Me, Myself, and Irene

I was named after my grandmother on my mom’s side. She was an “Irene”. There were times when I hated it. Why couldn’t I be a Kathy or a Diane? IRENE! When I was a little brat and was introduced to people, especially to older men, I always got serenaded with “Good Night Irene”. A couple of bars from that song and I would smile just to appease them. Meanwhile, I’m thinking “Oh god, here we go again!”.

Now when I tell people my name, especially men, I tell them “Ok, go ahead, sing it.”

I like this version better than the original Leadbelly.

I gradually came to appreciate my name.  It’s unique and when I come across someone else with my name, I will point it out and it’s usually a “Oh, wow, you’re an Irene, too?” It’s a name you don’t come across too regularly. I learned that Irene was the Goddess of Peace in Greek mythology. Peace was never a strong point in my life. I was a chatter box, big mouth (somethings never change), and yelled alot. I was quite a handful for mom.

I found this on Google: It’s from “The Crystal Cauldron”. It’s from a book actually:

A Decoz® Numerology Analysis of the following expressions
Irene
by
Hans Decoz

Responsible, caring, loving, nurturing, healing and comforting, the name “Irene” is warm and makes one feel loved and special.

Aww, so in other words, the name Irene makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. How special.

Harmonious and peaceful, the name “Irene” feels good to anyone, but doesn’t call up any particular feeling strongly.

So it makes you feel warm and fuzzy, but more luke warm and fuzzy. Gotcha!

“Irene” is neutral, suitable for those for whom stability and harmony are high priorities.

Well, isn’t it for everyone? So now people, go change your names to Irene.

Good sense of business, but slow and not particularly adaptable.  Strong sense of beauty, but not passionate.

Ok, this one hit the mark. I suck at business. I can’t even run a booth on Bonanza. “slow and not particularly adaptable”. Yeah, don’t start a business venture with me. Unless you’re versed in Chapters 11 or 13. Rick, are your reading this?

I do appreciate beauty.  George Clooney comes to mind. As does Jeremy Clarkson. “But not passionate” HA, are you kidding me?

The name “Irene” makes one feel like a home away from home.  It offers protection and love.  It takes away anxiety and fears, and heals the broken-hearted.  If you want others to feel like this is their home, this is their safe haven, then this is an excellent name.

Sort of makes me feel like Hotel 6 Dr. Phil style. With  psychology and counseling needs at your service. But only in Las Vegas.

The name “Irene” attracts money slowly, predictably, the result of effort and common sense.

Oh, it sure does! REAL SLOW! Wonder what names attract money REALLY FAST?

Most negative characteristics: Stick-in-the-mud.  No passion.

Whoa, whoa, whoa…..hold on! That’s alittle harsh, don’t you think? I’m not a school marm that wears blouses with the front buttoned up to the neck, drive a KIA, reads books about the life cycle of the Dassanech Tribe of Africa, gets disgusted at the mere sound of a fart and has PBS on the “favorites” button on the remote. That’s a stick-in-mud, dude!

I’ll show you passion……where’s Clarkson….!

What the hell does Hans know anyway?

 

 

The Reality of Frozen Pizza Baking

I’ll let the pizza box do all the talking. For a change.

It's all about reality cooking

Ma Bell

Image courtesy of Plinky

Remember when you were younger, like 9 or 10? And the phone would ring and you’d go running only to have mom or dad get to the phone first? And then you would be jumping up and down in front of your mom or dad, waiting for clues from the conversation as to who it might be on the other end of the line. And they would be talking, and you would standing there and now annoying your parent by asking “Who is it, who is it?. And then mom or dad would be exasperated with your nagging and finally yell at you “HOLD ON……it’s Auntie Mable!! Now stop bothering me, I’M ON THE PHONE!”. My kids were only allowed to bother me when I was on the phone if one was bleeding profusely or dieing.

(I told my kids after this very popular utterance was made when they get older and are on the phone…..payback is going to be an inevitable bitch!)

