Free Samples

Yesterday I made a comment on Facebook regarding the freakin' snacks that seem to be de rigueur after any youth sporting event. Just because you ran around for 45 minutes to an hour DOES NOT entitle you to a fucking cookie. I can see a drink, sure. But we have an OBESITY PROBLEM in this country. Probably because of shit like that. "Oh, I moved my body.....I must need a damn snack!" No ya don't. It's that kind of thinking that has created a society in which half the population is grossly overweight. Living in Colorado, there is an emphasis on healthy lifestyles and so you don't see a TON of fat people but they're out there. Someone commented that it's really sad to see a person that can barely fit in a booth chowing down on a Big Mac and Super-size fries. I have to wonder if at some point people just give up. I saw some overweight people at Costco yesterday with a cart full of shit and a "Churro" (fried bread w/sugar on it) in each meaty fist and thought, "Well, there you go". Let me back up and say I KNOW there are people out there that are overweight and it's not their fault. I was one of them. In spite of rigorous exercise and a moderate diet, I weighed a LOT more than I deserved to courtesy of my jacked up thyroid. Those three years I spent trying to figure it out were amongst the worst I've had. It sucks. I felt like wearing a sign saying, "This is not my real body". So those that are suffering from a medical condition have my genuine sympathy. I hesitated to even write about this 'cause it hits close to home. But if you're walking around with a bucket of chicken, please don't complain when you have to pay for an extra airplane seat. You need to live with the decisions you've made regarding your health and body and I don't think I deserve to be squeezed out because someone else has made poor choices. Dave and I were talking about our nation's obsession with food and he made the observation that during yesterday's aforementioned Costco venture, people are all over those free samples like flies on shit. And he's right. He himself got pushed out of the way trying to snag a pizza sample and said, "screw it". Dave is a pretty burly guy, so the very fact that he was squeezed out by a mob is telling. These people are like vultures. The combination of "free" and "food" is apparently far too tempting to resist for most. I don't get it. It's obviously something ingrained in the American psyche. Kind of like the whole credit card thing. If you can't afford it, don't buy it or you are going to pay the consequences eventually. But it seems that many of us just can't stop ourselves. It's, "I want this and I want it now, consequences be damned". You want to not be fat and poor? Stop crying about it and put down the Whopper and the nearly maxed-out credit card. Pretty simple. That being said, it's not like I'm perfect. You start putting out tequila samples and I'll take your ass OUT. Get outta my way. But that's an issue for another day. 

Dog Balls

Well, after a rather protracted viewing period, Stripey the carp has been buried in the backyard. He was kinda like Michael Jackson in that it took awhile to get him interred. Only because we forgot that he was on the deck. He was looking pretty grim by the time this morning rolled around. As Dave said, "that's one thing to check off the to-do list". Bury one giant carp? Check. In other pet related news, I was laying in bed this morning watching the news. There's a segment about spaying and neutering your dog! Well, duh. What I was not expecting was THE PAIR OF FAKE DOG BALLS that the veterinarian produced. That's right. Prosthetic DOG BALLS. People in Haiti are starving, Brainer is walking around in last year's loafers and people are spending money on FAKE DOG BALLS. Sorry, I can't say it enough. They looked like mini breast implants. You know, I was thinking that Grady sure was looking sheepish what with his empty sack and all. It's totally interfering with his game. None of the bitches will give him the time of day. Oh wait! That's right! He doesn't give a shit about the ladies because he is a fucking EUNICH. The vet said, and I quote, "It's a nice cosmetic effect for that special owner". Oh, that owner is "special" alright. God. These things are called "Neuticles". So being in possession of an inquiring mind, I looked up this company online. Over 300,000 sets sold!!!!! Nice to know that there are that many dogs walking around with a set of fake nuts. Dave said that lack of nuts is one of the best things about having the damn dog fixed......I believe HIS quote was, "Who wants to look at a big ol' pair of dog balls?". I concur. They're particularly disturbing on really short-haired dogs. It's like, "put those things away". Too much information. Okay, so not only are they peddling their fake balls, they also have ear prosthetics. Perfect for the dog whose ears don't stand up but really wishes they did. So I am thinking that I'm going to take Grady in this week to have a little work done. He's getting fake balls and his ears are going to stand up straight. Then I'm going to get him a gold chain and a pouffy toupee. I think that's what all of the sock-eating was about. He wanted to kill himself because he looked so crappy. Problem solved. 

Today's Your Birthday

Today is my friend Brainer's birthday. He's the oft mentioned GBFF (gay best friend forever). I love him. We met in college when he was pretending he wasn't gay. Uh......I'd be heckling him from the cheap seats if he was a stage actor given the quality of THAT performance. Boo. Brainer says naughty things and gets away with it. I like this. He claims that his illegal maid died and sat decomposing in his foyer for weeks because he couldn't find another maid to clean up the mess. He also claims that he's poaching natural gas from his neighbor because he's poor. As I told him, I think "poor gay guy" is an oxymoron. Yes, the economy has caused all of us to pull in the horns but the truly fab find a way. He, however, insists that he is truly in need. Of Gucci and Prada. He feels that in lieu of donating to Haiti, we as a nation should turn our thoughts to him. So, text 12967 to donate $10 to Brainer. Charity begins at home. We can't have our gays walking around in last year's fashions. Screw "Hats for Hobos". I'm launching "Gucci for Gays". Sorry, B but this is far too important a cause to limit it strictly to you. If you are in need, surely there are others out there just like you who are wearing 2009 Prada Wolf Slippers. And driving 2007 Mercedes. Text like the wind, people......TEXT LIKE THE WIND!!!!!!!!

Owie.

I actually went to see one of my husband's shows last night. Had lotsa fun. Didn't stay out too terribly late and had a really good time with a Facebook friend who is now a "real" friend. Funny how that works. It's kinda like online dating.......not that I'd know of course, having been with my damn husband since before the internet was invented (word up Al Gore), but it's how I imagine it. You talk to somebody online, they seem really cool but in the back or your mind you're wondering if they're actually a wierdie. In this case, my instincts were correct and this person is way cool. As is her husband. So that worked out. Fun, fun, fun, blah, blah, blah. Got home and relieved a sleepy 18-year old manny (word up Big C.....lotsa words up today) and went to bed. I woke up and noticed there was Neosporin on the counter. Jack always has been and remains to this day quite the band-aid freak so I assumed the wind blew the wrong way and he was egregiously injured and required minor medical attention. Oh no. That's not what happened. Jack woke up and said, "Mom, mom!!!! You won't believe what THAT thing (points at Grady) did to the Big C!" Can't wait to hear this. "He wasn't looking and Grady came flying over the couch (told ya he can fly.....Air Grady) and scratched C all down his side and he was bleeding all over the place and we had to wrap him up in toilet paper and that's why the Neosporin was out". Okay, as much fun as I had last night, I sincerely thing that sticking around for THIS show might have been just as good. The manny, wrapped in toilet paper and clinging to life as Jack attends to wounds inflicted by a flying dog. Huh. Why go out? I should start selling tickets to this circus.

@#$%!

Oh, here's a good one.......Jack has decided that he is starting a "swear jar". For ME. I honestly don't think he gives a rip if I swear, I think it's all part of his hustle. As has been established he's quite the little business man. "He's not a businessman, he's a BUSINESS, man!". And quite the Little Lebowski Urban Achiever. Oh, I'm onto him. He's got a mouth like a truck driver. While I'm not a proponent of childhood profanity, I would rather have him say "shit" when he thinks I'm not looking than say "ain't" or "I don't got none" which would cause me to smack the white off of him. You can actually get away with a great deal of profanity if you are otherwise well spoken. It just makes you seem rather colorful and irreverent. At least that's what I'm telling myself. Anyway, my point is that he is once again trying to shake me down for money. He saw an opportunity to make a buck and ran with it. First of all, he tried to begin fining me before I even knew that the program had been instated. NOT FAIR. I was on the phone. Swearing. You can't do that. His dad set him straight there, thankfully. That's like taxation without representation. I remember something about that from School House Rock. His next move was to give me a list of swear words. HIS list. Again, NOT FAIR. If you can say it on TV, it is NOT a swear word. I am not putting money in a jar for saying "ass" or "crap". Sorry. Not gonna happen. And as I've heard him say "shit" I'm not going for that either. Pretty much the only thing I'll cop to is the F-bomb. I probably shouldn't say it. I actually wasn't aware that I was saying it in his presence as even I know that that's not cool. So he does have a (misguided) point there. I'll tell you what though......because I am onto him, I will be goddamned if I am going to utter anything fineable in his presence. That swear jar is empty and it will remain so. Good thing he's not a reader of Deep Thoughts. Shit. 

