Meniscus Tears

I think most of you guys are in the know regarding my seriously f'd up knee. Probably because I won't shut up about it. Nothin' better than hoppin' onto my blog only to hear about the trials and tribulations of my meniscus tear. Scintillating stuff, I'm sure. Really breaks up the monotony. What's that? It really doesn't? Well, unfortunately that's what's on my mind at present. It kinda hurts. Well, in today's episode of Hopalong Christie Seeks Medical Attention, Hopalong gets a phone call! You see, gentle readers, I had an MRI yesterday. This was rather significant in that not only was it a step towards getting this thing taken care of once and for all, I also sat quietly in a room by myself with no iPhone or reading material. People were placing bets against my ability to do this. I actually was fine and was complimented on my ability to stay still. So HA! The tech said, "Okay, I see you've got an appointment next week......the results should be back in plenty of time". So, imagine my surprise when I get a phone call first thing this morning saying that the doctor has seen my MRI and wants me in TODAY. Uhhhh......I'm not running for rocket scientist any time soon but I'm pretty sure that's not good. I'm kind of having a mini panic attack as I'm thinking that I've either A) got a very bad case of knee cancer or B) My knee is considerably more messed up than initially anticipated. Not that the knee cancer wouldn't be messy as well. I don't think that doctors haul you in this quickly if it's an "ice and advil" situation. I have a pretty high tolerance for pain and as has been established am not very smart so I have continued with my somewhat rigorous exercise program in spite of the pretty obvious nature of my injury. So I'm guessing what they found in there was not good. I can just see the doctor looking at the image....."HOLY SHIT!!!! THIS WOMAN DESERVES SOME SORT OF GREAT BIG AWARD AS SURELY THERE HAS NEVER, IN THE HISTORY OF PAIN, BEEN A PERSON BRAVE AND STOIC ENOUGH TO HANDLE THIS SORT OF EGREGIOUS INJURY AND SOLDIER ON". He probably had a single tear rolling down his cheek as he gazed at the train wreck that is my left knee. I'm a little surprised they didn't just send an ambulance. Or a fire truck. A fire truck would be good. I like firemen. Do I get to get thrown over a fireman's shoulder if I can't walk? I hope so. So anyway, you guys get to look forward to more Deep Thoughts about my knee later today. Isn't it fun!?! I know I'm enjoying it. 

New Picture

I was recently talking to my dad, who strangely is one of the biggest "Deep Thoughts" fans going. You would think that most fathers would not want to keep up on the antics of their daughter who drinks and swears and causes all sorts of trouble and is pretty much a menace.....nee, nuisance, to the polite society she was raised to be a part of. Well, most fathers are not my dad. He's a bit of a character himself and actually likes my blog in spite of the fact that it may call into question his parenting skills or lack thereof. I wasn't raised by wolves per se.........just something kinda like wolves. In parent clothing. Hey, my brother and I are productive members of society. Well, okay.......my brother is a productive member of society. Fifty percent isn't bad, right? And at least I don't live at home. Yet. And I'm a pretty good mom in spite of the all too human aspects of my nature. My parents successfully shepherded me through my 18th birthday wherein I was off to nine magical years of matriculation at Michigan State University. I don't remember most of those years. And I surely don't remember anything I learned. Largely because I'm pretty sure you had to go to class to pick up anything relevant. But I did manage to graduate. Twice! So really, my parents did a fine job. Just look at me! Oh wait......you can't. And that was the point of this post. My dad is concerned about the profile picture of me with the bag on my head. Dad: "People are going to think there's something wrong with you". Me: "Duh, there IS something wrong with me....." Dad: "Yes, but not with the way you look. You're a pretty girl and you've got a bag on your head!" I would like to point out that not only do I have a bag on my head but a very nice pair of sunglasses. But okay. FINE. I'll change the picture. But I'm not doing any freakin' glamour shot or anything. "Come hither and read my blog". I don't think so. That's why I like the bag on head pic. I think it's funny. Kinda like the "Unknown Blogger" or something. Except for the fact that I used my real name in the blog title. That blows the "unknown" thing. Dang. Alright.......a new picture it is.  But I really liked the bag. I'm just sayin'. 

Fore WHAT?

If you looked at me on paper, I am supposed to like to play golf. I do not. And it's not a Green Eggs and Ham situation. I'm never going to like it. I have tried, I have failed and it's just not going to happen in this lifetime. That being said, it's all around me, figuratively and literally. My mom LOVES to golf. She's actually pretty good. She even won a car by nailing a hole-in-one during a tournament at the esteemed Oakland Hills. My son is into it. And Dave likes little more than golf. Oh, and have I mentioned that we live on a golf course? Thus the literal surrounding. I can't get away from it. I have a precarious truce with the game as I am left with no choice but to deal with it. I try to peacefully coexist. It's much like a loveless marriage. I'm cool with the fact that most of my friends and family play but I don't want to get coerced into it. And they try.  Ohhhhhhh, they try. "Goobie! It's so fun! And you're so athletic! You could be really good if you would just try!!!!!" I don't know how many ways there are to say that you are not interested but I do believe I've tried most of them. Golfers are a lot like Bible Thumpers. They won't give up until you're being dunked in the river and baptized and start screaming, "Sweet Jesus, I've seen the light!!!! How could I have been so wrong my entire life???" My dad is my companion in arms on this one. He is staunchly against it. Like me, he is supposed to like golf. If you looked up "golfer" in the dictionary, it probably says "old white guy". That's my dad. He also lives on a golf course. And he also does not like golf. He does not want to play golf. Ever. He does not even want to entertain the TOPIC of golf. I do believe he has actually said that he HATES the game and he was rather emphatic on this point. I believe it harkens back to an incident that involved the hurling of a nine-iron but I digress. We have similar feelings on this. I don't like participating in activities that a) I suck at and b) take a ridiculously long time in a BEST case scenario. Four hours is a pretty big chunk of your day. And that's if there's not a dumb-ass in front of you. And there are a lot of dumb-asses that play golf. Your odds of being stuck behind one are pretty fuckin' good. Trust me. I think they should put horns on golf carts as well as shopping carts. And maybe a PA system. "Excuse me? You? With the 12-putt? AM I NOT BACK HERE???????" or "DUDE. THE BALL IS GONE. I will personally buy you a new one if you will give up with your futile search and move along so that having fulfilled my obligation, I may end the living hell that is this game and go do something I actually enjoy. Like have a big fat gin and tonic. Which probably would have made this 'good walk spoiled' go a little more smoothly". Shit. Now I'm in a bad mood. Even thinking about golf makes me a little surly. And now I have to walk out my front door and smile and wave at all of my fellow country club members that look so freakin' happy to be swinging a club around at a little white (and very hard to hit) ball. GRRRRRRRRRRR. 

