It Always Happens On a Friday...

Why oh why oh why is it ALWAYS on Friday?  I'll never understand it.  So rude.

Well, I guess I should have seen it coming, since it was just mere days ago when I went and opened my big. fat. freakin. mouth.  You might remember this post when I discussed at great length how much I absolutely ADORE my new job.  Yeah.  Keep all that in mind for this next part.

For whatever reason - call it a premonission, message from God, women's intuition - I decided last week that I needed to volunteer to help my company out of a jam at our Orlando branch.  Apparently since the designer who trained me for my job in Jacksonville went out on her four month maternity leave (and YES, she deserves every single second of a four month break for how hard she busted her ass up until she was literally 9 months pregnant) everything in Orlando went to hell in a handbasket with a quickness. 

They had designers coming from all over the state to try to cover the massive backlog of buyers piling up in Orlando - but none of the other designers are trained on the system that my builder uses.  It just made sense for me to be the one to go to Orlando to help out, but they were trying not to ask me since I am still pretty much a newbie.  And the only reason I hadn't volunteered initally was because Orlando is NOT my magic kingdom - I pretty much loathe it - and also volunteering would mean that I'd be away from home, and more importantly, away from my boys, two days a week.

But alas, I just randomly got this overwhelming feeling in my gut last week that volunteering to help out was just what I needed to do.  You know those feelings that you get?  Like it's not necessarily something you want to do, but you just know that you need to?  It was that. 

So Lane and I talked and agreed that it wouldn't be ideal, but it would only be for a few months and would be a great chance to step up to the plate for my new company - and it might even be nice to have a little "extra" cash flow to boot! 

The next day I talked to my regional manager and, much to his sheer delight and elation, I volunteered to work in Orlando Monday and Tuesday of every week for the next four months.  I think his exact words when I asked if he'd like me to come down to help out were, "SHIT YEAH!"  So even though I knew it'd be tons of work and long hours and lots of driving, I felt really good about doing it.

Friday morning I was in a great mood.  Things had been rocking right along at the design center in Jacksonville and my schedule was managable enough to work two days in Orlando and three days in Jacksonville with no problems.  Lane and I were going out of town that afternoon for a friend's wedding in ATL, so we were excited about that.  And also it was "Spirit Day" at work - which basically meant we were getting a free lunch from the place of my choosing!  Nice. 

After our morning branch meeting, my boss and I got on a conference call with the regional manager in Orlando to confirm the plans for the upcoming week.  I'd be driving down earrrrly Monday morning and working all day - through design center preview ending at 7 p.m. - and then working there all day Tuesday and driving back Tuesday night.  Good deal. 

I was clicking right along reporting my files from the two design center appointments on Thursday, and trying to finish up some other paperwork so I could scoot out early and we could get on the road to Atlanta, when I saw the voicemail light blinking on my phone.  I picked it up and punched in my code and kept on clicking through my paperwork.  And then I stopped.  And replayed the message. 

It was from the administrative lady at my builder's office.  I can't even remember the exact words, but this is kinda how it went.  "umm Katie...  something something...  really hope this isn't the first that you're hearing of this...  blah blah blah...  but as of yesteday we closed our doors in Jacksonville....  something else and blah....  we're going to finish out the homes under contract and that's it...  blah ba de blup....  you won't be able to reach me going forward...  yadda yadda...  best of luck to you.  click." 

Ummm.  WHAT?  I'm sorry - I could have sworn that you just said that the very builder that is the one single solitary reason that I was HIRED for this amazing job which I absolutely adore is no longer building in Jacksonville.  See it kinda SOUNDS LIKE what you're saying is that even though we just finished a brand new model home in one of the nicest communities in Jacksonville, plowed through forty interviews to hire a new designer (a.k.a. ME!), hired two new sales agents, and built a brand new design center, that all of that is irrelevant and we're now just gonna go ahead and throw in the towel.  Close the doors.  We're done.

Only the shitty part is that it's not just what it "sounds like".  That's what it IS.  No one saw it coming.  Not even my boss knew, hence his utter confusion when I burst into his office asking if I still had a job.  And thankfully, for the time being anyway, I do. 

Not too long after I got the "voicemail heard 'round the world" - which I saved just in case I need to remember how it feels to get gut kicked - my regional manager called me and literally said:  "Katie don't freak!"  It was a very nice gesture, to which I immediately replied, "K 'cause I'm kinda FREAKIN."  And then he told me that he had a plan and not to worry and that Orlando would keep me busy until the end of the year and "you never know what will change in the Jacksonville design center in that amount of time."  And that is true.  I don't.  And OH how I love uncertainty.

Just a brief recap...  in the last four years I have been divorced, I have moved three times, and (including this one) had four different jobs.  Don't get me wrong - all of these things have absolutely been what's right for MY life, and have gotten me to a place where I am happier than I've ever been in both personal and work aspects.  But I'm kinda OVER uncertainty.  I thought this was "the job".  I love it.  I love the people I work with, I love my office, I love the work.  I just love it.  And I literally felt like I was being dumped when I got that voicemail.  Like someone had just ripped my heart out and punted it across the design center. 

It was all I could do to hold it together the rest of the day.  We still had our "spirit lunch".  Wasn't feeling very spiritful.  And one of the hardest things was that, other than my boss, no one else that I work with knew what had happened, and every one kept asking what was wrong and trying to cheer me up - which as any woman knows, only makes the overwhelming urge to cry even more impossible to resist.

So now I am in a hotel in Orlando - thanking my lucky stars that I volunteered to work here before it was the only thing left for me to do.  The first time they saw me today, everyone at the builder's office looked at me with that pitiful head-tilty half frowny half smiley "we're so sorry for you" face.  I'd much prefer they just look at me and scream "DEAD MAN WALKIN'!"  At least it'd be funny.

