Only Nola

Boo!

Ha! Connor won a spot on Pink is the New Blog for his costume! You can see him on the Tuesday, Nov. 1st entry, fifth picture down. Thanks go out to Trent for picking Connor as one of his top 5 reader's costumes that were submitted. Connor's going to be thrilled. Okay, I'm thrilled, too. What?, attention whore? Where?

<%image(20051031-connoronhalloween.jpg|339|508|Connor the Incredible Zombie Boy)%>

Yes, here we have it... the amazing costume created by yours truly for the 7 year old offspring. A work of art, no? Considering that I'm the last person on earth to attempt any kind of craft-ish endeavor, I'd call this nothing less than a freaking MIRACLE. I don't what kind of person can do this kind of thing on a day in/day out basis, but I've got to figure they're either a) certifiable, or b) gluttons for punishment.

But that's just me...

Trick or treating went well. Scratch that. Trick or treating went off the charts. People were losing their minds over Connor's costume. Now, I'd hoped for a good response, for monkey boy's sake, but what he got was damned near a fan following. People were dragging him back to take his picture, for crying out loud. I'm not sure whose head swelled more... his or mine. I admit to owning some pride in this instance... what, like you wouldn't? But really, the big deal to me was seeing him get more and more grin-faced over the attention. He's a good kid. Cute, too, isn't he? Hard to tell under the creepy make up, but still...

Now, here's something that I just had to share that went ALL over me after we got home from begging for candy from strangers. We walk into the house and dump Connor's loot out on the table, right? Sifting through the approximately 8 tons of sugar, I spot a little clear ziplock type baggie with a bite sized snickers bar and... something paper? I vaguely remembered getting it at a house where no one was home but they'd left a bowl of candy out for the neighborhood kids. I pick up the ziplock and look to see what the hell is in there with the candy bar. Now, bear in mind that I didn't notice this before because, well... IT'S FUCKING DARK OUTSIDE! I'm now in the safety of my own home and can actually SEE. So, this little ziplock has, stuck to the back, a sticker that is promoting...

You're NEVER going to guess this one...

Passion parties.

No, I am not even REMOTELY fucking kidding. Even better is the fact that INSIDE the ziplock are business cards for some chick who GIVES the aforementioned 'passion parties'. You know what these are, right? This is basically for people whose sensibilities are offended by going to an actual sex shop, like Fascinations, but still want their battery powered fun. These women all gather together and giggle over their purchases of dildo's and nipple clamps when they'd pretend to be shocked and appalled if caught looking at one out in public. Alright, maybe they're not all like that, but I've known a few... meh. Anyhoo. Here I have, in my hot little paw, two business cards for she who peddles the smut, which came out of a ziploc with a smut promotion taped to it, which was given to my son AS TRICK OR TREAT CANDY.

WHAT THE FUCK?

Am I the ONLY person who thinks that this chick has hit the crack pipe one time too many? I'm by no means a prude, in any sense of the word *I've been to Fascinations, thank you very much... gotta love it*, but to me this crosses a pretty definitive line. One does not push one's business in amongst the halloween treats, ESPECIALLY when it's a business that your average 7 year old does NOT need to be exposed to. I'm not suggesting that children shouldn't be taught the birds and the bees, I'm merely saying that I can't think of much that better defines the word 'inappropriate' than tossing out a Passion Party promo to children ranging in ages from 1 year *not kidding at all... saw several itty bitty babies out there tonight* to 15 years *again, struck me as odd... only because when I was little, it was considered wayyyyyyyyyy not cool to try and trick or treat after a certain age... say, 11). Do any of YOU want someone handing your four year old, or seven or ten year old, reading material that goes into how you should 'tease your partner', 'ignite your passion' and let this idiot 'present a variety of SENSUAL *yes, it's spelled in all caps on the cards in the TRICK OR TREAT bag!* products'.

I'm so tempted to email this assbag and let her know how much I do NOT appreciate what she did for Halloween. Or better yet, sic the local radio station on her.

For fuck's sake.

Fish from Hell

I had the bright idea to try and cook a kind of fish that I hadn't had before. Don't ask what came over me. I plead temporary insanity... PMDD... Alien abduction. Something. All I know is that if you're browsing through the seafood department at your local grocery store and see a harmless looking package of fish called TILAPIA...

