Don’t Marry Yourself

A few days ago I came across this little gem of a headline on people.com “Woman Keeps Promise of Marrying Herself on 40th Birthday”.  I needed a few days to process the flood of questions and confusion that immediately bombarded my brain.

It’s a FACT:  this is strange.  Like naked-grandma-boob-in-wall strange.

First of all, she made herself a promise that if she weren’t married by age 40, she’d marry herself.   I’m pretty sure I’ve made a similar deal with a few of my friends during drunken nights out in college.

Although… this is a little different, I think.  Mainly because any deals I may or may not have made definitely involved two people.

I’ve also heard of women who wanted a dream wedding so badly that they’ve had a “celebration” like a wedding to celebrate themselves.  More power to ya, if that’s your thing.  But to call it a “marriage” is interesting…

Next up, my questions:

Is this considered a gay marriage?

Did she have to sign a form saying that she and her proposed spouse aren’t blood related?

Was there a prenup?

Did she exchange rings with herself?

Did she kiss herself?

If she consummates the marriage, is that incest?

Are there tax implications?  Can she file as “married, filing jointly”?

What kind of gift does one bring to a wedding between someone and that person’s self?

{For the Honeymoon, a Selfie Stick!}

Does she merge bank accounts with herself?

Do any future children have two mommies or just one?

What would marital discord look like?

What if she finds true love tomorrow, does she have to divorce herself?  AWK-WURD holidays… And if that happens, whose side would her family take?  How would she and herself split their stuff?  Who gets the dog?

If she passes away, does she get to become her beneficiary?

TOO MANY QUESTIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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The Purple Experience

I recently experienced a rare “Girls’ Nite Out”.  One of my friends (my neighbor, K (aka Moet).  You know, the one from NYE?) invited me out to see a Prince Cover Band (The Purple Xperience).

Uh- sign me up!

Girls’ Nites are different from other furloughs from “mommy duty”.  Unlike my previous post documenting the insanity that was New Year’s Eve, Girls’ Nites don’t come with too many expectations.  It’s a random, free night.  Like a “mulligan”.

A night not only without kids, but also without husbands… shhhhh.

{No, this doesn’t mean we don’t adore our men.  It means we need to remember what it’s like to miss them from time to time.}

The night could result in watching water boil and we wouldn’t care.

We aren’t bathing Tasmanian devils our babies, we aren’t force feeding birds toddlers, we aren’t cleaning up poop because someone ran out of paint, we aren’t pouring 6 refills of milk in a sippy cup that was just thrown at our face, and we aren’t chasing chickens sleepy kids at bedtime.

We know that tonight no one will ask if we’ve paid the trash bill, no one will ask when we’re going to “take care” of that pile of clothes that has been in the corner for 6 months, no one will get frustrated that I forgot to make the dogs a grooming appointment for the fourth day in a row and now one of them smells like shat.

Most importantly, we are with other women.  Other moms.  No one judging, no one to cut off the alcohol (unless the po po get involved), it’s not a date night SLASH night out or anything else.  It’s just a night out.

We are free, if only for one night.

I was excited to get out and meet other people, listen to some kick-arse music, and see where the night would take us.  And, oh, did the night deliver.

Three of us met at Moet’s house to take Uber to the venue.  We were supposed to meet at 7:15-ish but I was having a wardrobe crisis so I was a bit tardy for the pardy.

{By wardrobe crisis, I mean that the only “going-out” shirt I had to wear was a pink shirt that is super cute from the front, but looks like a worn-out lady part from the back.  Not joking.  The back of my shirt, the only shirt I had to wear, looked like an old vagina.  Great shot to the old confidence.}

It took me a few minutes to pump myself up enough to get over that but I soon spotted a trendy little blazer so I wore that over it.  No biggie, right?

Except that I have diarrhea of the mouth.  I rat on myself about everything.  And if I’ve had something fermented to drink, I spill it all from inception to present.  “One time at band camp…”  It’s like I have Tourette’s.

