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.

Midol Anyone?

Before there was Super Fly there was Super Bitch!  All us females and even some of our male counterparts have been her.  Whether it be a chronic personality disorder or a rare authentic occurrence that has appeared spontaneously and completely out of character, we have all felt the Super Bitch.  We've even fallen victim to the Super Bitch.  Been enraged by the Super Bitch yet allowed ourselves to be possessed by the Super Bitch.  The Super Bitch is mighty and powerful.  You cannot deny the wonder.  Her power can be aw-inspiring.  Even you straight men out there have had your episodes of pissiness and whines.  Face it men.  Be truthful to yourself.  You're not just experiencing a brief moment of pissyEEE(ey/y), your succumbing to the weakness brought forth by the Super Bitch!  Many of us have even been dissed by the Super Bitch.  Let the Super Bitch have our way with us.  I dedicate today's blog to the Super Bitch after plenty of inspiration from my Wednesday night women's bowling league banquet.  Now it's bad enough that Super Bitches have no problem being super bitchy against their own kind under any circumstances, but then you throw competition into the ring! This is probably why women don't rule the world people.  We would completely annihilate each other.  If Adam were to ever roll his eyes at Eve and give a hungry glance over at Evette, that would've been the end!  That's why God didn't start out with two bitches.  Totally logical I'm sure Leonard Nemoy would agree!  Going back to the banquet, it wasn't exactly the thing I was looking forward to going anyway.  I felt all year I was surrounded by a group of hoarding bitches.  They definitely proved that to be the case last night when they went up for second and third helpings of baked ziti and eggplant parmesian.  Now I was brought up to be the sportsman. If someone on an opposing team makes a great shot or won a game, I will high five them or congratulate them.  You did not get this from these bitches.  In fact, my own bro witnessed one bitch early in the season give me the Sicilian horns so I could miss in my tenth frame and screw up my game.  This is not only the lowest of lows, but it's absolutely disgusting!  It's the kind of thing that makes you ashamed to be a human being.  And the bitch made the mistake that a Hawley/Elliott would not know what that symbol meant.  She also made the mistake of pissing off a half Sicilian half Welsh chick, which means we not only want you dead, but we want you children's children to remember the pain that your ancestors brought — Never EVER FORGET!  FYI: That's way worse than if I was just Sicilian, trust me on this one.  So on top of these already not being my most favorite people in the world and forced to be placed in a social, rather than competitive setting with them, my skin was already beginning to crawl on the drive up.  There were still Super Bitches whispering to themselves after you or your team was announced for an award.  But then there's sometimes the fake smiles afterwards.  The I love you I just drove a stake through your back mentality.  It made me realize why throughout my life, when given a choice, I've always chose to be friends with the man as opposed to being friends with the bitches!  I remember my friends in high school always commenting about that.  All the guys talked to me and not them.  Well, "all the guys" were talking baseball and hockey scores or other chicks with me, it's not like they were asking me out!  I was way too lame and nerdy for that.  But it made me think Bitches are all about the drama and that's just not me.  I've never wanted to be part of that.  And I'm not about faking the orgasm people.  Listen, if you don't like me that's fine.  If you choose to judge me without even really knowing me, then that's your choice.  I would have no problem with walking up to you and saying Don't worry, I hate your guts too! Whether that's the Super Bitch coming out of me or the Real Woman, I don't know.  Either way, I like her and I'm sticking with her.  Not quite sure if it's worked for me through the years but once you're accustomed, it's a pretty hard habit to break.  I am a hard habit to break (thanks Chicago!)

