Extreme Makeover: Unstable Edition

     It's never a good thing when you see a wet spot on the ceiling.  It's even worse when you see a wet spot on the ceiling after having just spent money you didn't have on a new roof you didn't know you needed.  It's way worse when you hardly know the guy and he still makes you sleep...oh, wait.

     Let's just refer to them as water spots to avoid any further confusion as to the direction of this tale.

     Once you see said water spot, you can't not see it.  In fact, you can't see anything else.  You even start to find other water spots, bumps, cracks, the remnants of that spider you smashed with a shoe months ago and were too afraid to wipe away which looks suspiciously like a water spot.

     Then, you start to regret becoming a homeowner, wondering why you didn't just stay in the apartment with the stinky neighbor lady who smelled like cheeto feet.

     After crying in the corner for awhile with a bottle of bourbon, you decide to put on your big girl panties and beg your husband to call the contractor to confront him about his shoddy work.

     Turns out?  The roof is not leaking.  However, nothing in your house was built properly or to code. Your chimney is not secured to the house, leaving one entire outer wall exposed to the elements.  Said wall is now slowly rotting away.  You HAVE to fix it and replace your siding or the entire house will crumble around you.

     Remember how you wanted to put in central air this year?  HA!  Not happening.  Suck it up and deal with the boob sweat, princess.

     So, that's where we are.  The Money Pit Transformation 2014 has begun.  It's Day 3 and we are over budget.  We also discovered that we are lucky to be alive because apparently the wiring in the house was not done properly.  Shocking.

     Heehee!  Shocking!  Get it?

     I'm choosing to focus on the sunny side of this transformation.  I'm picking paint colors and fabrics and Pinteresty things to redecorate the interior.  If the contractor comes to me and says 'we have a problem', I'm going to show him my swatches and walk away with a big grin on my face.

     Since I am a mental health professional, I realize that is not the appropriate response.  In order to avoid an unnecessary straight jacket, I have come up with a plan.  I am going to need it because tomorrow is the day the siding gets ripped off of my house.

     I will mentally prepare myself for whatever problems they may find when this happens by envisioning that they will find what is pictured below...a spider infestation of epic proportions. It's a great idea because ANYTHING would be better than that. ANYTHING!

   

MB will be a very busy man.

     A friend and I were discussing ice dancing, as friends do in the time of the Olympics.  Naturally, the conversation turned to curling.  In sharing my only knowledge of the Olympic events (as I have not watched any of it thus far), I told her another friend had commented on the hotness of the women of curling. 

     She reminded me that, of course, they are still hot.  The sport of curling does not result in any blows to the face resulting in an unfortunate but also hardcore awesome loss of teeth.  One's beauty tends to remain intact. 

     I wish that curling was more of a high impact, injury inducing sport.  It might be the only legitimate excuse I would have to permanently remove sweeping from my chore list. 

     "Sorry, MB.  There is no way I can sweep up all that dog hair and chewed up underwear.  It's way too dangerous." 

     Of course, I could always tell him that I've decided to fulfill my lifelong dream of becoming an Olympic curler and I must therefore remove all other chores from my list, focusing only on my sweeping and forcing him to cook, clean and do laundry.   

     Then, it would seem perfectly normal for me to be shouting out "hurry", "die" or "right off" as I was skating around the house chasing after mounds of dog hair and debris. 

     Of course I would be on roller skates.  My floors aren't made of ice. 

Outsmarted. Again.

So, I had a discussion with MB recently about the spider infestation in our home and he actually agreed that it was a problem. 

I know! 

For those of you who are new to the Bitz, I'll give you the low down. We have a spider infestation and I have severe, SEVERE arachnophobia.  It makes me do very bizarre things like this.  You should totally go read that and then decide if you want to continue reading on or if you want to get as far away from the crazy lady as you can. 

Go ahead. I'll wait. 

Doobie, doobie doo....

Sticking with me?  Well, thank you.  I appreciate that. 

So, our infestation seems to have reached epic proportions.  Partly because I am too much of a lily livered, yellow bellied, chicken shit to actually tackle the problem.  Okay, that's the only reason. 

Our laundry room/tool storage area is the most neglected area of our home.  I despise doing laundry and MB isn't all that handy.  What can I say?  We have other strengths. 

Due to our neglect of that room, the spiders have decided to take over.  The entire ceiling is covered in a layer of cobwebs.  Whenever I do venture into the room, which is when we both run out of clean underwear, it's a nightmare.

I have to wear head gear and a protective suit that may or may not be made of tin foil.  I tried to convince MB to get me some haz mat suits from the firehouse, but apparently they are very expensive. 

Tin foil isn't all that cheap either.  But, whatever. 

Once I get all geared up, I am still on high alert as my biggest fear is that the spiders will drop from the ceiling and envelope me in cobwebs.  MB will come home to my fat ass strung up to the ceiling, spiders sucking all the fat out of my...well, everywhere. 

I don't think it's an irrational fear.  It could totally happen.  I have a lot of fat. 

Today, my dear hubby actually decided to tackle the cobweb ceiling.  This was after he called an exterminator, was told it wasn't worth it to spray for spiders and decided we should attack them on our own.  Then, I told him I was absolutely, positively, under no circumstances going to have any part whatsoever in tackling that particular room. 

I must have made myself clear because he agreed to go in there and take care of it. 

Armed with the long handled thingy that you use to clean ceiling fans, he began to knock down the cobwebs.  I stood at a safe distance, close to the exit and watched him with tears in my eyes. 

Not tears of joy or pride.  Tears of fear.  He thought it was hilarious that just watching him do this sent me into hysterics. 

God, I love that man.  He's so supportive. 

