes I could find. For good measure I put on a brand new pair of compression (torture drawers) panties that go clear up to my bra. I used the word compression lightly. What I really meant to say is that they were so hard to get on that I felt the fat surge up to my eyelids. I was so mad because those people (Walmart) must have mis-sized those jokers and put a small pair onto that hanger and sold them to me! Over them I wore some light weighed goucho-sorta-deal that forgot to land at my waist and spent the whole day north at the bra-line too. I prayed that I would make it through the day without dying because I know the paramedics would have a big time taking pictures of me for their Facebook pages with all of my clothes resting at my bra and them not being able to get it off of me without cutting them and having to do rock, paper, scissors to see would have the duty of cutting them and run the risk of a slingshot effect of my flubber.

Those panties are mean. Sinister. The whole reason why I bought them was to use as bathing suit bottoms under my new bathing suit top (tent). I decided that I would rather wear cowboy chaps to the beach (and nothing else) than to have to spend a day in the hot sun and sand with those unrelenting scratchy-ass britches! I did “save” them however, for when I am lighter. (That’s unless they get outlawed or the rapture comes before my “lighter” days happen)

You must be wondering about my weigh-in? I stepped right up there, took off my sweater, earrings, shoes, necklace, and rings. The weigh in lady looked at me like she didn’t trust that I wasn’t gonna get buck-ass-nekked. They didn’t kick me out. I get to come back next week and give them $13.

Lizard in the Bed

lizard

It happened.
Our dog, who loves to chase lizards has run one of those damned things into my bedroom. I considered moving or setting the house on fire but I decided to take an antihistamine and go dead to bed instead hoping that the meds would put me into an anti-reptile sensory coma. No such luck. I inspected every corner of my bed an pillows, no sign of that green bastard. I looked around the room for any sign of that Geico-looking-son-of-a-gun. Nothing. I sealed my ass up in that bed and was so tucked in that I was collecting condensation under the sheets. Sleep came.
2:00 a.m.. I bolted up with the strangest tickle on my décolletage. I started flappin’ and slappin’ my chest and undercarriage so hard that I literally snatched a knot on myself. I flung every stitch of clothes off and sprinted through the house screaming “Oh GOD! It’s Got Me!” The dog, awoken at his post in the family room, thought I was a chubby naked intruder in the dark and bit me right on the ass. The bite broke my run and I remembered that the wall made a “splat” as my first round of titty-slaps sent Mr. Lizard into space.
Beat up, bitten and unclothed I went back to my room to see if I could find him. He was gone. I decided I’d spend the next few nights on the couch and wait for him to be eaten by the dog. They deserve each other.

Topless Tuesday at the Thrift

toplessI am late for everything.  I have two teen sons, a full time job (I call it my “Big girl job”), the Vintage Warehouse space and have a full load at USF.  So what that means is that when I am somewhere…somewhere else is a sufferin’.  I have to work extra hard at everything to get it done and that includes scoring my good junk and antiques to paint.  And before you get your thong in a wad, I am not all about painting great-Aunt-Gerties prized Berkey and Gay buffet that has been in the family 3 generations.  I am about getting a half sanded buffet that Jolene is selling for her crack habit.  (I am kidding about the crack but it’s funny to say so I do).  I haul these half sanded junkerz in and they roll back out like they have had Botoxx and a full-on ass-lift.  So, I see it as a service to it.

At any rate…   I rolled up to one of my face honey holes (I can’t tell you where or I’ll have to take you out) and on the step were these tops…a bikini, a ragged out bra and a push up bra.  Panic came over me as I feared it was Topless Tuesday at the honey hole and here I was knocking these A and B cups straight out of the game.  A tingle rushed up as I knew that if this were a contest for a discont that I WAS GONNA WIN!.  I quickened my step, rushed the door to see every heiffer in there with a shirt on.  Dang… I had missed it again… me and my full schedule.

