Category Archives: Kwit yer bitchun

More Wildlife

Tom the Turkey has not made any more appearances (at least not that we’ve seen), BUT last night Ricky the Obese Raccoon came to visit. Ricky is apparently living the good life, because Ricky is so fat that he doesn’t walk, he waddles. I don’t think Ricky is the same raccoon that came and tapped on our window last year, unless he became this massive over the course of the past year. But who knows.

Also, Ricky would like you to know that he is NOT SCARED OF YOU. You can bang on the window all you want, but he is a Bad Ass Raccoon and he will stare you down. And then he will possibly go knock over your garbage can. That Ricky is a real tough guy.

Also, I would like the guy who sits in a cube in the next row to know that just because he has a speakerphone button on his phone doesn’t mean he needs to use it. It’s bad enough that I have to tune out your obnoxious, name-dropping voice; now I have to drown out the voice of the annoying people you talk to. Pick up the receiver. And stop wearing pink shirts. You think it makes you look secure in your masculinity, but it just makes us question it even more. No one thinks you’re cool.

That is all.

P.S. I really hate name droppers.

P.P.S I don’t mind it when guys wear pink, I just hate this particular person’s wardrobe choices.

P.P.S. Now the other really annoying cube neighbor is talking on the phone with her husband and get this – she just called him Schmoopy. SCHMOOPY. Now that is just priceless.

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Filed under Home Sweet Home, Kwit yer bitchun, Life in New England

Vent it, baby.

I know that I hate change, and that could surely be part of it, but may I just state for the record that this adapting to a new boss thing? It, well, it completely and totally blows.

Seriously, woman, you either be up my ass or you can leave me the hell alone but YOU CAN NOT HAVE IT BOTH WAYS.

Oh, AND? You should probably have an idea of what the hell I’m working on. That is, after all, why I give a detailed project list every damn week. MAYBE IF YOU READ IT YOU WOULD HAVE SOME FREAKING CLUE.

And I know, I know that you are very nice, and that I can learn a lot from you, and that you are just figuring out this new job of yours, but there is only so much patience that a girl can have, you know. I’m trying my best to roll with the punches, but it turns out that I am not just a very roll with the punches kind of person. Perhaps the color coded file folders should have given you a clue to that.

Gah. Someone please tell me that it will get better. Because deep down, I know that it will. Change is hard. Change takes time. But right now, all I see is a very frustrated me.

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Filed under Kwit yer bitchun

Very Important Hair Cut Update

So I called the salon tonight and I have an appointment for tomorrow at 6 to fix things up a bit. The lady I spoke to was very nice and understanding and I am hopeful that all will end well.

Thanks for commiserating with me – I’m glad to hear that I’m not the only one to have received a Bad Cut, and that no one thought it was a completely stupid thing to whine about. I mean, really, it’s just hair. But, it’s also my hair! Wah.

Elizabeth asked very nicely to see a picture of the Cut of Doom, but I am sorry to say that I simply cannot comply. Call me vain, but I cannot allow the first picture of me posted on this site to be one that looks like I crawled out of a cave stuck my finger in a socket had an unfortunate accident with a weed whacker let Paula Abdul style my hair.

(Seriously, have you seen her hair recently? Is there a nest of birds in there or something? My lands!)

And geez, I guess if you can’t be ridiculous and dramatic and self-centered on your blog, were CAN you be?

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Filed under Kwit yer bitchun

A tale of woe. Also, layers! LOTS OF ‘EM.

Have any of you ever found yourself the recipient of a particularly bad haircut? No, I mean REALLY BAD.

Really, REALLY, bad.

No?

Well, would you like to hear about my own personal experience with just such an issue?

I got a gift card to a local salon for Christmas. This is not the salon that I usually go to, but it is one that I had gone to in college, and I had always had a good experience. So, when I finally decided that it was time to stop looking like I had crawled out a jungle (phrase stolen from Liz) (I last got my hair cut in EARLY NOVEMBER, yikes) I made an appointment at the salon for yesterday afternoon.