Bad Habits

Bad Habits

They are hard to break, indeed.  So are bad squirrels.  Yes some may wonder why it took me so long to write a blog about my squirrels.  But yesterday I was uniquely enlightened.  For those of you who don't know me well enough (well you're not reading my blog anyway) I have hoards of naughty squirrels who sometimes come visit the house on a daily basis.  God forbid we are having dinner out on the patio, because all of a sudden it's free invitation for at least seven of them to invade the backyard.  Daily they'll come up to their drive-thru window, aka my kitchen window, and order their No. 1 with a large Coke, aka Give me your damn peanuts!  Now, we've tried other nutritious offerings, like Honey Nut Cherios, sunflower seeds, the occasional left over gettin' on the stale side white bread and hard corn bread.  But nothing is the steak and lobster to them like the peanut. Although I will say once they went pretty ape shit over tortilla chips dipped in some scary left-over who knows who licked their fingers or snorted in it taco dip from one of Eric's daily Bank of America lunch parties.  I figured if it didn't kill them then maybe I had 1-1001 shot it wasn't going to take me down.  And yes, I do use the squirrels as taste testers.  If I make a new cookie or cake, and not sure how it came out or what others may think, I throw some out the drive-thru window to see how it takes.  If it's gone within five minutes it's pretty safe to say it was FAN-FREAKIN-TASTIC!  Yet there's been others that even the blue jays and stray cat kind of sniff and are like, Nope, not quite that desperate yet.  Oh yes, and I forgot to mention how the squirrels like to help themselves to things or just assume everything is pretty much theirs.  A good example of this would be my flower garden, aka the Squirrels' Playground or The Play Pen.  There really is no sense in keeping flowers in this place at all.  They all either get eaten, stomped on or torn down anyway, aka my butchered rose bush that got split in half.  Obviously, squirrels really don't care about that stuff.  But they love the gnome house, the castle, the fairies and the florescent glowing solar butterfly they like to knock down and hide their peanut shells in.  Squirrels have also claimed part ownership to our windows, patio posts and bird feeder.  The patio posts because they like climbing them as they try to leap to the bird feeder.  And I have to give them credit for their diligence.  Our windows, especially the screens, because that's where at least one, I call Roxy (and yes I know what she looks like and can tell her apart from the others) likes to climb to see into the house.  She does this especially when she can smell me cooking, but has done so to scare the crap out of me as I've washed the dishes as well.  Roxy also likes to break Eric's balls by climbing on the screen of our new back (kitchen) door that leads to the patio.  He hates it when she does that, especially while she's interrupting his Sunday golf to do so.   Unfortunately, that has cautioned Eric to pack a water gun and Roxy isn't too pleased when she gets fired upon.  Yet, she refused to learn a lesson and keeps on climbing that screen until she achieves her ultimate life goal: get peanut!  Yes I've been scolded for giving the peanuts after they've been caught climbing the screens, especially the new door that they've put small snarls in with their long finger and toe nails.  If the squirrels are bad, they're automatically "my squirrels" and I really don't think that's fair.  In my mind, since my husband won't let me have a pet (that mean and horrible bastard), the squirrels are coming to visit me.  Of course it's not AT ALL about me, it's about the peanut.  And boy do they get pissed if there's something else unexpected on the menu that day.  Well going back to the tie in with bad habits and naughty squirrels, Eric just so discovers a travesty when opening the shed door to get the lawn mower yesterday.  For background information, Eric has found peanut shells and piles of leaves or remnants of nests in our shed even though the door is kept locked at all times.  Well to our astonishment and amazement, the squirrels have also now managed to bite the handles to my plastic Halloween pumpkins that I kept stored there and this is the killer: gnawed the gas cap to the lawn mower!  Now this is especially impressive because they managed to eat away almost half the cap, yet we haven't found any dead rodents or at least squirrels that looked like that Looney Tunes episode where George just couldn't take all the hugging and squeezing anymore.  So needless to say, Eric is pretty enraged.  After all, we just got the lawn mower last summer.  Can you just replace a gas cap and if so, what would keep the squirrels away from the new one?  So my man last night is stealing some old fencing from a neighbor and trying to booby trap that shed in a furious war of man against beast. I couldn't help but tell him how much he reminded me of Carl Spackler: "To kill, you must know your enemy and in this case, my enemy is a varmint." Meanwhile, I can't help but think of all the peanuts we feed them or things they could gnaw on, why some plastic handles and a Gas CAP of all things!  What would attract them to a gas cap?  It's not like it smells good.  Well all Eric can talk about is how he owns a gun and wants to start using it.  But I was like listen, it's just a bad habit.  They don't realize what they're doing or that what they are doing is bad.  Take me for instance, I bite my nails, bite the inside of my lip, forget and leave facial tissue in my pants pockets when I throw them in the washing machine, leaving little pieces of lint everywhere!  I have a ton of bad habits.  Climbing on screens and destroying gardens, bird feeders and lawn mowers is just a few bad habits squirrels may have.  So can we really blame the squirrel?  Have I gone to nail biting jail?  Unfortunately not.  So can we condemn the squirrel for habits it cannot control or has the knowledge or ability to change on its own?  Maybe the lesson here is squirrels are bad, but so are the humans.  So the next time you witness or fall victim to the destructive squirrel, think first before you grab that BB gun.  Remember, squirrels are people too.

