Why I Don't Like Holidays...

Hey Y'all.

It's that time of the year again, where the weather turns cold and year is nearing its end. And while most people get glassy eyed and moist mouthed about the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. It's a time of feasting and family and camaraderie and memory-making. The sort of thing that makes a person misty in their twilight years...



At least, that's what I assume for OTHER people, anyway.
Since three am this morning, it's been nothing but work for me. Well, since yesterday if want to get technical about it.
I don't like my extended family, and would prefer to stay as  far away from them as humanly possible. So I do not spend holidays with them anymore. (I used to when my mother was alive, but that was years ago) They're the kind of people that if I were walking down the street and saw them on the same sidewalk, I would not only cross the street, but go about two blocks over just to avoid them.
But that's another story.
I hate holidays and have because since I was about 15 or 16, or maybe even younger, who the hell really knows, I have been responsible for all the major meals for Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's. Not one dish--ooh look, Tiff baked a pie--the ENTIRE meal.
And this year was no different. It was borne out of necessity years ago because my mother was a diabetic with no legs and could only sit and instruct me on what to cook. If dad were left to cook--I have a better chance of Michael Jackson coming to the door with a covered dish than dad trying to cook.
So, if I want to eat, I have to cook. No one is going to come and bring us plates of food, unless they want something, My family is one that moves in ulterior motives. They don't do anything out of the goodness of their hearts, its just not in them; perhaps it was bred out of them, I don't know. but if they come around and no one is in a casket, I get suspicious. My "spidey-senses" go to tingling.
And this year, I didn't even get to eat really, what I wanted to eat.
Because dad only has a few teeth and has trouble chewing, I couldn't buy a ham like I usually do--plus as a dialysis patient myself, this was frowned on--I had to buy tripe to cook.

Pull yourself together, it's supposed to look like that. No one ask me how I screwed up and managed to buy SIX POUNDS of that mess by mistake.
And I tried to make some decent sides with, a green bean casserole, some spiced stuffing, an apple pie, some biscuits. ( And dad very conveniently said he didn't want the damn casserole or the stuffing and I almost threw a large cooking spoon at him.)
Now, as I stated earlier, my day started at 3 am. Don't be fooled, there's Jacksons I wouldn't get up that early for.]But if you can wrap your mind around it, I had dialysis THIS MORNING at 5:30 am.
Because I refused to let them steal my Friday from me to do two back to back treatments.
I was mainlining coffee this morning, and was still so tired--I did NOT sleep the night before at all, my body is unaccustomed to going to bed at 10 or 11 at night--I didn't even put my makeup on!
So I get to dialysis and its so early its still black out, I'm SURE that all will be quiet and most of the people will be sleeping.
i have a cousin, Mary Louise, who also takes dialysis with me, because apparently, tragedy loves my family, was seated next to me. I get about 10 pages into my book, when i suddenly hear Tyler Perry's character Madea speaking.

Not mutedly or softly, but just as loudly as if Madea had waddled her fat, gender-bending self in there. Mary Louise had a portable DVD player and was playing her shit as loudly as if she were the only one in the room.
After trying to read for a while, I said fuck it, closed the book and plugged my headphones into my TV to try to watch a movie. Burt Lancaster was on. I'm not nutty about him but i could tolerate him that early in the morning.
The film, The Young Savages was about a murder involving some Puerto Rican and Italian Harlem hoods. And it was a REALLY GOOD film. And I BARELY HEARD it for my cousin's fucking noise.
I tried a few times to bring myself to ask her to turn it down, but as tired as i was it would have come out,
TURN THAT GOD DAMNED BULLSHIT OFF! So i kept my mouth closed. I don't know how she could be so ignorant to not care about anyone else there, that she might have been disturbing them. I play MJ almost constantly in there, you don't hear him unless you're on top of me.
It was ridiculous. i was supposed to sit in for three hours, but after only two, i threw in the towel. I couldn't do it. i was up and had been up so long.
They made me sign a little paper and I very distinctly remember writing,
"You trying staying awake over 18 hours and then having to go cook an entire meal alone. Have a pleasant day!"
And i brought my ass out of there and went home. Took my clothes off and went to bed for about 4 hours. i was still tired when i got up. But food wasn't going to magically appear.
The biggest part of the work is done now, but this is why i dread the holidays. I'm doing it alone.
And guess what, i get to repeat it NEXT MONTH for Christmas and New Years.
I need a drink.