Let me preface this by saying that I’m not really all that picky about hair cuts. (See: last cut in early November.) Yes, I like expensive hair products, and I like my hair to look nice, but in general, well – I’ve had good cuts and so-so ones, and I’ve lived with all of them. My hair is straight, and pretty thick, and can look fairly decent with a minimum amount of hair-wrangling, so the absolute best cut is not really critical to my style.

So I arrived at the salon yesterday excited to get a bit of a trim. When I arrived at the salon, my hair was straight, angled in the front (ill-advised side-swept bangs of several hair cuts ago almost grown out), hanging to about an inch below my shoulders, and basically all one length. Here is what I asked for, pretty much verbatim:

“I’d like to keep it at about shoulder length, so if you maybe trim off about 3/4 of an inch, that would be good. Also, I’m looking to avoid ‘triangle-head’ so I’d like a suggestion to keep some of the bulk out of the bottom. I don’t want a lot of layers, but if you could take out some of the heaviness at the bottom I’d really like that. I really don’t want more than this much (holds up fingers, showing about an inch of space) between the start of the quasi-layers and the bottom of my hair.”

Yes, I used the term ‘quasi-layers’. Am geek. But also pretty descriptive, I think. What I described might sound kind of boring, but I think I was pretty clear about what I did and DID NOT want.

Here is what happened:

Sit down in chair, and experience the most painful combing process of my life. Um, hello, how about I would like to leave with my scalp in one piece, thank you very much.

Snip. Snip snip snip.

Hmmm. This lady is not the chattiest hair dresser in the world. But to each her own.

However, the lack of chattiness somehow made me suspicious, so I was watching like a hawk. And that is how I saw the lady pick up and lop off A GIANT CHUNK OF MY HAIR.

She then paused and took stock of the situation. And then proceeded to cut a lot of hair off of my head.

(I honestly don’t know what I was doing at this point other than sitting in horror and playing the part of a mute. I was so shocked that I couldn’t even speak up, and I know, I KNOW, that I should have said something immediately, but it was pretty clear that something had to be done to cover up the giant lopped off section. I really wish I had said something immediately, but it’s kind of difficult when you are in the middle of it.)

Finally, it was time to start blow drying, and I kept trying to convince myself that it wasn’t that bad. Except… that once she started drying she had to stop TWELVE times (I counted) to pull out the scissors and fix things, because… my hair was completely crooked. The left side was about an inch longer than the right, and all of the layers (THE ONES THAT I DID NOT ASK FOR AT ALL) had these strange straggly pieces that she had missed while cutting them.

Here is what I ended up with:

My hair is very definitely above my shoulders and I have tons and tons of layers which start around my ears. It refuses to lay flat and instead flips out in a manner that might be cute if it were not so completely horrifying to me that I ended up with THIS instead of, you know, what I very explicitly asked for.

Overall, this isn’t a completely bad style. I am willing to admit that even though every fiber of my being is screaming HATE because I am so cranky about the whole thing. I don’t have a mullet, and I actually think that the cut looks really similar to that choppy Katie Holmes bob that has been so popular recently. So it’s not like no one in their right mind would ask for this cut. It’s just that I DIDN’T ASK FOR IT.

That said, it is just not cut very well. The fact that she kept having to stop drying to fix her mistakes kind of backs that up. I keep finding pieces that are about an inch longer than the rest of my hair, and I really think that it would be easier to style (seriously, I usually spend 10 minutes on my hair including blow drying, and this morning I spent more than 20 just trying to get to state that made me not want to put on a damn hat and call it a day) and much better looking if it were just cut better.

Here is where you come in. I already know that I will be calling the salon once I get home from work to explain the situation (I can’t even begin to tell you what happened when I attempted to do this after the cut. All I’ll say is that my good friend Karma should be dropping a house on this lady’s head as I write this.) In addition to expressing my extreme displeasure, should I:

  1. Ask that they immediately schedule me for an appointment with their best stylist to attempt to fix things. Attempt to have stylist make things less scraggly without taking off more length.
  2. Simply ask for my money back, and that it be in the form of a check and NOT a gift card as I have no interest in going back.
  3. Schedule an appointment with my regular stylist to have her attempt to fix things. (Only problem here is that it would cost a fair amount of money.)
  4. Suck it up and wait a while for things to grow up before going to my regular stylist.
  5. Something else entirely/some combination of the above.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really need to go put on a hat.