He finished the job and it actually doesn't look like a labyrinth in there.  Now, I have no excuse to avoid doing laundry. 

Wait...I may have been duped on this one.  Dammit! 

The glamorous life.

There are times when I wonder where things went horribly wrong in my life. 

Here's what happened...

I had a pretty good day at work.  There was a minimal amount of drama, considering some of the drama queens that I work with.  That's always a good thing.  It was absolutely gorgeous outside and I spent all day, itching to get out and enjoy the sunshine. 

When I got off work, I loaded up the dogs and took them to the local trail for a little hike.  They were only somewhat unruly.  It's all relative for them.  If they aren't eating underwear or destroying the couch, I consider it a good day. 

We started off and the little one starts barking at another dog.  Her tiny, piercingly shrill bark is more annoying than intimidating, but she feels very mighty in the moment. 

I let her have her thrill and then we started on the trail.  After about 5 steps in, the big one squats and unloads.  Oh boy.  Then the little one squats and walks as she unloads, leaving a little trail of poop for me to scoop.  She just can't make it easy for me. 

As I'm getting my pooper scooper bag out, the little one starts to twiddle and twist, tangling me up in the leashes.  I'm trying to maintain my balance while also yelling at the big one to stop eating his pile of poop.  Just as I bend over to scoop, a pack of cyclists rides by to enjoy the view. 

Awesome. 

Rather than carry the stinking bag of poop on the trail, I sit it on the bumper of my Jeep.  This particular site has no trash cans so you have to carry in and carry out all of your garbage. 

We continue on the trail.  As we are nearing the end of the trail, my head starts to rebel.  The Beast (aka migraine) is making his move.  I try to fight off the bastard, but it's futile.  We finish the trail and I manage to get us home safely without having to pull over and barf. 

It was close, people.  Too close. 

I get home and manage to get the dogs in their pens before having to make a mad dash for the bathroom.  It wasn't pretty.  The vomiting lasting for the next 6 hours.  After the first few episodes, my stomach was empty.  I basically spent the night retching uncontrollably and praying for it to stop.

If you've never experienced a migraine, you should know that it essentially takes over your entire being.  It renders you incapable of doing anything.  It holds you in it's clutches until it decides to let you go.  Sometimes the meds work and you can gain control quickly. 

This was not such a night for me.  The Beast had me and I just had to ride it out.  I couldn't think clearly, couldn't form a coherent sentence, couldn't walk without stumbling.  My body was exhausted but I couldn't rest until the retching stopped.   I was basically a zombie, crying on my bathroom floor for relief. 

In the midst of all of this, there were small moments of clarity.  During one of those moments, I was able to let the dogs out to pee.  During another, I remembered that the trash was being picked up the next morning.

Shit. 

There was no way I could avoid this chore since our recycling bin was already overflowing and my dear hubby was at work.  I had no  choice but to put a bra on, febreze away the barfy smell and wheel the garbage to the curb.  As I'm doing this, I'm praying that I don't have to stop and vomit on the lawn. 

I already have a tenuous relationship with my neighbors.  I'm pretty sure barfing on the lawn would put me on the outs. 

While I'm going back for the second garbage can, I happen to notice something sitting on my bumper. 

Shit. 

Literally, shit.  As The Beast attacked, I completely forgot about the little bag of dog poop I had put on my bumper. 

I guess I should be thankful that I found it when I did.  That could be an awkward thing to explain at work.  Or to the police when there was a 5 car pile up on the interstate because someone got a projectile bag of poop in their windshield and couldn't recover properly. 

So, my plan to enjoy a little sunshine turned into an evening filled with barf, poop and garbage. 

Nothing but the good life for me. 

Feverishly funny.

     Yesterday, my dear MB was stricken with the sickness, and I am considering some level of quarantine.  I have to protect myself, people.   

     The onset of said sickness occured mere moments after he consumed the delicious smoothie I had made for our breakfast.  It consisted of 1 fresh banana, 2 cups of ice, 2 scoops of protein powder and 2 cups of a very healthy green juice containing fruits and veggies. 

     Even though MB will argue otherwise, it did not contain any sort of poison.  I would like to make that clear as he spent the entire day, writhing and moaning in pain between hurried trips to the bathroom, feebly pointing his finger at me and saying "J'accuse!".   At one point, he said "If I can just get to Facebook, I can get help."  That's when I put his phone in an undisclosed, safe location. 

     Each time I would ask him if he needed anything, he would answer "less poison" or some equally accusatory version of the same thing.   Someone less accustomed to his comedic ramblings would've called 911 and had him commited for a psychiatric evaluation due to his persistent paranoia. 

     After surviving the alien pod incident of 2010, I am no longer alarmed by any of his rantings.  This is why I still refused to call 911 when he began waving at a butterfly named Gary who was flying away to freedom via our bedroom ceiling fan. 

     Fevers can affect people in very strange ways.  Thankfully, they do not affect my husband's sense of humor.  It's the only way he survived after calling me on my cell phone multiple times from the bedroom (before the phone was taken away), to 'test the system'.  Poor, dear thing.  And he was surprised that I wouldn't get him a bell. 

     Things seem to be less feverish today.  There have only been a couple hurried trips to the bathroom and Gary seems to have left the building. 

     In an effort to avoid becoming a victim of the sickness, I have taken certain precautions.  I may or may not have sprayed my husband with Lysol while he was sleeping and I'm currently working on measurements for a plastic bubble to encase him in. 

     Unfortunately, I only have aluminum foil.  This may not bode well for his sanity defense, should someone happen to stop by and see him wearing said aluminum foil suit.  Let's just hope he doesn't start accusing me of poisoning him again.

