It’s Raining On Demo Day

Some days are awesome, filled with adventure and excitement for whats to come. Today is not one of those days. This morning I woke up to a headache. Not a bad one, just one of those subtle throbs that’s juuuuust enough to make you want to pull the covers over your head and remain in the cocoon of your bed… indefinitely. But, I didn’t. I can’t be that big of a slacker ass loser. I have to at least pretend to be productive since I still don’t have a job. 4 months without a paycheck, but who’s keeping track, right? My bank, that’s who is keeping fucking track.

After I’ve made a cup of coffee I sat down to check all my emails and to look over the job sites that I visit every 2 or 3 days to check for new listings that I might be at least qualified for. Low and below I’ve been informed that while my “self evaluation showed that I met minimum qualifications required, I was not referred to the hiring manager” for an Administrative Assistant job that I applied for. So I guess that a decade of experience in Strategic Planning and Project Management isn’t enough for me to get an admin job with the Federal Government. Perhaps if I get my MBA, they one day will let me answer a phone but lets be realistic, probably not.

As I forcefully sent that email notification to the trash my fitness tracker beeped at me and told me it was time to stand up. I actually said out load to my wrist, “I will fucking murder you.” in a menacing tone. Literally I felt murdery. Yes, that’s a real word, because I say it is. This tune was what inside my brain sounded like:

Then my sweet, annoying, demanding, drooling cat kept crawling on me. Meowing at me. Forcefully head-butting my hands as I tried to type through job searches, rubbing saliva covered jowls on my forearms. Bless his heart for wanting to show his murdery (still a real word, don’t even argue with me today) mom attention. Not wanting to be a dick to an innocent geriatric cat, I figured I should probably sit at the kitchen table like a fucking adult to type rather than slouched in the corner of the couch anyway, and moved. The. Cat. Followed. Me. He sat at my feet, meowing. Then that didn’t work he stood on his hind end with his front paws on my thighs meowing.  Then he jumped on my lap, lost balance, clawed the hell out of me and fell. So I had to pull another chair over right next to mine so he cold sit by me. And because I am murdery (fight me about that word, I dare you) today, I’m irritated by his love. Which makes me feel bad, because who gets mad about an innocent animal loving them?

puddy
Exhibit A – Furry jerk insisting on being next to me at all times, except with the Sailor is home, then I am dead to him.

So, I’m sitting at the table with my stupid loving cat finally situated and I have no interest in looking for a job because that’s just going to depress me further. So, I open the blinds to the little balcony and see that it’s grey and rainy, which makes me happy and also explains my mild head throb. I friggen love this kind of weather. Expecting to get blasted by a humid inferno, I tentatively cracked the balcony door to find, it’s almost cool outside so, I leave the door cracked. But, the sound of cars driving on wet pavement, the slight smell of ozone and the grey sky makes me think of home and now I’m weepy and battling homesickness.

Just as I’ve almost given into getting back in bed and reading my book for the entire day, my phone buzzes. I have a notification from my menstrual tracker app. Side note: Listen, I can’t take oral BC anymore thanks to the Big C, which used to be my way of knowing when Aunt Flow’s train was due to arrive.  Once that went bye bye, I could never remember to write down when to expect to be surfing the crimson wave again so I could always be prepared and not taken by surprise in public. So, I downloaded the Flo app and wa-la, my phone just tells me like it does with everything else in my life. Anyway, Flo sends me a notification that sometime in the next 24 hours or so, my uterus will begin to violently tear down it’s own walls, pissed-off that it has decorated a womb-nursery for a spawn only to be told, “Not this time buddy,” and it will all go to waste yet again.

And it all becomes clear to me. This isn’t me being murdery, this is my uterus being a angry that I haven’t gone forth and been fruitful, wasting all her work on redecorating for the hope of a cellular minion taking up shop there. She’s beginning her hormonal temper tantrum in preparation of demo’ing my internal nursery. Now I know I can just eat a bag of Salt and Vinegar Chips and a few (dozen) donuts and I’ll feel better. You’d think after 15 years of this happening every fucking month I’d have a clue by now.

Archie’s Dad Likes Throw Pillows Apparently

I’m trying to watch Riverdale on Netflix but, I’m struggling. Not because of the plot or acting. Those are fine and intriguing enough. It’s because a house that consists of a single man who runs a construction company, his teenage son and his teenage sons best friend has throw pillows. I’m sorry, I don’t care if his wife literally left less than 48 hours ago, the first thing to get tossed would be throw pillows. I have never met a straight man that doesn’t mind throw pillows. For example, please see My Throw Pillows

And That Brings Us to Today

It’s been a hot second since I’ve posted a new little ditty on here. Lets catch you up to speed on where we are at.

