Thursday, December 31, 2009
Happy New Year, everybody!!!!! Seems that with a few exceptions, the general consensus is that 2009 can kiss our collective asses. Bite us, '09. Hopefully the new decade will usher in some good old fashioned positive energy. That would be good 'cause I'm pretty sick of all of the negative crap. It's like, "Okay, universe......we've all been punched in the gut. Happy now that we've been taken down a few notches? Good. Uncle. We're done". Lots of crappy shit happened in '09 but if I'm being honest, there was some good too. My 11-year old lab died in my lap in March but in July we took delivery a bouncing baby boy........the incredible sock-eating black lab puppy Grady. He is a horrible menace but every time I look at him I smile because there is such joy about him. Grady rocks. And we've suffered through the horror of my husband being a realtor in this historically bad market but.......oh wait......he's still a realtor and the market still sucks. Nevermind. I've also made some really cool new friends in 2009 that I think are keepers. I'm one of those people that is quite sure she has all the friends she cares to have and then along come people who take you completely by surprise. Some from as far away as Scotland that resulted from a purely random meeting, which causes me to think that nothing is in fact random. Shout out to the Ferguson's!!!! And some were right under my nose the entire time and while I can't believe I haven't known them forever I sure am glad that I know them now and look forward to spending this evening with them and greeting 2010 in good company. Like everything in life, nothing about the past year was all good or all bad and some years are surely better than others. Let's hope 2010 is one of the better ones. Be safe guys, and happiness and prosperity to you and yours. I'll be back with lots more smart-assery next year. Woo-hoooooooo!!!!!!!
Holy Crap......I REALLY should not have been making fun of that deer with the shit on his head. I just had a humiliating little trip through the karmic car wash. Literally. I'm out running errands and increasingly feeling like I'm being slowly strangled. Just one of those largely frustrating procurement foray's in the name of holiday festivity. Every place I went I was fighting crowds. I almost had to take out an old man who was trying to cut in front of me in line for crab legs. Oh for fucks sake.....just because you're an old freakin' geezer does NOT mean you have a license to do whatever the hell you want. Now move it. Things were not much better at the "Party America" store where I was buying some fun stuff for Jack and his "manny" to ring in the New Year with. That was not relaxing. Anyway, my second to last stop was to wash my car. As my nerves were clearly jangled, I apparently pulled in off center. To cut to the chase, the washer-arm thingy becomes entangled in my passenger side mirror. This requires me to open my window to disentangle it. Water is spraying all over the inside of the car. I successfully got the thing off of my mirror somehow but the car wash stopped. Uhhhhh.......okay, car completely covered in suds. I figure I'll just rinse 'em off in one of the self-serve bays. Pull in. I don't have any money!!!!! SOOOO, I'm driving down a main thoroughfare in a black car encased in white bubbles in search of another car wash (line had formed behind me at the first one......screw that) that takes plastic. You could SEE the people snickering as I drove by. Let me tell ya, it's impossible to look cool with freakin' bubbles all over your car. I may as well have written "I'm a dumbass" in the foam although that was not necessary as the spectacle I created pretty much spoke for itself. Anyway, I go to first gas station car wash. Pull up......credit card thing not working!!!! Of course!!!! Finally get to second gas station car wash (which involved more driving and subsequent laughter) and get the soap off of the car. Suffice to say I had a renewed sympathy for the poor deer. I had NO game in the bubble-mobile. Sheesh.
Holy God. The fucking hamster is on the loose. Ripped straight from the headline screaming, "I TOLD YOU SO" right above a big fat photo of my self-satisfied looking mother. Caption reads, "Arizona woman says ungrateful daughter should have listened". I would pay big money right now for a recording of my son stating, "MOM, I'm ten years old. I'm not an idiot" whilst making his case for hamster procurement. Well Jack, it would appear that you are. Ten. And an idiot. This is such a classic scenario that I honestly thought it was too cliche to actually happen. It's right out of the "Unfortunate Hamster Story Manual". What part of "DO NOT TAKE THE HAMSTER OUT OF THE CAGE" did you not understand? I am a fairly direct person and I'm pretty sure I'm not vague when barking out commands. I was not stuttering nor speaking Japanese. Obviously the lure of the hamster was too much for Jack and his best friend to resist. They're like furry little balls of kid-crack or something. Bottom line is that I just had to go purchase live traps in attempt to find the little guy before it's too late. I know, I know......good luck with that. But I feel like as the dumbass that actually purchased the hamster I need to attempt to do something.The worst part of the whole sorry incident is that I was forced to say something so trite that I cringed as it was coming out of my mouth........Jack: "Mom, are you still mad at me about Rhino?" Me: "No Jack, I'm not mad at you but I'm really disappointed". Gack. But it's true. Waaahh. I'm turning into an actual parent-type thing.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
One of my friends is a personal shopper at a high-end department store and apparently made some pretty good money the other day. This was mentioned in front of my dad, who we often compare to Mr. Krabs from Sponge Bob Square Pants. Mr. Krabs is the owner of the Krusty Krab and often declares, "I like money!" It doesn't help that Mr. Krabs is Scottish and so is my Dad. Anyway, Dad hears that my girl was making some coin at this gig and says, "MOL!!!! You should do that!". The fact that my husband did a spit-take upon hearing this declaration is very telling. Um, NO, dad.......I really, really should not be a personal shopper. I would be fired within the first hour for attempting to strangle a client. The very fact that someone would require a personal shopper instantly puts them on my "You Annoy Me" list. I have a really hard time with people that can't make decisions. Wishy-washy is not my cup of tea. It even bothers me when my husband sits there with a menu and can't make up his mind after everyone else has ordered and the waitress is just standing there mentally tapping her toes. Minutes seem like days when you're waiting for him to decide between the salmon and sea bass. CLEARLY YOU HAVE NARROWED IT DOWN TO FISH. JUST PICK ONE OR I WILL PICK ONE FOR YOU. So I guess in that case, I would technically be personally shopping for Dave's dinner. Helping people I don't know pick out clothes however, would be a freaking disaster of epic proportions. I'm pretty sure that field requires some modicum of patience, a quality I do not possess. I'd be like, "It's a fucking shirt. Do you want the blue or the green? You don't know? You want the blue. Next." I actually had a job somewhat like this once. I have a degree in interior design and during the building boom out here in Colorado there was a lot o' money to be made. "Thar's gold in them thar hills!!!!" I worked at a design showroom helping people pick out finishes for their new homes. Carpet, tile, wood floors, etc. The only thing that kept me from jumping over my desk and throttling some of these idiots was the fact that I was making really, really good scratch. I now possess only half a tongue as the rest was bitten off during this period of time but I had a really cool car for awhile. You would not believe the difficulty people have when faced with two shades of extremely cheap carpeting. Seriously? It's going to look depressing whether you pick Mystic Mink or Sandy Sawdust. For reals. You're going to want to kill yourself when you see the horrible shitbox you're in the process of picking out materials for so it really doesn't matter BUT if you want my professional opinion, go with the Mink. It'll hide the tears you'll be shedding better. Although Sandy Sawdust does go nicely with desperate resignation. Hmmm. Lemme go to my office to think about this one. Personal shopper my ass.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
I'm probably going to get my chick card pulled for this one, but it's the truth so I'll just come out with it. I'm not all that nuts about babies. Baby humans, that is. I'm a big fan of baby animals. I'm talking little babies. Like newborn through the starting to do stuff phase. Women are supposed to want to hold little babies apparently, which causes me a great deal of emotional distress. Put me in a room with a newborn and while I may look perfectly composed, I'm looking for a viable means of escape and thinking, "Shit......somebody is going to hand me that damn baby". And then what? "Oooohhhhh......it's.....it's.....a baby!" The problem is that unlike puppies, humans don't come out of the chute looking cute.They're not furry and roly and poly. They just take up space and cry and shit. Literally. Don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of kids in general. I just like it when they are capable of being amusing. They get interesting around the time they're able to become a danger to themselves. I guess that's the threshold for my ability to tolerate human beings. Being capable of sticking a fork in an outlet. That's when things start looking up. I know that it's me as most women are drawn to babies like flies on shit. I don't know what my problem is because I find them utterly snooze-worthy. Oh, I'm happy for the new life and for my friends and relatives who have just had a little bundle of joy. I just have a problem mustering much enthusiasm for the cursory holding of the baby and the fake bullshit cooing and and ooohing and ahhhing that follows the, "Want to hold him?" 'Cause you really can't say "Nope", no matter how much you'd like to. I have a feeling that if I said that it would be met with nervous laughter as the baby pusher tries to figure out if I'm being serious or not. Oh, I'm serious alright. That's a very nice baby, I'm sure but I'll disingenuously admire it from right where I'm seated, thanks. No holdin' necessary!!!!