     I can't stand the thought of MB being commited.  There is yard work to be done. 

    

What is that smell? Did something die in here?

Do you have any idea how much the hoof of an antelope stinks? 

It's like a combination of feet (duh), armpits and rotten eggs.  Throw in a little expired milk (the lumpy kind of expired) and you've got it. 

As a little girl, dreaming about my future life, I never once imagined that I would be able to describe the stench of an antelope hoof.  It just wasn't in the script for the Barbie dolls in my playhouse. 

They were chatting about dream husbands and bubble baths while eating bon bons and petting their cuddly puppies. 

Yeah.  My view of the future was a little warped. 

I have the cuddly puppy thing right.  Bubble baths?  Not so much.  There's too much hair in my drain. 

So, anyway...antelope hooves. 

You see, I am now the proud parent of two cuddly puppies.  My little man, Atticus...

And my new little girl, Moxxi...

Double the adorable.  Double the trouble.  Double the destruction. 

These little lovebugs are chewers!  In order to satisfy their need to gnaw, we decided to try some of the more exotic chew toys at the pet store.  Pig snouts, cow tracheas, antlers...the good stuff. 

Since I am super cheap, I went for the least expensive of the exotics.  The hooves.  For just $1.99, you can be the proud owner of your very own antelope hoof.  If you would like to part with a few more dollars, you can get that antelope hoof stuffed with meat. 

I don't think it's antelope meat. 

These stinky feet are a big hit with my hounds.  They absolutely love them.  Of course, my Atticus still eats poop.  He may not have the most refined taste buds. 

They can spend all day gnawing on their hooves, which is a good thing.  The down side is the resulting stench that emanates from their little faces.  Even worse is the inevitable stench that emanates from their little butts. 

Hooves?  Full of swamp gas. 

Who knew?  



Pepper spray, breast tenderness and oreos...yummmm, oreos.

So, TOM has stopped by for a visit.  That's always fun. 

In an effort to be better prepared for his visit and to avoid any potential hormonal homicidal rage, I went to the drug store to get TOM supplies. 

Ladies, you know what I'm talking about.  Midol. 

It's a freakin lifesaver.  For me, anyway. 

Of course, I am a total cheapskate so I end up getting the generic brand.  It's always in a neon pink package with the words 'pms' or 'menstrual' in giant letters for all to see.  Whenever I try to discreetly carry it to the counter, I end up under the watchful eye of store security. 

I'm not trying to steal the economy size bottle of MENSTRUAL LADY PILLS.  I just don't really want the hot guy buying dental floss to know that I'm MENSTRUATING. 

Sometimes, I like to keep the business of my lady bits to myself.  Thank you very much.

So, for this particular TOM supply run, I was too lazy to go to the drug store.  I had already dragged myself out of bed to shuffle into the grocery store.  I'm sure they have some sort of lady pills.  Plus, maybe I can hide the package under my box of oreos...I mean, rice cakes. 

Turns out, the grocery store is not really practiced in the art of discretion.  The lady bits aisle is dangerously close to the butcher's counter.  If any man were to enter the grocery store of his own free will (or otherwise) he'd be hanging out at the butcher's counter. 

Also, I have some concerns about how the butcher is eyeing me.  It's how I imagine a bear or a shark would be ogling me if I were in the wild, MENSTRUATING.  They can sense blood, is what I mean. 

After grabbing a can of pepper spray and aiming the nozzle in the butcher's general direction, I continue to peruse the MENSTRUAL LADY PILLS.  I am pleasantly surprised to find a box of 48 pills for $1.99! 

Woohoo! 

Word to the wise: be careful 'woohooing' and flailing about in a state of bargain-induced excitement while strategically holding a can of pepper spray.  Trust me. 

I grab up two boxes of the pills which have the letters 'PMS' covering the top half of the box.  The lower half has 'maximum strength' in equally giant letters.  Slightly smaller letters indicate that the product is for cramps, bloating and breast tenderness.  They are slightly smaller, but still visible to anyone in a 50 foot radius. 

Fantastic.

After covertly stuffing my PMS pills under some sausages, I manage to pay for my items and exit the store without incident.  When I get home, I rip open the package only to discover that I've gotten my money's worth.

Apparently, the bargain PMS pills lack that one, vital quality that the other pills possess:  easy open packaging.  These god damn PMS pills have been packaged in the most secure bubble packs I've ever seen!  After attacking the package with scissors, my teeth and a steak knife, I'm still lucky if I get one pill intact. 

Seriously?

This is going to be a long TOM visit. 

Let the annihilation begin!

Turning the long empty guest room into my new pantry is proving more difficult than I realized.  Apparently, the spiders have decided to claim it as their own.

I knew there would be some spiders in there.  The room has been empty for several months now and these things happen.  I had no idea it had reached infestation level so quickly though.

My attempt to attack the future pantry with Raid was short lived.  As I began to spray, the horde began to scatter.  They were coming from the floorboards, the ceiling, the walls, the shelves.  It was a full scale attack!  I was surrounded on all sides! 

My only option was to retreat.  I ran out of the room, screaming and flailing and maybe even crying a little.  I still feel like there may be a spider in my hair. 

How many times can you whack yourself in the head without causing permanent damage? 

I am abandoning the future pantry project for now while awaiting the return of MB.  He will be assigned the task of spider annihilation as there is no way in hell I'm going back in there without full riot gear. 

I'm a little worried that MB isn't going to be sympathetic to my plight.  When I told him there were slugs in the laundry room (I know! Eww!), he showed no interest.  When I showed him the slugs, he still showed no interest.  I asked him why they would even be in the laundry room and he said, "because they don't like you". 

