The chicken salad sent me over the edge...

It took chicken salad to bring me back to the blogosphere, but the need to rant about this is inspirational.

I've bitched about the ridiculousness of school supply lists at the onset of the school year (baby wipes, paper towels, precisely 77 number 2 pencils, purple pens for grading -- because red might make kids feel bad -- and on and on).  I've also ranted about the endless fundraisers (just ask me for cash).  And, well, today's protest is about Teacher Appreciation Day Week. 

National Teacher Day is next Tuesday.  It's always the Tuesday of the first full week of May.  The National Education Association describes National Teacher Day as "a day for honoring teachers and recognizing the lasting contributions they make to our lives."  Students  are supposed to "show appreciation for their teachers with small token gifts."


Well, somewhere along the way, Teacher Appreciation Day turned into Teacher Appreciation Week, and every year the list of "requirements" from the well-meaning PTA moms gets more and more, well...complicated.

This year's list from my fifth-grade daughter's room moms is too much.  Each day, my child "needs to bring in the following items."  (I'm pretty sure they're supposed to make clear that all of this is optional, so I'm already annoyed from the first line.)  Monday...handmade flowers and trees.  Tuesday...lottery tickets.  Wednesday...a gift card to a specific bookstore.  EACH KID!!!  Thursday...a sheet each child has to make for the teacher's scrapbook with some pretty specific instructions. 

But, the best is Friday.  Friday is "Special Treat Day."  A small little box of chocolates?  A sweet treat from the local bakery??  Nooooo.  EACH CHILD -- and there are 25 of them -- is to bring a "whole wheat bagel with cream cheese" for the teacher's breakfast AND "chicken salad with honey mustard" for the teacher's lunch. 

Is it me or is this odd?  I am NOT making chicken salad!!!  This is insane.  It's gross. It sounds messy.  Imagine 25 different versions of chicken salad piling up on this woman's desk Friday morning, not being refrigerated.  Who sat around the PTA table and thought it was a great idea for a bunch of grubby fifth graders to schlep to school with chicken salad?  At the risk of being shunned by the community, I WILL NOT MAKE CHICKEN SALAD!!!  The bagel is weird, too.  Can't they just buy the teacher ONE bagel and ONE chicken salad with honey mustard with the money they previously asked everyone to donate to go into the monetary gift the teacher will also be getting on Friday?  I just find the whole thing bizarre.  I love this teacher, but does she need, or even want, 25 bagels?  Do I put the cream cheese on the bagel or on the side?  And, if it's on the side, do I need to get a special container that's not already in my kitchen?  And, back to the salad.  There is no recipe or specific instructions.  There could be endless ways to make "chicken salad with honey mustard."

(Food Network photo)

Whatever happened to "an apple for the teacher?"  I can do an apple.

(USC photo)

The Clock Strikes Twelve...

Last New Year's Eve, I took a long "cleansing" bath to wash away all the crap from 2009.  Then I took two choice sleeping pills and willed myself to sleep at eleven o'clock.  Just divorced, my kids were with their dad; my house was quiet; I didn't want to go anywhere...I wanted to sleep through the midnight moment.  I hate the pressure of the holidays...the need to have a good time when, really, aren't we all miserable with the constant expectation to spend time with the people who annoy us most?

Previous New Year's Eves were not much more exciting.  I would sit in my living room watching the ball drop in Times Square and through tear-filled eyes get a hazy glimpse of the man who was my husband.  There he would be, December 31st after December 31st, sleeping on the couch, after promising that he would stay awake with me that year.  He would use sleep to avoid me, I think, and New Year's Eve was no exception.

The year before last--2008 into 2009--was the first year my two older children stayed up until midnight, so I had their company; and we watched the Disney Channel countdown, and that was nice.  But, still, that midnight moment was, as always, a moment of longing for something different:  looking back on another year of rejection, unhappiness, and sadness with the one who was supposed to love me the most; hoping against hope that the man I married would love me enough to keep his eyes open long enough to even just peck my lips when the clock struck twelve; expecting that, maybe, just maybe, this would be the year that I would be seen again...not be invisible anymore.

Well, that January 1st, 2009, turned out to be the beginning of an unexpected year.  I was sad, depressed, and dealing with a long-standing eating disorder.  A few months into it, the years of therapy and a new prescription to an anti-depressant led to the eye-opening realization that I had to get out of my marriage.  But, I digress...

