Only Nola

Straightjacket, Party of ONE!

Another day, another psychotic break.

You know what I live for? For days when I can strike the fear of GOD into my neighbors, causing them to sprain a finger (or completely bypass minor physical injury and head straight for things like 'spontaneous embolism') in their frantic rush to fill out the paperwork to have me committed. Or shot. I'm not sure they're picky.

Days like yesterday.

It was about 6:45 in the morning and I was, of course, running behind. (Hard to believe, but I'm not a morning person. Quelle surprise!) I was juggling my purse, my keys, my coffee cup, my cigarettes (shut UP! When I want to hear about my nasty fucking habits... wait, that came out wrong. Not my nasty fucking habits, but rather my... oh, nevermind. Just shut UP.), and a lovely case of 'have absolutely no desire to be up and out of bed', as I rush to the car hard on the heels of the 8 year old. The garage door goes up and we're off.

(...)

Well, we SHOULD have been off. Instead? That stupid cat (yes, the one that is TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY NOT OUR CAT, no matter that we FEED him and NAMED him and let him SLEEP IN OUR GARAGE WHEN IT'S TOO COLD OUTSIDE. Changes NOTHING. He is NOT our CAT. SHUT UP!) ran into the garage as I was backing out. This is not acceptable. The weather has warmed up and he's a CAT, perfectly able to survive outdoors in 50 degree weather. He needs to rediscover his inner jungle being or whatever before he ends up inadvertently discovering his inner ROADKILL being. Anyhoo. I, being the model of decorum and sanity, certainly did NOT hang my head out the window while screaming, "MAGNETO, GET YOUR GODDAMNED ASS OUT OF MY GARAGE!' at the top of my lungs.

*coughs*

Hypothetically, I might have temporarily lost control of what's left of my mind, going so far as to back my car to the end of the driveway, gun the engine, throw it in drive and aim for the aforementioned cat sitting so smugly dead center of my garage. Not to hit him, hypothetically... just to SCARE the living SHIT out of him and get him to MOVE.

Hypothetically.

And when one time wasn't enough, merely earning me a bored look from an ungrateful furry beast that ISN'T EVEN MY CAT? Hypothetically (God, I love that word.), I might have had my one last nerve snap cleanly in half, causing me to scream gibberish out my open window while REPEATING the above hypothetical process... reverse, park, rev engine, scream, speed forward... like, oh, say... three times? At one point even, HYPOTHETICALLY, damned near getting my car sideways in the garage in the attempt to... um... NOT hit the cat! Totally aiming at... LINT! Big ball of evil LINT!

REALLY.

Did I mention my 8 year old nearly stroking out in the back seat during all this? Hypothetically, I mean.

The cat finally decided that the garage was not the safest place to be and vacated the premises. He's now biding his time until I forget to roll up my car window one night so he can leave me a little 'present' in the front seat.

Cats know payback.

Wind Advisory

Well, the good news is that the temperature today got high enough that my body could begin to thaw out. Anything under 70 and I begin to turn into a human popsicle. I know, I know... a lot of people think 70 is when it's actually warm. In my humble opinion, those people are off their proverbial rocker, but whatever. I'm surrounded by displaced Eskimos and will have to live with that fact. The battle for control of the thermostat will likely wage on until I'm on life support. And after that, by proxy... what does one have children for if not to guilt them into doing things they don't give two shits about by playing the 'impending death' card?

Anyhoo. Did I mention I live in a wind tunnel?

Today at work a friend and I drove over to the Taco Hell by the interstate. I pull into the parking lot. Turn off my car. Go to open the door.

(...)

Try to open the door AGAIN.

(...)

Nearly lose a foot as the wind shoves the door back at me for the third time. Attempt to open door yet AGAIN.

(...)

Okay, now this is getting fucking ridiculous. I'm sitting in my car, wanting OUT, for the love of God, and instead I'm snarling and spazzing out on the door handle while my friend (who also had a brief struggle with the door, but got out on the second try. The wind was less on her side of the car, dammit. It WAS!) stands in front of the car staring at me. I'm yanking and cussing and bouncing up and down on the verge of a seizure. I'm sure it was entertaining FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR. Finally, I get the door open (a primal scream was involved, along with both feet planted on the inside of the door and a large burst of adrenaline. I'm pretty sure I looked like I'd slipped back a few rungs on the evolutionary ladder to the casual observer, but that's neither here nor there. REALLY.) and triumphantly escape the car.

