Only Nola

And Still I Show Up…

We all know I don't write about work often. While I don't think there are more than 3 people at work that know my blog address, I'm not taking any chances on either a) the fact there could be more, or b)any of those that do know might not read something on here and deem it worth lynching me over. Hey! People are funny! Quadriplegic thrown in the pool funny. (Before I get hate mail from some group that represents the limb-challenged, my point there was that it's NOT FUNNY. I can see it now... they'll be protesting me. Hard to hold up a sign with the missing arm issue and all, but still... PROTESTING!)

As I was saying...

I apparently have an issue with this chick at work. I didn't know I had an issue with her, in my defense. I didn't get the memo. I only found out there was the aforementioned issue when I was informed that said chick stood up, in the middle of the sales department, last Friday (I was off Friday for the holiday) and asked if 'that stupid Deanna' was in the office.

(...)

Oh. no. she. DIDN'T.

I roll into work Tuesday, about as cheerful as I ever am, totally unaware of the invisible 'kick here' sign that is stapled to my forehead. Visible only to assbags the world over. I'm cruising along, minding my own business, when a friend of mine decides to tell me what was said. Luckily, I'm a firm believer in 'don't shoot the messenger'. Also brought to my attention was the fact that, in response to an email I'd sent out to the entire office asking if anyone passed a FedEx box on their way home to drop off an envelope for work, said twat piped up (again, out loud in front of a large group of people) with 'I wouldn't drop that off for her if I had a FedEx box in my damned front YARD!'

See why I can't stand people?

What gets me the most about all this is the ambush factor. I've had little to no interaction with this chick. We don't work in the same department, although I do have to write up monthly reports in Excel for her department and also file for insurance certificates on a regular basis for various clients... we don't hang out together (quelle surprise!) ... we have had NO confrontations or any situations involving anger/irritation/a spork to the throat... so why the fuck has she decided that the thing to do is to piss all over me? IN PUBLIC? Has she got a raging case of crabs and the itch has reduced her IQ to that of a cedar chip? Was she the victim of an alien abduction, and the aliens in question were all short and brunette? Is my ex-husband sneaking over to her house and whispering subliminal suggestions outside her bedroom window while she sleeps? WHAT?!?

This is why I prefer my cats to most people. Furballs may cover 90% of my living space, but at least they have a speaking relationship with the concept of sanity.

On a brighter note, Nathan and Connor are behind me as I type this... trying to kill each other with some Nerf-dart-shooting-eye-poker-outer-loud-noise-maker-thing-from-HELL. I don't know what it is. Nathan brought it with him Tuesday when he showed up for his visit. I'm pretty sure it's produced by the makers of Valium. (...) GET IT?

Oh, and by the way? I'm developing a fan base. Imagine that. I have a number of people at work that actually send my mass emails (they are fairly funny, if I do say so myself) to friends and family to share. Isn't that a hoot? My IT guy had a visitor yesterday. When she came up to my desk and told me she was there to see him, I turned to the phone to call and let him know. She looked at me and said 'Hey! Aren't you the one that writes those really funny emails?' I was a bit stumped. I asked her how she knew and she told me that IT guy shows them to her and they make her just laugh and laugh. I was flattered. I've had 3 or 4 other co-workers tell me they do the same thing.

At this rate, I'll be ruling the world WAY ahead of schedule.

Put My Hand Right Back On That Hot Burner

I need to be sedated. Heavily. Here I was, night before last, bored. What did I do? What do I ALWAYS do? As opposed to most normal people, who might, oh, watch a movie, read a book, conquer a small, unsuspecting nation (Nola Khan! I'd so rock a scepter! And tiara! And cabana boys! (...) Hey, you have YOUR dreams of world domination, I have mine.) ... I fell back on tradition.

Cut off my damned hair.

WHAT?!?

And not only did I cut off my damned hair, I cut it off in the same damned way I cut it off LAST time. You know, the time that I ended up hating it after about three days. Yeah, that's me... dodging that whole pesky thing of 'learning from mistakes' by the skin of my teeth. Whew. Thank GOD I'm too smart for THAT.

(...)

