Grin and Bare It278RVVF85BGY

I work in a small consignment store.

There are a few men that come into the store. Pretty fucking amazing men frankly. Men that think outside of the norm when it comes to shopping. Men that are curious and stay because it's awesome. Men that are stuck there with their wives (I'll never in a million years figure that one out - go home - go to the Home Depot - go anywhere but following your wife around looking like an idiot). Men that are gay and therefore (in a sweeping general sense) more savvy to shopping. Men that consign.

I had a guy come in yesterday that said, "Your men section is small, like in all consignment stores, but I always find something awesome."

I just nodded and smiled at him. Maybe I even winked. Because he's in. He gets it.

Our store deals with customers and consigners. Clearly that's how it works. Customers come in and shop. Consigners come in and consign. Many of the customers are also consigners. Some consigners would drop dead before they'd shop the store.

The consigners are mainly women. The customers are mainly women.

In the past few weeks:

• I was called "her highness" by a disgruntled consigner that doesn't like to follow rules and told me in a Russian accent, "I am so sorry I am not up to your standards your highness, but I cannot follow the rules because I blah blah blah fuckin' blah." Bite me.
• A woman argued with me on a piece of designer clothing that was soiled around the collar. The consigner kept telling me, "This cost a lot of money. Someone will want this. It's a great party outfit. Do you realize who Oscar de la Renta is?" Bite me. First of all, wearing an outfit that makes you look like a piece of wedding cake (sorry Oscar) is heinous; just because it cost lots of "money" doesn't make it good. It's dirty - get the hell out.
• A woman was staring at my name tag and said, "Do you WORK here? When did you start wearing name tags?" Bite me. WTF? She also insisted on wearing a bracelet around the store because, "She wanted to see how it feels. I won't steal it." Yes, of course, she stole it. Get your husband to bite me. I'm guessing it's been a few years since he's had any fun.
• A woman stomped her foot and pouted when told she couldn't leave all of her stuff for consigning and go have lunch. "I'm late! Can't you just do this?" Bite me. Get in line. And plan your day better.
• A woman walked out in a huff saying, "I am not bringing stuff here anymore. It never sells." Bite me. Her stuff was usually pity-takes; which, frankly, I don't condone.
• A woman who had to tell me a story about every pieced she brought in. Bite me. What the hell do I care? Do you see the consigners waiting their turn behind you?
• A customer brought a pile of stuff up to the counter, said she was ready, and then while I was organizing her items, she's still deciding. "Oh! Maybe I should try that on again! Let me think about it. Oh, I saw a top - let me run get it." Bite me. People are stacking up behind you. Decide before you come to checkout.
• A customer indignantly marched up to the front of the store exclaiming, "Who put that top away I was looking at?" Bite me. WTH are you talking about? She found it. Right where she left it. Sigh
• A consigner that has consigned one piece of clothing and calls every day to see if it's sold. Frets every time she's told, "not yet." Bite me. There are thousands of pieces in this store. Not all of them sell.

I tell Pup stories every day when I come home from work. He laughs his ass off and can't believe what he's hearing most of the time.

It makes me feel good to laugh along with him because, hey, you have to laugh!

But for now, I'm buying myself the hugest tiara I can find and changing my name-tag to "Her Highness."

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Who Are You?

What is this place called Fashion Plate? The blog with the name-that-makes-no-sense?

Am I a fashion-blogger? Nope.
Am I a design-blogger? Nope.
Am I a mommy-blogger? Nope.
Am I a funny-blogger? Nope.
Do I write poems? Nope.
Do I write life-lessons? Nope.
Do I photograph awesome stuff? Nope. Not much anyway.

What the hell do I do?

• I twist my hair like it's my job.
• I stand in the middle of rooms and wonder where to start.
• I laugh abruptly.
• I cry easily.
• I procrastinate as though I'm training for a competition.

I kind of meander along. Scattered a bit.

Um, yeah. Note flip-flops and awesome pedicure.

This is why I love the fall season. It is a beginning to me. The season marks the beginning of all the new fall fashions, all the new fall television shows (come on - we know it's fun to watch a few new ones), all the new fall classes, all the new fall students returning to school, all the projects to list down that couldn't be done during the hot summer season.

Leaves get picked up, gardens get plucked, cars get vacuumed and scrubbed, windows in houses get cleaned. Shiny and new and lovely as a new penny.

What are you about? What is your favorite season?

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How Many Pups Can I Have?

I call my darling husband "Pup" on this blog.

When I started the blog I wanted a name for him and "Pupcake" popped into my head. It seemed to fit him perfectly! And, of course, I thought I was brilliant for thinking of it.

I didn't think of it! My dear friend, Teri, called her darling husband Pupcake and while I had not forgotten about them, I had certainly forgotten that she had penned that original nickname. I'm telling you! I bet over HALF of what I say and think has been plagiarized! I'm a word-thief!

