Only Nola

Little Things

I have three words for you...

Urinary. Tract. Infection.

(...)

Anyone else feel like crying?

More later. Assuming I haven't thrown myself in front of a bus.

Are You DEEF?

As I mentioned before, I am currently re-entering the twilight zone known as the home building experience. I know, I know... don't say it. Anywaaaaaaaaaay. I close on the building lot next Friday. Building lots, for those that don't know, are extremely small pieces of overpriced land that you buy from a developer in order to have a place to build your small, overpriced home, therein making both the developer and the builder very happy people. And enabling their wives to drive Mercedes. See how that all fits together? Just one big circle of fucking life.

But I digress...

So I found a lot in a new subdivision just about two minutes from my current home. This particular subdivision is very nice... pool, clubhouse, etc. It also, needless to say, comes with a set of covenants and restrictions roughly the size of the King James bible. Covenants and restrictions, for the uninitiated, are the guidelines/rules/edicts passed down from the mountain that the developer put in place that all the hostagesinhabitants of said subdivision have to build their homes by and then live by. Everything from how far your house has to be from the curb and how many TREES you have to have in your YARD (no, I'm not kidding... TREES, people. How MANY.) to what materials you can use on the exterior of the house and whether or not you can park in your own driveway. Again... not kidding. They have actual rules about parking in your driveway. And leaving your garage door open when it's not in use. NOT KIDDING.

Now, there are obviously pro's and con's to having an HOA (home owners' association. See how informative I am? So goddamned helpful I can't even live with myself.), that being the governing body that lives to enforce the covenants and restrictions. The pro's are, primarily, protecting your real estate value. If you have an active HOA, and even a half decent set of covenants and restrictions, you won't have that one house next door to yours that looks like it was taken over by a band of marauding sewer rats on a three month bender. You know, the house with the washer that's sitting in the front yard and the windows held together by pieces of duct tape. THAT house. THAT house drops the resale value of YOUR house significantly. 'Cause no one wants to live next door to Clark Griswold's brother-in-law, Eddie. (Wasn't that his name? It's six thirty in the fucking morning... I can't be bothered to double check my trivia when I can barely bring my eyes to focus.)

So an HOA ensures that your neighborhood maintains certain standards. Those that don't uphold their end of the C & R bargain get fined or, in worst case scenarios, can even be forced to sell their homes and move their happy asses back to the trailer from whence they came. (Oh, for fuck's sake... don't everyone get their collective panties in a twist. Not EVERYONE that lives in a trailer lives like that. I KNOW, for the love of GOD. It was a JOKE. One that, by the way, I'm perfectly entitled to make since a)I spent a good part of my life in an area with a LOT of trailers, so I know from first hand observation of what I speak, and b)I actually lived in a trailer a time or two in my younger days. So bite me.) I've never personally known someone that that has happened to, but I've heard stories. The same stories the HOA uses to keep the other homeowners in line and quaking with fear. But the C & R's do help keep your neighborhood nice... visually attractive and orderly. Maybe a whisper of Madeleine L'Engle, but... whatever.

The downside is, of course, that they're always in your fucking business. You give up a pretty large amount of control of your personal space in order to make sure you have some order, safety, and investment return in your life. Just one of those little trade-off's that makes life so festive. If people could be trusted to take care of their shit without being monitored like sixth graders, all of this wouldn't be necessary, but you know what the odds of THAT are.

Phhhttttt.

Anyhoo. I'm closing on the lot next Friday, like I said. Now comes the fun part. Picking a builder and picking a home design. I actually found the house plan that I want online. Took it to the drafter dude day before yesterday so he could help me fine tune it and make me some blueprints, thus enabling me to get detailed estimates/bids from the prospective builders and start the building process. The drafter dude should TOTALLY be me friend.

(...)

Oh, for crying. out. LOUD.

Ever notice how there are just some people who shouldn't have jobs that require them to have any human interaction whatsoever? As in ZERO? Well, my drafter dude's one of those. And even more so if it's a female human. 'Cause apparently? All of us women are just too stupid and confused to be allowed to LIVE. Just so you know.

I had the single most frustrating meeting with drafter dude that I think I've ever had with anyone. Ever. I left that office after an hour and twenty five minutes of what felt suspiciously like some scene from Bloodsport. (Jean Claude, before he was an international joke. I shit you not. There actually WAS a time when Jean Claude was not an endless source of pointing and laughing.) I was so flusterbated (another Nola-ism. You can thank me later.) by the time I got done with him that I just left my deposit check for his services and got the fuck out of there. It felt like my brain had been attacked by a sentient, and rather malicious, Cuisinart. After I left, however, I just got angrier and angrier. The more I thought about the nutsack in the office, the more I wanted to go back and acquaint him with the wonders of the spork. Everything I said I wanted, he told me I didn't. Everything I said I didn't want, he said I had to have. (Like a walk-out basement. It's the big damned deal around here these days, but I don't like them. Yeah, I said it... I DON'T LIKE THEM. That is, apparently, some kind of sacrilege around here, but I care roughly two shits worth. I find them both unattractive and, from a security standpoint, as helpful as a testicle growing off the back of one's neck.) He used the tone of voice with me that one usually reserves for dealing with someone that neither speaks English nor has the ability to add single digit numbers. CONSTANTLY. He would cut me off (which I loathe, just so you know), or, even better, just TALK OVER ME. Which is totally endearing. Totally.