“Hey!  E!  Come on in, want a drink?”

Sure!  I need something to help me forget that my shirt looks like a vagina.

“Huh?!  Let me see!  OH MY GOSH!  IT DOES!”

Had I just said, “sure!  I’ll have a glass of wine” no one would have even known.  Ugh.  #characterflaws.

Soon the Uber driver arrived and we piled in.

The venue was in a neighborhood known for its population of 50-somethings who are still holding on to their groupie days while spray tanning, shopping for Affliction shirts, and squeezing into Miss Me jeans.  I’d say the crowd was made up of about 75% of that population.  The remaining 25% were AH-MAY-ZING.

We had a table that was right up front for a group of 7 of us ladies.  Not long after we all arrived, the drinks were flowing and so were the weirdos.

{For the record, yes, the 7 of us were the ONLY normal ones there.  Right, ladies?}

I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the term LARPing.  (Live Action Role Play).  Sometimes at parks you may see a group of grown-ass people dressed up in Medieval costumes sword-fighting (heh).

So imagine our intrigue when several of these costume-clad peeps came rolling in to see The Purple Xperience and claimed their groping/make-out spot front and center.

{Uh, I think y’awl misread the flyer… this is a Prince Cover Band, not the Renaissance Fair.}   

Fast forward a little while…

Slight Tangent Alert: I honestly have no concept of time looking back on this night.  The place was so crowded that we had to order tall, double drinks just to ensure we would be served.  We attempted to order food but the kitchen was slammed so hard (heh) that our order was cancelled.  Just straight up cancelled.  Given the no-food-plenty-of-drink situation, things became a bit fuzzy.

Anyway, back to our scene:

At one point, before the Faux Purple One took the stage, another group of characters graced us with their loud, noticeable presence.  Two couples wafted onto the dance floor.  The first to catch my eye was a man with a head full of white hair, a cobalt-blue, satin, long-sleeved ruffle shirt under a Dracula-esque jacket, and black leather pants.

 

{I imagined his schwetty balls suffocating, gasping for air as soon as I spotted those pants.  Part of me felt like I should step in and call someone.  But who to call?  Does DFACS handle schwetty ball abuse?  I don’t know!}

With him was a woman whose blonde hair died a long time ago.  She game, set, matched his outfit with a cobalt-blue number of her own.  Made of lace.  Was it a dress?  Or a coat?  Who knows.  But it was sum-thin’.

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The other couple that accompanied them consisted of a man dressed in a white, billowy shirt (think Seinfeld), and a woman who forgot to put on pants.

odd place for phone

{Oh, that’s a great place for my phone!}

One of the group members, Candy,  is quickly becoming a member of my favorite-persons-club.  As are all of the girls I met in our group that night.

While the rest of us were in shock by the scene that could only come to life in a strange, Freudian-style dream or maybe a Fellini movie, she’s the one who was up, mingling with the weirdos, taking pictures with them… I admire her.

Somehow she and I seemed to be on the same pee schedule so you know how that goes.  Candy was the only witness from our group to hear a rough-looking biker chick say to me, “Cute shirt.”  To which I reply, of course, “Thanks, it looks like a vagina.”  She takes a look and yells, “Pink Taco!” giving me a high five.  Thanks again to my incessant need to point out the back of my shirt.

I believe she and I planned a get-away to Savannah that may or may not have included our eventual return…  I also remember code names being thrown out at some point by Moet, Candy, and/or me.  It may have happened at our tip dinner.  More on that in a sec.

Eventually, the lights went dark, the stage went bright, and out popped Ben Stiller giving it his all as The Artist Wishing to be known as Prince.  With him on keyboards was Corbin Bernson as the Dentist, and on guitars were Milli and Vanilli.

It was SO FUN!  We danced, I almost fell over, we made frequent trips to the bathroom… it was magical.