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Filed under Kwit yer bitchun

Laundry Woes and Cute Dresses

On Saturday afternoon, I was moving some laundry from the washer to the dryer when I noticed that several items in the washer, including my Very Favorite Sweater, had large yellow spots on them. I immediately burst from the laundry room to interrogate Matt about WHAT, EXACTLY, WAS IN YOUR POCKETS, AND HOW COULD YOU DO THAT MY SWEATER IS RUINED AND IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT AND NO I WILL NOT LOWER MY VOICE AND YES IT REALLY IS WORTH GETTING THIS UPSET ABOUT.

I may have been a little bit worked up about the sweater. However, my accusation was not without merit, since in the time we have lived together I have found the following items in either the washing machine or the dryer:

  1. Golf pencils, about 20 of them (note that these actually broke the dryer and I had to pay a repairman to come remove them from the innards of that stupid machine).
  2. Crayons from Friendly’s (WHY? Why, I ask.)
  3. Gum
  4. Mints
  5. An entire bag of Hall’s Cherry Throat Lozenges
  6. A package of crackers with peanut butter
  7. His cell phone (found before it was submerged in water, luckily)
  8. One of those cheap corkscrews that are like a buck at the liquor store
  9. A corkscrew AND pocketknife in one (Bonus! Also, I did not find that one until it was going round and round in the dryer and making the MOST HORRENDOUS clunking noise I have ever heard.)
  10. Assorted papers, business cards, pay stubs, credit cards, etc.

And that’s just what I can remember off the top of my head. Needless to say, I am usually very careful about checking pockets before starting the laundry. However, in this case I was convinced that I had missed something that something from his pants pockets would be the culprit.

So, I treated the yellow spots with stain remover and began a thorough search of the wet pile of laundry for the Yellow Spot Creator. And… nothing. I was almost ready to toss a yellow highlighter in there just so that I would have an excuse for my tirade.

It was a mystery! One that I hoped to solve before running the machine again and adding to the Yellow Spots of Rage. The only thing that the spots seemed to resemble in color was mustard. And therein lies the dilemma:

Matt does not eat mustard. (I KNOW – its an issue for another day.) I tried to remember the last time that I had, and I realized that it was actually on the day that I had worn the Very Favorite Sweater. Which leaves me with two options:

Option 1: The spots are a mystery. A mystery with no discernible cause, but luckily one that seems to be slowing going away with a liberal application of stain remover and several runs through the laundry.

Option 2: The spots came from a very very LARGE amount of mustard. That I spilled on my sweater. That I then walked around with all day and that was visible, front and center, as I presented to four separate groups of people in an all day meeting that I attended that day.

Which is worse? You decide.

Luckily, a co-worker assures me that she would have noticed, and that she would not have let me walk around all day like that. And based on the way the spots appeared, I tend to believe that it is not actually mustard. BUT – this is going to be one of those things that bothers me for a very long time. Yellow spots do not just appear, people. And no, I will not apologize to Matt until he is proved innocent. It’s guilty until proved innocent in my house, dammit.

Annnd, to totally change the subject, what do you think of this dress? I really like it, but current budgets being what they are, it would mean using up the last of my precious (so precious!) ATL gift cards that I received for Christmas/my birthday. So the good news that I wouldn’t be spending any of my precious (so precious!) cash, but the bad news is that any future purchases would need to be made with that precious (and limited!) cash supply.

I’m thinking that this dress would be versatile enough to wear to a few upcoming functions (bridal showers, weddings, a fancy dinner) which is what gives it such appeal. It’s definitely my style, and since literally every ‘nice occasion’ dress that I own is now about 3 sizes too big, I’m thinking that an investment wouldn’t be a bad move.

Or am I just trying to talk myself into thinking that I NEED it? Am the Queen of Justification.

