F*CK YOU Friday

It’s been awhile.

The company has decided to sublet our suite so that means the occupants have to relocate.  Moving on up from the 2nd floor to the 37th floor, and not happy about it.  One step closer to management’s watchful eye.  Crappy area with broken desks and high traffic moving past the cubicles. Sharing copy machines and pantries and bathrooms with strangers.  Riding the elevator to the 37th floor, inducing ear popping and cab shaking.  Steps away from the annoying business manager I deal with (and actively avoid) who goes on and on and on about the most mundane things.  Sitting directly in front of the woman who needs to be on conference calls eight hours a day.  Loudly.

I know, I sound like a spoiled brat.  Sorry, but it’s hard to give up this little suite of heaven.

On the flip side, the 37th floor is temporary, for about a month.  And the views are spectacular.

When I moved over here from 299 Park, I had nine boxes and various drafting paraphernalia.  I got my box count down to three boxes and a snake plant going to 1285 AoA.  When we found out we were moving, I took one file drawer a day (when I went in) and weeded out stuff I didn’t need.  What broke my heart to throw away was all the hand drafted work I did 18-20 years ago before I had AutoCAD.  There really was no use keeping those- the spaces I redesigned have been reworked dozens of times over the years.  This bank is not the same bank I started with.

So I’m all packed up and waiting for them to disconnect me.  I don’t want to start anything work related since I may have to stop suddenly.  I’m a little angry and a little sad so F*CK YOU Friday has been resurrected.

  • F*CK YOU to Utah’s friends.  Only one of you showed up to help her move.  Instead, the two old people (me and MR) and the string bean weakling (Zombiegirl) moved Utah and her boyfriend into their new apartment.  Wth, where were all you strong, young friends?  You come around when you want to use the beach house, but skip out on helping your friend.  As KevKev said, we moved 40,000 of Utah’s boxes and yes, I felt it for a couple of days afterwards.
  • And a small F*CK YOU to Utah and KevKev.  You knew you were moving for weeks, yet you were still packing the day of the move.  You had permission to move stuff in before you occupied the place, but did you regularly bring anything over each night? Nope.  I heard the excuses, but really, you shouldn’t be relying on the 50+ year old people to lift all the heavy stuff and the 40,000 boxes you accumulated.
  • F*CK YOU to the polished women in my office-you have the worst bathroom habits. You dress well, your clothes are expensive, you comport yourselves professionally, so clean up after yourselves! I’m a schlub and I make sure I don’t pee on the seat or leave soiled TP in the toilet. Gross.
  • F*CK YOU to my internal thermostat.  I know, I know, I’m at that age where I should be fanning myself because of my hot flashes, but I’m not getting hot flashes- I’m just either very cold or very hot.  I put on a sweater when I’m cold and ten minutes later I’m sweating.  I take off the sweater and ten minutes later I’m freezing again.  Add that to the fact that I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in ages due to the furnace in my body.
  • F*CK YOU to my HR department, my benefits department and Obamacare.  I can’t go into it here, but I will say we got royally screwed and now I have to pay heavily for it.
  • F*CK YOU to the guy in the other department we deal with.  We created this procedure to make life easier for you and the businesses and to help with accountability and accuracy for us.  You obviously don’t like change but suck it up- we’re doing everything we can (not me, the programming people) to accommodate you but you’re constantly whining like a little child.  Your job is no more important than mine, do get down from that high horsie and deal with it.
  • F*CK YOU car salespeople.  I’m sure there are some non-slimy ones out there, but we haven’t found any yet.

I have more but the movers are here and I gotta go.  Have a good weekend.



Just Call Me Femke- Part 2

…and there I am.  My DNA. The basics of everything I am, handed down for generations.

And I am surprised.dna1

English! Scandinavian? IRISH?!?  And not a trace of Native American.  I really shouldn’t have been surprised.

I suspected the English since my grandmother’s maiden name is Hewlett and that happens to be a town a mere 15 minutes from where I now live.  Yes, we founded that town. No, we don’t have the Hewlett money.