Then when your in your teens, the phone rings (this is all before mobile phones) you go running and at this point your parents are ignoring it while dad reads his paper and mom is doing dinner. You would get all excited because 9 times out of 10 it’s for you anyway and you would sit and gab for what seemed like hours (ok, for some of us girls it probably was!). Any siblings would be telling yelling at you to get off the phone!!!. Then you got your own cell phone! For the older generation here, that wasn’t the case.

Then you became a rent and tax paying responsible adult living on your own (I debate that word “responsible” at the age of 22). Oh, the freedoms of having the phone now (for you younger generation X’s cells were now more popular). And you eagerly and happily walked over and answered because it HAD to be for you! Go ahead person on the other end, talk to me. I can handle anything! Yes, we’re big people now! Again, 9 times out of 10 it was a friend notifying you of an impending party.

As we get older, the novelty wears off. The parties become less frequent. The phone calls become appointment reminders or mom and dad or the occasional friend or relative. Or for some, collection agencies. Oh, yes, and the inevitable telemarketer.

These days I dread answering the phone. Not so much my cell because it has caller id. Luckily, I don’t get many phone calls. With each kid having a cell phone, our landline hardly rings. BUT……when it does, it’s like “now what?”. If my husband and I are in the same room, we give eachother that silent “you wanna get it or should I?” look. Meanwhile, the phone is ringing off the hook. We quickly make an assessment of where each boy is. If they’re both home, we let the machine get it. If one is out, well, one has to answer it because it may just well be Officer Obie calling to tell us one of our kin has either A) been arrested for some minor infraction that will cost us about $1000 B) one of them is calling MOMSTAR C) one is calling to let us know he was just ticketed by Officer Obie because he and his friend were hanging out in front of the 7-11 too long or D) a trip to the hospital is needed.

If my husband and I are in separate rooms, the assessment is made and then the shouting starts: “You wanna get it?”. Response from me upstairs: “No, not really.” By that time the answering machine has gotten it. I don’t have Caller ID on the landline. If the phone rings immediately after again, then we know it’s one of the kids or a relative. Then there’s a scramble to answer it and both of us are now on the line. It’s a stupid system, but it works.

I think when I move to England, I won’t have a phone. Email me. I’ll get it eventually.

The .918 Press

Today is different. Well only because it was so nice out yesterday we turned the heat off and opened the windows to let the sweet smell of turkey compost in the cornfields the early spring permeate through the house.

As I sit here freezing my butt off and listening to the 50mph winds smack head on into the house, it’s really not too bad in here. I’m thinking it’s about 60 degrees. OH! I was suppose to turn the heat back on? Silly me!

But I’m not here to talk hurricane conditions with you. I’m here to tell you about a new blog that my friend Rick has started. If you’re like writing, we’re here to help you get that story out. As an ebook!

It’s called Books2Day.We want to get in on the cutting edge of this new medium! It’s a fast growing phenomenon! But we’re here to help! It’s still in it’s genesis stages, but will pick up as we get more organized.

If you have an interest in ebooks or write or want to write, own a reader, or want a reader we want you!

Yeah, YOU!

We can be found on Twitter as well at @Books2Day Eventually we will have a Facebook page as well when things start to take off. If you do choose to follow on Twitter, retweeting is much appreciated!

This is still a new venue for me. Rick is more versed in it than I am. But I’m really exciting to learn about this new idea in publishing. Subscribe now if you’re interested. Maybe you have a little book idea in you’re head and feel it’ll never get any acceptance from any major publishing firm. Hmmmm, maybe we can help!

Feel free to check out the blog and ask questions in the comments sections. Rick and I will be there daily.

Thanks a bunch!

CATs

The California Achievement Tests or CATs.

Standardized Testing.

OMG, I remember those damn things!

Clear everything off your desk. EVERYTHING! Including the minuscule piece of rubber eraser.

First the teacher would ask if anyone had to go to the bathroom. Because you weren’t allowed to leave after the test started. We all just looked around at eachother. What idiot would have to pee now?? Or who even had the nerve to get up and go?

Teacher would then hand out #2 pencils, brand new ones, with points on them so sharp you could cut glass. We didn’t have ANY excuse for not being able to answer any test question. Those pencils were ready to go! If the point broke, the teacher would have one on stand by. No need to get up and sharpen that baby.

