Due to giant piles of snow…

And being stuck on a highway…

No intelligent thoughts will be shared today, just this sad picture.

This is some NaBloPoMo dedication! 

Grandma's Little Helpers!

Moving along…

Hello, fellow NaNoWriMo-ers!

I can’t do an update on my sidebar with a cute Word Count Widget because I’m not rich enough to self host yet, and WordPress isn’t into that sort of thing so!

My Word Count for Week One of NaNoWriMo: 11,119

Did you know that if you miss two days of writing, your average word count tanks faster than you can say book? Well, it does. I went from an average of just over 2000 words to just over 1200. Rad.

This weekend was my writing nemesis, and by nemesis I mean mortal enemy, and by mortal enemy I mean my car died, hubby worked all weekend leaving me and the girls to our devices, and nothing got done. The past three days have been like three days of consecutive Mondays, and I couldn’t be happier that it’s TUESDAY!

Three cheers for Tuesday! Hip, hip, Hooray!!

I’m planning on catching up a little more today and getting my estimated time of completion back into November, because December 8, 2011 made me want to throw up a little bit. The good news is I’m having an easy time with this novel. Some of the dialogue is cheesy, but I’m getting the hang of it, finally. I’m better at writing than I am at discussion, so I’m learning to think of my dialogue as writing rather than trying to have a discussion in my head. Does that make sense? I’m hoping that the rest of the novel comes as quickly as the first 20 pages have, though. I already have the ending written in my head and I’ve thought about writing it out, but the problem is that as I’m writing, the story is changing little by little and I love it more than I loved my original ideas. Writing the ending would be counterproductive at this point, I think, since everything is changing, I’d have to go back and rewrite it. There’s no time in November for rewriting.

I’ve noticed something about the past week, and it’s that I’ve been more productive. I’m trying to squeeze in writing a blog post, writing a novel, household duties, playing with two very active 11 month olds, and I’m somehow managing it all. If it’s possible, I believe that I am managing my time better now that I’m too busy. It feels great!

Onward and upward, as they say! Stay tuned for more NaNo updates!

Are you participating in NaNoWriMo? How are you managing your time and other commitments? How’s your novel coming?

1. Nothing says fall like caramel apple cider! I haven’t had this yet this year because of Project: Lose the Cow, but I’m definitely planning on changing that next week! I know a place that has a great one. Hey, if I’m going to do moderation, I’m going to do it with gusto!

2. My favorite autumnal tradition is apple picking, hay rides, and finding the perfect pumpkin. None of which I have done in the past ten years. How sad. This is changing this year, too! The girls will love it! I can’t leave this blank without a shout out to college football! A tradition that will never get old! Go Badgers!

3. My favorite fall treat is anything pumpkin or apple. Cookies, pies, cupcakes, crumbles, muffins, drinks, enrobed in caramel, and fresh off the tree or vine.

4. Fall makes me think of fresh starts and happiness because it’s the start of the holiday season. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy and as cheese ball as that is, I can’t help it. I just love this time of the year. Warm afghans, fun family activities to do, great comforting food, and gorgeous colors.

5. Autumn free form word association, go! Colorful crunchy leaves, crisp breezes, comfy jeans, giant Wisconsin sweatshirts, fuzzy socks, apples, pumpkins, holidays, candy, delicious food, family, friends, warm beverages, happiness.

6. My go-to outfit in the fall is (if I had an amazing closet) brown boots, chunky sweater, dark jeans, a great colorful scarf, dark hair (tee hee), simple jewelry.

7. My favorite fall holiday is (Halloween or Thanksgiving) Thanksgiving! I love getting together with family, eating great food, and relaxing. No pressure for gifts, football is on, we watch Christmas Vacation and eat pumpkin pie, and appreciate each other by giving thanks. Warm fuzzies for everyone!

Ryan and I drove to Ann Arbor on Sunday for my surgery yesterday, which I’ll talk about tomorrow. It was so nice to have conversations about topics not revolving around diapers and bottles and money. We stopped about halfway and had lunch with some of our friends at Panera. It was great to catch up with them, but we ended up being *those* parents who talk about their kids non-stop. Oh well. I guess you can’t totally escape reality.

Panera, however, has some very interesting cookies on display for the Fall season. Have you seen these?

Thank you, Tom.

These weren’t the “pimpkin” cookies on display in the Panera we visited though. They toned their “pimpkins” down to G-rated pumpkins and just frosted the tops green. Their signs sure did display the originals though! How did they not notice this? Or are they pulling a Disney? Geez, Panera!

We continued on and took zero pictures together. I snagged one of myself, though. I bought this new to-die-for lipstain a couple of weeks ago, and finally put together a look with it. (It’s the Just Bitten, Jessica Biel variety by Revlon in Frenzy.) So I had to. My glasses are in the way so you can’t see my mastery of the winged eyeliner, just trust me that it was *perfect* and I was proud. You can’t see my cute braids in my hair, either. Photo Fail.

We made it to the hotel and got all checked in and settled and then kind of looked at each other like “Now What?”. We decided to go see the movie Drive, grab dinner and then go hang out at a coffee shop and read. Well, we found the theater, but there was exactly one restaurant near there and it didn’t look very appetizing. So we drove all over looking for somewhere else to eat, got lost, found ourselves again, consulted the GPS and ended up at Joe’s Crab Shack, which from now on will be known as Joe’s Crap Shack. The food was terrible. Our server had a great attitude but was really slow, especially since the place was barely breathing with customers. Our food wasn’t hot when it arrived at the table, but was so spicy, our lips were burning. Poor Ryan never finished his food and when the bill came, I wanted to cry. Plus, we missed the movie by 15 minutes because of the slow service. Another chapter of Live and Learn, I suppose. Thankfully, all was not lost, because we ended up at this fabulous cafe called Sweetwaters.

courtesy of sweetwaters cafe

They roast their own coffee and blend their own teas. It smelled heavenly. The service was fantastic. If you’re ever in Ann Arbor and you’re looking for a place to hang out, drink coffee, read a blog or two, and not feel rushed out of the building, this would be your destination. Ryan had a Crème Caramel, which I stole a sip of and was blown away, and I had a Mandarin Orange Rooibos Tea. If you’ve never had Rooibos tea, you should. It’s wonderful. It’s an African red tea that is naturally sweet and usually a really pretty red color. This one was orange, for obvious reasons. You don’t get the earthy after taste that you would with an Earl Grey, either. It’s really smooth and perfect for night time sipping. We also grabbed some cheesecake and a piece of OMG chocolate cake. (SH… don’t tell my diet. I wasn’t eating at all the next day anyway.)

We went back to the hotel, fed each other yummy desserts, drank our tea and coffee, and watched, of all things, Ghost Adventures. Romantic, right? It was either that or Hung, and we’re not into porn. We shared a lot of laughs, especially when we got lost going back to the hotel from the cafe, which was a block away. We ended up on the highway about four exits down because of a traffic circle that had me literally driving in circles. I almost pulled over, because I was laughing so hard, I couldn’t breathe.

It was awesome to be able to hang out with my man again. No time constraints to hurry home to the girls. No plan to stick to. Just hanging out and enjoying each other. I forgot how much I love spending time with him alone. We went to bed and vowed to do more date nights, even if we just go get some coffee. Don’t you just love nights like those?

GO BADGERS!!!!

Well, this weekend, that rivalry is coming to a head.

My Wisconsin Badgers are playing his Nebraska Huskers, and Wisconsin is favored by 10 points. We’re both extremely competitive people, and when it comes to college football, the stakes move up a few notches. Every week we do our picks, and whoever wins the most games wins the week. I’ve won 4 out of 5 weeks so far. This does not a happy husband make. Add to this fact that Wisconsin is favored by 10 whole points and we’re playing at Home? I think my husband might need some of my old blood pressure medicine before the weekend is up.

I would say “It’s all in good fun.” or that “It’s just a game.”, because it is and it really is, but we live in the Midwest and college football isn’t just a game here. If you live here, you understand. Your team is like your extended family. You get choked up when they run onto the field, you get pumped up when the band plays your fight song, and right before kick off you feel as if your heart might explode from joy. This weekend? Our families are fighting for their pride and glory in the Big Ten, and unfortunately, my husband and I are not related.

Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.
-William Shakespeare

GO BADGERS!

Daddy's Girl! Go Huskers!

So here’s what I’ve been up to:

1.
(via pinterest.com)

If you haven’t joined and want to after reading this, leave me with your email address and I will *gladly* invite you along. I’ve heard there’s a waiting list now, but it’s worth the wait. My friend Mandi originally told me about the site and I’m not kidding you… Facebook who? In about 4 seconds flat. Here’s how it works… basically you sit on your ass all day and pin stuff to your boards until your eyes bleed and you’re so inspired that you have to take a nap. Honestly. It’s like eating potato chips, you can’t pin just *one*. The great thing about Pinterest, other than everything, is that you can find new recipes to try, DIY projects or as I call them, DIMY (for Do It MYself), fashion inspiration, quotes that rock your world, things that will make you laugh and laugh and laugh… It’s a whole lot of inspiring and a whole lot of fun. You can connect it to Facebook and Twitter, too!

Some of my favorite boards from Pinterest!

Pins from The Drool Pool.

2. Collecting Things For My Smash Book

Thanks to Pinterest and another friend of mine (also, coincidentally named Mandi), I’ve found the perfect blend of pack rat and scrapbook. I can still keep my oodles of crap, but I don’t have to be all pretty about it. That’s my kind of scrapbook/journal. Meet: Smash Book. It comes in all kinds of colors and you can buy all of the decorate-y stuff to go with it, but you don’t have to. The pages come prettied up and you just glue your “oodles of crap” onto the page. Done and done.

I love the pink one. (ooooof course)

3. Making Money By Doing Stuff I Already Do

Hello, Swagbucks and Recyclebank, oh! and Pampers Gifts to Grow! I’m sure you’ve heard of Swagbucks already, unless you’ve been avoiding Facebook like the plague because you’re too cool for school. You search, you earn Swagbucks, you cash them in for cash (!!!) or gift cards (!!!) and that’s that. Easy money for stuff you already do. But have you heard of Recyclebank? First of all, do you recycle!? Or want to recycle? I bet you will after I tell you about this. Here’s how it works… you care about the environment, you recycle and/or learn about ways to recycle and/or tell your friends to recycle and voila! You can earn a $10 gift card to places like The Gap, Old Navy, Panera, Home Depot, WalMart, etc. Plus other great deals on so. many. sites. Just by recycling. Now go rinse out that milk jug! (Pampers Gifts to Grow is a program where you collect codes from the insides of diaper packages, wipes packages, inserts and online. You enter them in on pampers.com. You earn points. You cash them in for cool stuff. I’m saving up for a magazine subscription. I can’t decide between Fitness or Better Homes & Gardens though. Oh, what a plight!)

4. Going Green & Saving Money

It just makes sense. Plus, it’s kind of fun. (Especially now that we’re earning money for it!) I mentioned that I collect Pampers Gift to Grow points. I should say that most of my points now come from the internet because I don’t use disposable diapers or wipes. We’ve been cloth diapering since the girls were about 2 months old, I would’ve done it sooner, but I didn’t want to spend money on pre-folds for newborns and didn’t research it before they arrived, my bad. BUT…. cloth diapering: It’s easy, it’s cheaper, and my house doesn’t smell like a baby’s ass. Wonderful all around. I recently started using cloth wipes though and I was sold at wipe one. The day I decided to finally try it out, the first diaper I had was a poopy one, of course. I used one wipe for the whole mess and from then on, I haven’t bought a single disposable wipe. Selling my husband on the idea was a challenge, but once he tried it, he was also sold on wipe one. (He used to use 7 or 8 wipes for a poopy diaper, which drove me up the wall and around the corner because if you multiply that by two, your heart stops for a second while all the money falls out of your wallet and into the hands of a grumpy Walgreens cashier.)

I made some of my own wipes (to save money while going green, ha!) and I’m planning on making more of them and selling them. I’ve seen what they go for on Etsy and I know how much it costs to make them and it seems like the business for me to get into. They’re great for use as wash cloths, rags for cleaning, rags for dusting and are a great replacement for paper towels. The more you wash them, the more absorbent they become. It’s easy to tell them apart because you can make them in all kinds of different fabric designs and sizes. You really can’t go wrong.

Other things we’re doing are: composting, Ryan’s carpooling to work with our neighbor because Peanut is a gas guzzler these days what with all of her PMS and all (not to mention we only have one car and what if I decide to get brave and go out by myself?), we’re slowly using up our cleaning products and transitioning to more Earth friendly ones. I found a great site with tons of cleaning tips for those of us who need more than newspaper, vinegar and water. I love a clean window, but my bathtub and toilet need a little more TLC. We have babies, you know.

I’ve also made my own planner to save money and am considering selling those on Etsy as well. It’s completely personalized and has lists that *I* need every week. Stuff like grocery lists, cleaning lists, which bills to pay and when, birthdays, weekly lists, daily lists… I love lists. And my life has a lot more order to it now. For under $6. Try to find that in the store and you’ll be spending three times that amount and *they* don’t have a cute picture of my kiddos on the front. So there. There are also sites like Groupon and Living Social, coupons, gardening, making my own freezer meals, making my own baby food, and watching sales.

5. Etsy

Hello, consider me a convert. I always thought Etsy was a giant mess of crafty crap that I would never want to buy. And now I want to open my own shop. I haven’t decided on a name, but my hubby and I have been throwing the idea around (because we make all decisions together regarding money, it’s easier than fighting about it). He’s more crafty than I am. Don’t tell him I told you that. But he is. He can build just about everything but he’s not great at painting. It’s why me make a good team. Because I’m great at painting. And sewing squares. And dreaming up crap for him to make us.

You might’ve noticed a little bit of a design change around here, too. I was bored with the other one and this one gives me a little more space for the text box. I can’t complain about that. Plus, more pink. Happy Tuesday, or Monday, or Wednesday or whatever day it really is! I’ve lost track.

Try here:
Representatives
Senators

Can’t find the words? Use mine.

To Whom It May Concern;

Today, I am embarrassed to be an American. Our powers that be are finding their agendas and their own wallets to be of more importance than the people who serve and protect them every day. How dare you? You should all be ashamed of yourselves. My friends are trying to explain to their children why mommy and daddy only received half of a paycheck today. They’re trying to make sense of it themselves as they explain this. The problem is, it DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE. How are we halfway through the year without a budget? And how also are we then SURPRISED that we’re OVER budget and trillions of dollars in debt? If I didn’t budget my family’s income and waited six months to do so, we would lose our car, our home, our health and our safety. We would be devastated without some semblance of order in our finances.

You were put into office to represent people who pay your way. You seem to be forgetting that. I don’t care if you’re Republican or Democrat. You are all at fault. You have painted yourselves into your respective corners and are now too afraid to step out, in fear of being seen as a failure. As an American citizen, I can tell you that any person who steps forward with a reasonable compromise to end this budget war will be seen as a person who cares about their voters. It really is that simple. You make it complicated with your own agendas and your egos but at the end of the day, we all know that the budget is a guideline that is rarely followed anyway. It’s been six months without one, why not just approve a budget and get on with it already? Make amendments as you go! It’s what you do anyway!!

I urge you to read two posts from two extraordinary military wives. 400wakeups.blogspot.com A captain’s wife who is having to clean up your messes and instill calm among the ranks of wives whose husbands are now working pro bono in a country far away from here.

And happy-jeannie.blogspot.com A wife who lives overseas and is afraid for her fellow wives due to the complete shut downs of the commissaries, PX, and mini shoppettes that they rely on to purchase food, gas and supplies at a reasonable price. Now they are not only receiving HALF of ONE paycheck, but they are forced to rely on the economy where the exchange rate for their cash is negligible.

I’ll say it again, shame on you. Shame on you ALL!

Disgusted,

Kallay

Hello my little darlings!

My sweet little lamb and my active little monkey, today’s post is all about you.

My hope is that one day, when you are able to read and can comprehend the advice I’m going to give you, we’ll read this together.

First, I want you to know that even though you were a surprise, a very big surprise, I have loved you since the moment I knew that I was pregnant. I have always wanted to be your mother. To guide you, inspire you, entertain you, comfort you, discipline you and most of all to love you. My career as your mother began before I thought it would, but I know you are here at the perfect time. I’ve been waiting for you.

At this moment, you are resting peacefully after a wild morning of punching me in the diaphragm and kicking each other and pretending, I assume, to be in a karate match. I can almost hear you screaming hi-YA every time my giant belly moves to the right and then violently back to the left. I love that you are already both so different. Your unique personalities show through, even in the womb.

I know one of you will be awake at night and want lots of attention. I know one of you is gentle and will love to cuddle. One of you will be my giggler and the other peacefully happy, all smiles, all eyes on me. I can’t wait to finally hold you. To whisper in your sweet little ears how much I love you. To hold your fingers in mine. To caress your pink puffy cheeks. So innocent. So dependent. I want to enjoy every moment that you’re small because one day, you’ll be young women and taking on the world all on your own.

I hope you have my desire to see new things, to be adventurous, to take risks. But I hope you’re smarter than I was and that you also learn the value of a plan. I pray you will find direction and passion early in life that will propel you toward success and a deep sense of accomplishment.

I will raise you to be kind to others, to be forgiving, and to respect others’ differences. I will teach you tolerance and patience, two important qualities in dealing with the difficult people and situations you’re sure to encounter. I will teach you faith by practicing my own. I will teach you unconditional love. I will support you in your goals and dreams, even if they are not what I expected.

I will teach you not to be judgmental, but to make good judgments when choosing your circle of friends. Often times, the people you surround yourself with influence the very core of your belief system. This can be a great thing if it strengthens you. That’s not to say that you shouldn’t have friends with different beliefs and views, in fact, I encourage you to have friends from all religions and political views. To have friends who make you think and question and reevaluate what you believe. I would discourage you from having friends who make you feel inferior or unintelligent for having a certain view, this is not a constructive relationship. Your friends should build you up and encourage you, not reek of jealousy, selfishness, and self importance.

I can’t possibly know what your personalities will be, but I do hope for a few traits. Your daddy’s sense of humor and quick wit. His impossibly large heart and creativity. His unstoppable work ethic. My resilience. My ability to get along with everyone. I hope you attain tenacity and a thirst for knowledge. I pray we will instill confidence, self esteem and self respect in each of you. These are very important as women.

I will protect you from true harm and teach you, when the time is right, about dangers you will have to face on your own. I’ll talk to you about drugs, sex, and alcohol so that when the day comes that you are faced with the choice, you will make an intelligent one. We will have an open dialogue so you may ask questions and not feel embarrassed about your natural curiosity.

As a family, I hope to remain as close as mine has been growing up. You are surrounded by so many people who love you so much already. I hope to have game nights, day outings, vacations and trips to the city so you may be exposed to all of the wonderful experiences life has to offer a child. I hope to grow your curiosity, to encourage responsibility, and to expose you to ideas outside of your comfort zone and mine too!

We never stop growing up my sweet girls. We are always learning, changing and reaching to become our ideal person. That’s what life is. A journey to our true selves. You are so lucky to be entering the world with someone whom you have already shared a bond. Your sister. You will find as you mature that this relationship is your most important one. She will be your best friend, your strongest ally, your loudest cheerleader, and sometimes, the only person who will tell you the awful truth. Cherish this gift you’ve been given and hold it closer than any other.

In a few short days or weeks, we will meet and your journies will begin. Our family will be blessed with your presence. Our days as mother and daughters will turn into years. I am so excited for our time together. So ready to begin making memories. I love you my precious girls.

-Mommy

I can’t believe it took me this long to accomplish this, but procrastination seems to be my word of the… life. My original plan was to do a giveaway and then, when I couldn’t make up my mind, I decided that after too many weeks of not blogging (again) I’d rather just write and you all won’t love me any less for not bribing you with awesome coffee mugs. (But I will eventually, so stay tuned. I have some other rad giveaway ideas, too.)

Instead, I thought now would be a nice time to revisit some goals I made for myself back in the beginning of the year. I wanted to do this back in June but (everyone say it with me: PROCRASTINATION) life got in the way then, too. Without further ado, I’d like to cross some things off, revise and make fun of myself for always reaching higher than my tiny hands can reach.

Twenty Ten: The Year of the Pen

1. Read 100 books. (See the Book Pile for the enormous list!)
2. Participate in NaBloPoMo in November.
3. Begin a novel.
4. Read the Bible in 90 Days. Thank you to Mandi for this idea!
5. Finish an afghan.
6. Maintain a GPA worthy of the Dean’s List.
7. Be nicer to my body by eating healthier foods, exercising more and allowing myself to be imperfect.
8. Write at least one article per week for my Examiner.com column.
9. Begin paying off my medical debt. (over $30,000 worth)
10. Pay off Peanut.
11. Cook more and invent more recipes, then write them down and share them. (You lucky readers you!)
12. Learn and use a new word every day. <— SO FUN! (will highlight it in pink)
13. Floss.
14. Practice more yoga.
15. Try something new.
16. Run a 5K.
17. Sing in public. (Hardest one. Scariest one. Oh my God.)
18. Ask a (nice, good looking, seemingly successful) man out on a date.
19. Learn how to roast my own coffee.
20. Invite a guest blogger.
21. Be a guest blogger.
22. Self host and redesign blog. (Happy Birthday to me!)
23. Guard my heart without putting up a “wall”.
24. Stop saying fuck so much.
25. Clean out the garage. (When the temperatures allow for finger feelage.)

