Only Nola

And One More Thing…

I forgot to mention it on here last week, but the 26th? It was our anniversary. 'Our' being the hubby and me, not YOU guys and me. We've been married three years now. Again, Jonathan and I. I'm so not married to you people, although it does often feel that way.

Three years...

Mostly it feels like longer. Not in a bad way, mind you, just... well, we're very used to each other and do all those annoying things like finish each other's sentences and whatnot. When no one else laughs at his stupid jokes (hey, I'm not even entertaining the possibility that I make stupid jokes... what are you, mad?), he knows that I will. When no one else appreciates my type-A personality (don't even go there), he does. I won't embarrass him (even though it's KILLING me) by sharing some of the things that he does that I find both endearing AND hysterically funny, but suffice it to say that he tickles me. Frequently. Not intentionally, but that's half the fun. And where else could I have found a man that doesn't merely tolerate my furry friends, but actually prefers their company to that of most people? And by furry friends, I mean cats... I don't know what YOU were thinking. CATS.

He also earns major bonus points (for those moments when I'm tempted to throttle him) by being one of the four men in recorded history to actually TEND a sick spouse. As opposed to running in the opposite direction or grunting at me from the couch while he guzzles beer and scratches his male bits, he, amazingly enough, takes CARE of me... gets me things to make me feel better, makes sure I'm comfy, pets my head, and staples Connor to the bedroom wall so that he won't pester me into an aneurysm. He also loves my cooking, which is saying something. Not that I'm not a good cook, but I'm a southern cook, which means most of what I cook is either fried in copious amounts of oil or covered in butter or dipped in sugar... or all of the above.

Ah, I love the sound of arteries slamming shut in the morning...

Anyway. I just wanted to say that yes, indeed, I did drop the ball on remembering to post about this last Wednesday, but better late than never. He knows I love him. I may want to knock him down and go after him with a weed whacker on occasion, but I love him. He's mah baybeeeeeeeeee. It was also our first anniversary where we were apart, since he was out of town last week for work. That part was tough.

We made up for it this weekend.

(...)

And that's all I have to say about that.

But At Least the Laundry Is Done

I had every intention of getting to bed last night. Period. Was NOT on my agenda to punish my body (for things best not talked about in public) by staying up all night. Literally all night. But guess what I did?

Duh.

I was catching up on laundry duty last night (which, btw? Would not be a task of epic proportions if I could become a hair less anal retentive for FIVE. FUCKING. MINUTES. (...) I know there's such a thing as 'sorting' laundry into groups like 'colors' and 'whites', but I, unlike most normal people, don't think this is nearly sorted enough... I have loads that are red, loads that are green, loads that are blue... you get the picture. Thus the birth of my laundry nightmare. I really need to be saved from myself. Not kidding here, people.) and, for some reason known only to whatever divine jackass orchestrates my body's internal clock and functionality, got the proverbial second wind. And its bastard cousins, gusts 3 through 12.

I did laundry at 2 a.m. while watching a retrospective on VH1 about the 50 worst songs of all time. (I had it recorded. 'Cause I'm all about the 80's. 99% of anything musical that came after 1989 could, collectively, spontaneously combust after being eaten, digested and shit into an abyss the depth of Lindsay Lohan's... um... anyway, it could disappear, and I'd be perfectly content.). And as a side note? Any number of those songs did NOT deserve to be on their list. 'Broken Wings' by Mister Mister? Oh, they did NOT go there! Obviously their musical taste is just not as advanced as mine. Plebeians.

I did laundry at 3 a.m. while watching the new episode of Bridezilla (which, just so you know? Is a show totally meant to make EVERY woman on the planet (other than the stupid twat on whatever episode is playing, of course...) feel most excellent about herself. You canNOT watch this show without saying, both out loud to your spouse/boyfriend/pet iguana/invisible friend and to yourself, that at least YOU are not as bugfuck crazy as that chick that just decapitated her matron of honor. And for that? We're all grateful. Really.). Love me some validation courtesy of Bridezilla. It's almost as good as an episode of Supernanny. Don't even get me started on Supernanny. How that woman makes it through a single afternoon without beating the shit out of some children, and a massive bitch slap for their parental units, I'll never understand.

I did laundry at 5 a.m. while watching something else with 80's videos. The glory of Hall and Oates, Roxette, and New Order is not to be dismissed. WHAT?!?