I ended up walking out of a meeting that was supposed to be about a roughly 2600 square foot house with my head trying to wrap around the concept of the now THIRTY FIVE HUNDRED square foot house. 'Cause drafter dude? Completely buys into that concept of go big or stay home.

I have since gotten a referral for a different drafter. I just have to call this morning to cancel assbag's work and see if I can get my deposit back. Since he's only done a day's work on the project, I can't believe I'll lose ALL my deposit, but if I do, well... another one of life's lovely little lessons learned.

I should have known I'd hate him since I hated his assistant LAST year. I didn't meet him last year, but I dealt with his assistant on the fiasco with that other house we all remember so well. She was an obnoxious, antisocial, overbearing, ugly twat THEN... and remains so TODAY. I had cause to exchange about two sentences with her when I was setting my appointment with him, and immediately remembered her. With HATE, people. HATE.

(...)

Can you tell what time of the month it is?

Glutton for Punishment, Party of One

Long time no write, eh? I know, I know... I'm as reliable as a 1981 Chevette. Actually, that's not fair to say. My first car was a 1981 Chevette (yeah, I'm old... what's your point?), and that bitch was damned near indestructible. Had a top coat of Kryptonite or something. Sure, after a number of crashes, car chases, and endless benign neglect, it finally gave the fuck up and DIED, but it put forth a valiant effort. I can still see the eyes of that asshat that pulled out in front of me (and my poor, ill-fated Chevette, obviously, since I wasn't jogging down the main drag in my hometown) on that Friday night... the eyes of a deer in the headlights. Literally. He decided, in his infinite wisdom, that the accessory his car was missing was a 1981 Chevette glommed on to the driver's side door, and all he needed to do was jump out in front of traffic from the McDonald's parking lot to get it.

Pretty sure it was his penis doing the driving that night.

But I digress...

All I can tell you is that life continues to be hectic, no matter how much I keep trying to convince myself that it's going to slow down ANY MINUTE. YES, IT WILL.

Phhhhtttt.

First off, let me state here, for the record, that there are two kinds of people... cat people and dog people. That's just a fact. I know this because I have, at this very moment, three cats, in various positions of sloth, living in my house. And what I no longer have?

A puppy.

Yeah, that's right. Saturday I fell victim to the impulse purchase of ALL impulse purchases. I bought a goddamned puppy. Now, here's the thing... I like dogs. And puppies. But I like them like I like babies... in that 'Oh, now I can give you back to the people that get to wipe your ass' kind of way. But years had passed, and I'd forgotten the limitations on my love for dogs and/or puppies. I was going to Wal-Mart, minding my own business, when what did I see before me? Someone with a big portable pen full of itty tiny puppies. So of course I stopped. 'Cause that's the kind of boneheaded thing I do. Regularly. Well, my only intention was to PET the goddamned things. Cuddle them for a minute and go on my way. (...) HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Gah. Whatever. Ray and Connor both took to the pup (a Shih Tzu... go ahead, say it out loud and laugh. I do. SHIT ZOO. You really can't help yourself.) immediately. I liked her fine... she was cute, what was not to like? The long and short of it is that I ended up paying for a small furry bundle...

of MISERY.

Yes, puppy was cute. (I named her Posh, by the way. Not after Mrs. Beckham, nitwit... that part is incidental. What am I, 12?) Yes, she was affectionate. Yes, you had to make that involuntary 'awwwwwwww' noise every time you saw her. It's like genetically encoded or something.

And YES, dear GOD, was she LOUD.

Whining and screeching and howling, oh my. Try to get some sleep at night. Put her in her kennel. Let the fun begin. Puppy, FYI? Does not LIKE the kennel. Puppy wants to set the kennel on FIRE. Puppy, needless to say, wants to make sure you KNOW the extent of her loathing for the aforementioned kennel. InCESSantly.

I thought I was going to have to throw myself in front of a bus. Just to get some fucking SLEEP.

And the potty training. Good God, the potty training. I seriously had that dog outside for an hour. And what did she NOT do? That is, until the MINUTE I let her back in the house? Yeah, that's right. I can't tell you how much I loved that.

The puppy I paid for (I don't even want to think about it. Shut up.) is now, happily enough, living with a girlfriend of mine and her family. Josie's a doll, and her whole family is ga-ga for Shih Tzu's (SHIT ZOO'S.... WHEEEEEEE!), so she was more than willing to relieve me of Posh. I couldn't help it. If I'd lost one more night's sleep, I'd have gone postal. Now, I wouldn't have done what some people do, which is buy a puppy, suffer buyer's remorse, and haul said puppy off to the pound or whatnot. No, if I hadn't had a friend that wanted her and would love her, I would have kept her. Might have strangled her, but I'd have kept her. But luckily for all parties involved, that wasn't the case.

Josie informed me, after taking Posh home two days ago, that a)yes, she thinks Posh is every bit as cute as I said she was (and she is... just an adorable little thing. I should have put a picture up with this post, but I'm sure you'll all recover from the loss.), b)her kids are just nuts about her, and c)the dog promptly took a shit on the white carpet about two minutes after Josie's husband got home. The same husband who told her she could have the dog if it WOULDN'T shit on her carpet.

I love my cats.