My domain expired. I had a friend helping me with the set up of this pointless endeavor and he had a new adorable wee bebe so we both spaced and some other person, for some god unknown reason, snatched it up and posted it for sale for $1500. I tracked down the new owner and contacted them via email explaining what the site previously was and how it came to expire. I heard nothing back from them. I’m not rich so I threw a tantrum and considered all my options for renaming this bitch. When I finally decided on a replacement, I went to buy the new domain but, bitterly I decided to see what the current asking price was for my old site. Miraculously it was back down to $14.99. Blessed be! I’d like to think my email to the owner had something to do with it. Most likely he realized that I wasn’t Neil Offerman (LOVE LOVE LOVE if only I was so lucky to be a fraction of the awesomeness of that genius of a man) promoting his book Paddle Your Own Canoe but, some whack-a-do that likes to overshare about her stupidity and cancer treatments. So I bought it back. Then tried to restore my old posts to find that I couldn’t but, I had some back ups that I was able to copy and paste into new posts (No, the “My First Brazilian Wax” post is still lost; sorry folks). So here we are.

The Sailor returned from Deployment. He was unscathed and sassy as ever. He even made it home for Christmas 2016 by the hair on his chiny chin chin.

I’m officially cancer free. Put that in your pipe and smoke it Satan.

Once I was declared cancer free I searched for a typical 9-5 job again. I was unsuccessful. Thanks Hampton Roads area. So I took a job with Starbucks to at least not have to work strictly evenings as a waitress.bartender. Not so surprisingly, I love the dang job. I goof off all day with people half my age and drink all the lattes I can handle on my breaks. Though, I’m not kidding about kids half my age. Just the other day I found a partner working at my store from another local store was BORN the fucking year I graduated high school. I literally could be his mom. And I died a little inside. I’m the oldest person at my store. I’ve even got 2 years on my boss. They call my grandma. I’m not even mad about it.

My hair is almost chin length. It grew back darker. Like a light brown. Wasn’t a fan. So I dyed it myself and turned it orange. My lovely friend and hair stylist fixed it and dyed it a pretty platinum blonde. I’m harkening my youth. It’s Christan’s color circa 1999. I’m a fan for now.

The Sailor got sent down to Texas for Hurricane Harvey Relief… Then the US Virgin Islands for Hurricane Irma… Then Puerto Rico for Hurricane Maria. He was gone for over 90 days. It was like a mini deployment. He missed our planned vacation (which is why we RARELY plan anything and just decide one day to hit the road and go on an adventure) and the laundry he returned with was some of the funkiest to date. I was not a fan of the entire situation but, I had basic amenities like clean water and power so I kept my bitching to myself and took my time off to drive up to visit family in Ohio for a week. It wasn’t Disney World like we had planned but, hey, whaddaya gon do right?

The Sailor got new orders. Konnichiwa bitches, we’re moving to Japan. June 2018 we’ll be packing the cats up and headed west. Way west. We had hoped to get back to the Pacific Northwest but, fuck it, the Navy overshot by several thousand miles. But, again, whaddaya gonna do, right? I’m looking forward to copious amounts of Sushi and Ramen going in my gob but dreading shipping the cats and driving on the other side of the road.

When The Sailor got his written new orders he was A.) In The Virgin Islands and B.) noticed my name was spelled wrong. I had 60 days to get my oversees pre-screening completed and I was on my own. Let me tell you, YOU NEED ALL 60 DAMN DAYS. I couldn’t get the Navy to fix the misspelling of my name in 60 days as hard as I tried. I finagled getting the screening done anyway. I did find out though that the Sailor had been TRYING to get it fixed since February of 2016 when he first noticed it. 4 months. It took 4 more months of me losing my shit in various Naval Offices and my husband faxing paper work that he had to sign from the ship off the shore of Puerto Rico and finally when he arrived back home and started to follow up at my constant badgering about it. Then they put me on medical hold be cause, cancer. Always fucking cancer. Apparently the Navy gets nervous sending people with the C word (even if previously with the big C) overseas. So they wouldn’t issues updated written orders until I was medically cleared. Which I got after my Oncologist jumped through a couple paperwork hoops for me and I followed up every other week. It was a whole thing that drove me to the brink of insanity. Had my blog been up and working at the time this paragraph would be several posts and the word fuck in all its forms would occur much more liberally.