Run. Run far, run fast.

We'd initially planned on grilled said fish. The guy at the store in the official-looking little white apron said that Tilapia was good for grilling. Well, one thing and another happened and before you know it, we'd decided not to drag out the grill. We went online to find other ways to prepare the fish for human consumption. The consensus was... frying is fine. Flour it, batter it, whatever... drop it in a pan with hot oil and a few minutes later... voila! A meal fit for a king!

THEY LIE!

First off, let me just say that there is fish, and then there is FISH. This is the single fishiest fish I've ever had the misfortune of putting in my mouth. You may think that sounds redundant *god knows it looks that way as I'm typing it*, but not all fish is strong and, well... downright nasty like this fish was. Some is mild, some is almost sweet, some is more like chicken... no, I'm not kidding. This is none of those things. This stands up on your plate with a little sign that says 'HEY, I'M A FUCKING FISH!', and immediately sets about rubbing your nose *and taste buds* in that fact. Grilling has GOT to be a way to make this more palatable, since the frying thing did NOTHING for the flavor. This shit REEKS. I had fish aftertaste in my mouth for HOURS afterward. Not even making any jokes here on the lingering taste of fish. Bunch of perverts.

Now, as an added bonus, my entire house stinks to high heaven. Walk in the front door and it hits you like a visible wall of odor. There are things you can cook that actually smell GOOD when you can sniff them from upstairs... this is NOT one of them. This will make your eyes cross and tie your stomach in a knot. I think it's pretty safe to say that I've been put off Tilapia for life. When even your CATS are ready to pack a bag and get the fuck out to escape the fish smell, well... do the math.

Tilapia... Latin for 'does not play well with others'

Oh My God, it’s a Breast!

Usually I'd stick this over in the sidebar blog, but I wanted to give this subject a little more space, so... we're doing the current events thing again, ready or not.

Here's the story... of a Mom named Amy... who was breastfeeding her bouncing baby boooooooooooooooy *come on, sing it with me!*... she was at a public pool... behind a blanket... not looking to annoyyyyyyyyyyyyyy. Here's the story... of the local lifeguard... who told Amy that her breast was an offense... said she should have fed the tot... in the nearest bathroom... Amy became incensed. So the next day Amy went out on a mission... and the media was happy as could beeeeeee... here was the latest bit of controversy *work out the syllables, people, it fits*... now Amy's breasts don't have to hide behind the tee.

I kill me.

Okay, seriously. There's this chick, a mom in Chandler, who was at the public pool and found an empty area off to the side to nurse her son when he became hungry. She was covered, PLUS she had a friend hold a blanket up to block her from public view. Well, some lifeguard, from his little vantage point up above the rest of the population, figured out what she was doing and came over after she was done nursing and told that, in the future, she was 'encouraged' *read: ordered* to nurse in ... THE BATHROOM. That's just wrong on so many levels. Have any of you ever SEEN a public pool bathroom? I don't even want to set foot in one without HAZMAT gear, much less feed an infant. It's unsanitary and disgusting, and there is no WAY it should have been acceptable policy to expect such a thing of a nursing mother.

Now, I've read a lot in the last few years about people all being offended by nursing mothers, blah blah blah. I don't get it. Walk into ANY mall, the country over, and you're going to see girls with their twats sticking out of skirts too short to be called anything but underpants, low riders so low you can start counting pubic hairs, shirts so skimpy you can see the scars from their boob jobs... yet a mother quietly nursing her child, with a blanket hiding all the most pertinent bits, is OFFENSIVE? Are these people on discount crack or WHAT? Really. I have yet to see a nursing mother just flop out a tit and hang the kid from the nearest nipple. They use blankets and burp cloths to maintain some semblance of decorum and simply go about the task of feeding their child. Period. What in holy HELL has gone so wrong with this country that we actually even have to have the debate about whether or not this is acceptable? Shouldn't the fact that it IS acceptable be a foregone conclusion? It's BREASTFEEDING, people, not naked jello wrestling with strap ons and anal lube. For fuck's sake...

