Sunday, February 28, 2010
I'm pretty glad that the Olympics are coming to an end today. Just couldn't really get into this one. It started with a death which isn't all that inspirational. And other than hockey (USA! USA!) the winter sports are pretty stupid. Some of those curling dudes were wearing some seriously sweet trou but other than that, I don't really get it. Bobsledding and luge seem to be pretty talentless pursuits, but what do I know? Although I've slid down plenty of things in dramatic fashion, albeit unintentionally. And the two-man thing? Seriously? "Okay......here's the deal.....you're going to lay on your back and then this other dude is going to lay on top of you and we're going to shoot you down a gigantic shot slide". If you want my opinion (and of course you do!), that position is a little familiar for any two people outside of a committed relationship. What if something "comes up"? Adrenaline can be a turn on. "Uh, Johann....do ya mind?" Figure skating is a yawn and I find the outfits and make-up the men wear to be rather disturbing. If I wanted to go to a drag show I'd do just that. And I don't really want to see the speed-skaters in their "WAY too much information suits". I have just found the whole thing to be somewhat snooze-worthy. Like I said, I'm looking forward to the hockey game today but will not be bothering with the closing ceremonies. And I really could have lived without the knowledge that Celine Dion will not be performing because she is undergoing fertility treatments. (French accent), "My poor Renee......his boys are not....how you say? Swimmers?". Gack. Uh, girl? You married someone old enough to be your GRANDFATHER and are now surprised that he's shooting blanks? You're a smart lady. Anyway, I want my regular programming back on now, please. And, scene.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
I just had to laugh at myself because in case you hadn't noticed, I really am a bit of an idiot. I was just getting dressed and happened to notice that gee, I sure could use a pedicure. I'll spare you the details. You're welcome. Anyway, I recalled that Jack had given me a couple of pedi gift certificates for Christmas. Yay, right? Well, yay until I went to look for them. Organization is not my strong suit. Things might look all nice and pretty but be careful when you open any given cupboard 'cause things might fall on your head. Like a bowling ball. Or worse. So when I went to retrieve said certificates in the "junk drawer" (one of several, really), I wasn't all that surprised when I couldn't find them. I tore apart not just one but all of the drawers, my panic escalating as each came up empty, pedi-wise anyway. See, I am the type of person that if something is misplaced, it is GONE FOREVER. This causes particular panic amongst the Holy Trinity of "expensive shit I'd completely freak if I lost" which is comprised of my purse and wallet, which count as one as they are pals, my sunglasses (ridiculously, panic inducingly expensive......and a gift to boot), and my iPhone. I become convinced at least once a month that one or ALL of these have become "lost for good". This is particularly bad after a raucous night out in which the sunglasses, phone and wallet were all IN the purse and the purse is nowhere to be found. I'm surprised I haven't had an aneurysm yet in those few moments between declaring something sucked into the black void of "gone forever" and "Oh, thank God......it's in the back seat of the car". During those moments, Dave is calmly standing by, saying, "I'm sure you'll find it......you always do" and me saying, "NOT THIS TIME......THIS TIME IT'S REALLY GONE!!!!" This is always followed by, "Oh, here it is". Nervous chuckle. Anyway, I found the pedi certificates. They were in my address book. Probably under "P". I try to be logical........it's just that most of me does not "get" logical. And therein lies the rub. Dang.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Because I have to go to a freakin' fourth grade ORCHESTRA concert tonight, my thoughts have turned to cocktails. WHO IN THE ASS THROWS A KID CONCERT ON A FRIDAY NIGHT???? As I just told a couple of facebook friends, go ahead and have it on a Friday but be prepared for the consequences. Such as Mrs. Christie stumbling down the aisle to her seat and yelling, "This is BULLSHIT!!!" Because there will be cocktails before, possibly during and definitely after. I'm joking, mother.....calm down. Wait. Mother knows I'm not joking. I am joking about the "during". Schools are a Drug Free Zone. And I respect that, damnit! Anyway, this unfortunate predicament has inspired me to start another weekly segment. Consider it a boozy companion to WTF'S For Dinner. This Friday, I will bestow upon you my very favorite potent potable.......the Christierita. Yummmmm.
2 parts tequila (good tequila.....Sauza Hornitos or better)
1 part triple sec
1 part Christierita mix (recipe below) The only pre-made mix you can ever, ever use is Freshies. The rest is crap.
Fill a cocktail shaker about 1/2 way with ice. Pour in tequila, triple sec and shake it up, baby. Shake that thing........and prepare for your world to be rocked. Altered, really.
3 c water
3 c sugar
2 c fresh lime juice
Combine water and sugar in a saucepan and bring to a boil. As soon as it comes to a boil, remove from heat and cool. When cool, add lime juice and stir it up! This can sit in your refrigerator for as long as a week however I don't believe it's ever lasted that long around here.
Anyway, enjoy! I believe I will be shaking up a batch of these in fairly short order. Cheers!
Okay. Now I'm finally back to Rhino. Having been in Jack's room cleaning, I've determined that the lingering odor permeating the air is simply pre-teen boy rather than festering hamster corpse. It smells more like an armpit than the heavy stench of decay. Not that an armpit isn't a heavy stench but the fact that it's not a hairy armpit helps. So I figure his room is going to start smelling worse before it gets better. Anyway, when we left off, Rhino was missing and presumed dead. There was no body at the funeral. We were fairly certain that he never left the confines of Jack's room and as we have a boiler-style heating system, there is no ventwork for the little guy to tunnel through. The room was quite thoroughly investigated. My theory was that Grady got him. I keep expecting the little thing to come up intact much like the socks he coughs up so unceremoniously. A little worse for the wear due to stomach acids but recognizable. Nothin'. So no smell, no body. Huh. Until last Sunday when Dave was pulling something out of a cupboard and said, "Is that what I think it is?" I was expecting the hamster formerly known as Rhino. Nope. Rodent droppings. I'm pretty sure we don't have mice. Or haven't since we've lived here. I think they were Rhino turds. I think Rhino is living the good life in our house. Humming the theme song to "Born Free". Probably takes his damn car out at night and races around kitchen only to go back into hiding at the crack of dawn. Food and drink shouldn't be a problem. We have a ten-year old who drops alot of food, sometimes in places that even Grady can't get to. And shit, I slosh enough wine and tequila around that Rhino is not just having his hydration needs met but is damn happy. If we DO have mice, he's probably leading them around the living room in a conga line. He's probably even got a little sombrero. I hope he's enjoying himself. Rock on, Rhino. Since it's Friday, I'll try to spill a little extra.
Jack: "Mom, can I get a microwave for my room?" Me: "WHAT????" What the hell does a ten-year old need a freakin' MICROWAVE in his room for? Is he going to cook up some Ramen Noodles or something when he needs a midnight snack? And if such things were stocked in our house, couldn't he just walk down the hall and use the microwave in the kitchen? Or in the bar? We have two microwaves. He also said he wants a refrigerator. Same argument. Get off your ass and walk to the kitchen. Jack's room is a shrine to all of the things I swore I would NEVER do. I would NEVER let my child have a TV in his room. And video games? The devil's handmaiden. I would NEVER have such things in my house. May as well just give him a gun and tell him to shoot at bunnies to get him started down the path to deviant and violent behavior. Computer? Why not just send out invitations to perverts willing to exploit my little darling! With directions to our house! Uh, let's just say you should never say never. Jack's room is like a freakin' apartment. A really NICE apartment. One whole wall is floor to (almost) ceiling window. With golf course view. Very important. His grandfather bought him a flat-screen for Christmas. Oh, and the video game thing that in my previous life I held out as akin to child abuse? He's got the Wii but that's in the family room. And YES, we bought him an X-Box 360 for Christmas. And yes, it's in his room. I know. He also has a bathroom and an extremely large walk in closet. This closet is stuffed with fabulous articles of clothing, owing in large part to the fact that he is the only nephew of an enthusiastic and very generous Uncle who concerns himself with such things as fashion. Also in Jack's crib? A gigantic bean bag. Wouldn't want to be uncomfortable while watching the flat screen or playing X-Box. The one thing that isn't in his room is a computer. I fear that this may be a matter of time as we have two computers in our home and three users. That may be next. Oh, and he's got a pretty sweet iPod Touch dock so he can rock out. I honestly don't see him sometimes for hours on end. Can you blame him? I want to hang out in that room. Looks like fun. He's getting the big NEGATORY on the microwave though. Somehow I thought the first time I was invited to dinner at my son's apartment it would be OUTSIDE of my home. He's probably never going to leave. May as well give him an address, doorbell and a mailbox. Maybe a "Welcome" mat. That'd be pretty sweet. Anyway the bottom line is that I am a horrible, awful hypocrite that will be very careful what she says she will "never" do in the future. I will never say never again. Uh.......
