Water Ice and Gravy....

Mmmm that sounds tasty, doesn't it? I'm guessing that unless you're from Philly or South Jersey you're looking at this blog post and wondering what the hell that crazy Snarkfest chick is talking about. And that's exactly how some of my closest friends look at me (all the time). 

Last weekend I met up with a good friend in the grocery store while I was buying a frozen dessert. We went back to my house (where her son was hanging out with my 17) and as I was unpacking said frozen dessert I said (in my most hospitable way) "would you guys like some water ice?"

Water ice. Not ice water. Never ice water.

Both mother and son looked at me 'that way' and slowly cocked their heads to the side like confused puppies. Mom said "I'll have some ice with water if that's what you're talking about" to which I replied "ok but do you want some water ice too?"

I had completely baffled them both. You see, I'm from Philly. And in Philly, the term 'water ice' actually means 'Italian ice' (which is stupid and a little racist if you ask me. Why do Italians get the credit for this amazing frozen deliciousness? Anyway I digress).  By water ice, they thought I meant a glass of ice water. What I actually meant was dessert. I ended up serving one ice water and one water ice. Go figure.

Later that weekend I had the same exchange with 19's boyfriend who thought I had completely lost the plot. It was only after I pulled out the Urban Dictionary that he REALLY found my argument invalid.  It was only after I hit up The Google that he relented and admitted that (maybe, possibly) I wasn't crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm from Philly. There's a difference. 

Another bone of contention comes between my husband and me. While he did have my back about water ice (because we lived for a long time in South Jersey and he ate more than his fair share of water ice), he can't wrap his brain around what I call the stuff you put over spaghetti. In Philly we call it 'gravy'.  Apparently everywhere else that sane people live, they call it 'sauce'. Bah. Whatever. To we who eat spaghetti in Philly it's gravy and when I make a pot of spaghetti, I always make a big pot of "spaghetti gravy" and he always mocks me for it. (Make no mistake, he'll eat the hell out of it).

I can't help what I know. I know gravy and that's what I grew up calling it. I know water ice. I know hoagies (not sliders, not grinders and while I did get used to calling them subs because that's the South Jersey term for them, they'll always be hoagies to me). I know Jimmies (not sprinkles, that's just stupid).  I know MAC machines. I mentioned to 17 that I had to go hit MAC the other day and she gave me that very same "I have no idea what you're talking about" look that I get a lot. 

Jimmies. Always Jimmies. Never sprinkles.

I know Mummers. Mummers, so I've learned, aren't the same everywhere. In Philly they are New Year's Day costumed revelers. In other places, they are not. Don't ask me what they ARE in other places because I don't care enough to find out.

I know scrapple. Yeah, I'm well aware what's in scrapple. It's the stuff that is just too disgusting to put in hot dogs, but you can bet your ass I'd beat up a nun for a plate of scrapple. No lie. 

So I know what I know because I was raised to know these things. Just because I call things something different than you do, it doesn't make me wrong. It doesn't make you wrong either. That's the beauty of who we are. We are all different and that's completely fine. It would be pretty boring if we all called everything the same thing. If we did that, life would be mundane and I would not have material to mock others (you know, those sauce eating Italian ice connoisseurs). 

What are some things that are differently named from where you live?

Been A Long Time.....

.....since I wrote a blog. Actually it's been ages since I've had an original thought. I'm sure that's become obvious to you folks, since you keep getting older blog posts showing up in your email if you're subscribed. If you're not, I promise, I'll work on having an original thought or two before the end of this year.

My friend Phil from The Regular Guy NYC actually asked me if I was still blogging, as did my friend Mike from Papa Does Preach. Yeah, in my head I do still blog. It's getting words from my brain to this page that has proven difficult,  but I'm going to give it my best shot.

Things have been kind of crazy in my corner of the world lately. 19 has gone back to WVU for the start of her junior year. JUNIOR. What the hell? One of my most read pieces, Roots and Wings, still resonates with me and with many other parents, and I'll be going through this process not once but twice next year when 17 turns 18 and goes off to college.

God help me.

