Unicorns: An Important Component of the Budgeting Process

Dear CEO’s

If I write a budget based on my real life experiences and research as the manager of an operation, and then I send it to you for approval, and you proceed to add a billion dollars to top line sales and eliminate a quarter of my labor budget, would you kindly also provide me with the magical unicorn that I will need to access the fantasy land in which you live so that I can realize said preposterous budgeted guidelines?  Also, while we’re pulling things out of our asses, I would like the unicorn to shit raspberry truffles. 

Oh Mah Gah…

Dudes…my hair is telling me…it’s humid outside…

Apparently My Face Says, “Talk to Me about Your Problems”

Which is weird, because in my mind, my face usually says things like, “I could give a fuck,” or, “I have no time for you right now,” or “I’m constipated.”

That is probably because in my mind, my mind is usually saying things like, “I could give a fuck,” or, “I have no time for you right now,” or “I’m constipated.”

Based on my bogus research, I would estimate that approximately 95% of the people that I deal with on a day-to-day basis get the message that my brain is screaming out of my eyeballs pretty loud and clear.  However, some people seem to think that knitted eyebrows, pursed lips, and a brisk tone just scream, “Despite the piles of paperwork on my desk, half dozen unanswered e-mails, and blinking red light on my phone indicating that there are new voicemail messages, I have been dying to hear about your weight loss challenges/impotence/unwanted pregnancy.”*

For those of you that may mistake an off-putting look for a look of intrigue, I offer you this diagram:

I know, right?…my face is so versatile.

I’m not saying that I’m not approachable.  I’m approachable.  I’m friendly.  In fact, I like most people that I meet.  That is, until they start telling me about their communicable diseases personal lives.

Like the other day at work, when one of our illustrious vendors confided in me about his love life.  Even now, days later, after the greater part of the mortification has dissipated, I still cannot understand how our casual conversation somehow managed to morph into a therapy session.

The encounter started as they usually do.  He took my order, and I told him about any business that he should be aware of in the near future.  He asked if there were any problems that he needed to know about, I gave a smart-assed reply that my back was pretty sore, but other than that I didn’t have any problems.  He commented that his shoulder had been hurting pretty bad, and surmised that he might need some new insoles.  I told him about some great insoles that I had recently purchased***, and assumed that we were wrapping up the meeting.

That is when things went seriously awry.

Instead of simply walking away with the golden nugget of information that I handed him about the insoles, he proceeded to explain that the shoulder pain may be due to stress.  In fact, he was most certain it was due to stress because, “my girlfriend and I are fighting a lot.”

*crickets* + *blank uncomprehending stare* = *AWKWARD SILENCE*

Despite my slack-jawed silence, the conversation continued…

Mr. Informative: Yeah, we’re kind of at that stage in our relationship where it’s like time to make the next move.  Ya know, shit or get off the pot kinda thing.  We’ve been dating for about a year now, and I practically live at her place, but I haven’t, like, made the move yet.  She’s totally ready though.  She’s 28…I’m 32…she told me the other day that if it doesn’t happen soon she’s just going to go get artificially inseminated…ha ha.”

Me: Oh. Um…I hear frozen sperm is expensive?

Mr. Informative: It’s not like I don’t want all that someday.  It’s just…ya know…right now we fight a lot.  She’s a great girl but she’s just got some insecurities.

Me *Thinks Mr. Informative is looking for advice?*: That sucks dude.  Sounds like she’s kind of a head case.

Mr. Informative: Well…it’s not all her fault.  She had like a really shitty boyfriend in college that did some pretty rotten things to her.  And then…ya know, she got all pissed off at me because my friend e-mailed me these naked pictures.  But I didn’t say anything about them I was just like, “Dude do you have a picture of her face”…ya know stuff like that.  But she was all mad at me about them because I didn’t delete them.  And I guess I really should have deleted them…”

At this point Mr. Informative gave me a look that almost seemed to beg for mercy.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I was giving him the exact same look.  We stared into each other’s eyes with a mutual understanding that we were no longer involved in a casual conversation.  We had crossed that line minutes ago, and there was nothing that either of us could do but let this atrocity of a dialogue run it’s coarse.  It was like a train wreck.  We both just wanted it all to end but couldn’t figure out a tactful way to make that happen.  Really, what could I say at this point, “Dude, sorry your girl found your online porn stash.  Sounds like it’s time to change you e-mail password…which reminds me, we need 24oz cups.”