Thursday, February 25, 2010
It's a snowy afternoon here in Colorado, which is actually kind of nice. I had to race home from Pilates to meet the HVAC guy who was here to fix our heat for the second time in a week. Kinda need heat in the winter in these parts. So I'm upstairs, barricaded with Grady so that the poor guy is not mauled and I'm waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more. He calls me down and proceeds to explain the entire (rather complicated) boiler situation. I DON'T CARE. I just want my heat fixed. So three hours later, it's determined that a faulty valve has been installed and that's that. But then he wants to chat. I DON'T WANT TO CHAT. I'm not a chatter! What I want to do is this: get in my awesome bathtub and soak in a big ol' pile of bubbles, try to "find my center" and relax a little. Maybe even light a candle. If it were an acceptable hour to commence boozing I would have poured a glass of the zin'. But alas, it was not. Anyway, he finally leaves and I fire up the tub, pour in the Mr. Bubble (which I swear by......it's the only stuff that truly fills your bath with bubbles. Oh, and Mr. Bubble says he "makes getting clean almost as much fun as getting dirty". Wouldn't be too sure about that one Mr. Bubble......shit......I'm arguing with a bubble) and soak my troubles away. I get in, am looking out the window at the deer and the red rocks and SPLASH. Grady is halfway in the tub. The half that wasn't in apparently thought this was great sport as his tail was wagging a mile a minute. Oh, for fuck's sake. Have to get up, naked as a jaybird and extract dog from tub. This ruined the mood. And was not very relaxing. So now, I think I'm going to grab some firewood, make a fire and try to read for a little before it's time for Jack to get home. Why am I under the distinct impression that this is not going to happen? Probably because it's not. Dogs. What a good idea. He will grab a log from the fireplace while I'm trying to light it, probably partially lit. He will then carry the flaming log in his mouth while he tears around the pool table, a frantic me in hot (no pun intended) pursuit. Odds are, something is going to end up on fire and it's probably going to be me.
So while I was scrolling through pics, I found this one. Jack looks uneasy. With good reason. A few years ago we went to Steamboat over Labor Day weekend. I'm more of a Summit County gal, but what the hell. Something new, blah, blah, blah. One of the things it was recommended that we do was go the Strawberry Park Hot Springs. 'Kay. I'm game. It was pretty difficult to get to, so I figured it must be worth the ride. Got there. Yep.....really pretty. Pay our admission, grab our towels and off we go. Stop to look at the rules. "No children after dark". Um, that should have been our first clue that something was amiss. Oh, and did I forget to mention that clothing is "optional" after dark? I make a mental note to never visit this place at night because I have observed over time that the people who opt to not wear clothing are the very ones who really should remain as covered as is humanly possible. Anyway, we get in, we paddle about and move around from pool to pool......they are of varying temperatures and for awhile this was all just Jim-dandy. Until Jack says, "Mom......what's that?" OH. MY. GOD. It's a condom! A USED condom. "Well, Jack you see when a man and a woman love each other....." NOT. This conversation is NOT happening in this place and in this fashion. ALL CHRISTIE'S OUT. NOW. It seems that children are not allowed at night BECAUSE PEOPLE ARE SCREWING IN THE HOT SPRINGS. Cue the porn music. As one friend recently said, "Bow chicka bow bow". My question is WHY? Why can't you do this at home? Or in your own damn hot tub? Or if you like getting it on with other people present, join a freakin' swingers club or something. My God. I was just so grossed out. And don't even get me started on the logistics of it all. In the water? Barely out of the water? Over there on that rock? The pictures this brings to mind may well put me off of sex for the rest of my life. While recalling this horrific event, I went to the park's official website to see if it could shake anything else loose from the dusty corners of my brain where I store all of the disturbing shit. Under the FAQ section, I found this:
4. Q: What type of lighting should I expect at night? A: Very little. We seriously attempt to allow the pool setting to be as natural as possible. Little light means better star gazing (and scroinking) so please bring flashlights or headlamps (and an industrial sized pack of rubski's) if you are planning on staying after dark.
Let's see........towel.....check. Flashlight.....check. Box o' Trojans (ribbed, for her pleasure!)....check. All set? Let's go. Uh.....I think I'll pass. And I think I need to go rub my body in hand sanitizer. I still feel dirty. Stupid pictures.
No, onion rings are NOT wtf's for dinner. I was just scrolling through old pictures and thought this was cute. He's at a restaurant. Dinner. Get it? Thought so. Oh and CALM DOWN, mother......people with blogs post pictures of their children all the time and they are not ending up on the side of a milk carton. Don't you have a golf swing to practice or something? Or go bug dad. He likes that. He told me. Anyway, because I was a total slacker last week, I'm giving you guys not one but TWO recipes! Contain your enthusiasm. I'm a giver.
Mollie's Food Processor Pesto
4 c loosely packed fresh basil leaves
3 garlic cloves
1 c sun dried tomatoes in oil
1/2 t salt
1/4 c olive oil (be prepared to drizzle in a little more if needed to get the consistency you desire.....it's gross if it's too oily though)
1 1/2 c GOOD parmesan cheese. (Costco has it)
Place basil, garlic and sundried tomatoes in the processor and pulse until minced. Add the salt and the olive oil. Now here's the tricky part......CAREFULLY remove blade from processor bowl and replace it with the shredding wheel. Shred the cheese into the processor bowl (with previously minced ingredients still in it). Remove shredding wheel and replace it with blade. CAREFULLY (Deep Thoughts is not responsible for any missing digits). Pulse to combine. Boil linguine or fettucine according to package directions. Rinse. Combine pesto with pasta. If you like pine nuts, throw some on. And you can serve this with slices of grilled chicken but I don't really think it's necessary. Top with more shredded parm. Yummy.
Potato and Spinach Soup
1/2 chopped onion
2 T butter
2 c water
1 t salt
2 c potatoes (about 1 lb raw)
2 c cooked chopped spinach (fresh or frozen)
13 oz evaporated milk (one standard can)
1 t Worcestershire sauce
1/2 lb grated cheese (cheddar or swiss work best but any kind will do)
In a 3 quart sauce pan, sautee the onion until translucent (about three minutes). Add water, potatoes, spinach and salt. Cook until the potatoes are tender (about 20 minutes). Add milk and Worcestershire sauce. Reheat to near boiling but do not boil. Stir in grated cheese. Serve immediately.
That is damn good soup. Serve it with a salad and crusty bread and you will have once again wowed your family. You, my friend, deserve a cocktail. Oh, and happy Thursday everybody! As one annoying local newscaster likes to say, "It's Friday eve!". Like that hadn't occurred to us. We are professionals.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Okay, I honestly do not know how people with more than one child can manage their lives. And I realize I'm the freak as I'm definitely in the minority. People seem to like them their gaggle of offspring! I always meant to have two but never really got around to it, which has turned out to be somewhat fortuitous. Between the ski trip on Monday, orchestra practice that night, tutoring on Tuesday morning, basketball practice tonight, talent show tryouts on Friday and the freakin' orchestra CONCERT on FRIDAY NIGHT (Are you f'ing kidding me? Has this band dork teacher never heard of HAPPY HOUR???? Pisses me off), I don't know which way is up this week. Then there's the basketball GAME on Saturday. Last one, but then lacrosse fires up on Monday, when practice begins. As you other mamacita's know, it's a merry-go-round that spins 'round and 'round for the duration. As Jack says after a particularly well-timed zinger, "Thank you ladies and gentlemen.....I'll be here 'til college!" Yes you will, my dear. Don't get me wrong. I LOVE Jack and am happy to support his interests. And Dave is really good about driving to most of this stuff. If I had one more child let alone any more than that, I do believe my head would pop right off of my body. I do not know how people do that. And some of them have jobs. Unfathomable. I believe I would be main-lining heroin if my schedule was that frenetic. Chasing the dragon, I believe my dad calls it. He's very street. Actually, he's not. He's locked in a gated golf course community in Arizona, which is probably for the best. But those retirees know the lingo. Word. Anyway, I figure that this is a case of the universe giving you what you can handle, which in this case is exactly one perfectly lovely child. Thank you, universe. You rock.
