The Christine Show

Our House, In The Middle Of Our Street

Jersey Mike and I are newly inducted members of the Homeowners of New Jersey Club.

I never thought I’d be able to join that club; I always thought it was my lot in life to be a renter. Jersey Mike is the opposite; he was always a homeowner until he got divorced, and was thrust into Renter’s World.

Young couples just starting out, who are able to purchase a house, think that it’s just another step in their lives, like getting married or scoring the big corner office at work. I don’t think they truly realize how big of a deal it is; they haven’t fought for years with pant-load ex-husbands over emotional and financial support for their children. Or made deals with God to keep the phone and electricity turned on when money got tight. Or searched the pockets of coats in the closet, looking for change to buy milk.

I kept a roof over my kids’ heads through some very lean years. I kept food on the table, and clothes on their backs. Maybe it wasn’t all puppy dogs and rainbows, but I managed. And even if it meant I had to eat tuna salad for 6 months, I made sure that Young Skywalker and Grasshopper had nice birthdays, and that they woke up every Christmas morning to a brightly lit tree and gobs of gifts stashed underneath.

Two ex-husbands broke me financially, and it took me years to recover. I never asked for sympathy. I made my own choices. No one held a gun to my head to marry either one of these rat-bastards. But when the realization hit that I couldn’t handle everything on my own, even while working two, or sometimes, three, jobs in one week, I swallowed my pride, and humbled myself to my family for help. And they were there for us.

(Props also to the U.S. Government when I finally tracked down a deadbeat dad who thought he was above having to pay child support for 12 years. But I digress.)

My kids always had a home, but I’m sad that they didn’t have one home … one that they can come back to and say, remember when we jumped off the garage roof into the pool? Or, how about the time we hid under the porch until Mom started crying because she couldn’t find us? Rising rents, or landlords who wanted to sell the places where we were living, forced us to move a few times when the boys were growing up.

Young Skywalker started his new life in Omaha Freakin’ Nebraska before I had the chance to give him a home to call ‘his’. Grasshopper is just a couple of years away from flying the coop, and so far, he hasn’t stopped playing video games in his room long enough to enjoy the rest of the house. But I hope they both have the satisfying feeling of knowing this is their home - where Jersey Mike and I will always be; where they will always have a bed to sleep in (even if they have to share it with Bad Dog Tank); and where they’ll accept my Justin Bieber posters being hung in the family room, as my reward for doing everything right to keep my little family afloat.

I wish this signing-your-name-to-a-mortgage-for-30-years could have happened a long time ago, but I’m not doing any looking-back; we’re going forward. And it’s all good. I'm incredibly lucky to have Jersey Mike (his name's on the Deed, along with mine, and the ring's on my finger; too late for him to back out now), to have my fabulous family, and to have happy and healthy children. Oh yeah, and I'm lucky to have the Baddest Dog in the World. Yep, life is good.

A lot of people take owning a house for granted. They complain about the taxes. They complain about lawn maintenance. They complain about having to shovel the snow. They’ve told me that “owning a home is not all it’s cracked up to be.”

Don’t rain on my parade. It took me a very long time to get to where I am now. Let me enjoy this.

It's For You

So, I’m sitting at home on a Jersey Mike-less Sunday, not doing anything, unless you count ‘watching movies’ as ‘doing something.’  And the phone rings. 

The call is from someone who I’d rather not speak to, evidenced by my friend, Caller ID, and this person is going to ask to speak to Grasshopper after putting me through the usual inquisition … How are you?  What are you doing?  Going anywhere on vacation?  Heard from Young Skywalker?  How’s he doing?  Blah, blah, blah.

 

Evidently, Grasshopper doesn’t want to speak to This Person, either, as he doesn’t pick up the extension.  So the call goes to voicemail. 

Two minutes (2 minutes …120 seconds) later, the phone rings again.  It’s another call from This Person.  I know she doesn’t want to speak to me; she wants to speak to Grasshopper.  Again, he and I let the call goes to voicemail.

One minute (1 minute … 60 seconds) later, the phone rings yet again.  It’s another call from This Person.  It still goes unanswered.  Boy, my voicemail is sure going to be jam-packed today!

Does she think that by calling at one or two minute intervals that I will relent and pick up the phone?  There is absolutely nothing – n-o-t-h-i-n-g – that this person needs to speak to me about whereby I need to be interrupted.  Blathering gobbledygook is just the cover for trying to pump me for confidential family information that she feels she’s entitled to know.  I’m not fallin’ for it, lady! 