I have been reassured by our account executive and the regional manager that I have nothing to worry about and that "I'm fine", but just the fact that they even have to say that to me makes me feel less than fine.

BUT, I choose to remain optimisitc.  As you may remember from the last post, there is a new builder coming into the showroom and I just know that at the end of these next four months they will be keeping me busier than a one legged man in an ass kicking contest.  (Fingers majorly crossed!)  There is another builder that has a deal on the table to come into the showroom too.  And HEY - I just so happen to know of a big beautiful (and very recently vacated) showroom space that they could fill! 

So all hope is not lost.  I refuse.  As long as I have this job that I love I will continue to give it 110%, and more importantly, I will have faith that everything will work out exactly as it's supposed to.  It always does. 

And in a stroke of beautiful irony (which you all know that I love so much!), this is one of the signs in the builder's office here in Orlando. 



damn right.



Our New Fatboy Table!

Or as I affectionately refer to it - "the trough". 

Our last coffee table - bless it's rickety little heart - had to go.  I bought it as a "set" with a side table at a yard sale from neighbors in our last hood for $30.  The side table is still kickin... 

I wish I had "before" pictures.  These things were heinous.  Not like they're any prize now, but before they were light grody stained/scratched wood, the drawer was falling out, both tables wobbled, etc.  It was a hot mess, basically.  So we tightened them up, sanded and stained them, and have been abusing the crap out of them for about a year and a half now.

you can kinda see the old table here - and there may be a little doxie in there too!

The bf and I eat in front of the TV.  We always have.  And in our precious little house we have not one, but two actual tables at which we could dine.  I think we've used them a combined total of six times - two Thanksgivings, two Christmases, once when I got on a rampage about not eating in front of the TV anymore, and once the night that we moved into this house - mainly because there was nowhere else to sit.  So in addition to serving as an ottoman, the wobbly little coffee-table-that-could has served as a dining table for us all this time as well. 

When I bought it, we were just happy to have something to put in front of our sofa, so I hadn't really thought about the table (and how much it kinda sucked) until few weeks ago.  In addition to being tiny, and an awkward fit in front of our L-shaped sofa, it was a drop leaf table, so every time we walked around the sofa, if our leg hit the side of the table, the leaf would flap up and then smack back down on the side.  Not precious.  Especially when it startles Bear-bear awake from his peaceful slumber!  Also, random pieces of it had just started kinda splintering off.  Not good.  Or cute.  It had to go.

How could you ever want to disturb this cutie?!

I thought about just getting an ottoman since Lane (that's the bf for those who don't know) likes to put his feet up so much.  I needed a bargain, so I even considered trying to figure out some ghetto way to make one, but all I could remember was an old co-worker of mine slaving over making an ottoman for freakin' EVER (and she was so proud of it!) and after it had been in her house a grand total of two days, her husband tripped, fell on her masterpiece, and smashed the whole thing to bits.  That just wouldn't do.  Plus I thought that anything fabric would be sucky for us to eat on, and I didn't want leather (or pleather or bicast or vinyl), because we already have a leather chair and ottoman in our living room and I don't like mixing a bunch of different leathers together.  Fabrics, yes.  Leather, no.  So ottoman = no go. 

I put the idea on pause while we did the kitchen remodel (yes, ourselves - that'll be a separate post), but the other day when we were wandering around Sam's waiting for my antibiotic for my man o war sting (FML - again, that'll be a separate post), we saw it.  It was like that moment in Christmas Vacation when Clark Griswold spots their Christmas tree in the forest.  Bells rang, a light shone down - it was magical.  Okay, so I might be exaggerating that part a little.  But really, both of us saw the table at the same time and looked at each other with the same "hmmm - that might be kinda perfect for our derelict lifestyle" look. 

It was a big solid square in the perfect wood finish to match our remaining "antique" side table and our TV stand.  It has a drawer on the front with all these amazing sectioned-off movable divider thingies, and - wait for it.... - the other half was a lift-top.  That's right.  We could actually lift the food closer to our faces as we scarfed it up in front of the TV.  Not to mention that under this lift top was more storage for blankets and my laptop and stuff.  Not only could I bring the food closer to my face, I wouldn't even have to get up to walk the daunting 17 steps to the linen closet to get a blanket.  Perfect?  I think yes. 

in all it's lifty-top glory

sweet, sweet storage space!

Now I know as an interior designer, I should probably shun the very existence of tables such as this.  And I promise that I'll never, EVER own a magazine rack/table/lamp combo... 

Oh my dear God.  The oak and hearts just really set this off, don't you think?!

But as a designer I'm also supposed to pay attention to the functionality of a piece and carefully consider how it will fit into the lifestyle of the end user, right?  Right.  SO, let's run down the list...  not an ottoman?  Check.  Perfect for TV eating & (BONUS) perfect for laptop work?  Check.  Fits in front of an L-shaped sofa?  Check.  No leather or fabric?  Check.  Will withstand the full force of a falling adult male?  Check.  I hope.  Have not tested...  yet. 

So basically, it's a winner.  And this is how it looks in real life, as I type.

somewhere in that pile of blankets there is a snoring dachschund

I was going to clean up all the blankets and the coffee cup and laptop and make the picture all cute, but it's Sunday morning and this is what we do!  Plus I just got lazy.  Sounds about right for someone with a trough for a coffee table, huh?

One Lucky Designy Lady!

Sorry for the blog-pause, but I am BUSY. Like insanely busy. So busy, in fact, that I edited a very long e-mail that I sent to my friends for this blog post!  LAZY, but here it is!!!

My new job is amazing. I am not even going to lie and say that I didn't just get lucky as a m-effer with this one.  The bf keeps trying to tell me that I "deserve it" and that I'm "well-qualified" and blah blah, but no. I was L-U-C-K-Y, lucky. I mean, not saying that I don't have any of the skills required to do this job or that I haven't worked hard or have no experience, but I definitely was in the right place at the right time for this job.

