Gee, Thanks!!!!!

Okay, so the little blog that could just went over 4000 page views since I started it a few weeks ago.  This strikes me as kinda nutty.  Although I have nothing to compare it to.  Maybe really kick-ass blogs get like a million page views in their first few weeks.  And the blogger (this is a completely retarded term, by the way) has been offered multiple book deals and is rich and famous and everybody loves he or she and they're on Oprah by now.  Man......imagine if I was on Oprah........I could be parading around on the moon while curing cancer and juggling orphans and my mom wouldn't think that was as great as me being on the Big O's show.  SHE would be the one needing the bag for hyperventilation. Mom: "BILLLLLLLL.......THE GOOBLER IS ON OPRAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!".  Dad: "WHAT???  She stepped on a cobra?" Nevermind, Dad.  But anyway, as was the case a couple thousand page views back, I remain so flattered and grateful for all of the kind words and encouragement.   I'm also somewhat incredulous but happy as a goddamn clam that you are actually reading what I'm throwing out there and that you're passing it along.  It's a little grass roots effort, this thing. Still not sure where it's going but we shall see.  Although nowhere or somewhere are two good bets.  You guys all rock.  Thank you from the bottom of my stony little heart.  Oh, and my long suffering liver is appreciative too while we are giving organs the floor.  It also says, "save me".  Shut up, liver.  You just do what I say.

Goodbye, Cruel World.....

Let me preface this by saying that I loves me some internet.  This is pretty obvious. It is an incredible way to communicate. Through the wonder of the World Wide Web, I have reconnected with old friends and made new friends from as close as up the street and as far away as Scotland. This is pretty freakin' cool.  And don't even get me started on the email thing. I would probably be all cat-lady without the internet. Would have up and gone crazy by now. Yay internet.  But boo, internet too.  For all of it's shiny goodness, there is a dark side as well.  For example, you can go from being perfectly healthy to riddled with cancer inside of five minutes.  My stomach has been kinda jumbly lately.  And yes, I believe that "jumbly" is a medical term.  A normal person would logically surmise that this was the result of the Bacchanalian ('cause it was pretty wild and mystic) festival that took place over the course of the last week.  You know, that wretched excess thing again. But alas, I am apparently not a "normal" person.  I play things out to their worst possible outcome.  So my indigestion has turned into a horrible and life threatening disease thanks to the knowledge imparted upon me by the upstanding folks at WebMd and the Mayo Clinic.    This in turn sets off a domino effect of further frantic searches on the disease du jour and ending with the following conversation: Me: "DAAAVVVVEEEE!!!!! Do you think I have cancer?" Dave:  "You don't have cancer".  Me:  "How do YOU know? You're not a doctor". Dave:  "Neither are you".  This causes me to leave the room exasperated as he clearly does not know what he is talking about.  It says, right there, on my computer screen, that I am going to die.  Clearly.  Stupid Dave.  If he were any more laid back, HE'D be dead. He wouldn't know a life threatening illness if it came up and smacked him on the head with a frying pan. And his suggestion that if I'm really that worried I should go to the doctor is not at all helpful.  Take the "knee cancer" incident.  I had a gigantic lump on my knee that any fool could see was clearly cancerous.  Practically pulsing and throbbing with disease. When I dragged my weakened body to the doctor at Dave's inistence and told her I thought I had knee cancer, she not only laughed at me but went to get another doctor to join in on the hilarity. Ha ha.  Laugh it up, Docs.  I didn't know that the University of Phoenix Online had a med school.  I must be a goddamn Christmas miracle as I survived that one. My knee and I are both still present and accounted for, no thanks to modern medicine. My knee is the little knee that could. Or maybe I'm thinking of my liver.  The ailments all begin to run together after awhile.  But there is an upside to my hypochondria and the fan to the flames that is the internet.  A) It generally causes me to cut back on the alcohol consumption.  That is my only un-healthy habit (and granted, I'm rather fond of it) and I therefore place the blame for any health concerns squarely on alcohol and it's strong, bottle-shaped shoulders. And B) Whatever vague symptom first prompted me to go online in search of horrible diseases is no longer at issue as I have much, much bigger fish to fry.  Such as my impending doom.

Not Very Christmas-y

We are going to get our Christmas tree today.  Dave maintains that it is too early.  I maintain that Dave should shut up because the trees have all been cut already.  You're not going to get any fresher tree if you buy it today or on the 23rd.  Cut.  End of story.  I will say that I now approach this day with a fair amount of trepidation.  Several years ago, when my parents still had a house in Breck, they came down to Denver to purchase their tree.  There is a place here called Jared's that has famously expensive but pretty nice trees.  If you've been following along, you'll recall my mom and the Presidential turkey.  She's a sucker for that kind of stuff.  Oh, and if "Oprah has it/bought it/likes it"?  Forget about it.  Sold. So anyway, the family piles into whatever gigantic SUV mom and dad had at that point and sets out to find the perfect tree.  After scores had been summarily dismissed as offensive in their imperfection, we finally found one that was beyond reproach. It was also about the size of the Rockefeller Plaza tree. Very "National Lampoon Christmas Vacation".  This is how my family rolls. So it's paid for, run through that crazy tree-bagging thing and hoisted by crane (well, not really but it was that big) on top of the car.  We're doing that thing where you're tossing rope back and forth at each other and going about securing the tree.  Because this mother of all trees was being driven back up the mountain it was all the more critical that it be tied on but good.  So anyway,I'm standing on the running board leaning towards the top of the car and the tree and trying to make myself useful. What is to follow is so horrible that my memory of everything leading up to the event is a little fuzzy.  Suffice to say, somehow my boob got slammed in the car door. Like "have to open door to get it out" slammed.  I cannot begin to tell you how much this hurt.  I believe there was blood involved.  And a fair amount of screaming.  I'm normally pretty stoic in the face of pain but PLEASE.  If you've ever had your boob slammed in a car door, (and who amongst us hasn't) you will understand where I am coming from. Even worse was the fact that my entire family found this to be completely hysterical.  Dad:  "I told you those things were going to get you into trouble some day".  Very funny.  Mom:  "Goobie, do you think we should go to the emergency room?" Me: "Oh, yes Mom, let's go to the ER so I can whip out my egregiously injured left one and be the laughingstock of the entire place.  Yes, let's do that".  Like they're going to put it in a sling or something. The moral of the story is that if you have boobs, don't assist with putting Christmas trees on top of cars.  That's what men are for.  Although that brings to mind a few things I wouldn't mind slamming in car doors.  And I'm not talking about mustaches.

The Performing Mustache of Doom

One thing I may have neglected to add with all of this revenge-stache business is that my husband is a musician.  Like performs.  In front of people.  Sometimes a decent number of people that are not aware that this "mustache" is a vendetta rather than a serious self-expression through facial hair.  So this thing is going to be a bit of a problem as it's going to be given quite an audience this weekend.  It's one thing to make a spectacle of yourself.  It's another thing entirely to do it with a freakin' mustache.  The walking Pint of Guinness was somewhat akin to a spectacle.  That spectacle however, was actually pretty freakin' funny.  This mustache thing is so not. For the sake of clarification, I must state that I do not necessarily have a problem with facial hair.  I have a problem with THIS facial hair on THIS person as I am presently married to him and I suppose to the mustache by default.  I've got to say that the marital bond must be on shaky ground if one party is so hell-bent on revenge that he's willing to go to these lengths.  I wonder if there was anything in the pre-nup about facial hair.  I sincerely hope so.  But back to the matter at hand.  He told me last night to "fear the 'stache".  I don't fear the 'stache.  I fear that if he gets on stage with that thing on his lip, he'll never work in this town again.  "Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Dave Christie and his performing mustache!!!!  Give it up!!!!!".  Oh, it's a "thing".  Not because it's impressive as it's really not.  It's more of a "what the hell is THAT" kinda "thing".  It's a 'stache only a mother could love, really.  Although it is my position that if his mother were aware of this recent turn of events, she would be horrified.  I can hear it now......"David, what is that on your face?  I'm very disappointed.  I am".  So am I, Mother B, so am I.  Clear out your guest room because if this goes on much longer, you may well find yourself with a large Albanian with something he is passing off as a mustache on your doorstep.  The moving van full of mustache grooming supplies will be close behind.

Note to Self

Never, ever again imply that Dave, in spite of his hairless heritage, cannot grow a mustache as it yields highly undesirable results.  There's something on his lip. I'm just not sure what it is.  I guess it all depends on how loosely you define the term "mustache".  Last night as he was thoughtfully stroking his upper lip in an attempt to draw attention to his "mustache" I thought I noticed he was growing a soul-patch as well.  Turns out it was dirt. One thing's for sure and that is that he is not letting this thing go anytime soon.  I'm about to have to start doing that thing where you look directly into a person's eyes so as to avoid looking at something unfortunate on their face.  And then worry that your eye is inadvertently wandering to the offending feature in the same way that it can't avoid looking at a trainwreck.  This thing is presently categorized as mildly disturbing but it's got legs. Who knows what tomorrow will bring. In the future, just say nothing. Nothing at all. About anything.  Ever. Except, "Yes,Dave, you are big, hairy beast and nothing has yet been invented that you cannot fix with a paper clip and sheer might".    

