Only Nola

I Think I Need an Intervention

Ever see a scary movie where the totally useless (and interchangeable) blonde, trampish-around-the-edges secondary character steps out in the street/parking lot/train tunnel, thinking the coast is clear (for reasons unknown to me, since the twat didn't bother to look before committing herself to action), only to be, oh, let's say mowed down by a bus, apparently from out of NOWHERE?

Yeah, that's SO me right now.

I hate reality TV. Really. Swear to God. I avoid it like Paris Hilton avoids the softer side of Sears. Then every so often, much to my shame, I get sucked into the black hole. I succumb to the dark side. I know... I'm weak. I should be flogged. First it was Blow Out. Already posted about that in here somewhere... look it up. Then... God, the agony... it was Being Bobby Brown. There, I said it. Should I feel unburdened now? Anyway. Last night, well, the unthinkable happened. Temptation beckoned and I, vulnerable and flu-ridden being that I am, caved.

Project Runway.

I only WISH I was kidding. I sat and watched FOUR HOURS of the shit. Back to back episodes. Some kind of demented marathon from HELL they had going on last night. I watched part of this last season (Gah. Wasn't going to confess, but there you go...) and found it a mixture of entertaining/disturbing. Now, for it's second season, I find it appalling/hypnotic. Like a train wreck but with less blood on the victims.

I really wouldn't know where to start, and am loathe to make this a mile long post, as is my unfortunate habit, so I'll just make a few brief remarks:

1) Michael Kors does not, by what I can tell, have a nice bone in his body.

2) That Nina chick, or whatever the fuck her name is, makes a pirannha look like a good idea for a swim buddy. Cunt.

3) Santino is the devil. I checked.

4) Whomever decided that anyone over the age of 23 is ready for a catheter and a social security check needs a swift kick to the ass. If I'd had to hear ONE more of those judges talk about any halfway acceptable design (read= covers more skin than it DOESN'T and could actually be worn out of the house with out causing an anxiety attack) being 'matronly' and 'not for a young enough market', I was going be forced to use my terrible superpowers of bitchiness to mentally reach through the television and slap the everlivin' shit out of each judge... repeatedly.

5) Apparently honor and a good work ethic are the fashion equivalent of Kryponite. (ooohh, I've got a theme going! Now I just need an outfit and my own music...)

6) Fashion is, regrettably, in its death throes. Half the shit these people are busy congratulation themselves over looks like something Rainman would make with the Special Olympics ALTERNATES. Does that give you a good idea of the visual?

So far, it's hard to like any of these people to the point that I actually want any of them to win. I just know I want Santino to NOT win. That's my only goal.

Like I have goals...

Red Tape Much?

Okay, I found something to miss about Arizona...

Their DMV.

Seriously...

We're trying to get car tags here in Missouri. Sounds pretty simple, right? Oh, you poor, naive fool. Missouri has turned what should be a relatively simple process into something akin to qualifying for the Olympic track team... if you've got ONE LEG.

See, in Arizona it was almost unbelievably easy. Took, like, proof of insurance, title, and proof of residency. Give or take a document in either direction. Here? Let's see...

They want your title or lien holder paperwork (okay, I get that one), safety inspection (yeah, that one doesn't bother me much... keep the assbags with no tail lights off the road if at all possible, before I have to strangle one with my bare hands), either a statement of a) your Missouri property taxes being currently paid, or b) a statement of non-assessment showing you are a new resident and owe no taxes (this starts to get tricky, since the DMV site doesn't seem to want to share WHERE you're supposed to get the assessment... it has a link, but it's a fool-you... damned thing doesn't work), emissions test (again, this is a pain... it's only for certain cars and only for certain counties... have fun figuring out if you need one or not), proof of insurance (giant 'Duh!'), proof of residency (you know, to cut down on those pesky New Yorkers who try and slip over state lines for the trendy Missouri license plates... the bastards), and a VIN and odometer inspection.

(...)

Okay, exactly how much of this is reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaally fucking necessary? I mean, they're the license plate people, not the F -fucking- B I. If my odometer isn't right, well... shouldn't that be a COP problem? If my taxes aren't paid, again... isn't that a COLLECTIONS problem? See, the irony in them denying plates to people who haven't paid their taxes is that, well, obviously a person who can't drive to WORK can't GET the money to pay their goddamned taxes. You couple all this with a serious lack of live help (I swear to God the staff in the DMV hides in the fucking closet when it looks like they're going to have to deal with actual PEOPLE) and an apparent Valium buffet for those that ARE helping (have you SEEN how these people move? It's like they're stuck in a Matrix moment. That's SLOW, for those of you not keeping up) and you've got a serious recipe for a clock tower situation.