Ass-less What????

I generally quite enjoy the Facebook page "Moms Who Drink and Swear". Probably because I'm a mom who drinks and swears. I do, however, have to take exception to something the head "Mom" said today. She referred to "ass-less chaps". While I think the idea of ass-less chaps is as funny as the next gal, I actually thought for a second. It happens from time to time. Aren't chaps, by definition "ass-less"? Wouldn't PANTLESS chaps be the effect we're going for here? I'm pretty sure I'm right. There you go. An actual deep thought. Discuss. Chaps for all my friends.

WTF's For Dinner?

I'll tell you what's for dinner. Stroganoff. Really, really yummy stuff. The recipe came from my grandma's friend Camille, so it's been aptly dubbed, "Camille's Stroganoff". Like "Taco Pie" this was a staple in my family growing up and is quite popular with the Christie's Three as well. Jack has even made it. It's that easy. A freakin' monkey could prepare this meal. No offense, Jack. So here you go!

Camille's Stroganoff

1/2 c minced onion

1 clove garlic, minced

1/4 c butter

1 lb ground beef (or turkey)

2 T flour

2 t salt

1/4 t pepper

1 lb mushrooms, sliced

1 can cream of chicken soup

1 c sour cream

1 16 oz pkg egg noodles

Brown meat. Stir in flour, salt, pepper and mushrooms. Cook for 5 minutes over medium heat. Stir in soup. Simmer uncovered for ten minutes. Stir in sour cream. Heat thoroughly, Serve over noodles prepared according to package directions and drained. 

What'd I tell ya? Monkey-easy. And perfect for a chilly night. Enjoy,  Deep Thoughts peeps. And remember to tell all your facebook friends to go to the "Deep Thoughts From Mollie Christie" facebook page and become a fan, damn it! Fans! I need fans!!!!!! Oooh....may be going a touch crazy. Will go breathe into paper bag now.

Mom Poms

Sorry but I'm still on this "Man Pom" thing. It really pisses me off. I think in spite of the fact that I do not have a child at Columbine, my friends and I should start a little thing called "Mom Poms" in a show of solidarity. 'Cause honey, you have not even scratched the surface of offensive until you see what WE can come up with. We've all got 20+ years on these boys. We've been honing our game all of this time. Be very afraid. The International Naughty Mommy Brigade can bring it. Ahhhh, the possibilities.......but I digress. I think the reason this pisses me off so much is that it sends a message to these kids that you must conform and live life quietly in a beige box so as to avoid offending people. Don't take risks. Be safe. Don't make waves. I call complete and total bullshit. Granted, I seem to make waves on a daily basis so I guess I may be a bit biased towards pot-stirring. For those just joining in on the fun, I recently got into some trouble for making fun of PTA moms in "mom jeans" amongst other things. Oh, and I'm on the BOARD of the PTA. Sorry. Mom jeans cry out for ridicule. Someone took offense and decided that the opinions I throw out into the world on my blog needed to be reported to the principal. The principal couldn't really do anything because....uh......THIS IS MY BLOG?! Little thing called the First Amendment? The end result was that I am not subjecting myself to that bullshit scrutiny and someone else can do my freakin' job next year. Solves THAT problem. So I understand being on the receiving end of self-righteous cowards that hide behind their so-called principles. Look.....you can see me coming a mile away. Who I am and what I'm about will become pretty apparent within a couple of minutes of meeting me. If you don't like me, you are not required to remain in my orbit. And last I checked, my blog was not required reading. The bottom line is that I really cannot imagine going through life being so offended by everything. Life is so much more tolerable when you can find the humor in things. So, if you don't like me and my (much) younger brethren the Man Poms do us all a favor and simply steer clear. Your other option is to pull the stick out of your ass. If you do not, and choose to stay, I shall pull it out for you and beat you with it.  Oh, and PS.....yes, I know what a paragraph is. It just interrupts the flow of my consciousness, man. Oh and PPS? If you're on facebook, do me a favor and become a "fan" of Deep Thoughts From Mollie Christie. That'd be cool. Yo.

Man Poms

I just noticed something on my manny's (he's not really a "manny" per se.....he just hangs out with Jack.....the term "manny" just makes me laugh) Facebook wall that caught my eye. He became a fan of, "Columbine Man Poms Should Not Have Been Suspended". Okay, first of all, anybody that could could come up with something called "Man Poms" deserves a goddamn medal in my mind. This world could use a little more Man Pommery. Oh, I looked at the pictures. It's exactly what you're imagining. It's freakin' genius. Hilarious. I loves it. I want my kid to grow up and be a "Man Pommer". Apparently, they did a routine during the Winter Assembly at the school that was pre-approved by the faculty and was (as you can imagine) slightly off color. Now, were this at a game open to the public where little kids were involved, I can see the issue. However this was performed in front of high school students. Someone apparently complained about the content and all of the Man Pom's were suspended for from what I can gather, being funny. This reminds me SO much of my freakin' deal with the PTA. There is a certain segment of the population that needs to LIGHTEN THE HELL UP. Some things are just funny. They are not meant to be taken seriously. And if you must take things far more seriously than they were intended, you and the stick lodged so firmly up your ass can kiss mine. Granted, I was not there and I don't know the whole story. If somebody has the 411 on what actually went down let me know. I mean, were they dropping trou or something? Which actually STILL would have been funny but I admit to having a warped sense of humor. I am also familiar with teenage boys. The good ones can be pretty damn cool. One works for me. The aforementioned manny. I LIKE that he is not a robotic little twat. He has a personality. That's the kind of kid I want around Jack. And his bud, who is also around Jack occasionally, is apparently a Man Pommer. I intend to get the full story and will report back but I'm pretty sure I'm not wrong on this. Some uptight fucktard couldn't handle it and went crying to the principal. Much like the anonymous person who complained to our principal about my blog. Oh, and may I once again point out that this Man Pom thing happened at COLUMBINE. Yes, THAT Columbine. Everybody seems to have miraculously moved on but in my mind, how nice it must be to hear laughter in a place where so much bad happened. Once again, LIGHTEN UP, PEOPLE. Teenaged boys with pom poms? Comedy GOLD, baby. 

Careful What You Wish For

Dave has been working at the library when he does not venture downtown to his new office. It has finally occurred to him that working out of the house is not really an ideal situation. Perhaps me screaming, "GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE YOU ARE DRIVING ME NUTS" was the final straw. It's not that I don't like Dave. He's a perfectly nice person.  I would just prefer that until he is retired (TWENTY FIVE YEARS FROM NOW), he is at an office during the day. Or somewhere. It's just not healthy.  How am I supposed to eat bon bons and watch TV all day if he's around judging? I'm pretty sure the term "house wife" implies that the "house" in question is the "wife's" domain. I don't think there are many people out there that would dig it if their significant other was at their office all day. It wasn't really working for either one of us. I'm sure my shitty attitude about his presence was not endearing me to him. So anyway, if he's not at the office, he's at the library. Strangely, there seem to be other exiled husband's there as well. We even know some of them! One of my friends has recently gone back to school, so she has been going to the library too. So there's quite the faction from my 'hood hanging out at the local 'brary. It's kind of like The Breakfast Club......Middle-Aged Edition. I imagine them lobbing spit balls at one another and stuff when they start feeling squirrely. As I vaguely recall, libraries will do that to you. I was in college for nine years during which time I visited the library approximately twice. I probably stumbled in accidentally. "Excuse, me.....where is the bar?" There wasn't one. Didn't like it. These guys are fine with it so far it seems. Although after what transpired on Monday, I am thinking they might be better off sharing office space somewhere. Dave was walking by a bay of computers and noticed some weird dude sitting there WATCHING PORN. There were little kids running around. PORN???? At the library???? So alert citizen Dave Christie reports the guy to the librarian who says that as long as his "privacy screen" was up, there wasn't anything she could do. EXCUSE ME? Obviously his privacy screen wasn't all that private. "Private" implies that nobody else can see it. Dave saw it. Granted, he probably told him to scoot over but that's beside the point. What kind of freak goes to the public library and watches PORN? Then it occurred to me. He probably used to be a perfectly normal work-at-home real estate broker/rock star until his bitch-ass wife kicked him out of the house during the day. Uh-oh. 

