mcmansion is mcshitty

“Why is your McMansion always broken?” my sister asked. I DON’T KNOW BUT HERE IS AN ANECDOTE.

We are renters. Why? Because if we bought a house here and I had to tell people this was my home for the next 30 years I would string myself up from the rafters. I can’t wait for this assignment to be done. Eric keeps telling me that “you gotta take the first crappy assignment then you have a better chance of picking where you want to go next time.” Uh huh.

I was finishing up my job in Seattle because my boss was a vicious tyrant who wouldn’t let me leave. (Actually, it was more like the company takes a million years to hire and vet people then I had to train him.) Eric had to be at his assignment in May and I wasn’t going to be able to leave until July. This left the action of securing housing up to him.

We had JUST found a house to rent in WA after a couple months of searching and passionately discussing where to live and I loved it and our neighborhood. I was bitter. Like a good K8-wrangler, he kept sending me posts of houses in the new location from,, All the, and was starting to wear me down. The wife of one of his coworkers is a realtor and offered to show him some properties. More links. Fine, does it have at least 1.5 bathrooms? Yes? Uh huh, fine, book it. Eric only had a week or so in the hotel or housing they provided when he moved out so he needed to find a place fast. I was too distracted with my job, finishing up my certificate classes, and generally freaking out about what was next.

Pictures of the house looked good – lots of hardwood, high ceilings, two-car garage, stainless steel kitchen, garden tub, 2.5 bathrooms, and a bonus room. This was way more house than either of us were used to and it felt fancy.

When our furniture arrived about a week after we did post Wedding Road Trip and we started setting up, it started to feel awesome. It’s not really “our house” but when people come to visit they will be all “holy shit, this is a cool house!” YEAH, it LOOKS cool.

The electrical, it’s always the fucking electrical.

It started with the ceiling fans in the master bedroom and the upstairs bonus room. They weren’t working at all. Not the lights, not the fans. They have a remote instead of a regular wall switch so at first the batteries were replaced. Nothing. So Eric put in an online maintenance ticket and a few days later a guy came to check.

“Uhhhh, they aren’t wired.” We both looked at each other stupidly, as in “how the fuck aren’t they wired?” He takes both of them and was going to check with the owner. She wanted them replaced. Roughly a week later, two ceiling fans arrive by mail but no word from the electrician. His wife, a lovely older Southern woman, finally called after another week to ask if they arrived. He came back and installed them. Super, work great.

Light bulbs. CONSTANTLY burning out. I don’t think a single bulb was ever replaced before we moved in. At first I thought it was just Eric being quirky. He’s super finicky about household things so I thought he was just buying bulbs that matched but nope. For the first two months we lived here I’m pretty sure every shopping trip included more fucking light bulbs.

Heating and cooling. I don’t know exactly what it was but some “switch” under the house went out right before Christmas. We were in WA visiting family when the power company called Eric to inform him that our usage had spiked and they crawled under the house and a switch was faulty. They fixed it but not before we got a $600 electric bill for that month. And right now this very moment I’m sitting upstairs in the bonus room at my desk with the temperature slowly climbing because the air conditioner isn’t working. Oh boo hoo, right? Let me describe Southern summers for you: Heat your oven to high, whatever the highest temperature is. Take a wet towel and put it in the oven. Live in the fucking oven. Amazing. It does nothing for my hair.

My favorite issue was the light above the mailbox. We don’t have street lights on the actual street. There is one on the corner. We are the second house from the corner. Every house on this asses-to-elbows street has a light on the mailbox for “safety” and it’s fine. The fascist Property Owners Association though will give you a ticket if your light is out.

Eric bought new bulbs. Eric bought a new switch for the sensor box. Eric made K8 fucking nuts talking about the mailbox light. He succumbed and put in a maintenance ticket. I believe this was a bit before Thanksgiving, somewhere in late October or early November. I don’t recall the exact number but I believe 4,682 people came to look at the light, inspect the box, check the ground wires, and then leave and do nothing. We heard nothing for months.

