Raising Central New York

Usually Don't Be Hatin' is an obnoxious mockery of the daily episodes of my life, usually those that greatly piss me off or provoke negative emotion in some way.  But today I choose my blog to be a more therapeutic recreation — something I need to do for myself — a platform for me to get lots of emotions off my chest.  For the past two weeks, I have served as cook, maid, counselor, advisor, good friend and most importantly, WIFE, to TWO HUSBANDS.  For you perverts out there, I'm not referring to any kind of "friends-with-benefits" type of situation.  A close friend, who I will keep anonymous, has come to Eric and I during a very difficult time in his life.  For the past two weeks he has been staying with us because he cannot be in the same place as his wife. He's a very good man and friend, and I want us to be there for him during this time.  So for the past two weeks, I have worked very hard to make sure this friend feels at home as much as possible and to give him some kind of normalcy, security and stability in a world that has been turned upside down and is anything but for him.  I have reached out on two occasions to the other party involved, telling her I'm available to talk if needed, but she has not taken me up on it.  Unfortunately at that end, there's nothing more I can do, yet at the same time, I feel guilty that I can't do more.  I guess that's my whole problem in a nutshell, I'm doing everything humanly possible in the support role, but I cannot change or control the outcome.  What can I say?  I'm a control freak and I hate not having the ability to change the universe for the better when so need be.  Anyway, when this friend first started staying with us I was on vacation so I had a little more time to play house so to speak.  I had already spent the majority of the week at home cleaning.  So I had a little extra time to devote to transforming my home into Hotel Elliott.  Of course the first night, Eric took care of the queen sized blow up mattress, so it wasn't exactly homey.  Blow it up and stick a blanket it on it and throw him a pillow.  In a man's world that's all you need I guess, but I say NOT GOOD ENOUGH!  It needed that girly touch.  So the next day I go in and "make" the mattress.  Fitted sheet, sheet, blanket, comforter, extra blanket, extra pillow and large back pillow for support or in case he needed something to hug and the icing on the cake — a sandwich baggy containing three Oreo cookies placed ever so gently upon his fluffed pillows.  That was just in case he was hungry when he got home from work and wanted a snack.  Yes, I'm insanely anal and I think of these things.  Plus, I didn't have any mints.  But who the hell wants mints when you can have Oreos anyway?  Hello!  Then there was the pair of underwear found on the floor and his dirty, stingy barely yellow baseball cap that looked like a car and three motorcycles pissed on it.  So it was wash time...the hat: gentle cycle warm, medium load to fill the tub considerably so that the hat would not  be agitated too harshly as not to bend or rip the rim.  That was followed by a fluff dry in two 30-minute increments.  Perfection.  Another A+ added to the Domestic Goddess report card.  Damn I'm good.  The rewards for my work: real husband jealousy. "Boy you're really spoiling him."  Yeah, like I don't spoil you rotten.  Anyway, I was just trying to give a little comfort, be a good friend, no big deal.  It wasn't that kind of work that bothered me, it was the emotional work that even began to take a toll within the first day or two.  As it was, even just first hearing that there were problems made me go back to a time in my own life when Eric and I were lost.  Eric, the typical emotionless man, says you just have to separate yourself from it and not get involved.  But I just can't do that.  I'm not that kind of person.  And going through this with the friend was like going through my own bad times AGAIN, almost like a flashback.  I know what it's like to feel totally heartbroken and lost to the point you don't even know who you are anymore.  It turns you psycho.  I was a flamin' psycho.  I was dumb, foolish, let others get in my head, gathered around the wrong people thinking they were there for support and advice when they were nothing but predators, made bad choices and felt like each day I was living in darkness.  Literally.  Like I was trapped in some tunnel that I couldn't escape from and that I would never see the light of day.  I was so psycho I almost drove others to psychoness.  Then those others thought I was psycho.  So they wouldn't hate me and not think I was psycho I bought them "make-up" gifts, like books and insanely expensive but awesome Boba Fett watches that you didn't realize was being auctioned in Australian currency so it ended up being triple or quadruple the cost you thought you were bidding on but then you had to get it because you felt guilty for the possible hurt and psychoness you inflicted and who in their right mind could let such a freakin' awesome watch go to some undeserving dweeb half-way across the planet anyway and ruin your reputation as Ebay Goddess!?  Phew.  All this past pain has been swirling around in my head.  I promised I wouldn't take sides on the friend's situation.  I told him in my profession you have to listen to both sides of the story.  I'm trying to be as fair and lack-of-judgement as I can.  It's just that I can't understand her side, or even try to, because I haven't heard it.  She has done some things that I feel are very selfish and unfair.  Then there's the point you try to give hope to that person so they are not so dragged down from the pain, knowing deep down that the gods have another plan.  So I'm angry.  Angry at the gods: the things you can't control.  The things you can't make better.  I'm frustrated.  I'm heart-broken.  And while I'm trying my hardest not to be selfish, I still can't help to feel betrayed myself.  Betrayed by a friend.  Betrayed by the fact my friends aren't and can't be happy.  Betrayed by the forces that allowed this to happen.    It may seem childish but all I want to do is scream at the sky "Life isn't fair!"  Life stinks.  Why does life have to be so hard?  Why do bad things have to happen to good people?  It's just not fair.  It's just not FAIR!  WHY?!!!!!!  Anyway, I'm tired.  Tired because I've been giving two very fussy men at least three dinner choices nightly and been waiting on them hand and foot, doing everything under the sun except for wiping their tooshies, which is where I draw the line people!  Raising two husbands is a bitch!  I can't understand why any woman would want to cheat on their husband and have a boyfriend on the side.  Who the hell can handle two?!  That's crazy!  I'm tired because my brain is in a whirl too.  I'm tired because I may be selfish or "too emotional," but my heart hurts too!  I never thought I'd say this but I NEED GIRLY TIME!  I have no $ but I want to go shopping, buy stuff I can't afford, have my nails done and be around some estrogen!  I don't have the power to change the universe and I'm tired of trying.  Friends, I can't control our lives.  I can't control our misfortunes.  But I'm here.  And I'm going to tell you this and hopefully you'll never, ever forget: ALWAYS APPRECIATE WHAT YOU HAVE!!!!!