I swear, people who take offense to shit like this have ENTIRELY too much time on their hands, and entirely too LITTLE common sense.

Oh, and by the way... my house appraisal results finally came in today. It passed at the offering price. *cabbagepatches around the room*

Woohooooooooooooooooooo!

Truck Rental Hell

It's that time again. Yes, two years later and I must now, much to my dismay, dive into the quicksand that is moving truck rental. I hate it. If you haven't moved in recent years, let me just tell you how much it's going to cost you to rent a truck...

Think about selling a kidney.

I've priced the truck we'll need from the three top rental agencies: Budget, Penske, and U-Haul. First and foremost, let me tell you that U-Haul is THE most expensive of the group. By a LOT. My quotes, to go from Mesa, AZ to Springfield, MO, ran like this:

Budget- $1230
Penske- $1336
U-Haul- $1700

No, I'm not kidding. My heart almost stopped. This is, of course, NOT counting gas for the trip, which will add approximately another $600 to our total. Doesn't that sound festive? Aren't you just dying to get your hands on some packing tape?

You know, it's almost cheaper, at this point, to pay someone to move your shit FOR you. Almost. Trust me, I thought about it. The only thing that stopped me is my frugal nature. Sure, the additional cost wasn't THAT much, but it was still money I could save to spend on other, more important things, like, oh... therapy and massive amounts of valium.

I still can't get over the rates these places charge. Jesus. For $1700, I shouldn't have to give that truck back until Connor graduates. Medical school.

Oh, but the good news is that we found a place to rent in Springfield, pending Jonathan getting a job and us finding a house to buy. It's a cute little duplex in a good neighborhood with good schools, so it'll work out fine for us, short term. Hopefully we'll be buying again in six to nine months.

And if anyone's interested, I updated the 'it's all about me' page today with one of those lists that I'm now seeing on a lot of the blogs. I figured I'd cave in and do one myself. Hey, be grateful I didn't do the full HUNDRED I've seen on some sites... I figured that somewhere around 70 your eyes would start to bleed, so I played it safe and stopped at 50. You can thank me with cash or a money order.

Boy, this will go down in the record books as one of the single most lame posts I've ever made. That's okay. I'm entitled to fall flat once in awhile. It's like those things that I've heard some people talk about... shit, what are those called?... God, it's right there on the tip of my tongue...

Vacations.

Gah.

Ah, the Euphemism

I've been digging my way through a couple of boxes of books that a good friend of mine mailed me. Romance novels. Usually, I'm a science fiction/fantasy reader, or Louis L'Amour *yes, I love Louis L'Amour... sue me*, but I read the occasional romance novel in a pinch. I find I'm less able to enjoy them, the older and more bitchy I get. Go figure.

Now, putting aside the generally ridiculous plot lines and the fact that the heroine is always some stunning creature *'cause you know that women like that are a)so easy to relate to, and b)growing on TREES* who meets her equally stunning and manly man counterpart *again... happens ALL THE TIME... phhhttt. For fuck's sake. *, we come to the part that's always guaranteed to ruin things for me...

The inescapable euphemisms.

Our hero, be it some Dashing Duke or Anguished Artist or whatEVER, never has a dick or a penis. Heaven forfend. He has... *god save me* a throbbing member... an engorged root... a swelled manhood. You see manhood a lot, really. Now, the last time I referred to my husband's hard on as a 'throbbing member' was, oh, let's see... approximately NEVER. Who in blazing fuck talks that way? I mean, sure, you can't just say dick every time you turn around. Hellooooooooooo monotony. But, really, do we need to talk about the guy's parts to any great degree in the first place? If I want to read about just how big and hard an erection can be, I'll buy Penthouse and head straight for the forum section. I can remember a time when romance novels were, shockingly enough, about ROMANCE. I know, I know, it boggles the mind, but there you go. I'm not saying that a good sex scene is out of line, but more than three fourths of what I pick up now in the romance section is nothing but fucking here, fucking there, fucking damned near EVERYWHERE. Heh. That rhymed. It's like Dr. Seuss with Tourette's Syndrome.

