Afterglow

I was sitting here trying to figure out why I'm so freakin' exhausted and then I remembered. Houseguest. Duh. I LOVE having company. It's not the company per se that wears me out. It's the build up to the visit followed by the partying during the visit that ultimately lead to the letdown proceeding the visit. You may as well just take the three days leading up to the company arriving and the day of their departure and throw them out the speeding car window of life like the passing blur that they were. The panicked cleaning preceeding the visit is a given. Unless you have a cleaning lady, in which case I am no longer speaking to you. And yes, I'm just jealous. Guilty as charged. And go ahead and count on the "throw the covers over your head and don't come out until tomorrow" thing when they leave. It's inevitable. Don't try to fight it. With some guests you have to be "on" all the time. Skippy is so not like that. You can rip one in front of Skip. Not that I, as a proper lady, would ever rip one. It was Dave. Dave did it. Or the dog. SOMEBODY did it. It was a non-event. He barely even looked up. Unlike the dog, who when falsely accused had the good sense to look somewhat disgusted. But even with low-maintenance guests, you don't have the downtime that you have during "regular" life. Checking email, sitting down and reading a chapter of a book, etc. And that's part of the fun. It's not regular life. Having company is like an exclamation point. If the punctuation of your life was ALL exclamation points, you'd be pretty fucking spent from the very excitement of it all. Life needs some commas. And apostrophes. You need colons too. And semi-colons, for when a full-on colon is just too much. And I need a nap. Period.

Stick Christie's

I realize that I have made somewhat of a mini-career grousing about things that bug me. And that's probably because things bug me considerably more than they bug most people. A prickly little pear, I am. But amongst the things that irritate me, those stupid stick figure families that are found largely on the back of mini-vans really stick in my craw. And I don't know why. I have a family. I like it! I even like other families. I just don't like those dumbass stickers. I think it's because they are inherently dorky. "Oh, look at me and my 18 children and all of our wacky pets! Some are babies!  See, 'cause they're little and are wearing diapers! That one with the bow? It's a GIRL! Isn't that cute? And our oldest, Johnny? He likes to play golf. He's the stick figure with the golf club!" Annoying. I think I'm going to start a line of those stickers for the non-shiny and happy amongst us. "Stick Figure Families.....The Dark Side". And here's mine! Since these things usually go from biggest to smallest, lets start with Dave. I think I'll have his stick figure sitting on a toilet with his pants at his ankles and strumming a guitar. Because that's really the only explanation for why he's in there for so long. Either that or he's looking at porn on his phone. So give him a cartoon iPhone too. And maybe have his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Maybe he'd be wearing a Lions jersey, 'cause inexplicably, these stick figures wear shirts even though they're sticks with heads. Although Hollywood actresses whear shirts and they're not much better. But I digress. I'm next 'cause I'm the mom. Or so I'm told. I'd be in workout gear. Hair in a stick ponytail. Clutching a bottle of Lexapro and a jug of wine. I would have several tequila bottle "icons" next to me. The icons cost extra but they represent the person when there is just simply more to say than one stick figure can accommodate. I'd also have a Pilates reformer, a thyroid gland, MY iPhone and a few expletives. I know I have alot of "icons" but I have the most baggage and I want my fellow drivers to know it. Give me wide berth. I'm a little crazy. After MY bad self comes Jack. He would be wearing a lacrosse uniform. Goalie stick in one hand and a laundry list of grievances in the other. Mostly regarding his mother. He'd have a basketball, a football and a slew of video game icons. After Jack, we have stick Grady. He's wearing a shock collar, has devil horns and tail and is pooping out a sock. So I guess he's squatting. Next to Grady is a stick Zombie Hamster. Tiny stick paws outright in Zombie-walk fashion and with X's for eyes. Poor Rhino. Gone but not forgotten, at least on my car. I figure that next to Rhino will be a guy with a white van and a net chasing our whole sorry stick family with a caption bubble over his head saying, "Pull up the truck, Charlie......we've got some live ones". Indeed.  