Ben Stiller kept going back stage for costume changes.  Who was he going to be this time?  Road kill?  Elton John?  There was so much suspense…

Then, we were done.  We maybe made it through 4 intense, crazy songs before we deemed it time to geaux.

We gathered up our bags, blazers, bladders, and what was left of our sobriety and sat out front to await our chariot Uber driver.

Was God shining down on us when he sent us our Uber driver???  You bet He was!

I kid you not, he looked just like a larger (yes, larger) version of Warren Sap.  He was hilarious.  Moet & Candy were asking him questions and chatting him up while I was half-asleep in the back seat (I’m usually in bed by 9 on a Saturday).

Someone mentioned food and all I could think of was “OHEMGEE PLEASE GIVE ME FOOD!”  I’m pretty sure I threw out Wendy’s, Taco Bell was mentioned, why do I remember Applebees?  Anyway, we settled on WaHo.  A wise decision at 1am.   As we pulled into the parking lot, of course we offer our driver (whose name really was Warren!) to join for a tip paid with food.  Tip Dinner.  {That’s what he said.}

Someone Warren’s size doesn’t just magically wake up that way.  It takes work.  And Warren was on the clock.

As we entered the fine dining establishment, I decided I needed a potty break.  When I walked out of the bathroom, a wave of fear washed over me.

They did it.  Moet and Candy took one side of the booth and left me to fend for myself on Warren’s side.  Um… Excuse me, Mr. Warren, could you please scootch over?  No, there was none of that.  The poor man was as scootched as he could be.  But the food smell hit me and it was game time.  Hold on, Warren.  I’m gonna make some magic happen.  Heck yes, I did it.  I made it happen.

Soon the joyous tastes of hash browns smothered, covered, chunked and spanked (heh), patty melts, ribeyes, and waffles were within our grasps.  Never in my life had I tasted such a delightful, artery-clogging meal.

At one point someone foreshadowed this post would happen.  And we all decided that everyone involved needed code names to protect the innocent.  (not sure what that says about this blog… or my life, which is the subject of this blog, that code names are needed…)

Then, just like that, it was over.

Like Cinderella’s disappearing carriage, Warren dropped us off and long-forgotten were the promises of haunted Savannah runaways vacations and aliases code names.  Unfinished business to hang in the air until next time.

To the beautiful ladies who were my BFFs on the magical night, thank you for the invite.  I will remember that night for always.

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Ten Bad Co-Workers

I would like to dedicate today’s edition of Tangent Tuesday to all the dumbass members of corporate America.  Apparently, we can’t all be normal:

There is always someone who thinks they are more valuable than they are.  It’s ultimately the boss’s fault that this person is allowed to have an inflated self-value.  I like to call this person the Golden Foo’.  They shine like Fool’s Gold but it rubs off {that’s what she said}.  For the record, we are all replaceable.  Stop thinking you aren’t.

The Person who Cries “Ney”:  On the flip side, if you aren’t happy with your job, change it.  No one is “stuck”.  You can get yourself stuck by thinking that you’re stuck but it’s really just your fear of change.  B.T.Dubs, no one wants you around.  Especially Joy.  You kill her.

The Little Chicken is the person who always has an emergency. Take it from me: a compensation emergency is an oxymoron. Don’t ever say to me, “I need this ASAP” and expect me to take you seriously. I will laugh at you. And take my time. Also, don’t request something comp-related while you know I’m under general anesthesia. Yes. My boss did that.

“Hey, I hope everything is going well. Could you price this job ASAP?”
An hour later: “Never mind. Tom said you did it yesterday.”

Surgery went well, thanks for your concern.

Ever met the Stinker?  You know what I’m talking about.  The person that smells.  This could be the person that always microwaves fish at lunch or farts all the time or just doesn’t shower.  I once worked with someone who had such horrible breath that I almost threw up on several occasions.

How about the Brutus?  This person that will stab you in the back the first chance they get.  Ouch.  I met Brutus when I worked at Group Health in Seattle, WA.  Her name was Doug Debbie.