You know, there are times that I really, really regret choosing to use my real name in the title of this blog. I kind of thought I'd be essentially amusing myself and venting and practicing my writing chops. Thanks to stuff like facebook and twitter, there are apparently people all over the world that read my idiotic ramblings. And that is pretty fly. The problem is that by using my real name, I am limited in what I can say. There are people in my life that do some really amusing shit but whom would be easily identified if even they remained nameless or if I bestowed a pseudonym upon. And they don't WANT to be identified. I don't really understand this but I have to respect it. I certainly don't care. Clearly. I'm kind of a social media whore. Then there's Dave, Jack and my parents who really have no choice in the matter. They're A material and they're gonna get mentioned. Skewered really. Sorry guys. Start being "normal" and you will cease to be of interest. Having known these people for 42, 21 and 11 years respectively, I can assure you that this is not going to happen. Ever. I get emails from people all the time saying, "Your life can't be nearly as crazy as it seems.......you're making this stuff up, right?". Um, nope. It's actually considerably crazier than it sounds. In oh so many ways. Had I called it "Insane Ramblings From One Boozy Broad", I could let it fly and if the shit hit the fan, it wouldn't be MY fan. Well it would, but you know what I'm saying. The reason this even entered my mind is that what I write about in this space is my life and sometimes it's frustrating to not be able to let it all out. Stupid people and their stupid feelings that need to be protected. Grrrr. Wonder if "Deep Thoughts From Mollie X" is available. Hmmmm. Think anybody would be the wiser? Nah. Alrighty.......I'm off. Hopefully some insane shit will go down today that I actually CAN write about. Stay tuned.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Due to the fact that I represent at Jack's school sufficiently, I did not feel one bit guilty about making Dave chaperone the fourth grade cross-country ski trip yesterday. Apparently when asked if anyone had parents that would like to volunteer, Jack raised his hand and said, "My mom will do it......she doesn't have a job!" Thanks, pal. That's me......jobless Mollie Christie, sitting here, bored and just hoping that some philanthropic activity will come my way and give me a reason to live. Uh, I don't think so. Anyway, Dave went. They actually had a pretty good time. He did, however, experience the one major problem I have consistently encountered while out on class field trips. There's always one little weasel in the bunch. And I do not discipline other people's children. Not my job. But when you're in charge of them, this puts you in a rather precarious position. One of Dave's charges was not digging on the skiing thing and would fall and not get up and apparently was complaining a good bit. If it was your own kid you'd tell him to get off of his ass and quit complaining or "I'll give you something to complain about" like sitting in the car while the rest of us have fun. Can't do that with other people's kids. "Mrs. Christie was mean to me". So, not only is Mrs. Christie a horrible woman who drinks and swears (but not around children.....I limit the drinking and swearing to my own child and the children of close friends who are aware of Mrs. Christie's patterns of behaviors and think exposure to "colorful" people is a character enhancing experience for young minds) and who writes horrible things about "mom jeans" and the PTA but is a CHILD HATER to boot. NOT TRUE. I love kids. Babies, not so much. But kids rock. I just don't want to have to correct someone who has not sprung forth from my body. To me, that's the parents job. And if your kid is a little shit, it's not my mission in life to figure out how you'd like to approach it. I know there are lots of people out there that have no problem handing a verbal bitch slap to an out of line little shit. Maybe I'm a big chicken. El pollo grande. Or maybe that's just outside of my comfort zone. This is why I love teachers. They have authority over such matters and can be counted on to deal with it when Johnny says, "Mrs. Christie, did you know that fuck is a word?" "Why yes, Johnny, Mrs. Christie is well aware of this fact". TEACHER!!!!! JOHNNY SAID FUCK!!!!!! Problem solved. AND, scene.
I know I bitch alot about other drivers. But there is a reason for it. When it takes you 10 minutes longer than it should to get home from dropping your child off at school because of a jackass behind the wheel of an automobile you become rather chafed. Or at least I do. But I'm admittedly prickly, so maybe it's just me. I knew the minute I got stuck behind this person driving a small Japanese sedan (sedans are often the culprit for some reason) with four people in it, I was going to have problems. The road that you take to enter my 'hood is a two-lane and it's kinda curvy. It's also rather scenic. This causes people not familiar with this stretch of road to slow to approximately 10 miles an hour to oooh and ahhhh and look at all of the pretty colors and wildlife. Those of us that see it twenty times a day still appreciate it but would really like to just get home and get on with it. Anyway, this person did as expected and just meandered along. What made it worse is that for most of the time, she was engaged in conversation with her passengers and not even looking at the road. A car is not a rolling living room people. I half expected her to get up and start passing out canapes or something. It's like, "Excuse me? Am I not back here? While you're engaged in conversation? Trying to get home?". This lady needs to figure out that she's not the flight attendant, she's the PILOT. The person in charge of moving that vehicle from point A to point B. I really, really try to not fall victim to road rage but sometimes people make it hard. I admit that as I finally was able to get around the hostess with the mostest, I threw my hands up in the air as if to say, "Seriously?" So that's how I started my day. I'm now going to take Jack's advice and try to find my center.
Monday, February 22, 2010
I think I have mentioned that my husband is half Albanian. What is an Albanian you ask? Well, I had that very question myself upon encountering this fellow in an admittedly drunken stupor back in 1989. It's a small Mediterranean country bordering Greece. Albania is land of many goats. And some people. Apparently, women are not allowed to wear pants in Albania. No problems there....I'm not a fan of pants anyway. Or skirts. Just not a fan. Not that I'm planning on actually going to Albania. Ever. Apparently none of the streets are straight for any considerable stretch as they were trying to keep "the Americans from landing their planes and invading". Um, call me crazy but WHY IN THE ASS WOULD WE INVADE ALBANIA? Shortage of goat cheese? I also have heard tales that their hospitals do not have elevators. Headed to emergency surgery? Not a problem! Bajram here will throw you over his capable shoulders and carry you up the stairs! No matter that you're missing a limb and are clinging to life! "Hold on tight.....Bajram strong like bull!" And the national past-time involves kicking a severed goat-head (again with the goats) down a dusty road that zigs AND zags. So I believe we've established that Albania is a pretty fucked up place. Well, it seems that several years back, Dave made the discovery that since his grandmother was born in Albania, he is qualified to represent his ancestral homeland at the Olympics. Well, back then he figured he would be on the boxing team. He's a pretty big (and swarthy!) guy so he'd be a natural. Of course. I vaguely recall a heavy bag being installed in our basement but nothing really came of it other than making an unholy racket involving God knows what for approximately twoo weeks. I have since been laboring under the distinct impression that his Olympic dreams had been extinguished. Not so fast, Bucky. He is now considering being on the Albanian golf team in the next summer Olympiad. He will actually BE the Albanian golf team. There are NO GOLF COURSES IN ALBANIA, which leads me to the logical conclusion that there are NO GOLFERS IN ALBANIA. They may have something vaguely resembling frisbee golf but with goat parts instead of discs but I don't think anybody is walking around in wacky pants and swinging nine irons. So, the human interest story of the next summer games may be Dave Christie, half-Albanian with a heart of gold. I'm sure my son, who is one quarter Albanian (but chooses not to acknowledge it, eschewing it for his Scots/Irish heritage "'cause it looks like more fun"....touche) will be very proud. Can't WAIT to see Dave walking around that track wherever the next Olympics are held, wearing a goat on his head and waving an Albanian flag. Go Dave. Long live Albania.