My point today is that, well, this is the first New Year's Eve in recent memory that I won't be sad or sleeping.  I have my kids with me this year, and, since I'm working until seven this evening, we are doing a low-key getty at my house.  There, as the clock strikes twelve, will be my three reasons for living...Noah, Mary Beth, and Melanie...and my "crew," as they've suddenly become known:  my parents without whom I would be living under a bridge, my great friend and her family who have loved me, hugged me, traveled with me, fed me, drank and smoked with me, and held my hand incessantly through good and bad times, and my man Eddie who promises to have his eyes wide open and place a nice smacker on me the first second of 2011.

'Twas the Blog Before Christmas: The Year in Review

‘Twas the blog before Christmas, I was writing in bed
When visions of 2010 danced in my head.

Bad memories were hanged on the gallows with care
In hopes that the good ones would be the ones I would share.

It started with surgery: boobs and a tuck.
I almost died then, but, just my luck,

I didn’t, and then, I survived on my own;
With family and friends and my Blackberry phone.

When up on my text, there arose such a clatter,
I ran to my purse to see what was the matter.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But, a flirtatious message I wanted to hear.

Away to my senses I flew like a flash.
I knew this was trouble like a stash of bad cash.

The mess: it came soon; it came fast; it came quick,
And the guy, in the end, was a real fucking dick.

I made lots of trips:  D.R., Orlando, and more,
Lots of time on the beach hanging out by the shore.

Moving along, then the football games started.
I never knew I could be so broken-hearted.

More rapid than eagles, the losses they came.
Like good Gators, we sat there and still watched each game.

First Bama, then Tigers, then Miss'ippi State,
Then South Carolina and that team that I hate.

To the top of the state to go watch some ball,
We did go to Gainesville early this fall.

That was quite a treat, and our tailgating, too.
Yes, the Dolphins were losing, but what could we do?

The Steelers from Pittsburgh soon came around,
And near E-11, I suddenly found

An orange and green man that wasn’t too hairy.
In fact, he was bald but, also, so merry.

At section one-fifty, we met at the half,
And, I was surprised that he could make me laugh.

Although, he’s a Hurricane, and I am a Gator,
He quickly decided, “I think I will date 'er.”

So far, I have seen there is nothing to dread.
The man keeps me smiling and butters my bread.

Another big deal is I’m back in the biz
After one taped audition and a quick writing quiz.

I’m happy to be in the world that I love.
It just seems that broadcasting fits like a glove.

So, on these high notes, I come to the end.
You’re better than last year. Goodbye 2010.

Unemployed Need Not Apply

Attention Unemployed Men: Get off the dating market until you get a job! Seriously, I get that the economy is bad. I get that jobs are hard to find. I get that you have self-esteem issues that inhibit you from taking just any job to make ends meet. But, please, do not expect me to go out with you when one of the first things you tell me about yourself is that you’re unemployed and living with your parents. You should not be looking for a date; you should be looking for a job. All your energies need to go in that direction.

Us girls talk, and I am shocked and amazed at the number of unemployed men actively pursuing women right now. I’m sorry to tell the truth here, because I know it hurts, but job = respect. And, like I said to my therapist right before I decided to get divorced, “Where do you go from “no respect?”

And, some of you have been calling me for quite a few months now…you know who you are…and you didn’t have a job in April or May or June, and, well, it’s September. Come onnnn!!! My friend met a guy at Starbucks in New York City recently and got to talking. The guy is HOMELESS and has a job. If a HOMELESS guy can get a job, YOU CAN GET A JOB!!! I’m just sayin’!

See, it’s just starting to seem to me that some of you guys are enjoying being jobless. (There's even a Facebook page titled "Unemployed Losers Just Wanna Have Fun..."  Now, I'm not saying you're a loser, but when I saw that, I really started thinking my theory that you all are liking this has some substance!)  The thing is you know the ex-wives will never let the kids starve, and most women have become such go-getters that you may have somehow gotten the message that it’s okay to be a deadbeat. Newsflash:  IT’S NOT!! But, it appears that when you move back in with your parents, you forget that you’re 40, and you start acting 18 again. I mean, it’s a dream: Mom doing your laundry and making you lunch when you wake up at noon and then surfing the net all day long, allegedly looking for a job, but I see you on Facebook!  And, by the way, if we are dating…where are you taking me later? My house? The house that I’m paying for? I. Don’t. Think. So.

So, what does this all mean? If you don’t have a job, get one. In the meantime, lie low. I mean, there certainly are plenty of desperate women who will still go out with you (my loser ex-husband found one), but I am not one of them. I know it sounds harsh, and I love you guys…I really do…but, I just don’t feel right about contributing to your credit card debt, so you can take me to dinner, and I certainly would hate it if you were cheap.  And, for us, ladies, well, it should mean that the pool of eligible men is better. At the very least, we can add “employed” to our list of requirements.