Monday, December 28, 2009
File this one under "Now there's somethin' you don't see everyday.....". I woke up this morning and as is typical there are about 5 million deer outside my window. Yeah, yeah, yeah.....deer, deer, deer. Yawn. What caught my eye was a very large buck approaching with some unidentified object completely entangled in his rack. WTF?! As he got closer, it looked to be some components of a hammock, relaxing pillow included. At first I was feeling really bad for him but it didn't appear to be hindering his mobility or ability to eat. What it was clearly impeding was his social life. He looked like a prize asshole. Before you start thinking I'm a jerk for making fun of him, realize that I know who this guy is. He's a bully. He was in my backyard locking horns with another buck yesterday and ran him off. Oh, he had a swagger. He was that jerkoff at the bar just spoiling for a fight. Well, it seems that deer, much like humans, don't really care for hanging out with others that look like idiots. He was being shunned. The ladies who just yesterday were walking around waving their tails around at him (that's what the slutty ones do) literally were walking away from him and over to the poor guy with no game that was being pushed around by the formerly Big Deer on Campus. BDOC was just standing there looking stunned, apparently unaware that he looked like a complete fucktard, as the cool deer all slowly backed away. He's going to have to start hanging out with the dorks, it seems. Dorks are generally an accepting lot as they can't be that choosy. And a good thing, as we see how the mighty have fallen. Yeah, you're not so cool now that you've got a chunk of backyard lounge-gear on your head, are ya tough guy? Nope. You're not. Let that be a lesson to you. You're only one unfortunate incident away from becoming the laughingstock of my backyard. Better him than me as Lord knows I've found myself with some crazy shit on my head. But then again I'm not walking around thinking I'm all cool and bossing everybody else around. Wait a second. Yes I am. Nevermind. Mental note......keep rack away from hammocks. And car doors.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Actual phone conversation that took place as my parents were on their way up to Colorado for Christmas.......Me: "Mom, please be prepared because the house won't be as clean as I'd like it to be but things have been a little nutty around here lately." Mom: "Honey, we're coming to enjoy being together, not to see how clean your house is." I believed her. Sucka. Fast forward to a couple of days before Christmas, when I was to host the big family dinner. Mom: "Goobie!!!!! What can I do????" Me: "Shit, mom....you've been passive aggressively yammering about things needing to be dusted for a few days now, why don't you hop on that??" So, my mom, as she is famously wont to do, not only gets cracking on the cleaning but enlists my dad, of course adding the cursory, "Daddy LOVES to clean". Um, no he doesn't. He doesn't love it all. What he loves is not catching shit from you. Anyway, as I commence with the cooking she is going around cleaning like a woman possessed. I'm actually somewhat surprised she remembered how as she has this crazy thing called a cleaning lady. But nevertheless she is cleaning. And then starts asking questions about the vacuum, which is where things started going downhill fast. "GOOOBIIIEEEE!!!!!! Where are the attachments????" That thing has attachments? For what? This sets her off. I'm going about my business and trying to tune out all of the tongue clucking and exasperation that is slowly building from a slow burn to a boil. It was palpable. I could feel it. But as a grown-up, I chose to ignore it. Cleaning is SO not my schtick. I have other schticks. Lots of other schticks. None of them involve anything remotely resembling cleanliness. Or organization. I used to have a cleaning lady and when she came over for the initial consultation she looked around and announced in her South American accent, "EEESSSS REALLY DIRTY." Yeah? No shit!!!! That would be why you are here, dumbass!!!! God. Is there anyone on this planet that is not interested in maligning my character in some way shape or form? Show yourselves. I do a pretty good job at it on my own I'm pretty sure, so everybody can save themselves the trouble. I've got it handled. Anyway, getting back to the story at hand, Mom finally blows. She looks as frustrated as an overly tired two-year old on the verge of a tantrum and says, "Goobie, you have such a beautiful house........you really should spend more time cleaning it". Whereas in the past, this would have sent me into a tailspin, I simply looked at her and said, "Mom, ZIP IT". And the crowd goes wild. That kinda stopped her in her tracks. Then Dad came up and told her that I didn't need criticism, I needed help. Go, Dad, go Dad.........he was on my side until I suggested that if my less than mad housekeeping skilz were such a problem, perhaps they would like to retain a cleaning lady on my behalf. He declared it didn't bother him one bit. Dang. Anyway, the bottom line is that if Judgy McJudger announces that there will be no judging, she is LYING. Next time they come up here I'm going to hire a big ass cleaning crew and send her the bill and tell her that we just wanted to make sure we were able to enjoy each other's company in a completely sterile environment!!!!! I might have 'em put those things on the toilets that you used to see in hotels. The seals so that you know that they're clean? That would be hilarious. Okay, I've got to go think up more stuff like that that will really chafe her. Bwahahahahaaaa.........I can hear it now......"REAL funny, Goobie". Hey man, she started it.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Hey, guess what everybody???? It seems that I have pissed someone off at my son's school with my blog!!!! At first I was prepared to come out swinging and attempting to defend myself. Upon further reflection, I came up with an alternative. My suggestion is this: If you cannot remove the 2x4 from your ass, please do not read my observations. You do not get it and you never will. Please know that while you, oh great and anonymous complainer, are offended my musings, there are people in their 60's and beyond that actually DO get it. And like it!!!! So while you were taking my blog to the principal, people far older than you were enjoying this space as it was intended. It's humor. There are funny things about life and situations that just scream to be sent up the flagpole and saluted. So you can take your mom jeans and your stick over to iamabigdork.com or something. I'm sure you'll find all sorts of beige conformists over there that never, ever swear, don't drink and don't have opinions about anything at all unless it's to judge others that dare to speak their minds. You can get together and compare sensible footwear, seasonal sweaters and discuss the merits of your respective PTA's. Sounds like a blast. And you can dish all you want about wild-ass bitches like myself. 'Cause I'm keepin' it real. Yo.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Hmmmm......it has been pointed out to me that I may have offended some people in my neighborhood by jokin' about the PTA. I really wasn't being serious at the time. Now, not so much, you sense-o' humor lackin' bitches. Seriously? Seriously. Wow. And I know who you are!!!! That's the best part!!!!!
