Kitty Talk: An Embarassing Admission Part 2

I don’t know about you, but I can’t help but baby-talk to my 3 kitty cats.  My husband makes fun of my catlingo but my babies know exactly what I say – at least I think they do.  With names like Bailey Boots Little Pussy, Peaches N. Crème de Menthe & Tia Maria Tigresse, it’s hard not to have fun.

Besides Peaches, Tia and Bailey I call them tons of names.  I don’t know how they know who I’m talking to, but they do:

• Bailey, Boots, Bear, Buddy, Mommy, Bootseree, Baldor, G Boy, Mommy’s Boy, Kitty Cat Bat, Tee La, Mommy Ska La, Foo Fighter, Pretty Boy, Boo, Smee, Snuggy, Ma Moo, Boo Bear Boy, Teess, Swee, Cheese, Chicken, Mummy, Boodis, Butter Bean….
• Peaches, Bear, Mommy’s Girl, Mommy, Bunny Girl, Cotton Tail, G, Buddy, La, Peachka, Snuggy, Bunny, Buddy Girl, Cheese, Chicken, Mummy, Butter….
• Tia, Ti Ti, Ti Boo, Ti Boozen, Tia Boo bia, Tee, Baby Tee, Little Tee, Mommy’s Girl….

They also have their own theme songs (yes, I’m nuts).  If I sing Bailey’s song, he comes and Peaches does the same.  Tia – not sure.  Do you want to hear them?  Again, I know I’m nuts but I love my babies.

• Bailey Bear with black hair, he’s my Bailey, Bailey Bear.
• Peaches N. Cream, Peaches N. Cream, little itty bitty, bitty Peaches N. Cream.
• Tia Boobia, foo-fighter fia, Tia.

My Catlingo continues to not only names and songs but to everyday cat chat.

Food is foodis.  Do you want me to open the door for you is you want Mommy opee up?  Do you want to go to bed becomes you wanna go seepy in the bed?  The only thing that seems to stay the same is do you want to eat? The backyard wildlife all have names too.

• squirrels = squirrlees
• chipmunks = ship monkeys
• birds = birdies
• rabbits = bunny wabbits
• bugs = buggies
• mice = mousies
• ants = anties
• cats = kitty cat friends

That about covers the yard and surrounding areas.  I know I sound like a total nut but I remember my parents always talking baby talk to our dogs when I was growing up.  Even with my pets, my mom, when she was alive and my dad always talked baby-talk to their grand-cats.  It’s a given.

Do you?  I think almost everybody does it, but many don’t admit it.  I can’t believe I am!

© 2011 J. H-M and CultureChoc2010

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Separate Bedrooms: The New Retro-Modern

I wrote this blog back in April…

A couple of years ago my husband and I had a huge fight (probably over something stupid) and he moved into the spare bedroom.

To this day he drifts in and out of our boudoir for various reasons:  sex, sleep, intimacy, his bed is not made….  Frankly, I am so used to sleeping alone (well not alone – with 1, 2 or 3 cats) that when he decides to invade my personal space (Isn’t that what marriage is?) without warning, I get absolutely NO SLEEP.

By the time I get acclimated to a warm, non-furry body next to me, he’s gone again because of his crazy work schedule.

Back to the lack of sound sleep….

Girls… you know what I’m talking about.  The burping, farting, snoring and general restlessness of a man is difficult  to look forward to.

My friend tries to convince me that it’s part of marriage and she’ll never go to sleep  without her husband next to her.  I agree – but once you get used to the less smelly, less noisy version of sleep, it’s hard to go back.  I already have to deal with the cats and my own ADHD.  Damn!  I take to 2 Benadryl every night so so I can fall asleep at a decent hour.

I am not a cuddler.  I am always warm and can’t stand the idea of someone snuggled up against me.  Maybe I’m a guy in a chick’s body?  Who knows!