Well, it's not exactly the same. This time I added fun and festivity to the process by also putting in a few highlights. While deliberately blocking the memory of the existing hair color that was on the last few inches of my hair. While most of you probably won't know (or care about) this, this means that the color I used to highlight my hair? Only took on the hair WITHOUT the old color on it. I now have highlights on about three inches worth of hair (that closest to my scalp) and an interesting shade of 'what the fuck?' on any hair longer than that. Doesn't that sound fun?

Notice the conspicuous absence of a PICTURE with this post.

Now, my neighbor, who happened to be here at the time, thinks the hair looks good. I think she's been self-medicating. All I know is that I'm now tempted to whack what's left of my hair smooth the fuck OFF, getting rid of that old shit once and for all. This would allow me to then color (wonder of wonders) ALL of my hair, instead of looking like one of those malnourished goth people that I see at the mall. The ones that apparently want to look like they're homeless, even though Mommy and Daddy dropped them off at the mall in their Mercedes. If they'd put the effort into personal hygiene that they put into looking poor and miserable, the inside of Hot Topic wouldn't scare the shit out of me.

I think my cats are raiding my pantry for refried beans while I sleep. (nice segue, eh?) Seriously. Historically, I've had no problems with litter box stench in my house. No idea why... just call me lucky. (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! *coughs* Sorry. Lucky... yeah, that's me all. over.) Now recently? I can clean the stupid cat box out and five minutes later I see a cat (any cat. They're interchangeable. Smell one, you've smelled them all.) leave the litter box area, accompanied by a smell roughly the equivalent to SOMETHING DEAD. I mean it. And the cat? Looks entirely too pleased with itself. Hence me thinking it's all a plot. Little bastards are paying me back for something, I just don't know what. Whatever it is I did, I'M SORRY ALREADY! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAKE IT STOP!

*sighs*

I have to go clean up the remnants of Wrapfest 2006 now. The office floor looks like a particularly psychotic elf finally snapped. There are bits of ribbon, paper, tape, etc. scattered hither and yon. (Now, how often do you really get to use 'hither and yon'? Not often enough, dammit! HITHER AND YON, people... HITHER AND YON!) I have to get to the ribbon before Special (the fattest of my cats) gets his paws on it. Well, actually, if it was his paws, we wouldn't have a problem. Unfortunately, he bypasses the paws and goes straight for the intestinal tract. And let me tell you, if you haven't had to chase a cat around the house with three feet of Christmas ribbon hanging out his ass?

You haven't lived.

Yikes!

Holy shit... has it really been NINE DAYS since I posted last? That can't be right. Gremlins! In the computer! Conspiracy! Power failure! I'm not a procrastinating, lazy, Pogo addict that has wiled away the hours popping animated balloons and...

(...)

Crap.

Alright, let's see if I can think of something worth writing about. If not, I'll try and make something up.

Saturday night we had our office Christmas party. Before any of you start picturing Xeroxed, naked asses, let me stress to you that it was in NO way like that. First off, no alcohol. (...) Yeah, soak that in for a minute. I'll wait.

Second off, there were speeches. Long ones. About the economy. Soak that in now, too. I'll be here when you're done. Really.

(...)

Somewhere, the word 'party' is sitting in a corner and flogging itself. And not in a good way.

Still, everything has a silver lining. In this case? I bought the hottest fucking shoes EVAH to wear to the event. OH. MY. GOD. Okay, okay, the picture doesn't really showcase their full glory, but still... what's not to love about a pair of shoes in chocolate suede and patent leather with a five inch freakin' heel? I was no longer the midget at the gathering. I was a goddamned AMAZON! Sure, the shoe may have permanently dislocated a toe... or two... but, hey... beauty is pain, people! Trust me, I know. I may have been hobbling around by the end of the evening like my favorite accessory was a bottle of Percocet, but by god it was a HOT hobble!

Behold, the shoe *insert choir 'Ah AAAAAAAAAAAAh' here* :

God, I love those. I may never work up the nerve (or the health coverage) to wear them again, but I had my five minutes, dammit.