I'm Talking To YOU!

www.blaghag.com

www.altnet.com

Hey......tap, tap, tap.......yup, that's me, Mollie Christie, coming at you from the other side of your computer screen.  Wine glass in hand, I rock the land! Pay attention, you! There are a bunch of new people out there.  I love new people.  I love old people.  I love people in general. 'Specially people that read my blog!  So if you are new and have landed here from www.blaghag.com or www.altnet.com and you like what you see, bookmark this page! As advertised, you cannot make this shit up. I promise I will do my best to outrage the PTA, the Muslims and the Christian right simply so I can serve to entertain you. And tell all your friends! Momma needs more cheap wine! 

Gay Camp

http://www.alternet.org/story/146557/?page=entire

Ummmmm.........YOU DON'T TURN GAY. YOU ARE BORN THAT WAY. NO AMOUNT OF GOD OR CAMPS OR HEALING TOUCH THERAPY WILL MAKE YOU AN "EX-GAY". This bullshit incenses me. And nope, I'm not gay. I just love some people that happen to have been born that way. If you know a gay person, you know that it's not something that is a choice. It just is. My eyes are blue and I like men and am a prickly bitch prone to throwing hisssy fits and drinking a little.  It's how I was put together when my parents genes collided. Gay people are just that......people. Their lives are shockingly similar to those in the so-called mainstream. They have partners and children and houses and jobs. Being gay is not something that you fix. That implies that something is wrong. There is nothing wrong with being gay. It may not be how you view the world but that's the deal. We all view things from our own unique perspective based on a variety of internal and external stimuli. Some you have control over, some you don't. And you can't change genetics. I would LOVE it if there was some camp that could rearrange my genetic makeup so that I wouldn't have a propensity to turn to fat at the drop of a freakin' hat. That would be awesome. The assertion that attending some intensive workshop/camp bullshit can change who you are is like saying that I could just as easily go to camp and have my DNA rearranged. As has been established, that's an empty set. Not going to happen. You may be able to brainwash somebody into thinking that they have sinned and must change or burn in eternal damnation. You can even tell them that they are "cured" but if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck it's a duck. And if you put it in a bear suit (like Mohammed a la South Park!) it's still a duck, no matter how hard it prays to not be a duck. I honestly think that many on the Christian right spend a lot of time pointing fingers at the supposed sins of others so that they don't have to take a look in the mirror at themselves. I am not religious in the traditional sense but if you are, isn't your belief that God created everything? And that God is perfect and doesn't make mistakes? Well then, fucktard, why try to change what God has made? I wouldn't change a hair on the head of the gay friends I am lucky enough to have in my life. Well, there was that time when Brainer decided he was going to color his own hair. That didn't go well. I'd change that. It's kinda like this whole Boobquake thing. So this Muslim cleric thinks that women are the root of all evil. Well, personally, I do not. I think we quite rock. But boyfriend is entitled to his opinion and if he would like to not look at boobs, he should refrain from doing so and whack off while dreaming of boobs behind closed doors. Extremism of all kinds is just plain fucking obnoxious. Believe all of the crazy shit you want. Just don't push your opinions on me. My philosophy is one of acceptance and love. Unless of course you piss me off. So please leave me and my main gays alone. You're going to have to go through me to get to them.  And they're not going to "camp". Everybody knows gays don't camp! You may have better luck if you try to trick them into attending a White Party in Palm Springs. "Camp". As if. Now back off, closeted self-haters! 'Cause you're the ones that protest the loudest! Please recall the anti-gay Colorado Springs minister! I believe he  turned out to be, oh.....um.....gay? So shove off, haters. Physician heal thyself and all that. 

Boobquake.....The Aftermath

http://www.blaghag.com/2010/04/and-boobquake-results-are-in.html#disqus_thread

So, it seems that showing our boobs did not result in any unusual seismic activity, thus dispelling the Muslim clerics assertion that essentially boobs are the root of all evil and human suffering. Jen McCreight, the founder of the Boobquake movement is a scientist and has all kinds of graphs and charts on her blog today explaining it all. I'm just a housewife with a penchant for booze and naughty words. And a couple of useless degrees. But I've got YOU Deep Thoughts readers.....smooches. Here's what likely DID happen yesterday, what with all of that lovely cleavage on display all over the world: I'm sure there was a run on those idiotic looking cervical collars as SURELY a whole lotta men suffered from whiplash. There may have been increased emergency room activity as a bunch of guys walked into traffic having been distracted by a set of knockers. "Oh no! I've just been hit by a bus! But did you see the jugs on that broad?" And I'm also thinking that there were some gals out there that got out of speeding tickets a little more easily than usual. "My license, officer? Why I believe I'll have to bend over to retrieve it! Oh wait.....no, here it is! In my bra!" And in bedrooms all over the globe, surely there were even more husbands than usual pestering their wives for sex. You see, men are pretty simple creatures. It was best summed up in a book I read recently by Dr. Louann Brizendine called "The Male Brain". In it, she describes "The Man Trance".  It explains a LOT. "All that testosterone drives the "Man Trance"--that glazed-eye look a man gets when he sees breasts. As a woman who was among the ranks of the early feminists, I wish I could say that men can stop themselves from entering this trance. But the truth is, they can't. Their visual brain circuits are always on the lookout for fertile mates. Whether or not they intend to pursue a visual enticement, they have to check out the goods. To a man, this is the most natural response in the world, so he's dismayed by how betrayed his wife or girlfriend feels when she sees him eyeing another woman. Men look at attractive women the way we look at pretty butterflies. They catch the male brain's attention for a second, but then they flit out of his mind. Five minutes later, while we're still fuming, he's deciding whether he wants ribs or chicken for dinner. He asks us, 'What's wrong?' We say, 'Nothing." He shrugs and turns on the TV. We smolder and fear that he'll leave us for another woman". Innerestin', huh ladies? Who knew we could entrance with nothing more than our boobs? I didn't realize the power these babies had. I'm going to start tapping into this shit! I am rife with power and never knew it! Is there anything they can't do? No villainous force they cannot thwart with one simple flash of flesh? Boobs for President, I say!!!!! Oh wait. They've already tried that. 