Dad gave me a year’s subscription to My Heritage and I’ve been adding people practically daily.  Our family tree is up to 1625 people and I have connected with different people with the same links in their trees. The earliest I have been able to go back is a 16th generation Grandfather, William Pepper, born in 1458. It’s so exciting yet frustrating.  I try to go through every match (there are hundreds) to see if they are actually part of my heritage but it so slow going.  And I’m not getting any hits on any other branch of the tree- MR’s branch is withering and my cousin’s branches are bare. Eventually I’ll have to sit down with those sides of the family and pick some brains.

What’s really exciting (yet frustrating) is that I found my maternal grandfather.  He left my mom and sister when they were very young and my mom’s hatred of him was well known.  Nana married a nice man who also had a daughter (he died when I was two) so she did have a father figure around.  But I was always curious about the missing grandfather and I didn’t dare ask Mom.  Anywhoo, I found that he never remarried, did a stint in the Army, moved around a lot and died in 1991.  In Staten Island.  STATEN ISLAND, so close to me.  I could have met him, talked to him.  It makes me sad that a piece of me was taken and can never be replaced.

Back to the DNA test. If you can, have it done.  I believe it’s accurate because a third cousin of mine had it done and who was on top of the list for possible third cousins according to Ancestry?  That same third cousin who had it done as well. Our little DNAs were a match.

So there I am. I knew I was a mutt, but now I know what breeds make up my muttness.

I still like cornbread.







Just Call Me Femke- Part 1

It seems that my whole childhood was a lie. Not the “Santa Claus is real” or the “Tooth Fairy put a quarter under my pillow”  type of lie that every childhood has, but a real identity lie.  One that may have led to ridicule (or may not have,  I was kind of a little jerk when I was a kid.)  One that gave me a sense of always being on the fringe of normal.  One that I didn’t realize until I’m older had left me with questions about who I really was.

In elementary school, starting in Third Grade, I took French.  I don’t remember why exactly I ended up taking French over Spanish.   Something about not returning the form on time, or my parents not having the foresight to see that Spanish may have been beneficial- I don’t know.  All I know is that I didn’t choose it.  I would never have chosen it.  My teacher, Ms. Nussbaum, scared the shit out of me.

French classes continued until Junior High School.  Maybe into High School, I don’t remember and I won’t bother to look it up. All I know is I can recite the “Solomon Grundy” poem in French and I know where my Aunt’s pen is. (It’s on the dresser.)

So, as they do to this day, language classes always hold “Cultural Fairs” and “Ethnic Feast” where the kids are supposed to bring in dishes native to their nationality.  I always dreaded those days (I didn’t know then what I know now, that ethnic food is DELICIOUS),I never ate a thing my classmates brought in.  Spanish food and Italian food and Jewish food and German food, ack.  Gross.  The most ethnic dish my family ate was lasagna, made with Ragu pasta sauce.  What did I usually bring in?

Cornbread. Why?

Because I was told I was part American Indian.

It seemed that this ethnic piece of my pie trumped my German piece of the pie (dad’s side), so no, I’m not bringing in Schnitzel.   We were half American (mom’s side) and a portion of that was Native Indian.

That cornbread was accepted in my lower grades because what little kid doesn’t like corn bread and Cowboys and Indians? But as I got older and brought in that pan of maize cake and explained that I was part Native American Indian, I started getting major side-eye from both my classmates and teachers.  When they asked what tribe I was descended from, I couldn’t answer.  When I pressed my mom on what tribe we were, I never got a straight answer. I stopped bringing in corn bread.

Fast forward a few years to Seventh Grade.  March 17, everyone is wearing green because it’s St. Patrick’s Day.  Not me, unfortunately.  I’m not Irish, I’m Protestant (Lutheran) so I’m not wearing green.  Here, my mom says, wear this shirt. It’s more suitable to your heritage.

My orange Tony The Tiger shirt.  Orange.

I know now that it’s not a slight to wear orange.  The Irish flag is green (Catholic) and orange (Protestant) and the white symbolizes the peace between them.  But I grew up in a working middle-class neighborhood in the 70’s and those Irish kids were listening to their Irish parents talk about the Troubles in Ireland.  I think if I was a boy, I would have been beat up.  Not that I wasn’t threatened or stalked or intimidated. There was no way I was taking the bus home that day.  I begged a ride from a friend’s mom and they went out of their way to take me home.