It definitely got me thinking about the past and the practice of separatebedrooms.  My parents always slept in the same bed, but I think the kings and queens of Europe had the right idea.

Are separate bedrooms the new retro modern?

I think so.  Right or wrong.  Good or bad.  I think if it works for you, go for it.  What do you think?  I’d love to hear from you.

By the way, he’s back in the bed….  It was nice while it lasted.

© 2011 J. H-M and CultureChoc2010.

Image: photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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More ROOTS than Alex Haley?

When my husband tells me that I have more ROOTS than Alex Haley, I know it’s time to have my hair done.  Yes, it’s true, I’m long overdue, but sitting in the salon for hours and hours is not my idea of fun.

Losing a few hours in the chair is only part of it.  It will cost me +$200 + tip to get a cut, color and highlights and then have to wait a week for my hair to recover from hair-shock before I actually start liking it.  And the color?  The color is NEVER the same.  It’s either too blonde or too red or too ashy or too “not what I wanted”.

My hairdresser is great with color so it must be me.  I never seem to be satisfied with my “do”.  Maybe that’s why I wait so long to go back.  After 3 weeks my roots grow in but I tend to wait months.  Don’t forget about the cost of shampoo, conditioner, Keratin Mist, hair shine, silk infusion, root lift and hairspray.

As women we also have to worry about our nails.  I need to get them done at least once a month (not bad) and that’s not including warm-weather pedicures.  Our eyebrows, among other things,  need to be waxed.  We have to take care of our “stache” and buy a load of face creams, serums, collagen, $24 face wash, tightening lotions and makeup.  Don’t forget about teeth-whitening products and $45 body lotions.  All so we can look good and feel good.

What do men do?  Maybe some moisturizer?  Gel for their hair?  Men are usually not even concerned with changing their skid-marked underwear for a pair of new ones.  Most could care less if they wear brown, blue, black and beige all at the same time.  Yet even though the studies say, women dress for women and not men, we still want to look good for our spouses whether we’re 200 pounds or 100.

If I go out in sweats and no makeup, my husband says, “You’re going out like that?”  Make me feel good why don’t you.  So why don’t they think the same way?  Duh!  Because they’re men.  So ladies, raise your hands if you agree.  Try not to fault them no matter how much they piss you off.   Just love them for who they are…  farting, burping, loving husbands.

Image: photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

© 2010 J. H-M and CultureChoc2010.  Republished 2011.

Discourteous Richards: Always Alive & Well in NJ

I love to drive.  I own a BMW for Pete’s Sake.  They say it’s the Ultimate Driving Machine - and it is.  I love to maneuver up the Garden State Parkway sans traffic, put the petal to the metal and enjoy the ride.

With the top down, my IPOD at full blast I am unstoppable until I am hindered by none other than the Left Lane Dick.

The discourteous Richard:

1. has no idea he or she is an idiot retarding your progress.
2. has no clue that it is the law in NJ to keep right and pass left.
3. is from New York or Pennsylvania – notorious Left Lane Dicks.
4. is hanging in the left lane on purpose because he or she really is a douchebag.

Nothing makes me road rage more than a taste of a left lane lagger.

I have a 20 minute drive to work door to door and I find myself losing my mind as I try to fly up the highway.  I tailgate.  I scream.  I swear excessively.  I hand gesture and flip the bird.  I drive with my knee.  I pull up next to people and actually yell at them.  I cut them off.  I lose my mind!

When one of my road adversaries gets cocky and thinks he can scare me by tailgating my pristine automobile, I look in the rear view mirror, gesture to him to come closer, swear a few times, then slam on my brakes.  He usually backs off.

I’m tired of being strong-armed by stupid men and women on the road.  I drive like Mario Andretti – not a typical chick – no offense to my gender or any other but STAY OUT OF THE LEFT LANE!

Even if I’m passing on the left doing 95 mph and someone wants to go faster, I move it on over because that’s the way it should be.  Bottlenecking every single lane of the Parkway does nothing but create traffic and cause road rage.