The All Clear

Mom and Dad have been dispatched back to Arizona a bit earlier than expected.  Upon returning from my walk yesterday, I was greeted by Mom. "GOOOOBIEEE!!!!!  We've got PROBLEMS!!!!!".  Errrr.....reallly?  I hadn't noticed.  Apparently the problem in this case was that in my absence, Sam Champion from Good Morning America intimated that there was a possibility of snow in New Mexico over the weekend.  This set off a flurry of packing and checking of weather reports, and ultimately their untimely departure in spite of the fact that outside of Manhattan, Sam Champion does not know what the hell he is talking about.  And that's only because he's IN Manhattan.  It's snowing!!!! Duh.  That white stuff falling from the sky that we can see on our TV screens was our first clue.  And probably yours too, Sam.  Anway, I am thinking this is all probably for the best. They live in a gated community down there.  I'm not sure if the gates are to keep others out or the old people in.  If Dad decides to drive around inadvertently hopped up on something, there's only so much damage he can do.  Although considering what transpired with Tiger Woods the other night, perhaps I should reassess my position on that one.  I can hear the frantic phone call now......Mom: "Goobie!!!!!! Daddy drove the car into the pool!!!!"  Me:  "While I am honored that you chose to impart me with this information, Mom, the very fact alone that I am in Colorado and you are in Arizona precludes me from qualifying as a first responder in this instance.  You need to call somebody local.  Like 911.  As good as I am at getting people and cars out of swimming pools, we seem to have a logistics issue at hand".  Great.  Maybe Arizona isn't a safer place for them. At least they're better off there than they were in France. Anybody down there that doesn't speak English will at least comprehend "Senor" which is largely the extent of my Dad's Spanish vocabulary.  He does have this rather remarkable trick of slapping an "el" in front of an English word and an "o" at the end and then speaking with a purportedly Spanish accent.  This is inexplicably effective.  Dad:  "Hola, Senor......I seem to have driven el-car-o into el-pool-o".  Perhaps the reason this works so well for him is that he is often stating the obvious, which really requires no language at all.  At any rate, my parents have been safely restored to their own element.  We can all put down the nets until closer to Christmas when I will issue a warning.  "Jeffco residents above 6000' feet should be advised that there is a strong possibility of rain turning to Mollie's parents with heavy accumulations of Mollie's parents possible at times.  Travel may be difficult if not down right impossible.  Do your self a favor and just stay home until the all clear has been sounded. I think that'd be best.

Black Friday

I freely admit I do not get this.  I've never gone shopping on the day after Thanksgiving as I have never been so inclined.   From what I've seen on TV, it appears to me that you would have to be out of your mother-fucking mind to willingly participate in this melee.  In my mind's eye, I picture a bunch of enthusiastic 40-something women bouncing out of bed at some un-godly hour.  First of all, who bounces out of bed the morning after Thanksgiving?  Any self-respecting person should have at least the suggestion of a hangover.  No bouncing.  Anyway, I think they probably put on their seasonal sweaters, mom jeans and sensible shoes.  Oh, and in all likelihood a coordinating fanny pack as it appears that you might need your hands free for some pushin' and shovin'.  So, suitably attired, I'm sure they have a hearty breakfast for sustenance, put some coffee in one of those depressing travel mugs and set out in their mini-vans.  See, they haven't even gotten to the stores yet and I want to take them and shake them and show them what fun is really all about.  Oh, I'll show you fun.  I'll show you more fun than you can shake that Best Buy circular at.  You just probably wouldn't live through it.  You gals are what make we "Naughty Mommies" naughty.  'Cause you're just not.  That's okay.  Without you we would not be honored with that time-honored distinction.  But anyway, back to how I envision this outing going. After getting into a smackdown with Big Bertha over a Jonas Brother's waffle iron amongst other things, I imagine that these ladies meet at Outback Steakhouse for  a Bloomin' Onion.  Not sure if you're aware but those things have like, 10,000 calories or something.  Oh that's right......seasonal sweater.  Badge of desperate resignation.  Have some Aussie Cheese Fries with that Bloomin' Onion 'cause it doesn't really matter any more.  So then it's back to shopping.  I imagine they continue on until dinner time when they haul their weary asses home and regale their (totally interested) husbands with their tales of sweet shopping victory, battle scars and all.  I'm sure that is scintillating stuff.  They probably don't even make dinner (GASP) out of sheer exhaustion.  Here's what I really don't get about this.  There is a thing called the internet.  The stores all have websites where you CAN BUY THINGS.  They have the same sales.  THEY WILL DELIVER THESE THINGS TO YOUR DOORSTEP.  Click, pay, done, cocktails. That's how my Christmas shopping works.  I just don't get why you would willingly participate in this.  I honestly think these women MUST think this is fun as there is no other logical explanation.  And maybe they have so much pent up aggression that going out and throwing roundhouses at other similarly intentioned women is a highlight of their year.  It's not that I'm not a bad-ass.  I'm the baddest ass in town.  I'll cut a bitch.  But if I do, it's going to be over something worthwhile like a man (haaaaaaa......) and not Lucky the Wonder Pup. Just not gonna do it.  You guys and the shopping? Good luck with that.

It's Four o' Clock Somewhere

Dad:  "What time does the drinking start?"

Me:  "As soon as I get back from the liquor store as I seem to be having a bit of a supply issue."

Dad:  "Hurry back."

That Gorby.........

Feeling bashful about his unsightly imperfection but having steeled himself with a shot of Stoli, Gorby chose to don a festive hat in the spirit of the season.  Nostrovia!!!!

Meet Gorby

Okay, so we just unwrapped the 22 lb sensation that is our Butterball. Mom: (shrieking) "Goobie!!!!  It's GOT A BRUISE!!!!!!!".  This drew a crowd.  As the family gathered 'round the kitchen sink to bear witness to this tragedy, we decided to simply name it after Mikhail Gorbachev and let it ride. Said blemish is largely reminiscent of the famous and unfortunate port wine stain on his head.  I think it gives our turkey character.  Gobble, gobble, Gorby!!!!!!

Gratitude

This is that time of year when people like to talk about everything they are thankful for in their lives.  Like loved ones and puppies and rainbows and living in a free country.  Whatever.  Screw that.  I'm grateful for the stuff that's TRULY important in life.  Such as:

1.  Booze.  People get all excited about the food at Thanksgiving and start yammering about the bounty laid before them and blah, blah, blah.  Food is all well and good but my horn o' plenty is stuffed with tequila.  Is turkey going to make your relatives infinitely more amusing? Will stuffing make your Uncle Joe's incessant droning on (and on) about inane subject matter fade to black?  Does green bean salad make the pain go away?  Didn't think so.  Drink it up, Bucky.

2.  The Internet. That Al Gore is a mother fucking genius.  Just don't mix it with booze.  While alcohol is your friend at Thanksgiving dinner, it is NOT your pal online.  You can do some pretty idiotic stuff on Facebook with a good buzz on.  Like "friending" your child's principal.  Or your husband. Both principals and husband's can take certain information and use it against you. Parents too.  Don't friend your parents.  I had to "un-friend" my mom whose friend request I accepted on a Friday night.  I think I menitoned at some point that my mother is a bit of a lady.  She would be utterly horrified by both my antics and my colorful abuse of the English language.  Facebook "friending" is one of those rare occasions during which I now believe you need to have a clear head about you.  But I digress.....I'm grateful for the internet AND Al Gore.  He's so green.

3.  iPhone's/Crackberries.  These handy little devices not only allow you to be in near constant communication with your homies but also serve to get you out of numerous awkward social situations.  Let's say your husband is a musician and requested that you come see his show in spite of the fact that none of your friends could come with you.  Oh, that phone is your friend. Your BEST friend.  Because the weird people that are attempting to approach you because you appear to be a sitting duck tend to back off when you seem to be intently occupied by some important business you are attending to on your iPhone.  And if out of the corner of your eye you spot somebody at the grocery store that you would like to avoid because they are a freakin' stalker?  Same.  Tap away at that phone and if you can't avoid eye contact, give 'em that, "Sorry....busy....what can you do?" shrug.

4.  Feet, Middle Fingers and Opposable Thumbs.  I like to walk and it would be kinda hard to do without feet.  I also like getting pedicures, although I'm somewhat confounded as to why all Vietnamese nail salon women persist in calling me "Honeeeeey".  Anyway, no feet, no pedis.  Yay, feet.  Middle fingers? There are a few people I would like to wag mine at right now.  So a middle finger or two will undoubtedly come in handy.  Get it?  Handy?  'Cause it's on your hand? Haaaaaa.  Being grateful for opposable thumbs really needs no explanation as I'm pretty sure you can't operate a cork-screw without 'em.  Although I think I've uncorked a bottle or two with my teeth. So I guess I'm grateful not just for my teeth but for my mouth which makes a nice little house for my teeth, most of which I still have, botched root canal and subsequent refusal to deal with the consequences notwithstanding.  I'll get around to it.  I'm NOT grateful for incompetent oral surgeons.

5.  Country Clubs.  Because sometimes a vague sense of superiority is what it takes to get you through your day.  "Well, you kind sir, may have just cut me off in traffic however I belong to a country club.  Do you?  Didn't think so.  Good day". Smug, self-satisfaction rocks.

6.  Jobs.  I am grateful that people have them.  Because if they didn't, every shmuck on the planet would be running around and getting in my way during the week.  And I'm also grateful that I don't have one because that would put a serious cramp in my style.

Okay........I've got more shit I'm grateful for but it's 5:35 a.m. and Mom is standing behind me and trying to talk to me.  I beat her to the punch by waking up before she did. Take THAT mom.....how you like me NOW, sucka?  Anyway, apparently computers do not put people off the same way that iPhone's do.  Or maybe it's a mom thing.  I was thinking I looked fairly occupied but apparently not occupied enough.  The typing and look of intent concentration and statement of, "I'm busy.....be with you in a second" did not seem to have the intended effect.  'Cause she's still back there.  That's okay.  She's right.  We've got a 22 lb Butterball to wrastle into submission.  And there are still three sleeping humans and a dog up there. Which means we've got some noise to make.  I'm grateful for noise 'cause making it is fun.  Let's do this, mom. You bring the noise, I'll bring the funk.

Murphy? F-Off.