The Closet Freak is a nice change.  It’s usually a female.  At first she seems normal.  Then you realize, “WHOA.  Not normal.”  But she’s so intriguing…

The One-Upper.  Ah… the One-Upper.  You’ll spot the One-Upper by conversations such as:

You: I’m so tired.  I think I only got about 4 hours of sleep last night.
TOU:  Oh my gosh, I’m exhausted.  You’re lucky to get 4 hours.  I think I got 2.

Next conversation:

You: I finally got to work out last night.  It felt good to get a full class in.
TOU: I always work out.  Last night I took 2 classes back-to-back.

The Mom.  Didn’t realize you brought your mom to work, did you?  You did.  And she’s sitting in that Admin cube.

Tha Dooosh.  Ugh.  This is the man that comments on how much a pregnant woman eats.

How ’bout Tha Bee-atch:  The woman who tells you that the name you picked out for your son sounds “gay”.  Yes, that happened to me.  I said, “On behalf of my beautiful, “gay” friends, thank you.  You just confirmed that my son’s name is awesome.”

The Winger. This is usually someone in leadership who was never properly trained.  They are terrified to make waves, will throw you under the bus in a sec to make themselves look better, and they are totally winging this gig.

Captain Obvious:  Please see below.

captn obvious

Thanks for that, Shivachalappa.  Just had to get that comment in, did ya?  This is also the person who drags 10 minute meetings into a 2-hour waste of time.

This list isn’t exhaustive.  It’s all I could come up with while I’m supposed to be drafting a pointless Sales Communication.

Everyone listed above, with the exception of the Closet Freak, is the reason I’m planning my exit from Corporate America.  I don’t know when or how but it will happen.  But, for my sanity it has to happen.

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Unexpected Laughter

You may or may not have noticed that Friday’s Fun Fact was missing last week. I can’t bear to think that I let you down by not posting such a beloved and much awaited topic, so here’s what happened:

Last week I made a doctor’s appointment. I wasn’t in pain, but a little uncomfortable. I felt bloated and moody. (Par for the course.)

Something wasn’t right so I just wanted to get myself checked out.

The day before my appointment I almost cancelled. I was feeling a little better and thought maybe I was overreacting. But, I have a history of “Lady Problems”. Just to be sure, I kept the appointment.

When I was pregnant with my daughter, an ultrasound found a cyst on my left ovary. No big deal, I was told. They are fairly common and usually go away on their own without causing any issues. I didn’t even know it was there.

After I’d had her and moved back to Atlanta, I went to see Dr. Michael Randell for a follow up. He recommended taking the cyst out because it wasn’t shrinking. He said he was able to perform the procedure via one incision through my belly button.

Sounds cool. I’ll take it.

The procedure was fairly easy to heal from and soon enough there was very little evidence that anything ever happened. Needless to say, I deemed him to be the bestest doc ever.

Last Tuesday he didn’t even need to give me a full exam. He immediately ordered an ultrasound and found a mass that was 3 inches by 2 inches on the same biatch ovary as last time.

{I tried to get him to help me name it but he wasn’t playing along.}

He said, “I recommend surgery. How’s your schedule this Friday?”

Um… Guess that 5k I was planning on running this weekend is out.

Slight tangent alert: don’t ever ask a doc what the recovery is like from a procedure that the doc him or herself has never had. You’ll be greatly disappointed. It’s like asking Lorena Bobbit what her ex-husband went through when she cut off his penis or asking a man what it’s like to birth a baby. “um, I think it hurt…”

“Oh, and do you want more kids or are you finished?”

100% finished.

“You sure?  Because I offer patients a tubal ligation while I’m there if it’s something you’re ready for…”

Ugh.  Unfortunately, as much as I love tiny, sweet little babies, Roman was a very difficult pregnancy. He weighted a 10th of my bodyweight. And delivering him was reminiscent of the scene from Alien. We have 2 healthy, beautiful babies. Let’s quit while we’re ahead.