Friday, February 19, 2010
You know how there are people called "brain surgeons" because they went to medical school and are therefore supposedly qualified to stick sharp objects into your open skull? And people called "mechanics" that rebuild your jacked up transmission? Well, there is a reason people are called "interior designers". While most lay people do not fancy themselves brain surgeons or mechanics, it seems that everybody and their damn grandma think that they are interior designers. This is almost as dangerous as practicing medicine without a license. I'm not kidding. I have seen some very, very bad things done to spaces at the hands of people who honestly believe they have a "flair". Oh, they've got a "flair" alright. A flair for shitty taste. And a penchant for the use of geese wearing bonnets as decor. News flash: GEESE DO NOT WEAR BONNETS. They just don't. And they don't carry baskets. THEY DON'T HAVE THUMBS!!!!! But I digress. First of all, there is a difference between an "interior decorator" and an "interior designer". An interior decorator may in fact be a very talented person who has honed his or her craft through experience. Not all decorators should be painted with the broad brush of crap. There are some very good ones. There are also some very, VERY bad ones. An "interior designer" by definition, is someone who had gone to an accredited school or university and has passed a series of tests. Having the appellation "ASID" after your name means you have met the standards of the American Society of Interior Designers and have passed the rather rigorous NCIDQ exam. They really don't teach you taste in design school. In my case, I have a bachelor's degree in interior design from Michigan State University, where I learned all aspects of interior architecture, which is what interior design really is. It's very little about fabrics and colors and a LOT about electrical systems and moving walls and lighting and hvac systems, etc., etc. The fact that I have pretty decent taste (independent sources confirm this) helps out too. I like design and I really, genuinely, from the bottom of my stony little heart know what I'm doing. For this reason, I get really frustrated when people try to second guess me. It may seem rather insane at the time but it almost always turns out looking pretty sweet. I'm working on a project right now that shall remain nameless for obvious reasons but which is aggravating the living shit out of me. It's a commercial space. It has been a rudderless ship to this point in time. A slew of people thinking they are gifted in the arena of interior design have added their two cents in piecemeal fashion for several years. Somebody described it as a "patchwork quilt" which is apt. It also appears to be a dumping ground for unwanted furniture as there is a couch in the space the likes of which I haven't seen since being groped in somebody's basement in 1984. It makes me itchy just looking at it. Not that's there anything wrong with a good old fashioned groping, mind you. I'm all for it. Just not on that nasty ass, blue velour couch. As a matter of fact, I think the groper in question may have been wearing a velour v-neck pullover. Underneath a Members Only jacket. Velour was not a good thing in the 80's and it's not a good thing now. Even in high end "track suits". Nobody's ass looks good in velour. Gross. Oops.....tangent alert. Sorry. Misty water colored memories. Anyway, this little design project is like a "two steps forward, one step back" kinda thing. I keep moving offending objects and they keep reappearing. There are a couple of vases filled with silk flowers that I swear to God must be zombies because they keep coming back from the dead. It's also entirely possible that someone is fucking with me because I have been informed that I'm "fun to tease". Hmmph. We'll see how fun it is when I'm hurling raggedy ass shit into a nearby pond like a crazy person. Hilarious. One way or the other, this place is going to start looking like it should. If it kills me. And it might.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
I think I told you guys that one tentacle in my octopus of good works is volunteering at my country club. Because, really......who is more deserving than a bunch of rich people? THEY HAVE NEEEEEDS!!!!! Our pool used to look like there should be chickens running around it! It was surrounded by a chain link fence! Can you say, "GHETTO"? NOONE should have to live like that. So, along with "Hats for Hobos" ('cause no hobo is going hatless on MY watch) I also donate my time to Pools for Preppies. It's way mo' betta now. Oh and lest you brand me a fancy lady because of all of these country club shenanigans, I'm not. Our club is more of the neighborhood varietal rather than Bushwood. Even so, you get some people that are rather impressed with themselves 'cause they belong to a country club PERIOD. I got a taste of this while working at the pool these past two summers. If you are dirty because you have been planting pots all day and toiling in the sun, you become invisible to a small percentage of the population. The same people that would have regarded me with that, "Hey.....I don't know you but you're one of 'us'" look were I lounging poolside look past you as if you're too insignificant to trifle with. I think this is freakin' hilarious. GET OVER YOURSELVES. You are no better than the people that work here! In fact, your lazy ass might be considerably contemptable. I judge people on merit rather than by social status, the latter of which is a great big pile of bullshit. I'm not going to sit here and claim that I have always felt this way. If I did my brother really WOULD start a blog called, "My Sister is Full of Shit". Word up, by the way, Tim. I was completely OBNOXIOUS when I was in college. To the point where my even my own parents couldn't stand my stuck-up ass. Life, however, has taught me some hard lessons and I have taken heart. I think alot of that crap is simply insecurity. If you lack self-esteem, being in the "right" sorority gives it to you in albeit shallow fashion. And who you hang out with and what kind of car you drive becomes central to your perceived worth. I don't need that shit to feel good about myself at this point in my life. I like people because they're cool or they're funny or they're good-hearted. Or keep a well-stocked bar and like to share. There are some of us out there though that seemingly don't evolve. I was intermittently covered with spackling and wielding a paint brush yesterday at the club. I know, again with the do-goodery. I'm an interior designer and the place needs some sprucing up. Instead of bitching about it, I decided to do something. You know, put your money where your mouth is. Again, REALLY funny........people just walk right past you like you're not there. The same old pervert that would have had his tongue hanging out of his mouth were I dressed for a club function sees me as simply the help. Oh and I'll remember that. Cop a feel and you're getting a drink tossed in your face. Wait....probably not. That would be a waste of a perfectly good cocktail. I'll just look past your ass. Anyway, social experiments such as this teach an excellent lesson. I make a conscious effort to be nice to everybody. Unless they're an asshole. Then I make a conscious effort to out-asshole them. I'm pretty good at it. The bottom line is, treat people kindly, mother scratchers, whether you think they can advance your agenda or not. It's the right thing to do. A little human kindness goes a long way these days. You never know........that paint covered chick might clean up okay. And might have a teensy-weensy little forum. The pen is mightier than the paint brush. Or the keyboard, as the case may be......bwahahahahaaaaaa.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Can I tell ya how happy I am that I've been up since 2 am? Thrilled. What is thrilling is that I am very nearly caught up on laundry. When does THAT happen? Like for one shining moment, every freakin' item that needs laundering in this entire household has been laundered. Until the boys wake up and discard their underwear on the floor. And then it starts all over again. But for a couple of hours it was ALL done. My kitchen is clean and shiny too. Even the stainless steel. And there's a lotta stainless steel. How you like me NOW, mom? Grrrr. Oh, and the table has been set for dinner! WITH linen napkins. NO, the pope is not coming to to celebrate Ash Wednesday and NO, that is not our usual habit. However I am beginning to freak out about my son turning 11 and think it's best to start actually sitting down and TALKING at some point during the day before it's too late and he's run off and joined the circus. Or run away FROM one as the case may be. So that initiative is officially underway thanks to my simply lovely table. I've also downloaded some images for Jack's biography speech tomorrow......gotta have that visual aid! I've also planned tonight's dinner, made a shopping list for both the grocery store and Costco. The plan is to get to the grocery store at 6 a.m. so at least that stop will have been crossed off the list before anyone even wakes up. 'Ceptin' for me, of course. 'Cause I don't sleep. Never really have. This isn't some middle-age phenomena for me. I remember being a little kid and hating sleepovers because I would inevitably wake up in the middle of the night and because it's not your house you have to just lay there and wait for morning. The one time I actually did venture to the bathroom during a sleepover I ran into my friend's dad who was walking around in a shiny, light blue banana hammock. And he was all hairy and gross. And had some weird 'fro looking hair-do. Looked kinda like Hair Bear from that 70's cartoon. Scarred for life. I mean who does that? No wonder I don't sleep. It's amazing I'm still hetero. Yuck. I'm getting skeeved out just thinking about it. Anyway, so I've never been a sleeper. What pisses me off is that I would really, really LOVE to sleep. I've got no quarrel with slumber. It looks damn good. And now, they've got these kick-ass drugs that nobody will give me. It seems that my doctors all want to find out WHY I don't sleep. I DO NOT CARE WHY. I JUST WANT TO SLEEP, GOD DAMNIT. While I have been known to enjoy a cocktail every now again (HEIMLICH), I am not a pill popper. No threat of addiction. And I don't care about the side effects. I'll show you a side effect.......my freakin' table HAS BEEN SET FOR DINNER SINCE 3 AM!!!!! What's the worst that could happen? I end up driving around and not knowing it? As apparently that's one of the side-effects. Which actually explains a lot. The people around here are not shitty drivers. They took Ambien and don't KNOW that they're driving. I feel much better now. Okay, going to alphabetize the spices now.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
