Only Nola

Roller Coaster, Thy Name is Nola

You know the best way to end a work week? Over-reacting to a coworker's bitchiness and cornering the CFO in her office for five minutes of nuclear meltdown regarding said bitchiness. 'Cause, really? Nothing says 'stable and dependable employee' like bouncing off the office walls in a foaming fit. Bonus points for excessive volume and hand flapping.

*bangs head on desk*

I swear to God, if my hormones don't stop making free and loose with the delay switch between my brain and my MOUTH, I'm going to convert to Catholicism and joint the convent of Our Lady of Perpetual Humiliation and Dipshittery. I just can't be around normal people. I eat them. (And not in a good way. Perverts.)

I had a friend ask me recently if I'm manic depressive/bipolar. (...) Um, no? Maybe? A little around the edges? As far as I know, I'm not, but then again, I'm often the last one to get the memo. I know my old doctor (back in the days when I had actual HEALTH INSURANCE... ah, those were the days) believed that I had PMDD, but I lost my insurance (well, I didn't lose it per se... it left at the same time I "lost" my ex-husband, which was not so much "losing" as deliberately displacing. See the difference?) before he could do whatever his doctor mojo guided him to do to confirm the diagnosis, so I'm not technically in that whole 'pre-existing condition' loop. Thank God for small favors. Anyway. I know a psychiatrist and a psychologist both confirmed me for MDD (major depressive disorder) with 'accompanying bouts of mania', but... hey...

(...)

Depression with bouts of mania. What does that sound like? Anyone? Hellooooooooo? But surely if I was bi-polar or manic depressive, they would have just CALLED it manic depressive or bi-polar, wouldn't they? Unless it's some new way of dealing with people who are bi-polar/manic depressive... lie to them because if you tell them the truth they may find the nearest clock tower and commence with the merry-making.

Bah.

I don't know what I am. I know that I get scared when I can't control my emotions or my reactions to others. There's no way to describe the literal terror that comes over me when I can hear myself ranting about something, something that feels, right that second, like the biggest goddamned deal EVER, and know, in the back of my mind, that it's all just terribly wrong... spinning madly out of my grasp... snowballing into something that I'll regret to no end later... and not be able to STOP. Literally. Can. not. STOP. This has happened twice in the last five weeks. Both times I knew I needed to step away and calm down. I even knew, in some quiet and deeply buried sane part of my psyche, that I wasn't really feeling what it seemed like I was feeling. But the words just kept coming and the emotions just kept roiling around inside me and it felt like I was burning up from the inside out. It's a hateful, horrible feeling, and it's only made worse by the fact that both of these times? I was at work. I bust my ass to do a good job, and everyone is impressed with me (so my bosses have told me) and loving the way I carry out my duties so quickly and with such a good attitude, and to have this undermined by these... attacks, for lack of a better word... is just killing me. I don't know what my boss carried away from this little meeting we had, but at the time I went back to her office to tell her what was going on with me and this one co-worker, it was like a compulsion. I HAD to tell her, HAD to vent my proverbial spleen, HAD to make it known that I was NOT going to take that bitch's shit. I was so full of rage I could barely see, and that's not a writing tool... I seriously had blurred vision. It was festive.

The bad part? In retrospect, it really wasn't that big a deal. Sure, the coworker was a bitch to me, but I should have either just stood there and given it back to HER, or let it roll off of me. Going to the boss was unnecessary and, quite possibly, unwelcome. Lovely.

Before anyone starts giving me any shit whatsoever, let me reiterate something... when things like this happen, I don't do this joyfully, eagerly, or any kind of willingly. It literally feels like I'm watching something that I can't stop. I don't know what to do. I have a month until my insurance kicks in, and when it does I'll go see about getting some prescription help if that's what it takes, but until then? Anyone who has the nerve to say 'Oh, you women always blame your hormones' or 'Yeah, right, you're manic depressive... isn't EVERYONE these days?', let me just say that if you think this is a pleasant or in any way enviable way to spend your days, whether it's in an actual situation like yesterday or just living with the fear that a situation like yesterday will occur, well...

You're off your fucking rocker.

If I had the option, I would never live through another single MOMENT of what I was feeling/doing yesterday, so if you think this is something I choose, then there aren't words enough in the world for me to communicate to you the number of ways in which you are WRONG.

Stop the ride... I want to get off.

Yes, YOU, Too

Nothing new to report, really. Work is going pretty well now (can we all say 'FINALLY!'?), and I haven't killed any of immediate family members, so it's all good. I came close to killing a couple of people Saturday, but since I'm related to one of them (No, Mom, not YOU... I reserve the right to change that answer at a later date, though), I won't go into all the gory details. I'm not into the whole 'disinherited' thing, thank you very much. On a side note, though, I have become the one woman civilian traffic patrol. Twice in the last week I have been witness to/victim of/unintentional participant in some truly spectacular examples of bad driving by men in 18 wheelers. What's a girl (especially one that nearly got shoved into a concrete lane divider) to do?

Hellooooooooo, Bluetooth!