“Ok, so if your calendar can be cleared for Friday, I’d like to set you up tomorrow (Wednesday) for your blood work, registration, etc. Thursday you’ll need to drink 10 oz of Magnesium Citriate.”

Um… Guess I’ll be working from home that day.

“Your surgery will be Friday at 10:30 but you’ll need to arrive 3 hrs early.”

It took a little werq but we made arrangements for the kids to get to school/pre-k, and my mom was going to keep them kiddies busy until I got home and settled.

{Ok, kids, it’s get-spoiled-by-Nonna time!  “NO!!!”  Said no child of mine EVER.}

For those of you who don’t yet have kiddies, making those arrangements is tricky. At times I still don’t realize everything that has to be considered.

As an example, Roman can be dropped off at Pre-k at 6:30. No biggie, we could drop him off on the way. However, Bella can’t be dropped off at school until 7:10. Since I had to be at the hospital at 7:30, I needed another option. Thankfully, I’m lucky enough to have non-homicidal neighbors that I whole-heartedly trust with my baby. Check that off.

My mom was picking Bella up from school and Roman from pre-k. So I had to write Bella a note for school saying it was ok for my mom to get her and call the daycare center to tell them Bella wouldn’t be on their bus and that Roman would be picked up by my mom. Let’s just say I was terrified that I would be under general anesthesia while my mom was trying to pick up Bella with the school holding Bella hostage because I forgot to date the note.

Luckily, everything went as planned.

Through one incision in my belly button, Dr. Randell removed my left ovary, a fairly sizable mass, and tied my tubes.

{I’m pretty sure my belly button has PTSD and needs therapy now.}

I woke up in recovery just a little sore, no big deal.  My hubs got me home and comfortable.

My mom brought Roman home Friday evening and she and Bella had a girls’ weekend that was planned prior to my unexpected slicing.

Bella gave me hugs and kisses before leaving for the weekend. She understood what had happened and was concerned but once she saw that I was “ok”, she was fine.

Roman, being 3, had less of a grasp on what was happening.

At one point, he came into the bedroom and jumped up on the side of the bed to see me. When he did, he overshot and accidentally fell onto my belly. O-U-C-H!

From then on over the weekend, the following conversation was frequent:

Me: “Roman, can Mommy have a kiss?”

Roman: “No. Your belly hurts me.”

Yeah, it hurts me, too.

Ever had to blow your nose after having an ovary pulled through your belly button?

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latimes.com

It even hurts to look at it. Not attractive at all.   If you need a visual, my belly button looks like Farrah Abraham’s botched lip job.

Hurts to sneeze. Hurts to cough. Hurts the most to laugh.

I managed to make it through the weekend without laughing much. That’s a HUGE deal for me. However, that all went to shat yesterday.

I was sitting on the couch with Bella on one side of me, and my hubs on the other side. Georgia, our black lab, was lying on the floor. One thing about Georgia is that she has become quite flatulent. I mean, it smells like a skunk died a slow death in the hot sun when G rips one.

All of a sudden, the skunk smell wafted through the air. Bella looks up at me with this look on her face like she has been severely offended and without missing a beat she says, “Mom. Smell yourself.”

Uh, WHAT?

First of all, why does she automatically assume that it’s ME? Am I the only one in the room? NO! She was genuinely convinced that the horawful, fugly smell exuded from my body and she was not happy about it. I couldn’t stop laughing. My hubs couldn’t stop laughing.

Then, I started hurting so badly that I was doubled over in pain, crying. I was simultaneously laughing and crying.

As soon as I contained myself, I popped an 800 mg Motrin and prayed that God would make the pain go away.

He opted not to answer that prayer. That’s ok. He has His reasons.

Now I’m just trying to heal. Seriously. Without any laughter. And make it through the week without any further unexpected surgical events.