1. I have not read 100 books this year. I have also not read 50 books this year. I have probably not even read 10 books this year. (So sad…) There are five months left in the year and unless I read 20 books (har har) per month, this goal is not happening. I’m okay with this. Mostly because I know I set the bar really high for myself on this one and I can take pride in the fact that I haven’t been a hermit and have not closed myself off to the real world, which is what 100 books in a year would look like for me. And so… the new goal is to read some books that I enjoy, when I have time and to not stress out a goal that was meant to be fun. (and also educational, but let’s face it, I’ve learned a lot this year without reading.)

2. This is supposedly the month that I will deliver even though I’m not due until December 25. Yep, Christmas. I’m hoping that since I have a WordPress app on my phone, I’ll still be able to make this goal happen. Plus, there’s no guarantee that I’ll go early. It’s just an assumption. And I’ve been looking forward to this all year so when November comes and I can’t see my feet, perhaps I’ll write a few blogs as back ups, just in case.

3. I have begun idea gathering and a very very rough outline. That counts, right?

4. I’m still hoping to get this done, but honestly, this might be a goal that gets pushed through to 2011. Not because I don’t want to read the Bible in 90 Days, okay, yes, it’s because I don’t want to read the Bible in 90 Days… right now.

5. I have the yarn! I have the pattern! I have hot flashes! But I’m still planning on getting this done anyway. I am in lust with this afghan that I found and I can’t wait to be able to cuddle up with two little munchkins and a hubby in it.

6. This one’s an easy one to cross off! I couldn’t get the financial aid needed to pay for the classes that would lead me to the Dean’s List GPA, therefore… no Dean’s List. But I am definitely going back to school and have found other avenues in which to obtain the needed aid for school. Plus, I’ll be a mommy of two. That will help! I found an accelerated program that I can get my degree in a year. More on that when the time comes, but just know… it’s coming!

7. I have definitely done a lot of this in 2010. Of course, pregnancy sidetracked this a little bit, but for the most part, I definitely put the effort in. I have found ways to get my hypoglycemia under control, I started running (and then stopped because of severe sickness in early pregnancy), and because of my pregnancy, I QUIT SMOKING!!! Plus, I gave up caffeine. I miss coffee like an old friend so I’m sure this will return post babies, BUT I won’t be drinking the half pot to one pot a day that I was. Sorry jitters, we’re no longer friends. Obviously pregnancy made me quit drinking alcohol too, but this will be a habit I won’t pick back up. My children deserve better from me and I have no desire to drink around them.

8. One word: FAIL! No excuses here. I just need to turn my ideas into fleshed out articles. That’s it. That’s all.

9. and 10. I’m not sure if Peanut will be completely paid off by the end of the year, but I am definitely taking the steps necessary to make my financial situation one that is less stressful and more profitable for me and my family. I’m going to be talking more about this in the coming months because I think it’s something we all struggle with on some level or another. Unless you’re lucky enough to not have any debt and own your house outright and swim in your pools of green. We are currently reading and studying Total Money Makeover by Dave Ramsey. It’s an EXCELLENT book so far. Is it a challenge? Of course. Will it be worth it when our kids can go to college and we can retire comfortably? Yes. I’m excited to share this process with you, mostly in hopes that it will inspire you, but also because I’m getting seriously interested in the whole financial process, from coupons to mutual funds.

11. I’ve been off the food chain for the past three months so I haven’t done much of this. The good news is that I am now entering the stage of pregnancy where I want to eat anything and everything and recipes seem to be popping up on my Facebook and in my brain like little tiny wildfires.

12. Clearly I need to update the Word of the Day widget.

13. Check!

14. I found a yoga class here in town for $10. And then I found out I was pregnant. (There seems to be a prevailing theme here… Procrastination AND Pregnancy.) I’m aware that yoga can be great for some women during pregnancy but unfortunately, I’m a once a day Zantac popper at the moment because there’s just not enough room for all of these babies and my tummy in the same body. I have no desire to be downward dogging until my stomach is no longer in my throat. I do plan to utilize that $10 yoga class though. What a deal!

15. Pregnancy counts.

16. So close! I found out about a month before the 5K that I was pregnant and the sickness hit me almost immediately. I was *so* excited about it too. Plus, the day of the 5K, the weather was horrific and my running partners didn’t run either. It was freezing cold and raining. Not ideal for a first time 5K-er but also not a pregnant one, and apparently the veterans weren’t that excited about it either. I don’t feel bad. The point was to run more and to be able to run it. I accomplished that much.

17. Psh… yeah, we’ll see.

18. Well, I’m married. So I suppose I can cross this off this list as well.

19. Working on it!! When I am officially drinking coffee again, I’m going to start saving up for a roaster, which are a lot less expensive than I originally thought. These are going to be some interesting blogs!

20. Check! Thank you Caroline, Ally and Salt!

21. Check! Thank you Sarah!

22. My birthday came, so did my taxes, and so did my hypoglycemia. Guess where my taxes went? It’s okay though, the world is not ending because my Google Friend Connect will still not work without a self hosted blog. (Even though it does piss me off.) And thanks to the tax money, I’m not going to die of low blood sugar!

23. Check!

24. Indeed. I have definitely cut down on my usage of the word. It’s pretty amazing how much you can change your way of speaking when you actually pay attention to the words coming out of your mouth.

25. Guess what I’m doing this month!!!! I’M MOVING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Guess what that means!!!!!! No more digging through boxes in the dead of winter trying to find a warm sweater and finding a t-shirt instead!!!!! I have a couple of weeks yet before any of this goes down. I’m still finishing painting and the bathroom needs some major counseling. I’m not kidding, it’s so bad it might need a professional, but we’re going to try some other tactics first. Like self help and what not. As soon as I can take a shower in there, I’m gone like the wind! I’m taking tons of before and after pictures just so you can enjoy the end product without all the hassle of getting paint in your hair. You’re welcome.

I’m feeling pretty accomplished. There have been a lot of ups and downs this year, like any other year, but it’s definitely been better than 2008 or 2009. I’m married to someone that makes me laugh on a daily basis, even though we have our conflicts. I have two beautiful miracle babies on the way. I’m moving to a great area. I’m close to my family. And after everything that has happened this year by way of the big bad wolf… God isn’t letting anyone blow my house down. I can’t feel bad about that!

Onward and upward, as they say! Coming up… I found the coolest cookbook on the planet and I can NOT wait to share it with you all. I have a feeling it’s going to turn into a series. It’s THAT good. Plus, Who is Josh? And some other stories I never told you…

The blog I am about to dismantle and over analyze I came across on another blog that I read called Hooking Up Smart. Susan has some fantastic advice and is usually spot on when it comes to dating. She recently posted a link to this blog called The 100 Girls in 100 Days Project. She seemed to have a high opinion of this young man and his “brave” approach to dating. Caroline seems to be on the fence. Me? I loathe him. I’m the girl who can’t give up on the happy ending no matter how hard I try and this guy has thrown in the towel. Sad days people, sad. days. Here are some things that have taken place over on my Facebook Wall:

Caroline: “… And I don’t know about this guy. Reading it to figure out. It’s one part annoying and one part ‘meh, people are what they are,’ you know?”

Kallay: “I’m on Day 17. He is not charming my pants off yet. That’s for damn sure.”

Caroline: “Ha! No, not at all. I feel bad for him, but he’s not earning any gold stars.”

Kallay: “I feel bad for him like I feel bad for the people of Walmart. Ya know? I mean on one hand… they don’t have a lot of money! But neither do I! And I don’t leave the house looking like I belong on some obscure website with oodles of back fat and pet monkeys and WTF is she wearing!? So, in conclusion, sure… they’re poor, but that’s no excuse for landing yourself on America’s Worst Dressed List.”

Caroline: “Yeah, but I’m 90 days in now and it’s interesting to see what he thinks and feels, because he has thoughts and feelings, despite his project.”

Kallay: “When I get to Day 90 I’ll see if my feelings change. So far, I hate him. Okay not hate. I dislike his thought process. I’m not understanding how any of this is making him feel better about himself which I believe was the original intention. Like, if some asshole breaks up with me because he’s a douche bag… I date Ben & Jerry for a month and then get back out there. This guy? He dates Jane, Joan, Jerri, and 97 of the other J women and still feels like shit. So… I guess that’s where I think he fails. (Along with the other part where he is intentionally hurting women to get his rocks off. Rocks being his project, balls, and what have you.)”

Caroline: “Ha! Like I said, I’m not condoning his thought processes. But it’s hard to condemn them too much. Criminy. I know what my tortuous brainwaves look like. Pot-kettle?”

Kallay: “No, you’re so much better than he is. You wouldn’t intentionally date 100 guys in 100 days just to write a stupid blog about how shitty you feel about your love life and then continue on with the process just for shits & giggles. Which is kind of how this feels. And I’m only on Day 17. So far he’s had revenge sex, regretsy sex, and raunchy sex and none of that has made him feel better. Plus booze. He needs couch time. Without a lady. You don’t. “

(Some TWSS jokes ensued, then…)

Caroline: “But…I feel bad for blogger dude. He clearly feels like crap and isn’t doing anything other than wading through the mire. And he sort of gives up on it at the end.”

Kallay: “He should have given up in the beginning. Also… he feels like crap because all he did was pour salt in his wounds for 100 days. Dumb. Ass.”

And now a perverse over analyzation of the blog that never should have been…

This blog is like a disaster you need to see through ’til the end. Sort of like the 2000 election of Bush where everyone stayed up all night watching the states roll in, only to come up with a tie and a recount that would last a month. No one can stay awake for a month. Trust me. I’ve tried, or rather I had insomnia and eventually sleep won, usually only for about 4 hours, but still, sleep conquered me like I was its little bitch. This blog is so much of a natural disaster that I can’t help but keep reading. I need closure. I need to know why “Travis” feels the need to continually torture himself. He’s the antithesis of everything I want in a man. He’s an alcoholic, stubborn, overly sexual, cocky, son of a bitch who has blanketed himself in the worst kind of self pity and self loathing. He’s destructive. He’s manipulative. And he’s completely shitting on his friends and neighbors for a project that he hates as much in the beginning as he does in the end. His goal was to date 100 girls in 100 days. To step out of his comfort zone and meet women in ways he’s never done before. The problem I’m having as I get sucked further and further into his black hole of depression is that he’s not really meeting girls in new ways. He’s always drunk or hungover or both. He sucks down coffee like a tried and true suicidal insomniac and has done nothing but learned 100 new ways to hate himself. I. Don’t. Get. This.

He wants people to feel sorry for him for being the poor broken hearted guy who can’t think of a better way to self medicate but to write a blog about not calling anyone back. BUT THEN HE CALLS THEM BACK! (Or texts them back.) And he falls for his friend who laughs at him for falling for her. Add that on top of the fact that he’s not actually dating 100 different girls in 100 days. He’s lying to himself and pretending to not be looking for the girl of his dreams by going through them like tickets at the county fair and then hating himself for it. Then he waxes poetic about how many great books he’s read and how his taste in music is superior and how he enjoys sharing those things with a few of the women he’s dated(ing). (Oddly enough, I do have a small shred of pride in his music taste… I digress.) He’s extremely fickle about his situation. One minute it’s all project, project, project, then the next minute he’s scotching it up with another girl in his lap and complaining about how he would like to see her again. What the fuck, over!?

If this blog were a movie it would be: Cruel Intentions meets How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days meets Empire Records. Let me explain. (In case you are not up to date on Chick Flicks and the best movie ever made.) In Cruel Intentions, Sebastian journals about his “conquests” which is to say… he writes a daily journal about the girls he’s fucking and let’s face it, he’s not making love, he’s fucking. I loved the movie but found the idea profoundly disgusting. (Because I’m a hopeless romantic and if I was ever someone’s conquest I would. be. pissed.) Okay, so then there’s How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days where these two destined souls intentionally drive each other mad for the sole purpose of a bet (in his case) or an article (in her case). They end up both feeling like douche canoes and they kiss and make up on The Brooklyn Bridge. End Scene. The only similarity between 100 Mistakes in 100 Days and Empire Records is that the guy really does know his music and I was a big fan of the Empire Records soundtrack. Still am. So… here’s what we have… We have a guy who journals about his dates and fucks on the internet while hating himself and listening to good music, drunk and over caffeinated.

He’ll probably land a huge book deal out of this because, Lord knows, any publisher who doesn’t take on this tragic tale is a complete moron. Do I condone his project? Absolutely not. Do I think any of this was a good idea? Um… really not. Do I think it’s interesting and hard to put down? Yes. Which is why I’ve spent the better part of the day doing none of the things I needed to do and reading this train wreck of a story instead. I feel bad for the girls who liked him and never got a call back. I feel bad for the girls he chose because he simply had no other options. I feel bad for the girls he actually likes but won’t commit to because of his idiotic project. I feel bad for the girls that have to see him every day in his regular coffee shop/dive bar routine who probably never get another side glance or half smile. I feel bad for his reflection in the mirror. But mostly I feel bad for his liver.

Go read. And then let’s discuss.

So I got up at 6:30 after lying in bed wide awake for about a half an hour pissed off that my body clock was licking windows and waking me up at odd hours. I drank coffee, started organizing the kitchen for Cake Day and was generally in a fantastic mood (post caffeination of course, don’t get carried away). Slowly the house started to wake up and everyone was all abuzz about The Cake. Asking millions of questions, getting giddy with glee about the scientific procedure that is baking. Me? I was freaking OUT inside. For a few reasons:

1) When we went to purchase the ingredients the night before my card was declined which was REALLY scary because I had over $300 in my account for the wedding. Commence heart failure. So I got on the DIAL UP internet at the house *head desk* and after about 20 minutes finally discovered a disturbing item… The Westin. After I politely gave the front desk attendant a new asshole, I was transferred to Guest Services and when they told me it was their mistake but that it was going to be Friday before they could give me my money back… I had a veritable hissy fit. That’s two new assholes for The Westin. They did finally give me my refund and thankfully I still had a little bit of money to get me through until Friday but Holy Jeans… I was piiiiissed. <— It takes a lot to do that.)

2) Thought Balloon: “I’m not just baking a cake. I’m baking THE Cake. THE Wedding Cake for one of my best friends. I’ve baked a bajillion cakes before. And cupcakes and cookies and pies…” Why my nervous bell started to go all bong bong on me, I don’t know. But it sure did! Maybe it was the questions or the constant barrage of reminders of holding the plenipotentiary responsibility of the single most photographed subject of a wedding, other than the bride and groom, in my sweaty hot hands. No pressure…

3) The Friendly Uncle. Go ahead… let your mind run wild. I was creeped out. You should be too. Imagine being in a house by yourself, halfway through THE Cake and The Friendly Uncle comes up behind you and scares the bejeezus out of you by tapping you on the shoulder. (You’re blasting All The Above from your iPod btw.) The he over-zealously invites you to go four wheeling on the farm. He wants to “show you around”. Honey, child… I’ve seen it all. No thanks. Also, I’m making THE Cake. Clearly in the middle of making frosting here pally-o. Also… please get your hand off my waist friend. Much thanks. TFU leaves (finally) and I am left to my devices. Now freaked out *and* creeped out.

Thankfully, one of the other bridesmaids helped me with some of the preliminary procedures such as separating over 50 egg whites and sugaring “olive” branches. I never did find any so I just used some palm leaves I found at Michael’s, cut off every other leaf and *TA DA* “olive” branches. Then it was all beat, beat, add flour, add liquid, beat some more… Bake, Bake, Bake, Cool. For twelve. hours. straight. Then I made the Chocolate Buttercream which turned out perfectly. So. Yum. Vanilla Buttercream on the mound… and FAIL.

For whatever reason, it curdled. I’ve never seen buttercream do that before. I was flummoxed. I also said a lot of swear words and kept beating. Sometimes (apparently) it helps. Well, it did… but it just turned to flat butter again. Son. of a bitch. I had to go BACK to the store. Buy MORE eggs. More Butter. And pray that my card would work. It did.

10 pm. Back in the kitchen, making more meringue. Adding butter and praying to the Little Lord Jesus that this would work. It did. Ammmmaaaaziiing Grace!!! 13 hours and counting….

There are two pictures of me making the cake. Will I show you? No. But I will show you pictures of the progress. It was a no makeup day. And despite what you might think… I am vain sometimes. Plus, I was wearing cake and frosting, plus old t-shirts and jeans. I was a hot mess. Uncool. I gave my beauty to the cake.

It was finally time to pile, frost and repeat. Plus dowels. Plus decorate. Looking back I regret not taking pictures but I was so exhausted by the end of this process. My nerves were shot. My hands were beyond hot which did not bode well for the frosting. (I’m a hot handed baker… not a good candidate for chocolatiering.) Also, I wasn’t wearing shoes and really should have been. I thought barefoot contessa was the way to go but uh… not so much. My feet were so swollen they looked like fat kid feet, let’s not even talk about the cankles. All in all the process took about fourteen and a half hours, one shirt change (due to the grocery store trip) two pots of coffee for yours truly, and fifty seven prayers. I had to sleep on my stomach, which is mostly verboten for a busty girl, just so my feet could be in the air. That sounds sexual. Believe me, it wasn’t. There is nothing sexy about standing for over fourteen hours unless you’re also wrapped around a pole wearing pasties.

So… the final break down: The first layer and the top layer both had chocolate buttercream filling and the middle layer had raspberry… for the groom. It was all crumb coated in Vanilla Buttercream and then I piped straight(ish) shingles over the entire cake, starting at the bottom, with Vanilla Buttercream. It took 11 dowels and 6 cakes. We ended up not needing the full sheet…. thank God.

Here are the only pictures I have of the process…

The Aftermath

Vanilla Buttercream Meet Chocolate Buttercream

Here She Comes...

I put her in the freezer and literally duct taped it shut. I was mostly happy with it. There are a few mistakes but I was so damn tired. I had no energy to start over. Every cake has a front and a back. This one had a few. Haha!

And of course the final product….

Blue Delphiniums and Sugared "Olive" Branches

From the top(ish)

Because I thought it was pretty...

There was leftover batter so I made cupcakes. I wish I had a picture of them. They were gorgeous. They were used for the Bridal Shower and people ate them randomly through the week. And here we go with the confession of the day: I actually don’t like cake. I. Know. Frosting just kind of grosses me out, I will usually scrape it off before I eat cakes or cupcakes. I’m weird, you know that. I had a couple of bites at the reception but overall I just wanted everyone else to enjoy it.

...don't eat cake. (Thanks Salt!)

So here’s what earned me the Most Useful Bridesmaid Award:

1) I made THE Cake.

2) While making THE Cake, I stopped to do Missy’s hair and makeup for her night out with the ‘rents. To say that I was distrait is an understatement.

3) I had the numbers for Delta and United to check on flight arrivals for all unaccounted for attendees. (This was very useful.)

4) I did hair and makeup for the girls throughout the week and on the day of the wedding.

5) I provided entertainment. (because I’m funny… come on… fuckin’ sickos.)

6) I rounded up some gentlemen at a bar during the Bachelorette Party to help us with our list. (More on this later.)

Will I ever do this again? One full day of cake marathon? No, probably not. It was hell. I was SO happy to do it for Missy, believe me. But I will never attempt a cake in one day ever again. I lived. I learned.

I’m still working on the other blogs that have little to do with the wedding and lots to do with me saying thank you, swooning over Mr. Wonderful (seriously, I don’t do this… but my Lord, he is perfect) and winning awards. Y’all are good to me. Plus, I’m guest blogging over at Sarah’s this weekend! Hot dog!

See ya soon my lovelies!

I don't know why I do that thing where I lean over in pictures. I'm tall... I should be proud. And yet, I lean. (BTW.. Look how puffy! God, you could squeeze water for a village out of my face.)

So we headed into the anti-booming blink of a town, Medford, and began the search for champagne flutes… each getting uglier than the last. We wandered to the far corner of the glassware and found a whole selection of Vera Wang flutes. One… hideous. The other… not um… hideous. As if by fate or destiny… a chipper blonde in her 40s, who knew how to read about as well as a dyslexic three year old, showed up to assist. My favorite thing about being a writer is when a person walks into my life and instantly becomes a character in a story. This woman was about my height, clearly ate a lot of salad and probably not much else, judging by the state of her teeny tiny ankles and that weird anorexic looking neck, and was happier than a person who works in retail should ever be. It was nauseating. She was blowing by us in a hurry all bespectacled and busy looking. Then she opened her mouth and my eyes rolled into the back of my head. “Hey Guuuyeeees! Can I Help youuuu?” Oh boy.

This woman couldn’t find a snowflake in a snowstorm. We all told her what the name of this particular flute was and she went back in the backroom for what seemed like forever. She came back with a box and one glance on the side of it and we told her it was the wrong box. She insisted on opening it to check. We win. Wrong flutes. I’m as blonde as the next fake blonde but somewhere under all of this hair is a brain and I think that I might possibly have an unfair advantage. This woman was a fake blonde with some impressive roots, so it’s safe to say that she’s just a blonde and move on. But… I’m blonde. And I can read. Especially four letter words. So while she returned to the back room to hunt for champagne flutes that were beyond her reading level, I thanked my lucky stars that this woman was a) not an investogator, b) not a doctor, and c) not looking for my champagne flutes. She zoomed out of the backroom all loafery heels and all, proud of her findings and this time, she got it right! Miracle of miracles. Another miracle? The store allows this woman to operate heavy machinery also known as a cash register. We carried the flutes over to the register area and opened the box to examine them. Neat. Now they have brand new champagne flutes with her fingerprints all over them. The gift that keeps on giving! She rang us up, hopefully got the amount right and we were on our merry way. Missy scolded me throughout the whole process. I couldn’t help but make fun of this woman. She was too good to be true. How could I pass up an easy target?