I know; we all are to some extent. We take things we've heard, read, seen, and shake some of our personal sea salt on them and put it on the table. "Nummy Deborah! You are the best!" Deep inside I'm a thief.

Creative thinking my hooches!

In a not too distant past life I'm a graphic designer. Ideas never came over easily to me. If I had to come up with something right out of my ass I'd have to hunker down with stuff I had collected (inspiration folder I always called it - I'm so clever!) and shut my office door and start brainstorming - and alone when I was working my corporate job.

A few hours later, hopefully, I'd have a few ideas to present to my manager and we'd cull it down to the one that would work. Then I'd get designing. It was always painful. The thinking of it, not the execution of it.

On other fronts in my life I have no problem with inspiration. Decorating is painless. Clothes styling is instant. Vignetting is a see-in-my-head process. Even writing is like pooping. It just happens.

But graphic design; painful.

I was waaaaay better at the building of the project. I ROCK at that part. I was way better at the collaborative projects than the alone-with-my-thoughts projects. I had a job where we were a huge team of art directors, writers, project managers, photographers, and production artists. Awesome process. When I worked alone; hard to jump start.

Back to Pupcake. He is now, happily I might add, Pup to me on this blog. And how many Pups do I need to make a blog?

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Querulous

I looked up the spelling of this word yesterday for a completely different reason, and then came to the realization that this is exactly how I spent the summer.

Granted, I have spent the past five-plus months at The Tumbler in a smallish, unventilated room that is not air conditioned; sharing it with a large, heat-producing, fume-spewing, cranky-ass printer along with an overheated iMac.

Yes, I would sweat all day and usually around 3:00 in the afternoon was so exhausted that by the time I went home I was querulous. I wasn't pretty.

Plenty of people have worked in places that are not air conditioned. I'm certain plenty of people have had it MUCH worse. But, this described issue, along with many many more I won't go into (I wrote a hilarious, yet mean, job description for them to put in their next ad. I only shared it with one of the other designers.) made me think, "Hey! Life is fucking short. This isn't working for me."

Querulous. I didn't even know that's what I was.

One night I walked into the house and Pup bounded out from the office - so excited to have me home from the day's work.

"What's for supper dahline"?

I put my bags down and wanted to cry.

Instead I turned on him and screeched, "You eat four things! Pick one"!

Of course it's true that Pup only eats four things. No reason to be a beast. No reason to let my querulous ways explode on him.

I'm out just a few days from The Tumbler and the fresh air is so sweet! I'm happier than a clam. I have no idea what the hell that means, but I am.

I even made Pup one of the four things he eats for supper last night. Smooches my Pup. He was never querulous while I was going through all of this. He was simply supportive and when I decided I had had enough and had taken a different, not-so-fiscally-beneficial job, he didn't even blink. He just supported.

Love that man of mine. It's true, he only eats four things and that pisses me off from time to time, but he's my soft place to land and what could be more important than that?

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Hot Men Friday

The new year is nearly here.

I'm excited for the new year. I feel very sanguine about the coming year. That all by itself is a pleasing feeling (More than a Feeling - sigh - I still love Boston). I haven't had that particular pleasure for a bit of time. So,

"Hello delight - where the fuck have you been? I've been very sad and lackluster without you."

As most of us bloggers/writers know, even though we share a slice of ourselves to anyone who stumbles onto our blog, there is, like an iceberg, much more below our surface.

We don't really know what motivates some bloggers to be endlessly entertaining, we don't know the creative force behind some of the brilliant fashion and decorating blogs out there, we don't entirely know the process behind those thoughtful and provoking blogs we love, and we don't know what could motivate a blogging-asshole. We just don't know. We think we do. But we don't.

For instance, the face I show here in my blog is a mostly happy face. I am mostly a happy girl. With that is the mostly dark girl as well. I kinda like the dark girl, but I never want to foster her because, truth be told, she can scare the shit out of me from time to time.

So, on this forum, for me, I let the happy girl out. But never confuse upbeat with weak.

We bloggers are a convex and rectilinear sort and to ever assume you can know what to expect - well, that could get your arse in a vice. That's what keeps me coming back. Isn't it fun not really knowing?

Happy New Year my friends. I am embracing the great and gristle. It keeps it interesting!

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Chris Noth

 

 

 

 

 

I have a thing for big, dark, men. I kinda love a bit of fluff and especially love a goofy grin and broody face. That juxtaposition sends a Bullet to, if not my heart, then someplace I can't talk about here. Yes, I said it. I'm not ashamed. Don't lie peeps, you all do it too

I am a great big Sex and the City fan. I own the deluxe boxed set and love to pull out episodes from time to time. Some of my favorite scenes are with Mr. Big. I loved it when his tanned, smooth, brown, and a tiny bit hairy, chest would be in Carrie's bed.

