Only Nola

Did I Say Never Again?

Lord, the last week needs to be a do-over. I went out with friends Friday night and, because I'm the brightest kid on the short bus, drank approximately the entire supply of Jaeger available in the downtown area. More or less. I had, to my eternal delight, the longest hangover known to man as a result. Two and a half days, people. Do I sound like I'm kidding? My stomach only returned to something resembling a normal state yesterday around lunch time.

Yep, I'm speshul.

I also remembered various reasons why I got tired of the club/bar scene years ago, but we won't get into all that. Let me just say that my personal bubble? Is offended to the point of trying to smother me in my sleep. And men? Totally have no understanding of the word 'boundaries'. Sure, women don't either after they drink enough, but men are that way stone cold SOBER.

Anyway.

I'm now going to go do the insane clean-fest. My family is all converging on my house tomorrow after work, which means I now get to destroy any modicum of inner peace I'd been saving for a rainy day. I have bathtubs to clean, toilets to scrub, cats to chase with the vacuum cleaner... it's going to be a busy night.

I also have to do a last minute grocery check to make sure I don't get halfway through cooking my stuffing only to suffer a massive seizure when the realization that I'm missing something vital hits me. 'Cause seizures? Don't really add anything festive to a family gathering. Then again, considering who I am and who my family is, not sure anyone would notice the difference between regular me and spasmodic me. It's a question.

Well, I have a date with a rather desperate litter box... the one with the three cats hiding behind it, each jockeying for position to be the first to take a dump on the clean litter. What the fuck IS that? They may have just gone to the bathroom five minutes ago, but they'll go pop a laxative and grunt for half an hour if they see me whipping out the trash bag and the scooper. No need to go? THAT'S WHAT EXLAX IS FOR, BABY!

I need sedated...

Going a Few Rounds

You know what's better than driving a nail through your foot? (...) Well? Need a hint? How about this... I'll tell you what it's not.

Dealing with credit card companies.

Okay, maybe that's not fair. It's not all credit card companies... just most of them. I love Capital One. Really. No complaints whatsoever (which, for me? Is saying something. Who's up for some complaining!?! *jumps up and down* I AM, I AM! But Capital One? Totally leaves me whine-free. Bastards.) to date. But there are others...

May they rot in hell.

Last week I got an email. This is, of course, no big deal, since I get lots of email (mostly of the totally disposable variety, but hey! Email!), but this was one that irritated me. As some of you long time readers may remember, I canceled a number of credit cards early this year. They pissed me off. I had paid them off already (about 3 months before), so cancelling was no big deal.

Or so one would think.

Every couple of months for the last six months or so, I'll get a 'friendly reminder' email from one of the cancelled cards, telling me that it's time to make my payment. (...) Squeeze me? Baking powder? I, of course, go to the site and login, to see what in the FUCK is going on. The site (as well as the automated telephone system), informs me that the account is closed and was paid off blah blah blah. Fine. I dismiss the email as an anomaly.

Idiots.

Then last week? I got The Phone Call.

My phone rings. The home phone, by the way, which we NEVER use. It's just there for emergencies and such. I answer it. Dude on the other end (who sounds like he smoked his dinner) asks for me by name. I affirm that I am, in fact, the one he's looking for. He then asks me, in a snotty, slightly grating way, when I plan on taking care of my overdue payment to (can I legally name the credit card company here? Is that libel or slander or something if I name them? Do I care to test it out and see? Not so much. I like not being broke and homeless.) Soandso bank. I respond first by laughing (I'm not kidding. I laughed. He had to be kidding... right?) and then by telling him in no uncertain terms that the account in question had been paid off and cancelled EONS ago. He sat there for a second. He asks me to repeat myself. I do. I hear some incomprehensible muttering and then?

*click*

Oh, he did NOT just hang up on me.

I dialed Soandso Bank's customer service line. I went through the automated system (which, by the way? Once AGAIN informed me that my account was paid in full, cancelled, blah blah blah ad nauseum, ad infinitum) and finally got a human. Sure, a human with badly accented English and the personality (and authority) of a POTATO, but still... human. And what did said human have to say?

That my account had never been cancelled. That, as of September, my 'yearly fee' had come due and, since I hadn't paid it, had now acquired two months of late fees. 'You are now owing us ONE HUNDRED AND ONE DOLLARS', she informs me. (She says her name is 'Elaine'. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. (...) Suuuuuuuuuuuuuure it is. Go on, pull the OTHER ONE.)