Maybe I should just hire an exterminator.  I wonder if any of them would work for cupcakes. 

Maybe she's more of a Monica.

I think I'm actually going to have to find a decent hairdresser.  God, I already feel like a diva for saying that.

I went to the local Hair Cuttery again, even though their success rate with my hair is 40% at best.  You would think I would have learned my lesson by now. 

But, nooooo.  I'm way to freakin cheap to do the sensible thing and actually get my hair did properly. 
I guess I'm just a glutton for punishment.  It's why I insist on trying to squeeze my fat ass into the size 12s that I know are too tight instead of just wearing the size 14s that actually fit.  Or just doing something about my fat ass already. 

So, when I went in on Tuesday, the bargain hairdresser trimmed up my layers and shaped it up a bit and that was that.  Until I got home.  I realized that she hadn't really asked me how I wear my hair, where I part it or anything else.  She had just snipped and sent me on my way. 

After blow drying and styling it on my own, I realized how off it looked.  I always part my hair on the side and it pretty much looks like The Rachel, which I'm okay with because it suits my hair.  I believe in The Rachel. 

However, on this particular occasion, my Rachel was a little lopsided.  The layers on the left were way shorter than the layers on the right.  Things just didn't match up. 

I went back in today to ask them to fix it by touching up the right a little and making it look more even. 

They seemed really confused by my request and had to consult with each other several times to figure out how to approach the little princess who didn't like her hair. 

After she inspected my hair, she repeatedly explained to me that it's going to look like it's shorter on the left because that's where most of the hair falls since I part it on the side.  She kept parting in the middle to demonstrate this to me. 

I tried explaining to her that I don't part my hair in the middle.  I always part it on the side.  Always.  Just like Rachel. 

She blinked, confused.  I heard crickets in the background and realized that Friends may have been before her time.  Then, I got sad inside. 

I reminded her that I was not complaining about her coworker or anything.  I just know the way my hair lays and I know that I like it to look even.  She looked at me like I was a little insane.  I chose not to tell her that the little man who lives inside my earlobe also likes my hair to be even. 

She snipped a little here and there and then asked me to look at it, parting it in the middle.  I quickly shook it out and parted it on the side. 

She again explained how it's going to look shorter on the left because of the part, etc.  I again explained that I always part my hair on the side.  She again parted it in the middle. 

I blinked, confused.  Are we having different conversations?  Do you not get that my hair is all I have?  I'm fat, out of shape and none of my clothes fit. It's getting harder and harder for me to bend over without making old people sounds.  And without my sagging boobs getting in the way. 

The one thing that I like about myself right now?  The one thing?  My hair.  My god damn hair. 

I just stared at her and said, "So, your suggestion is that I just need to part my hair in the middle?".  You know, instead of fixing it so it looks good the way I actually wear it. 

She said yes and I got sad inside again. 

The little earlobe man told me I should just stop arguing because she clearly didn't get the power of The Rachel.  He also told me that the only remedy would be cupcakes. 

That little purple bastard is a god damn genius. 

I left, feeling unhappy and slightly homicidal.  My hair looks like shit and I don't feel bad about not tipping her.  I do feel slightly bad about not crashing my car into the front window.  I'm sure that will pass after the 3rd dose of red velvet. 

I don't know, people.  Am I being unreasonable?  Should I just part it in the middle, stop shaving, trash all my makeup and call it quits? 

Or am I just being a bit dramatic?  I mean, I can always take my friend's suggestion and tilt my head to the flattering side like I'm really interested in what the person on my left is saying.

Lint Flickers and Reckonings.

Holy sh*t, have I ever been neglecting my bitz. I just logged on and a piece of tumbleweed rolled gently over my keyboard.

Also, I'm pretty sure my dear husband just disposed of his belly button lint by throwing it on my desk.

He watched Hatfields and McCoys not too long ago and now says we are feuding. He also keeps saying "I reckon". It's not annoying at all.

I'm not sure how belly button lint became part of the feuding tactics. I'm not sure I want to know.

I don't even know why we're feuding. It probably has something to do with the fact that I have been seriously neglecting my wifely duties.

Not those wifely duties. (Hi MB's Mom!) The wifely duties of laundry and having dinner on the table every night and other such household chores. Yes, I do hold myself to the standards of Mrs. June Cleaver. So does MB.

You're probably thinking that I'm some anal weirdo who has to have everything in it's place with a nice neat label. To that, I guffaw!

If you came to my house right now, you'd probably be more apt to call me a hoarder. There are no dead cats in my freezer (that I know of) and none of my yogurts have expired (that I know of).

However, there are several piles of laundry that may or may not be clean (I have completely lost track) in various locations throughout the house. One is next to our bed and within reach of the puppy. This means we occasionally have to chase him around to retrieve semi-clean pairs of underwear because hell if I know where the clean ones are.

If you aren't lucky enough to save the underwear from Atticus' jaws, you just may have to go commando.

MB keeps reminding me that it wouldn't be so overwhelming if I would just do a little bit of it each day. I pretend to listen as I try to wrangle my last unsweaty bra from the puppy of doom.




He has an appetite for destruction. Can't you see it in his eyes?

I know it wouldn't be so overwhelming if I did a little each day. I'm not mentally impaired. I didn't suffer a brain injury while chucking wet bath towels down the stairs into the family room/laundry chute. I'm just lazy. And it's hot. And there are spiders in the laundry room.

Most importantly, I just don't like doing laundry. I never have, but it's gotten worse since we got Atticus. Laundry becomes a challenge when you have to keep all of the clothing above Atticus level. Who needs the extra challenge?

Not this newlywed.

I guess the feuding will just continue. I'm going to go hide a honeysuckle soap in MB's man cave.