So, Grady quite unceremoniously tossed up not four but FIVE socks that had been marinating for God knows how long in stomach acid. Like it was nothin'. HOW in the ASS was he walking around, eating, drinking, carrying on like a freakin' maniac with that many socks in his digestive tract? Keep in mind some of these socks I know for a FACT went down the hatch a couple of weeks ago. I personally saw them swallowed with my own eyes. WHY? Why with the socks and why with the poop? 'Cause the poop eating thing has continued as well. This in spite of the fact that we have tried not only home-spun remedies but prescription medications from the vet. After round one with the prescribed "special spices" as Dave referred to the food additive that was supposed to make Grady's poop repulsive (um.....oxymoron, you'd think.....not) to him with no results, the vet said that sometimes it takes another round. Okay, I just added the last of the stuff to his food and he's still out there chowing down on shit. And yes, we're removing the poop. You just can't watch him every second and sometimes an errant turd makes it past our watch. That's when I hear banging on the kitchen window and Dave bellowing, "GRADY!!!!!! OH GOD, HE'S EATING POOP." While I find this to be disturbing indeed, it really, really bothers Dave. He has poop issues, apparently. It's not ALL bad Grady news.......one good thing is that thanks to the advent of the dog park, he has chilled to the point that I am no longer dreaming of shock collars and cattle prods. Don't get me wrong. He's still a menace of epic proportions. He tried to eat a ping pong paddle yesterday. And when I say eat, I don't mean "chew". I mean "consume". Reference socks. And recall that he had a knife the other day. May as well have been running with scissors. I just don't think he's going to need to be tased. So there's that. God.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
So I'm at Jack's basketball game yesterday. He's in a 10-12 co-ed recreational league. Last years hyper-competitive league was a bit much for all of us to handle and we thought that something a little more "fun" would be the ticket. Well, it has been, largely. Although I will say that there is a massive difference between a kid who has just turned 10 and a kid who's about to turn 13. There's a "boy" on one of the teams that I swear to God must shave. He's HUGE. Anyway, it's been not only a lot more fun for Jack but also much more fun to watch. And thanks to a super cool coach, the team has improved significantly as the season has progressed. Last week they tied the team with freakin' Larry Byrd, who had previously crushed them. It was actually really exciting......a come from behind tie. Sweet. So this week, they played a team that I believe had also defeated them in the past. Jack's team was just en fuego. To the point where their lead had surpassed 20 points. Cool. Until the scoreboard reads 0-0. HUH? Apparently, they stop showing the score at that point. The score keeper writes it down henceforth. It seems the league doesn't want any little hurt feelings. Seriously? These kids are 10+. As if they aren't aware they're being creamed. Our society has become WAY too protective of feelings. We're not talking about bullying which is completely unacceptable. ALWAYS. We are talking about athletic competition. "Competition" being the key word. These kids are playing a sport. You know, where one team comes out the winner? One winner, one loser? That's kind of the point. To attempt to win. Not to have your feelings spared. What is that telling kids? When things don't go your way just ignore it 'cause it's okay? And that the truth may cause you discomfort but shouldn't? I think this lesson sucks. Not just in athletics but in life. Guess what? You are going to have your feelings crushed.......no, DECIMATED. Over and over and over again. You will lose games in which you left nothing on the floor or field. A girl will rip your still beating heart out of your chest and not just show it to you but stomp on it. You will suffer unfairness and cruelty at the hands of others. Your boss is not going to tell you that it doesn't matter if you're not performing at your job 'cause he's worried about hurting your feelings and the bank is not going to spare you the indignity of having to pay your mortgage because it may cause you emotional distress at times. May as well get used to having your feelings hurt and develop some coping mechanisms. Jack used to get very bummed out when a team he was on would lose. And boyfriend has been on some VERY "Bad News Bear"-like teams. But guess what? He learned to handle it. And that's what makes winning feel so good. He knows what it feels like to lose. In my 42 years I've learned that you're not always tripping through fields of daisies. But that's what makes it so great when things go your way. Deal with the lows and relish the highs. You've got to be able to handle both. If the score is 36-6, it's 36-6 whether it's on the scoreboard or not. What is, is. The truth will set you free.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Okay, I have made a direct correlation between the amount of bumper stickers on a car and a drivers ability. The more stickers the suckier the driver. And yes, "suckier" is now a word. Usually the "Honor Student" and "Dorky Stick Figure Family Including Pets" stickers are simply overly cautious. Wouldn't want to rattle the brains of the little Einstein's in training or upset the precious cargo. They're the ones you'd love to ram because they find it necessary to look both ways four times at a stop sign. Once will suffice. Those drivers aren't dangerous though.....just annoying. Stickers can give you a ton of information. I really like gay cowboys. Oh, I'm down......I know what the rainbow bronc-buster on the back of your F-250 means. It means you're a good driver. Thanks for that. Oh, and here's a good one.......if you have a PEACE sign on your car anywhere, it's kind of counterintuitive to flip other drivers off. Not very peaceful, beatnik. I actually saw this while driving Jack to school last week. I almost spit out my Diet Coke I was laughing so hard. That was one angry hippie. Go smoke a doobois. But back to my original hypothesis. Multiple stickers almost always equal crappy driver. Perhaps it's the strength of the drivers convictions that distract them from the task at hand. If you see a smallish car with "Obamaniac", "Tax Wealth Not Work" and "I'm a Sexy, Smart Pro-Choice Woman" displayed on the back beware. Cool that you believe in something but you're a shitty driver. It's not just the liberals. The conservatives are just as bad. "Gun Control Means Using Both Hands". Oh, for fuck's sake. Or "PETA....People Eating Tasty Animals" or "Shut Up Hippy". Although I could have used that one last week for my buddy with the peace sign. The right-wing radicals just as distracted by their beliefs. And anger. Turn off the talk radio, calm the hell down and drive. See that steering wheel? It moves a big metal thing around along with it's pal the gas pedal. And that other thing down there is called a "brake". Acquaint yourself with them along with that thing in front of you. It's called a "road". I will cop to having a bumper sticker. One. Wahoo's Fish Tacos. Jack put it on the back of the Volvo because it has a scratch and he said it needed a band-aid. Argue with that logic. It's staying. And I'm driving. Quite well, thank you.
Friday, February 12, 2010
I spend time on boats. I'm from Michigan. The Big Mitten. The Great Lakes State. "If you seek a pleasant penninsula, look about you". Lotsa boats in MI. Those of you that have been reading for awhile will recall the unfortunate incident wherein I was dangling over the side of a boat held up by just an industrial strength thong. Although I am 42-years old, the only boat I'm allowed to drive is a little Whaler. I don't think my dad ever really got over the two car accidents the day I got my drivers license and is a little wary of anything that involves me and a steering wheel. To that end, I am not really even supposed to look at my dad's boat. It's named the "Ohana" which I believe is Hawaiian for "touch me and die". It's one of those woody things. My dad, who isn't a particular guy is particular about this boat. It doesn't even look all that fun to me. You can't stand up in it and you can't drink in it. Oh boy. This sure is fun sitting here not eating or drinking. On a boat. Maybe it's fun if you're driving but as has been established that's not going to happen during my dad's lifetime. I'll take a party barge over a Hacker Craft any day of the week. There actually was much spirited discussion over what to name the damn thing. My brother and I are still pissed that he didn't name it "The Flying Wasp" 'cause that would have been freakin' hilarious. "Pookie......do the honors". Then I came up with "I've Got a Woody". Which would have been awesome. In the end, Jack came up with "Ohana" which I guess means "family" or something dorky like that. There was this boat on our old lake called "Bodacious". It was one of those stupid cigarette boats that you picture total cheese balls piloting. "I bet I'll get laid with this sweet-ass boat". So we jokingly referred to it as the "S.S. Makin' Whoopee" for the duration which cracked our asses up immensely. I think if I ever have a boat I'm going to christen it the S.S. Holy Crap. 'Cause that pretty much sums me up. And rest assured, you will be able to stand up AND drink. It will not just be allowed but encouraged. Ahoy.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
This is for all of my East coast pals! Perfect for a snowy night. Providing you can get out of your damn houses and that the stores have any groceries left. If you're snowed in, open up a can of beanie weenies and make this tomorrow. Or next week. If you haven't killed or been killed. I can only take about three days of being snowed in and that's WITH power and alcohol. I would last approximately 45 minutes without those. Anyway, this is so freakin' easy a monkey could make it. I know this because I've made it after several cocktails and it's turned out just fine. Although after an additional five hours of drinking I would probably declare a table leg delicious. Which of course they are. How I know this is completely irrelevant.