Well, Elaine and I went a few rounds, with her all the while 'um hum' and 'yes' whenever I spoke, then going back to 'but you are owing us ONE HUNDRED AND ONE DOLLARS' like a fucking MYNAH BIRD. Finally, I requested a manager/supervisor/minion of SATAN. I got one. With the same accent and same ability to verbally nod while completely ignoring what I was saying. Eventually? I got HER transfer me to yet ANOTHER 'account manager'. This time?

PAYDIRT!

My God, an actual human who also happens to be somewhere within a two thousand mile radius! Who knew?

Anyway. The long and short of it is that the account manager agreed to wipe all the shit off my record and close the account. I wanted to choke the shit out of her because she acted like I was lying and she was just doing me some big goddamned FAVOR, but... whatever. Karma, you BITCH. Next life? She's going to be some kid's pet goldfish.

After the phone call, I was still mad. I had told each and every person at that customer service line about the automated thing telling me my account was closed in good standing, and they hadn't listened to it or listened to ME or... anything. They just fucking pissed me off. I was ranting for hours. Well, at least it was over and done with.

(...)

One of us got yet ANOTHER email and ANOTHER rude phone call the following day. About the SAME account. And got to go through the ENTIRE thing AGAIN with customer service. Shit. What, was I HITLER in my last life? Finally... it's DONE.

(...)

Don't even ask me about the next day.

From the Mouths of…

From time to time I like to share something from my son(s) that I found particularly amusing. It often loses something in the repeating (since tone of voice and facial expression are absolutely key when dealing with an 8 or 12 year old. You can't really verbally package the complete amount of 'God, Mom, how stupid ARE you?' in a line of text that a child can cram into one heaving sigh. I've tried.), but I figure, well, it's my blog and I'll ruin a funny moment with bad translation if I want to. Hence the teeming millions that come to read my stuff every day. Really. Teeming. Positively writhing, I tell you. (...)

Now about that son of mine...

The other night I was doing the nightly tuck-in-the-8-year-old-that-I-plot-to-keep-eternally-THREE-whether-he-likes-it-or-not ritual. Much smooching (which, FYI? Is beginning to annoy the shit out of my 3 8 year old. I think next time I lean in he's going to put out an eye. One of mine. I don't think he cares which. Left, right... both... he's not picky.) ensued.

One of our cats tucks Connor in, like clockwork, every night. I'm getting Connor all blanketed up and Special jumps his giNORmous ass up onto the bed (nearly blowing out the frame and causing an unprecedented local earthquake. Cat is fuckin' FAT.) to curl up with his favorite boy. He generally kind of half lays on Connor (risking a collapsed lung or a displaced hip (Connor's, not the cat's), but hey, man... it's all in LOVE!), upper body kind of propped up on the boy and roughly whale-sized lower body (shaped, strangely enough, like Shmoo) more or less spread out beside him, a huge kitty smile on his teeny kitty face (the lack of proportion on this cat is staggering... little bitty face, tiny delicate paws, slender little legs, short skinny tail... middle like a goddamned watermelon from HELL.) as he relishes his spot on the bed and the boy.

Well, there I stand, saying some little nothing to Connor, Special chilled out on Connor's belly with his front legs stretched out in front of him while he makes happy feet (you know, the making bread thing... knead, knead, knead... thank GOD he's declawed. That's all I have to say about that. You'll understand more in a minute.)

Me: *smiling down at Connor* Awwww... you've got your Special. He sure loves his boy.

Connor: Yeah. *pats cat on head*

Me: It's nice the way he comes in and tucks you in every night.

Connor: Yeah, but he never stays. He always... *slight giggle*

Me: What?

Connor: (...)

Me: WHAT?

Connor: He's touching my wiener.

(...)

Well, isn't that FESTIVE? Sure enough, the cat in question had, in his joy, been making happy feet to the full extent felinely possible. And WHERE was he making happy feet?

I don't even want to think about it.

At the time, I almost pissed myself laughing. See, this is where the loss in translation occurs. It was the very offhand, out-of-nowhere, slightly amused delivery by my son that made it perfect. Sure, mildly funny when I write it, but to hear it?

