Only Nola

Pieces

*blows the dust off*  Wow, it's been awhile.  I don't think there's even anyone around to scold me anymore, since they've all probably assumed I'm dead by now.  Hey, look!  Still breathing! 

I guess it's been so long since I posted because a lot has gone on in my life that wasn't really fit to share with the universe.  That's still the case, unfortunately, but I figured I'd share something that was funny, non-offensive and not likely to send any minors or family members into cardiac arrest.  Well, minus the language part... we all know I'm part sailor.

So the other day I was thinking about how much I pay for insurance (private, since I don't get it through an employer) and, after keeling over sideways and spasming for awhile, I sat up and decided to call my insurance company to see what we could do/change to lower my rates.  Now, I have my insurance payments set up on my automatic bill pay through my bank, controlled at MY end, not my insurance company's.  Same amount, same date, every month.  No worries, right?  Well, back in December I called to check on something else and was told I was $30 behind... what?  How could I be behind when I actually pay a little over the 'have to' amount every month?  Well, it turns out they'd raised my rates in November (for reasons known only to those that work in the mysterious health-care universe... they don't have to tell the likes of ME or YOU, they just get to DO IT) and not told me about it.  I guess that whole idea of notification is outside their reality and not to be considered.  So anyway.  I say fine, I pay the difference, and change my bill pay to reflect the new amount.  $290 a month.  And this is NOT even for fabulous coverage or anything, mind you.  God, $290... even typing it out is painful.

So a couple of weeks ago I call in, as previously mentioned, for that 'how can we lower my rates?' call.  I'm told I'm $65 behind. (...)  Seriously?  What the FUCK?  I'm told that my rates went up yet again in January.  And, again, WITHOUT TELLING ME.  So I'm now at three hundred and whatever a month, right?  AU CONTRAIRE!  That is what I've been at since JANUARY... it's going up AGAIN, she tells me, in APRIL.  To the tune of?  *insert foaming-at-the-mouth drumroll here*  Another $100 a month.  So we're now in the range of $430 a month, come April.  All without notice.  And all when I've not cost them a fucking DIME.  The few doctor's visits I've had have been more than covered by my goddamned premium that they rake in every month, and the one time I had to go to E.R. for something, I had to pay for that OUT OF FUCKING POCKET, so so far?  They've collected over SEVEN THOUSAND DOLLARS from me and paid out maybe, oh, let's say $800, max.  And they're RAISING MY RATES OVER AND OVER?  Oh. my. GOD.  I was about ready to reach through that phone and strangle that twit right where she sat.  Unfortunately, it's really not her fault.  She doesn't set the prices.  It sure would have felt good, though.  Instead I did the only thing consumers can do... I started shopping around.

For those of you that haven't had to shop for private insurance, let me just tell you that it sucks BALLS.  They're all going to fuck you, in one way or another, and so it becomes a case of just trying to see who is at least going to kiss you afterward.  And maybe buy you a drink.

I finally settled on a company.  I did all the deductible comparisons, picked a plan, blah blah blah.  Now we're finally getting to the funny part.  I told you it was coming, right?  I do try and keep my promises.

So I'm on the phone with this complete BITCH named Jennifer whose job it is to take all my health history information.  I find this hysterical, since they then go get your health records, anyway, and all that information is in there, but whatever.  I guess they just need to justify giving people like Jennifer a paycheck.  All part of the torture, no additional charge.  So we're winding our way through approximately 3,012 questions about 'have you ever had diarrhea?', and she gets to the winner...

"Have you ever committed suicide?"

(...)

Seriously.  I'm not making it up.  I couldn't MAKE up something like that. 

I sat there for a minute and then laughed and said, "Um, no, surprisingly enough... I'm still here." 

Nothing.  I had found, unwittingly, Jennifer's Achilles' heel... bitch was born without a sense of humor.  She repeated the question, I suppose because she was bored?, and I said, "I'm sorry, but I have to laugh... don't these people KNOW what they're giving you on those sheets of paper to say to customers on the phone?  I mean, really... have I ever committed suicide?"  I was literally wiping tears from my eyes and nearly wheezing.

Jennifer was not amused.

I so heart insurance companies.

Ha

Just 'cause I'm easily amused... (and 'cause I'm too lazy to post right now... I know, I know, I'm behind, but I'll post something real soon.  Until then... yay, youtube!)