I’m a staunch believer in the idea that the telephone is in my home for my convenience, not the convenience of the caller.  And on this Jersey Mike-less Sunday afternoon, it was not convenient for me to do anything other than to work my way through the 100-or-so DVD’s in my collection.

Even before the days of Caller ID, I could choose whether I wanted to answer the phone or not.  Caller ID just makes it easier to see who I’m ignoring.  Maybe I’m taking a shower, maybe I’m in the middle of rotating the contents of the pantry, maybe I’m watching TV, maybe I don’t want to speak to you, maybe I’m not even freakin’ home.  When my phone rings three times in three minutes, from the same person, it doesn’t make me want to grab the receiver to hear what it is that’s so important that you just had to get me on the line.  What it does do is piss me off. 

If you’re calling me to tell me that your Great Aunt Sophie died, well, I’m sorry to hear it, but I’m sure she won’t be any less dead when I listen to the message that you should leave for me instead of re-dialing and re-dialing my number, hoping I pick up.  Maybe you’re calling me with good news, i.e., your daughter’s pregnant.  Wonderful!  She’ll still be pregnant when I call you back … at a time that’s more convenient for me!

If it’s a family member who’s calling, I’ll grab the phone on the first couple of rings; there’s nothing like talking to someone in my family for a good laugh or two.  Same goes for a neighbor or friend; they obviously need something … a cup of sugar or bail money.  But this rant is directed more towards the ex-in-laws, who still think they’re your family, despite a Final Order of Divorce proclaiming to the entire world that they are not still your family.  The ones who can’t take a hint that you no longer desire to have contact with them after putting up with years of meddlesome, intrusive, and judgmental behavior towards you; they are the ones who are not high on my list of people to speak to on the phone.

So, meddlesome ex-in-law - you couldn't take a hint for 6 or 7 years; can you hear me now?  Am I coming through loud and clear?  Stop calling me!

As long as we’re on the subject of telephones, another thing that mashes my potatoes is when people call my home, get my voicemail, and speak as if I can hear them:  Are you there?  Pick up.  Pick up the phone.  It’s me … Rudy.  I’ve got to ask you something.  C’mon, pick up the phone.  I’ve explained to the people who leave me messages of this type that I do not have an answering machine (does anyone have an answering machine anymore?) and that once the call goes to VOICEMAIL I cannot hear them.   Doesn’t matter.  The next message they leave is, wait, is this your voicemail or your machine?  Hello?  Is this the voicemail?  Did you just pick up?  I thought I heard the phone pick up.

Pop, are you listening?

Bayonne Elizabeth Newark and New York

This was originally posted in July 2009, but as we get closer to the start of the summer season, I believe it bears repeating. 

Jersey Shore residents really, really need to think a little before berating non-Jersey-Shore-residents who spend money in their over-priced shore towns: 

 

I've heard three definitions of "Benny":

1. It’s an acronym for Bayonne, Elizabeth, Newark and New York.  Old adage has it that those were the train stops that took early vacationers down the shore.

2. It’s a reference to tourists' reputation for paying with Benjamin-Franklin-faced $100 dollar bills during their trips down the Shore.

3. Benny, n. [Slang]:  A rude and disrespectful tourist or summer resident at the Jersey Shore, typically from New York or North Jersey. 

Nice.

I live in Central Jersey, so I’m not sure if I’m considered a Benny or not.  But I certainly take offense to the term.

For all of you Year-Round Shore Residents who advertise “Benny Go Home” on tree trunks, billboards, park benches, and little red wagons … BITE ME! 

Not once have I come to your town and not spent money, whether it be for a $7 slice-of-pizza-and-Coke or a $5 ice cream cone.  If I could get back all the money I’ve wasted on your skee-ball and claw machine games, I could outfit Grasshopper in designer clothes for the next two years of school.

A lot of folks own “summer houses” at the Shore.  And in owning those houses, they pay about a kajillion dollars in property taxes for something the size of their living rooms back home in Bayonne or Newark.  So if they decide to come down to that “summer house” for a week or two, and drop about a month’s worth of paychecks on your "fixed" boardwalk games and overpriced food, why are you complaining?  Would you rather not have that infusion of green into your snotty little town during the summer months?

The people who don’t own the houses, but instead invade your town as renters for a week or two, may not fork over the property tax money, but that doesn’t mean you don’t benefit from their desire to give their wife and kids a nice vacation at the Jersey Shore.  The Little Woman could have gone to a store and actually bought a Coach bag for what it ending up costing her working schmo husband in spins of the Big Prize Wheel at $5 a pop.  And a kid let loose on the boardwalk is like a, well, like a kid let loose on the boardwalk.  Having been there, done that with both Grasshopper and Young Skywalker, I know $50 doesn’t go nearly as far down the Shore as it does back home.

