That one time when I was a one-weasel stand

Alternative Title: Part one in a series of stories about how I think I know people that I really don’t

Alternative Alternative Title: The story that makes you afraid to tweet me
Alternative Alternative Alternative Title: The longest post I’ve ever written - I’m sorry
Alternative Alternative Alternative Alternative Title: I just stopped eating carbs, can you tell?

You know how you just know that if one of your exes ever wrote a book, you would have to read it regardless of how badly they treated you or how badly you have convinced yourself they treated you? And how you just know that you would have to order the book online so no one would see you buying it and then you would read it in the bathroom so no one would see you reading it? And how you just know that if someone knocked on the door to ask if you were okay, you would say "I'm constipated" because not being able to poop correctly is less embarrassing than reading a book written by your ex? Well that is exactly what is happening to me right now. Except none of my exes have written a book and the book I’m referring to was actually written by someone I don’t really know but did negotiate 10% off of a dead weasel for and was then given the wam bam thank ya mam. The I have an early morning so it’d be great if you could show yourself out of my twitter stream.  The One. Weasel. Stand. I’m spurned, y’all.

A couple of months ago, I found a lovely taxidermied weasel in an antique store. I sent a tweet to the aforementioned someone as I knew that she had an affinity for dead animals. Of course she wanted to purchase it so I negotiated a 10% discount and asked the shopkeeper to sell the weasel over the telephone. The aforementioned someone put tiny clothes on the gorgeous creature and made shirts and stuff featuring the gorgeous creature to sell to the aforementioned someone’s many fans. She made a weasel post on her blog, referring to me as “a girl on twitter”. I thought she might give me, a new blogger trying to build an audience, a little shout-out. Nothing fancy - just my twitter handle. "@JenOsaurus tweeted me about this here stuffed weasel." But no. Oh well. No bigs. I got over it. Until…

[The aforementioned someone shall be known, for the remainder of this post, as The Girl on the Internet Who Also Wrote A Book (TGOTIWAWAB). But there are so many girls on the internet who also wrote a book - what if this post makes you think TGOTIWAWAB is really awesome and you want to read her blog/follow her tweets – now you won’t know which girl on the internet who also wrote a book she is. Exactly. Except that your probably already know who I'm referring to because she has one billion followers.]

Later I ran into my pal Susan, whose blog I would totally link to if she wrote one, and she told me that the weasel formerly resided in a funeral home. I found this tidbit pretty fantastic so I tweeted it to TGOTIWAWAB. No response. Not even a "that's nice" brush off.  Silencio (look, one of the handful of Spanish words I remember because they are very similar to the English ones). Still no bigs. TGOTIWAWAB is busy. Then…

TGOTIWAWAB took the weasel on her book tour and posted a photograph of some chick who smeared mascara on her face and didn't even try to get the weasel outfit right. Maybelline whiskers gets a photo and I got "a girl on twitter". I feel so used! What did I do wrong? Are we still okay? Friends have spats, right? We’re good?*

I still bought TGOTIWAWAB’s book. Heck, I pre-ordered it. And so far I like it. It’s funny and she gives hope to a socially awkward girl like myself who is much better at communicating via keyboard than via mouth. And apparently Twitter. 

* TGOTIWAWAB and I do not know each other. I just have this weird habit of thinking I know the bloggers I follow regularly. I really did find that flippin weasel though. 

Thrift Score! or The wardrobe section of a homeless man's backpack.

I went thrifting today. This is what happened...

First stop, a thrift store I had not visited since high school something-teen years ago when I dressed like a homeless man. Not that thrift stores only sell stereotypical bum clothes - I just enjoyed looking like I had shopped in the wardrobe section of a homeless man's backpack. I digress. I was shocked at the prices. Shocked! $22 for a crappy old frame? $235 for a beat-up dresser? I'm fairly certain I spotted a dust bunny that was out of my price range. But. I did manage to find two items. A $4 Hawaii-esque painting on VELVET and a $2 wood frame that you will see again soon all painted up and holding a Jen original. 

I took a thrifting break to run in Publix and stock up on prickly pears. A bratty looking dance team was standing outside raising money to perform in Disney World. My heart went out to them. How hard it must be to dance locally when all you want to do is dance at Disney. One of them told me to have a spontaneous day. How exactly am I supposed to have a spontaneous day when you've just instructed me to do so. Now any possible spontaneity will feel contrived. My donation: Vocabulary for Dummies. I don't want the little darling to end up on a pole in a few years. I think I should become an ambassador.

Then I moved on to the Copper Possum, a local antique store that I adore. I found the most delightful "taxidermied weasel on wood". Naturally I tweeted The Bloggess about it. Naturally she bought it via telephone. How do you like them apples Tiny Dancer? I AM having a spontaneous day!

I found a few items for myself too. A mean horse lamp (the lamp is always on in the store - the half burnt up bulb was sold separately - do you believe that!). An ET glass circa 1982. (Jen fact: I watch ET every Christmas.) A couple milk glass vases that I plan to do this with. A birdhouse built by a local craftsman (only $5!). And a sweet little bird planter that looks like the sleepy stepchild of a ceramic bird with blingy eyes that my mom has. I hope that my mom lives longer than I do. In the event that she does not, dibs on that bird. 

The sweet lady [who I had just convinced to sell a dried up weasel over telephone] at the register boxed my items in a booze box, as per usual. Why do antique stores only use booze boxes? I know the neighborhood kids tell their mommy's that the weird lady with the 8ft copper snail in her yard just hauled in another box of hooch.

Finally, while I was writing this post, my first ever ModCloth delivery arrived. I think there are two pretty obvious reasons I won't be wearing this dress to church or work as I had originally planned. Cat sold separately.