I did laundry at 6 a.m. while drinking entirely too much tea (since going to bed at that point would actually be a BAD thing, seeing as how it would render me unconscious for way longer than is conducive to Connor actually EATING before DINNER) and cursing my computer Hearts program for the lying, cheating bitch that it is. Fucker does NOT play fair and you can't TELL me it doesn't look at what's in my hand when I run to the bathroom. Pass me the ace of spades alone then lead them out first chance it gets... BITCH!

I had one more load to go at 7:30 (each load takes about two hours, give or take, since I dry everything I own on low. Yes, I said low. It helps avoid potential laundry mishaps, shrinkage (heh heh... I said shrinkage), blah blah blah. Sure, it also takes what should be a fairly quick process and turns it into one that feels like one of Dante's rings of HELL, but... meh.), right after I fed Connor his waffles, and gave up. I fell into bed and got a positively slothful three hour shot of sleep. Wheeeee. (...) And I'm making a big dinner tonight, too. 'Cause really? I haven't suffered nearly enough yet. Just ask the cats. I'm fairly certain they snuck in while I was passed out and put litter under my eyelids.

That's what it feels like from where I'M sitting.

Where the hell's my tea?

*falls over*

No Pills for You!

So the narcotics fairy came along and kicked my ass yesterday.  See, when lovely Mr. Dentist wrote me that prescription Tuesday?  And asked me if I was allergic to anything?  And I said 'Just Penicillin'?

(...)

Whoopsie...

Yeah, okay, so I completely forgot that I once had a horrible reaction to Vicodin.  It was ONCE, for crying out loud, and that was SEVEN years ago.  Do you know how much I've slept since then?  Plus there's the fact that now 8 billion drugs all have different names but the SAME goddamned ingredients, so while, in the back of my mind, I knew I couldn't take Vicodin, I assumed I was safe with this Lorcet Plus crap.  Because?  NOT VICODIN!  Small problem?

Is Vicodin.  Vicodin wearing a different hat.  Sneaky Vicodin.  Vicodin out. to. GET. me.

So there I am two nights ago, kicked back in bed and surrounded by cats.  All should have been right with the world.  Factor in the crawling scalp, random and vicious attacks of body itchies, and heart rate about equal to the gross national product... OF CHINA... and the whole picture changes.  Suddenly what should have been relaxing turns into an exercise in frustration (both for me AND the cats... they get so pissed off when your flailing leg sends them flying into the wall.  They're funny like that.) and discomfort (do you KNOW where allergic reactions can make you itch?  Do you really want to know?  Consider your answer carefully.  Visualize.  Run away.

I was up all night.  I called the dentist the next morning (this would be yesterday, for those of you attempting to keep track of the details) and explained the problem, only to encounter another one.  Apparently the crap that I'm allergic to in Vicodin?  Is in damned near EVERYTHING good that they like to prescribe for people these days.  So my options are a)live with the pain and hope it goes away on its own once it gets bored with my sorry ass, or b)... Well, there is no b, really, I was just on a roll and got carried away with myself. 

I figured, hey, how bad can this be?

Fucking narcotics fairy showed ME a thing or two.  I'm out yesterday running some errands (read: finding new and inventive ways to spend money that would be better left minding its own business sitting in our BANK) with Connor.  Connor who would rather be buried in a pile of starving dung beetles than go shopping (unless it's in Best Buy... freakin' LOVES Best Buy.  Such a guy.).  We go to Lowe's and I'm getting estimates on replacing the countertops in the new house.  Now THERE is a way to quickly get rid of some cash.  I wander off to shop for cabinet hardware and some other stuff when, from out of nowhere?

Migraine.

Migraine from fucking HELL.  I'm not kidding, it hit me in literally about a minute and a half.  One minute I'm standing there drooling over door pulls, the next I'm bent over clutching my head and trying to avoid vomiting on Lowe's nice, shiny floor.  I crawled out of Lowe's with Connor yammering at me from behind about 'NOW can we go eat?'  That was definitely not helping me any.  The thought of food was right up there with cockroaches on my short list of things I did NOT want to see at any point in the near future.  I was barely able to drive home.  Seriously.  I thought I was going to pass out, the pain was so intense.  It was a short drive home, but I kept eyeballing the scenery on my way home, watching for possible areas to pull over in case I couldn't keep from puking at any given moment.

I tell you, it was FESTIVE.

Oh, and my son?  He's sweet, but doesn't necessarily think things through yet.  I had finally dozed off, sleeping off some of the pain (thank GOD) and, maybe 20 minutes into a much needed nap, he comes up and, full of concern and love for his mother, jabs me in the shoulder and (loudly) asks (right in my freaking EAR) if I'm feeling better yet.