Anyway, we've had some highs and some lows at Casa Snarkfest over the past year. I'm not going to lie, my mom's death has had a tremendous impact on pretty much everything.  In the 9 months since she died, the blog has pretty much gone by the wayside. I'm hoping to turn that around but I'm going to need help. What do you want to read from me?  You're probably sick of me going on and on about my pretend boyfriend Mike Rowe.  I don't want to cry the blues about both my girls going off to college next year. I could just post pictures of puppies and kittens but that's been done. Recipes? Beauty and fashion? (hold on a sec....

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA)

Ok I'm back now.

So you tell me, what would you like to see on the blog. I'm taking requests. Suggest some ideas and maybe it will knock something loose in my noggin. Until then, here's a kitten for your viewing pleasure.

I Cried This Morning...

If you've been following my blog for the past few weeks, you'll remember that I'm nuts. Well, technically not 'nuts' per se, but coming off of an anti-depressant addiction I wasn't aware of has left me with emotions scattered all over the place. Like, seriously.

For example, last night 17 was looking at a video on the Book of the Faces, and when I asked her what it was, she told me it was a deaf woman hearing her husband's voice for the first time.

MUSH. <--------- That's what I turned to upon viewing the video.

This morning I had my tunes playing while I was getting ready for work, and John Denver came on, crooning his beautiful ballad "Country Roads". Shut up, I like John Denver, don't you judge me.

Anyway, I'm not sure if it's because WVU was crushed last night by Kentucky and knocked out of March Madness, or the fact that my baby will be a freshman there this fall, but my eyes welled up with tears and I cried. I told myself through my tears that I was being an idiot. I didn't argue with myself, I know better. I'll lose, every time.

But I cried this morning. I cried because it's a pretty song. I cried because my baby is leaving home in less than 6 months. I cried because my emotions are completely fucked up because of the anti-depressants. Am I depressed? No, I don't think I am. Am I an emotional train wreck? No doubt in my mind that yes, I am. I have tears in my eyes just writing this.

Last week, we went to the state capitol  for our high school's symphonic honor band performance. Both of my girls  are in that band and they overwhelm me with their talents. During their last song of the performance, Angels in the Architecture, I cried like a freaking lunatic. I cried at the beauty of the music, the difficulty of the 15 minute piece, the solos that my trumpet playing senior had. I cried knowing that this is her last year playing in this award winning band, a band that changed who she is and contributed to making her a confident young adult. The difference from who she was 4 years ago to who she's become is startling (in a good way) and I cried at how proud of her I am, proud of both my daughters.

The band director asked if anyone had taken any pictures during that performance. I didn't even try, because I was such a mess that you'd need a Dramamine to view them, they'd be so badly out of focus from my ridiculous crying ass.

When I think about her graduation in just over 2 months, I cry. I can't even begin to imagine what I'm going to be like on that day, but here's a tip: BUY STOCK IN KLEENEX. Trust me, you won't regret it. My baby will be playing alongside her big sister in the symphonic band's final performance of the year, and it will be the last time both my girls will play together in the same band. And yes, I'm crying again as I am writing that sentence. DAMN YOU EFFEXOR!

Make no mistake, I was a crying fool long before the anti-depressants and probably a crying fool while on them. But now that I'm off, Jesus, Mary and St. Joseph, I'm a thousand times more emotional than I've ever been.

I cried this morning. I will cry again soon, of that I have no doubt. It's gotta be normal, right? The emotional wreck that I've become is a side effect of leaving the meds behind, I know that. But I also know that I'm not alone. I received so many comments on my Mamalode piece letting me know that I am in good company, and for that company I am ever grateful. If you are trying to overcome an addiction, whether it's one you knew you had or you had no clue, YOU TOO are NOT ALONE. Come sit by me and we'll cry together. And we'll get through it. Together.

Things I found on The Google...

The Google is weird. Or, more likely, people who search stuff using The Google are downright scary. Every so often I like to type in leading questions to see exactly what The Google will bring up. I start with something innocuous, like "How many times do..." and The Google will fill in with the most common questions that start that way. And let me tell you. People be SICK and shit. Seriously.

And what poor gassy soul felt the need to ask this question? Who knows, but at least he/she is not alone. Apparently it's a popular question on The Google.