(...)

Only to nearly get blown directly into the path of an incoming 18 wheeler.

Did I mention the wind was strong?

So I make my way over to my friend, after recovering some semblance of control of my legs and sense of balance. She and I start for the restaurant... at roughly a 60 degree angle. Head first into the wind, and the wind was determined to keep me from obtaining that Mexican Pizza. Wind, by the way? Competitive by nature. If it can't force you down, it'll just fling some sand in your eye and win by the fact you CAN'T SEE WHERE YOU'RE FUCKING GOING.

Don't tell ME it's not personal.

So there we are, tilted at an insane angle and trying to make it into the building. We're both laughing rather hysterically, because, really, what other choice is there? And then we see something to just add insult to injury...

A large group of construction workers sitting right inside the door, frozen in place as they stare at us (I know we looked like two survivors of a plane crash heading across the frozen fucking TUNDRA), all of them struggling not to burst out laughing (since I'm pretty sure they guessed that it might get them a spork in the eye as soon as I could get to that damned condiment bar).

I told my human resources manager about all this when my friend and I got back to work. He laughed and said I was exaggerating. As he was walking away, I yelled after him "Sure, laugh it up... it won't be so funny when you find me in ROLLA!"

(...)

Okay, so that's a totally locational joke that makes no sense whatsoever if you don't realize that Rolla is about an hour and a half NORTHEAST of here. See? The wind was going to blow me all the way to...

*sighs*

Oh, nevermind.

Sick Again

Here I sit, home from work with some strain of something (I'm calling it Black Death. It's a term of endearment. Really.) that has slapped me with gluey (that's a word, right? Gluey? If it's not, it should be. In Nola's world, all verbiage is flexible. Ergo, dipshittery!) eyeballs, burning sinuses (... sinus'... sini?... gah. another word I can hate to pluralize), body aches, and, most fun of all?

Fucking fever blisters.

There's nothing more festive than a batch of swollen, oozy, painful (and visually nightmarish... can't forget that. I look like the goddamned Elephant Girl.) sores on the mouth to make life just a little more perfect. Maybe a raging case of explosive diarrhea... close call. From where I sit?

Fever blisters win.

I hate it. My lower lip looks like I'm auditioning to be Eddie Murphy's stunt double. And FYI? All the medicines you can buy over the counter? Take approximately nine years to work. Okay, eight. Still, it's eternity to someone who actually expects to be able to leave the house without frightening small children and animals. And I'm just awesome at the 'don't touch your lip until it's fully healed!' thing, too. That and 'don't scratch those bug bites!' and 'the scab will fall off when it's ready!'. I'm a model of restraint. (...)

At this rate, I'll probably be healed up in time to go to Connor's graduation without wearing a burqa. (Oh, don't be a lazyass... look it up.)

In other news, I had to drop off my car at the shop yesterday at lunch. In return, they gave me a loaner to use until the end of the day. The loaner was, effectively, like driving CHRISTINE. And not Christine in a good mood, either. As one of the mechanics was walking me through the loaner's 'quirks' before I left, I sat there in the driver's seat, with the electric seatbelt thing (God, I hate those. Creepy bastards even when they're NOT possessed.) going back and forth for no reason other than to try and take my face off, I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I looked up at him with my best 'stiff upper lip' face, grinned brightly and said...

"The car's going to eat me."

He laughed, as only a) a man, and b) the one NOT sitting in the Car of Doom, could. Assbag. I wasn't being FUNNY, for the love of GOD! I was alerting him to the fact that he might need to call my next. of. KIN.

*sighs*

The car didn't drive any better than it was able to control its seat belt. The brakes were touchy (breathe on the fucking things and you're going through the windshield (nd there is NO time at which that is a good thing.), which, considering the fact that the aforementioned windshield already had a monumental CRACK right across the middle, might not hurt as much as it normally would. Pre-broken windshield... how THOUGHTFUL!

