Author: butteredandblonde

Currently I am:

• unemployed.
• in the midst of my Saturn return.
• 53 days away from turning thirty.

It’s all very clear as to why I’m feeling so unsettled lately. These are all valid, life-shifting reasons and I’ve accepted everything is going to be unsettling for a while. But what I don’t understand is why I’m feeling so fucking lost in everything else during this transition.

It’s like I’m feeling every feeling to an overreacting degree. I’m too relaxed, but I’m so stressed. I’m missing the regularity of a schedule and structure, but I refuse to be tied down by time constraints and plans. I’m desperately lonely, but I don’t want to see anyone. I want to leave my house, but I have nowhere to go. I’m unhappy with my love handles, but the gym is such a burden and fasting is hard when you’re home all day. It’s like every feeling I have, be it good or bad, is being amplified right now.

And, I know, this probably kinda sounds like a state of depression. But my un-professional opinion swears it’s not. I wake up every morning feeling grateful for my current time in-between jobs. How lucky am I that I get to experience a couple months of paid time off?! It’s insane. I still can’t fathom the happiness this time has brought me! The dust of real life is starting to settle though, and I can see employment starting to position itself in the not-so-distant future. But still, I promised not to take any of this time for granted. And I haven’t. I swear.

But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m lost. Happy, but lost. I’m feeling so disconnected socially. Like, I don’t fully have a circle to fit into. I’m feeling so disconnected emotionally. Like, I don’t even remember what having a crush on an actual guy feels like. I’m feeling so ready for a change in geography. But, like, I’m obsessed with the home I’ve made for myself and I’m not ready to leave.

It’s such a weird, yet typical human thing. There was a time when I would have given anything to be where I am right now: collecting a large paycheck, living in my own beautiful home, fully caught up on all trashy cable tv shows. And it’s great. I’m so happy to be here. But, now that I’m here, I’m feeling everything else that is missing.

Now, I’m stuck trying to navigate what to do next. Do I do something daring and dramatic, like move to a big city? Do I branch out and expand my social circle? Do I get over my fear of dating apps and start swiping profusely? Do I accept that maybe my quiet, lonely life of Bravo, podcasts, and book reading is it for me? Or, do I leave it up to the stars and trust that my Saturn return will re-transition me down the correct path?

Eh. What does it matter? I’m a human. And humans are never satisfied.

with love and butter and bitching,

bree

Contrary to the popular belief of most forever-a-loners, I love love. And I love Valentine’s Day.

Now, for me, Valentine’s Day has never really been about celebrating the love of a significant other. Honestly, I think I’ve only had a “Valentine” a small number of times. In fact, now that I’m thinking about it, my very first boyfriend ever actually dumped me the night before Valentine’s Day, just so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge me or the Hallmark holiday the next day at school. [Still wasn’t the most poorly-timed breakup I’ve ever had, but that’s another story for another day.]

Regardless, I love the commercialization of this day- the cards, the hearts, the pinks, the reds. No matter how alone my love life is, I’ve never spent a Valentine’s Day feeling alone or unloved. My mom (the selfless queen of giving and celebrating) has always made a deal of it. Every year there are cute little gift bags filled with cards, chocolates, and other heart shaped novelties. Nothing big, just a happy reminder of love.

And, as corny as it may be, I love the idea of “Galenentine’s Day”, but I fucking hate the name. Now, I’m not talking about the type of Galentine’s celebration that involves numbing your feelings with chocolate, bashing the existence of all men, while sitting alongside your bestie. But, more so, something along the lines of celebrating and acknowledging the other solo women in my life (which isn’t many).

So, this year, thanks to my [f]unemployed time off and my overwhelming need to craft, I sent out small little handmade reminders of love to a few unexpected women in my life. Not all of these are women I regularly talk to, but women I think about and empathize with because I feel there are only a few of us who can actually understand and relate to what being a single woman takes these days. Fight the good fight, ladies.

No matter your relationship status- single, taken, married, widowed, complicated, divorced, or forever alone (like me)- know that you are loved, you have love, and you deserve all the candy hearts your stomach can handle.

Happy Valentine’s Day, lovers.

with love, butter, and be mine?

bree

I don’t consider myself afraid of commitment. I prefer to think of commitment as afraid of me. Even if it has been eight years since someone used the word ‘girlfriend’ to describe me, so what? That has nothing to do with me. I have plenty of experience with commitment. For example:

-I committed to every season of Pretty Little Liars. Okay, full disclosure. It took me some extra years because I didn’t have cable or Netflix for a while (I mean, who wants to commit to those types of contracts/monthly payments?). But still. I watched it in its entirety. Eventually.