After the champagne flute debacle, we went to the tux shop so Ryan could make his final decisions regarding shiny lapels and tie colors, shoes and whatever else goes into finding the perfect tux for a day. I would have been paying more attention had I not come across this beast of nature.

eez hawt on cownter

There were display shelves under the counter and the lights from the shelves made the counter warm. Apparently kitty likes this particular spot for its ability to keep the heat since they shaved the poor thing to look like an asshole. (An adorable asshole… but still.)

see?

For the next thirty minutes I did nothing but chase this cat around, pet him/her, take pictures of him/her, and generally make a nuisance of myself. I wasn’t the one wearing the tux… what did I care? I just wanted to make a furry new friend. And I did! Poor cat.

swinging his/her tail too fast for camera phone

oh please... like you wouldn't have done the same thing! look at those fuzzy little cheeks!

Next on the agenda was the courthouse to obtain a marriage license. Always an adventure. Ryan knew right where the building was… after we walked around the entire complex and finally settled on a large building situated exactly in the center of the three blocks that this system of law resided among. Upon entering, we were immediately confronted by guards and a security screening area. For a marriage license? We thought not. Ryan gave up, with many thanks from Missy and my feet, and we found an information desk. Turns out we couldn’t have found this place with a compass and a map. They had moved it to another building temporarily and this particular building/office was not marked. He gave us directions that consisted mostly of: down the stairs, around the pole, over the grass heap, high five each other, to the left, to the right, now slide, and the door to marriage licensry was to be in an outdoor hallway. Feeling very Hansel and Gretel and about this whole thing, we enter. I was there for photographic evidence that is not on my camera (like about 95% of the pictures) sorry ’bout that.

I’ll skip all the mumbo jumbo about filling out the paperwork. It was all done on a computer, pretty basic stuff really… except for this one guy. I’m not going to even try to be nice about this. Stupid people irritate me and this day was riddled with them. There were three couples in the office at the time. Missy and Ryan, this other adorable couple that we think were married the night before in the same hotel, and then… the morons. Dude couldn’t use a computer. Didn’t have a clue. Yeah, I laughed out loud when I overheard it. Yes, the room was quiet and he probably heard me. Do I think he realized I was laughing at him? No. Why? Because if he can’t use a computer, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that he is also ignorant to the fact that he’s like the only person in the modern world that can’t figure out what this means: Enter Your Information In The Provided Boxes Then Click Next and that it’s not just funny, but hilarious.

First Name: Lost on HIM!
Last Name: We have those?
Date of Birth: Whose? Mine?
Address: Under The Bridge

Good. Lord.

They let him have a license. To get married. To another human being. Yeah… welcome to America: Land of Opportunity. (even if you’re an ass hat.)

We went rope shopping after we found the car again and snapped more pictures by a pretty tree. The rope was for their God Knot Ceremony, which (other than the fact that trying to find matching rope is a giant pain in the ass) was pretty cool. We went to three different stores and I had fun pulling the ropes off the spool. I know, I’m *such* a jerk. Also, I’m a child at heart and it was FUN. Don’t judge me! After traveling all day on Monday and then sleeping for 5 hours and climbing on another teeny plane to finally arrive in Oregon, I was getting slap happy.

Much of the rest of the day is a blur for me. We ate Indian food. Delicious. We drank smoothies at a smoothie bar which had a cool chick behind the bar. Anyone who can deal with my indecisiveness and my obvious lack of a filter when I referred to the “Fat Blaster” as the Butt Smoothie is top notch in my book. We had some serious witty banter going on in there. Apparently I packed my personality on this trip. Win!

Which leads us to… CAKE DAY! (Or… the day I earned the title of “Most Useful Bridesmaid”)

once again… to be continued….

First of all, some traveling advice: Don’t pack the night before you leave.(Unless you’re not me, then please, go ahead and pack the night before you leave.) I’m really a horrible packer but these were special circumstances and I had to take more with me than I would normally pack should I be traveling to the other side of the country. I obviously had to pack cake pans and those aren’t small, plus cake boards, my pastry knife (a glorified frosting spreadererer) and pastry bags. Plus, being a bridesmaid, I also had to pack a Rehearsal Dinner dress and shoes, my bridesmaid’s dress and shoes, Bachelorette party outfit and shoes (by the way… it was totally hot), cake baking clothes, casual clothes, more shoes, toiletries, books, laptop, and somehow I managed to fit my boarding passes into all of that mess. Did I mention I was doing hair and makeup for everyone? So add hairdryer, curling iron(s), straightener, and a makeup selection worthy of a MAC counter on steroids. So to say that I was playing a few roles is to say that the universal has a couple of stars.

(He stopped staring and has now proceeded to the bathroom, but first, he stopped behind me. I thought he might strangle me so I stood up. It was creepy okay?)

I packed the night before and had an absolute hissy fit when I weighed my bag and it was over 50 pounds before I had any beauty products in it. Did you know that the airlines charge you $25 for your bag and if it’s overweight, anywhere from $90 to ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS! What’s wrong with my bag? I mean, who travels without *stuff*? Even the pilots have bags! Do they charge them too? I mean, what the crap folks? So in the midst of my temper tantrum, my mom collected suitcases from around the house and we tested this bag and that bag. Nothing was working. I resigned myself to the fact that my dream of being a one carry-on traveler was out of the picture. Then I pouted for an hour before succumbing to my fate. I packed my suitcase as full as I could and weighed it precisely 347 times on my body scale, which kept trying to read the body fat and water % on the bag, clearly the bag failed those tests. But it did finally reach an acceptable weight of 47 pounds on the nose. I didn’t want to overdo it incase the airline’s scale was weighted. (They would totally pull some crazy shit like that… you know they would.)

Actually getting to Medford, Oregon was a chore. My flight didn’t leave until 3:30pm but I had to be carted to the airport by two different cars. My sister and my niece dropped me off and my niece suddenly had dreams of flying planes. (Or landscaping… she was a big fan of the guys collecting dead plants. Can’t blame her there!) When I rolled up to the counter with my giant bursting suitcase and carry-on bags (sad face), I went straight to the ticket counter because the electronic check-in gave me the finger. I was flying on four different planes on two different airlines so, basically, my flight plan was an enormous pain in the ass and when the flight attendant began checking me in, her facial expression was priceless. You know your flight plan is bad when they start calling other people over to look at it. To laugh at it. To come over all Mary J. Blige and “Mmmhm child” at it. So she switched a few things around and instead of taking four flights, I was now only taking three. I flew from Grand Rapids to Minneapolis with my own row and you know, I like sharing as much as the next girl, but there is nothing like having your own space on an airplane. It’s like having your very own apartment. You can sleep, drool, eat, drink, read and compute without someone breathing all over you. It’s fantastic. Once I made it to Minneapolis, I had a 45 minute layover and then I was off to San Francisco and this is where our problems begin.

(Ugh… he took out his teeth and left his glasses on the counter in the bathroom. He still smells like poop.)

Apparently Medford, Oregon is a really popular place to go. It also takes quite a few air traffic control folks to get you there. Um… it’s also the forgotten manufacturing ghetto of Oregon. Great place for a landing strip or two, I’d say. So it’s beyond me why everyone who was going to the wedding had issues with getting to the Medford Airport which is really the only business in Medford that has employees with full sets of teeth, which is neither here nor there, but worth mentioning if you care about dental hygiene. I love a good mystery. So, because I’m a dork… I researched it. There’s nothing there except a really old dormant volcano and some sissy little festivals which I’m sure do not take place in the middle of Winter.

(And we’re back to staring. Perhaps he doesn’t recognize me??)

I arrived in San Francisco and, as luck would have it, the Air Tram is under construction! I needed to be in Concourse D to catch my United flight, naturally, I was on the other side of the planet in Concourse B (which is as far as you can get away from Concourse D unless I’m flying International, which at this point would not surprise me) because I flew in on Delta. Some walking was in order. Have you ever been really proud of yourself for packing light (for having 2 carry-ons anyway) and then halfway through the airport, through the mostly empty, all the way creepy parking garage, you realize… “Fuck, my bags are heavy!” and you’re wearing ballet flats for cuteness/comfort, wishing you would have opted for the more practical, less adorable tennis shoe option? Well, *I* have!!! By the time I reached the D Concourse, I was sweating and breathing heavy and my feet were more numb than a root canal. Also, my hair was sticking to the back of my neck, I needed food and because the asshole stewardess wouldn’t give me water, I had a sore throat. For. Shame. All of that Emergen-C swallowing and Zinc chewing was for naught. So I sat down to have a sandwich at Subway, walked to my gate and called Missy to let her know my arrival time. Two minutes and forty seven seconds into the conversation and I hear the words any weary traveler dreads. Flight Cancelled. I say: “Shit.” Missy says “Uh Oh.” One hour of getting the run around later and walking back and forth along Concourse D (which happened to have a lovely Food Court in the middle, making it an even longer walk) and finally arriving at Customer Service, I am told that because the cancellation is due to a shortage in flight hours and air traffic control, Mama is staying at the Westin with a $15 food coupon and free shuttle service. (Had it been a weather delay, I would probably still be curled up in a ball at the San Francisco airport sleeping along a wall at Gate 70 drooling on the floor.)

A Demonstration....

Let’s discuss.

a) If you are a stranded traveler, receiving a $15 food coupon prohibiting the purchase of alcohol is cruel and unusual punishment for an already taxing day. They should rethink that stipulation.

b) The Westin has some kick ass travel-sized shampoo/conditioner/lotion. White Tea y’all! And leaf shaped soap!

c) Twin. Shower. Head. Hello.

Behind Curtain Number One

d) I’m not sure why I needed two beds in my room but I had two queen-sized delciously comfortable beds in my room.

e) I did not, however, have a change of clothes in either of my carry-ons so I slept naked in one of the fantastic beds. Hot right?

f) $4 for a bottle of water?? Ninja please! What is wrong with these people? How come no one wants me to be hydrated? And a tip: Don’t say “RELAX!” And then advertise a large dollar amount for something that comes out of the faucet for free.

ohsure...

g) LG Flat Screen HDTV was awesome, but stayed in its upright and off position. I came, I saw, I showered, I slept (Naked! ooOOoo!), I returned to the airport with my $15 food coupon to buy breakfast and enough water to hydrate me for the rest of the day. Since the airlines only do cups of water now.

h) Dear Mr. Many Bags, I understand that your luggage is precious. I do. But it was raining. I had a computer in my bag and because ALL of your life’s belongings were taking up the cover from the rain and you scoffed at me when I accidentally knocked over one of your six large suitcases and two of your four bags (YEAH THAT’S FOR REAL) trying to squeeze in with my one laptop bag and small carry-on bag, I had to stand outside in the rain while you stayed nice and dry under the awning. You are not a chivalrous man. In fact, you are the antithesis of chivalry. You’re a criminal. First of all, I added up how much it must have cost you to transport all of those (probably overweight) bags. You’re a rich motherfucker. Also, you have a lot of crap and you should carry your own awning the next time you fly because really, next time I’m knocking your shit over in the puddle on purpose. You were a smooshy booger on my otherwise crappy traveling day, so it was only par for the course. Mr. Many Bags, you’re fired as a traveler. You suck at it. Love, The soaking wet, sleepy, hot blonde standing OUTSIDE *not* being a pussy while you took up all of the dry space.

i) Dear Westin, When a traveler comes in with a voucher, that means the airline pays for their room. Charging me for the room resulted in three people with new assholes. Was that necessary? You can be sued for charging a card without authorization. Everybody knows. Except for you apparently. Love, The girl who hounded you everyday until you put her money back. *smooches!* (Also, KALLAY MAD! KALLAY SMASH!)

I finally flew to Medford, Oregon on a full plane the next morning, which I’m still not understanding. I did not see any of those people at the wedding. Medford isn’t surrounded by any big cities. Where are you people GOING? Snowboarding maybe? Getting some good weed in Ashland? Wedding crashing?

I was so relieved when I got there… and so exhausted. Missy, her hubby and I hung out and I was able to get to know him. They really are perfect for each other and I am perfectly content to say that this marriage is one that will last and I am so proud that I got to be a part of it. Missy and I have known each other for almost half of our lives and I couldn’t have chosen a better guy for her if I had hand selected him myself. Standing at the alter with them, listening to what he had to say about Missy and all the reasons that he loved her, I nodded my head in agreement because he was definitely marrying the same person that I met so many years ago and he loves all of the same things about her that I do. It was touching to say the least. They really *know* each other and love each other for the right reasons. To be in the presence of that is rare, but it’s inspiring for us single ladies who have yet to meet their match. Time will tell…

So what happened after the airport? We went shopping for rope. An odd choice of prop for a wedding, no? Well, maybe “knot”.

To be continued…

I’m sitting in the Vegas airport. Laid over. Hung over. Just… over. For thirteen God-forsaken, freak-filled, Starbucks coffee overloaded fucking hours. It’s been a long exhausting really fantastic week. I can’t wait to tell you all about it. Things like Mayan Calendar readings. Bachelorette party what the fucks. And why I’m very sure I’ll be eloping if I ever find an eligible single man. Really. Don’t get me wrong, this week was an absolute blast. Train wrecks and all but seriously guys… I think I’d rather have someone poke me repeatedly with a pin on my wenis than have to sit in this airport for 13 hours or have to go to three different hardware stores looking for the appropriately colored ropes for the “God Knot” ceremony. (Which was cute… but I will not be implementing that in my ceremony. Just.. “I really fucking do. I wanna be your wife, have your babies, fight about socks and get wrinkly butts together.” That’s it.)

So a few reasons the Vegas airport sucks. There’s nothing to do when you have twenty dollars. I mean sure, I could go all Granny Smith and throw a quarter in the slot machine but knowing my luck the machine would end up charging me for playing. I can see it now!

*she presses her 25 cent piece through the hole in the bright lights, big city gambling machine*

Machine: Please insert debit card.
UnLucky: Wait… what?
Machine: Please insert debit card.
UnLucky: Since when you do have to pay for losing on a slot machine?
Machine: Please insert debit card.
UnLucky: But I didn’t do anything wrong!
Machine: Please insert debit card.
UnLucky: *kicks machine*
Machine: Please insert debit card and first born child.
UnLucky: Shit.

Great people watching but also depressing when you haven’t showered. The girls walking around with perfect makeup and cute outfits with tiny thighs and Coach bags are especially depressing. I feel like I smell funny and look like someone ran half my face through a meat grinder. Plus, tennis shoes and bed head. I have 7 hours left and 10 dollars. Going to have to choke down granola bars the rest of the way because *har har har* the 10 dollars is going to have to go toward more water bottles. Guess what you can’t get on airplanes! Yeah, water bottles. You have to take your water in a cup now and if you ask for more, you get the stink eye. I’m thinking the $600 I paid might cover some in-flight hydration but apparently, I would be wrong. I would be so wrong that even if I’m coughing, losing my voice and dropping Emergen-C like an alcoholic drops alka-seltzer, it’s still an unbelievably asinine request. Bitches.

I’ve seen some pretty amazing get ups though. I saw a man in all teal spandex pants, accompanied (of course) by a terry cloth jacket (?) in a giant hot pink and orange checker pattern, lined in teal to coordinate with matching orange shoes (slippers). The best part? The gray t-shirt with the words “fork you”. Hm… no thanks!

Not long after that a guy walked in front of me, took off ONE shoe, did a strange stretch/push up for about one minute, returned his shoe to his foot, took his bag and walked off. *raised eyebrow*

So, I land tomorrow at 10:30am and drive the hour and a half home. And then I’m sleeping until 2011. When I can form complete sentences again I will tell you about the 14 hour battle of the wedding cake and how I had to go buy more supplies at 9 at night due to buttercream fail. See you on the other side of my dreams!

And a HUGE thank you to Salt and Ally for the FANTASTIC guest blog. Let’s give it up for these amazing ladies! I promise I will use my big girl words tomorrow. For now, that’s all I have, sorry.

Alright, I’ve been saving this in my arsenal for a time when I would really need something fast and furiously funny.

Oliver (Oviler) and I have plenty of stories to share but this one is definitely in the top three.

Oliver loves to play with my hair. He’s like a five year old girl with a teasing comb and what he lacks in girl parts he makes up for in squeals and enthusiastic giggling. Just add a skirt! So one night after yoga, he grabbed a brush and hair ties and did unmentionable things to my hair. Sure, explaining them would be easy enough as I took on the personas of strange looking children and Samurai warriors but the pictures are priceless. Luckily for you, I have zero shame. So in an effort to completely embarrass myself in the pursuit of laughter, I give you the creations of Oliver.

Uh Oh...

OW! (for real this hurt)

really hurt...

uh... what's going on up there?

what you can't see is everyone dying of laughter. this is my infamous retard face.

kallay lou who!?

samarai!!!!!! i keel you...

A week went by, another yoga class was had, dinner was served and Oliver once again wanted my hair for dessert. It started off with me in my yoga garb and innocent pigtails. It was like extended yoga. I sat there with my getting my hair styled gaze, you know, that feeling when someone is brushing your hair and sweeping it up into an updo, be it pigtails or a French Twist and you escape into another world. The relaxed stare you achieve when you’re thinking of nothing and being pampered. I adore that feeling. I was floating along in my euphoria and from far away I heard the words “tease” and “epic” and loud gaysian laughing. All of a sudden, pigtails are being ripped from my skull and Oliver is transforming me into a hungry lioness. And because it’s me… And because it’s Oliver… Nothing good could come of this. There is nothing clean about our humor. We’re a couple of sick, twisted individuals who happen to connect on the dirtiest level of likemindedness when we’re together. Highly disturbing, highly entertaining. We really could be a circus side show or even the opening act of some insane comedy improv group. Unfortunately we are separated by miles and miles. Fortunately, this event was documented. Take the food out of your mouth right now. I’m not going to be responsible for anyone choking on Cheetos. Alright, go ahead. Scroll…

Half Woman, Half Child (or an 80/20 split...who knows?)

it looks like i'm, well, you know what it looks like i'm doing.

yeah, he's pretending to hump my head, while i sit by oblivious...

the last semi-normal picture... aw, pigtails!

OMG WTF!?

the infamous face...

cheese!!!!!! (ball)

just add nuts!

trying out my monkey face.

scary goat... or "choose your own caption here"

nobody does short bus like this girl... oliver couldn't stop laughing long enough to hold his pose. amateur!

literally saying "oh shit"

he knows what's up! i love how serious he looks.

then he gets scared...

but continues on, ripping the hair from my scalp.

kitty purr...

kitty bathe...

kitty growl! (fave quote from facebook: GOING TO HUNT GAZELLES! BRB!)

i are hawt.

wow...

pretending everything is normal and checking facebook.

hey look! there's caroline! (also attempting normal)

kitteh sez "meh iz necks!"

Would you believe that my hair brushed completely out? No tangles, no tears. Oliver is a master and I am his muse. His own personal Barbie doll. His glamazon. Hope you enjoyed! Next time I’ll tell you about the time we blew up condoms and played balloon wars. I’ll let you soak this one in first though.

See you next week!

Unless I find some expandable thigh high boots, I’m thinking there will be no walking around on the deck for another 4 months or so.

It really is beautiful out there.  And so quiet. I almost feel like I have to whisper when I’m outside, I wouldn’t want to be the responsible party for waking up nature while it’s clearly taking a very peaceful nap.  She tends to be cranky.

So, what  do you do when you’re snowed in, stir crazy and sitting around twiddling your thumbs?  Some people would go outside and build snow men.  But some people don’t have snow suits and their boots are shorter than the snow piles. Other people would stay inside, get addicted to fab TV shows, like Mad Men, watch a month’s worth of movies in 3 days and eat crap. (Insert picture of me with lots of pajamas, no makeup, no bra and eye crusties here, I’m a whole pot of sexy.)

This morning I woke up and as the snow slowly made its way into position, I got busy in the kitchen.  For me, there’s nothing better than a recipe shared with friends, especially when you get the opportunity to prepare them together. My friend Heather recently shared her Baked French Toast recipe with me and because I’m tired of eating from a bag and a box, I decided to give it a whirl this morning.  It turned out fabulously after one tiny adjustment in the bread department and I urge you to try this the next time your Sunday morning is a lazy one.

Baked French Toast

(serves 6)

8 cups bread cubes
4 eggs
1 1/2 cups milk
1/4 cup white sugar, divided
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 tablespoon butter (or so), softened
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
Directions
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Lightly butter an 8×8 inch baking pan.
2. Line bottom of pan with bread cubes. In a large bowl, beat together eggs, milk, 2 tablespoons sugar, salt and vanilla until frothy. Pour egg mixture over bread. Dot with butter; let stand for 10 minutes.
3. Combine remaining 2 tablespoons sugar with 1 teaspoon cinnamon and sprinkle over the top. Bake in preheated oven about 45 to 50 minutes, until top is golden.

Beautiful day to cook, I’d say.