Anyhoo. I just think that some of these names are absolutely hysterical. Manhood, manroot *I swear to god, I am NOT making that one up*, root, member, love shaft *again... NOT KIDDING!*... the list is endless, not to mention disturbing. And to give it that extra oomph, you stick one of three words in front of the aforementioned euphemism: engorged, swelled, or throbbing. Remember? Engorged makes me think of pimples, swelled makes me think of a circulation problem, and throbbing makes me think he accidentally got racked, which I understand hurts like a son of a bitch. None of these things are remotely erotic, much less mood enhancing for the man in question *especially that last one... never known a man to get kicked hard in the balls and then decide that what he needed most was to get laid. Usually what they need most at that point is to fall over, crawl away, and whimper a lot.*

This is why I generally stick with things like Heinlein or Jordan or something. Nary an engorged love shaft to be seen. That right there is enough to make me weep in gratitude. Probably not as much as the guy whose manroot is throbbing, but ...

Man, that's gotta hurt.

House Fashion

I know that ceramic tile is now quite the thing in home decor. You can go to any Lowe's or Home Depot and be bombarded with 8 gazillion *give or take* choices in both color and pattern, not to mention material and size. Some of it is meh... and some of it is gorgeous. It's not frighteningly expensive, and it looks loverly *yes, I did that on purpose... don't you people watch classic movies?".

And it's a monster pain in the ass.

First off, let me just say, for the record, that I find forgiveness an admirable quality in both people and floor coverings. Tile isn't. Drop a glass. Go ahead, I dare you. Your odds of getting it back in less than 900 pieces are roughly the same as discovering Ashlee Simpson actually has talent. Linoleum... you've got a pretty good shot. Hardwood floors? Again, there's a chance. Tile sits there and waits for its chance to decimate your household goods, should you be butterfingered enough to surrender them to the loving embrace of gravity. It's a menace.

Then there's the grout issue. Over time, that funky, concrete-ish substance that holds all your tile a)to each other, and b)to the floor, will disintegrate and come off in festive chunks and crumbs... managing to be both a cleaning nightmare and an affront to your aesthetic sensibilities. At least to mine, anyway. So, fool that you are, you figure you'll fill in the little grout canyons and have a happy floor once again. Phhhhttt. The sound you hear now is the universe snickering. You CANNOT count on matching the color of the grout in question without professional help, nor can you count on the effort you put into this shit profiting you more than a week, max. For some reason filler grout has a half life of... oh, let's say one of Paris Hilton's boyfriends. Don't ask me why it works that way. I think it's some kind of grout vengeance or something. I bet grout is union...

Now, the other thing is installation. They SAY you can do this yourself. This is some sort of sick joke. What will they tell me next? , to do my own appendectomy? Anyone out there related to Bob Villa is welcome to attempt this on their own. Leave me out of it. There's a reason there are people who do it for a living. Personally, I think it's FOR THE MONEY. Seriously... have you PRICED having people come in and install flooring recently? Holy fucking criminy. It's bad enough if you are installing to a virgin surface, but what if, heaven forfend, you have PRE-EXISTING flooring to work around? Ooooooooooohhh, now you're in trouble. Some things, like linoleum, can actually be pretty much ignored, just slap the tile right over it. That's handy. Still costs a little extra, but nothing that will make your ears bleed or anything. BUT. Isn't there always a but? Let's say you currently have butt ugly ceramic tile on your floor that you want to replace. You'd better be prepared to cough up a kidney for the open market, because you just stepped into the 'oh my god, do I REALLY need flooring? Didn't people used to get by with good ol' DIRT floors?' zone. There are fees to remove the tile, fees to clean up whatever flooring is UNDER the tile, fees to install backerboard, fees for BREATHING... it gets to the point that instead of asking for an estimate, you just bend over and hope no one's taking pictures.

Oh, and did I mention the nightmare that happens when you have a tile crack? This happens A LOT. Drop a little Fiesta ware and watch the spiderweb pattern break out, gleefully spreading in spite of the laws of physics which, I'm pretty sure, say somewhere that a platter dropped on the floor can't POSSIBLY break the tile across the room. Then you're getting into matching and replacing tiles *and don't forget the grout*, which is about as fun *and cheap* as having your wisdom teeth removed.

