Only Nola

Got License?

Today, miracle of miracles, my cosmetology license showed up in the mail.  Go figure.  About the time I think there is no hope of ever finding a competent government worker... someone had to go and ruin it for me.  In more ways than one.  Now that I have my license?  I can go find a job.

Join me in just dancing up and fucking down about that.

Jonathan and I are hoping we can continue to afford for me to be a stay at home mom, but just in case life has any more lovely surprises in store for us ('cause it loves us like that), there's always my previous career as a stylist to fall back on.  I just can't tell you how much the thought tickles me.

You haven't lived until you've worked in a hair salon.  BEHIND the chair, that is.  Receptionists?  Not the same thing.  I've sat in both positions, and the reception gig is a cakewalk next to the hairstylist thing.  As a receptionist, you're never in danger of severing a customer's artery.  Well, not if you're doing your job right.  If you're a receptionist and you're EVER even CLOSE to opening a vein (other than your own), you seriously need to spend some quality one on one time with the company handbook and get a firmer grip on your job description.

Now, I'll be the first to admit that I have some... well, fears... yes, we'll call them fears... about working in this area.  I've seen some of what is walking around passing itself off as a hairstyle in the area, and, frankly, it gives me night sweats.  The mullets, for the love of GOD... just the sheer number of MULLETS.  You know that thing I read about?  The elephant graveyard?  It's some place where something like all the elephants go to die or some shit?  Well, here we have the place where the mullets BREED.  Like tribbles.  Or gremlins.  Or... a really ugly rash that you're too embarrassed to tell your doctor about, and it just keeps getting worse, and you can't stop scratching, but pretty soon it just...

(...)

Um.

Where was I?

Yeah, not sure how I'd be able to handle working in the land of the mullet.  I mean, really?  How many times can I pass it off as an accident when I 'slip' and cut off their 18 inch rat tail?

It's all about plausible deniability, people.

Rebate Me This, Rebate Me That

I'm in the market for a new mattress.  Ours hates us.  Back pain every damned day... tossing and turning... snoring... and that's just the cats.  Imagine how WE feel.  Something has to be done.  One would think that buying a new mattress would be the sensible solution.  One would be deluded.  Let me tell you how much fun it is shopping for a mattress.   

Really.

First off, you have two options for finding a mattress... do it online, which obviously circumvents the whole 'Gee, I think I'll see how the mattress feels BEFORE I hock my soul to Satan to take it home' thing, or do it in person, which necessitates either seeing one of four floor models that Sears sees fit to show you in their store or going to a specialty mattress store, which will cost you more than I paid for my first CAR.

For some reason places like Sears, who stock a large number of mattresses to presumably sell to the credit card carrying public, have decided against that pesky tradition of setting out examples of the merchandise so that someone actually knows what they're buying.  Oh, they like to PRETEND they still do that... measly four fucking beds tucked in a corner behind REALLY ugly lingerie (which I wouldn't wish on Anna Nicole Smith... and that's saying something)... but really?  Four beds?  Okay, it was a few more than four, but it was nowhere near the dozens they used to have out for  your flopping pleasure.  There's a just a silly thing called common sense that compels me to seek out the mattress BEFORE I buy it.  I'm crazy like that.

Now, to get the dozens of floor models that you can sit, roll, and twitch on to your heart's content you have to go to, oh, say... your local Serta or Tempurpedic store.  Or however the fuck you spell it.  Let's just spell it 'OPENAVEIN'.  Truth in advertising and all that.  Anyway.  You walk into one of those specialty stores and you might as well just mark cute little words like 'sale', 'discount', 'affordable' and 'groceries' right off your list.  I have no intention of paying $1600 for a BED.  I don't care if Antonio Banderas comes WITH the damned thing.  Okay, maybe he's no longer a good example, since he's got Melanie cooties and all that... and what's up with his hair these days, anyway?  How about... Matthew McConaughey.  Yeah, there ya go.  Sure, he rejects the whole deodorant culture, but... what's a  little stench between friends?