Well, I was, thanks for asking...

He hasn't yet learned the thing about 'let sick people sleep, out of respect for your own LIFE'.  I think I cleared that up for him, though.  Hey, points for me, I explained it calmly, as opposed to letting him learn the hard way by setting him on FIRE (which was my first thought when roused out of a restful doze by a howling midget... WHAT?!?).  So, kudos to me for remaining calm.

And the migraine?  All I can figure is it was the aftershock of the allergic reaction to the meds. I have, on occasion, had migraines, cluster headaches, blah blah blah. But never, in my entire long and drama-packed life, have I had one hit me that hard, that fast, and with that duration. I was sprawled out on the couch whimpering and cringing for a few hours, give or take. I was fully prepared to perform some DIY brain surgery if had continued much longer.

With a SPORK.

I Should Be Packing

We got the date changed for the closing on our house.  August 7th.  That's less than two weeks from now, for those of you that are calendar challenged.  Much as I love the thought of getting into the house even sooner than expected and all, this also means that right now?  Right this minute?  Right this minute that I'm sitting here on my ass in a complete state of denial?

I should so be packing.

Words cannot express the amount of loathing I have inside me for the act of packing boxes.  I, unlike most people I know, don't mind unpacking in the slightest.  Rather enjoy it, actually.  All that settling in and making the new house a home, blah blah blah.  But packing?  Just call it what it is... Chinese water torture.  In the first place, packing means prying myself out from in front of the computer. (...) 'Nuff said. In the second (and more important) place, I'm too type-A for packing.  A person less tightly wrapped than I am (and I hear that there are a few, believe it or not) can just go through the house tossing random shit in random boxes and knock it all out in a day or two.  Me?  Phhhtttt.  I have to sit and ponder over each and every box, making sure the space is utilized correctly and the contents of said box are all, in some way, related to one another.  One doesn't (by 'one' I mean me, not normal people) throw things from under the bathroom sink in the same box with things from the laundry room and the kitchen.  Perish the thought.  This turns what could be a simple process into a nightmare of planning and executing rivaled only by Wal-Mart's ongoing strategy of world domination.  (Totally not kidding on the Wal-Mart thing... sure, laugh NOW, but you just wait and see.  I'll be in the Target foxhole, fending off Sam's Choice grenades)

One of these days I'm going to have enough money to just pay one of those moving companies to come in, pack my shit, and transport it all FOR me.  Sure, it's about the same cost as a fucking organ transplant.  What's your point?

Since we're buying a new house, this can only mean one thing... painting detail.  Yours truly will be tackling the monumental task of painting the ENTIRE interior of the new house in four days.  Not sure if I'll manage to make time for the whole faux thing that I like so much, since me painting a 3 bedroom house (while a) Jonathan is out of town and b) Connor is running around bouncing off the walls begging for me to hit him with a brick) on my own in four days is going to be a tall enough order to drive a nun to drink, but we'll see how it goes.  My cousin (a sane one, not the psychotic one) is going to come down and help me for one of those days, so that will be a good thing.  Lucky for me she's sane.  If it was the psychotic cousin, well... I hear Home Depot rents out wood chippers.

I'm just sayin'...

Now I have to pick out colors for the walls.  I'm sure I'll probably stick with greens and blues, but, contrary to what most men think, there are more than two shades of each to choose from.  It's enough to make one (and again, by 'one' I mean me, not normal people) hyperventilate.  I have no less than 20 paint chips in various shades of green and another dozen or so in blue.  Sure, to your average wielder of the penis, most of these would probably look EXACTLY alike, but they're NOT, and the decisions have to be made soon.  Then there's all the equipment/paraphernalia to buy to actually do the painting.  This is not a cheap undertaking.  I called and got a quote on getting it done professionally, poor naive fool that I am.  After I regained consciousness, I thanked the nice man on the phone and decided that painting it myself sounded festive.  Three thousand dollars worth of festive.  No wonder you never see any grumpy house painters.  Snickering, maybe, but not grumpy.

Oh, I had my dentist visit yesterday, by the way.  Turns out that the possibility exists that the teeth my dentist worked on a few weeks ago?  Might need root canals.  He thinks they'll be fine, buuuuuuuuuuuut... we'll just have to wait and see.  Meanwhile, he wrote me a prescription for some pain meds (just a super high dose of Ibuprofen, which is, apparently, not only a pain reliever but also an anti-inflammatory) and another for something to help me sleep (since the pain had been kind of hindering the whole 'rest' concept).  Just so you know?  Lorcet Plus is my new best friend.  Fuck nitrous oxide.  I'm wondering if I can just get it on eternal refill.  Sure, it's a narcotic... and?  What's your point? 