You know what?  Screw that Murphy guy and his laws too, while we're at it.  He makes Grandma look like a saint.  'Cause it's never when you've got nothing better to do than sit around and count your piles of money that you need to wait for a plumber to come and clean out your main sewer line.  On the night before Thanksgiving.  The very sewer line that is flooding the bathroom that YOUR VISITING PARENTS are using.  "Goobie!  The toilet is bubbling!!!! Is it supposed to be bubbling?" Nope. It's not. Good times.

Grave Miscalculation

While enjoying the wacky banter that ensued during the hotly contested "Family Game Time" this afternoon, I fucked up.  Big time.  I rather directly implied that Dave may have some difficulty growing an actual mustache.  This has resulted in the gauntlet being thrown down.  He is going to try it.  And once he wraps himself around an idea, he is like a Pit Bull.  Although he did concede that he was pretty sure that I could grow one faster than he could.  I have not been involved with man with a mustache since high school when my parents weren't paying attention for a little and I was dating a college junior.  With said mustache.  Looked more like a porn-stache, actually.  I don't really even like mustaches, frankly.  Seriously?  A mustache?  A mustache.  Okay.  Nevertheless, it's on.  As some family member attempted to converse with him, he announced, "What?  I'm sorry.....I can't hear you.  My mustache is muffling the sound".  And speaking of muffling, he also announced his intention to offer free "Mustache Rides".  I believe the exact quote was, "Line 'em up ladies".  Errrrr.......no thanks.  And speaking of rides, Jack had an additional little gem as he and Grandma were matching wits at (the way fun domino game) Mexican Train:

Jack:  "I'll give you a free ride to Screwed Town.  Bring it on, Granny".

The fact that everyone found this to be freaking hilarious explains a ton about me and why I is like I is.  It's really not my fault.  Clearly.  And note to self:  Stop insulting Dave's masculinity as it yields undesirable results.  God.  Additional note to self:  Procure bag for head.

Overheard........

......just now while enjoying a good ol' fashioned holiday game afternoon at my house:

Jack:  Screw you, Grandma.

Nice!!!!!!

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

My nerves are now officially and completely shot.  AND I have just broken every Cardinal Rule shared by the Mystic Bond of the Sisterhood of Housewives.  I not only went to Target, the grocery store and Costco the day before Thanksgiving, I did so in the company of my parents and my ten-year old son.  Who pushed a cart.  I think I've established how I feel about cart-pushing minors in grocery stores.  I stand firmly against it.  In this instance, however, I had reached that point at which you say, "fuck it" and just go with the flow.  They wanted to go out with me? Fine.  Well, first of all, flow-going is not my forte.  I scoff in the face of flow.  Second of all, it's THE DAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING.  Any procurement missions on this day need to be stealth in order to prevent injury to yourself or others.  This is the big time.  The Show. You get in, you zero in on your target and you get the hell outta Dodge. It is hard to be stealth with a kid and two old people in tow.  And then throw in the fact that certain people, unfamiliar with the lay of the land, keep getting lost, resulting in having to stop and make phone calls in order to locate the rest of your party.  This is the modern day equivalent of having your name announced over the loud speaker at the store.  I had to pull over, dig my phone out of my gigantic purse and call my mom to figure out where exactly in the ass she and Jack were.  My dad was at that point sleeping in the car.  Strange, but he's a famously shitty sleeper, so whatever......didn't think much of it at the time.  This becomes relevant to the story in that I had noticed that he was driving a little less than competently, which is unusual for him.  It actually crossed my mind that we were at that pivotal moment at which you realize that your dad is officially a geezer.  I'm thinking a Buick sedan with that rear-seat clothes hanging bar, the hallmarks of codgerdom, were in his immediate future.  And maybe one of those little wastebaskets that sits on the floor between the driver and passenger seats.  But, nooooooooo!!!!!!  Of course not!  As it turns out, dad was hopped up on sleeping pills.  Or hopped down as the case may be. Seems that he couldn't sleep and decided to take something at 4 am.  You know, those things that your doctor prescribes that knock you out for EIGHT HOURS?  Well, four hours into it, we're driving the wrong way through the parking lot.  And we went around the traffic circle a few times. Wheeeeeeeeeee.  I sincerely hope nobody saw me.  And I also sincerely hope that it is after twelve noon.  Cheers. Again. Maybe I should just be hooked up to a slow drip of booze for the duration.

Rise and Shine

I have had a life-long habit of waking up ridiculously early.  This morning, I have been reminded just exactly why that is.  In my family, sleeping is apparently regarded as a weakness.  Sleeping people are considered to be largely unproductive and are therefore of no use whatsoever.  "ROOT HOG OR DIE!!!!!" is the family rallying cry, which I'm pretty sure is loosely translated as, "Get your lazy ass out of bed and make some damn money". I'm not exactly sure of that but as my dad made it up, that's a pretty good bet. The first person up (which historically has been my mother) is compelled to make as large a racket as is humanly possible.  This involves singing at the top of your lungs, blaring televisions and running of garbage disposals.  Oh, and clanging of pots.  Bonus points for early morning vacuuming.  You are looked at askance when inquiring as to why the smoke alarms need to be tested at 5 a.m. because OF COURSE they do.  Safety first!!!!  And I'm pretty sure she's dropping things in there on purpose.  Okay, butterfingers......we get it.   It's time to get up.  It occurred to me that it would not surprise me at all if I woke up and my mom was standing there with one of those monkey's with the clapping cymbals.  Me (bleary eyed):  "Mom? What's up with the monkey?"  Mom:  "Monkey? What monkey?  OH!!!!  This monkey?  I was just dusting him".  Right next to my previously sleeping head.  Of course you were.  I freely admit that I too am guilty of these early morning antics.  This has driven Dave crazy for twenty years.  In his family of origin, people would tiptoe around even if it meant having to be quiet until noon so as not to wake up the last slumbering party.  Screw that, I say. This simply would not stand where I come from.  If I'm up, everybody needs to be up, damn it.  Pay attention to me!!!!  Do my bidding!!!!!  Dance!!!!  Do something funny!!!!! I don't know if it's something in my DNA or if that at some point I just decided to give in to it and go with the flow.  Because unless you could sleep through what is virtually akin to a jackhammer of both noise and activity, resistance was an exercise in futility.  Anyway, cock-a-doodle-do, everybody.  Get up and at 'em.  Around here, you don't really have a choice.

Oh Boy.

Somebody get a net 'cause my parents are on the loose.  Overheard this morning as they were leaving my house?

Dad:  Do you have the keys?

Mom:  To what?

Dad:  The car.

Phew.  I was nervous that they might choose to take the rocket ship or the covered wagon.

Just be on the lookout.  They're out there.

Deer Dating and Brazen Hussies

Okay, so there's like a full-on deer orgy going on right about now.  A whole lotta lovin' is taking place in my front yard, backyard, and general vicinity.  It would not surprise me one bit if I looked out and they had built a swimming pool on the 17th fairway.  A bunch of lounge chairs, a whole lotta booty shakin', boomin' music, spraying each other with Crystal........you know, like a rap video from the early 90's.  The biggest buck would be kicked back all chill-like with about four or five does rubbin' up on him and sitting in his lap......that's what it's like out there.  Minus the pool of course.  And the Crystal.  No opposable thumbs.  But again, it would surprise me not at all.  There IS booty shaking.  Those little doe ho's are shameless.  And because I am a keen observer of things in general, I have noticed that this little dance is much like that which goes on with humans.  The doe prances around looking all coy until she gets the buck's attention.  He starts sniffing after her and she runs away.  This makes him want her all the more.  I've seen the half-crazed look in the buck's eye.  She is making an idiot out of him. He is being driven to distraction by this saucy little vixen.  And she knows it.  Oh, I saw you bend over, missy.......please.  Oldest trick in the book.  "Tee-hee....I DROPPED something".  Sure you did.  You don't have hands.  And what is it that you dropped?  Poop?  I guess if that's all you've got, work it, girl.  Style points! Anyway, what I noticed yesterday was that once the buck is dialed in on a particular doe, he is absolutely relentless and proceeds with laser-like precision.  What I can't figure out is why THAT doe.  There are like 50 out there.  And they all look exactly alike.  The bucks, not so much.  Some of 'em are bigger and badder than the others.  I've got one that if I were to wake up one day as a doe, I'd be all over like flies on a rib roast.  He's big.  Huge rack.  Broad chested. Looks very "capable", if you know what I mean.  I kinda like him.  He's the Alpha Buck.  I like Alpha Bucks.  But alas, I am not a doe.  Anyway, why THAT chick?  And why does MY Alpha Buck love her so? I find it hard to believe that she is the only one in heat.  'Cause they're all essentially gyrating around like they're in a window in the red light district.  Does the doe have a more symmetrical face than the others?  Does she have a really arresting personality?  Is her dad rich?  What makes her so special? I want answers.  'Cause in the off chance I do wake up as a doe, that bitch is going down.