The realty company emailed us a couple weeks ago to see if it was fixed and I laughed so hard I might have popped a rib. “Ok, we are sending a crew between 1pm and 3 pm on Thursday.” Super, I will be here.

Like an idiot, I get up “early” so I can do my morning introverting, workout, and be showered before they show up. FALSE. Shiner starts growling at 10 am just as I am about to change into workout clothes so I do the routine where I check all the windows to show him that no one is trying to murder us…except there are four dudes on my front lawn with ladders and gadgets.

“Four dudes, one light” should be a viral Internet video where someone lights his butt on fire trying to light a fart but instead it’s just the usual contractor overkill. Me being the naturally delightful person that I am, I put on a sweatshirt and attempt to fix my Troll hair and let them know they are super fucking early. “Yes, ma’am. No worries ma’am. We’re just here to check then someone else will be here later to dig.”

Great, a multi-pronged approach to the mailbox light. At some point I look out the window to check and there is one guy on a ladder. Then he leaves. Saga over. I change and go upstairs to do my workout…for five minutes until the doorbell rings.

Super nice guy. Agrees they built the neighbors’ house way too close. Idiots, right?! Replaced the ground line and laid down new sod for the lawn…thanks! Go back upstairs and destroy my delts.

Here is a light and now it's not is a light and once it was out...
Here is a light and now it’s not out…here is a light and once it was out…

Email Eric and let him know the light is fixed and he got new sod! He LOVES yard work. I think it’s his Norwegian side. Fucking loves manual labor, that guy.

“What does it look like?” UGH, never just a thanks from him. Always the detective questions.

I had to take Shiner out anyway so we went outside to inspect the work. DEAD. The sod looks like they dug up some old, dead grass from somewhere and flopped it down. Eric worked on the lawn so much because I may or may not have been letting Shiner pee on the 14×4 strip of front lawn and the grass was all dead and he just started to get it even and then they dug it up and put down this embarrassment of sod and he was at least going to have something to keep him busy but I laughed all the way back into the house because irony.

These are just a few of my favorite McMansion issues. This doesn’t include all the slightly-crooked tiles, broken tiles, countertops that are pulling away from the vanity and wall, the fact that there are NO WINDOWS on the entire west side of the house…If that little realtor trickster had somehow convinced Eric to buy this and we were stuck with all this nonsense and no natural light I would probably move back to WA and live in my Golf with Shiner. You can do that there.


mcmansion is mcshitty

exciting update, road rage, and square pies

Everyone stop what you’re doing cause I’m about to ruin your perception of me as a heartless curmudgeon. THE ATLANTIC CAME TODAY!!! WTF are you talking about? OH, the fact that after many months of hoping and waiting and thinking that I should have an allowance and someone to look after my finances MY BENEVOLENCE AND PRIVILEGE GUILT PAID OFF! We had a sort of ice storm today but the mail came because literally neither rain nor sleet nor snow stops USPS and it was FULL of magazines: Bloomberg, Home & Garden, Fast Company, Seventeen, and The Atlantic. Smugness ACTIVATE!! Why do I get Seventeen? I dunno. Before The Atlantic, I haven’t paid for a magazine subscription in years. They just sort of show up. I think Major paid for Women’s Health for me for a year and they just keep sending more and more sister publications. As I opened the mailbox and said out loud “what the hell” because there was so much stuff, I started rifling through the stack as Shiner tried to wind himself around the light pole. And here it is, a red beacon of hope and light and mercy and future counseling school:


So now what’s next? A job?! I got another one of those “zoom” letters today about “we received many applications and are pursuing applicants with qualifications who more closely resemble what we are looking for” or something like that. It’s not like I have it memorized or anything. I am also making zero headway with school. I’m not registered, no one answers emails regarding status update, and I have no funding yet either. So, it’s going well.