Knew that little bastard would come in handy for something. I immediately called my work (since I knew that someone would be manning the phone in my absence and I wasn't about to take my hands off the wheel to write down the pertinent information while in a game of 'My truck can TOTALLY take your car OUT!' with a semi...) and rattled off the truck's info to my coworker. This way, I could take care of reporting their happy asses (the first time it was two trucks playing tag... forget the fact that a)they were in a construction zone, and b)there were CARS on the road in the middle of their little penis flexing contest. The evil of the penis strikes again.) when I got to work in the morning. Which I did. *pats my trusty Bluetooth* And I didn't even have to take my hands off the wheel to do it! Best $80 I spent in months. Well, not counting my massage and facial in August...

Anyhoo.

Something struck me today and I thought, as usual, I'd address it here. Where better?

Public restrooms.

Now, unlike what you're probably expecting from me, this isn't about the condition of public restrooms. I mean, really... what can you say about that that isn't a given? I'm more focused on something entirely different.

Behavior in public restrooms.

As a woman, I'm familiar with not only my own habits in bathrooms but also those of other women. We like to share details that would horrify the manliest of men. ('Cause we're women, and that's what we do.) From all this gathered knowledge, I find one commonality that I have been unable to come to terms with...

Why in the FUCK are people embarrassed to have other people hear/smell/vaguely imagine them doing what they're SUPPOSED to be doing? You're in a bathroom. It has toilets. They're not decorative, people... they're toilets. Things which, by function and design, are there to catch whatever falls out when you SIT WITH YOUR PANTS DOWN. (Or skirt up, as the case may be. Let's not nit-pick.) No one's ever gone into a room with a toilet and thought 'Oh, what a perfect place to put my computer!' (Although, now that I say that... how handy would THAT be?) No, it is what it is. A toilet. And yet, people, as a group, will go out of their way to make sure that no one, in a public bathroom with roughly 20 stalls, hears them doing what the body dictates they do when in the presence of a toilet. They will wait outside until the room is empty. They will muffle the sound of suspicious plopping with toilet paper (don't ask if you don't know. Seriously.). They will jangle keys and play ring tones. Anything and everything to avoid having to step out of that stall, look some STRANGER in the eye and have to admit that, yes, you shit/pissed/threw up 12 martini's in a *gasp!* toilet.

I don't get it.

That's what the bathroom is FOR, for the love of God! And it's not like it's something original. Pretty good chance that the chick in the stall next to you? Has totally filled a toilet at some point in her life. You're not opening her eyes to any forbidden rites if you let her know that you do, indeed, do things that require the use of Charmin (which, by the way, you will NEVER find in a public bathroom. Public bathrooms eschew Charmin (and all its soft and coddling brethren) in favor of what is, effectively, single ply sandpaper. Wipe your nose with that crap (no pun intended... REALLY... I mean... oh, just EWWWWWWWWWWW) and you're going to need a plastic surgeon and a good dry cleaner.), as opposed to just availing yourself of the mirror and the ever-irritating air hand-dryer. Which would you rather, people know you shit in the toilet or people never thinking you shit on a toilet? 'Cause if they think you don't shit when in the bathroom, what are the other, much less attractive, options? Think about it.

Now, the degree to which people will go to disguise their actions is directly proportionate to the SMELL of said actions. Peeing? We've pretty much progressed to the 'meh' zone. No one cares. Taking a shit?

Puhleeeeeeeeeeeze.

What amazes me about this is that we ALL shit. Every single one of us. And news flash? It SMELLS. Everyone's does. So what gives with the embarrassment/fervent denial? People leave a stall praying that the next person to enter the bathroom doesn't see them leaving, so that they won't know that THEY are the one responsible for the stench fit to blind. WHY? Why do you CARE if people know your body put out an odor that could peel paint? Do you think you're the lone freak on the universe with an ass deformity that creates unpleasant fumage? You think your coworkers' farts smell like fresh freaking COOKIES? NO! They smell. like. SHIT! That's what they are.

I can't put it into words good enough to make me happy tonight, but I'm sure you get the gist of it. It's just one of life's little mysteries. By all means, don't let people know you actually went into the bathroom out of necessity... better by far to let them think you're just a creepy fucker that likes to hang out on toilets for the nice breeze you get up your ass when you flush.

Humans are, without a doubt, the strangest animals on the planet. Cats just look at us and laugh...

Sleep On It

Today I had to go shopping for a new mattress. In case none of you have had the pleasure of doing this in recent years, let me forewarn you... you'd better be prepared to sell an organ. A kidney or something might do the trick. Unless you want a Stearns and Foster or something, and then?

Hope you can live without your heart.