Drinking Code of Conduct: Revised Edition

Even enthusiastic booze-hounds have rules.  'Cause if there were no rules, there's no limit to what could transpire.  In my family, it is frowned upon to begin drinking before 4pm.  If you spent anytime during the summer at the family cottage in Northern Michigan, you would witness a LOT of clock watching.  In fact, my dad and I have a habit of waiting around the kitchen clock, which seems to run a little faster than the others.  We usually have our glasses out and our wine sitting there corked.  Uncorking prior to four would be a flagrant violation of the rules.  Nothing wrong with having it there at the ready though.  And anxiously clutching the corkscrew is okay too.  That's legal. Other than that, the rules are that there are no rules.  Don't start drinking and don't open the bottle before 4pm and you're good.  I guess I should have pointed out that the aforementioned rules apply to weekdays.  Weekends and Holidays have their own set of standards.  The term "holiday" applies to not just actual holiday's but to vacations.  Being or hosting a houseguest meets the "holiday/vacation" criteria.   Weekend and Holiday rules state that drinking after 12 noon is acceptable.  Unless you are at or are watching a football game.  Then one hour prior to kick-off is not just perfectly acceptable but encouraged.  Oh, and if anything particularly startling, jarring or upsetting occurs on a weekday, it is okay to commence drinking immediately after said event.  You're allowed to calm your jangled nerves.  An accountability panel will be convened to determine what exactly qualifies as startling, jarring or upsetting.  For instance, having a near miss with a deer in your car does not qualify while actually hitting Bambi does.  We've got to have standards here.  We can't be a lawless people. Until the panel convenes and comes back with it's findings, just use common sense.  Being cut-off in traffic? NO.  Being struck by another motorist resulting in whiplash?  YES.  Anyway, I have amended the Code for this week.  Drinking shall occur on an "as needed" basis.  And I am in need.  Cheers.

Grrrr.......

Dear Grady,

The fact that you just decided to decimate a Costco pack of toilet paper while I wasn't looking was just about as helpful at this juncture as Better Homes and Garden's "cranberry" email.  Actually, I may be more irritated with you than with BH&G as I can disregard their suggestions. This is more than I can say in regards to your handiwork.  I realize that you are a puppy, but could you like, try not to be for the next hour or so?  That would be really great.

Love,

Mom

You are KIDDING, Right?

Dear Better Homes and Gardens,

My parents decided to leave at 8 am this morning rather than at 11.  I'm no mathlete but I'm pretty sure that I've now got three hours less than I was banking on to prepare for their impending arrival.  This being the case, the email you just sent me titled, "25 Fun and Festive Things to Do With Cranberries" was not met with enthusiasm.  I've got my own list of things you can do with your cranberries.  Would ya like to take a stab at number one?  Bend over, please.

Thanks!

Mollie

Oh, It's On.......

I'm up and it's not quite 5 am.  So it's on.  The free for all is about to begin in earnest.  The 'rents are arriving today, so we're pretty much locked and loaded.  We're at the point of no return.  Guest room is all buttoned up......looking good....lotsa Kleenex as old people seem to go through Kleenex like nobody's business for some reason.  Bar fridge full of Diet Pepsi for my dad.  We have a shared addiction to Diet Cola.  My poison is Diet Coke, so never the twain shall meet.  At least there's no fighting over the last one as I'd rather drink swamp water than DP.  Dad said, "We're bringing lots of wine".  That's good, dad, but I don't think there is enough wine in the world for the week we have in store. I'm willing to try and find out though.  Fortunately, Tipsy's Liquor World is conveniently located 5 miles away.  I could walk there if necessary.  In a blinding snowstorm.  In the interest of full disclosure, I feel that I must say that I ADORE my parents.  They are actually very cool people.  Super fun to be with and they have been very, very good to us.  It's just that in situations like this, this situation being a holiday, my mom is like a spinning top.  You pull the string and she just starts going faster and faster, the pitch of her voice rising with each rotation.  You want to shoot her with a tranquilizer gun at times.  Can you get in trouble for that?  It's not like I'm going to have her tagged and relocated.  I just want her to chill.  I guess that's why God invented wine.  And vodka.  She calms down a bit if you can get her into the sauce.  I think it's just that she genuinely gets so excited to be with her family that she is almost like a puppy.  I know, 'cause I've got one of those too.  That should add to the excitement of the week....."Goobie!!!!! The dog has a sock!!!!!!  Is he supposed to have a sock???? Goobie!!!!!".  Anway, I think it's that she can't quite contain her enthusiasm.  Which is actually kind of cute.  I guess I should be flattered that our company is appreciated to that level.  Nobody loves you like your parents and that's pretty freakin' cool.  The judging?  Not so much. I guess if I popped out your body, I have no choice but to pretend to listen to the judging. I plan to judge Jack relentlessly as he popped out of MY body in a particularly rude fashion.  Maybe I'll start today.  I think they recommend taking out your frustration on your children.  And hurting them with your words. Alrighty, I've gotta bounce now because I need to reconfigure the "Drinking Code of Conduct" as it is officially amended during "Holiday Weeks".  Will report back on that one.

Another One Bites the Dust

Don't think I didn't just have a glass of champagne.  'Cause I did.  The Detroit Lions actually won a football game for the second time since December of '07, if memory serves.  And yes I do realize how pathetic it is that my husband, the man I have willingly (well, kinda) spent the last twenty years of my life with, has been keeping champagne chilled in the hopes that one day, his beloved Lion's would pull one out of their asses.  They didn't just pull one out of their asses but actually managed to do it in somewhat entertaining fashion.  One minute left, an injured Matthew Stafford tosses one in.....it had all of the elements of......of......an actual football game!!!!  Earlier, as I was contemplating my day, I made the mistake of articulating my displeasure at actually having to be a party to a Lions/Browns match-up.  Jack said, "Mom, can't you at least TRY to show some spirit?".  Um.....Nope.  Sorry kid.  Not gonna happen.  As has been established, the Honolulu Blue and Silver actually prevailed, and I was psyched for him. Although born in Colorado, he has been indoctrinated by his father since birth into this long-standing tradition of soul crushing defeat.  When victory was at hand, my child, who has seen the inside of a church....uh....NEVER.....said,"Dear Lord.....it's like the sweet baby Jesus was just born".  So not only did I get to tip a little champagne but my boys were happy.  AND because of Stafford's injury, we are being spared the indignity of the pilgrim suit on Thanksgiving.  Even Miles Standish knows that a Culpepper led Lion's offense is not going to bode well against the Pack and is therefore a waste of a good wearing.  Works for me!  Thank you, Matthew Stafford, for taking one for Team Christie.......the roar might not be yet restored, but the demise of the pilgrim suit is a step in the right direction.

Beehive State

Dave just informed me that he had never heard the story about the parents that kidnapped their adult daughter.  I informed him that they didn't like the dude she was going to marry, so naturally they physically restrained her ass and took off with her.  Dave:  "Was it in Utah?"  Me:  "Yup". Dave:  "Why is it always Utah?".  It just is, Dave......it just is.

Notes to Self in Preparation For Parental Visit

1.  With Mom and Dad rocketing their way north, you need to take a deep breath. Make sure bags for frequent hyperventilation are conveniently located.

2.  Repeat mantra frequently.  "I am and adult.  I am an adult".  They can't ground you anymore.  They should but they can't.  It's called "false imprisonment". Those parents that kidnapped their adult daughter?  In jail.  Ha.

3.  Accept that Mom is going to ask what you are doing even if it is the most mundane task.  Mom:  "Goobie!!!!  What are you doing?"  Me:  I'm going to the bathroom, Mom".  "What are you doing in there?"  Me:  Whatever needs doing, Mom".  Or, Mom:  "Goobie!!!!  What's this?"  Me:  "Um, it's a banana, Mom".  Acceptance.  Very important.

4.  Hide any and all evidence of wretched excess that will prompt lectures about budgets.  Fucking budgets.

5.  Hide any and all evidence of wretched and excessive alcohol consumption.  Bury recycling bin in back yard if necessary.

6.  Make sure excessive alcohol has been procured and is readily accessible.

7.  Hide husband's Honolulu Blue and Silver Detroit Lion's pilgrim suit.  It's for the benefit of all concerned as it IS admittedly alarming.  Excellent birth control though.....I don't think it's a coincidence that the pilgrim suit made its appearance around the time it was decided that there would be no more children.

8.  Be prepared to nod and agree when child is declared a genius.  Be prepared to nod and agree when asked if child has been talked to about drugs and alcohol.  Be prepared to nod and agree about any dietary concerns in regards to child.  Just be prepared.

9.  See number six.

10.  See number six.

Am going to go hyperventilate now. Dave, bag please.

Dude......

.......I'm freaking out.  This crazy little blog just hit 2000 page views since November 10th.  What the hell?  Whatever the hell, that is pretty fuckin' awesome and I would like to very sincerely thank you for not just actually reading my insane ramblings but apparently passing them on!  Keep up the good work!  I'll personally put stars on ALL of your foreheads if this amounts to anything.  If nothing else, it's keeping me off the streets.  'Cause you know.......they're pretty mean around here up in the WS.  Word.  I don't think any of you would like to run into a bull elk in a dark alley.  And there are drunken people in golf carts.  They are worse than the elk.  Welcome to the jungle, baby.

That's Just Not Right

I was just out running errands.  Not only did I roll down the window and yell, "suckas" at the people that were running out of the grocery stores screaming and crying and looking like they were about to jump into oncoming traffic, I also came to yet another automotive realization.  There are certain colors of cars that there is simply no excuse for.  The top three offenders?


1.  Yellow.  There is no reason to have a yellow car.  None at all.  You look like you're riding around in a bumble-bee.  And I would like to point out that the fact that Hulk Hogan drives yellow cars is reason enough to permanently ban them from production.  This is number one with a bullet.  Largely seen on Hummers and Corvettes and almost ALWAYS driven by men with fake tans, hair plugs and jewelry.  


2.  Purple.  These seem to be favored by the late 50+, lefty, female, cat-fancying set.  And the purple car in question is usually something that I'm sure was considered "zippy" upon purchase.  Like a PT Cruiser.  Please do not even get me started on PT Cruisers.  Just don't.  


3.  Royal Blue.  First of all, it's just plain fugly.  And, my crazy neighbor drives a royal blue truck.  And so does the adult son that lives with him.  The color so nice they picked it twice!  I just can't imagine what goes on inside someone's head when presented with a myriad of color choices for their new vehicle and they say, "I'll take the royal blue".  Why? Can you say, "Electric-Eel Mobile"?  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  


This is of course, my ever humble opinion.  If you feel the need to bring attention to yourself with some crazy-ass car color, have at it.  My car is basic black.  A propensity for high-spirited antics does not hurt in this endeavor.  Draw your own conclusions.