You Really CAN'T Make This Stuff Up.......

I just returned from my son's fourth grade classroom. I've known most of these kids since kindergarten what with all of the room motherin' and all. Every year, each class comes up with something to donate for the upcoming silent auction which is one of our two biggest fundraisers. I like it 'cause you can drink while raising money for school. That's what I'M talking about. As the room mother, the silent auction item is my responsibility. I went to talk to the kids because not only have I completely slacked off (auction is a week from Saturday) I am burned out and go all stunned trout when I even attempt to come up with something. I've got NOTHIN'. I've done it four out of the last five years. We've done painted pottery, we've done mosaics, blah, blah, blah. I used to be quite gung-ho. Since I'm not I figured the kids would be a good resource as they have not yet been beaten down by the world and are still hopeful about life and therefore are still able to be creative. Oh, they'll get theirs. So they have some cute ideas.......a cookbook, a movie basket, picture frames, etc. One particularly high-spirited child is practically jumping out of his chair and waving his hands around. "Mrs. Christie, Mrs. Christie (it's okay in a classroom setting to address me as such), pick me!" "Okay, Joey (not his real name), whatcha got?" Joey: "I think we should auction off a HOBO!!!!" (riotous laughter erupts, from me as well) Me: "Ummmm.......first of all, I don't think auctioning off human hobos is very politically correct and second of all, what would the winning bidder do with he or she?" Joey: "I don't know but who WOULDN'T want a hobo?" Um.....ME? It was then suggested that we not just auction off the hobo (they said we would give him food and shelter, so I'm thinking there is some sort of twisted philanthropic motivation behind this, thank GOD) but we would PAINT the hobo first. With the children's names. I am NOT making this shit up. "And up for bid from Mr. A's fourth grade class, Harry the Painted Hobo!!!!" Stunned silence. Well, it IS a silent auction. Even more alarming than the hobo as auction item was the fact that Joey then went on to inform me that a hobo lives in the rocks behind his house. I LIVE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE ROCKS BEHIND HIS HOUSE. Apparently this hobo has quite the set-up back there and has been stealing things from houses and throwing rocks at people. So now we've got a dog sniper and a thieving hobo who likes to stone passersby. Somehow I don't think the two are related as if the hobo had a gun, he wouldn't be throwing rocks. Okay, I've got a really bad headache and have to sit down to digest what just transpired. And I also need to come up with something for the auction that doesn't involve body paint. Help me...................

You Said I'd Do WHAT?????

Well, well, well......it seems that when Smiling Jack is not peddling his wares, he's volunteering me for things 'cause "My mom doesn't have a job". Damn straight his mom doesn't have a job. Which is why she's (at least for now....heh, heh....) on the Board of the PTA, is the room mother, is organizing the school golf tournament, is putting together the classroom silent auction basket and not only threw the "winter" (NOT Christmas) party but is doing the Valentine's party as well. It is also why she spends time volunteering at the country club, which is a worthy cause if ever there was one. Oh, and "Hats for Hobos"? You think that runs itself?? Criminy, child. So NO. I am NOT going with the 4th grade class cross country skiing in February. Abso-freakin'-lutely, uncategorically not going to happen. I would rather be boiled alive than go cross country skiing. Then throw in the fact that you're with 50 ten-year olds? Add a new circle of hell to the inferno. It's a good thing I am married to a kind and patient man who WILL be volunteering for the ski trip whether he likes it or not.  Sorry, Dave. It's that or be prepared to dress up as Cupid for the Valentine's party. Paybacks are hell.

Would You Buy a Snack From This Man?

Okay, so it has recently come to light that my child is operating "Smiling Jack Christie's Mobile Snack Shack" out of the local school bus. He came home with money. I did not give him money. He is ten. He does not need money. Being in possession of a razor sharp intellect, I inquired as to where the cash came from. Jack: "Uhhhhh......." Me: "Spit it out!" Jack: "I sell parts of my lunch on the bus". WHAT????? This is a bit of an issue for me as I take great pride in his stupid lunch. Having years earlier discovered that the school cafeteria serves inedible gack, I determined I could not in good conscious subject him to hot lunch. So I make really, really good lunches. Good sandwiches on good bread, baked chips, an apple, milk or water and a cookie. Sometimes if I'm feeling saucy I'll toss in some yogurt. Before he was of an age that it embarrassed him, I'd even do the little "I LOVE YOU" note. I'm feeling all good about myself for providing my little darling with a lunch straight off of the damn food pyramid only to find out that he's the local snack pusher man. Glad other people's children are enjoying the spoils of my labor. I think I'm going to start shaking Jack down for a cut. Fair is fair. Drug dealers have to pay their supplier. Which in this case would be ME. He's making pure profit. The little scammer. Better not let my dad get ahold of this or he'll be turning this into some huge operation. Supply and demand. Obviously the little shits are hungry on their way home.  Grrrr. 

Ward, I Think You Were a Little Hard on the Beaver Last Night

Okay, so my Mom has been telling me for YEARS that I should write a children's book. "Honey, you're so creative!". Uh......Mom? Do you know me? ME? Your daughter. I'd say the "bad" daughter but you only have one. People hide their children from me. That is when not attempting to cover their ears or eyes! "Oh! It's Mollie! Run along now and play dear. Quickly". So the thought of me writing something even remotely appropriate is diametrically opposed to the forces of my nature. Not much runs through my head that is fit for consumption by minors. Its fitness for mature adults is often at question. Or so I'm told. Seems just fine to me. Which is part of the problem. People without filters should probably not write children's books. Here's why. My unfortunate little trip to the gynecologist last week inspired me to think that I actually could sit down and pen a little series featuring a little character I came up with called, "The Brave Little Beaver". Well, having unleashed this concept upon my friends, the franchise has REALLY expanded and the misadventures of The Brave Little Beaver are quite limitless in possibility.  Amongst the suggestions?

--The Brave Little Beaver and The Close Shave

--The Brave Little Beaver Meets President Clinton (and enjoys a cigar!)

--The Brave Little Beaver Goes Wild and Gets Kicked Out of the Country Club (that one was mine.....hee hee)

And that's just for starters. As my friend APL pointed out, the series could grow with its readers. She suggested that we could market it to trampy junior high and highschool girls. The Beaver would now be "Busy" instead of "Brave". One suggested title?

--The Busy Little Beaver Catches a Crab 

Entertaining AND informative! The Beaver will be performing a public service! Maybe the series will even be endorsed by the Surgeon General! Maybe I'll win a Nobel Peace Prize! Although I'd have to share with APL 'cause that one was her idea. I'm cool with being a co-Nobel Peace Prize winner. Do they have cocktails at the after party? I hope there's no ice sculpture. I have a tendency towards toppling into those at formal affairs.

And as another friend astutely pointed out, there would be no troubles ending either series as both could end with the Beaver being eaten. Poor Beaver. We hardly knew ye. What a way to go.

So, as I've been thinking this through, I've actually come up with some other characters. The only one that's really been thoroughly developed is the Wiley Weasel. He is the Beaver's bestie. Who says girls and boys can't be friends! Not me, THAT'S for sure. The Wiley Weasel is every bit as mischievous as the Little Beaver. Just imagine all of the wacky hijinks! This thing has legs, people, LEGS! I'm going to start making some sketches. Thanks Mom! I told you I'd make something of myself one day!

P.S. Props to FB friend KSS for the hilarious and timely cartoon!

(c) 2010
Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie, 2010 all rights reserved.

Shoot.

You know how I told you about all of the wildlife around here? Well apparently that is the least of my problems as somebody SHOT A DOG in my neighborhood yesterday. And in my mind, anybody that can shoot a DOG will shoot just about anything. That is pretty sick and frankly scary. I don't live in a big city. I LIVE IN A GOLF COMMUNITY. A golf community with snipers, apparently. Shit! I'm going to have to start walking around in a freakin' flack jacket. 'Cause you KNOW there are some people around here that would love nothing more than to shoot yours truly. Or at least run me over. Good thing we all moved up here to get shot at. People used to bitch about their windows being broken by errant golf balls. Seems we've got bigger fish to fry. Oh and speaking of fish, there's still a large fish in a bag on my deck. Damn. I've got to find a place to bury it where Gravy (new nickname courtesy of a friend's two year old) won't dig it up and eat it. Although Rhino is probably lodged in his digestive tract with the sock.....no reason a carp shouldn't be thrown into the mix. Poor Gravy. He's only as God made him.