Boobquake!

http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=116336578385346&ref=ts

www.blaghag.com

Alrighty.........now that my pity party (table for one, please?) has concluded, I will now enlighten you as to the brilliance that is "Boobquake".  This was dreamed up by a sista blogger named Jen McCreight in response to an Iranian clerics assertion that "Many women who do not dress moderately......lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society which consequently increases earthquakes". This genius's name is Hojatolesiam Kazem Sedighi. He lost me at Ho. Apparently, he is not just a cleric but a seismologist! Wow! Are male babies routinely dropped on their heads as a rite of passage in Iran? Seriously? Yep. All of the world's troubles are caused by women and their lady bits. Um, excuse me, Hojowhateveryourname is......see that thing dangling between you legs? IT'S CALLED A PENIS. Young men are lead astray by their penises!!!!! Look down there again......there should also be a set of balls. And coursing around your hairy little body is this stuff called TESTOSTERONE. All of that stuff is what leads to being lead astray! And corrupts chastity! And leads to adultery! I'm pretty sure it's not all the fault of women and their boobs, dumbass. You see, we are mammals and are programmed to procreate our species!  And guess what!? Males are usually the pursuers! They are supposed to spread their gene pool! With their PENISES. I personally have never met a penis that caused an earthquake but that doesn't mean it couldn't happen. The earthquake, not me meeting one. So anyway, I am all for this initiative. I'm going to go out and shake my boobs around in my most revealing shirt. You might want to lock up your china cabinet and stow any loose objects. Join me, won'tcha?

There's Something Wrong With the Beaver

I just had a shitty weekend. Epically shitty. Nobody died or got tossed in jail.....just one of your garden variety "what the fuck has happened to my life" kinda things. I told a friend that I was in too much pain to be social and was asked what kind of pain. Let's see......physical, for starters. We learned in last week's episode that I have torn my left medial meniscus. That smarts! And because of the financial pain being meted out by this lovely economy in concert with the previously unknown shitty quality of my health insurance, I am going to have to live with the ripped up knee for the time being. Yes, I have options. I am not crying poor. But those options have been there fixing things my entire life. I am trying to fix things on my own for a change. I've been trying for awhile and don't want to run home screaming and crying just because I'm hurt. And I'm hurt emotionally too. There's pain on that front. Lots of it. Van Gogh painting pain. Raw, searing, chop your ear off pain. I'm not even going to begin to delve into that whole thing. But 'tis a shit storm alright. My life is a circle of hell right now. A regular burning ring of fire. And no, I have not been driving all day and I do not have hemorrhoids, thank you very little. At least I don't think so. Unless we have any volunteers that would like to do an inspection, any ass pain will remain a mystery. SO, I am thinking that because I have a child and cannot stick my head in the oven, I will instead drop said child off at school and then crawl under a pile of down comforters. I will not come out until it is time for him to come home from school. At that point, I will put on my June Cleaver dress, heels, apron and pearls and welcome my little darling (who DOES look strangely like the Beaver) home with a warm plate of cookies. I'm guessing June had some serious pills in that apron pocket. And I'm pretty sure that's not tea in her dainty little tea cup. They don't call 'em "saucers" for nothin'. She's got to get through the day somehow. Ward doesn't seem like much help. What does he do when he's not working or being disappointed with the Beaver (don't even go there.....it's overdone)? He reads the paper in his "den". What the fuck is a "den" anyway? A man cave? Why does the man get a cave? Let me guess.....the kitchen is the woman cave. Please. If I were June, I'd be like "Get your ass out of there and come help with this disaster of a life that you are at least 50% responsible for. NOW. Oh, it looks all nice and perfect to the uninformed but it's a flaming ball of shit that is about to hit the fan and and begin splattering all over Mapleton Drive. I do not give a flying fuck that you have been working all day. So have I. In heels. And lipstick. So bite me, Ward. Give me that newspaper and get yourself on the working end of SOMETHING before I slap you upside the head with it. Oh, and thank you dear". But that's just me. And I'm no June Cleaver. I'm the one that's crawling back into bed and not coming out until 4pm. Unless I decide to attend Boobquake. Nope. I'm not tellin'. You're just going to have to come back. This will drive up my page views, thus making my blog more desirable to advertisers of cheap wine, tequila and pharmaceutical companies. Oh, and Diet Coke. Can't forget that. With advertising dollars flowing, the Trifecta of Pain will be reduced to the Daily Double. The financial woes will ease and I'll simply have the physical and emotional shit to deal with. Piece o' cake. Yay! Anyway, come back later and I'll tell ya about Boobquake. If the double D's are rockin', don't come a knockin'.  