Thong Th-Thong...Thong Thong

"This thing right here is lettin' all the ladies know. What guys talk about. You know the finer things..." Hell no Sisqo!  STOP RIGHT THERE!  Don't even say it.  While a majority of the hetero male population would most likely disagree, I am in no way appreciative of the dinky, scantily clad (why the hell does this lil' piece of material cost so much?) undergarment known as the "thong" or "g-string."  I refer to call them "ass floss."  Why?  Because that's exactly what it is.  Why?  Because that's exactly how it feels to the female butt cheeks.  We've discussed in earlier posts a small obsession that my husband has with me wearing these "Things" that I HATE!  He's even asked why I don't wear them to work and even used bargaining and black mailing tools like, 'I'll get this for you if you wear a g-string for a week straight.'  Really?  Ok, so first you're whoring me off or expecting me to whore off myself, and then you think this material thing is going to be worth me torturing myself for a whole week?  Seriously?  Because I'm thinking there's really nothing on this planet I want that bad!  A million bucks vs. thong: I think I'll try that billion to one chance at Publisher's Clearinghouse instead.  Meeting Martin Brodeur or Drew Brees and wearing a thong: Oops I better not go there.  And why would I wear this gross piece of string up my butt while I'm at work?  Um, we don't work together.  You're not going to see me through the day.  And do you have any idea what I work with?  I'm pretty much getting ugly visual flashbacks of Jabba the Hut checking out Leia in her lil' brown leather outfit in Return of the Jedi.  Pretty comparable.  Plus I really need to add something to my already low self esteem and self-consciousness.  What if someone sees the string or it emphasizes my already extremely large ass?  OMG!  Crazy, horn-dog funeral director Nicky B can come in and I could accidently show the string.   I don't think so.  I DON'T THINK SO!  And what is it that you would really see through my pants if the "string" wasn't visible?  Do guys have some kind of Thong-Dar or something?  Thong-DAR the BARBARIAN!!!!!  by Hanna-Barbear-it-all.  Is that what we've come to as a society?  Men searching asses everywhere for thongs?  Now women everywhere can be more paranoid when they catch a guy starring at their ass!  And women, do we ever ask the men to wear the string?  "Hey, bring out the leopard print baby, that is soooooooo schexy!"  Unless we own a leather whip and have chains hanging from our bed posts underneath our mirror clad chandelier (I'm not speaking from experience, honest) or own a full collection of Richard Simmons' Sweatin' to the Oldies, then NO, WE DON'T!  And I confess that the only time I ever considered wanting to buy a thong was when I found a NY Yankees one.  Perfect head game...Husband the Bo-Sox fan teases for me to wear the thong and out pops MLB rivalry greatness!  A total slap in the face!  Lord have mercy there is a god!  You created someone who invented the Yankees thong, this after Superman and Transformers Underoos!  I could replace my whole wardrobe with Yankees thongs and he'd never want to see me in one again.  HAHAHAHAHHAHA!!!!!!! OK so let's fast-forward ahead to where my naive stupidity falls in.  You were waiting for it, I know.  Well, once upon a time it comes to be time for the husband and I to go away on vacation.  I have the bag already packed and he comes home from work and asks, are you bringing any you-know-whats?  YEAH, don't worry they're there and you can even check if you want!  Goddamn Bastard SOB HATE YOU!  I didn't really say the latter sentence, but I totally thought it, really.  So anywho, vacation goes along pretty well and enjoyable until Friday comes, the last day of our vacation.  We're going to our destination in Big Rapids and my husband happens to drive by one of those stupid, generic chain restaurants that serves Buffalo wings.  "I feel like wings," he says.  So I'm thinking why the hell would we go to Michigan to eat something that only our state is known for and that we know how to make RIGHT?  But me being the good wife was like, well if that's what you're craving, then let's stop.  Remember, I'm THE GOOD WIFE!  So we get inside and they're like we only have seats at the bar area, is that OK?  Sure that's fine, no problem.  Well, all the tables in the area, not just at the bar, are really tall and therefore have really tall chairs.  You know, the ones that short, stubby people like me and my 5-foot tall mother have to basically climb up into.  Well we're sitting there. I'm drinking my beer so is the husband.  The waiter takes our order and the dumbass brings us out the wrong thing.  But we were nice and took it anyway because he was annoyingly being overly apologetic.  Well we just start to eat and this woman comes up to me, shakes my hand and introduces herself.  I'm like Ok WTF?   But I tell her my name.  Mind you, before I continue, not to put anyone down or anything, but this lady wasn't exactly the high pillar of society.  Her hair was straggley, she had short jean cut-off shorts and a tank top probably from an old Bengals concert and didn't exactly have the whitest, brightest most kemp of smiles.  Now you have the visual and here it comes: She crouches and whispers to me: "Um you're thong is showing and there's a young boy behind you that keeps starring and laughing, so you may want to go do something about it. It's not appropriate for a young boy to be looking at.  But don't worry it's happened to me before too, you just have to be careful."  Well I must have went 10 shades of red literally because it instantaneously got 20 degrees hotter in that room.  I felt behind me and OMG, my blouse had crept up and my jeans down because of the tall stool and there is was...the F-IN STRING!!!!!!  "I'm so sorry, I didn't even feel it," I replied to her.   Which I obviously DIDN'T or would have done something about it.  Now I'm like this thong pedofile or something!  I'm this evil, twisted bitch with the agenda to destroy all innocent youth out there by exposing my thong!  So immediately I switch chairs and tell the hubby, OMG, ,we have to leave. I'm sorry I will find a place for you to eat your food. I can't eat now OMG We have to go and we have to go NOW!!!!!  So I try to non-chalantly ask the waiter to bring us boxes.  "You're going already?  You didn't eat anything!  It's because I screwed up your order isn't it?  I totally insulted you.  Did I insult you?"  Seriously, this guy is going on and on and all I want to say is SHUT THE F UP AND GET ME MY GODDAMN BOX AND THE BILL BITCH!  I'm trying to keep it together, but I can feel every f-in chick in the room starring at me!  I couldn't get out of there too fast as we enter the 103-degree parking lot (literally by the way). I'm so upset I feel like I'm going to puke.  I'm about to cry my eyes out but I'm still in shock at the same time.  I start to ramble:  F-in Michigan F-in Michigan.  I hate this Mother F-in State!  They think I'm trying to molest all their children with my stupid, disgusting thong!  I hope they take their GMs and crash them into a pole those m-fers!  You notice I've seen like 2 Hondas and 1 Toyota the entire f-in week those M-FERS!  I hate this place!  I hate MICHIGAN!  So we drive off and we end up at a brewery that I originally wanted to go eat at anyway, and tried to drown my sorrows in beer while sitting in another tall bar stool that at least HAD A BACK BITCHES!  I was now  unexposed.  Well, while that was a horrifying experience that I defined as my vacation-destroying moment, I later thought that perhaps things happen for a reason.  Perhaps now f-in Michiganers, Michigaans, Michiginians, what-ever-the-hell won't ever wear thongs again.  There'll be a huge religious movement and thongs will be censored and burned state-wide.  Or maybe it  happened because it needed to be my mission to tell all you women out there to tell your husbands and your boyfriends, your customers, your pimps...that I'm not doin' the thong, th-thong, thong, thong.  To all you men out there, in the wise and harmonious words of my main man Billie Joel, instead of making your women wear a thong to turn you on, tell them intead, "I love you just the way you are."  Thong or no thong, we are beautiful, sexy people and we don't need any extra frosting for a few extra kicks and thrills.  Have respect for your women and leave the string for cleaning your teeth!

Role Models

There's been many instances in my life where I've learned the hard way what I should not say or do, or to at least be vigilant of how I say or do something. I've become increasingly aware of this as I spend more time around kids, whose naivety and lack of experience in life causes them to interpret things quite differently.  You see my bro and I never grew up around a lot of kids.  Actually I think my parents were the youngest on our block for most our lives.  Many of the neighbors who did have kids they were already in high school or college or full grown.  Besides, Shawn and I were too geeky and weird to have a lot of friends. And of course it didn't help matters that we were the fat non-athletic bowling kids, despite that I really don't think I started to show a little chubbiness until first or second grade (what happened to the good days dammit?) I think a good way to describe both of us is 13 going on 65.  How many kids sit around playing pinochle with their grandparents and great-grandparents; try to grasp the concept of Fahrenheit 451 before sixth grade; write their first My Little Pony book during summer break with hopes yet of being published; draw covers of their future hit albums; dedicate a devoted 30-60 minutes to their violin or cello a day and yes even during the summer; listen to your parents' Yes, Deep Purple, Chicago, Three Dog Night, Kansas, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, Boston, Boy George (yeah my mom was a fan, yeah crazy, and she also had a brief love affair with Lionel Ritchie ) records and try to analyze their true meaning and form; tune into Wide World of Sports/ESPN at 7 on a Sunday morning and memorize every clip of historic football footage to the point you believed you were actually at Super Bowl IX and can recall every Steelers play even though you were only 1 at the time; play dress up and go sneak into the playroom when no one is paying attention so you can lip sync to mom's records or sing very softly hoping no one would hear (Yeah and I'm still lookin' for an agent bitches!); confess that you religiously watched Dr. Who and admitted your favorite movies were War of the Worlds and Fantastic Voyage while your friends were watching Punky Brewster and Rainbow Bright; stop whatever you were doing or playing at exactly 1 p.m. so you could go have tea with mom and watch Marlena get locked in a cave on some deserted island on Days of Our Lives?...I mean the list could go on and on.  Shawn and I were a far cry from the typical kid who played in the mud, climbed trees (I didn't climb my first until I was 30 OMG I can't believe I just admitted that), slide down slides or went on rides because OMG you could get stuck or even DIE on this thing!!!!  Kiddie rides kill you know.  Grandma: "I just read that a Guatemalan kid was on a carousel when he fell and got run over by a wagon!  You shouldn't go on those things!"  So to make a long, dragged out story short, Shawn and I were very good at behaving like adults around adults, but pretty much lost the aspect of what it was like to be a "kid," especially around other kids.  In adulthood that has translated to an awkwardness felt when we are around the little  ones.  With that said and with this very thorough and accurate background, I don't realize that while around my friends or family's little whipper snappers that I'm being some kind of influence in the way I act or things I say.  Quite frankly, I'm always afraid kids hate me and don't want to be around me, let alone pay attention to what I'm saying or doing.  Am I a positive role model?  With the f-bomb being one of my favorite words, my road rage, my you can kiss my ass and lick it attitude, my constant personal degradation and with my obnoxious smart-assness being an in-born part of my nature, I would have to honestly say, "NOT!!!!"  So is it my fault when kids are around me and they start to pick up some, we'll call them, peculiar traits?  Or if I let them sneak a treat or go on the computer when they're not suppose to — "Hey, lil' dude, just don't tell your mother."  Hence my additive: "What happens at Nikki's house, stays at Nikki's house.  Yeah, like Kiddie Vegas.  Let's go to a specific example like my friend Grace's son, Nat.  He's 8.  When he's around I try to be vigilant of the potty mouth and try to encourage him on endeavors like hitting golf balls or wanting to go water my plants or search for rocks in my backyard when he comes over for visits with his mom and Curt.  At Christmas time I made sure he knew I was deemed one of Santa's elves due to my long history of well behavior as a child (you know like a promotion) and knew on a personal one-on-one basis whether he was behaving on the bus and if he was doing well on his school work.  Nikki Radar. A success.   He fell for it and sucked it right in.  But recently we have discovered that Nat, being the sponge that he is, has sucked up some other Nikki traits.  Yes, let that be a lesson. Self: kids are like sponges and they tend to absorb EVERYTHING.  No selective sopping here.  Well, last night we're watching my husband's and Curt's softball game and Nat goes up to his mom, points at his eyes, then points to his mom and says, "I'm watching you mom!"  I start to laugh but abruptly stop myself.  Wait.  That's the Bobby DeNiro.  I'm famous for that.  That's my thing.  Could he have watched me do it sometime?  Did it around him and picked it up from me?  NAAAAAAAAAAAH.  You're just imagining things.  Nat goes off to play for a little while as Grace and I continue to watch the game.  About 10-15 minutes later Nat returns.  He starts play fighting with his mom.  He pounds his chest, "Bring it mom! Bring it!  BRING IT!"  I'm stunned.  I cannot move.  Grace and I had the same thought at the exact same time.  I began to slouch down in my chair and pretend I didn't hear when I feel Grace's eyes roll up and her head turn slowly in my direction.  Grace to Nat: "You never used to say this stuff before.  Gee, I wonder where you're getting all this from?!" (Looks at me) Me: "Um, actually I usually say that.  That's kind of my line," I said, with a hint of denial that states, 'Hey someone else out there in the universe could be saying the same thing and that's where he got it from.'  Grace: "I KNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!   He keeps doing stuff and I keep wondering where he's getting it from and I realize IT'S YOU!!!!!"  A moment of awkward oops.   This has happened before on my recollection.  In Florida while watching Eric's niece and nephew back in December, I had to scold Aedan for biting his sister.  I release my weapon from my holster and fire: yes, the "POINTY FINGER."  I never ever had a moment of self realization as this.  I point at him, not realizing I'm doing what I'm doing and demand, "You don't bite your sister.  Why would you do something to someone you wouldn't want done to yourself?!!!!!!"  The next morning, Aedan goes to his mother, Eric's sister, and demands to go to the pool.  "Mommy I want to go to the pool right now!," as he points his tiny pointer finger in his mother's face.  Dawn and Mom: "Hey where did you get that from?  You've never pointed at me before!"  Another moment of opps.  I didn't realize that was  a "Nikki thing" until the next scolding came along and the pointer was fired.  It took weeks of careful study and exploration to pin the pointer finger thingy on my grandmother, so at least I had someone to blame on where I got that from.  I noticed when she was scolding me about not coming to visit often enough.  So you see my friends, I guess you can say we are all role models, whether we realize it or not.  Somewhere lurking is some lil punk who is watching everything we do and listening to everything we say and taking it all in.  So be careful out there.   Be mindful that you in some minor, insignificant way, are actually helping to shape the future.  So watch how you represent yourself.  You could be bringing up a next generation of cussing, finger flipping, obnoxious little a-holes, JUST LIKE ME! :)