The Nerve of Some Bums!

Hey Y'all!

In my life I've pulled some stunts here and there along the way, but never before have I ever had a stunt (almost) pulled on me, like the one today.
I got to dialysis three times a week and on dialysis days, I stop at Jack in the Box for breakfast. It's cheap, it's hot, it's easy.
Now for the last few weeks, my dad's car has been making an odd sound and has to do with a fan belt or something. I don't know anything about cars just it should go vroom when started. Anyway, as we pulled up, I noticed a bum on the side of the road. Jack in the Box is right near the freeway and there's always at least one transient panhandling and begging, etc.
Daddy hadn't even shut the car off before the guy was at his window claiming he could fix the car with something, I don't even know....
As he bothered my dad, I got out to go on in the building and order my breakfast.
My dad blew the horn.
As I walked back, the bum came and said that MY DADDY told him I would buy him something to eat.
So, I'm looking at my dad like he's gone ape-shit crazy. I was broke with less than 20 dollars on my person and I had to feed not only me, but Daddy that morning. I was like, what the hell is my Daddy talking about?
And as I'm trying to get to the car, the bum is pointing out some meal that was like 5 or 6 dollars advertised on the windows of the place.
At the same time my dad is trying to flag at me.
I mean it was ridiculous, but I WAS going to go try to buy this bum something to eat.
As I turned, one of the workers came running out, and were threatening to call the police on the bum if he didn't go away.
The bum was doing his very damndest to get me to bring him food--I COULD NOT AFFORD!--and said he'd be across at the McDonald's.
With him finally shooed away, I went to go tear my Daddy a new butt and yell about what he was thinking about.
That's when I found out I almost got played.
Daddy said he told that bum he didn't have any money--which he didn't--and then the fucking bum came and LIED and said my Daddy had told him I'd buy the food.
I didn't see the bum any more once he got shooed, but I have seen him around there multiple times and if I see him again, LORD HELP HIM.
I try to be a good kind giving person. That's what I've been taught--to be sympathetic to the less fortunate.
But this bum just fucked it up for the entire homeless population, because I will only donate to a charity organization, not the single folks.


They can get my donations; no one else!

That doesn't make any goddamned sense. Tiffeny comes first, and I'm not gonna starve myself for someone that's not even my flesh and blood. I'd go hungry to feed my Daddy, he's my Daddy, but not some bum! Get a job. It's so fucking cliché. It really is.
It just makes me hot and angry and I literally want to run his happy ass over the next time I see him. It's already hard enough to make a dollar stretch in this damn economy--2016 needs to get here--and then with some fool trying to bilk me out of a dollar.
It really makes no sense.
I'm not giving a handout ever again. Sorry. Blame the bum by I-H 10 for that.

I Demanded Michael Back!

Hey Y'all!

I know I have spent the greater portion of my life as a Michael Jackson fan, extremely loyal and dedicated to the One Gloved Wonder, but I never truly gave my fierce defense of him much thought until I had a dream last night that truly shook me to my core.



My dream was very strange. And while I didn't actually SEE Michael in it, I made enough noise about him, just the same.
I was with a group of maybe a dozen or so people, and we were in this old house. Something much like Michael's "Ghosts" video.
We all went down this long corridor and wound up in this old, wood-paneled office. The closest thing I could see to it was this from the film "Vertigo".


All wood all very masculine looking. But it was dimmer, darker and much more sinister looking, Inside this office, strange things happened. Different ghosts began appearing to me and group.
Scaring us, taunting us.
People were screaming and crying and cowering in the corners, trying to escape this craziness.
And then a new figure came into the room:


The Grim Reaper.
As I live and breathe the Grim Reaper was in the room with us!
And the first thought that entered my mind was not of my own mortality or anything at all of the sort.
While everyone else was going off the walls crying and having tantrums I went directly to this.
To Death...
And started screaming at him to give Michael Jackson back.
Screaming, demanding and yelling at this faceless creature with a scythe (the knife on the stick) to give Michael Jackson back to the world. Take one of the other people in the room with me, but give Michael back. That the world needed him. I needed him; we all needed him.

