Only Nola

It’s Connected to the Testicles…

I guess some things are just dick things... things that women will never understand (and I thank God for that every. single. DAY.) and seldom appreciate.

Like farting.

To a woman a fart is alternately a source of mild humiliation (depending on a) the decibel level of the aforementioned fart (silence is key. Trust.), b) the strength of the smell of the aforementioned fart, and c) the number of people flattened by it.) and a mere fact of human biology. It's just something, albeit slightly disgusting and best done when NOT in the presence of others, that the body does. One lives with it.

To a man?

(...) A fart is almost cause for a party and a full page ad in the New York Post. Especially if it's strong enough to singe nose hairs and kill house plants. And small pets. Men get together and actually (I swear I'm not kidding) reminisce about farts gone by. Honest to God. You can't MAKE this shit up. No pun intended. Men will not quietly fart and hope no one notices... men will fart as loudly as possible, and if, heaven forfend, they happen to have a quiet fart? They will make sure to let everyone know that they did, in fact, fart, and where exactly the radius of destruction is located.

Burping, nose picking, coughing up the proverbial lung... all dick things, I guess. I am, as a woman, woefully out of the loop on the charms of the word 'anus', as used for the purposes of hysterical laughter and interjections of 'Dude, you said anus'.

*sighs*

I wonder if cavemen played 'pull my finger'?

Hot Stove, Anyone?

For those of you who have been reading my writing (or what passes for writing on a good day) for at least a year and a half (and I know some of you are out there... I can hear the sound of you violently lurking. You know who you are.), the words next coming from my mouth may induce the uncontrollable urge to throw me in front of a bus (then again, some of you may have that already. I'm not even going there). So prepare yourselves...

I'm considering building a new house.

A new house... yeah, as opposed to building an OLD house. Fuck off. You knew what I meant.

So I'm sure we all remember what I went through with my last attempt at having a house built. There was much pulling of the hair, general cursing, and the involvement of expensive legal counsel. All to end with me NOT having the house that I'd planned so carefully. Settling instead on the house I'm in now. Which is fine. Don't get me wrong. My house is nice and all, it's just not the one that I thought we'd be living in after five months of picking hardware, fixtures, carpet, tile, doors, windows... hours and hours of visiting the building site, having meetings with architects and subcontractors... plotting every single detail from cabinet placement to garage door arches...

BUT I'M NOT BITTER!

Anyhoo. That house ended in disaster. For all parties. My ulcers had ulcers (which sublet to yet MORE ulcers... good times) by the time the fat lady sang. And dug her cleats into my back, just for good measure. Fecund cow. May she rot in hell. I was fairly certain that I'd learned my lesson.

(...)

We're talking about me here, right? I just HAD to touch that hot stove again, didn't I?

I'm currently in talks with ANOTHER builder. He's built some lovely homes out in a very small town about 20 minutes from my current house. We're going to get a final estimate from him today or tomorrow, and then, well... I have a decision to make. Whether or not to throw myself in front of the proverbial bus. Again.

There are pro's, you know. There's nothing quite like getting to customize your home, make it exactly the way you want it. We've already had him move a few walls, change some living space, change the countertops to solid surface, price a tile shower (instead of one of the lovely one-piece plastic numbers. Call me crazy.), blah blah blah. I'm getting the bug again. So far, my addiction hasn't overridden my common sense, but, really? It's just a matter of time. I'm a pedestal sink away from a complete and utter meltdown.

(...)

Does anyone else hear voices?

And There He Went Again…

Connor is nothing if not entertaining. Must be genetic. *tap dances across the room*

(...)

Um. Where was I?

Ray and I took Connor to the Franklin Institute last Sunday while we were in Philadelphia. It's one of those natural history/hands on kind of museums, mostly, with an IMAX (which, fyi? You can TOTALLY sleep through. Yes. you. CAN. I know this because about five minutes into 'Underwater Monsters', I was pretty much snoring and drooling on Ray's shoulder. Guess those monsters weren't nearly scary enough to earn the title, 'cause they put me straight the fuck to sleep. I wonder if I could have asked for a refund?) and all in it.