I went to the store to find the perfect bread for this recipe and came across two loaves of par-baked cinnamon raisin bread. Yes, these little dumplings were coming home with me.  I baked those first thing while I prepared the rest of the ingredients. The kitchen smelled like a bakery and was warming up with the heat from the oven.  It felt great on my usually cold feet.

While they baked and cooled, I gathered the rest of my ingredients.

Four Eggs

One and a Half Cups of Milk

Sugar, Divided, And Salt

1 Teaspoon Each of Cinnamon and Vanilla

At this point, I cut the bread into one inch thick slices to allow it to cool.  It was all I could do to hold back from spreading an unnatural amount of butter onto the heavenly smelling, freshly baked bread and eating a whole piece in one bite. The smell of cinnamon bread just out of the oven is erotic.  Be warned.

Buttered the 8x8 Dish While Drooling Over Bread

Fresh Bread is Sexy

While the bread cooled and winked at me from the hog shaped board, the slut, I cracked the eggs and part of an eggshell into the bowl; then added the milk, vanilla, 2 T. of sugar and salt. And whisked until the mixture was light and fluffy. Eggs are a leavener and since we are basically making a bread pudding, we want it to be fluffy. So whisk baby, whisk.

Kitchen Aid's Got Nothin' On This

Ayer, Ayer!

I cut the bread into giant chunks.  (And then I may or may not have eaten one because it was flirty and begged.)

Cut Each Slice In Half

And Then Into Chunks

The Battle Begins

I poured the egg mixture over the bread quickly in an attempt to keep myself from sampling. (It worked.)

And the Bread Was All, "Glug, Glug, Glug!"

To get maximum soakage, I smashed the bread down into the egg mixture with the back of a wooden spoon.  Gently, it’s not in trouble or anything.  Don’t go beating your breakfast now.

Smoosh.

The next step is very important.  Ok, maybe the step after that.  First, dot the top with butter.  I used a small butter knife for this to make sure the butter was evenly disbursed.  Some people use their fingers, but I’m the French Toast Paparazzi today so the butter knife was my tool of choice.  Now, leave it alone. Let her sit for at least 10 minutes. Just go shower, or something.  Ignore her.  Give her the silent treatment.  Just… you get it.  The bread needs time to drink up all of that moisture.  The longer it sits, the less scrambled eggs you will have in the nooks and crannies of your finished product.  (Which is so gross.  So so gross.)

Buttah

Drunk

All that’s left to do now is the Cinnamon Sprinklage.

Sprinkly Sprinkles (2 Tablespoons of Sugar Combined with 1 Teaspoon of Cinnamon)

I did one last smoosh before I baked it at 350 for 45 minutes.  My oven tends to run hot so I always start with the lower of the baking times.

All Dressed Up and Ready to Bake

She came out of the oven smelling like cinnamon and sugar, all puffed up and proud of herself.  She looked beautiful.  And delicious.

Who Needs Plates?

Strike a Pose

The only thing that could make this better would be to add in sausage (pre-cooked) or crumbled bacon on top.  It could probably serve more than six if you did that.  As it stands, I cut the pretty little thing into 6 pieces to test servings and they aren’t too big or too small.  I sprinkled a little bit of edible snow on top (aka powdered sugar) and served it with a Clementine to break up the richness.  It was divine.  Not too sweet, a great texture with the slightly crunchy cinnamon on top and the soft but not gooey insides. Make this recipe.  Your friends and family will applaud you.  Plus, it’s simple, inexpensive and a great dish to warm you inside and out.  Even the snow girls are delighted as they dance through the snow…

Happy Snow Days to you!

And thank you Heather for the fantastic recipe!

What’s a little French Toast between friends?  It’s a conversation had, a recipe shared, a new memory borne from food.

Next up on my baking adventures: Red Wine in Cookies? Yes. Please.

I’m breaking the new binding of this new year with a positive outlook on this new chapter of my life. A new set of everything, including boots. New rules, new people, new (and some really ridiculous) goals. My mom and I rang in 2010 with some ridiculous outfits and a pair of heels. I’ll show you the evidence tomorrow.

I simply don’t do resolutions. I never have and I won’t this year either. Resolutions, to me, are like making promises to yourself and the last thing I want to do this year is to disrespect myself by breaking one. They are not the panacea of change. I do make goals though, I love me some goals! It’s a giant To Do List and every Type A girl loves a To Do List, right? I’m also a Pisces and being the Queen of the twin fish, some of my goals are going to be something akin to eating an entire sheet cake in one sitting. I mean, if you’re a chick you can totally do it, but halfway through you realize that this was not your brightest idea. Have no fear, there are no Cake Eating Contests on this list.

Twenty Ten: The Year of the Pen

1. Read 100 books. (See the Book Pile for the enormous list!)
2. Participate in NaBloPoMo in November.
3. Begin a novel.
4. Read the Bible in 90 Days. Thank you to Mandi for this idea!
5. Finish an afghan.
6. Maintain a GPA worthy of the Dean’s List.
7. Be nicer to my body by eating healthier foods, exercising more and allowing myself to be imperfect.
8. Write at least one article per week for my Examiner.com column.
9. Begin paying off my medical debt. (over $30,000 worth)
10. Pay off Peanut.
11. Cook more and invent more recipes, then write them down and share them. (You lucky readers you!)
12. Learn and use a new word every day. <— SO FUN! (will highlight it in pink)
13. Floss.
14. Practice more yoga.
15. Try something new.
16. Run a 5K.
17. Sing in public. (Hardest one. Scariest one. Oh my God.)
18. Ask a (nice, good looking, seemingly successful) man out on a date.
19. Learn how to roast my own coffee.
20. Invite a guest blogger.
21. Be a guest blogger.
22. Self host and redesign blog. (Happy Birthday to me!)
23. Guard my heart without putting up a “wall”.
24. Stop saying fuck so much.
25. Clean out the garage. (When the temperatures allow for finger feelage.)

Here I go! I hope this has inspired you to make your own goals for 2010. I know you can do it. And now, I’m off to feed my addiction for all things Mad Men. Season Two is in my living room along with a cuddly dog and an anxious mother. I love my life.

Oozing With Peace,

Kallay

Remember ten years ago we were all flipping our shit thinking the clock was going to strike 12 and we were all going to blow up and be sucked into the black hole? That our computers would all crash because it couldn’t possibly just… I don’t know… start over? Like every clock in the whole universe does every twelve hours. It was the end of high school for me, if I really ever attended in the first place. I also moved away from home for the first time that year. Then we all voted for Bush *and* Gore, if you live in Florida. So we checked the votes and counted them twice and then something else happened that I don’t remember and we woke up had Mickey Mouse for our President. Fun. Year. Worst apartment ever. Oh yeah, and I got engaged. At Disney World. In front of half the planet. And Cinderella’s house. Move count: 2

2001 was the year some assholes decided to ram planes into our buildings and everyone blamed Bush. (for the next 9 years) It was the modern day Pearl Harbor and it was horrible. Anyone who was alive that day on the entire planet could tell you where they were when they found out. I was eating apple cinnamon oatmeal, drinking a Diet Coke, checking my first emails of the day and all of a sudden Connie and Fish (our morning radio hosts in Madison, WI at the time) started to talk about someone flying a helicopter into the World Trade Center. Two minutes later, the whole of the office was seated around the conference table crying. We saw the second plane hit the other tower and saw the buildings fall. Obviously work was over for the day. I had a hard time eating dinner that night. And two days later when we all went back to work… my oatmeal and flat diet coke were sitting there waiting for me. I hadn’t even shut off my radio. I finally got to move out of my crap ass apartment in the student ghetto after a rain storm shook my windows and ran water over a light socket. It was time for us to break up. I began planning my wedding, my demise, whichever you prefer and my sister got engaged to her awesome husband. Yeah, my poor mom. Both daughters getting married in the same summer. Move count: 3

Which leads us to 2002. I was Big Fat Bride. And I’m not even Greek. I can say that because I’m honest and I was fat. Two hundred and thirty pounds fat. I’m 5’9″ and I “carried it well”. But seriously, my thighs touched each other inappropriately, right thigh filed a suit against left thigh, I was shopping in the women’s department and my feet were up to a size 10. Did you know feet can get fat? Well, now you do. You’re welcome. So I called Jenny. She called me back. My fiance was all supportive and crap. I lost weight for a minute and then wedding jitters (cold feet, I don’t want to marry this guy) set in and I gained it all back. Thank God I didn’t order a smaller dress. I was all boobs and chins and flabby body on my wedding day. And sweat. Holy Lord it was hot that day. I bought my very first car that year too. And then a week later a lady T-boned me at an intersection because apparently the rule is to look right and left, not RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU. So she slammed into me because she only had peripheral vision and a lot of insurance dollars and chiropractic visits later I had a new driver’s side everything and a crooked ass back. Thanks lady. I moved to Seattle to pursue my Culinary Arts degree for no point whatsoever because really, you’re going to start out a line cook no matter what. Awesome. Move count: 4

By my 21st birthday (where I was told what to order, never drank and had to pickup my crazy mother in law from the airport instead of going to an awesome concert, because y’know, it was HER day, not mine) my husband and I really pretty much done. We hated each other. In 9 months we had grown completely apart and were headed in different directions. We separated amicably, I took the cats, he took the couch and the apartment and soon after I met who I thought was the best guy since like… the creation of the Earth. Unless you’re my sister, don’t meet your future hubby at a bar, unless it’s a friend of a friend and even then, we’ve discussed this. So, we got married and I was so happy. I loved that dude like nobody’s biznitch. We were the “perfect couple” in other people’s eyes. That couple that everyone thinks is so happy. And we were, for a while. We had a lot in common, except I wasn’t really down with his sex addiction. I found out he had started cheating a month after we were married. Fantastic right? Move count: 8

So 2004, we went to counseling. We went to church. I found God again and so did he, for a week. I met and fell in love with another man that year, my darling Hercules. My knight in shining armor, he was. I started selling Mary Kay that year too. I learned how to apply makeup, which had been a mystery to me up to that point. I also discovered hair product and that whole curling iron thing. I was starting to feel good about myself and realized that Mr. Sex Addiction was a table cloth sized douche rag. This time, I started losing weight for real. My Mary Kay adopted Director was wise and wonderful and encouraged me every step of the way. She knew my situation and helped me grow my business in spite of it all. It wasn’t my calling. but it did wonders for my self confidence. I made new friends. I sold some skin care for extra cash. I learned what microdermabrasion is. Mr. SA kept on cheating. And I kept forgiving. Also, George Bush, round two. And welcome to the world nephew! Move count: 9

Finally in 2005, long story short, he found himself a girlfriend while on a year long deployment (he was active duty Army) and I found myself a divorce lawyer. I couldn’t deal with missing the love of my life, worrying about him every second of the day and wondering who he was fucking, all at the same time. I’m strong, not stupid. So I left him. And it was horrible. I was leaving behind a husband I loved, but I was also leaving behind my life. Thankfully, my true friends stuck by me through this horrible time, the other ones fell into his trap and he had his way with them. The divorce seemed to drag on forever. Washington law wouldn’t allow it while he was on deployment, due to his mental health. Give. me. a. break. My mom and I road tripped back across the country with my furry brood and the long process of healing began. I was so up and down and left and right and such a giant mess of a woman then. Getting mixed up with the wrong people, some really wrong people and really fell apart after a bad night in Canada. Move count: 12

It wasn’t until August of 2006 that the divorce was finally legally final, one month shy of our 3 year anniversary. It just seemed like it would never end. I had to watch him (by way of stalking myspace) jump from girl to girl to girl, finally landing his future wife. While I got a job, lost weight, found some confidence and lived on my own again. It started off with a new sense of freedom but also an experience worse than divorce. I’ll talk about it eventually but I’m not over it yet. It haunts me like a ghost with unfinished business and you don’t want to hear about all that. It’s not funny yet. I began a journey to what I now see as the best (albeit hardest) years of my life. I also dated some retards that year. One whom my sister nicknamed “The Barnacle”. He basically moved himself into my apartment while I looked on with a raised brow and an eviction notice with his name on it. His son was the product of Satan and took on the nickname of “The Beast”. He was a piece of work. Our break up was a sigh of relief heard ’round the planet. After that, I wanted to be single. For a long time. At that point I knew I didn’t want to get married ever again, but I didn’t want a boyfriend either. It seems like an eternity ago, now looking back. I discovered a new passion for coffee and reignited my dream of one day owning my own cafe. Life began to look up! Move count: 13

2007 I turned 25, a birthday that I shared with my then friend, and had an absolute blast. I was really starting to get happy. I worked hard, volunteered at my church, joined a bible study group, God found me again or I found Him again and then I met this complete jack ass. I am seriously “batting a thousand” in the man department and when we broke up, I decided that I was no longer going to hold back. I had a lifelong dream of moving to the Carolinas and when the opportunity arose, within a week I was gainfully employed and taking a one way 16 hour long trip to South Carolina. The day I left my sister told me she was pregnant with my niece. A bittersweet day but it was worth it. It was a beautiful drive. I’ll never forget it. It was the best feeling I’ve ever had. I was fulfilling a dream. MY dream. When I arrived, my old self fell away. I became confident. I felt beautiful. I landed a killer job as a cafe manager and life. was. good. Move count: 15; Man Count: No comment

2008 was a bitch. It was the year that felt like a decade. The following is not a joke: Car broke down, got stuck in BFE, FL, Orange barrel vs. semi-truck, orange barrel wins! almost flipped my car, car all screwed up now, insurance gave me the finger, grandma got breast cancer, started dating another jerk, GM of the store left, work started sucking, in spite of it all, had the best birthday EVER in March, pneumonia, sinus infection, flu (ALL at the same time), had to get a NEW car because the insurance company wouldn’t pay for the $7,000 in damages and the banks refused to finance a used car with all of the upside down equity, other shit happened I won’t discuss here, and I ended up having to move back to Michigan. Another low blow. A week to the day later, I had to have emergency surgery. My boyfriend was long gone to Army training for his looming deployment to Iraq. I made some more great friends but ultimately moved back in with my mother. With the unemployment rate steadily rising and the job market growing slim, I waitressed my way through the rest of the summer pissed off and heartbroken when I found out I was being cheated on, again. Moved to Knoxville for what was supposed to be a great job and then that fell through too. I have some seriously awful luck. Broke and sleeping on a couch and then an air mattress, I was happy to take another opportunity that promised to turn into something else. In the meantime, I stooped to serious measures to get money… plasma donation, for one. I moved again to the coolest and most broken old house and then to a nice, quiet bee-infested condo. (Thank you Grandma!!) At this point, I could write a hilarious book about the entire year, including my inability to vote in the most important election of the decade because Michigan and Tennessee both said no. For the record, I would have voted Obama. I bid farewell to the year in a parking lot, late to the festivities, awfully fitting I thought. Move Count: 21

2009 was another long ass year. Lost my new car, gained Peanut (my car muse), broken promises from my job, a friendship gone awry, dating dilemmas, an almost engagement, an empowering break up, an amazing job offer that fell through AFTER I had already moved and prepared for it and then another heartbreak. So here we are, the end of a decade. A clean slate ahead. A new blog home. A fantastic new job helping my favorite kind of people: the old. I’m going back to school for English Literature with a minor in web and graphic design. I dabbled in it in high school and loved it, and I’ve always loved writing. I’m with my family again and I’m loving every minute. And Michigan, oddly enough, is slowly growing on me. I’m actually enjoying the snow. Enjoying it!? Yes, enjoying it. Never thought I would say that again. Somehow, through all of this, I am still standing. I’m still here, living and breathing. I’m fully planted on the bright side, thanks to you all for your ongoing encouragement and hilarious blogs that have brightened more than one bad day. Thanks to my amazing circle of friends. Thanks to my terrific family. Thanks to God. Move count: 22 (or so)

I hope the New Year finds you well. That your dreams come true. That your resolutions and goals are met and exceeded. Here’s to 2010, a new year, a new decade, a new start.

Cheers to you all! I will see you on the other side!

Happy New Year!

Ready for Makeup

All Dolled Up

My Betsy Johnsons

Crowns & a Pink Diamond (of course)

So pretty, so almondy, so delicious. *sigh* We have to freeze a ton of them because there’s not a gym in town that could fight off all of those calories. No, dear! Christmas at the Carr’s was pretty mellow this year. My sister and her family came down on Christmas Eve to help us destroy the living room and enjoy a panini bar, complete with a Nutella panini I made up JUST for her. The following pictures are the result of a 5 year old, a 19 month old and an impressive stack of gifts.

Before

And um... After

We opened some gifts and my sister made me the cutest pink toile apron and a bag that I am SO using for the grocery store.  She also gave me the most gorgeous pictures of me and her and then my niece and nephew.  It was a good old fashioned family Christmas complete with a 3 hour nap. (That was mine.)  When I woke up from my blissful sleep, I downed a pot of coffee and my mom and I watched 2 movies, Four Christmases (hilarious! we highly rec.) and The Bourne Identity because hello, Matt Damon is sofa king hawt.  Then we were bored.  And wide awake. At 10 pm.  So what do we do?  We watch Mad Men Season 1 that my friend C lent to me like eons ago.  (whoopsie daisies)  So we settle in with our snacks and our wine and get sucked into the best series ever.  I will gush more about this in another post, but people, watch this show.  We were up until THREE o’clock in the morning, as if we were reading a book we couldn’t put down.  We finally unvelcroed (new word!) ourselves from the couch and went to bed.

Christmas Day was another great day.  My grandma came up to hang out with mom and me.  We made a ham dinner for the three of us, watched Julie & Julia (Oh, Julia Child, the essence of my 6 year old PBS watching youth) and opened even more gifts.  My mom bestowed upon me the gift of going to one of my best friend’s weddings in Oregon on January 30th.  This has been a major hot topic for me since I lost my job.  I’m making her cake and I’m in the wedding so my presence is required.  Best gift ever.  I also received gift cards which I have semi-used for fuggly boots and cute winter clothes.  The rest will be spent on cake supplies, weddin’ shoes, a plane ticket and sanity, but only if it’s on sale. (another, another post) We watched the rest of Mad Men that cold and crazy icy Christmas night and ate leftovers like it was our job.

My favorite part of this Christmas??  NO! DRIVING! No fighting with semi-trucks and losing, no idiot Indiana cops and their splendiferous speed traps, no freaking out about getting to work on time after a long haul home and no dog hair blowing in my mouth from Hercules walking around the backseat attempting comfort. No bird flipping, tail gating, Illinois assholes. Also, no fruitcake. Ah… Peace.  And Joy. Joyous Joy.

And so, I leave you with the Best of Christmas 2009:

Can't Quite...

Coordinate our Crazy

How Nice...

How not nice... My earring caught her glasses. Her face is priceless.

Oblivious

He's such a (giant) Ham.

Mommy and We

Merry Christmas!

However, I can’t find a background that I love, so this is what we have from now until March when I spring for the big girl blog and have someone design it for me. Complete with lots of pink and bright colors. (of course!) For the time being though, this one lets me add widgets and pages and has a custom header feature. Thankfully, the awesome Salt is helping a sister out with this custom header biz.

I’ll tell you what though, losing my Google Friend Connect is certainly a sad predicament. No fear, I’m diligently working on that. Until then, you’ll have to rely on the RSS Feed over there to follow me. I know, it’s a real pain in the tukus. I are sorry.

In the mean time, I shall catch up on my other seventeen drafts so as not to lead people to think I am some WordPress guru, as I surely am not. The fact that I am able to have pages dedicated specifically to blabbing on and on about coffee and my four-legged frenzy are definitely my favorite features. But seventeen drafts are calling my name. It’s like I have created my own special place for ADD! What’s a bloggirl to do?

Or rather, I read something disturbing. Or possibly both simultaneously. Blogger apparently owns all of my content. (and yours too, if you’re a blogger blogger.) That’s right. At any given moment they could shut me (or you) down and never have another thought about it.

So I bit the bullet I have been walking around for about a month now and even after reading tutorial after tutorial after support article after blog… I am feeling much like a WordPress retard.

Every year at tax time I pay off little bills that are nagging my credit and make payments on things I haven’t in a while. (How’s that for financial confession?) Then, with what’s leftover, I give myself a present. Some people would feel guilty about this, but some people also buy themselves things year round. Me? Not so much. Taco Bell doesn’t count. Although, on my budget, it’s really quite a luxury to stuff my face with a giant basket of Fully Loaded Nachos.

Last year I purchased my very first iPod. The cutest little hot pink Nano you’ve ever seen. I loaded it with all of my music and still have half an iPod to go. Hooray for taxes at BIRTHDAY time! I wanted to purchase a lovely hot pink, patent leather, sexy as hell Coach purse but instead went with the ever practical iPod. (psh…) So this year, the Coach purse was number one on the list. Promptly followed by blog redesign and web hosting.

Guess who’s winning?

So I’m officially shopping. And fretting. I’m terrified I’m going to lose comments and images and entire blog posts upon import. I want a blog design that won’t bore me or my readers. Something that screams my name with color but is also simple and organized and reader friendly. I don’t want to blind anyone, after all. I want plug-ins and widgets and buttons, oh my! But where this epic battle between me and WordPress begins, I haven’t a clue.

As the shopping continues and the taxes are filed, I will keep you posted. The first step was obviously the big one. I’m officially a WordPress blogger. Congratulations to me.