At this point I honestly can't remember if I even told you guys about all the b.s. that went down at my last job, so I'll just do a brief recap and if I've already gone over it, then just skip this next part...

It was a big decision to leave the shit crusted slavefest  job at the vet for my last job, because as much as I wanted to get away from the tyrant that was my boss at the vet,  my last job paid less.  Well, it was supposed to be less pay only until "things got rolling"...  Sha right.  

But I took the job because there were certain things that they said that made it sound really great and appealing and like it could be awesome with a little bit of time and work. Well, essentially, NO. LOOOOOOONG story short-ish, it was supposed to be a design program, but it ended up that I was in retail hell.  I was on my feet ALL DAY, had to wear an apron, and was making ZERO money. I mean I literally spent the majority of my day cutting swatches of material for ghetto ass people who had to go home and "think about" a $8.99 decision. FML.  It was really bad. I would get my pay check, pay the bills and put gas in my car and have $8 to last two weeks. This is not an exaggeration, AT ALL.  Although I met and worked with some really great people, I could go on and on about why the actual job sucked, so the bottom line was I had to get the eff out.

I started applying to places like a madwoman. I would make a list, (check it twice) and then put together a resume package with a folder containing a list of professional references, resume, and cover letter for each place and then I had a follow-up list for each package I sent out. The first round I sent out three packages and got two call backs - one interview came out of the deal.  It was at a kitchen design place and I nailed the interview and pretty much had that job in the bag, but the lady who was retiring decided not to at the last second and there was no longer a job available. Devastated.

Then, on the next round of resumes sent out, I got a call back from another design place.

We set up an "interview time", or so I thought... and she asked me if I had a portfolio to bring with me. Of course I told her yes, but really it hadn't been updated since college. So I spent the next WEEK (before our interview) updating my portfolio, which TRUST ME, is no small feat. And guess what?! It takes frickin MONEY to get that shit printed out and get a nice cover for it, and at the time I was on the $8 for two weeks and I may or may not have to put a tank of gas on my credit card (which I have no hope of paying off at any point in the forseeable future) plan. So, dropping $40 to update my portfolio was not in the budget. But I did it.

And I got all ready for this "interview" and took my fresh new portfolio and busted up the one day off that the bf and I had together that week. Yeah. As it turns out, this lady had just taken over the marketing position for this place and was just trying to get the word out about their design firm and some event they were having the next week. NOT an interview, NOT looking to hire a designer, NOT looking at my budget-breaking-week's-worth-of-work portfolio. I was crushed. I got in my car and cried like a baby and I didn't even call the bf (who was waiting patiently at home for me, because, did I mention this was our ONE day off together that week?) on the way home. I just walked in the door and set down my stuff and looked at him and he was like "oh shit" and hugged me. Not a precious day.

So that really took the wind out of my sails and I was getting in the "I'm going to work at that shithole and be broke forever" mode, when I saw this posting for a job as a "part-time" interior designer. I almost and I mean almost didn't even apply, because to be honest it kinda looked like one of those spam job postings. (I now realize that it only looked like that because the company is SO freakin' HUGE!) But anyway, I thought eff it. What have I got to lose? And clicked "submit resume".

That was Thursday night. The guy called me Friday afternoon at about 4 p.m. and said he was sorry it was short notice, but could I be there Monday at 9 a.m.? Hell to the yes. So I get there on Monday and the guy is a precious little puffalump. He reminds me of my dad. He kinda explained the deal to me with the company and what I'd be doing and all of that. Basically I work for this ginormous company - like 16,000+ employees kind of ginormous. They have 9 "companies" within the "company" and one of those is the company for which I now work! 

My place is basically like a retailer to builders & the construction industry - we have blinds, every kind of tile you can think of, carpet, cabinets, countertops, any "finishing" thing that you can put into a house. The rest of the GIANT company is building supplies - like electrical, lumber, nuts, bolts, screws, EVERYTHING. So my company has a multi-builder showroom where homebuyers come and choose everything (down to the freakin grout color) that goes into their home.  My company was hiring because they had just taken on another builder in the showroom and one designer wasn't kickin' it anymore.

SO - omg this is getting so long sorry guys - whatever whatever, I had to do a second interview with the sales and marketing director for the builder that I am working for, and a week after I applied they told me I had the job! Come to find out, they interviewed FORTY people. That's 4-0, forty. And I'll spare you all the details, but basically the stars just aligned and I was the lucky one. They sent me an offer letter and the breakdown was that it was a "part-time position" (whatever - I've worked 40+ hours every week) for a hefty sum more than what I was making at my last job, PLUS a kick ass commission on every homebuyer appointment that I complete.  AND it's not retail and by muthafuckin APPOINTMENT ONLY!!!

I make my own schedule - as in, I have no set time to be there, no set time to leave, no set "lunch time", and I am only working Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, so the bf & I still have Wednesdays off together.

It's all older guys that I work with and they all think that I am just their little baby doll. My boss could not BE less interested in running the design center, so he pretty much let's me do whatever. I'm like "I'm doing X,Y,Z" and he's like, "K. Do you need help?" It's the best. Plus it's really bomb ass because of the way the company works, you get the best of both "small business" and "corporate" worlds. You get the small, close-knit group feel and the buddy-buddy boss, but the benefits, insurance, retirement, & 401k package of a huge corporation. Needless to say, I heart it.  Plus I have my OWN office and it is so cute. I rearragned all the furniture by myself the first week and when the guys saw it they were like, "DON'T DO THAT KIND OF STUFF BY YOURSELF!!! WE'LL HELP YOU!" Too sweet.