So I grew up “knowing” that I was 50% German, 50% American, which included American Indian.  I “knew” my mom’s side of the family founded the Long Island town of Hewlett because that was Nana Ethel’s maiden name.  I “knew” I wasn’t Irish (even though EVERYONE is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day).  I “knew” my ancestors came over on one of the ships soon after the Mayflower landed in America.

These are the “lies” I grew up with.  Not intentional, absolutely not.  Just repeated from generation to generation without a smidge of fact checking or research. And for the next 40 years, I was content to believe them.

It wasn’t until I started going to the cemeteries with Dad that I became interested in my family history.  When Joyce contacted me after coming across this blog post I became even more so.  When Sandy wiped out all of the family photos and I had to rescue them and started really looking at these people in these old photos and wondering how they were related to me, I was hooked. I had to know where I came from.  Who were my ancestors?  Where are those Native Americans?  How was I related to the Hewletts?

Thank you Ancestry.com.  And MR. And Zombiegirl and her quest for scholarships.

Last Christmas, MR gave me the Ancestry.com DNA kit.  He’s fully supportive of me finding out where I come from and what I’m made of.  I spit in the tube and mail it out.

Eight weeks later, I get the email I’ve been waiting for.  This is it, this is my past revealed to me.  I will finally get some questions answered and some facts validated. I can’t wait for MR to come home, I have to open it now. My hands are shaking as I click the email…


I wonder:

-what the universe is trying to tell me?  In the last two days I have been “followed” by Greek imagery (ATLAS Cleaners, a license plate that said GREEK2, a MEDUSA head vinyl sticker on the back of a Mercedes, etc.., etc.)  Today I was speaking to the new girl and I asked her what her last name was.  When I got home, I was watching some coverage of the rebuilding in Ecuador and the structural engineer’s last name was the same as the new girl.  I’m not talking a common last name, either. What does it mean? Synchronicty abounds. What’s the frequency, Kenneth?

-why it takes two and a half months to get an appointment with a new General Practitioner?  I need a family doctor, someone who can oversee my health, and this doctor came highly recommended.  I’d say-by the time I finally get to see her,  I’ll forget why I needed her in the first place.

-why the Catholic High School attended by some of my friends kids decided to name their sports teams after 12 Greek (there it is again) deities?  Isn’t that paganism?

-where my next desk location will be?  In the span of 19 years, I’ve gone from a private office to a shared office (which was a converted store-room) to a window cubicle to a non-window cubicle to a trading desk.  Everyone in my office suite has moved to New Jersey (not going there!) and I’m next to move out.  If my desk progression is any indication, my next location should be the coat closet.

-what the hell you were thinking airing out your dirty family laundry? You have already been pegged as the bad guy, that little stunt didn’t help.  Grow the hell up and shut the f*ck up.

-why my tolerance for sports parents gets smaller and smaller each year?  There should be a rule that spectator parents have to keep quiet, or maybe just yell “YAY” during a game.  Parents should not make derogatory comments about any child on the field and should keep their yaps shut about the coach(es).  The last few games I’ve had to say something to the parents around me about shutting up and it just left a bad feeling that I had to do so. I sincerely hope these kids don’t hear the comments when they’re on the field.

-why my 17-year old speaks in a wholly different language than us?  Words like “bling” and “dab” and “chill” and “squad” all have totally different meanings than what Webster’s dictionary cites .  Add the weird meaning slang to her mumbling at us and I’m ready to go get my Xanax prescription refilled.

-why, after all these years doing my job, no one has listened to me when I’ve said that the procedures to execute a certain report are repetitive, tedious and asinine?  Finally, someone has stepped up and agreed with me and since she’s in a position of power, can implement the change to these procedures, making my life easier and the reports more comprehensive.  Of course, she’ll get all the credit, the raises and promotions as well.

-why is the Sweeney Todd song “Pirelli’s Miracle Elixir” on an endless loop in my head?

