Friends, it's been too long....
First and foremost, my shit was finally delivered, thus concluding my moving from the desert nightmare, and that's been occupying quite a bit of my time. I stare at my boxes of stuff while I lay on my couch, watching tv, and thinking about how it really needs to be unpacked.
The movers were...interesting. It was just 2 dudes, one was just the driver, and I think he was Santa Claus. I mean, he was old, and fat, and had a white beard, and delivered shit, so, Santa. The other guy was only marginally younger, but in far better shape and did all the lifting. It was very funny, husband kept trying to help, and the movers kept yelling at him to stop because I guess they can get in trouble for that, so husband just paced nervously in the 3 feet of space not occupied by shit. And they were SO damn chatty and it was SO awkward because I knew that just a few weeks before, these dudes packed up all my porn and brought it to me. I would have been happy if they just dumped it all in the driveway and sped off, but no such luck. But, my stuff is here now.
Let's talk about the mixer disaster for a minute... I have a Kitchenaid Stand Mixer, and it's my prized possession. Mother in law gave it to me for my bridal shower, and I fucking love this thing. I decided that I was going to make my friends gingerbread houses for Christmas, so I went about making my dough with my blessed mixer. But as I'm using it, the head part with the mixer blade attached to it is wobbling up and down while it's supposed to be locked, and causing the whole mixer to jump all over the counter. So I manage to finish my dough and icing, and then I start to examine my mixer. It has a bunch of screws and stuff on it, so I tighten every screw I can find (this is an important detail), and the problem does not improve. Husband comes home, and I show him the problem: the little latch you pull to lock the head isn't locking tight. So husband, who is very mechanically minded takes the whole thing apart, which was not an easy feat, and involved much banging and cursing, and sees that the latch is in fact loose, and tightens it, and proceeds to attempt to put it back together. Only pieces that slid out very easily will not slide back into place with any amount of banging and swearing. And husband starts to get real mad. Also, you may not be aware, but these motherfuckers are FULL of grease, so there's grease all over my dining room table. Husband says he needs a tool he doesn't have, so we leave it until the next day. Husband goes to Lowes after work, and continues to work on it, and eventually gets it back together. We plug it in....and nothing. So husband takes the motor cover off, and finds that in all his banging, he has loosened a metal thingy (circut? idk.) that needs to be re-soldered. No big deal, he can borrow a soldering iron. And then, as if on cue, the piece he adjusted inside fucking breaks. And I start to cry. He starts to look more closely at the mixer and says "Did you tighten every screw?" and I said that I had, and he starts laughing like a mad scientist. APPARENTLY, one of the screws I tightened down was actually supposed to be sticking way out like I found it because it keeps the mixer head from wobbling up and down.... So that's the story of how I made my husband break my mixer while trying to fix it when it wasn't broken. And it's sitting non functionally in my kitchen until he can borrow a soldering iron, and get some kind of drill to get out a piece he replaced permanently. I should probably just never touch it again.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Wreath Tutorial!!
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Step 1: Wrap the wreath form in the wide ribbon, securing both ends with hot glue.
Step 2: cut your decorating ribbon into 3 inch lengths.
Step 3: Sew the cut ribbon lengths into little loops. If you don't have a sewing machine, or don't want to use it, you can hot glue them, but if you can sew them, I think it's much easier.
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| When you're done sewing you have a fun chain of loops. |
Step 4: Cut all the little loops apart
Step 5: Start gluing all the little loops onto the wrapped wreath form. Apply the glue in between the ends below the seam so the loops stand up on the wreath.
Oh, I should have mentioned to save a 15 inch or longer length of one of the ribbons to hang the wreath with. Hopefully you read all the directions before starting the project. Did you ever take that test in school that says read the directions all the way before beginning, and the end of the directions says "Don't do anything" but if you don't read, you start an impossible test? I digress.
Step 6: Tie your hanging loop onto the wreath. I added a loop of the wrapping ribbon to tie mine too, but you can just use a longer hanging piece and loop it through the wrapping or just through the middle of the wreath.
Step 7: Hang prominently and shame your neighbors because they don't have an awesome wreath like yours. Unless you're my neighbor (which I know you're not, because my neighbor is a permanently sour faced haaaaaaterrrrr who won't talk to me).