There are a total of three builders currently in the showroom - there is another designer who does two of the builders and as of right this moment,  I do one. The super cool thing with that too is that the builder I work for treats me like an employee as well, so like if they do a company trip I'll go, I can expense things through them, etc., etc. It's like I work for 3 companies really. AND bonus, bonus, bonus - we just signed another builder that's going to be coming into the showroom and I'll be doing their stuff as well!!! It's really exciting because this guy is up and coming and he's actually selling more than one of the builders that's already in the showroom, so it'll be good business for me! Plus, they're new to the whole design center process like me, so we can get started together from the very beginning. It's really exciting.

So 1400 pages later, that's what I've been up to! Oh and we signed our lease for another 18 months (the guy knocked $50 off the rent and agreed to let us do some updating) and we pretty much renovated the whole kitchen. Pics are below.  It was a MAJOR project, but I think it turned out pretty good! Oh and the backsplash tile was left over from a model home that my company did and I got it for the price of NADA!!! Would have been like $20+/sq foot if we'd bought it... SWEET! The landlord is also going to replace the appliances with stainless in the next few months, so that'll be even better.

before - builder oak grody-ness

after - updated contemporary = much better!

Oh and sidenote:  In an effort to not burn any bridges, I went to that continuing education event that the lady who tricked me into the "interview" at the seconde design place invited me to...  I walked in, got a glass of Sangria, and attempted to make small talk with a few of the snooty snotty snobs who were there...  You know these people - they are the ones who you've met fifteen times, but who still act like either A) they don't know who you are or B) that you're not important enough to remember. 

After 15 minutes of being snubbed and walking around by myself, I looked around and had an epiphany.  I didn't HAVE to be there.  I didn't HAVE to be kissing all of those tight asses.  So I finished my Sangria, slammed a crabpuff, threw deuces, and got the hell out of there just as the presentation was starting.  I guarantee you that I had a much better time that night than all of those pretentious punks. 

And guess who has a better job than half those jokers now anyway?!...  Sweet victory.

Shopping. My Personal Hell.

I.  hate.  shopping.  Always have, probably always will.  I don't know if I missed some girl gene that makes you enjoy this horriffic experience or what, but to me, shopping of any kind is an absolute torturous nightmare.  All of my fears were reaffirmed when I made the mistake of returning a recent online purchase directly to the store yesterday.

One of my precious, dearest friends in life was kind enough to send me a $50 gift card to Ann Taylor as a congratulations on my new job.  SO sweet, and SO unexpected - just an absolutely amazing gesture!  And back when I could still partially stand it, that is the one store that I would occasionally brave.  However, despite the shipping charges, I did most of my damage online. 

Anyway, I received this glorious gift and within three hours had spent the entire thing online.  I bought a pair of businessy pants in "sharkskin" grey and a "citronella" colored wrap top thingy.  Could not have been more excited to recieve these beauties in the mail!

When they arrived I practically ran to try them on.  I was shocked and amazed to discover that my optimistic purchase of a size 6 pant actually worked and they fit!  Then I unwrapped the top - if by "citronella" they meant "so bright that you will have to squint your eyes to even consider looking in the general direction of this garment", then yes, it was citronella colored.  But color aside - because I actually started to like it - it was too big.  Which I was really bummed about because it was very cute and had just a tiny touch of cashmere in it, so it was super comfy too. 

I was going to mail it back and just switch out the sizes, but being the impetuous gal that I am, I simply could not wait for snail mail to get the replacement.  So yesterday afternoon I decided to truck it up to the Ann Taylor store to swap my dayglo gear.

Now here's why I hate shopping.  It all starts in the parking lot - finding a space, doing the whole "are you going?  No I'll go..." dance with other cars, and then when you do see a space you can't get to it in time because of all the stupid pedestrians.  So my frustration level is already at about a 2.5 before I even step foot in the store.  Yesterday I finally found a spot and then walked 43 miles to the store in 90 degree heat.  Frustration level 3.25. 

So I go in the store, go straight to the back counter and announce that I need to exchange something.  "OKAY no prob!  I'll be processing this for you while you look around!", says the painfully stylish chick behind the counter, who then goes on to ask me if I know about their "ONE DAY ONLY storewide promotion?!"  Well no, since I don't work here and I just stepped in the door, I sure don't know about your one day only storewide promotion.  I'm still not even sure what the promotion was - she just started to sound like a bunch of bubbly noise after about 45 seconds as she launched into her sales pitch. 

At this point I am starting to ascertain that I will NOT be merely switching out this top for a size down.  I am going to be forcefully bullied into trying on, and consequently purchasing, things that "look so great" on me.  They are going to ask me if I need other sizes, bring me shoes to complement the "outfit", and force me to come out of the comfort of my private dressing room to show them "how it fits".  And that is exactly what happened.  Frustration level bypasses midrange and jumps from a slightly annoyed 3.25 to a panic-induced, sweaty 9.0. 

I finally manage to plow past little miss "do you need another size" and wriggle my way out of the dressing room with my selections balled up in my sweaty hand.  At this point I am not even sure what I've decided on buying.  I just knew that I wasn't escaping with a clean, no out-of-pocket expense getaway, as I'd originally planned, so I'm sure I just picked a few of the least expensive things my oh-so-helpful fashion nazis had tossed in there.

I went in to merely switch a shirt for the exact same shirt, and ended up with a dress and two cami-ish tank kind of things that are apparently a "must have" to wear with suits.  I don't even own a respectable suit.  I'm still not sure what the hell I'm going to do with these things.  And as if all of this wasn't enough, when the girl checked my I.D. at the counter, she looked me right in my flustered face and said, "Oh wow!  You don't look your age at all!"  UMMMM fuck you in your heart, you worthless retail whore.  How the hell old is TWENTY-NINE supposed to look exactly?!  I guess I must have done a hell of a job covering up my crow's feet and liver spots today, huh?!  Frustration level....  one million...  head exploding...

Shipping charges be damned - online shopping it is.