(c) 2010
Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie, 2010 all rights reserved.

In a Pickle

All this talk of driving has brought back some memories.......that and the fact that quite a few of my friends have children about to get their drivers licenses. I know, I know.......I hardly look old enough to have friends with driving children.......it's all in the picklin'. I am remarkably well preserved due to a rigorous and well researched pickling process. It requires a great deal of commitment but you'll look great and have a damn good time in the process!!!! Perhaps I should package this system and peddle it to the masses in an infomercial featuring me and all of my equally well preserved friends at cocktail  hour. Sounds like an episode of "Cougar Talk". Hmmm. Yet another thing to consider. This thing is turning into a multi-headed beast what with the blog, the religion, the children's book series (I'll get to that.....still doing research and will fill you in when it's complete) and now the "Mollie Christie Pickling Process......Drink, Drink, Drink Your Way to a Younger You". Hmmm. So many ways to achieve world domination but so little time. But I once again digress. The driving. I wasn't always an excellent driver able to multi-task yet safely pilot a vehicle to its intended destination. I know. Hard to believe but 'tis true. Ask my dad. I got in not one but TWO accidents the very day I got my drivers license, which was on my birthday in 1983, I believe. I will freely admit that there is NO WAY I should have been driving a lawn mower at that point let alone a car. A freakin' BIKE was questionable. I'm not the world's most mature 42-year old, so you can imagine what I was like at 16. Nevertheless, I was behind the wheel and RARING to go. My best friend and I set out in my 1984 Subaru 4WD wagon. The official car of the US Ski Team! And we were on the high school ski team! Suh-weet!!!!! I don't think I got very far before I took out a mailbox and caused some very minor damage to the car in the process. I take my friend home and walk into my house, terrified to tell my dad, who was going to kill me, what I had done. He was actually somewhat calm, did not even bother to inspect the damage but did whip out the classifieds as he announced, "We are going to buy a piece of crap car for you to destroy until you can learn how to drive". I think there was also a well placed expletive in there somewhere. My dad and I are masters of the well placed expletive. It's a gift. He locates some 1974 Maverick for $150 and we head out of the house to go look at this beauty. Get to the driveway. The car is not where I left it. Uhhhh......I forgot to put the parking brake on and the shiny new Subaru had rolled down the hill and smashed into a tree, causing all kinds of damage. Needless to say, I did end up driving not just the Maverick (there was not enough Bondo in the world to make that thing whole) but what was dubbed the "Shitmobile" by my friends, who found the very idea of me driving a brown Chevette with rusted out floorboards amongst the funniest things they'd ever seen. Real funny. Hardy har, har. Before I eventually really DID learn to drive, I did some damage to my dad's Volvo as I was not just driving but leaning out of the window and yelling at some boys. Probably something along the lines of "Hey! Look at ME!" Didn't notice the stop sign until I ran it over. Oh and then I completely totaled my  mom's brand new Caprice Classic station wagon. I was driving down Milford Road (shout out to my homies!) and encountered a dust storm. I couldn't see! My instinct was not to stop but to speed up and get the hell out of it. What I did not account for was the old man who DID slow down. Oops. Strangely, I eventually did become a good driver. I'm pretty confident, surprisingly, given my early track record. Even my brother, who is notoriously stingy with the compliments declared me to be so. The moral of the story is that some kids are mature enough to drive at 16. I was not. Obviously. Alrighty then.......I'm out. Going to work on perfecting the Pickling Process. 

(c) 2010
Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie, 2010 all rights reserved.

Nevermind.

Okay, I just started to look into this Amish thing. The scouting report is not good. They can't use telephones or computers. Oh, and no alcohol. I about spit out my Diet Coke when I read that one. Nevermind. I would not last two seconds. Am considering starting my own religion that restricts driving but keeps all of the fun stuff. Alcohol doesn't kill people, cars do. Again, no angry letters......I KNOW alcohol is not good for you. Nothing fun is. Maybe I'll start working on the Tao of Molls. Rules to live by. Mollie-style. The conga line forms to your left. Complimentary lampshades will be handed out at the baptismal font. Oh, and you are correct. That's not Holy water. 

Distractions

I get the whole "no texting while driving thing". Not that I haven't done it. Absolutely I have. It's akin to drunk driving, which as much as I do so love me my cocktails, I NEVER drink and drive. I drink and have others drive my drunk ass around. Landing in jail or injuring someone would make all of the fun go away. I would be like Curious George......."All the fun was gone. He had been a bad little monkey". While I am without question a bad little monkey I'd prefer to be a bad little monkey with a drivers license. To that end, I am really trying to cool it with the phone. It's a hard habit to break. I'm just so attached to that little stroke of genius. They don't call them "crackberries" for nothin'. Mine's an iPhone but whatever. Just as addictive. Doesn't matter. Driving while distracted is not a good idea. Life is distracting enough without scrolling through your email as you're rocketing down the road. Now. There are other ways to drive while distracted that have nothing to do with our smartphones and should also be declared illegal. Such as?

1. Driving while screaming and attempting to smack the piss out of your children in the back seat. I've been on the receiving end of that one. When your parent is looking in the backseat and flailing about in an attempt to make contact with something.....anything......they are distracted. So really, to be safe, the kids have gotta go. No driving with kids.

2. Kissing or being kissed while driving. Or anything that involves unzipped pants. That's why it's called "parking". It's not called "driving". Talk about distracted.......sheesh. That's kind of the ultimate in distraction. So no fornicatin' and driving either.

3. Driving with massive quantities of festive balloons in your car. Oh, I've done this. I've done this plenty. 'Cause I'm a festive kinda gal. Not only can you see NOTHING when piloting a Balloonmobile, those fuckers pop at random and will startle the living shit out of you. Pop. Swerve. Pop. Swerve. Pop. Bump. What the the fuck was that? Driving with balloons? Illegal.

4. Driving if you are a teenager. Sorry. No driving until you're 21. Teenagers are a walking, talking distraction. They are not thoroughly cooked yet. Although this may be taken on a case by case basis as I know some teenagers that are considerably more mature than I am. Uh-oh.

5. DRIVING WITH A LIVE ANIMAL ON YOUR LAP. NO, NO, A THOUSAND TIMES NO. I saw this today. A woman was driving like a complete jackass with a tiny dog hopping all over her. I'm sorry but that has got to be WAY illegal. Way. Sure, I can't check my email but she can have a yip-dog running back and forth on the dashboard when he's not peering over the steering wheel. Seriously? I don't think so.

6. Driving anywhere scenic. Or teeming with attractive people. Pretty things are distracting. Cars should be banned from anywhere there are things that may grab a drivers attention away from the road. Maybe driving should only be allowed on I-80 in Nebraska. Although that's not safe either 'cause driving drowsy is also dangerous.

So maybe this whole "driving" thing should be reevaluated. There are just too  many things available to distract us these days to make it safe. Shit, I was out WALKING yesterday and almost got hit by a car. Not his fault. Mine. I had my nose in my iPhone (hey, I had an important email!) and wasn't looking where I was going. Maybe we should all just stay inside. Or become Amish. I will look into that and report back. Oh, and stay tuned......I'm going to tell you all about the series of children's books I'm developing! Big stuff!