The year they died, Christmas was a walk of Zombies. I received almost all sweaters from my mother because in her daze of Christmas shopping, she chose the first magazine in the stack and ordered everything I had dog-eared. To this day I wish I had put anything other than J. Crew on top of her catalog mountain. I still have some of those sweaters because a) they’re warm and cozy and feel like a hug and b) memories. I have a hard time parting with a lot of things from that year. I have his coffee cups, his hats, shirts that I wish still hinted of his scent and the silver box that I still can’t bear to wear the contents of. In fact, the jewelry is still in the plastic.

I have posted about him very few times, but Fred was in every way my dad that my real father could/would not be. He built my first bike, I was the first baby he had held, he protected me and comforted me and called me his “MelonKallay Baby”. He was, at that point in my life, a man I could look up to. Someone I could trust and love and believe would never hurt me. After he moved to Vegas he began sending me silver boxes with jewelry in them. I still have most, if not all of them. Here is an excerpt from a post this year:

When Fred died, a piece of my heart went with him but I still have the most precious gift… my memories. Here is one of my favorites…

When Fred moved to Las Vegas to pursue his career in the FBI he started a new tradition. Every Christmas I would receive a silver box with real silver and turquoise jewelry. He’ll never know how much it meant to me, but every Christmas I would look for that box because I knew it would be there. It was like he was there, for that moment, and it was everything to me. So when he died that December I knew my silver box would not be under the tree. When my family went to Vegas a few days later for his funeral I was given what was to be my last silver box. To this day it is my most treasured possession, among all of his t-shirts and things that I have… this is what I would miss the most if it were lost. It’s a silent reminder that he thought of me as much as I thought of him. He was my daddy for all intents and purposes and it’s like having a piece of him with me always. I have never worn the jewelry in the box in the 12 years since he’s been gone. I just can’t bring myself to do it. But it’s there and it’s a gift I can reopen over and over again.

As I write this post, my heart aches. I remember a Christmas knock on the door and there he stood. It was all I wanted for Christmas that year. I can’t help but wonder what he would say if he were here, what the silver box would hold this year, as I wonder every year. I miss him more than I could ever convey in a written language. It’s an odd feeling knowing you will never be able to see your favorite person again. It exceeds pain and I’m not sure what to say beyond that. It’s a loss for words, that’s for sure.

The year he died, as I said, we all walked around like the living dead. Julie, his step daughter, and one of my “sisters” died with him. She was close in age to my sister and was a part of our family as well. Her mother is my mom’s best friend and like a second mother to my sister and me. It was a devastating year for all of us and we clung to each other for support. I was a teenager then so my hormones put me as close to crazy as one could get. At the time, my world was a complete fog, but I remember everything as vividly as if it were today. We put our Christmas tree(s) up that year and somehow found a way to celebrate in spite of the utter terror of what had happened.

As we hung the ornaments, my mom hung her silver, glitter encrusted spider’s web and made a wish, as she has done every year and shortly after I found these 2 golden bells. They became Fred and Julie’s bells. That year, I hung them together, on the same branch, near the Angel that once adorned the top of our tree. And then I cried. I prayed through my tears that they were up there with God. That He would welcome them with love into heaven and let them peek down on us every once in a while. That they were resting peacefully. And for the next few years, until I moved away from home, I hung the bells. I learned the saying “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.” that year and until this year, I had never seen It’s a Wonderful Life. I liked the saying anyway and rang the bells, just to be sure.

I was building the Barbie tree this year, thinking up snarky things to say about the blonde “bimbo” as Fred would say, and I picked up a wad of tissue paper with ornaments in it. I set it aside because Barbie only comes in a box. My mom helped me put the boxes back into the fifteenth Rubbermaid and I heard her take a gulp of air. I turned around, my hand went to my mouth and my bells lay on the tissue paper in front of me. My eyes welled up with tears as I ran my finger over the familiar ornaments. “My bells” I said.

I hung them on the tree, said another prayer and documented with pictures, as any good blogger would do.

For those dealing with loss in this holiday season, my heart goes out to you. My tears roll down my cheeks for you. I know the pain of losing a loved one and how Christmas somehow becomes salt in that wound. It’s been 13 years since we lost Fred and Julie and every year we honor them, we remember them. We laugh at their stories, we cry over our loss. No one will ever be able to replace the one you loved. Over time, this will be a comfort to you. Your love for them will grow even in their absence. Your memories will become more vivid. You may not remember all of the lines on their face, but you will remember their smile or their eyes. Odd things will trigger your memory, and like me and my silver boxes, they will bring comfort, not pain. I think of these moments as a tap on my shoulder, as if he’s saying, “I’m here kiddo.” This Christmas, I challenge you to start a new tradition for your loved one. I have so much to hold on to during the holidays and as time has gone on, I cherish these little things. To a stranger on the street, a silver box is just a container for jewelry, for me, it’s a container for a piece of my heart, and what comfort it brings during this cold winter holiday.

At the beginning of this post, you saw a pretty picture of 2 golden bells hanging on a tree.

Now you see 2 tiny pieces of my heart, my memories, my comfort, my joy.

Merry Christmas to you and yours. Hold them tight and love them well.

With love and joy,

Kallay

Comments welcome! Also, please subscribe. No spam will be sent. It sends you an email when I write an article. No special offers, no awesome porn, no awful porn, just a friendly email letting you know that I have gotten over my writer’s block, wrote an article about our friend coffee and how to get there.

As soon as I jot down my other essay, our regularly scheduled blogging will commence. Happy. Joy. I miss my blog.

So, have no fear! I will be back before the New Year!

There are rules though. The first is one I made up. You have to click on this link and listen to this song while reading this blog. It makes it just *that* much happier. Yes, I’ve had too much caffeine, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. Read this at warp speed and you’ll be reading almost as fast as these words are running out my head.

Ok, official rules…

1) List 10 things that make you happy, and try to do at least one of them today.
2) Tag 10 bloggers that brighten your day.
3) If you are one of those 10 lucky (happy) bloggers who get the award, link back to my blog and create your happy list!

Fun, right!? Except, I’m over-caffeinated so, hopefully I remember how to count.

Ten Things That Make Kallay Happy

(One) Family, my niece and nephew in particular. I mean, I *did* just decide to subject myself to frostbite for them. If that doesn’t show happiness, I don’t know what does.

(Two) Hercules and Madeline – Hello, look at these faces! Not that I’m all about looks. (Ok, maybe a little… see number nine.) Honestly, these two are my children, for all intents and purposes, and I love them as if I birthed them myself. And judging by the size of Hercules, I’m glad he’s adopted. I love Maddie’s sense of humor. (e.g. she bats my cellphone off my dresser in the morning when the alarm goes off. hysterical.) I love Hercules’ big brown eyes, how every time I leave the house he looks like his heart is ripping out of his chest, which then, in turn, rips my heart out of my chest. I think that’s actually his plan, but I’ll let him stick with it. It makes me feel loved and I’m a sucker for that.

(Three) Pink Crap – As Oviler says, everything I own is pink. It’s true. The only thing I don’t own is a pair of pink boots. But, as a rule, if it comes in pink, I want it. And I want it hard core. I got so mad in elementary school. One day they took away the small crayons and gave us the big fat ones because some idiot at table 4 had an appetite for colored wax. (Guess what didn’t come in pink in the 80′s?) I asked my teacher if I could have the Carnation Pink crayon and she lied and told me she didn’t have any. Excuse you, lady, 5 year olds are not stupid. Don’t ever get between a girl and her pink crap. (This is the same teacher who ate my Double Stuffd Oreos that I brought in for snack time. Bitch.)

(Four) Yoga *sigh* I haven’t been able to do this in a while. (Ok, I just heard half the planet go “Pffft!”) Just hear me out. I started yoga last year when I lived in Knoxville, had the *best* instructor and really started to get good at it. My lower back thanked me every morning. It was a (mostly) free class. A “Karma” class, as they called it, which basically meant that it was free or very cheap. You gave what you could. When I moved back to Michigan, I obviously lost my free/inexpensive yoga privileges. Now, sure, I could totally do yoga on my own and downward dog my brains out, but it was his *voice*. He would correct our positions and then during what I always called sleepy time, he would go through every body part, telling us to release all of the tension, that “we didn’t need it anymore”. Imagine James Earl Jones yoga. Mmm… it was like soft serve vanilla ice cream after being at the beach all day. Doing yoga on my own just isn’t the same kind of relaxation. Maddie’s ubermeow in the background plus Hercules thinking I’m playing “Where’s Mommy?” is not a good combo.

(Five) Finding new music – I’m one of those people that loves to listen to music that isn’t on the radio yet and then when they make it big, I’m one of those people that get all atwitter because “I HEARD THEM FIRST!” Mmmhm. I admit it. Jack Johnson? Imogen Heap? Joshua Radin? Etc. Etc. I’m happy for them. I am! But I’m also proud of myself for having good ears! (<—- So Vain! But you asked!!) (Here's some cool stuff if you like this sort of thing: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2hMQRlU_S4)

(Six) Writing – I have loved writing since I was a kid. I wrote things as a 7 year old that would be considered politically incorrect. I guess that’s what happens when you spend a lot of time with adults. It’s funny though, I read these stories now and I want to take my little girl self aside and reprimand her! “What were you thinking? Do you have any idea what this word means?” No, I sure didn’t! Sure. Didn’t.

In my teenage years, I used writing (and reading) as an escape from the “real” world. This was when I became a self proclaimed “poet”. (I sucked.) I can’t read much of it at a time. It’s dark. It’s depressing. I want to give my teenage self a hug and tell her that one day she’ll be beautiful. One day she’ll have friends. One day she’ll be okay. But she would do the teenage door slammy trick, the one where they simultaneously lock the door while slamming it? How the hell….?

Writing has gotten me through so much. I finally learned to use my humor as a way to deal. Write about life, make it funny, even though sometimes the situations I end up in are so far from it. Like ending up in the ER on my birthday unconscious last year? Not funny. Couldn’t make it funny. So I skipped it. There’s a lot more to my life than what ends up in this blog. Eventually the funny finds me and then you get to hear all about my running over bunnies (:( or the latest crazy alarm when people of the Earth are in rare form for the day. I love writing about this stuff. It helps me remember. It helps me forget. It just helps.

(Seven) Coffee – I wrote an Ode to Coffee in high school, one of the only un-depressing poems I wrote during those years. It began, “Coffee, coffee, friend of mine…” Still true. I love the smell and even as a little girl, it was one of my favorite things to wake up to. Now, it’s the only way I function. I tried decaffeinating myself for about six months in 2006. What a dumb idea that was. Picture this: Three day headache that no amount of Excedrin could touch, drinking peppermint tea until you morph into human menthol and no jitters. Awful right?

I happen to like feeling like a vibrator thankyouverymuch. So, there. I love the taste of coffee and drink it with just about everything. Coffee is my breakfast and more often that not becomes my lunch as well. Pie without coffee? Is that even legal? When I was a cafe manager and barista one of my favorite chores was grinding coffee. Those fresh oily little beans (they totally look like vaginas, have you ever noticed that? gross.) rolling around in the hopper and wafting into the air the most luxurious smell. The aroma is caffeinated, I can almost swear by that. Yems. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, hook me up to a dialysis machine, replace my blood with coffee and we are in business. Biz. Ness. Plus, all you water people… you get some cool water bottles, sure. Coffee gets special treatment. I mean there’s water glass, water bottle, the end. We have espresso cups, latte bowls, coffee mugs (in all sorts of sizes), cappuccino glasses… What’s not to love? Plus… coffee was at some point just plain old water, so really, coffee is just diva water. All dressed up. Places to go, people to see, bloodstreams to caffeinate. And for the love of, don’t make me drink Starbucks. I beg. I plead.

(Eight) The City – I’ve always been an adventurous person. Not really suicidal, I mean you won’t see me jumping out of planes or Russian Rouletting it up in Vegas. I do love a good walk down a hustling bustling street though. Getting lost in a concrete grid. Talking to strangers. Eating weird food. I’ve been to most of the good ones: New York, Seattle (lived there for 2 years), Philly, Boston, D.C., Atlanta, Miami, Dallas, Portland, and Chicago. Hands-down my favorite city is Seattle. But Chicago holds a big chunk of my heart too. The buildings, the people, the food, the coffee, the neighborhoods, culture… I could go on. I just love cities. I feel most alive, the most like myself when I’m walking down a busy sidewalk with a full tumbler in hand. Horns blaring, cellphones ringing, it’s noisy, it’s invigorating, it’s me. You’ll never see me smiling more than when I’m in a city. Kids in a candy shop are tame in comparison.

(Nine) Mascara/Lip gloss – It’s no secret that my eyelashes are quite possibly my worst feature. When I wake up in the morning with a fresh face and no makeup, I look similar to a cancer patient. You think I’m kidding. You would be wrong. My eyelashes are so white and short, they poke straight out of my eyelids and they *still* don’t reach my glasses. It’s pathetic. So mascara is without a doubt my very favorite beauty product. I’ve tried them all. I’ve tried extensions (thanks Ma!), I’ve tried fakes, I’ve tried the double sided wand things with the special extender formula on one side and the mascara on the other. My current mascara of choice is Lash Stiletto. I love the brush! I usually have two different mascaras, one for the top lashes and one for the bottom lashes because the brushes really do make all the difference. But Lash Stiletto takes care of both. Hello, Miss Multitasking Mascara. Welcome to my beauty regime. Second favorite is lip gloss. I have every color, every brand. The push up, the sponge applicators, the squeeze tubes, I’m a lip gloss freak. Don’t even get me started on lipstick. It’s asinine. I used to sell Mary Kay, so the leftover product bin is my own personal lip product arsenal.

(Ten) Guilty Pleasures – (I love all the assumptions happening right now, love them. Assume away, you might be right.)

Of course I love these ten bloggers too. I read them like it’s my own personal religion. My dashboard is my friend. And these blogs simply rock. (If she wasn’t the one who graced me with this award, Salt would totally be on this list.)Here we go:

Ten Blogs That Make My Days
(some old, some new, some popular, some under appreciated)

1. The Anti-Journalist
2. Magnolias and Mimosas
3. 2birds1blog
4. Hooking Up Smart
5. The Date Girl Diaries
6. Mental Poo
7. Mandi Speaks
8. The Dog’s a Boy, Too!
9. That Girl Blogs
10. The Ungourmet

And so many, many more. I think I read about a novel a day with all of these great writers sharing their life experiences, I just can’t get enough.

By the way, how many times did you push play? It’s a great song isn’t it? *love* Judy Garland.

So because I’m home and able to celebrate for longer than 72 hours, mom (or Ma Christmas) decided we needed to have a big old fashioned Christmas. In our house this means my mom dons her decorator’s cap, drags twenty seven Rubbermaid containers out of the attic and before you can sing “Joy to the World” the house looks like we’re related to Santa. You’re thinking tinsel and candy canes and you would be wrong, my merry friends. Wrong, I say!

Let it be known that I’m a pretty good amount of pissed that my camera decided that it just doesn’t feel like it anymore, meaning: the Christmas Wonderland that is our home could not be captured in its full potential and glory. But much like the Griswold’s, we will press on and have the Hap-Hap-Happiest Christmas Tour since “Bing Crosby danced with Danny Fucking Kay!” (If you need assistance with lines from this movie, I am your official Christmas Vacation guide.)

Let us begin…

We have six trees. This is the first, dressed up in red and gold, masks and feathers, and my bells (which I will detail in, yet another, Christmas post). You might notice the small wreath and garland display to the left.

Complete with carolers…

Sing, girl, sing!

…and (empty as hell) stockings.

Santa? Kissing a baby? We sure do!

Did I mention we have six trees? Well, here’s number two.

I did most of the work on this tree. You can tell because there are four strands of lights on it and one could probably, I don’t know, perform brain surgery under it? This was an accident, I’m no Ma Christmas, so how was I to know that we would no longer need indoor lighting with four strands of twinkly lights? Ups.

This tree is pretty special though. Beyond the short bus job I did of lighting it, it’s pretty magnificent and royal. It’s also pink. And home to all of the Barbie ornaments one could purchase in a 10 year time span. (The back is filled with Marilyn Monroe and Cinderella, yeah, that goes together… at least they’re all blonde.) Go Ma Christmas! To set the girly scene (or to remind me of Christmas past), this tree dons a gorgeous crown… from one of my marriages gone wild, or wrong, whatever.

Here are a few of my favorites:

This Little Barbie has a pre-nup,

This Little Barbie has fur,

This Little Barbie buys her own shit,

This Little Barbie steals hers,

And This Little Barbie smokes a whoooole lot of weeeeed when she gets home.

(Marilyn just wants to go wee-wee.)

Trees number three and number four are in the dining room, which is attached to the living room. So depending on where you are, they’re in your room. Special, no? Looks like Ma Christmas got a little heavy handed on those there lights on tree number four. Mmhm. Sure did!

Also, we seem to have a theme. Not only are the feathers in the trees and wreaths…

…there’s also an entire wreath made of them.

Ok, tree number five. (complete with banister feathers being all, “Pick me! Pick me!”)

The Banister. It happens to be Ma Christmas’ favorite part of the house. The feathers came from real pheasants, courtesy of some folks over in Wisconsin. Go Badgers! (and pheasants, before you become a Christmas ornament!))

See the kissing ball? And the giant crystal my sister gave Ma Christmas for her birthday? So prettiful!

Um, Kallay? What’s that?

Oh! Those are just some pretty little ornaments we hung form the chandelier! See?

No, No. Not that….

Oh that!? That’s just a huge elephant we moved (really heavy) furniture around for, to fit it in the dining room. Naturally!!

It lights up too!

We also have a pig… and an angry birdie next to him. He doesn’t have the holiday spirit. Homie P is working on that.

And bears…

And Zebra! We love Zebras! And she loves her bow…

No, really… she does!

How many Zebras can you find in this picture?? (three)

Also, Maddie wouldn’t move so, she says Merry Christmas too. Although it sounded a lot like “Eff you, mom.” I don’t know. She’s hard to read sometimes.

Stay tuned for my cookie adventures and the story of the bells. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry… And then I’ll tell you about my New Year’s “Resolutions” and you’ll cry laughing.

I love all of my friends. They each have their own silly quirks which make me love them just that much more. Like one of my friends who has an affinity for all things Alice (as in Wonderland) or another who knows more than anyone should about the peculiar, albeit it fascinating and intelligent, writings of Shakespeare. And even another who lives in exotic places and after all of these (almost 12!) years has kept in touch. Yes, my friends are the chocolate chips in my cookie. But Oliver just adds a little something special to my batter.

He (as he will confirm) fulfills my EEO requirements all in one little human package of nuts. He’s my homosexual, asian, redneck, fashion forward, silver-tongued “girl”friend/”guy”friend. And holy buckets, I love him. After over a year of friendship, he has become one of my closest. There are so many hilarious stories to share like the time I was having a bad day and we ate as many plates of Cici’s Pizza as we could, complete with dessert buffet and then went on to Godiva and ate some more (author’s note: you’ll find many of our mis-adventures have something or another to do with food) or the time he laid out with me and turned his boxers into a thong speedo (aka the first time he met my neighbors) or the countless times “we” were on the rag and used our discount as a way to eat ourselves silly at work whilst supporting the business and not our diets. Or the time we tried on wedding dresses and other hideous things while Goodwill hunting and I took a picture with a Unicorn, even found matching outfits.

One of my favorites is my moving day. Mostly because it’s the gift that keeps on giving. Shortly before I moved to Michigan, Oviler came over and assisted me with packing because a) I hadn’t even begun and b) packing alone sucks. So he arrived with fellow guyfriend “Lady” and the tape started to rip. We finished the kitchen which had no less than 15 improperly packed boxes and went down stairs to my domain. Lady and Oviler were tasked with packing the closet and I was working on my bathroom. Fifteen minutes went by and the downstairs became eerily quiet. As with children, when gay boys become quiet in your closet, mischief has ensued.

I walked into my room and knew when I approached the previously open closed door that on the other side could be mind changing events. I slowly opened the door hoping that Oviler and his best friend were not doing sexy things in my closet. They screamed, I screamed and then I fell over red-faced and suffocating from pure breathless laughter almost crushing a large box of DVDs. Oviler and Lady were not doing sexy things. No, they were wearing my clothes. My dresses to be exact. My pink, flowery dresses. Complete with heels, scarves, hats, purses and yes, even my undergarments stuffed with more of my undergarments. Oviler and Lady were having a full out tea party in my closet, enjoying every minute of “packing” by trying on all of my clothes instead. They pranced around speaking in high octaves and succeeding at making me pee my pants and finally removed my now stretched-out heels from their ginormous man feet.

Two hours later, my closet was still in disarray and a total of two boxes had been packed. We (I) decided to hit up a local Steak & Shake because we (I) had a craving for their cheese fries. I ordered the cheese fries with a side of delicious patty melt, extra mayo, add bacon, and coleslaw. If my memory serves me, there was also a chocolate malt to wash it all down. Needless to say my food took up half of the table because Steak & Shake employees enjoy doing dishes so everything comes on its own plate. Lady and Oviler ordered their healthy, in comparison, double bacon burgers, salads and shakes. I looked like I fell out of Uncle Eddie’s trailor complete with a dirty hat on my pretty little head while they were dressed in their brand name besties. Me: Curly Sue, Them: Rich fags helping a Hag out. After Eat Fest 2009 concluded with them forklifting me out of our booth and rolling me to the car all Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory style, we drove back to my house to finish packing.