Then the teacher would hand out the test booklets with the answer sheet tucked inside. The classroom atmosphere was intense. This was serious business here. This was state mandated stuff going on! One slip up and you were doomed. You could hear a pin drop it was so quiet! The teachers loved it! It was the only time we were ever this well behaved!

After everything was handed out and you had your #2 pencil placed horizontally in front of you at the top of the desk and all the necessary papers in front of you, preferably the test booklet to your left, answer sheet to your right, the teacher would then tell you to turn to page 1.

And we all did simultaneously.

She would read the instructions. And we were reminded at least twice to make sure you colored in the dots COMPLETELY and THOROUGHLY! Oh, this was so stressful! What if I didn’t color it in dark enough for them? Would I fail? Ugh, the pressure! After she was done, she would ask the class “Does anyone have any questions?” No, none of us did. I think we were too scared. Any wrong peep out of you was certain failure (to a kid in 3rd grade this was worse than going to the Principal’s office)

The teacher would then announce that the test was about to begin, that you had 60 minutes to complete the first part. FIRST PART!??? THERE’S MORE THAN ONE PART?

“Begin”. And we would all dutifully open to the next page and being the test. In total silence. No one ever spoke a word. All you could hear were pages turning.

If you were done before the allotted time, you were to place your pencil down, quietly, in front of you and just wait with your hands folded on the desk. You were NOT to go into your desk or leave the room (unless you had to pee, but only if you were done with the test).

At exactly 60 minutes, the teacher would stand up and say “Pencils down”. And that’s all you would hear, the #2′s hitting the desk. We would then proceed with Part 2.

This went on for at least 2 days. The mental agony!
My friends and I dreaded this every single year as I was growing up.

As the years went on, more tests were issued. They were called different things. Some had nothing to do with your academic intelligence. If was just to see if your school qualified for government grants. At one point, I remember recently that my kids were getting state issued tests twice a year. For different reasons, every year. They were basically tested to death. A note would come home (if it even made it that far-half ended up in the bottom of my son’s locker) announcing said tests, usually PSSAs (PA only), and to make sure you son/daughter had gotten to bed early enough to get rest, ate a good breakfast and was ready to take the tests. They have since lightened up. I guess they finally came to their senses when the kids realized it had nothing to do with their scholastic awareness. The kids started just messin’ with the tests. Or not even taking them. I would get the results in the mail stating my son did well in the reading but lacked in math. No, maybe he just didn’t feel like coloring in the dots that day.

Dear Slutface

I wasn’t the most popular kid in school. I was dorky, lanky, tom boyish, yet girly in a sporty kind of way. In grammar school I played with dolls, but liked a good game of softball or kick ball with the boys. I have to admit, though, I was socially inept. I think “late bloomer” is a good description. Not physically. I had NO problem there, though some boys thought I should have been a size 36C in 7th grade. But I never was really cool. I got picked on, ridiculed and tormented like all the rest of the uncool girls. I tried smoking cigarettes but it was just a waste of time trying to get them. My poor neighbor, she tried patiently to make me cool. Instead of trying to have sex with the boys, I was trying to get the boys to go sailing with me. Or ride bikes. If a boy liked me, wow, it was a great feeling, but what was I suppose to do with him?

When high school rolled around, I had my little clique of friends (I mean little….maybe 5 friends). They were about as awkwardly inept as I was, so it was all good. Our world of weirdness and welcome to it! Of course, there were the girls and guys who were much cooler, more mature, and way ahead of us with the social graces.

There was Laura Nagle.

Blonde. Thin. Shrewd. She smoked pot. She drank before school. She cut classes. She did everything you’re not suppose to do. She was popular. She was everything I wish I could have been. She had no tits though. HA HA!

I don’t think I’ve ever hated someone more than this person.

She would sit in Spanish class, low cut shirt (not much cleavage with gumdrops), tight jeans and slouch down in her seat and spread her legs. I never figured it out until years later after high school when my husband remarked about girls in his classes doing the same thing. Then I put it all together. Looking back, poor Mr. Prete. He did seem alittle on edge now and then. See? That’s how naive I was. Now my Spanish teacher was about 5’3″, built like a stout Mexican, and always had red eyes. I swear he had red eyes! Anyway, he was either drunk or hungover half the time. And Laura knew this and played on it. Her and her accomplice, Kathy “hair dye disaster” WoitCOWsky. I would love to have dumped these two in the middle of East Harlem New York and watch them shit themselves.

