Disturbing Slang: Side Salads

I went to an Angel's baseball game with a group from work recently. One coworker is related to a team member and thus got to sit in the fancy boxes. Another friend pointed out where his box was. Then he gestured to another private area and said, "That's where the side salads sit". Huh?

Judging by the puzzled look on my face, he explained that 'side salads' are players' mistresses and advised that many of the wives are aware of this and consider it a price to pay for the lavish lifestyles. Well, I don't know about that, but I do have a little something to say about side salads.

First, how unsettling that sports mistresses must be so common as to warrant their own urban slang term. So, what do we call men on the side? Cheese sticks? I apologize; that was crude. But, something tells me we need not dwell on that because I bet there aren't many cheese sticks to speak of. I think this is primarily a male side order.

Second, shame on you side salads. Men are puppies with instinctual reactions to certain female traits and behavior. When I hear of affairs with married men, both parties are guilty, but I blame the woman more. If she turns it off the man will go sniff elsewhere, at least the kind of man inclined to do that. So listen, salads, leave the married men alone. Someone's already ordered that main dish.

I love side salads, particularly with blue cheese. I order them frequently, but I'll never be one.

Death Wand Massacre

Early this morning, in the hours of darkness, I awoke to tickles on my lip. Romantic, you might think? Hardly. A faint buzzing accompanied the tickle, jolting me into consciousness as I have terrible reactions to mosquito bites. I flipped on my light and blinked myself awake. Hmm, a fly buzzed overheard. A rather fat one, but only a fly. And then another, and another and...There must have been 10 flies in my bedroom, on the ceiling, on my nightstand, on ME! Oh, the horror. I hate flies. They're ugly, dirty, and oh, the places they've been, well...

I tried shaking off my sleepy fog to discover why there was a fly family in my bedroom. I don't have a fly swatter because I never have flies to swat. But, I do have a giant spatula. So, off to the kitchen I shuffled. Bumping into a few items on the way, I imagined more buzzing around my head. I flicked the kitchen light on and BAM! Not only did another flock of flies greet me but good Lord! A smell so sour and rank I coughed and covered my nose with both hands.

There, in my beautiful sink, were the regurgitations of more than one family's evening meals. I live on the ground floor of a three-story condo complex and while I do love my surroundings, it truly sucks to be on the bottom of everyone's plumbing issues. So there, in smelly glory, were corn kernels, bits of noodle, some rice, pieces of a cheese-like substance, a lot of black chunks and filmy liquid. But these flies!

How did this infestation happen so quickly? I still don't understand it. They danced around the filth juice, buzzing back and forth between my head and the sink. And so unleashed my rage. I snatched my spatula and went into commando mode. "Prepare to die, flies!" I squealed with bizarre excitement I can only describe as giddiness, after the fact. Is this the rush murderers are addicted to? I digress. I have an active imagination. What can I say?

Those flies were quick little nasties and I was soon talking like a seasoned trucker. But, one by one, I pounced and smashed them to death. Between my bedroom and kitchen, I made two little death piles with their bodies, some still writhing in their final moments. Perhaps most disturbing, I leaned down to the kitchen death pile and said, rather loudly, "What's up now, flies!"

Anyhow, after scooping all the corpses into the trash and promptly taking it out to the bins, I am left exhausted at only 6:30 a.m. It took me the better part of an hour to complete my death wand massacre, but I am extremely pleased with myself. I cleaned out my sink and sprayed it with orange oil (a natural pest deterrent) and sit poised to call maintenance at 8:00.

I make myself a nice pot of coffee and reach for the sugar. There, on top of my canister, a lone survivor. A single, fat, laughing fly rubbing its hands together and mocking me. Excuse me while I get my death wand...

Trouble

Warning, this post is so far out there it doesn't even register on the outer limits of the UltraJam common sense-o-meter. What's this about Leona Helmsley's will? The Queen of Mean died last week and left $12 million to the dog? The beneficiary, who shall be known as "Trouble" from here on (that really is his name) is apparently quite accustomed to living large. The Maltese wears a diamond collar and designer clothes.

I guess this kind of dog bling needs maintenance money, but for real now, $12 million? That's just obscene. Imagine all the struggling families who could be pulled off the bankruptcy cliff with just fractions of that amount. Ugh. Do the brains of the astronomically rich begin to marinade in fantasy juice after a certain net worth? I just don't understand it.

Others who might feel my pain are a few of Leona's grandchildren who were passed over financially for 'reasons known to them'. Ouch! I do wonder, though, what it was like having a grandmother dubbed, "the meanest woman in history" by Donald Trump. Hey, I respect family dynamics. I'm not in a position to judge from the outside looking in. But still! A dog? To be fair, Helmsley did leave billions to charity. But it still seems whack that two remaining grand kids get $5 million each and the dog barks off with $12 million.

Leona, look down or up depending on where you are and make some sense out of this for us 'little people who pay taxes'. Remember when she allegedly said that? I guess Trouble got a modest amount considering she was worth some $3 billion when she died. All the same, he better watch his back.

Aqua Death

I'm in mourning. My beautiful beta fish, affectionately named Bait, died. It was a slow death; painful to watch. He listed to one side on the bottom of his aquarium one evening. Several loud taps on the the walls didn't stir him. I was concerned but hoped he'd be back to his old self in the morning. I awoke to find him completely flat on his side, gasping slowly. Gills flapping out, holding open, then shaking closed. Poor Bait. I tried to make eye contact, let him know I was there. He just stared vacantly forward. I felt horrible going off to work, leaving him to struggle alone on the black gravel.