Grandma's Five Hour Stew
2 lbs stew meat, cubed
3-4 potatoes, cubed
4-6 carrots, sliced
1 raw onion, quartered
1 pkg onion soup mix
2 1/2 c water
2 T tapioca
Salt and pepper to taste
Place all ingredients in Dutch oven and bake at 300 F (I have some Euro friends that I'm sure know far better than I how to convert to celsius so I won't even try) for five hours, stirring occasionally. Serve with bread and a nice spinach salad. Or something.
Anyway, hope you guys back East dig on out sometime soon and I REALLY hope that your booze supplies are holding up. Enjoy!
Holy CRAP. School Valentine's Day party mayhem is in full swing. My problem is that I have a hard time delegating because I am a control freak of epic proportions. In this instance however, I accepted the kind offer of a fellow mom to make the "goodie bags". And thank God for that or I would have stuck my head in my sexy oven by now. I've got the plates, the napkins, the cups, the pop (bite me, mommies if you don't want your kids to have pop.....it's the best I could do at the last minute), the cutsie little heart straws, etc. Last night I made 30 cupcakes and stuffed Jack's Valentine treat bags in between batches. Because nobody just gives the card anymore. Oh NOOOO. You've got to have candy and shit too. He also informed me that he needed to make a box for his Valentine's. WHAT????? YOU ARE TELLING ME THIS NOW WHY????? Fortunately his quick thinking father remembered seeing the box Jack made in second grade somewhere in his closet. Score. Solved that problem. Now I'm up to my ass in mini heart shaped pizzas. I'm doing this primarily to annoy the other mothers. Somebody made a wisecrack about me having "too much time on my hands" after a batch of rather spirited snowmen cupcakes were presented in kindergarten. Oh, and it got back to me. It has since been my life's mission to raise the bar ridiculously high strictly for the purposes of revenge. And to be annoyingly obnoxious. You could say I'm only hurting myself. Not so. I feel quite adequate. So I'm going to take my Lucky Brand Jean wearing ass to school and shake it all around in front of the haters. And I'm going bring my cupcakes and my pizzas and my pop and I'm going to rock the 4th grade Valentine's Day par-tay like it's never been rocked before. And then I'm going to come home and administer tequila intravenously. Will report back. And nope, I didn't forget that it's Thursday. What the F&*% is For Dinner will appear soon. Not sure what I'm going to throw at ya but rest assured it'll be delish. Smooches!
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
I'm sure I'm going to catch all kinds of shit for this but I'm just going to say it. I hate Valentine's Day. Truly. First of all, I think it puts a ton of pressure on people, particularly men. It sets them up and allows a bunch of insecure women to say, "SHOW me how much you love me.....DANCE, mother fucker!!!!". I don't like that. Apparently women have a specific picture in their minds as to what their significant other SHOULD do. If he falls short (as he's bound to do because he has no idea what she's thinking) he's screwed. That's not fair. It's not that I have any problem with shows of affection. I think they're tremendous. I just don't think having ONE day that is brimming with expectations is the time for it. Show me you love me all of the time by being cool. Or when I least expect it. "Dear Mol, Happy Flag Day you sexy bitch (because my stove is NOT the only sexy bitch in town)!". Sigh. It's kind of like Mother's Day. I know my child loves me. He tells me all the time. I don't need to go out for brunch and be given a corsage to know this. I frankly think these things are designed for people who DON'T feel loved daily and need to demand a show of affection on these dorky holidays. I feel plenty loved. I also feel plenty annoyed with the dumb ass shit that retailers are pushing at this time of year. Pajama Grams? Seriously? The pajamas come in a hat box! With bath confetti! And a "do not disturb" sign. Oh, for fuck's sake. You will need that sign when you see the "Hoodie Footie" thing these people are pushing. Picture pink baby pajamas. With hood. And kangaroo pocket! THAT is disturbing. And will get you laid FOR SURE. Or not. That says, "I was forced to purchase you something for this horrible Hallmark holiday but would rather chew off my left arm than have sex with you......love ya honey!" We've also got the God awful jewelry that is supposed to be a total expression of undying love. Please. Like the "Love's Embrace" pendant. "You will always be surrounded by the strength of my love". Okay, stalker. It actually says that on the Kay Jewelers ad. The love part, not the stalker part. Gag. Then we have the stuffed animal thing. YOU DO NOT GIVE ADULTS STUFFED ANIMALS. This will cause them to go crazy and festoon the rear window of their sedans with them. And guys, don't forget the flowers! Roses suck. I actually think that fresh flowers are a rather grand, if extravagant gesture. They're beautiful and transient. I see the romance in that. They're almost tragic in that they're doomed. And any great love story involves some element of tragedy. But roses? Could you be any more obvious? Personally, I like peonies. Big, fluffy, fragrant peonies. But clearly I'm the exception to the rule given the volume of overpriced roses being sold around now. It seems that men are supposed to give women chocolate at this time of year as well and I don't like that either (shit, am I turning into Andy Rooney?). I freely admit that I may not get the chocolate thing as I am not a "sweets" person. I'm more of a "cheese and alcohol" person. But how is giving someone a box of instant regret romantic? 'Cause you know NOBODY feels good about themselves after gorging themselves on chocolate. "Oh, gee....thanks for the five extra hours of cardio I'm going to have to do to keep this off of my ass!". And then, to round out the list of ridiculous things that must be done for Valentine's day is the "romantic dinner". Sounds great. Overpaying to eat at a crowded restaurant with a bunch of other couples who are intermittently gazing across the table at one another or uncomfortably looking about the room for any obvious means of escape. I can not imagine imagine anything I'd rather do less. So anyway, I am officially protesting Valentine's Day on the grounds that it is stupid. That's just me. As you were. Carry on.
Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie, 2010 all rights reserved.
Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie, 2010 all rights reserved.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Silent Auction fun is now in the rearview mirror. While I still regret missing the opportunity to make a spectacle of myself and tell those with sticks ensconced in their asses to f%&* off, I am at peace with it. It's onward and upward. Now the only things I have left to do are file a membership report, help with the talent show (a bunch of elementary school students......now THAT'S gonna be rich), plan the end of the year golf tournament AND pull a Valentine's party out of my ASS. In two days. I've done, um........nothing? As with the silent auction item, I am completely burned out. I jumped into this thing in kindergarten with what I'm quite was sure was rather annoying enthusiasm. As much as I can't stand gung-ho people, I was pretty much one of 'em. People hating on my cupcakes, etc. Whatever. If you want to hate on cupcakes, make them yourself, beyotch. Anyway, I've got this party for the fourth graders on Thursday. They're at a weird age where crafts are starting to get a little lame and I do believe I cashed in the BINGO chip at the Chriswanzakah party in December. And I think I'm going to have mutiny on my hands if I try "Pin the Arrow on the Cupid" one more time. I don't want the little shits hurling things at me. And while I may refer to them as "shits" I want to be very clear that I have a great deal of affection for about 90% of these children. We will not discuss the other 10% who shall remain nameless. But whom cause me to bite my tongue to the point of bleeding and muster what limited self-control I posess. So I'm going way out on a limb. Food and karaoke. It's a major gamble because if they don't bite, I'm going to be up there singing, "I Got You Babe" and "Muskrat Love" with Dave. I'm putting my money on the fact that a lot of these kids are very confident sorts. Hams, even. I've also got a mom that's got a sure-fire game, so at least I'll have that in the can. Anyway, this could be a freakin' disaster of epic proportions or the best thing ever. I just hope I emerge with my dignity in tact. What's that? I've never had any? Nevermind. I just hope I emerge.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Okay, so I was out walking this morning and saw a new real estate sign. "Olde Golden Realty". When are people going to figure out that slapping either an "e" or an extra letter (or better yet, BOTH!) to a rather pedestrian word does NOT class things up? It's freaking stupid. "Oh, hey.....welcome to my "shoppe". It's a shop, dumbass. Your extra letters do not fool anyone. Plus, it causes Dave and I to pronounce the extra "e" in mockery. We would call it, "Oldie Golden Realty" or, "Oh.......look.....a card shoppie!" Sorry, gotta run. Need to let out the dogge so he can forage for poopsicles. Hmmm. Maybe there's something to this. He seems much more dignified. Oh wait. No he doesn't. Poop eaters are poop eaters with or without the extra letters. "Grady! Put down the pooppe!!!!!". Nope. Doesn't help.