-when bloggers and social media mavens will stop calling their kids “littles”. It makes me as ragey as the term “kiddos” when referring to offspring.

-what this weird obsession older women have with dyeing their hair different colors. I’ve asked my kids to stop me if I ever express an interest to put purple/blue/pink streaks in my 60+ year old hair.  That’s about 10 years from now, if you’re counting.

-how much longer I have to keep this secret.

Anyone else wondering and pondering anything?




Insane In My Membrane

It’s said that each child gift their mothers with something to remember them by after they’re born.  All three of my kids left me little afflictions mementos that I still have to this day. All three pregnancies brought me up half a shoe size; now I wear a size 9 from a 7 1/2. Beena left me bulgy jelly belly that no amount of sit ups will erase.  I’ve been doomed to wear “mom” jeans (no low cut for me) for almost 30 years.  Utah left me with a streak of gray hair going down the middle of my head when I was a mere 27 years old.  Over these last 26 years, it’s been creeping and growing, but I have had a lot of fun playing with different shades of Clairol.  And dear Zombiegirl left me with rosacea on my cheeks and a propensity for sinus infections.

Doctors have told me to avoid sun, alcohol, spicy foods and stress in order to tame my rosacea.  Pfft, ain’t going to happen.  I can live with the rosy cheeks in order to enjoy a cold beer and Mexican food on the patio of our beach house.  Stress is unavoidable- I’m a mother commuting to a stupid job in New York City.  Tell me how to avoid stress in this case, please?

The sinus infections are something different, though.  The day I delivered Zombiegirl, I’m pushing and straining, eyes clamped shut to help concentrate on getting baby girl out of me.  I feel something give in the center of my face and feel warmth flowing out of my nose.  I thought I popped a blood vessel and my nose had started to bleed, but then I heard the doctor exclaim “Oh my God” (WHAT?) and “I’ve never seen that color green before!” (WHAT THE F*CK IS HE TALKING ABOUT?).  MR leaned over and wiped the bright green goop of snot off my face- I gave birth to a baby and a sinus infection.

Said sinus infection garnered me a private room for a few days after Z-girl was delivered and I’ve been suffering from them ever since.

About 10 years ago, my chiropractor recommended using a Neti pot to help with the sinus treatments she was giving me.  I don’t use it regularly, but I should. Since it helps relieve the symptoms of sinusitis, it should also cut down on the amount of episodes I get.  I can count on one hand the number of colds I’ve contracted over the years, so duh, maybe I can lessen the amount of infections I get.

A little research on the web led me to the perfect recipe for a “Sinus Missile“.  MR and I have been using it for a few days and it really helps knock things loose and clear things up.


12 drops Rosemary Pure Essential Oil
4 drops Tea Tree Pure Essential Oil
4 drops Eucalyptus Pure Essential Oil
1/2 tsp finely ground pure sea salt(you can grind the salt fine in your food processor)
2 cups filtered, purified, distilled or previously boiled water

I doubled the recipe, put it into a sterilized jar and shook it until the salt dissolved.  We’re both rinsing 3-4 times a day.  MR has been against the Neti for some weird reason, but now he sees the light.  Whenever you feel pressure in your ears, face, behind your eyes or in your teeth, hit it with a sinus missile and get some relief.