This one confused me (shut up, I know it's not hard to do). What will you have? Hmmm how about this:

And for the love of Pete, why can't people learn these things on their own. This was almost a NICE search of The Google, until the hookers showed up:

I know that it's hard out here for a pimp, but when you're a new pimp, it must be extremely difficult to know proper hygiene etiquette, thus the need for this search:

Then when I finished doing all of the Googling for the day, I actually had to get directions to the school where 14 will be playing a volleyball game tonight. This is what I found:

Aside from the fact that the name of the school is spelled wrong, let's focus on the features of the ELEMENTARY school, shall we?? Are we talking a salad bar? A fixins bar? Or a full service gimme a shot of tequila hold the lime cuz I'm no sissy liquid bar???

9 Things NOT to do at a Concert

Here are 9 rules to follow the next time you go to a rock concert (or country, or rap, whatever shit you listen to on the daily). Trust me on this. I’m almost 48 and have been to about a million concerts and have seen behavior that would make Pope Francis want to throw a punch.

    1.  Don’t get piss-eyed, falling-down drunk. I went to the Eagles Hell Freezes Over tour back in the nineties and there was a woman so drunk she threw up on the people in front of her and had to be carried out in the middle of the second song on the playlist. I don’t know about you but when I spend over $300 on concert tickets, I don’t want to get thrown up on, and I certainly don’t want to get so shit-faced drunk that I have to leave the show.

    2.    Don’t be an asshole to those around you. If you don’t like the opening act, don’t verbally abuse the singer (here’s a hint: you don’t have a mic, they can’t hear you complaining). Know who CAN hear your bitching? The folks sitting in front of you. Maybe they LIKE that opening act. Keep your negativity to yourself.

    3.     Don’t buy the pirate merchandise outside the theater. Don’t be a cheapskate. Pony up the $40 for an authorized and genuine concert t-shirt. My friend Karen and I went to see Def Leppard during the Hysteria tour in 1988 but I was too cheap to buy the official merchandise and instead bought a pirated t-shirt from some dude in the parking lot. It had an extra sleeve and it was from the Pyromania tour from 1983. Lesson learned. And if I ever grow an extra arm, that shirt will FINALLY be cool.

    4.    Don’t scream through the whole fucking show. Just don’t. You’re not 12, dude.  Screaming’s for 12 year old One Direction fans, not 40-something chicks who like their hearing. Trust me. Scream when your band comes on, then scream before the encore. But for crying out loud, not during the whole show. Some of us want to be able to actually HEAR what’s going on onstage.

    5.   DO. NOT. RUSH THE STAGE. Seriously, if you bought a ticket, that seat is YOURS. Do NOT try to squeeze your ass into my row. There is nothing that pisses me off more at a concert than some douchebag with a seat in row 19 coming up and trying to push me out of the way when I actually bought a front row seat. Just don’t do it. It’s cases like that where it should be legal to stab someone in the neck with a pencil. And I always bring pencils with me to concerts….just in case.

    6.    Don’t give me a contact high. I bought my ticket with my goddamn hard-earned money and the last thing I need is to get high off your smoke. It’s not cool. Do it in the parking lot before the show. But just know that if you do it anywhere near me, whether it’s pot, tobacco or crack, I will totally pour my beer on your joint, cigarette or pipe. Trust me on this. Nobody wants to smell like your smoke. And I really hate wasting my beer.

    7.    Don’t try to get on stage. It’s embarrassing. And if you get your ass thrown out, your friends will feel obligated to make sure you are okay, and that means they will probably leave the show early. If they do, then make no mistake, they are well within their rights to kick you in your stupid ass for being a dick. Do yourself and all your friends a favor and just stay put, okay?

    8.   Don’t fart. Just don’t. It makes everyone around you miserable. I don’t know which is worse, smelling a fart or smelling a cigarette while I’m trying to enjoy my jams.  You concert farters know who you are, don’t try to pretend it was the guy in front of you, own your smelly ass. Leave the seat, go into the aisle, do your thing and come back. Because damn.

     9.    I know this is probably a bit hypocritical, but don’t start a fight. Yes, I’ve been threatening in this post, I’ve come down pretty hard on the offenders, but trust me on this: I have been kicked out of a concert for laying hands on someone.  Ok it was a Dan Band concert but still, we were right at the stage and I did something dumb and had to eat the cost of the ticket. So keep your hands to yourself. 