I love flipping people off in my car. I’m not allowed to do it so people actually SEE me do it because of shit like this. So this it looks like this lady went back out with her son to find the dumbasses from the initial incident and ended up dying over it. Awful. We went to a hockey game for my birthday and when we were leaving the game and walking back to the car we/I got into an altercation. The truck was parked at a restaurant across the street from the arena and I was still happily buzzed. (This would quickly turn into “oh God, please don’t puke in the truck” thoughts for an hour on the drive home because I can’t have four beers in four hours anymore. Thanks, 33.)  A gaggle of us were walking on the sidewalk when a car tried to plow through us. We stopped. She stopped. I, in my righteous beer indignation and in my visiting team jersey, made a grand sweeping gesture with my arm and said “aaaaafter YOOOOOU!” No middle finger, but I made my point. This is when passenger dude decided he should open the door, stand up and hide behind the open door, and start calling me names that clever broheims call women who dare call them out. You know, like bitch and whore. SUPER CLEVER. I didn’t even know what to say so I just kept walking because one, it was fucking cold and two, Major encouraged me to keep walking. What kind of piece of shit dude wants to throw down with a woman because his lady friend nearly plowed down seven pedestrians? A SUPER COOL ONE! Anyway, that is why I am not allowed to voice my opinion in real time with traffic bullies or hockey bullies or bullies because you don’t know who has a gun and will put one in your brain because they are SUPER COOL.

For some reason I decided I needed to make chicken pot pie for dinner. It’s been colder than normal down here south of the Mason Dixon so it seemed like a good thing to have. I found this recipe on Pinterest and it seemed k8-proof. I went to the grocery store down the road. It’s not my favorite because their options for organic vegetables is just the boxes of organic spinach. Anyway, it was my second trip there in as many days. I was wearing the same leggings I slept in, tunic, black short Zombie Apocalypse boots, and Columbia bubble coat that I unzipped from the bottom because I decided the $50 price difference between a small and a medium size was too much. Brushed teeth and hair. Put cover-up on my awesome hormonal break-outs. There are only four or five ingredients in the recipe plus the pre-made crust I was going to get. We needed a few regular staples. I should have been in and out in ten minutes…except I couldn’t find the fucking crust. I looked in the case near the butter first with all the biscuits and didn’t see the cans there. I walked back to the freezer cases past the pizza. Past the waffles. Past the ice cream. I could only find the frozen crusts that were for one-crust dishes. I NEED BOTH CRUSTS, DAMMIT! I found one of those tiny Marie Callendar pot pies for Major because I was about to give up. I was getting sweaty, which doesn’t take much but the bubble coat was really holding in all the heat. The butter case was occupied by a lady who needed several moments to pick a fucking butter when I was there earlier, so I went back to the case. We’ve been eating popcorn while watching non-illegally obtained movies and going through a shit load of butter. What was directly next to butter? DOUBLE CRUST IN A BOX! A BOX! I was looking for a can the first time. Silly.

Following a recipe 80 percent is my specialty. We don’t have glass circle pie pans but I have a bunch of those white Corning dishes. My cooking ninja skills aren’t so advanced that I know how to compensate for things or if you need to compensate for different pie plate materials. I found a square glass dish because I DON’T NEED SOCIETY TO TELL ME WHAT SHAPE MY MEAT PIES SHOULD BE! Also, it was delicious and we ate the shit out of it. There is a tiny square of it left in the frig. Usually I have way more self-control but I’m pretty sure we ate nearly equal amounts. NOT SORRY.


