Really, it’s not you. It’s me.

Against my better judgement, I participated in one of those Facebook surveys (I know, don’t you hate people like me – I swear I’ve only done this once or twice) where you get to discover your “animal spirit” or something like that.  I couldn’t help it.  A lot of my friends were churning up photos of spewing llamas on their status page, and I secretly wanted to prove that my animal would be way cooler.  So, after answering about ten questions meant to sum up all the esoteric particles of my scintillating personality, up pops a pic of this awesome dude (um, see above – do I have to point out everything?)  Oh yeah, Baby, I’m a Jaguar!!  Jaguars are definitely cool!  Although, I picture myself more of the black kind stalking Mowgli before he safely reaches the village (don’t start with me, black panthers are jaguars).  Jaguars do all kinds of cool things.  They hang out in trees….alone.  They hunt prey at night…..alone.  They love to swim…..alone.  Okay, so maybe they aren’t sociable like the llama, but at least they don’t spit, right?

Believe it or not, I think this feckless, mind-muddling, ten-question FB survey is actually on to something.

I marched with the band in high school, but I technically, couldn’t be called a “band geek” because I also sang and danced in the school musical, helped publish the school magazine and volunteered with the Key Club.  In college I studied with the broadcasting, film and theater majors, slam-danced with the hardcore musicians, played quarters with the football players and booed Buckner with the Red Sox fans.  Now, as an adult, I still find myself floating in and out of social groups who have all been very welcoming, but I just don’t feel like I fit in with any of them.  Did I mention that jaguars are known to be very solitary animals?

What’s wrong with me?  Why do I keep lounging around in trees by myself?  My husband comes from a family of nine brothers and sisters.  He says he never really needs to feel like he’s part of a group because, when you’re in a big family, you are always part of a group.  Well, I have a family too.  I’m a part of that group…..so why have I always toyed with the idea that I was adopted?

Maybe what I’m searching for is definition.  Yeah, that’s the ticket.  Maybe this is why I hate filling out applications and blog “about me” pages.  I’m a Wife, check.  I’m a Mom, check.  I’m a Step Mom, check.  I’m a Special Needs Mom, check.  I’m a Writer, check.  I’m a Musician, check.  I’m a Christian, check.  I Hate all politicians,  check (except for the local commissioner who keeps showing up at my door and asking me to vote for him which I’ll be happy to do because he helped get the township pool built and it’s really awesome with a lazy river and all these slides….)  I’m a Korean Exchange Student Host, check.  I’m a Caterer, check.  I’m an Entertainment Business Has-Been, check.  I’m a Loner Sitting At My Laptop Spilling the Beans to No On in Particular Blogger, check.  I’m a freakin’ Solitary, Standoffish, Thinks-They’re-So-Great-Because-They-Look-Cool Jaguar.  Check!

Sigh.  I don’t care if they spit and the yarn spun from their undercoats make me itch.  Alpacas are intelligent, well-socialized, friendly and pleasant to be around, and they like to hang out with each other.  Why can’t I be a freakin’ llama?!

I need to retake that $%$%@&!  *Bob Saget survey!!

*(see my “Why I Have a Potty Mouth” post – do I have to point out everything?)

Advertisements

Why I Have a Potty Mouth

WHERE ARE MY @)%& @! TWEEZERS?!!?!

I don’t get mad often, unless it’s that time of the month, you know, when the PECO bill is due.  And I don’t really sound like a truck driver all of the time; though, let’s be honest, I think truck drivers get a bad rap for this – I know a few, and their mouths are sparkling clean (maybe they chew Orbit while they’re driving?)  But, I do tend to erupt during certain unfortunate incidents, such as: losing the most prized constituent of my vanity maintenance kit (I am extremely attached to my tweezers.  See “Why Old and Fuzzy” for FAQ), watching the Phillies “dream team” lose the first part of the playoffs (are you $*#%! kidding me!?), or plunging the toilet and mopping inches of cesspool water from the first-floor bathroom and basement floor after my son finally releases a sequoia log that he’s stockpiled inside his intestines for about a week. 

I blame my father for my occasionalinfrequent, (really not too often. quit judging me. who are you, Donna Reed?) potty mouth.  Watch “A Christmas Story,” especially during the untangling-the-Christmas-lights scene – That’s My Dad.  Funny thing is he hates that movie.  Apparently, he also wasn’t allowed to have a Red Ryder BB gun because he was told, “you’ll shoot your eye out.”  Shame on Jean Shepherd for writing my father’s unauthorized biography.

Although my brother and I frequently overheard our dad’s imprecations, we, of course, knew we would get in big trouble if those same words ever came out of our own mouths.  They never did, until some weird, inexplicable switch went off in my head when I became an adult.  I don’t know if the minute I turned eighteen some little devil popped on to my shoulder and whispered, “hey, you’re an adult now.  curse away.”  Can’t remember the exact moment I let those first expletives fly.  All I know is that I’m doing it now.  And I’m falling into the same family tradition that prohibits my children from repeating anything they overhear.  I’ve decided, however, to only use this as a temporary parenting technique.  Yep, I’ve decided to up the bar a bit by monitoring my potty mouth and making myself a, gasp, positive role model.