How I'm Reminded I'm Not Ready for Babies...

I haven't discussed it here, but it is FBO (Mom, that's "facebook official") that I got a new job.  We'll discuss in more detail later - I am working on a post about the sheer joy of interviewing - but today I'd like to discuss one of my constant reminders that I am not ready for kids.

As previously mentioned, I got a new job, and therefore turned in my notice last week.  And I have Short-timers.  BAD.  I am so mentally checked out it's not even funny.  I didn't really even want to get involved with people's crappy $50 projects when I knew I was going to get paid on them, and now that I'm not?...  I've been spending the majority of the day at work hiding.  Unsuccessfully. 

Anyway, Saturday is typically a slow day, but last Saturday, for whatever obnoxious reason, we were slammed.  And shorthanded, of course.  We had a momentary lull in traffic and I was standing behind the counter close to the front door.  There was only one lady in the store and she had a kid that was about two and a half or three feet tall with her.  (I don't do kid's ages, but I was told later that children of this height are maybe three-ish?)  So this kid had her blanket and a stuffed animal with her and you could just tell she was a little princess.  Not the cute kind, the demanding, "look at me!" kind.

So the kid's mom was standing there talking to one of our sales associates, and the kid was running around their feet, knocking stuff over, and just generally being a three year old I guess.  Well I looked away for two seconds, and when I looked back little princess had pulled her pants down past her butt and was sitting down on the freakin' WELCOME mat of the store, knuckle-deep in her butthole.  Justa goin' to town.  Doing what, I have no idea. 

I looked around for a second, to make sure that I wasn't hallucinating or to see if there was another witness to this kid violating herself at the entrance of the store.  There wasn't.  So as soon as there was a lull in conversation between the kid's mother and the sales associate, all I could say was, "Uh ummmmmmm....."  At this, the mom turned around and saw her precious angel swirling her disgusting little finger around in her no-no place.  Her embarrassment was obvious, and she immediately told the kid to stop, and stood her up and handed her the blanket - which the kid anxiously grabbed with her butthole fingers.  Sick.  And note to self - do NOT touch a kid's sheet of filth blanket, like EVER.

The mom was all flushed and nervously mumbled some sort of apology under her breath.  I went back to what I was doing and tried my best not to think about what other objects in the store this kid might be running around stink-palming, and the next thing I know, the three of them go walking by the counter and the kid deliberately stops, turns to me, and sticks her tongue out.  WTF, man?! 

And are you ready for it?  The most recent of my constant reminders that I'm not ready for babies?...  As a 29-year-old woman, my natural reaction to this tougue-sticky-outy absurdity was to do it right back to her.  Score one for the grown-ups.

Kindness... A.k.a. Out of My Comfort Zone

Most of you who know me personally know that Lane and I are quite different.  I grew up on the hardest streets of Atlanta (and by 'the hardest streets' I of course mean 'the suburbs of') and he grew up in a smaller south Georgia river town.  Long story short - where I'd say 'piss off' he says 'yes ma'am'. 

I have even done such things as call him a weirdo when he does things like take our leftover and oh-so-yummy fried shrimp to our pals working late at the bait shop or when he took a bottle of water over to our neighbor who was sweating his ass off doing yard work the other day.  Never mind the fact that I had been refilling and drinking out of that exact water bottle for three weeks...  I only hope that our neighbor didn't go back into his pregnant wife with my sparkly lip stuff on his mouth.

Anywho...  I have no idea why, but I am just generally uncomfortable with these unsolicited acts of kindness.  But people LOVE Lane because he does these sorts of things.  And I mean LOVE him.  I think that they overlook the fact that they are getting someone else's crusty water bottle because it's just such a nice gesture and so unexpected and rare.  And Lane always says that it doesn't cost anything and it only takes a few seconds to make a big difference to someone, so why not? 

I have really tried to follow this philosophy, because I do whole-heartedly agree with it, but for me it doesn't come as naturally...  Case-in-point happened the other day...

As I have mentioned, I walk my precious baby Baron every morning.  When we are out is usually about the time that all the neighborhood kids are walking to the front of the neighborhood to catch the bus.  Every single morning I am amazed that none of these skinny jean, Converse-wearing douches will look me in the eye or say good morning or even ACKNOWLEDGE my presence at all.  They all shuffle their feet and swish their bangs and stay plugged into their i-pods, looking straight down at the ground as we pass each other on the sidewalk.  And every morning I think, "how will these idiots ever make it in the world?"...  Well, every kid except one of them ignores me. 

My next door neighbor's son is friends with a kid who gets dropped off by his grandmother at the asscrack of dawn so that he can catch the bus from our neighborhood - I don't know it to be a fact, but I can only assume that it would have something to do with going to school in a better district?...  Anyway, he gets dropped off at the neighborhood entrance, walks to my neighbor's house, walks back to the entrance of the neighborhood to catch the bus, walks back after school, and then gets picked up around 6:30 p.m.  It's gotta be a long day for the poor kid.  He doesn't roll out of bed and saunter to the bus.  He gets up early and commutes.  And he doesn't carry an i-pod, he carries a Ziploc bag of cereal and eats it on the walk.  And he is the ONLY one who looks me in the eye and smiles and says, "Good Morning!" every we pass each other, without fail.  In a skinny jean, no eye-contact-making kind of world, this kid really stands out to me. 

Until the other afternoon our little exchanges have never gone beyond "good morning".  I don't even know the kid's name.  I was outside putting up our American flag for Memorial Day when I saw the kid's grandmother pull up to pick him up.  As soon as I saw him I thought about how proud I would be of him if that was my son or grandson.  Then I thought that I should tell his grandmother how much of a difference he makes in my mornings.  But I thought twice because then I would be the weirdo!!!  And then I heard that little voice in my head - it doesn't cost anything, it only takes a few seconds, and it could make a big difference to someone...  So, despite my natural inclination to be super uncomfortable, I sucked it up and ran over to the car before they pulled away.