I avoided these two bitches like drug dealers avoid the cops. If they were coming down the hall, I’d duck into the nearest stair well and take the long way to class if I had to. I just hated their snarling little smirks and derogatory remarks.

Plinky had a prompt “Write a letter to someone you knew in high school”. Yes, Ms. Nagle was the first name I thought of. This is sort of what it would go like:

Hey Nagleface,

You slut whore.

I hope you die a horrible death.

After kicking Todd Lefkovic in the shins before Math, I should have come after you and kicked you in the face. Dealing with the charges of “assault and voluntary manslaughter” would have be SO worth the trip to juvy.

But you moved to Texas and whored yourself out there. Are you bowled legged yet from straddling all the cowboys? You’re lucky you moved! Because I know eventually I would have gotten drunk and whipped your sorry ass somehow.

You thought you were the coolest, didn’t you, spreading your legs for the Spanish teacher, you and Kathy “hair dye disaster” WoitCOWsky. Ugly bitch she was.

I hope your dead. Both of you.

Signed,
You know who.

Too strong? Harsh? Explicitly rogue?

Good.

I don’t think I was jealous. I just didn’t like her attitude of herself.

Hindsight is 20/20. This comes under the list of “If I could go back in time and change something”. Yeah, kick Laura Nagles butt!

Silence is Golden

Can I just say something about sexual harassment?

Men: If you see a nice looking woman, unfortunately, you’re going to have to keep it to yourself.

Women: If a man is daring enough these days and compliments you on how nice you look, just smile and say thank you.
No need to run to Human Resources or your attorney and cry “sexual harassment!”. Take it as a compliment.
Whatever is running through his testosterone driven mind is none of your business. Just move on.

Men: Just keep it to yourself.

Women: If said gentleman compliments you again or you feel he’s being too explicit in his gratuitous remarks and you feel he is being a sexist pig, then get over yourself. You’re a pretentious prude. Lighten up! Just smile again and say thank you. NOW you have permission to knee said gentleman in the plums.
No need to run to management, Human Resources or your attorney. Take care of business yourself. You’re only going to make life a living hell for yourself Miss Grundy. Men will be men. It’s been a well known fact throughout history that men like tits and ass. Ask the cavemen.

Women: We’re not so innocent ourselves, are we? What goes on during a ladies night out, stays at the ladies night out! But I’ve never heard of a man running to HR because the secretary upstairs complimented a male co worker on he looked that day.

Conversation would go something like this:

Secretary or female co worker – “You look very nice today, those slacks go well with your shirt and tie.”
Male co worker – Thank you, they look better off than they do on.
Secretary or female co-worker – “Keep them on, I just had breakfast.”

Men: You’re too verbal. So guys, JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP IF YOU SEE A SWEET YOUNG THING WITH HER TITS HANGING OUT AND TIGHT JEANS ON! Wait until you know you’re in a safe venue with your cohorts (and know they’re trusted to keep THEIR FAT MOUTHS SHUT AS WELL) and THEN have at it! Got it!!?
The reason you rarely catch a women looking at you is because we’re stealthy. I know, it drives you crazy! Learn this trick!

This way there will be no more firings, media explosions in locker rooms, news reports, tension in the office, memos from said office inquiring about rude or indecent encounters, or court room appearances. If you can’t avoid any of the above, seek help.

*Note: Women: Check where you’re wearing as well. 40 and 50 year old women shouldn’t be dressing like 14 year olds. You’re just asking for trouble. And I don’t want to hear “but I’ll wear what I want”. If you dress like a whore, you’re going to be treated like one. ‘Nuf said.

Happy Chinese New Year!

Happy Chinese New Year!

February 3rd is the official first day of the Chinese New Year! They celebrate for 15 days! What a bunch of partiers (but then again, we celebrate Christmas for about a month and half). It is the year 4708.

2011 is the year of the Rabbit!