I absolutely love this wreath because you can use whatever ribbon you want and make it for any occasion! And you can just pick a fun color for those times of year where there isn't a themed holiday to make a wreath for. It would also be a great gift, since it cost less than $20 to make.
So enjoy your wreath making, friends. And please post any helpful hints, or pictures of wreaths you make!!
Those Assholes Just Didn't Want Me To Have Christmas
Oh. Em. Gee. Y'all. My stuff will FINALLY be here tomorrow. When I say stuff, I literally mean all of my worldly possessions. Why have I been living at The Base By The Beach for a month like a hobo with no stuff (albeit a hobo with a super nice, if empty, house)? Oh friends. This is a story of clusterfuckery the likes of which haven't been seen before.
Some back story: before we lived here, we lived at The Base In The Desert, which sucked balls before the moving disaster ever even happened. So, TBITD is a training base, which means that, for the most part, the only people stationed there are students and their instructors. Sometimes students can't start their school when they first get there for a number of different reasons, like a security clearance that won't go through, or they arrived there too far before or after their class starts, or they have a raging case of highly contagious super-crabs. So, while the crotch exterminators are busy with other things, they go on what's called "casual status" and have to do whatever jobs need filling. These jobs include working in all the offices one has to out process through. As anyone who has ever encountered a student older than about 13 can tell you, those fuckers don't give a rat's ass about anything that doesn't directly concern them. You could be on fire 5 feet away, and as long as their iPod isn't in danger of melting, you may as well not exist.
SO. Husband's school was winding down, and we knew we were coming to the beach, but didn't have orders yet. Typically you get them 3-4 weeks before you leave. The 4 week mark hit, and no orders. No worries yet, since we're still in the 3-4 week range. 3 week mark passes, and we grow concerned. At this point we may not be able to schedule them to move our shit, and that makes me very angry, because I'd rather burn it all than move it again. H starts inquiring about the orders at school, and his instructors go to bat for him. 2 weeks comes and goes, and still nothing. We begin pricing doing the move ourselves, and I faint dramatically onto a chaise lounge like a Tennessee Williams character. We finally get to the last week of our stay in the desert and still have no goddamn orders. I'm ready to start stabbing people for answers. Husband is not a fan of that tactic on legal and moral grounds. But we manage to get our answers without the aid of violence, and let me tell you, they were not helpful.
This is the story: His paperwork to get his orders was sent out from his squadron exactly when it was supposed to be, and it was complete and ready to go. At the first office it went to, someone lost part of the info packet. It was ignored until H's instructors asked what the hell the holdup was, then replaced, and promptly lost again. After it was replaced for the second time, it was processed and forwarded to the office of the person who formally issues the orders. At this point, it's ready to go, someone just needs to effectively press the button. So it makes it to its final destination, and sits....for 2 weeks. Apparently, the guy who did that particular job was on vacation. Which is fine, everyone needs a vacation, especially from the strenuous job of processing orders. There was another guy who did orders for a different squadron who was supposed to cover for him. He did not. So once the guy on vacation comes back, he just throws the giant pile of orders in the air, and grabs them at random to process, never mind who has been waiting for weeks and who got there yesterday. Fast forward to the day before we're supposed to leave, and several angry phone calls from his scary first-shirt, and he FINALLY gets them. At this point we have put all our stuff in storage. H tries to go to the office that arranges moving and explain his situation, and they said they'd be happy to help him....in 2 weeks. When he says he's leaving tomorrow, they laughed in his face (remember...causals). So we leave and hope for the best.
We left the desert on October 14. Thankfully, when we went to housing here, the guy in charge had dealt with the nightmarish joke that is TBITD, and was very understanding and helpful. And now our stuff will be here in less than 24 hours!! And I've been having Christmas withdrawal because my tree and stuff would have been up like a week and a half ago if I had any of it. I did make a wreath to get me through, but mama needs her fix. The wreath is way cute. Pictures and a tutorial are to follow.
To sum up: Fuck TBITD. It's been too long without my stand mixer.