When I was little (well, young... I'm still little, unfortunately. I'd like to be about 5'10, like some people I could name, but am cursed with Tiny Tim-ness.), your mattress options were pretty much of one variety... what size you were buying. Now, of course, you have all different levels of firmness/softness/texture. Texture, for the love of GOD. Like you're not going to put a fucking SHEET on it, hence rendering the texture of said mattress moot? Anyway. You've got regular mattresses, pillowtop mattresses, pillow top with memory foam, straight memory foam, sleep number (give me a fucking BREAK. Don't get me started on the sleep number bullshit. Yeah, that's what I want... one more thing in my house that's dependent upon electricity and/or programming. They make a bed that will fix my breakfast and balance my checkbook, THEN I might change my mind, but until then? DON'T PLUG IN MY DAMNED BED. Not to mention the fact that the whole thing just gives me flashbacks to those commercials for the old people beds from the late 70's/early 80's... the ones like in hospitals, that bend like pretzels and go up and down and all? And THOSE make me think of the cartoon beds... the ones where someone pushes a wrong button and then the bed heaves upright and sends the poor schmuck flying into the wall, becoming a pancake in the process? I'M JUST SAYIN' !)...

The list is endless.

I was NOT looking forward to picking out a bed. Beds are one of those things where you get what you pay for, so I knew I wasn't going to be able to get out with the cheapest bed possible, but I also didn't want to be in hock for the rest of my natural life, so I foresaw a festive time at Slumberland. Fortunately for me, I got a decent salesperson (although I'd REALLY have liked to have gotten my hands on her hair... residue from my ten years in the salon industry. I see bad hair, it gives me an allergic reaction. Her hair could have been a lot worse, it was just... nevermind. Where was I?), so it actually went really fast. I told her what I wanted in very clear terms (I think the phrase was 'something I can sleep on without waking up and wanting to shoot myself'. Or words to that effect. A nice change from waking up in the morning and feeling like I just went about 4 rounds with George Foreman circa 20 years ago. And my husband? He's in flat out agony when he wakes up. Our bed has joined the ranks of things in the world that hate us. It's apparently running for election to be PRESIDENT of things in the world that hate us. I need an acronym for that... and TITWTHU just isn't catchy.) and she immediately took me over to...

THE BED.

She told me to lay on THE BED. Now, generally if a woman tells me to lay on ANY bed, I need to see her medical history (GOD... I'M KIDDING!), but in this case, I happily threw myself on the mattress.

Can I tell you that I'm leaving my husband so that I can marry this bed? I mean, really... is that so wrong?

I love this bed. I asked the price, and after I recovered my ability to speak English, moved down the line to try some of the cheaper options. Big mistake. After lying on THE BED, the other beds? Were the bedding equivalents of a hair shirt. I wasn't sure whether to thank the girl for showing me THE BED or kick her ASS for the same thing. I was ruined for the cheaper beds. Then again, my mother always said that, even when I was little, you can guarantee that if you take me into a store, rip all the price tags off ALL the merchandise, then turn me loose? I will invariably like/want/demand/open a vein for the most expensive items in the store. It's like a homing beacon. Somehow, my DNA just recognizes shit I can't afford and locks onto it like a heat seeking missile. It'll be the death of me yet. But, luckily, as I've gotten older, I've gotten wiser... more in tune with financial repercussions... more able to restrain myself while in possession of a debit card/check book...

They're delivering my bed on the 7th.

I’ll Be the One Playing In Traffic

You know how there's that one question we've all learned (mostly the hard way) that you NEVER ask a woman? It seems like such an innocent question, really. See a woman with a pronounced midsection wearing a decidedly maternity-ish shirt. Think you'll feign interest in her life and inquire (INNOCENTLY, for the love of GOD! INNOCENTLY!) when she's due? Oh, well, NOW you've done it. That's when you get the iceberg stare (and possibly a lawsuit for emotional distress... AFTER she wipes the floor with your ass) while being informed that she is not, in fact, pregnant. Like YOU were supposed to know? You were trying to be nice and are rewarded for this effort with a pressing need for dental work and a really good attorney. No good deed goes unpunished.

I had a point... somewhere...

Oh, yeah. Well, I've now found the question that toppled the previous question from its reign over the mortally offended.

Yesterday I was at work and my boss (the owner) walked up to my desk. I had my wallet out (I'd been ruthlessly subjecting fellow employees to family photos. Isn't that what I have fellow employees for?) and asked Mr. Owner if he'd like to see something. He, not having his psychic abilities in tune to allow him to say 'no' and avoid the upcoming trauma, said, 'Sure!' I show him two pictures, one of Connor and one of Nathan. He's looking at them while I sit there, smiling up and waiting for the compliments to roll in... my boys are handsome, FYI. They are.

Anyway.

Mr. Owner looks the pictures over and, while engrossed in the fabulousness that is my children, says to me...

(God, I cringe just thinking about it)

"Ohhh... are these your grandkids?"

(...)

He did NOT just say that. Did he? No. Surely not. For, had he really just said that, surely a giant hole would open up beneath me and suck me straight down to HELL. 'Cause, you know, hell would be BETTER.

"Uhh... no, those are my boys."

*blank look from Mr. Owner*

He looks back down at the pictures, oblivious to the fact that I'm about to spontaneously combust. I'm staring holes through him, and finally I say, "Just how old do you think I am?"