Land of Confusion

"In a New York minute...Woo oh oooooh...Everything can change!"  Turns out, Don Henley lied!  On my most recent adventure to My City, things were not that quick to change at all.  And upon returning to the workplace Monday, nothing has changed here either...we're all still stuck in the Land of Confusion.  I wouldn't consider myself a "people person" per say, but the one thing I enjoy about the city is observing us humans in our natural and not-so natural habitats.  The great thing about the city is that it's the spice of life, there's a little bit of everything and you never know what to expect, or if you're Forrest Gump, ya never know what yur gonna get!  I started out my adventure just walking because my nerdy crafty self was in search of a particular yarn shop that I never found and just gave up on.  The address was 1201 Broadway and I had no clue what it was near.  When it took me about 15-20 (if not longer cuz I kinda lost track) minutes to just walk through the 1600 block of Broadway I knew I didn't have a prayer in getting there before it closed anyway.  And no, I wasn't taking the subway cuz I didn't want to get lost and be late to my show on W. 44th.  According to the website lights were out at this particular store at 3:30, which all my friends agreed was a pretty whacked time to close shop.  After all, I thought it was the City that Never Sleeps anyway, so why would they think I would stop wanting yarn at that time?  I always want yarn and fiber (not the Raisin Bran kind). The bus didn't get into the city until around 1:30 because traffic was insane.  The pulse of the bus' brakes every 2-5 seconds made me think that anyone who owns a car and lives in the city must have to get a new brake job every 3-4 months!  Don't even start with the everyone's scraped up bumpers either.   If I lived in the city I would be in jail for murder right now or I would have installed a metal bar barrier around my entire car, and wired an alarm system to go off spontaneously if anyone got within 20 feet of my vehicle.  They even have these little mats that look like mini feet or welcome mats you can now strap to inside your trunk and let them hang over the bumper so they don't get all scuffed up.  From what I've observed, you could have a brand new car in the city look like an '82 Rabbit in about 5 minutes, and that's being generous.  So with my love for cars and my personal space issues, driving in the city is definitely not a reality for me.  I came to terms with that long ago.  And speaking of the bus ride, going through Lincoln Tunnel took forever.  I couldn't help but think of that scene with Michael Keaton in Dream Team when he's telling the bus full of crazies how they were all going underwater when they were in Lincoln Tunnel and that if one tile moved that mean they would all drown. Oops is that a crack?! Well, getting back to my walking around (when we finally got there) before I decided to just start darting into random shops in a girly shopping frenzy, I couldn't help but get that annoying lil' Don Henley song in my head.  So that's what I started looking for...everything to change in that New York minute.  In a New York minute I saw a dude walking down the street with Elvis Costello glasses and bright pink pants.  Looked very springy actually even though I wanted to walk up and give him a huge bitch slap and remind him, "I'm sorry, but this really doesn't work for you!"  Speaking of which, I came to the overall conclusion during just one day in the city that New York men are WAY too girly.  Seriously.  The most manly men I came across were a two bus loads of crazy Rangers fans yelling Go Rangers Go Rangers! down 42nd St.  And I will say I am totally proud of myself for not throwing my slice of New York pizza and mango lemonade in their faces.  I so wanted to, but when a freakin' slice of pizza and lemonade just cost you more than an hour's pay, you best suck that down like God told you: "Best eat that entire slice bitch cuz that's the last pizza you'll ever taste on this Earth."  For sure!  Seriously, on every corner there was a guy in loafers with the perfectly manicured finger nails like they just stepped out of an Abercrombie & Fitch meets Eddie Bauer commercial.  And I'm sorry guys, but unless you're a starved musician walkin 'round town with your guitar, waiting to get on Cee Lo's A-list, don't go around sportin the grandpoppin newsboy hats.  It's old, yuppy and lame!  Then where but New York can you find this: a guy laying down on the street, middle of Broadway, right next to Brainy Smurf and Elmo and while their shaking hands and taking pictures with little kids, sportin' a sign that says: "Need money for drugs and fat women."  As much of a deusche bag he was, I kind of had to respect how specific he was in his request.  Again, miraculously, I was able to just walk away without kneeing the dude in the balls.  I figured it would prob be a good thing if my husband didn't have to leave his Nets game in Jersey to come bail me out of jail.  Then there was the dude with the huge nose ring that looked like he was trying to imitate some African tribe based strictly on stereotypes.  Like I said, there's a rainbow of colors out there, but getting back to my first point, oddly, nothing changed in a NY minute on Saturday.  You always have your bustle of people that you have to weave in and out of, that's to be expected.  If you can't handle that you shouldn't be there.  But what I found annoying was that everyone seemed to be in their own tiny little universe, totally oblivious to what was going on around them.  You'd get people who'd gather right on a street corner when the little white guy was telling everyone should be crossing the street, then no one would move!  You had your annoying tourists too who had to stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk so they could get a shot of Aunt Betty with the Empire State Building in the background or the huge teleprompter in Times Square.  Again totally oblivious to the fact that a hoard of thousands of people were trying to pass by and get to their destinations.  Nothing was happening in a New York minute, but waiting and pushing.  Then there's always the classic situation when someone asks where you're from and they look at you like you just broke out of prison.  In our cases, that's pretty much the closest you're going to get to the truth.  Of course you can't be in NY shopping and not go to Macy's.  I'm not even a Macy's girl, not even a mall girl any more for that matter.  Being a very poor girl has a lot to do with that.  But when I'm in NY I'm trying to put on the show that I'm there for.  So I go into Macy's and I start checking out the perfumes.  Of course I can't afford any so I'm about to walk past when the sales lady with strong Middle Eastern accent walks over and wants to spray me up and make me smell like a total whore.  So of course I agree, I'm all into it.   After all, I'm in NY, alone, let's be a whore for an afternoon.  The bitch talks me into buying a $52 perfume/body lotion set that again I didn't have the $ for but got anyway because I'm in NY, and she asks where I'm from when I hand her the AmeriCU credit card.  I'm from Utica.  She glances up and down and says Whaaaaaaaaaat?  Utica, NY and just to accentuate my upstate hickness "Ya know, right smack center of the state." And I point, like a dipshit. "Oh oh yes, OK." Oh hun, take your Morrocan tanned ass outside cuz I know you still don't have a clue.  What can I say, my stench of Utica, NYness was probably why you wanted to drown me into that Grace Summer by Philosophy!  She's probably like: She smells of ghetto, but not city ghetto, more like cow pie meets Cornhill pop a cap in yo ass ghetto.  I must help her!  So point made: Never identify your true self in the city.  And I was trying to put it on.  I was a total dork and wore high-heeled boots. Why?  Cuz it is my personal philosophy that when I go to my city, especially for a show (which is why I was there), that I look the part.  That's prob why I screamed hick dumbass as well.  But I believe that you should look your best on Broadway, even though the theatre will take you however you are, even jeans and T-shirt.  So while it was impractical to wear a gown around town all day, I did choose to look nice and to wear my dress boots, which ironically, was still a totally impractical gesture.  My feet are still a little swollen today.  And now that I spent a half-hour at a press conference that totally wasted my time, people can smell my rotten feet cuz the shoes are off!  Then came the show after switching weight on my feet as I waited in line for a half-hour before they would even let us into the Majestic.  At the same time I didn't care, I was going to see the longest running show on Broadway (sorry Cats).  This less than a week after Lion King breaks its record as highest grossing.  Yes, it takes my participation in something to totally destroy it.  It's all part of my forever curse.  So finally I get in get my bag checked at like quarter to 8 and of course look over the souvenirs.  As cheesy as it was, I wasn't leaving NY without my Phantom of the Opera charm bracelet.  I don't care if it looks like it's for a 4-year-old, I'm wearing it with pride like a rainbow flag.  After all I'm here. I made it.  So I need a symbol of my accomplishment.   Since being in junior high school and playing every single Phantom tune for some concert or another, I always said before I died, I had to see the real thing on Broadway.  And by the way, I suffered through years of sucky, insignificant cello parts.  But I was still in love with the music and wanted to see it sung and played in person.  Well it was time to go to my seat and every time I reached an usher it was up these stairs to the left, up these stairs to the right.  Well how the hell many steps are in this place?!  My feet felt like they were going to fall off.  Actually I wish they did!  When I finally reached my seat I thought well, I wanted to see this show before I died and I might just keel over right here and now!  Well even though I was in nose bleed I could still see the stage and the experience was breath taking.  Although I admit, I was so tired from walking all afternoon that I almost fell asleep during one of the scenes. Sorry Christine don't take it personally!  It's finally the end of the performance but it felt like I had just gotten there.  It was like 2 1/2 hours was like 15 minutes.  Maybe because I just experienced something I had waited so long for.  Anyway, that's when I get a call from the hubby saying they're still stuck in the parking lot in NJ so keep walking around.  Gee thanks!  Thank god I just spent a couple hours sitting and it did feel better walking than standing still and having all my body fat weighing on my feet.  It was dark now and I can't help but fall in love with the city at night.  It has this kind of romanticism to it.  It was like I wanted someone to grab me and make out with me in front of Radio City, but I'm married now so I'm not suppose to share those naughty thoughts.  But the city can also be so lonely walking the streets at night.   I couldn't help but think back to the last time I was in the city all by myself.  It was 5 years ago.  I was all by myself then.  I didn't have Eric at the time and I didn't know what life was going to bring.  I didn't know who I was or what I was suppose to do.  I remember walking the streets wondering if God had left someone for me or if I was never going to have a hand to hold the next time I got to walk down Seventh Avenue.  I feared everything.  I feared myself. My future.  I was so weak.  I hated that person.  Still do.  Yet I did find enough strength that day to be a central New York hick walking the streets of my city on my own.  This time I was able to hold my head higher.  Future still isn't written in stone but I feel I have a foundation.  I wasn't wandering because I was lost.  But I still thought back to where I was and where I am now.  I'm lucky to have the things I do, but I'm still not complete.  There's the things I was searching the streets for five years ago that I still haven't found.  Will I ever discover them?  Then my time in my city is done.  Time to come home and face the same Monday grind.  Things didn't change that much in a NY minute.  I was going back to the same place of confusion.  What would today bring and how unsettled, under-accomplished would I feel in life today?  I spend a half hour trying to figure out what the publisher wants me to write today.  I'm page one but he gives me a clip of one story, with a press release for another.  I am as clueless as he is.  I am always clueless and never know what I'm going to face every day.  I hate that.  I told a co-worker that I've mentioned this before: we don't need a guest appearance by Genesis to feel that we're all in the Land of Confusion.  Well Uncle Phil, I must've dreamed a thousand dreams and many have not come true yet. But I can say some have...since those NY minutes a few years ago.  I guess what they say is true, progress is slow.  Tomorrow I will continue to be haunted by a million screams, but I can hear the marching feet...I wish things could change in a NY minute.

