Only Nola

Family Outing

We took Connor out today for some fun.  Fun being a subjective word.  We'd heard about this place here in town that we figured he'd like, so we hit the ATM and off we went.  We had told Connor that we had a surprise for him this weekend, so he didn't know where we were going.  The entire time in the car, we had him convinced we were dropping him off to clean someone's house to make some extra money so he could take US out to dinner for a change.  I told him we'd bought him some little rubber gloves so that his hands wouldn't get all pruney.  He was... mortified.  He informed us that he didn't think they (the ubiquitous 'they' strike again) could pay him enough to clean their house.  Jonathan told him that  he just had to do it this once, and if he didn't like it, well... how would he feel about ditch digging? 

WHAT?!?

I guess you had to be there.  I was biting through my tongue and tears were running out my eyes while I was attempting to drive down the road without snickering myself into a coma.

Needless to say, he was ecstatic when we pulled into the Incredible Pizza parking lot.

I had high hopes for this place.  According to some local sources, in addition to the company website, this place is quite the entertainment hub for the under 12 set. Chock full of activity goodness.

Phhhtttt.

First off, let me just say that, as in many other things, size MATTERS.  I was looking over the website, right?  And it lists all these games and shit that you can do at their facility.  Arcade!  GO-KARTS! BUMPER CARS, for crying out loud!  What's not to love?  I was wondering how they managed to fit all this into an indoor arena.  Well, that's easy enough... shove half a dozen electric scooters wrapped in innertubes into a ten by ten area, with maybe three feet of free space in between, and VOILA!  BUMPER CARS!  It would, of course, be more fair (not to mention honest... gee, I'm so naive) to call it SHOVING CARS, since with the limited space they're not so much bumping as rubbing and heaving, but... all's fair in love, war, and the fight for kiddie dollars, right?  The Go-Karts?  I was a bit concerned for the fumage factor, an indoor track and all, but I figured we could always sue them later... and I was, again, wondering about the space thing.  Well, when you stick wiener electric barbie cars on a track roughly the size of my garage (the steering wheel?  almost constantly turned to the hard left... The 'oval' of the track was so termed by the merest technicality... might as well have been turning doughnuts in the goddamned parking lot.  Round and round and round... yeefuckinghaw), yes, you can fit a Go-Kart track into a building.  And you, too, can ride a hideously disappointing and geriatric Go-Kart for $5.50 a pop.  Bloodsuckers.

Secondly, be very suspicious of ANY venue that demands you pay up front, in an area by the door that is walled off from the attractions so that you can't SEE them, BEFORE you pay for your visit.  We walk in and there are these registers... you tell them what you want to do, they take your money, give you a little credit card looking thing that you carry with you that keeps track of your credits/expenditures, THEN, and ONLY then, do you get to walk around the wall of stupidity.  On the other side of said wall?  Your first look at the shit you just paid good money for.  They should also hand out antacids and portable EKG machines, but I guess they're working up to that.  Right now, I suppose, they just hide the bodies. 

Thirdly, there should be a law that restricts the use of the word 'arcade'.  In order to call something an arcade, it should have a preponderance of *gasp* games.  I know, I know... I must be mad!  GAMES?!?  In an ARCADE?  Call me crazy, but when I walk into an alleged arcade and see:

One pinball machine
Seven dwarf skeeball machines (that CHEAT, might I add)
Three air hockey tables (which don't know HOW TO COUNT, FYI)
One (yes, ONE) actual video game, and...
(wait for it...)
362 machines that will suck out ALL your money in exchange for the pathetic hope that you might get some completely worthless TICKETS which you can then trade in for some absolutely dogshit prizes...

Well, that's when I get mad.  Every time we turned around, there was some machine screaming at us, flashing lights, practically reaching out and putting us into a chokehold.  Could one play an actual game on the machine in question?  Heaven forfend!  No, one just threw one's money at it indiscriminately and hoped for a payout.  Kind of like going on a date.  HA!  Now THAT'S funny! 

Okay, maybe it's just me.

I won't even go into the state of the lettuce on the salad bar.  Okay, maybe just a little... can anyone tell me what's so hard about putting out lettuce in a bowl that renders the staff unable to weed out the BROWN bits?  I make salads at home.  I've worked in restaurants (many, many moons ago, thank GOD) that served salads.  Serving only the pieces of lettuce that come in the colors of green and white, as opposed to brown and... putrid?  NOT THAT FUCKING HARD.  Yet somehow?  The situation persists.  Drives me batshit.

The pizza was pretty good, though.  All things considered.

Another expensive lesson learned.  Go me!

 

Connor at the driveway

Yep, that's a driveway.

Connor on Bike

My son, the bike marauder.

Connor on bike

My son, the bike marauder.

Just Call Me Rocky

I have a little friend that goes to bed with me every night.  Nothing that requires batteries, you perverts.  It's one of those damned dental guard things for my TMJD.  I've had TMJD for years, and I can't begin to tell you how much fun it is.  I even share the good times with my husband, often waking him from a sound sleep with the music of my teeth grinding together intermittently mixed with slurred exclamations of 'aw, FUCK' (which, incidentally, sounds more like 'awww uck' when one is both bleeding internally and half afuckinwake) when I accidentally puncture my cheek in the process.  Before my husband was forced to smother me in my sleep, I had to take steps.