So, I woke up the morning after "Girls Gone Wild" without twigs in my hair. Granted, I still had my coat and boots on and I was not under the covers but any morning that it is twig-free is a moral victory. I very rarely get hangovers (which while it sounds great is actually kind of a curse) but I was feeling my age on Saturday. Life doesn't stop because you're hanging however. Jack had basketball pictures and a game. I also had to attach gift cards to wine bottles and festoon them with raffia ribbon and shit for the school silent auction. Oh, and finish Jack's class auction item. Glue. Tiny pieces. Good times. And pick up a round of golf being donated by the country club. And then GET READY for the auction, which Dave was also playing at. Of course. So I had to get back on that horse, smack it on the ass and do it all over again. Fortunately my enthusiasm was somewhat dampened and I didn't really get too crazy. Although I probably should have as that would have REALLY given 'em something to talk about. I did notice a couple of those sidelong glances and whispered, "THAT'S her!" things. I just waved and doffed my imaginary cap. Ahhhhh, sweet notoriety! I really did think that it would have been great if I had tumbled into a display or jumped up on stage and pushed Dave out of the way and either started singing or making a slurry speech ending with "so you can all go f$%* yourselves!". That would have been awesome. Why do I always think of this stuff AFTER the fact? Anyway, that was Saturday. I woke up not only without twigs in my hair but also in my pajamas AND under the covers. So there's that. Maybe I am growing up. Nahhhhh.
Holy Crap.........what a weekend. I better break this thing down in chunks. Starting at the beginning is usually best. Friday. It started for me at 4 am. You see, dear readers, a "location scout" was coming to my house at 12:30 because he had seen some photos on a modern blog and was interested in shooting a commercial in my damn kitchen. I told you guys my stove is a sexy bitch. So after frantically cleaning for 8 hours, I had to remove Demon Dog from the premises (call me crazy but I think Grady's "enthusiastic" presence would have been a deal breaker) and so headed over to a friends house, pooch in tow. Because it was a nice day, we were sitting on her back patio watching Grady play with her yellow Lab. Sitting, sitting, chatting........HOLY SHIT......Grady hopped over the retaining wall and is tearing down the 4th fairway of our golf course. Thankfully there were some quick thinking golfers out who collared the little bastard. Pop the leash on him and he literally almost pulled ME over the retaining wall on the way back down. Needless to say, we moved the dog party inside. Anyway, at some point in the afternoon it was determined that the neighborhood girls needed a night out. Oh God. Dave was playing at a dive bar that evening. The very same bar where I met "Nick the Ex-Con Jailhouse Tattoo Artist". Perfect. Um, for those of you that have said I need a camera crew following me around? This would have been a keeper. You've got a bar teeming with people who had never, ever seen the likes of us. Dave said the look on the faces of these regulars was either shock, awe or both. We were drinkin' and dancing and mingling with the locals. One of us went careening across the dance floor resulting in what was described as "the world's longest fall". And it wasn't me!!!!! I was too busy struggling to keep my eyes open as being up cleaning at 4 am and then partying it up are not a wakey combination. At some point, we became acquainted with a person called "Cletus". One of my friends is a bit of fashionista. Although I'm sure that these folks would have considered us all to be such. Everything is relative. She decided it was her mission to give Cletus a makeover and started giving him advice. Braces, a haircut, pull your damn pants up, etc. Strangely, it was well received as Cletus declared her a "nice lady". We also met a couple that we assumed were married. Oh, they are, just not to each other. Errr.....okay! Didn't give them any advice as they seem to have it handled. Anyway, Dave said that the last thing the owner said as he was getting ready to leave was, "Make sure you bring them back next time". Maybe we can be like Snookie from Jersey Shore and get paid to make appearances at clubs. Or dive bars as the case may be. Call me. We'll tear it up.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
I'm getting a little off track because I was supposed to finish regaling you with tales of my misadventures yesterday. My brain, as you may have gathered by now, is a little bit of a twisted place. It has a tendency to meander. I was thinking about how when I left off, Grady had returned home from the dog park with a cut on his damn head. This reminded me of my nephew referring to an injury as a "bloody cut". He was pretty little at the time and I remember him coming in wide-eyed, holding out his finger and announcing "I've got a bloody cut". I think that's kind of an oxymoron but it was pretty funny nevertheless. This caused me to think about another funny story involving my nephew, my dog Coal and my parents house. If you've been reading for awhile, you are aware that my mother is a bit of a clean-freak. Not strangely so but momma runs a tight ship. That's probably where I get it from. Bwahaha......NOT. I run more of an "under the Big Top free-for-all". Complete with monkeys and elephants. And clowns are a given. Not the scary kind. The drunken kind. Anyway, I believe our dogs have been tolerated at my parent's house only because my parents are not stupid and know that "no dogs allowed" are fightin' words. It's amazing what grandparents will put up with to see their grandchildren. Ahhhh, I love my little pawn....er.....Jack. *I'm JOKING, Mom.....don't get your knickers in a twist.* So, as I was saying the dog thing has been grudgingly tolerated. With Coal it was mainly the dog hair and lake stink. He wasn't destructive. I wouldn't even think of bringing Grady to their house until he straightens out. I'm envisioning a piano with three legs and things on fire. And more bloody cuts than you can swing a cat at. Anyway, flashback to a couple of spring breaks ago. We were at my parents house with Jack and our Lab Coal. My brother and his family were also there with their two Goldens. Three boys, three dogs and 6 adults. Kind of a zoo but a good time nevertheless. On the day before we were heading home, I went downstairs to find Dave and my sister-in-law frantically scurrying around the family room. When asked what they were doing, they whispered (wide-eyed), "picking up dog poop". Oh God. If my parents found out about THIS they would FREAK. Apparently, Dave walked downstairs and my nephew was wandering around saying, "SOMEBODY......SOMEBODY......THERE IS DOG POOP IN THE HOUSE....." and thankfully Dave was the first one he found. There was poop everywhere. It was like an Easter egg hunt, only with dog shit. I found one in the bed of a toy dump truck. Score! The worst part of the whole sorry tale is that I was POSITIVE that it could not have POSSIBLY been my well-behaved and beloved dog and placed the blame squarely on the fluffy blonde shoulders of the Goldens. That was until we got home and Coalie's slow decline became evident and he began pooping in OUR house. The Golden's were framed. SOMEBODY......SOMEBODY.......
In this weeks installment of What the $%&*'s for dinner, we have MEXICAN LASAGNA. Uh.....Mexican Las-YUM-ya! Here you go:
1 lb ground beef
1 16 oz can refried beans
2 t dried oregeno
1 t garlic powder
12 uncooked lasagna noodles
2 c water
2 1/2 c picante sauce
2 c sour cream
1 1/2 c shredded Monterey Jack cheese
1/2 c shredded cheddar cheese
Preheat oven to 350. Brown ground beef. Drain. Combine beef, beans and spices. Place 4 uncooked noodles in bottom of a 9x13" pan. Spread half of beef mixture over noodles. Top with 4 noodles. Spread with remaining mixture and top with remaining noodles. In a medium bowl, mix water and picante sauce. Pour evenly over layers. Cover tightly with foil. Bake 1 1/2 hours in the preheated oven, or until noodles are tender. Spoon sour cream over lasagna and top with cheese. Bake uncovered until cheese melts, about 5-10 minutes.
Enjoy......gotta bounce......off to create "folk art" with fourth graders. There will be drinking tonight, rest assured.