What say you? Do you like the dress? Does it help if I told you that I already have shoes that will go with it? What if I told you that that has NEVER stopped me from buying shoes before??

9 Comments

Filed under Kwit yer bitchun, My Sweet Babboo

Like death on toast.

Both Matt and I are sick, which means that the level of whining in our house has gone up by a trillion-fold. I would like to point out that in this case, the majority of whining is being done by the person who is NOT me, because when a member of the male species is sick that means that the world should stop turning, and little fairies should come from the sky to cater to the man’s every whim. Because, you know, he doesn’t feel good.

I will say in his defense that he has taken care of me many, many times when I have been sick – usually when I have been laying on the bathroom floor in between sessions of violent vomiting. He has gone to the store three different times to try to find something that I can keep down, he has forced me to drink or eat even when we both know that whatever is going down is going to come back up in a few minutes, and even though I have never let him actually witness what happens when my stomach decides to mutiny, I know without a shadow of a doubt that he would hold my hair back if I asked.

This, however, does not excuse his behavior last night, when literally every part of my body hurt, including my eyeballs and my fingernails, and I had a temperature of 102, and I couldn’t sleep, and finally I sat up and stated that I would surely strangle him in his sleep if he didn’t MOVE THE HELL OVER. Because I firmly believe that in a serious relationship, what’s mine is ours, but there are limits to that, including my very own side of the bed. Keep off.

If I can circle back to the previous topic of violent vomiting, can I just say how excited I am to report that it has been over a month since my last migraine? I can honestly say that I feel like a new person. It’s true that sometimes you don’t realize exactly how bad something has been until you are on the other side, and I didn’t know how miserable I had been until I, well, until I wasn’t anymore. So that’s really exciting news.

In not so exciting news, I am here at work today despite feeling pretty amazingly shitty. Yes, I am one of those people who comes to work when I’m sick. I figure since everyone else does, I can basically guarantee that one of my co-workers blessed me with this snot-fest, so it’s only reasonable that I get to pay it forward. I’m thinking of a particularly annoying jerk who I happen to have a meeting with later. I will be mentally sending my germs directly at him as we sit across a conference room table from each other. Take that.

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Filed under Kwit yer bitchun, Migraines Suck, My Sweet Babboo

The cure for what ails me

So, I found out today that my boss is being moved to a different job. And I’d be lying my ass off if I said that I wasn’t crushed by this news. I love my boss, I really do – as a person, as a mentor, as the person who tells me that Sweet Jesus, I’ve been here long enough and now it is time to go home. Bosses like this are rare, and while the candidates that may take her place are all fine, I’m still sad. I’ve learned a lot from her over the last two years, and we work well together, and I guess the overriding factor here is that I Don’t Like Change.

You can try to tell me that change is good, and try as I might to recognize that (and I really am trying, since this is an incredible opportunity for her and it would be very selfish of me to not be happy for her) this is simply The Way That I Am.

So I am sad.

Do you know what makes this girl happy when things are looking a little bit blue?

Well, there’s this. And this. But both of these pale in comparison to this.

Truth be told, although I “officially” found out about the work changes today, I pretty much knew about them yesterday. So last night, after we got home from dance class, when I was feeling mopey and Matt was watching TV, I ordered myself some shoes. Some marvelous, sure to make me feel better, shoes.

Is retail therapy always the reasonable answer to problems? OK, probably not. But damn, did it feel good. Come on. Don’t these make you feel happy?

shoes.jpeg

Hello, lovelies. I was actually looking for a pair of close-toed heels, but since the Internet assures me that it is actually in style to wear tights with peep-toes, these are great. And the best part is that even though they were $83 at Zappos, they were only $39 at Endless. Add in Zappos’ price match policy and shazam! $30 shoes. Add in the $50 Zappos gift certificate and voila! Free shoes! (Which happen to be the only kind of shoes that factor into this new budget-thang that I’ve got goin’ on.)

(Find them here or here if you have similar shoe-love.)

So yes, still moping. But at least I will have cute shoes on while I do it.

6 Comments

Filed under Kwit yer bitchun, Retail Therapy