How sweet, fresh meat!

Never assume.  You know what they say...ASSUME makes an Ass out of You and Me.  For some reason that phrase popped into my head on the way out the door to my car for my morning commute to work.  Maybe it was because in brief seconds before, I had remembered today was Friday the 13th.  I will say that you could probably consider me a very superstitious person but for some reason, I never usually get all worked up over Friday the 13th.  To me it’s a day like any other.  Things have just as much a chance going wrong today as they do any other day.  Actually, it’s for the reason that everyone else gets all paranoid about it that I sometimes look forward to that day, or even like picking that number on the very rare occasion I play the Lotto.  So I usually never ASSUME that Friday the 13th is going to be nothing but a day of misery and misfortunes.  But going back to when I was leaving for work, I do remember that I was a minute or two late.  I was kind of frusterated because I really wasn’t on time all week.  Not that I was late, but in my “analosity” covered in last week’s blog, I like to leave at a specific time.  Right on the dot.  And sometimes it does take that to make sure you don’t get caught in a pattern of cars going 25 in a 55 mph zone, which can be really annoying whether you’re running late or not.  That was also a rude reminder of how tired I’ve been all week for some reason, and I remember starting to have desperate thoughts of just trying to get through this last day of the week without me killing someone or all hell breaking loose somewhere.  Ever just wish with all your might just to have a quiet, uneventful day?  Well, that’s what I was pulling for.  So here my head starts swimming some more and meanwhile, talking about the annoying ‘way under the speed limit,” a small pack of cars (maybe 4-5) ahead of me and I get caught behind this huge hauler.  And yes, he is literally traveling anywhere between 25 to maybe 35 in a 55. Luckily some cars along Route 840 began to pull into their workplaces, like the county DPW or Cornell Cooperative Extension.  So at least that narrowed down the pack to me and this poor little blue Volkswagen directly ahead of me.  We’re just about riding our brakes when all of a sudden this huge hauler starts swaying back and forth from side-to-side.  You couldn’t see his load to be able to tell how heavy it was, but it was still a little disturbing to watch this million-ton truck barely keep itself on the road while you’re right behind it.  I tried turning up my music to get into a song, but to no eval, I had my complete concentration on this truck.  Everything else was just tuned out.  So then creeps up those evil, gloomy thoughts again, “It must be because it’s Friday the 13th.  Must be this truck is going to crash, we’re all going to die or worst case scenario we’re actually all going to make it to work this millenium, but a half-hour late and have to stay over on a Friday to make up the time!”  Yes, sometimes death IS better.  Maybe Freddy will pop out from my back seat and start clawing my face off.  Hey, never know, could happen.  Would be a very creative excuse for my tardiness if so needed anyway.  Then comes more negative thoughts: what if my boss, who has been absent the last few days, is actually back to work today.  What a way to end a Friday!  He’s going to treat you like you’ve been a lazy piece of shit and haven’t done any work just because he hasn’t been there, even though for most people (I won’t say all), that couldn’t be farther from the truth.  He’s going to go all Kamikaze on our asses and assign each of us five stories and want every one done at the same time and be to him at least an hour before deadline. Think this is much of an exageration?  Scary truth is that it really isn’t.  This attitude combined with the persistent beat of his oxygen concentrator I can only imagine that our lives could be compared to that of a soldier of the 501st Legion.  Like Luke, that’s your dad?  Really dude?  Sorry...sucks to be you man!  Then I begin thinking about how this will all be coupled by typing out 100 annoying press releases and listening to our narcisistic co-worker tell everyone how much better his stories are compared to the O.D. and how others just plagiarize him.  Meanwhile he gets to nod off to his computer monitor while never getting caught!   Wow yes, this is what I’m already looking forward to and the work day hasn’t even started yet!  And I’ve managed to successfully convince myself of this prediction of the future thanks to the universal Friday the 13th philosophy.  No wonder I have a headache now.  Drugs anyone?  So as I crept up the stairs and ever so slightly gripped the nob of the back door and began peering through the small opening to see what my true destiny held for the day, you can’t imagine my relief to find that the boss’ chair was once again empty.  Maybe I can ASSUME that that moment was like the nirvana release of the hypno fart.  But supposedly I’ve never released a hypno fart, so I’m not quite sure what that would be like.  I can at least fantasize.  So I guess the message for my people today is this.  Just cuz it’s Friday the 13th, don’t ASSUME it’s going to be a rotten day and EVERYTHING is going to go wrong.  I’d like to think that everything goes wrong EVERY DAY anyway! ;)  Just think of it this way, it could always be worse.  You could be Robert Englund and live in your grandma’s basement with 50 cats and look forward to traveling to your next horror convention sporting your red and black “V-Visitors” uniform.  Got mice?

FYI ALL: I didn't get Freddy mixed up with Jason.  I chose not to be cliche and pay homage to Freddy instead.