Where the hell was I?

Oh, yeah, the mattress thing.  Well, after deciding which is worse, having to sell an organ on the black market or buying a mattress sight unseen and hoping that it's not a canvas bag stuffed with hay, you then have to deal with delivery charges.  Does anyone besides me remember when delivery of high dollar items was FREE?  Well, Sears has come up with my favorite option to cure this problem...

The mail in rebate.

Do we all remember how much I HATE mail in rebates?  Well, here's the thing.  Sears will deliver your mattress for FREE!  Yes, that's FREE!  How cool is THAT?  Well, okay, it's not really free... it's $55, then you get that money back when you use the mail in rebate.

(...)

Yeah, 'cause those ALWAYS work.  I have no faith whatsoever in the odds of getting back that $55.  Zippo.  Zilch.  NADA.  I've been lured in with the whole mail in rebate thing before.  Bent me over and treated me like the guy in prison who orders his lipstick in bulk.  Fuck you very much, Motorolla.  Anyway.  I figure that if I cave in to the Sears pricing (which is pretty attractive, I must say), I may as well kiss that $55 good-bye, 'cause the odds of it ever finding its way home are about the same as my ex-husband suddenly developing both a conscience and a set of balls. 

'Nuff said.

Pick a Pattern

I went to Lowe's today.  Checking out things we'll need for the new house.  Lowe's on a Saturday is a bit like throwing the cow into the Piranha family reunion.  It's not pretty.  Everyone and their collective dogs apparently decides to go to Lowe's on Saturday, many of them with the express purpose of stopping with their carts in the middle of whatever aisle you need to go down the most.  It's instinctive.

Then, of course, there is the plethora of decorative selections to make...

First off, let me start by saying that the linoleum that's supposed to look like wood?  Isn't fooling anybody.  Really.  That has to be one of the single tackiest things on the planet.  It's right up there with the linoleum that's supposed to look like tweed.  Tweed, I tell you.  On. the. FLOOR.  Shiny tweed.  Also not fooling anybody.  I have never met anyone in my LIFE that was on a faux wood floor and, gee, just couldn't tell the difference.  It's enough to make a girl with good taste weep.

Then there are the toilets.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we now have designer toilets.  Just so you know, hell will officially freeze over before I pay $827 for a fucking place to poop.  No, I'm not kidding.  That's eight HUNDRED and TWENTY SEVEN dollars.  For a toilet.  Wherein you poop.  Killing you, isn't it?  I almost fell over.  We have a whole aisle of toilets ranging from around $60 to around $300, and then we have the pimp daddy of toilets around the corner for almost a grand.  I think my ass will continue to be just fine on American Standard, thank you very much.

Oh, and FYI?  Toilets have this design thing that really disturbs me... there in the back, under the tank... the place that's usually hidden from view and most people never get to see up close and personal?  It's got this twisted maze shape in the porcelain, which is both startlingly and nauseatingly reminiscent of an intestine.  I don't have the words to describe how much this bothers me.  I guess they've always been like this to a degree, but the new thing is way more detailed and something that was never meant to be put on a shelf at eye level under glaring flourescent lights.  Unfortunately, they're all like that now.  I may be forced to forever use the bathroom in the dark now.  I mean, come ON, people... I know what the toilet's function is, I don't need a visual aid to help clue me in.  Intestines... good God.

The things they find to charge you exorbitant amounts of money for are truly mind boggling.  Freaking wall plates.  You know, the little pieces of plastic/wood/metal that go around your light switches and electrical outlets?  Bloodsuckers.  And don't get me started on cabinet knobs and drawer pulls.

Isn't it June yet?

 

Not MY Blonde Moment

My gas cap hates me.  I'm convinced it has a serious personal problem with me.  I have, in recent weeks, been unable to get the damned thing off when I go to get gas.  Now, this might not be such a problem, since my husband usually is the one to fill up the car when it needs it, except for one little thing... if I am the one who is stopping at the gas station, it's almost guaranteed that I'm coasting in on fumes.  I have this nasty habit of waiting until the little bell is dinging at me constantly and the little red light is having a conniption fit before I will stop to get gas.  This means that if I can't get the gas cap off?  I am completely screwed.  The good news?