Take that, you belly button lint flicker!

(Love you!)

The potential for disaster is pretty high.

I graduated high school 20 years ago. 20 years. Just let the sink in for a minute. I'm old. That's what that means.

I mean, I can ignore and even alter the gray in my hair. I can slab anti-wrinkle cream on my face. I could put anti-wrinkle cream on my saggy body too, but the dog just licks it off. Kinda wasteful, if you ask me.

I can do all of these things to try and hide the fact that I'm old. However, I can't avoid the invitation to my 20 year high school reunion. It's right there on my facebook. Every freakin day.

They've been narrowing down weekends and making plans and all that nonsense. All the while, I've been commenting about how exciting it is and how much I'm looking forward to it...blah, blah, blah.

Inside, I have been all angsty about actually showing up at this thing. I'm feeling very pressured to lose about a hundred pounds, get a boob lift, get a more glamorous job and be way less broke. Also, I may need to wear something other than my work uniform or my pajamas to this event. Double angst.

Seriously. My current wardrobe consists of outfits to meet the demands of my current lifestyle. This consists of eating, sleeping, working and couching. It does not consist of socializing with people that I feel the insane need to impress even though I haven't seen them in 20 years and couldn't care less about what they actually think about me.

Did I mention that this event is to take place in the busiest bar/club in town on 4th of July weekend? Yeah. So, I'll be competing with the popular girls from high school along with all the Jersey Shore wannabe bitches at the club. Did I mention clubs aren't my thing?

Ugh. It's a good thing they serve the best damn Dirty Bananas at that bar. I just might be the drunk girl up in the cage (yeah, they have one) yelling 'We're the class of '92! Screw you!'. Did I mention that I tend to get mouthy with tourists?

This whole thing is going to get ugly. I might need a chaperone.
Any takers?

I feel like I should be wearing a tiara.

All of my efforts to be glamorous yesterday were in vain.

First of all, I didn't shower or put actual clothing on until 2:30pm. I'm pretty sure glamorous people wake up at the crack of dawn and apply outfits and make up and whatnot. They most likely don't spend their days in ratty pajamas watching Nightmare on Elm Street, the 2010 version, feeling sad because Freddy just isn't Freddy.

Anywhymesswithagoodthing, when I finally showered, it took me approximately 27 minutes to find an outfit that didn't make me feel like a fatso. Thank you, Thttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifOM.

Given that my body was disgusting me in every way imaginable, I decided to glam up my face a little. My hair was a lost cause already because it was too hot to blow dry it and the mousse was failing because of the humidity. Frizz fest!

So, I put a little make up on and decided to try out my Infallible lipstick. I bought it awhile ago while delusional enough to think that I could do my own wedding makeup. HA!

Anywho, I figured I'd give it a whirl. Let me tell you, it remained infallible after several kisses lavished on both Ron and the pup, a few unkind comments from Ron (why are you wearing lipstick, it makes you look tired, it looks weird) and several attempts by me to scour it off of my lips after said unkind comments. It truly lives up to it's name.
http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif
*ahem* If anyone from Loreal happens to be slumming it over here at the Bitz and wants to offer me a free wedding makeover, I'm totally in. You do hair, right?

So, off to the mall I went. I needed to take my fancy lips somewhere. I also needed to buy spanx. Not long ago, I purchased a bustier and some legging style spanx for under my wedding dress. After several neurotic trial runs in the privacy of my guest room, while MB is at work, I decided they may not be the best under things for my dress.

Don't get me wrong. I love them. Also, I suffered massive amounts of humiliation to get them. However, I started the question the suckage capabilities of the bustier. I have grown very accustomed to my bodysuit/slip spanx. They suck in everything and I feel sufficiently contained.

Plus, they have easy access in comparison to the legging style spanx. This is going to be important should I have to pee while wearing my dress. I'm pretty sure this is going to come up because it's an open bar. There's no way I can truly get my money's worth of booze and hold it. I'm not a superhero.

So, easy access spanx seemed like the way to go. Now, I own a strapless bra with the full bodysuit/slip spanx as option 1 and the bustier with legging style spanx as option 2. I am truly prepared for all possible fat containment scenarios. Maybe I am a superhero. Or just a girl scout who ate way too many of her cookies and now has to use her preparedness to hide the shame.

Whatever.

While spending way too long in the lingerie section, I was reminded of why I hate spending time in the lingerie section. It's fun at first. You see all these pretty bras...ooh pink...ooh lacy...ooh leopard print...ooh flowery. Then, you realize that these cute little numbers don't come in the DD sizes.

You start looking for the DD sizes and realize that you have left all of the prettiness behind. Ooh...beige. Meeeeeow. Yeah. See how that doesn't really work?

I did manage to find one section of fatso bras that were lacy and supportive and also BOGO half off. I grabbed a couple and got the heck out of there before I made a scene about the discrimination against big boobs and the decline of society. Thank you, TOM.

My day of glamour was not so glamorous after all. Also, blogger is telling me that it's 'glamor' instead of 'glamour'. Well, I think you are wrong and dictionary.com can back me up on that. Also, it's my post. So there.

Dictionary.com doesn't tell you how to spell a raspberry correctly. But, I'm totally raspberrying you, blogger editor.

The one where I get to third base in a dressing room.

At least I think it was third base. I was never clear on the whole base thing. I never really liked soccer.

So, y'all know that I'm getting hitched. The big day is October 2, a mere 4 months away. I have done so much already and there is still a ton of stuff to do. Ugh.

One of the first things I was told to do was buy a dress. Apparently, you can't just show up to your own hitching in any old thing you like. You have to be all fancy and whatnot.