I'm sure there are a ton of other offending actions one can do when at a concert, but these are the 9 that spring to mind, that piss me off and that I will call you out on for doing. You have been warned. 

Manchester

Like many of you, my heart is broken for those killed or injured at the Ariana Grande concert in Manchester last night. 22 innocent lives lost. More than 50 hurt. Unbelievably senseless.

The thing that infuriates me the most is that many of those affected were children. They could be my children, or yours.

I've always loved going to concerts and have passed that love of live music on to my children. I've taken them to see Paul McCartney twice, The Police, Duran Duran, Billy Joel, and Adele. They've seen their favorite bands, 5SOS and One Direction several times. Some of those times I've been with them for those concerts, and as they've gotten older, I've dropped them off and then gone back to pick them up.

The terror those parents must be feeling right now is palpable. I feel that terror that they are going through. The fear, the unknown. Where are their children? God, it's sickening. I watched a mother on the Today Show this morning who still hadn't found her child more than 12 hours after the explosion. I was terrified FOR her.

We were in DC years ago during the DC Sniper era and at one point we had driven by the Home Depot where one of the victims was killed. There were SWAT guys on rooftops as my husband ran the Marine Corps Marathon that year. I had my daughters with me and I'm not going to lie, I was somewhat intimidated, but at the same time, we can't live our lives in fear. We can't NOT go out and live because there's a chance some fucknut wearing an IED will take out me or my loved ones.

Will I think twice before I take my girls to a concert in a big, vulnerable venue like the Verizon Center in DC, which is just above the DC Metro? A 'soft target'? Probably. But it won't stop me altogether. I can't teach my girls to live in fear. I can teach them to be careful, to be cautious, to be aware and alert. Just like those parents probably taught their children in Manchester. Innocent children who only wanted to see their favorite singer in concert.

Another Mother's Day post?

Gather round, Snarklings, I'm going to school you on what it is we moms TRULY want for Mothers Day. And every other day, for that matter. It's not rocket science, you don't need a degree, there's no deep, dark secret that you need Tom Hanks to help you unlock. It's fairly simple.

Now keep one thing in mind. I am NOT speaking for all mothers everywhere around the world, This is just MY opinion as a mom. We love our children with every fiber of our being. And we want to spend time with them, we want hugs and loving from them. But being their mother does not define who we are. We were women first, before we became mommies. We had lives, we had friends, we had interest that didn't include stuffed animals, bugs, drama and messy rooms. Sometimes we like reminders of that time, a time before we had a 24/7 responsibility to be the caretaker of another life. Perfume fades, flowers die but memories last a lifetime. Memories make us smile when we are down.

We want memories, both of time spent WITH our children AND without. Last year, I had the pleasure of spending Mothers Day weekend with some of my best girlfriends. We laid on the beach and watched dolphins swim just off the coast, we watched pelicans diving out of the sky and into the ocean and said "Nerrrrrmmmm" with each dive. We drank beer, we ate fattening foods, we laughed and most of all, we made memories. Do these memories take precedents over the memories I've made with my own babies? No, they do not. But what those memories DO for me is to remind me that I'm more than just a mom. I'm a girlfriend, a confident and a woman. I'm the band booster VP, and the PTO secretary, and the band banquet coordinator, and the office administrator, and the transportation to activities, and the money tree when my girls need spending money. I'm a lot of things to a lot of people.

But I'm also a source of support and strength for my girlfriends when they need me. I'm also a daughter to an ailing mother, I'm a person who sometimes needs the support and strength of others. Sometimes I need to be around people who DON'T depend on me 24/7 to remind me that I'm not alone in this motherhood gig. Being around others who share my struggles, my joys and my sorrows helps me to come back and appreciate the person I've become. The mother, the wife, the community member.

So what do I really want for Mothers Day? I want to be able to love my children, and have permission to love and spend time with my friends as well. I don't want guilt for being away. I don't want hurt feelings as a result of my choices. Being allowed to go and spend time with my friends, overall, makes me a better mom, a better person. It makes me appreciate what I have in my life. And when I come back home, and I wrap my arms around my babies, I know I'm a better person for having them in my life AND my girlfriends in my life. For having one without the other, I am not complete.