Just some parting thoughts: Melissa McCarthy and Susan Sarandon should be partnered together in way many more comedies. Jenny Slate is a national treasure. Pregnant Mindy Lahiri already makes me giggle. I thought I lost an orange sport sock forever and Major was just standing here saying good night and PULLED IT OUT OF HIS SLEEVE LIKE A MAGICIAN.


exciting update, road rage, and square pies

big news

So, big news: I got a garlic press. I’ve been smashing garlic and shoving it into animal carcasses for like two weeks now. It took me a decent amount of time to find it, too. None at the grocery store. None at Target. None at Christmas Tree Shop. I finally found it at World Market and by my reaction you would have thought I scored a sweet hit of coke. But no, just a 33 year old housewife finding kitchen gadgets. And by the way, I had to drive about an hour north to go to World Market. One day I just decided I needed to get out of the house so I went up to the Big City and went to Super Target; got lunch at Panera with a free pastry for my birthday WHAT WHAT; found my garlic press and some European candies at World Market; then went to a not-scary liquor store for Talisker. I wore my new blazer and had my little tote bag and made it look like I might be a business lady running errands on her lunch. It was great. People at Panera looked at me like “hmm, what kind of transactions is this lady completing today?” GARLIC PRESSES AND SCOTCH, BITCHES!

Have you heard of Talisker? It is a single-malt Scotch whisky and it tastes like a fucking campfire. I love it.


We were in Cleveland for the Tragically Hip Fully Completely Tour and went to a total hipster bar after the show. I asked the helpful barkeep for a scotch that “is super peat-y” and he gave me Talisker. And it was the best. And my mom paid for the round and it was like $30 for my campfire, a beer for my brother, and her pineapple and vodka (I’m not kidding) and I immediately felt bad but how often are you in Cleveland for your 33rd birthday HOLLA! Also, did you know that bars are far funnier when you are not looking to get laid? But then it gets a little weird when you realize your mom might want to and you are sitting in the middle and you WANT to be a cool wingman but halfway through you’re like KEEP YOUR OLD LIVER-SPOTTED HANDS OFF MY MOTHER!! (No one groped my mom in real life.)

I can’t stop using CAPS LOCK in written communication. I yell a lot in real life. The other day the Major and I were “discussing” something and I reminded him that I am bossy as hell and he said “yeah, and a little mean. That’s why I love you” and now I question every single one of his motives. I realized the other day that we don’t fight about money or real things. We fight about the dishwasher and food. Food is the easy one: he eats garbage. Want to know what he made for breakfast today? A frozen pizza. He also told me the other day that he didn’t even buy vegetables before we started dating. I don’t know if this new nutrition is even helping him but it sure ruins his love of meals.

The dishwasher/dishes: the asinine straw that breaks the housewife’s back. We have a split sink. The right side has the garbage disposal. You can put dishes that don’t go in the dishwasher on the left side so someone/ME can rinse and wash dishes on the right side. Totally reasonable. (Aside: I have tried three times to email myself pictures from my phone to include in this post and they refuse to appear in my inbox in two different email accounts. I love my inability to use technology.) Major will rarely put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher. When he does they are clean and then I have to dig them out. “Oh, A for effort, K8!” NO. Or he will put them on the sink and say “I thought the machine was dirty.” YEP, I ALWAYS leave four CLEAN dishes in the machine randomly by themselves. TOTES. (But seriously, this is the worst thing he does and I WILL break him but I’m glad he doesn’t spend rent on the ponies or hookers or at least he’s VERY good at hiding it from me and you gotta respect operative-level deception.) This particular day, he put a salad plate in THE MIDDLE of the bottom rack. Look at this shit:


A dish can’t ROLL into place like this. NO. See how it is angled? Yeah, it was placed that way. Passive aggressive dish placement FTW, Major. He’ll pay.