I walked over to the passenger side where the kid was sitting and looked through to the woman driving.  I said, "Is this your son?"  (At this point I didn't know she was the Grandmother.)  Both the woman and the kid looked at me like deer caught in the headlights.  They were so taken aback it was almost comical.  Then she cut her eyes and the kid and looked back at me and said very cautiously, "he's my grandson..."  And the kid shifted nervously in his seat, like I was about to say something that would get him grounded until he was 47.  I said, "Well I want you to know that I walk my dog every morning and pass about twenty kids in this neighborhood and your grandson is the only one that says good morning.  It really means so much to me and I just thought you should know." 

By the time I was done talking I thought the woman's teeth might pop out of her head she was smiling so big.  She said, "Oh really?!  Thank you!" and I looked back at the kid and he was half-smiling, half awestruck.  I told them to have a good night and they were on their way.

Every morning since then this sweet kid smiles the biggest smile and really puts extra effort into his "good morning", like we are best of friends.  And I will never forget the look on that proud grandmother's face.  I know what I said made a difference to both of them.  And guess what?  It took two seconds of my life and it cost me nothing.  Not only did it cost me nothing, I got something from it...  and that was the satisfaction of knowing that (although it IS my specialty) not everything that comes out of my mouth has to be a smart ass, dripping with sarcasm type of comment.  Albeit rare, sometimes I can just be nice.  And it's worth it.  Even if it makes me a weirdo.

To The One...

Who has a smile on his face every morning, even when we haven't slept enough and I am grumpy...

To the one who works six days a week and hasn't had a vacation for two years, but never complains about it and even asks for extra work to make sure the bills are paid and we are comfortable...

To the one who cleared out a vegetable garden for me, and lets me do all the fun stuff while he does all the hard stuff...

To the one who lets me sleep in, fixes my car when it's broken, always puts me first, and loves Baron as much as I do...

To the one who chooses what we're having for dinner when I can't make up my mind, goes to the grocery store, and cooks everything, and then packages the leftovers for me to take for lunch the next day...

To the one who rubs my back and listens to me whine when I've had a hard day, and then turns on the radio and fixes me a cocktail...

To the one who taught me how to fish, and more importantly how to have a day off that involves enjoying each other's company and the beach instead of cleaning toilets and laundry...

To the one who laughs while dancing at weddings, even though he doesn't like dancing...

To the one who gives all he has to everyone else without thinking twice...

To the one who makes me happier every day that I took the biggest chance of my life...

To the one who's smile makes my whole heart light up - HAPPY BIRTHDAY!  I love you more than anything.  Thank you for being my perfect one.

xoxo

Jersey Shores Comes to Jax

I can't say what it is exactly, but after living here for two years, it is easy-peazy to spot tourists vs. locals on the beach.  I shudder to think what we looked like when we trucked our pasty white, fresh-from-Georgia butts out on the beach for the first time when we landed in Jax.  I have a horrible image of floaties and zinc stripes down our noses...  ok, maybe it wasn't that bad, but close.  My point is, now that I know what you look like Tourists, I don't like you.  You are rude and disrespectful and you dick up my beach every time you all pile in for your precious little summer vacays.  Point in case happened yesterday, so I thought I might share this fist-pumping experience with you all.

As I have mentioned, Lane and I fish most every day that we have off together.  We have a beautiful secluded spot, a perfectly honed get-up-and-go routine, and most often it's just what we need to get our heads back in order, and "hit the reset button" as Lane says.  This is what "our spot" usually looks like...

Pristine, peaceful, uncrowded, and amazing.  Just the way we like it.  We ususally go on Wednesday, but this week we had a funky schedule and we decided to try our luck and go yesterday (Sunday).  Big mistake, because it was a freakin' parking lot. 

Within five minutes we decided that we just couldn't take it and started driving back down the beach to get the hell out of there.  There were two rows of parked cars, one to the left of the two lanes of traffic driving down the beach, and one row the the right, nosed up to the dunes.  The cars to the left were parked just where the water was lapping their back tires, and the tide was coming in.  For another TWO HOURS.  So basically we have sinking cars to the left with no where to go, two lanes of traffic in the middle, and 50 bajillion people running in and out of all the cars to the right.  In a word, DANGEROUS.  I was freaking out.  I told Lane a million times how scary I thought it was, and that I wouldn't have my kids out there for anything in the world.  Come to find out, a two year old did get run over yesterday - she survived and had no broken bones (???), but still.  Not a good plan.  So after this shitshow, we decided to mosey on down A1A a few more miles and try another, not-so-easily-navigable state park. 

I was not optimisitic, but this park turned out to be MUCH better.  You can only get out on the beach if you have a 4x4 and the beach is really narrow, so not many people will brave it.  Plus the fishing is great!  In addition to a few whiting, a blue fish, and a horseshoe crab, we also caught a bonnethead shark baby!  Very cute. 

We were enjoying the day and soaking up some rays and chatting when a truck dragging a jetski came sliding down the beach behind us.  About 100 yards away from us, the guy driving the truck slung it sideways and backed the jetski right into the water.  I asked Lane if that was even allowed, and we had a brief little discussion about how it's hard to build boat ramps in the ocean because of the tides and stuff and then we went on about our business.  I looked back down there about five minutes later and this is what I saw...

That's right.  The jackass sunk his truck.  Do I hear a "You might be a tourist if..."  YES.  Our Lane's natural inclination was to help, so he went running down there with a shovel.  Thankfully, our park ranger friend told Lane that he'd better scurry back down the beach, because when the sheriff got there he would ticket everyone who was hooked to the sunken truck trying to drag him out.  Hmm.  Good to know. 

