WTF Blogger

Dear Blogger,

What the fuck? I have tried to comment on my own posts and other people's Blogger-based blogs and I can't since your update. I thought we were starting to be friends but now you are making me seem like a huge bitch. Get your shit together dude.

Sincerely,

Me

*I am not ignoring you (specifically Charleen and Ms Plaid Dressy Pants).

UPDATED: HA! I fixed you Blogger! Eat a dick! Firefox won't let me post, but Chrome does! MWAHAHAHAHAHA!

Personal Space

This is my office:

Anything in the pink area, I consider my personal office area. I thought, as my desk makes a natural dividing line between the "public" area and the "private" areas of my office, this would be understood by most people who have ever been in or seen an office before. Clearly, I was mistaken.

People here have no concept of personal space. They barge in, immediately walk behind my desk, and stand right behind my chair. Um, hi...what the fucking fuck are you doing asshat?!

Even fucking Lumbergh stays in the "visitor area" of the cubicle.

Sometimes people just wander in to have a conversation, which is fine, but why the fuck do they need to stand BEHIND me? Who likes conversing with the back of a person's head? Please note that I have chairs for visitors, but it is like they don't exist.

Another reason (besides being creepy as fuck to have someone breathing down your neck while you are trying to work) has to do with the nature of my work. I am a graphic designer and I don't like to show people things until they are done to my specifications. In-progress work often looks like ass. When people come barging in, do they just wait quietly for me to finish up what I am doing? No. They look over my shoulder, critique my work even if the project doesn't belong to them and make what they think are "fun and edgy" suggestions:

Get the fuck out. NOW.

This is exceedingly frustrating and it makes me want to beat something, namely their face. Do I breathe over their shoulder and tell them how to do their spreadsheets or whatever the fuck they do? NO. I trust that they know what they are supposed to be doing better that I do (even when I know that isn't true, I keep my opinions to myself unless they ask).

Don't be Brainy from Hey Arnold, or I will fucking punch you in the face like Helga.

Lastly, I wear headphones so I don't have to hear the customer service collection people I sit with yell at other people for not paying us. I can only see the door out of the corner of my eye, so please make a small noise or wave or something to let me know you are there. Don't stand there like a dumbass.

Do NOT whip a baseball down the hall so it collides with the side of my metal cabinet and makes a huge bang noise that scares the shit out of me.* Yes, you will succeed in getting my attention, but I will not help you. 

Also, you should eat a huge bag of dicks.

Moral of the story: if you are going into someone's office, exercise a little common courtesy. Give a little knock or wave and stay in the visitor's area unless you are invited behind the desk. 

If you can't do that, you are a creepy-ass motherfucker and you need to back the fuck up. The end.

*Sadly, this has happened to me at my current job more than once.

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If you have something you would like me to talk about or want to hear my opinion on, let me know. I try to stay away from politics or religion, but I am not ruling them out completely. Ask away :-)

Jesus Buns

Disclaimer: I would like to say up front that I am not religious and have no plans to be, but I am a firm believer in tolerance for all faiths, races, genders, and sexual orientations. If you have a hate speech to make, take your soap box elsewhere.

Also, please don't get mad at me. I mean no disrespect to anyone. These were my real thoughts and reactions.

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No, I will not be talking about the ass-cheeks of Jesus. I am talking about these:

See? No one's ass was even involved.

I found this recipe on Pinterest. Yes, I have a Pinterest addiction. If you want to see/follow my boards, you can click here or on the logo below to get to my page. I always take a look at the boards of people who follow me too, so please feel free to feed my addiction.

FEED ME SEYMORE!

Anyway, back to the Jesus Buns. The recipe (entitled "Hocus Pocus Buns" on Pinterest) looked delicious and extremely fattening: everything I could want in a dessert recipe. I didn't click through the link to see the actual recipe page, but I pinned it so I could look at it later.

Last night, I was culling through my recipe board and re-found it. I was like "Oh hey! I could totally make this RIGHT NOW!" So, I clicked through to see the actual recipe and found myself reading a religiously-toned recipe page. That was a little unexpected, but church ladies can make some seriously good food, so whatever.


For those of you who may not know (as I didn't), these buns are actually called Resurrection Rolls. They are a religious thing that apparently many people know about (but strangely, my Catholic-raised husband did not).