Oh, I'm a great, big, fat hypocrite. Well, I'm not actually fat thanks to my properly functioning thyroid.....go thyroid, go thyroid, it's your birthday, it's your birthday. Oh dear....Dave! Get the tranquilizer gun....it's time....again. But I am a hypocrite. I'm throwing the fourth grade "HOLIDAY" party tomorrow. And while I have not commissioned Rudolph to fly their little asses around scenic Willow Springs, I am making myself somewhat crazy with the thing. Some of you Red Rock's parents will recall "the cupcakes". Oh, I didn't make any mommy friends with "the cupcakes". If I were not me I would have hated on me. Hell, I AM me (I think....getting confused) and sometimes I hate on me. They were first rolled out in Kindergarten. This was before I had set my cap to debauchery and had lots of free time. Behaving horribly takes a great deal of energy and committment. If it was easy, every sucka would be doing it. Anyway, the confections in question are snowman cupcakes. They are 3-D. They have individually hand painted (food dye carefully applied with toothpick) faces. And arms made out of pretzel sticks. Scarves? Yup. Fruit Roll Ups. Nose made of tiny slice of orange candy. Hat? But of course, lambs. Thin Mint topped with Junior Mint. Oh they're good. They're damn good. A kid told his mom that he didn't want to eat it because he loved it so much. Mommy didn't like that. And she's one of the gifted and talented bitches. Hee hee. Burn, sizzle, char. I made the cupcakes again in second grade, which is the last time I did a classroom party. Last year I had kids coming up to me saying, "Mrs. Christie why aren't you doing our class parties this year?" "Well, you see, Jimmy, Mrs. Christie has decided to take up drinking and swearing and being a general menace to society in lieu of doing charitable good works. Run along now.....that's a good boy." Well, this year I feel compelled. Well, not compelled so much as backed into a corner. I'm the room parent and nobody else volunteered. So it's on. And much like my present wrapping, if I'm gonna do it, I'm gonna DO IT. So if anybody needs me, my hypocritical self will be in my kitchen using frosting to glue hats on snowmen.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
So more about rappers. Or wrappers as the case may be. I'm at Walgreen's yesterday 'cause I had to pick up some tape. I'm not sure if this has come across via the blogosphere, but I am not exactly a chatty person. Oh, I'm prolific with the writing but I'm not really one for idle chit-chat. And I don't want to talk with you at Walgreen's, particularly if I don't know you. Generally speaking, my "I am not an approachable person" demeanor works like a charm. There are crazy people in the world however, that cannot or will not read body language nor acknowledge the appearance of outright hostility. I'm standing there in a crowded aisle looking for the damn tape and I thought this woman next to me was talking to herself. Ohhhh, noooooo......she was talking to ME!!!!! Now, I may not LIKE to talk to people I don't know but as I was raised to not be an asshole, I will speak if spoken to. I may be surly but I'll respond. This woman wants to chat with me about the merits of buying a box that has pictures of Santa on it because then she won't have to wrap it. She can just stick a bow on it and voila!!!! Oh my. What do I think about this? Although I said it was a capital idea and bravo to her for being so quick thinking, I almost broke out in hives at the very thought. I will admit, I am a horrible, horrible wrapping snob. The thought of cheap wrapping paper makes me itchy and nervous and just the very sight of those press-on bows will cause me to go into full-on anaphylactic shock requiring an ambulance ride to the nearest ER. Now, I get that most people do not have the time to fuck around with presents like I do and I get that most people just don't care. I care. A LOT. To me, part of the excitement of giving a present is having it look really kick-ass and festive on the outside as well as being cool and thoughtful on the inside. The press-on bow treatment just looks like you gave up after coming home from a bad experience at Wal-Mart and just wanted the whole sorry episode to be over with so that you could go soak your bunions or something. I will admit that I have been known to place undesirable looking packages towards the back of the tree. Not because I don't appreciate the gift and love the giver but I just can't look at 'em. Plus they offend my artistically wrapped and arranged presents under the tree. They don't want to break out in a rash any more than I do. I know......I can feel the sticky bows being hurled at me from all over the world as we speak........I'll save 'em for Halloween and stick 'em all over myself. If asked what's up I'll just say I've been given a bad rap. Bwahahahahaaa........
I was really hopeful that the trend of white, suburban kids dressing like rappers had passed a couple of years ago. From what I've seen during the highschool lunch hour at the local Subway, I was mistaken. Now let me be crystal clear: I like white suburban kids and I like rappers. Cool ones, anyway. Both asshole suburban white kids and asshole rappers may step the hell off. Now you may be thinking to yourself, "Hmmmm, self....how does Mollie know any rappers, asshole or otherwise?" Oh, you'd be surprised. My web of influence is far-reaching. And I think I'm going to ask them what they think of these white kids emulating them in such fashion. I'm betting they think they look like morons. I just don't understand what these kids are trying to convey. Dissatisfaction with suburbia? Well, duh, kid.....it's crushing all of our spirits. Every day. And it gets worse! Wait 'til you're my age! You may well be expressing yourself with painkillers by then! It's homogeneous and boring as hell. Eating at Panera day after endless day is a soul-killing experience. Oh, and going to the same four stores on a near daily basis because your life and it's needs have become so small? You begin expressing yourself in new and innovative ways, like ramming people with your shopping cart just because you can. That's self-expression. You don't see me dressing like a rapper. Although maybe I should 'cause that would be funny. I would actually pay to see me dressed like that. Anyway, I get that you want to express yourself but can't you come up with something a little more original? The rapper thing is cool on rappers. You're not a rapper. Your parents belong to my country club. They're not rappers either. And I'm pretty sure you're not Eminem, who at least had the good sense to have a hardscrabble upbringing and actually IS a rapper (I think....I'm a housewife....what do I know?) and therefore had a shred of authenticity. Don't get me started on Kid Rock, who may in fact be your messiah. Mr. "Rock", while claiming to be "straight out ta traila", was actually a suburban white kid!!!! Just like you!!!! His dad OWNED A CAR DEALERSHIP. NO street cred. I guess I just want you to know that you are not fooling anybody. I highly doubt you are about to bust out some rhymes at any given moment. Surprise me though. I'd like that. Oh, and you should pull your damn pants up before Mrs. Christie does it for you.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
If you've been following along over here at Deep Thoughts, you've probably noticed that I often refer to myself as "Goobie", particularly when descriptions of conversations I've had with my mother come up. I realized that I should probably explain it as it's not one of the more usual nicknames bestowed upon a child. Muffin. Princess. Goobie. But then again my parents are not typical in any regard. Oh, and they're comedians alright. You see, dear readers, it seems that when when I was a baby, I gurgled and made cute little baby noises. Because I WAS A FUCKING BABY. This apparently was a source of great hilarity for Rose and Bill. Thusly, I was deemed "The Goobler". Haha. Hilarious. Fortunately for me, this ran its course over time. I was not subjected to this ridiculous moniker during my formative years. I was just "Mol", which worked for me. Yep, pretty much up until my junior year in college. I had other nicknames.....Mol-Mol, McButter (my maiden name is McKennie....more on that in another post) Mols......they all worked too. Well, my parents at this point had decided that I was getting a little too big for my Ralph Lauren, sorority girl britches and decided to bring back the nickname. It's really difficult to be arrogant when people are calling you "The Goobler". Trust me. I tried. I failed. All the 'rents had to do was utter this name ONCE around my friends and it was all over. "The Goobler" took on a life of it's own. Gee thanks, guys. As nicknames are wont to do, this one morphed into numerous variations......Goobie is very popular. As is Goobs, which I just love. The fact Goobs rhymes with boobs is not helpful either. Das Goobs, coming from my German friends......it goes on and on. Oh, and it's got teeth. It's stuck around for 20 years. I'm a 42-year old woman referred to as such. Is it any wonder I drink? No, no it's not.
Here's a little word of advice: being considered a bit of a "loose cannon" gets you out of all sorts of shit. And it's pretty fun. If you establish yourself as someone that is willing to say or do just about anything, nobody asks you to do anything that involves being even remotely responsible. And you get to behave kinda badly. It's expected. Strangely, nobody asks me to do anything that may involve serious conversation with adults. And the great part is, you can get credit for being willing to do the hard stuff 'cause you can volunteer knowing full well that the powers that be would never allow this to happen. "Oh, we need someone to represent the PTA at the school board meeting." ME: "I'll do it!!!!" Collective gasp as wide, panic-stricken eyes dart around the table before a "NOOOOOOOOO" is the emphatic response to my eager (and generous!) offer. Oh, and it was thought at one point that I should have some degree of involvement in the communications/social networking for my country club. Then I apparently scared some folks and they thought better of it. Apparently I am not all that politically correct. Waaah. I'm not sure if it was the salty language or the aggressive and enthusiastic consumption of alcohol. I'm pretty sure I haven't been running around naked lately, so I don't think it's that. You chase the hot garbage man down the street in the au natural ONCE and you never hear the end of it. ONCE! God. Squares. Anyway, that's one less the thing to do. But I was willing! Hee, hee. The country club communications, not the garbage man. Running naked down the street does not necessarily indicate "willing". Dave. In addition to having no filter and a reputation for wild antics, not being good at math is also helpful. This, again, gets you out of anything that may require thinking too hard. I can't be the treasurer of any organization because I suck at math. I can't be asked to count the money after any event because I suck at math. And I can't get in trouble if I accidentally spend too much money while shopping because I not only suck at math but have little understanding of budgets. They make my head hurt. This is where perfecting the "blank stare" comes in very handy. Best when accompanied by a "Huh?" You may get patted on the head, but you got a cool new pair o' boots out of the deal. And have I mentioned that I have not had to drive home from a bar or party for twenty years? If through a pattern of behavior you establish that there is not a snowball's chance in hell that this would be a reasonable option, you never have to do it!!!! I don't believe it would even occur to my husband. It's all smoke and mirrors baby......what if I actually HAVE a filter, am reasonably good with both numbers AND budgets and could very well be a designated driver if I set my cap to it? Only I know. And I'm not tellin'.