The steering, which I'd been told was 'a little stiff', was akin to wrestling a meth-addicted chimpanzee... a double jointed and PISSED OFF meth-addicted chimpanzee. And the noise? It groaned and whined at me at the slightest hint of having to use the steering wheel for something off-the-wall, like, oh... actual STEERING.

I have never been so glad to see my car in my life as I was after work that day. The fact that I made it back to the shop in one piece AND without suffering a psychotic break was nothing short of a miracle, in and of itself. I nearly kissed the man who brought my car around (after I ponied up the $64 for the 'small thing' they found wrong with it) square on the mouth. And then reconsidered, for too many reasons to list. Not the least of which is that I'm married, of course... I WOULDN'T REALLY HAVE KISSED HIM, HONEY! LOVE YOU!

And the really good part here?

My car's still making the fucking noise it went in with.

(...)

Welcome to my life.

Freakin’ Taxes

It's that time of year again. Time for me to yank my hair out by the roots and curse the IRS blue. Actually, it's not the federal bloodsuckers that drive me mad... it's the STATE bloodsuckers. The amount of money they want is one thing, but have you seen the state tax forms/publications? It's like they hired Rainman to put it together. Rainman on CRACK.

With JOCK ITCH.

My husband's employer spends the occasional week in our neighboring state. That would be Arkansas, for those of you who aren't currently reading my mind. I have been working on preparing our taxes online and discovered that, thanks to Arkansas, I'd have been better off paying a tax professional this year. Why? Because I haven't been bent over like this since... well... we really don't need to go there, but suffice it to say it's been awhile, and even THEN I at least got something out of it. All I'm getting out of my dealings with Arkansas' non-resident income tax forms is a sore ass, a pounding headache, and the mind-blowing desire to climb a clock tower.

I guess it could be worse. At least we'll be getting a refund. Not as big as I'd initially thought, but anything's better than paying in come April 15th. Oh, April SEVENTEENTH...my bad. Some new 'big two day bonus extension!' they were spouting off about on the tax site. 'Cause that two days? I'm sure will make a huge difference to financially-strapped, borderline-homicidal taxpayers all across the country. Oh, that three grand the IRS wanted? It was a HUGE burden before, but thanks to their overwhelming generosity of spirit prompting a two-day delay? It's now CAKE. A veritable WALK in the goddamned PARK.

Phhhttt.

I wouldn't mind the taxes, really, if they were a)fair, and b)getting important shit done. You know, like, oh, I don't know... health care? Better public schools and playgrounds? More police officers/teachers/emergency workers? Education opportunities for EVERYONE? Call me crazy, but for that kind of thing I'd pay MORE in taxes. I observe some of the countries that so many people here seem to look down on (calling them 'lazy', 'bleeding heart', 'unmotivated', 'liberal', 'socialist', 'over-taxed', etc.) and am amazed at the shortsightedness of the political and cultural machine around me that it can't better appreciate what is important. Most countries that we disdain have long vacations for all workers. People call it laziness or inability to work and function in a 'motivated' way. I call it having your priorities in the right places. None of us should be living our lives as slaves to a job, leaving no time and no room for emotional growth and no opportunity to leave the world a better place that we found it. In those other countries? They KNOW that. Here? Not so much. We're by and large a less happy, less healthy, and less aware population than these so-called 'losers' in countries like Switzerland, so how is it we have any leg at all to stand on when we condemn them disparage their way of living? I wonder what is wrong with people that they can't see the inherent value in a society that cares for each of its members. We in this country are so busy judging people, whether it be by their intelligence, their looks, their family, their financial background... whatever, and deciding who should and should not receive our help based on some fucked up arbitrary standard, that we're missing the entire POINT. Not everyone in life starts out with the same advantages or, conversely, disadvantages. Not everyone is smart. Not everyone is emotionally balanced and full of positive thinking. Not everyone has been taught (or in some cases is able to learn) the so-called value of hard work and initiative. These things are facts. But the problem here is that most people see and observe to be true these facts and choose, willfully, to punish or judge the members of our society that may just not have the basic equipment to do as well as others. Does this mean they should be ignored or, as so often tragically happens, weeded out of the general population, victims of both scorn and apathy?

