I got mad skills, yo.

I know that my posts are kinda few and far between lately, but I have a good reason. I've taken on yet another new role: General Contractor. Yep, that's right, Miss I Suck At All Things Home Improvementy is now a general contractor. The good thing about being a general contractor is that I don't have to use a glue gun like for stupid crafting. The bad thing about being a general contractor is that I don't get use a glue gun like for stupid crafting because that would be way easier than the other tools I find myself using.

For instance, last weekend I put up tile in the kitchen (BY MYSELF thankyouvermuch). So I went to Home Depot and asked the tile guy for help. He kept asking me all these questions like, do you have a grout float? I was like, dude. I don't even know what grout is, let alone why I'd want to float it. Or what I'd float it in. Or why. Why don't you just tell me what I need. Ok? Thanks so much. He was like, oh, ok. So you've never done this before. Good call buddy. So he gets me this stuff, which was basically like a big sheet of double-sided tape, and assured me I could do this. So not believing him, I was like, if you say so. What's next? He gives me this big box of powder (which is apparently what grout comes in before you add water and make a horrible mess all over your new floors). I told him I REALLY wanted the premixed kind, he said I didn't. I suppose he was right about that, because it was really fun mixing it with the drill bit extender stirrer thngy (see how I've learned all the technical names for tools now?). $120 later and I was off to hopefully not wreck the kitchen that I'd spent almost a month fixing. It really was easy, way easier than I thought it would be. I did stick my head to the wall a couple of times (that double sided tape stuff is REALLY sticky), and I did get black grout everywhere. And I did ruin some of the tile when I threw across the room because it wouldn't go on the wall straight. But I did it. BY MYSELF. Did I mention I did it by myself?

This week I've been working on staining the cabinets. I think I'm completely high on the fumes, but the cabinets look great. I'm thisclose to finishing the kitchen, and I can't wait to show y'all how awesome it is. In the meantime, please be patient with me. This whole homeownership thing is way more time consuming than I'd thought it would be. On the other hand, more validation for my awesomeness is never a bad thing.

I'm back, and I'm still a badass

Nearly 30 days since my last post. Honestly, I thought that maybe I'd stop blogging. I thought that with all the changes, the new set of expectations, and my new "job", I just didn't have time to write. Well, this is my second day home alone, and really, you can only wipe off the counters so many times before you get bored.

So here I am. In my new house. In Georgia. It's pretty damn awesome. Yes, I only have one working bathroom. And yes, it doesn't have a sink. Sure, we're still brushing our teeth in the kitchen sink, but you know what? I don't care. I'm in my own house. Oh, AND...it has a dishwasher! I've never had a dishwasher before, so that's exciting...if getting excited about appliances is your thing. Apparently it's mine. Which is a little bothersome because I'm not the kind of girl who gets all giddy over appliances. For instance, last night I was cooking dinner and I pushed a button on the microwave (it had a picture of a light bulb on it) and what do you know? A light came on! But before you go scoffing and thinking I'm total retard, let me explain. The microwave is over the stove, so when I pushed the button, I thought that the light INSIDE the microwave would come on. Nope, light UNDER the microwave came on, so my stove top was lit up. Ok, I know, this wouldn't excite many people, but it thrilled the hell out of me.

I'm almost done unpacking. It's been a little nerve rattling because the other day I moved a box and the biggest cockroach I've ever seen jumped out and tried to kill me, worse, he brought his brother to help. The kids were sitting on the bed and Davey jumped up and shrieked like a girl, he started jumping up and down on the bed, Kat was waving her arms around screaming, I on the other hand, was very calm. I calmly said, oh my, a large cockroach. I need to kill it. Yeah...not so much. I let out a bloodcurdling Jaime Lee Curtis "Halloween" scream and ran out of the room. Chris was standing in the kitchen laughing. I was like, did you not hear me screaming? He was like, yeah, I heard you. I was like, weren't you going to check to make sure we were ok? Aren't you concerned for the welfare of your wife and children? He was all, no. I figured you saw a bug. I was like, well...I did. But you're a jerk. I finally convinced him to stop laughing at me and come kill it. He found the first one and stomped on it, but the second one ran under the bed and Chris wouldn't go find it. He said if I feel compelled to crawl under the bed and look for a cockroach I should do so, but he wasn't going to. I decided I didn't really want to either. Now, every time I move a box, I expect to see a cockroach. We found a dead one in the bathroom that wasn't there when we first moved in, Chris said it was probably the one that ran under the bed. He said the house has been bug sprayed, so it was just a matter of time before it died. I'm not sure if I believe him, but I haven't seen any more yet, so I hope he's telling the truth and not just waiting for me to amuse him with more screaming and flailing about.