I, for one, will be heartily glad when this ceramic tile fad bites the dust. I draw the line at the idea of a dirt floor, but Pergot is a beautiful thing.

Fiasco Du Jour

Alright, technically it's not du jour, since it happened from last week through this Monday, but still... close enough. We're talking about the Blazer hubbub that I mentioned in an earlier post. Hubbub... where the hell did that word come from, anyway? If it's even a real word. I'm giving it the benefit of the doubt, since Bugs Bunny always used it, and we all know what a paragon of proper English Bugs was.

Where was I?

English... Bugs... hubbub... Blazer... ah, there we go.

So, the Blazer was in for repairs, right? And I had the awful Neon for, what was supposed to be, two days. Funny how fluid time becomes when one steps into the Mechanic Zone. Two days turned into three, which suddenly morphed into four, and eventually became FIVE DAYS. Yes, that's right. The Blazer, which had been in our possession for two whole days before it went into the shop, was in the aforementioned shop for FIVE DAYS. And let me tell you, when you're forced to drive a Neon for the duration of your new car's visit to maintenance hell, well, five days feels like... dog years.

So, while all this is going on, I'm dealing with something related to the Blazer, just not to it's inner workings. See, this is where it gets complicated, for two reasons. First, the situation itself is complicated, but then it gets complicated because I have to pick which part I want to go off about. I simply have neither the time nor the energy to go off on BOTH things that need addressing at this point. What to do, what to do...

Okay, for the minute let's go with Capital One. Capital One is my favorite credit card company, period. I have several cards with them, and they've always treated me well. They reward good behavior, as opposed to other credit cards (*coughs* Providian *coughs*) that I could name. Capital One also offers a handy dandy auto financing program.

The Blank Check.

See, even the name sounds like a little financing Utopia. Who doesn't like a blank check? So much money, so little time. I became a bit woozy just contemplating what I could do with a blank check. I had olfactory hallucinations involving the demon new car smell. I think I got turned on.

So, I applied for the Blank Check program. They said 'instant approval'. They asked if I wanted the Blank Check fedex'ed to me, overnight, for a $15 fee. Well, DUH! So, I found out, according to the site, that I was 'approved', and that my Blank Check, good at any dealership in the Blank Check preferred network, was on its way and would be in my hot little hands the next day. Woohoo!

Um. Wait. Hold that woohoo...

Apparently 'approved', much like time, is a fluid thing. See, when they said I was APPROVED, what they REALLY meant was 'You've just paid $15 for a Blank Check that you can't use until we do a review of your application, so you've just paid $15 for NOTHING, and the review process can take another FIVE DAYS, since we don't work on weekends. MWAHAHAHAHAHA!' Yes, that's exactly what they meant. Here I was, the next day, with a fucking check in my hand for *allegedly* any car purchase up to TWENTY EIGHT THOUSAND DOLLARS, but I couldn't use it. WTF? That's some rip off they've got going there. Bastards.

A few other details with the Blank Check program that they don't tell you up front, which came back to kick my ass last week. Let's see... first there's the 'You can write this check for up to 130% of the *insert car of choice* Kelly Blue Book value, to cover tags, title, etc.' GREAT! That's FABULOUS! I'm thrilled, ecstatic, having orgasms, happier tha...

Wait for it...

Okay, here's what I found out LATER. As in, a week after we bought the goddamned BLAZER later...

I started getting phone calls from Capital One two days after I bought the Blazer. There are all these forms that the dealership was supposed to be sending them, and they hadn't been faxed in yet. So, I get on the phone to the finance guy at the dealership, just to let him know that a)no matter how much he wishes otherwise, I have, in fact, NOT fallen off the face of the earth and STILL want the actual service I was promised, and b)Capital One did not give him a list of required documentation just for funzies, but rather thought that he'd REALLY fax them the paperwork on the Blazer as is mapped out in the Blank Check agreement forms that I gave them when I bought the damned thing. He said he'd get right on it. That's dealerspeak for 'when hell freezes over', apparently.

