Only Nola

Bump in the Night

So... Ray and I took Connor to his first haunted house the other night. Thursday, to be exact. And you know what I learned?

I still hate those fucking people.

37 years old and my scream will still shatter glass. I admit it... I'm a little tightly wrapped. So when I go to a haunted house (which I have, by the way, successfully avoided for 10 years. There's a REASON I didn't go for 10 years, too... might have something to do with potential death and/or dismemberment to the staff of the aforementioned haunted house, but I can't swear to it.), I go prepared. There are certain things I must have to set foot in a place like The Hotel of Horror (no, I'm not making that up. That's what it's called. Doesn't that just REEK of warm fuzzies?):

1.) Big strong man. That's mandatory. No room for bargaining. If I don't have the BSM, then whose arm am I going to rip off when Chucky comes up behind me and whispers in my ear that he's going to EAT ME. And who am I going to use as a shield between me and whatever is lurking around the corner (and they're ALWAYS lurking around the corner... trust me on this one. Lurking is a job requirement. That and the ability to take a right hook. Not that I'm saying I'd actually hit one of these people... *coughs*) if I don't have a BSM firmly attached, via death grip, to my hands? And who am I going to use as bait for walking through the pitch black maze (that one has to crawl through, fyi. Good times.), while I stick my head under the back of his sweater and pretend I'm still at home with my cats and my Godiva chocolate, if not a BSM? I'm not stupid... I go with what works.

2.) My purse. My BIG purse. A right hook is fine, but a well swung purse can really level a playing field.

3.) Comfortable shoes. A set of high heels is dandy for any number of situations, but when one is faced with dark corridors and things that go bump in the night, one (okay, me... I'm not responsible for the rest of you) should be wearing shoes that, in time of need, can effectively aid in propelling one OVER the people misguidedly standing between one's self and the fucking EXIT. Nola don't play.

4.) Cough drops. By the time I get out of said haunted house, my throat feels like it was used as a testing ground for industrial strength sandpaper. Buy in bulk.

Yeah, I don't go often. Can't imagine why.

Connor had a great time. Ray kept reminding him that it was all fake, and for the most part Connor went into it with that in his mind, chatting with the ghoulies and laughing at most of the special effects. Or so I hear. It was hard for me to tell with my head stuck up the back of Ray's sweater. There were a couple of times that Connor got pretty adamant about his position, though... his position being firmly stuck to the top of the stairs, and no interest at all in moving forward. But eventually we persuaded (okay, pried his clenched fingers off the handrail with a CROWBAR... whatever. Let's not split hairs.) Connor to move along, and all was right with the world.

When we left, the little shit wanted to go through it AGAIN.

(...)

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA... HA... Ha........... ha....... h.............. a.........

Oh, HELL no.

Changes in the Air

I'm sure you're all ready for a nice, fat post about something like one of my cats spontaneously combusting in a flurry of hairballs or me beaning the chick at the drive-thru window with one of my high heels, but for now? Just be happy with a short post about some changes I've made.

Listen closely, Grasshopper...

Comments now will await moderation before being posted. I wrote and published something on here last week that was, ill-advised or not, deeply personal and important to me. I've come to a point of not caring so much whether or not anyone else agrees with what I posted, as it's a decision that each person can only make for him/herself (and most of you that have been around for any length of time know that I share a lot on this blog, for good or for ill. It's just who I am, and I'm okay with that. Mostly.), and I'm fine with people voicing their own opinions, in the general scheme of things. That's what I have the comments section for. What I take exception to, however, is people using the space to twist facts or outright lie about me, on my own blog, in order to score points off of me, in public, because they're unhappy with their own lives. That I find reprehensible. And to do so under a pseudonym, well... that's just a kicker. If you're going to attack me, and try to sway the opinion of my readers against me, then have the balls to post under your own name. It's not like I don't know who you are, anyway. Helloooooooooo, ISP identification! It's a wonderful thing. I could, if I so chose, correct the post that was put up to reflect your real name and email, but, well... that would make me entirely too much like you, so I'll just leave that for now. And to post what you did from a work computer? That's probably something that could get you in trouble. You might want to watch that in the future. Just a little helpful advice.

I've learned something valuable from all I've been through recently. Actually, I've learned a number of things. Quelle surprise! We'll do these in order of importance. (Are you sitting down for this?)