Choppers

Okay, so this guy from Missouri won the $285 million dollar Powerball lottery. I was planning on winning that but became distracted and forgot to buy what would surely have been the winning ticket because I was going to wish really, really hard. God would want me to have the money as I would surely do good works with the money. Like buy myself a Pilates reformer. Hey.....charity begins at home, man. Anyway, this guy, who seems really nice, said he's going to catch up on bills with the money. That's a shit load of bills! My opinion it that he should invest in some teeth while he's at it. It never ceases to amaze me what teeth can do for a person. Now, before I get called out on this by some wiseacre member of my posse, it is true that I am missing a tooth. But it's on purpose. I had a really, really crappy experience with a root canal (not that they're ever fun but this was a particularly hideous, scarred for life kind of event). I was not too keen to get the recommended implant at the time. And frankly I've kind of forgotten about it. It's a molar. I've got lots. Choppity chop, chop, chop. Outta sight, outta mind. I'll get around to it eventually. Like when my turn to win Powerball comes.  So pretty soon! I can assure you that if this tooth was visible, it would have been taken care of immediately.  You could be the most beautiful, intelligent person going and having missing teeth instantly betrays you. It is impossible to look past it. Which is not fair, particularly if it misrepresents you. And for some reason it runs rampant in the South. Toothlessness is a scourge on the blighted landscape of the redneck mouth it seems. That and chickens. Although they're in the front yard rather than the mouth, at least while alive. I hope. Before everybody gets all mad at me, I KNOW there are reasons for missing teeth. My own beloved nephew knocked one of his front teeth out skateboarding and for some reason they can't implant one until he's thirteen or something. And he's eight. He looks kinda cute though. He's got a twinkle. AND he's a kid. I don't have a problem with toothless kids. So, if you're an adult and are missing some choppers, don't throw shit at me. Remember, I am one of you. It's just a secret.  Shhhhhhh. 

Unemployable

So, with Dave being a real estate broker ("broker" being the operative word), I decided to take a look and see what's out there in the working world for yours truly. Don't be alarmed. It's not like I would actually do it. I was simply curious. And it looks like it would have been a no-go anyway. I'm pretty worthless, it seems. Yes, I have two degrees from Michigan State (Advertising and Interior Design) but I haven't worked in 15 years. And even then, what I could piece together as a resume is hardly going to blow any minds. It's rather underwhelming. Let's see......education? Well, I WAS in college for nine years. Interviewer: "Well, Mollie, I see that you in school for nine years.....what's up with that?" Me: "Uhhhhhhh.......I dunno". After college I worked for my dad. Because he paid for my near decade of higher education he was complicit and cold hardly hold it against me. Plus, it was either give me a job or have me move back home. My duties largely consisted of driving to his office a couple of times a week. We would have lunch together (paid for by dad) and then shoot the shit for a couple of hours. I had to buy tv and radio advertising occasionally, so I got some pretty cool schwag.......concert and sporting tickets, trips to Disney World, etc. And I was compensated rather handsomely for this difficult 6-hour a week assignment. I actually continued with this gig after getting married and moving to Colorado. Shit, who wouldn't? Long distance shit-shooting is still billable. Then dad sold the business. Which if you want my opinion, was pretty rude. After that, I had a "real" job for a year. Interior design. I was making mad cash but I also almost ended up in a padded room. It was quickly determined that while jobs are all well and good, they are not for me. Even my dad, who is possession of a rather legendary work ethic sadly conceded this fact. So it seemed as good a time as any to have a baby. Well, that didn't go too well at first. Two miscarriages and three years later, bouncing baby Jack was born. And so for the last eleven years, I've been a mom. And to the surprise of many, a pretty damn good one. I don't think the appropriate response when at 32 you tell your friends and family that you are having a baby is "Oh dear." IN YO' FACES! I SHOCKED THE SHIT OUT OF ALL Y'ALL!!!!! How you like me NOW? But back to the job thing. And yes I know from personal experience that being a mom is the hardest job there is, so don't send me angry emails. I am here to tell you that a LOT can change in a decade. When I was poking around looking at jobs, I hadn't even HEARD of some of the computer programs the design firms want you to be able to operate. What happened to CAD? I'm a dinosaur, it seems. Even if I could acquire the necessary skills, it's the "working with people" part that is problematic. I simply do not play well with others. Control freaks with ADHD and some obsessive compulsive traits and not cut out for the traditional workplace. And then there is the whole "inability to behave appropriately" piece. That's kinda huge. So, I am essentially unemployable. I need a job that I can do alone and that can be done in fits and starts as I am oft distracted by shiny objects. And it has to be a job that doesn't interfere with my obsessively compulsive exercise schedule. My workday must end by 4, 'cause that's when Jack gets home from school and is also coincidentally when cocktail hour begins. And the biggest thing is that I have to able to say all sorts of crazy shit. So I'm pretty sure my options are limited to becoming a panhandling bag lady or repairing barbed-wire fences on lonely stretches of rural Wyoming highway. Or writing this blog. The only problem is that you usually get paid for jobs. Damn. The panhandling thing would pay better. Do bag ladies have iPhones? 'Cause that's staying. I can see it now......"Oh, kind sir.....could you spare but a shilling for a poor bag lady of simple means? (weakly rattles tin cup of coins) Oh wait a sec......I just got an email". I had better figure out a way to get paid for this blog thing. 

Old Guys in Jeans.....At the Gym

Okay, I am not really one to make fun of the elderly. Some of my favorite people could be considered such. Speaking of the elderly, my dad wants to make sure that all of you readers know that he has actually never driven his car into the pool.I believe the actual quote was, "People are going to think that your parents are crazy". And your point is? I didn't raise myself. As far as the car goes, it's really only a matter of time so I was taking a little poetic license. He's got a car, a pool and whole wine cellar thingy. It's gonna happen. Who knows? It could very well be me that drives the car into the pool. My dad and I are essentially the same person only of different genders and 25 years apart, so it's really anyone's guess as to who the perp will be. I just hope nobody is after us with a golf club when it happens. I don't want to go to rehab for sex addiction. Really, I don't. Granted, Tiger hit a tree but I'm willing to bet it's just 'cause his car was pointed away from the pool at the time. So there you go, Dad........I have cleared your good name. *Choking on wine.......he always was, and remains, a bit of a wild man* But back to the point of this missive. What is up (God......please shoot me if I start sounding Seinfeldian.....although Jerry isn't hurting for cash.....I could use some Seinfeldian scratch about now) with the old guys at my gym working out in jeans? JEANS? I cannot think of a more restrictive fabric. But there are a bunch of them. Were sweats not invented before 1940 and they think of them as some newfangled contraption for your lower body and are therefore highly suspect? I really don't get it. Although I guess jeans are better than boxers. Which is exactly what some poor old soul was riding an exercise bike in several months ago. This poor guy was clearly addled and had to be asked to leave. I hope they called his daughter. Because if MY dad was ever caught working out at a gym I would want to know. But knowing him, it wouldn't be because he was crazy. If my sainted mother had passed, he would FOR SURE be trying to pick up chicks. "Hellllooooooo, ladies."  I'd have to ground him. How embarrassing. But much like the car in the pool scenario, if mom goes first, it's only a matter of time.  