Marriage Counseling

Doc: So Nik and Marte'n we are here today to talk through some issues you are having with your fantasy relationship.  It is my understanding that the Devils have made it to the Stanley Cup Finals and are now down 4-0.  An overwhelming possibility looms that NJ could be the victims of a Kings' clean sweep.  I understand that this has caused some tension between you two and hopefully today we can work out some of the conflicts and get you onto a path of healing and positive hockey reinforcement.
Nik: Thank you doctor.   I'll start from the beginning.  It was when I was 11 or 12 years old that I began my infatuation with the Devils.  You see I grew up with my dad and bro as Minnesota North Star fans, now the Dallas Stars.  Having only one television in the house and dad ruling the roost, I had no choice but to watch every single Hockey Night in Canada that the Stars appeared in and to sum up the early to mid-80s experience: They totally sucked!  I remember my dad grunting and snarling every time I asked him obnoxiously, yet sincerely, "Dad why is your hockey team so bad?  How can you watch them?"  Being the only girl in the family, if I wanted to have conversations with my dad, bro or anyone else, I needed to learn to speak sports.  But the Northstars were totally freakin' embarrassing!  Yet I really truly wanted to give hockey fandom a go.  I explored the Pittsburgh Penguins because after all, they had a cute penguin for their logo.  But that was too girly a choice and it just wouldn't stick.  Then I thought, well every summer we go to Toronto and I feel I have some small tie to the Canadian people, like they're my cousins and stuff, so maybe I'll like the Maple Leafs.  But then I couldn't figure out how they couldn't be deemed totally disloyal for not having a red leaf for Canada as opposed to the blue leaf.  The blue leaf made no sense at all!  I've never freakin' seen a blue leaf before! So the Canadiens were blue and red so what!  Steal the red.  You're clashing customs here.  So again, my heart strings could not tie.  But then came the Utica Devils games.  I enjoyed it when mom and dad brought us to the Utica Aud.  It wasn't like the hockey on TV. It was actually very exciting and fun to watch! So at one game dad said, "You see these guys here?...They get called up to the hockey teams we watch on T.V."  And I was like really?!  "Yes the guys you see here playing right now could one day play for the New Jersey team in the NHL."
Marte'n: Oookay, so what does this all have to do aboot me?  I doon't understand.
Nik: Would you have some courtesy and let me explain my psychosis!  See how he tries to control me?
Doc: Yes Marte'n try not to interrupt.   Your fantasy wife needs to publicly express her feelings.  Nik, please continue...
Nik:  So if we fast forward to 1995, the year I graduated high school, I was going through a very difficult time in my life, but my team came through with who would become my future Captain of My Fantasy Husband Team, Super Star Goalie Marte'n Brrrrrrrrrrroduer.  And so our relationship began and I've pretty much been infatuated ever since.  Even the whole cheatin on the wife with the brother's wife thing some years back...I got past it for Marte'n the goalie, not Marte'n the man!
Doc: Interesting.
Nik: Indeed.
Doc: So, when did your harsh feelings against Marte'n begin?
Nik: Well, it kind of sorta started after the first game against the Flyers in the first round, even though I was never expecting my team to get that far this year. Going back to December, things weren't looking too hot.  I didn't totally blame Marte'n until the gossip behind the scenes talk began about Marte'n retiring and he didn't even feel the need to share this with me!
Marte'n: Ummmm.   Seeing that I didn't know you even existed, I really don........
Nik: (Glare)
Marte'n: Sooorry.
Nik: Anywho, I tried to be a supportive fantasy wife anyway.  Forty is not too old.  You can't leave me!
Doc: What do you mean leave you?  Wouldn't Marte'n be leaving hockey?
Nik: Um well, isn't it the same thing?  I mean if Marte'n leaves who am I going to absolutely love? Who's going to be my Devil?  Who's going to be my Fantasy Husband?
Doc: Interesting.  So you're having feelings of abandonment...go on.
Nik: Ok so then we move...
Doc: We?  You mean the Devils?
Nik: Yeah? WE!  So we move on to play the Rangers and things get a bit uptight for me.  I actually wanted the Rangers in the series at first because I was scared at how the Capitals were looking.  If we faced them I was afraid we'd go down for sure.  I felt against the Rangers we had a better chance despite the fierce rivalry and the nightmare of 1994 not far from our minds.  But they fought hard.  We went and pounced on them as soon as we hit the ice, but then we'd die by the second period.  We weren't producing well enough during power plays and this really concerned me.  I was yelling, I was screaming and no one was listening.  I consider my husband superhuman goalie, but he was letting shots through!  How dare he!
Doc: So your expressing your anger, and no one is responding...
Nik: Yeah whatever. So anyway I was hugely scared. I would go to bed depressed, angry, frustrated and confused on loss nights.  But I was loyal to the end and we finally came through.  Then came the first day of the finals against....huh.....LA, and I made everyone where black and red to work for Devils day. (tear)
Doc: I'm very proud you were able to say...L.A. by the way.
Nik: I know but it's really really hard to do especially without my Molson here! (Big sob)
Doc: I know, it's OK...
Knock at the door.  "Hallooo..."
Doc: Come on in Wayne.
Nik: Ummm. Really?  The Great One?  Who the hell invited the Great One to our counseling session?
Gretzky: Sorry Donny was still getting dressed so he's running a little late.  He couldn't find his glow in the dark bow tie.
Nik: Donny?  Don Cherry?  He's forbidden. Forbidden!  All he's done is rip my guys from one series to the next.  He always wants the favorite!  First the Bruins dynasty...Then the Canadiens dynasty...Don Cherry can go Kiss My...
Doc: Now let's breath Nik, Feng Shui, Feng Shui.  Since the L.A. Kings seem to be deeply rooted in the problems you and Marte'n's fantasy marital status, I felt it was important you speak to a representative of the focal point of your furiousness.
Nik: Is that the best you could come up with? How much am I paying you per hour anyway?
Doc: Seeing you work for the Sentinel and this is a total fantasy don't worry, we'll have Bobby Orr foot the bill.
Nik: Sweet then.
Gretzky: Haaalloo Marte'n....and you are?
Doc: (Whisper) Nik, it's Nik, don't piss her off any more!
Gretzky: Nicole...I understand you are having some issues with the outcome of the first four games of the Stanley Cup finals and this is upsetting you a great deal and putting pressure on a relationship that Marte'n had no idea he had.
Nik: Exactly.  You see, the thing that nips me in the bud is that I had respect for your guys.  Eight seat. That's a freakin' awesome accomplishment right there.  If it were under different circumstances I'd be like kootos! You go!  But how can I when you're playing my guys and my fantasy husband?
Gretzky: I understand.  Thanks for the respect.
Nik: Yeah, whatever.  But it's the Game 3 I obviously can't come to terms with.  I mean, here Sunday I go to a family Christening and get ripped by my cousins and get reminded of the only single goal we "rightfully" scored off you guys.  But at least you were keeping the games close, while keeping in mind you (points sharply to Marty) were still keeping me up nights and totally depressing me to the point my husband put his hand over my mouth just so he could go to sleep because I just couldn't stop rambling on and on about my heart ache!
Eric: Yeah, what's hockey?
Nik: Yeah, and that's why I need a fantasy husband so shut up!  Who asked you?
Doc: Nik please continue.
Nik: Yeah, so, so yeah, um and then came Game 3 I couldn't hardly watch.  I believed that I was a total curse for my guys and they were better off if I stayed away.  But I kept peeking during commercial breaks.  It was 2-0 when I gave up but I turned back just before going to bed, only to witness the horror of a 4-0 shut out!  Marty?  Really?  Where the F were you?!!!!!!!!!
Marte'n: Ummm. I already had my ass reamed by DeBoer.
Nik: Yeah not good enough.  NOT GOOD ENOUGH!
Gretzky: But this is a great thing for L.A. and it's a great thing for the NHL!
Nik: WHAAAAAAAAAT?  Really?  Really?  Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?  LA doesn't even deserve a hockey team!  I hate LA and I've never even been to California. I already know I hate it!  They don't get any snow.  They don't even know what ice is.  I take flu kooties and spit in your damn cup you BASTARD!  Damn you and damn Stanley!
Doc: Ok Nik, we're not into promoting violence here. let's remove your hand from Wayne's neck, nice and slow like...very good.  Good girl.
Nik: Marte'n I wanted the Stanley Cup and now I don't get the Stanley Cup!  What about my needs?!
Marte'n: Ummm.. aboot that.  You really wouldn't be getting it anyway.
Nik: OH REALLY?!!!!!!!!! (Jumps on Brodeur and puts him in head lock and kicks in knee).
Stay tuned for the next episode of Will Nik Finally File for Divorce Against Martin Brodeur?   Will Game 4 clinch it?  Only the hockey gods know for sure.