We took an extra week off before our Ohio Christmas trip to hit up Disney World since we missed out planned fall trip. It was amazing. But crowded. And the lines were epic compared to when we go during off season times. And they don’t do military discounts from Mid-November to like Mid January so it was hella expensive. And I was actually really overwhelmed a lot of the time because of all the people. And when I finally had to pick a souvenir for myself I fucking wigged out and gave up and said, “I don’t need anything!” before storming out of the billionth place we walked through for the millionth time because I had a fucking panic attack in the over crowded, over stocked gift store. I cried. The Sailor took me to a Sunglass Hut that was on the way out and bought me a pair of fancy, polarized, folding Ray Bans before we left Disney Springs. As we walked out, he patted my arm and said, “Now you have your souvenir babe.” The Sailor likes to fix things for me, quietly and without much fanfare. He’s good like that.

Our friends got orders to Italy. I’m super jealous. Don’t get me wrong, Japan is going to be an awesome 3 year adventure but, FUCKING ITALY! Think of the wine and pasta those bitches are going to have at their fingertips.

I found out my cholesterol has doubled in the last year. I’m assuming it’s the spike in whole milk lattes that I’ve started to ingest multiple times a day at my job at the Bucks. I’ve started using Nonfat milk grudgingly. I tried Almond milk but, I just couldn’t. That stuff is gross yo.

The Sailor has developed a serious obsession with watches. Like really fancy expensive fucking watches. Meanwhile I bought a bodycon black mini skirt for $5 at Charlotte Russe for work and wondered if it would be cheaper to buy fabric and make one (it’s not). We can all tell who the truly frugal one is versus Champagne Dreams and Caviar Wishes.

The battery in the Prius finally died. 11 years old,  and it finally gave in. The replacement was like $300. It’s located in the back buried in a corner under the spare tire space. The Sailor got to wear a head lamp and sit in the squished hatchback in our dark parking garage to finagle the old one out and new one in. I just stood there and watched. Occasionally I handed him things so technically, I helped.

Tonight I made Tatertot Casserole for dinner. Because nothing says low cholesterol like ground beef sautéed in cream of celery then baked under a layer of tatertots and melted cheddar. Yolo bitchados.

And that pretty much brings you up to now give or take give or take a few barefoot-cat-puke episodes, a couple mini nervous break downs over minor occurrences and one major melt down when my Student Loans jacked back up to their pre-cancer-reduced monthly payment amounts. Fucking student loans. They ruin everything, am I right?

I Went Camping (Original Post 08/25/16)

Last week I spent a few hours here and there preparing. I got all the equipment out of storage. I checked everything was in working order. I planned meals and shopped for provisions. I organized and made lists and packed. I took 3 slow days off from work and prepared to spend them camping. 2 days and 2 nights in the rolling mountains of Shenandoah, solo. I wanted to spend some quiet time away from home surrounded by trees and scenic vistas. I wanted to lay in a hammock and read endlessly while listening to the wind in the leaves of the trees around me. I wanted to do it before my next surgery and before the threat of cold nights were peppered with the possibility of snow. Mostly, I wanted to go because it’s something the Sailor and I usually do together and I miss him. You see, he’s deployed right now for 7 long months. We have about 4.5 left to go. He’s somewhere over on the other side of the world camping out on a hot African beach or floating around in some foreign sea and I’m here in Virginia and it sucks. I thought maybe a little short foray into the mountains “like normal” might make it feel more “normal” even with him gone but, it didn’t. Making a fire at night didn’t hold the fun and excitement it should have because his pyro ass wasn’t the one making it. Sitting next to the orange glow didn’t warm my soul like it usually does because there wasn’t another chair next to me staring at it.  So I laid in my hammock read books warmed by the sun and rocked by the breeze. I knit and colored. At dark, I stared at the fire eating sandwiches. And when I laid down in my tent I looked up at the same stars that hopefull he got to look at 8 hours earlier and let myself be sad knowing that missing his stupid face is OK. And driving 4 hours away to to escape all his things in the little apartment we share together to cope with it is ok too.

My Not So Secret Life as an Introvert (Original Post 01/28/16)

Most people can’t imagine that I am an introvert. I have a loud voice that carries across a crowed room. I am someone that will yell “OY! EVERYONE QUIET DOWN A MINUTE,” when someone at a gathering or meeting is trying unsuccessfully to get everyone to pipe the fuck down and pay attention. I have no problems telling ridiculous jokes in mixed company and I have no shame in dropping the word fuck in every day conversation. The problem is getting me out of the house.