In retrospect, that might have worked.

Instead…

Me:*Going for helpful* Um…that sounds kind of immature.

Mr. Informative: Well…yeah okay, but it’s not just that either.  So…I kind of slept with her cousin.  But it was before we were dating.  But I didn’t tell her about it.  But then she found out.  And she was pissed at me, but I was like, “Dude, your cousin totally should have been the one to tell you about it, not me!”  What was I going to do, end our first date with, “Yeah, I know we just met, but I boned your cousin a few months ago.” Come on, right?

Me:*HEAD EXPLODES FROM EMBARASSMENT, THE EXPLOSION KILLS EVERYONE IN THE ROOM.*

*I have become privy to no less than 4 colonoscopy procedures, 2 swollen prostates, 2 frigid spouses, 5 affairs, and 1 raging case of hemorrhoids in the past year alone.**

**If I don’t look you in the eye when we converse, chances are good that you are guilty of oversharing.

***Because obviously I am a 65-year-old that talks about constipation and chronic foot pain.

****Also, I just want to point out that in many of my posts I use some literary license.  With the exception of this post.  The conversation herein is pretty much verbatim.  Aside from my head exploding.  Obviously.

Teabag Not Included.

Ok.  This is a stupid rant.  And for those of you that know me,
you can attest to the fact that I don’t usually get overly emotional.  Especially about matters of little consequence.

Has anyone out there peed pants from laughing yet?

Because I totally love to get overly emotional!!!! Especially about matters of very little consequence!!!

As evidenced by my overuse of bold fonts, italics, AND EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!!!!!!!! throughout this blog.

Also as evidenced by the fact that I just cursed a mothalovin’ blue streak at Kraft Foods Inc. for using adhesive to stick the seasoning packet to the cellophane bag of pasta so that when I go to rip the seasoning packet off of the bag of pasta, the bag rips and the dry pasta flies all over the kitchen instead of into the pot of boiling water, and I have to sweep it up off of the floor and counter so I wind up with 2 month old Cheerios and lint balls mixed in with my Tuna Helper.

Congratulations, Kraft Foods: you are an asshat.*  Lose the glue gun at the end of the
production line and let that seasoning packet float free in the Tuna Helper box, mkay?

But I digress.**

What was I saying?

Oh yeah! So this is kind of silly rant.  But for real I don’t get it, and so, of course, it makes me mad: I have 11 teacups taking up one whole shelf of my cupboard.  Why do I have 11 teacups collecting dust and high jacking my precious little kitchen storage space?  Because they came with my china set.  Okay actually 12 teacups came with my china set.  I don’t know what happened to number 12.  Maybe it committed suicide because it felt worthless.  If it did, it was correct.

Because they’re dumb.  And that, ladies and gentlemen is my rant.  Why the fuck do modern china sets still come with teacups?  Twelve of them??

I have a couple of points here.  Let me give you some bullets!

• I could see my China set including the teacups if I lived in the UK or China, or some other country where they still drink tea at home instead of at Starbucks like a civilized human being.  But I don’t.  I live in the US, where hotdogs and cheese whiz abounds.  And where you can get a “china set” for around $70.  In fact, “china” is a real stretch for my set, because this stuff is one step above paper plates. (But the good Chinet paper plates, not those crappy family reunion paper plates.)  So yeah…no matter what receptacle Queen Liz insists her minions drink from, this is totally America, and I prefer to drink out of a beer bottle*** or a wine glass.
• Those teacups are itty bitty.  Like a double-A cup.  You can barely fit a teabag**** and a quarter cup of water into those cups, let alone 16 teaspoons of sugar.  Also? Didn’t congress recently pass a bill requiring all US citizens to strictly follow Starbucks beverage size guidelines when indulging in all coffee and tea related drinks?  And isn’t the Starbucks small short like 64 ounces?
• They are totally and utterly useless.  Well…okay, okay, yes.  I use them every year to color Easter eggs.  But that is only to legitimize their existence in my kitchen.  Also, I use one to sharpen my chef’s knife.  Yes, I use a chef’s knife! Because sometimes I don’t feel like eating Tuna Helper.  Like right after I’ve thrown up from eating too much Tuna Helper.  And then I have to cook things. Anyhow, yeah I use the bottom of one of the teacups to sharpen my knives.