Halt the Disease!

God Bless You!  "Several possible origins are commonly given. The practice of blessing someone who sneezes, dating as far back as at least AD 77, however, is far older than most specific explanations can account for.[1]

One explanation holds that the custom originally began as an actual blessing. Gregory I became Pope in AD 590 as an outbreak of the bubonic plague was reaching Rome. In hopes of fighting off the disease, he ordered unending prayer and parades of chanters through the streets. At the time, sneezing was thought to be an early symptom of the plague. The blessing ("God bless you!") became a common effort to halt the disease."

It appears the Rudeness Plague has taken over for the Black Plague more than 1,000 years later.  Actually there's a lot of plagues in Rome, NY so maybe there's some kind of ancient connection — or better yet a curse!  I love curses!  I touched upon this subject of Bless You in my Thursday blog.  People who don't give the common courtesy of the "bless you" when someone sneezes.  We suffer this plague, along with several others, at the workplace.   But today, I will make it more feasible and concentrate on the one.  Maybe it's because we've wrapped ourselves up into a world of complete political correctness.  We're so overwhelmed by the concern that we might offend a group, so perhaps some people believe they shouldn't bless anyone because then others will think they identify with some kind of religious denomination or cult other than loving the deity of thyself.  But did you ever think that those who are saying it are just trying to be nice — trying to "halt the disease?"  And maybe I don't want your disease!  Ever think of that?  And maybe I'm just thinkin', Gees hope you don't croak man!  If bless you was known as the all-kooties killer, then maybe you'd all be able to look at that simple phrase from a different perspective.  Halt the Disease — I'm thinking of naming my new band that.  It's kind of catchy.  Oops, no pun intended.  If bless you is "Halt the Disease" then maybe I should go around blessing complete assholes.  If someone decides to drive up so close to my bumper that they can smell my butt, quite the commodity in Rome I must say, then instead of flipping the bird maybe I should roll down my window and scream, "BLESS YOU!"  Bless you could be the new "Poof Be Gone" for evil.  Poof be gone was a common phrase used amongst myself and my galfriends otherwise known as chicks or chicas, in high school.  I still use chicas, because I can.  They were my brood, or maybe in my case it would be more proper to say "Brooda?"  Anyway, if someone got in our face and was talking nonsense or told us something we didn't want to hear, or we just plain wished to ignore them, we'd place our fore and middle finger against our thumb, raise the arm and make a spell-casting motion and proclaim, "Poof be gone with you!!"  I wish I still used that today.  Maybe I should resurrect it.  I could use it on SOOOOO many people.  In case you're not following me and you're a geek such as I, the Poof Be Gone can largely be compared to the Vadar.  Bring Luke Skywalker to me alive or die VRRRRRRRRR!  Stop the Assholes!   You don't need the Dark Side or the Vulcan Neck Grip when there's BLESS YOU!  You know I understand if there's a person who goes off on a sneezing spree that you might get tired of saying bless you all the time.  I can understand that.  You shouldn't have to repeat yourself like 50 times in one morning.  I'm not expecting that or looking for it.  Just give the occasional reply or say, "This one was a token good for 60 more blows!"  Just be nice and courteous.  Seriously, what did your mommies teach you anyway? You know better!  Halt the Disease of DISRESPECT! GOD BLESS US EVERY ONE FOR WHAT HAS THIS WORLD COME TO?!!!!! Vadar out. VRRRRRRRR!!!!

Confessions of a Softball Wife

Way to go!  You can do it!  Great job!  Sometimes it's nice to receive encouragement for the things we do, no matter what they are — work or play.  I have deemed it "Positive Reinforcement."  For example: At Eric's softball game last night, I used my extra special mix of "Positive Reinforcement" with the players when they made a good play or a good catch: "THAT WAS SEXY!"  I'll usually scream.  My husband doesn't even bother to look at me funny or shake his head when I do it anymore.  I feel it's a good way to boost the boys' self esteem and make the other team jealous.  After all, there's no one calling them sexy.  I even have other softball wives screaming it now so that my lunacy is no longer singled out by strangers.  I've found that some guys even appreciate when they pop a ball out and it doesn't quite make it over the fence and I yell, "That was almost sexy baby!  You'll get it next time!"  It makes them feel that just one more inch and they too could have been the epiphany of sexy, even though they're final out resulted in a pathetic and demoralizing 22-5 defeat.  The word sexy should not be taken literally, but it's an expression meant to relay a message of support for their self-esteem.  Everyone deserves to feel "sexy" at one point — to feel good about themselves.  Unfortunately we have lost our simple sense of self worth in today's society.  Either we're never recognized for our hard work and achievements, or some choose to go the extreme and overcompensate in that area.  For example, do we really need "Participation Awards," "Third Honorable Mention" or the "Fifth Grade Moving Up Ceremony"?  Do we need certificates for accomplishing the most menial of tasks?  I for one, would rather be told I wrote a great story rather than get a certificate for completing my online sexual harassment seminar, especially seeing everyone was required to do it and that you would have to be a total moron or complete slut to fail the course.  In case you were wondering, yes I passed!  Eric has also mentioned how at his place of employment — to change the name to protect the innocent we will call it Bank of Apparent Cheaters, Thieves and Hidden Fees — employees will get little trinkets for awards from time to time.  For example, the other day he brought home some lime coconut hand sanitizer.  I'm like what's this?  And he said they were giving them away at work today.  That happened once with a box of Cracker Jacks too.   So I'm like really, is that necessary?  We both discussed and agreed that we'd rather them keep an employee or two from their weekly round of lay-offs rather than spend their earnings on snacks and toys that are suppose to be meant to boost employees' moral.  I really don't think a box of caramel popcorn is going to make me feel more appreciated at the work place, or make me want to work harder, unless the free prize inside is a diamond ring or a key to my new Camaro.  Then there's my place of employment where there is nothing positive done or mentioned EVER!  I always say we just have a dark cloud that forever hovers over our heads to remind us of the misery we must have caused in our past lives to make us so deserving of our present hell!  A place where if you sneeze, most people won't or are too afraid to say "Bless You."  A simple common courtesy.  Now if you don't believe in God that's fine.  I don't care...you can worship Buddha, you can worship Saddam Hussein, you can worship Megan Fox for all I freakin' care.  Give some positive courtesy and respect to your co-workers!  It's usually quite the freak accident if we're told "Good story" or even "Interesting story."  And if we are, it's usually followed by an insult or insinuation five minutes later that you're a lazy shit and didn't do something right on another story.   Sometimes when we experience that freakish positive moment, we freeze from shock, unable to speak or even move.  Yes or No!   Answer me Yes or NO!  That was always one of my faves.  You listen right now!  Why didn't you ask this?  Why didn't you write that?  Go ask Fred and if he doesn't know, go ask God.  NOW!  There are days that everyone in the office feels like they could sever their right arm and plop it on their boss' desk, yet they would still manage to ask us, "What about your left?"  Maybe if we had some "positive reinforcement" we wouldn't hang our heads so low and in silence as we dragged ourselves to our desk each morning, anticipating the repetitious misery we would face each minute of each hour.   So in honor of positive reinforcement I proclaimed today Dave: You are winner of the I Can't Believe You Didn't Want to Shoot Yourself for Having to Cover and Write that Story award and Dan, you totally awesomey page designer — those Sunday Sentinel pages be lookin' sexy this week my man!  Doesn't that make you feel good?!  See if we just felt a little bit better about ourselves, just for a milli-second, this world could be a better place.  Well, at least maybe our own little worlds.  Together, we can make this planet SEXY one degenerate at a time.