I am an extroverted introvert. I know that sounds like a bunch of hooey but, it’s for real. When I am home, it’s the best thing ever. Wearing comfy sweat pants and over sized tees and having access to my favorite juice at any time, it’s awesome. Laying on my couch and binge watching Downton Abbey on Amazon Video nonstop with the occasional bowl of ice cream drowned in chocolate syrup and melted peanut butter. Nothing sounds more perfect. Me, cocooned in a fuzzy blanket, watching TV in a medium grade sugar induced coma.

Most of my friends don’t understand this. They assume that I want to be surrounded with chatter and socialization; to be a social butterfly as they perceive me. But that is not me. It hasn’t been me since I was… I don’t even know, 2001? 2000? I can’t even remember honestly because I have never been that into hanging out and doing shit. I enjoy doing what I want comfortably in my own home. Alone most of the time. I could go days without social interaction other than going to the grocery store and spending 4 minutes talking to the cashier ringing my groceries.

I hit the jack pot with The Sailor. He’s calm, quiet and shares my affinity for hunkering down at home. We can sit in the living room side by side reading or watching a movie content in each other’s presence. We can drive in the car silent listening to the radio and not feel compelled to fill the time with chatter unless we have something important to talk about. He accepts both sides of me; the hermit that would rather forgo pants for a night in a dimly lit room watching movies than getting dressed up and made up to go mingle in a crowd of people 95% of which I barely know if at all as well as the loud mouth goof that likes to make people laugh.

So you see, when I decline an invite to go to a party or out for a girls night, it’s not that I don’t like you or your company, it’s just that the thought of putting on pants and doing my make up let alone getting off the couch is simply too overwhelming to me at the time. It’s me, not you. Don’t think I won’t ever accept. I will, eventually. You should also know that I’ll never lie to you when I decline. I’ll alway be honest. If I simply don’t feel like it, I’ll tell you as such. No lame excuses from me. Try not to take that personal either.

So there you have it. I rarely want to leave my funk hole of home but, when I do, I have no problem socializing and bringing laughter to the room. And when I do leave my house I promise to wear pants.

Marry a Man (Original Post 01/09/16)

Marry a man that will hold you tight when days are rough.

Marry a man that will carry you to the bathroom when your legs fail you.

Marry a man that recognizes when you are sad and asks you what is wrong.

Marry a man that doesn’t mind tears and snot on his shoulder.

Marry a man that reassures you that you’re the one no matter what.

Marry a man that can make you laugh even when you absolutely don’t want to.

Marry a man that holds your hand in the darkest hours and tells you there is a light.

Marry a man that finds entertainment in the very presence of you, even if that’s at 2 am in the ER.

Marry a man that means it when he says “For better or worse, in sickness and in health”.

Marry a man that will watch 10 hours of Downton Abbey with you and never complain.

Marry a man that wouldn’t dream of letting you face a single doctors visit alone.

Marry a man that buys you a candy bar everytime he stops for gas.

Marry a man that would drive over an hour round trip alone just to get you a food craving when there is nothing else you want to eat.

Marry a man that will get you a drink from the kitchen 20 times a day even when you’re not sick.

Marry a man that loves your pets as much as he loves you.

Marry a man that loves you enough to buy you hemroid cream.

Marry a man that will drive you at 12am to get ice cream.

Marry a man that will rub your aching legs without you having to ask.

Marry a man that tells you you’re cute even when you lose your hair.

Marry a man will clean the litter box for you.

Marry a man that wants you to be happy above all else.

Marry a man that you want to be happy above all else.

A Brave New Generation (Original Post 05/26/15)

My generation is weird. I can’t think of a better description; simple and straight to the point – WEIRD. We live in a strange no man’s land somewhere between Gen X’s damn the man cool grunge ways and Millennials tech savvy computer driven worlds. Some people call us Gen Y but really, let’s admit it, we made that shit up in a weak attempt to fit in. And Gen Y isn’t even that creative. We deserve a better designation though I can’t think of one that would pass as acceptable. It’s like we are the silent always ready to please middle child of the generations.

Think about it, we are the last ones to say we used a library card catalogue to find our “Choose Your Own Adventure” books but, also have navigated the computer catalogue system searching for the latest Anne Rice novel so we could imagine a dreamy vampire Brad Pitt seeking us out in the shadows.  Heck, we remember going to the library to use actual books to research papers as well as scouring the internet for legit citations. We remember the awe of the first home computers and saving digital files but we can tell you how to load a typewriter tape and make manual type corrections. We can tell you tales of committing numerous phone numbers to memory, hand dialing them in to the phone mounted to the wall of our kitchen to see if someone wanted to go ride their bike to see a movie but, we can also tell you how to program a recording on your cell phone to become a ringtone. And bless our middle child hearts, we know what life was like before social media. Back when if you took a picture, you made damn sure it was a worthwhile memory that you didn’t want to forget because each one cost you precious earned money for the film and the developing. Then again, we also know what our friend from 3rd grade, now 35 years old, had for brunch on Sunday thanks to Instagram.