Everyone warned me that there would be big bugs here, I just had to get used to them. I think I'm getting the hang of it. Yesterday morning I was sitting at the table drinking my coffee when I saw this big brown hoppy crawly bug. Some kind of beetle on steroids or something. He was prancing around in his annoying little bug way thinking he's the shit. I calmly put my coffee cup down, picked up a hammer and smashed the crap out of him. I was like, that's right, bitch. Who's the badass now?

Screw saving money. Next time I'm just buying what I want.

Our table isn't going to fit in our new house. Well, it might fit, but it's going to be really tight, so Chris and I decided that we needed a new table. So I picked a table from Pottery Barn. The table was $600, which I thought wasn't all that expensive, of course this could be why I'm not allowed out alone with a credit card anymore, but I was in love. Chris said I could get anything I wanted, which I love to hear. Unfortunately, what I think he really meant is, you can have anything you want until I remember that I'm cheap and will do anything to save money. We went to this wholesale liquidation store on Saturday. They had this pub table, that came with 4 chairs for $150. Before I knew what was happening, Chris was sweet talking the salesman and we were no longer in the market for a table. Chris was all, I know it's not Pottery Barn, but you have great taste, and I know you'll make it beautiful. Against my better judgement, and in what can only be described as a typhoid fever-induced haze, I nodded and said (totally getting my Tim Gunn on), I'll make it work. Obviously I was high. The table is beat to shit. It's smoke damaged because it was an insurance loss in a fire. The chairs are rickety and the seat cushions look like they've been dragged through the mud. But I figured if I give up my Pottery Barn table, I'll make up for it somewhere else. Maybe a great backsplash, a new living room chair, I've got a whole house to shop for. And fixing this table can't be THAT bad, right?

We get the table home, and Kat and I spent about an hour scraping off the foam shit that they use to put fires out, because it's stuck all over the chairs. We tightened up the chairs, put them back together the right way (someone put some of them together totally wrong), and we start painting. After awhile, my knee starts stiffening up, so I put my paint brush down to stretch my legs and Kat's hellbeast puppy steals my paint brush and runs away with it into the living room. Keep in mind that the brush is about as big as she is. So Bella, being the monster adorable puppy that she is, got black paint everywhere. All over the kitchen floor, the wall, everywhere. She finally dropped it in the living room. On the rug. Black paint on my tan carpet. Love it. After spending about 45 minutes scrubbing the carpet, I get the paint out and give up for the day.

Day 2, I start painting again, and Kat's pain in the ass puppy starts frolicking around, like jumping around and wagging her tail under the chairs that I've just painted. Then she starts rubbing all over the legs of the chair like a damn cat. So Kat's white dog now has paint all over her, and I have to repaint because there's white beast dog hair on my freshly painted chairs. After another couple times of her messing up my paint, stealing my paint brush and getting black paint on the carpet (again), I finally finished painting. On to step two. Recovering the chairs.

I am so done with this stupid motherfucking project at this point, I cut the fabric completely crooked carefully measure the fabric, and start the recovering. Ok, I don't know if I'm just a big wuss or if I have the world's hardest to use staple gun, but I couldn't staple that damn thing for the life of me. I had to use both hands, which was next to impossible because I needed another 2 hands to pull the fabric tight. Son of a bitch. This is why I hate crafting/home improvement projects. It's also incidentally why I'd rather just buy what I want than rescue some dilapidated piece of shit just to save money, but I digress. I had to ask Chris for help, which just irritated me more. I only put the fabric on backwards once, which I thought was a major accomplishment.