It doesn't just hate me...

What I have is a locking gas cap.  Little wienie key on my keyring to get the thing off.  Sounds simple, doesn't it?

Phhhtttt.

So there I am yesterday, at the gas station, credit card in hand and fully prepared to stuff my car with it's dose of fuel.  I open the little door to my gas cap, gearing up to face my foe.  Fucking thing.  Now, the last time I had to get gas I was forced to ask the big burly man at the next pump for help to get the damned thing out of my way.  It wasn't easy for him, either, so I felt somewhat vindicated, but really figured it was just a fluke.  I assumed I was having some blonde moment with the most basic of skills... gas cap removal.  We all have our weaknesses.   Mine are just more obvious.

I took the key and, just to be on the safe side, reread the instructions written on the offending gas cap.  Word to the wise?  Any gas cap that actually has instructions written on it?  Going to be nothing but trouble.  I mean, it's a GAS CAP, for fuck's sake.  It shouldn't require instructions.  This isn't rocket science, people.

The aforementioned instructions state 'Insert key.  Turn key one quarter turn counter clockwise, then return key to starting position.  Remove key.  Remove gas cap.'  Easy.

(...)

AAAAAAAAAAAARGH.  I stood there fighting with that damned thing for a good five minutes, in the freezing wind and with the serious need to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible so that I could go pick Connor up from school before he GRADUATED.  Finally, I did what any self-respecting woman would do... I appealed to the big man at the next pump.  Again.  Different man than last time, obviously.  If it wasn't, that would bring up the whole stalking issue and probably involve mace and a kick to the balls.  But I digress.

So the nice man comes over and gives me that look.  You know, the one that says 'Well, it's a woman, so are we really surprised that she can't even get a gas cap off?'  He was friendly enough, though, so I was willing to overlook that.  Really.  So he takes the key from me, reads the instructions (gee, Mister, I'd have NEVER thought of THAT!  Gah.), and goes to work.  HA!  SUCKER!

It didn't cooperate with him, either.  I almost said 'nanner nanner' before I could help myself.  But I showed admirable restraint and held it in.  He grunted.  He pushed.  He threw his back into it.  Nearly slipped a disk.  Disc?  The one in your back... whatever the spelling is.  Finally, he's as confounded as I am.  He decides it must be broken.  Ya THINK?  Then... it happens.

He says 'It seems to be a little loose... *wiggles it with fingers*... has it always been like this?'

'No,' says I 'not that I'm aware of.'

(...)

He pulls the goddamned thing out.  Just PULLS it out.  Now, here's where I get pissed.

Turns out that, while every OTHER gas cap in the English speaking world unscrews?  This one just PULLS OUT.  Does it TELL you that?  It. does. NOT.  It says remove it.  I am a witness to the fact that even big, burly MENFOLK think that means unscrew the goddamned thing... it's not just me.  I even asked the lady checking out my groceries last night (and the baffled bag boy), and the consensus was... yes, they'd have been trying to unscrew it, too.  The man who had helped me a few weeks ago?  Also tried to unscrew it.  This is NOT just a me problem, people.  What kind of dipshit designed a gas cap that does NOT unscrew, yet forgot to TELL people that little fact?  Remember those instructions, written in nice, bold, white letters on the gas cap?  Shouldn't it have sail 'Pull out without unscrewing', as opposed to just 'remove'?  I mean, if we wanted the instructions to actually HELP, that is.  Call me crazy, but I have this weird expectation when it comes to instructions... I want them to INSTRUCT.  Not hint.  Not allude.  Not point me in vaguely the right direction... JUST FUCKING TELL ME!

I want a new gas cap.