Bad Dogs

Saturday afternoon I entered into the world of foster parenthood when I agreed to puppysit our friends’ Husky/Austrian Shepherd mix who I swear is half horse too.  He’s a big boy and still has lots to grow being only about 6-7 months old.  I’ve always wanted my own dog and now was the chance to get a taste of doggy mommyhood.  I’ve dog sat and dog walked for my sister-in-law, but I’ve never spent several hours at a time taking care of a dog on my own and I thought I was up for the challenge.  Here was my chance to show Eric that being a dog parent wasn’t half-bad and that maybe I could talk him into letting us have one in the family.  I’m such an idiot.  The day started off fine.  I picked up the dog at our friends’ new apartment in Rome on my way home from work.  I continually tried to make conversation so he wouldn’t be too nervous being the first time he’s been with me alone and in my car.  It’s kind of difficult to strike up a conversation with dogs.  You never really know if they know what you’re saying or if they’re even paying attention to begin with.  That stupid human what the hell is she saying now?  Well at least it wasn’t no no bad dog, which came later.  I talked about how we were going to play in the yard and go for a walk around the block and meet all the other doggies in the neighborhood and that we were going to have FUN FUN FUN!  He was a bit jittery at first, but as soon as I turned onto our street, he knew exactly where he was, being a frequent visitor to our house with his mom and dad.  When we got to the house I acquainted him with the back yard so Aunt Nikki could go change into more doggie sitting appropriate clothing.  Then Aunt Nikki was a little hungry it being lunch time and never eating breakfast on a work day.  There were the leftovers from last night’s dinner in Barneveld — a small piece of beer-battered fish and a few clams.  I place them on a plate and into the nuker and Bullet can’t help but raise his nose and try and get a good sniff of whatever is cooking.  He had his food, which I encouraged him to eat.  “Have something it’s lunch time,” I said, but he didn’t go for it.  The beef and cheese treats I bought anticipating his visit were more interesting, but still not as much as that fish in the nuker.  I took my plate out and sat down when the timer rang.  Ooh I have fish and Bullet has doggie food, Yum....Yeah, still not havin’ it.  So I started to feel guilty.  It’s rude to be eating in front of somebody if they’re not eating so I said, “Let’s see if Bullet likes fish.” So I forked off a piece and placed it in his mouth.  By all the licks of his lips, I’d say he thought that was pretty darn good.  I commence to eat my lunch when I get the helpless gooey stare.  More Please? I imagine him saying.  Ok, but wait until Nikki has some too.  So I give him another piece.  Then there were the clams.  I wasn’t sure dogs would like clams, but I figured hell, why not try and see?  Oh yeah, lots of lip licks there.  He’s a dog after my own heart.  Then it was time for Nikki to get her exercise so I grabbed the leash and took Bullet for a walk.  Wasn’t sure how that would go.  He’s a pretty powerful dog for his age.  Well, I think you’d agree if you saw us that it was more like Bullet took me for a walk.  But he was a pretty good boy.  He had to smell every dandelion in the neighborhood and when we passed our first fire hydrant I pleaded, “Please don’t be so stereotypical.”  And he walked right past.  Good dog!  We peed on a tree instead.  That’s okay.  Then there was the encounter with the yellow lab and shiatsu.  You see Bullet just wanted to go over and see what they were up to and just make friends.  “Wazzup dog?  YO!”  He had a smile on his face the whole time he was tugging at his leash and Nikki was trying with all her might to keep him away from the fence.  The lab almost jumped the fence and you would think somebody just stole 50 bucks worth of Milkbone from the Shiatsu.  They ended up getting scolded and Bullet just resumed with his walk, totally oblivious of the mayhem he had caused. I could just imagine the Shiatsu and Lab’s argument: Mom, he made us do it!  We made it back home, just one time around the block.  Nikki didn’t dare bring him around the entire neighborhood.  Besides I don’t know who was panting the loudest.  I was thinking the whole time good thing I’ve been working out with weights lately.  But my weights don’t usually tug and pull at me.  We make it back to the yard and I get a text from the sister in law.  She said she’s bringing my niece Aspen, a retriever puppy, up to visit with Bullet to give me a break and so they can play.  Awesome, play date for the dog!  Aspen will be a year old this week and she was about the same size as Bullet now.  Bullet was just a tiny puppy the last time they met.  And they looked so cute together until Bullet couldn’t keep his nose out of her crotch!  I was talking to the neighbors behind us at the time and felt so embarrassed.  “Isn’t it great to watch dogs play together?  They’re so cute!”  And I’m like, “Excuse me, can we be a gentleman over here?  After all this is my little niece.  My baby girl.  My innocent lil’ puppy poo. Please keep your nose and paws to yourself and leave her alone?!”  Luckily my niece got wind of his antics and was able to fend him off with pure feminine sophistication.  She gets that from her aunt.  She even managed to be queen of the pile at the end, after dumping Bullet’s water bowl over so many times he didn’t even want to drink anymore.  Well that was fun and Bullet was a good boy.  He played hard with Aspen but there was no real biting or yelping.  Now I can just say from experience that it’s not exactly fun to be body slammed by an Austrian Shepherd mix and a Golden Retriever at the same time.  Impressive is that I didn’t fall on my butt.  Well Aspen had to go home and at least Eric was home from his golf outing.  It was time to mow the lawn so we took turns doing that and watching the dog.  Wow, we are total dog-sitting multi-taskers.  I learned Eric’s mom was coming over with dinner, so I decided to go in the kitchen and whip up some dessert.  Cupcakes would be fast and simple.  So I bring Bullet in and he won’t leave my side.  Not even for me to open the cupboard to get my mixing bowl.  So get out my mixer and start cleaning the mixer thingys with my fingers after I’m done and take a lick.  This is mean.  I shouldn’t be doing this in front of the dog, it’s rude!  So I decided to see if Bullet likes vanilla cupcakes and eureka, another grand slam!  I text his parents and update them on Bullet’s adventure.   Curt is not pleased that I’ve fed his dog junk and am spoiling him rotten. “He’ll never want to come home now,” he commanded.  “And don’t forget I also gave him a woman to play with,” I quipped back.  “Nikki’s house is Bullet’s paradise vacation spot!”  Good thing I didn’t have Aspen in a bikini or he would’ve never let her go home!  Anyway, it was time to bake the cupcakes and to instruct Bullet we should never, under any circumstances, put our heads inside the oven.  They were done and cooled, so it was time to frost them.  Naturally I let him lick the inside of the frosting container when he was done.  Another major spoiling job by Nikki, but at least I didn’t have to wash it out.  Pretty sweet!  Eventually it was time for bed.  Nikki went on the couch and started falling asleep to some kick boxing thingamagigy event on Fox.  I grew up watching regular plain old “real” boxing with grandpa, so I usually don’t agree with legs and biting getting involved.  Well at least it looked like this guy had half his ear bitten off. Anyway, I was quickly bored and passed out.  I was awoken just before 2 in the morning to some rustling.  Bullet was pretty uneasy for the majority of the night.  He was in an unfamiliar house spending the night with unfamiliar people.  I let him out, Nikki had to peepee as well and then I decided to go into bed because of my crotchety neck.  Eric doesn’t like Bullet to be in the bedroom, so he barricaded the doorway with a card table.  I said good night, be a good boy, everything will be OK, get some sleep and Nikki would wake up to let him out to peepee soon.  Yes, I had this entire conversation with the dog.  So Nikki was dead tired and passed out again only to wake up at 6:45 to some rustling around and her own sensation for the need to void the bladder.  I sit up, look on the floor and there it is.  How freakin weird is this?  It freaks me out.  There was a pile of garbage.  A McDonald’s bag surrounded ever so neatly and tediously by some napkins and a hashbrown wrapper.  I’m like we didn’t go to McDonald’s who the hell put that garbage there?  Eric was like that was my garbage from breakfast before golf and I’m sure you can guess who put it there.  I couldn’t believe it.  How did he get into the barricaded room and how did I not hear him?   And how could a dog be so neat yet so messy.  He must have OCD, I assumed.  So I proceeded out into the kitchen.  C’mon Bullet lets peepee now!  So I let the dog out.  Now it’s my turn.  I continue into the living room and find pieces of broken bark on the floor.  I figure out that it’s a piece of potpourri I have sitting on a plate with Celtic candle chandelier.  He only took one, didn’t knock down the glass.  Didn’t break anything, so not so bad.  Then I look down the hall toward the bathroom and there’s a book.  No ripped pages.  No tears.  No bite marks.  Just sitting there in the middle of the hall.  The Idiot’s Guide to Getting Published.  Now why would he choose that of all books?  Not  the most exciting read.  I couldn’t help but think this dog must have a little Brian from Family Guy in him or his parents have let him watch the show too much.  I look to my right and notice the door to my craft room open.  That’s definitely a forbidden place for doggies, which is why I had the door closed.  I had piles of colored wool just lying on the floor, waiting to be sculpted into an owl cake topper that someone paid me to do for their wedding.  Luckily, but oddly, those weren’t touched.  But I look.  Bullet got into my yarn basket and decided to take a ball of crochet thread and spread it throughout the room like spray streamer that the kids in the neighborhood like to spray throughout the trees in the neighborhood on Halloween.  He got into some of my yarn and took the wrapper off a brand new skein, but just left it lying on the floor.  Then the most horrid and difficult of sites to take in.  Bullet had tore a plastic Hannaford’s bag to shreds and got to my needle felted owls, my first creations of that medium and the little boogers that got me my first paid gig.  Then I notice some blue felt here, some pink felt there.  Long story short, Bullet bit off the wing, flowers and veil on my bride owl and had a little fun, but not as much, with my groom owl.  I was devastated and TOTALLY PISSED!  Of all the things he could’ve grabbed and I could have lived without and he mauls my owls!  He couldn’t have picked up a crochet hook or pair of knitting needles and made a sweater in those four hours.  Oh no!  Instead of constructive we were destructive.  And then I notice the surprise, peepee on the ball of crochet thread and some on the space rug.  I’m ready to scream at this point.  I’m over here cleaning at 6:50 on a Sunday morning when I should be sleeping for another 3 hours!  My heart was broken.  I was the one who spoiled Bullet rotten, gave him everything he wanted and more, and this is how he thanks me.  Outside is where Bullet went and stayed for a while.  I was waiting for the forbidden words from my husband.  Told you so!  Why do you agree to do these things?  Luckily I didn’t hear them or maybe he was going outside too.  After scolding him, “Bad boy! Look what you did!”  I get an apologetic nose rub and he attempts to give me kissies on the face.  Too little too late pal, like most men, you’ve got lots to learn when it comes to women!  In the end I forgave Bullet even though I think he even got the hint that I wasn’t pleased with him.  Finally it was time for Curt and Grace to come pick him up.  I felt guilty I felt this way, but I was so RELIEVED.  Please go home it’s time to go home!  My husband laughs.  “So what did you think of you’re adventure this weekend?,” he asks.  I think that maybe I’m not quite ready for a dog, I don’t know.  Or he better be much smaller and have much less energy.  Then I can’t help think: Does this make me a bad doggy mommy?  Would this make me a bad people mommy?  I guess I shouldn’t venture there.  Actually it made me realize, the adventure of parenthood, be it doggie or human, is quite the learning experience.  We don’t come programmed to know everything and each canine and kid is different.  But I’d like to think I’m a better and wiser person from my experience with Bullet.  I couldn’t be really angry with him.  He’s a puppy and not only does he not know any better, but he has to learn from his mistakes.  Just like we do.    