Some back story: before we lived here, we lived at The Base In The Desert, which sucked balls before the moving disaster ever even happened. So, TBITD is a training base, which means that, for the most part, the only people stationed there are students and their instructors. Sometimes students can't start their school when they first get there for a number of different reasons, like a security clearance that won't go through, or they arrived there too far before or after their class starts, or they have a raging case of highly contagious super-crabs. So, while the crotch exterminators are busy with other things, they go on what's called "casual status" and have to do whatever jobs need filling. These jobs include working in all the offices one has to out process through. As anyone who has ever encountered a student older than about 13 can tell you, those fuckers don't give a rat's ass about anything that doesn't directly concern them. You could be on fire 5 feet away, and as long as their iPod isn't in danger of melting, you may as well not exist.
SO. Husband's school was winding down, and we knew we were coming to the beach, but didn't have orders yet. Typically you get them 3-4 weeks before you leave. The 4 week mark hit, and no orders. No worries yet, since we're still in the 3-4 week range. 3 week mark passes, and we grow concerned. At this point we may not be able to schedule them to move our shit, and that makes me very angry, because I'd rather burn it all than move it again. H starts inquiring about the orders at school, and his instructors go to bat for him. 2 weeks comes and goes, and still nothing. We begin pricing doing the move ourselves, and I faint dramatically onto a chaise lounge like a Tennessee Williams character. We finally get to the last week of our stay in the desert and still have no goddamn orders. I'm ready to start stabbing people for answers. Husband is not a fan of that tactic on legal and moral grounds. But we manage to get our answers without the aid of violence, and let me tell you, they were not helpful.
This is the story: His paperwork to get his orders was sent out from his squadron exactly when it was supposed to be, and it was complete and ready to go. At the first office it went to, someone lost part of the info packet. It was ignored until H's instructors asked what the hell the holdup was, then replaced, and promptly lost again. After it was replaced for the second time, it was processed and forwarded to the office of the person who formally issues the orders. At this point, it's ready to go, someone just needs to effectively press the button. So it makes it to its final destination, and sits....for 2 weeks. Apparently, the guy who did that particular job was on vacation. Which is fine, everyone needs a vacation, especially from the strenuous job of processing orders. There was another guy who did orders for a different squadron who was supposed to cover for him. He did not. So once the guy on vacation comes back, he just throws the giant pile of orders in the air, and grabs them at random to process, never mind who has been waiting for weeks and who got there yesterday. Fast forward to the day before we're supposed to leave, and several angry phone calls from his scary first-shirt, and he FINALLY gets them. At this point we have put all our stuff in storage. H tries to go to the office that arranges moving and explain his situation, and they said they'd be happy to help him....in 2 weeks. When he says he's leaving tomorrow, they laughed in his face (remember...causals). So we leave and hope for the best.
We left the desert on October 14. Thankfully, when we went to housing here, the guy in charge had dealt with the nightmarish joke that is TBITD, and was very understanding and helpful. And now our stuff will be here in less than 24 hours!! And I've been having Christmas withdrawal because my tree and stuff would have been up like a week and a half ago if I had any of it. I did make a wreath to get me through, but mama needs her fix. The wreath is way cute. Pictures and a tutorial are to follow.
To sum up: Fuck TBITD. It's been too long without my stand mixer.
Monday, November 28, 2011
You can only watch so much daytime TV before your sanity starts to slip...
I need a job. For reals.
I apply for at least 5 jobs every day, both on actual job sites, and the asshole of the internet known as Craigslist. I think two out of three jobs I send my resume to on Craigslist respond to me, and every time I see a subject line in my inbox that's in reply to a job, my heart skips a beat. Trembling, I guide my cursor to the email, double click, and hold my breath as the page loads. And then the rage and disappointment set in when every single fucking one reads something like this:
Does anyone want to pay me to look at pictures of cats and shop on the internet all day? I'll throw in a good solid 3 hours a day doing craft projects at no extra charge!!! No takers? How about if I sweeten the pot with watching Kathie Lee and Hoda, and then Food Network? Anyone? Anyone? Please?
Damn. I may have to start actually applying for jobs in person soon, and that usually involves wearing not sweatpants.