Bars, Beauty Shops, and Therapy

You know the scene:  heartbroken guy sitting at the bar, sulking into a beer, while the bartender waxes philosophical about relationships, because, of course, he's seen it all.  Well, a variation of this picture occurs in spas across the land.  Ladies, you know what I'm talking about:  the second you sit in your hairdresser's chair, you may as well have walked into the confessional at the local parish. 

I don't know what it is about hairdressers, nail technicians -- even the hair removal specialist -- but there I find myself, in the "everything's exposed" phase of my Brazilian Bare waxing session, disclosing not only my innermost working parts, but my innermost emotional angst...TO THE WAX GIRL!!!  Which brings me to my point today:  should you switch hairdressers (or bartenders, for that matter) to avoid having to revisit your suffering?

Since my last love relationship met its unfortunate demise a few weeks ago, and since I'm going back to the Caribbean tomorrow, I have spent the last few days primping as I do, right on schedule =), keeping up with my beauty regimen.  Now, I'm picky about my service people, so I traipse around to a variety of locales.  (It would probably be easier to spend the day at a spa and get it all done, but, one place doesn't use the best nail materials; the best wax is at the body waxing place, not the regular salon; the massage chairs at this other pedicure place are soooo goooood; and, when you find a good hairdresser, well...you don't leave her!!!)  So, I've got a manicure lady, a pedicure lady, a wax girl, and a hairdresser (we won't get into the facials and massages).  They've lived through my marriage, my depression, my divorce, and the aftermath with me, and from day one, they were privy to the whirlwind romance that I embarked on a few months ago.  I think they really care -- I like to believe they really love me =) -- and these girls know my life, and they were just as happy and ga-ga over my life with "Phil" (rhymes with ____) as I was.  Already deep into my relationship recovery process (a set of stages I think I'm gonna write a book about--lol), I am doing mostly well.  But, now, every time I walk into a beauty shop, I have to open the wound again.  So, before making all my appointments, I seriously considered finding new people to beautify me.  Ultimately, I decided to face the music...and, it went something like this...

Enter nail spa...Vietnamese nail technician Kim...easily one of the happiest people on Earth that I'd "found love" immediately asks, "How Pheel?"  Me:  "Pheel badddd...Pheel bely, bely badddd."  Kim:  "Ohhhh, noooo.  Pheel baddd?"  Me:  "Yes, Kim.  Phil and I are through."  Kim:  "Ohhhh...you okaaaaayyy?  I knooo you lof Pheel!"  Bitch!  Barbara Walters Jedi Mind Trick...tears flood my eyes.  Kim feels terrible and immediately asserts that we will never speak of Phil again.

Next stop:  body waxing.  Tatiana is not just the best waxer in the world, she is totally genuine and cool, and I actually look forward to the Brazilian wax torture every three weeks.  I especially love Tati, because of how incensed she was to learn the truth of my sexless marriage, and she is determined to convince me that I'm young and beautiful and that my life is just beginning.  Tatiana may as well have been the one in the relationship with Phil.  She was so taken with the whole romantic story -- believe me, this guy was goooood, one hell of a smooth talker -- and she couldn't wait to hear what had happened in the three-week waxing interim.  Tatiana was the one I really considered never seeing again.  I hated to break her heart!  lol  But, part two of my beautician-generated therapy was great.  Awesome chick, that Tatiana...she was matter of fact, gave me words of encouragement, and the dreaded, "Everything happens for a reason."  Strong Latin women we are, she said.  No tears allowed.  So, no opening the wound.  A good day for a full Brazilian with buttock strip for $35.99 plus tip.

I'm off to see my hairdresser now. 

"He did what? Girl, I'm gonna make you fabulous!"

My dear Jen got involved in a whirlwind romance of her own shortly after I got involved with Phil, so it might be hard to listen to her happy tales, kind of like when you have a miscarriage and someone else is pregnant.  But, the well-trained hairdresser, much like the skilled bartender is the closest thing to a psychotherapist without having to pay such high fees.  She already knew things may have been going South with Phil.  In fact, last visit, I had told her I was done.  Only because of her soft heart and her suggestion that I, for once, not be such a hard ass, did I even entertain another conversation with Phil.  I'm sure today will be chock full of great advice that I can't believe I didn't think of...and all that for the cost of cut, color, and partial highlights.

"No peanuts for you!!!"