I have a wonderfully perfect friend whom I admire a great deal and try, but frequently fail, to imitate.  She and her super cool husband have four beautiful, talented girls with great big hearts and strong Christian values.  The youngest two girls are twins with cerebral palsy.  The oldest is in her first year of college.  My friend keeps herself incredibly busy with parenting and keeping an immaculate house and teaching music therapy and running a Joni and Friends support group for Moms of Special Needs.  And she says, “for pity’s sake,” when something goes awry.  What the hell…..heck!  Who says that? 

“Tessa!  Your house is on fire and all of your designer silk floral arrangements and custom Italian tiles are melting!!”

“What?  Oh for pity’s sake!”

I don’t think I can do it, you know, limit myself like that.  I just don’t see me using phrases like “Heavens to Betsy,” or “Oh My Stars.”  And I’m not Catholic, so I can’t use the standard, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, Sweet Mother of Mercy.”

I have an idea though.  My stepdaughter was a regular viewer of Tourettes Guy  (click link at your own risk) on Youtube (for the record, she watched this at her Mom’s house).    Danny, the Tourettes Guy Who Didn’t Really Have Tourettes But, Apparently, Had Many Other Issues, is dead now.  However, he did leave behind a legacy.  For some reason, in between tirades of blaspheme that would turn even my dad’s face crimson with embarassment, Danny would randomly shout out “Bob Saget!”  I can’t stand the guy, Bob Saget, that is….tv dad in one of the worst sitcoms ever made other than Small Wonder….obviously disgruntled “I don’t want to be here, even though it pays far more than I’m worth,” host of America’s Funniest Videos.  Soooo, Bob Saget has become the chosen one.  The chosen catch phrase.

“Mom!  The coffee pot’s clogged again and leaking unbrewed swill all over the countertop and shorting out the toaster that’s causing the circuit breaker to pop, thereby cutting off the electricity in Section A, which includes the plug that powers your laptop with the dead battery you never replaced and causing you to lose your 3,000 word document that you never saved that’s due tomorrow!”

“@#%O&O!$%(&%…..Bob Saget!!”

It’s Friday, Do You Know Where Your Harvey Wallbanger Is

I’ve never had one, but it sounds strong enough to make your head numb before you start banging it against the wall.

Here’s the recipe in case you need one:

1.25 oz vodka
0.25 oz hazelnut liqueur
3 oz orange juice
1 slice orange
In a glass with ice, add vodka and orange juice.
Stir and float liqueur on top.  Garnish with orange slice.
 
Good luck.  Let me know if it works.
 
Have a great night 🙂

When Outsourcing is Good

Well, since Camping screwed up on the date again and we’re all still here (although the day’s not over), I guess we’ll have to keep on trucking with this whole survival thing. 

“Survival” in the U.S. these days seems a bit more of a struggle than, say, back in the 1980’s when I used to roll out of Gekko’s penthouse, throw some frilly underwear over my clothes, air out my armpits under the bus stop hand dryer and “get into the groove” with all the other Working Girls in Manhattan (no, wait, did I work in Manhattan in the eighties….can’t remember….30 years ago….too fuzzy….)  Anyway, 2011’s version of hanging out on Wall Street is certainly a horse of a different color.  Can’t say that I plan on “Occupy”ing any Tea Parties any time soon, but I do totally catch their drift of frustration.  Our family is broke and in debt.  My husband and I are working, but eating peanut butter for breakfast, because, C’mon!  $5 for a jug of milk?  $7 for a slab of bacon?  Have you tried turkey bacon?!??  But, rather than camp out in protest (sorry, ever since working the Faires, I’ve had an aversion to bunking with unwashed Rennies full of dragon piss), we’ve chosen to constructively focus our frustration into a win-win patriotic form of outsourcing.

Oh yeah, I said it, the dirty word that causes the pockets of American IT workers to shiver in terror.  But, repeat after me, “Outsourcing is Good.  Outsourcing Works.” — when another country is outsourcing to us.  In our particular case, our nouveau riche South Korean buddies are shipping over their kids and paying us to watch them.

Yes, South Koreans actually seem to like us and trust us enough to belabor their precious accomplished, multi-lingual, well-behaved offspring with our unhealthy, greedy capitalistic, ugly American customs.

Awww, gosh.  We kinda like them too.

As I’ve mentioned, this is a win-win situation.  The area of South Korea is only 38,622 square miles with a population of 48 million people.  In order to give their kids a leg-up in this heavily competitive market, S.Korean parents send them to private schools in other countries where they can pick up different languages and customs and benefit from a more well-rounded education.  On our end, struggling private schools are now using “foreign aid” by signing up with agencies that import eager students from Korea, China and other countries; and  American middle-classed families provide these students with room and board so they can hold on to their homes.