So I’m putting my 11 remaining teacups up for sale to the highest bidder.  Because although I am a Real-Housewives-watching-Tuna-Helper-eating waste of carbon, you, my friend, are productive, creative, and chock full of teacup-using energy; you have just been waiting for your written invitation to the wonderful world of teacup activities.  This is it.  In case you are having trouble envisioning your teacup-laden future, I have developed the following list of teacup-worthy uses:

Target practice -
The shattering of the porcelain will make for a very satisfying indicator of success for the proficient marksman.  Find someone who will throw them up in the air for you, and you’ve got yourself one lively (and colorful!) game of skeet shooting.

3 & 2/3 complete sets of “hide-the-ball” – Travelling with a carnival?  Hosting a children’s birthday party? Have I got a deal for you!  I have three sets of “hide-the-ball” that you can use to  entertain the masses!  If you can provide just one Dixie cup, you’ve got four sets!  (Balls not included.)

Planters – I am guessing you can grow things in teacups.  But I wouldn’t take my word for it.  I have killed cactus.  Maybe Google it to make sure before making me an offer.

Drinking things other than tea *wink, wink, nudge, nudge* - Use these teacups to drink bourbon, scotch and moonshine, right out in the open without harassment.  Got a long drive ahead of you? The wife’s insisting that you watch Grey’s Anatomy with her so that you two can “bond?”  Need a little help getting up the nerve to talk to the office cutie?  These teacups (and what you put in them) are the cure for your boredom and lack of penis cowardice.  Because c’mon.  That attractive lady co-worker would never assume that you purposely brushed her boob with your hand while reaching for the stapler because the booze gave you the liquid courage you needed to make your move when you’re drinking out of one of your teacups!

Host a Tea Party –You are uncreative, and obviously boring.  That is why you are hosting a tea party.

Anyhow…make me an offer and basically if it covers shipping they’re yours.  Unless I get
distracted and stop checking the comments on this post.  Better act fast…my attention span is shorter than your average midget.

*I’m trying that one out. What do you think?  Less offensive than asshole, but you still get the point across and utilize obscenities.  Personally, I’m a big fan of “asshat.”

**I always digress.  I never don’t digress. What is the antonym of digress?  Whatever it is, I never do it.

***Perhaps I have accidentally touched upon a genius idea here…they should totally forego the dozen teacups in lieu of a 12-pack.  But it should really be something classy. Like Molson or MGD.

****Okay, seriously I will pay you if you didn’t laugh at that word.  Yet another reason that the teacups gotta go.

Like Father Like Daughter

 She comes by it honestly…

Plunging: an important component of potty training in the Davis home

 

"I suppose this is only fair, what with the whole daiper thing I've got going on..."

 

 

Rule of Life #4: Feng Shui is Important

I never used to buy into Feng Shui, you guys.  I’m just not a very superstitious person by nature.  I don’t wish on stars.  I don’t read my horoscope.  I walk under ladders, let black cats cross my path, and I spill salt all.the.time and never even think to throw a pinch over my shoulder.

But recently I’ve become a big believer in Feng Shui.  For those of you reading my blog that live in Kentucky don’t know what Feng Shui is, allow me to illuminate you: Feng Shui is an ancient Chinese system of aesthetics believed to use the laws of both Heaven and Earth to help one improve life by receiving positive energy.  Basically, Feng Shui is a system used to rearrange furniture, primarily by pretentious Westerners with too much money and time on their hands.

Which hardly describes me. (Because, Kentucky! Ya’ll.)

My interior design strategies mostly consist of, “From which fabric will I most easily be able to remove baby shit stains?” and “What furniture arrangement will assist in the successful evasion of a trip to the ER now that Violet’s favorite past-time includes:

1. Spin in circles, many, many times

2. Close eyes

3. Run like your being chased by Christopher Walken from the Weapon of Choice video* until you hit something hard with your face”

Top that off with the fact that we currently live in a somewhat small apartment, and, of course, we do not have a lot of options in terms of the décor.