I get to take the meds for about 12 days and then reassess how the agony in my mouth is coming along.  Aren't I lucky?  I can't tell you how much I do NOT want to have to get root canals.  Other than the whole pain issue ('cause going to the dentist is right up there with giving BIRTH), there's the cost.  Apparently my regular dentist doesn't do root canals on the molars.  I'd have to go to a *insert drumroll here* specialist for that.  Know how much the specialist wants for each molar root canal?  About $1000.  Yes, that was THREE zeroes.  For those of us without dental insurance, this is the equivalent of an arm and a leg, especially those of us also facing the looming costs of closing on a house.

It doesn't even bear thinking about.

I was also going to go off about my visit to Victoria's Secret, but I've run out of steam.  This post isn't going to win any awards, but hey... even God took a day off.

Not that I'm... *coughs*  Um...

Open Letter to an Employer, V3

To the person who conducts the interviews (yes, YOU),

I'm writing to offer my condolences on the loss of all your fingers.  I am sure it had to be a very painful and messy accident (quite likely involving power tools or a game of chicken with an oncoming train) and would like to express my sympathy.  No one has notified me of the exact circumstances that led to your new nickname (and Stubby isn't so bad, really... just take it in stride and try to see the humor), but I managed to fill in the blanks myself (I'm so good at that) when you neither called nor returned my (repeated) emails after our meeting.  The absence of working digits on the end of your arm neatly wraps it all up and explains everything.

The only other option is that you were raised by wolves.

See, wolves aren't so big on the whole 'common courtesy' thing.  They sniff each others BUTTS, for crying out loud.  Personal space and little things like polite acknowledgement of another wolf's time and effort are pretty much rendered irrelevant in a society where you can feel, at any given moment, a cold nose pressed between your legs.  So if for any reason your fingers have not been severed from your body, hence making it impossible for you to dial my phone number or stuff an envelope with even something so simple as a form letter to let me know that I do or do NOT have a chance at employment with your company, I am left to assume that you, sir/madam, are not unfamiliar with the feel of hot, canine breath up your ass.

Regular people, such as myself, expend a great deal of effort and/or money on our search for a good job.  And we won't even talk about the toll it takes on our nerves (just be glad I avoid eating for several hours before all interviews...) and other various bodily functions (again, be glad I avoid eating... you don't even want to know).  We come in to see you, at YOUR convenience, and put our best foot forward in an effort to impress you with our intelligence, charm, and ability to suck up like a Hoover.  In exchange, all we ask is one simple thing...

Well, other than getting the job, of course...

Let. us. KNOW.  It's not like this is rocket science.  Pick up phone.  Dial number (the one that is oh-so-handy right THERE on my freaking RESUME).  Wait for ringing to cease.  Speak (this part does require you to speak English.  I'm firm on that.) into appropriate end of phone (this may be harder than it sounds if you are penis afflicted.  I know, I've seen).  Or, should the thought of actually speaking to an applicant send you into the fetal position under your desk, there's this handy thing called email.  No muss, no fuss.  Just say 'Yes, we like you' or 'Sorry, dork, better luck next time'.  See how easy that is?  It hurts substantially less than, oh, say... a lobotomy with a spork.  Weigh your options.  Visualize.

My best wishes on a speedy recovery.  If your fingers appear to be in working order, thus making these wishes moot, well...

Things can change.

(...)

Sincerely,
Nola

It Apparently Only Likes People With Testicles

So Jonathan got in last night from being on the road with the paving crew.  Hot and exhausted, we agreed not to bother pulling out the defective tv (to put in our shitty backup tv) until this morning.  The damned thing weighs a ton (the one that didn't work for 3 days, not the old one) and neither of us felt like messing with it.  This morning he wakes me up at 6 (that's A.M., FYI... as in 'too fucking early for anything that doesn't live in a barnyard and lay EGGS') just to let me know that, of all damned things, the tv is now working.  While I'm thrilled that it's now functional, I'm more than a little irked that the goddamned thing sat on its ass for 3 days just to show its solidarity with the wielder of the penis.

I apparently didn't get a female television when I went to Best Buy.

I also, according to the customer service rep I cornered on the phone last night, have worked out the problem I was having with my credit card company.  Whether or not I believe him when he tells me it's all good is another matter entirely, hence me planning on watching the account like a hawk for the next two or three months for any wayward fees and/or unacceptable interest hikes, but he SAYS I won't have any issues.  But remember, this is a customer service rep with a penis... need I say more?