Monday, December 14, 2009
One of the circles of hell in Dante's Inferno should be called, "Pregnant Girl at Party". Because that really is the very depth of misery. It sucks the big one. Truly. One of my friends is pregnant. What can I say.....I've got some pals that are still of child bearin' age......could probably still happen to me but I do believe I would kill myself should that occur.....more on that later. She was at a party in the 'hood the other night. Our 'hood is a little, um......lively? And although I don't remember much about anything in general, I sure do remember being the only sober person in the room while preggers. Newsflash: drunk people are not fun when you are not drunk. Oh, when you are, they are the funniest mofo's on the planet. But when you are sober and pregnant (which is really the only reasonable excuse for sobriety at a party.....I tend to supsect that non-pregnant sober party-goers have an agenda) you have been dealt a double blow and were surely dragged to said soiree kicking and screaming. My friend had that look of "get me out of here now lest I kill all of you with my bare, bloated hands". Oh, I so felt her pain. I was right there with ya, sista. I was not one of those glowy women all awash with the joy of the miracle of childbirth. I was pissed. There is really not one good thing I can say about being pregnant except for the fact that it yields a baby. Doesn't mean you have to enjoy it though. Gee, living like a Mormon for 9 1/2 months sure is fun! And having your entire body blow up to cartoonish proportions is awesome too. I understand that if you didn't have boobs before you were pregnant that the sudden acquisition of the big and bouncies may be a novel concept and makes you feel all womanly or something. I know some people like this aspect of the whole deal. I had boobs before I became pregnant. What they became during my pregnancy was otherworldly. I'm not sure if they even qualified as boobs after a certain point. I don't know what those things were. And any man that tells you that obviously pregnant women are hot is lying. I'm pretty sure about that. This state also renders you somewhat asexual as you're really not a woman but a baby factory. Kinda strips you of your power to make men do your bidding. The whole thing just kinda sucks. Or at least it did for me.I was certain that because I abhorred being pregnant to such an extent that the good Lord would not allow me to remain in that state for a second longer than was absolutely necessary. I was sure that Jack would shoot out early. Not too early but early-ish. Oh nooooooo. That's not what happened. That's not what happened AT ALL. Six days past my due date I checked into the hospital to be induced. Hooked up to a Pitocin drip and having some "cervix ripening" shit applied every few hours. To the actual cervix. Fun. Oh, and there's the fact that while in the hospital awaiting childbirth, you really may as well be auditioning for the Muppet Show because you'll have more hands and fingers stuck up and into your person than you can shake a fist at. Which is rude. Anybody that walks by seems entitled to have a go at it. I believe a guy changing a lightbulb in the hall partook at one point. Nice. Anyway, after 24 hours of this bullshit, nothing happened. Nothing. So round two begins. Another 24 hours pass. Still nothing. Not even dilated enough so that my water could be broken. They told me I could go home and try again in a couple of days. Um, HELL NO!!!!! I have been here for 48 hours and I am not leaving without a baby goddamnit!!!! I must have looked on the verge of going postal as it was quickly agreed that a c-section was in order. Cool! BUT because I refused to take a childbirth class on the grounds that it was dorky, I was not aware of all that this entails. Imagine my surprise when after having a needle shoved into my spine (enough with the shoving of things in places already....isn't that what landed me in this spot in the first place?) I was informed that as far as anesthesia goes, that was it until the baby was out. I've had plenty of surgery and at the very least they'll give you valium to take the edge off. So I'm sitting there thinking, "You're honestly telling ME, for whom going to the mailbox is generally deemed a cocktail worthy event, that you are going to cut a HUMAN BEING out of my body and I am going to be as sober as a judge?" WTF???? At this point, considering that I was strapped down to the table ('cause you know, I might try to escape mid-way through the procedure) I was at the point of no return. The medical professionals attending to me were apparently feeling fiesty and were jamming Madonna. "Holiday" to be specific. Doctor: "Okay Mol.....you're going to feel some pressure". Yeah, the pressure of you splaying me open like a halibut. No matter what you say and how soothingly you say it, I know what you're doing down there. Much butchering ensues. Dave is yanked up for a viewing at some point. Jack's gigantic head is out. The rest of him wasn't having any of it though. His shoulder was stuck. Jesus Christ. Somebody just shoot me now. Anyway, they obviously got him out at some point. After seeing the little guy (yeah, yeah, yeah....it's a baby), I believe my first quote was, "Can I have the drugs now?!" and they mercifully complied so that I could check out while being reassembled. As I drifted off, I gazed up at my adoring husband and said, "There will be no more children". And I meant it.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Grady is getting the snipperoo tomorrow. I am hoping that perhaps this will calm him down. It probably won't, but as one astute friend pointed out, at least he'll take a day off from the sock-eating. The reign of terror he unleashed last night was fairly epic. When you have to pay your kid five bucks to keep the dog from attacking two-year olds so you can drink wine with your friends in peace, it's pretty bad. He's not purposefully dangerous but he's a freaking idiot. Please, dear Lord, let it be the testosterone coursing through his young body causing him to be so terrible. There is enough of that stuff around here already. Regardless, tomorrow is the day. Jack, being a young buck himself, is feeling rather sympathetic towards Grady and the fate that awaits his balls. Jack: "Mom, do we have to get Grady's nuts chopped off?" Me: "Well, we're not getting his nuts 'chopped off' per se." Brief explanation of procedure ensues. Like I know. I made stuff up. Jack: "Why do we have to do ANYTHING?" Me: "'Cause it's not fair to him to let him keep 'em." Jack: "WHY?" Me: "Frankly, because if he keeps 'em he'll be pretty much driven crazy by wanting to get with the ladies". Jack: "Heh, heh, heh......". And so it begins. God.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
To this point I have resisted writing much about my dog other than to point out that he clearly has a penchant for socks. And swallowing them whole. The whole "Marley" thing makes me wary. Haha....naughty dog....funny. We have reached a point however, at which there is so much to be said that I simply can no longer fight the urge. This dog. Good Lord. Oh, he looks all sweet and innocent up there in that picture. Don't look at it for too long or you'll turn to stone. That was taken months ago. When we still were still in control of the situation. Good times. To sum it up, we had to choose between the "blue" puppy and the "orange" puppy, referred to as such because of their identifying collars. We picked blue. BIG mistake. We often gaze north to Canada and say, "I wonder what Orange is doing right now.....". Orange went to the Great White North and is probably curled up in a cute little ball next to the Christmas tree, the picture of puppy perfection. My dog is IN my Christmas tree. Think "Stitch". That's Grady. I have had Labs all my life. I'm a no sudden movements, stick with the plan kinda gal. I like knowing what to expect. Or I did. There was no expecting Grady. He is 55 lbs of pure six-month old evil incarnate. He is not trainable because he has no desire to please. He desires destruction. He doesn't just jump on people, he launches himself at them. And he is built like a freakin' tank. He can knock over my son, who is a fairly sturdy chap himself. There is nothing he will not eat. Razors. Socks. Paper. Rocks. Throw in some scissors and you've got yourself some rochambeau. Oh, and he loves him some booze. Make the mistake of actually sitting to enjoy your cocktail? Expect company 'cause he's in your lap trying to get his drink on. Suffice to stay there's a lot of drinking standing up going on around here. "How you like me NOW, Grady.....can't reach THIS, can ya? HA, sucka!!!!" Part of the problem is that I have never met a more confident dog in my life. Grady is comfortable in Grady's skin. He's comfortable with skin in general, particularly when it's human skin in his gaping maw. And he is black, coiled energy. Like a python in puppy fur just waiting to strike. I've never seen a dog be airborne as much as Baby G. He can fly. And I think I've proven that I don't lie by actually producing the hamster car. Flying dog. Seriously. When he gets up to cocktail altitude we're going to have some serious issues. 'Cause I don't care who you are. You mess with my cocktail and I'm gonna put some hurt on you. It would be pretty funny if it was somebody else's drink though. Oh, and let's see....he's eaten the sweet, mod, Room and Board sofa, made the front door look like it was the only thing standing between a lion and a fresh kill, and rendered several lamps useless as they kinda need cords to function. I could go on. It's a long list. I'm pretty sure you get the picture. And please don't come at me with any of this "Oh, it's the owners fault" bullshit. You have not met Grady. This is not my first dog rodeo, cowpoke. It's not us. It's him. It's not that he doesn't have his moments. He really is cute. And when he's sleeping, I almost kinda like him. It's just the rest of the time. Jack summed it best when he said, "Mom, Grady is destroying everything". Touche, Jacksta, touche.