Little did I know that our lack of consideration for furniture placement would eventually come back to bitch slap us in the face.  Stay with me here, guys.

In our family we split up the laundry duties** so that no one ever gets stuck doing 30 loads of laundry without any help.  Dan separates, washes, dries, and brings upstairs, I iron, fold, and put away, and Violet pretty much just plays with the hangers.

Not very helpful, but pretty freakin' adorable.

Not to sound all unappreciative, or anything, but laundry?  Not Dan’s strong suit.  You see, Dan believes in efficiency.  And to get laundry done efficiently (read: fast) you have to put the drier on the super hot setting. So, needless to say, the first time I wear my pants after they’ve been washed and dried by Dan Davis, I mostly look like I painted on some high water pants, because, Holy Camel Toe Batman! they are about two sizes too small.

Also things that make laundry go faster?  Neglecting to sort the clothes.  Whites?  Darks?  Dan Davis cares not about small matters such as these.  EFFICIENCY!  CRAM THE WASHING MACHINE WITH LAUNDRY LIKE IT’S A PIE EATING CONTEST AND THE CLOTHES ARE THE PIE AND THE WASHING MACHINE IS YOUR MOUTH!!  Wash, dry, repeat.

Although his technique is annoying, it’s something I’ve learned to live with. Much as Dan has learned to live with the fact that my face turns inside out when the shirts in our closet aren’t sorted by sleeve length and collar type. See?  We all have our little quirks!

I didn’t really think a lot about it the other day when Dan took the laundry baskets from both Violet’s room and our room down to the basement to man handle the washing machine into taking on more than it’s fair share.  While Dan may march to his own drum in terms of getting the laundry done, he is considerate when it comes to using scented detergent and fabric softener.  (It’s important!)  Normally when there is a load of laundry in the dryer, we can smell the scented fabric softener from the exhaust billowing up into the house, particularly when we have our windows open.  I love the smell!  So clean and fresh, just wafting into the house on our weekends at home.  It almost makes me not mind folding and putting away the loads of laundry.

Naturally, once the laundry was going for the weekend, I was a little concerned when the only smell wafting up from the exhaust was…shit.  It was…rather confusing.

I asked Dan if he smelled something funny, and he agreed: yep, yep, shit indeed.  So he went into Violet’s room and decided that the Diaper Genie was the culprit. He emptied it, and we went about our business…all the while, the shit smell kept getting…well…shittier.

I sent Dan downstairs…to see if the dogs had shit in the basement??  It would be weird…however it was really the only thing I could think of at that point.  Nothing could have prepared us for what happened next.

I’m sure many mommies out there have accidentally washed a lot of things.  Hell, crayons, chapstick and sharpies are all on my “whoops, should have checked the pockets!” list.  And that was before Violet was even a dream in my head.  I can even imagine what it must be like for those mommies that accidentally wash a diaper…cotton all over everything ugh…what a mess.  But Dan Davis went ahead and took it a step further…because he’s competitive, you see, and so he washed AND DRIED A SHITTY DIAPER.

You can imagine my horror.  I went through all of the classic stages:

1. Denial: No way…this can not be shit in the drier.  It’s just not possible…who shits in a drier?

2. Anger: A freaking shitty diaper?!  This is your fault for never sorting the laundry!!!!!!!

3. Bargaining: Okay, okay, you’re right.  It could have been either of us that tossed the diaper into the laundry hamper.  Who’s idea was it to put the hamper RIGHT NEXT to the Diaper Genie?  I know, I know…you’re right, now is no time for the blame game.  How bout this: how bout I’ll rewash all of the laundry if you just clean out the drier…I’ll throw in a back rub if you can do it without puking.

4. Depression: Okay dude…we need to just throw the drier away.  There’s no coming back from this.

5. Acceptance: We’re really both to blame for this.  How dare we tempt fate by not taking into consideration the placement of the clothes hamper in the nursery?  Of course this would happen!!  The Feng Shui Gods are punishing us!