When I awoke, it was with a strange feeling. Kind of like that strange woozy sensation after a thrill ride at the fair. I don't know what it all meant or what it was supposed to do for me, but that dream struck a nerve in me.

For me to stand, puff out my chest and go toe to toe with the personification of Death itself, to demand Michael Jackson be brought back to the world, even after four years, I can't even begin to describe what that feels like or means to me. It shows me that I still love him, I still care, I'm still a damn good fan to him. Especially to stand and yell for his return. Because I know it wouldn't just mean something to me...but to so, so many others.

I looked to two separate dream interpretation websites for some sort of clarification of what a dream of the Grim Reaper means. Both stated that it could represent aspects of myself I'd prefer to keep hidden. In the idea that I wanted MJ back and basically was willing to sacrifice anyone in the room showed I was kind of selfish. But I'm an only child, what do you want? I didn't learn the word share until I was six.
But if it is selfishness that made me want him back, its not a trait of which I would be ashamed.
All Michael ever did in this world was love and want to love and be a good, solid contributor to humanity. And if it's selfish of me to want to bring that kind of descent, outstanding individual back to the world, then I will go until the Grim Reaper actually does put his icy grip on me being selfish.
I don't want Michael Jackson back just to go to his concert or buy his album. I want him here because he truly did make this world a better place and I remember even on my worst days I would say "Well Michael is here, so it'll be okay".
There's so many people, so many fans, his family, so many in general that would benefit and appreciate having him back.
And if it's selfish I am, I'm proud of that selfishness in me.

It was all just a dream, but it made me see an aspect of myself I've never noticed before. And I'm glad I got to see it.
And that I almost--ALMOST--helped humanity.

My Vintage Wardrobe Wishlist--PART 1: The Average Girl

Hey Y'all!

It's kind of common knowledge that I have a "passion" for fashions and attitudes of yesteryear. I've made no secret of my wishing to go back to a time when women dressed, looked and behaved like ladies. It's less prevalent now with twerk teams and thirsty broads on social media. (Seriously, does a guy really get turned on by seeing a woman shove corn on the cob into her hoo-ha? Much doubt) I know I jump up and down about the 80s, but the 80s are only 30 years ago. Damn it, I'm 27, I want something that wasn't common when I was a fetus. I really love the 1930s for some reason, probably because women with real bodies were considered beautiful and not quickly told to go on a damn diet.

So I have gone looking around the web and blog, collecting garments that I would actually sit, and place on my own body.

Me and my real body.


I stumbled across this gem on a vintage blog (wearinghistoryblog.com) where the lady pictured above sews her own clothing from vintage 1930s/1940s patterns. I would wear this, but I don't like wearing brown. I'd prefer everything brown be red or navy to compliment my skin tone. Hat included.


A beautiful sundress--I'm aware it's getting cold, toss on a cardigan! I love the sailor theme, nautical never goes out of style. Classic red, white and blue.

Another Americana dress, that was made more in the style of the late 1930/early 1940s preceding the second world war. this is a reproduction of course. But very demure and the sort of thing a lady would wear to a Fourth of July barbecue. Not bootyshorts and a halter top. This would also be very suitable for a variety of functions from church to going out for casual meals and a matinee movie.

I went nuts for this. It's from a stage production of His Girl Friday (if you don't know, wiki it, please.) I'm not so crazy for the dress, but it's the shoes that got me. the slate blue and off white with the stacked heel stole my heart! I die!

This is a vintage advertisement. I'd wear the two in the middle. There's something about the short puffed sleeves the little lacey from detail that appeals to me and screams feminine. None of the women are showing too much, and it is perfectly acceptable. You see the lines of the figure and that is enough. This is how my grandmother,(father's mother)  who was in her early thirties at the time would have dressed.