I'm enjoying The Good Wife for his good guy persona and the underlying bad bad boy that he's trying like hell to squash.

LOVE HIM!

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Observation

Have you noticed all the acronyms in advertising lately?

LBL

ED

UTI

IBS

Millions more yes?

LBL - light bladder leakage. Hmm . . . can the word "light" ever be in the same sentence as "bladder leakage"? I don't think so.

ED - erectile dysfunction. Let's be clear; who's feelings are we trying to not hurt? Shouldn't we really be figuring out why the wiener isn't working?

UTI - urinary tract infection. Oh, let's just not go there - ever.

IBS - irritable bowel syndrome. What does this mean really? Why are anyone's bowels in a bad mood? Can't they just drink vodka?

Every time I turn around (in my princess finery - I spin!) I'm unwillingly listening to a commercial talking about some set of letters I never knew described a "syndrome."

One of my newest peeves is the RLS. Really? Restless legs are now a syndrome?

How about these I am coining?

IIG - irritated in general. Is there a pill for this?

CLIM - can't look in mirror. I am skeered what I'll see first thing in the morning. I know I need a pill for this.

BFH - bastard from hell. The guy on the freeway that refuses to let me merge into traffic. There really should be a treatment for this condition.

Tell me your favorite acronyms! Let's start a revolution!

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Let Me Know When I Get There

I love hipsters. I love their tight jeans, their pale faces, their self-absorbed air, their deeply-rooted shallowness.

The Twin Cities are awash with these types. I generally lump them into a young un crowd because older hipsters aren't hipsters; they're misplaced hippies or somesuch. Real hipsters are young and self-righteous and I love them.

I love watching them, I love noting what they're wearing (so good!), and if I get a chance, I love talking to them. Sometimes they are incredibly smart and informed and sometimes deep as a deep blue puddle. Just like the rest of us.

Remember when you may have had hipster tendencies? Remember when you were filled with self-righteous indignation? It just might be the only thing I miss about being a young un.

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The Club Grunters

Lorenzo (DD2) and I headed with conviction over to the free weight part of our club last night where the grunters live.

This part of the club scares the living hell out of me. It's full of over-muscled men and women that glance at softer versions of the humans they represent with pity and scorn (I could be overstating - ha!).

Okay - but they do look at less muscled peeps with some sort of judging eyes (and they are not even wearing the judging sunnies I need to wear everywhere I go these days). This fear speaks to my state of mind more than it speaks to theirs. Trust me. I'm a fearful girl.

So, we wander over there like we know what we want to do, and we do know what we want to do. We want the 5 and 8 lb free weights to hold while we do some lunges. And we do. It's all cool.

But while we are counting our lunges in our sets we are desperately trying to not listen to the GRUNTING that is going on. Serious sounds coming out of everyone! Red faces contorted and veins bulging. I got scared for a different reason! I thought I was going to have to run and get an attendant.

But no. No one else was concerned about the vocalization going on. What's up with the grunting? Does it help? Is it like bitching about the weather - you just have to do it to blend in?

I kept thinking it was like having a baby in a way. I had two babies with no drugs (hey, it was the 80s). While in labor each time I could feel that if I let go and let the pain take over by screaming I'd never come back. I felt better breathing and staying on top of the pain.

I can't help feeling that lifting is like that. That it would be better for the grunters to breath into their lifting and save that energy expended by grunting and put it into the lift.

But what do I know? I look like this when working out.

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Gym Dandy to the Rescue

So, I've been going to the club on a REGULAR basis for three weeks now. The resolutioners I spoke of are out in lovely abundance. I love each of their chubby butts. Including mine.

I am puzzled a bit though dear readers (you're out there I know it!) - the peeps that are on the stationary bikes, what are they doing exactly? Already I've noticed a select group of the same people on the bikes that are reading the paper. Can you really work hard and read the paper? I know I'm in the gender that can multitask, but reading the paper and sweating just does not seem to go hand in sweaty hand.

But there they sit, reading away. Dudes and Dudettes! Just buy a stationary bike and park it in front of your TV if that's what you want to do.

Already I'm all self-righteous aren't I? I have resolutioners fever.

For me - I'm an elliptical girl. I used to hate that damn machine and ran faithfully to the treadmill. But my ortho guy said elliptical and now I'm getting a bit obsessed about it. Quell surprise! Ha!

So I have my earbuds in, listening to the Rod Stewart that was in The Faces, looking around at my fellow rats.

Observations:

1. A few men who suffer from 70s-itis. No lie. Could those shorts be any shorter??
2. Why all the "skullets"?
3. Fellow chubs wearing sweatshirts. Again, Dude!, you'll be sweating here. You're not fooling anyone
4. All young uns are cute
5. Trainers like me. Because I'm a challenge? My elliptical wit? My bright, shining face that is becoming a regular?
6. Lots of machine-jumpers

Love it!

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