I've done quite a bit of traveling in the last four months--the Dominican Republic, Georgia, North Carolina, all around Florida--and I'm about to hit the DR again in three days.  I'm here to tell you what you already know--air travel SUCKS!!  I usually fly out of Fort Lauderdale's airport, because it's closest to me, and it's a pretty decent little airport, compared to the hellish locale known as Miami International.  But, still, the experience is always riddled with little annoyances that make the entire thing quite unpleasant. 

Before we get to the part about the airport, let me just say that the airfare "sales" are total scams.  "Fort Lauderdale to Santo Domingo: $49!!!"  OMG, I'm going every weekend!!!  Not so fast.  That just covers the piece of paper that says you're going, which most of us print out at home now with our paper and our ink.  But, I digress.  By the time you finish booking, you've got lots of taxes and "fees," which nobody can explain.  I guess if you want a seat cushion that turns into a flotation device, you gotta pay those fees.  All told, that one way fare is well over $100.  Add to that the extra fees for pre-selecting your own seat and for baggage.

Love this...$59...1/2 way...lol

Okay...now, off to the airport.  Starting with the drop off at the airport, I encounter the displaced New Yorkers that have come to grace Florida with their obnoxious, pushy behavior.  (Side note:  I love New York, and the people there are all pretty nice, because they've managed to send all the a-holes to South Florida!  Thanks, New York!)  So, back in April, on my way to Santo Domingo, I'm immediately injured curbside by a bitchy New York-type who insists her giant luggage needs to be rammed into my ankle, because she wanted to stand where I was standing.  This lovely woman had the gall to get mad at ME for just being there in the way of her special bag and starts cursing "these damn Latinos."  Ugh!  But, alas, I was going to my favorite place in the world, and I would be undeterred by said bitch.  So, off I went to check in, already looking forward to an early morning cold beverage of the alcoholic kind.

Next stop, airline counter.  I had to check in my things, because we were traveling for more than a few days and were lugging real baggage (literally and figuratively--haha).  So, after a not-so-long wait, with the unfortunate chit-chat from some Bostonians oh-so-eager to tell us about their cruise, there I am at the JetBlue counter, opening my bag and moving my very stylish, yet apparently heavy shoes to my friend's suitcase, since mine was over the fifty pound limit by ONE pound.  ("If it had been a half-pound, we could have let it go, but one whole pound, you're going to have to lighten it."  I swear, they said that.)  But, again...looking forward to Caribbean beaches.  I'm cool.  We're laughing.  JetBlue people are pretty nice...so far.  (Don't go booking online, yet.) 

Enter the terminal...find nearest bar...start the vacation.  A couple of brewskis later, it's time to board our flight.  Here we go...  Now, I know airline baggage fees are annoying and all that, but, trying to cram the equivalent of a dead body into something that fits in the overhead bin is NOT COOL.  So once you manage to get to your seat, there's always some guy with BO overhead raising his arms to shove, jostle, jam, and, essentially, bulldoze his bag into that small space above you.  You find yourself cowering in fear of falling objects, all the while wishing this guy would have showered this morning.  Soon, along comes the fast-walking flight attendant who expertly shoves, jostles, and jams the bag herself.  After about five minutes of this insanity, she, with sweat on her brow, exasperatingly tells the smelly passenger, "We're gonna have to check this."  This spectacle repeats itself over and over again all up and down the aisle...oh, how I long for the days when Mom and Dad paid for my first-class fare and the term "discount airline" didn't exist.  But, I digress...Caribbean beaches are an hour and fifty minutes away.

We taxi off.  My friend and I were giddy.  We hadn't been back to the Dominican Republic in years, and we were very, very excited, having counted down the days.  Enter the not-so-affectionately nicknamed (by us) "Nazi Flight Attendant."  This woman was so uptight that, in the words of Ferris Bueller, if you stuck a lump of coal up her ass, in two weeks you'd have a diamond.  Apparently, gone are the days of nice, pretty flight attendants, who were --well-- attentive.  (And, we didn't get any of the fun gay ones, either!)  Right off, folks all around us were scared of this woman.  She would not crack a smile.  She looked all "Heil, Hitler!" as she demonstrated the use of the seatbelts and the emergency equipment.  Once in the air, she spent twenty minutes chastising a passenger over God-knows-what.  She was like a scary school principal, and I thought the woman in the seat a few rows back was going to cry.  As we approached Santo Domingo, we got our digital camera out taking pictures of the mountains and ourselves (an overwhelming urge to document our every move for Facebook), and, the "Peanut Nazi" (Seinfeld tribute) was none too happy. 