They returned to the closet (mine, not the gay one) and put serious effort into packing everything in their paths. More giggling. Endless giggling. They asked for markers and I obliged, reminding them of my only rule in packing: Never lose the tape or the marker. They lost both. I finished the bathroom and food coma walked back into my room with boxes upon boxes of clothes in my hallway. (internal fist pumping Arsenio style) They were still giggling and I can always use a laugh so I inquired as to what could make them laugh for 30 minutes straight. Here are a few examples:

“shirts i will wear when i stop eating cheese fries”

“matronly sweaters”

“3 pillows stained with drool” (in the tiniest box you’ve ever seen)

“sweaters i wear when i cut myself while listening to alanis morisette”

“parachute materials” (i’m guessing these are exercise pants???)

“one down comforter with cigarette burns and smeared with regret”

I mean, these are my box labels. My 30 (yes, 30) boxes of clothes are “labeled” with un-identifiable markings. The additional 20 boxes are vague or just plain unlabeled. They didn’t want me to read all of the boxes because I was to have a “surprise” when I arrived in Michigan. Yes, surprise! No wearable clothes in my suitcase. Surprise! No clothes for an interview. Surprise! No shoes but a mismatched pair of flip flops and my “lesbian shoes” as Oviler calls them. I like them and think they’re cool. Then again, my fashion sense wears a t-shirt that screams “Bitch, you don’t know me!” So, grain of salt. Surprise! Every time I go to find something, it’s not there. Or there. Or there. Or there. And so I give up. And then I see another mis-labeled box and I laugh. And laugh and laugh.

It’s so us. It’s so Oviler. It makes me miss him every time I think of something else I need that is no doubt hidden in the pile of me, all the while hysterically laughing at a newly discovered box. Then I say aloud, as I often did when he pulled another antic, “Oh Oviler, I love you like air.” And I hear him reply “Ayer! Ayer!” And suddenly, whatever it was that I needed has escaped me. The only thing I need is friends. And soon we will be eating and drinking it up in Chicago with our other friend Caroline, causing some sort of trouble I’m sure, laughing ’til we hurt, offending anyone within ear shot with one, many, or all of our stash of inappropriate-for-public jokes. We’ll be the ones laughing loudly on the “L”, the ones eating Julius Meinl out of house and home, the ones trying on clothes we can’t afford, the ones toasting 2010 with our as-yet-unnamed pink sparkly travel mug filled with things of the alcoholic variety. More stories will be written, more food destroyed and our thighs, like our friendship, will grow.

I need boots.

I haven’t owned boots since I was in 2nd grade.

Old Man Winter (OMW) and I have not spoken in a little over 2 years, so still… no boots here!

But the time has come.

Everyone knows you can’t just walk in the snow. You scoot. Sort of like an old person. Why? To simplify… when you walk normally your weight weeble wobbles back and forth between feet allowing for mass ass landings on the icy walkways. If you scoot, well… I’m convinced there are less bruises and broken bones involved. Still, scooting without proper footwear is just as dangerous as walking. For one, you’re going to end up with snow drifts on the tops of your feet complete with wet socks and two, your jeans or pants will somehow be soaked all the way up to your knees. That’s right, knees! I’m the dumbass walking around with the ballet shoes and pink All-Stars because somewhere between my 20+ years of experience in the snow and 2-3 years in the South I forgot how to do the boot scoot and also made serious fun of Uggs. They’re ugly. Useful, but still ugly. (And also, I am not standing outside in 32 (or less) degree weather digging through boxes trying to find a pair of anything winter appropriate. It’s a lost cause anyway. Lord knows I don’t own anything of the sort.)So, with a frown on my face due to succumbing to what I still think is a fashion don’t (if you live in the South), I have taken to the world wide webs to find the perfect pair of ugly foot protection. So far I have found nothing but mind boggling fashion statements. Mind boggling.

So, let’s begin. Target sells boots in my (family’s) price range so I began my search there. Search: boots. Result: hysterical laughter.

The first pair that appealed to me were these:

Two words: Memory. Foam. In your boots! And look at all the fancy colors! I’m a fanatic of pink (in case you haven’t gathered) and by design I also enjoy bright colors. To be completely honest though, I noticed these boots in the order of memory foam and then bright colors. These are on my list. If I’m going to be all tragic fashion follower, I’m going to do it up and be bold and wear the ugliest boots I can find! Let’s face it, the uglier it is, it’s probably all the more fashionable. (Hello hounds tooth and leg warmers! Fingerless gloves anyone?) If I’m going to scoot around for the next 4 months, I might as well be bright and cheery doing it.

So I continued on my (un)happy journey of boot shopping and what to my wondering eyes should appear….

Alright, excuse me. I can walk in heels. I can even occasionally run in heels. (All of my friends are now laughing because they are imagining the face plant potential of this scenario.) But let’s not add insult to injury here. I feel like I just found the Regretsy of Target.com! You want me, Kallay Clutz, to purposefully place hot pink plastic baggies over my very high heeled shoes and then… what? Because no way in hell can you (I) walk in these. And if you can, well then kudos to you ballerina, my coordination does not allow for such acrobatic acts as walking with elevated pink plastic Ziplocs for shoes. That’s me asking for a hospital stay. Moving on…

I like boys, so these are out.

As are these, same reason. They’re called “Novella” because some genius over at Champion was all, “By George! I have a novel idea! We’ll start with a Michelin, ok? And then I’ll skin my Persian cat! Leather, check! Fur, check!” Listen, they may ward off winter, but you can count on dining alone and holding your own hand at the movies, because these boots also ward off phone numbers. NEXT!

Cleats of the slip on variety. These give traction but provide nothing in the style/warmth department, plus you’ll look like a giant dork. Winter fail.

I’m wearing these in public, right? Bless you cute little angels with small calves, pray tell; where are the extenda-calf pink striped boots? Muffin top on my calf wasn’t the look I was going for, really.

Light pink fake Uggs. I mean, they’re ok. But *sigh* I want something a little more fantastic. Something that makes people stop and go, “Those are terrific!” and not “I own those in every color! (You fashion failure.)”

I have plenty of pink scarves in every material, pink gloves, pink hats, pink coats, pink sweaters… where, OMW and friends, are my pink boots? My feet are freezing, the snow banks are growing and icy pavement is patiently waiting to take me out (on my) back.

On the bright side, at least I don’t have to plug in my car.

Thanksgiving Pot Pie

2 pie crusts (I used my family’s pie crust recipe for this but you may use store bought crusts or your own favorite pie crust recipe!)
1/2 stick butter
1 cup finely diced onion
1 cup finely diced carrot
1 cup finely diced celery
4 cups leftover turkey, chopped
1/4 cup flour
1 cup of gravy
1 cup of water
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup sour cream
2 teaspoons dried thyme
fresh herbs, chopped (I used parsley and sage because this is what I had leftover.)
salt and white pepper to taste (I use white pepper because it lends flavor without leaving black specks all over the place, but you may use whatever pepper you like.)
cooking spray (optional)
leftover mashed potatoes and stuffing (optional)

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Spray 2 9 inch pie pans with cooking spray and spread the mashed potatoes and stuffing evenly onto the bottoms of both pie pans.

Heat butter over medium to medium high heat in a large skillet and saute onions, carrots and celery until translucent. (Season lightly with salt and pepper.) Add turkey and mix with vegetables. Sprinkle mixture with flour, stir to coat and heat for a couple of minutes. Stir in gravy and water, heat to a simmer. Combine heavy cream and sour cream and add to skillet. Add thyme and herbs and season to taste. Simmer for a few minutes until mixture thickens, stirring frequently.

Roll out two pie crusts into rounds 1-2 inches larger than pie pans.

Carefully pour mixture evenly into the two pie pans and cover with pie crusts, folding under the edge and pressing into pan to create a seal. Slice top of crusts to ventilate.

Bake for 30 minutes until crust is golden brown and mixture is bubbly.

Let sit for a few minutes to allow sauce to thicken before spooning into bowls.

(once again, i apologize for the not awesome photos. the camera cord is just… invisible? don’t know. but she’s gone, baby, gone.)

He’s so smart, God. After application maybe and application fail, application no response and application doom, I’m abandoning a path that was taking me nowhere but from one small salary to the next. I’m going back to school. To learn some new skills and to hone some others. My declared major is English Literature and will include another when God tells me what that is.

He’s got a plan and I woke up this morning knowing in my bones that somewhere between falling apart and my 7 hours of peaceful (success!) sleep last night, God had employed me with this task. As mom says, “Baby steps.” Starting with my new job as a caregiver for the elderly and with the application to a really great community college, declaring a major and leaving the details to God. Chicago is still in my future. Cafe Kallay is not a realization gone to steam and dust. But they are on hold until I am fully equipped to take them on. The new path gives me a better opportunity to make money to save for those dreams. Hardest realization yet? You can bet your life on that. But I also understand now that God is trying to fill my boxes again. My confidence, my self worth, my knowledge, my faith, my, dare I say it, hope, and my love, which will come last, and I’m ok with that right now. God does not want me to end up an empty shell of a person who only needs money and possessions to make them happy. He knows this has never been in my spirit. He knows my priorities and my goals, my passions and my needs and none of these list money at the top.

He has provided me with a position to help people in their greatest hours of need which will not only cure my thirst for charitable contribution but also my bank account’s recession. (insert clicked “LIKE” button here) He brought me into a family that supports, loves and nurtures one another even though we are all very different people. He has given me the ability to forgive, but also to forget. He has given me the ability to laugh at myself, my situations and at yours too! He has made me resilient, kind, friendly, talented and faithful. He has also made me humble, defeated and with absolutely no choice but to need help. A lesson in humility is a lesson in gratitude. I’m talking about the simple, unexpected acts of kindness given purely and without expectation which happen very rarely but are the ones to be most thankful for. A gift given with a selfish heart is not a gift at all. (And to be clear, I am not talking about monetary loans.) He has given me friends on which to rely and to nurture and to grow with. Amazing people with great talent and perseverance and intelligence; with laughter in their souls and others on their minds. Truly unselfish people. For all of these things I am thankful and humbled beyond measure.

So, we move forward, with lots of questions unanswered and many baby steps to go. A new map to explore and old boxes to fill. I know this to be true, God has a plan and His plan is better than my own, to seek God is to seek Greatness and I’d rather be armed with His Great Plan than my own uncertain one.

First of all, I’m supposedly a professional, so I can wear a black shirt with confidence. You, however, should not.

So, properly attired, you may now begin the gathering of ingredients. This is what your counter will look like:

This is what mine looks like:

I embrace my inner OCD when baking/cooking. One of the first things we learned in school was mise en place, literally translated: everything in its place. Ingredients in order from recipe’s start to finish is where my disorder begins. Yes, the pastry blender is an ingredient. Not a utensil. At least it should be. Everyone knows that cutting in butter (or lard in my case) is near impossible with anything else. It’s the sex toy for pies. Nothing can get the pie off… just… never mind. Use the pastry blender, you’ll thank me later. Now, utensils…

Nothing special here, just a big ass bowl. I will say this, wider mouth bowls make this process a tiny bit easier since you’re cutting the butter into flour. Having a surface that’s mostly flat ensures equal distribution of the fat into the flour in a reasonable amount of time and if you use the pastry blender, you won’t end up using your hands. Joy!

I’m not going to hand out my great grandmother’s pie crust recipe because I’m not sure if this is family secret material. Hercules knows better too so don’t ask him, he’s no Duke. Just know I measured precisely and you should too. Baking is not a willy-nilly game of horseshoes folks, close doesn’t count. It’s a science. Not that your pie crust will turn purple and explode if you add too much of the wrong ingredient but it won’t turn out, you can count on that. Leave the recipe tweaking to the professionals until you understand what a little of this and little of that will do to your precious baked goods.

Now we cut-in. Use your pastry blender to cut the fat into the flour. Using a slight twisting motion as you go around the bowl making sure the flour and fat are combined. You will end up with something with the visual texture of cornmeal with small pea sized fat bits. I didn’t take a picture with my phone, you can’t see the texture. My regular camera works fine but getting the pictures off requires a cord. My cord is buried in the massive pile of my life in the garage so, camera phone it is! When your cornmeal texture is achieved, add liquid. The method of pie making is always the same, the ingredients are going to be different so just follow your recipe. If it says to add 1/4 c. of ice cold water and add 2 T. of water after that until the desired texture is reached, then do that. I’m lucky enough to have a recipe where I can just dump my liquids in and go. (God Bless you Great Grandma Kallay) Use the pastry blender to mix in the liquid and then use your hands to press dough together into a clump of obese flour. Don’t forget to remove your rings. Flour and fat do not a pretty diamond make.

Pie crust achieved! Now, just slap some flour on the counter and shape that pretty piece of dough into a disk like this:

Ah, we meet at a crossroad. As this point you may either a) begin rolling out your dough or b) chill it and use it later. Most pie crust recipes allow for a top and bottom crust, if you only need the bottom crust you can freeze the other half or make two pies, I’m making two pies. Either way, before you begin rolling out the crust, cut the disk in half. I prefer to chill my dough and let it rest before I handle it anymore. I don’t want gluten to form. I’m not making Pumpkin Pizza, I’m making Pumpkin Pie. So I put it in the fridge until it’s set up and hard, like butter. I wrap it twice in the equivalent of a food condom aka Saran Wrap aka Clear Plastic Wrap (for those of us on a budget) so it doesn’t take on the odors or flavors of the other food in the fridge or freezer, the STDs of the baking world.

You can see why double bagging is important in this refrigerator. I’m a big fan of the leftovers but when you make a pork roast on Sunday and order pizza on Monday, that leaves exactly 2 days to eat about a week’s worth of food. This was not my genius idea. This was another sticker on the coffee pot moment.

So there you are internets, your step by step guide to a great pie crust. If nothing else goes right for you on Thanksgiving, I guarantee this will. Here’s hoping you have a special someone and a great family to spend your holiday with. I have the pleasure of my family this year for the first time in a couple of years. You can be sure I will be enjoying more than just the food.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Oh Daily Horoscope, you don’t even know the half of it. I have been told that I have contrails, which is really nothing more than a plane fart, but ok, we’ll go with it. Yes, I move a lot. I grew up in the Midwest, moved West(ish), then all the way West, then back to the Midwest, then South, then North, then South again and now we’re back here in the Great Mitten. So… fair statement. In 10 years I have moved (hold on to your flotation device) 24 times. Twenty Four. I guess I never really liked the “third time’s a charm” mentality. So, that said, your prediction of a new path is not all that far off. However, this is me and you just compared my life to a moving sidewalk and that’s just a mental picture that’s too funny to pass up.

Thing is, the sidewalk ends. Then you have to hoof it to the next sidewalk, or just get off and go to your gate. Most people can handle the inevitable, albeit abrupt, end of the sidewalk. Me? I fall ass over shoulders onto the carpet. So, my question is, how long is this ride on the moving sidewalk going to be? Yay me for having the tools to succeed and yay you for predicting my Piscean over analysis of the situation by throwing in the “Have No Fear! Opportunity is Here!” But survey says, I’m going to need a little more information. Lunar location and signs being what they may, I’m still skeptical. Don’t get me wrong, this has been one hell of a carpeted walk to the moving sidewalk. I’ve got a heavy suitcase, penniless purse and 2 crazy furballs I’m dragging along beside me and for this analogy I’m wearing heels so, bless the moving sidewalk for even existing. I’m sweating and struggling and more than ready for the break.

It’s just that I’m that girl. The girl who gets up and showers, applies makeup, finds a suitable outfit and leaves the house looking pretty with it. An hour later I want my pajamas and a nap. Not because I’m tired but because I’ve probably stepped in dog doo without realizing it until someone points out the smell, I might have forgotten to set the parking break and apparently coffee looks good on me. Did I mention my shirt’s on inside out and backwards? I’m not a pessimist, I’m just really that unlucky. So, I step on this moving sidewalk only to find I’ve placed my hand on the only part of the rail including someone’s chewed up grape Bubbilicious.

While your fairy tale is sweet, life is never that simple for me. Let’s, for the sake of all things shiny and gay, look at the positives for the week. First of all, it’s Thanksgiving and I have loads to be thankful for. One of which, and always most importantly, is my family. My grandmother told me about a position to care for the elderly and no one loves old people like this girl. So, the second thing I am thankful for is possible gainful employment. Tomorrow I will learn my assignment and I am overly excited about that. If for no other reasons than to a) be able to share the comedy that is to ensue and (of course) b) receive a paycheck.

Here’s where the sidewalk may end… I’m still not making any progress on my career path, which in case you haven’t heard, is to own my own cafe and be the best coffee snob there ever was. I’m still stepping on the belt. I need this job. If not for my sanity, for the money. I’ll take it, believe me. I would feel much better if I could find the correlation between coffee and wrinkles though. Plus, I’m dying to unpack my boxes which are, for now, sprawled about willy-nilly in the garage labeled with reckless abandon (thank you Oliver and John) and wouldn’t you know it? I can’t find a damned thing. It took me a month to figure out which box my hair dryer was in! With over 50 boxes to sift through, I have given up on finding anything else. Unpacking and repacking an entire garage of a lifetime of my stuff is not on the top of my list. So what I’m saying is, I hope there’s a Chicago apartment somewhere on this moving sidewalk of yours, Daily Horoscope, because a girl needs her straightener and her shoes.

Also, don’t read your horoscope at 3am.

Mom: “Hi Honey!”

Me:”Hiiii. How are you?” (Knowing that this amount of enthusiasm is always a sign that I should have just let it go to voice mail.)

Mom: “Good! I’m going to do my kitchen RED!”

(She’s very excited and I’m just frightened. My mom has a thing for wallpaper so my mind is immediately overcome with thoughts of red wallpaper with some sort of animal print and her white counter appliances. Oh yes, this is going to be epic. The woman has great taste, let’s be honest, but I was worried I was going to go home to a bad episode of Trading Spaces where the wife leaves the room in tears and the husband inquires about the location of his tv. It could happen. Mom wears Betsy Johnson!)

Me: “That’ll be cooooo-uhl!” (Well, what would YOU say!? It’s her house!)

Mom: “I know! I’m going to get all red appliances and utensils. I’m going to redo the cabinets…” (oh God!) “…and finally get rid of this wallpaper!” (HM! New leaf! Way to go Mom!)

Me: “Are you planning on painting the walls or are you going to leave those alone?” (Please let it be (B), please let it be (B)!!)

Mom: “Oh! No! I’m not painting it, that would look ridiculous with the rest of the house. It’s all one room.” (Aaaaand… now I’m breathing normally again.)

Me: “Well, that sounds great! Let me know how it turns out! Can’t wait to see it!”

A few months later I come home and I get to see the kitchen. I’m over excited. I want to see the wall paper gone. I want to see modern sleek looking cabinets. I want to see something other than that damned white coffee pot!

And I did. The kitchen finally made it into the 2000s and it looked great! The microwave, toaster, Kitchen Aid Mixer (*cat call* Hey baby! Sorry, I have a thing for mixers.), and food processor are all red and shiny and new. And then the heavens shine down upon the most beautiful red and black coffee maker. Oh, praise you Jesus for this wonderful appliance. The white, stained, way past its retirement plan coffee maker is gone and here sits Miss Thang! It’s late, but I want to make some coffee. I want to get my mom’s money worth! I want to use this bitch!

Me: “Mom! I *love* your mixer! And look at that sexy coffee pot! Do you love it?”

Mom: “Oh, you mean that piece of shit!?”

(Um… what? That’s a hot piece of brew machine. It sparkles! It has a self timer yo! And a strength setting. I mean, this is like a mansion compared to that trailer park of a piece of crap she used to have. So, what’s with the hostility? I want to cover the poor thing’s ears and give it a hug. Damn!)

Me: “What’s wrong with it? It’s brand new! And it was made in this century mom!”

Mom: “The clock doesn’t work.”

(I look around… I spy with my little eye… 9 clocks. Microwave, oven, wall clock, plate made into a clock, cable box, mantle, home phone, cell phone, Hey, look at your wrist! Wow, Rolex! All I have is a “Guess?” and it tells time backwards! If you can’t figure out the time, we need to have a different conversation!)

Me: (confused silence, inquisitive look)

Mom: “The first one I bought had a broken clock too so I exchanged it and then that clock didn’t work either so then I exchanged that one and got this one but I don’t want to fuck with it so I’ll just keep it they don’t have any other red coffee makers anyway.” (breath)

Me: “You could get a black one!”

Mom: “No, I want the red one!”

Me: “So you’d rather pay full price for a broken one that’s the right color?”

Mom: “Yeah!”

(Well, ok!)

So I’m messing around with the coffee maker. The third coffeemaker… thinking about this and sort of worrying. What if there’s a short in it and that’s why it’s not working? I hope the store took them off the shelves! What if they’re trying to charge people full price for a coffee maker with a broken clock that could burn down their homes? I’m starting to get frantic when I run my hand over the front of it and feel something… funny. Is that…? What is…?

Me: “MOM!?”

Mom: “Yeah?”

Me: “It’s the STICKER!!!” (Mad and LAUGHING. Hard!)

Mom: “Whaaaat?”

Me: “You didn’t take the sticker off the front of the clock. The clock works, you don’t.”