We went out for lunch today, and I have but one question... why the fuck are so many restaurants now bound and determined to turn their patrons into extremely large popsicles?  It's pretty sad when I have to pack a JACKET, in the middle of summer, to go out to eat.  If I don't, though, I sit there in the booth resembling nothing so much as one giant goosebump.  It does cut down on the exertion of chewing, however, since the chattering teeth thing pretty much take care of that all by themselves.  My husband the Eskimo has, of course, no problem with this.  He could sit over there plucking icicles out of his nose hairs and be perfectly content.  Meanwhile, I face him across the table, waiting for my nipples to saw holes through my shirt (upping the embarrassment factor right off the charts while simultaneously removing any possibility of me thawing out by increasing the ventilation in my shirt), seriously considering wiping that happy look off his face with a flying bowl of petrified Thousand Island. 

WHAT?!?!

Oh, and just so everyone knows... the little doorbell ringers came back last night at about 11:30.  Unlike last time, I didn't go out in the dark and risk getting my little ass shot off.  I was going to go speak to their parents today, but I couldn't find the energy.  Maybe tomorrow.  Then again, we're moving in a few weeks so maybe I'll just try and ignore them for the duration.  Or set up some electrified tripwires on my front porch.  

(...)

Yeah, I think I like that option. 

Let’s Just Pretend Today Didn’t Happen

Before we begin, be aware that I have a supply of sporks handy and am not afraid to use them.  First person who suggests that I did this all to myself?  Better be fully insured.  And really, really stupid.  There is simply no way to blame me for what happened.  Unless, of course, I am no in control of severe thunderstorms (which bring with them the oh-so-helpful LIGHTNING!  Yay, lightning!  Perfect partner for all your home electronics!), which would make me something of a God.  (...)

Okay, maybe I am responsible...

First, I get up this morning to find my son staring morosely at the television while madly punching buttons (to no visible effect, much to his annoyance) on the remote.  He informs me that there is, indeed, a problem.  Ya think?  I crawl behind the armoire and check the plugs.  Yep, all sitting there being, well... pluglike.  I slide my behemoth tv out of a bit so that I can reach the back and check the connections.  Yep, all connected.  Not that I know what half those wires do, but they're in there.  The cable box is working, the playstation 2 is fine, dvd player... check.  Sooooooooo... it's just the television.  Suddenly I remember something.  Right before I went to bed I was watching my recorded 'So You Think You Can Dance' (bite me) and one of those screaming weather alert things flashed on the screen.  WHAAA!  WHAAA!  WHAAA!  Jesus, who came up with that shit?  It's enough to drive someone to drink.  And by the time it gets done screaming at you, you're not paying attention to the actual alert ANYWAY, so what's the fucking point?  You're too busy packing anything you can get your hands on into your ears to help dull the pain.  Gauze... the dirty sock laying in front of the couch... a half eaten piece of cake... the cat...

Whatever works.

Where was I?

Oh, the alert.  Seems there was a severe thunderstorm warning in the middle of the night.  You know what comes with those?  Other than rain? 

Lightning.

Yeah, apparently my tv fell victim to a power surge.  This would be my nine month old, 27 inch, flat screen tv.  This would also, luckily, the one of the few times that I caved in and paid for that fucking extended service plan/warranty thing from Best Buy.  So the tv will get fixed, which is the good news.  The bad news? 

Will take about two weeks.

TWO WEEKS?  All I can say is that it's a good thing we have an extra set in the bedroom.  I think we'd turn into the social equivalent of the Donner party if we had no tv for two weeks.  God help us all if I miss Project Runway.

Oh, the lady at the tv service place told me something interesting.  She said the tv had probably fallen victim to the lightning last night.  I told her that the other things on that same outlet were fine.  She said 'Well, lightning will follow the path of least resistance.'  I sat there a second and then said 'So what you're telling me is that my television is, effectively, a giant wienie that put up no fight whatsoever.  It just decided to bend over and let the lightning have its way rather than letting it take out, oh, say... that stupid PLAYSTATION.' 

All I heard for a few minutes after that was coughing and choking.  Hey, I just call it like I see it.  Hence me looking over at my tv every so often now and screaming 'PUSSY!'