I Think Not…

Today I was vacuuming, for the billionth time, the area in front of my cats' litter box?  Why?  Because the little shits (no pun intended) can't seem to enter the land of Scoop Away without taking half of it out with them.  Now, once they get it out, they no longer want it.  Heavens no.  They get it out, clutched in the furry little paws, and then leave it on the cleanest patch of carpet they can find.  An accident?

I think not...

Today I had to call the Arizona Board of Cosmetology, basically to find out what black hole they had sent my board certification to, since they obviously had NOT sent it where it was SUPPOSED  to go... which was the MISSOURI state board of cosmetology.  I got Connie Cuntly, or so I assume her name to be, on the phone.  First it was like pulling teeth just to get her to get off her ass and DO what she's PAID for.  Then, when she finally gets the file out, she reads off the address they mailed my paperwork to... yes, that would be the WRONG address.  How they mucked this up I can't imagine, but apparently they sent it to, not the wrong street address, but the wrong ZIP CODE.  Now, she's trying to say that that's how it was submitted to them, by ME, on my application form.  Riiiiiiiiiiiiight.  Seeing as how the letter they sent to me?  With MY copy of the certification?  Had, instead of 'Court' (you know, like Avenue, Street, whatever... mine is Court) ... 'PORT'... Port, I ask  you... for fuck's sake... their record here for correctly transferring information from point A to point B is not good.  After that, you think it's unreasonable to think maybe, just MAYBE, THEY are the ones who fucked up the zip code all by dem widdle selves?  I wonder what happens when people put the wrong zip code on a letter?  Will it eventually find it's way to the right place, just taking a detour, or will it be lost in the postal abyss forEVER?  Anyway.  Ms. Cuntly, in possibly the single WORST tone of voice choice for anyone in a career which deals with the public, told me she's sure she has no idea how *I* managed to mess this up.  I asked her to send the certification to the RIGHT address this time, and she says 'Well, we can send them a copy of what we sent out two weeks ago, if you really want.'  If I really WANT?  No, sweetie, I just cut you a check for $50 for my fucking HEALTH.  I don't REALLY want a copy of my certification sent to the Missouri State Board.  What I REALLY want is for the ORIGINAL TO HAVE GONE TO THE RIGHT ADDRESS IN THE FIRST GODDAMNED PLACE.  Not that I need it or anything.  I mean, really?  A job?  Who wants one of THOSE?  All this because idiots run government offices.  Yeah, the wrong zip code... an accident?

I think not...

Well, things are turning around, or so I fervently hope, on the home front.  Found out just a little while ago that we finally had success in hunting down the realtor who is selling the residential lot we want.  We now have a spot to put the house we'll be building.  Well, we won't be building it... that's what Chris and Jason and their minions are for.  I know nothing about the building of the houses.  I DO, however, know how to make a royal pest from HELL of myself during the building process.  These guys are going to be soooooo ready to see the last of me when the house is done.  Actually, probably long before the house is done.  I'll get my house done in record time.  Hey, this is the first time that my spastic nature will actually work FOR me!  Then again, it also would explain why my buyer's agent goes through so many 'dead' areas on his phone when I call him... an accident?

I think not.

Where Do They Find These People?

Friday I was... or was it Saturday?... no, that's right, it was Friday.  Time flies and all that.  Anyway.  I was on the phone with my niece, trying to brainstorm about what to get my sister (which would, obviously, be her mother... funny how that works) for her birthday.  We had gotten together on this pretty much at the last possible minute, so time was of the essence.  I was relieved to find out that my niece has her checking account at the same bank I do.  This meant that I could utilize their lovely little online feature, wherein one can enter the account information of another Bank of America account holder and transfer money to that account from one's own account.  Instantly.  With no fee attached.  Isn't that great?

Yeah, when it freakin' WORKS...

So there we are, she at Pier 1 and me in front of my computer hundreds of miles away.  I'm on the Pier 1 website, picking out things and sending her scurrying all over the store to find out if they have them in stock at her location.  Bless her heart.  Finally, we have the goodies in hand.  I login to my online banking to transfer the money to her so she can write a check without it bouncing like a rubber biscuit (anyone remember THAT?) and get out of Pier 1 in one piece.  Those salesgirls are deadly.