I know, I know... I really should have fallen into that hole. I ask the man who just effectively called me GRANDMA how OLD he thinks I am? What am I, the mother of all MASOCHISTS?

"Oh, I don't know," he says, not realizing his very LIFE is hanging in the balance, "I guess I just figured you were about MY age."

(...)

The sound you hear is my ego screaming its way through the death throes of the damned. I can't swear to it, but I'm fairly certain that my self-esteem was last seen in a sewer drain headed for the Pacific.

His age? HIS age? The man's like FIFTY! I'm pretty sure that I have, officially, lost the WILL to LIVE.

The topper to all this was the fact that multiple co-workers heard the exchange. Really? Just increases the level of festivity/agonizing humiliation exponentially. What's a little embarrassment without the added fun of having it witnessed by others? Just wouldn't be the same.

The day was pretty much shot after that. I'm now getting drive-by jokes at my desk, as people come and go and wander about the office, referring to offers of free walkers/canes/Depends/metafuckingmucil...

Yep, festive.

Then, last night, about, oh, 11:25 or so, I'm dead to the world and suddenly become faintly aware of this little voice next to me. Trying valiantly to wake up, I do the incomprehensible, not-quite-verbally-functioning response... 'akadngngkakdmluuughmmmhhh?'

And what do I hear answering me? A wee voice from the dark on my side of the bed...

"I'm going to frow up."

Oh, well, shit.

And there it went. Unfortunately, he misspoke. Or omitted. Whichever you like. Turns out that not only was he ABOUT to throw up (all over the clothes on my side of the bed, thank you very much), but already HAD thrown up... all over his own bed, the floor BY his bed, the floor by his DOOR, the floor in the HALL... a regular trail of tears, but with a bad smell and considerably different content.

Now, normally I'm someone with a pretty strong constitution. I can talk about all manner of things that would offend normal people, while eating my dinner or what have you, without batting an eye. I've cleaned up my children after pukefests before, and it's never really been much of an issue. Last night?

Broke me. BROKE me, I tell you.

I have never in my life had to fight so hard not to throw up, which, all things considered, would really have been adding insult to injury. Cleaning up one nasty mess is one thing, but cleaning up a double-decker? I'd rather just burn the house down and start over. But there I was, with my towels and soapy water and Resolve and obliterated constitution, cleaning carpet for over an hour while turning my head every three seconds and trying to win the battle with the recurring GAG over the contents of my stomach. Which, should they have escaped, would have looked EXACTLY like what I was already having such problems with, ergo?

No more of THAT, thanks anyway.

It was a nightmare. Chicken fried steak, homemade gravy, mashed potatoes, corn and cranberry sauce? Are now officially the hardest things EVER to get out of that fucked up frieze carpet... at least the second time around. I'm gagging NOW at the thought of it. Jesus.

And before anyone wisecracks about my cooking, let me illuminate you... I called Connor's school today to check on how he was feeling, and was told that a TON of kids were out with some stomach virus that's going around. So don't EVEN go there.

Finally got Connor back to sleep (after a quick shower, 'cause there's no such thing as an 8 year old that can throw up without marinating themselves in it), finished up the job of cleaning (which really should have been handled by the EPA, in my opinion) and fell into bed a little before 1:00 a.m. Guess who was exhausted this morning? But by GOD I went to work. Someone, somewhere, should be SO proud of me.

And finally, the topper. I answered the phone today, went through my little spiel, "Thank you for calling blah blah blah. How can I help you?" There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, and then a woman's voice...

"Is this Uncle Billy?"

(...)

You've got to be kidding me. First I'm a grandmother, then I'm a MAN?

I give up.

I’m Sure They’re Just EXHAUSTED

Here I sit, propped up by a sea of paint fumes. I finally broke down and finished (more or less... the word 'finished' is relative, right?) painting the office/guestroom. I ran out of paint with, oh, maybe five square feet of painting left to do. Considering that this is exactly when I ran out of paint when I was working on my bedroom? I'm thinking there's a paint gremlin following me around and wreaking havoc with my supplies. Apparently he has no life, and therefore finds the sight of me pounding my head into the wall (the wall I just painted, hence, five minutes later, me sticking my head in the sink while my husband scours paint out of my hair... 'cause my karma rolls like that) endlessly entertaining.

Little fucker.

So while I'm busting my ass painting the office, my cats are losing their collective minds. Or the one mind they share between them. Whatever. Two of them can't decide which they'd rather do... kill each other or sit in the (open) window's sill and hiss/spit/scream obscenities at the neighborhood cats that are strolling through my shrubbery (I NEED a SHRUBBERY! (...) Oh, come ON! Someone has to get that. What, were you people raised by wolves?). Finally they compromised... they'd do both. Between the jockeying for position (Special's fat ass doesn't allow for the possibility of sharing said window's sill... and Mickey isn't big on the whole sharing concept anyway. He'd rather glare than breathe.) and the rampant acts of biting and tackling, it was like Smackdown at Nola's house.