After that we had a little run in with the credit card company.  I made a payment last weekend.  Payment posted.  Blah blah blah.  Ordinary shit.  Then today I got an email saying that my payment had been rejected.  Why?  Because my checking account?  The one I use every day?  Doesn't exist.  Nope.  Total figment of my imagination.  I try and follow the instructions in their message to check my account info on the site.  Guess what?  The link they told me to click once I was logged in that would let me edit/view my checking account info?  Doesn't EXIST.  It's not. fucking. THERE.  This does, of course, create a bit of a hindrance in the whole fixing-the-problem scenario.  Not to mention the fact that that little thing they do where they only show you the last four digits of the account you were trying to use?  Does me no good whatsoever.  The four digits they show me are RIGHT.  Those ARE the last four of my checking account.  What the hell am I supposed to do with THAT information?  Tattoo it on their freaking FOREHEADS?

I call customer service.  Get a payment in place over the phone.  Then I find out two things that lit me up like a Christmas tree.  First, there's the matter of the 'payment due' email I'd received last week.  The one that I had responded to by, strangely enough, making a payment.  Turns out?  I didn't OWE a payment at that time.  I don't owe one till the end of AUGUST.  So that email they sent me saying I had a payment due was, apparently, just an exercise in torment and misinformation.  It also means that someone in charge of their email programming should be SHOT, but that's another issue.  Secondly, I was informed that I will be charged with a 'returned payment' fee.  Does anyone else see the strangeness of this?  I am going to be charged for a returned payment when, in fact, there WAS no returned payment.  And no payment DUE, might I add.  The payment was simply never processed at ALL.  That's completely different than returned, as in 'you had no fucking money in the bank'.  Although we don't want to get me started on the whole bounced check fee thing, either.  But anyway... I heard 'returned payment fee' and everything after that just gets fuzzy and vague.  I might have started spouting strange things in Latin while bending my arms and legs in new and exciting directions and looking DOWN MY OWN BACK.  I really can't be sure.

Needless to say, I will be back on the line with customer service as soon as this alleged 'returned payment fee' pops up on my account.  If they don't get that goddamned thing off my account, someone (and it's not likely to be me) is going to be sorry.  And probably sporting the business end of a spork in their eye.

Then there was GMAC.  I just don't have it in me to go through all the details there, just suffice it to say that there were two transactions going through at roughly the same time, and instead of them taking care of one and then setting up the other one to work around it?  They put one in place and then ignored it when they set up the other one, which mean it overwrote the second one, canceling it out completely.  How's that for handy?  Now, in general I like GMAC.  This is the first time I've ever had a serious issue with them.  But even so?  I was not a happy girl.  Polar fucking opposite of happy.  Like Jerry Springer guests' distance from CLASS opposite of happy.  But really, what can I do?  I've now spoken to no less than SIX representatives, and pretty much all of them just sit there wringing their hands feeling, gee, just all KINDS of sorry for me, but... nothing they can do.  Or so they say.  Phhhttt.

Oh, and guess what I get to do next Tuesday?  Go back to the dentist.  Those fillings I got two weeks ago?  Pretty sure the entire side of my FACE should have quit hurting, oh... ANY time before NOW?  I'm popping 800 mg of Ibuprofen left, right and sideways and am left curled up in the fetal position if I make the mistake of drinking anything either cold or hot.  Nothing like a little lancing pain straight through the root of your teeth and into your BRAIN to make life complete.  So I get to go back and ask Mr. Dentist what in FUCK he did wrong the LAST time I was there.  Not that I expect a straight answer, but I can always kneecap him for some small amount of satisfaction if he pisses me off.  Sure, I might get arrested.  What's your point?

I also tore my house apart looking for my cat's comb so that I can comb his hair before he turns into a walking, yowling dreadlock.  I couldn't find it anywhere.  He has, by all appearances, eaten the goddamned thing.  

I want that nitrous oxide.  Now would be good.

Congrats Too Soon…

Well.  Wellwellwellwellwell.  Phhhttt.  So we all thought I had a job, didn't we?  I know I certainly did.  But it just wouldn't be MY life if it weren't riddled with glitches and headaches and glaring opportunities to climb into the nearest clock tower.

Do you really want to hear this?

When we offered on the house we're buying, the listing stated that the house was in X school zone.  Fine.  Good school, convenient to lots of child care (remember that part, it'll become relevant in the very near future), right on my way to work, blah blah blah.  Well, Friday night, after I've been hired by an actual employer and all, I got a call from my realtor.  Turns out the listing on the house?  Has now been corrected.  Corrected how, you ask?  The school.  The one that was convenient.  Now?

Not so much.