Just glanced over and realized that my husband left the TV on one of the major networks before he left. This means I'm now staring at 'Days of Our Lives'. Jesus. I hate soap operas. And by the way... do NONE of the people on these damned things EVER learn a fucking thing?

Gah.

I may be in retirement before I manage to get Missouri tags. Yeah, go ahead, ticket me... I need the entertainment.

The Bike Was Winning…

Today we took Connor out front to see who'd draw blood first... him or his new bike. It was a close call.

In a weak moment, the bike let him think he was winning. I'm running around out there trying to find a picture opportunity where he's not either looking straight down at the ground or steering himself into a car, and luckily caught this Kodak moment.

      

It's ironic that this picture, the one I'd LIKE to have crystal clear and perfect lighting, isn't, but the ones of the side of his head as he turns JUST in the nick of time to screw up the snapshot? THOSE are absolutely freaking perfect. And, fyi?... it's COLD outside. Just so you know.

First, for the record, bike riding is NOT instinctive.

I'm out there trying to explain to him, repeatedly, that turning the handlebars, when one is approaching an obstacle, is a good thing. He's suspicious and not convinced that I know what I'm talking about. HIS answer to the mailbox in his path? Take feet off pedals, while maintaining direction directly FOR the mailbox, and drag said feet on the ground until bike comes to a stop. The melting shoes? Well, they sell those at Dillard's, don't they?

Secondly, a 7 year old who has not owned a bike before (lots of reasons for this, some actually valid, but the point here is that he's a wee bit behind other kids his age in this particular area) is going to be a difficult student when it comes to the concept of momentum. Observe:

 

See, this is what happens when a kid sees a tiny little crack up ahead. He hits the brakes (or, more accurately, drags his $60 shoes on the ground) and comes to a complete stop right up against the uneven bit of concrete at the foot of the driveway. Now comes the difficulty. Trying to explain to a 7 year old that it's going to be a much larger pain in the ass to now get up the driveway since he lost his momentum. You get a blank look that just screams "I hear you talking, but all I really want to know is why aren't you FIXING this!?!"

And thirdly, it is glaringly obvious that Connor is, indeed, my son. The boy started to wobble on his bike. What did he do? Screw stoic, he began to panic in earnest. The idea of 'taking a few lumps" is as foreign to him as the fact that some people actually eat carrots because they like them. He jumped clear of that bike in nothing flat. Now, on the one hand, I applaud his reflexes and his keen sense of self preservation. On the other hand, I could wish for just a wee bit more perseverence... both for the sake of the brand new bike and so he's not the only kid in high school still in training wheels. A mother can hope, can't she?

I think I should probably leave the bike coaching to my husband...

 

 

Heartbreak Kid

This afternoon my two boys (the instigator and the amplifier) were playing hide and seek. I was busy cleaning up the sad remains of my kitchen, which had been effectively nuked by the large and hideously fattening dinner frenzy, while they entertained themselves. I figured it was a harmless activity to keep them out of my hair for a little bit while me and the Clorox Clean-Up got up close and personal.

It's amazing how quickly things can go straight to hell...

I'm standing there, elbow deep in food scraps and saran wrap, when oldest son approaches me and informs me that Connor, in the heat of the game, had decided to hide ... where? In my bedroom closet. In my bedroom closet.

*blinks*

Oh, well, shit. Where do I have his bicycle that we'd bought him for Christmas? IN. MY. BEDROOM. CLOSET.

Now, Connor has always known not to go in my bedroom or closet without knocking or asking, but since the move we'd been letting him watch TV in our room sometimes, so he'd, apparently, thought that the old rules didn't apply anymore. I know it wasn't his intention to do something he wasn't supposed to. He was caught up in the moment, nothing on his mind but to find the best hiding place possible. Unfortunately, that's exactly what WE thought when we put the damned bike in there in the first place. Great minds, eh?