God, just typing that sentence gave me flashbacks to the days when I was married to someone who liked professional wrestling. God save me. I think that alone is grounds for divorce. Isn't it? Well, if it's not, it should be.

Where was I?

Oh, the cats. Well, while the first two were busy arguing the finer points of war and mayhem, Puffmeister was prowling around the house, yowling to the rafters while intermittently streaking through the office (the latter, I'm sure, was merely for the fun of watching me blanch every time he came perilously close to the can of PAINT... the can of PAINT that doesn't even come CLOSE to blending in with the CARPET... and which would give me an instant coronary should it spill ON the aforementioned carpet. He's a sneaky bastard, is Puffmeister. One day I'm going to turn him into a shoe.) at something approaching warp NINE.

How my nerves survived is beyond me. Especially when you add this to the competition puking that's been going on between the three of them all week. I think I'm going to take up self-medicating. Soon.

Eventually, of course, I ran out of paint and began the cleaning process for the room (which, at that point, looked like a scene from one of those movies about the survivors of a nuclear war... you know, the scenes that focus on the aftermath of the riots/looting/general pandemonium when the people found out they now had a shorter shelf life than the head of lettuce in the crisper of their Frigidaire?). I have to say, the color I used? Looks awesome. I had the room partially painted for 3 or 4 weeks, but it was mostly unpainted (just the tops of the two walls that are cathedral height were painted... why be normal?), and the color I was painting over was this horrid matte finish paint in a... well... I guess you'd call it maybe a cross between butter and biscuit. (All my male readers are now officially lost, while all my female readers are going 'ooooooooooooh' and nodding in complete understanding) Whatever name you want to give the color, the reality doesn't change... it was FUGLY. A truly horrible color. And MATTE paint? Is truly inspired by Satan. Can't clean the shit, you can't breathe on it without it leaving a mark (which, since you can't CLEAN it, you're stuck with that mark until the house BURNS DOWN), it has the feel of chalkboard (which, HELLOOOOOOOOOOOO... FINGERNAILS on chalkboard ring a bell? AAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCKKKKKKK!)... what exactly is the reason for anyone using this travesty in paint's clothing?

I've lost myself again...

Oh, yeah, the paint color. Well, when I had the partial paint job on there, the green that I used, when placed next to that biscuit (from HELL) color? Looked like it was going to strike me blind. I was, well, let's call it irked. (That sounds so much better than 'psychotic'.) That's why I waited so long to finish the painting. I couldn't stand the thought of putting that greenish color up when it was just going to cause my retinas to rupture. I finally decided that I was NOT going to waste yet ANOTHER gallon of paint (the dining room fiasco... let's not go there), so it was going to be green or nothing. Happily, it turned out that the green, when not next to the color which shall remain nameless?

Beeyooteefull.

I'm so happy, I could almost reconsider my mission to kick the shit out of the kid that lives two houses down that almost broke one of the windows on my house earlier. Fuckwit. (Maybe I'll write more on that at a later date... or maybe you'll just have to wait for the Lifetime Original Movie)

So anyhooooooooooo. Now the cleanup is done, the room's looking VERY nice, I'm unwinding... it's all good, right?

I look over toward the door, 'cause hubby had just popped his head in to say something to me (damned if I can remember what it was. What, am I supposed to pay attention when he talks?), and what do I see? Three cats, all sprawled out on the freshly made guest bed, looking for all the world like they have just had THE hardest. day. EVER. I swear to God, they're just lying there, sprawled out like so much furry wreckage, their body language screaming out 'My life is so HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARD!'

Considering the fact that I didn't succumb to the urge to hang them by their tails and use them as Pinata's, I deserve a goddamned COOKIE.

Or Valium. One of those.

Well…

I was shocked that the last post didn't get any response. I can either take that to mean that a) all my regular commenters are currently in a vegetative state, b) people saw the word 'advice' attached to my name and assumed they'd stumbled onto the wrong site by mistake, c) readers were suddenly struck with an overpowering love for the customer service/utility industry and were protesting my feelings about my encounter with my cable company by going on a silent strike, or d) the thought of me running an advice column was responsible for my commenters' vegetative state.

Gee, I've never put anyone in a coma before!

We'll see how the plans with the other site work out. Still ironing out the kinks with my partner in crime to see how we'll manage to get our collective shit together THIS time... I'm remaining hopeful in the face of our past glaring failure to do so. History can only repeat itself so many times, right?

Oh, before I forget... I had this guy call my office the other day. I answered the phone as I always do... 'Thank you for calling blah blah blah *dripping with perkitude*. How can I help you?'. You know what he said to me? He says, after a slight pause, 'You have a GREAT voice for radio.'

*blinks*

Well, what the hell was I supposed to say to that? I laughed a little and he continued on, 'No, seriously. You speak quickly and clearly and... well... you'd be perfect for 30 second spots on radio.'

At this point I'm figuring that I've got some fuckwit on the line who is enjoying yanking my chain. I glance at the caller ID (You haven't lived until you've seen a 100-line switchboard's caller ID during the busy parts of the day. It's enough to give someone a seizure. Like strobe lights, only less festive.), expecting God knows what, and what do I see?