What It Weren’t

Sometimes I allow myself to get lost on the junk-route and make turns and twitsts all about. (I have a GPS, I can get home). One such day I went the back way behind the mines (phosphate) and started day dreaming. Before I knew it I was in the middle of these small clap board homes that were a hundred years old. The homes were oddly similar and although kept up, not much life showing around the area. I knew that these were heritage places, where milk cans were stools and chickens were pets and dinner.
Recently, I was told by a friend that I don’t wear enough makeup. I said, “Listen bitch, I wear a gob..it just gets rubbed off all damned day long!”. She didn’t buy it so lately I have really been trying to whore-it-up, make-up wise, and this was one of those days.
I digress… So, even though I was only like 40 minutes from my house I felt worlds away. I saw an old lady wearing one of those apron smock deals full of clothes pins hanging her laundry on a clothes line and in her yard, all growed up in weeds was an old iron bed. I pulled over.
I introduced myself to the lady who was about 70 and plump with wild ass hair and was wearing those turn of the century shoes with a heel and the apron and capris with martini glasses embroidered on them. My mind wandered as I wondered what motivated this old gal to get up and dress like”Deliverance Goes to Stein Mart” but in a skinny minute Wichitaw’s (her name, no lie) hubby rounded the corner all puffed up like a rooster just a gettin’ it with his cane and pointed index finger. He was all wanting to know who I was and where I was fromand why was I wearing more face paint than a street walker  and who sent me and did I have kin there and if’n my Daddy worked for the government and would I be staying overnight. I was like, “Hold on there, Poppi, I just wanted to ask about the bed frame you got all up in the weeds”. Wichitaw told the old man to go get him some chew and set a spell inside where the fan was cool. Turns out Wichitaw and the old guy are Common Law spouses. (Whatever that means). Evidently, he told her in 1960 that he had cancer and if she’d be his old lady (and take care of hom) she stood to get a lot of money when he died. So Wichitaw cooked and cleaned and sewed and gardened and ironed and scrubbed and toiled for now going on 52 years living in a house the size of a postage stamp. I asked Wichitaw if she loved him and if the amount of money (yes, I wanted to know how much) was going to be worth spending her whole life at the clothesline and if she minded cutting off chickens heads to eat for supper- you know, the general “getting-to-know-ya” run down of questions. She told me that he was worth “a quater million on paper and another 50 in land”. I thought to myself that 50 million plus was not a bad retirement plan. Then she said, “What it weren’t was cancer. He ain’t got no cancer. He is gonna outlive me.” I shuddered a little bit in the hot sun and wondered that if I stayed there too long would I get sucked in too. Wichitaw said I could have the bed she originally put it out there 30 years ago as a “flower bed”. She said ain’t been flower one it in ever since. Well I sure as hell didn’t want it and it’s bad JuJu. I got up out of there and haven’t made a rouge junk wander in weeks.

Mystery Disease

where good stuff lives..

Lots of cool stuff happening here at Shabby Chic Addiction!  Did I tell you I was asked for a radio interview about how I got started in the yummy decor and goodie business?  (Only a hundred times?!?!?) Well now, you must hear it for yourself!  You’ll find my interview segment starting at minute 20:10. Que it up so you won’t have to listen to people who have nothing to say about junk or shabby chicness or decorating. http://view.liveindexer.com/ViewIndexSessionSL.aspx?indexPointSKU=5L82bV9S4UfAZgwaEY0%2fmQ%3d%3d

That interview was fun and I learned something about myself un the process!  I had it in my head that I have always been a junker, a shabby magnet, if you will.  The interviewer said she had watched me over just the last year after I proclaimed to her that I was going to change my house to a romantic shabby chic look.  And it all started with my headboard!

Speaking of headboards…  look at the picture of one of our vignettes at the warehouse!  This is just a tiny corner of the joint!  I can’t share any more than this pic because we haven’t finished sorting, staging or preparing for our sale.  Our plan is to make it a monthly junk purge set to the tune of  the Sanford & Son’s TV theme song.  April 20, 21 and 22 will be the first. But enough of this shameless self-promotion!

And on to a more serious topic:  The MYSTERY Disease. First, let me tell you what it’s not:

Not Snookie-Preggers  (the kind of pregnant when you ALREADY feel sorry for the baby)

Not the Sundrop Dance disease (where you dress and dance like you never wish to get laid again…ever.)  www.sundrop.com  see the “Drop it like it’s hot commercial”  Hot, yes…hot mess!

Not Middle Aged Zumba-itis (Where you are 40+ and insist on going to zumba classes with full-on head to toe zumba logo embellished clothing.  It’s sad..Don’t.