 

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Another Pretty Moment

Me 30 minutes ago when I first got in the tub: “Man, I left my face wash on the sink. Ugh!”

My Rodan+Fields Redefine Daily Cleansing Mask just now: “Hey. Aren’t you glad I’m not a snake?”

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Me: “Yes, yes I am.”

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Ode to my Left Ovary

Dear Left Ovary,

Our relationship started out with such promise.  You showed up when needed, seemed to work well with your teammates, Right Ovary and Uterus, never whined or complained.

However, along the way, something changed.  Your attitude changed. I don’t know… things were “different”.  You became hurtful.

At times I wondered if you even enjoyed being around me.  Maybe I’m just not enough for you anymore.  And that’s fine.  I get it.

But you didn’t have to grow a new friend.  It’s bad enough that you did that once, but TWICE!?  Fool me once, Left Ovary… Fool me once.

Worse than that, you bloated me!  When you mess with a woman’s ability to fit comfortably into skinny jeans, you know the risk.  So now, I’m letting you go.  You’ve been a pain in my side long enough.

A jury of your peers my doctor recommended the death penalty.  And I’m upholding that recommendation.  Enjoy the next 48 hours, Left Ovary.  They will be your last.  Bye, bye you big biatch.

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Friday Fun Fact #5

If you’ve never met a “Tiphi” but would like to experience the mind-numbing bit of cray-cray that accompanies her type, quickly find your way to the nearest American Girl store.  You won’t have to stay long.  Like finding sand in the desert.

Girl behind register: “Hi!  Have you shopped with us before?”

Tiphi: “HIII!  Yeah, like, um, we have, yeah!  My daughter has all of the dolls of the year.  We just came in to get Isabelle’s hair duuuun (fake laugh, fake laugh, fake laugh).  Buphi saw a pair of sunglasses and we just had to have them soooo…”

Me: BARPH

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Reno-vation 911!

In May 2011 my husband and I bought our first house.  We were excited.  This was a big year for us.  Newly married, baby on the way, giving Bella room to play and neighbors to meet and a place to learn to ride a bicycle…

{Yay!  Now I wouldn’t have to say, “Hey, Bella, don’t ride your bike into the parking lot!”}

I was thrilled that we wouldn’t have to bring a new baby “home” to an apartment.

{Noise complaints, anyone???}

Before we closed we would drive by it just because.  We would stop and walk around, smiling like idiots.  Our new house.

{This is such a perfect house.  Why would anyone want to leave it?!  Um… we about to find out!}  

It had hardwood floors, four bedrooms, two-stories (in case we got bored with one), and a brick-front.

The big, bad wolf could huff and puff all he wanted but as long as he was facing the front of our house, he wouldn’t be able to blow this one down!

{Wolves never try to blow down a house from the other 3 sides so we were pretty confident.}

We moved in and started getting settled.  Let’s start making this house ours!  We would say oh so boldly.

It really just needed some cosmetic updating.  No big deal.  We watch HGTV soooo we’re pretty much pros.

First thing’s first.  That red gotta go!  Our formal living room and dining room were a horrible shade of red.  Red is my favorite color but THIS red was horawful.

Our kitchen had vine wallpaper and the crown molding had the same red from the dining and living rooms painted in a strip through the center.  It was cosmetically a hit in 1992, I’m sure.

The family room was straight-up 1970’s judge’s paneling.  Upside, it was the nice kind of paneling.  The wood, itself, was pretty {that’s what she said}.  But the room looked like a cave.

Slight tangent alert: what is it with guys and paneling???  They LOVE IT.  WHY????  This was horrible but my hubs was hell bent on keeping it.  Our real estate agent (also a man) loved it, too.  Blah.

Upstairs, the only thing that needed love was the master bathroom.  It was carpeted and the bath tub had this horrible faux marble slab on the sides, I guess to make it look inviting for the 1988 neighborhood swingers’ club meetings?