Holy crap, I forgot to post yesterday. Now THERE'S something you don't see too often. I'm not surprised as the day started out at like 4 am with me wide awake in bed and freaking out about everything I had to do. So instead of freaking out horizontally, I decided to get vertical. As I've said before, it's amazing what you can accomplish when the rest of the house is sleeping. Alas, they eventually woke up and the morning mayhem ensued. Gave the boy clothes, Dave got him breakfast, I packed his (delicious and nutritious) lunch and went downstairs to check email. Hear screaming. "OH MY GOD GRADY HAS TWO SOCKS!!!!!" Fuck. Dave is nowhere in sight. Doesn't take long to figure out where he is. Nothin' like a nice 45 minute poop during the busiest time of the day. I'm running. Jack's running. Grady's running. Grab a bag of pepperoni thinking that tasty processed meat will do the trick. Wave it in his direction. Oh, it works. Before I can grab his little snout, he looks at me and in ONE GULP swallows both socks. Whole. Fucker. If I didn't see it with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe it. He's like a freaking snake. Obviously he didn't get the pepperoni. Jack did. Good boy, Jack. So, Dave eventually emerges from his man cave. It is determined that part of the trouble with Grady is that he needs to get more ya ya's out. We decided that BOTH of us will take Jack to school and then proceed to take Grady to a dog park. Get half-way to school and Jack announces that he's left his violin at home. Don't get too excited. He's not a prodigy. He and his buddies realized that you get out of class if you take orchestra. Orchestra is powerful popular this year. Anyway, can't turn around 'cause he'll be tardy. Drop him off, go home, get damn violin, realize this minor glitch has thrown my schedule completely out of whack so Dave proceeds back to school with forgotten instrument and then to dog park. Grady, faced with freedom, decides that he is going to sit within two feet of Dave and not move. Sure, you'll eat a metal down spout but other dogs? Not so much. Eventually he warmed up to the idea and started going nuts. So nuts that he ran face first into a tree, cutting his head in the process. The good news is that either the exercise or the head injury did the trick. Grady wasn't much trouble for the rest of the day. My day, however, was just getting started. More on that later. Oh, and yes, you're getting your WTF's For Dinner today. Mexican Lasagna. Good shit. Stay tuned.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
I am pretty sure that walking your dog should not be embarrassing. I HAD to walk Grady today. In one of those, "be careful what you wish for moments", Dave is actually spending more time at his new office (word up, Live Urban Real Estate in Denver....contact Dave Christie for all of your real estatin' needs) which means that I have to walk the freakin' dog. Didn't think of that when I was laying down the "GET OUT OF THE DAMN HOUSE" edict. My walk is normally the most relaxing point of my day. I listen to music, chill out, collect myself and my thoughts.......you get the picture. Now picture this: attempting to remain upright while doing the same dance a deep sea fisherman does while reeling in a marlin. Or better yet, a swordfish. They seem pretty angry. He literally was off the ground for the better part of the first half of the walk. When you're thinking you're going to end up in traction from walking your dog, you've got trouble. With a capital T. Or "G" as the case may be. You suck, letter G. I was also thinking, "For the love of God and all things holy, PLEASE do not let anyone I know see me with this dog". Yeah, good luck with that......first of all, I know pretty much everybody in this 'hood (or worse yet.....they know me) and secondly, Grady is about as subtle as a heart attack. He may as well have a neon sign attached to him that says, "I am the worst dog EVER.....look at meeeeeee!!!!!!" I'm surprised the local news wasn't called. "Morrison woman dragged through neighborhood by rabid 60 lb Lab puppy.......we'll have updates on her condition as they become available but witnesses say it did not look good". At one point he did seem to chill a bit, only to decide to snack on some goose poop and what I genuinely hope was an empty pack of menthol cigarettes. Hopefully the menthol did something for his breath. He also started body checking me. I'm really not sure what that was all about but I was pretty much in tears at that point so I just shoved him back. Shit lotta good that did. So if you saw me out walking today (and if you live here, odds are you did), and I looked particularly dejected, it's because I was. Grady had a great time. He even found a large piece of what looked like dog poop as we approached our driveway. What made is especially great is that he dropped some of it in the foyer when we got in. I went straight to the computer to vent so I'm not sure if it's still there. It's probably not as Grady has never met a piece of poop he hasn't liked. Good times.
So, Jack has a big "Biography" project "he's" been working on. I say "he" because at the age of ten, it's really "we". And of course here at Christieco, we are masters in the art of procrastination. There was a bit of panic this morning as Dave produced the sheet detailing the requirements and scale of this project. We did the rough draft, which largely involved Jack dictating facts about Walt Disney to me as I typed them. Next up is revising the report, which should be no biggie. There is however, a visual project and a speech involved as well. The speech is not a thing as Jack is a natural. No fear. The "project" however, is problematic. I said on facebook this morning that every time a visual aid comes into play, I die a little inside. Jack doesn't go for the obvious choices such as, "draw a picture". NOOOOO. He goes for "diorama" or "replica". I've avoided naysaying up to this point but the time has come to crush his little spirit. Ambition really IS for suckas. And I'M the sucka that usually ends up creating these visuals. I'm not a competitive parent. I don't really give a shit whose visual is the best. I just know that if I don't do it it won't get done. Jack is the type of kid that needs to concentrate on the basics, like the report. School does not come easily to him. And to his credit, HE is the one that comes up with these elaborate schemes. I, however, am the one that has to implement them. For instance, the last book report he did was from that "Goosebumps" series. He wanted to do an underwater diorama. I'm feeling light-headed just thinking about that one. You don't even want to know. It was apparently quite well received, so I've got that going for me. I'd be an excellent fourth grader. My heart nearly dropped out of my ass this morning when I heard the plan he's hatched for the Disney deal. Something about replicating "Tomorrow Land". First of all, "Tomorrow Land" Tomorrow Sucks. I don't if Jack recalls but the last time we were there we became trapped in the "Carousel of Progress". We didn't make much progress. At all. For like 20 minutes. That'll drive you to drink. Oh, and it did. It drove me right back to The Wilderness Lodge's poolside bar. Secondly, I hope I was hearing things but I could have sworn he was thinking of making this replica out of toothpicks. TOOTHPICKS? Fine. Just set the toothpicks, the glue and the bottle of tequila out on the table and run along and play. Mommy will call you when she's done. With the tequila. Did I say that out loud? Hello, everybody! Hic! I can just see myself covered in glue and toothpicks but with a rather happy disposition. That's the way I roll from now on. Oh wait......what's that you say? That's how I roll anyway? Fine. That's how I'll continue to roll. Stupid projects.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Watch the video. Then come back. You watched it? Good. Okay, either this is freakin' brilliant or it is one of the worst ads ever made. If it's tongue in cheek, I want to be best friends with whoever came up with it. However Dave insists that it's totally serious as he can't see Barbasol having some cutting edge advertising agency. And if he's right, there's just SO much wrong here........let's see......where to begin?
--First of all, we've got the guy cruising along in his big-rig to a jaunty little tune. By the time he runs his hand through his stubble, it's very apparent that this is one very hairy and very bad actor. Conversely, if this is a spoof, he should win whatever the ad equivalent of an Oscar is as it's a worthy performance. You'd have to be really good to be that bad.
--He gets home from his hemorrhoid inducing trip across America. His lady leaves him a note next to a can of Barbosol! "Welcome home, handsome!" I personally would have added, "You big, hairy beast" but that's just me. So he reads the note. But first he's got to do some serious shaving before he gets all up in that. Question: How does he know she didn't have something else entirely in mind when she left out that can of shaving cream? He's been on the road awhile. Mommy might be feeling REALLY frisky. And experimental.
--So he's shaving. I'm sure it took awhile. I will hand it to the guy......he can grow a beard. So he's got that going for him. The acting thing, not so much. Perhaps there's a market for beard models. That's the direction I would point him in if I was his agent. Anyway, he finishes shaving and the look he gives himself is priceless. He may as well give himself the double thumbs up or the "You the MAN" trigger finger thing.
--May I point out that the whole time, there is a really bad jingle playing? The same one he was driving along to? "America, you're looking good.....you're handsome, brave and tall". HUH???? WTF??? What about the Americans that are homely, nervous and short? They need to shave too, I would think. This is just going to make them feel inadequate. Worst lyrics ever. Just ridiculous. So ridiculous that we've been singing them over and over at Casa de Christie. Method behind madness? Marketing genius at work?
--Okay, so our formerly hirsute friend, suitably clean shaven, is going in for the kill. He walks into the room where his woman awaits, wearing HIS SHIRT??? Okay. Whatever. Nothing is as fucked up as what comes next.....she's lighting candles next to A STACK OF PANCAKES. That's right. Pancakes. 'Cause nothin' says "good lovin'" like a stack of flapjacks. Oh, and there's orange juice. Now, I am clearly no trucker. I may have a mouth like one, but I've never been behind the wheel of anything larger than a Ford Expedition. I have, however, driven cross-country on far too many occasions to count. With a dog and a child. We've had some good 12 hour driving days. I can tell you this.......when I get out of that car, I DO NOT WANT PANCAKES. I WANT BOOZE. FROM AN IV DRIP. AND LOTS OF IT. Pancakes????
So there you go......brilliant or simply brilliantly bad? I'm still not sure. Pancakes? It's so fucked up that it's GOT to be a joke. But then I think about the actor......God......I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. And I'm usually so decisive. This has me over a barrel. Or a big-rig as the case may be. America, you're lookin' good......la, la, la........