I Don't Really Care That Your Child is An Honor Student

I really don't.  And I'm willing to bet that nobody else does either.  That being said, bully for you.  I am going to get one that says, "My Kid is Fair to Middling", since we're now going around touting our children's attributes or lack thereof on the back of our cars.  I just don't get the need to let the world at large know how fabulous your child is.  Oh, I get that you are proud.  I would imagine that if my child were an honor student, I too would be rather impressed with not just him but with myself and the superiority of my gene pool. As luck would have it, academia does not seem to be my child's strong suit.  He has MANY other attributes that are pretty killer though.  If I were so inclined, I could slap a "My Child is Really Fucking Funny" sticker on the back of the ol' Volvo.  Or, everybody's favorite classic, "My Kid is Much Bigger and Better Looking Than Your Kid".  We ALL think our children are pretty awesome, even if they're not.  It's that nature/nurture thing that keeps us from eating our young.  We're programmed to think that everything they do is completely and utterly amazing.  Again, even if it's really (really) not.  These stickers are clearly all about the parents as I can't imagine any kid worth his or her salt being down with that.  I would have been mortified if my mother put one of those things on the Family Truckster.  Granted, she was not afforded the opportunity, but that fact is irrelevant.  At some point, this living vicariously through your child thing has got to stop.  I think the sticker should read, "I Don't Really Have Much of a Life But My Kid is Really Smart.  And I Need You to Know That As It is The Only Thing in My Life That Keeps Me From Sticking My Head in the Goddamn Oven".  Newsflash, peeps:  THE KIDS  ARE GOING TO GROW UP AND LEAVE YOU.  Because that is our job as parents.  Raise 'em the best we can and then move 'em on out.  It's the natural progression of things.  When they're gone, we are (God willin' and the creek don't rise) still here.  And we will be needing lives.  'Cause if you don't have one you are going to drive your adult child up a fucking wall and they will avoid you like the plague.  And then you won't be able to get "My Grandchild is an Honor Student" stickers.

Palomino

If I am ever spotted in a "seasonal sweater", you can consider it to be akin to one of those secret-code words you're supposed to have so that people know if you're in trouble.  Like if you're the victim of a home invasion and the phone rings and the invader tells you to answer it but NO funny business.  Happens to me ALL the time.  "Hello?  Oh, I'm fine.  PALAMINO!!!".  If I am walking around with something with a reindeer or a santa on it, I have been kidnapped and am going about my business in somewhat normal fashion due to Stockholm Syndrome. Much like that little harp-playing Mormon girl, bless her heart.  Those sweaters may as well just come with a sign that says, "I have given up.  Completely.  I am no longer a woman but a 'Mommy Thing'".  And being old does not get you off the hook.  Age is no excuse for looking like a complete moron.  Same goes for the light-up necklaces and jingle-bell earrings.  You don't look wacky.  You look you have been plugged in.  You are not a lamp. And being generously proportioned is also no excuse.  The theory of "If you can't hide it, decorate it" is something that they tell fat people to make them feel better.  I'm not gonna lie to you.  A big, giant moose with a wreath around it's neck is definitely not slimming.  I actually think these sweaters and their accompanying accessories are the handi-work of the devil himself.  It's his way of turning our attention away from the baby Jesus, who after all IS the reason for the season.

That Tiny Car is Stupid

I was just out running errands.  It occurred to me while I was driving that tiny cars really bug me.  And my ire is directly proportionate to exactly how tiny the vehicle in question is.  I don't know exactly what it is.  Maybe it's that the drivers look so smug and self-satisfied and tree-huggy.  I like trees.  Trees are good.  I also like being able to transport something other than myself and one tiny friend.  I understand their function in densely populated urban areas.  We're in Colorado.  Wide open spaces.  Snow.  Many gigantic vehicles ready to go all roaring road devouring monster truck on your ass.  Admit it.  You're just showing off how eco-aware you are.  But you look like a tool.  And I can pretty much guarantee you that I wouldn't like you.  You probably wouldn't like me either but that's beside the point, Tiny Car.  You need to take that thing to Boulder. Maybe I have a problem with tiny things in general. I don't really like tiny dogs, either.  A dog should not be able to fit in your purse when fully grown.  It's an animal, not an accessory. In my book, a dog should be able to knock you over if the mood struck.  Oh, and run through fields without falling into a gopher hole.  I think if you're thinking "tiny dog" you should just get a cat.  Much less trouble if you can get past the judging. Tiny glasses?  Again......I don't like 'em. They don't make you look like a hipster, they make your head look huge.  Oh, and don't even get me started on "Tiny Town", which is this stupid-ass thing up the hill a bit from my house.  A bunch of tiny buildings surrounded by a tiny train.  "Oh, look at me!  I'm bigger than the bank!  Take a picture, Betty!!!!".  I just come from the mindset of bigger being better and I DO realize that is why other countries hate Americans.  Suck it, other countries.  I told Dave I bought the turkey this morning and he said, "Let me guess......it was the biggest one they had".  Ding, ding, ding!  We have a winner.

You Be in the WRONG Bidness, Beyotch

Hospitality:  I'm pretty sure it means you're supposed to be hospitable. Like, um.....nice? I've had the occasion recently to enjoy some frankly hostile service.  When you enter an establishment, shouldn't the first person you see make you think that they're actually happy that you've crossed the threshold?  And if not happy, at least not pissed? Maybe I'm mistaken and "Oh great.....it's you and now we've got to stay open past 8pm" is the vibe that most restaurants are aiming for.  That may in fact be one of the first things emphasized in hotel and restaurant management programs.  I think that's the surly attitude that made Disney such a successful company!  I think Mickey Mouse goes around kicking babies and shit.  And I'm pretty sure they try to hire kids with as miserable a look about them as possible.  You've of course heard of "The Disney Scowl".  Oh WAIT......that's right!!!!!  They are NICE to their guests!!!!!  They make it seem like they are God damned, slap your grandma, happy to see your sorry ass!  Because you ARE PAYING TO BE THERE.  I have become so accustomed to be being treated poorly that I assumed that ALL establishments wish you would just hurry it up, choke it down and get the fuck out.  And call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure that wondering if your waitress dropped her dentures in your drink because you asked for a lime is not what most restaurants hope their guests are thinking during their dining experience.  "Hmmmm......I wonder who's putting what in my food back there and why" is not a reassuring sentiment when eating out.  It's called service.  That's what you are there for.  If you cannot be even reasonably pleasant and cannot walk around without looking like you'd like to strangle a kitten, or better yet a patron, you seriously need to look elsewhere for a job.  As hospitality ain't your bag, baby.  It's baaaaaad for business.  

Gobble Gobble

I'm going turkey shopping.  Soon.  Before the freaks come out.  As a precautionary measure I was thinking of wearing my husband's Detroit Lion's pilgrim suit.  Figured if I looked extra crazy, nobody would mess with me. What's that you say?  No pilgrim suit necessary?  Well fine.  It wouldn't fit me anyway.  I'm hoping it was somehow "misplaced" over the course of the last year.  Lost at the cleaners perhaps? I honestly don't think my dad and brother can take one more year of breaking bread with a 40-something man in a Honolulu blue and silver Miles Standish get-up. It was funny the first couple of years.  Well, kinda.  And then it just started seeming pathetic. Nobody even paid attention to him.  It's like, "yeah, yeah, yeah.....pilgrim suit......pass the gravy".  But I digress......turkey.  I'm just going to get a big ass Butterball.  A few years back, my mom was all excited because she ordered some crazy expensive free-range turkey because, and I quote, "It's where the President is getting his turkey".  Uh....okay.  So this turkey arrives in a box via Fed Ex rather than motorcade.  Dad: "Rose, Rose!  The turkey's here!"  I'm surprised they didn't play "Hail to the Chief" and roll out a red carpet.  It's a turkey, people.  Get a grip.  And I don't think my dad would have been so excited about the big arrival had he been aware of what he paid for said Presidential turkey.   So we all gather around for the grand unveiling.  It's a turkey.  Like any other turkey.  Maybe it had a little more fun on the way to its inevitable fate, but it's a turkey nevertheless.  It ended up tasting no better and frankly maybe a little worse than a good old fashioned Butterball from your grocer's freezer.  So, bottom line, I must inform my loving family that as I am not made of money, no matter what the Obama family is eating next Thursday, we are eating Butterball.  And we're going to like it.  And if we don't, we are going to stick a sock in it.

Formerly Fabulous

I think I've mentioned before that I am member of the Formerly Fabulous.  Actually, this is a group I myself started, so I'm kinda like the President of the Formerly Fab.  You could kiss my ring if I still had it.  You see, there was a time long ago when real estate was a money making profession!  You may or may not have heard, but these days?  Not so much.  My husband is now back to being a rock star.  And that doesn't pay what it used to either.  Additionally, as has been established, I don't have a freaking job.  Please.  Me? Seriously. The stock market taking a historic nose-dive and wiping out my portfolio was not all that helpful either.  Ummmmm.......where'd all my money go?  Poof!  Gone.  Waaahhhh.  I am not a good poor person.  Fortunately I've still got most of my stuff.  Pretty nice house, cars are paid for, it still looks like we're holding it together.  What is not visible to the naked eye are the underpinnings of fabulosity that allow one to BE truly fabulous.  Prime example?  Cleaning ladies.  Ohhhh, how I miss my cleaning ladies.  Even the ones who came to check out my old house for the first time and declared, "Eeeeeesssss reaalllllllly dirttttyyyyyy".  Oh, really, dumbass?  You think you're here because I'm GOOD at cleaning?  A little more cleaning and a little less attitude, please.  I freely admit I suck at cleaning.  And I've got a pretty big house. With a lot of toilets.  And my parents are coming for Thanksgiving.  On Monday.  It has been suggested that they may feel so badly about the squalor I am now living in that they will hire some cleaning ladies on the spot.  Mom: "How can our grandchild live like this!......Bill!  Do something!!!!".  Maybe I should really play up the poverty angle and hire some chickens to run around in the yard.  And maybe tie a goat to a tree.  I could smear Jack with charcoal and make him look like a hobo.  Maybe I'll have him sitting out in the driveway with a sign saying he'll work for food.  That'd be good.  Nothin' primes the sympathy pump like an indigent child.  Particularly when he's your own flesh and blood.  Oh, I'll go there.  The bottom line is that I want my freakin' cleaning ladies back by any means necessary.  I don't even care if they judge me.  Just clean like the wind, cleaning ladies.....clean like the wind.