She dissolves into a fit of laughter and probably extreme embarrassment. My mother had returned and probably made the store damage out two perfectly great (and expensive) coffee makers because she missed… a sticker.

Is this hereditary? She does this a lot. She knows the name of every muscle, meridian and bone in the body but couldn’t figure out a sticker. She’s not stupid. She’s just, blonde?

Tonight we’re watching tv and this commercial comes on with these giant metal spheres plunging out of the sky. I’m freaked out. What the hell kind of commercial is this?

Mom says: “I can’t wait until this show comes out!”

Me: “What is it? It looks freaky!” (There are things falling from the sky, slamming into Earth, leaving giant holes and people are following them and looking at the destruction in awe. Scary music is playing. Sorry. Not my kind of show.)

Mom: “It’s Droid!”

(sigh)

Me: “Mom?”

Mom: “Yeah!?”

Me: “It’s “the” Droid Ma. The Droid is a cell phone.”

Please God, let it be the bleach. Please tell me that this is not in my genetic instructions.

And excuse me Verizon? I actually *want* the Droid. But if you keep making it look all freaky transformer cell phone… I’m going to change my mind! I don’t want my cellular device to grow legs in the night and strangle me for accidentally dropping it. K? Think techno and pink and flowers… I will feel much safer with a phone that doesn’t have an ulterior motive.

Here’s the thing, I really badly want a library card. I need freebies in my life. I probably (let’s face it, I do) qualify for food stamps but I’m unsure if I want to journey across that bridge after what I endured today.

When I moved back to Michigan I changed my address because I wanted to get mail here, but mostly because I wanted proof that I was a resident. I imagined waltzing, yes, ballroom dancing, into the library with my change of address confirmation, pressing it into the hands of a bespectacled wise old woman and retrieving what I think is the best escape of life’s downward spirals… books. My reading rampages usually begin and end in crises. And I’m revving my engine for a good old fashioned read-a-thon. Except, today… I foxtrotted my too-in-love thighs into the library and apparently my mom lives in the wrong township. At least for this particular library.

Let’s play a little game I like to call “said” and (thought).

First of all, when I arrived, I parked on the street. Or tried. A large SUV was sitting in their spot with their rear lights on. (Hm… self. What shall we do?) So, I parked sort of far away from them officially taking up two spots, waited a full minute and got out. Figured they would be there and I would be ok to run in really fast, get my card, get my book, and get out. They didn’t move. (Awesome.) Until I got to the sidewalk. Arf. So I get BACK in the car, pull forward so I don’t look like the asshole taking up all the street parking and Paso Doble into the public library.

No bespectacled wise old women here! Darn it! My fantasy is already losing steam. First, retard Lexus lady and now this. Ugh. I march up to the counter with a big fat smile on my face and the following ensues…

Cute library girl with the awesome sweater I wanted but couldn’t afford: Hi!

Me: Hello! I would like a library card please! (YAY!!! Library! Give me an L!…)

*hand her my driver’s license and my freshly opened change of address confirmation*

Cutie Patootie: Ok, great.

*types in the address and makes a funny face*
(uh oh)
*types in the address again*

Becoming Uncute: Well, that’s what I thought.

(fuck)

Me: Is there a problem? (Of course there is. This is your life we’re talking about here. Loser. Give me an L!)

Librarian with MY sweater: Well, unfortunately, you have to go to L Township to get your library card because that’s the township you pay taxes in. But (!!!) you can bring your card back here and we’ll put a little sticker on it and you are more than welcome to check books out from our library as well. (Doh.)

Me: Oh, that’s ok. (No it is NOT. You have a 1/8 tank of gas.)

My sweater: Do you know where the L Township Library is? Down on C Avenue?

Me: Oh, yeah! (NUH UH!! NO YOU DON’T! LIAR! Give me an L!)

My beautiful gray sweater: So, you know to go down to G Road and take a right? (no) Then follow that until you get to the C Avenue intersection where Walgreens is. (Oh! Yes, I know this one!) You turn left and it’s a half a mile down the road… maybe.

Me: Sure, yes! Great! Ok! Thanks! (You should have written that down.)

So I waddle back to the car, defeated. Knowing I’m a) about to be lost in a small town and b) may not make it home with the amount of gas I have. I know. You’re thinking.. “So put gas in your car!” and to you I say “With what? My great rack and good charm?”

Peanut has a few select quirks that should be pointed out about now.
1. Her oil light is always on. Always.
2. Her engine light is always on. Always.
3. When the gas light goes on, your four letter words become four letter paragraphs.

So I need milk too before I go home. Earlier in the day my grandmother took pity on me and bestowed upon me some delicious home made bread, Red & Rover cartoons (she’s been sending me these for years… Hercules is my Rover) and meat. Chicken tenderloins, beef stew meat, and shrimp. Yums. (By the way, I made Beef Stroganof for dinner from scratch. Success! Divine!) So I have meat, I have bread, I need milk. Luckily, the store is on my way to the L Township library across town. So I stop in, debate over milk prices and pay $1.25 for 1/2 gallon of milk. Not telling you where, because I’m going to win the lottery and go back and buy it all. Major Score. Sorry! Poor girls keep secrets.

And from there it’s sort of blurry. I drove to G Road. Turned right. I drove to the Walgreens and Peanut’s gas gauge said “1/16 yo!” but I kept driving. I turned right. I was supposed to turn left. I know this now. But I did not know this then. I drove down C Avenue and ended up practically on the front steps of the public library. Again.

I realize I just drove in a giant circle and am now panicking about getting home. I turn down a side street and drive gas tank friendly slow to the stop signs, being extra sure to be extra light on the gas pedal so as not to disturb the 1/4 c. of gas that now resides in my gas hole. Peanut alerts me that we are about done with this circus side show and that I better get her back to a driveway or I’m going to look like a dumb ass.

“Yes. Hi! Roadside Assistance? I ran out of gas trying to find the library.”

An intelligent person doesn’t say these things. I pull into my mom’s driveway with the fear of God in my stomach and lots of meat on my passenger seat. I decide I will try this another day. Reading is supposed to be relaxing. I’m kind of stressed out.

Lesson learned. Don’t get lost with a 1/8 tank of gas. Give me an L! (For Liquor!)

Unemployment should be a medical condition. Trust me. It’s not the inconvenience of not having a job that’s killing me, although that is in fact what brought me to this particular mecca of hell. It’s the combination of bad situations blending together to make this one giant smoothie of a mental health professional’s wet dream.

Bad Situation #1: I Miss My Job (not the Horrid Company)

I actually enjoy what I do. Love it, in fact. So, waking up every single day not being able to do what I love is a slap in the face in and of itself. I *love* my customers. I *love* the smell of freshly ground coffee, the sound of the timers chirping letting me know it’s time for a dining room check up or a new batch of coffee, the smiles of the babies and children we get to watch grow older in front of our eyes, the inventory and the finances telling me that I am doing a bang up job… I just *love* my job. So my joy in life has been stripped from me, now what?

Bad Situation #2: Communication with the Outside World

When I lost my job, my mom knew I had gone and lost my mind. I cried to her over the phone about not wanting to leave my customers, about loving the cafe so much that even though I deeply wanted to make the company suffer and figure out the inventory themselves, I couldn’t do that to my cafe. Also, I don’t know what revenge looks like, I’ve always chosen to forgive, no matter the crime. I couldn’t just let the cafe fall apart because of me. I just couldn’t. Mom told me I needed to come home. I needed to get out of the toxic situation that I was in. She said she would gladly help me with bills and that was that. So I got up on that Sunday, September 27th and I did the damn inventory with the new supervisor, I did it gritting my teeth, but I did it. Two days later, I was driving my truck with my car on a dolly back to freezing cold Small Town, Michigan. At the time, I had what we all thought was an offer from a great coffee company to become their next Store Manager. The move would be temporary and I would have a job in no time. I was actually optimistic for the first time in a long time. I would not lose my sanity living with my mother because it was only going to be for a couple of weeks, then on to Chicago. Right? Needless to say, the offer disappeared. I have been here for over a month now and my sanity slowly slips away each and every day. This city is one I grew up in but I went to a private school about 15-20 minutes from here. My friends have all gone off to college or have traveled across the US just like I had. So that leaves me with no communication with the outside world except for phone calls to friends who are actually living their lives rather than wasting away in a town with no jobs to procure and not a whole lot of friendly people.

It’s no secret that I’m not a fan of this town. The words “I HATE this place.” have been uttered across my lips more times than I can count. And unfortunately, hate is the correct word. The people are mostly stuck up and judgmental, caught up in ridiculous racial and status issues of years and years gone by and are, for the most part, rude and unfriendly. Not an ideal place for someone who has lived in cities where people are gracious and friendly and accepting and open minded. (And I don’t mean Democratic, I mean truly open minded.) Communicating over the phone and through Facebook are wonderful things, but sometimes you just want a hug. Sometimes you just want to see the same funny as someone else, give them a look and laugh! Living in a friendless town is one thing, but living unemployed in a friendless town is worse.

There is *no* communication with real, alive, non-digital people except for nervous interviews, grocery stores, and gas stations. Everywhere else is a luxury and if you’re like me, if you’re there, someone else is paying. So instead of enjoying the time out of the house, you are dwelling on the fact that you can’t pay for it yourself. Sure, there is a time to be humble and to put your insecurities away, but stripping away the basic needs for a person to be healthy and then expecting them to humble themselves even more is sort of a ridiculous request.

Bad Situation #3: The Long Distance Relationship

Enough said? Probably. But I’ll go deeper. I’m not the most trusting person. For obvious reasons, but honestly, I don’t trust most people. So the long distance relationship for me is harder than for most other people. My insecurity runs through my veins about as thick as the very blood keeping me alive. I’m grown up enough to admit that. So God bless my boyfriend for being so patient with me. Granted, he’s a dude and does stupid things. And I’m a girl with over emotional Pisces tendencies. Combine this with Bad Situations #1 and #2 plus loss of everything else and the poor guy is battling quite the case of female blues in order to get this lady to smile. He manages. On a daily basis.

But on the days we fight or disagree or just plain don’t communicate with each other, I’m a basket case. When you’re standing on the intersection of Nothing and Everything to Lose, and you begin to lose… again… I’m not sure I can explain the chemical imbalance that occurs to make you cry more tears than you thought the human body could expel. I can’t explain the mental or physical pain, at least not more than to say if I was working, it would be a sick day. On these wonderfully special days, I literally can’t see straight. The world is a blur to me. I will remember nothing you tell me. I will not be able to recount what I did. I will walk slower and be lost in thought when you try and converse with me. I will cry at the dumbest and most inane events. Forgot the paper towel to clean the bathroom mirror? 5 minute sob. Dog dreaming loudly on the floor? A smile, and then a tear. Coffee creamer empty before the last cup? Raging cry.

I often thank God that there aren’t video cameras around to record this insanity. Because on these fantastic days, my emotions are so close to the surface, anything can set them off, I look very similar to a person who should be medicated and straight jacketed. If not for the safety of myself, for the safety of that gorgeous lamp.

Sometimes I pace thinking I can outrun the pain, and then when I sit the pain floods me and I do what Oprah calls the “ugly cry”. Where your face bunches up and immediately turns red. Your tears aren’t even tears so much as an emotional catastrophe leaking from your eyes and nose. It’s so nasty too, you’ll wipe your nose on anything. Because really, at this point, are you leaving the house? Definitely not. And using your sleeve is easier than walking hunched over in pain to the bathroom for a tissue that will only fall apart. You already tried that and ended up using your sleeve anyway. When doing the ugly cry, do not, I repeat, do not, look in that mirror. The feeling of being pathetic and looking so, will only make you cry harder. Plus, you don’t want to see what your sleeve looks like. Eventually you’re going to snap out of it and you’ll have to wash that shirt. You’ll never look at it the same again if you remember it this way. When you have finally taken the plunge and let yourself accept an emotion that you have been warding off like a thief, you can’t stop the thing. You’ll stop crying when you have nothing left to cry about. When you’ve run through your head all of the things worthy of a tear. Then you’ll get the hiccups, which just furthers my belief in God’s sense of humor.

(And just so we’re clear… we weren’t fighting about musical taste and fast food preferences. Taco Bell will never make me cry.)

Bad Situation #4: It’s Not That I Want to Eat Everything in Sight….

When I arrived with my overstuffed Uhaul complete with furry brood, dragging Peanut along on the trailer, my thighs were kissing. Smooching if you will. Now? They’re fucking in love. I mean, infatuation station down there. Makin’ out! Of course it’s my fault but you know, Grilled Chicken Salad doesn’t have the same calming effect as say… Fully Loaded Nachos? To say that I eat my feelings is to say that I have a small crush on fast food to go cup buttons, complete understatements. When I’m depressed and want nothing to do with positive thinking mumbo jumbo blahblahblah, I eat. A lot. Some people drink good wine (or boxed, whatever), some people smoke (I used to!), and others just say fuck it and jump. The good thing about eating is that eventually my jeans will write a letter and be like “Hi, we know you’re going through a rough time since we’ve been on your floor for a week and you’ve been wearing those ugly ass pajama pants. You know, the ones with the stripes that make your ass look big? Yes, those. Buuh. Well, we were just wondering if, before you try to pry us up your thighs again, you could maybe do like, a sit up or something? We’re your stretch jeans not your fishnets and while those are also not one size fits all, they will allow for movement. Love ya, Denim” and I’ll go for a walk. (And YES, my jeans are gay boys. Who compliments your ass more than your gay boyfriend? Hello. Miss my Oliver…)

No letter yet, so eat I shall. Cheese, ice cream, chocolate, chips, cheetos, comfort. While I’m unhappy about the relationship status of my thighs, my job situation screams Half Baked Ben & Jerry’s. I’ve been trying to ward this off by drinking coffee until 4 pm. The problem is, then I’m starving and all I want is a chocolate shake and a stick of butter. So, clearly that strategy is not a working one. Eating is on the healthier side of the “things to do instead of crying and talking about your problems” because weight can be lost. You can’t just run off an infected liver or a black lung. Fat rolls? They love a good jog. Cellulite too. So, judge me if you will, but I’m feeling pretty darn good about this.

Bad Situation #5: Hope Does What?

Listen, I like romantic comedies and chick flicks as much as the next girl, but we all know it’s bullshit. Really. Since when did your dead beat ex-boyfriend become rich because he discovered he had a talent and actually pursued a dream? And when were you ever standing in the aisle choosing between said ex-boyfriend and Mr. Took You To Tiffany’s To Choose Your “Skating Rink”? Come the fuck on. And friendly neighbor guy? Where the hell’s HE at? Hope Floats, my ass. I’m not trying to be negative here, it’s good writing, warm and fuzzy like a grandma’s hug, but seriously… Hope doesn’t float. Hope gets her ass kicked. Hope looks over her shoulder for the next tragedy. Hope is realistic. Unlike Faith, little miss everything is going to be ok. Hope knows that despite all of the bad situations, there might me a silver living or a lesson to be learned. But there might not. Hope does not equal Happy. Hope knows she might not be employed. Hope knows that she is just a want, and we don’t get everything that we want. What’s really sick is that sometimes we don’t even want what we want. Because once we get it, it’s not what we thought it was. Poor Hope. She’s just not for me. Too much uncertainty lies in her bones. I need sure things. Solid things. A job. Not a floatie.

Bad Situation #6: The Inevitable

Unemployment is just a fancy way to say that you are no longer rubbing pennies together, because “Haha! Sucker! You don’t have any!” It’s an indescribable feeling of doom when you’ve Coinstarred your purse and you’ve delegated your car payment to someone else, and your ATM just exclaimed “You’re broke darlin’!” I don’t want to talk about this much. I’m unemployed, I obviously don’t have money, and everyone needs money. I really could be worse off. I could be houseless which is not the same as homeless, and I am technically homeless. I could be deathly ill, but I’m just mental not dying. At any rate, gig’s up. I need a job. I need money. And if not just for me, for my mom. Additionally, beyond bills, I have plans. One of my best friends is getting married in Oregon. Guess who’s in the wedding and making her cake? Guess who can’t wait? Also on the list: Christmas, moving, and paying off debt. Plus, I’m sure my mom would much rather be spending her expendable income on something other than Peanut. I mean, even I want to be spending my money on something other than stupid Peanut, but… all hail the necessary evils or something like that. Anyway, the point, the inevitable, I believe my time of Green & Black has risen again. I agree with my friend C when she said about me “You’d rather be serving G&B coffee than none at all.” Hear, hear. (But still… Fuck.)

Bad Situation #7: Pity, party of one?

Worst. Party. Ever. For one thing, the music is depressing. A person can only listen to so many unpopular sad musicians before they cease musical libation at all. Also, when you’re down, you’re down, sort of like learning to water ski. This party is invite only and the guest list employs one name: yours. So while you drown yourself in slow songs, eat yourself chubby, and cry about the latest disappointment… the whole world is still spinning. No one knows, no one cares. They weren’t invited anyway. So even if they *did* try to come to brighten the party, they’d be D listed. Sorry. So, when I’m done here, I’ll let you know.

Bad Situations or not, it’s ok to laugh. I have to keep reminding myself of this. That even though I’m sad and I need things I can’t have right now, it’s ok to laugh. It’s ok to have a good time and relax. It’s ok to feel sorry for myself every once in a while too. I will allow myself this indulgence. What’s not ok, what is absolutely not in my plans, is giving up. I might cry and eat and swear and get angry but I won’t give up. I might sacrifice and sway from the career plan, I might work somewhere I don’t want to and bitch about those things. But I won’t give up.

No, for now, I’m going to steer clear of books like The Knitting Circle and reach for the funny or inspiring. I have cried more than necessary reading this book because I can identify so much with this character and how it just seems like she keeps losing things/people. I am really tired of getting snot on my new shirts though. I’d really like to blow my nose into a Kleenex again. It just seems so much more lady like and civilized, not that I will ever fully be either of those things. It’s worth a shot though. So I believe I shall be hitting up the library for some Jen Lancaster or possibly reread a David Sedaris story. Or maybe I’ll keep Stumbling Upon humorous things like The Bloggess and keep reading wonderful blogs like Magnolias and Mimosas and laughing my ass off at the ludicrous crafters on Regretsy. And just like that, there went ladylike and civilized.

I will not flinch in the face of sacrifice,
Hesitate in the presence of procrastination,
Negotiate at the table of fear,
Ponder at the pool of popularity,
Or meander in the maze of mediocrity.
I won’t give up, Shut up, Let up,
Until I’ve Stayed up, Stored up, Prayed up, and Paid up,
And become the person God intended me to be.

(note: I have no idea where I got this. I had it written down from a conference I went to for Mary Kay. I found something similar that was from the Latter Day Saints, but it didn’t list an author. Anyway, still profound.)

I recently changed my employment status on Facebook to say this:

Stay At Home Daughter

cooking, baking, cleaning, trash girl, bartender, applying for real jobs, applying for crappy jobs, lawn chick (does not rake), designated driver, laundering, entertaining, knitting, reading, writing, eating all the good food (snacks, ice cream, etc.), drinking all the beer, warming up the couch, making sure the tv works (specifically on sundays and thursdays), taking up space in the driveway with ugly car named Peanut, Facebooking incessantly while filling out online applications and writing articles (multitasking), vacuuming with cool uniform (see pictures), etc.

Since skipping out the door of my last job or rather being kicked out quietly, I have moved in with my mother. Love her as I do, living with her is much like Chinese torture. I am thankful that she is allowing me to take up space in her home and in her garage. And she is thankful that those pesky high light bulbs are being changed! My mom is short, I am tall. (read: likely adopted) So all of these high reaching tasks have been delegated to me. Light bulbs, reaching for vases, vacuuming the ceilings for house showings, yes, I do them all. I am employed with the never ending to do lists to keep my mind from exploding because my mother knows that a girl that is zoned for the city, like myself, does not survive well in the country. I’m walking around the house wondering things like “Can I get a sidewalk? Maybe a cafe that doesn’t serve coffee that tastes like BBQ? Hell, I’ll take a horn honking!” while everyone else is enjoying the peaceful and serene view of the now hibernating trees. Don’t get me wrong, it’s gorgeous here but it fades. Stare at the same Thomas Kincade painting for a month and tell me you don’t want a change of scenery. Between job applications you might find me scrubbing a toilet or vacuuming the baseboards. In the city you would find me casing out the newest wi-fi cafe or running to catch the El. I’ve taken to knitting and cleaning as hobbies because cafes and trains don’t exist here. Call me June Cleaver and I will scream.

After about a month in the country I am ready for a Thanksgiving dinner sized helping of Chicago. The wind blows the crazy out of me, and my friends are thankful for this. In the country, I have to *think* of things to do keep my mind off my insanity ridden life. In the city, I have to decide which thing to do first! Walking to get coffee is a welcomed task in the city. Here, it is impossible. Maybe I should walk around the house three times before I come in and start my pot in the morning. Who cares if the neighbors think I have a serious case of OCD? I’m going mental anyway, might as well come out of the closet with it right?