A few different people tested the might of their own trucks by attempting to drag this guy out, but the tide kept getting higher and the hopes of getting this dummy out kept getting lower.  Eventually they just gave up and set up their tent and shit and let the truck sit there.  I guess just waiting until the tide went back out?...  Anyway, the longer we watched this whole debacle, but more annoyed I became with these people.  They were clearly from New Jersey.  (That's not the reason I was annoyed with them...  well, not entirely.) 

Lane and I always do the same fishing set up on the beach.  We put our rod holders in the sand about three feet in front of our chairs, the cooler goes in between us, and the tackle box goes beside Lane's chair.  It's like our litle beach nest.  Well about two minutes after I notice this guy stuck in the water, two greasy haired dudes come strutting down the beach towards us carrying a card table.  (Umm card table?  WTF?)  Anyway, they get closer and closer and it is starting to look like they are just going to bust up in our little beach nest (card table and all) in the three foot space between where we are sitting and our fishing rods, and not do the courteous, personal-space-respecting thing, and go around the back of our chairs.  I started grumbling (not so quietly) about how I was going to trip them and throw the card table in the water if they didn't go around, but STILL they marched right in between us and our fishing poles with no reservation.  They were so close that I could see the red on their faces where they'd just had their greasy eyebrows waxed and hear their giant silver eagle medallions jingling on their Mr. T chains.  Gross.

After they brutalized the beach buffer rule, they went on to upset a lovely little family in a small boat right off the shore by running circles around it at about 100 miles an hour the jetski.  They also came so close to the shore that they almost snagged our four fishing lines several times.  They were doing this on purpose, so that they could get close enough to the beach to spray their fellow Jersey Shores castmates that were hunkered down playing Rummy or whatever by their sunken truck.  Then they had the nerve to give Lane a dirty look when he just so happened to cast one of the lines out in their general direction.  It was a real scene. 

Undaunted by my shit talking, they even walked back into our beach nest SEVERAL more times before we left.  I am NOT a fan of personal space invasion, and after the third or fourth time we had to bust a move out of there. 

I have no idea how (or IF) these idiots got the truck out of that sand.  Part of me hopes it's still there, but most of me hopes they got it out, because I don't want that beautiful beach to be destoyed by the gallons of grease that would surely come off of the headrests if the truck was to sink entirely. 

And to you Yankees who ruined a beautiful day on the beach for everyone around you...  the only Snook we need in Jax is a FISH, not a short, orange, obnoxious, poufy-haired guidette.  Keep it on the Jersey shore, k?  Thanks.

Today I Saw...

A lady driving a Subaru Outback station wagon with a bumper sticker that said 'Gourd Artist'.  Seems about right.

A Pirate Minister + Fallic Bubble Wands + A Mini Stroke = Mom's Wedding!

Congrats Mom & Eddie!

The weekend before last was my Mom's wedding.  It was on the beach about an hour and a half south of Jacksonville, in a place that is very special to her.  In fact, the last time she "ran away" and wouldn't answer her phone for about a week, she was there.  We always tenatively wait until she gets back for whatever life-changing decision she's made while there - it's just one of thsoe "change your life" kind of places.  Anyway, that's why they wanted the wedding there. 
Since it was out of town and the sweet bf still had to work, for him it meant driving down on Friday morning, partying like a rock star after the wedding Friday night, driving back to work on Saturday morning (he left at about 6:30 a.m.), driving BACK Saturday night for dinner, then driving BACK again on Sunday morning to be at work by 11 a.m.  I think he only spent about $250 in fuel - not to mention how exhausted he must have been - but he did it all with a smile!  I still owe him sexual favors for this, I'm sure. 
Anyway, the wedding was Friday night and was to be outside on the beach.  It stormed the whole.  freakin. trip. down.  We anxiously kept checking the forecast on our phones and it looked rough.  We began  to wonder if there was a Plan B.  Pshhhhhh.  Please.  So we crossed our fingers and hoped for the best. 

We arrived at the "NO PETS" hotel early Friday afternoon, with Baron in tow.  I could not stand to leave that sweet precious baby by himself and I figured my awesome beach bag would do the trick for sneaking him in and out.  We met my brother and his sweet gf at the hotel and Operation Doxie Sneak-In commenced.  After some ridiculous maneuvering around, we finally got the little pup-pup up into the room.  I promised my bro that he wouldn't bark and Baron immediately pranced out onto the balcony and started woofing down some seagulls.  Whoops.

Trust me - it looks totally natural when you're walking.  HA.

The four of us had a cocktail or two and reviewed our individual wedding duties - KB (KB = bro) was to give a toast/introduction, I was the official photographer for the event and was to read everyone's advice/well wishes cards aloud at the ceremony, and KB's gf was the official "bubble girl".  We couldn't help but laugh at the bubble wands...  though they matched the color scheme perfectly, their uncanny resemblence to a giant turquoise schlong and/or a lightsaber was too funny to ignore!

honestly what would you think?

We headed over to Mom's condo a smidge early so I could get some "before" shots (that's pictures, not jager bombs).  Being the official photographer has it's perks - I was let in on one of the biggest ceremony surprises beforehand...  my uncle had been ordained and would be performing the ceremony!  Now this is awesome for several reasons.  #1) It's just so dang sweet.  My uncle is a tough and proud purple-hearted Marine, but when it comes to his family he is such a softy.  #2)  He loves to party.  He loves Budweiser.  He once told me (and my Grandmother, with whom he was arguing at the time) that he hated water and hadn't had a single sip of it for two years.  For whatever reason, when we would all take big family trips together he would get stuck driving me, my brother, and my grandmother.  Now that I am older, I totally understand why he used a cooler full of ice-cold Bud as his armrest.  Anyway, as we were doing some last minute prep, UT (my uncle) sat quietly on the sofa reviewing his sermon (and finishing a little brewskie) and then when it was announced to me that he would be performing the ceremony he proudly proclaimed, "I haven't even been drinking beer today!"  I glanced over at his empty can on the coffee table and then looked at his smiling little face and said, "Cool UT!"  (What he MEANT was that he hadn't been drinking on the beach all day with the rest of the fam.  I got your back UT!)