Turns out Connor will actually be going to Y school, not X.  Y school is the one out in bumfucknowhere.  Y school is the one that, yes, has outstanding scholastic scores and a phenomenal record for the number of excelling students, but also has one, count it, ONE, daycare facility in its area.  ONE.  And that one?  Has no room for Connor at this time.  Sure, they can take him when school starts, but not now.

(...)

School starts in FIVE WEEKS, people.  I was supposed to start work NEXT week, for the love of GOD.  Are you seeing the problem here?  I'm seeing it entirely too well.  I think I want to gouge out my eyes with a couple of sporks just so that I DON'T see it.  Okay, so that probably wouldn't work, since the sporks would have to go into my BRAIN to cut off the knowledge of how, once again, life has sat on the back of my freaking NECK and is choking the living snot out of me, but you get the point.

I called the supervisor at the new job right away and told her what the problem was.  I was hoping that they'd let me put off my starting date, but I'm well aware that it's a lot to ask from the company.  It's effectively a four week extension from when I was supposed to start and they may need a butt in the seat long before that point.  She was noncommittal and told me she'd call me back.

Guess whose phone is sitting here NOT ringing off the hook?  *stares blankly at apparently dead phone*

It's possible she'll get back to me today or tomorrow and let me know that they will, in fact, let me start later than initially planned.  Possible.  I'm not holding my breath.  I'm pretty sure that if it was going to be an option, I'd have already had a conversation with her about it or she'd have just answered me on the spot when I first told her the situation.  Instead I'm sitting here popping Ibuprofen and Maalox and contemplating the joys of life a la Grizzly Adams.

First person who makes me feel old by informing me they don't know who the fuck Grizzly Adams is gets an up close and personal introduction to one slightly used spork.

AARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Retail Therapy

Normally, I'm not that girl that has an internal GPS hooked directly into the location of the nearest mall.  I don't shop much, seldom enjoy it, and would, given the opportunity, probably never set foot in a dressing room again.  Ever.  Dressing rooms... yeah, like we don't all know there's some 4th grade drop-out fuckwit sitting in a small room, doing things that are probably still illegal in a good 45 states, on the other side of that mirror while we squeeze our asses in and out of those jeans.  And what the hell is up with the lighting in those places, by the way?  Can it BE any less flattering?  I always end up looking like a cross between Courtney Love and the Bride of Frankenstein.  It's the lighting.  I swear.

But I digress...

I do, however, have one shopping weakness (other than purses... God, I do love purses.  And shoes.  Okay, I love shoes, too.  But purses?  Purses?  There should be odes written to the fairness of the purse, with maybe a verse or two thrown in praising the name of Kenneth Cole and Gianni Bini.) that knows no bounds...

House stuff.

You may think this is a rather broad term, but there's a reason for that.  I can go shopping and get lost for the ENTIRE day in a store, whether it be Lowe's or Ethan Allen.  It could be furniture or it could be decorative window blinds.  Makes no difference.  Give me some free time and some blank checks (accompanying balance in the bank optional) and turn me loose in the freaking doorknob section... it's all good.  I can totally shop for doorknobs!  Round!  Turns in both directions!  What's not to love?

So today I managed to drag my husband (who, by and large, surpassed all expectations and actually managed to get through the two hours without having to be either sedated or handcuffed) out shopping for furniture.  Specifically, a new bed for Connor.  He's really gotten past needing the bunk beds and needs his first 'hey, I'm a semi-grown up person with a penis and need out of these white bunk beds before my testicles totally fall off from the horror of it all' bed.  Don't ask me.  It's a dick thing.

Well, we started at Penney's and Sears (since we're not Rockefellers and hoped, misguided fools that we are, that they might have something affordable on hand) and learned one thing quickly: the stores, while technically selling the aforementioned bed type products, do not actually carry the bed type products on the premises.  Or at least not to any degree.  We're talking two twin beds at Penney's, for example.  TWO.  The rest that they offer (and I'd seen them online before I went to the store... nice beds, great prices, unfuckinggodly shipping prices.  I almost had a heart attack.) are only available through online ordering.  Helloooooooooooooo, home delivery charges!  Almost $200 for the delivery.  That was more than the bed cost, for the love of GOD.  I figure that, heaven forfend, if I'm going to spend about $400 on a bed, I actually want that to be FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS OF BED.  Not $200 of delivery, $200 of crappy, made-by-starving-children-in-Bangladesh-for-half-a-cup-of-kibble-an-hour bed.  So that left Penney's and Sears sucking hind tit.  As it were.