TMI

*WARNING. IF YOU ARE EASILY GROSSED OUT OR OFFENDED, DO NOT READ THIS*. Wait a second.....if you are easily grossed out or offended I have no earthly idea what you're doing here. Dad, you may want to sit this one out. And yes, my father reads Deep Thoughts and yes, he is very proud. Or so he tells me. Alrighty, here we go! I get to the doctor's office, everything is routine at check-in, no biggie. I was surprised that my blood pressure was normal as I was just a wee bit agitated. Oh, and speaking of wee, I manged to pee in a cup just fine. Weight was a non-event. So I go into the exam room, get completely undressed as instructed. Thought briefly about NOT putting on hospital gown and just sitting there buck naked 'cause it would be funny. Thought better of it. Put hospital gown on. Checked out all the stuff they're going to use during the exam which they leave out for your kind consideration. "Hmmmm....wonder where they are going to stick THAT?" Waiting, waiting, getting more nervous, waiting, looking at charts of "Female Reproductive System", waiting......knock, knock, knock. What are you gonna say? "Don't come in, I'm doing the dishes?" Christ. So nurse practitioner makes the small talk they teach medical professionals to do to put your quaking ass at ease. I'm 42 years old. I've had at LEAST 20 pelvic exams. Doesn't matter and doesn't make it anymore enjoyable or any less terrifying. Blah, blah, blah, talk, talk, talk. Okay so the breast exam commences. Any discharge? WHAT!? Uh, HELL NO! Gross! The very idea of breast feeding my own child grossed me out (again, no angry letters please) so I can't imagine what my reaction to "discharge" would be. Gag. Then comes the classic and aforementioned, "Scoot your bum forward a little more" so you know what's coming next. Drawer opens, out comes speculum (they don't leave THAT out as you would run out of the room screaming if you had to contemplate it for too long while waiting), in goes speculum, some poking around ensues. That's all well and good. What was NOT at all good was the fact that as she uncranked said device of medieval torture part of my whatever the hell that is in there got pinched. Now, I've been known to be stoic in the face of pain but I think it's the female equivalent of a guy getting his JT zipped up in his pants. Not good. So that didn't go well. The only redeeming fact was that it initially seemed that I had escaped the shocker. I was about to get up when she says, "Oh.....you're over forty" and out comes rubber glove numero dos. Whatever. What really pissed me off is that my regular doctor has been "shocking" me since I was 27!!!! WHAT THE HELL???? If I didn't NEED to be "shocked" until I was 40, why in God's name has she been doing it all this time?  I feel violated. And cheap. Is it cocktail hour yet? If it's not, it is now. 

Everybody Panic

Happy FREAKIN' Friday, everybody! We made it. I normally LOVE Friday. It's my favorite day of the week in fact, as it holds such promise. Today, however, I "get" to go to the gynecologist! For joy! Just the ol' "annual exam". Wahoo. Let's see......amongst the indignities I shall suffer today? I get to stand on a scale. This doesn't send shivers down my spine as it did during the thyroid shit storm days but I really don't want to know what I weigh. I'm happy with the way I look, I'm healthy, I don't want to get hung up on a number. Plus, I'm one of those people that always gets the smart ass nurse saying, "Wow! You don't LOOK like you weigh that much". Gee, thanks. I'm 5'9" and I'm not a small person. Even when I was borderline anorexic back in college, I weighed 128 and that is just piss poor for an anorexic. I did look quite skeletal though, so there's that. When I walked down the aisle (sashayed, really.......I do so love being the center of attention) at my wedding, I was what for me is a perfect size 8. I weighed 148 which would horrify many women. I'm sure I weigh a bit more than that now. Don't care. I look pretty good for an old broad. So anyway, I get to stand on the scale, close my eyes and instruct the nurse to zip it. THEN, I get to go into a room, strip down to everything but my socks and sit there in a hospital gown waiting. Today, I won't even be waiting for my doctor as she can't be bothered to work on Fridays (which is my only "free" day) so I get to see the nurse practitioner. Or should I say she's going to see me. A LOT of me. More of me than I'd ever care to see. I'm not even sure what's down there. I sincerely hope that moths don't fly out. Moths not withstanding, having a pelvic exam is the ultimate in indignity. It's almost as bad as childbirth. Although I had a c-section, so what do I know? Please don't write me angry letters.....I'm quite sure doing it the good ol' fashion way sucks sufficiently.  Anyway, you're sitting there ("scooch your butt up to the edge of the table please") with your legs up in the air (and wave 'em like you just don't care) and having someone not only looking around but sticking things up there. Cold, hard things (NOT good things). Ahhh, the speculum. Such a delight. I could go into more graphic detail at this point but I'm not going to go any further as I'm sure there are men passing out left and right. Sorry boys, but that's what happens. It sucks. Holy SHIT. I just had a horrible thought. What if this "nurse practitioner", whom I have never met, IS A MAN????? OH. MY. GOD. I will run away screaming. I know some women LOVE their male OBGYN's but I have NEVER had one and NEVER will. I would sooner have everything that's "up in there" dry up and fall right on out. God. NOW I'm having a panic attack......oh no........going to breath into paper bag. Will report back. 

DANGER! DANGER!

Okay, this is what I meant to write about yesterday at this time but I somehow ended up talking about Jack's name and Dave's unfortunate Albanianism. Once again, I have ten minutes before I need to go pick Jack up at the bus stop. I catch ALL KINDS OF SHIT for picking up a ten-year old boy with a relatively short (albeit very steep uphill) walk home. Have I explained before that I live in fucking ANIMAL PLANET? We have elk. Big, angry elk that like to tussle with one another. That guy? Up there? My front yard. Oh and then there are the mountain lions that like to eat the eight million deer that mill about at will. I don't even NOTICE the deer anymore unless like "Hammock Head" (see archives, new guys), they have a freakin' hammock on their respective heads. More about the deer in a sec. We also have bobcats. I don't think they're all that dangerous but I have heard bad things about burlap sacks full of 'em. Bears? Yep. We've got bears. And I swear I've seen a moose. And no, I was not into the recipe at the time. Did I mention rattlesnakes? Oh, we've got those guys too. No reason to even mention the coyotes 'cause they're nocturnal. Their job is to drive me freakin' nuts at night. They take their work seriously. Anyway, given the wildlife lurking about, I thought it prudent to either meet Jack at the bus stop and walk home with him or just pick him up. And as I said, I got a LOT of crap because of it. "He's ten years old, MOM.....geez". Okay fine. I let him walk home for a few days. Until a GOLFER WAS GORED BY A DEER RIGHT NEXT TO THE BUS STOP. That was the end of that. I'm told it was a fluke. A fluke that could have have resulted in Jack tangled up in some buck's rack at BEST. I don't want to have to nickname a deer, "Jack Head". I am going to the bus stop now, than you very much. Cover me. It's a jungle out there.

Bid-Ness

Hey, Deep Thoughts Readers!

A couple of "administrative" type things for ya.......I know, BORING but oh so necessary.

First of all, if you are so inclined PLEASE become an official "follower" of Deep Thoughts. It lends cred. I've had 15,000 page views since the middle of November but only 46 followers.  Who all ROCK, by the way. I think it's pretty easy.....just click, "follow". Yay. The "follow" button is down there on the bottom left.

Along those lines, you may have noticed "Facebook Share" and "Uptweet" buttons that were installed this past weekend. Please, please, please share! As my mom always says, "Sharing is fun!" Not sure what she means by that but try it.....it may in fact be fun. God, I hope she's not a swinger.....how embarrassing. I've had so many people send me such cool notes saying FAR kinder things than I deserve and suggesting that I write a book, have cameras follow my stupid ass around, etc. Which is BEYOND flattering. For now, a very smart man who knows of what he speaks told me that what I need to do is grow this thing and that's where you guys come in with the sharing. It's a grass roots effort!

If you're not on Facebook or Twitter, send the link to your friends and contacts. Oh, and if you are on Facebook, please become a "fan". Just type in "Deep Thoughts From Mollie Christie" and you'll be directed to the page. And suggest that your friends become fans! Again, with the sharing. It takes a village. Or something.

In other news, www.molliechristie.com will be back up soon, only this time it will be blog related rather than a showcase for my painted furniture. It's much easier to drone on and on about my life than it is to tediously paint step-stools and shit. I was going blind and my back hurt. Now I'm just googly eyed from staring at a computer screen. You'll be the first to know when it's up.

Lastly, I wanted to pass on the blog of an awesome friend of mine. She is a cool, creative chick and her blog is pretty much the anti-Deep Thoughts. 'Cause her thoughts are actually deep. It's a peaceful place, so if I'm giving you a headache with all of the drinkin' and swearin', check her out. She also has a sweet store and you can see some of her stuff there! Bonus!

http://themusingmagpie.blogspot.com/

Thanks all, from the bottom of my heart.......it's beyond cool to have you all reading and I appreciate it more than you could ever know. And that's the truth.

XO,
Mol

What's For Dinner?