She saw that camera and she beelined through the airplane telling us that we were not allowed to take pictures--"NO ELECTRONIC EQUIPMENT!!!"  Me, meekly, yet with a hint of a sarcastic smile:  "But, it's a camera, not a beaconing device."  Sternly:  "IT'S AGAINST FAA REGULATIONS."  I am a research queen, but I haven't bothered finding out if that's true or not, but it doesn't sound right.  We had the church giggles at this point, and we were scouting her location before turning on the camera for a quick shot.  Her sharp hearing would perceive that little shutter sound from anywhere inside the hull of that aircraft, and she'd quickly turn around and glance in our direction.  Of course, by that instant, we had our photo, and we were pretending to be sleeping or browsing through the latest issue of SkyMall.  Good times.  =)

I'm preparing to travel again, this time on Spirit Airlines.  My friends who flew ahead of me by about a week have already warned me of the fun I'll be having upon my 4 am arrival to Fort Lauderdale/Hollywood International Airport.  A crowd of cheap travelers (my Fort Lauderdale to Santo Domingo route was $27!!!) up that early in the morning cannot be good...and at least half of them are us "damn Latinos."  I'm hoping for a fun gay flight attendant, though!

See...they're fun!!!  This is Bobby...gay flight attendant extraordinaire.  He writes his own blog "Up Up and a Gay."  Check it out at http://upupandagay.com/.

"Hi! How are you...bitch?"

After I recently got a call from my arch-nemesis (What?  I'm a superhero!) in what may or may not have been described as a love triangle, I’ve been thinking about how strange our social behavior is sometimes. The allegedly soon-to-be-ex-wife of a man I had been involved with (yes...lesson learned about the not-yet-divorced guy thing...but, that's a whole other blog!) has certainly declared herself to be my enemy and by all reports hates me with seething rage, jealousy, and a hint of vengefulness. Yet, when I answered that call, I was greeted with a sweet, “Hi, Patty. It’s So-and-So. How are you?” Hilarious, right? An old friend of mine used to say, “Hypocrisy is the foundation of good manners,” and, well, this seems to be true, because, I, without hesitation, replied, “Good, and you?” and proceeded to actually have a not-that-unpleasant conversation with this woman. I can’t help but observe that we sometimes treat the ones we love in the worst form, while saving our best behavior for strangers, or, worse yet, for those whom we consider our enemies.


Social niceties are all things that decent people are supposed to do in a social setting, be it a telephone conversation, a first-time meeting, or keeping your mouth shut and smiling along, and maybe even agreeing, when an idiot is non-stop spewing information you know to be erroneous. These are things that we do in our culture simply because they are considered polite. There are a couple of social niceties that get on my nerves, other than being asked “How are you?” by someone you know doesn’t really care.

One that drives me crazy is the obligatory “bless you” after a sneeze. If you are the sneezer, you feel obligated to say, “Thank you.” If you are the witness to the sneeze, and, say, you don’t really feel like talking, because you hate people, or you question whether or not the sneezer even WANTS to be blessed, you might suddenly be in an awkward moment, and, even judged by the sneezer. (Thought bubble: “I can’t believe I just sneezed, and nobody blessed me!!!”) I had this discussion for about an hour once with my ex-husband. (This sort of babble is just one example of what’s NOT conducive to a good marriage!) Long story short, I decided that day I would no longer be the giver of the “bless you,” while my ex-husband long winded about evil spirits and other such nonsense (please refer to “idiot spewing erroneous information,” above).

Another major annoyance is that little social nicety we call small talk. My Blackberry gets burning hot from usage most days, but when I’m sitting at a bar and having some long-ass conversation with a guy I instantly know I could never relate to in any way, I am mentally willing that device to ring with an escape-hatch call or text that, unfortunately, never comes. So, I nod along politely and discuss topics nobody really gives a crap about. I usually try to reveal one or two really negative things about myself, but that tactic isn’t working out for me, lately -- losers’ interest is piqued quite easily. Redeeming bonus: free drinks (unless he’s not only boring, but not socially nice, himself) and, consequently, the conversation gets more bearable by beer number 4. At that point, my sarcastic tongue may also start wagging, and I may be left alone quite soon. =)

Many say that social niceties are going by the wayside. I watched some documentary that basically said all the great civilizations of old that ceased to exist eventually self-imploded because they had lost their social graces as a people. Rude IS the more common front these days.

So, do we save our civilization with hypocrisy, or do we say what we really think and roll our eyes at idiotic morons? Maybe hypocrisy with your boss, and eye-rolling at the bar??? Strike a social niceties balance??? Hmmm…balance is hard for me, so I’m going to have to think about this one for a while. But, right now, I’m rolling my eyes about it.