Target, New Job, Enchiladas and Bathroom Remodel... not in that order

I need to be dressed and out of here in 20 minutes, to take Carlie and a friend to a *family sock hop* at church; wherein *family sock hop* = could not get Tim to attend even if I promised there'd be strippers there. Of course, he would probably see right thru that promise since the sock hop is at church. He is clever like that.

But I have so many extremely important topics to blog on, I thought it highly imperative that I get on my computer right now, when I should be getting dressed, to tell you all about it.

First up, I made the most fabulous chicken enchiladas ever. With homemade sauce. For real. I've got the recipe up on my food blog, Rotisserie Chicken is the New Black. I am still in love with myself for that clever title, fyi.

We are in the midst of a bathroom remodel. Remodel is probably understating the situation. We completely gutted a bathroom pretty much down to the studs and now a contractor is rebuilding it for us. With posh new everything, including a tile shower with a spiffy custom door that cost me eleventy million dollars. We are doing this in hopes of helping move along the sale of our house, you know, because I decided to move SEVEN FRIGGIN' MONTHS AGO. So there's that.

Also on the, "oh yeah, guess what?" front, I am starting a new job February 1. It's really the same job that I do now, but I'll be doing it for a big company instead of for my lonely self. I have been self-employed for, like 15+ years, so this will be interesting. There is a small part of me that seriously thinks I might not be fit for social interaction on that kind of level (see Target saga below). Because? Almost every person I encounter on a daily basis is stupid, and I've gotten kind of bad about hiding my disdain for everyone and their stupidity. But, hey, it's an adventure, right? RIGHT?

And now to the most important topic of the night, which I now have about ten minutes to tell you about: my spectacular blaze of glory breakup with Target. YES, TARGET. I know. But seriously, their eff-ed up return policy has pushed my button for The. Last. Time.

Back story: In the summer, I bought an exercise ball thing from Target. And it would not inflate. It had a hole in it. So I took it back. I had paid cash for it THE WEEK BEFORE, but lost the receipt. They would not take it back. At all. It was DEFECTIVE. I had gotten zero use out of it. And they would not take it back. They could not exchange it for another one, because they had sold out of them and they didn't have any idea when they would get more. They would not do a store credit. NOTHING. The customer service manager (yes, I demanded to speak to a manager) was a snotty little bitch who basically said, if you don't have a receipt, screw you.

This kept me out of the Target store for a while. But eventually I was lured back in by their spacious aisles and low prices.

Now on to the break up, and I'll give you the short version. It all began Christmas 1997. Ha! I know, short version, right? Well, in 1997 I gave Tim a beautiful Wenger watch that he loved and wore every single day. Until October of 2009. When he lost it. He took it off while playing basketball, and then forgot about it, and when he went back for it a day later, it was gone. So he needed a new watch.

In November, I was on one of my three-times-per-week trips to Target, and saw a nice looking Timex watch, on clearance for $54, so I bought it. I was kind of pissed that he had lost the nice watch I had bought him, oh, you know, 10+ years ago, so I was being passive-aggressive and only replacing it with a cheapy Timex. And also, stupid me, I paid cash because it was going to be a birthday gift and I didn't want it to show up on the bank account if I used a debit card.

Gave Tim the watch in December, and after about three weeks of wearing the watch, it stopped keeping time. The battery was not dead, it just would start and stop and was generally weird. It also did weird date stuff, like changing the date at 2:14 in the afternoon. And then the band broke. So basically, the watch was a piece of shit that fell apart after about a month.

I put it back in its box, the box it came in, with the Target price tag still on it, and forgot about it. MY BAD. I KNOW. SORRY. But eventually, I remembered, and I took it back to Target this week.

And they won't take it back. It is defective. It is broken. They won't take it back.

They pulled it up in their computer, confirmed that, yes, they did carry that watch back in November but, no, they don't have it anymore.

I was not happy. I did not hide my unhappiness. It was not one of my prouder moments.