Sure, traffic increases ten-fold during the summer months, when everyone who doesn’t reside year-round in your Fun Time At The Jersey Shore little town comes down with the family for a little R&R.  You don’t like it?  Tough shit!  You knew what the traffic was like at the Shore during the summer season when you decided to set up permanent residency. 

Your biggest complaint is that Bennys are rude.  What about you?  You've got committees and organizations set up to "Take Back the Jersey Shore" from Benny, and sell bumper stickers in big red print, "Bennies Go Home!"   All a vacationer is trying to do is waste spend money in your town so the little business can stay afloat during the winter.  Wanna see my bumper sticker?

Jersey Shore Residents:
I've got money.  Kiss my ass!

Rude?  Have you listened to yourself lately?  When People From Another Part Of The State That Is Not The Shore are on vacation, they’re in great moods!  They’re happy to be anywhere besides the office or soccer practice.  The attitude you claim you’re getting from them is only what they’re giving back to you. Try being polite to the people who are spending money in your town, who are boosting your economy, who are keeping the funnel cake stands and I Can Write Your Name On A Grain Of Rice kiosks in business.

If after you’ve tried to be nice to someone who’s dropping dollars in your town like they’re used Kleenexes, and they’re still rude to you … turn the other cheek.  They’ll be gone in a few days, and you can reap the benefits of their discretionary income for the next 51 weeks.

And so what if they decide to flash $100 dollar bills while they’re on vacation.  Is that any reason to apply a derogatory term to these vacationers?  What’s the matter … your bank doesn’t let you deposit $100 bills?  You consider these out-of-towners too flashy and uppity for your seasonal business because they have $100 bills in their wallets?  I think you should be grateful that they’re taking those $100 bills to your town and spending it on your crap.  They could have just as easily spent it somewhere else, but they chose your rude-ass town.  Be thankful.

You’re the first ones to cry “bankruptcy” during an especially rainy season, when no one wants to schlep down the Shore to drop part of little Marty’s college fund on a season's worth of $40 T-shirts and chances to win a plasma TV.  I’m wondering if suddenly all of the vacationers decided not to travel to the Jersey Shore, if you would all be up-in-arms about your local businesses failing because no one is bringing in any money.  Good Lord, you’d alert the media, hire PR agencies, anything to find out what’s keeping hard-working, big spending Northern Jerseyans away from your “friendly” little vacation spot.

Got news for you, Peanut Butter.  We have just as much of a right to enjoy the Jersey Shore as you do.  Take another look at the picture I have up at the top.  "Defending The Shore?"  Are you crazy?!  You don't own the shore!  You lost the right to call us names on the day your sorry ass municipal government started charging money for the "privilege" of stepping onto a PUBLIC BEACH!

I'd rather be a "Benny" than an "Asshole."

Christine Solves Your Wedding Dilemmas

Dear Christine:  I am getting married soon. It is the first marriage for my fiancé and me. My problem is deciding about having a gift registry. We are both very successful (I'm an attorney, and he is a professional athlete), and we have a lot of money. I have tons of friends who are not rich, and I am having a hard time doing a gift registry knowing that we already have so much. At the same time, I want the experience of opening our gifts and sending out our thank-you notes. Is it selfish to ask someone who has considerably less income to buy us a gift when we already have so much? Any insight you can give would be greatly appreciated.

Dear Greedy Bitch:  How’s this for some insight … grow up!  The two of you are successful, loaded, and have a wealth of possessions, yet you’re wondering about a gift registry, and how your less successful and less wealthy friends can afford to buy you MORE!  And what’s with the crap about the ‘experience of opening gifts’ and ‘sending out thank-you cards’?  You’ve never received a gift before?  You’ve never had to write a thank-you note?  On second thought, you probably never have; Mummsy and Daddy handed you everything you ever wanted on a silver platter.  How about asking for donations to the gift-giver’s favorite charity in lieu of gifts?  Or, here’s a novel idea … how about no gifts at all … just ask your not-so-rich friends to come and help you celebrate?

 

Dear Christine:  My mom and dad are recently divorced, and my father wants to bring his new girlfriend to my wedding. I don't want my mother's feelings to be hurt. What should we tell him?

Dear Not Your Problem:  Does your mother not know that she is now divorced?  Does she not know the meaning of the word ‘divorced’?  He’s allowed to date someone else now, because he’s divorced from your mother.  That means that they’re no longer married to each other.  Why would her feelings be hurt?  Because she’ll feel frumpy next to your Dad’s new babe?  Too bad.  And in response to ‘what should we tell him?’ … you tell him, Mazel Tov on the new piece of eye candy!