New Addition... God Help Me

I've said it before (years ago, but some of  you have been reading that long... god bless you) and I'll say it again... I have a huge sign over my house (and I think also tattoed on my forehead) that only cats can read.  It roughly translates into 'SUCKER!', but depending on the dialect of the cat that is viewing it, can also  read 'WELCOME... AND BRING ALL  YOUR FRIENDS!'

*sighs*

Meet Praline.

This innocent looking little furbag invaded my home a week ago.  She looks cute, doesn't she?  Harmless, even.  But she has wiles, I tell you!  Not content to just be a visitor and get some free chow and be on her way, she infiltrated to the ultimate weak spot...

That was when I was officially screwed.  *sighs*  Kitten bonds with boy, mom has to go get the fucking thing declawed and fixed and vaccinated and...

That boy better love THAT kitten more than his PlayStation.  That's all I have to say.  

FYI...

This is Mark and I.  It was taken by an unwilling camera with timer issues with the help of a rather moody tree that, at first glance, had the perfect nesting spot for the aforementioned camera.  Don't ask.  Anyway, it's a bit washed out as it was sunset and the light was pretty intense (hence me black-and-whiting it... trust me, it helps), but I still like it.  It's better of him than it is of me, but that's okay... I'll post one of the goofy ones of him later.

High Roller

I now know why it's a good thing I don't live right next door to a casino.

(...)

Seriously.

I went to a casino for the first time this week.  Well, technically the first time was a couple of months ago when Mark and I stopped to eat at a casino and on the walk through the main area I spent 10 minutes at a slot machine, but I'm going to go with the whole 'that doesn't count' thing on that.  Any arguments can be submitted in triplicate to itsmyworldandidonthearyouanyway.com.  But I digress.  What I learned this week... wait, that's not right.  I learned several things this week.   I should make a list.  Don't we all love it when I make lists?

1) I OWN roulette.  Seriously.  I didn't win a million dollars or anything, but I played for roughly eight or nine hours total this week and walked away with ten dollars more than I started with.  Now, anyone who's gambled AT ALL knows that that means?  I kicked freaking ASS.  When you consider I put in sixty dollars and walked out with seventy, I suddenly become the roulette GOD.  Well, goddess, actually, as last time I checked I DO actually own girly bits, but that's another discussion entirely.  Anyway.  I now know exactly where to head if and when I'm in spitting distance of a casino again.  I'm pretty sure I'll be screeching 'COME ON TWENTY EIGHT!' in my sleep tonight.  I'm sure the cats will be thrilled.  Scared shitless and likely hacking up hairballs left, right, and sideways, but thrilled underneath it all.

2) Mark can suck out my luck like a Hoover.  I love him, God knows, but he walked up, plopped himself down in the seat next to me to give the roulettle he'd never tried before a shot, and where I'd been ahead when he got there?  Within five minutes, I was almost wiped out and he was over there grinning like the first kid in line to see Santa, of course while sitting on a thirty dollar win.  Which he got, by the way?  Via an eleven dollar 'boo boo' bet he made when he kept tapping the screen to clear his bet and instead kept increasing it.  'Oopsie' eleven dollars on red.  And it HIT.  I almost had to beat him senseless and stuff him in the incinerator.  But he has good points, and he's awfully cute, so I just sat there and pinched his head between my fingers when he wasn't looking.  I squish your head!  *pinch pinch pinch*  Nothing, honey!

3) Geritol is in cahoots with casinos.  They have to be.  They're spiking old people's vitamins or maybe somehow they're slipping subliminal messages in the easy listening in the social security office waiting areas or something.  I don't know.  I just know that you can't throw a shoe (not that I actually did that... it never happened.  What shoe?  Did I say shoe?  I wasn't even there.  Oh, look, a chicken!) in a casino without hitting someone that can't eat solid foods and shouldn't be behind the wheel of a car.  They're EVERYWHERE.  And fyi?  Not particularly friendly, either.  So not only do casinos attract old people, they attract single-minded and GRUMPY old people.  Forewarned is forearmed, people.  Don't go in without backup.