Don’t we have enough of distractions on the road?  We need eyes up our butts and are distracted by screaming kids (not me), loud music, rubber-necking, LLDs and now the GPS.  It’s always so confusing.  It should stand for Go Ahead And Piss Me Off System.  It finds new ways to screw me up while I’m driving but I have found a new use for it.

I Spy.  Remember that game?  You tell me.  What do you see in my picture?  At least it’s good for amusement purposes.

So with all we have to worry about while driving, I wish we could get rid of the Left Lane Dick and push him into extinction because no one should be held back by a jerk off.

You can use that advice in life too.  Good luck.

© 2010 J. H-M and CultureChoc2010. Re-published 2011.

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My Early Morning Rant… And It’s Only Tuesday!

Last night I had terrible insomnia.  Without the use of much-needed Benadryl, I watched TV until I miraculously drifted off to sleep.

At 3 am like clockwork, my bladder beckons me and I roll out of bed, eyes half-closed, dragging my feet, but managing to step on my poor, little kitty Tia pretty damn hard.  Why the hell was she sleeping on the bathroom rug?

As usual 4 am comes early when you have a noisy husband who hates that his wife is home on vacation for 2 months in the summer.  Bang, bang, clack, crash, grrrrind, slam…. and he’s off… and I’m getting up to pee.

I rolled back into bed and Peaches joined me – she must have been looking out the front window.  I called for Tia – the poor kitty I crushed this morning – but she didn’t come.  I heard noise so I naturally assumed she was locked in somewhere.

Sure enough I open the guest room and smack her with door as she was eager to escape.  Poor Tia!

Now I’m really up.  Bailey is not even up yet!

I turn on Clean House: The Messiest Home in America – because frankly, there’s nothing else on at that time of the morning.  Maybe I’ll get motivated.

Oh yeah – let me text John and let him know that he locked the cat in the spare bedroom!

I thought I heard the phone, so I send another text and sure enough… he forgot his phone.  Great way to ignore me for the day!

Well, I might as well get the hell out of bed and make coffee.

As I reached the top of the stairs I noticed that the front door was left ajar once again.  I swear someone is going to come and kill me some day!

I also saw my tennis bag thrown on the floor of the foyer but no tennis racket (I guess that’s still in the car) – he must have taken MY car!

Yep.  The car’s gone and I can’t play tennis without my racket!

Oh well. I’m over it… until I open the fridge and realize that his lunch is still there but my marinating tortellini salad, that I made last night for company today, is gone.  I hid it in the fruit bin too!  So I guess I have to cancel my plans.  So annoyed.

MX@@#r F@@@XX!!!!!!!  XXXOOO@@XV!!!!!!

It’s only 7 am and I’m already pissed off!

So after all that ranting, here’s my recipe for Tortellini Salad.

Jacqui’s Tortellini Salad

1 lb tortellini, cooked and cooled
1 can corn, drained
1 can black beans, drained and rinsed
1 small garden pepper, chopped
a sprinkle each of gray salt, pepper, garlic powder, cumin, ground coriander and salsa seasoning 
extra virgin olive oil

Mix all ingredients in a bowl.  Stir well.  Serve immediately or refrigerate overnight to allow the flavors to meld.

Serves 4-6

It’s easy and tasty, so enjoy!

© 2011 J. H-M and CultureChoc2010.

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Twenties vs. Forties: A Top 20 REVISITED

After having one of those days where I just should have stayed in bed, I pondered my life both then and now and decided to make a side-by-side comparison of

Mom & Me in my twenties

what I wanted from life or did in my twenties and what I want from life or do now that I’m almost 43.

Things change and priorities shift as you get older.  When you have kids they change even more.  As a responsible adult sometimes fun gets put on the back-burner and a once clear-head become non-existent.  I miss that clear-head.