Friday, December 11, 2009
My husband is having one of those stretches during which the universe appears to be taking a gigantic poop on your head. Just all kinds of shit raining down on him. Being married to me does not help but I believe that is one of those "If you hang long enough you get used to hanging" kinda things. A bunch of shit has gone wrong at our house....the sink, the sewer line.....just garden variety ass-pains. Oh, and the "German's" (as we refer to the renters of our OTHER house, because they're um....German.....) are acting up again. German's are a little particular it seems. So he's been dealing with that as well as a bunch of other stuff. And have I mentioned that he's a REALTOR? I know, I know. That alone is grounds for throwing yourself on your sword these days. In the famous words of my father, "It's bad. It's REALLY bad". Thank you, oh great prognosticator of doom. The not getting paid was our first indicator of the gravity of the situation. That was the point at which we stopped lighting money on fire just because it was fun. Hiring midgets to dance while we shot at their feet was the next to go. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Let it never be said that we were not willing to make the hard choices. Anyway, poor, long-suffering Dave comes home from a gig last night a little after two. As I pretty much don't sleep, ever, I was up and inquired as to how his evening had gone. PLSD just shakes his head and declares that he just rocked his ass off for nothing. Seems as he was making the ascent up our hill, in his foggy state he forgot about the world's largest speed bumps, did not accommodate for the first one and a speaker flew up and shattered his rear windshield. Now, were there not a backstory here, I would just chalk it up to this being one of those things. Because there is, I chalk it up to the freaking idiots that just had these speedbumps made larger and more menacing. You see, there are houses on either side of the main drag that leads up to our neighborhood, which essentially climbs a mountain. There are A LOT of houses back here and only one way in and out. Well, the people that live on the most densely populated portion of this road have been having shit fits and suing God and all creation because they claim that people go flying down this road and are endangering their children. The first thing I have to say to that is, "YOU HAVE BACKYARDS. WHY MUST YOU PERSIST IN HAVING YOUR CHILDREN PLAY IN A FRONT YARD THAT FACES A BUSY STREET?!" Secondly, nobody MADE you buy this particular house. You knew it was on a main thoroughfare. Are they putting speed bumps all over Manhattan? No, they are not. People that live there expect that there will be traffic and teach their children to, oh, I don't know......STAY THE FUCK OUT OF IT???? So anyway, these people first tried having the cops stake out this stretch of road, but as NOBODY IS EXCEEDING THE SPEED LIMIT, nothing came of it. Nor did anything come of their standing in their driveways yelling at people who were doing nothing more but leaving the neighborhood at a reasonable rate of speed. Being sufficiently frustrated that people were not getting out of their cars and walking with them as they roll down the hill, this crowd of fun-meisters decided to take definitive action. They had the speed bumps increased to a size that has caused not just a shitstorm of controversy amongst the numerous HOA's involved but actual damage to vehicles. I was staying out of the fray but now that one of MY vehicles has been damaged, I am spittin' mad. You know how I was talking about theoretic giant poops? Well in this case I don't believe it will be the universe that's delivering. And the broken glass in your front-yard? Sorry about that.
Today is a very exciting day here at Deep Thoughts as it is hair appointment day!!!! 42-year old women love them their hair appointments. Hurray!!!! I'm gonna let you in on a little secret: my hair is not really blonde. Don't tell anybody. Carpet and drapes aren't even close. Although the carpet may be needing some attention in the not too distant future as I made a rather alarming discovery there recently. As this is a family oriented literary outlet, I will refrain from going into details at this time. All I can say is that I may be joining the "Silver Beavers" team at the local bowling alley sooner than later. As far as my crowning glory goes (my head, people....my head....get your minds out of the gutter....) I didn't mean to be blonde. It's just that the grayer my hair gets the blonder it needs to be to mask the offending silver strands for longer than a week. When it's brown, the roots start showing real quick like. We cannot have this. I say all of this "natural woman" crap is a bunch of bullshit. Nobody looks good with gray hair. It doesn't make you look natural, it makes you look elderly. And I'm not going there. I'm going to my hair appointment. I will go on record as stating that if I were on Skid Row, and I'm not far off, I would find a way to get my hair done. I would get a cardboard sign and just spell it out. I wouldn't lie and say I was hungry. I would state the obvious: Need Money Badly as Look Like a Hag. Maybe I'd bring Grady with me and have him look all embarrassed that he has to be seen with someone with such hideous roots. Actually, scratch that. Indigent people don't have well fed, pedigreed Labrador Retrievers. If I'm going for sympathy, that probably wouldn't be helpful. Maybe I'll borrow a parrot. Bird people look crazy. "Oh, Phil......look at that poor woman.......she has roots AND a parrot.....what's wrong with this society that things like this must happen? Roll down the window. I'm giving her money". SCORE! You see, as my mother told me recently during a nice, unsolicited mother/daughter lecture, it's all about priorities. You are correct mom. And mine is my hair. How am I going to be a classy ho with gray hair? 'Cause remember how we talked about "back-up plans?" That's mine. High-priced middle-aged "escort". So don't consider my hair appointment to be a luxury. Consider it an investment in my future. Wait, you don't actually have to do "it" with the gross men, do you? Maybe I'll just be a stripper. In that case I'll be needing a tummy-tuck. Might need a bigger sign. Hmmmm.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Okay, given the feedback I've received in regards to the hamster car, I think we may be on to something here. I'm thinking hamster racing. Hamsters are cute. Look down below. See that hamster in his tiny hamster helmet and tiny hamster driving gloves? Fluff sells. They're much cuter than a bunch of hillbillies, and look at how well NASCAR does! Hamsters are soft and furry and they have all of their teeth. Kids and women will be all over it. Hell.....some fake fucking hamster is the "toy of the year" this Christmas. We're talking the REAL DEAL here, people and THEY ARE DRIVING!!!! Any advertising person worth their salt knows that if kids and women are all over it, the sponsors will be too. We are talking marketing gold here, baby. I took a look at the list of official NASCAR sponsors. Amongst them? Gillette, Goodyear, Nicoderm, Old Spice, Prilosec and Home Depot. So you've got your clean shaven old guy with heartburn that smells like bad cologne, is set for building supplies and tires and is crabby 'cause he's trying to quit smoking. What's he gonna buy? He's already spent all his money on cigarettes and spicy food, for Christ's sake! He is not the target consumer that women and children are. Nope. This is a DREAM demographic! You could have everything from the Huggies car to the Massengill car (for that "not so fresh feeling!") and everything in between. The possibilities are limitless. Oh, and hamster racing doesn't take up much real estate. They're hamsters. Tiny. Tiny cars. I like tiny cars now 'cause they're gonna make me some money! Since this was my big idea I want some sweet moniker like, "The Colonel" or something. I'm going to be like Vince McMahon except I'm female and the hamsters won't be wrestling. Although if this racing thing takes off, I'm open to wrestling. You know it's fake, so I can't get in any Michael Vick-style trouble. Can't you see 'em flying off the ropes? They could have little costumes and everything. Again, tiny ring! You cold have a whole hamster fun-plex actually with HASCAR in one section and WHWF going on in another. Hamster themed games and restaurants.......a roller coaster where you ride in hamster shaped cars......I'm thinking Mall of America, just with no stores. Hamsters. Hamster-mania. I'm serious. The first ten investors are in. After that, we're going to sit back and count our money and the rest of you will be on the outside looking in, noses pressed to the glass of our sweet corporate HQ, wishing you had been hamster-visionaries. "Security? Have them removed.....they're disturbing the hamsters. And the bazillionaires." I'm going to go look into having "Deep Thoughts" stickers made for our car. And maybe for the Hamster G-5, too. Ladies and Gentlemen (and hamsters, of course!), START YOUR ENGINES!!!!!! And the crowd goes wild!!!!!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