Are you sure you don't need an internet/television/shopping/sweatpants expert?
I apply for at least 5 jobs every day, both on actual job sites, and the asshole of the internet known as Craigslist. I think two out of three jobs I send my resume to on Craigslist respond to me, and every time I see a subject line in my inbox that's in reply to a job, my heart skips a beat. Trembling, I guide my cursor to the email, double click, and hold my breath as the page loads. And then the rage and disappointment set in when every single fucking one reads something like this:
Dear Applicant:At which point I begin yelling obscenities at my email and my husband becomes concerned for my health and safety.
Thank you for your interest, and after reviewing your resume, we've decided that you're the greatest candidate we've ever seen and we want to pay you twice what the average salary for this job is!! Just as soon as you visit our website and give us all of your personal information, social security number, bank account number, and first born child. Also, we'll probably load your computer up with trojans and viruses and shit. Basically we just tricked your ass. Good fucking luck with the job hunt.
Regards,
Not a Real Human Being
Does anyone want to pay me to look at pictures of cats and shop on the internet all day? I'll throw in a good solid 3 hours a day doing craft projects at no extra charge!!! No takers? How about if I sweeten the pot with watching Kathie Lee and Hoda, and then Food Network? Anyone? Anyone? Please?
Damn. I may have to start actually applying for jobs in person soon, and that usually involves wearing not sweatpants.
Are you sure you don't need an internet/television/shopping/sweatpants expert?
Sunday, November 27, 2011
"Titles" looks like "Titties" at a glance.
We just moved to the base by the beach, and it's fucking fantastic. (Wow, I made it 11 words on my blog before I said fuck. Way cleaner than speaking.) Being from the midwest where it's already shitting snow this time of year, I'm insanely happy to be on the beach, and my friends and family are happy for me. I think. If they are, they express it in the most passive aggressive ways possible.
"The weather was miserable here today, in the forties and sleeting."
"Oh, that's terrible."
"It really is. How's the weather down there?"
"Really great! In the 80's and sunny. We went to the beach."
"Oh, that sounds amazing. You're so lucky you stupid fucking cunt."
"Um...I'm sorry?"
"It's okay! Can't wait to visit! Love you!"
Okay, so maybe mom didn't call me a cunt out loud, but I know that bitch was thinking it. I do have a friend who is genuinely happy for me, so when she comes to visit, I'll take her to the parts of the beach not infested with jellyfish. Who's the cunt now?! Probably still me I guess. Well at least it's a warranted insult now.
In other news, other military wives drive me nuts. I've received no less than 6 Facebook invites to various wife groups in the 3 weeks I've been here, and I decline them all. Why? Because on every fucking page there's inevitably some woman hawking Pampered Chef, or thirtyone, or Scentsy, or Pure Romance (especially Pure Romance...not that I'm prudish, per se, but I don't need to play games with sex toys in front of my family members). It's not that I have an issue with those products, I love me some Pampered Chef, but I hate the notion of the "parties" that accompany them. To me, a party is when my friends come over, we get trashed, play board games that we convert into drinking games, someone pisses on my patio, and they stumble home. No one ever tries to sell anyone anything. If I want a sales pitch, I'll go to the AT&T store. I don't need a $20 vegetable peeler, and I really don't need your shame face when I tell you as much.
Aside from the parties-that-aren't-really-parties, I still tend to avoid large groups of women with enough idle time to devote to these groups. Book club? Can we read I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell? Oh...you're reading A Walk To Remember for the 18th time? Maybe I should go.... Another bone of contention is kids. We're childless by choice. We have dogs and that's enough. It's really better for us and the rest of the world if we never reproduce. Our spawn would probably take over the world after immediately murdering us both upon its birth. And when people ask me if I have kids, my typical answer is "No, we like kids, but they just aren't for us." I usually get one of two responses: a sympathetic smile and a small nod as if to say "I know you're just hiding your pain at your secret infertility", or I get the "Oh, you're so young, I just know you'll change your mind soon and have a herd of small humans!" The first response doesn't bother me so much. Those people tend to be super nice to me from then on, and never bring it up again. Maybe it's based on a lie, but that works for me. And, hey, maybe they'll make me cookies or something since they think I'm silently suffering. I have no shame about accepting fake-infertility baked goods.