I had no idea what I was getting into yet...but it was made painfully clear as I read the first paragraph: "Resurrection Rolls are the perfect treat to make with your little ones to share the meaning of Easter." Okay, now you might be thinking what I was thinking: "Oh no. NO. They are NOT going to go there..." 

Warning: THEY. TOTALLY. ARE.

First, the recipe asks you to pretend that the marshmallows are Jesus' dead corpse: "Give your child a marshmallow and explain that it represents Jesus, all white and pure because He was without sin." There are several things wrong with that image, but fine I'll go with it.

This adds a whole new meaning to the phrase "Sweet Jesus"

Next, you are instructed to pretend the melted butter you dip "Jesus" in are embalming oils. Um, is this getting creepy to anyone else?

Bathe your dead in my essence.

After that, you are instructed to roll the "embalmed Jesus" in cinnamon and sugar that represents the spices traditionally used to prepare the body for burial. Sweet fancy Moses...REALLY? This is a kid's activity?!

All I want to be able to use this on toast again, without thinking of a corpse.

Now, you take your prepped "Jesus" and wrap him in his crescent roll "shroud." Seriously. I wish I was making this up...

The Dough of Turin?

And this is the winner: "Put the rolls in the oven (symbolizing the tomb) and bake for 12 minutes." The OVEN symbolizes the TOMB?! Oh man...really? Please just no. I can't be the only one thinking that perhaps you shouldn't be shoving half a dozen Jewish dudes into an oven, even if it is just a recipe and we are just pretending they are Jesus.

I can't...Wow. Just no.

So there you have it. I have been mentally scarred by a recipe. This is not something I anticipated ever happening in my life.

For those of you wondering: Yes, I did still make them and they were delicious. Here are the ones I made:

A Letter of Discontent

For those of you who may have tried commenting here and couldn't, I think I fixed the problem...

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To the attention of our most esteemed caretaker,

I have been very displeased with your conduct towards me and my companion as of late. We have many points of contention to discuss with you.

First: I would like to point out that we dislike the current housing situation. It lacks the large sunny window and aesthetically-pleasing decor of our normal room. We would like this situation remedied as soon as possible. Also, referring to this new room as our "summer home" is not amusing. We clearly have better taste than that.

The rug however, is nice. Why will you not allow us to run on it?

Second: Stop chastising me for defecating in my food. It is my food, I will do what I like. You are merely here to replenish the supply, not to criticize the placement of my fecal matter. I find it has a very calming effect on the chi of our home. That is, until you spoil it with your excessive nattering.

Also, fecal carpeting is extremely comfortable and difficult to construct.
Why do you insist on removing it after all of our hard work?

Third: Heat wave or not, I did not appreciate you dunking my nether regions in cold water, nor did I appreciate you cooing about how cute I was while I was standing on your hand clearly trying to escape said torment. Clearly you have a cold, cold heart...probably as cold as that water was on my unmentionables.

No, I do not believe we will be conversing today. Or ever again.

Fourth: My compatriot has informed me of a very distasteful incident that involved a Q-tip, mineral oil, and his rear end. Please cease and desist this unacceptable and horrendous behavior at once. It is uncomfortable and embarrassing, and frankly I am horrified that this even had to be addressed.

THIS IS NOT FOR RECTUMS.

Fifth: When you take us on excursions to the grassy plain at the rear of the domicile, please be cognizant of the fact that we are in public. We would like you to exercise some degree humility and respect as we have a dignified reputation to uphold. Do not call us "Cute Boys", "Figgle-Piggle", "Fizz-Pig", "Little lumps of love" or "Snuggle Pigs"...and for the love of all that is holy, DO NOT sing the "Spider Pig" song.

Your caterwauling is hurting my pride. And my ears.

Sincerely,

Figulous (Fig) Bloechl

Prince of Pellets, Duke of Hayfield, Earl of Endive, Baron of the Cardboard Chewies, Royal Knight Companion of the most Loyal Order of the Popcorn

Great Seal of the Arch Duchy of Cavy
Eat Sleep Poop

Why?

Hi, I want to tell you that your eyes are fine. I changed the background on the blog because I wasn't overly fond of the last one. 

Now back to our regularly scheduled programing.

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Perhaps you are asking yourself: why did you start this awesome blog and what is with the name of it? If you aren't asking these things, I am going to tell you all about it anyway.

Okay, why did I start this blog. There were several factors in my decision:

•  My husband was getting annoyed with me telling him all of my weird-ass stories and thoughts.

