Tag Archives: family

Are You Looking for Snarky Sass and Constant Class? Pick Me!

I love writing. I love writing about trifeness, the news, working, working in IT, not working at all, writing this blog while “working”, parents, friends, cars, carbon footprints, shoes, Bon Qui Qui, and on rare occasions, boys. It is super fun. I suppose by writing and using this blog as an outlet I am making an assumption that people are actually interested and will actually read this jank. And guess what? They do. Thanks to WordPress’ sweet analytics, I can track how many people find Miss Sassy Pants (on purpose or by accident) every day. And surprisingly it’s more than just my loving parents. It’s pretty cool.

Thinking back on my childhood and youth, I think I always had a tiny habit of writing little stories or keeping up with my own thoughts and observations in some way. And yet here I am, as an adult finally, and have a career which involves zero writing whatsoever, aside from requirements documents, reports, project summaries, and the occasional IT Announcement email (it is more difficult than you’d think to keep the snark out of these) which no one ever reads (making it even more difficult to justify not being snarky). That kind of writing though is not fun. I don’t even really know why I didn’t choose something like journalism or English as a major, and instead chose the path that probably has some of the least amount of writing involved. Brilliant. But I have a fab job, and I actually do like it, at least at the moment. This here blog is a fun way for me to spend free time, communicate with my family which mostly lives far away, share hilarious boy stories en masse with girlfriends, impart my never ending man-related wisdom, fill time when I’m bored, and take subtle yet to-the-point jabs at dudes who are lucky or unfortunate enough to come across me in real life. Anonymously of course. And lastly, I really love having an outlet to remind everyone that he’s just not that into you! If nothing else, I really love how my dear mother and father think this jank is so funny. If everyone pledged to stop reading MSP except them, I would still write it.

So what’s the point of this slightly serious and non-dude-related post? It’s developing. I just wanted to share that I love doing it and hope you all love or at least mildly kind of like reading the occasional trife story. If I could make a living being snarky and sarcastic, I totally would. IT is so fab and I dearly love being the only female for miles in a cubicle farm of nerds and geeks, cranking out code and fixing networks. But who wouldn’t love to make a living with a blog? Not sure the paychecks would compare and not sure MSP herself could live off a tiny writers paycheck (see numerous posts about shoes) but she/I would delight in a side job which involved me sharing some sass (and switching from first to third person frequently, apparently). And how about I’ll just come right out and say, if anyone knows anyone who knows anyone who works for any kind of publication that could use some snarky sass and constant class (or a poet, since apparently I am honing my rhyming skills), sign me up. I will write about anything, since it seems the only things that relate every one of these posts is that sass or a lack of sass is involved. Spread the word and share the love ya’ll.

And lastly, a big huge thank you to everyone who takes the occasional couple of minutes (or 20, I know I babble) to make MSP part of your daily/weekly/monthly lives. I love you all. If you ever have a super trife story and think it is worthy of sharing because it is so freaking hilarious and/or trife, do send it my way. Guest bloggers also welcome, after pre-screening for appropriate levels of sassiness and class. Of course, Miss Sassy herself will always have things to share as long as I do not go blind, deaf, and/or slip into a coma. That’s how easy it is.

Never forget: he’s just not that into you.

To be or not to be…Catholic.

This past weekend I ventured to church with Momma Sassy (as I attempt to do every week) for the Sunday evening “last chance” Mass.  It was a nice service as usual and we had the beginnings of Christmas music, as it was the second Sunday of Advent for us Catholics.  This particular Sunday for some reason I was a bit distracted by lots of different things and had trouble focusing on the message (which was that we should prepare the way for the little Baby Jesus! In a non-Pottery Barn Kids kind of way), and here’s why: dreams of Catholic sugarplum husbands dancing in my head. No worries, I’ll explain.

Enter Little Drummer Boy. Yes I know it’s a fan favorite Christmas song, but that’s not what I’m referring to. A few years ago, the [extremely good looking] young gentleman drummer that plays every week at church asked me out. I mean! Every Catholic mother’s dream, having her kid asked out at church. Especially in my family, as all of you probably know the first question I am asked by my dear mother when she hears I have met someone is whether or not he is Catholic. (“Ma, I met our mail man at work today, he’s such a nice old man.” “Oh! Is he Catholic??” Seriously.) If the answer is no, then the next question is how close is it to Catholicism and what are the odds we can convert him! Pronto! First date: Bring him to Mass. Anywho I’m deviating. So I went out with this young man, who is now affectionately known as Little Drummer Boy, or LDB (not to his face of course, brnt).  Our date was nice, we had a lot in common and he was older, dark, built, ethnic, into church, played soccer, and was going to be a doctor in less than 2 semesters.  You guys! Jackpot! Whatever, we had zero chemistry from my point of view and it went nowhere after about 3 weeks of courtship. Well I still see said young man at church on the reg, and despite our failed pre-relationship, he was good on paper and the kind of man every mother and father want for their only daughter.  Seeing him spawned this train of thought that ended up distracting me in a major way. Which in turn caused me to constantly scold myself and check back in with the singing and sitting and standing and sign of the cross and sitting again routine.  Moving on.

The next thing that triggered this odd thought train was our weekly bulletin. Ma always gets it before Mass so we can scoot out right after Communion. JK we never do that.  So during the service, it’s sitting in between us, face down, with the adverts page facing up.  And my eye is drawn to the largest ad on there, which is for – prepare yourself – CatholicMatch.com.  A dating service just for Catholics! Another dream of all Catholic mothers! There would be no questions, except how many goats does he have and how soon can we get married!! So I’m very taken aback by this website and got to thinking…if I am, like, really Catholic (you know, vs. sort of Catholic or Easter/Christmas Only Catholic), how important is it that my life mate and future baby daddy be Catholic as well? Depends who you ask.  Ask a Catholic or Jewish mother and I guarantee you they will both agree, it is necessary that their son or daughter choose a life partner that subscribes to the same newsletter.  As my mother says, a bird can marry a fish, but where would they make a home? My answer was always “maybe it’s a flying fish and that special bird that can swim under water for long periods of time!” But I’m a smart ass and in real life not everyone is as special as a fish with wings or a bird with crazy weird lungs.  But perhaps there is a merman out there for me, no?