-I committed to being an Oreo expert. There was a time when I could tell you the seasonal Oreo flavor two seasons in advance. Of course, Oreos aren’t keto friendly and I really want abs for my thirtieth birthday. So, that’s over. But, at one point, we were exclusive.

-I committed to buying a house. If a thirty-year contract with a bank doesn’t scream, “COMMITMENT”, get the fuck outta here. Because it does.

But, seriously. I know commitment. I actually just ended my longest committed relationship. A 21-year relationship to be exact. Now, twenty-one years is a long time. It’s over half my life. Possibly even the majority of my life. I don’t know. I’m not a mathematician. All I know is it was love at first sight and ‘at first sight’ happened in 1997. Sure, over the years plenty of other guys tried to break in on the scene. There were groups of competition. But him and I were perfect together. He was the only guy that was tearin up my heart. I just knew it’s gonna be me and him forever. He was going to kiss me at midnight every NYE until the end of time. I was the girl who has everything. I was that girl. His little señorita.

Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I would choose to say bye, bye, bye to such a loving, long-lasting relationship. I mean, just look at us in our most recent photos together:

Cute, right? Well it was. Until this selfish motherfucker broke my heart [and the heart of every other grown-ass-teeny-bopping woman] on Sunday. He had one chance to repay me for my decades of love and loyalty, and he blew it. He done fucked up.

Justin, HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO PERFORM AT THE SUPER BOWL AND NOT BRING NSYNC ON THE STAGE FOR EVEN A SECOND? YOU HAD ONE CHANCE. ONE CHANCE TO GIVE US DESPERATE THIRTY-SOMETHINGS THE REUNION WE DESERVED. THE REUNION WE NEEDED. THE REUNION THAT COULD HAVE PAUSED THE WORLD, BRINGING PEACE FOR JUST ONE MOMENT.

But, NOOOOO. No reunion. No world peace. No homage. NOTHING. This man was too selfish and too caught up in his “dad-pop” and “Super Bowl selfies” to remember where he came from. What he did wasn’t just dirty. It was filthy.

And for this, I am done. No, no. I am GONE.

And to prove how done I am, I even un-followed him on Instagram. I also deleted his new album from my downloaded music. I’m pretty sure that’s how millennials are breaking up these days. So, yeah. We are officially broken up.

Actual photo of him breaking my heart [aka the moment I realized the NSYNC reunion was NOT happening]:

with love, butter, and breakups,

bree.

[p.s.- I obviously know I wasn’t really dating Justin Timberlake. I’m not that delusional. So please, don’t try to have me committed.]

[my collection of thoughts that occur while watching the world’s trashiest tv show.]

So, I am obsessed with the Bachelor. Like, hardcore obsessed. Like, 72% of me still kind of thinks I’m going to meet my husband through the show. I’m almost thirty (Bachelor expiration age) and have never auditioned. But yeah, I’m still convinced.

And, since I don’t have a Twitter and can’t live tweet my emotions while watching, I’ve decided blogging my collection of thoughts is the next best thing.

So, here we go.

Episode 2.

Preface: first, let me start off with my personal disclaimer. I believe we could solve the franchise’s biggest problem -lasting relationships- if we stopped giving men in their late 30’s a selection of hot, 22 year old girls to pick from. Yes, I said girls. Because at 22 you are a fucking infant with miles to grow and no need for marriage. So, get the fuck outta here and let the rest of us, whose biological clocks are actually ticking, have a fair shot at capturing the attention of these ABC casted commitment-phobes. Because we all know a man, who is approaching 40 and still single, clearly doesn’t have the best picking skills. He’s obviously going to yearn for the fresh-faced 22 year old with ovaries full of vibrant eggs and legs not yet tainted by cellulite. Not the thirty-something who hasn’t had a carb in months, owns every fit of Spanx, and relies heavily on Botox to ensure her makeup still goes on smoothly. But, what do I know?

Okay. Now you know where I stand. Lets continue.