I have spent the last several days doing my dishes that can't go in the dishwasher in the bathtub. You see, gentle readers, my kitchen sink collapsed several days ago. Just fell. Because I am of the formerly fabulous ilk, my sink itself is rather fabulous. One of those fancy under-mount deals. Well, it may look cool but it clearly was not made to support the world's largest turkey, and I place the blame for THIS one on that damn Gorby (check archives from late November if you're new to Deep Thoughts.....you can meet Gorby there, that cheeky little imp) and his excessive weight. He loosened everything up enough so that a falling sink was an inevitability. Fucker. And yes, I DID just call a turkey a fucker. So anyway, we came home from a night of revelry to find that this sink debacle had occurred. The manny and Jack claimed that they just heard a "thunk" at some point during the night and thought nothing of it. 18 and 10 year old boys are not the world's most observant chaps, I've found. I'm one to investigate "thunks" but that's just me. I investigate hunks too, but that's a tale for another day. I think I may have mentioned that while my husband is a great guy and an excellent musician/performer, fixing stuff is not his schtick. I could (and should!) dedicate an entire entry to that. I think this really bothers him and so he will attempt things that are well beyond his area of expertise and this often ends badly. In the case of the sink, however, he did some research and decided to give it a whirl. I figured he must have been fairly confident in his ability to complete the task as he was willing to face the inevitable ridicule that accompanies failure. It's not that I'm a horrible woman (don't say it....don't even think it...) but I just feel strongly that people should know their strengths and weaknesses. While Dave has many strengths for which I admire him, this is not one of 'em. Anyway, feeling steeled by research and determination, he embarked on the big repair last night. Here's how it unfolded:
4:00 PM Dave returns with armful of sink fixin' supplies
4:38 PM Dave makes return trip to Home Depot because he purchased wrong armful of sink fixin' supplies.
5:08 PM Having sufficiently fiddled around under the sink, Dave declares a "Dry Run". Not being sure what this means, I retreat downstairs with a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. The very term "dry" makes me edgy. No glass necessary as this is not a situation that demands pleasantries. It demands action.
5:24 PM Having disappeared for a spell, Dave returns to announce that, "Things are about to get a LOT more exciting". This announcement causes me to feel slightly....no....VERY uneasy. I look nervously around for most obvious means of escape. You will understand more when I tell the story of what happened the last time he fixed something and called for the family to gather around. I think I still have some sort of post-trauma disorder from that one.
5:45 PM Panic. Lots of yellling. Am asked to remove dog from under sink. I comply. Situation is declared to be "VERY STRESSFUL".
7:32 PM It appears that everything is under control. Dave looks slightly worse for the wear, but seems content to to sit and chug Jim Beam by the fire while watching Charlie Brown. Sink is firmly clamped to counter. Good job Dave.
But not so fast. Caulk has to cure for 24 hours. We won't know if it's been a success or failure until this evening. And the plumbing needs to be hooked back up. My fear is that if it does not hold, my loving husband, the father of my child, may in fact stick HIS head in the oven. Who am I going to call to fix that? Until then, I've got a bathtub full of dishes with my name on it. May as well just climb in and kill two birds with one stone.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Oh, I've got a little Martha in me. I like the decorating and the being crafty and the cooking and the entertaining. I just bring a little of the "inappropriate" to the party. Oh, and add a tipsy twist, of course. I'm probably somewhere between Martha and Julia Child. No stick up the ass like the former but a propensity for taking a nip or two while going about my kitchen wizardry like the latter. "And a little for the chef!!!!" So anyway, in addition to being a semi-professional smart-ass, I also know my way around the kitchen. What's that you say? You've followed my blog and are aware that I nearly gave 9 out of 10 party-goers alcohol poisoning with my meatball shots? Shut up, you. I just.....just....God. You forget to bring one alcohol laden sauce to a boil and people never let you hear the end of it. I will say that they were the most popular balls in the room. Anyway, as a lifestyle guru such as myself is wont to do at this time of year, I have turned my attentions to dazzling my public. One thing I am certain of is that the McKennie/Christie contingent present on Christmas morning will be enjoying my world-famous Breakfast Enchiladas. Well, technically, they're Southern Living's Breakfast Enchiladas. But whatever. Details, shmee-tails. And 'cause I'm cool like that, I'm going to share. So here you go:
1 lb package hot ground pork sausage
2 T butter
4 green onions, thinly sliced
2 T chopped fresh cilantro
14 (yes, you’re reading that correctly) large eggs, beaten
3/4 t salt
1/2 t pepper
Cheese Sauce (recipe to follow)
8 (8”) flour tortillas
1 c Pepper Jack cheese
Cook sausage in a large non-stick skillet over medium-high heat, stirring until sausage crumbles and is no longer pink. Remove from pan and drain.
Melt butter in a large non-stick skillet over medium heat. Add green onions and cilantro, saute 1 minute. Add eggs and scramble. Remove from heat and fold in 1 1/2 cups of cheese sauce and all of the sausage. Sppon 1/3 cup of egg mixture down middle of each tortilla and roll, placing seam side down in a lightly greased 9x13 baking dish. Pour remaining cheese sauce over tortillas and sprinkle with all of Pepper Jack. Bake at 350 for 30 minutes or until bubbly.
1/3 c butter
1/3 c flour
3 c milk
2 c shredded cheddar cheese
1 (4.5 oz) can chopped green chiles, undrained
3/4 t salt
Melt butter in heavy saucepan over medium-low heat; whisk in flour until smooth. Cook, whisking constantly, 1 minute. Gradually whisk in milk; cook over medium heat, whisking constantly, 5 minutes or until thickened. Remove from heat and whisk in remaining ingredients.
I like to serve this with fresh guacamole, sour cream and a good New Mexican red chile sauce. The cool thing about this is that you can prepare it a couple of days before and then just toss it in the oven while pouring copious amounts of Bailey's into your coffee mug. So there you have it! You will amaze your family who will undoubtedly wonder aloud as mine often does, "How does he/she do it when he/she is half-crocked most of the time?" Haaaaaaa, suckas......I can accomplish more half-crocked than most clowns can accomplish completely UN-crocked. If un-crocked is not a word, it should be. Trust me. You want to keep me crocked. If I wasn't I may well take over the world. And then who knows what might happen. Disclaimer: I am not half-crocked most of the time. A quarter-crocked perhaps but half is a gross exaggeration.
Monday, December 7, 2009
So I'm at the pet store purchasing hamster supplies. Not the actual hamster as that's gonna have to wait 'til Christmas Eve. And then I'm not sure what we're going to with our boy Rhino 'til the next morning but we'll figure it out. The lady at the checkout is all like, "Oh.....a hamster! Is this a first pet?" I explain that no, my son has grown up with a lab and that we now have a 6-month old lab puppy. And four extremely exciting fish. Stripey, Tory, Garry and Larry. Larry is my favorite. He's a cut-up. At the mere mention of Grady, pet-store lady visibly bristles and says, "Will you be able to keep the dog away from the hamster?" and I must not have answered quickly enough as she said, "You do know that labs eat hamsters". Oh for fuck's sake. It's not like I'm going to feed it to a Boa Constrictor. Have you been talking to my mother, lady? I didn't come here looking for an opinion from your ass. I came to purchase this fancy hamster habitat and shiny red hamster race-car. Hamster helmet sold separately. Ring 'er up and enough with the lip. The only problem is that I'm pretty sure that given the eyeball she was giving me, they're going to hang up a picture of me so that noone will sell me a freakin' hamster. A wanted poster that says, "Hamster Hater" or something. Yeah, I look really menacing. My demure demeanor belies the beast that lurks within. Perhaps it would be advisable to visit a different Petsmart location to procure Rhino. In another state.