Connor comes walking into the kitchen just after Nathan has informed me of the trespassing incident. Now, believe it or not, I have a bit of a temper. I know, I know... it's a shocker. But still. Connor's looking a little shell shocked, which, in retrospect, I'm sure came from seeing that bike. But for the first few minutes, I can't see past the mad... that he went into my closet without asking?, sure, but more because the big plan I'd had for Christmas morning and seeing him light up when he saw that bike was now officially flushed down the toilet. I went off. Well, not BIG went off, but still... I was strenuously trying to get a hold of my mad before I said something that would just be horrid and break his little heart, but it's not always an easy thing. Any parent has had moments like this, and if they say different they. are. LYING. I actually did pretty good, all things considered. I didn't yell, although my voice did raise a bit, and I stopped myself from saying the first things that popped into my head (for a minute the phrase 'Well, Christmas is pretty much ruined' flashed through my head... did I mention I'm also PMS'ing? ... but I was so appalled at the thought that I immediately just told Connor to go sit on his bed for a minute while I collected myself... and was both ashamed that I'd even THOUGHT the ruining Christmas thing and proud that I'd stopped it from spilling out) while managing to reassure Connor that I knew he didn't do it on purpose.

Went directly out to the garage and told the hubby what had happened. He and I agreed that Connor, who is a very good boy, didn't do what he did with any sneaky intentions, and that it was just one of those bad timing things that happen in life. We also agreed that it was partially our fault for being lax in the 'knock before you go in our room' rule since we moved. Kids are like cats... if you move from one house to another, they often think that it's like starting over and no previous rules apply until told differently. I think it's genetically encoded.

Anyhoo. We came back in the house and sat down on Connor's bed with him. I told him that we weren't mad at him, and explained why it had upset me, but that it wasn't his fault. He, with the heart the consistency of jello, was all teary, just because he can't stand for someone to be mad at him. Much hugging ensued. We then called him into our room and the hubby rolled out the bike. No sense in making him wait for it, now, is there?

Here's the heart breaking part... I know, you were wondering when I was going to get to the point.

As Jonathan's wheeling the bike out, Connor starts getting REALLY upset. I have no idea what's wrong... I thought he'd be all excited about the bike. He's starting to tremble, get red in the face, lip is quivering, eyes are welling up... I'm baffled. I get down on my knees and put my arms around him and ask him if he doesn't like his new bike. His answer?

"I...I...I thought th...th...that since I s...s...saw it already I wa...wa...wasn't going to g...g...g...g...*insert sniffle and gulp here* get it a...a...anymo...mo...more."

oh. my. god.

My heart literally broke. We had NEVER said anything even REMOTELY like that to him. I don't know if he'd seen something like this in a movie or something, but when he said that I was just... well, I almost passed out. I wouldn't dream of doing something like that to a child, and I told him so immediately. My husband rushed over when he heard that, and both of us sat there with our arms around this poor little weepy boy. I just couldn't stand it. I told him the bike was his, no matter what. That we'd NEVER take back a present for something like that. I told him over and over how much we loved him, and he calmed down fairly quickly after that, but still...

Jesus. Talk about a heart breaking moment. I don't know where Connor picked up on the idea of taking back Christmas presents, but if it was on TV, the writers should be unilaterally shot.

And I mean that in the nicest way possible.

What, Are You BLIND?

Sitting in Pizza Hut the other day with oldest male child. Doing some serious damage to the buffet. Hey, a girl's gotta eat. Just don't get between me and the fresh pies and we'll get along just fine.

There's a table of women to my right, behind my son. To my left, the buffet and, further on, the front door.

Just setting the scene, here, people, work with me...

So I'm mid-shovel when I hear the women to my right (who are looking in my direction) exclaim 'HEY!', followed by the prerequisite giggling that seems to overwhelm some women when they run into an acquaintance unexpectedly. To my left, I see as I turn my head, are three people just being seated. They all have that look... you know the one. Deer in the headlights. Stark, frozen TERROR. They return the greetings while trying to make a beeline for their table. What follows is one of those classic moments that sets my teeth on edge...

*from the women at the table to my right*

"What are y'all doin'?"

(...)

Now, color me crazy, but as I sat there in the middle of PIZZA HUT I just had this sneaking suspicion that what these people were doing was rather obvious and not at all in need of a question. What did she THINK they were doing? Picking out wallpaper? Taking a physics exam? Negotiating a peace treaty?

Okay, I know everyone's done it at some point, but it makes it no less annoying. It's not quite fingernails-on-chalkboard annoying, but still...

Me being me, I had to seize that moment to quiz my son on the aforementioned phenomena.

"Nathan, have you ever had someone ask you what you're doing when it's a no-brainer what you're doing?"