Um, I Don't Think That's Food

I just got back from the annual Thanksgiving lunch at my son's school, wherein all of the parents (well those that CARE about their children......and yes, I'm judging....I take issue not with judging but with being judged......) come and eat a "turkey" dinner with the kids.  As I imagine is the case with all kindergarten parents, we got sucked in the first year.  "Oh, turkey dinner!  Isn't that cute!!!"  Ummmm........it's not cute and that shit is not turkey.  NEVER AGAIN.  In fact I was so horrified that I began making lunch for Jack daily even though it's a pain in my ass.  The purported turkey looked more like a congealed mass with viscous, puce colored gravy on top of it.  Mashed potatoes looked passable.  Pumpkin pie the same.  It's the "turkey" that got me. Truly terrifying.  Life changing.  We started a tradition of bringing Pei Wei (to the uninformed, it's PF Chang's more casual spin-off) to school on "turkey" dinner day.  So while all of the other suckas are sitting there looking slightly green and queasy, the Familia Christie is happily enjoying a very Asian Thanksgiving lunch.  Chopsticks in hand, we rock the land.  And for that, I am infinitely grateful.

The Damn Ham

While waxing nostalgic about Thanksgiving's past, I remembered something. Amazing that I can remember anything, really, what with the copious amounts of jug wine and all. But I've got some misty, water-colored memories.  There may be a pink elephant or two stumbling through the scene but they're in there.  The Thanksgiving in question involved not just a turkey but a ham.  Not just any  ham.  My mom could out-Martha Martha in a Martha-off.  This ham had little slits cut into it with surgical precision which were then stuffed with spinach.  I'm sure there was some kind of lovely bourbon glaze involved as well. And a little for the chef!!!!  I will say that my mom was, and is the mother scratching bomb when it comes to that kinda stuff.  So anyway, the ham, having been sufficiently dressed and seasoned, is sitting on the counter, waiting to go in the oven.  At some point, a keen observer notices that the ham has gone missin'.  This was followed by screaming and shreaking and I believe, "Jesus Christ!  The dog has the ham!!!!!".  So a chase ensues. The dog is finally wrestled to the ground and the ham is retrieved.  It's been gnawed and licked and is frankly slobbery and covered with dog hair and other shit that was on the ground wherever he dragged it off to.  Mom, having a houseful arriving imminently, simply rinses it off, stuffs the teeth marks with more spinach and slaps that baby in the oven.  The best part was that somehow the information spread like wildfire and so those in the know avoided the ham like the plague.  The information was not imparted upon a certain blowhard relative however, who declared the ham to be simply delicious.  This declaration immediately set off a round of near deaths by choking.  Heimlich!  Can't breathe!  Ahhhhhh.......some memories are better than others.

Pumpkin Smashers and Ass Slapping

Thanksgiving has a history in my family as being a rather colorful occasion. I am sure that this is rather surprising to those of you who know me as I am rather quiet.  Bookish, really.  I'm sure you assumed that I come from a family of reserved intellectuals.  Actually, no.  I don't.  And this was in greater evidence when I was growing up back in Michigan.  We always had Thanksgiving at our house, probably because my mother had ten million relatives and we had the biggest house.  Irish Catholics.  Rabbits.  The thing that stands out the most in my mind about these occasions was my Grandfather.  He was a big, big guy with an even bigger personality.  He may have been the inspiration for the term "character".  Again, I realize that this may shock some of you.  But it's true.  Not a Thanksgiving would pass without good ol' Emmet slapping the turkey on the ass before it was carved and declaring it, "the best one ever, Rosie!".  I'm not sure if it was technically the turkey's ass, but whatever.  You slap food at the dinner table, in my book, it's an ass.  He had a propensity for not just mischief (he tripped our dog when he thought noone was looking and then looked all sheepish when we busted him) but for something known as the "Pumpkin Smasher".  I believe this was technically Seven and soda.  I don't really know for sure what it was as the only one that was allowed to make Papa's drinks was my dad.  Probably because he knew my dad gave a (very) friendly pour.  The story goes that the term "Pumpkin Smasher" originated from someone getting a phone call from a friendly peace officer stating that Papa and his car were in a pumpkin patch.  He became "lost" on his way home from our house one year.  Ahhhhhh.....those were the days.  When a man could take a short-cut through a pumpkin patch with impunity.  I don't know if this actually happened or if it's just family lore, but suffice to say it would not be surprising at all.  I miss Papa, who several years back had the good common sense to have a heart attack while making a cocktail for he and his new wife.  Dead before he hit the floor, they say.  Now THAT'S the way to go. Cheers, Papa......I'll slap that turkey on the ass for ya this year.

Has anybody else noticed that as we have grown older, our list of Christmas gift recipients has ballooned into unmanageable and unaffordable proportions?  It started out that I would get a little gift for a few of my closest friends.  This was cool and an enjoyable little exchange.  Then people started having kids.  So you'd buy the kid a present.  Which again, was kinda fun when everybody just had one.  Oh, but then they started coming in droves.  And it stopped being fun around this time.  Especially when people started spreading out around the country and you are mailing this stuff all over God's green Earth.  At some point this has got to stop.  I have a feeling that everybody else feels the same way about it but is afraid to say something to end the circle of insanity.  I'll say it.  I love ya, friends, and kids of friends too.  Heck, some of you kids I consider friends in your own right. That being said, this mushroom cloud of generosity must stop lest it end in my family and I walking around in nothing but barrels.  We do that anyway from time to time but we don't want to do it because we have to. Gifts to children of friends?  Finished.  Sorry kiddies.  Mean Auntie Mollie does not actually hate children, she just no longer gives gifts to those she is not related to.  Sorry to change it up on ya, but it was spiraling out of control.  Giving gifts because you "have" to is not a good precedent.  And knowing my friends and their children, I don't think anybody is going to be lacking in the Christmas gift department.  We're giving too many things to people that don't NEED anything.  Bah Humbug.

Grocery Shopping Tutorial

As a professional housewife (amongst other things), I am going to provide a public service here today.  We have just a little over a week before Thanksgiving, which means amateur hour at the grocery stores is about to begin in earnest.  Any minute now.  So I'm gonna drop some survival tips on your ass.  If I know my way around anything better than a corkscrew, it's a shopping cart.  Allow me to enlighten you. Before I begin let me make a seasonal blanket statement:  if you go anywhere near a grocery store or Costco/Sam's Club this weekend, you are out of your fucking mind.  I don't care if you need to take a day off of work to facilitate this.  Do not do it.  You can thank me later.  And if you do take the day off to do your shopping, please notify me so that I can stay away.  No offense but it's for your safety as well as my sanity.  Anyway, here are my helpful hints:

1.  The Parking Lot.  See those arrows?  They mean "go this way".  It's not opposite day.  So don't look at me like I'm crazy when I'm the one going in the correct direction.

2.  Carts.  Just get one.  It's not a life or death decision.  Pick a cart and move out of the way. This is the grocery store, not Target where they tend to stick together in a rather troublesome fashion. Everybody looks at you sympathetically at Target.  We've all been there.  The grocery store?  Not so much.  They don't stick.  Move along.  And those wipey disinfectant things?  Don't bother.  There are diseased children running amuck everywhere at these places.  Touching everything.  With snotty little fingers. Can you say bubbling cesspool of germs?  Using those wipes is like bringing a knife to a gun fight.  And speaking of children and carts.....

3.  DO NOT LET YOUR CHILDREN PUSH THE CART.  Just don't.  It's annoying as hell.  And even worse, those dumb-ass things with the car in front so your children can "drive"?  First of all, they are next to impossible to push and cause nothing but trouble.  And I've gotta say, both you AND your offspring look like idiots.  Come to think of it, children should be banned from grocery stores as a rule.  For the record, I'm not a child-hater.  I've got one.  Banned.

4.  Traffic.  Navigating the grocery store aisles works much like traffic.  Drive on the right side.  We're not in Europe.  And if you become confused and disoriented by the multitude of choices and shiny colors on any given aisle, DO NOT LEAVE YOUR CART IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AISLE. PULL THE HELL OVER.  Would you just leave your car in the middle of a busy road?  Maybe you would.  I would not.  Also, if you see a friend that you must absolutely chit-chat with, again, pull the hell over.  There are those of us that are there to procure food, not catch up on the latest.  We normal people do that over cocktails rather than in the frozen food section at King Soopers.  Oh, and when you get to the end of the aisle, don't go charging out.  It's an implied stop sign situation.  If you don't stop, prepare to be t-boned.

5.  Checking Out.  See those signs above the checkout stands?  15 Items or Less?  That's what it means.  And if you're writing a check (who the hell still writes checks anyway??) please, please balance your checkbook in the car.  We're back here!  Waiting!!!!  Actually, they should put horns on shopping carts. This just occurred to me and it's brilliant!  Turn signals, too.  Maybe I really should be in charge of the world.