I'm still not done with this horrible project. I have sheets all over the kitchen, chairs everywhere, one of the tables in like 12 pieces, the other one covered with laundry, I can't get to the stove, I have shit all over the counters, and it looks like a fabric store exploded all over my dining room. I'm thinking for all this, I've totally earned a backsplash.

I AM crafty! Who knew?

Friday I got it in my head that I should refinish the buffet. I spent the afternoon trying to sand the finish off it. First, sanding sucks, even with an electric sander. It's so, so boring. I got the top about 3/4 done when I sent Chris a text that said, Screw this. I'm done sanding. I'm thinking at this point that maybe home projects aren't really my thing, I have no patience for it. When Chris got home from work he tried to show me how "easy" it was to sand. It was still messy and boring as hell. So I told him where he could put his sander and decided to just paint it instead. I went to Home Depot and got my primer and paint, then we spend about an hour and half in the drawer pull aisle. Debating on the merits of brushed metal compared to silver or embossed silver. For real. I think that we just need to have a constant argument going. He finally said, Babe, seriously, I don't care. Just pick something. Good enough, sounds like a win to me.

So I got home and was all re-enthused about painting it. I started priming it and the phone rang. It was our pastor (also a huge football fan). It was opening weekend of college football, and he didn't get the channel that his team's game was on, so Chris invited him to watch it at our house. Keep in mind my house was a disaster. Dust everywhere from sanding all day, drawers emptied out, painting sheets all over the floor, it was an enormous mess. He says, you don't mind, right? Heh. It was ok though, it made me get my ass in gear. There was no way I was going to let my pastor and his wife come to my house like that. You should see her house, it's right out of Southern Living, it's so, so beautiful. I have total house-envy. So, I got up early Saturday morning and finished the buffet (it's gorgeous, by the way), got the house cleaned and out back together, showered and was ready in time to watch the Georgia game with Chris. Then I got the best compliment...EVER. The pastor's wife said, Oh, I love your house, you really have style. It's very...Pottery Barn. I could have died and gone to heaven right then. I played it cool though, I was like, Oh, thank you, it's nothing. Inside I was totally going, omgomgomgomg YEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS! Success! I mean, my love for all things Pottery Barn is really no secret.

That's what it looks like now. I didn't take a before picture, mostly because I didn't think it would turn out this good and I didn't want to have any proof that I messed it up.

So maybe I don't hate home projects after all, maybe I just needed some validation. Or maybe projects that include an electric sander just inherently suck. Or maybe I just really have no patience. Either way, it was a big accomplishment, and I really love it. I celebrated by doing absolutely nothing for the next 48 hours.

My knight in porcelain armor

Yesterday afternoon we ran out of toilet paper. I meant to get some on the way home from Kat's tumbling but was too lazy to get out of the car at the grocery store forgot. We used tissues, it wasn't a big deal. We're accustomed to running out of things because I am really lazy and hate grocery shopping a very busy woman. At about 11:00 last night, I really had to poop and remembered we still didn't have any toilet paper. So while I went to the bathroom, Chris went to the store for toilet paper. He was gone for what seemed like an eternity, but he swears it was no more than 10 minutes. Well, I don't have those kind of patience. I don't know, maybe it's from the trauma of being pregnant and not pooping for like 8 months, but I don't like sitting on the toilet for any extended period of time. So I was like, screw it. Tissues it is. I did my business and no sooner did I flush, than I heard Chris pulling in the driveway. I totally planned on giving him a hard time for taking so long, until I looked down. Fucking toilet is clogged and not flushing.

Son of a bitch. Haven't I already done this before? Once again, there's no plunger. I lent it to my ex like a month because he's too cheap to buy his own and I forgot to get it back from him. We have one of those stupid use-less-water-because-it's-good-for-the-environment-but-means-the-toilet-never-flushes-right toilets. So I flushed again. Yeah, that didn't help. So I tried plunging with the toilet brush. Chris pokes his head in the bathroom and sees me furiously shoving the toilet brush in the toilet bowl. He's like, babe, what the fuck did you do? Here, give me the plunger... I was like, actually, the plunger isn't here. Dave has it. He sighs and rolls his eyes at me, like it's MY fault that I was too impatient for toilet paper and I clogged the toilet and we could've plunged it but I let my ex husband borrow our plunger. Ok, maybe it's a little my fault, but I digress.