Eventually the weather would change, and though most people think of big, luxurious fur coats, it really wasn't practical unless you were a princess or extremely wealthy girl with a sugar daddy. (And until I hook Marlon Jackson...) this is what a girl like me would wear. I prefer the blue/grey number in the center.


Marlon wore the shiiiiiiiit out of a white smoking jacket a few days ago at a Motown event.
He's the last of the classy men...make a note of that y'all! You see something moving around that looks like this--CLAIM IT!

This is actually a 1920s flapper coat, trimmed in Monkey Fur. (Somewhere in Heaven, Michael Jackson just screamed. It's NOT Bubbles, I promise! )
Unlike today, when a woman could get splashed with red paint--and have to kill a person--there was no PETA fanatics back in the day and a lady could wear real fur without worry of it being destroyed, only a thief snatching it off her body. LOL.

This is a 1970s reproduction of a flapper coat, ELECTRIC BLUE VELVET because in that decade, there was a retro throwback inspired by films like The Great Gatsby. (Yes, there were adaptations of the F. Scott Fitzgerald prior to the Leo Dicaprio one. Perish the thought!)
(If I girl had a sugar daddy, items similar to the previous two would be in her closet.)
I'd wear this in the dead of summer buck naked underneath, it's so pretty!

Into every life a little rain must fall, but a lady can still look good in a deluge. Frankly, I would wear every coat pictured, except the plaid one. I don't like plaid and am very picky about the colors and widths of plaid I put on my body. I only own ONE plaid blouse at the moment. And as "economically priced" as they are, I say I'd get them all if I could.

I don't ski...I live in Texas, I've only seen snow TWICE in my life. But I thought it was interesting to show these skiing ensembles for the slopes from about 1938. I got as much business being on a slope somewhere as Rush Limbaugh does at a Black Panther Rally. Really. But if I get lost you can spot my brown self in the snow, drawing "HELP ME GOD" with a stick!

Sometime between 1937 and 1940, Gold beaded/sequined/embellished gowns became the norm for evening wear. This is a sensational reproduction that was inspired by a dress Ginger Rogers had worn.

This gorgeous sequined and feather edged coat was inspired by one Joan Crawford had worn.

(Inspiration)

Ginger Rogers. Did you recognize her without Fred Astaire flinging her around?

When she wasn't beating the skin off Christina with a wire hanger, Joan Crawford was wearing swank duds like this!

EVERYBODY RUN!


You had to wear something under those pretty clothes. I'm okay with the 1930's bras, they could have used some padding, but were okay they look like current bras. The 1950s bullet bra was scary. You could put out a man's eye with all that underwire. The 1920s bras was not intended to boost up the boobs, but rather flatten them to achieve the "boyish" figure that was en vogue. But now frankly, I think if a man wants a "boyish" figure, he will go find it on another guy.

The forerunner of Spanx, the girdle. All respectable ladies (and some bad ones) wore this garment to give them wonderful lines. They are pretty, but I cannot promise I'd wear one. I wore Spanx one time, and the only time during the day I drew a full breath was when I pulled the goddamned thing off. (No Spanx in the photograph of me at the start of this post)

I do like that the models' bodies are shaped like mine.
These are knit undergarments from 1939. There's two things wrong with this.
I couldn't imagine how itchy it would be against my bare skin and nether regions and I can only imagine how hard a man would laugh if my clothing came off and he saw this. How you be sexy in the longjohns little cousin?

Something like that and I have to leave my shoe in a (bad word)'s forehead.

No lady was caught without a hat, and I'd give my soul for that purple hat up top, that was popular in the late 20s and early 30s.

A lovely reproduction hat at a vintage inspired wedding.

Every last one of these bad boys....

This picture has nothing to do with my post, but I just wonder a few things.
--Why the hell are you out taking a picture with a DUST STORM approaching? That's what that wall of grime is behind them!
--Why the hell is there a child out in the DUST STORM?
--Why the hell is the child in her panties IN THE DUST STORM?
That's all, thank you! I'll cover more in Part 2: THE RICH GIRL!