We decided to start the beautification downstairs in the formal living room then work our way around {that’s what she said}.

Halfway through the painting of our formal living room, we notice a big black spot on the ceiling of our garage.  Directly above that big black spot is our shower.  Fuuuuuuq.

The base of our walk-in shower was leaking.  Good news, the carpet gets to go!

We put everything on hold downstairs (half-painted room and all) and poured ALL of our money into fixing the shower and renovating the bathroom.  Might as well, right??

What we didn’t do, or know to do being first-time homeowners, was file a claim with the insurance company.  Ooops.

The bathroom was essentially gutted.  Carpet, gone.  Horrible faux-marble shat, gone.  Original, 1986 cabinets, gone.  Ugly tub, you’re outta heeeeere!

Also, we had 2 gaping holes in our garage ceiling and the motors were taken down so that the beams could dry out.  Sweet.

At this point, we had been in our house for less than a year.  In addition to the bathroom leak, one of our HVAC units went out in the dead of summer.  That was a nice, unexpected $5k expense.

{OOOH!  Now I get why someone would want to sell this house!}

Since we were paying for the labor as we can afford it, we’d pay $800 for a few days’ work then we’d go back to saving up.  With a new baby and two kiddies in full time daycare, it took a while.  My husband became very handy {that’s what she said}.  He did a lot himself {that’s what she said}.

B.T.Dubs, not sure about you, but when I see my husband in the throes of a Flip or Flop marathon I’m terrified.  I have no idea which wall is going to be demolished but it’s definitely going to happen.  Ten visits to Home Depot, several obscenities/breakdowns later (mostly mine) and we’re back in business.  But there are plenty of moments where the prognosis is iffy.

Slight tangent alert #2:  Does anyone else feel like HGTV is to men what Pintrest is to women???  Sure, I can bake a 5-tiered wedding cake with hand-crafted sugar petals.  It’s on Pintrest so… I got dis.

Two years later our bathroom is aaaaalmost done, our garage still has 2 gaping holes in the ceiling, our kitchen is just drywall because I got tired of looking at the horrible wallpaper, we’ve replaced the other HVAC unit, our furnace leaked causing our hardwood floors to buckle, our water heater broke and had to be replaced, we had to replace the siding on the chimney because it was rotten and leaking, our formal living room and dining room were painted and ‘done’ but in an attempt to rid our house of the ultra-high gloss, bright white crown molding and trim, I’d decided to go with dark.  Not the right choice.

And then…  In a rare moment, the planets aligned “just so” allowing a left-handed Pisces (me) and a science-minded Gemini (my hubs) to have a “Jinx! You’re it!” moment.

HIRE IT OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!  Finally, we were in a bit of a better financial situation.  Let’s get it done.

In the house beside us lives a very nice, albeit unconventional family; a lovely, older woman from Fiji and her 2 grown sons.  The sons are contractors!  Yay!!!!!

Let me give you a mental picture of the sons.  It will come in handy later {that’s what she said}.

First up, we have “Tommy”.  He’s the oldest of the 2.  Medium height, heavy set, early 30’s.  Gold grill across his front teeth.  Long beard, unkept hair.  Chain smoker.  Heavy southern accent.

Next we have “Frank”.  He’s younger by a few years.  A little shorter than his brother, slimmer build but stocky, under bite accompanied by a lisp, chain smoker, heavy southern accent.  Aaaaand a bit emotional.

For the record, an entire post could (and may) be written about these 2.  Maybe even a reality show.  It would be awesome.

When our furnace leaked, Frank and his crew did the work for us to replace the floors and they did a beautiful job.

However, when it came time to invoice the insurance company, he had a hard time itemizing the invoice.  No big deal.  It’s his work we are concerned about, right??  Nothing an hour on the phone can’t fix, right, baby?

OH!  And timeline.  While they were replacing our floors, we were displaced to a hotel.  What was slated to be a 3 or 4 day job turned into more like 6 days.  Inconvenient but still, not a huge deal.