Hellloooooo, party people! I'm starting a new weekly feature here at Deep Thoughts called, "What the F*&% Is For Dinner"? or "WTFIFD". This stroke of pure genius came to me after some friends requested the recipe for "Taco Pie". I'll be featuring simple (but simply DELICIOUS!) fare every Thursday as by this point in the week we're all about to lose our shit. Simplicity is also key because after the fourth glass of wine, complicated recipes have a tendency to end badly. Or so I've heard. *Nervous chuckle* Better yet, make 'em in the morning! That way you won't have any pesky cooking interfering with cocktail hour. Just throw 'em in the oven, uncork and unclench. Now that's what I'M talkin' about. SO. Here's the first selection! It comes to us courtesy of the Pillsbury Bake-Off cookbook, circa probably 1970. I can still picture the cover exactly as it featured the pie in question. 

Taco Pie

1 8 oz package crescent rolls

1 lb ground beef or ground turkey

1 package taco seasoning

1 cup sour cream

1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese

1 cup smashed Fritos or tortilla chips (just estimate....don't sweat it....more or less will do)

Press crescent rolls into 9" pie plate. Meanwhile, brown meat, drain and add taco seasoning and cook according to package instructions. Place meat into pie crust. Top with sour cream, followed by cheese and chips. The original recipe calls for black olives as well but since they make me gag, I leave them off. Go for it if you'd like, but seriously.....ewwww. No offense. Bake @350 for 25-30 minutes or until crust is golden brown and cheese is all nice and bubbly.  

The great thing about this recipe is that you can make a bunch at a time and either pawn them off on your friends as I did last night or stick 'em in the freezer for a REALLY easy cooking day. If you're going to freeze them, get those tacky disposable pie pans 'cause they fit nicely in a gallon freezer bag. Oh yeah, and don't bake 'em until AFTER you take them out of the freezer. Duh.

Oh yeah, and you can have chopped tomatoes, salsa and guacamole on the side. That'll really throw your family off. Oh, and congratulate your brilliance and celebrate with a margarita. Ole!

PS If you're watching the ol' waistline, you can get "reduced fat" crescent rolls, use low-fat sour cream, reduced fat cheese and baked chips. Obviously not as good but better than most "diet food".

Funeral for a Friend

Shit man, household pets are dropping like flies over here at HQ. We're losing 'em literally and figuratively. Stripey the goldfish has gone to the big koi pond in the sky. And unlike Rhino the hamster, he actually DID have a good life. If you're a new kid, you can go down there on the left to the "Blog Archive" to learn more about Rhino. Don't wanna bore the rest of the class. He's kinda been discussed ad nauseum. That's Latin for, "I'm gonna barf if I hear one more thing about that freakin' hamster". Loosely translated. Anyway, Stripey. About seven years ago, Dave and I went to a "Caribbean" themed party at the club. In the middle of each table at this party? A bowl of goldfish. First of all, although I am clearly not a marine biologist, I am fairly certain that the common goldfish is not indigenous to Caribbean waters. Something about the salt. The prevailing logic was probably that we'd all be too drunk to notice and would think that the goldfish were actually right tropical! Well, I noticed. Shocker. Secondly, the whole "living creature as centerpiece" thing is somewhat disrespectful of life. 'Cause you KNOW after they amused us as we noshed on our conch fritters and chugged our Bahama Mama's they were heading straight down the crapper. Somehow I couldn't envision the wait staff patiently strapping the tiny bowls into the seat belts of their passenger seats and lovingly transporting them to a better life when the party was over. So, to make a long story short (or less long anyway), we ended up stumbling home (we lived within spitting distance of the club at that point), each carrying a sloshing goldfish bowl. It's a miracle they didn't end up in the middle of the road, gasping for breath.......the toilet would be a far more humane death. But they did make it home. Seven years and a 25 gallon aquarium later, Stripey, having grown to a staggering 8 inches, has met his maker. His buddy Goldilocks died a few years back. I went in to get something out of Jack's room yesterday morning and he was listing in that "Ooooohhhh....that's not good" fashion. He fought the good fight until last night when he cashed in his little fishy chips. Haha.....fish 'n chips. So anyway, at present, there is a fucking carp in a bag on my deck awaiting burial as something that size is not going down the toilet. See, Stripe? Even in death I had your back.....errrr.....fin. You're welcome pal. You were a good fish. Catch ya on the flip-side. 

Yes, I Found Everything Okay

While I cannot STAND surly, abrasive folks whose job requires them to work with the public, I also have a bit of a problem with those who are sickly sweet and overzealously talkative. Particularly in the capacity of a store cashier. I mean, it's all so disingenuous.  I know that you're being so gosh darn nice to me because you're trying to do a good job and be pleasant, but tone it down a few notches please. The typical pleasantries are just fine with me. Weather is fine out there. Did I find everything okay? Yup. At a restaurant, we're generally in a pseudo-relaxed mode and a small amount of banter can be warmly received. But when I'm checking out at a store, I'm usuallly in a bit of a hurry and I want to get in, get out and get on with what's next on my daily agenda. I don't want to have to come up with some idle chit-chat about how my day is going. Hmmmm, let's see......I walked up and down the aisles of your store and found THIS stuff. I'd kinda like to pay for it and get the hell outta here. How lovely that you inquired after my well-being, however what I'm making with the food or where I'm wearing the articles of clothing are really not relevant to this transaction. And yes I WILL enjoy my day as soon as I've escaped your Chatty Cathy clutches. Same goes for department store sales people. I know some people genuinely DO need help finding something. I really, REALLY don't. And I don't want to be hovered over. If I need you, I'll come find you and it would be cool if I don't have to go marching all over the damn store to do so but other than that, I'm a lone-wolf kind of shopper. I guess there's a fine line because obviously some people DO want to socialize while out shopping. Which is where reading people would be a right handy quality! You know, "people skills". When working with the public (which I HATE, by the way) one should be able to deal with a variety of personalities as I'm pretty sure that's what the public is comprised of. My harried, slightly agitated facial expression combined with a series of polite but brief answers should be an indication that I am a person who means business. I'm not a jerk......quite the opposite. I'm just usually a bit overwhelmed by my "to-do" list and am looking forward to having stuff crossed off of it. Thank you and have a nice day. 

Tooth F*&%'nAIRY

I am prone to occasional fits of sleeplessness. I'm prone to all kinds of occasional fits, actually. Fits of drunkenness, fits of high spiritedness, fits of questionable judgement, etc. That's just the kinda gal I am. The sleeplessness thing has been considerably better lately but tonight has been one of those nights where you give it your all as far as getting back to sleep but it becomes apparent at some point that it's simply not going to happen. Instead of just laying there contemplating the day to come, I'd rather just get up and get at it. There's lots of relatively quiet things that can be accomplished while the rest of the house is sweetly dreaming. So I'm up. And how this is relevant to the story will become apparent. Jack came home from school yesterday with a loose tooth. He's pulling on it, twisting it, complaining about it and SHOWING me every step of the way. Frankly it was pretty sick. Me: "Excuse me, but I REALLY don't need to see that. Let me know when it's over". Jack: "FINE". A little while later I'm working at the computer and he comes up and produces the tooth and shows me the gaping bloody hole where it used to be. Again, eeewww. Me: "Stick some paper towel  in that thing". Jack: "FINE". So that drama passes. As I'm making dinner, he comes up to me and says, "Gee mom, I sure hope the TOOTH FAIRY comes tonight" and gives me the exaggerated "wink, wink, nudge, nudge" look. He knows damn well there is no Tooth Fairy. He's TEN. He's just trying to extort money from me. I'm busy so I give him the equally exaggerated double thumbs up. Fast forward to bedtime. Jack: "I sure will be disappointed if the TOOTH FAIRY doesn't leave me some money for this TOOTH I am about to put UNDER MY PILLOW". Oh, for fuck's sake. I didn't actually say that but I was thinking it. Me: "Just give me the damn tooth. I don't have any cash. I'll get some and give it to you tomorrow." Scammer. So, I take the tooth and as I'm headed to bed myself I put it on my nightstand. Fall asleep, zzzzzzzzz, wake up at 3 am. Mess around on my phone, (read email, check facebook, etc.) try to fall back to sleep and fail (obviously). Decide "screw it" and get out of bed. Actually think about taking thyroid medication as you have to take it awhile before you eat anything and figure I'd get that out of the way. Fumble around in nightstand drawer in the dark. Produce bottle. Extract pill. Drop pill on nightstand. Grabbed what appeared to be small white object, pop it in my mouth and just as it's going down my throat it occurred to me. SHIT. The tooth. I'm frantically feeling around trying to find both the light AND whatever it was that remained on my nightstand. Feel tiny object. THANK GOD. It's the tooth. Situation averted. "Tooth Fairy" my ass. That'll be enough of that. 