 

Dear Christine:  I am a bride and I’m worried that people will turn up to my wedding wearing white.  I want to know the proper etiquette in dealing with such rude people. Is it appropriate to have the fashion police present to tell people to go back home and change their dress? I don’t want my photos, video or memories tarnished because of someone else’s bad manners.

Dear Definition of Bridezilla:  You have got to get over yourself.  You’re not the first person to deal with wedding day blunders, and you won’t be the last.  Do not … I repeat … DO NOT hire the fashion police to send anyone home to change.  You’ll be asking for big trouble in the form of, (a) your honeymoon reservations being cancelled by a pissed-off guest, (b) the $1,500 wedding cake being “accidentally” tipped over at the reception, or (c) one of those guests will return to the church dressed like Spongebob Squarepants.  Don’t worry; no one will get you confused with any guest who shows up wearing white.  You’ll be easy to spot in the crowd, what with your bitchy attitude and flames shooting out of your head.  And, seriously, do you think anyone at your wedding will believe that you’re allowed to wear white?

Some Girls Don't Belong In A Garage

‘Mkpopcorn’ in Lakewood, OH posted something on a Jeep forum, saying she needed some opinions about a 1996 Jeep Cherokee her boyfriend bought.  I think she got a little more than she was expecting:

 

“So, my boyfriend bought a '96 Cherokee (XJ) SE, for way too much, like around $3,000. It broke down and he has put another $2,500 in it and totally rebuilt the engine and did a lot of after market work on it. He has and will do all the labor himself, he refuses to pay for labor. Now, he finds out that the motor needs to be taken back out and fixed again and is looking at another $700. I said he should just sell it and wipe his hands clean, he says he won't make enough.

Firstly, what is your guys' opinion on what he should do? Secondly, how much do you think he could make parting it versus just the whole car as is?

Thanks for your guys' opinions!”

And here’s the ‘opinion’ she got from ‘wgirvine’ in Rosamond, CA:

You want my opinion? Ok…

Shut the hell up. You’re not his wife. You’re not paying for the repairs. It’s absolutely none of your business what he does with his Jeep or his money. I know your type well… first it’s “Sell the Jeep because it’s costing too much money.” Then it’s “No, you can’t go spend the weekend with your buddies because I need you to take me shopping.” Then it’s “Oh gee, honey… I’m pregnant. Gosh, I have no idea how that happened.”

You’re a DreamKiller. You kill a guy’s dreams, take away his future, tie him down with a fat mortgage and too many babies, and turn him into just another miserable guy wondering, “How the hell did I get here?”

Do you really want to help him? Here’s what you do… go to your local library (it’s a big building with books inside) and check out a couple of books on rebuilding engines. Read them, over and over, until YOU understand what needs to be done. Then help him get that engine out and rebuild it. Tie your hair back in a ponytail, put on some old jeans and get your hands dirty. Hand him wrenches, hold the light, pull the wire connectors apart, help him get the hood off… help him with anything he needs. When he gets tired, run inside and make him a hot lunch or dinner. Fix him coffee, hot chocolate, whatever he wants. (But NO beer. Beer is for when the job is done.)

Then when the day is over and you’re both exhausted from working on the engine, push him into a hot shower and jump in with him. Scrub his back, wash his hair, rinse him off, and dry him with fluffy towels still hot from the dryer. Then push him into bed and screw his ears off. Then get up the next day and do it all over again.

Make him realize that rebuilding an engine is a slow and methodical process. Make him realize that every step should be regarded as surgery; every step must be perfect… perfect torque, perfect fit, perfectly clean. If you run into a step that you just can’t figure out, ask for help from someone who knows what he’s doing. Are you cute? Put on a low-cut top, show some cleavage and go (by yourself) to the local Jeep shop, and explain to the guys that you are helping your boyfriend to rebuild his engine and neither of you can figure out this one little step, and do they have any advice…

Think it won’t work? Think again. We guys love to help cute girls, even if they have a boyfriend. (Hey, maybe you’ve got a sister, or girlfriend…)

But absolutely DO NOT whine or complain. Do not say a single negative thing. Not a single “Oooooo, I broke a nail.” If you break a nail, or cut your finger, or bang a knuckle, you just shut up and DEAL WITH IT. You should be a hopelessly optimistic, never-say-die cheerleader, encouraging him every step of the way.

That’s my opinion.