Teacher Appreciation

Normally when I am hauled into my son's elementary school, it is because of something I have written about in my blog that offended some random twat. Well, in truth I have not been physically hauled in per se.......something about the First Amendment. But trust me, I hear about it. Ad nauseum. Blah, fucking blah. Anyway, this meeting wasn't about me. It was a parent/teacher conference. Because Jack struggles a bit in school, these things are not normally pleasant experiences. Well, lo and freakin' behold, it was GOOD news. I have to say that Jack's teachers have all been beyond awesome. He goes to an incredible school and we are really lucky. The past couple of years however have rocked that boys world. We have gone from a second grader who wanted NOTHING to do with school to a kid that can't wait to get there. He even WANTS to go in early one day a week to work on math with his teacher. This teacher is an incredible dude. I think part of the draw for Jack is that he's a guy but he is also one of those special teachers that you always remember. He just has a very chill demeanor that works magic with the kids. This is a person that could surely do anything but actually chooses to teach our kids for what I'm sure is not adequate pay for the effort expended. There are people out there that actually care more about the very important job of educating young minds than their own bottom line. And for that I am eternally grateful. So we sat down at our conference yesterday, the notorious naughty mommy blogger and the rock star/emcee that cracked jokes about martinis as he hosted the school talent show last week. I'm sure we even look guilty. Probably because we are. Not that we've been on any intrastate crime sprees lately but surely we've had some transgressions not perpetrated by your average parent. Sorry. I always try to imagine what Jack's teachers are thinking when they look down at their conference schedule and "Oh look! It's the Christie's!" In my mind a flask comes out and a bracing shot of fortitude is consumed. I know I need one before I go in. (I AM JOKING, MOTHER......everybody knows you drink AFTER conferences, not before!!!!). So we're sitting there in those tiny chairs looking like we're expecting to be reprimanded and "the" tell-tale file is on the table between us and Jack's teacher. It looked like it should be pushed across the table like evidence. "We KNOW you did this, so don't even try to deny it". Guess what? It contained tests. That Jack PASSED. He has made amazing, incredible progress this year. I won't bore you with the details but he is now ABOVE the district average in both reading and math. This would amaze you if you knew where he started the year. I literally started tearing up when I thanked his teacher for everything he's done for him. I would have hugged him but I'm not exactly the hugging type. Shocking, I know. Hot DAMN! I was so proud of Jack and so grateful for this super cool teacher dude that I felt like waving those tests over my head like a freakin' Oscar or a gold medal. 'Cause that's how good it felt.  So thank you teachers.......seriously. I'll be back to being snarky momentarily but I need to give a shout out to all of you, particularly Mr. A, also referred to by his students as Mr. Awesome. For good reason. You rock hard.  

God Mom!!!!!

So I'm at Pilates with my legs up in the air just now and my phone rings. It's my parents. I figure I had better answer it just in case my dad had driven the car into the pool again or something. So I pick it up and it's my mom. Mom: "Goobie!!!!! I don't think you should have written the thing about Jack making margaritas in your last blog entry". Me: "Mom, anybody that thinks my child actually knows how to make margaritas is exactly who I was poking fun at in the first place. Sarcasm. Eleven-year olds do not make margaritas." Actually, it would be pretty cool if they could. I'd never have to get up. Maybe he could light my cigarettes too. What's that you say? I don't smoke? That's right. But if I did, I would claim that I sent Jack on foot to the closest 7-11 to purchase my ciggies.  Smoke 'em if you got 'em!!!!! Sorry folks......I gots to go. My son is upstairs shaking me up a marg. I'm going to go blow smoke in his face while he rubs my bunions.  This is the life!

Mommy Blogger

http://www.freep.com/article/20100405/FEATURES01/4050341/World-of-sex--lies-and-mommy-blogs

