Only Nola

Want Want Want

I am the keeper of my realtor's Corvette.  It's a hard job, really... letting it sit in my third garage bay, safe from the elements, and getting to take it out and drive it when I want.  Poor me.  Did I mention it's a convertible?  Uh huh.  Go ahead, hate me.  I'm used to it.  I mean, I have a car that I love and all (my CTS is my baby, and I don't care who knows it, dammit), but honestly?  There's just something about a convertible in the first place, much less a convertible Corvette.  I mean, Jesus... the car is just power and sex scrambled together and stuck on wheels.  I get in the driver's seat and suddenly feel like a Bond girl.  Okay, a thirty NINE year old Bond girl, but still... BOND GIRL.

I'm not sure the realtor is ever getting that car back.

It Happened Again

Well, like it or not it happened again... I had a birthday.  Thursday, to be precise.  While I'd like to pretend the clock is actually running backward, the fact is that I'm now thirty nine.  THIRTY NINE... how the fuck did that happen?  I could have sworn I was 26 just a minute ago.  Phhhtt.  But no, both my birth certificate and the gray hairs that show up with alarming and increasing frequency testify to the fact that I am, indeed, thirty nine years old.  Years keep passing, alternately flying and dragging by, bringing with them new trauma and surprises of all sorts, whether I like it or not.

It's festive.