Here's where the fun began.

I go to the 'transfer funds' page, enter in my niece's account info... it rejects it.  Says the information entered cannot be validated, blah blah blah.  Now, I know this stupid thing CAN work, because I set up a transfer account to my mother's account a couple of months ago, so that if/when I need to send her money, I can zip it right over.  For some reason, though, the computer picked that minute to hate my guts and livers (another reference that a lot of people probably won't get, but that's okay... we'll just say that makes me, um... unique.  Yeah, that's it.).  Or my niece's guts and livers.  I'm betting it was me.  I have that effect on people, so it was only a matter of time before it spread to technology.

Anyhooooooooo.

I tried to input the information a few times, thinking maybe it would just get sick of me doing it over and over and finally fall over in submission, but no.  It held firm and kept flipping me the virtual bird.  What's a sister on a birthday mission to do?

Call the local branch of my bank, of course.

(...)

I don't know where they find the employees that I run into in the commercial world, but I have to assume they were both recruited and hired by a transient band of syphilitic monkeys in the middle of a Jim Beam bender. 

See, I called the local branch and got random dude.  I explain to dude the situation.  He sits there (and I can SO picture the blank look on his face already) for a minute and then says to me 'So you're trying to get into someone else's bank account?  Um... you can't do that'.

No, EINSTEIN, I'm not trying to pilfer her account, I'm trying to insert money INTO it.  You know, we internet hackers with a criminal bent just do that ALL the time.  Jesus.  In the first place, if I WERE trying to get into her account, do you think I'd call to TELL you about it?  In the second place, what part of 'use the online banking transfer funds function' didn't you understand?  Am I not speaking s-l-o-w-l-y enough for you?  Should I speak louder?  Like, oh, say... in your EAR while standing on your NECK?

Gah.

As I was saying.  I calmly explained, AGAIN, to random dude that I was trying to use the online banking to get money to my niece.  He informs me that's not possible.  I inform him that, according to his OWN COMPANY'S website, it certainly IS possible.  I also inform him that I've done it before, when I gave my mother some money for one of those damned infomercial iron thingies.  (You know, the ones where you just hand up the shirt, then run the thing down the shirt and VOILA!  No more wrinkles!  Yeah, that one.  What can I say?  She wanted one.)  I end up having to walk the syphilitic monkey's mascot through the process of transferring funds online, complete with answering questions and guiding him through a series of links to illustrate the point.  Finally... FINALLY... he gets it.  Kind of.  More or less.  He can't get it to work, but he facilitates the transfer manually through the bank computer.

Now, here's the irony.  He grills me intensively for a good 3 minutes, asking me for things like the amount of my last deposit (jesus, I don't know... I've slept since then) and the amount of the last bill paid from my account.  Um, Brainiac? If I'm a hacker and in someone's account, can't I get that information off the fucking SCREEN RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME?  All that it proves, if I answer those questions correctly, is that I'M NOT BLIND! 

So, the irony thing?  I kind of strayed for a second there.  It's a me thing.  After he decides that I am, in fact, the owner of the account, he informs me that he's gone ahead and initiated the transfer (no, he didn't use the word initiated... that was me taking artistic license.  I don't think he could pronounce initiated, much less use it in a sentence.), BUT... and here's where he cracks me up... he wants to make it clear to me that this won't happen again because they're not supposed to do things like this over the phone.

Oh, I see... helping a customer over the phone is off limits, but remaining completely ignorant to some of the basic services offered by your employer?  THAT is totally okay.  We're fine with that.  Really.  The guy is suddenly oh so concerned with company policy when a)he's already BREAKING it, and b)I'm pretty sure that company policy also covers, somewhere in its handbook, the requirement that the employees know their ass from a jell-o mold.

I swear, some days I think that the only purpose humanity serves is to make God point and laugh...

I Don’t Get It

Can someone... ANYONE... explain to me the hold that Madonna has on the world's otherwise sane population?  I mean, really?  This, right here?