So, this Friday we're driving to Kansas City. We're taking Connor to see the Plaza lights (a big deal in Kansas City... lots of lights... frantic shopping... assorted forms of assault over parking spots... it's festive) and, hopefully, to do one of the carriage ride deals. See, they have these carriages that are framed out like Cinderella's carriage, but the frames are run with white Christmas lights, so you're basically in a cool (yeah, there, I said it. WHAT?!?!), fairy tale-ish (Cinderella meets Star Trek. Jean Luc would be so proud.), rolling monstrosity surrounded by pissed off motorists and people who have apparently forgotten what the word 'crosswalk' means. Oh, and it's pulled by Clydesdales. I fuckin' LOVE those horses! *hums the old Budweiser theme song*

Yeah, so I'm old. This is news?

After that, we'll be going to crash at my cousin's house for the night. Get up at some hour before lunch and then go eat at *drumroll here* the El Sombrero. Best. food. EVER. I could eat there 7 days a week. Sure, gas might become an issue, but hey... no one ever said love was easy. Love me, love my stinky Mexican food farts.

WHAT?!?

Connor's teacher and her family are coming over on Sunday for lunch. She's really nice, and Connor's looking forward to playing with her kids. All six of them. I'm sure it'll be a nice social occasion for all of us.

(...)

Actually, what I'm sure of is that, with six kids? She won't notice if there's an extra one when she gets home. For at least a week.

Oh, shut up.

Killer Shoes!

The rockin'-est shoes EVAH!

Killer Shoes

The rockin'-est shoes EVAH!

Memoirs of a Mall Survivor

What was fun when I was young (many, many moons ago) has become, somewhat, an exercise in torture. Yes, I speak of braving... THE MALL. I can remember, vaguely, when a trip to the mall didn't leave me with that feeling of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder-ness. Fast forward to the here and now, and it's a totally different story. I thank God daily for the joy that IS internet shopping. Cuts down my mall time by a considerable amount. I'll gladly fork over what would otherwise seem an INSANE amount of money for shipping and handling (seriously... WTF? Where is their goddamned warehouse... Zimbabwe? Is it being delivered, personally, by Brad and Angelina? I could probably dig a tunnel directly to CHINA and buy the fucking whateveritis MYSELF and pay less money than shipping and handling charges... for fuck's sake.) if it means less time battling for supremacy in between kiosks at the mall.

Where to start...

This deserves an intro. Really.

THINGS I HATE ABOUT THE MALL

1.) The parking lot. Enough said. (Actually, not, but totally worthy of an entire post of its own, so we'll move on from here.)
2.) People who are lacking the ability to PICK A GODDAMNED SIDE OF THE WALKWAY ALREADY! I mean it. You're stuck behind their dawdling asses as they meander through the mall. You try and go around, and suddenly? They veer, trapping you behind them once again. You try and go around the other way... fuck! Incoming stroller from yet another example of people who don't know the basic concept of TRAFFIC FLOW. About the only way to get around these people is a) throw caution to the wind and mow the assbags down like a armadillo with bad timing, or b) make like a needle and thread your way between them and the oncoming sea of human bodies, muttering 'excuse me's left and right and praying for a break to open up that will let you enter Spencer's in peace before someone gets, rightfully, HOMICIDED ON THE SPOT.
3.) If one more nutsack pounces on me to question me about my cell phone service provider, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.
4.) Two words for you: personal hygiene. I think that some of the people at the mall need this spelled out for them with visual aids. And a map.
5.) Children that should have been left home... hopefully tethered and heavily sedated. I've seen better behavior out of prison inmates. Starving and sexually frustrated prison inmates. Apparently the new parenting calls for allowing your child to scream as loud as humanly possible, and as often as time permits, in order to get his/her way. The response to said screaming is alternating bribery/coaxing/pleading for mercy. My response would be to make sure that the kid knows that sleeping in a nice, cozy bedroom as opposed to being locked in the basement? Totally a privilege, not a right.

I guess I should be grateful that I got some of my buying done, in amongst the horrors of the mall. Three small gifts down, umpteen to go. Me and my Visa will be setting the internet on fire. Fire, I tell you!