And that’s why it’s always important to consider Feng Shui, you guys.  Because when you put the baby’s hamper right next to the Diaper Genie?  One of you is bound to toss a dirty diaper in the hamper in a sleep deprived stupor under the influence of the noxious poop fumes.  Frankly…I’m surprized it took 15 months for it to happen to us.

*If you can watch this whole video without your butthole puckering, you deserve some kind of an award.

**I laugh in my head every time someone says “duties.”  Because, of course, I’m totally thinking, “doodies.”

Hope you’ve got your tickets…

But Seriously You Guys…

I don’t really do a lot of serious posts on this blog.  I don’t think that a lot of people out there know that between this post and this post, a lot of things that I didn’t really write about happened.

Or a whole lot of nothing happened.  Depending on your point of view. 

Ya know how in 6th grade they tell you about how sex is super dangerous?  And how if you have it before you are married that you will most certainly:

1. Get Pregnant And Ruin Your Life.

2. Contract AIDS and DIE.

3. Go straight to hell.

This crock of shit line of reasoning really resonated with me in my formative years.  So much so that I became convinced that if I was even an hour late taking my birth control pills, I would surely wind up pregnant with a child that I was not prepared for and could not support.*

Naturally, when Dan and I decided that it was time to start a family, I assumed that getting pregnant would happen like this:

Step 1: Simply stop taking my birth control pills

Step 2: Dan ogles me as I’m getting out of the shower

Step 3: POOF! pregnant. Super duper pregnant.

It has been my experience that it is not always that easy.**

I would like to direct you all to this short tutorial on trying to succeed, and failing miserably: a month by month guide.

Basically I couldn’t put it any better.  Don’t know what “charting” is?  Don’t know how long the luteal phase needs to be to facilitate implantation?  Never heard the term “implantation?”  No idea what TTC, EOD, ED, LP, BD, O’ing, AF, 2WW, BFN, EWCM, HPT, or LMP mean?  Most people don’t.  Most people are super lucky like that.  But most people don’t even realize how super lucky they are not to have to know these things in order to procreate. 

Dan and I were not so lucky.

After about 6 months of trying, I really started to lose my shit worry.  Because it’s my thing.  To worry.  Despite the well-meaning, “Well, it just takes some people a little longer!” and “Just stop trying and it will happen!” I worried.

After about 12 months, Dan started worrying.  And then I knew it was really time for me to worry.  Because Dan’s thing is not worrying.  Dan’s thing is totally being mellow and trying to keep me from worrying. 

After about a year we started in with poking and prodding testing to find out why the eff I wasn’t getting pregnant.  Both of our tests came back 100% clear: there was NO medical reason I shouldn’t be knocked up.  To the best of my knowledge, the only things that were preventing us from producing offspring were:

• We actually wanted a child, and were actively trying to produce one
• The fact that we could actually afford to provide for a child, and had no intentions of using said child as a way to collect food stamps or welfare
• Neither Dan nor myself were alcoholics, snorting cocaine, or smoking crack

Because so far as I could tell…those were all prerequisites for bearing children.

Yeah…I wasn’t bitter or anything.

Fortunately for Dan and I, there was a happy (and non-invasive) ending.  And I know, I know, I KNOW. That sounds like a really glossy way to end things all wrapped up in a nice little package with a bow.  “We got our happy ending.”  The problem is that there isn’t a “sincerity” font.  So that you can all feel how much I mean that I know that we were so damn fortunate. Blessed.

I still follow the stories of those that haven’t yet found their happy endings.  Some that might never.  Some that have fought a harder battle with that bitch infertility than I ever had to.  Some that have lost that battle.  And some that have won.  If you’re interested…their stories are right over

there———————————————————————–>

in my Blogroll.

They’re all awesome women, each and every one of them. 

I know that all of the mommies I know love their babies whether they were surprises, planned, or fought for.  Not one of us is any better or lesser than any other; we’re all mommies, and for whatever reason God blessed us with this beautiful responsibility. 

But if you are one of the mommies out there lucky enough to have just stumbled into motherhood unexpectedly, (or if your husband stared at your ass too long and you wound up pregnant) take just a second to savor your babies as if you had to fight tooth and nail for the privilege of carrying them in your bodies, if only because some women, some very fine and amazing women will never get that privilege despite how much they deserve it, and despite how much the children they long for deserve mommies like they will never have the chance to be.