 

       

is likely to give me nightmares for the REST of my life.

Surely I'm not alone here...

Nine out of ten people surveyed happily kiss Madonna (or should I say 'Madge'?   Or, even BETTER, how about Esther... for fuck's sake) on her muscular, yet strangely shapeless, ass.  And God knows the press has made a career out of sucking up to her.  The woman has vocals that would embarrass my CAT, and yet... rich and famous.  I don't know how that works.  If Madonna can shake her aging knockers in public, in a fugly purple leotard, no less, why can't I win the lottery?  I'm owed, dammit... SHE BURNED OUT MY RETINAS!

I loved Madonna back in the day, when she had us all wearing cheap lace gloves with no fingers... bursting (or attempting to) out of our collective bustiers under our ropes of fake pearls and crucifixes... wearing enough makeup to hide not only our acne scars but also all signs of life.  Ah, those were the days.  Observe...

 

      

Now?  I see her and involuntarily taste my dinner for the second time.  What the fuck, if I may ask, is up with her HAIR lately?  She looks like she has Always with Wings stapled to her scalp.  This is not a good look, people.

Madge... Esther... whatever the hell her name is this week... I just can't wrap my head around the fact that people just think she is the SHIT.  It's like some Jonestown massacre of the good taste gene...

People, put the kool-aid DOWN.  For the love of GOD, step away from the pseudo-Brit!

 

madonna

Madonna before she sucked.

Madonna in leotard

Madonna scares the masses in her shiny clothes.

A Picture’s Worth a Thousand Words

Here, Chell... you wanted to see the neighbor?  From the post on Thursday?  Here you go... knock yourself out.

Oy...

Isn't that pretty?

Waiting to hear from my realtor so we can set up a time to go over house plans and such.  Looks like we might, and I stress the word 'might', just build a house instead of looking for one that's already up and ready.  We'll see how the meeting goes.

We got snow today.  Woke up this morning and it was white outside.  Not like feet of it or anything, but enough to let Connor go outside and give himself Pneumonia.  I vaguely remember being young enough that playing in the snow seemed like the best thing ever.  That was long ago, though, and now snow is something I just want to see out the window, while I'm safely ensconced in the house, pointing and laughing at the people who feel compelled to brave the ice and snow so they can fall down go boom.

Oh, and Connor?  He's got issues...

This is my son, the one with the apparent inability to come home from school with the same gloves he was wearing when he got there.  Hence the Gold Toe socks on his hands.  Never let it be said we can't go redneck in some sort of style.  You think your average bubba uses Gold Toe socks for... well, anything?  Please.  We may be riding the fast train to hickville, but we still have STANDARDS.

The snow was too dry to make a good snowball, so I entertained myself chasing Connor around the yard and dumping handfulls of loose snow all over him.  I may be old, but I'm quick.  Poor guy never had a chance.  The wind was apparently not on his side, either, 'cause every time he'd try and return the snow-throwing favor, it would blow back in his little face... the face that was streaming from the eyes and nose and a lovely shade of hot pink from the cold... yeah, that face.

And my boy?  He's a 7 year old metrosexual.  Swear to God.  He comes in, dripping from visible orifices... orifi?... orifeece?... fuck it.  He's now inside and making sure we all know just how repulsive he finds the idea of actually TOUCHING any of his clothing that is now wet from the snow and generally clammy and unappealing.  He's standing there, miserable, yet totally unwilling to do anything about it because, ick, he'd have to actually put his HANDS on it... perish the thought.  Sounds like some girls I knew in high school...

*coughs*

But I digress.

We're all good now.  Jonathan just went to grab us some McDonald's for dinner ('cause I'm lazy like that for tonight), Connor's in there watching some really crappy cartoon (and I tried to sit through Sin City earlier today... couldn't do it.  Maybe I'll make it another time, but I make no promises.  I had high hopes for that movie.  Phhhttt.) and here I sit, giving all of you something to read in your spare time.

You know you love me.