Clear Channel.

For those of you who don't know, Clear Channel is a HUGE part of the radio industry. Owns like a kabillion radio stations. Dude on the phone WORKS for an ACTUAL radio-industry giant. How about that.

I decided to make a joking remark, because, really? What else could I do? I was at WORK, for fuck's sake. 'Hey, throw me a job and I'll show up.' I was kidding. I trust NO ONE and was still assuming he was just either a) sucking up because he was hoping to do business with my boss, or b) pulling my leg because, hey!, that's just how some assbags get their jollies. Trust me on this one. I know. His response?

'Come down and see me at Clear Channel.'

Well, shit. I have a job. With benefits. Never underestimate the power of health insurance and paid holidays. Like doughnuts, only a lot more expensive and harder to get your hands on. Well, mostly. Have you seen the line at Krispy Kreme lately? One wrong move in there and someone will gouge out an eye.

Anyhoo. I just thought that was an interesting little addition to my week of craziness. Who answers a phone and expects to hear something like that? It was kind of flattering, I suppose, if one discounts the possibility that Mr. Man was just fucking with my head for shits and giggles. Which I don't. He's penis afflicted, ergo apt throw shit around at any given moment just to see what happens when it lands.

And then blame someone else for the smell.

And So I Balk…

My cable company has effectively pushed me over the edge. I now, due to their monumental screw up and insistence on overcharging me, get to make phone calls to various companies to see what my options are to switch service providers.

Root canal, anyone?

I'm really not looking forward to this. At. ALL. I detest the whole utilities set up bullshit, much less dealing with it not out of necessity but out of pure, unadulterated loathing for a company I'm already using. My shit's all hooked up. I have things the way I want them. I don't WANT to rock the boat. I don't WANT to put one more thing on my already full plate. I don't WANT to have to go down there and wrench someone's head from their neck... hence, switching companies. I really don't have access to the kind of bail money I'd need after a beheading. And we won't even talk about the mess involved... blech.

I went about 912 rounds with the customer service chick on the phone this evening, all to no avail. She ended up crediting me this and that, and seemed to think I should be grateful. She also seemed to think I was mildly retarded. The problem? Even after her alleged credits to my account? I'm still being overcharged by about $120. Give or take. I tried to map it out for her in plain, simple English, but maybe she's gotten so used to people all with the hable and the Espanol that she just couldn't grasp the fundamental STUPIDITY of her explanations. I thought she was an idiot, and she thought that I had a screw loose. The difference here is that I was right. She was an idiot. We were talking basic math, people... not rocket science. She even got her 'lead' (that's 'under-the-impression-I-can-manage-other-people-as-stupid-as-I-am-and-call-myself-a-supervisor' dude, for those of you who don't know) to help her out. Two idiots putting their heads together to keep coming up with the mental equivalent of BELLY LINT. I swear to God, they must hire people like this just to frustrate the entire consumer population into submission. Capitalism by aneurysm. Hard to argue with someone when your brain's leaking out your ears.

I gave it a hell of a shot, though. Seriously. You'd all have been so proud. Sorta.

I did learn something, though. Being nice/polite/courteous when dealing with these people? About as effective as trying to drive a bolt through concrete with a sock. It's no wonder that you hear so many horror stories about irate people going off on customer service reps. That's how one, apparently, wins. The person who gets the loudest/meanest/closest to a psychotic break is the one who gets to go home with all the cookies. The one who tries to be diplomatic and/or appeasing in any way? Gets bent over. And charged for it.

Twice.

I keep waffling back and forth between now hashing out all the details of the issue in question and keeping it to myself, since it would bore most of you to tears and all. I guess I'll bite my virtual tongue and cut this short (well, too late for THAT, but you know it could be a whole lot longer. Be grateful.) and just say that I'm not happy. Immeasurably not happy. Paris Hilton in Laura Ashley not happy.

God, I can't stand her.

Anyhoo. For the few diehard readers that still wander over to Yeah, What She Said , hoping in vain for signs of life, I have recently posted twice. TWICE! In a matter of days, people! Sure, the posts were short and rather pointless, but really... isn't MOST of what I post pointless? The last one actually did have a point, believe it or not. I was posting about my options for what to do with that site, since the original intention died a horrible death. I wasn't sure what to do, but I hated to waste the space/programming/hours I put into making it all purdy. I needed something...

(...)

EUREKA!

I think I might have a plan. Possibly. I've blogged my little brains out on this site, so we don't need another one just the same, right? And I would throw myself on the nearest spork before I'd do one of the celebrity gossip sites. I may go to some of them to point and laugh, but I wouldn't have the patience/mental instability to actually maintain one for any length of time. Perish the thought. I don't want to do a fashion site. Don't care enough about sports to take up ONE post, let alone an actual string of them. What's left...

ADVICE! I can SO do advice! I could help untold thousands! I could save relationships! I could make the whole world smell like Downy with Febreeze! I could bring people closer together! I could single-handedly end the mullet! I could boost the self-esteem of... (...) ... why are you looking at me like that?

