Insults that aren’t really curse words

I was reading a bit of a gossip rag online this afternoon and stumbled upon an unknown (to me) insulting curse word. It’s one of those great borderline usages…not really a dirty word, but close enough to get the idea across.

And if said with vigor, makes all the impact you need.

The word that is now the newest addition to my personal lexicon is nobsack.

Used in context: “… she knows a thing or two about unbearably dirty-looking nobsacks.”

I don’t know *exactly* what the word means, but I bet I can hazard a pretty darn close guess.

It sounds British. The British really are wonderful for the insulting words that aren’t cursing…you know, prat and wanker and bollocks. All good ones to drop in casual conversation.

Nobsack has a new, fresh sound to it. I do get so weary of the time tested “douche bag” which has regained popularity recently. The cooler kids have reduced it to just “douche” and morphed it into an adverb…”Why do you have to be so douchey?”

It’s not one I use much, but it works. Insulting without cursing. This is good. At my last job, cursing was like water, flowing its way through every conversation. Heck, our CEO used the term “batsh*t” in reference to our competition. Cursing was expected and I gladly went along for the ride (much to my mother and brother’s dismay).

At my new gig, no one curses. It was even addressed as part of my new hire training. So I’m having to break a nearly ten year habit. As such, I’m collecting non-cursing insults. Like dillweed and dillhole. Time tested, mother approved.

I knew someone from Mexico who used the Spanish word for peanut, cacahuate, as a replacement for sh–. It does certainly *sound* bad when said strongly.

Well, I’ll keep collecting the “clean” dirty words. This is a tough transition.

And anyone who says differently is a nobsack.

Yeah, that flows pretty good off the tongue.

The roots of my raising run deep…

Ok, well, maybe a taste of the holiday spirit came and got me this weekend.

The tree went up.

And the kitchen got cookin’.

It ain’t Christmas without a batch of biscochitos. (Recipe here from the PNM cookbook.) It’s a family tradition.

Here are the little beauties, just before going in the oven….deelish already:

And then, fully cooked, fulfilling their destiny. So lightly baked, so flaky, so anise-y. Oh yeah. New Mexico comes to visit.

Many of these bad boys will be going with me to work. These Californians need a taste of where I come from!

Oh Sweet Hoopty

An open letter to my vehicular friend.

Today as I was driving you to work, I noticed you making an odd and rather unpleasant sound.

I’d like to attribute it to the early morning, because I know that you, like your owner, are not a fan of the cold morning hours.

But it would appear that this isn’t just a hazard of winter chill, because later in the day, when it was warm, you still made that sound.

Which means you have to go see our friend Tony, the trusty mechanic who has carefully protected and maintained you for all of your life.

But it’s more than that. Today, my checkbook lays open before you, at your mercy.

Please, please don’t crap out on me. I need you.

Sure, you’re almost eight years old, but remember the good times?

Remember how I purchased you in late 2001, the last wisp of the model year…the October right after the tragic September 11th when no one was buying cars?

You were the last (and best) of two remaining old model year cars. The end of an era too, as you are the last of your kind, they don’t make you anymore.

Remember how you were the only car the dealer had sold that month? We giggled together at the rockin’ deal I was able to negotiate so I could take you home?

Though almost eight years old now, you’ve been without a car payment for four years. And this is the heart of the issue, dear, sweet vehicle.

You see, times are a little rough. The economy is pretty bad, you know? I mean, hey, gas prices have improved, so that’s something. But Mr. Jones has stolen all my money. Ok, not all, but a good portion, and your humble owner is starting to freak out.

To be fair, so far, I’ve managed to keep a good job with a regular paycheck. And yes, I *could* swing $300 to $500 a month to make payments on a new, shiny car.

But I don’t want to.

That $300 to $500 a month could be better spent on things like food, you know, and uh, necessities of life.

Or, and here’s a fun thought, that $300 to $500 a month could be put in savings in an attempt to rebuild my sagging nest egg.

But these plans, this hope for the future depends on you.

Please, please keep it together. I’m going to take you to be fixed, yes. And I’m even willing to spend a little cash to get that done. But that means you have to help me back. You have to stay solid for a while after the repair.

If you start nickel and diming, or really five-hundred and thousanding me, I’m going to have to reconsider whether you are still a valuable part of the family.

I need you to continue to be the reliable, dependable vehicle you are.

Give me a couple more years, ok? Let me see if I can get my financial feet back under me and we’ll talk about retiring you to a nice life where you can wander the pastures and eat all the motor oil you’d like. But for now, I need you to stay solid and light on the pocketbook.

Plus, The Good Man says he doesn’t believe an American made car can go 100,000 miles. I think we can prove him wrong (only 15k to go!).

I believe in you, fabulous Jeep, now you have to believe in me too!

Not my actual hoopty, but a sibling of….

Feliz Dia de los Muertos!

A personal high holy day for me.

I think I got deeply into the spirit last night dressed up as Frida.

It is a thoughtful day, remembering my loved ones who have moved on to the next journey.

I’m in a hotel room in Hawaii, so hard to celebrate properly, but I’ll make do.

I’m working on a make-shift ofrenda. If it comes out I’ll post a photo.

Mostly, just a reminder to remember those closest to you, both here and beyond.

This one’s for the pet owners

Due to having a rather austere father, I am not one of those folks with deep, fond memories of the parade of pets I owned and raised as I grew up.

The Good Man is this way. Both of his parents are avid animal people and so he has a whole lifetime of pets he can speak about in loving tones. It makes me sort of jealous.

I have one childhood pet. A white cat obtained when I was about twelve.

She was a good pet, truly. Her name was Yoda and she was very tolerant of me (and that’s saying a lot for a cat). She had a fantastic personality, full of charm and easy to love. She would come when you called her name and was nutso over turkey meat.

Poor little feline breathed her last while I was away studying at NMSU.

In the span of my adult life, post-Yoda, I’d never owned another pet. Which is weird, because I’m a lover of fuzzies and usually form close bonds with the pets belonging to my friends.

My best friend is owner to my goddog and a finicky godcat and I love ’em like they are my own. But they aren’t my own. And they live in Las Cruces, so that doesn’t help!

So imagine my delight when I began dating The Good Man almost three years ago and he had not one but TWO felines to keep his life interesting.

One charming old man marmalade and one batty, toddler-esque black and white.

Sadly, the marmie gave over to kidney issues soon after TGM and I started seeing each other, but I at least had the chance to love that orange kitty. He was a good man.

Which leaves us now with the batty cat. She’s the one who charms our lives these days.

This is only the second pet I’ve ever personally owned. And I am here to confess:

I love that cat.

In fact, that’s the genesis of this post. I have one of those screensavers that plucks images from my photo library and displays them onscreen. As I was on the phone earlier today dealing with another cranky business client, this photo flashed on my screen and held there for a bit too long.

And I stared at that g’damn cat and felt so much love in my heart. Like…over love. Too much love. WAY too much love for such a cute furry obnoxious, middle of the night meowing cuz she’s hungry kind of animal.

Am I the only pet owner who has ever wondered…am I a little *too* attached to my pet?