Whatever.

My idea of fancy is nice flip flops and the jeans that don't have a hole in the ass. As you can probably imagine, the thought of buying a dress was stressing me out just a little.

Then, I was told that before you buy the dress, you have to get all the under things that you'll be wearing to make the dress look good.

Hell, I was ten steps ahead on that one. Spanx are a part of 90% of my outfits. Wedding dress? You bet your ass I'm getting spanx for that!

So, off to the local lingerie shop I went.

I figured that would be my best option considering that I'm a little top heavy. They don't really stock the stuff for big boobs in the regular stores. They keep just enough on hand for appearance sake, but that's it.

I decided to get the good stuff for the girls. I am getting hitched, after all. That's a special occasion that deserves a little special treatment for the boobs.

Now, I have never been to a lingerie shop. I don't believe my fat ass should ever be in lingerie. I don't feel sexy enough for it. However, I heard that this particular place does bra sizing and whatnot and that's what I wanted.

I've never been truly sized. I was curious.

So, I walk in and I'm immediately greeted by this cute size 2 blonde. I tell her that I want wedding dress under armor and she tells me to follow her.

I figure she's taking me to the rack or something. Instead, she leads me to a dressing room and tells me to strip from the waist up, except for my bra.

Uh. Okay.

I do what I'm told. Then, Blondie pulls out her tape measure and starts to touch me. She measures me as I try to look into the mirror and pretend this isn't the most awkward experience of my day.

She finishes her measuring and then tells me to take my bra off and she's going to get me some things to try on.

Uh. Okay.

I'm left to stand half naked in the dressing room, holding up my boobs which are now unhinged and free to hang loose. Unfortunately, gravity is not kind to us big chested women. This becomes all too clear as I'm struggling to contain the girls while surrounded by mirrors.

Whoever designed these dressing rooms is a freakin sadist.

Walls of mirrors. No magazines. No pretty pictures on the walls. No elevator music. Just you and your fatness, flopping around behind the protection of a pink curtain which isn't even closed all the way.

One slight breeze and all the customers are going to be running from The Blob.

Holy sh*t. Is that really how low they hang now?

If I ever have a daughter, she's wearing a bra 24/7 from birth.

Wow. These jeans are super high waisted. Definitely not the right choice of outfit for such an event.

Maybe Blondie won't notice how frumpy they are.

I wonder if I have any chocolate in my purse. Or booze.

When Blondie returns, my self esteem has definitely started to take a downward turn. I'm feeling old, fat and very out of fashion.

I'm also angry at myself for not keeping booze in my purse. They do make those little bottles. Wtf is my excuse?

Blondie seems to be unaware of my discomfort. Maybe she thinks I normally sweat this much.

Awesome.

She immediately starts to dress me in bustiers. Because, that's exactly what is going to make me feel better about myself. A size 2 blonde wrangling my old lady boobs and all of my flab into sexy bustiers.

Omg. Marriage is hard.

Of course, the first couple don't fit so she has to leave me again to go get some more.

I'm feeling super awkward now so I do what any normal person would do. I pull out my blackberry and seek solace from my smartass friends. When Blondie comes back with more bustiers, I'm texting a friend to tell her that I'm half naked in a dressing room awaiting a size 2 blonde to return for more groping.

My friend's reply? "Dear Penthouse..."

Blondie seemed irritated by my texting.

What the hell else am I supposed to do? Just stare at my saggy boobs and my Mom jeans as I contemplate all of my flaws? I don't think you want to be dealing with the aftermath of that, Blondie. It won't be pretty. Distraction is required.

After several more gropings and near meltdowns, Blondie and I decided on a bustier and some spanx. I felt sufficiently sucked in and sexy in both items. I gotta give Blondie credit for that.

She knows her stuff. Or, stuffing, if you will. HA!

After I had made my decisions, she leaves me to get dressed. When I exit the dressing room, she is waiting for me at the register.

As I walk up, she says "Hi. How are you doing today?"

Seriously?!

Maybe I'm confused. Weren't you the woman who just felt me up behind that pink curtain? 'How am I doing today?' Sh*t. I'm feeling a little betrayed. Thank you.

I can understand some distancing. That's probably important in a job where you're groping fat chicks and their sweaty parts all day long. You have to maintain some boundaries or things might get weird.

But, seriously?!

Wtf!

Whatever. I paid for my under armor, hiked up my Mom jeans and got the heck out of there with what little dignity I could muster.

I was going to ask her where the nearest bakery was, but decided against it.

(Oh. In case you were wondering...36FF. Yeah. So, there's that.)

Hot for teacher?

So, I am essentially blind. The only thing I'm missing is the seeing eye dog.

I mean, I have a dog. Let's face it though, she isn't leading me anywhere. I could just see being strapped to her for an hour.

Run down the back steps at full speed, becoming airborn at the third step from the bottom and projectiling ourselves out into the yard. Prance around to the left and sniff the side fence. Prance over to the burn pile to search for food or food like items. Prance over to the side gate to see if anyone is walking by who may have food or food like items to offer up. Prance over to where the cat hoarder's cats hang out to see if they've left any dead birds behind. Prance over to the other side of the yard and repeat. Continuing repeating the entire cycle for hours on end.

Yeah. She'd be a useless guide dog.

So, I'm left to my own devices, which include contact lenses that are as thick as dimes and glasses that are so thick and magnified, they cause a weird sort of funhouse mirror effect when you look at my eyes.

It's so hot.

Normally, I'm good about only wearing my contacts for 30 days, always cleaning them and just generally taking good care of them.

By 'normally', I mean for that first 7 months in my formative years when I started wearing contacts. The honeymoon phase quickly wore off.