Newbies

There's a new girl in town and I already don't like her.  Here it is Saturday, the end of a six-day week for me.  Yeah, I got to leave early Thursday and put in a half-day, but that doesn't take back the fact I've been stuck in this hell hole for six straight days.  I just discussed with a co-worker how disgusted I was to look at myself in the mirror this morning.  I could've jumped rope with the bags underneath my eyes and my crocheted mushroom hat didn't help matters much.  Ripped that off my head.  I was all out of sorts to begin with.  I couldn't find my pants.  Then I put on a clean shirt and notice it has spots on it.  I get pissed and hope it's just detergent and will come off, after all it's brand new and it's not like I have the bucks to replace it if it's ruined.  Then I can't find my keys in my purse.  I walk out without my drink bottle.  I'm late.  I'm like what else can go wrong DAMMIT I just want to end this week?!  The new girl, that's what can go wrong.  Now I shouldn't hold anything against her, my good twin tells me.  You don't know her and she could be a very sweet girl.  She looks nice upon first glance.  But she's young, cute has a tiny little body and all the men are gooing all over her already!  It's freakin disgusting!  I just wanted to step on all their tongues!  Nicole gets introduced as the "other reporter" LAST.  After all I don't count.  And yes, I'm the ugly one.  I'm the one who has no important job around here, I won't argue with that, and I'm not young and I'm not cute.  I just have a big enough ass for everyone to whip and ride (like the editor I'm ready to punch out today). It made me think that just one day, JUST ONE DAY in my life, that's all I'd ask, I want to be the cute young skinny nice legged and tight shapely assed little girl.  JUST ONE DAY.  I've never been that girl that every guy in the room hits on or makes sure she gets anything and everything she wants.  Now don't get me wrong, I don't need everyone hitting on me.  I'm very lucky to have found a man who loves me for who I am, even though I think he's a crazy bastard and even ask him sometimes, REALLY?  What do you see here?!  But again I was never that chick who got to be the center of attention.  That stopped the clock when I entered the room.  JUST ONE DAY I would want that.  Lead every guy on in the room and then let the bungy chord go so I could bust them all the way down to the end of the fall.  Be the player, get what I want and then knock you down on your ass.  Like you were really stupid enough to think you were good enough to get a piece of me?  But then when reason sets in and the temper settles, I think how stupid and selfish that would be.  I could never be that kind of person.  Maybe that's why I wasn't made that way.  That's never been in the stars for me.  I always say in the big conveyer belt in the sky, I must've been made at the first of the month when God had plenty to go around.  I got LOTS of EVERYTHING!  Big ass, big legs, big stomach, big FEET!  Got a little extra in the schnazola too.  I got lots of shakes from the temper and impatience shaker.  Must be that month He was a little low on the self-esteem spice.  Well I guess I'll never be "That Girl," that wasn't my mold.  I was naive once and thought when I got older that things would be different, but you can't change your skin.  You just gotta learn to get comfortable living in it.  So good luck newbie, I hope you last two months and don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.  Welcome to "the man's" world that I've hated all my life. Newbie.  It's hard to think back to anything I've recently been a newbie in for quite a while, besides my artsy things I love dabbling in.  I'd love to be a newbie at a new job.  Maybe I could find some peace there.  Maybe I'm just being naive, STILL!  Newbie.  But there's scary things about being the newbie. New people, new work, new challenges, new situations.  But at least I'm a little older and wiser now.  I always complain that I didn't have the brain I have today when I was in my 20s.  I could've navigated life, men, work, relationships...so differently and WITH REASON.  Newbie.  Oh yeah, I was actually the Newbie last night.  I wanted to go out and of course me and the hubby couldn't agree on a place to go.  Then we both opt for a new sports bar we've been seeing advertise on TV that looked fun.  Eric is afraid he's going to get lost.  MUST HAVE EXACT Address to plug into GPS.  I laugh.  The bar was in Barneveld.  Hun, I say, I can get you there but just don't blink, or you'll miss it.  He wouldn't believe that their Main Street had about maybe 4-5 businesses on it.  And I'm always accused of being "THE CITY GIRL."  You're such a City Girl!, he always says, even though we both agree Utica isn't exactly a real city.  Well we did drive pass it, but turned around and parked.  We're like Is this it?  I'm telling you whoever their videographer was who did the commercial, he's a freakin' Genius!  He made the place look so huge and OMG, FUN and FANTASTIC!  So we see the little red Jak's Bar & Grill sign and walk in.  Now this is to be expected when you enter any drinking establishment in a dinky town.  Everyone glared.  But it wasn't a harmful WTF you doin in our place? kind of glare.  You could tell a couple guys were really consciously trying not to look, but couldn't help but wonder who the hell is that and what the hell are they doing HERE?  You had your typical rednecks, again as I expected.  You've got the lil' redneck chick who thinks she's all that, hittin' on three guys at once and dressed like she just stepped out of Michael J. Fox's Delorean that just traveled back to 1985.  Nik wants to watch her hockey, that's what she wants to see at bars.  But oh no, not here.  We've gotta keep with the theme here and have Nascar spread out on the huge flat screen.  Then we were stuck with Stupid Drivers on TruTV on the other flat screen.  Can this get any worse?  Well when in Rome I always say, so I started watching the racing.  I notice that there's two Camrys racing so I start rooting for the Japanese mobiles.  Probably not a smart thing to do in a redneck bar.  Country boys like their GMs and they don't like those Japs interfering in their sport.  Then a car crashes and of course, I can't help myself.  "Must be a Chevy!," I said out loud.  "Mine looked about the same way when I crashed mine going 35!"  Keep in mind that this race car slid off the raceway and rolled after he was just tapped on the back end by another car.  My car was only going 35 and got pushed by water.  Both our cars ended up lookin' pretty ugly.  Then I thought I was going to spill my Magic Hat all down my shirt when I heard the first big BOOM!  Some arcade game that the rednecks were amusing themselves with that I was working hard to ignore.  Punch the punching bag as hard as you can.  After all, it's rednecks we're dealing with here and their challenges are limited to punching bags and how far we can toss the cow.  Geesh, that was low for you!, screams the lil redneck chick at one of her threesome.  He tries again.  The other one tries...then she even tries!  And I'm like "WOW." I don't think they were too amused with us.  After all we smelled from the start.  Smelled like something other than Barneveld, NY. And we weren't exactly aw-inspired.  I don't know what they be but they not us!  But I did make good with the owner. He got a kick out of me sayin' how I wanted to steal one of his wooden chairs with a horse carved into the back.  It was a pretty chair.  And we left.  We were done being the newbies for the night.  So I guess being the newbie has it's good and bad qualities. Maybe my message today is don't hate the newbie, actually go ahead if you feel like, screw what I say! I guess just try not to be hatin you.  You are who you are for a reason and if that's not acceptable with the masses of the population then you make sure you walk backwards, bent over and tell the world to go KISS YOUR ASS!  Go Dale Earnhardt. NOT!

Let Me Feed YOU!