I’d discovered this opportunity in Craig’s List of all places.  In the past few years we’ve hosted three kids through different agencies, one girl and two boys, all teenagers.  And, yes, you have to question the sanity of someone who would voluntarily invite more teenagers into their home. 

Some of them do eat a lot.

But they’ve been great, actually.  It’s been a terrific experience so far, and I plan on happily sharing stories about them in some of my future blogs.

Najung-e

What am I doing awake

Lately, my eyes have been popping open about 3:30 a.m.  Could be from my husband’s snoring (which will be another blog I’m sure everyone will be anxious to read), or pre-menopause (I’m learning to blame all ridiculous behavior on hormones).  Naturally, my brain doesn’t focus on all the wonderful things going on in my life and would rather fixate on issues that I can’t do anything about at 3:30 in the morning!  A good Christian would probably pray the worries away (Jesus doesn’t like us to worry).  Instead, I’m choosing to share the misery (because it loves company, right?)

We adopted a dog named, Becca, a few months ago.  She’s naughty. 

She’s also stinkin’ cute, lots of fun and a very fast runner (I’m counting on her to up my PR).  She’s a southern dog, who hails from Kentucky.  Part lab and part feist, a breed that LOVES to chase squirrels.  The squirrels are driving her nuts right now with all their pre-winter activities (sorry for the bad pun).  (Have you noticed I use a lot of parentheses when I write in the wee hours of the morning?  How annoying is that?!)  So what am I doing sitting up worrying about my dog in the middle of the night while she sleeps peacefully curled up on the sofa?  I’m trying to figure out what to do about her FLEAS, Aaarrrghhhhhh!

Let me preface this dilemma with a discourse questioning WHY bugs were created!?!?:

Ok, I know they’re arachnids and technically in a class by themselves, but Why Spiders?!  I know they eat other bugs, and I liked Charlotte’s Web and all, but they creep me out, and they bite you, and some are poisonous.  I have a long history of disliking spiders starting with bugging (another bad pun, sorry) my parents in the middle of the night to get rid of the big hairy critter staring at me from my pepto-pink bedroom wall.  I did try to face my fear of them by ordering a tarantula when I worked at a pet shop.  Ends up that I was allergic to it and broke out in a rash even when I held it with a rubber glove – Ha!  Since ticks are also arachnids, I have to wonder about their existence.  They suck your blood and spread disease.  Does anything eat ticks?  I have to question the food chain theory.

Head lice!!  What the?!?!?  No, they’re not dangerous.  But they’re itchy and annoying.  And they keep your kids out of school.  And make you cut everyone’s hair and hate mayonnaise.  My poor daughter got them one year right before school started.  She missed her first two weeks of school because the nurse kept finding nits even after we treated her twice, combed through her hair every day, cut it short and even got a note from the doctor stating that she was in the clear.  I can’t blame Easter Seals for being too careful because they do have medically compromised kids to worry about (My daughter has cerebral palsy and used to go there.  She now attends a public elementary school.)  I can, however, blame the Chuck E. Cheese ball pit for getting them in the first place.

Fleas!?!?!  They are making our poor dog miserable.  And we’ve tried everything.  I comb through her every day, which is no easy task because her fur is bristly and very short.  I’ve given her showers, which she hates – I’ve never known a dog to hate water so much.  Tried the natural method of eucalyptus leaves and organic herbal spray etc.  We only have two rugs which I vacuum every day and sprinkled with Borax.  Tried Frontline Plus several times.  Thinking about trying Advantage.  Unfortunately, it looks like we’re also going to have to hire an exterminator to bomb the place.  These stupid little bugs are getting way too expensive!

I’m open to any suggestions…

Of course, now I’m tired.  And it’s time to get up.

Why Old and Fuzzy

Hi!  My name’s Niki, and I’m 46 years old.  Is 46 old?  It’s all in perspective.  And, sorry, mine’s a bit warped.  Ask my kids, though, and they’ll tell you I’m ancient.

I guess, technically, I’m middle-aged (but what if I don’t live until I’m 92??).  I could come up with a blog called “Midlife Isis,” but I’m not a goddess, so…

And the “fuzzy” part?  How about blurred vision, an addled brain, and chin hairs that pop up faster than a game of Whac-a-Mole.  Oh yeah, I’m all about fuzzy.

If you’re really, really, really, really, really bored or just slightly psychotic, dump some Kahlua in your coffee and Google “old and fuzzy.”  Here are some catch phrases I’ve found:  “…the wig looked used, old and fuzzy…,” “old and fuzzy f words…,” “Fighting Fuzz Balls: How to Breathe Life into old (and fuzzy),” “My antennaes are old and fuzzy…,” (huh?), “…were they old and fuzzy or pre-raisin?” (ewww).  And, my favorite – “Google’s view of D.C….old and fuzzy.”

I love my blog name.