Holy crap......my dog coughed up another sock today. This does not bode well for "Rhino" the hamster. We don't own Rhino yet. This hamster is the only thing Jack wants for Christmas. My mom does not support this idea. Because I am a grown-up, I summarily dismissed her unsolicited advice. "Goobie! The dog will eat the hamster". Whatever, mom. If the only thing your child wanted in this life was a goddamn hamster, wouldn't you give it to him? Oh wait, no, you probably wouldn't. Forgot about my hardscrabble upbringing. I probably got socks. Which reminds me, my mom actually DID get me socks last year for Christmas. Cashmere socks. That need to be hand-washed. Okaaayyyyyy........I don't have time to scratch myself but I've got time to hand-wash socks? And what, go put them out to dry with clothes pins on my imaginary clothes-line? But I digress. Hamster. Dog. Being a reasonable woman (an oxymoron if there ever was one, I know) I was trying to come up with a scenario in which the dog would actually get ahold of the hamster. Jack has repeatedly assured me that this could NEVER, EVER happen. "MOM....I'M NOT AN IDIOT!!!". Errrrr......okay. But you're ten. That makes you kind of an idiot. Anyway, Rhino is getting this swinging hamster-pad. It's even got a little hanging platform that Rhino can chill on in addition to the wheel. And because Rhino is a playa, he's getting not the "liberty ball" that normal hamsters get. No, no....he's getting a little car that serves as a hamster exercise vehicle. Jack is under the impression that Rhino will be wearing a little helmet while driving. He told me this. I think he's going to be sorely disappointed with the whole hamster experience in general but when he finds out that hamsters can't drive he's going to be devastated. I wish they could drive......"Hey Rhino......can you come pick me up? I was over-served. Yes, again, smartass. On your way? Awesome. Thanks, my man". Although he'd have to come in his tiny car and we all know my position on that. So with the cool crib and the car to contain him yet offer him unlimited freedom, Jack doesn't see how Rhino could possibly find himself in Grady's jaws of certain death. The more I think about it the more I hate to admit that my mom is probably right. And you just KNOW how the scene is going to play out. It'll be in the afterglow of Christmas morning and Jack will be putting Rhino in his vehicle. He'll drop him, Grady will snatch him up and all hell will break loose. Mom: "GOOOOBIEEEEE!!!!! THE DOG HAS THE HAMSTER!!!!!!!!" A chase will ensue. The dog, having practiced on multiple items of fine footwear will swallow it whole and give a hearty burp. And then look around, like, "What?!" This will result in screaming and crying from a child whose hamster dreams had all come true only to be crushed before they ever really had a chance to begin. And then there's the whole thing with my mom and the smug satisfaction that comes with being right. "Goobie, when will you learn to listen to your old mom?". Gack. Oh, and from the ever-sensitive dad....."How much did you spend on that thing?" Perfect. That's a very Christie Christmas right there. It's not a party 'til something gets broken. Or eaten.
I know, I know.....total cheeseball title. But it's a total cheeseball topic that we're about to embark on. And other than Tiger, it's the subject du jour. You know, these "reality" idiots. Balloon Boy and Obama Girl. I'm not really even gonna count Obama husband as he's not really worth mention. He just looked like a waving lump of sorts. Let me begin by saying that if for one second, you ever thought to yourself, "Gee, there should be a TV show about me", it instantly disqualifies you. Interesting people are actually too busy being interesting to have this thought occur to them. If you truly, in your heart of hearts, think people should know more about you, then no, we shouldn't. Truly. You have never been more wrong about anything in your entire, sorry life. And you're a big dork. Take Balloon Boy (please!). It's really "Balloon Dad" in question but the whole ridiculous episode can be summed up and referred to as "Balloon Boy". This particularly chafes me as I happen to live in the state in which this occurred. Oh, and I got sucked in. I was watching. And half expecting Balloon Boy to come flying down my chimney at any given moment. We all know how this turned out. Balloon Dad thought the world needed to see more of him and so he hatched this brilliant scheme. I'm not really interested in the life of some idiot with bad hair that lets his kid barf on national television while he goes yammering on. Apparently Balloon Dad bought into the theory that "there is no bad publicity". Actually, there is. It's the kind that loudly announces to the world that you are a complete and utter douche bag and has the potential to land you in jail. Personally, I consider that bad. But that's just me. And then this Obama person. Supposedly she is a socialite/model who wanted to get on the Real Housewives of DC. Now, I'm not much into the social scene. My inappropriate behavior and tendency towards toppling into ice sculptures and winding up partially clothed in fountains dictates that I really should stay away. That being said I'm pretty sure that actual socialites don't want to get on reality shows 'cause um.....they don't need to? Most of the people that I know that have a shit load of money prefer to fly under the radar rather than announce their fabulosity on Bravo. And the model thing? Why is it that if you've ever had your picture taken, you're a freakin' model? Being a skinny blonde with fake boobs does not qualify you as such. Sorry. In this particular case, there is the whole "horse-face" issue at hand. Horse-faces are fine......on horses. If you need to tell people you're a model, you're not. You've had your picture taken. The bottom line is that if you are truly a fascinating creature, fate will find you. The whole desperation of these two incidents alone tells me that I don't need to know anymore about these people. Entertainment is supposed to be an escape from our own miserable existences. I don't really want to spend an hour watching the life you mangled so badly that you needed to get on TV to save yourself. The bottom line is that if you require a stunt to garner attention so that you'll get a reality show, you shouldn't have one. Oh, except for me. I really should have a show. And I'm going to do something really fucking stupid to prove it. Nothin' up my sleeve.....andddd, PRESTO! Stay tuned.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
I woke up in a cold sweat during the middle of the night. I initially thought this was largely due to the dog sleeping on my head. Upon further investigation it was not just the dog-hat but the sudden realization that I've got to throw Jack's class "Holiday" party in less than two weeks. Not really a problem as I've done tons of classroom parties over the last five years. What makes this particular party a challenge is that we must NOT refer to it as a Christmas party nor include any elements of Christmas in the execution of said soiree. Dude. It's a freakin' Christmas party. I know it. You know it. We have become so politically corrrect and fearful of offending people that we are making assholes of ourselves. "Ohhhh.....can't say 'Christmas'!". God forbid. Although I have a propensity towards gross exaggeration, I do not believe I am doing so when I state that 97% of the student body at Jack's school celebrates Christmas. It's pretty homogeneous. What happened to majority rules? It's not like we're mocking other religions or excluding the remaining 3%. And if there is a child in Jack's class this year that celebrates something else, I would LOVE to accommodate them and learn about their celebration. Throw it into the mix. That's cool. Cultural diversity. I'm all for it. Pretending that the winter holidays are secular however, is total bullshit. It's not about snowmen. And snowflakes. And fuckin' penguins. 'Cause that's pretty much what we're left with. Can't do reindeer as they're related to Santa which is related to Christmas. Elves? Nope. Candy Canes? Can't have those at a CHRISTMAS PARTY that can't be called a Christmas party. It seems to me that by pretending that there is no religious background to these celebrations we're doing our kids a disservice. The attempt to not offend at all costs is teaching our kids a crappy lesson. Life is offensive. Get used to it. It offends me daily. Another thing that offends me and happens to fit right into our little discussion this morning is parents who use the school as a forum to create Hollywood-style spectacles in an attempt to show everyone how fabulous they are. Were it sanctioned, Rudolph the flippin' Red Nosed Reindeer would be at the party giving flying rides and signing autographs. It's really, really ridiculous. And it bugs people. Take the money with which you are buying party favors engraved with each child's name and give it to the teacher who actually needs it for classroom supplies. The kids do not need this shit. Particularly at a school like Jack's where they are largely a pack of spoiled little cretins. My own cretin included. The last thing that child needs is more "stuff" particularly at this time of year. It's ridiculous. Bring some cupcakes and punch, play "Winter Wonderland" BINGO, give the kids a little bag of lead-filled trinkets from China courtesy of Oriental Trading Co., and you're gold. I've never had a complaint. They're kids. They don't notice the catered meal you've provided for the parents to enjoy or the hot chocolate bar with Godiva 97% cacao shavings, hand-whipped cream and candy-cane stirrers. Rule violation with the candy canes, by the way. The bottom line is that people know what you're doing. We're not all saying, "Oh, isn't that wonderfully fabulous". We're saying, "Oh, aren't you a couple of dumb-asses". And it's annoying as hell. Knock it off. And Merry Christmas to ya.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