Priceless.

'He's touching my wiener'... about the ONLY time that line would EVER be funny coming from an 8 year old boy. (...) It's a CAT, people!

I gotta go make dinner. Kitty Alfredo.

KIDDING!

Zombie Connor

Zombie Connor

Another Day, Another Walking Undead

FYI? This post? Will have actual pictures. You can all thank me later. I take checks.

Halloween is over now. I know this because of the costume carcass that is now sitting forlornly on the garage floor, waiting for either a) me to get off my lazy ass and store it in the attic, or b) me to be able to force myself to sit it out with the trash. The costume. That my baby wore out trick-or-treating. In the trash.

I'm betting the attic option is going to win.

This year, we (meaning, I) had a really great idea for a Halloween costume for Connor. He was going to be a Whac-a-mole arcade game. Box over boy. Boy's head sticking up through hole in the aforementioned box. Backboard made up to look like back of arcade game and stuck on back of box behind boy's head. Etcetera. It was going to be cool. Boy was all for it.

(...)

At last possible minute? Boy changed mind. (And they say it's women?) What did he want to be, instead?

Again with the (...)

The exact same thing he was last year.

Now, those of you who are long time readers probably remember last year's awesome costume. I was very proud. Connor was equally proud. Connor was one of the winners in an online costume contest. He was fussed over by every human being in a nine block radius while trick or treating. It was quite the coup. But...

Again?

Fine. We're all over it. Zombie boy it is. Again. Not just any zombie, but... well, you'll see in the picture (you new people, that is... the rest have seen it, although this year were a few minor changes... make-up was a bit more bruised-and-icky than last year, since he's a year older and wanted creepier this time. We also added a lovely glow in the dark fake rat. 'Cause God KNOWS I just love rats. Really. Can't you just feel the love?). Zombie coming out of the grave, people! How cool is that?

So there we are, the night of Halloween, getting ready to go out and storm various houses and demand candy in all shapes and sizes. I keep wandering to the garage, where I've put this masterpiece together, with the vague feeling of unease that tells me I've forgotten something. I stare at the costume box. Well, it's got all its elements. Fake grass... check. Headstone? Check. Cobwebs? Check. Spiders? Check. Hmmm... must be those pesky hormones. Come on, troops, LET'S ROLL!

We're off to the historic district, which we've been told is THE place to go trick or treating. We park the Blazer and shove Connor out. We all bolt for the tailgate to drag out The Box to put on The Boy. Boy raises arms. Husband hovers box over boy's head. Suddenly, a scream pierces the night...

'SHIT!'

Husband and boy stare at me.

Husband: What is it?

Me: Do you see something WRONG with this picture?

Husband: *blank look*

*muffled boy from half-under box... 'Can I come out now?'*

Me: What are we missing here, honey?

Husband: Ummm...

Me: ARMHOLES.

Yes, people, in all our preparations we had overlooked fucking armholes. Armholes, for the love of GOD. Sure, we had a head hole, but without arm holes? Really doesn't make one bit of goddamned difference.

Me: Please tell me you remembered your pocket knife. (The man goes nowhere without his pocket knife. Ever.)

Husband: *blatant look of deer in headlights*

Me: FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK

Husband: Um... Hang on *darts around blazer, leaving half-boxed 8 year old behind going 'HEY!', in a very muffled way, from under the box*.

Me: I'll take a screwdriver... tire iron... ANYTHING.

Husband: *much muttering and cursing from front of Blazer*

Me: *muttered 'Fuck this' while digging through purse*

(seconds pass)

Me: I've got keys... come help me hold this goddamned box.

(much loud punching 'Kapow!' noises... amazing how noisy it is to jab a car key through a cardboard box. Just so you know. It's NOT the stealthy thing you might think.)

Me: (much punching and cursing and 'Can't believe I forgot the fucking ARMHOLES!' later) Here. We have holes for his little arms. Come here, Connor!'

Connor: I don't think they're exactly...

Me: THEY'RE FINE!

Connor: Uhhh... this one's a little...

Me: WHAT PART OF 'THEY'RE FINE' DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?

Connor: They look great *accompanied by big, please-don't-eat-me smile and much batting of the eyes*!

The rest of the night? Was considerably better. How could it not be, with this...

Connor the Zombie

Connor and Jonathan... Zombie and escort :P