I make a habit of mockery and sarcasm. It works for me. It's my way of coping with the world around me and the pain and confusion I feel on a regular basis. Everyone has to have a talent. But when it comes down to it, I'm appalled that after thousands of years of alleged progress and evolution, the people around me still find the concept of sharing, regardless of perceived 'worth', to be anathema. I catch myself sometimes feeling angry at people who are milking the system. At first I thought this was because, much like every other political loudmouth in the media, I hated the whole idea of 'handouts'. I finally figured something out. It's not the handout I hate, it's the fact the help that's needed by so many is offered to so few, leaving those that need help but cannot get it bitter, disaffected and in ongoing pain and hardship; that we've created an environment where a handout is necessary, not to mention the fact that the word 'handout' is even used in a negative way. A handout should be a positive word... a hand offered out to a fellow person in need, a person offering another person support and aid when they're not strong enough, or are too traumatized, victimized, and emotionally damaged, to do it for themselves. It should be a beautiful thing. Instead it's used as a derogatory indictment, a way of spitting vitriol on those who aren't in a position to defend themselves.

Man, where the hell was I?

(...)

Taxes suck.

I Remember When…

... weekends were looked forward to all week because, hey! Fucking off! Sleeping in! Reveling in one's abandon! (...) Now I'm closing in on an age that strikes fear into the hearts of women the world over and find that my weekends?

Have evolved into something that looks suspiciously like work.

I'm going to spend my day cleaning house. Woofuckinghoo. The cat box is in dire need of attention (just cleaned the damned thing out a day or two ago, but Special? The economy sized cat that lives here and frequently causes bouts of paralytic numbness in legs he happens to lay on? Has developed a couple of disturbing behavior patterns the last couple of weeks. First, and least important, is the fact that he now goes into a hissing FIT whenever Puffmeister gets anywhere near him. He also occasionally hisses at random inanimate objects, but we're attributing that to catnip flashbacks. Secondly, and most inconvenient to all parties involved, is the fact that he's now effectively taken up RESIDENCE in the litter box. I'm not kidding. During a five minute conversation with my husband yesterday, here in the office where the cat litter owns a corner of the room, Special was in and out of that litter box no less than three, yes, THREE, times. I mean, seriously... what the fuck? He seems to be in fine health, has exhibited no other signs of any physical issues, but he can't seem to pry his fat ass out of that litter box for more than 2 minutes at a shot. This has obviously played hell with both the state of the litter box AND our Scoop Away budget. I may have to trade him in for a Chinchilla. And this has officially turned into the single longest parenthetical sidebar in the history of man...), as well as the laundry, my bathroom, the kitchen, the floors, the living room... hell, I might as well just clean the neighbor's house while I'm at it. Couldn't make much difference at this point.

There's also the cooking to be done today. I'm probably going to go with chili. It's fast, relatively easy, makes for good leftovers, and doesn't break the bank. I'm allowed to change my mind any time between now and the trip to the grocery store, should the thought of spending two days in a house with two males that have been eating chili with beans and a cat that is taking power shits prove to be too much to bear. I make no promises.

I had a hugely stressful week at work, but that's pretty much come to be the norm. I haven't yet killed anyone, so that's two points for me. It's been a close thing, but I quail at the thought of prison clothes, so I exercise restraint. And prison food. And being traded for cigarettes.

Yeah, no killing anyone.

I'm going to jack up my stereo in approximately ten minutes. It serves two purposes... it helps keep me moving and motivated while cleaning house (hard to sit on one's ass with 'Slow Ride' rattling the rafters), and it drives my husband around the bend. He's not one much for music. Unlike me. I looooooooove music. I don't play it much at home because, no matter the volume, it becomes obvious he's a very unhappy camper when I turn my Winamp on, but every once in awhile it just has to be done. I sat last night browsing through my music and playing all kinds of stuff (from Randy Travis to Goldfrapp to Meatloaf. Woohoo for liking a little bit of everything!) for hours. Made me realize how much I miss listening to it on a regular basis. Jonathan and I may have to work out some schedule or something... either that I or I smother him in his sleep.

WHAT?!?