Check out this article. First of all, this chick has 140,000 page views a month. I have like 20,000.  Waaaahhhhh. Nobody loves me. That being said, I totally feel her pain (disdain may be the better word) for the haters. People never cease to amaze me. For reals. While I may not have blogs dedicated to taking every word I utter literally and then sending me up the river for it (well, my brother is still threatening to start that "My Sister is Full of Shit" blog), I still take my fair share of hits from ass hats that do not understand irony. Granted, as advertised, you can't make the shit that happens in my life up. But there is a little thing called "sarcasm". If you have to look it up, don't bother. Recently I've had someone from high school ask that I refrain from swearing both on my facebook page and in my blog as she and her husband "don't like to bring that kind of language into their home". Uh.....don't read it? Unfriend.  Then there's this dude I apparently knew at some point that I guess is a holy roller now. He went out of his way to tell me that I'm "not right". Huh. Ya think? I'm not going to unfriend him because I'm having all kindsa fun trying to further horrify him. I've also had people claim that based on my ramblings they are worried about my child, much like the blogger in the Free Press article. Of course, they don't say it to me.....they whisper and point at school functions and such. If any of you have seen my child then you know not to worry. He's clean! He doesn't appear to have missed many meals. Ever. No lice or scabies. I'm not really sure what scabies are but they sound like something a street urchin would have so I'll go with 'em. He's polite and a reasonably good athlete and a nice guy. He even shows up at school fairly regularly! He's also funny as shit and can mix up a damn fine margarita.Furthermore, there is food in my pantry! I actually manage a nutritionally balanced home-cooked meal most nights of the week. And last I checked, there were no barnyard animals milling about the family room. I also don't think that there is a single man in a tank top on the premises. In a totally unrelated topic, why ARE all the guys that get hauled out of their trailers on "Cops" always wearing tank tops? And why are their baby mommas always screaming and crying? I'd be like, "Take him!!! Please!" But as usual, I digress. Back to why I rock. I volunteer! At the school! Granted, I was essentially kicked off of the PTA board. Something about a blog. See? The shit I take. I also do numerous good works around my country club. Spaulding needs love too. And who can forget my "Hats for Hobos" initiative. There wasn't a dry eye in the house when I accepted THAT award. Or a hatless hobo. Additionally, like many people of my generation, I am also caring for my aging parents. Oh wait. They take care of me. Scratch that one. Sooooooooo...........the bottom line is that although I may live a slightly more colorful existence that some (ALRIGHT.......most), I manage my shit. THIS shit is TIGHT. You don't like me? Don't hang out with me. And for fuck's sake, don't read my blog. There's this saying about birds? Of a feather? Guess what? They flock together. All I know is that my friends are pretty freakin' cool. And I assure you judgers that we are having a LOT more fun than you are. See you in hell!!!!!  

FU Fanny Pack

For some reason, I have witnessed more than my fair share of rather unfortunate fanny packs today. Like the "mom-jean", there really is never a reason to don a fanny pack, so referring to my sightings as "unfortunate" is redundant. They are ALWAYS unfortunate. WTF? Why? What good can come out of this.....this......thing? The very name alone! It's a pack......for your fanny!!!!! Who calls your ass a fanny anyway? "Ass-pack" would be infinitely more appealing to me for some reason. I don't really know how to categorize it as it's not an article of clothing. It's not a purse or a satchel or really even a pack. It's a bag that you strap around your waist. First of all, if you are a woman USE A PURSE!!!!!! They make 'em that go over your shoulder! Your hands don't need to be tied up like some old lady with a handbag. We're women. We have purses. And any woman worth her salt has a shit load more crap to lug around than can fit in a fanny pack. Having recently pulled not just a sock but a half-eaten burrito out of mine, I can attest to this fact. Testify, Sister Mollie! Conversely, if you are a man, YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE ENOUGH STUFF THAT YOU REQUIRE A FANNY PACK TO GO TO THE GROCERY STORE. Man=wallet. Anything more makes you appear either weird or......well, I guess that says it all. Weird. Or like you've escaped from a mental health facility. Which is worse than weird 'cause it's crazy. I witnessed a whole family of 'packs today. I actually felt sorry for them. They looked so pleased with themselves. I guess if that's what makes you happy, then go for it. Doesn't mean it's not going to bug me though. What I want to know is what exactly is IN these things? Maps? First-aid kits? Insulin pumps? Snacks in case you become lost and or disoriented at PetSmart? This is where I saw 'pack-fam. What about an outing such as this REQUIRES enough stuff that every member of the expedition needs to strap on a fanny pack? Can't you just see them leaving the house? "DAMN. I can't find my fanny pack. Nobody is going anywhere until I find it". Frantic search ensues. I actually saw some women in my neighborhood walking today that appeared to be otherwise normal but then I noticed that they were both sporting 'packs and I instantly put them on my "avoid" list. Sorry. 

Taurus

http://secretarysbreakroom.tumblr.com/post/494500982

No, this is not about the depressing car. It was recently brought to my attention that I may have a tendency to be a bit stubborn. ME? I am NOT stubborn. And if I have to stand right here in this very spot without food, water or a toilet for two weeks to prove it, I will do it. Oh, I'll do it alright. I'll poop my pants before I relent. Okay, so maybe I am a little stubborn. Just a smidge. See, I was born in early May. This makes me a Taurus. Generally speaking, I think astrology is a bunch of bullshit. You can read just about anything you want into it. "Ohmigod, ohmigod.....Joey must love me 'cause we're both earth signs with a moon rising!" Dude. Men are simple creatures. If you have to look up his sign to find out if he loves you, he doesn't. Get a grip. Slap, slap. If he's into you he will be following you around and doing your bidding with a goofy look on his face. It's highly entertaining, actually. But back to the astrology thing. There do seem to be some overwhelming characteristics attributable to birth signs. Take my mom. Please! I'm joking, mother......calm yourself. She's a Libra. She's all about the balance. Very fair, hates discord, wants everybody to get along at all cost. Where's the fun in that? She also wants to solve everybody's problems. And as I'm a bit of a walking, talking problem, we're perfect for each other! Anyway, I decided to look up Taurean characteristics. I had to find out if Joey loves me. He does. Yay. Here's the 411 on we Taurus chicks: We're capable. Yep, capable of causing a lot of trouble. That's fo sho. Our friends "may be a little weird" but they are not phonies or hypocrites. 'Cause you know, most of the other signs LOVE phonies and hypocrites. We do not consider social status when making friends and prefer people that do not hide their true nature and come across as they really are. No shit. Although my friends really do run the gamut. It's quite the colorful roster. Let's just say my parties are fun. Ugliness of any kind makes us miserable. Again, as opposed to people that really dig ugly shit. We like our homes, and are therefore homebodies. Kinda true. We're good cooks. I like to cook. We have a propensity to turn to fat if not careful. REALLY. I hadn't noticed. When pushed too far, we lose our demeanor quickly. This is true. You can push me and push me but once I've had enough I will lose my shit. And you do NOT want to be on the receiving end. I can provide you with witnesses to back this up if you'd like.  We don't like anything artificial. Silk flowers DO kinda give me a rash. Oh, and we are more "friends" to our kids than typical mommies. True dat. Jack's my lil' gangsta. Well, as much as a kid being raised on a golf course can be a gangsta. Word. What we have learned here today at Deep Thoughts is that I'm kind of an inflexible ass with weird friends. You don't say.