Mama Mia.  Here I go again!  I couldn't help but have that ABBA song pop into my head as I was frying up some peppers, onion and mushrooms at the request of my dad to put on top of his steak when we have the fam over for dinner Saturday night.  My mom wasn't even really an ABBA fan but she liked the song, so I remember her playing her 45 when she used to house clean.  House cleaning was a ritual that started every Saturday morning and could last well into the evening.  Mom would play all her vinyls and 45s as she worked and when I was really young I would sing along, but I would usually go into another room or hope that it was when my mom was too busy to notice or my dad was taking a nap and couldn't hear me.  OK I was a little slow to catch on.  I totally felt like the little Italian mama mia frying up my peppers and mushrooms.  It was something that I knew once my husband walked in the door from his bowling banquet would complain about.  The wafting stench of something Italian or vegetable.  "What's that smell?  That's disgusting!" Trust me I was waiting for it.  My husband with the Irish-Viking and who knows what else roots has not come to appreciate the foods and scents that I grew up with.  What's up with those Italian cookies that taste like chalk?  Cannolis, which are PASTRIES, do not taste like chalk it's Rigo(au)t! (pronounced ricotta by the un-Sicilians and WASPs, aka Mayonnaise Faces).  It's sweet cheese filling!  Cheese?  That's disgusting!  I always like it too when the family gives me leftovers that I know he won't like, so I'll make him something else.  What are you eating?   And sometimes he makes it an even more attractive effort by taking my plate and sniffing it.  Mmmm... makes me that much more hungry every time YUCK!  And I'll say hun, it's....Would you like to try it?  No, that looks and smells disgusting!  And inside my head I imagine having a twisted smile on my face and I snidley comment to myself, "Good, I didn't want to share anyway."  But I did have a moment of great pride earlier in the week.  Eric and I went to a benefit for a neighbor over at Club Monarch.  I was kind of dreading it because they've never had the greatest reputation for its food.  But since I hadn't been there in years, I finally decided to have an open mind and give it a chance.  The buffet was what my husband would call typical of Utica, NY.  Being an Irish-Viking, my husband was born and bred to be a meat n' potatoes man.  He still can't believe that I once used to eat pasta maybe 2-3 times a week.  So we walk up to the buffet line and we notice the baked ziti and meatballs.  There weren't many choices, so that's what we took on our plate.  And my husband actually took salad too.  Salad for him is usually outlawed unless we're out at a restaurant, otherwise it "doesn't taste the same" or "doesn't taste right."  Whatever!  Well we eat and we don't say much.  We do what we need to do at the benefit and we leave.  We're walking to the car and he's like "So did it meet your standards?"  My husband is perplexed how I can place certain expectations on food when his philosophy is "It's just sauce" or "It's just pizza."  I wasn't surprised at the question, but I was shocked at his reaction. "Honestly honey, the sauce sucked — too tomatoey (yes there's my EY) and flat (which translates into watery and a bit light on the seasoning).  He goes, yeah hun it didn't meet my standards either. I didn't think it was that hot.  And I glowed.  It was a moment of glory in my almost two-year marriage.  There were hopeless times when I thought I wouldn't be able to mold him or show him the light.  That he would never give in to the sauce and be the pasta.  I had reared him well.  It had been a small triumph.  If I could change a Viking and force him to follow my ways, like Madonna, I could rule the world.  Then we were out for a couple drinks Wednesday night and we ordered an appetizer.  It included mozzarella sticks and fried ravioli, so of course there was a little container of marinara sauce. My family could never figure out what that was.  It was just sauce to us.  That was the universal term and it was to be understood that that was the only known type of sauce in the universe.  Not even "red" sauce. JUST SAUCE!  So anyway, I've been telling my husband how I want to make my own huge pot of sauce and then freeze it so we'd have it for a long time.  To appeal to his banker side, I explained what a fiscal endeavor it would be.  It would cost a little for the ingredients, but we wouldn't have to worry about buying sauce for a very long time and we would be saving money.  I've always felt like half a woman anyway because I use stuff from a jar, which with my family, at least in the "olden days," would be totally outlawed.  You would become an instant black sheep if you even mentioned the word "Prego" or "Ragu."  But at least I use Bertolli and that's pretty good I must say.  But I always got that because my fussy husband would actually eat it.  So finally my husband said, "You've been talking about it, why don't you do it?"  But then a little streak of panic struck.  What if I couldn't?  What if I shamed my mother and my little 4-foot-8 Sicilian gnome great grandmother who would knee you in the balls if you didn't eat at her house or at least try a piece of her famous pound cake?  So I text my mom and asked if she could tell me how.  I used to watch my mom make sauce every Sunday growing up.  Sunday was also the day grandpa came over to have morning coffee and a "cookie" or "pizza frit(a)."  Mom would have a few groceries for us to pick up, so we'd go to the neighborhood grocery store.  As I got into my teen-age years I'd have to give my grandpa a glaring stare when he tried to fib about how many cookies or doughnuts he had in the bag or if I thought he was being a little too flirty with the cute blonde check-out girl.  I'm watching for grandma, I'd say.  My grandpa was the classic Italian stallion and he always ate it up.  By the time we got home with groceries and doughnuts, the sauce would still be simmering away.  It wouldn't be until way after grandpa left that mom would cut the fresh loaf of Italian bread we just bought that morning.  When I was a little girl I would beg my mom to let me have a piece early before dinner.  Maybe an hour or two before supper time she would give me a little green Correl bowl of sauce and a slice of bread, and I would dip the bread in the sauce.  That was heaven man!  That moment was what made life worth living on a Sunday.  It was a miniature version of the excitement and anticipation that took over your soul every Christmas Eve night and why you just couldn't fall asleep.  So what if my sauce couldn't meet those standards?  And what if I forgot how to make it even though I can't tell you how many years I spent watching my mom do it?  So Eric said why don't you go over there or have your mom come to our house and show you again?  Wow, he was actually encouraging the production of the Italian food.  I was so excited.  But at the same time I was like, "Would mom be able to show me?  She's done it for so many years it probably just comes totally automatic to her."  While waiting for my text reply, I tried to explain to Eric what I remembered.  During certain times of the year mom would use the tomatoes and/or cherry tomatoes that we grew in our garden.  Other times she would go get cans of sauce and tomato paste, add cheese and seasonings and water, and then let it boil down for hours and hours.  To my surprise I was actually right.  I remembered!  Mom even said of course you should have, you've seen me do it.  Yes, but sometimes it can be hard imagining yourself put those big girl panties on.  Now I look forward to making my famous lasagna, baked ziti or chicken riggies with my own sauce.  But Saturday, we're having steak and chicken.  My husband will be happy with his meat, which means I'll be forced to promise pasta for my dad on another occasion.  But dad looks forward to his steak on the grill too.  When I was cooking up those peppers and mushrooms I thought back to when we just moved into the house, which will be four years ago next week.  Eric had lost a good deal of weight and I was still on Weight Watchers, so I was still being good about losing weight.  But he used to say 2-3 years ago that he started getting fat again since moving into the house.  So I used to tell him good, that means you think I'm a good cook and I'm taking good care of you.  Then I thought about my general appreciation for fattening people up.  It's actually a compliment.  Well,  at least it used to be.  Now there's too many negative stereotypes surrounding the round belly and no one appreciates it.  Actually I'm surprised it's not totally illegal yet.  That some cop on the corner doesn't stop you, give you the once over and slaps you with a ticket that says you've gotta shed five pounds in a week or it's off to jail.  Maybe that's a little dramatic, but sometimes I wonder as a society if we'll ever get to that point.  But I love cooking and baking for people now that I have my own house.  My mother never let me because she didn't want me "messing up HER kitchen."  That's a bad thing when you don't want to have it all go to your gut and ass.  Like I need anymore help.  That's why sometimes, especially when I've made big dishes for company coming over (cuz I'm the hostess with the mostessssst) I've tried to pawn it off on my friends.  If they don't know me well enough they don't get it.  They're like why are you trying to feed me?  Listen I have a fussy husband who doesn't like most Italian foods and I don't need my ass to grow any larger so just take it PLEEEEEEEEEASE!  When I offer you food, just assume that's the reason and that's what I'm thinking.  The last time I made chicken riggies I should of put a sign on the front lawn that said Free Riggies, C'Mon In!  Unfortunately I didn't think of it at the time.  But I'm proud of the little bump I've given my husband, even though Labatt, Molson and Sam Adams have been large contributors to our forever 8-month gestation as well.  I'm proud of my friend Grace and she always makes me laugh.  She always makes me stare at her fiance Curt's ass and she'll scream, "See what I did?  I made that!"  Yes, Curt is a hockey player and skinny does run in his genes besides, although he is built pretty solid.  I would hope so for a hockey player.  But she's right we always joke that before Grace, Curt had no ass and now look at him.  I'm always impressed by a woman who encourages other women to look at their man's ass.  I'm not allowed to touch though.  It's her personal museum...her masterpiece!  And yes, Curt does actually have an ass now.  What's wrong with that?  All it means is that we're taking care of our men — our family and our friends.  So if you or my husband asks again, "Why do you feel as though you have to feed every body? or "Why are you always afraid enough for an army is never enough?," then I'm going to tell you it's because Nik enjoys taking care of people.  Nik wants to feed you and make you fat.  Let me make you fat!  And the next time I offer you food whether you like it or not just freakin' take it dammit!  Mama MIA!