Me in my forties

When I was 20 I was living it up in Paris on my parents’ dime, footloose and fancy free.  My only concern was where the next best soirée would be held and who was going to be on the guest list of my next party.  At 43 I worry about paying my bills, money in general, the health and well-being of my family, my health, taking care of my cats, going to work and the list continues.

So let’s take this point by point so we examine the age gap and maybe now understand what our parents went through with us as cranky teenagers and crankier twenty somethings.

1. 20:  I wanted a hot guy with a hot car.  Hondas need not apply.
   40:  I want my hot guy with his hot car.
2. 20:  I drove a fast 1978 Camaro LT, 350 4-barrel with louvers, air shocks, fat tires and a spoiler.  I had a lead-foot.
   40:  I drive a fast BMW convertible  with fat tires and I still have a lead-foot.
3. 20:  I worked at TSV Video (when I was in the US), watched movies all day, drank wine, flirted with the customers, watched and recommended porno, loved my boss Stan and used to arrange Gumby-like toys in sexual positions on his desk every night.  I rarely had to deal with any bullsh**.  My biggest responsibility was making change and setting the alarm.
   40:  I work as a teacher, enlighten impressionable minds all day, drown in paperwork, drink water or Crystal Light, recommend places to visit in Paris and I’m not commenting on the boss.  I constantly have to deal with bullsh**  from EVERYONE.  My BIG responsibility is other people’s children.
4. 20:  I had a dog.  My parents took care of her and I played with her.
   40:  I have 2 cats and I take care of them:  butt wiping, baths, litter box scooping, trips to the vet, cuddling partner, Mommy, playmate.
5. 20:  I pounded shots.  Many shots.  Body shots.
   40:  I sip good wine.  A lot of wine.  All kinds of wine.
6. 20:  I tried to figured out new ways to get away from my parents.
   40:  I wish I still had both my mom and dad and now love spending time with my Daddy.
7. 20:  I had a Mandee Charge Card and no debt.
   40:  I have too many credit cards to count and debt up the wazoo.
8. 20:  I weighed 120 pounds and ate anything I wanted.
   40:  I’m always on a diet!
9. 20:  I would stay out all night and party.
   40:  I will stay out all night and party but try to get home by 4 so I don’t piss off the husband.
10. 20:  I wanted to be a translator for the U.N. or a big-wig in the international business world.
    40:  I want to keep my teaching job and hope my pension will still be there.
11. 20:  I slathered on baby oil so I could get that deep, dark tan.
    40:  I slather on sun block and skin repairing cream to try to undo the sun damage of yesteryear.
12. 20:  I had big, whorey hair.
    40:  I have big, whorey hair.
13. 20:  Fifty dollars was a lot to spend on shoes.
    40:  Now I try not to spend over $500.
14. 20:  I had no kids.
    40:  I still have no kids (by choice).
15. 20:  I never wanted to go home.
    40:  I can’t wait to get home.
16. 20:  I lived in France and loved it.
    40:  I want to live in France and I still love it.
17. 20:  I had a boyfriend who wanted me to look like a Barbie doll.
    40:  I have a husband who wants me to look like a Barbie doll.
18. 20:  Dressing like a whore was always an option.
    40:  Dressing like a whore is a weekend only option.
19. 20:  I went to the gym almost every day.
    40:  I stare at all the gym equipment in my house and dust it off once and a while.
20. 20:  I stared at myself in the mirror and thought about how hot I looked.
    40:  I stare at myself in the mirror and notice fine lines and aging and think about when I can get my first facelift.

Some things have changed and some things have stayed the same.  I believe age is only a number (even though it keeps creeping around like a bad case of crabs) but with age come wisdom and knowledge.  I’ve heard before that youth is wasted on the young.  I believe it now.  If we only knew then what we know now, we could have ruled the world.

I don’t know about you but I’m not done yet and I still plan on ruling the world.