Bought a new dental guard.

Now, I've had mouth guards before.  From the custom made one from the dentist (yay! it's both expensive AND uncomfortable!) to the ones they sell at Sports Authority for people like Mike Tyson.  Well, if Mike Tyson even used mouth guards... we all know he likes to keep his teeth free.  Never misses an opportunity for a mid-bout snack.  Gotta keep those energy levels up, eh Mike?  Real men don't eat granola when there's a goddamned EAR handy.  Right?  RIGHT?

Where was I?

Oh, the mouth guards.  Dental guards.  Whatever.  The thing is, this has become a huge industry, so there are now way better options available for your average TMJD sufferer.  Well, when I say 'way better', what I really mean is... uh... well... 'way more expensive' and 'way more complicated'.  And droolier.  Another Nolaism!  Droolier: more prone, apt or able to cause salivating/salivate in alarming amounts.

Works for me.

So now I have the Doctor's Night Guard.  First off, let me say that this is the single worst fitting mouth guard I've used.  I'd be better off taping a strip of leather between my teeth.  It's not that it's bad inside the mouth... it's that the very front part?  The bit that, by all reasoning, should be behind the lips/in front of the teeth/never seeing daylight?  Is thick enough to serve as a doorstop, hence causing my upper lip to rest in a position that causes auditory hallucinations... most notably 'Left turn, Clyde!'.  GET IT?  It makes me look like a goddamned APE, people!  A pissed off one, at that.  As a bonus?  With my lips unable to come together, I  now have NO ability to stop the rampant evacuation of drool.  Right out the side of my mouth.  All over my pillow.  And whatever cat is trying to steal my space.  FYI?  Cats don't like to be drooled on.  Just so you know.

This guard also doesn't have the grooves on bottom lined up right, so not only do I now look like an aggravated monkey, I also look like an aggravated monkey with a freaking UNDERBITE.  Tell me that's not an attractive visual.  Combine that with the massive drooling, and you've got a rabid primate in need of orthodontia.

In my spare time, I scare children and small, harmless animals.  'Cause I can.

Don’t Answer That

About a month ago, give or take, I let some guy at a local salon cut my hair.  I won't name names, but suffice it to say that I loathe my current haircut.  I'd have been better off with a goddamned Flowbee.  On FIRE.  But anyway.  So you know what happens when I get all miserable with my hair?  I start wanting to cut it off.  Wayyyy off.  I do this every few years.  Have short hair, miss girly hair, grow out hair, get frustrated to the point of gouging out eyes with a spoon due to said hair, mow hair off... repeat.  I like my short hair.  I just get tired of people's random thoughtless remarks.  You know, the same people who think that a woman without hair she can sit on is no woman at all.  Sure, most women with hair that long look like they worship at the altar of split ends, but what the hell. 

So, me being me, I ask my husband what he thinks I should do...

This is a huge mistake.  For one thing, he assumes this is a trick question.  You know, like the 'does this make my ass look fat?' thing that some women STILL insist on asking, even though they really don't want an honest answer.  Who the fuck does that?  I know it happens, but I can't grasp it.  I have two eyes.  They're fairly functional.  When I look in the mirror, I KNOW if my ass looks fat or not.  I may not want to know, but it's kind of hard to miss.  Women who ask if their ass looks fat just want to hear 'Heavens, no, sweetie!' even when the appropriate answer (if one is being honest) would be 'How can your ass look anything BUT fat?  Are those MAGIC pants?  Are there wee little plastic surgeons in those pants?  Did you use all my duct tape again?'

Second off, he likes to pretend he's neutral.  You know, the whole 'Whatever you want to do with your hair is fine' mantra.  Which is bullshit.  I've been with the man for four years now (damned near), and only within the last few months has he finally admitted he'd be happy if I grew my hair down to my ass.  This is not neutral.  This is that caveman gene reasserting itself, instilling in my man a preference for hair long enough to drag me around by.  Which, by the way?  Would SO not happen.  One good thump to the balls and a man will suddenly lose ALL interest in his grip on a woman's hair.  Scientific FACT, people.

Anyhoo.  Husband is NOT neutral.  This leaves me with two choices... get the haircut I want (or sometimes want... what, I should be able to make up my mind?), or one that won't force my husband to lie about how much he likes it. 

Anyone want to vote?

That's me and my friend, Lori.  Back when I had almost no hair at all.  And red, at that.  Talk about easy... five minutes and out the door.  Can't beat that with a stick.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yeah, me again.  Shut UP, Bill!  This one was taken just a couple of weeks ago.  Don't you just love those bags under my eyes?  I look like a 'before' picture.  Lovely.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just a different view of the short, red hair.  I have a few pictures of this same cut after I colored it black, but we won't talk about that.  *coughs*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is in the middle of the growing out process.  More or less.  *sighs*

 

 

 

 

 

Okay, I'm totally done inflicting pictures on all of you.  Someone just pick already, dammit.  There are probably a few more pictures of me (though most of them are the kids and the hubby and the pets and all) on my flickr account.  You can click the little picture thingy on the side of the page to go see.

How bored do I have to be to be asking for hair advice from readers?

OY...

Mid Length

Me, with a bob... of all damned things.

Me and Lori

Me and one of my best friends, Lori.

Current Haircut

Me, recently.

Me With Short Hair

Just me, with almost no hair at all.