In addition to the floor, they had to renovate our half-bath that backs up to the furnace.  The water had leaked into the bathroom floor so much that it lifted the toilet off of its wax ring.  That job took longer than expected as well.  By about a week.  But when they did finish the bathroom it was beautiful.

Next up, painting.  We hired them to paint ceilings, walls, trim, pretty much everything.

This is where shat got real.

First up, the timeline.  Frank told us 3 days.  To which my snarky ass replied, “so… three months??”  The hubs laughed cuz he knew I was right.

Turns out, I wasn’t far off.

The timeline thing is what it is.  Annoying and inconvenient but not a deal breaker.  All in all, they have done a great job with what we hired them to do.

In addition to that, we also got some surprises we didn’t realize we’d paid for!

For example, my hubs gets a call one day from Frank: “Hey, uh, you know, we had a little inthident.  My brother backed into your house with our van.  Uh, you know, don’t worry ‘bout it.  You know, we gonna pay for it, you know, to fix it thince it’th practically our fault.”

WHAT THA FACE, FRANK!?

It’s not PRACTICALLY your fault.  We didn’t grab your van, pull it up the driveway, and into our brick wall.  That one is all you, brotha.

But they fixed it perfectly.  They even repaired termite damage we didn’t know we had.

Next up, I pulled into the driveway one evening, started getting the kids out of the car and here he comes.  Uh-oh.  “Hey, uh, we had a little inthident today.  I’m gonna tell you what happened, you know, cuth I’m honetht.  Uh, we got red paint on your curtainth and on your comforter in your bedroom.  We gonna replath it, you know.  Just tellin you tho, you know.”

Yay!!!!!!!!

At this time I’d like to take a moment to remember those we’ve lost in the process of getting our house painted:

Garage door bricks and dry wall

Several electrical plates

European Pillow Sham

Comforter

Bed sheets

2 panels of curtains

Coin sorter (Not sure what happened there.  I think it’s best I don’t know.)

Their sacrifice was not in vein.

As “interesting” as it was to work with them, they did a good job.  And they provide my hubs and me plenty of entertainment.

We are FINALLY! able to invite people over and not be embarrassed by our house.  It’s not 100% complete but it’s almost there!!!

The BEST part is that our marriage survived!!!!!!!!!!!  And we’re smarter.  And still pretty 🙂

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8 Thoughts I Had Today

Every time my kids’ birthdays roll around I feel like I’m planning a wedding.  WHY ARE VENUES SO EXPENSIVE??????  Am I funding the owner’s coffee habit?  Maybe paying for him or her to send a kid to college?  All I want is a place for 10-20 kids to run around and not break anything…  Especially my bank.  Oops!  Too late!

If you are offered a job and tell me that you have to talk the offer over with your dad, there is a problem.  I rescind the offer immediately.  Is your dad going to drop you off every day?

Don’t correct my kids if I’m sitting right there.  Especially if you are working for an establishment at which I am a patron.  I won’t give you my money and I may punch you in the throat.  Back up.

I want an excuse to wear a sparkly, pretty dress and have my friends say super nice things about me that probably aren’t true.  I’m going to have an awards ceremony.  Invitations coming soon (that’s what she said).

Actors/Directors/Models, no one cares what your political beliefs are or that you do/don’t believe mothers should co-sleep with their baby.  Shut your mouth unless you’re telling me that you are starring in a new Melissa McCarthy movie.

Oh, and Angelina, please don’t run for office.  Ever.

Also, I don’t care to know that anyone I see on TV is getting their implants removed, or even put in for that matter…

Every day at the gym there is a large man (picture a very soft Michael Clarke Duncan) who wears daisy duke running shorts.  He gets on the elliptical machine and sits down on the back of it for a bit to contemplate life (isn’t that what it’s for?).  And we all see what God gave him.  At least he’s pretty 🙂

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