1.) People love to judge. (...) I know, I know... I was just as shocked as you are! But, surprisingly enough, it's true. Now I, in my writing, will often appear to judge things that I seriously don't, just because it's a tool of creative license and makes for funnier fare. In reality, as those that know me can attest to, I'm open minded, often to the point of being detrimental to my own well-being. That being said, I've just been amazed at the people who, having never lived in my position of stood in my shoes, have judged me for my actions and condemned me in the process. I'm an imperfect creature, as we all are, and am bound to make mistakes. But there are also decisions that I've made, and will continue to make, that are NOT mistakes, but merely different choices than the ones that other people would make. That doesn't make me wrong, it just makes me... me. Being different or needing different things or healing in a different way shouldn't invite vitriol and judgement, it should just be a path that is my own and no one else's. But hey. Give people half a chance and they'll stand on your neck in order to feel shitloads taller. It's festive.

2.) Grief is an individual process. Everyone has a pre-conceived notion of what is and is not acceptable after the loss of a loved one (not one's OWN loved one, mind you... but someone ELSE'S loved one. I'm sure if it was THEIR loved one that died, well, then they'd just feel all kinds of different about having people's input into the whole thing. Funny thing, perspective...), and they're not afraid to share it or proclaim the rightness thereof. I'm not sure if it would qualify as irony, but the fact that these same people don't have, 99% of the time, their own shit in order, either mentally or physically, before casting aspersions on your own character or choices, just slays me. They obviously missed the little thing about glass houses and stones...

3.) Life is short. (...) News flash there, eh? Seriously, though... it IS. I know that as well or better than anyone. I always have, really. I've lived my life trying to get as much out of every experience as I can, both good and bad. On good days, I even look back at the really traumatic things and put them in the perspective of 'well, if THAT hadn't happened to me, then I'd have missed this other really good thing over here.' That works sometimes. But either way, I know it more now, with Jonathan dying so suddenly and so young. And you know what I've gathered, life being short and all that? That happiness, and the pursuit thereof, is a blessing, no matter the timing, the approval of others, or the way it may fall outside the box. There is so much unhappiness running rampant in the world today, that passing up a chance for even a handful of it, even a taste of it, just because of either of the aforementioned factors? Is not only a waste, it's a sin. God is nothing but love, and to those that think that he'd rather see people suffer over something as malleable and inconsistent as the views of the moral majority or the number of ticks on a clock, I say, resoundingly... PHHHHHHHHHTTTTTTT.

*wipes off monitor*

I've got a friend that's helping me assert myself a bit more in real life, where I tend to bend a bit too much to public opinion and feel the weight of people's nastiness more than I should. I'm effectively taking Fuck You 101.

I'm so hoping for an A...

Target Practice

I have decided that me, driving down the road in any vehicle whatsoever? Equals a rolling target. Seriously. I was on the highway the other day making a little trip and three, count them, THREE times some assbag nearly rammed me right off into the median. 'Cause me and the median are obviously meant for one another, you know. I don't know if I have some cloaking device that I'm unaware of (and NASA would love to get their hands on) or what, but it's like they don't even see me. Or, if they do see me, they just hate me on sight. Which is not outside the realm of possibility. I have that effect on people. I think it's a pheromone. Or a curse. One of those.

I feel so special.

I particularly love the people that move over into my lane (aiming for the spot that is, surprisingly enough, currently occupied... by ME... in my CAR... the one that's actually hard to MISS) without even looking to see if it's a bright idea. Okay, I get that they may not care if they turn me into a pile of scrap metal, but don't they even care that they MIGHT end up part of the trauma in the process? Is there NO sense of self-preservation in their wiring? Or do they think they're on a mission from GOD? News flash, people... God is taking care of making my life one festivity after the next just fine... he needs no outside help.

So today I get to run more errands. I have to go to the bank to check on some things, then go to the car dealership and make sure they put that stupid check through instead of sitting on it for another week (which is what they did with the check I wrote them for the first half of the car I bought... don't ask me why. You'd think they'd be all 'Woohoo! Money!' and have run it right through, but instead they apparently just sat and stared at it for a week. Must be a guy thing.) so that I can then go to the DMV and pay the taxes on the new car and get my tags transferred over and all. I also need to get a new drivers license... one that actually has the correct address on it, as opposed to the address on it NOW, which would be at the house I lived in over a year ago.

WHAT?!?

Then I need to get my car washed, since it seems that I took out every bug between here and Kansas City over the weekend. EVERY bug. They were all on suicide missions and figured that the best way to meet their goal was to splatter their little buggy bodies on my brand new car. While I applaud their commitment and dedication to a specific purpose (hey, gotta love a strongly formed sense of focus), I wish they'd aimed at the lovely 1972 POS that I kept running into, in various incarnations, instead of my new baby. But what's a girl to do? Head down to the car wash place and ogle the hot boys that do the buffing and rubbing of the car. THAT'S what.

God bless a car wash.