WHAT?!?

So Sue Me

I know, I know... I've been a reprehensible poster and/or responder-to-all-things-commentish lately. First, there's been the job, and second? One of us has been sick as shit for the last three days. Sure, it feels like the flu, but my guess? Ebola.

I'm just sure of it.

I didn't work yesterday, I was THAT sick. The manager of human resources told me flat out that they didn't want me there if I had a fever. Guess who's been running a fever? Yeah, no shit. It didn't seem too noticeable today, so I worked around it, but yesterday? Oy. Chills, aches, numerous fluids emitting from various orifices... orifi... whatever, the openings on my FACE. Between sneezing, coughing, and the eternal FAUCET that calls itself my nose, I've been keeping Puffs Plus in business. What? You thought I'd use regular Kleenex? What are you, on CRACK?

Anyhoo. Yesterday I didn't get out of my bathrobe all damned day. I was lucky enough to have a neighbor who didn't mind picking Connor up from school for me, so I didn't have to risk sending the sight-enabled public into fits of spontaneous hysteria and/or night terrors. Trust me, it wasn't pretty. Snot looks good on nobody. Much as I hate to admit it, that includes ME. The red, chapped, flaking nose and eyes that look like Farrah Fawcett midway through 'The Burning Bed' didn't help. (Or Farrah Fawcett at pretty much any time, now that I think about it. Have you SEEN her lately? Scary shit, people... SCARY SHIT!)

But I digress. Work is going... well... let's just say it's going and leave it at that. There's this issue with training, as in a complete lack thereof, which is hindering the 'get comfortable in your new surroundings' process. Apparently they hired me without having anyone ordained (I think that word fits here... ordained, as in 'appointed by God to train Nola'... is there a problem?) to handle the teaching of tasks. This may sound stupid, to those of you who have my job confused with some other, easy job, but it's not. My job is a lot harder and more complex than one might think. I have more reports to run than you can shake a stick at, more programs to learn/master than should ever be inflicted on ANYONE, more printing/collating/filing/researching than most people would expect outside of the freaking IRS, more phone lines to answer than a sorority house with unlimited credit, insurance certifications and verifications to pass through various channels, updating fuel surcharge charts... I could go on, but I'm making myself dizzy. And the sandwich I just ate from Blimpie already wants to come back, so why push it over the edge? My point here is that job titles are deceptive. So next time you hear receptionist/administrative assistant? SHOW SOME GODDAMNED RESPECT.

Phhhtt.

As I was saying before I derailed... no one's in charge of my training. So I get to catch bits and pieces when I can, from WHOMEVER I can, and do a lot of praying. If this was just shit I could figure out on my own, I'd be fine. It's not. It's not shit ANYONE could figure out on their own. It's tasks with very specific parameters, procedural guidelines, etc., and accompanying specific software with which to do it, so there IS no short way around being taught... trust me, I KNOW. One doesn't just pop open a report that looks like stereo instructions (in Hebrew Pig Latin) and go 'Gee, I bet that all I have to do is open Program X, click this menu (of the 16 available), that option (of the 12 available), slide that one tab and click on those specific options in those three drop down boxes... and THERE'LL be what I need for that report. The report that I can't understand (remember... Hebrew PIG LATIN). The report that damned near struck. me. BLIND. Yeah, THAT report. No problem!' I'd love to be able to do my job. Seriously. It grates on me to not be at my most effective, whether it's someone else's fault or not. Unfortunately, until I know what my job is? I'll be the one in the corner, dancing around the edges of a psychotic BREAK.

If they don't taser someone into submission and get me some training soon, I'm going to start biting people. On their tender, exposed bits. Or not exposed. I'm really not picky at this point.

WHAT?!?

Thank GOD I Have Cats

Last night my neighbors were going out to dinner with some extended family members. (I always find that phrase intriguing, by the way... 'extended family'... is that like a relative who just got off The Rack? Or a relative heavily in debt and unable to pay his bills? If it's the latter, skip dinner... you KNOW who'll be picking up the tab. If it's the former? (...) Just be very, very afraid.)

But I digress.

The neighbors in question have two Weimeraner (I'm too lazy to Google the damned breed and verify spelling. Can you believe? ME, not checking spelling? I think the Earth just fell off its axis.) puppies. Big, clumsy, sweet puppies.

Completely disobedient puppies.

Anyway. The puppies are, if memory serves, something like 6 months old. Maybe 8. It doesn't directly affect me, so I pay little to no attention. Their paws are GINORMOUS, and they're very affectionate (although it's hard sometimes to call knocking you over, even if it is in loving enthusiasm, affection. Call me crazy.) to almost everyone. They're also barkers. BIG on the barking. Beautiful kind of grayish eyes and chocolate/gray coats. Hard to pin down the color of their fur. Kind of like those T-Shirts from the early 90's that they're bringing back... you know, the ones that change colors when you touch them? Can't remember what the fuck they're called. I just know it'll come to me long after it'll do me any good whatsoever. God, now that's totally going to drive me bugfuck.