Rev. UT poppin' a cork pre-ceremony - hey it's not beer!

Oh and did I mention that UT's robe had a custom pirate scarf?  Perfection.

you may kiss the bride - ARGHHH!

The ceremony itself was lovely.  Miraculously the rain held off and the sun came out for the rest of the afternoon.

The whole crew ready for the bride and groom



Highlights of the reception include Rev. Ted telling my precious aunt to watch her behavior because she's "a minister's wife for God's sake", a toasty Tish (who's been friends with my mom for 47 years, literally) taunting my sweet bf into dancing with her and then mortifying both of us when she shouted across the reception hall that "he must be good in bed", and the mommy and baby toilets in the reception hall bathroom.

he's such a sport!

yes, as the night wore on, they were used simultaneously.

Oh yes and aside from all that fun, the bride and groom did a sand ceremony that involved everyone, Mom's new hubs sang her a song that he wrote for her himself (so sweet), and the toasts were very heartfelt.  My favorite thing (which I don't think was one of the planned "activities") was that a week or two before the wedding, Mom requested that everyone send a song to her to be put on the playlist for the night.  As each couple's song came on they got up and danced to it.  It was really fun to listen to the first part of the song and kinda try to guess who's song it was.  Very cool.

So we had lots of cocktails throughout the course of the night and by the time we got back to the hotel we had just enough energy to sneak Baron out to potty, shove some pizza in our faces, and pass out in time for Lane (BF) to get about 47 minutes of sleep before he had to get back on the road to go to work for the day. 

My beer induced coma peaceful slumber was interrupted shortly after Lane left by a dancing little dachshund just aching to go outside.  It was 9:30 a.m. and as soon as I shoved his pudgy butt into my beach bag and opened the door, housekeeping was bringing the heat.  I had to run down the hall and hide by the ice machine until the elevator was empty.  I snuck on and managed to go down ONE freakin' floor (we were on the 8th) and when the doors slid open, two more merry maids greeted me with a cheerful "mind if we ride down with ya?!"  Ummm yes.  I kinda do.  I managed to blurt out, "I'm getting off here anyway" and shove past them with my twenty pound wiggling beach bag in tow.  I finally conceeded to walking down the remaining seven flights of stairs and got the little baby outside in time to avoid a big doxie dump rollling around in my bag.  I guess my mind was too clouded with residual hopps and barley to think it all the way through, because I didn't consider that once Bear-bear's business outside was done, I didn't really have a non-stair way to get him back to the room. 

O.  M.  G.  Eight mother freakin' flights of stairs.  Doesn't sound like much, does it?  Well, IT IS.  And aside from being grossly out of shape, add in a raging hangover and a chunky squriming dachshund in a bag that is ripping your shoulder straight out of it's socket, and I'm here to tell you that it's a recipe for a 29 year-old's first mini-stroke.  By the time I got to the sixth floor, I was seeing stars.  I managed to work through the jello legs by the seventh floor, and by the time I burst through the door to the eigth floor hallway, I could have given a fuck less if housekeeping was there to bust me with Baron or not.  It was brutal, but we managed to make it back to the room undetected.  Even the sun shines on a dog's ass every now and then, right?  Well, not if it's stuffed in a beach bag I guess...

The rest of the weekend was awesome.  Spent some time during the day on Saturday chilling by the pool with friends and fam, and then we all went out to a lovely dinner at a beautiful place called "The Garlic" on Saturday night.  Well, I say it was lovely...  and it was, but my judgement would be based strictly on the atmosphere and the drinks, because out of a group of TWENTY FIVE, mine was the only dinner that they forgot.  Oh well.  I'm sure I didn't need that seafood cannelloni anyway. 

I'M STARVING!!!



All in all it was a great weekend and a great way to celebrate the start of a new chapter of my Mom's life.  I loved spending time with my family, and especially getting to be all goofy and fun with my bro and his lady.  I do NOT miss toting a baby boy puppy in and out in a beach bag however...  that reminds me - I meant to look into stairclimbers...

I'd truck up 20 flights for that face!

Tonight I Saw...

A pudgy, sweaty kid outside a Mexican restaurant with a puff paint shirt that said 'I survived third grade'. 
Well you know what - I should certainly fucking hope so.  I'm sure that little junior misses section princess is the apple (or Dorito) of mom and dad's eye, but kid if you think that long division and packed lunches are something to 'survive', get the Twinkies ready, because life is going to be a real disappointing shitfest for you.

P.s. I may or may not be misdirecting some anger tonight.  It's been a long couple of days.  Sorry kid.

Irony...

Oh how I enjoy it!

Happy Condo details Mayor, everyone!  (That's auto-correct for 'Cinco de Mayo', if you didn't know.)

It May Not Look Like Much...

But if you could have seen my precious little veggie garden just a few short months ago...  you would have thought it was lost footage from Jumangi.  The sweet bf had this garden idea - I think it was just to give me an outdoor project so he can watch the History channel in peace - and consequently was nice enough to pretend our crappy lawnmower was a bushhog & clear it out for me.  5,000 mosquito bites, one busted lawnmower wheel, and two sore backs later, we are rocking peppers, tomatoes, onions, rosemary, garlic, and chives. 
Although the weeds are a bitch and a half - I am throughly convinced that banana trees would survive should we ever get an a-bomb dropped on us - it is strangely rewarding to literally see the fruits (or veggies, I guess) of your labor.  And after working up an appetite doing all that weeding today, I'm damn sure ready to eat the veggies of my labor too.

Welcome to the Chaos...

It's going to be fun, so check back soon!