*But I didn’t worry so much about it until well after my formative years, as, of course, I was not engaging in premarital sex. Nope.

**Unless you are under 18 and reading this blog.  If you are under 18 and reading this blog, and if you have premarital sex the result will be pregnancy, AIDS, death, and hell.  Also you will develope a menacing case of acne, and your feet will grow to such an extent that they will not be able to fit through the legs of those skinny pants kids these days are so fond of.***

***WTF is up with those skinny pants anyhow?!

Could I end this post without a beautiful baby picture?  I could not.  To do so is illegal in 14 states.

Hadda Thought…

If you’ve ever pooped with someone else sitting on your lap, you know you’re a mom. 

Or a pervert.

Mixing Business and Friendship

is not advisable.  SERIOUSLY not advisable.

I’ve got this friend that is a lawyer.  Let’s call her…Shmessica.*

Anyhow, I asked Shmessica for some advice of the legal nature about a situation in which I am potentially going to get bent over a table and screwed without lube stand to lose a substantial amount of money.  Here’s my version of that conversation:

Me: Hey dude, you know how that landlord totally has a huge sum of my money to secure a property in Kentucky where we are moving in T-two weeks? Ya know, so that my husband and I and our tiny, innocent and fragile baby have a place to live and are not forced to beg on the street for scraps of food and dirty washcloths that we can use as diapers?

Shmessica: Yes, I am privy to this information.

Me: Yeah.  Well the douchebag landlord told me that the house that we are renting is super big and nice…and I believed her because people are basically good and honest.  It turns out that the house is actually super tiny…like half the size that we thought it was, and that people are, on the whole, assholes.

Shmessica: Is there a lease in question?

Me: Yep. Lemme show you it!

Shmessica: Mmmhm.  Mmmhm.  Hhhmmmmmm…yes.  Yes, you are very screwed. You have made some very big mistakes here.  Let me tell you about all of the very big mistakes that you made:

• Signed lease with person you have never met without consulting me (A LAWYER)
• Relinquished funds to said person that you have never met without consulting me (A LAWYER)
• Entering into a year living situation in a house that you have never seen without consulting me (A LAWYER)

See how many things you did wrong? You should promptly commence kissing your money goodbye.

Me: OhMahGah!! I am such an idiot!!! The landlord is a dishonest biotch!! The law is an asshole!! And you are a super mean landlord and law defender and I need to hang up on you now!

This is her version of the conversation:**

Me: Hey dude, you know how I like to give away my money away all willie nillie and sign contracts with people I’ve never met before?

Shmessica: Yes, I am privy to this information.

Me: Yeah.  Well I totally gave a lot of my money to this lady who told me things that I wanted to hear, and they turned out to not be true, and now I want you to get real lawyer-ee on her ass and fix what I eff’d up mmmmk?

Shmessica: You see Sarah, there is this thing called The Law.  And even though you may be technically right about this, there is still The Law, and The Law says that this lady may have a right to keep some of you money.

Me: Soooooo….You’re gonna fix it?

Shmessica: Let me put it this way: I am a lawyer, not a magician.  I can advise you on how to handle this, but I can not magically get rid of the lease that you willingly signed, or make your money appear from my magic hat like it’s a rabbit.

Me: OhMahGah!! I am such an idiot!!! The landlord is a dishonest biotch!! The law is an asshole!! And you are a super mean landlord and law defender and I need to hang up on you now!

Next time I need a lawyer, I’m gonna find one that I’m NOT BFF’s with because what I really wanted to hear from Shmessica was, “Dude, you are totally right, that landlord is a total whore, and the law is an asshole.”  And I’m sure the next time Shmessica has a tenant/landlord case she will think about how her BFF is the same brand of ignorant trailer trash that she represents for a living.

*Because if I don’t mask her identity she’s likely to have my ass thoroughly tied up in litigation for slander.  And she’d win. Cuz she’s a LAW-yer.

**Allegedly***

***I don’t know if the term, “Allegedly” is really appropriate in this context.  But this post was about legal crap, and so I had to fit it in somewhere.