(c) 2010
Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie, 2010 all rights reserved.

What's in a Name?

I've got about ten minutes before I have to go pick Jack up at the bus stop. Jack "up" is something you can say. Jack "off" not so much. Didn't think about that one when discussing baby names. Dave was more concerned about names that he attributed to "paste-eaters". As in, "(insert name here.....even I am not going to touch this one with a ten-foot pole) eats paste". Okay, apparently "Jack" is a sufficiently sturdy, basic, non-paste eating, "guy" name. We both liked it. We did not discuss the fact that saying "I'm going to drop Jack off" makes you giggle. I find myself saying, "I'm going to drop Jack at school", thus leaving the offending "off" out of the picture. Then there's the "Hi Jack!" which post 9/11 was to be avoided at all costs. People were rather humorless during that period of time. Even now, airports can be problematic as his name is actually John. I have NO earthly idea why we did that. Actually, I'll admit that was all my idea. I was pregnant. Pregnant equals crazy, at least where I'm concerned. He has never and probably WILL never be referred to as John in his life, so all it serves to do is cause confusion. The TSA agents will ask him what his name is and you kind of have to hit him to remind him to say "John" which probably doesn't look all that good. Especially when traveling with an Albanian husband. Albanians are of a suspiciously ambiguous ethnic appearance. The one good thing about it is that he can "pass" as many things. Indian reservation? We're good. Hell, when I first started dating Dave, my sorority sisters said, "Oh MY GOD.....Mollie is dating some big INDIAN DUDE!" To this day I'm not sure if they meant American Indian or India Indian. Hmmm. Could go either way! Hawaii? People are nice to you even if you're a Hoolie 'cause you're with a native. Oh, and that nickname, "Pancho"? I'm pretty sure his fraternity brothers did not bestow it upon him because he looked Swedish. You just can't really put your finger on an Albanian. But you can sure try. In all fairness, who the hell has ever seen one OUTSIDE of Albania? Well, I have. And trust me. There's enough of a question that if I didn't know him and saw him hitting his ten-year old kid upside the head with a boarding pass in the security line and informing him that his name was "John", I might be considering alternate means of travel. Oh look! It's four o'clock. Better stop jacking around. Bwahahahaaaaaa.......see what I mean? 

(c) 2010
Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie, 2010 all rights reserved.

Mrs. Christie is Dave's Mom

Actually that's not true. Her name isn't Mrs. Christie but that's completely irrelevant. A recent debate amongst the DTP (that would be the 'Deep Thoughts Posse'......"you down with DTP? Yeah, you know me.....") was whether or not  children should refer to adults (those in the teaching profession notably excepted) as "Mr." and "Mrs.". My opinion is that that's a somewhat outdated custom, harking back to the days when children were to be seen and not heard, blah, blah, blah. I would far prefer that children, my own included, show respect through actions rather than by referring to me as "Mrs. Christie". Hell, NOBODY calls me Mrs. Christie. It's kind of like being called "ma'am", which makes me cringe. Old ladies are "ma'am's" not sweet young things like myself (okay and yes, even I'm choking now.....Heimlich, please....). As much as I may not be a fan of babies, I really, REALLY like kids. I like talking to them. They're people. Really cool people 'cause they haven't been beaten down by the world yet. Too many people talk to children like they're morons. When I'm talking to a kid, I really try to listen to what they're saying. It's not always easy 'cause they can go off on tangents. Hmmmm.....this may be why we get along. Nevertheless, I want them to respect me because I've earned it by being a good-hearted human being and not because they 'have to' 'cause I'm an adult. Truth be told, I'm not really much of an adult. I just look like one. A sheep in wolves clothing, if you will. That being said, I am all for the personal choices people make in raising their children. So, while each to his own, I prefer to stick with being called "Mollie". Oh, and don't be shocked if my child calls you by your first name. Feel free to roundly chastise and humiliate him if you are offended. I'll stick with concentrating on "please" and "thank you", which I think are considerably more important pleasantries.

(c) 2010
Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie, 2010 all rights reserved.

Thanks, Friends.......

Some of you may remember that last Friday was "hair day". It caused a bit of a shit storm as I sullied the good name of gray hair. Oops. Those gray haired gals made the PTA mom's seem like pussy cats. I think I'll stick to maligning the PTA in the future. Word up, silver sisters. You are out of my cross hairs, mainly 'cause I'm scared.

Anyway, given the reaction my hair garnered, apparently I had been walking around looking like a complete jackass and nobody had the nuts to tell me until AFTER THE FACT. Gee, thanks. Advice handed out in arrears sure is helpful, dorks. Over the course of time, I had become increasingly blonde. I was kinda digging it. I had lost a bunch of weight due to my thyroid finally being identified as the source of the unwarranted heft and was enjoying the blonde thing. As with most (okay, ALL) things, I took it a little too far evidently. So when I unveiled the slightly darker hair, here is the reaction from both a female and a male friend of mine, on separate occasions. And please keep in mind these were unsolicited opinions:

FF: "OH MY GOD. THAT LOOKS SO MUCH BETTER...........you were starting to look COMPLETELY washed out".

Me: "Errrrrrr........Thanks?"

FF: "WHAT? I'm just trying to be a good friend".

This is the same friend that insisted that I burn my beloved but hole-riddled red sweatpants. She told me I looked like a bag lady. A bag lady with ridiculously blonde hair, apparently. 

Then we've got the male friend who came up with THIS when he saw the new 'do. 

MF: "Wow, I like your hair a LOT better. You should take a picture of it. Much, much better than it was before".

Me: "Um, would you like me to help you pull your damn foot out of your mouth?"

MF: "WHAT? It was a compliment".

Yes, it was a compliment of the most back-handed order. Yay! I am no longer the hideous creature that I apparently was prior to this most recent hair day! I'll take shit from my gay friends as they often actually KNOW WHAT THEY ARE TALKING ABOUT. Well, except for my GBFF who famously tried to dye his own hair in an ill advised cost cutting move. This yielded disastrous (if admittedly hilarious) results. The complimentary guy friend in question would not know a highlight from a lowlight if they tied him down and started tap-dancing on his forehead. He doesn't really even HAVE hair so he has very little credibility. Hmmmph!

Regardless, it sure is a relief that I don't need to be sporting about the front range with a bag on my head. Or the aforementioned live beaver. It sure would have been helpful to know that I was horrifying the masses BEFORE. Shit!

(c) 2010
Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie 2010 all rights reserved.

Crappy Driver Day

Well, well, well. It seems that every crappy driver within a 15-mile radius of my house has decided that MLK Day is the perfect opportunity to show-off their less than mad driving skilz. Granted, my annoyance with my fellow drivers is not helped by the fact that I am usually somewhat agitated before I even get out of my neighborhood. This is owing to the fact that I have to naviagate my way over or around a series of speed bumps the size of water buffaloes. I've talked about this before. I won't go there because a) you've already heard it and b) I would really prefer to keep my blood pressure out of "HOLY SHIT I'M HAVING A HEART ATTACK" range.

So anyway, I am heading off to Pilates, just doing my usual house-wifey, lady of leisure (HA! Hardly....) thing when some jackass pulls out in front of me. Now, I get that sometimes you just don't see somebody. I've done it myself. But to pull out in front of me and then proceed to drive approximately 20 miles below the posted speed limit? Clearly you are no hurry, so why in the name of God did you nearly t-bone me in an attempt to get out in front of me? Please do not mind the fact that I am now driving up your ass.

Next (and this is where it really gets good). I am turning right in one of those "yield" situations. Curbs on both sides. The two cars in front of me stop. An old lady in the first car GETS OUT and proceeds to have a conversation with the person in the car behind her. AM I NOT SITTING HERE?????? Jesus. And I'm stuck there. Laying on the horn did not seem to alert these people to the fact that this was not social hour at the local retirement village. It's a STREET! Crazy people should not be allowed to drive. Driving is not a right. It's a privilege. If you're too freakin' old to understand that you CANNOT STOP YOUR CAR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET AND GET OUT you should not be driving. Where are the cops when shit like THIS happens? Sure, I get a ticket for going 45 in a 35 but this loon gets away Scot-free.