*blank look from my son*

"You know, like if you're reading a book, and someone walks up and says 'Whatcha doin'?' *here I mime looking from an invisible book to a total idiot, back to book, back to idiot, back to book... you get the picture*"

Nathan, being my son but not carrying much of the talkative gene, simply nods and exercises his minimalist nature by saying ...

"Yep."

This is when I looked over his shoulder to see one of the women in question giving me the hairy eyeball.

Whoopsie.

Who Can Wait?

My name is Nola, and I'm a Christmas spoiler. I can't help it. See the tree over there? *points to my living room, like THAT helps you any* It's loaded with goodies underneath, right? For Christmas day, RIGHT? Well, that's what one would think.

One would be wrong...

I am the single worse waiter in the history of gift giving. I can't stand having perfectly good gifts sitting under a tree gathering dust when they could be OPENED, dammit. Rip the paper off! Go to town! SHOW ME THE PRESENTS!

And I don't mean MY presents, as a matter of fact. I could wait for mine as long as need be. It's the waiting for other people to open theirs that drives me batshit. I want them to have what I got them, and I want them to have it NOW! Christmas is a week away. What, are you trying to KILL me? My heart can't take it.

I love giving things to people. Other than migraines, I mean. I love the looks on their faces... I love the laughter and the smiles... I love seeing my husband mentally adding what it all had to cost and fighting off an embolism... you know, all the things that come with Christmas.

So for the next week I will be struggling every DAY to not do the 'well, you can open just one wee little gift a few days early' thing. I'm really bad about that. Is there medication for this? Is there even a NAME for this? Hey, if I'm the first to bring it to light, doesn't that mean I get to name it? Like ... mumps. Wasn't there a Mump somewhere? Mr. Mump, we have your vaccine now...

I'm coming up empty on the name thing. Maybe we should just stick to calling it insanity. Nice and general.

Celebrity Gossip

There are 8.3 billion sites dedicated to celebrity gossip. Really... I counted. Now, this would seem relatively harmless on the surface. Who doesn't like a little gossip? I regularly visit five or so sites for the latest dirt. And my, does it. get. DIRTY. The kind of dirty that Clorox can't kill. That's bleach, for the uninitiated. You're welcome.

But the thing is, there comes a time when it crosses a line.

I know, I know... me, Nola, talking about crossing a line? Well, it's true. Even I get to a point where I say 'Bitter and hateful little bilge swilling troll much?'

Take the comments, for instance.

Now, I like comments from my readers. Always. But have you ever gone and read the comments on any of the gossip blogs? These people aren't just sarcastic and a bit eaten with the envy... they're filled with the kind of bile normally contained in the stomach of a raging alcoholic with a garlic pickle fixation. They're not content to just have a laugh and a little poke (verbal, people, VERBAL) at the current celebrity under the microscope... no no no, they have to draw blood and take it the next personal level. Have I ever been guilty of it? Sure! We all have. But do I make a habit of bathing in the sheer meanness? Not so much. There's one site, which I shall leave nameless, which attracts the single most despicable comment posters I've ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. They see a celebrity in a low cut shirt? That means that, as opposed to criticizing her fashion sense, it's open season on her character. Now, if they were attacking her character for any reason OTHER than the shirt in question, I might not be so irked by the whole thing. But no, they're screaming 'SLUT!' and talking about all the venereal diseases said celebrity must have based on nothing but... a blouse.

I've dished celebrity gossip. God knows. But it's usually done tongue in cheek, or at the very least with enough back-up sourcing that I can claim some certainty that what I'm saying is TRUE. But I don't understand people who just seem to want to tear any and all famous people to shreds, in the most vicious way possible. Take Nicole Richie...

Nicole Richie has issues. We ALL have issues. But by and large she seems to be living her life with some sort of dignity. She's had a past with substance abuse, but so have countless other people. Do I think she's scarily thin? Yeah, I do. But do I think that makes her a 'skank whore'? Um... WHAT? But that's what I read, regularly, on sites like the one I was just talking about. They posted a picture of Brittany Murphy and were calling her a pig, slut, whore, crack addict, etc. And why? Well, because she had stretch marks on her boobs. No, I'm not kidding. Stretch. marks. on. her. BOOBS. Do these fuckwits not realize just how many women, of all shapes and sizes, have stretch marks? And do ANY of these commenters think that their bodies would stand up to such intense public scrutiny and fare BETTER than Brittany Murphy? Yeah, right. Pull the other one...