Fast forward to the day, almost a week later, when I'm going to pick up the Blazer. That morning I get yet ANOTHER call from Capital One. Still no documents, which now has led us to another problem. The check, once written, must be deposited and verified within one week of said writing. Well, the dealership had tried to deposit said check *gee, go figure*, but had not given the appropriate documentation to Capital One, so Capital One was NOT releasing the funds to the dealer. Makes sense and all, but rather FUCKS me in the process. I call the dealership, since the chicky at Capital One told me they'd extended the deadline for me, if I could just get the dealer to fax them the documents PRONTO. She said she'd tried to get them to do it earlier, but that she'd been told by some nameless underling that, imagine that, they'd 'misplaced' my file and couldn't find any of my paperwork. Oopsie. I call the dealership and, surprise surprise, can't get my finance guy on the phone. I get one of his minions. She happens to be the one who had spoken to Capital One girl earlier, and is pleased to tell me that she has now FOUND my missing file. Well, gee, thanks. I'm sure I should be grateful for this, but it strikes me that the fucking thing should never have been LOST TO BEGIN WITH! How hard a concept is this to master? She promises she's faxing the documents right away. All's well that ends well, right?

For fuck's sake.

I'm getting ready to go pick up the Blazer, which has just been cleared for take off. Phone rings. You'd think I'd know better than to answer it at this point, wouldn't you? But noooooooooo. Idiot. It's Capital One again. There's a teeeeeeeeeeeeensy little problem. Gee, REALLY? Gah. Turns out that we're $600 over our loan amount. Squeeze me? Baking powder? I inform the Capital One chicky that I can't POSSIBLY be over my $28,000 limit. She's like 'Oh, no, you're way under you're actual credit limit. The problem is that you went over the 130% ratio for that vehicle.' I did quick math in my head. Let's see... the blue book value on the Blazer was somewhere about $14,500... our loan amount was $15,800... does that seem like 130% to anyone on this PLANET? Ah, but here's where my head almost blew off...

She patiently explained to me, as if I were rainman or something, that the 130% of Kelly Blue Book value does NOT refer to the resale Blue Book Value... but rather to TRADE IN Blue Book value. WHAT?!?!? TRADE IN VALUE? That's the amount that people can expect to get when trading their vehicle IN to a dealership, not what people can expect to pay when BUYING at a dealership, fuckwit! She acts like I'm on crack for NOT thinking this is reasonable. 'So,' I ask her, straining to hold onto my sanity and not kick the cat through the sliding glass doors,'you're telling me that no matter WHAT I'd bought, I'd be going over the limit?' This, to me, is OBVIOUS, since the Blue Book value difference between resale and trade in is, roughly, 30%, give or take. Throw in taxes and title, etc., and you're guaranteed to go right the fuck over. She acts like I've lost my mind, informing me that whether or not you go over would depend on what you bought, etc., but really, NO, it wouldn't. Allowing for mark up, which is, reasonably, how dealerships make their money, you will almost certainly shoot right over that 130% mark when you buy a car, ANY car. Plus, I'm sorry, but what lunatic decided that they should base the loan FOR BUYING A CAR on TRADE IN VALUE? You're NOT trading a GODDAMNED THING, you're BUYING IT! HENCE THE NEED FOR THE FUCKING LOAN! Jesus, is there ANYONE who can't figure this out with out a degree in HIGHER MATH AND ECONOMICS?

I can't remember a time in recent memory that I've been so blown away by the mind numbingly BIZARRE policy of a financial institution. I mean, okay, if they want to make that rule, no matter how nuts it is, that's fine, it's their option... but to NOT TELL YOU THAT, when you're APPLYING FOR THE LOAN, is what really got my blood pressure shooting off the charts. They have to know goddamned good and well that your average person is going to see '130% of Kelly Blue Book Value' and assume it's the RESALE VALUE, since THAT'S WHAT YOU'LL BE PAYING! Who the FUCK would have thought they meant TRADE IN VALUE? FERENGI?

This is already one of the longest posts anywhere in cyberspace, so I'm going to cut it off now and try and find the inner harmony to finish it off tomorrow or Saturday.

No, I'm not kidding... there's still more. Do I LOOK like I would joke about this?

My kingdom for some valium...