Per usual, there were a lot of unoriginal, “what the fuck” thoughts running through my head during this episode. Like, who showers a girl with thousands of dollars worth of dresses, shoes, and jewelry on a first date? Who are you? Christian Gray? (Or is it Grey? I don’t know. I’ve never actually read any of the books or seen any of the movies, I’m just assuming this is an appropriate comparison.) And, I don’t care who the guy is, but if Rachel Zoe shows up on a date, chances are I’m going home with her, not the dude. And forcing a girl to see your hometown while meeting your family on a first date? No, bro. I’m out. That’s passed the point of too fast. That’s just straight up insane.

But the one moment from this week’s episode that did it for me (and I’m talking in a positive way, for once) was when single-mom, Chelsea, (I think? Don’t worry, I’ll know names by episode 6) cuts off Arie mid group date introduction to pull him aside, claiming she needed to get to him first because telling him about her kid was more important than anything else any of the other 45 women had to say. And then some beautiful brunette (who I’ll probably never learn her name, because I’m assuming she’ll be gone before next episode) says something along the lines of, “I respect that you’re a mother, but you can’t say being a mother means what you’re giving up to be here is any more important than what any of us are giving up to be here. We’ve all made sacrifices.”

SO. MUCH. YES.

As a single, childless woman, I related to this so hard. In the past, I’ve been forced to work holidays over co-workers because “I don’t have a family of my own”. My personal life and personal time have been minimized over and over again because what I have going on just doesn’t compare to what mothers have going on. Umm, no. It’s your choice to be a mother. Just as it is my choice not to be one. That doesn’t make either of us any more important than the other. So, kudos to un-named girl for making this point out loud and on national tv. To me, you are the real MVP this episode.

I’m going to be honest, I didn’t even make it to the rose ceremony this week. But that’s okay. I think I’ve reached my maximum on thoughts for this episode.

Until next week…

with love and butter (and the Bachelor),

bree

and no, this isn’t a keto reference.

I’m talking bread, as in dough. You know, like money? As in, I have no money because I lost my job.

Whoop, there it is. I got laid off. Now you can probably see why it has taken me so long to write this post. I’m handling it the opposite of ‘well’. And I’ve turned into a depressed pile of shit who struggles to do anything but post pathetic Instagram stories of me either crying or flipping off the camera while sporting a puppy filter. [okay, so maybe that last part happens always, regardless of my job status. but you get the picture.] I’m a mess.

Now, before you go questioning my work ethic, I should preface this by saying layoffs are frequent in my industry. Like, super frequent. The fact that I made it two years with my company before having to face a layoff is extremely rare. But let me tell you, that doesn’t make the news of this any easier.

I received my fate in mid-December. While most companies are gifting their employees with a Christmas party, Christmas bonus, or even a holiday shut-down, my company gifted me with the words, “you have not been retained during our restructuring”. Merry Fucking Christmas to me, am I right? The best part though? Not only is my position being eliminated, but I have to work through mid-January in order to receive my severance. Uh, what?

Let me tell you, the strength it takes to go to work everyday for a full month in a self-motivating, autonomous position, knowing you will not be employed at the end, is unlike anything I’ve ever had to deal with. Now, I’ve never lived with a significant other, but I would equate my current situation to a bad break-up with someone you live with. But, after The break-up, that person had to continue living with you for a full month in order for you to get your alimony. And, not only does this person have to continue living with you, but you are forced to read their daily text messages and emails relaying all of the cool things they are doing and all of the ways they will move on without you once you’re gone. And then, once the month is up and they do finally move out, they’ll take your car [did I mention I don’t own a car? so, not only am I about to be unemployed, I’m about to be without transportation. this just keeps getting better, right?]. Okay, so maybe my analogy is a little  off, but you get the picture. My life sucks and I’m miserable right now.

I know, I know. Everything happens for a reason [side note: this is currently my least favorite quote, so do not fucking feed it to me]. Things always work themselves out. And I get that. I know something else will come along. I have two degrees. According to my resume, I have skills. So, yeah, I’m sure I won’t be unemployed forever. But, in the meantime, I’ll be over here, mourning the loss of my favorite job thus far with the company I have always dreamed of working for. And I’ll continue to frantically refresh my emails, waiting to hear back from even one of the 984 jobs I’ve applied for, all while having nightly nightmares about who’s going to pay my mortgage payment and wondering how the hell I’m going to get anywhere without a car. I know, I’m irrational. But, at this point, it’s allowed.

[almost] thirty. single. and unemployed. I continue to live the dream.

with love and butter,

bree

butter.

nope.

fleas.