How sweet, fresh meat!

Never assume.  You know what they say...ASSUME makes an Ass out of You and Me.  For some reason that phrase popped into my head on the way out the door to my car for my morning commute to work.  Maybe it was because in brief seconds before, I had remembered today was Friday the 13th.  I will say that you could probably consider me a very suspicious person but for some reason, I never usually get all worked up over Friday the 13th.  To me it’s a day like any other.  Things have just as much a chance going wrong today as they do any other day.  Actually, it’s for the reason that everyone else gets all paranoid about it that I sometimes look forward to that day, or even like picking that number on the very rare occasion I play the Lotto.  So I usually never ASSUME that Friday the 13th is going to be nothing but a day of misery and misfortunes.  But going back to when I was leaving for work, I do remember that I was a minute or two late.  I was kind of frusterated because I really wasn’t on time all week.  Not that I was late, but in my “analosity” covered in last week’s blog, I like to leave at a specific time.  Right on the dot.  And sometimes it does take that to make sure you don’t get caught in a pattern of cars going 25 in a 55 mph zone, which can be really annoying whether you’re running late or not.  That was also a rude reminder of how tired I’ve been all week for some reason, and I remember starting to have desperate thoughts of just trying to get through this last day of the week without me killing someone or all hell breaking loose somewhere.  Ever just wish with all your might just to have a quiet, uneventful day?  Well, that’s what I was pulling for.  So here my head starts swimming some more and meanwhile, talking about the annoying ‘way under the speed limit,” a small pack of cars (maybe 4-5) ahead of me and I get caught behind this huge hauler.  And yes, he is literally traveling anywhere between 25 to maybe 35 in a 55. Luckily some cars along Route 840 began to pull into their workplaces, like the county DPW or Cornell Cooperative Extension.  So at least that narrowed down the pack to me and this poor little blue Volkswagen directly ahead of me.  We’re just about riding our brakes when all of a sudden this huge hauler starts swaying back and forth from side-to-side.  You couldn’t see his load to be able to tell how heavy it was, but it was still a little disturbing to watch this million-ton truck barely keep itself on the road while you’re right behind it.  I tried turning up my music to get into a song, but to no eval, I had my complete concentration on this truck.  Everything else was just tuned out.  So then creeps up those evil, gloomy thoughts again, “It must be because it’s Friday the 13th.  Must be this truck is going to crash, we’re all going to die or worst case scenario we’re actually all going to make it to work this millenium, but a half-hour late and have to stay over on a Friday to make up the time!”  Yes, sometimes death IS better.  Maybe Freddy will pop out from my back seat and start clawing my face off.  Hey, never know, could happen.  Would be a very creative excuse for my tardiness if so needed anyway.  Then comes more negative thoughts: what if my boss, who has been absent the last few days, is actually back to work today.  What a way to end a Friday!  He’s going to treat you like you’ve been a lazy piece of shit and haven’t done any work just because he hasn’t been there, even though for most people (I won’t say all), that couldn’t be farther from the truth.  He’s going to go all Kamikaze on our asses and assign each of us five stories and want every one done at the same time and be to him at least an hour before deadline. Think this is much of an exageration?  Scary truth is that it really isn’t.  This attitude combined with the persistent beat of his oxygen concentrator I can only imagine that our lives could be compared to that of a soldier of the 501st Legion.  Like Luke, that’s your dad?  Really dude?  Sorry...sucks to be you man!  Then I begin thinking about how this will all be coupled by typing out 100 annoying press releases and listening to our narcisistic co-worker tell everyone how much better his stories are compared to the O.D. and how others just plagiarize him.  Meanwhile he gets to nod off to his computer monitor while never getting caught!   Wow yes, this is what I’m already looking forward to and the work day hasn’t even started yet!  And I’ve managed to successfully convince myself of this prediction of the future thanks to the universal Friday the 13th philosophy.  No wonder I have a headache now.  Drugs anyone?  So as I crept up the stairs and ever so slightly gripped the nob of the back door and began peering through the small opening to see what my true destiny held for the day, you can’t imagine my relief to find that the boss’ chair was once again empty.  Maybe I can ASSUME that that moment was like the nirvana release of the hypno fart.  But supposedly I’ve never released a hypno fart, so I’m not quite sure what that would be like.  I can at least fantasize.  So I guess the message for my people today is this.  Just cuz it’s Friday the 13th, don’t ASSUME it’s going to be a rotten day and EVERYTHING is going to go wrong.  I’d like to think that everything goes wrong EVERY DAY anyway! ;)  Just think of it this way, it could always be worse.  You could Robert Englund and live in your grandma’s basement with 50 cats and look forward to traveling to your next horror convention sporting your red and black “V-Visitors” uniform.  Got mice?

Lick My Fingers!