The second response though....those people I want to set on fire.
Inevitably they have kids of their own, which is wonderful for them, but just because you have something, doesn't mean everyone else needs it too. Like herpes. (Did I just compare children to herpes? Well, you get them from banging, and you can never get rid of them, and they tend to flare up when you're stressed. Am I talking about the kids or the herpes? Exactly.) And not only that, but you've just met me, and I've explained to you that I'm childless by choice, but you suddenly know me well enough to predict that I'm going to change my personal values and life plan to make mini people? Yes, I recognize most women my age are making babies like the world is ending, but that's not the kind of kool aid I want to drink. I'd like the kool aid with vodka in it please.
Also, in 15 years or so, I will laugh at them from atop my pile of money that I didn't spend on having kids. 'Cause spoiling other people's kids is way cheaper than having your own.
"The weather was miserable here today, in the forties and sleeting."
"Oh, that's terrible."
"It really is. How's the weather down there?"
"Really great! In the 80's and sunny. We went to the beach."
"Oh, that sounds amazing. You're so lucky you stupid fucking cunt."
"Um...I'm sorry?"
"It's okay! Can't wait to visit! Love you!"
Okay, so maybe mom didn't call me a cunt out loud, but I know that bitch was thinking it. I do have a friend who is genuinely happy for me, so when she comes to visit, I'll take her to the parts of the beach not infested with jellyfish. Who's the cunt now?! Probably still me I guess. Well at least it's a warranted insult now.
In other news, other military wives drive me nuts. I've received no less than 6 Facebook invites to various wife groups in the 3 weeks I've been here, and I decline them all. Why? Because on every fucking page there's inevitably some woman hawking Pampered Chef, or thirtyone, or Scentsy, or Pure Romance (especially Pure Romance...not that I'm prudish, per se, but I don't need to play games with sex toys in front of my family members). It's not that I have an issue with those products, I love me some Pampered Chef, but I hate the notion of the "parties" that accompany them. To me, a party is when my friends come over, we get trashed, play board games that we convert into drinking games, someone pisses on my patio, and they stumble home. No one ever tries to sell anyone anything. If I want a sales pitch, I'll go to the AT&T store. I don't need a $20 vegetable peeler, and I really don't need your shame face when I tell you as much.
Aside from the parties-that-aren't-really-parties, I still tend to avoid large groups of women with enough idle time to devote to these groups. Book club? Can we read I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell? Oh...you're reading A Walk To Remember for the 18th time? Maybe I should go.... Another bone of contention is kids. We're childless by choice. We have dogs and that's enough. It's really better for us and the rest of the world if we never reproduce. Our spawn would probably take over the world after immediately murdering us both upon its birth. And when people ask me if I have kids, my typical answer is "No, we like kids, but they just aren't for us." I usually get one of two responses: a sympathetic smile and a small nod as if to say "I know you're just hiding your pain at your secret infertility", or I get the "Oh, you're so young, I just know you'll change your mind soon and have a herd of small humans!" The first response doesn't bother me so much. Those people tend to be super nice to me from then on, and never bring it up again. Maybe it's based on a lie, but that works for me. And, hey, maybe they'll make me cookies or something since they think I'm silently suffering. I have no shame about accepting fake-infertility baked goods.
The second response though....those people I want to set on fire.
Inevitably they have kids of their own, which is wonderful for them, but just because you have something, doesn't mean everyone else needs it too. Like herpes. (Did I just compare children to herpes? Well, you get them from banging, and you can never get rid of them, and they tend to flare up when you're stressed. Am I talking about the kids or the herpes? Exactly.) And not only that, but you've just met me, and I've explained to you that I'm childless by choice, but you suddenly know me well enough to predict that I'm going to change my personal values and life plan to make mini people? Yes, I recognize most women my age are making babies like the world is ending, but that's not the kind of kool aid I want to drink. I'd like the kool aid with vodka in it please.
Also, in 15 years or so, I will laugh at them from atop my pile of money that I didn't spend on having kids. 'Cause spoiling other people's kids is way cheaper than having your own.
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