© 2010 J. H-M and CultureChoc2010. Re-published 2011.

BENNY Bombardement: Weekend Invasion At The Jersey Shore

Bayonne, Elizabeth, Newark, New York

BENNY.  If you’re from NJ you know the word BENNY.  A BENNY is someone who lives in North Jersey or NY and invades the Jersey Shore on the weekends from Memorial Day to Labor Day.

Being a former BENNY myself, I travelled in the wee hours of the night to avoid traffic at all costs.  I was down the shore every weekend.  I would even sleep in the back of my Camaro if I didn’t have a place to stay.  Now that I am a resident of the Jersey Shore I find BENNYs to be a gridlock creating breed of tourists who are good for the economy but bad for my peace and quiet.

I won’t even go near the beach or boardwalk on the weekends.  The crowds are monumental.  A 5 minute in-town drive might take you 35 minutes or more.  It’s insanity.  My husband and I wait until Sunday night after 10 pm to attempt a boardwalk visit.  By that time the crowds have dwindled and the traffic is minimal so the boards are a good bet for a late Sunday night of fun.

This weekend was the kick-off of the summer in NJ.  I always have to work the Friday before and stress about traffic.  I have a 20 minute door to door drive to work that might take 2 hours or more via the GSP.  This Friday was a record for me (in a good way) – I made it home in under 30 minutes thanks to back roads and Route 18 South.  It’s a Godsend.

For the rest of the holiday weekend I usually sequester myself to my property perimeters, venturing to a neighbor’s or to the nearest liquor store for supplies.  I don’t dare travel within a mile of the beach.  Last time I tried to buy bread at Fortunato’s, I got stuck in the “beach” traffic on Mantoloking Road.  Needless to say, I never made it to the bread.

When I was a BENNY from North Jersey I hopped in my car every single weekend, could have sat in traffic for hours and if I left on a Sunday afternoon, it would sometimes take me 4 hours to complete a 1 hour drive.  As I get older I have less tolerance for crowds, traffic and annoying people, so from Memorial Day to Labor Day, I do what many other shore dwellers do.  Stay away from the beach and boardwalk unless absolutely necessary.

I don’t know if I’m turning against my people or I’m just getting crotchety in my old age, but the BENNY Blitz has only just begun.  If you’re my friend, welcome to the Jersey Shore, if you’re obnoxious, invasive and frankly a cavone, stay out of my sector and try Jones Beach.

© 2011 J. H-M and CultureChoc2010.

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Rich Boys, Turkish Toilets & Mosh Pits: A February Post

When I was a wild and crazy 21-year-old, living in Paris and doing whatever the hell I wanted, my days were never dull and my nights were pretty exciting as well.

I was always meeting random guys and going to random parties – which were always spectacular.  One night I was invited to party right off the Champs Élysées- I think it was on rue Victor Hugo.

It was a great soirée complete with spoiled, rich boys ready to show all a good time and spend some serious cash.  The night went great – drinking, dancing, socializing… and then I had to pee.

I sauntered into the co-ed bathrooms and discovered that I was facing my long time fear – peeing in a Turkish Toilet.  If you have never seen this particular animal, it’s a hole in the floor with a place to put your feet – but remember to jump out as you flush or your feet will get wet.

I entered the stall, ignoring the fact that a cute boy was peeing next to me, lifted my skirt, pulled down my stockings and tried to perform a super squat directing my urine into the tiny hole rather than spilling it down my legs.

Success!  All was well dans les toilettes.  My legs were dry and my clothes were pee free.  I had managed to pull it off.

Back on the dance floor a mosh pit had developed with young, drunk Parisians slamming into each other with of course, some casualties.

After a few more cocktails and some major ass-shaking, we headed over to Les Bains Douches – the hot club du jour in Paris in 1987.  Bains Douches was an exclusive “Studio 54” type atmosphere where you waited outside until you were picked to go inside.