To say that this past month has been awful would still probably be a gross understatement. Adjectives have not been invented to describe the kind of mental instability that unemployment has created for me. I’m a strong girl. I’ve been through more than a person my age should. And I’m still standing. But not working and living in the country at the same time is enough to make me Google “high bridges near SW Michigan”. I’m applying for plenty of positions. I even had an interview with a staffing agency in Chicago. They loved me, and I loved them. It’s a terrific fit. But patience and waiting have never been close friends of mine. I wrote a blog not too long ago about the relationship between my patience and waiting. I officially don’t have any. I’m waiting because I have to, but my patience packed its bags and told me to fuck off a long time ago. So here we sit, me and my new frienemy, Waiting, and have these conversations about length of stay. Waiting is always complaining about Patience leaving and I am always complaining about why Waiting is taking so long. It’s like…Dude, shit or get off the pot already. This is ridiculous. The fact is that there are 15.1 million of us out of a job AND that when you apply for a job, if you don’t have a degree, you’re sort of fucked. I do not have a degree so I’m not in the top ten competition, I am thanking my lucky stars though that I have management experience and that I did at least attend some college classes. I might not have graduated, but if I want to go back I can. It would require one really good waitressing job in the city (or two) or one craptastic job in the country (because it’s rent free) to pull off the school *and* work thing. I’m not sure I’m ready to make that decision yet, mostly because in the end, I would be doomed to stay in the country with my mom. It’s on the wheel of (mis)fortune though, I can’t deny it. This is my luck we’re talking about here and I don’t remember any of my friends wishing they could have a piece of it. And so, Waiting is quickly becoming my least attractive friend. In fact, she’s an ugly bitch who is driving me mad.

Beyond missing the city, beyond waiting, there’s a bigger issue. I’m a 27 year old living with her mother. While this is probably socially acceptable, it is not mentally acceptable. For a few reasons…

1) She eats really loudly. I can imagine that if I was ever brave enough to get close to a cow again to listen to her eat, she would sound much like my mother. (I say again because I had a bad run in with a cow once. It chased me out of a field. Remind me to tell you that one later.) Cheese eaten with a smack is gross. So are crackers and chips because then the crunch factor is introduced and it’s enough to make food poisoning sound like the more attractive option. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner…. all disgusting with your mouth open.

2) She (allegedly) has two livers and exercises them daily. Either that or she just has an overachiever in there. Did I mention she’s 5’2″? And can drink me under the table? Just sayin’! More evidence that I was adopted or that I’m just a lightweight.

3) She can not tell a joke to save her life. (Which is actually something I inherited from her and that’s annoying.) She tries though. The good news is that I always know the punchlines to jokes, sometimes she collapses into laughter before she can tell me the rest of the joke though so the conversation usually ends up something like this…

Mom: Hahahahaha! Funny joke! Hahahahaha!

Me: What ma? (annoyed because I already know it’s going to suck)

Mom: Orange you going to let me in? Hahahahaha! Wait, wait… I forgot the first part… ok… Knock, Knock… Hahahahahahaha! (and then nothing, but more uncontrolled laughter)

And so it goes.

4) Asking for money might be #1 on the list of my least favorite things to do. And since I am jobless and now penniless after this awesome year of bad luck and bullshit, my mom has taken pity on me. This is all well and good when I need things, but when it’s something I don’t necessarily need but want… I feel like a 5 year old, which is wonderful(!!) because I have always hoped to go back and relive the hell that was elementary school. (e.g. Grocery shopping: “What do you want from the store?” I should say “Broccoli, carrots, chicken, and low fat yogurt!”, but what I want to say is “Family Sized Bag of Cheetos and 5 Gallons of ice cream please!” Are you catching my pathetic drift?)

5) Every time my mom walks in the door from work I’m on the computer. Mostly because she gets home at 7 pm and by that time I have already completed my “chores” for the day. So even though I have done all of these things I still feel like a momentus loser jackass sitting here all typity type when she walks in the door every. single. day. So I’ve taken to leaving one little task to do when she walks in so it looks like I’m a busy little bee. Even though dinner is made, baked goods are on the counter and the house smells like cleaning products, I still feel the need to look busy. So what do I do when she gets home? I wait until she walks in the door and I put a dish in the dishwasher and act like I had been working on this for hours. I’m pathetic. I know. But it makes me feel better to see her face of gratitude rather than the face of “Jesus Kallay, get a job!” when she walks in the door.

If I were to be unemployed with a small nest egg of savings to live off of, this situation of insanity would probably be cut nearly in half. My ideal unemployment situation would be to live alone and live off of my small savings. It would prevent me from having to live with an annoying person, ask said annoying person for money and from having to look up from behind a computer screen to the annoying person’s annoyed face. If I were alone I would at the very least be able to be unemployed without feeling guilty about it. But alas, I am here. Living in the fishbowl, begging for food nuggets and doing cute fishie tricks to try and earn a new job. Isn’t unemployment adorable?

That’s my state’s unemployment rate. Granted, I became unemployed when I was forced to quit my job in Tennessee so really it’s their problem. But I live in Michigan now and I can honestly say that there are no jobs in the town I am living in. If I want a job (not even a decent one) I have to drive an hour to get there. For $8 an hour, I would be paying for gas. Luckily I am not trying to procure employment in this nonsense state. Chicago is the target city. Beyond this I have nothing serious to say about unemployment. Nothing, whatsoever.

I have recently posted some things about unemployment on my Facebook that went something like this:

“Unemployment makes me bipolar.”

“Unemployment is nothing more than perpetual PMS. I apologize in advance.”

“i can haz interview? dis neat.”

“is it my new glasses or is the world upside down? maybe ice cream will help.”

“it seems that when my sky falls so does the rest of scenery.”

“never say that things can’t get any worse… because they can… and then they will. and then you use big words, with 4 letters. it’s no fun. trust me.”

I have been unemployed before but never quite to this degree. When I was interviewing in Chicago and when I gave notice to my former employer, the understanding was that I would leave when I found a position. And since I found my own replacement, this should not have been an issue. Especially since my replacement was cool with being on the waiting list for my job. He was happy where he was and had that whole confusing patience thing going for him that I lack in gallons. So you can imagine my surprise when I was told on September 24th that my last day was September 27th. Wait, I thought I was quitting. How am I being fired? Or “fired”? I’m baffled. I was still waiting to hear good news from a company that was considering me for Store Management. My General Manager had flown the coop the week before and when she did, she set a few mines for a few of us leftover. My flesh eating bomb shell was that she told our District Manager to set my last day for September 27th. “Funny,”, I thought, “That’s the first day of a new week. Why would she make my last day…” and then… I went all superhero crazy bitch. September 27th was, in fact, an inventory day. They weren’t respecting me, they were humoring me. They were fine with me looking for another job, especially because they couldn’t give me a raise and knew I needed more money. What they didn’t say, until three days before I was to leave, was “you have until the end of the month.” Well throw me off a cliff why don’t you?

In order to illustrate the slap in the face I received, I must back track on our story a wee bitsy. A short but sweet explanation. When I have said that I gave up everything for this job. I truly mean everything. The GM told me when I started that after I took over the supervisor position that I could receive a significant raise. She said this because I almost refused the position due to the $9/hr price tag. So, with the promise of a promotion in a few months’ time and a raise on the horizon, I began the march of doom. I worked like a mad woman. I received my promotion, 2 months after I was supposed to. I received my raise, which was not significant. I did not sign up for part time benefits because I was told I would be eligible for full time benefits, which also turned out to be a bold faced lie. I found this out too late. So, I had another run in with pneumonia, insurance free, which meant that I waited until I couldn’t breathe to go to the doctor. I ended up in the ER on my birthday, also insurance free. I lost my brand new car. I lost my lifestyle which wasn’t that extravagant but it did allow me to go on the occasional shopping trip and out to dinner and movies with friends, I could also afford gifts and groceries.

I was now homebound, penniless, unhealthy and driving a wreck of a car. The car was affectionately named Peanut because of the amount of pissed I was for having to buy it. (note: Jeff Dunham has a purple puppet named Peanut who pisses him off… my car is purpley…) I was getting food from a food bank and using my tip money for gas and cigarettes. (You try to quit smoking when your life is falling apart in front of your eyes and tell me how successful you are… don’t judge me!) Through all of this, I still worked my nails to the bone. I supervised without the title. I cleaned, I trained myself on other parts of the store, I led without being told to do so. I took initiative where it was needed. I was a “team player”. It used to be that hard work paid off. Now, it’s expected that you suffer whether you work hard or not. By the time I received my promotion I was ready to leave. I had been played like a fiddle. My life looked like the after effects of Santa’s cookie rampage. You can’t just put that shit back together again. You have to start from scratch. Time marched on and my patience wore thin. The cafe won contests and excelled in the district. We became a family. We all worked hard. But none of this was recognized. Finally, in August, I approached my GM and told her my story. Told her about the amounts of money I was borrowing, the food I was eating, the car I was driving and the effect on my health that this job was taking. I cried to a woman I loathed hoping that somewhere in her body there was a human being. One month later I gave my notice. My notice that we agreed would be ongoing until I found another job. Since I had found my replacement who did not need training, the transition would be simple and worry free.

And then 3 weeks later I looked in the mirror and found the bloody knife sticking out of my back. She had betrayed me. When I was approached with the news, it was not in the office. We were in a common area and I was told that my last day was September 27th. When the shock wore off, the anger exploded. How could she do this to me? How could the COMPANY do this to me? How could this be ok? Isn’t it illegal to fire someone who is already quitting? (Not in the fucked up state of TN it’s not!) The assistant manager came up with this brainless plan that I should stay on as a manager since I already had keys and knew how to do most things in the store, including parts of her job that I had done the holiday season before. My replacement would come in and I would work as a manager a couple of days per week in the cafe, and then work on the floor the rest of the week as a manager “picking up the slack” for the other managers. In other words, taking on more responsibility, with no raise, and letting someone else take my job when I was still going to be in the store. Excuse me, but if I am going to be the general manager of a store, I damn well better receive the title and raise to go along with it. I’m not going to “pick up the slack” or in other words, do the parts of the jobs that the other managers didn’t WANT to do (dirty work) and not get paid for it. This new glamorous job would have included: merchandising, operations, cafe operations, receiving duties, corporate sales duties, etc. Ninja. Please. Fingers to ya! I’m leaving. How can you do so much for a company only to have them turn around and slap you in the face like this? Yes, they have replaced (or rather I found and was going to replace) me with a new cafe supervisor. But the term replacement isn’t exactly accurate here.

My responsibilities ended up reaching far beyond that of the cafe. Far beyond the scope of $10.50 an hour. Far, FAR beyond being pushed out of the store because clearly they thought it would be easier to just get it over with. So I can only say good luck to the new supervisor and God speed to whoever is left in the store. The stories I have heard since leaving the cafe have broken my heart. (From former customers, friends and former coworkers alike.) They made a bad decision, and now they get to stew in it. So, as bad off as I am right now, there is a small part of me that gets to say “I told you so.” At least my inner 5 year old is happy. The rest of me is just giggling with insanity at my current situation. I went from angry to straight jacket crazy in the period of about a month. And boy do I have some stories to tell…

my gay friends are brilliant, fantastically creative, gifted, happy people.

as revolting as bumping uglies with parts that are like mine sounds, my gay friends find my sexual activities just as vile. what’s more… who really gives a shit anyway? i mean i could walk around telling everyone “i’m heterosexual which means i like to boink boys.” no one would bat a lash, even if i used the four letter eff word. but if two guys/girls hold hands in public… omg. sound the alarm. it’s so backwards… what we find offensive. gay or straight… unless you’re in porn, you’re not having sex 24/7.

it just irritates me that some of my most amazing friends are criticized because they happen to be attracted to people of the same gender. and when i say amazing, i really mean amazing in the WOW! sense not in the cliche-overused-word sense. they trump most people i know in smarts, creativity, beauty, style and fashion (which are the same and very different), compassion, generosity, grace, perseverance, work ethic, and hope. did i mention they are HILARIOUS?

the gay marriage debate has sparked this fire under my butt today. i recently read an article about gay marriage that really got under my skin. my heart just breaks for these people. my comment was this:

i would much rather see a great homosexual marriage rather than some of these awful heterosexual ones. (hello, jon & kate) i am openly christian, but i refuse to judge someone based on their sexuality. would i vote for gay marriage? absolutely. i think it’s ridiculous that we allow some members of our military to have “contract marriages” so they can have more money or allow people who just met to get married in vegas and treat it like a joke. i don’t believe that gay marriage is as offensive as either of those things. in fact, i believe if the relationship is based on trust and love, no matter what their gender, they should be allowed to get married. gay or straight. period. true love does not offend me. getting married by elvis does.

don’t flame me for the military comment, it exists. i lived it. (at least my ex-husband did… i was in love, he just wanted money, or at least that’s all i can gather from his lack of respect for me and his need for other women. that’s another post.) the point is, people i love are being hurt because our society says: “kill a baby? don’t mind if you do! marry someone you love? just a minute there, pal.” and damn it, that just sucks. don’t bother pardoning the bluntness either, because it’s truth all stripped of the politically correct blahfuckblah, and i’m not sorry for that. i’m tired of my friends having to feel like they don’t matter in a country where they pay taxes, volunteer their time and spend their money on our economy just like any other legal citizen. it’s not just about the marriage certificate. hell, according to grey’s anatomy you can be married on a post-it note and it’s still a contract. it’s about the basic right of a human, the basic right of a legal u.s. citizen. we allow “the gays” to vote, pay taxes and make other decisions that effect our lives but refuse to allow them to marry someone they love because… ? here are some reasons i have heard that make my eyes roll into the back of my head.

1) “our children will see it.” yes, they sure will. and like i said before, i would much rather see and have my children see a loving happy relationship than an abusive unhappy one, gay or straight. this point has no validity. our children see and hear all kinds of things. sex on tv, swearing on the radio, violence in their own neighborhoods, teen pregnancy… and yet gay marriage is what some parents are worried about.

2) “it goes against the very foundation of what our country was built upon.” excuse me, but make up your damned minds. are we a christian nation or are we still trying to separate church and state? it seems to me that when it’s convenient we pull out the Jesus cards. give me a break. i’m a christian. i believe in God and sin and prayer and the bible and all of those things. i do not believe it’s my right to judge.

3) “people will abuse the system.” hello? can we please take a step back and worry about things that need to be worried about? things like taking advantage of: welfare, food stamps, HETEROSEXUAL marriage for money and tax benefits, illegal non-citizens, tax write offs, unemployment benefits, school districts being shut down due to “school of choice” programs, bankruptcy, etc. Those things cost me money. My two good friends getting married? Not a dime, except for a great wedding gift, which they deserve.

maybe someday i’ll get to buy that gift, for now i’ll just keep voting.

Rest Peacefully.

Love,

Mommy

the exercise starts out…

step 1: describe the person’s hands. (it has to be someone you have strong feelings for)

this pair of hands happens to be the same size as my own. they are warm and soft, well maintained, but not overly so. they are kind of pudgy which is cute, but probably not to him. i’m not sure he would even want someone to refer to his hands as cute. i mean, i would be cool with it but this is not about me. they’re white but not white like albino white. white like caucasion white, because he’s caucasian. and caucasians have caucasian hands. or at least we try to. it would be weird to be caucasian and then look down and have african hands and asian feet. although, shoe shopping would be easier. so, he has caucasian hands. he has small fingernails like me, but no wrinkles and no burn marks. lucky. he also went to college and works in an office so that gives him a leg up, or hand up… whichever. the point is that he doesn’t wash dishes for a living nor does he have to worry himself with nightly hand cream rituals. this is unfair. i’m a girl. he should have rough manly hands, not me. but he doesn’t. i wonder if that means i’m a harder worker? or if i’m just retarded because i didn’t want to do anything that required a college education. hm.

step two: describe something the person is doing with their hands…

i just received a text message from him so i would imagine that he is reading my response with his thumbs and then placing the phone back into his pocket. or he could be paying the cab driver and opening the door only to be hit with what is sure to be a cold blast of wind. or even better…. he could just be giving the cab the finger and walking off. although i’m not sure he would fare so well if that is the case. not that he’s a bad fighter, it’s just that cab drivers are insane. especially in the city. he could also be shaking hands with his brother by now or possibly lifting a cold beer to his lips. if that’s the case then i’m jealous. (am now happily sipping on my favorite brew… blue moon.) blue moon smells like my grandma’s bread when it’s still in the yeast feeding stage. the first sip tastes like foamy yeast with a hint of citrus and as you drink more and more the after taste becomes reminiscent of that of an orange which is great but i’m drinking beer, not eating fruit. it can be deceiving. the morning after doesn’t taste as sweet. so i hope he’s drinking beer by now. he will then use his hands to pay for his bill and open doors to get home. which i hope will be before 2 am since i am going to visit. sleepy grumpy boyfriends are not fun people.

step 3: Use a metaphor to say something about some exotic place.

and off the beaten path we go. metaphors are fun. not when your blocked up like this. when your brain had too much cheese and refuses to expel anything but gibberish. so now i have to think exotic… which to me right now is not necessarily a warm fuzzy beach. exotic to me is change. anything different that results in a successful path for me. exotic in its true definition means strange or weird or from another place. metaphor has a definition all its own. its one thing but also many. so now my brain is in overdrive… exotic place: my next destination. chicago. we hope. my final destination, my retirement place, who knows. i hope somewhere warm and cozy but my life resembles “Who’s on first?” and “where’s waldo?” so who the fuck knows? metaphors to describe this place could be… “the feline travels onward to the maze of wind and light.” (maze of wind and light being chicago, cats = landing on all four feet, curious, adventurous, a certain shape of eye, etc. friends compare me to a cat)

step 4: Ask this person a question somehow involving #2 & #3 above.

oh sure… now i see… the one step at a time process involves me making an ass out of myself. ok. i’m game. possible questions…

1) baby, if the feline wanders into the maze, will your hands still pay for the bill?

2) sweetie, get your hands off my feline?

3) the feline has arrived, where are your hands?

hm… next.

step 5: The person looks up, notices you there, and gives an answer that shows he or she only got part of what you were asking.

him: “did you just ask me to get my ass on an airline?”

me: “no, i asked you to get your hands off my cat.”

him: “what cat?”

me: “the one you’re petting?”

him: “babe.”

me: “yes?”

him: (cocks head)

me: (blinks and slightly smiles)

him: (raises eyebrow)

me: (blinks and slightly smiles)

him: “this is not a cat.”

me: “scientifically, no!”

him: (sighs)

me: “but your hand is on it…”

step 6: Now spend some time shaping your responses into a poem or short story. Or, if you prefer, use this as a jumping off point for a freewriting session.

i’m not sure if this could be turned into a poem. and for that matter, i’m not sure i could turn it into a short story. at least not without putting some sort of over 18 warning on my page. but the process was interesting. two steps that relate. one that doesn’t. two more steps that relate. this is supposed to be the cure for writer’s block. yeah, we’ll see.

His name is Julius Meinl.

And his manager’s name is Conner.

And tonight… I had the most beautiful coffee experience of my life because of these two gentlemen.

From the moment I walked into this coffee shop I knew I would want to sit and stay awhile. The live jazz musicians dressed in black playing “The Girl from Ipanema”, the beautifully handcrafted desserts on their silver platters, and the warm earthy atmosphere hit me in the right spot. I was told upon entering that they are a full service coffee shop and to please take a seat anywhere.

So I chose a cute little corner settee with a table and two other chairs across from the musicians and placed my order with the manager. I decided that since it IS a Viennese coffee shop I should try a Viennese dessert. So I ordered the Vienna cake which is a dense chocolate cake covered in chocolate ganache with a layer of apricot in between. I did not expect my coffee to come out on a silver platter. Nor did I expect it to come with the cutest little spoon you’ve ever seen garnishing a tiny glass of water on it’s very own doily. It was adorable… and FANCY. And SO delicious.

My latte came complete with latte art which I appreciated as a fellow barista attempting to master this simple but not easy art. And my cake? Well, they drizzled the plate with chocolate sauce and before plating sprinkled dark cocoa powder on top of the ganache. This was heaven. I wanted to sit here all night. Eat my cake with my tiny fork and drink my monet latte, watch people, and listen to some really great musicians. This is the cafe I had been dreaming about. The cafe *I* wanted to own, and here it was in full swing.

This kind of thing is what I miss about the city. The hustle and bustle and then the calm right smack dab in the middle of the storm. So perfect.

I want more.

2. Fighting. Of any kind. Including… friends, boyfriend, mother, dog, neighbors, distributors, bosses, etc.

3. Ex boyfriend sending weird texts.

4. Old stalkers making another appearance.

5. Bill payments… especially the kind that have potential to make your account negative.

6. Bombardment of work. I’m talking rogue orders, reviews that aren’t done yet, boss getting mad because my idea of giving notice is not her idea of giving notice (me giving more than two weeks in unacceptable), scheduling issues which is more like scheduling cluster fuck of immeasurable fuckedupedness…. it goes on. I’ll say… I wanted to quit this week to the point where one day I didn’t put on my apron all day in case I needed to just leave. Yes, it’s that bad.

7. Random injury… woke up one morning with a big ankle and a scratch, then discovered random bruises all over my body, and my shin hurts now. I’m beginning to think that Maddie might be beating the shit out of me at night. Not sure why though. I feed her!

8. Medical issues. No further explanation given.

9. Large meals. They require cigarettes.

10. Other people smoking. Yeah, I’m THAT selfish. I want the world to quit smoking the week I do. Because when I go on my break to smoke usually it’s children I have to hide from and baby strollers. The week I quit smoking, all I see are smokers. Every fucking where. Old people, young people, like 16 year old young people, people my age. People I know. People I don’t know. All of them mocking me. It’s relentless.