Okay, this is turning into a diatribe with no end, so I'll wrap it up. Sorry that the humor isn't as thick today as is normal. I'll get back on target tomorrow or, hell, maybe even later tonight. I was just so fucking disappointed in the general viciousness of some of these people that I had to vent.

Like I said... we all have done a little razzing and criticizing of the celebrity population. It's not THAT that I'm objecting to. It's the taking things too far or the personal judgements without foundation that I don't get...

Someone change the subject for me, PLEASE!

Will Be Posting…

I'll be posting my regular bullshit a bit later today/tonight, but for now I just wanted to point y'all to the sidebar blog over there on your right... I know some of you don't notice it when you're reading in here, but I think the entry for today bears a little cross promotion. Go forth and read, gentlereader.

Ick Much... now playing.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

My son, the beloved 7 year old of the big brown eyes and gap toothed grin (not to be confused with the other beloved son, he of the gorgeous green eyes and in those lovely prepubescent years (he's 11) that lead up to the 'oh-my-god-I'm-going-to-have-to-KILL-him' teen years that strike fear in my heart on a regular basis), decided to put me in an early grave this week.

He has his first girlfriend...

*falls over*

My BABY has a girlfriend! You obviously don't understand what this means. This means that some tramp is out to get her paws on my son. I am duty bound to stop her, fair means or foul. YES, I SAID FOUL. Whatever it takes, for crying out loud. See, there's a progression here that cannot go uncontested.

First, he was coming home telling me this little girl in his class was hugging him. Okay, fine. I may not like it, but I can allow her to live. Probably.

Then, he was coming home telling me she was holding his hand. Holding hands... is that a euphemism? Does she have a record? References? Isn't handholding a gateway...

Alright, fine. I was holding it together just fine. Really. Really? Okay, no, I wasn't. But then what came next?

scene: Connor's buckling up in the back seat as we leave the school parking lot to go finish Christmas shopping before dinner

Me: So how was your day, baby?

Connor: Good. I had chicken nuggets for lunch.

Me: Nuggets, eh? Were they good?

Connor: They didn't taste very much good... 'til I put Ranch on 'em, then they were a lot better.

Me: Good to know. Was Amy hugging you again today? *smiling brightly here around my gritted teeth*

Connor: Yep. And she told me she loves me.

(...)

Me: She told you... WHAT?

Connor: That she loves me.

(...)

*struggling here for balance as I try and decide if this is mind bogglingly cute or an impending disaster on the scale of the Titanic*

Me: Um. And what did you say to Amy when she told you she loves you?

Connor: I didn't say anything.

(Me blinking here, unwillingly feeling sorry for this poor little 7 year old girl who laid... layed... god, I hate that word... her heart at my son's feet just to be basically blown off.)

Me: You didn't say anything to her? She tells you she loves you and you just what? sit and STARE at her?

Connor: No, I just didn't say anything.

Me: Well, what were you doing, staring at CEILING TILE while she was saying she loves you? You had to be looking at her, Connor. God, that poor thing.

(silent moment goes by... awkward much?)

Me: So, Connor... how do you feel about Amy thinking she loves you?

Connor: I... I... I love her, too.

Yeah, and that was about all my heart could take. Jesus H. Christ. He loves her? LOVES HER? Do I LOOK ready for him to LOVE her? And YES, for fuck's sake, I KNOW he's only 7, but when his little bitty self is coming to me with his first gigantic heartbreak (you KNOW those 7 year old girls go through boyfriends like kleenex, don't you?) and I'm sticking him back together, THEN you tell me I'm overreacting. At your own risk, of course, but you can tell me...

Well, Connor and I had an ongoing discussion after that. What he could/should have said to this little girl, etc. I'm 'calming down', chilling out, taking it easy, contemplating shipping him off to military school... you know, the usual. The next day, he comes home and gives me the daily litany of how many hugs she gave him that day (and my stomach starts knotting up), how she told him she still loves him (I'm popping Maalox at this point) and...

*insert drumroll here*

how she was giving him 'blow kisses'.

"You know, Mom, the kind where she blows a kiss off her hand."

Yes, dammit, I know what 'blow kisses' are, thank you VERY much. I also know that at the rate this is progressing over the short period of one WEEK, by Monday it won't be blow KISSES she's giving him...

God, my heart can't take this shit...

New Pictures

There are finally some new pics uploaded to the gallery here. One in 'melting pot' and four or five in the 'family' album. I'll get some more in over the next day or two, but that's a start, anyway.

Just thought I'd let y'all know. You can resume breathing now.