Chris: I'll borrow one from the neighbors.

Me: You can't do that! They're like 107, and already asleep.

Chris: Well, then I'll just have to unclog it.

Me: How do you propose we do that? We HAVE NO PLUNGER!

Chris: I'll just reach in there and plunge it with my hand.

Me: Ok, do you want me to...wait...what the fuck did you just say?

Chris: Babe, it's got to be done. You don't have to watch.

(he looks wearily at the toilet)

Me: Chris, no. Don't do it. I don't like letting you see me poop, and now you're talking about sticking your hand in it. Don't do it, please? I'll do it.

Chris: Stand back baby. I'm going in.

Me: Noooooo! Please stop!!! Oh God.

He stuck his hand in. Or, more specifically, up to his ELBOW. I was perched on the bathtub, tears rolling down my face from a combination of revulsion and laughter. He turned around and smiled at me, almost got it. The toilet gurgled and bubbled and after about a minute of him using his hand as a fucking plunger in my shit water, all the water went down.

After he showered in scalding hot water and used about a bottle and a half of antibacterial soap, I asked him why he would do such a thing, why not let me handle my own mess? His response? A shrug. That's my job.

That's the grossest/sweetest/most revolting/most chivalrous thing anyone has ever done for me.

My knight in porcelain armor.

Not the "Yard Sale Diva"

I spend the whole day Friday helping the kids clean out their closets and drawers, which is way less fun than it sounds. Friday night, Chris brought all of our old crap up from the basement and I spent the evening pricing things. Unfortunately, Chris had to work on Saturday, but I somehow wrangled my ex into helping me lug all of our crap out to the front lawn. So bright and early (5 am!), I was up and getting ready to make this yard sale happen. Here's why I'm never having another yard sale. Ever. Also why I really dislike people.

• At 6:26 IN THE MORNING there was an old couple on my front lawn rummaging through my stuff. I was like, Dude, seriously. The sun isn't even all the way up. Must you be here so damn early? Early bird catches the worm and all that shit, but I haven't even had a whole cup of coffee. For the love of all things holy, please go away and come back at 7. That's plenty early, and there will be plenty of worms left. Ok, I didn't really say that. But as my best fake smile was pasted on, I was totally thinking it.
• By 7, the yard sale was in full swing, there were people all over the damn place. It was then that I realized that it made me really uncomfortable people rummaging through my stuff. I felt kinda violated. Like all exposed.
• The crap people buy is unbelievable. For instance, I had these two glass dolphins. They were probably the cheesiest and cheapest-looking things I owned. The guy that bought them practically hurled himself at them and was like, OH. MY. GOD. I HAVE to have these! Damn. I only priced them at 25 cents each. I totally could've jacked the price up and made at least another dollar or two...on fucking glass dolphins. Crazy.
• Davey SUCKS, like as in the worst ever, at selling. One lady was trying to buy his old gerbil cage, and was like, how much is this? I was like, $5. She tucks it under her arm and totally looks like she's going to buy it. Davey says, my gerbil died in that cage. She turned her nose up and put the cage down. Sigh. Then later on, a lady says something about everything priced so cheap, and Davey says, yeah, my mom priced everything really low so people would buy her worthless crap. SIGH. I'm going to suggest strongly that he not go into sales as a profession.
• People suck. Like a lot. This one lady kept being like, make me a deal, $1 for these? I'll give you 25 cents. Totally trying to make me come down on every single thing she picked up. Then she snaps her fingers at Kat and is all, little girl, come hold this for me. Kat's like, I'll just put it over on the stairs for you. The lady is like, No! You follow around behind me and hold it. You're not busy. Kat was like, uh, ok. Then she says to me, Mom, you're still paying me for today, right?
• People suck even more. This old guy pulled into our driveway and was like, hey, you there! Get me that! Seriously. He sat in his car pointing at things he wanted. He wouldn't get out of his car. He ended up buying like $2 worth of books. Which he brought back and exchanged. Three fucking times. Might've been easier if you just hauled your lazy ass out of the car and looked for yourself, but I could be wrong.

In the end, we ended up making nearly $300, which was way more than we thought we would. But I'm never, EVER doing a yard sale again. Until next time I need more money.