In what may come as a complete shocker to some (okay, ALL) of you, I am the "Room Mother" for my son's class. I think I've also mentioned that I'm on the board of the PTA. That's right. Me. I'm infiltrating the ranks in an attempt to advance my evil agenda. Well, not really. Having an evil agenda just sounds kinda good. Anyway, I was thinking that I need to get my ass in gear regarding teacher gifts. A couple of years ago I sent home a flyer and collected money from familes and bought the teacher a Visa gift card. I swear to God, she freakin' cried. People. These teachers do NOT need anything with apples. Anywhere. Ever. Unless it's their very first teaching job, they have drawers and boxes teeming with this shit. For all I know, they get together and have a big ol' hoo-ha of a bonfire and burn it all. I know I would. They also don't need anything that says, "#1 Teacher". Oh boy. "Gee, thanks, Billy! A stupid little teddy bear holding an apple! I can pay my bills with this! All of my Christmas dreams have come true. NEXT." Having spent a fair amount of time in my child's classroom, I can only say that "underpaid and over-worked" is an "under-STATEMENT". They are working with our kids, some of whom are complete little shits (not mine of course....he's too busy drinking margaritas while locked in his room in an attempt to escape my verbal bitch slapping to be an ass-pain) for not a whole lot of money. And some of the parents? Go back and read my "Gifted and Talented" entry. Dealing with some of these idiots alone is a good argument for teacher-combat pay. Oh, I've seen it. I've nearly strangled some of 'em at PTA meetings, so I can't imagine sitting one on one with them. I'd have to go to my "happy place" to get through five-minutes worth of conference. And probably have a bottle of something in my desk drawer. And be pretty liberal with pouring it into my "Teachers Do it With Class" coffee mug. But that's just me. It's a pretty important gig these folks have. They clearly are not in it for the money but because they love kids. This, along with a plethora of quite offensive and obvious character flaws, is why I'm not a teacher. The very thought of home-schooling sends shivers up my spine. It's convulsion inducing, really. I can't even sit through homework without losing it. These people are mutha scratchin' saints. Give them MONEY. Oh, and get this.....some teacher friends of mine were asking for supplies in lieu of Christmas teacher appreciation gifts. Supplies. FOR YOUR CHILDREN. This is the kind of person that is attracted to this profession. They're good eggs. Go hug a teacher. And drop some green on their asses. They deserve it.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Here's the other thing about Tiger. People have affairs. It's not pretty but it's true. Happens every day. This however, is not a case wherein he found himself married to Elin but having fallen in love with someone else. What truly boggles the mind is that these girls were apparently not one night stands. HE HAD LONG TERM RELATIONSHIPS WITH THEM!!!! "THEM" being the particularly boggling part. As in more than one. So essentially, Tiger assembled a harem. And thought he wouldn't get caught. Um, hello, Stanford? I think one got past ya.
Heh, heh, heh.......Tiger, Tiger, Tiger. You silly boy. Did ya REALLY think that these girls were not going to out you? Seriously? Nightclub hostesses. Not the world's smartest move. The reason they are working as nightclub hostesses is that they don't have any damn money. They are hoping to meet a nice young man like yourself. A nice young man that happens to be loaded. They're not just interested in your winning grin and twinkly eyes. They see dollar signs, my dear. It's a story as old as the ages. You should have taken a lesson from Greg Norman, who fired up an affair with Chris Everett. They were both married at the time, but no matter. This stuff happens. Chris Everett was not after Greg's money. Nope. She was all about The Shark, baby. Surely, Tiger, you come across some good lookin' independently wealthy women. You're a professional golfer for Christ's sake. Country Clubs. People raised understanding discretion. Like me! I'm nothing if not discreet! Oh wait a second, no I'm not....... and I'm a little busy at present what with the being married and all. Didn't stop that Chrissy Everett though! Oh, and Tiger, THREE women at the same time? Not including your wife? You took that "Just Do It" thing pretty seriously. Just do it, and do it, and do it and that over there........I'm getting tired just thinking about it. Bad, bad Tiger.
Why do kids seem to take the few missteps that you've made as a parent and not just run with them but weave them into the fabric of their life's story? In this case, "My Sucky Mother" by Jack Christie. It's not the nights that you've gone without sleep because you were making costumes for his school play.......oh,not just for him...for the entire GRADE..... that they remember. Not the great talks you've had and the tears you've wiped and the ridiculous ass birthday parties you've thrown year after grinding year. It's not the room-mothering or the carefully packed lunches (complete with cutesy note) or the field-trip chaperoning. Here's what MY child remembers. We're driving to school a few weeks ago and outta the back seat comes, "Hey Mom! Remember when you guys used to lock me in my room?". WHAT?!!!! We did not LOCK him in his room. Well, we kinda did but it was for his own good. It was that horrible stage in which the child is getting used to a big-boy bed and keeps coming out and coming out and coming out of his room. They sell child-baffling handle covers for normal door knobs but we did not HAVE normal doorknobs. So we fashioned up a little device that prevented him from opening the door. He was NEVER locked in his room all night. This lasted about a week and solved the problem. Apparently this was a very emotionally damaging week in the life of young Jack as it's a rather popular theme with him. GET THE HELL OVER IT. Then there's the, "Hey Mom! Remember when you completely lost it when we were leaving Gymboree and started screaming at me?". Why yes, Jack, I do. And the reason I remember it so vividly is that IT HAPPENED ONCE. ONCE. Do you know how many mom's lose their shit on their kid's DAILY? I have lost my shit on you once. In TEN years. Apparently I should have done it more often as it wouldn't have been such an "event" for you. It's not too late to start. Oh, and that day? You were being an ass of epic proportions. The fact that you were three notwithstanding. And rounding out the trifecta of the horrible things that have happened to Jack Christie (as there truly are only three......trust me, I'd have heard about it if there were more.....) is, "Hey Mom! Remember when you gave me a margarita?" OH FOR GOD'S SAKE. I did not give him a margarita. Well, I actually did but I didn't know it at the time. We were up at the family cottage and I was out on the porch somewhat engrossed in a book. Jack comes up and asks if he can have a glass of lemonade. Sure. That's summery. Shiny happy childhood memory in the making! Having a glass of lemony goodness on the porch with good ol' mom. So I go into the kitchen, probably with my nose still in the book and grab a pitcher of lemonade. Put ice in the glass, walk back to porch and hand it to 8-year old son. And promptly go back to reading. "Hey Mom! This isn't lemonade. It's a grown-up drink". No it's not Jack, it's lemonade. I just poured it out of the pitcher myself. "MOM! I'm not drinking this....I'm telling you it's not lemonade". Fine. Take sip. JESUS CHRIST!!!!! YOU ARE CORRECT. THAT IS NOT LEMONADE. There's one shiny happy childhood memory down the shitter. Especially when followed by the running through the house screaming, "GRANDMAAAAA!!!!!! MOM JUST GAVE ME A MARGARITA!!!!!!". Excuse me but it was an accident. I would never give my child alcohol. At least not on purpose. That would be a complete waste of a perfectly nice cocktail. What I would like to know is what kind of a half-wit puts margaritas in a lemonade pitcher and then neglects to tell ME about it??!!! Was somebody hoarding? Or trying to trick me? Is that what passes for an intervention in my family? Well it backfired, dumbasses. All I know is that I had better get my ass upstairs and start making some magical Christmas tree shaped gingerbread pancakes or something before my little darling awakes from sugar-plum slumber. I clearly need to start making up for lost time. I've still got 9 years.