Did you know it is Valentine’s Day in 23 minutes? No one gives a shit. Seriously. The day only exists to set awful expectations that no man or woman will live up to and everyone is sad and sleeps ass to ass for the night and you have to put up with pictures of Michael Kors watches on social media and all you want to do is nap until it passes. I am disappointed that evolution has not come up with a better solution to things like human hibernation to pass time to avoid awkward instances. I am the most introverted of introverts though and you would only see me like three months total all year. I think I would have made a great turtle or a snail because I could just come out and throw an asshole comment out like a grenade then go into my house for a few weeks. That’s my dream. I realize this might make me sound like a “cool girl” but I am not trying to put on any kind of airs. I’m married. No more effort is needed for eternity. Major keeps saying that he feels bad that he didn’t get me anything and I keep telling him I don’t want anything. I got a sweet Kate Spade purse last year from deployment guilt. I didn’t ASK for it but I sure as shit wasn’t going to give it back either, nawwhatImean? I get the impression that he feels like I am going to fucking snap tomorrow when he comes up empty handed. No. I won’t. We will probably go out to lunch somewhere (dinner will be a nightmare everywhere) and then watch a movie from our totally legally-obtained hard drive of current movies. He might do some more homework. It’s fine. Real life isn’t a fucking Folgers commercial. In real life, Netflix buffers 80,000 times and ruins the flow of a movie. Real life has dirty dishes that set you off into Defcon 5. Real life has grad school homework and wine-drunk blogging on Friday night. It happens. It’s fine. You don’t need a shitty box of chocolates to make you feel better. Drink the whole bottle of wine and fall asleep on the couch like a big girl. You’ll be fine.

Here is a sweet photo of Major and me that an usher took at the hockey game for us. I think she has a real future as a photog.




big news

old crap, get out

I got rid of lots of stuff this weekend. I just wanted you to know. The end.

Ok, but for real, after good chats with HeteroLifeMate (HLM) and Major, I decided I needed a bit more gratitude and less clutter. (Mourtney HATED my junk mail clutter and rightfully so.)

So on Friday I gathered up all the clothes that were in good condition and I haven’t worn in a good amount of time (mostly because they don’t fit) and took them to a consignment shop. The only stuff they didn’t take was because it was “for the fall, darling.” Then I mailed Christmas presents to my dear friends because I am the worst at mailing things. Then I went to Target to get a new carbonation canister for the Soda Stream.

As I was walking around my foot started to hurt, and not in the usual old-lady-with-bunions-way. Something was digging at my toe. I slipped my shoe off and one toenail had cut the toe next to it! Blood was filling up my sparkly Frye ballet flat like Malarchuk on the ice. Look:


But next time someone tries to tell you that being a housewife is easy you show them this picture and say “WELCOME TO THE OCTAGON, BITCHES!!!!” You don’t need no hater with a job to tell you your life is easy.

Yesterday I did my new workout called LIIC: low intensity interval cleaning (TM). You do a chore, like dust, then sit down and check social media for like 10 minutes. If you have six hours you can get two rooms vacuumed and dusted.

Major brought me into the public and we saw the movie “Inherent Vice” and it was delightful. All I will say about the movie is James Brolin stole the show, as they say. HOWEVER, I would like to say more about how to be a rude fucking theater patron.

  1. Arrive 10 minutes late.
  2. Ask people to move “so you can sit together” despite two consecutive empty seats in the row in front of you.
  3. Talk frequently.
  4. Rattle your cup and chomp on ice LIKE A FUCKING COW.
  5. Fall asleep and start snoring.
  6. Get up during a sex scene and leave like a prudish baby GOODBYE DON’T FALL DOWN THE STAIRS

Today I did more spring cleaning things. This is how I dress now to clean and housewife:


I’m confident that normal people do them regularly but here’s the thing: I’m not terribly normal.  I have been in denial about my new awful role in life but on Friday I just faceplanted into it and I have to say, my house quite nearly sparkles. I also have a bag of clothes and my stupid Magic Bullet that was taking up a SHITLOAD of space in the cupboard for donation to Goodwill. Goodbye, useless appliance and goodbye clothes that are dumb and stupid and no one likes you anyway, Bernice! Get out ma life!


old crap, get out