Oops Redux

Okay, here's the school bus thing. I drive Jack to school in the morning because the fucking bus comes at like 8 am. If I drive him to school, we don't have to leave the house 'til 8:40. I would much rather suck it up and drive him than run around in a mutha scratching panic trying to get him out the door by 8. So the other day, we're stuck at the light that goes up to the school right behind the bus. The little shits in the back of the bus are making faces and waving and acting like complete fucktards. Since junior was shotgun, I felt it best not to comment but it kind of chafed me. And yes, I am that immature. No argument there. Anyway, I had a somewhat challenging Monday and was racing back from my travels to get to the bus stop in the afternoon. 'Cause he DOES ride the bus home. I pick him up from the stop 'cause Lord knows you wouldn't want the boy to get any exercise. As I round the traffic circle, I find myself behind the bus. The bus stops three times! Flashing lights and all! Oh joy! Wacky elementary school antics ensue. "Haaaaa.....I'm making faces at the lady behind us......hilarious". At one point, I seriously considered flipping one of the little miscreants the bird but because it was my own child's bus, thought better of it. "Jack, your mom is flipping people off again......". Blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Anyway, I resisted all temptation and mustered every bit of self-control I possess (which admittedly is not much) and kept the bird in its nest. Tweet freakin' tweet. When I arrived at the bus stop I put on my cheerful mommie smile, ready to inquire as to how my little darling's day had gone. He had kind of a funny look on his face as he approached the car. Me: "Whassup?" Jack: "Mom, I was sitting in the back of the bus and I was waving and waving at you and you had a really mean look on your face. Are you mad at me?" Uh......I almost flipped my own kid off. Oops. 

Bite Me

Oh, I'm a little more prickly than usual. Okay, A LOT more prickly than usual. To that end, I have come up with a little list of the things and people that can bite me. Right on my ever lovin' ass. 

1. My knee. Specifically my meniscus. It hurts and it really freakin' pisses me off. I'd punch it if it wouldn't make it worse. And YES, I'm seeing a doctor. So you know it's bad. 

2. The economy. Being formerly fabulous sucks ass. Had I known that I would have to clean my own damn house I believe I would have purchased a yurt. One room. Dirt floors. A floor that is supposed to be dirty is something I can really get behind. And no toilets to clean! Yay.

3. People that have license plates saying that they are former Navy pilots that drive like 20 miles per hour. And poorly at that. I find it disturbing that someone that can't drive a fucking car was flying fighter planes around. In the defense of our country. That's how the terrorists win. We've got Grandpa Joe up there. Crying and screaming, "HOW DOES THIS DING-DANG CONTRAPTION WORK?????"

4. Lying sons of bitches. You know who you are. And you really CAN bite me. 

5. Whoever decided not to sell beer at the elementary school talent show. What's that you say? Schools are a "Drug Free Zone"? Whoever came up with THAT one can bite me too. Just because the kids can't drink doesn't mean the parents shouldn't. Hic. 

6. My dog. Grady was actually off the list for awhile. He hasn't eaten a sock, knocked anybody over or been caught eating poop in at least a week. But this morning he consumed three of the four ibuprofen tablets that Dave "The Pusher Man" Christie was trying to make me consume against my will. This set off a frantic internet search and call to the vet. Seems that it takes more than three to do damage to a dog his size. Still. I could have lived without THAT drama. Thanks Grades. 

7. The people that are all up in arms about the new "Growing and Changing" curriculum at school. Yes, they talk about oral sex. Big fucking deal. Seems there are those that are laboring under the impression that if you don't talk about it won't happen!!!!!! Gee, maybe if I don't look at my bills, I won't have to pay them! These people can remove the sticks from their asses and THEN bite me. Or better yet, DON'T SEND YOUR KIDS TO THE CLASS IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT. How's that? 

8. Kids that sit in the back of the bus and make faces at cars behind them when stopped. That is actually another blog entry altogether. And it will be forthcoming. In the meantime, bite me kids.  

9. The greedy liquor store owner that jacked the price of my favorite bottle of wine from $6.99 to $7.99. Well, to be fair it's more accurately described as a "jug" rather than a bottle. Regardless, that's not cool. We're in a recession. We NEED our booze. It's not recreational at this point. It's medicinal. Four o' clock is no longer cocktail hour. It's a therapy session. 

10. Punk ass punks. Just because.  

Ride 'Em

I realized that I never told the "cowboy" story as promised. No better time than now, eh? When we were down in Arizona, one of the big things Jack wanted to do was go horseback riding. He'd done it once before but has recently become a lot more interested in horses in general. Not in a girlie, "My Little Pony" kinda way wherein you want to plait your horsies hair and marry it when you grow up. He just thinks they're cool. And I agree. I rode a decent amount when I was growing up even though my dad never bought me the horse he promised me. I'm still waiting. He did eventually produce the swimming pool he promised although I'm not sure if it counts if you're in your thirties and no longer living at home. But enough about my childhood heartbreak. On the last day of our trip, we arranged for a trail ride at a local ranch. Our group was comprised of me, my mom, Dave and Jack. Oh, and some family from Chicago but they're not really relevant to the story. They take you into the corral and size you up and then match you up with a horse. This was rather hilarious the last time we went riding as Dave was looked up and down and assigned a draft horse named "Hercules". Fortunately, even though this was during the thyroid shit storm days, I was still given a normal sized horse. I would have died had they said, "Uh.....we had better bring out Atlas for this gal". Anyway, my mom is not a big horse person and was looking about nervously. She said, "I hope mine is named "Ol' Gummy Joe" or something. Not far off......she got "Jim". Although he was about as docile as a lamb, she claimed he was straight outta hell. Gross exaggeration. I hopped on Buckshot, Jack climbed on a really nice female horse, Dave mounted whoever he was assigned to and off we went. Our cowboy was initially an older gentleman, apparently the owner of the ranch. Very nice gent. My mom, who was a couple of horses behind me and Buckshot yells up, "Excuse me?!?! My horse doesn't seem very happy!!!!" The cowboy said, "Ma'am, he's just fine". Then out of nowhere, this totally hot cowboy rides up. Apparently he is taking over our ride!  Yay!!!!! Things just got a lot more interesting! Particularly when says, "Why don't you come up here and ride with me?" And he was talking to MEEEEEEEEEE. I'm thinking, "Dang, I've still got it!" Double yay! We're chattin' it up, having a simply lovely ride (the fact that my husband was right behind me notwithstanding.....my ego was in control of the situation) when my mom starts complaining from the rear again. I said, "MOM!!!!! It's FINE!!!!! RELAX". Cowboy turns around, lifts up his sunglasses, looks at me, looks at mom and says, "That's your MOM????? What, was she like SEVENTEEN when she had you???" Well, if you must know, pretty much. She was 19 but close enough. Talk about having the wind let out of your sails. This is a bit of an issue for me as it happens ALL THE TIME. People are GOBSMACKED when they find out that Rosie is in fact my mother and not my sister. This is GREAT for her. Not so much for me. I think I'm going to have to go have some work done or something so that I actually look like my mother may in fact be my MOTHER. What's it take to make a 42-year old look twenty five? I'm about to find out, damn it. I have a feeling it's going to involve my head and a bag. Wouldn't be the first time. Wonder if I could put a cowboy hat over the bag?