Now, 30 days means 'as long as I can possibly extend them and not be in severe pain'. Of course, I still tell the eye doctor that it's 30 days. She doesn't need to know the truth.

Actually, this last time, I saw a male doctor. He was the flattest person I've ever met. Not flat as in some sort of freak accident that left him pancake like and able to slip into a room through the closed door crack.

I mean flat as in no emotion, no tone, no fluctuation in his voice pattern, monotone...flat. He was telling me all about how he had originally wanted to be a psychiatrist because it was so interesting and exciting but then he ended up going into optometry instead and OH MY GOD, can we please end this conversation because I'm so bored I may just stab myself with the plastic eye cover up thingy and then you wouldn't even be able to talk me down because you didn't become a psychiatrist.

Sheesh.

Stick to the pupil dilation buddy. Story telling just isn't your thing.


Anyway, I only went to the eye doctor this time because it had been two years and my year supply of contacts was getting stretched a little thin. I was down to my last pair.

I'm still down to my last pair, actually because I have yet to order new ones. I'm bargain shopping even though I can't even wear them right now because they have become painful.

Apparently when you wear a 30 day contact lense for 90+ days, it becomes a raging ball of fire which ejects little pieces of razor into your eyes when you wear it.

It's just my left one, though. I happened to find a brand new right lense in my cabinet, so that eye is fine. The left, however, is in desperate need of replacing.

When I put it in, my eye immediately looks like I've hemorrhaged. It's super sexy. MB can't even stand to look at me because he has this eye thing. It's kinda like my vein thing, but less legitimate.

So, I'm now wearing my super thick funhouse glasses while I procrastinate about where to get the cheapest contact lenses.

My glasses suck. I'm squinting at everything, which gives me a headache. They slide off my face constantly. They also seem to be making me deaf. Since I can't really see with them on, I also can't hear.

I guess it's kinda like amputees who can all of a sudden taste things that are really far away. Or something.

You would think I would make this decision quickly and efficiently so I wouldn't continue to squint and yell at everyone.

When I can't hear, I yell. Just like when a patient doesn't speak English and I speak louder and more forcefully so they'll get it.

Same principle.

I don't know though. Some people have been complimenting me on my spectacles. One guy said I looked like a sexy librarian. Another friend said I looked smarter.

Apparently, these people aren't afraid of funhouses.

Or, they like little old librarians who squint and yell.

Maybe this will be the fetish that gains me internet fame, allowing me to work from home and have 7 special needs dogs.

Sweet.

I'd probably remember making out with a Smurf.

I'm posting this from quarantine. Don't tell MB.

He has me quarantined to the family room futon due to my sickness. My throat is scratchy and raw. My nose won't stop running (and I can't catch it, HA!). I just feel overall icky.

I took a nap earlier and woke up to MB wanting to know what was for dinner. That's not entirely fair. I was kinda up already because of the tap tap tapping of the pup's feet across the floor upstairs. She might as well have been tap tap tapping on my face.

Anyway, when I woke up, MB told me my lips were blue.

Odd. I wasn't sleep-eating cotton candy again that I know of.

He said I was probably feverish. Then, he left me in my feverishness to go finish his computer game.

I'm so lucky to be living with a paramedic.

He's been making comments all day about how sexy it is when I blow my nose or start hacking up a lung.

I know how to bring it.

You're welcome, MB. You lucky dog, you.

Anyway, I'm returning to the futon to continue blowing my nose and moaning pitifully until MB brings me more ginger ale.

Later, peeps.

Domestic Diva Tips of the Day

#7 When you go to clean your energy efficient, eclipse, blackout all the sun because I'm a vampire, curtains and it says 'line dry', heed that advice.


#23 Just because you discovered for the first time after 5 years living in your home, that all of your upstairs windows tilt in for easy cleaning, doesn't mean you have to clean all of them today.


#46 When you have a dog who likes to hide very large, sharp bones throughout the house, don't be angry when you step on one, that you probably gave to her, while cleaning the bedroom.


#5 If you have to glue a table back together in order for it to be functional, you should probably just get rid of it.


#8 Remember that if there is one very large momma spider in the bedroom, there are probably 7 others, not counting their offspring.


#72 If you leave the door open so your dog can run in and out to the yard freely, preventing her from being under your feet, remember that the neighbor's cats can also come in.


#14 If you think that big ball of dust may be a stink bug, it probably is and you shouldn't touch it.


#96 If a fire truck pulls up behind your house for no apparent reason at all, it may not be connected to that burning smell coming from your dryer after you washed those blackout all the light because I'm a vampire curtains.

Have you started Spring Cleaning yet? Does anyone even still do that besides me?

Things that are currently in a state of disrepair in my home...

...my fridge which is keeping things way too cold, forcing us to eat out or eat icy lettuce.

...my dishwasher which refuses to drain, forcing me to do dishes by hand. Bastard.

...my toe after stepping on Skye's bone, which happens to be in random locations throughout the house at any given time.

...the fence gate, which is being held up by three strategically placed rocks from the pond.

...the hose thingy that connects to the kitchen faucet and allows me to spray MB with water from afar.

...our free sofa, which is currently missing a foot and is being held up by a strategically placed stack of books.

This list doesn't include that column in front of the house which is making fluttering noises. I'm pretty sure there's an animal inside there and I'm choosing to ignore it until MB figures out a way to rescue it.

Unless it's an opossum. Those things are nasty.

How I learned that my fridge is broken.

So, I almost got disfigured by a frozen fruit bar today.

Shut up. It was scary.

I pull the frozen coconut bar out of the freezer and take off the wrapper. I put my lips on the fruit bar and then I just froze.