The rich boys that we were with were a tad inebriated and tried to push me to the front in my see-through lace top and micro mini and very big hair so that we would all get in.   That didn’t work because the door Nazi would only let me in and no one else.

Then the poor, little rich boy pulled out a wad of cash and tried to bribe the chick guarding the door…

“Ça vaut pas la peine monsieur.”

Which is French for “No fucking way!”  We left with our tails between our legs (not mine – frankly I was a little aggravated I didn’t go in – but I couldn’t ditch my new-found friends) and trudged off to another club or bar – who remembers?

What I loved about Paris then and love about it now is that there is always something to do, someone to meet and somewhere to go.  You’ll never be bored unless you choose to be.

I never saw those guys again (at least I don’t think I did – so long ago) but I’ll always remember it like it was yesterday.  Twenty two years later I can still envision my surroundings and remember what it was like to pee in a co-ed Turkish Toilet for the first time.

I’ve peed in a few since then.  Have you ever?

© 2011 J. H-M and CultureChoc2010

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The Shoe-Switchover

It’s that time of year again for my massive shoe switchover.  The task is daunting and takes days to accomplish but since I’m home for Spring Break it makes it less of a chore and more of a project.

Since my shoe collection has grown so much, I can only fit one season in there at a time – that’s about 12 shelves with approximately 13 or 14 pairs of shoes across – help me with the math…

That’s about 156 – 168 shoes in the closet at a time.  And that’s not counting the countless I do not have room for… oops!

Step One:  Yank all the winter-like shoes out of the shoe closet and throw into a giant pile on the floor.  The pile gets so high it grows past the top of the bed.  Dust shelves thoroughly.

Step Two:  Go up into the horror-show of an attic with no floor and throw down the ladder as many pairs of footwear as I can get my hands on – trying not to hit the cats below circling like piranhas and craftily trying to pass me up the ladder so that they can spend the day in junk and pink fiberglass.

Step Three:  Start the switchover.  Winter shoes in the summer shoe boxes and summer shoes on the shelves.

Step Four:  Involve the husband.  There are several Rubbermaid tubs sitting on beams just waiting to be brought down.  Sadly I am not strong enough to get them down the ladder without serious physical injury – so my poor husband has to traipse the tubs down the precarious, metal stairs without breaking his ass.

Step Five:  Continue switching the shoes and put the remainder of the pile into the tubs.

Step Six:  ”John!  Can you please bring the tubs back up in the attic!”  He always loves this one.

Step Seven:  Arrange closet by color and style.

Step Eight:  Realize that there must be another box or container of shoes upstairs because I know that I am missing some.

Step Nine:  Go back up into the attic (both of us) and search for the missing shoes – that I can never find until the next season!

Step Ten:  The final sigh of relief when the closet is all done.  ”Ahhhhhhh.”  And the satisfaction that I won’t have to do this until the weather changes again.

What are some of your “season-changing” behaviors?  Do you do the shoe switchover?  The clothes switchover perhaps?

Is your closet ready?

© 2011 J. H-M and CultureChoc2010.

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Fridge Growth: What is that smell?

Image via Wikipedia

Being a Food Network addict, I am always amazed at the sheer neatness and organization of the celebrity chefs’ kitchens.

Whose ice boxes are that pristine?  Not mine.

Even though there are only two of us, I tend to cook for an army – which means a lot of leftovers.  Leftovers that we forget about for a very long time.  Sometimes we don’t even realize until that telltale smell permeates our living space.

I’ve grown blue and green penicillin, some nasty cobweb-looking mold, left mussels in the garage fridge for months (amazing smell) and have even found unwrapped fragments of old cheese lodged in the back of my fridge.

I cannot be the sole offender – my husband helps.

Hopefully there is someone out there like me.  Please!

I’d love to hear your refrigerator horror stories… do tell!  What have you found in your fridge?

© 2011 J. H-M and CultureChoc2010.

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