‘Tis the Season

Not ONE bit of shopping have I done yet. For Christmas. Christmas that is less than three weeks away. THAT Christmas. Hey, be grateful that I got the damned tree up. Oh, and outside lights! We have actual lights on the outside of the house. We went for the tacky factor this year... the multi-colored spiral tree-shaped light thing, the lit up candy canes jammed in the flower bed, the blue (yes, I said BLUE) flickering icicle lights... we're the Griswolds!

Did I mention it's fucking COLD outside?

I mention that only because I just came in from sitting on the porch to smoke a cigarette, and I'm now attempting to type with fingers roughly the temperature (and flexibility) of ice cubes. Not real limber, ice cubes... rather clunky and uncooperative, as a matter of fact. Typing and backspacing and retyping is the rule of the day. Maybe next time I'll take a cat outside with me to keep my hands warm. Wear one like a freakin' MUFF. (Yet another word that has strayed from its original intended use over the years... get your minds out of the gutters! It's a hand warmer, for crying out loud. Furry little... oh, nevermind.)

One of us started back to therapy today. Oy. That's all I can say about that. Oyyyyyyyyy.

IKEA is on my shit list, by the way. Totally not related to the therapy thing. NOT a segue. What, I'm supposed to suddenly turn into someone who smoothly transitions from one subject to another? What site are you on? Anyhoo. We ordered these lights for the wall... kind of track light things that you can put on the wall or the ceiling and you can sculpt (read: bend, curse, re-bend, curse some more, repeat) them into any shape you want. Circles, wave-ish shapes, lines... whatever floats your boat. I couldn't wait to get them on the wall.

(...)

Guess where they are now? If you say 'NOT on the wall', you get a cookie. If you say 'Spread out on the living room floor, just begging for someone to trip over them and break some very important bones,' you're apparently looking in through my windows and I need to get a restraining order. Either way. It turns out? The goddamned lights have to be hard wired to an outlet. Not just ANY outlet, but one that is also connected to a light switch. Now, this wouldn't be a problem, had we, oh, say... EXPECTED IT. But the picture on the site showed TWO, count them, TWO cords coming out of the thingy that holds the guts of the lights. One looked suspiciously like a cord that would PLUG INTO AN OUTLET. Guess what? There is, in fact, NO second cord. NONE. It was a vicious lie. There is only the cord that goes to the actual light system... the electricity flows from your house to the cord in question through the little silver disk thing that houses the guts of the lights, which, of course, must be directly mounted to the aforementioned outlet. Guess who doesn't HAVE an available outlet that is connected to a light switch? Not in a place that is at all suitable for the lights, that is. Yes, people, that would be ME.

Assbags.

To top it all off, IKEA won't take the fucking thing back, faulty advertising or not, because the box has been opened. Well, GEE, how in the holy HELL were we even supposed to know that we NEEDED to send it back if we didn't open the GODDAMNED BOX?

I'm now the proud owner of a $70, gargantuan doorstop.

The cherry on top of everything? Guess what was on my front porch when I got home today...

Stray.

Damned.

DOG.

*gouges out eye with a SPORK*

Miss Me?

See, I'm not really dead... it only appeared that way because of the dust gathering in the corners around here. (...) Okay, not JUST in the corners. Picky, picky.

I've been busy, needless to say. Ever notice how people say 'needless to say' (the meaning of which is fairly obvious... NEEDLESS to SAY... see?) right before they go ahead and say something that is, by their own admission, in no need of being said? What the hell is that? It has to be genetically encoded, since just about everyone does it, damned near from BIRTH, but still... drives me apeshit, and I even do it MYSELF.

Where was I?

Oh, the busy thing. Well, as I mentioned before we had the Thanksgiving thing at my house this year. It was a lot of work. Let me repeat that, only louder... A. LOT. OF. WORK. Think I got that across? I was up until 2:30 (that's a.m., for those of you not paying attention) the night before, cooking my bird. Why, you may ask, was I cooking my bird the night before? Well, there are countless reasons, but for brevity's sake (as if I am at all capable of being brief and to the point) I shall limit myself to two: two of the family members attending the feast had to leave by 1:45 Thanksgiving day, meaning we had to be sitting down to eat by 12:00 or so (and I had about the same desire to get up and start cooking my bird at 4 in the morning as I have to wake up one morning discovering I've gone, quite mysteriously, BALD) and there was also a lot of juggling going on for oven space... too many things needing to be cooked in the oven, too little time/space/bail money to make it all work. Seriously. Someone would have died. So I opted to cook yon bird the night before, freeing up the next morning for the other various dishes that needed their turn at the oven. It was hectic and I didn't get much sleep, but it would have been way worse if I'd been struggling with that damned TWENTY POUND monstrosity all morning. Trust me on this one.

