Upside Down Cake... Er... Life

So right now you could say that my life is in a period of transition.



No, I am not pregnant.

No, I am not moving.

No, I am not dying.


No, I won't elaborate.


What I will tell you is that my anxiety is in full bloom, working overtime, and my feeble little brain is having a hard time just getting through daily life as a normal, kempt human being.

F_ck you, Blogger, I decided that kempt is a word, if unkempt is one.

Anyway, I've been travelling a little. I've been looking at my house and realizing how little we've done to maintain, upkeep, NAY improve the house since our descension onto this lovely little street with 3 dogs and 1 cat over the years.

Also? I think that decension is the wrong word there, but who cares.

Spring cleaning = unsurmountable.

Have you ever gone a long, long time without cleaning your house, only to have company come and experience a cleaning blitz like no other to prepare for their arrival? Where you hope they won't spot that pesky dog-vomit stain on the carpet... the chewed up baseboard, or the fact that your front entranceway is missing a few tiles?

I find it sad, but so true, that we get so used to seeing our surroundings day to day, that we don't realize what might look absolutely horrifying or ghetto-fabulous to someone seeing it for the first time.

Like dog drool on the popcorn stucco ceiling that can't be cleaned off.
Stupid cluttery shit like those candles you bought at Winners for $4 about 10 years ago that are collecting dust on dollar store metal plates.
The ever-expanding collection of elephant knick knacks and carvings that have somehow overtaken your shitty IKEA wall unit.

You know, those things.

I am a mini-hoarder, so it's hard for me to part with shit like that. SHIT. (Well not the elephant and Africa stuff... that stuff is travel-memory GOLD).

Someone in her twenties might be stoked to buy those things for a song at the thrift shop... so why don't I purge? Declutter? Donate? Clean and cleanse?

Why do I have an emotional attachment to an ugly candle?
Maybe because I only have one nice candle?

The "just in case" factor?

I don't understand myself, but something has to be done to clean this place up. Laundry doesn't count, but maybe I'll start there.


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How Do You Know? Trust Me, I KNOW.

So, in what can only be described as a loss of 121 minutes of my life, Feyoncé and I watched the unusually-stabby-rage-y-feeling inducing crap film called "How Do You Know" last night.

It had all of the components a few of the components  a component  some of the components to make a decent film:

• Paul Rudd
• Reese Witherspoon
• Owen Wilson

I love Reese! I love Paul! I am happy that Owen is doing much better, after his suicide attempt a few years back.

I know that you will want those 121 minutes of your life back.

But it WAS.JUST.AWFUL.  For the first 40 minutes, I kept telling Feyoncé that the line/idea/segment/part of the movie was unnecessary, ridiculous, pointless, not-at-all believable, painful to watch, or out-of-line and/or slightly demeaning in some ways to the strong character Reese plays.

My personal opinion? About the first 100 minutes of the movie were what you normally see in the "deleted scenes" special edition section of a DVD, because it was irrelevant and boring.

The last 20 minutes were bearable. Owen had a few pretty funny one liners. That was it.

*sigh*

It brought out rage close to Michael Bublé levels.

And we all know THAT can't be good for me. Or Feyoncé. Or you, dear friends.

Quick summary of all that is StephanieC:

• I have been feeling very shitty emotionally and physically the past few days.  
• I have been searching for literally hours and hours and hours and hours trying to find a honeymoon that fits for us, that is unique, and it is driving me crazy(ier).
• I ordered my bridesmaids' dresses.
• Some door-to-door asshole rang the door THREE times on Good Friday morning, while Feyoncé was on a work call in the basement and I was trying to get my bearings while falling out of bed.                You would think a large, unruly Great Dane STANDING UP ON THE INTERIOR OF THE DOOR would deter someone from at least the SECOND doorbell ring, but, NO.  You have no idea how much effort it takes for me to try to get him wrangled and locked away, just to tell you that I am not interested in your cookbooks/religion/fundraising sausage/overpriced chocolate bars/notice that there is a potentially-fatal gas leak and we need to leave the premises immediately . It's not worth even answering the door.  Once Feyoncé got there (while I was restraining the great beast) she asked if he had been sleeping (well you didn't really give a shit one way or the other, didja now?? HMM?)!

Don't bother to ring a second or third time. Just run.

He's sweet inside, but even I would run from a face like that looking back at me AT EYE LEVEL, if I was schlepping door-to-door.

• Icing on the cake? Feyoncé hasn't been feeling well either, so he went to lay down for a bit. And someone else came by door-to-door.  A ringin' away.  *CUE DOGS BARKING THEIR HEADS OFF*.   I struggled beside Schultz to get door-front window real estate, so my face was visible in the doorway and I waved the guy off.   That's right.   Made a *shooing* motion.   At least it worked, and he didn't have to see my pajama pants. Or smell my breath.

I'm holding out on writing any more blog stuff until I get out of this mental pissy state.
Or until Cesar Milan can come here and teach me calm assertive leadership when it comes to strangers at the door.

That last picture of Schultz is sort of helping a bit...

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Michael Bublé Incites Rage

[EDIT - November 2016] - I wrote this post years ago, and it still gets a surprising number of reads. I am an asshole, no doubt. This is mindless blather. I've just recently learned that Mr. Buble's son, Noah, an innocent and certainly wonderful little 3 year old boy has been diagnosed with cancer. I extend my actual real sincere heartfelt concern to him and his family at this time. I have a 3 year old, and I can't imagine the agony, fear, sadness and turmoil they must be experiencing. So, yes, I am obviously an asshole with my irrelevant post below, but I hope Noah can overcome this.... as quickly as possible. Make a full recovery and that he will flourish and the family can rest easy. 

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Yes, I said it. It's totally irrational, not at all logical, and unclear even to me. But it's true.

The moment I even hear his name uttered, I can feel the hairs raise on the back of my neck (and not in a good way). I cannot change the radio station fast enough when his voice comes on. It makes me blind with rage, for some strange reason.

Exhibit A: MB causing inner rage right now. Probably will never be able to look at this post again. Thanks a lot.

In my mind, I overlap his face with John Mayer which automatically gives him about 90,000 points for douchey-ness. "But Stephanie," you say "he is NOT John Mayer so why punish poor Bublé?". You might also say "Stephanie, don't start sentences with the word BUT".  Who knows, I can't read your minds, people.

Exhibit B: Douchebag Mayer (anyone who hurts Team Aniston is no friend of mine, kids)

 See, not really similar. Except for the douchiness.

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