Man on the Floor

Okay, so yesterday I had a meeting at the local country club. Pool shit. Blah, blah, blah. 'Tis the season. Because there were old people eating in the main dining room and because I am prone to blurting out inappropriate comments, we were relegated to the basement. And because my inappropriate comments frequently involve expletives, we were not only relegated to the basement but to the ladies locker room. Nobody goes in the ladies locker room. Ever. Nevertheless, because the pool manager/building superintendent is a man (go figure), it was necessary for him to yell out, "maintenance" just in case there was some old bag taking a secret crap down there or something. If she was, she didn't come out and I'm guessing she got an earful. Anyway, this jogged a memory completely unrelated to either my country club OR old people and their bowel movements. When I was living in the sorority house (word up to the sistas of Sigma Kappa, AT Chapter!!!!!), if we were bringing a boy on to the upper floors where our bedrooms were, the standard protocol was to shout out, "MAN ON THE FLOOR!!!!!!". This was simply code word for "time to come out of your room in your bra and panties and feign surprise". You see, youngsters, we did not have thongs in 1989. "Panties" are things that actually cover your entire ass and do not cause uncomfortable chafing, itching OR burning. The last two may be unrelated to the thong itself but I digress. Back to the man on the floor. I believe I was in between boyfriends and actually had a "date". A member of the Michigan State Spartans football team was actually a big enough dork to PASS ME A NOTE at a local watering hole. This note explained that he was secretly in love with me and that he would like to take me out. Errrr......a note? Seriously? But they had been to the Rose Bowl that year and I was marginally impressed. So I went out with him. I shouldn't have. He was about as smart as he looked. For whatever reason, as I was in the process of trying to shake him, it became necessary to return to my sorority house. This guy follows me upstairs and because he was gigantic, did not go unnoticed. At some juncture, he attempted to kiss me which if memory serves, involved sticking his tongue in my mouth and leaving it there. Like a stunned trout. That was about enough for me and I somehow managed to get him the hell out of there. But, like I said, he did not go unnoticed and it was "after hours". I got hauled in front of the "standards board". Which was but the first in a lifetime of being hauled in front of panels of one sort or the other for something involving behavior unbefitting a proper young lady. Or middle-aged lady as the case may be. I'm sure I'll get hauled in front of some judgy panel in the old folks home if I live that long. Somebody's teeth will probably fall out of my bra during the early bird special or something. But again, I digress. In this case, I DIDN'T EVEN DO ANYTHING!!!!!!! Or at least anything fun. Granted, he shouldn't have been up there. I'll cop to that, even if it was a really fucking stupid rule that some nunnery-bound prude with a stick up her ass came up with in 1952. But my theory has long been that if I'm going to get in trouble for it, it had damn well better be well worth the trouble. My extensive research has proved that it usually is. In this case all I got was a tongue shoved down my throat against my will. Damn it. You can't win 'em all. 

I'm BACK!!!!!!

Yowza. Sorry for the protracted absence from my post(ings). I was thinking that I'd be posting as usual whilst on vacation but I found out that is a lot like thinking you are going to exercise every day whilst on vacation. Great in theory, not so much in practice. The poolside lounge chair beckoned. As did the three books I devoured on said lounge chair. It was just infinitely more attractive than sitting inside at the computer. Laptop alert. There's something about the desert that is very peaceful. I thought my parents were freakin' nuts when they announced they were moving to Arizona some ten years ago. Being from Michigan, we always went to Florida for warm weather vacations. I figured the "valley of the sun" was nothin' but a bunch of sand and snakes. And there are a shit load of snakes. And mountain lions. But we have snakes and mountain lions here so it's not that alarming. What we don't have are giant, hairy pig-like creatures called Javalinas. Now there's something you don't see walking around everyday. At least not in Colorado. Strange creatures aside, the landscape is actually strangely lush, particularly in the spring. Many of the cacti are flowering and it's a lot greener that you'd imagine. A softer green that the vibrant hues of summer in the upper midwest but beautiful in it's own right. It was a very relaxing trip and I'd like to thank my parents who are pretty damn fun for old people and who always provide me with a "soft place to land". So big ups to Bill and Rose and to everybody who wrote and expressed their concern for my well being and actually missed my ramblings. That made me feel all good and shit. I'm back, mutha scratchers. And I'm feeling somewhat human again so look out. Other than the story I DID report from Arizona regarding my walk of shame after being turned away from the velvet rope, nothing too crazy transpired. The only good tale I have to tell involves a cowboy, a horse and my mother.  That is forthcoming. Stay tuned. Gotta run the kiddo to school.  I'm back in another kinda saddle.