6.  Departure.  Do NOT leave your car doors open.  People are trying to get in and out of parking spots.  Rude.  Do NOT leave your shopping cart in the middle of a parking space.  Again, rude.  Put 'em in those cart corrals, even if it's not convenient.  Just do it.  And again, follow those arrows.  It's actually pretty simple but people seem to be quite baffled by this concept.

So, hopefully this will help in the coming week.  And if you see me or one of my sisters in arms, do yourself a favor and step aside.  We mean business.  Grocery shopping is a commando operation.  We take no prisoners and despite outward appearances, we are not afraid to hurt people.  It's nothing personal, it's just that this is our profession and we take it seriously.  Plus, we might be late for Pilates or even worse, our hair appointments.  You don't want to get between a housewife and her hair.  Ugly.

Bearskin Ug(h)

I think I've mentioned that I'm an interior designer.  And no, that is not an attempt to drum up bid-ness.  I try to avoid designing (and work, for that matter) at all costs, which I believe has also been established.  On the rare occasion that I actually LIKE a person, I'll do it.  This was recently the case.  Clients are in the process of purchasing a home and the current owner's possessions are still in it.  As is often the case, this was informative.  You can tell A LOT about people from their stuff.  The first thing I noticed was that these people like Egypt.  Like disturbingly so.  I half expected a mummy to pop out of a closet and start chasing us around.  That actually happens from time to time.  They just don't report it on the news.  Conspiracy.  The second thing, which upon investigation became even more disturbing than the Egypt shit was that these people are WAAAAYYYYYY into each other.  Pictures of them lovin' it up all over the place.  Framed wedding invitation (gag.....as IF), mementos of their travels scattered about as if to remind them of that sweet, sweet Tahitian love they made.....it was rather nauseating.  I have a theory that this had to have been a second marriage.  'Cause does anybody REALLY like their original spouse this much?  No offense, Dave.  I will speak for him.....DAVE:  "None taken". So, I'm thinking this is weird but whatever.  I was working and could not be distracted by bad taste and overzealous displays of affection.  This was until I entered the master bedroom and became not just distracted but completely unhinged.  Not only are these folks fans of Egypt, they are fans of wine in the boudoir.  And you know what that means.  Cue the 70's porn soundtrack.  How do I know about the wine?  Oh, I'll tell ya.  The first clue was the two rather garish wine glasses (chalices, really) on a black granite counter top, below which was the second clue....a wine 'fridge.  Um......if you cannot be distracted from your lusty romp for long enough to drag your naked ass downstairs for more wine, you, my friends, need a hose turned on you.  I will say that in my case, a conveniently located supply of wine would be considered a safety measure.  Depending on how much I had consumed prior to entering the bedroom, navigation of stairs may prove tricky not to mention potentially dangerous.  I do not believe this was the case here.  Other clues lead us to believe that they are doctors (the diplomas in the study helped).  Doctors don't drink like I do.  Something about health.  Stupid health. But I digress.  Adding to this disturbing scenario was the fireplace.  'Cause you just know what happened there.  And I had to take my shoes off!!!!!  Needless to say, after touring the master bedroom anyplace that you could picture a bearskin rug was avoided like the plague.  First design recommendation?  Replace all carpet.  Quickly.  And for God's sake......here's a tip:  if your house is ever for sale, remove all indications that you are total horn-dogs as it freaks people the hell out.  It's not a good visual.  You could be Brangelina and it still makes us feel all skeevy.  Eeeewww.

Par-TAY-Association

I think I have already established that I was tricked into joining the PTA. They told me it was the Par-TAY-Association.  I was like, "Well alllll riggghhhtt!!!!" and then signed my life away. Well, not really.....it just seems like it.  I feel that I need to start by saying that I actually DO think that the PTA does a lot of good.  I just think there is a better way to do it that would attract cooler people.  I guess I should not have referred to the organization as the "Axis of Evil" several posts back.  It netted me a phone call from the PTA president. Zoinks. Not sure what she wanted 'cause I didn't call her back as I'm a great big chicken but I've got a pretty good guess. Having your membership chair compare your group to nations supportive of terrorism and weapons of mass destruction is probably not helpful.  I will say this: if you want to attract people who in turn are going to bring more people into the PTA you need to rethink how it works.  The ultimate goal would be the same......raising money for your school and being supportive of students and teachers.  I get that.  What I don't get is why you have to have the meetings AT school.  Like at 9 am.  I don't want a "second cup of coffee".  I want to go to pilates.  The sign outside says "Hug and GO", not "Hug and Hang Out". These meetings attract people that seem to have nowhere else to go and noone else to talk to.  And so they want to talk.  And talk.  And talk some more.  To the point where I have been tempted to jump over the table and strangle more than one person. Topics that should be handled in 5 minutes take 30.  And it's because some lonely heart blowhard cannot shut her piehole.  I get that there are isolated people in the world.  I am not without empathy.  And I get that some of these women are still home with  much younger kids.  I know this because they're sitting in their laps screeching and/or running amuck during these meetings.  I remember what that is like. It's not all shits and grins.  Well, shits, yes.  Grins, not so much. All I have to say is that I would feel a lot more sympathetic to their plight and need for human interaction if the meetings were held at someone's house.  Or a bar.  Someplace with alcohol.  I am much, much more open to listen to people drone on about inane topics when I've got a pleasant glow about my person.  This would dovetail nicely into the problem I have with EVENING PTA meetings which I refuse to attend on principle.  The principle being that it interferes with cocktail hour. I maintain that a Par-TAY-Association would be infinitely more popular and therefore would do a hell of a lot more good. Tipsy do-gooders are happy do-gooders.  And they want to come back and hang out with other happy, tipsy do-gooders.  Birds of a feather and all that.  Trust me. I know of what I speak. Cheers.

Hug and GO, Mother $%&*er

My son goes to Red Rocks Elementary.  You've heard of Red Rocks Amphitheater, I'm sure......it's a fairly legendary concert venue.  Jack's school is pretty much tucked at the bottom.  It's got to be one of the most scenically beautiful elementary schools in the country.  Simply spectacular.  It's also really freakin' small.  Probably because when it was built in the 50's, the enrollment total was, oh....four children and as many cows?  Now there are 350 kids in attendance.  There's only one way in and out of the school and because it has a really stellar reputation, a lot of kids are "choiced" in, and therefore are dropped off as they can't ride the bus.  This creates a bit of a traffic problem in the morning.  While Jack is "in-district" I drop him off at school because the bus comes at some ridiculous hour and we all need the extra time.  Whatever.....I've got one kid.....I don't mind.  What I DO mind, however, are the dumb ass parents that cannot, in spite of repeated warnings and instruction, understand that the (idiotically named) "Hug and Go" lane means exactly that.   Hug your kid and move the hell along.  Quickly.  Not only are there signs to that effect but the building superintendent, Ken, has to stand out there in an attempt to move people along.  Doesn't really help.  In spite of his best intentions, he's not that menacing looking.  Something about not having scary people working at an elementary school, I guess.  I have literally seen people that cannot seem to part with their little darlings fawning, hugging, petting, kissing and practically crying because parting is such sweet sorrow.  Jesus.  Get a life.  I've got a pilates class to get to.  I can get Jack out of that car inside of two seconds and be burning rubber down the hill inside of three.  Maybe 'cause I don't bother with the hug.  He's TEN for Christ's sake. I also do not understand why the "Hug and Go" is taken by some as a social opportunity.  You don't need to be chatting with Sally while the rest of us are backed up onto the main thoroughfare.  And if you need to be texting somebody, go do it somewhere else.  Are the rest of us not back here?  Waiting?  Seriously considering ramming your ass?  It's Hug and GO, fucktard.  Hug.  Go.  Thank you.

Skin to Win

As has been previously established, I really hate Sunday's.  They are made exponentially worse by the fact that when I cannot escape the house due to large snowfall, I am forced to inadvertently at least listen to the Lion's game. They are playing the Vikings today.  The Vikings now have that insufferable Brett Favre.  He seems to be kinda good, which is enough to piss a person off as he is a big, giant baby.  It's not sounding pretty up there.  It's not going to look pretty either when Dave strips off his shirt and kicks it "Skin to Win-style" in an attempt to rally his team.  'Cause you know, they're really dialed in to what Dave Christie of Morrison, Colorado is up to.  I think they have a special line they use to contact Super Fan to find out what his winning tactics for the day will be.  And perhaps this is part of  the problem.  No good can come out of a rather large, shirtless Albanian.  Help.  Please.

Opening Day

According to some of the Facebook posts I've seen from some of my friends, at least in Michigan it's the beginning of deer season.  It's always deer season in my backyard.  If anyone would care to come out to Colorado, I can save you the trouble of needing to sit in a blind, wear cammo or even use a rifle.  You could pour yourself a bloody and when you're good and ready,walk out my back door and strangle one with each arm without breaking a sweat.  If you're doing it for sport, I could let Grady out after them so they look up and consider moving 6 inches so that at least there is technically some "hunt" involved.  Actually, they really don't pay all that much attention to Grady anyway.  "Oh.....you......the little black kid".  At any given time, there is a minimum of six of these vile creatures back there and they've quite made themselves at home, which really bugs me for some reason.  It would surprise me not one bit if I looked out and there were a bunch of bucks sitting at the patio table playing poker and smoking cigars.  Maybe one of 'em grilling steaks.  "Hey......Bo......how do you want yours done?".  I know they're herbivores but that's probably because they didn't have a grill before.  What with this swanky new home they've commandeered (get it?  COMMANDEERED? hahahah), it's a red-meat-o-rama.  I guess what chafes me the most is the brazen nature of their take-over.  I'll go out there and they just look at me.  Excuse me, but is this not MY yard?  You don't even have the good graces to PRETEND that I'm frightening you?  Am I not a crazy lady? My antics have been known to scare the shit out of both children and GROWN men.  If I start drinking now, I should have worked up a lather and be foaming at the mouth by early this afternoon.  That'll show 'em.  Deer problem?  Solved.