My lips were stuck.

I was like the kid in The Christmas Story with his face stuck to a pole. Except that I was feeding my fat face, not responding to a triple dog dare.

So there's that.

I was in super emergency panic OMG I'M GOING TO RIP MY FREAKIN LIPS OFF crisis mode!

Wth was I going to do?!!

I couldn't really call 911 with a fruit bar stuck to my lips. Driving myself to the ER was definitely out. Waiting for it to melt was really not an option. I had errands to run.

Luckily my inner Girl Scout kicked in and I made my way to the sink. I got some warm water and poured it over my lips until I was able to slowly remove them from the fruit bar.

I'm sure anyone that happened to walk by my kitchen window at that moment got a good laugh.

Hell, I got a good laugh out of it.

Not while my lips were stuck. That could've been fatal. Do you know how hard it is to breathe with a coconut bar stuck in your lips?

It's pretty damn difficult people.

You'll be happy to know that my lips are intact and I was able to enjoy that coconut fruit bar without further incident. Of course, I had a glass of warm water standing by.

How does this relate to my broken fridge?

Well, it's apparently set too high and we can't seem to change the temperature. It's why I had icy lettuce and my butter was like a brick earlier this week.

I told MB about this potential problem after my icy salad mishap. He didn't seem to care then. Now that I have suffered injury at the hands of the freezer, maybe he will take more interest.

I doubt it.

When I told him of my incident, he wasn't impressed. He went into the man cave mumbling something about dorks and shaking his head.

Whatever.

I saw him on match.com later searching for someone with grace and basic appliance repair skills.

Jerk.

Pre-party pantsless purse-related ponderings.

It's now 3:12pm on a Saturday. I have approximately 3 hours and 18 minutes before I have to put pants on. And dust.

That's only because someone is coming to my house to retrieve me. We have a Tacky Tourist Party to attend this evening. My lifestyle is one of class and glamour.

Yeehaw.

Side note, I'm pretty sure my pup is 'leaking' again. She's laying at my feet and I am catching a whiff of pee. I know it's not me and MB's not home. That leaves one culprit who may need to go back on leakage meds. (sigh)

Anywhatsthatsmell, I was told that I could not attend said Tacky Tourist Party unless I had a tacky outfit on.

Unfortunately, I don't own any Hawaiian shirts or tshirts that say 'Maryland is for Crabs' or 'Virginia is for Lovers' or the like. I do have several Berlin Fiddlers Convention tshirts, but those aren't tacky. Bluegrass is cool.

Don't challenge me on that. I'll beat you with a banjo.

So, I went to the local Goodwill to find myself some sort of tacky tshirt. I ended up finding this:

I think it's funny.

I also discovered that Target had just dropped off some stuff at the Goodwill.
Woohoo!

I could've spent all day in that store, but I controlled myself. I found a great fleece jacket for $3.50 from Target. It's a perfect fit and I heart it.

I also found this little gem...

It's a Nine West purse that I paid $4.00 for.

I was so excited. I almost giggled with glee, grabbing any Goodwill customer within reach to squeal with delight over my fantastic find.

I didn't though. I feel like they would frown upon that.

My fantastic find is in perfect condition, except for one thing. It's been cut. There is a 1 1/2 inch cut in the leather bottom that cuts through into the fabric lining. It's a perfect incision.

I've been wondering how this possibly could've happened. Maybe a blind date gone wrong where the sociopathic mystery man tried to stab the previous purse owner who was able to use her purse as a deflection. She couldn't use the purse without reliving the near death experience that was her blind date and she donated her purse.

That's an awfully clean cut to fit that scenario though.

Maybe the zipper locked up somehow, requiring the previous purse owner to slice through the bottom in order to retrieve her keys with only minimal damage. Then, maybe she fixed the zipper but couldn't live with the flawed bottom and decided to donate the purse.

It could also be some sort of covert operation to retrieve a piece of candy from the purse without attracting attention, but that really doesn't make any sense.

This will haunt me.

In the meantime, I have repaired the incision and I love my fantastic find.

I've blabbed on long enough. I really do need to go pick up my migraine meds, get some hair dye (because omg, my grays are showing), put some freakin pants on and dust pick up my underwear from the floor before being whisked off to the Tacky Tourist Party.

Happy Saturday peeps!

Are you doing anything that requires pants or dusting?

Have I angered that Powerball Gods? And how do I fix that?

It's officially Day 14 of my second visit with TOM this month and I haven't killed anyone yet.

Yet.

I think that deserves a cupcake. Or maybe a cupcake shaped head of cabbage. That would be better for my fat ass.

This TOM insanity is becoming my norm and I don't think I like it.

Enough about that though.

I've been dealing with some money stress this week. I won't go into specifics, but things have been pretty stressful. Crying in the shower because I don't know what else to do stressful.

I think we've got things worked out and we finally feel hopeful for the first time in a very long time. That's a good thing.

I still don't feel comfortable buying name brand cheese without a coupon, but that's okay. Cheez is just as tasty as cheese. And it's neon. Who doesn't like dairy (ish) products that double as lighting?!

Puppy kickers. That's who.

Anyway, it's all going to work out and that's okay. Even if it doesn't, I have MB by my side. I'm pretty sure we'll be happy in a cardboard box eating rise and beens by cheez-light while sipping kola. You know, if it comes to that.

I wonder if the pup would prefer chik'n pureena or beeph.

I kinda feel like I've written this before. Or something very much like it. I'm too lazy to go into my old posts and look though. If you're reading this and it feels like deja vu, just go with it. Pretend you're high and it'll be fun.

I'll even share my doreedos with you when you get the munchies.

You're welcome.