Between the sheets...there is a psycho drama queen who needs lots of medication

Saturday was day 4 of not smoking, and honestly, it was wearing on me. That morning I had spent the morning cleaning my disaster of a house after my "ungrateful children and husband" who had left a sea of laundry, dishes, carpet stains and sticky floors for me to clean. Of course the kids were with their dad and Chris was working, so I had no one to vent my building anger to. By the time Chris got home, I was a little better, I'd tried really hard to let it all go. I bitched a little, but pretty much let it go. Chris suggested we get out of the house, maybe that would help relieve the building stress. Couldn't agree more. We had a great afternoon, we went to an antiques store, we got Chris some new sandals, had a great late lunch, not a cross word was spoken, not a sideways look given. Then we went to TJ Maxx and all hell broke loose. I've been telling Chris for God knows how long that we need new sheets. Now you might be asking, why don't you just buy sheets yourself? Good question, and I could. But we try really hard to make all household purchases together, or at least with each other's input. Every other time we've gone to get sheets (and we've done it no less than 20 times) we always end up leaving empty-handed. He freaks out about the price, I try to explain the value of a high thread count sheet, he doesn't get it, I think he's cheap and being difficult, he thinks I'm being a spoiled princess, we usually just leave well enough alone and don't get into it. I mean really, who fights about sheets?

So we go to TJ Maxx in search of the aforementioned sheets. We can't seem to agree on the price/thread count/color, but I'm determined. We're not walking away this time. So after about 45 minutes of me handing Chris sheets to feel, fretting over percale or sateen or Egyptian cotton, he'd had enough. He takes a deep breath and says, does it really matter? They're fucking sheets. Well, as you can imagine, that went over like a ton of bricks. I said (getting increasingly upset), Of COURSE it matters! I just want something nice to sleep on. Don't you care? He says, babe, c'mon. They're sheets. I turned back to the sheets and completely ignored him. He sighed and wandered off. I finally pick some, and I track Chris down, but I'm really irritated. I showed him the sheets, and he was less than impressed. He was all, yeah, they're fine. They're sheets. So now I'm pissed. Not a little angry, not a little cranky, I'm fucking PISSED. Was it because he didn't "care" enough? Was it because I couldn't find the "perfect" sheets? Or was it just because I hadn't smoked in 4 days? I put the sheets on the shelf and say, forget it. Take me home. And he's all, why? What's wrong? Again, I ignore him, certain that this had nothing to do with smoking, Chris was just a big jackass who obviously didn't care about what's important to me (sheets).

We get home and I stomp around for awhile, and then he's all, what's your problem? Are you that mad about sheets? I'd like to say that I handled this well, that I was the picture of calm. I so wasn't. I came unglued. I said just about every hateful thing I could think of, I threw books on the floor, I threw a shoebox at him, I mean I had an all out temper tantrum. He's just standing there during all this, probably in awe of my dramatic scene, and he says in the most calm voice I've ever heard, that's enough. Well, if I wasn't really, really mad before that, I was now. I said, Enough? I'll show you enough! Go to hell! I'm leaving! So I stormed out and slammed the door behind me. By this time it's starting to occur to me that perhaps I'm overreacting a bit, maybe I should just go back in and apologize for being such a drama queen, and that made me more mad. I hate being wrong. So I figured, I'll show him. I won't be sitting outside. I'm really leaving! So I start walking down the street. In my big dramatic exit, I've left my wallet and my cell phone on the counter, so it's not like I can go far, and that makes me even more mad. So to cool off and decide how to tell my family that I'm getting a divorce, I walked...for a fucking mile. I had my flip flops on, which aren't great walking shoes, and it was getting dark and I was cold in my tank top and capris (also forgot to grab a long sleeve shirt), so I went home. Chris wasn't there, he was out looking for me (which made me more angry). He eventually came home, and was understandable concerned. I was like, I'm so mad at you, I hate you, and I want a divorce! So we spent the next 45 minutes with me sobbing/yelling about how he really hated me and didn't care about the sheets that were so important to me, and him trying not to laugh at my utter ridiculousness.

Suffice it to say, we didn't get a divorce. We did buy a pack of cigarettes though. As it turns out, I wasn't really mad about the sheets, I was just being an uber bitch, probably because of my not smoking. Go figure.