It's a Zoo Out There

Lions and tigers and bears OH MY!  It's been like a real zoo at my house lately.  Don't know if it's because it's spring time, the birds have finally discovered our bird feeder or a combination thereof.  We've had lots of little visitors, feathered and furry, running all around the patio.  There's the perch family with mom and dad and at least two or three other chicks who occasionally stop by.  I usually get two or three blue jays, but one in particular has come to sit on my whicker chair lately and likes starring at me through the kitchen window.  He's FAT and it's totally my fault.  Who knew blue jays liked peanuts too?  Since I'm not exactly a bird expert, I don't know all the species I'm seeing out there, but there's a pretty little robin-sized bird — white feathers with black stripes and markings — that I call Little Woody because he looks like a wood pecker but thank god I haven't busted him trying to peck at our patio posts yet.  We also have a very pretty female cardinal who has a perfect spike of red feathers on top of her head.  I'm positive she must visit the hairdresser daily to achieve that or at least goes to bed with curlers on.  I'm impressed that she doesn't get it all messed up when she's being chased by our two horny male cardinals.  Poor chick, literally, just gets her claws into the screen of the bird feeder when the two guys start flying after her and chase  her off to the roof of the house.  I can only imagine what goes on up there.  I yell to her, "Good Girl!  That's how you play hard to get!"  Eric usually comes out and asks what all the commotion is about and I complain that two guys are literally chasin the tail feathers of my girl cardinal, and he's like, "What's wrong with that?"  I'm like my lil' birdie is a whore that's what's wrong with that!  I don't feel I'm qualified or have the right resources to run a birdie brothel anyway.  In our furry little world there's Alvin, who has been very active lately.  If Alvin is close to the kitchen window I usually yell at him to start singing if he wants to earn his peanuts.  "Chrismas Christmas Christmas time is near..."  I try to encourage him, but no luck so far.  Guess he just can't get the lyrics down.  I love watching him because he looks like a wind up toy when he runs.  He darts so fast that the only way you can keep track of him is by keeping an eye on his wagging tail.  No it's not a wag like a dog, but that little thing is wiggling 100 mph when he wants to get away from that squirrel.  And yes, there's the creatures I mentioned in one of my blogs last week.  So if you've been reading, you've got a pretty good idea of who actually runs our household.  And yes, there's the one in particular, Roxy, who I can tell had a very bad encounter with a moving vehicle at one point in her career.  Got some missing fur at the tail end.  I can always tell her by that tail and her little pink nose.  Well, unfortunately I had to scold her the other day.  Alvin was out and I went to give him and her a peanut and she started to chase him away.  Poor Alvin is very intimidated by Roxy.  I tell him size doesn't matter, but he hasn't caught on yet.  Perhaps he doesn't speak English.  It's like all your sci-fi shows like Star Trek where all the aliens from millions of light years away just so happen to speak our language.  What a coincidence!  Well anyway, I told Roxy we share at the Elliott house and she just kind of looks at me and smiles.  Then I start raising my voice and start giving her the pointer finger treatment "You bad bad girl! Naughty!"  Then she kind of gives me that "What the hell is your problem?" kind of look and then tries to jump on my window screen.  I can only imagine that's how teachers must feel each day in the classroom, at least teachers in Utica schools.  I'm sure my brother would agree.  They probably might as well be talking to squirrels too.  They'd get the same response if not worse.  At least my squirrel hasn't flipped me off yet or hoped to kill me with fire.  YET.  I tend to be a bad influence so that might be part of my lesson plan in Squirrel Talk 102 or 201: Things we shouldn't do or say to those who give us peanuts.  Then Monday evening Roxy was being particularly naughty.  Not only was she pissing Eric off by jumping on the window again, she was also climbing up the patio posts and trying to jump on the bird feeder when she saw all the little birds gathering around.   Now I know it's nothing unusual to have squirrels trying to get into bird feeders.  But no squirrel, not one, has noticed that bird feeder before, until now.  When Roxy happens to be there and at least 10 birds come up to it or wait under it for the seeds from another bird to fall.  I have to listen to, "Look!   Look!  See what YOUR squirrel is doing!"  Of course, when they're bad, they are mine we covered this already.  So I knock on the window glass, give a glaring stare and shake the pointer finger again....then give her a peanut through the take-out window as soon as Eric walks away.  I always have to be very careful too because I'm always being accused of rewarding the squirrels when they've been bad.  Hey, I can't help it if they impress me.  I told Eric he shouldn't be so impatient.  She chases the squirrels away, chases Alvin away, pees on the chairs and picnic table because she has declared this to be HER HOUSE and she's just lashing out out of jealousy.  She can't help herself.  She's also female so that doesn't help.  We tend to be a little possessive, but you didn't hear that from me.  So then comes Tuesday and I see on the AP wire a story about a very adorable bull dog who got crowned prettiest or most handsome bulldog something of that nature in some Hickamazoo town.  I was so impressed at how proud he looked with his crown.  So I clipped his picture out of the paper and put it on the refrigerator, right under my picture of Martin Brodeur so I could look at both of them every day.  Ahhhhh...I go Eric, I want to show you something.  Yeah what?  Isn't he adorable?  It's a dog.  But it's a very cute dog and it's small and you would want a small dog for our tiny house so see he would be the perfect size.  It's a dog.  He's adorable!  It's a dog.  Ok so my temper, ready to flare is like, listen you've cried for your Super Soaker this week so you can torment all our little creatures outdoors.  If we got a dog, we'd have no more squirrels and no more Elliott Zoo!  And he goes, I quote, "Yeah right.  There's no way you'd let a dog go chasing and eating your squirrels."  So since I'm a dignified woman who admits when she's wrong, I said, "You know dear, you're probably right.  But I would teach them to love each other and live in harmony."  And I channeled my inner Stevie Wonder and began singing, "Ebony and Ivory...They be livin' in perfect harmony!"  And I kept singing it over and over and over again.  The pitches got 2-3 octaves higher.  Ebony and IvorYYYYYYYY.  I was like I'm going to break him.  I'm going to BREAK HIM!  I may not get a dog out of the deal but he'll stop bullying my little animal kingdom.  Instead he walks away and pumps up the volume on the computer so he can listen to ESPN. Fine pal, don't put a kink in my harmony chain and you could at least update me on my playoff hockey game score asshole!  So the lesson I guess today is this: Don't be dissin' my bud Stevie have some respect for the music and have some respect for the animals who are really smarter than you!  P.S. Eric is really paranoid that I'm using my blog to talk about him.  So please feel free to mention this to him next time you see him.  Thanks Love Peace!

You Can Call Me "Cuzzin"

I guess Uncle Walt was right.  It is a Small World after all.  You see we have this neighbor Jeff, that we consider one of the best neighbors in the universe.  He would literally do anything for you.  He's snowblowed our driveway before we've gotten home from work, has started mowing our front lawn in the morning even if we're home but we just didn't quite get outside yet, taken ice down from our roof so the shingles didn't get ripped off, helped cut the trees down in our back yard, offered to give me an oil change...The list goes on and on, all without asking, just doing.  I always say if I ever won the lottery, I'd have to win enough to afford a new house for me (us) and at least one next to it to put Jeff and his wife Kelly in.  Anytime we have a barbecue or something at the house I always tell the husband to go invite Jeff because after all "he's family" or at least "like family" anyway.  Well, one day back in January my cousin Eric, who let me try to figure this out right — is my second cousin, and I got talking about my family in Frankfort, NY, which is where he grew up.  He offered to have us look at the pictures and home videos from all the old family reunions, which I thought would be kind of interesting.  Then he mentioned something about my grandma's mother, to be politically correct my mother's mother's mother, and I brought up how I had only heard her referred to as "ma" when spoken about — that I never even knew her name.  I just knew the last name — Edwards — but that was her married name.  So Eric told me: It was Cora Inman.  So I'm like Inman? I-n-m-a-n?  He's like, "Yeah, why?"  And I said that's something, our neighbor next door that we're really close to, his last name is Inman.  So I said the next time I saw him I'd have to break his chops and call him "cousin."  So seeing Jeff is a very busy man — he's a truck driver and works two truck driving jobs on top of being best neighbor in the universe — I saw him face-to-face for the first time on Sunday at a benefit that he and his wife organized for a neighbor who is suffering from cancer.  Which totally accentuates best neighbor in the universe by the way.  So when we saw him I go, "Hey Cuz!" And he's like Okay?  I said see, I haven't even seen you to explain why I just called you that.  So I told him my great grandmother's name, but he didn't recognize it.  He mentioned that his grandfather's name was Chester Inman and his grandmother Ella Taylor.  Then he said, "But I didn't have a lot of family from around here and we're probably not related because the ones I did have were up in Frankfort."  My eyes lit up and I go Jeff, um, yeah, that's where my family is from too.  And he's like REALLY?  He said he remembered stories about his grandfather sliding down a hill to school.  And I said, Yeah, Frankfort Hill otherwise known as "The Hill?"  And he said, yes!  Then he's like, "Yeah, but then the family supposedly moved to Jefferson Ave. in Utica." At this point I'm like Holy Sh--!  I said Jeff, I remember my grandmother mentioning how her mother had moved from Frankfort to a house on Jefferson Ave. for some time.  I didn't know when or how old she was.  This was getting pretty creepy.  So I text my cousin and tell him that the next door neighbor I was joking about being family could actually be one.  Sorry Jeff, I wish you could've done better.  Unfortunately you're stuck with me.  I thought maybe Jeff's grandfather could've been my great-grandmother's brother.  So it's later in the day and it becomes "Grandma Time," the time family members designate on a Sunday evening as being when we're suppose to visit grandma or at least talk to her on the phone if we can't make it over for some reason (and believe me even though she says she understands you can't make it every week, you'll get your balls broken if you don't call or don't have a really damn good excuse).  So I go, "Grandma, I have a very deep question for you...Did your mom have a brother named Chester?"  And she said, "Chester?  No there was a Carl, we didn't have a Chester."  So I'm like oh crap, all those peculiar similarities in our stories, but they didn't match up.  Jeff's not family after all.  So I mentioned how Jeff's grandparents were Chester and Ella (Taylor) Inman.  So she's like you mean Chet?  I'm like I don't know Jeff told me Chester.  Grandma said, "Well there was Chet and Ella Inman"  And I'm like YES that's who I wanted to know about!  So I'm like well, were they cousins or something seeing they were also Inmans (my great-grandmother's maiden name)?  And she said she didn't believe they were related, but the Inmans were their next door neighbors and lived in the house directly behind them.  Being small town Hicksville Frankfort, there weren't too many houses that were close together.  She said, "Oh, we went to school with all the Inman kids and your Aunt Annie (my grandma's older sister) was good friends with them.  They used to get together and play cards.  They were really nice people and they were always good neighbors."  Well it  kind of put a chill down my spine.  Jeff wasn't family, but he turned out to be what could be my very good neighbor of a past and present life.  It's funny how two completely different families who are neighbors in one generation in Frankfort and Utica, eventually meet up in Whitesboro three generations later.  It is a small world after all.  I still think it's a very cool story!  So maybe there's a lesson here.  Be careful what you say or who you talk smack about.   For instance, I have a friend who used to always say that, we'll say "Fred" (to change names to protect the guilty) is so annoying.  How can you stand talking to him?  How do you know him anyway?  And I'd be like, well.....well.....He's my cousin.  And this particular person would be totally shit-faced.  I used to enjoy laughing to myself at her awkwardness.  Yet, she'd do this repeatedly until I guess it finally sunk in that he was family and it really wasn't nice to talk bad about my family member to my face and behind his back.  So don't be hatin'. Don't talk smack about ANYONE.  You never know, they could be that person's family, maybe even your own family, or perhaps even a neighbor from a former life.