Offer Me This, Offer Me That

Well, in spite of the little black cloud that follows me around like the puppy from HELL, we got a good offer on the house today. Quelle surprise. I, your resident rabid loather of organized religion, was aided in the process by an old friend who prayed for everything to work out the way we needed it to, and even brought his prayer group into it with 'im.

Wipe that look off your face.

I know, I know, it's the last thing anyone would expect from me. But you know, here's the thing... I've never had a problem with GOD, I've got a problem with RELIGION. There's a really huge difference, although you couldn't prove it by my mother. She constantly is confusing my issues with one with issues with them BOTH. I love her, but she just doesn't get it. So, I was having a bad day *again* yesterday, and I called this old client of mine, a dear friend and absolutely one of my favorite people on the planet. He's very religious, and I knew that I needed some emotional support and positive thoughts working for me, so who better than someone with real faith? He came through, too. He's not judgemental in the slightest, and never pressures me about my non-commitment to church/religion. He's just there to be supportive, he and his lovely wife, and do what he can to be a friend and to help out when he's needed. I just love him... in a strictly fatherly way, you understand. Get your minds out of the gutter.

Anyhoo. I was talking to Wes, and explaining about some problems I'd been having, and he prayed for me and my family, right there on the spot. It made me feel a lot better. Anyone wanting to give me grief about it is going to get a fork in the eye. Oh, wait... man, I bet that just ate some of my karma points. Okay, not a fork in the eye. Um. Er. Give me a minute... is there any act of violence that will slide under God's radar and not sound as hateful as it's intended? Uhhh... smothered with a marshmallow? Dragged behind a herd of fuzzy bunnies? I'm coming up empty here...

After Wes did his prayer thing, I had an appointment to show the house. That turned out to be, surprisingly enough... the ones who are now buying it. Now, call it coincidence if you want, but I'm just in tune enough with something OTHER than my sarcastic wit to believe that this didn't happen by accident. Wes prayed with me, and his prayer group prayed for me, and now I have a buyer for the house... IMMEDIATELY after the prayer, no less. Sorry, but my ability to stretch coincidence doesn't expand that far.

I'm so grateful that this is happening. I was getting mad scared that we were going to end up in a really awful place in the next four weeks if we didn't sell the house ASAP, and now I can have a little peace of mind on that score, at least. The offer, while not full asking price *they rarely are*, is very fair, and will do us a huge amount of good. Pay off both car loans, all credit cards, etc. Can't beat that with a stick. It's really a blessing.

I'm sure I'll be back in my usual spirit of meanness and foul temper shortly, hence able to amuse you all at the train wreck which is my life, but for the minute I'm just sharing the happy. Right this minute, well... life is a wonderful thing.

We’re Eating WHAT?

Okay, someone remind me to tell the story of the Blazer fiasco in the next day or two. Right now I don't feel up to it. I've been feeling sick all damned day, for the last two days, really, and I don't have the energy to root through all the drama. Today I'm keeping it simple. Hopefully mildly funny to go WITH the simple, but... I promise NOTHING.

Breakfast cereal. Sounds innocent enough, doesn't it?

I went grocery shopping Wednesday, much as I loathe it and hate prying myself out from under my rock to do battle with my fellow shoppers over the choice spot in the checkout lane with the shortest line, and had something weird cross my mind while browsing through the breakfast cereals. I know, I know... weird shit crosses my mind all the time, so why should this be any news flash? Still, I thought it bore mentioning.

Later, while talking to my husband at home about something completely lacking in substance *and I know this because I can't remember what the fuck we were talking about to save my life*, it hit me again. I was arranging some things in the pantry *OCD, anyone?* while the aforementioned conversation was taking place, and my hands happened to land on the cereal I'd bought, at my seven year old's behest, earlier that day. Cutting off whatever my husband was saying *do I look like I actually LISTEN?*, I asked him if he'd ever really thought about how macabre we, as a society, have become without even realizing it. He gives me that blank 'oh, god, what's she on about NOW?' look... you all know the one I'm talking about. Knowing he's not going to ask me to elaborate, I jump right in.

Me: Look at this box of cereal I bought Connor today.

Him: Yeah?

Me: Are we looking at the same box? Do you SEE what this is?