I was thisclose TO THROWING THE WATCH at the customer service girl's head. Like, I cocked my arm back with the box in it to throw it at her. I am not joking. And, yes, I realize there is something wrong with me. I pulled my shit together and walked out. And then turned around, went back in, and cocked back again with the box to throw it at her head, at which point I realized I should probably be on some kind of medication. Also? Carlie was WITH ME this entire time, and said something along the lines of, "Mommy, I'm scared," and snapped me out of it. So basically, I am mentally defective, and it is Target's fault. In case you were having trouble tracking this story.

The next day, I logged on to the Timex web site, and they have a one-year return policy. I need to send them the watch, NO RECEIPT NEEDED, and $8 to cover return shipping, and they will fix it or replace it. If it is that easy for me to do it, then HOW FREAKING EASY WOULD IT HAVE BEEN FOR TARGET TO RETURN IT TO TIMEX?

And so there you have it. I will never shop at Target again. The End.

PS: I am now late for the sockhop. You're welcome.

High Rollers

WTF? I swear, I do not have a black eye.

We've arrived. We are at the Spirit Mountain Casino for our overnight getaway. How does one go from being broke to being on vacation, you might ask. We have a free room for the night, $100 gift card for the restaurant and $100 voucher for the casino. We did have to fill the tank for the drive down and Tim bought the Styx concert tickets for tonight. But all in all, a pretty free vacation.

And do you like how I am kicking it off? Within 13 minutes of being checked into our room, Tim had already ditched me to go play blackjack. I hung back to freshen up, which is code for poop, and five minutes later, oops, I was on Facebook. And then my blog. We agreed to meet at the blackjack table in half an hour, so I can spend that half hour however I want to, right?

The camera on my broken phone had been acting up, but now with my new free phone I am able to mobile blog again. And from what I have seen so far, there should be some pretty interesting people to snap a few good shots of (is that illegal?). But how bad would I feel if I took a picture of some gnarley casino regular getting his/her game on, and posted it with a snarky comment and then found out it was, like, your uncle's wife? That would suck. I'll make sure the innocent are protected (meaning me).

On the oh crap front, I feel a sinus infection coming on. Which may explain somewhat my three week long headache. Because my headache? Has now become a face ache. And I am flying across the country in less than two weeks. Can anyone score me a free Z-pack?

Last thing. I forgot to mail the give-away prizes before I left town (sorry!). So assuming my 20 year old staying home alone son doesn't consume all of the alcohol in the house, I'll mail them out Monday!

Time to hit the casino. Let the mobile blogging begin. I mean gaming. I mean romantic weekend. Either/Or.

UPDATE: Tim just came back to the room to change out of his sweatshirt because it's warm in the casino. And looks at me, like, where are my clothes. Dude, I did not pack your freaking clothes, you are a grown man. And under the sweatshirt? A tee shirt. With a hole. And he has brought NOTHING with him. No other clothes. NOTHING but his laptop. WTF?

The Art of Basket Making

When I think "basket making," I think looney bin recreational activities, a la "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest." But for the last two days, I've been knee deep in making baskets for Carlie's school auction, the "big event" for her school's annual fundraising efforts.  

The auction is a combination of live and silent auction items. Off track for a moment here, but I will snap a picture tomorrow of our kick ass class project, the tile top patio bar. It is truly awesome and a work of art. And a bar! Win Win!

Back to the baskets. Here's how the auction works. People donate stuff. Lots of stuff. As of right now, 669 items. An "item" can be anything from a week at a vacation home to a $2 box of golf tees. My job as an auction volunteer this year has been to package the items, which as of right now we have 391 packages. A package can be a single item, like that week at a vacation home, or a collection of items, like that $2 box of golf tees combined with a pack of golf balls, golf club covers, a golf shirt, a gift certificate for an hour at the driving range and a "Chicken Soup for the Golfer's Soul" book.

And here's where the basket making comes in.

All of those combined packages of items need to be merchandised for display in such a way to bring in the big money bids in the silent auction.