That Thing is Fake as Hell

First of all, I need to state that I am not a snob.  Oh, I was.  I was an INCREDIBLE snob.  A real asshole, actually.  Joining the ranks of the "Formerly Fabulous" has knocked me down about 75 pegs and now I'm quite down with the people.  That being said, I feel that I need to perform a public service.  All of you girls out there that are walking around with the fake Louis bags?  We know that they're not real.  From the looks of ya, either that damn thing is fake or you are awfully freakin' stupid.  If you're trying to let everyone know how rich and fabulous you are with that bag, ummmmm.....no you're not.  It almost makes me sad that as a society we place such value on these things and that people measure their self-worth by material objects, "fake" or "real".  What happened to character as the measure of a man?  Or as the case may be a woman?  Now if you'll excuse me, I am freaking out because I cannot find my Chanel sunglasses.  They're probably in my fake Birkin.

Excuse Me?

As many of you know, my parents have had a little adventure abroad.  My mom calls me from Paris last Monday and says, "Goobie! (nickname....loooong story.....I'll get to that another time) We're in Paris! (duh) My stomach hurts!"  Okay mom......I'm sure it's just from traveling.  Didn't think much of it.  As the week wears on, we get daily phone calls at a ridiculously early hour.  Mom doesn't seem to grasp that although it may be noon in France, it's 4 a.m. in Colorado.  So we blow her off.  She did actually call last Thursday at a reasonable hour (cocktail hour, in fact, when I myself am feeling considerably more reasonable about most things).  She still had a stomach ache and wanted me to google ovarian cancer symptoms.  Oh, for God's sake mom......FINE.  So I did and she says she thinks she has it.  Okay, mom......last I checked you were not an OBGYN but hey.....apparently there's lots I don't know.  Like that you didn't actually throw that fucking monkey overboard. But I digress.  I talked her off of the ledge (again with the cocktail hour and feeling reasonable) and wished her Bon Voyage, as they were setting sail on a barge trip through the South of France.  The next morning, the phone rings at 5 a.m.. Dave and I looked at each other and said, "Goobie!" in the high pitched tone that is my mother's signature and didn't answer it.  Dave, being Dave, however began to feel guilty and checks the message.  It's my dad.  Mom has been taken by ambulance off of the barge which was fortunately in port.  She is in an incredible amount of pain and is turning yellow.  Told you to watch that wine, mom.  Anyway, bottom line, she's not well and both mom AND dad are pretty freaked out. So they are in the ambulance on their way to the first of what ends up being two hospitals.  Because my dad doesn't have any cash on him with which to pay the driver,THE AMBULANCE DRIVER STOPS AND TAKES HIM TO AN ATM. Ummmmmmm.......isn't the whole premise of an ambulance that it transports seriously ill people to get help quickly?  Like 'cause it's an EMERGENCY?? Maybe I am confused.  "Ohhh......Mr. Jones, I can see that you are missing several limbs and may be bleeding out buuuutttttt......we really need to get paid, so we're just going to stop at this ATM and wheel you over on the gurney......there you go....nice and easy.....".  WHAT THE HELL?  Seriously?   Turns out, she needed an emergency appendectomy.  In France.  My parents don't speak a lick of French.  Well, that's not true.  My dad says he knows, "oui" and "senor".  God.

Shit.

Okay, so I'm having a pretty good day yesterday.  Nobody died, no funerals to attend, no relatives having emergency surgery in foreign lands.  I'm pretty easy to please.  At the end of this drama-free day, I sit down at my computer and as is my habit, I check my facebook page.  I look and see that someone has posted something on my wall.  It's my sister-in-law!  It's a picture of that fucker Benjamin with the comment, "Benjamin is back!!!!!".  Apparently my mother did not in fact throw him overboard.  So not only was I subject to emotional torture for a week at sea but I was deceived by my own mom.  I've always had a sneaking suspicion that she never liked me.  I can see it now....."Let's placate the fat kid by telling her the monkey went overboard".  As if it wasn't bad enough seeing him after all of these years, it was a head shot.  Kinda close up.  He had his arms crossed and a particularly self-satisfied look on his face.  At least I was spared the indignity of being exposed to his coveralls.  I think maybe even HE is ashamed of their idiocy. So anyway, my nice normal day ended in me inquiring as to whether we had any sedatives in the house.  As we did not, I had to settle for a stiff drink.  It didn't really help all that much.  I was having nightmares all night about swabbing the deck in the Benjamin Army. Benjamin must die.  Who's with me?  'Cause trust me......if you were any less than perfect as a pre-teen, he and his pals would have been mean to you too.  He represents all that is evil in the world.  And he used to make obscene gestures with his tail. Probably still does.

Gifted and Talented

Let me begin by stating that my child is neither gifted or talented.  He's average.  Academically, perhaps slightly below average.  This fact, however, has absolutely no bearing on what I am about to say regarding not these gifted and talented children but their dork-ass parents.  If your kid is so fucking smart, why don't you just send him straight to NASA as I'm sure they could use some help with some rocket science or something.  Personally, I do not want to hear about how Bobby isn't being challenged enough and Sally is sooooooo bored.  Waaah, waaaahhh, waahhh.  Poor you.   And isn't it funny that this is such a "thing" for you that you have to talk about it ALL the fucking time?!  They find a way to work it into even the most mundane conversation......Me (in the instance that I find myself in a situation where I cannot avoid conversation with one of these insufferable idiots):  "How are you?"  Gifted and Talented Parent:  "Ohhhh......I'm okay......this gifted and talented program is really a grind".  Or, Me: "Can I borrow your pen?" GATP: "Sure.....just make sure I get it back......I need it to sign Billy up for the fourth grade gifted and talented extra-tricky calculus program".  Screw you.  NOBODY CARES. EXCEPT YOU.  YOUR KID PROBABLY DOES NOT CARE.  In fact, from what I hear, half the time the kids aren't even gifted OR talented.  Their parents just insist that they are and the school is forced to go along with the charade.  I actually feel sorry for these kids.  It's bad enough that they're being raised by social misfits but to have to be paraded around like trick ponies and showcasing their mad-genius skilz just takes it to the next level.  'Cause that's what they do......."Jimmy, show Mrs. Christie how you can split an atom.....go on now....". MRS. CHRISTIE DOES NOT WANT TO SEE YOU SPLIT AN ATOM.  MRS. CHRISTIE WANTS YOUR MOTHER TO SHUT THE HELL UP.  PLEASE.  I am not impressed.  I am bored.  To tears. And I really wish you had that switch in your brain that recognizes the glazed over look on a person's face who really wishes she was anywhere else but talking to you about about the difficulties of raising the second coming of Christ, Albert Einstein edition.  Okay.  I'm done.  And yes, I do feel better now.

Thursday

While I'm on my annoying little running commentary on days of the week, I figured I may as well give Thursday a whirl.  When I was in college, Thursday was technically Friday because after my freshman year, I wised up and never had classes on Friday.  And in the rare case that a required class was held on Friday, I refused to go, strictly on principle.  So Thursday was the last day of the school week, and therefore it was wheels the hell up.  Granted, it was pretty much always wheels up for me but this was the official start to the weekend. Since I was in college for nine years, this was a rather habit forming ritual.  I still somewhat consider Thursday to be Friday even though I am aware that it's not.  Jack has school on Friday which means I've got to get up and at 'em.  So it's kind of "Friday Lite".  The possibility of the weekend is starting to come into focus, plans are being made.......it's kinda like the day before Christmas Eve, really.  There's hustle and bustle, the tying up of loose ends before the big event (which in this case is of course the weekend), etc.  So I give Thursday a thumbs up.  Thursday, you can stay.  Happy un-official start to the weekend, everybody!

The Benjamin Army

When I was a kid, we took a houseboat trip on Lake Powell with another family.  I was probably about ten or eleven.  For a girl that's a pretty awkward age, and I kinda took it to another level.  I believe I was wearing "half-sizes" at this point and would get the dreaded waist-band tug and accompanying disappointed head shake from my mom every time I tried on a new pair of pants.  Needless to say, spending a week on a boat in a swimsuit was not my idea of a great time at this juncture.  It didn't help that my brother and the two kids from the other family were pretty skinny and lacked any degree of pre-teen angst.  As with most groups of kids, somebody is gonna get left out.  Any guesses?  It would have been bad enough but my brother had this fucking stuffed monkey named "Benjamin".  Benjamin had this ridiculous pair of red plaid "coveralls" ("overalls" doesn't begin to describe their stupidity) on and a smug look on his face that I would have loved to smack right off.  And my brother took him EVERYWHERE.  See, you'd think that the kid with the monkey would have been the one to get ostracized, but noooooooo........it was the fat kid.  They decided that the best way to torment me was to form something they called "The Benjamin Army" (brilliant) and make sure that I was not allowed to join their ranks.  The Benjamin Army had all of the trappings of your everyday imaginary torture army:  titles (some of which made no sense......I believe Brigadier Brett was one officer), a special handshake and to really make it official, a dance.  'Cause you know how the army has a dance?  They often challenge opposing forces to dance-offs in lieu of hand-to-hand combat, I'm pretty sure.  The Benjamin Army hung as a pack, their smug-monkey leader always at the ready.  I tried to just hang out with the adults until they got sick of me and forced the Army to allow me to join their ranks.  They relented under duress and made me a "swab".  I started crying and went running to the adults who by this point had pretty much had about enough of the whole charade.  Benjamin?  Thrown overboard by my mother.  And that was the end of the Benjamin Army.  Of course, I was blamed for it but I took some small satisfaction in the fact that that fucking monkey was at the bottom of the lake.  Still do.