Joke's on him. I still tell him all my weird stuff, but now I also share it with friends and strangers!
WINNING.

• Writing seems like a much better way of venting frustration. 

Previously I had to be content with making sarcastic replies and bitch-slapping people in my head.

• Writing helps me deal with my depression...more on that in a different post someday. It is a difficult subject for me to talk and/or write about.

Sorry for bringing down the mood...Look at these baby platypus dressed as Inspector Gadget instead.
Go Go Gadget...CUTE!

• I enjoy connecting with other people and making them laugh, but it is difficult for me in real life. Perhaps further explanation will be rendered in a future post. Short explanation: people are scary.

Less difficult now that I am medicated.

• I have always wanted to write something, but writing a book seems a little daunting to me. They are long and have plots and multiple characters and are supposed to be enthralling...

Um...nope, I've got nuthin'.

• The Bloggess and Telling Dad. Their blogs are awesome and The Bloggess has a book that you should totally read.

Someday, my cloning device will be complete and I will have a Bloggess of my own...

• Because it terrifies me. Will people like it? Are they enjoying it or do they think I need to be locked in a mental institution? Perhaps both? Will I run out of stuff to write about? I am tired of anxiety winning over so many things in my life, so this is one way I am kicking it right in the ass.

Yup, that's a foot right in the pooper.

• And the final push was Amy, my totally bitchin' hairdresser. She gets me and I love her in a borderline lesbian way. She was all, "You should start a blog, bitch!" And I was like, "Nah, what would I write about?" And she was all, "EVERYTHING."

Say hello Amy.

Alright, so what is up with the name?


"Let me spell that" is something I have said everyday since getting married. For those of you who don't know, my married name is Bloechl. Try to say it. It's okay, I'll wait.

If it helps, the "O" and the "E" used to be an "O" with an umlaut. And if you don't know, an umlaut is like a sideways colon (heh...) that goes over the top of a letter, like this: Ö.

You get it? No? It's Blay-cull. Not even close, huh? Yeah. I love my husband to death, but that last name was not a trade up.

I want to punch people when I try to spell it and they cut me off like, "No it's cool, I've got this!" and they spell it wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. Then, to add insult to injury, they insist their spelling HAS to be correct.

Blotchy, Blochi, Blaccul, Blayco, Placo, Playdoh...For the love of all that is holy, please just stop.

Bitches, Beware.

This isn't a real post. This is just me, ranting.


My workplace is on a fairly busy road in an industrial park, near a bunch of ritzy residential areas and a small park with a pond. Inexplicably, lots of people walk or jog along the road in the industrial park even though (unlike all of the surrounding roads) there is no sidewalk, the road is narrow, and there are frequently big ass tractor-trailers in and out. 

"This is an AWFUL place to walk. Safety is for poor people!" - Ritzy Residents

You have to take it slow and watch out, this goes for pedestrians as well as motorists. To add to the fun, the industrial park has strategically planted trees and gigantic shrubs in all shittiest spots, so you can’t see people coming in and out of the parking lots.

Bring me a shrubbery!

It was on this lovely road that my story takes place. I had just climbed into my car started my hour long trip home, when through one of the shrubs I vaguely see movement. I slow down, just in case. Is it a deer? Just the wind? 

Big Foot?

Nope, out of the shrub-hidden driveway appears a perfectly coiffed, bleach blonde, rich-bitch walking her dog and talking on her cell phone. The dog, clearly having some idea that there is something approaching, stops at edge of road. She keeps walking, talking, and not fucking paying attention, and now she is getting pissed at the dog and tugging at the leash. I absorbed all of this in a fraction of a second and slowed down as much as I could. Since I wasn’t going that fast to begin with, I easily avoid her with room to spare, but it certainly gave me a couple of pants-shittingly terrifying seconds where I thought she was going to walk right out in front of me.

Apparently, in her mind I was too close or going to fast or possibly both. And it was CLEARLY my fault that she had just popped out of the shrubbery like a goddamn ninja without looking.

GAH!

So she does the sensible and adult thing and FLIPS THE FUCK OUT. Giving me the finger, yelling all sorts of threats and curses, standing in the goddamn road, while her dog calmly sits by the side of the road and lets her rave like the lunatic she is. I like to think that he was secretly judging her, looking at her with doggy scorn and embarrassment.