These are the true symptoms of the MYSTERY disease:

1.  You wake up with an idea to find old shutters and paint them in a haphazard manner to use them as a corner accent in your home.

2.  You drive 46 miles around your town on the hunt for abandoned shutters to paint.

3.  You are excited for garbage day in the historic district in hopes to get good junk before the city hauls it away.

4.  You learn to breathe through your mouth so you don’t notice the musty smells of old things.

5.  You start calling dust and rust “patina” and consider everything with it much more attractive and valuable.

6.  The bright lights of the discount mega stores begin to hurt your eyes and sensibilities. (I call it Junk Vampirism).

7.  You happily trade your only day available to sleep in late for an early rise to go “pick” at yard sales and flea markets.

8.  You consider used layers of lace and denim with cowgirl boots as appropriate garb to wear to the grocery, a flea market or even an evening out.

Ladies:  If you have identified with any of the 8 symptoms above you may be at risk for the mystery disease.  Unfortunately there is no cure.  Victims with a severe case can expect to experience frustrated husbands who are constantly asked to move furniture, fix old junk and endure mismatched pillowcases and frilly bed linens.   This disease may alienate you from friends who are creeped out by patina.  The good news about your disease is that you will be very happy with your treasures, you will make new girlfriends who love patina and you will crave the thrill and adventure of a dumpster full of vintage furniture and finds.

Oh, and it’s contagious, and I have it..so with computer viruses and such..Get Well Soon!  🙂

Pause

The above video is the theme song to my drive-bys, pick ups and midnight junk runs.

This is a song we Zumba to. (Zumba:  a dance class for crazy people who think they look like Usher and Janet Jackson dancing when they really look like Cee Lo on meth.)

At any rate… This is the song I hear in my head when I am on a curbside furniture rescue. I prefer to call it rescue and NOT theft.

It’s sometimes a surprise as to what is lurking in the forgotten corners of abandoned or thrift purchased furniture. Just this week I came across these tidbits:

1.)  In a set of 1950’s french provincial night stands:  1 pair of tweezers and a pair of cuticle snips, a lace hanky and a picture of someones ass. Literally, a picture of someone’s ass~ circa 1960.

2.)  In a dresser:  A fake fingernail and  2 hits of acid on stamped paper.

3.)  In a roadside rescue dresser:  A crayon,  a nickel, a twenty-dollar bill, all wadded up and stuck between drawers… and  a tooth.

4.)  In a cabinet: A shoe lace,  cassette tape of David Bowie, a chicken foot and a  cowboy boot.

So, with these little details I have assumed that many people who I cosmically or financially transact my furniture from are an eclectic group of  highly groomed, drug addic,t voo doo enthusiasts with a flair for country western?  Also, I figure I am up $20.05 , two hits of acid and an ass picture.  Surely the street value of the latter two would be worth at least a ten spot.  (KIDDING…..I WOULD NEVER SELL THEM ON THE STREET!  That’s what Craigslist is for…)

It does take some doing to figure outl what all is left behind in a piece of furniture.  You see, it shifts in transit and things become visible again when once they were hidden.  The tooth and the fingernail, both gag-worthy items, came rolling out at me like marbles when I pulled out the drawers.  I handled them with tongs that I have rigged up with spongy grip so I don’t have to touch them.  The single tooth did help me understand the mystery of so many toothless people in my county.  (Evidently the tooth fairy is heinous and just yanks and stashes teeth in furniture so that her quota doesn’t go over… something like that.)  I imagine the press-on nail became a resident of the night stand on a drunken evening when lady and her man were having a squabble about which youngun pulled up all the onions she was growing in the yard and chucked them into the above ground pool.  I imagine that the argument grew hotter and in the midst of her finger-waving monologue about how there. “Won’t gonna be no damned onion rings at Skeeter Mae’s birfday party!” that the one nail flew off and hid in the drawer next to her Lucky Strikes and Vaseline.

So, I am replacing the song, “Pause” by Pitbull (Video attached) with a shout out to my boy David Bowie as I blare the cassette (turned MP3) song “Let’s Dance”  and deem it my new FAS (Furniture Acquisition Song).

Anybody want to buy a cowboy boot?  Size 10. Mens.

My pulls were once knotted telephone cords