This went on for two more days. I debated about euthanizing him, just flushing him away and out of his misery. I couldn't do it. I let nature take its course. Upon returning from dinner (a fish dinner, no less), I found him still. He was dead.

What happened next is a bit concerning. I was unable to fish him out and flush him away. I kept his body there in the aquarium for two days. I knew it was wrong, a bit disturbing, even disrespectful to little Bait. But, I missed him and I just couldn't say goodbye. I started wondering about those sick souls you hear about on the news who keep the dead bodies of loved ones they've murdered in the house for weeks. Is this how it starts, I wondered? Did they keep their dead fish around for days? No. Snap out of it. I did not murder Bait. Big difference, as I see it.

One thing I did realize is that this is the first pet death I've experienced since leaving home. My Mom, saint that she is, always took care of our animals when they got sick and died. Dogs, hamsters, birds. You name it, Mom came through. She was the one strong enough to do what was best when the rest of us couldn't face it. So, I reminded myself I'm a grown-up now and fished Bait out, brought him to the toilet and flushed him down. Then I went to Petco and got another. Life goes on.

Sheep's Clothing

I was enjoying my morning coffee yesterday when (play nails on a chalkboard sound in your mind here) Uber Fiend John Mark Karr's whispery voice floated from the TV. That unmistakable, unsettling sound got me running from the kitchen to the TV, only to catch the last second of the teaser, "Next up, we talk with John Mark Karr!"

CNN, for whatever reason, engaged this slippery perv in yet another meaningless interview. I thought after the repeated uncomfortable pauses with Greta Van Susteren last summer, that was it. But no, a year later, we go again. He sat across from the anchor, so obviously enjoying himself and clearly invigorated by the attention or "fame", as he likely sees it. The interviewer greeted him nicely, thanked him for coming and after a few more pleasantries asked him what exactly he meant by certain statements he made while in custody for the JonBenet murder. "What did you mean when you said her death was an accident?" she asks.

I sigh in frustration. Before I can draw my next breath, Mr. Karr responds in predictable fashion, "Unfortunately, I just cannot discuss the details of certain things. I wish I could, but I just can't." Barf, I say. He always responds this way to questions about the strange and incriminating things he'd so willingly blurted out to media so many months ago, in the center of what I imagine was his finest hour - to him.

Then the journalist does as so many before her, she morphs into a police detective during interrogation. "Did you kill JonBenet Ramsey?" Oh come on, reporters. Come on! Not you too, CNN. Please, stop the insanity. No more John Mark Karr broken record interviews. I just imagine him enjoying these appearances so very much. There is not going to be any on-air admission. There will be no questions answered. There will only be an unpleasant image of a true wolf in sheep's clothing for me to push out of my mind all day long.

Queen Cazizzle

As Will I Am's new single, "I Got it From My Mama", climbs the charts here in the U.S. I stand agasp, mouth open, head shaking, pockets a lot emptier than his. Come on public! Are you serious? Do you really think this is a great jam?

An examination of the lyrics reveals gems such as, "If the girl real pretty, nine times out of ten, she pretty like her mama. And if her mama real ugly, I guarantee ya she gon’ be ugly like her mama". Is that the bar for making it in the biz today? If so, I'm fairly confident I could raise it, or at least meet it, with a jingle of my own celebrating sons and fathers.

Will I Am has got to be laughing his arse off about the popularity of this song. I imagine it was born out of a conversation involving the statement, "I dare you to submit this to the label with a straight face!".

Well, back to my budding music career. Before I document my musical brilliance with catchy lyrics about sexual attractions to moms and their daughters and the politics of the female gene pool, I think I need some street cred. Thus, I'm ditching my name Cat for Queen Cazizzle. A gal's gotta talk the talk to walk the walk. And I got that from my mama.

Passion, Music and Demons

I so enjoyed "El Cantante", Jennifer Lopez's new film that opened last night. Talk about a movie that swallows you up - I was right there with Hector and Puchi, feeling their passion for each other, for music, hating Hector as he jeopardized everything again and again. But also hoping he would make it, defeat his demons. Critics, including people who lived the story, say the movie unfairly focuses on Hector's drug use and portrays Puchi too favorably. The real story, they say, is Hector's struggles to be recognized as an artist in a discriminating industry. Well, maybe so, but I was captured by the movie and the story the producers chose to tell anyway.

I don't really listen to salsa, but it's so easy to enjoy. I almost can't resist twisting my hips to the beat. In fact, I did several hip twists right there in my theater seat.

I digress. The film is moving and appeals to the human condition with realistic portrayals of struggles with infidelity, drugs, joy and death. The movie's about Hector LaVoe's life, the prominent Puerto Rican singer who introduced the salsa sound in the 1970s. Lopez plays Hector's wife, Puchi and her husband Marc Anthony portrays Hector. The two explode off the screen. I easily forgot their own celebrity, buried under their embodiment of the LaVoes. The story's pretty tragic and I won't spoil it, but you might find yourself thinking, "are you kidding me?" when one blow after another hits the family. Not that most aren't self initiated, but still.

If you want to take a break from mass destruction and murder movies (which I'm known to frequent, myself) and see a film where actors really do master their craft, go see Hector and Puchi. "El Cantante" might leave you emotionally exhausted, but you won't feel ripped off by another over hyped, silly movie. I might actually buy some bongo drums.