Off we went to Hank's Fine Furniture.  If the name of this places evokes images of a man with 3 good teeth in his head selling furniture out of the back of a broken down, 1973 school bus, well... that would be an inaccurate vision.  Understandable, but inaccurate.  Hank's, believe it or not, has nice stuff.  Sure, it's probably not primarily heirloom material, but some of it could be, and all of it is better quality than you'd expect to find for the reasonable prices they charge.  For example, I ended up getting this great Captain's Twin Bed for Connor.  Solid wood, bookcase headboard, six drawer option under the bed (like where the trundle would sit, had we bought one instead of the drawers)... good stuff.  Cost?  $420 or so, after tax.  THAT is not a bad deal at all.  Now if only it had ended there...

On our way back to the bedding department, I got, well... distracted.  It totally wasn't my fault.  Seriously.  How could I have known they'd have a dark cherry gathering table (one of the high style tables that are so popular now, see?  God, I love those.), with an extension leaf and six, count them, SIX slat-backed chairs with padded seats?  And on SALE, for fuck's sake.  See?  TOTALLY not my fault!  Bastards.  I assured my husband I was not going to walk back to the counter and write a $700 check (Sale... is there any sweeter word?  I think not.) to bring home that lovely table and chairs.

(...)

Thank God for lay-a-way.

Don’t Hang Up… It’s NOLA!

So, guess who got a job today?  *thumps chest and knocks self right out of the chair, coming perilously close to embracing my inner concussion*

Yeah, that would be me.  HA TO YOU, EMPLOYER GUY FROM LAST WEEK!  See, I'm totally worthy!  Worthy, shmurthy...

I ROCK!

I'm going to work for... well, in the interest of self-preservation, I won't name names.  Yes, indeed, I did learn something over the last week.  (Ya only have to run over this girl with a bus once.  Once, dammit...)  We'll just say I'm working for a company that is humongous in the phone service industry (woohoo, benefits!  woofuckin'hoo, profit sharing!), doing phone sales and such, kind of, but more being an actual account representative.  Hellooooooooo, complaint resolution... oh, lord.  The money's very decent, the hours ROCK, and it's a convenient drive from home.  Ten minutes, give or take.  Gotta love that part.

This is one field I haven't dabbled in before, but I figure I can do it.  It involves my two biggest talents... talking and relieving people of their money.  What's not to love? 

I start the 24th.  Everyone wish me well, collectively.  That much positive energy flowing my way and I'm bound to manage NOT getting fired right off the freaking bat.  Will take at least a month for that.  Assuming they don't find my BLOOOOOOOOOOG...

We also found out we got approved for the excellent home loan program we wanted (see me dancing spastically in my IKEA computer chair, scaring the everlivin' shit out of my cats) so we're a total GO on the new house.  How great is that?  Now I just have to remember to send my landlord my 30 day notice (more or less) and start getting shit packed up.  Since I'll have a job and all, the move to the new place becomes a bit more... inconvenient.  We'll just hit up the dentist for some happy gas to go and everyone will livebe happy.

Oh, one more bonus to the new job?  JEANS!  I get to wear JEANS!  All. the. TIME!  How awesome is that?  I was dreading the huge cash output for updating my 'business' wardrobe.  An arm, a leg, possibly an internal organ.  But instead?  JEANS!  T-SHIRTS!  COMFORTABLE SHOES!  (not comfortable shoes like that, you perverts.  REAL comfortable shoes.  That wasn't a sexually laden metaphor)  I will have to remember to take a jacket, though.  That place was colder than Tori Spelling's welcome at the reading of her father's will.

That's my big news for the day, I guess.  Not bad, eh?  And did I mention I didn't even APPLY for that job?  I was hunted down for this job after the supervisor/manager saw my resume on a job site I posted at JUST last night.  She called me first thing this morning (woke me from a semi-sound sleep, FYI... the simple fact that she wanted to even meet me after that initial conversation (the one in which I was barely able to speak English, from under the covers with all three cats lying on me and cutting off much needed circulation to my brain... plus no caffeine yet, people, for the love of GOD!) is a miracle in and of itself.  I have SO gotten out of the habit of being a functional human being before, oh, let's call it mid-morning.  That sounds much better than 'suspiciously close to lunch time'.)  and told me where to come to fill out the application and interview, etc.  It was a good way to start the day, heart attack notwithstanding.  Clean (and not wrinkled beyond all recognition) interview clothes on little to no notice?  This is a Dante thing, right?

But all's well that ends well. 

They like me... they REALLY like me!