P.S. Sunday afternoon he took me back to TJ Maxx and we bought sheets.

I'm the Rainman of cooking

So I don’t know if I’ve ever admitted this publicly, but I’m a horrendous cook. I can burn water, and I mean that literally. You know those people who can look in their pantry and grab like 5 ingredients and make the most delicious meal you’ve ever tasted? It’s like that show on Food Network, Chopped, where they get a basket full of stuff like pepperoni, grapes, veal liver, yogurt and hot dogs and they make some world class meal totally suitable for the Waldorf-Astoria. I’m exactly like that, only completely opposite. I can take lobster, filet mignon, and black truffles and turn into world class shit. Like I tried to make something simple like kielbasa and rice. Easy enough, right? I mean hell, I even used boil-in-bag rice. Really hard to screw up. Not for me! The rice got stuck to the bottom of the pan and half of it was crispy and the other half was mush, and I burned the kielbasa to a crisp. It’s not like I’m not paying attention, I really am, I just get sidetracked and before you know it, the smoke alarm is going off. The kids like to say that when the smoke alarm goes off dinner is ready. Chris enjoys telling people that my specialty is “blackened” food, like Cajun-style without the spice. I think they’re mocking me.

I suppose I can follow a recipe, but even that I usually mess up. There is one thing that I make really, really well: apple pie, from scratch. I make the crust from scratch, the filling, everything. It’s perfect every time. Now, why I can make something as complicated as apple pie and I can’t make fucking instant rice, I don’t know. I can even make the fancy lattice-work top. I’m a cooking idiot savant. I saw this ad for a contest for the best desert, and I’m actually considering entering, and I totally think I could win. As long as I don’t have to boil water, I should be ok.

Domestic Bliss

So this weekend I'm finally getting my "new" couch. Ok, so not new. One of my friends is moving away and was having an "everything must go!" sale of all of her earthly possessions...or at least the stuff she didn't feel like dragging half-way across the country. Anyway, I'm buying her couch for $100, which is awesome. She's a super clean freak, total OCD, so this couch is super clean, it completely puts my beaten to hell, dog chewed, kids boogered, nasty ass couch to shame. Not that I haven't tried to get a new couch for like 4 years, but Scrooge McDuck strikes again. So the other night I'm thinking of all the rearranging and redecorating I'm going to have to do and I'm like, I think I we're gonna need a sofa table. Chris is like, what the hell is a sofa table and why do we need one? So I explain (it's just a table that goes behind a sofa. Clever name, eh?) and wave my hands around all excitable and such, and I'm all, doesn't that sound great? He makes the dumbest face I've ever seen and says, yeah, well, we'll see. How much is it? Eh. Ok. The guy seriously has earned his Scrooge McDuck nickname. In the interest of not wanting to get divorced over a stupid sofa table, I start thinking about alternatives.

As we all know there are legions of mommy crafters out there and they all have blogs. I am so not one of those mommies. I suck so bad at crafting it's not even funny. The one time I used a hot glue gun, I glued ribbon to my arms, the table and wound up with second degree burns on my neck. Against my better judgement, I start looking for their blogs to maybe get a little design inspiration, I'm just hoping for no glue gunning. Here's what I've learned.

1. These mommies are like fucking MacGyver. They fashion a new table cloth with matching curtains from paper clips, magazine clippings and a glue gun. It's crazy.

2. If I'm ever going to be crafty, I'm going to have to get over my fear of glue guns. One lady redid her guest bedroom by with nothing but a glue gun and popsicle sticks. It was kinda pretty. These women even have names for their glue guns, clearly, they love them and are much more comfortable with theirs than I am with mine. I'm going to name mine Hell Beast.

3. I love Pottery Barn. You want a "beachy chic" look, Pottery Barn has it. You want "urban farmhouse"? Pottery Barn has that too. You don't have to learn to sew or paint or even get over your unnatural fear of glue guns. You can just order whatever your little heart desires. They'll even ship it right to your door sans popsicle sticks.

Yeah, so what we've really learned here is, fuck crafting. I'm going to Pottery Barn. And I'm getting a sofa table.