That’s right, my weekend involved Waffles smothered in fleas. Not butter. [to be clear, we are talking about, Waffles, my dog. not the tasty (non-keto) breakfast item.]

How my fucking dog managed to get fleas in a climate that doesn’t normally house fleas is beyond me? But, also, I can’t say I’m surprised. My life is just a series of “only you, Bree” events. Fleas included.

Maybe I do have to take some responsibility here, as I am a terrible doodle owner. No matter how hard I try, I cannot get that doodle fro under control. He’s either cut too short, looking too much like a poodle (no thanks). Or he’s on the other end of the spectrum and his doodle perm is matted beyond brushing, turning him into a walking piece of velcro. Either way, the doodle do is hard to handle.

So, with Waffles being well beyond the velcro end of the spectrum, I [finally] made him a grooming appointment on Thursday. Upon dropping him off, the groomer assured me she’s seen doodles worse off than mine (bless her heart), which I’m sure she meant, until she realized mine was crawling with bugs.

Calls you don’t want to receive from the groomer: “I am still working on Waffles, but as I’m cutting through his hair, I’m noticing he’s covered in some sort of mite or flea. Like, everywhere. I put him in a medicated bath because I’ve never seen anything like this and I’m kind of freaked out.”

Bitch, you’re freaked out?!? I let that bug infested rat sleep in my bed. Like, next to my fucking face. Barf.

Immediately, I hung up and called his vet. Which did nothing to defuse the situation. The vet told me to bring him in the next morning because it could be lice. FUCKING. LICE. As if I didn’t have the itches before, now I’m ready to lock my dog outside, shave off my [very expensive fake] hair, and burn my goddamned house to the ground. Yay.

By Friday afternoon we had spent three hours and almost $200 at the vet. The doctor swears it’s [only] fleas (even though she saw no creepy crawlies anywhere on his body). And she sent us on our way with flea medication (for Waffles, not me) and some vague instructions for de-fleaing the house.

Fun fact. Did you know fleas only spend about 5% of their time on their host (aka dog)? The other 95% of their time is spent in their environment (aka my house). Awesome. So. Fucking. Awesome.

In order to de-flea a house it requires: vacuuming, special flea killing carpet powder, more vacuuming, flea killing upholstery spray, mopping, laundering every piece of fabric in the house, sanitizing, dog bathing, and numerous minor freak-outs.

Thankfully, I’ve yet to see a single creepy crawly on Waffles or within in my house. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t take every precaution possible.

Final cost of fleas:

• $300 (so much for that “might-be-losing-my-job budget”)
• 3 full days of cleaning/vacuuming/sanitizing/laundry
• 17 loads of laundry
• the feeling of comfort in my home/bed
• the love for my dog (sorry, Waffles)

So, yeah. There you have it. My weekend with [flea infested] Waffles. See below for the face of fleas.

New rule: the only thing I’ll take my waffles covered in is butter. Thanks.

with love and butter,

bree

My. Lips. Are. So. Gross.

Not only is dry-as-fuck Reno transitioning into winter temperatures, I spent the past week mouth breathing, sick as shit, and confined to my bed. This winning combination has resulted in my lips looking like a lizard got in a losing fight with some sandpaper.

So, who wants to make-out?

Desperate for some relief from both the burning and flaking, I decided to go all Pinterest up in here and make a Coconut Honey Sugar Lip Scrub. [fancy, right? wrong. i’m just currently on a “i might be losing my job” budget so DIY is better than BUY.]

This scrub was easier to make than a plate of bacon and all of the ingredients were already in my house. I mean, I’m sure other ingredients could easily improve the quality, but these are what I have. And if I have them, chances are you have them too.

What you’ll need:

• 1 tbsp coconut oil [keto friendly]
• 1 tbsp honey [not keto friendly]
• 2 tbsp sugar [ditto above]
• small splash warm water

What you’ll do:

• Mix honey and coconut oil together. [heat if necessary- which it probably will be because it’s winter and none of this shit is liquid temperature anymore.]
• Add sugar.
• Mix with a little splash of warm water until you have a substance that looks fancy enough to call a “lip scrub”.

How to use:

• Scoop scrub onto lips and rub in a circular motion for 2 minutes. Or for however fucking long you’d like. They’re your lips. I don’t care. Rinse with warm water.

Only 30ish days left until NYE, ladies. Gotta keep those lips kissable. [j/k. aint nobody trying to kiss these lips.]

with love and butter,

bree