F*CK YOU Friday

It’s baaack! Did you miss F*CK YOU Fridays?  I did.  I tried to be good…

  • F*CK you to the parent at the softball game today who just couldn’t understand why her daughter was subbed out in the 4th inning.  She didn’t only play “ten minutes” (you were late) and she wasn’t “sitting in isolation”.  Everybody plays, even the JV girls that were brought up.  You literally sat there for an hour complaining (loudly) about how much you hate the coach, that it isn’t fair that your kid wasn’t playing even though she hasn’t missed one practice, and on and on and on.  Shut the f*ck up and f*ck you for making the rest of OUR daughter’s game miserable.  You write that nasty letter to the couch like you threatened…see if she makes Varsity next year.
  • F*CK you to the 78 people I invited to this year’s Sparkletini party who didn’t even bother to respond to the invitation.  I wanted to help out my friend with her jewelry business and she in turn was going to give a portion of her commission to Zombiegirl’s soccer team as a fundraiser.  I’m grateful to all the people who did come (four) and who did order (four more) but those people who didn’t even respond back (six of whom are parents on the soccer team) can kiss my ass.  I’m done supporting other people’s business ventures or going to parties so you can get hostess points (except for you, Jan!)  I know times are tight but FREE MARTINIS!  I would have been happy if you came just to support.  Not to even respond back is an asshole move.
  • F*CK you to my body.  You’re betraying me, dude.  I try to eat right for you, I try not to put bad shit into you and sometimes I even take you for a walk.  Why are you always causing me pain?  I’ve been in constant dull, aggravating pain for awhile now and it’s getting to the point where I’m going to have to see a doctor to confirm a few suspicions I have.  You don’t let me sleep anymore and you throw me off balance and I’ve had it.  F*CK you for getting old.
  • And a F*CK you to a specific body part- my uterus.  Ten months I haven’t had a period and you decide to remind me that you’re still around ON MY BIRTHDAY?  Timing, my friend- you suck at it.
  • F*CK you to all the presidential candidates this year.  F*CK you to all the American youth who think voting for Bernie will give you a free college education.  F*CK you to Hillary for even existing. F*CK you to all those people planning on voting for Hill just because she’s a woman.   F*CK you to Trump for being a clown. I am depressed just thinking about the upcoming November election.
  • F*CK YOU, Mayim Bialik. I loved you on Blossom and I love you on The Big Bang Theory, but your piece on Game of Thrones was crap.  Don’t talk about things you don’t know of (you admitted you haven’t watched the show) and don’t try to put an anti-feminist spin on GOT.  Compare some of the strongest women on TV against your character who just wants to have sex with Sheldon and get back to us, m’kay?

Anyone have any F*CK YOUs you want to list?  It feels so good to get it off your chest.  Speaking of chest, I’m off to get my boobs squeezed by a perfect stranger.  Don’t forget to schedule your yearly mammogram!


Stepping Over

Here it is at the end of March and I can attest that it came in like a lion. The first week of March alone had me in and out of bed with migraines.  The added Magnesium I’ve been taking is helping, but the weather was just too tough for me to battle.

Speaking of battles, why do people have to be so obstinate? Lately, I can’t have a conversation with someone without being shut down.  It’s truly like talking to bricks, one-sided and very hard.   I obviously have something to say; I’m saying it in an intelligent manner and I’m saying it somewhat nicely (depending on the subject manner).  I would expect, when speaking with other intelligent beings that I would be able to finish a sentence before I’m spoken over, ignored or basically told to shut up.

Whatever. I’m waiting here at the end of the month for it to go out like a lamb.  I need a little calmness and serenity in my life.

I didn’t get much calmness and serenity these last few days with Zombiegirl’s 17th birthday the day before Easter. I was cooking and cleaning and wrapping and decorating for days.  Seventeen.  Damn. This year has and will be all about driving lessons and SATs and college fairs and boyfriends and prom dresses and college classes and mono and Varsity sports and Sportsmanship awards and Chipotle and The Witch’s Brew.  It’s a lot, Junior year.  And I know Senior year is going to be much busier.

That is why I’ve decided to leave my hobby job. Even though I loathed getting ready for it, I loved it the minute I walked  in the door.  I’ll miss the little extra cash I earned (so little after I satisfied my weird obsession with fabric) and I’ll miss (most) of the people that worked there.  I’ll also miss the very creative and talented customers who were always willing to tell me what they were working on, or bring projects back into the store specifically to show me what they made.  I won’t miss the conflicting and contradictory methods of management  or the aggravation of discovering empty product packaging (why buy a pack of needles when you can break open the pack and take one?)  I definitely won’t miss the constant cleaning up of misplaced items or half eaten candy bars.  I won’t miss the passive-aggressive notes left for us by management or the suspicion that one of our fellow workers would steal from us.  I won’t miss any softball or soccer games or dinners with my family and I’ll get my life back.

What the heck will I do with all my time?  <snort>

One foot in March and the other foot stepping lightly into April- springtime, renewal, simple times, that’s what I’m anticipating.