First off, I have to address the fact that the parking? In a big city like Philadelphia? Sucks BALLS. I hate to parallel park in the first place (not that I can't, mind you, 'cause I can, and am actually pretty good at it, I just HATE it. Hating it and being able to do it are not mutually exclusive.), and I also have issues with my new car being treated like a pinball bumper. Have you SEEN what the front and rear ends of cars in the city look like due to the parking situation? They look like the automotive equivalent of the Donner party. I guess that city dwellers figure that both common sense (you're NOT going to fit an extended cab truck in a spot roughly the size of a CAT BOX) and respect for the property of others (using your front bumper to shove the car in the spot in front of yours directly into the intersection? Not so much full of the respect. Psychosis, maybe, but not respect.) are completely optional. And the parking meters? Don't get me started. Yet...

So there we are, in the Franklin Institute. We were waiting to go into the IMAX and decided to get some popcorn and a drink (for roughly the price of the national debt of UGANDA) and sit in the snack bar to kill a few minutes. Well, Connor had disappeared around the corner by the bathroom for a second... he's 9, they do that. He comes back directly and asks me if I have two quarters and penny. Sounds innocent enough, right?

(...)

Connor: Mom, can I have two quarters and a penny?

Me (blankly... 'cause what the fuck do you do with a penny in this day and age anyway?): Connor, I don't think I have quarters. The meter ate them all. What do you need them for?

Connor: There's a machine 'round the corner that will tell me where I'm gonna DIE.

(...)

Me (wondering what kind of nutjob is in charge of vending/entertainment equipment at the Franklin Institute): Squeeze me? Baking powder?

Connor: Yeah, it says it'll tell you where you're gonna die. Pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase can I have two quarters and a penny?

Me: Sorry, buddy. I'm quarterless. Guess you'll just have to find out where you're going to die like the rest of us.

So, a little time goes by. We're sitting there, eating what is potentially the worst popcorn on the freaking PLANET, along with an orange soda. Connor keeps running back around the corner to visit the Machine of DOOM (or so I affectionately called it. Out loud.), and returning to the table to stare at me with what I'm sure is his best beg face. Ha! He has no idea who he's dealing with. I'm made of sterner stuff than that, by god. I have an iron will! I bend to nothing! I have the ability to withstand the beg face with no effort at all! I have...

Two quarters hiding under my Bluetooth. Well, shit.

Guess who got the quarters? Oh, shut up.

So off Connor goes, with his newfound wealth in his sweaty little paws, making a beeline for the aforementioned M.O.D. I'm talking to Ray when Connor comes walking slowly back, staring at something in his hands. I'm sitting there thinking that I'm going to be sticking him in therapy because of the M.O.D., and calculating the odds of holding the Franklin Institute even partially responsible. Hey, a girl's got to think ahead.

Me: Well, Connor? What's the verdict?

Connor: I think it did it wrong. Or else I'm going to die right HERE.

Me (thinking that the odds of holding the Franklin Institute responsible just went through the goddamned roof): HERE? It says you're going to die HERE?

Connor: Uh huh. *holding out his hand to show me a pressed penny that the M.O.D. gave him* See?

Me (taking the penny and wishing I had my two quarters back): Um, honey? This just has an impression of Ben Franklin on it and the name of the place where you GOT the penny pressed... I don't see anything about where you're going to die.

Connor: *pointing frantically from the penny to the M.O.D.* But it SAID... that it would give me a penny that was about where I'd be buried!

Me (finally connecting the 9 year old dots): Um, baby? Did you by any chance read a sign that said your penny would be engraved?

Connor: YES! ENGRAVED! That's where I'll be buried and DIE!

(...)

Oh, my. It took Ray and I a few minutes to pull ourselves together (and nearly off the floor) and set Connor straight on the actual definition of ENGRAVED, but suffice it to say?

Kids are priceless.

Remind me to share the story about Connor telling Ray to eat me...

AWOL

Sorry I haven't been around... again. I'm in Pennsylvania, but am gearing up for the trip home as we speak. I'll be on again by Wednesday, assuming I'm not struck by lightning between now and then.

(...)

I promise nothing.