OMG!  I think we might have just made Dick Cheney suffer his 42nd heart attack!  Thanks to another fun-filled lunch time spent with co-workers and the exposure to their infinite wisdom, mixed with our daily dosage of Days of Our Lives vs. day-time T.V. commercials promoting goo everywhere, I have been inspired (and probably expired while doing so) once again to change your lives.  You see it all began with a commercial for the local Holland Farms bakery, featuring a group of children handling a box of "finger" doughnuts.  My thoughts were, "Ok, watching a bunch of lil' brats manhandle some doughnuts post nose and crotch picking, combined with the aroma of crayons and sandbox, is not the mental picture I need to make me want to run out to Holland Farms and get me a finger!"  Can we say finger lickin' good?  Well it was at that moment that a co-worker informed us that a few years back when Dick Cheney came to town, Marilyn, the owner of Holland Farms, got really excited.  She decided to use Dick's pacemaker to track him down and paid $1,000 just to have her picture taken with him.  Are you serious?  Now if I had $1,000 (which I don't and never will just to blow away, but lets say for argument's sake I did) and I wanted to pay someone to take a photo with, I might suggest a shot with a hotly naked Adam from Maroon 5 where I volunteer to be one of the hands covering his special male equipment, in reference to a very nice photo my friend Holly posted on her Facebook page last week.  Let's face it, the only way you'd get me to pay $1,000 for a pic with Dick is if he was bent over with his pants down and his thumb was planted firmly up his ass!  As if it weren't bad enough that Holland Farms was exploiting children to help sell their products, and then you've got "Dick is our Pick."  Thankfully, my co-workers were all in agreement and despite February being Jelly Doughnut Month, like a band of brothers — that would be two bros and one sis anyway — we made a pack to avoid that establishment like the new plague.  Which is why today we're telling everyone at Holland Farms to go frost and lick our fingers!  That very notion makes me wait in anticipation for my next incident of road rage, for the next time someone cuts me off I shall roll down my window, extend my middle digit and proclaim, "LICK MY FINGER!"  Of course no central New York driver will have the mental capacity to understand or be able to translate such a gesture.  But at least I will be able to smile a little inside.  Sometimes there's nothing more intimate than a little piece of personal gratification.  But of course it was that single act of bonding that caused my mind to begin wandering and to contemplate how the "finger" became to be such a negative symbol — a universal promoter of hate.  I mean how did that one finger get such a bad name?  Your first digit may point something out or relay that you have an idea.  Your pinky finger may "point" to your sophistication if you raise it to your tea cup. Thanks to the Fonz, we know that the thumb means, "AYYYYYYYYYYYYY," which is especially important to the Canadians I'm sure.  But why is that lone finger in the center known as F-U or F-Off!?  Yet, you can give the middle finger one thing — it's never misunderstood, never lost in translation.  We use it for several reasons and purposes, but they're all to promote some level of hate.  Perhaps the lady at No. Chinese Restaurant forgot to give you or beloved egg roll today.  Maybe someone sarcastically told you how nice you looked today and then you caught them rolling their eyes and giggling to themselves.  Typically if someone does you wrong or pisses you off in any way, shape or form, generally that middle digit gets firmly extended.  And what makes it so friendly, is that usually when you deservingly extend it to someone else, even though they are in the wrong, they still feel the need to respond by giving that finger back to you.  In reality, I guess you could say it is the most generous and giving gesture one can make.  So the next time you tell someone to go lick or eat your finger, do it with dignity.  Give the finger the respect it deserves.  Take thy crown-which otherwise thou wouldst receive!

I Don't Like Mondays: A Grammy in Progress

The silicon chip inside her head got switched to over-load...Katie said nobody leavin' the Sent'nl here 'til I get a polite good mornin' or just a brief h'llo.  Ya see they come in here they say I ain't got no paper and I tell them I really don't care.  Try to give a polite smile but they just grumble and snarl, I swear this place only brings me down.  So in Katie's head she could only pretend, she got a fully loaded oozie in her desk.  She gonna point at the chicks who bitch they don't want to do their job — "Why you forwardin' me those stupid calls?" — she wish she could just break down and sob.  But then reality sets in and she don't wanna go to prison so she just starts singin along, "I don't like, I don't like, I don't like Mondaaaays.  I don't like, I don't like, I don't like Mondays."
Ya see Katie said she took her kids to find some Easter eggs, then went to see some fam and get some grub.  Her Sunday was spent runnin' 'round all over the place, drove her just about out of her mind.  Then she had to wake up early and come into work today and face all the bitchin and whines.  It's the day after a holiday and I'm tired too, and sure everybody else is I know.  But just cuz they're tired and the sun don't be shinin' don't give them the right to unload. So Katie went to pee and all she could see was all the misery she faced in her day.  So in Katie's head she could only pretend that she go 'round and bitch slap evr'y co-worker asshole. But then reality sets in and she don't wanna go to prison, so she just starts singin along, "I don't like, I don't like, I don't like Mondaaaaaaays.  I don't like, I don't like I don't like Mondays."
Dear Katie, wish I could say it'll only get bett'r, but in hell there's just no way to know.  Which is why each and every Sentinel day I just wanna go tell everybody kiss my ass and go blow!  Ya see at the Sentinel here it don't matter the time, the place or even the day...There will never be a more miserable place, where the devil himself can come out and play.  So it may be Monday and Mondays suck, but what about the rest of the week?  I say at the Sentinel all us people will agree that every day your shit up a creek!
"I don't like, I don't like, I don't like Mondaaaaaaaaaays.  I don't like, I don't like, I don't like MONDAYS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Don't Bring me DOWN!

The font was screwed up in the first, so hopefully this is more legible:

“You got me runnin’ goin’ out of my mind...You got me thinkin’ that I’m wastin’ my time.”  It’s not usual, at least since I started writing this blog a little over a week ago, that I make two submissions in one day.  But we’ll say I was re-inspired to make a special dedication today for “Ulysses,” my special Civil War soldier friend.  And also my dear friend Christina, who is only one of about four people who actually read my blog and is bitter she had to work on Good Friday.  You see, there’s this crazy guy, an older gentlemen, who is one of the “delivery people” for the newspaper who we see pass through the newsroom just about on a daily basis.  We get several different types of personalities who walk by our desks every day.  Some make us wish there was a Slip N’ Slide into a pool of piranhas at the front door for all those asking, “Why you gots to print lies?”’  Then there’s all the Girl and Boy Scouts taking their tours and learning about the roles of the reporters in the newsroom that makes me want to grab some 5-year-old kid out of the crowd by the arm and demand, “Where’s my peanuts?!”  But unlike my superiors and many of my co-workers, most days Ulysses is the only person who actually talks to me an acknowledges my existence.  For some background, Ulysses is one of those war re-enactor people.  You can spot him many days wearing his full, yes “Full” Union Army uniform, but if nothing else, he’s always sportin’ his old hat from the 107th NY Regiment.  My guess is that the dude has seen some action in both this life and the last.  The only reason why he talks to me is because one day I did him a favor and wrote up a story announcing some special Civil War re-enactment that he and his fellow crazies were participating in.  Yes, that is part of my job and one of the many daily reasons why I imagine myself laughing a Joker’s cackle as I face the train head-on.  It’s coming it’s coming!  The end — Thank God!  But no matter what you say about Mr. Civil War Soldier, and believe me you could say a lot, he will usually say hello to me and ask how I’m doing in between his mumbles and ramblings, which I could only imagine is something about rustling up the troops and kicking some Confederate ass!  But today, unfortunately Ulysses appeared very frazzled and stressed as he flew by my desk, probably to go complain to some incompetent idiot over in the circulation department.  “Mumble, mumble, mumble...Gotta take aspirin...mumble, mumble.”  I don’t know what those Damn Yankee voices were saying inside his head, but obviously they needed some quick relief!  Did they even have aspirin back in 1862?  All I know was that I looked totally wide-eyed at my co-worker at the desk directly across from me and was like “Whoa!”  I was also thinking, “Um, I was just going to reach for some aspirin from my purse ‘cause I got a headache...Coincidence or just plain creepy?!”  Anyway, I felt bad my buddy Ulysses was obviously having a bad day, especially seeing it’s Friday.  I feel bad that every time he walks through the newsroom people make fun of him because he’s a little “different.”  But you don’t know, maybe in Ulysses’ past life he pissed on somebody’s cannon shot wound and prevented some guy from having his right arm amputated.  That would make him a hero, so you know what?  Don’t bring him down!  And Christina, I don’t blame you for being pissed you had to work today.  Me too!  We’re not like teachers and work so many weeks or a month at a time and automatically get a day off or week of vacation, or some days to go kiss as or blow the administrators aka a “superintendent’s conference day.”  No, we work for Nazis so like those Union Army soldiers with their arms and feet tanglin’ off, we still have to trudge through the battlefield every day.  General’s orders.  So don’t bring her down!  Today, the computer tech at work asked during lunch if I smelled “skunk,” and then another woman who works at the front of the building mentioned the smell of skunk that came in on one of the customers.  Well, guessing by the cliental we usually get in this establishment, I’d say the booze and the meth made them fall face first into their cat’s kitty litter box and that’s where they slept all morning.  You spend 12 hours in a kitty litter box, face-first in cat piss, and see how you smell.   SO DON’T BRING THEM DOWN!  Some old guy with bad hand writing who can’t hear, wearing a black sweater with orange cars on it, comes in and wants to know after you scream at him three times: “Do I have to write this over?” “Yes you have to write it over!” “So I need me to write this over?”  “Yes, you need to re-write this before we can accept it.”  “What?”  “YOU HAVE TO RE-WRITE IT!”  “So I need to re-write it?” “YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!” Just cuz he’s deaf, stupid and has obvious poor taste in fashion, don’t laugh at him.  Don’t bring him down!  (Damn, no wonder why all I do is look forward to getting drunk when I leave this place).  So I leave you with this on this Friday...no matter how crazy, deaf, angry, bitter, frustrated or ugly-looking someone is, don’t be so quick to judge.   You can’t judge a book by it’s cover unless you’ve at least thumbed through some of the pages.  Unless you have all the facts, you can’t possibly make a true opinion.  So I’ll tell you once more, before you get off the floor...Don’t Bring Me DOWN!

Don't Bring Me DOWN!

“You got me runnin’ goin’ out of my mind...You got me thinkin’ that I’m wastin’ my time.”  It’s not usual, at least since I started writing this blog a little over a week ago, that I make two submissions in one day.  But we’ll say I was re-inspired to make a special dedication today for “Ulysses,” my special Civil War soldier friend.  And also my dear friend Christina, who is only one of about four people who actually read my blog and is bitter she had to work on Good Friday.  You see, there’s this crazy guy, an older gentlemen, who is one of the “delivery people” for the newspaper who we see pass through the newsroom just about on a daily basis.  We get several different types of personalities who walk by our desks every day.  Some make us wish there was a Slip N’ Slide into a pool of piranhas at the front door for all those asking, “Why you gots to print lies?”’  Then there’s all the Girl and Boy Scouts taking their tours and learning about the roles of the reporters in the newsroom that makes me want to grab some 5-year-old kid out of the crowd by the arm and demand, “Where’s my peanuts?!”  But unlike my superiors and many of my co-workers, most days Ulysses is the only person who actually talks to me an acknowledges my existence.  For some background, Ulysses is one of those war re-enactor people.  You can spot him many days wearing his full, yes “Full” Union Army uniform, but if nothing else, he’s always sportin’ his old hat from the 107th NY Regiment.  My guess is that the dude has seen some action in both this life and the last.  The only reason why he talks to me is because one day I did him a favor and wrote up a story announcing some special Civil War re-enactment that he and his fellow crazies were participating in.  Yes, that is part of my job and one of the many daily reasons why I imagine myself laughing a Joker’s cackle as I face the train head-on.  It’s coming it’s coming!  The end — Thank God!  But no matter what you say about Mr. Civil War Soldier, and believe me you could say a lot, he will usually say hello to me and ask how I’m doing in between his mumbles and ramblings, which I could only imagine is something about rustling up the troops and kicking some Confederate ass!  But today, unfortunately Ulysses appeared very frazzled and stressed as he flew by my desk, probably to go complain to some incompetent idiot over in the circulation department.  “Mumble, mumble, mumble...Gotta take aspirin...mumble, mumble.”  I don’t know what those Damn Yankee voices were saying inside his head, but obviously they needed some quick relief!  Did they even have aspirin back in 1862?  All I know was that I looked totally wide-eyed at my co-worker at the desk directly across from me and was like “Whoa!”  I was also thinking, “Um, I was just going to reach for some aspirin from my purse ‘cause I got a headache...Coincidence or just plain creepy?!”  Anyway, I felt bad my buddy Ulysses was obviously having a bad day, especially seeing it’s Friday.  I feel bad that every time he walks through the newsroom people make fun of him because he’s a little “different.”  But you don’t know, maybe in Ulysses’ past life he pissed on somebody’s cannon shot wound and prevented some guy from having his right arm amputated.  That would make him a hero, so you know what?  Don’t bring him down!  And Christina, I don’t blame you for being pissed you had to work today.  Me too!  We’re not like teachers and work so many weeks or a month at a time and automatically get a day off or week of vacation, or some days to go kiss as or blow the administrators aka a “superintendent’s conference day.”  No, we work for Nazis so like those Union Army soldiers with their arms and feet tanglin’ off, we still have to trudge through the battlefield every day.  General’s orders.  So don’t bring her down!  Today, the computer tech at work asked during lunch if I smelled “skunk,” and then another woman who works at the front of the building mentioned the smell of skunk that came in on one of the customers.  Well, guessing by the cliental we usually get in this establishment, I’d say the booze and the meth made them fall face first into their cat’s kitty litter box and that’s where they slept all morning.  You spend 12 hours in a kitty litter box, face-first in cat piss, and see how you smell.   SO DON’T BRING THEM DOWN!  Some old guy with bad hand writing who can’t hear, wearing a black sweater with orange cars on it, comes in and wants to know after you scream at him three times: “Do I have to write this over?” “Yes you have to write it over!” “So I need me to write this over?”  “Yes, you need to re-write this before we can accept it.”  “What?”  “YOU HAVE TO RE-WRITE IT!”  “So I need to re-write it?” “YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!” Just cuz he’s deaf, stupid and has obvious poor taste in fashion, don’t laugh at him.  Don’t bring him down!  (Damn, no wonder why all I do is look forward to getting drunk when I leave this place).  So I leave you with this on this Friday...no matter how crazy, deaf, angry, bitter, frustrated or ugly-looking someone is, don’t be so quick to judge.   You can’t judge a book by it’s cover unless you’ve at least thumbed through some of the pages.  Unless you have all the facts, you can’t possibly make a true opinion.  So I’ll tell you once more, before you get off the floor...Don’t Bring Me DOWN!