4) Testosterone and its money are soon parted.  I watched more men sit down at my (yes, MY... I OWN that roulette table.  Didn't I mention that already?) table and proceed to lose thousands of dollars than I care to think about.  Seriously, don't any of them have wives that will crucify them when they get home and have to explain that they lost junior's college fund?  I sat there, happily playing on small amounts, staying generally ahead of the game (far more than most of THEM can say) even if only by a few bucks, and they're giving me eye-rolls as they yank out three or four hundred dollars and fork it over to the grinning roulette dealer (I don't guess they're called a dealer, as there's no dealing in roulette, more just throwing a ball around, but still... have to call them something until I google the right term, which I'm too lazy to do right now) person... and leave without it ten minutes later.  So who's laughing then, GIRLY MAN? 

5) They have ONE uniform that they make all the little wandering waitresses wear.  This is a mistake.  Not everyone should wear that uniform.  Or maybe they should just try ordering it in more than one size.  Just sayin'...

Casinos are fun, if you just look at them the right way.  And go into it knowing and accepting the human animal's penchant for dipshittery.  I know!  I accept!

It was festive.

Eyeballing Scissors

You know, I don't know how many of the posts survived the switch some months back, so I'm not sure, from a scientific perspective, how well documented the relationship is between my mood and my tendency to hack my hair off, but I'm pretty sure my readers have walked that particular path to madness with me countless times over the years.  So here I sit, once again looking at the scissors on my counter with a moderate amount of lust in my heart.  The last haircut I got from a professional (and I use the term loosely) did NOT end well.  So now as it's growing out, it's... problematic.  This, needless to say, brings on the twitching and mumbling and inching towards the scissors.  Now, even if the urge were to amp up to, say, Defcon 5, I'd still have to bear in mind that I know a certain someone (well, several, but one in particular) that would probably fall over and hemmorhage on the spot if I cut my curls off.  The funny thing is, I've made it 39 years (Jesus, just writing that was painful) with only one person ever giving a shit about my curls, and suddenly?  In the past 8 months or so, I've met a number of them.  It's baffling.  Lovely, but baffling.  It's like waking up one day and finding your cat emptying the dishwasher.  Bonus!  But slightly off the weirdometer.  (Not to mention... do you know where those paws have been?  I do, and... ewwwwwww.  Off my plates!)

Anyhoo.  Today is a busy day.  I get to meet with my realtor and bitch about my builder (I'll write more on that in a couple of days when the Thanksgiving insanity passes), take my mother (let's not go there) to Wal-Mart (let's not go there, either... God help me), drive to Arkansas and back (picking up moody teenager type offspring), etc.  Tomorrow I drive to Kansas City and back... more festivity!  Six hours plus of driving, all told.  But I'll get to see Mark, and Daddy, so it'll be worth it.  I'll also get to eat at the El Sombrero (we won't tell either of the two aforementioned men that that's REALLY why I'm going to Kansas City.... shhhhhhhhhh!  WHAT?!?!?!?)  and maybe slip in some shopping along the way.  Woohoo @ the Plaza!  If you smell smoke sometime tomorrow afternoon, it may well be my credit cards...

Not my most fabulous update ever, but at least y'all now know I'm a) still alive (always a concern... my love of shiny objects and the presence of fast-moving buses being what it is), and b) I'm finally taking seriously my attempt to be more frequent in my postings.  So see?  I'm full of love!  And responsibility!  And determination!

And shit...

That Movie Thing...

*THERE BE SPOILERS IN HERE, PEOPLE!  READ AT THY OWN RISK!*

So.  There Mark and I were, sitting in a movie theater watching 'Paranormal Activity', right?  The movie, for those of you that don't know, is almost Blair Witch'ian in its execution and concept. It's a slow building movie, for starters, but it's also shot as if it's supposed to be a documentary, up to and including the thanking of the families of the victims and the police department in the beginning credits, etc.  That was a nice touch.  Completely had Miss Gullible here freaking the fuck out.

The movie all takes place within the confines of a single house.  The inhabitants of the house are a young engaged couple (Katie and Micah).  Well, apparently Katie has been dealing with some kind of haunting/fuckery since she was about 8 years old and it's starting to work her last nerve.  This being the case, Micah, a bastion of good sense and character, decides to spend a shitload of money on a fancy-pants video camera set-up that will film their bedroom while they sleep, that being the time that most of the stuff seems to go down.  He figures if they can document it, that will somehow help.  Oh, and he has a penis, so it's also about the thrill and the possibility of getting really good footage to post online or sell to a tv show.  That penis sure does come in handy, doesn't it?  Asshat.  I suppose it's no secret that I was ready to throttle his sorry ass by about 15 minutes into the movie... about the tenth time he shit on some perfectly SANE idea in favor of something RETARDED that he thought would get him 'better video'.  Because when dealing with forces you can't see and that have the ability to drag your ass out of bed by your FOOT?  Great photo ops are the first thing you should be concerned with.  (...)  How do men survive on their own?  Seriously.