2011 is XinMao (Stem Branch name or formal name). In the Stem Branch, the years are counted in 60 year cycles, so the name of the year is repeated every 60 years. So 2011 is the 12th year in the 60 year cycle. “Cycle” is equal to a century in the International Calendar. The last time it was the year of the Rabbit was 1999.

I would love to have listed the birth years so everyone could get an idea of what animal year they are but the Chinese New Year starts on different days of the Lunar year all the time. It can start late January to mid February in any given year. So if you were born in 1966, this doesn’t mean you are necessarily the year of
the Snake. If you were born in April of that year, you’re animal is the Horse. The Chinese year started January 21, 1966 and ended February 8, 1967. Anything before January 20th or earlier makes you born the year of the Snake.

So to celebrate, we were invited by the local Chinese buffet restaurant for a Chinese New Year special invitation only dinner. Aren’t we special? I brought my camera but for some reason NONE of the pictures came out. I mean ZIPPO. But it was very nice! Lots of red lanterns hanging from the ceiling, the place was packed, and tons of food! Needless to say I didn’t have to make dinner that night!

Don’t You Dare Breathe!

For the past 4 months I’ve visited my county’s courthouse 6 times. It’s a place where the atmosphere is oppressive, solemn, despondent, and sovereign. Very sovereign. Of course it would be, there’s a pistol wheelin’ cop every 5 feet. And don’t look at them wrong!

Today I had to visit the “Criminal Department” because my son is a CRIMINAL! No, he’s not, he had a car accident and was sited for careless driving. Fines needed to be paid because someone has to pay for this massive piece of cement they just put up including parking garage and more additional parking. Crime is up, need more places for lawyers to park their BMW’s, Mercedes Benz’s and Lexus’.

I parked about 1/4 mile away. So much for their new improved parking accommodations (and on a stone/dirt lot no less). Upon entering the building, this was my first place to start. I had NO idea where to go. As I approached the metal detectors, there were two officers stationed here, checking everyone in. I put my wallet and keys…..whoa, wait, “let me see those”. He examined my key ring. Now, I have my Chrysler Sebring with me because the Exploder is having transmission problems. So the keychain is very, how shall I say…..juvenile. The car is a toy, why not have a fun keychain to go with it. On it is a foam flipflop, my handmade jute keychain with the peace sign,Ford Tempo key fob and my bottle opener.

I will admit it sucks trying to get these into a pocket

They didn’t like my bottle opener. I said, yeah, I might whip it out in case I get a hankering for a beer. They didn’t think that was funny. Can’t please everyone. After they confiscated that, I was directed to the “Criminal Department”. When I found it, there was another officer keeping the peace and as one person left, another was let in. We were lined up in the hallway. Yes, “we” as in more than a dozen of us were paying our dues.

As I leaned against the wall stood in line diligently waiting for my turn, I made some observations.

- Policemen don’t smile. No one in the court house does. No matter how friendly you try to be, they just keep that straight on face.
- If you’re going to make people wait in the hall, at least provide chairs
- You’re treated like a criminal even if you aren’t. Funny thing is people thought I was
paying the fine for something I did.
- I should have worn a little tag that said “I’m here for the fun of it!”
- Everyone in a court room has at least one thing in common: They all did something wrong. Camaraderie makes it all worth while!
- They’re control freaks.
- It’s always a relief to leave.
- Great exercise! I walked at least a half mile today!
- Should have valet parking.
- There’s lots of wasted space!
- Don’t speak unless spoken to.
- Police officers are very patient when it comes to certain people. I do give them props for putting up with some of the riffraff that walks through the doors.

After I left, I retrieved my keys, told them I didn’t have a hankering for a beer, and to excuse the looks of my keychain, that it was a girl thing and thanked the 6’7″ tall officer for holding my deadly weapon of a bottle opener. “Yes, ma’m, we understand”. Yeah, he thinks I’m a total alcoholic probably. Jokes on him. I wasn’t there for me, idiot!

I have at least one more visit to this god forsaken place. It’s a jumpin’ venue, that’s for sure. But I still want to know what goes through someone’s mind when they’re getting dressed in the morning to come to a place of this stature when they show up in pink sweat pants?