Thankfully we were lucky enough to learn to navigate those shark infested waters as relative adults. I mean, I didn’t even have MySpace until I was in my 20’s and Facebook I was closer to 30 and I’ll leave it at that. We didn’t have to worry about some bullshit whiney post complaining about one thing or another coming back in 8 years to bite us in the ass and eliminating us from getting a job we applied for. Or worse, getting us fired from a job we already had. I mean, when you are 16 and you type “I’m stoned as fuck and I don’t caaaaaaarrrrrreeeeeezzzzzz” Do you really think about being 22 and applying for your first internship at a law firm? Or better yet being 38 and contemplating getting into politics? Heck no. You’re not thinking because you are 16 and dumb to begin with and now stoned on top of it.

We didn’t have to worry about super creeps trolling for young girls and boys to prey on by disguising themselves virtually as a same age love interest. Then proceeding to lure them to sneak out and hop a train or a bus to their “hometown” to meet where they are attacked or worse never heard from again. Don’t think it doesn’t happen. It does, and it’s scary. This, this chills me to my core. The internet helping predators find young people who are naive, looking for love and attention and exploiting it. My friend once worked with “To Catch A Predator” as a young 20-something posing as an underage girl. The things these pervs would type to her… It left me aghast at what she would talk about. Some things she just wanted to forget and I will never know.

We didn’t have to learn the harsh reality of cyber bullying. Once we made it through the gruelling days at school of being pushed into lockers or your head being bopped down into the drinking fountain while you stole a sip on the way to your next class, we were safe. Save for your evil older siblings and the occasional weekend run in with the trashy girl from the next block over that always seemed to be dating a boy several years older that somehow seemed to always catch you riding your bike around the block or walking to a friend’s house. Inevitably she would make her stupid grit stash boyfriend jump over your head or power lift your scrawny self over his head because you were skinny and nerdy and helpless… her name was Yvette and she was a bitch, I’ll never forget but, I digress…

Outside of school we had a relative safe haven. We got home and played our 8 bit Super Mario Brothers, climbed trees, rode bikes to the playground or just aimlessly walked/rode around the block and went about our kid lives for the most part. We didn’t log onto the internet to continue the barrage of insults and cruel jokes. Lets face it, the buffer of the internet rather than face to face has empowered a whole new league of hate filled shit mouthed brats. I have personally witnessed some of the evil and vile venom these little punk ass clowns have spewed at there peers and it’s horrifying. I walked away from my computer screen feeling like a worthless rat and I am am adult (well in theory I am at least). I couldn’t have handled it. It would have broke me in a way that is vile and sad. It practically brings me to tears thinking of the poor girls and boys as empathetic as I was at that age enduring that kind of blind hate and insults.

When you start to break it down, we are the last innocent generation. Oblivious to how hate filled and ugly the world could be on such a personal level. At the same time, we are adaptable in ways we never imagined as young’uns. We have changed with the times and rapidly at that. We know and appreciate the innocence and simplicity of our youth and can successfully deal with the in your face digital sensationalism that is our adult years.

I weep for current and the near future generations. They don’t know any better. They will never know or understand the freedom of not having a cell permanently affixed to their hand demanding immediate and constant attention. They will never know the anonymity that having a digital free life brings. They will always have information at their fingertips, immediately and in most cases whether they want it or not. Social and online news media will report world events before they happen and quietly slink away into the shadows when the fear mongering stories turn out to be less than a blip. That fear will stay with them and continue to be fed by each successive in your face breaking news story jammed down their eye sockets. The grass will always be greener in the Jones’ lawn proudly displayed all over Facebook, Instagram and Twitter. They will always strive to keep up with the next, to post the better picture, to get more likes and to have the most viewed life so much so that they will forget to enjoy it. Or worse yet, they will over look the unhappiness that those hundreds of “happy” pictures cover.

I shudder at the thought of where their bigger faster more better I hate you because you’re different generation will lead us and the next generations to come. We could turn out like the Jettson’s with Rosie pressing buttons to 3d print our hot family meal before we get in our flying car to go to the 4d cerebral movie venue or we could become Huxley’s “A Brave New World” limited by each other to such extremes that critical thinking and emotion is frowned upon just do what you’re told but here, here are limitless amounts of material things to play with and amuse yourselves for as short as you like, then just toss them. Like Dick and Sue next door. Just don’t start thinking for yourself or feeling and we will keep giving you more stuff.