Oh, and before I forget, I have to share a small thing that happened Thanksgiving day...

My oldest son and my nephew (the one who is 13 years old and six feet freakin' tall. My GOD... what's my sister feeding him, MAGIC BEANS?) were arguing behind me in the kitchen, while I was busy holding my remaining brain cells together with I Can't Believe It's Not Butter, about, of all damned things, who had the grandest farts the night before.

(...)

What IS it with penis afflicted people? They're just wrong.

Anyway. There they are behind me, sniping away about flatulence. My son says that, while the two of them and Connor had been bedded down in Connor's room the night before, HIS farts were HUGE. My nephew says, of course, that this is a lie. They weren't even audible. Nathan disagrees. He says they were SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO LOUD, DUDE! (Jesus. That's all I can say at this point. JESUS.) My nephew, Matthew, says, 'Dude, no they weren't! They were small and puny!' This is where I stepped in.

Me: Hey, Matthew?

Matthew: Yeah, Aunt Dee? (No one gets to ask what the Dee thing is. I don't want to hurt you, but I will.)

Me: Isn't that redundant?

Matthew: Huh?

Me: Well, you said his farts were 'small and puny', right?

Matthew: *laughing* Yeah.

Me: That's redundant.

Matthew: What is?

Me: *sighs* See, small and puny mean the same thing, really, so using them both at the same time like that is redundant.

Matthew: *giving me a gigantic co-conspirator's grin and beginning to laugh* Thanks, Aunt Dee. *turns toward living room, where Nathan has gone to torment Connor-the-youngest-on-the-food-chain* HEY, NATHAN! YOUR FARTS ARE REDUNDANT!

(...)

Hey, I was trying to HELP, dammit!

God, I haven't laughed that hard in ages. These are the moments that make family bearable and keep us from eating our young.

Priceless.

In other news, we had a lovely little ice/snow storm blow through here yesterday. It started early Thursday morning and quit early this morning (this being Friday, of course. Keep up.). In that period we managed to get several inches of rain/sleet/Slush Puppy fodder, between 5 and 12 inches of snow on top of that (depending on what part of town you were in, or which outlying suburb/small town area.), power outages, grocery store riots (okay, not really riots, but I think the difference in Wal-Mart was minimal. MINIMAL. I've said it before and I'll say it again... people walk into Wal-Mart and turn into ANIMALS. Give them an actual excuse, like vicious weather and/or the looming threat of being housebound? It's like waving STEAK at a starving, rabid, hyperactive LION. Oh, the humanityyyyyy!)... it was festive. The only good things to come out of it?

Homemade snow cream and Connor getting to go out and roll around in the precipitation. I have pictures of one, not the other. It shouldn't take a rocket science to figure out which. I have them uploaded onto the computer, but I don't have them resized and all yet, so I'm not sharing right this second. Maybe this weekend I'll throw one on here. We shall see.

Oh, and lastly? I have, once again, been reminded that I have a giant neon sign that hangs over my head... one that is only visible to stray animals. All stray animals. Within a five. mile. RADIUS.

Just ask Magneto.

YES, I NAMED HIM. BITE ME!

He's been no burden, really, up till now... he doesn't come inside, I've made it clear (to his FACE, even! HA! So there!) he is NOT our cat, despite the free food and space heater on the front porch (yeah, I said space heater... SHUT UP!), he doesn't cause any problems and hasn't needed to be taken to a vet yet...

Then came the snow and ice. From HELL.

What the fuck was I supposed to do? Leave the pitiful little shit out on the front porch to become a permanent piece of statuary? He was cold, people! Small and helpless and... and... and...

Now living in my garage.

*pounds head on desk*