Sorry. My owner is an asshole.

Domestically Challenged, Part Deux

Just so you can better understand the depths of my Domestically Challengeditis, I bring you another installment of my ineptitude!
Laundry.

Oh yeah people, I’m going there. Laundry is the bane of my existence. Gathering it, sorting it, washing it, drying it, folding it, putting it away...Just no.

Fuck. That. Shit.

Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?

Gathering

I live in a fairly small house by American standards, 1,500 square feet (Fun fact: average house size in the US is approximately 2,500 square feet as of 2010). How many places could dirty laundry hide? Answer: ALL OF THE PLACES.

There are probably 2-3 loads of laundry hidden in this photo of my living room.

There are socks in the living room, a bra in my craft room, more socks and a t-shirt in the office, a lone pair of underpants in the hall, towels in the bathrooms, and a veritable carpet of discarded clothing on David’s side of the bed. It is like hide and seek to get all of it together, except you you always get stuck as the seeker and what is hiding is raunchy underpants that you would really rather not find.

Come out, come out wherever you are...

Sorting

I unearth the mountain of discarded clothing and toss it down the stairs for sorting. Lights, darks, towels, and sheets right? WRONG BITCH.

Bras are delicates because if you ever want to be able to wear that expensive titty-holster again, you better not even THINK about sorting it into anything other than cold water wash load because the straps will twist up and the cups will deform and there will be no way your boobs will ever fit comfortably in it again.

I was a 34B. Now I am a 34-Go-Fuck-Yourself.

David works in a factory where he gets covered in fiber dust, regular dust, dirt, and other unidentifiable substances that all smell weird. Those pants are not getting washed with the regular clothes (because ew), so now we have a jeans load. And then the guinea pigs have their cage-liners and pee pads that need their own separate load, because no one wants their clothing marinated in guinea urine.

But my scent is adorably alluring and it brings all the boys to the yard...oh, my bad.
That's cats. It brings all the CATS to the yard.

Washing
The washing itself isn’t that bad. Throw it in with the requisite powders/liquids, select a cycle, and hit start. What I hate about it is being told someone needs something when someone is already out of said items and needs them right then in order to not go to work half naked the next day.


Also, if you forget that you have a load in the washer, you will be greeted with that lovely sour, slightly mildewy scent that pervades every piece of clothing in the forgotten load and have to wash it again. So you can forget it all over again. And possibly again...


Drying


Let’s get one thing straight right away: the timer on the dryer is a fucking liar. It says one hour, you had best budget two, especially for jeans or sheets.

DING! I'm not even remotely done! I just want attention!

Everything gets tangled together. The outside of the bundle is dry leading you to a false sense of security, but then SURPRISE MOTHERFUCKER! The inside is totally fucking soaked! YAY! Now you get to untangle that bastard and try again!


Folding


This is my least favorite part, which is usually why it never gets done and we are digging through a mountain of clean clothes to find things. Do I love finding my closet full of nicely folded clothes? Hell yes! Do I like to be the one to actually nicely fold them? No. No, I do not.


My biggest hates? Socks and fitted sheets.


I have a basket half full of socks that have no mates. How is that even fucking possible? Like snowflakes, apparently no two socks are alike. Especially white sports socks. Some have a red line, some have grey toes and heels, some have a gold toe, some have a black line, some have no lines at all. And none of them have a mate once they leave their package. EVER.

I am convinced that the lint in my dryer trap is actually the cremated remains
of all the mates to my mate-less socks.

And fitted sheets? I have watched Momet (my mother) fold them to perfection a million times. I have seen tutorial videos on YouTube. I have read instructions that have photos. Mine always turn into something I like to call a “wad” which I promptly hide at the top of the closet.

Step 1: Attempt to fold. Step 2: Fuck it, wad that shit up.
Step 3: Throw into closet before anyone can see your shame.

Putting it away


Once everything is done and folded, you have to find a place for it.
Living in New England, the unpredictable weather forces you to have a revolving door system of clothing. I have clothes for every season and they are constantly being rotated in or out. And sometimes “seasons” overlap, so you have twice as many clothes as there is space to put them.

Thanks for that week of 80 degree weather, followed by a gigantic
snowstorm in October Mother Nature! Fucking bipolar bitch...What season is is again?

So there you have it. Laundry is a thankless and endless task. And it hates you.

Come closer. We feed on the souls of the weak. And socks.