Are You Anal?

Is this you?: Noun 1. anal-retentive personality — (psychoanalysis) a personality characterized by meticulous neatness and suspicion and reserve; said to be formed in early childhood by fixation during the anal stage of development (usually as a consequence of toilet training).  Wow, when others have told me (on numerous occasions by the way not that that surprises anyone) that my tireless efforts to perfect whatever goal I’m trying to achieve in life — be it as simple as folding my toilet paper ever so meticulously as to awe-inspire the ultimate wipe without overly squeezing the Charmin — are anal, I had no idea that according to scientific definition, my ass was LITERALLY to blame!  That’s what I get for thinking it merely a figure of speech.  That should automatically warn new parents everywhere the dangers of performing the Potty Dance with their children!  Studies performed at the waste of taxpayer dollars in the next 30 years may find that overexertion or abundant exposure to the Potty Dance may result in an over-population of mechanics, waitresses, reality TV show stars, politicians and other under-achievers. And if our anus makes us anal, then the larger our anus the more anal we are?  I don’t know about you, but with my personal story, that would explain A LOT!  So next time I feel the need to put that spit shine on perfection, and someone asks me, “Ok Nik, why do you have to be so anal?,” I can reply, “Don’t blame me, blame my ass!”  At least I do have some comfort in knowing that in many aspects in life you can be alone, but you are never alone in your “Anal-osity.”  No, not everyone is “totally” anal, but I would like to think that the majority of the population that resides on the third rock from the sun has at least some anal ways or tendencies about them.  Some people may have to wear the same exact tie on the same exact day of the week because that’s the day they have to wear “that” color.  Some may count the number of times they vertically and horizontally brush their teeth so that their bicuspids aren’t cheated from a particular direction of brushing. Perhaps others make sure when they knock on a door that they perform their knocks in groups of three because they don’t like even numbers.  I think you would agree that the examples could go on into the next millennium.   So let’s face it, we’re all ANAL.  You just can’t deny it.  But being anal can’t be all that bad or annoying.  You still have to have some respect for those who feel the undying need to dot every “i” and cross every “t.”  Reporters, such as myself, need to be anal every day.  We ask anal questions that we know our anal editors will expect us to ask or chastise us for not.  We have to check and make sure that every sentence we write is perfectly worded and perfectly placed because even though we’re told we’re human and that it’s expected we’re going to make mistakes, in all reality we’re really expected to be PERFECT all the time and to give an editor EXACTLY what he or she wants ALL THE TIME.  Of course this practice does require some mystic mind reading and the occasional miracle, so you better make sure you’re never off your mark.  Those are the analosities we must face each day to make others happy while only allowing ourselves absolute misery.  But then there’s the analosities that you can’t find in the Pocket Book of Survival.  Take for instance the above illustration which was the inspiration for my blog today.  The stuffed strawberry.  The mere methodology began to play in my mind.  Ok, you have this tiny strawberry.  It’s not like coring an apple, which is hard and a bit larger.  You’ve got this tiny, tender, delicate berry, with it’s head ever so slightly shaven off.  Then someone had to literally gut this tiny berry, being ever so mindful and careful as to concentrate on just removing the middle flesh, not piercing or puncturing its sides.  And after achieving that perfection — spending at least five hours per berry performing the task — there’s the filling.  And no, whoever gave birth to this stuffed strawberry didn’t just spoon the filling in with the Guinness Book of World Records’ smallest known spoon in the universe.  No, they had to take a pastry filler or fancy frosting cake decorating thing-a-ma-jiggy, to magically and so artistically swirl the filling within the center before re-crowning that berry majestically with its own scalped head.  My first thought when first seeing this picture was “OMG, how anal!”  Seriously, who would take the time to do that?  Yet to the pastry chef or maybe the strawberry worshipper, that was the exact picture of perfection.  Heaven = perfectly stuffed and swirled strawberry.  Which made me think it’s probably ok to be anal about the things we’re passionate about.  Like when I’m crocheting or knitting and I find the slightest imperfection and need to rip out rows upon rows of yarn fabric.  Someone without the eye for that sort of thing, who wasn’t a knitter and didn’t know any better, more than likely wouldn’t have noticed.  But I do and I know it’s there, so we just can’t have that.  A violinist may practice a piece of music over and over again a hundred times and perhaps to you or I it sounds the same each time, but the violinist feels he’s still not getting the perfect tone or pitch.  But is that constant redundancy being anal or ultimately attempting to achieve the ultimate form of happiness: Satisfying Yourself?  So the next time someone calls you anal or says you’re being anal, don’t hate them.  Don’t take it on the negative.  Tell them you’re just jealous of my perfect ass. Remember, the next time you’re in an elevator and your eyes start to tear because somebody just silently ripped one, think of this: not all farts are wasted air.  They are the attempts to perform the “perfect” relief.