Him: *pondering whether or not there's an easy way out of the coming conversation* It's cereal?

Me: It's 'Berry BONES' cereal, for fuck's sake. BONES, Jonathan! We're making a festive morning ritual of feeding our children a BREAKFAST that looks like THINGS THAT COME OUT OF FLESH!

Him: *if his eyebrows had gone any higher, they'd have lifted right off his forehead* It's just cereal. It's not really bones.

Me: *judging how much momentum I can get behind that box if I threw it and nailed him between the eyes, and if it would be enough to render him unconscious* I KNOW it's not really bones, thank you very much, my point is just that it's bizarre to think that we've gotten desensitized to shit like this that most of us don't even THINK about the very HIGH weird factor involved in serving small children a bowl full of food modeled after PARTS OF THE HUMAN BODY. Fifty years ago, people would have thought it was appalling, disgusting, and not in the least appetizing... now it flies totally under the radar.

Him: I think you're reading too much into this. It's just cereal.

Me: *thinking here that the neighbors could probably hear my teeth grinding THROUGH THE WALLS* I KNOW IT'S JUST CEREAL! You're not LISTENING to me! It's not about the fact that these are not really bones, it's about... Oh, fucking forget it.

Judging the cereal to be an ineffective missile at this point, I just put it back in the pantry and stalked off, leaving him alone in the kitchen while I went about my business... which involved a hunt for better ammunition.

Does anyone, BESIDES me, see what the hell I'm talking about? This was a deep philosophical point, dammit... I swear it was.

Enlightenment, party of one!

*sighs*

My new Blazer is still at the dealership. This is day FOUR, for those of you not currently keeping track. Which, of course, you should be, but I'm making allowances. Call me Nola the Generous.

Yesterday, I call the dealership and talk to my friendly service guy. He says the Blazer is just about ready. I go pick up Connor and head down to the dealership. Have I mentioned I'm driving a rental car while the Blazer is in the shop? No? Maybe it's the shame... they stuck me in a goddamned

*gasps*

neon...

There, I said it. A freakin' Neon. Do they MAKE a more roller skate-ish car? Well, actually, I think they do, but still... this is close enough. It's tiny. It's gutless. It revs like there's no tomorrow when crossing the ever-dangerous 25 mph mark. It's a stallion, people. Wind its wheels and watch it go.

Gah. There's a reason it has a weenie name. 'Neon'. Wonder if THAT guy still has his job?

Anyhoo. I get down to the dealership, and, oopsie, Blazer's not ready. Fine, no problem. We go to what they, with questionable accuracy, call the 'customer lounge'. I don't know what kind of lounges these guys frequent, but if this is an example, well, all I can say is they must not get many dates. It's not a lounge, it's PURGATORY. It's ugly white tile floors, uncomfortable chairs, and televisions blaring Judge Judy suspended from six inch wide bolts up in the corners of the walls. Judge Judy in STEREO... god, there were two of her. I almost had to throw myself in front of a ...

Neon.

But I digress.

So, we wait. And we wait. And we wait some more, since we're getting so good at it and all. Finally, after more than an HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES, I snag some guy who's just walking through the lounge, minding his own mechanic guy business. I beg. I plead. I offer sexual favors. After his eyes stop rolling back in his head, he agrees to go check on the Blazer for me. I almost burst into tears of gratitude. That would be because I didn't have to deliver on the aforementioned sexual favors. *coughs*

Soooooooooooo. He wanders back in a few minutes, along with my service guy that had told me it was ready earlier. I refrained from snarling, painting my friendliest 'look, I'm a sweet little southern woman just needin' help from y'all big, ol' strappin' men' smile all over my face. They apologize profusely. Why, you ask?

Blazer's not done. Won't be done til tomorrow. Which is today as I write this, but was tomorrow yesterday. Lost yet?

Turns out they'd found a wee little coolant leak. Gee, something you think MAYBE they could have caught BEFORE I signed the goddamned check BUYING the stupid Blazer? Apparently not.

So, here I sit. Waiting for the call that is SUPPOSED to come any time now, letting me know I can come get the Blazer. I've had more pleasant periods in my life. Did I say periods?

I'm not even going there.