Where was I?

Oh, the dogs. They'd been in their pen all day while the neighbors were at work so they came over and asked me if they could run around in my yard, since it's privacy fenced, while they went to dinner. Give the dogs some room to run around and be all happy and shit. Me being me, I said 'Sure! NO PROBLEM.'

You see where this is going, right?

The puppies? Filled with HATE... hate aimed directly at me and my YARD OF DOOM, apparently. From the time the neighbors pulled out of the driveway until the time they got back a couple of hours later, it was pure pandemonium. I'm surprised either dog has a larynx left after the incessant howling/barking/raising the DEAD they did for two hours. I'd go out there and they'd be fine... come back in the house and they'd lose whatever brains they had collectively between them. It was insane.

Then there was the little altercation (me versus the two four-leggers) in the side yard, wherein rests my central air unit. And some sort of water pipe/drain (not from the gutters, thank you very much. I'm not THAT stupid. I know what THOSE are.) thingy. And...

A big pile of mulch.

One guess as to which of these things the dogs discovered and claimed as their own.

I went looking for the howler monkeys and found them merrily strewing mulch all over hell and creation. I descended upon them like the wrath of God. Guess which two creatures weren't budging off their newfound treasure? Yeah. They'd found something they liked and basically assumed I would cooperate and go fuck myself.

HA!

I'll spare you the gory details (teeth and flying fur were involved... doesn't matter whose), but suffice it to say that when I got done, there were NO more dogs wreaking havoc in the mulch. And there's at least one froggy in the world that didn't get an up close and personal view of a dog's digestive tract. (Saw the little booger hopping for his life and praying to all froggy gods while the pups (Willie and Abby) were rooting around. Pretty sure that frog saw his short and slightly repulsive life flash before his eyes. Poor guy. Except for the whole eating-flies thing and will-pee-for-freedom thing, I actually like frogs. Hence me saving his ASS. Is he grateful? Does he write? Nooooooooooooooo. Must have been a male frog.)

And just so you know? Those dogs are stubborn. After getting them out of the little narrow strip of side yard, Willie proceeded to try and get around me back to the mulch (and probably the frog) with every ounce of cunning and speed at his disposal. Unfortunately for him, I'm way more sneaky and bound and determined to get my way than he is. One of was going to win in this battle of wills, and it was NOT going to be that damned dog. And if I sounded a bit like an extra on Girl, Interrupted while having this little conflict with the dog... with dialogue... at 9:00 at night... in my bathrobe...

WHAT?!?

Well, eventually the neighbors came back and were horribly embarrassed and felt terrible. But I don't blame them. There was no way to know the dogs would act like that. Sure, they almost tunneled under the goddamned fence, and I'm pretty sure they've taken out a hit on me (the dogs, not the neighbors... in both cases. Wouldn't that be a hoot to see my neighbors tunneling under the fence?), but I wasn't holding it against the neighbors. I actually like my neighbors.

Imagine that.

Lesson learned from all this? CATS ROCK. And my cats?

Totally eating tuna for dinner tonight. Hell, I may have them bronzed.

Marketing Genius… Or Something Like It

Do any of you listen to the radio? Have you heard the new Volkswagen commercials? The ones with the dork that calls up the previous owner of whatever car he's claiming to have just bought, in a vain attempt to bond with them over the beloved Volkswagen in question? The commercial's annoying enough on its own, but the best part? The tag line...

'Feel the PRE-LOVE.'

You're kidding me, right? Someone in marketing/advertising did not seriously approve this bit of brilliant wording... did they? 'Feel the pre-love.'... which is, apparently, not to be confused with the POST-love, which, as we all know, is also called the wet spot. Pre-love... is it just me, or does that sound like the be-all end-all of names for a new and improved lubricant? I can hear the tag line for that now...

'Before you love... PRE-love.'

Or maybe... 'There's no love without PRE-love'. Something like that. You get the point.

It also sounds like it could be a condition (one known to be mortifying to all males of a sexually active age) that generally requires a change of underwear, not to mention name and address. Kind of like witness protection. Only not state funded and not something you'll write a movie script about in later years. One of those things a man would take with him to his grave.

But anyhoo. Not much to say tonight. Wounds are healing (itching like fuck-all, but healing nonetheless. I'd like to go after them with a rake, but I've been told that it's not in my best interests. Dammit.) and the cat is still breathing, so that's something. I've got a lot of work stuff on my mind right now (might post it later... hard to say. Since I didn't realize how much they monitor your internet browsing until after I'd peeked in on here one day to check to see if the server had been fixed, they may now know my blog addy and, well... that's just never a good thing. *bangs head on desk* I swear to God, I had to be Hitler in my last life. That's the ONLY explanation.) and various irons in the fire, so bear with me if I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer for a little while. Sure, I'm still sharper than most of the butter knives running around (some with DRIVER'S LICENSES, for the love of GOD!), but not quite up to my usual level of Ginsuness. I'll work on it.

Haiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-YAH!