When you have a collection of cool items, like golfing stuff, it's pretty easy. The items have some value, they will appeal to someone who golfs. Put them in a basket, wrap it up with a bow and call it a day.

When about half of the packages have been created, things start to get creative. Because the items? Not all of them are anything that anyone anywhere would EVER WANT IN A MILLION YEARS. Seriously. For the hundreds of generous donors that give great items to the auction, there are a handful of cheap bastards who think this is a great opportunity to unload any crap they have lying around the house. And I get to try to make lemonade out of their funky old lemons. 

Some of the lemons this year: a dog sweater, complete with dog hair on it; broken porcelain doll; unbelievably scary plastic alarm clock with a horrific japanese anime face on it; 4th of July plastic picture frame. And the list goes on.

I went through the database and put together items that seemed like they'd "work" together and turned the 669 items into 391 packages.

Yesterday I joined the in-progress basket making crew at 11 a.m. They started at 8:30. We went at it until 3:00. And today I made baskets from 7:40 a.m. until 4:00 p.m.

And I've yo-yo'ed back and forth between WOW, THESE BASKETS LOOK GREAT and WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH A THREE-FINGERED DOLL? Because we try to use EVERYTHING that gets donated. Because? If we deem something unworthy, we lose a future donor and end up with parents and parishioners with hurt feelings. Thank God there is a paid auction coordinator who actually gives a shit about the hurt feelings part, because I've been on the verge of tossing shit in the garbage without remorse.

But the bulk of the physical work is done, and now it's time to put together descriptive placards and bid sheets. And Saturday will be an all day affair of setting up the ballroom, transporting the items from the school to the Hilton, arranging the displays and decorating.

Then zip home, shower, glam my ass up and head back to the Hilton to par-tay like a rock star.

Have I mentioned that I am so over this project?

Dude, what HAPPENED to you?

Have you ever seen a really, truly horrible professional photograph of someone you know, a picture so bad it made you literally do a double take and whip your head around for a second look, and then wonder WHAT IN THE CRAP DID THE "BAD" ONES LOOK LIKE if this is the best shot?

Am I going to hell for this?

God, I love Facebook.

Hypothetically speaking...

Is it wrong to plan a trip back to your hometown, and then start googling old boyfriends who still live in said hometown, just to see what they are up to, and then slamming your laptop shut like you just got caught looking at porn at work when your husband walks into the room?

Morbid obsession

We are getting up and at 'em this morning to go to a funeral. The mom of a good friend of ours died. Neither Tim nor I are "native" to this area, so our friends here are friends we've made as adults, as opposed to being "back home," where your friends are friends from, like, forever.

Point being: we did not know the deceased at all. We met her one time, briefly. But both Tim and I know what it's like to lose your mom (both of our moms died in December as well, so welcome to the melancholy holiday club). And we both know that even though nothing makes you feel better when your mom is dead and you're at her funeral, having friends show support is a nice thing that you do remember when you come out of the grief fog later on.

So it's off to a funeral for someone we didn't know. But the fact that it's someone's mom makes me incredibly sad. It makes me miss my own mom. And it makes me go to that dark place where I wonder what my kids would wear to my funeral and the fact that they have NOTHING appropriate to wear should that need arise. And Carlie's hair? I am so totally the only person on this planet that can do anything with that hair. So she would be a complete ragamuffin mess if I were to die.

And this is going to sound somewhat freakish and a little bit mentally unstable, but I have considered putting together a box of funeral clothes for my kids, like tucked away in a closet with a note that will lead them to it if I die. That way, they'll have something acceptable to wear. But then I remember packing diaper bags with extra clothes for babies and toddlers, and how the day they finally needed to wear those clothes? Yeah, they were, like, two sizes too small. And because my family is pretty much oblivious to anything remotely resembling "appropriate" and "acceptable" when it comes to attire, they'd just wear the too small clothing to the funeral, and be all knobby wrists poking out of sleeves and high-water pants. So I guess jeans will have to do.

Morbid, much? I know.