Anyway.  The movie progresses, slowly but never so much so that you're ready to walk out of the theater.  Stuff starts happening at a more accelerated rate.  We find out that what Katie has bugging her is not, in fact, a ghost, but instead *insert drumroll here*?  A demon.  Now, your average, garden variety mammal would take that news and head directly to the nearest tub of holy water and marinate in it for a few days.  Fetch a priest.  Tape bible verses to one's forehead.  (Hey, I'm not religious, but I'm not stupid, either... I've seen the movies.  I know what works.  Get thee to the church on time, fuckwit!)  But Micah?  Well, he's not your normal mammal.  He convinces Katie that getting someone who could actually deal with the demon would be (quelle surprise!) a bad idea.  He wants to 'take care of his fucking girlfriend' on his own... plus get more cool video clips.  I'm not sure when taking care of one's girlfriend became defined by putting her, unprotected, in the path of an oncoming minion of Satan, but I'm going to have to go with HE'S RETARDED AND BEING LED AROUND BY HIS PENIS.  Hey, I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'...

So anyway.  Now that I've spoiled some of it for you (that's my job, right?  Someone send me a check.), I'll skip ahead.  Stuff gets worse and worse.  Demon no likey the camera.  Demon no likey Micah.  Demon no likey much, I can tell you right now.  Katie can't sleep (hard to sleep when a demon keeps either taking over your body for short periods of time or drags you out of bed and down the hallway) and is walking around getting progressively more Rainman on Micah.  Hey, I don't blame her. I'm still blaming the penis-wielder.  If he'd let her exorcise the fucking thing to start with, maybe she wouldn't have ended up in a fetal position looking like a refugee from 28 Days Later.  Anyhoo.  The end of the movie comes and... well... okay, I'm going to show some restraint and not tell you exactly how it ends, but I will tell you this...

So there we are, in the theater.  The movie's winding to a close.  Something intense has just happened, and I'm clutching Mark's arm as I'm watching madness unfold on the screen.  A lot of what's happening is out of the camera view, so  you can only hear it (since Micah's not handy to run the camera at this point and it's been left stationary in the bedroom).  I've got my head on Mark's shoulder and I'm so tightly wrapped it's not even funny.  The audio suddenly goes silent as the chaos offscreen apparently comes to an end... and there we sit, staring at absolutely nothing happening.  Right?

Something suddenly happens.  I mean, VERY suddenly.  And you know what comes next, right?

I SCREAMED. 

I mean, the entire theater when dead quiet after it, that's how loud I screamed.  According to Mark, anyway.  I still insist it wasn't that bad.  He says it was better than Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween.  He was still looking at me at random moments and laughing the next DAY, for fuck's sake.  Until TEARS ran down his face...  I was MORTIFIED.  But goddamn it, I couldn't help it!  It's not my fault!  Stupid filmmakers...

I bet the director has a penis...

At the Movies

It's late and I'm tired, so don't expect a long post right now.  I'll probably try to edit this into a longer, more worth-reading post later, but for the minute I just wanted to establish two things... 1) I'm still breathing (quelle surprise!), contrary to what my posting frequency might indicate (You think I suck at this, you should see how good I am with Christmas and birthday cards.  Seriously.), and 2) I actually went out this week and attended an honest to God movie viewing.  This, needless to say, is a rarity.  I went and saw 'Paranormal Activity'.  There's a whole long story about why the people in that theater will never forget me, but I'll write that in when I edit.  Suffice it to say that the movie?  Is sufficiently scary.

And I have witnesses to back me up on that...

Sitting...

A Little More Time...

So.  Another year has gone by.  And what a year it's been.  I'm a couple of days from the two year anniversary of Jonathan's death.  Thursday, the 13th.  Two years.  Jesus... time is a tricky thing.  I don't know what I wrote last year at this time, as I haven't gone back to look yet, so some of this may be repetitive, and I'm not finding myself able to care much if it is.  I know that it seems both impossibly longer than two years and incredibly shorter.  I know that some memories fade, which is almost like another death all its own, and some memories grow even stronger.

In two years...