In the 8th grade I “went out” (in the middle school sense that you were somehow dating someone but never did anything with that other person except pass notes and giggle…or maybe it was just me, whatev) with a nice Jewish boy. It lasted about 3 or 4 weeks before the inevitable end came. My version of the story is that his mother found out I was Catholic, or more importantly that I wasn’t Jewish and promptly informed him to end it or lose his inheritance.  I added that part on the end but you get me.  So Jewish vs. Catholic conflict is understandable, as there are significant differences and a child raised in that home would be sufficiently confused by the age of 4. But other situations in which the two people are simply different flavors of Christian are perhaps less important, and I’d argue that it depends on each person and their individual commitment to that particular brand of faith.  So here’s what I conclude (for today anyway): I will say no thank you to any man who is atheist.  It is a deal breaker if you are a hater of the Catholic faith and make fun of my religion.  I do not tolerate ignorant haters.  And while this topic was a major distraction to me during our service and gave me cause for this intriguing and thought-provoking post, I will remain open-minded and take whatever the Big Man decides to throw at me.  Because really, who am I to judge?

Stay tuned for more Catholic contemplations down the road.

Karaoke, Family, and Meat Loaf…the singer.

Intrigued by the title? Thought so. Want the story on how my quiet and charming parents decided to throw raging parties every night of the Thanksgiving holiday? I know you do.

This year we decided to venture to the exotic Outer Banks of North Caroline with some of my parents closest friends who also have family out of the area.  By Wednesday evening, there was Miss Sassy, a toddler, 6 couples (friends of my parents who are mostly “empty nesters” like my parents except sike I still live at home…womp), and one karaoke machine.  The karaoke machine’s mention will make sense soon. So that night, we had a delicious Italian feast prepared by Momma and Poppa, more bottles of wine than should ordinarily be necessary, and yummy desserts. I suppose I should mention that most everyone (except the toddler) had been drinking since probably noon, so by the time dinner and dessert was finished, that karaoke machine was looking like everyone’s ticket to the big stage.  So someone breaks out the mics and gives it a test run.  I can safely attest that the thing works. Very well.  Poppa Pants volunteers to go first, takes the mic and lets loose on Garth Brooks and all his friends in low places.  Let me tell you, and I say this in the most affectionate way possible since I love Poppa Pants dearly, man canNOT sing.  But he loves singing Jim Croce, Jimmy Buffett, and most of all Meat Loaf (yes, truth).  And he dominates that mic like it’s his new job and he is paid well for it.  But again, we’d all been drinking since noon so he’s always a crowd favorite. Momma Sassy also took her turn up on the stage that is our big living room (complete with balloon patterned couches and seashells on every shelf), and turned herself into Patsy Cline, The Judds, and Bette Midler – and she did it well.  Some wondered aloud why she wasn’t a professional or famous! Meanwhile I sit in the back of the room wondering when the torture would cease.

What happened to my dad, the man who hates boys, loves rules, hummed quietly in church, and never used swear words in front of his precious little princess? (That’s me, in case you were confused) What happened to my quiet Sicilian mother, who drank a glass of wine with dinner, loves order, and sang Disney tunes?  As I sat in the back, watching the hilarity as everyone but me (and the toddler – bedtime for little ones comes before 2am unfortunately) shakes their tushes, and belts out Cher and “I will survive!”, I realized something.  These are real people.  I am but a spectator on my parents life.  Think about when you were little and your parents are SO MEAN and they NEVER let you do ANYTHING and it’s just AWFUL!  Now I think, if we weren’t such brats to our parents, I believe we’d have discovered this “coolness” -if you will – a lot sooner! It’s not that I went away and suddenly they’re having parties and raging all night with friends and wine.  It was there all the time, I just needed to grow up and see it.  How lucky I am to have such fun parents, who manage to be my friends but still forcefully discretely cram down my throat slip in some parenting every 5 seconds every now and then.  So as I sat, enjoying my dear tone-deaf father’s rendition of Paradise by the Dashboard Light (longest song in the history of the world PS), I smiled.  Because even though Meat Loaf is a much better singer (albeit scary and weird), Poppa Pants was enjoying himself and it warmed my heart to see him squinch up his face and close his eyes and really get into it. So now I won’t hide my face in embarrassment and miss having fun with them while they’re young and able.  You never know how much time you have folks!  And while you will probably never catch me singing solos in front of my parents friends (or anyone for that matter – I require lots of booze,  ridiculous anomalies of confidence, or bribery), I will refuse to run and hide from the outrageous antics which occur more and more frequently, pretending I don’t know them.  I will take a million videos and pictures to use as blackmail later so their future grandchildren can see what fun fools they are.  I will laugh until I cry when Poppa Pants loses his voice belting out Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown.  I will hold Momma Sassy’s third glass of scotch while she hams it up for anyone who’s watching, and shows that she has missed her calling as another Patsy Cline.  And I will continue to drink bourbon slushies (delish) quietly and remember that one day, I will do the same to my kids.  Proudly.

Kids: don’t let your parents scare you away with embarrassing antics, and don’t forget that your parents are allowed to let their sass out, too.  Parents: we love you and enjoy watching you get funky, but we will continue laugh at you and shake our heads.  Just remember it’s all out of love.