And while I'm at it, I would like to point out to the fine citizens of the great state of Colorado that when you are on a highway, THE LEFT LANE IS A PASSING LANE. If you would like to drive 50 mph, that is just jim dandy but that is what the RIGHT lane is for. I can therefore use the LEFT lane to get around you. Left=Fast. Right=Slow. It's really that simple, but somehow that seems to have gotten past many of the drivers in my state who obviously have not been informed of this useful tidbit. Drives me freakin' nuts.  There. I'm done. And I'm not going out again today, so these clowns can drive around in circles for the duration for all I care. Be forewarned.......they're out there.

(c) 2010

Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie, 2010 all rights reserved.

Yay, MLK!

Hey, guess what??? I actually have a "Deep Thought"! It's my second one in like 200 entries! Sweet! And here it is! MLK was one cool-ass mutha scratcha. I think those of us that aren't really old enough to understand what went on with the civil rights movement owe it to ourselves to become more educated. I just finished reading a book called, "The Help". Yes, I actually read things other than People Magazine. It's about Jackson, Mississippi in the early 60's. It's from the perspective of three women, one of whom was a gentrified but cool white woman and two black maids. You cannot believe the shit that went on. Granted it's a work of fiction but I believe it's a good indicator of the attitudes that prevailed back then. Not allowing your maid to use the same toilet because "colored" people had different germs? Are you fucking kidding me? Some of this shit is so ingrained that I'm sure it's still going on. I'm not laboring under the impression that racism is dead. And I'm not so ignorant as to even attempt that argument. Hopefully we're making progress though. Maybe one day we'll all figure out that people are people. Assholes are assholes, cool people are cool people. Doesn't matter what color your freakin' skin is. Anyway, go get "The Help". It's an excellent, if somewhat disturbing read and gave me food for thought in a rather timely fashion. Rock on, MLK.......enjoy your day. Oh wait.....you're dead. Nevermind. We'll enjoy your day.

(c) 2010
Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie, 2010 all rights reserved.

Irony

So, a bunch of people are disturbed by the bow that is now gracing my blog. That thing over there on the left. First of all, I'm just fucking around with it. I'm not sure I'm entirely sold on it myself. We'll see. As I told one friend, if I put a black and white photo of myself passed out on the pot a la Elvis (actually I think he was dead.....I'm not dead yet) along with the bow and the cutesy shit, that would be a rather accurate picture of who I really am. I'm both. If you are a Facebook friend of mine, check out "photos of me". Actually, even if you're not a FB friend, I think my photos are available to everyone. In these photos, you will see that I essentially lived with a freakin' bow on my damn head from 1985 until 1989. Oh, and wore LAURA ASHLEY clothes. And shopped at Pappagallo. I had the whole multi-layer (let's see......turtle neck, polo shirt (collar flipped up) oxford cloth button down, fair isle sweater thing rockin') ripped jeans, penny loafer (no socks) and pearls thing going on. I was a SORORITY GIRL, people......Sigma Kappa at Michigan State University. My husband tells me we were snotty bitches. NOOOOO. He's just pissed 'cause he belonged to what was essentially MSU's version of Animal House and none of us would go out with he and Bluto. Well, that is until he became a rock star and I relented. Snotty bitch and all. BUT, I pissed off my sorority sisters who were pretty scandalized by my dating this long haired hippy freak. My father was also not enthusiastic about this turn of events. So that was pretty cool. Two birds with one big, hairy stone. To this day I love both my sorority sisters AND my long suffering dad but I just have a penchant for pissing people off. I'm not sure why but I do so enjoy it. Anyway, in the interest of full disclosure, the bow shit is in there. Maybe I should have the bow slightly charred or something. Like it's been lit on fire but was put out just before it was engulfed in flames. Hmmmm. Maybe next I'll tell you guys about all the trouble I get into at my country club. There's some good stuff there. 

(c) 2010
Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie, 2010 all rights reserved.

Check it OUT!!!!

Hey, check it out!!!!! Lookie what I did ALL BY MYSELF!!!!!! There's this crazy thing called the world wide web and you can find all sortsa free stuff on it! I found a very nice person who lets you download free blog backgrounds. So now Deep Thoughts is all fancified. I may even feel inspired to add a picture that does NOT involve me standing on my head in what has been variously described as a "fish oil capsule" or a "yellow condom". Do they make yellow condoms? Seriously? Huh. I'd really rather not see THAT, thank you. Yellow is just such a jarring color. I'd rather not be alarmed in a situation involving condoms. Yellow submarine comes to mind. And bananas. Okay, so I don't think I'd be alarmed......I'd be laughing. And I'm pretty sure laughter from the likes of me is the last thing you need in the instance that you've found yourself sporting something yellow on your weiner. Anyway, check it out and let me know what you think. Took me a little while to get used to it but I'm thinking I kinda dig it.

(c) 2010
Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie, 2010 all rights reserved.

Boys are Dumb

So, Mr. Deep Thoughts decided that it would be a GREAT idea to stay up until 3:30 a.m. drinking beer with his buddy. I, of course, being moderate in all things, had the good sense to go to bed at a reasonable hour. Well, that and the fact that nobody was paying attention to me. Not for lack of trying. Oh, I tried but I eventually gave up as apparently Peyton Manning is FAR more interesting than I am. Whatever. It was actually kind of eye-opening as now I know how Dave feels when I have a friend over. He can usually hang with girls as he's a one size fits all kinda guy (ladies LOVE Dave.......LL Cool Dave) but says he feels uncomfortable when the conversation turns to "lady things" such as tampons. Excuse me, but I don't believe I have ever had a conversation regarding tampons in my life. What's to talk about it? They're in, they're out, they're gone. End of story. I did think it was funny that he brought that up as an example of something women talk about. Yep. Tampons, aprons, the best way to launder our whites so they are their snowy whitest. Uh.....not so much. Things are a little more interesting up here in the 'hood than that. We've got better stuff to talk about. No thanks to me of course as I am a quiet women of modest means that prefers to keep to herself when not doing good works and spreading the word of the Lord. Oh, and selling swamp land. But anyway the bottom line is that Captain Rocket Science is hurting a bit this morning. Licking his wounds and boo-hooing about drinking too much. 3:30? Seriously? I'm feeling rather superior. I'm glad the boys were being mean to me last night 'cause I'm fresh as a God damn daisy. Ha!

(c) 2010
Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie, 2010 all rights reserved.

Warning Labels

For some reason at breakfast this morning, two stories involving my dad came up. My dad is a highly entertaining person because he is very enthusiastic in both storytelling and conversation. He becomes verbally and physically engaged and is quite animated. The first story is known as "YOU COULD DIE!!!!!!!". My husband, who was a bit of a sheltered lad, had never been skiing until he entered our fold. Skiing was a big thing with my family. Before we were married we took a family ski trip to Tahoe. My dad, emphatically warning a novice Dave as to the numerous perils of this inherently dangerous sport, ended his dissertation with, and I quote, "PANCHO (nickname....will explain later), YOU COULD DIE!!!!!!!" Dave, who's about to be sent rocketing down a mountainside, looked as if he would sooner shimmy up the nearest tree and start crying for his mommy. He obviously did not die as he exercised extreme caution after my dad scared the shit out of him.

The other story is known simply as "Kaboom". We had some friends from Colorado visiting up at the cottage. Being from a landlocked state these friends weren't all that familiar with our strange, seafaring ways. Before departing on a boat outing, my dad flipped on the blower. When my friend inquired as to why that was necessary, dad started out calmly explaining that there can be gas fumes built up in the engine and that you need to blow 'em out (and this is where his eyes start to get bigger and his face starts turning red and his voice gets louder) because if you don't do that (throws his arms up in the air)........."KABOOOOOM". My friend looked like Dave did on the ski slope. Entirely unsure as to the wisdom of venturing further. We just started laughing our asses off because having spent 40 odd summers on a lake, we have never, ever seen a boat explode. Yep, just sittin' on the porch enjoying a lovely gin and tonic when a deafening explosion rips across the water. Flames shooting out all over the place, people screaming and crying. No one bothers to look up. Hmmm. "Well, hon.....there goes another one". Kaboom my ass. Dad's not one to let the truth get in the way of an entertaining tale.

I could go further and attempt to tell you the "Snake Story" but it involves far too many visuals and would require either a video camera or a far more gifted wordsmith than myself. We'll save that one for when they give me my show. Oh wait.......I don't think the FCC would allow that. Somethin' about swearing and nip slips. 'Cause you KNOW that would happen.

(c) 2010
Copyright (c) by Mollie Christie, 2010 all rights reserved.