A Very Skippy Weekend

There are people in the world that just bring the fun. And the funk. My brother-in-law Skippy is one of 'em. Ohhhh, did we have fun this weekend. Started with a foray downtown as Dave was playing at Scruffy Murphy's. I think we got cut off. Getting cut off at an Irish pub when they know you're not driving is a little difficult but we seem to have managed. Nice! We're told we had a GREAT time. The next day was one of those hilarious, slightly hungover breakfasts where you're still a little "happy" and are trying to reconstruct exactly what transpired the night before. Laughed our heads off. At some point it was determined that we needed to split up. Jack and Dave would go to the dog park and Skippy and I would go grocery shopping. Skippy insisted on being referred to as "Mayor Bloomberg", for some reason and was selecting Kosher items from the aisles such as "Gefelt Fish". Yuck. Slap-happy grocery shopping is ALSO fun. Skippy and I determined that we needed Bloody Mary's. We called Dave at the dog park and checked in. It seems that all Grady does at the dog park is get humped. I guess I can think of worse ways to spend the day but Grady is fixed. And male. So I'm not really sure what he's getting out of the deal. We told Davey that we were going to our little local bar and he said that was cool as at some point Jack wanted to get a burger and he would meet us there. BEAUTIFUL Colorado day.......we sat out back and bagged some of those early spring rays and had several lovely cocktails as we pondered life and solved the problems of the world. Skippy still wants to quit his job, join the Junior League and drive a Volvo. And get a dog named "Avery". Or maybe it's changed to "Penelope". Whatever. And then we remembered we had groceries in the car. Chicken. Ooops. Went home and made a simply lovely dinner, having determined that the chicken had NOT officially turned the corner. Three hour rule. We made that up. And yesterday, of course, was Oscar Day. Skippy was VERY excited. You have not lived until you have watched the Academy Awards with a gay man. We made champagne punch and heavy apps and had a simply delightful time. As we were getting ready, our supermodel former babysitter called and said that she and her boyfriend would be coming over. Cool. Love that chick. LOVE her super hot Air Force Academy grad boyfriend too. Skippy said, "Ooooohhhhh.......tell her boyfriend that in our family it is customary to wear swim suits while watching the Oscars". I almost choked on a crudite. See what I mean? I love my Skippy. So that was the haps over here all weekend long.......I'm a tad bit polluted but no worse for the wear. Nothing a good nights sleep can't fix. Bon Voyage, Skippy!!!!!!  

Getting There.......

Okay, I know I still have to post the missing WTF's for Dinner. And Cheers as well. I'll get to it. I've been a lil' busy Just about everything is clean. Still have to do the kitchen floor but I usually save that for last. See Mom? I DO have a system. Even if it only makes sense to me. I managed to pull this off without sniffing the cleaning fluids. Wanted to have my wits about me. So after the floor, I get to take a shower. I am very much looking forward to taking a shower. It seems that there are some men and boys that use my bathrooms that have difficulty identifying the toilet. I spent some time cleaning pee off of bathroom floors. My mother is probably having a heart attack down in AZ as we speak. She HATES the word "pee". "Pee" is almost as bad as "ain't". Sorry mom. It's pee. "Urine" sounds a little clenched coming from someone like myself. Anyway, apparently there are those who just can't control the equipment and it sprays all over the room. So, as I said, I'm looking forward to the shower. AFTER the shower, the fun and games are just getting started! All of the fluffing and buffing happens! I get to make myself pretty which is becoming increasingly difficult with my advancing age. So many steps. So much spackling! And I need to execute all of the final touches on the house that will surely make our esteemed guest feel welcome.......the pillow fluffed "just so" says "I love you, esteemed guest! WELCOME!". I also have to make sure we have enough booze on hand. I don't know about you but a day of travel makes me thirsty. Hell, waking up in the morning makes ME thirsty but I'm Scots/Irish which explains everything. I was BORN thirsty. So I have to make sure tasty beverages are at the ready. In fact.....I think it may be time to make sure that none of them are poison. Will, once again, report back. Hopefully clean and well-"hydrated". 

GREAT IDEA!

The only deep thought I'm having right now as I hobble around on my one good leg attempting to clean this damn house in preparation for Skippy's visit is "WHY IN THE HELL DO I NEED A HOUSE THIS SIZE?" PEOPLE WITH HOUSES THIS SIZE NORMALLY HAVE CLEANING LADIES. AS I AM FORMERLY FABULOUS, I AM THE CLEANING LADY. AND IT SUCKS. As has been established, I freaking HATE cleaning. And no, smarties, not everybody hates cleaning. I know some freaks that love it. I'm not one of 'em. I am utterly and completely overwhelmed and am close to hopping on the back of the garbage truck with Gilberto (his real name....not a racial stereo-type, so no angry letters please. And don't ask me why I know what my super hot sanitation engineer's name is) when he rolls by. What's that? It's not trash day? Shit. What if I claim I've been really sick and that's why the house is such a sty? Although the fact that I'd pop right up when it was time for the drinkin' to commence might be suspicious. Dang. Foiled again. The dog ate all of the cleaning supplies? That's actually somewhat believable. Wait a second.  Lightbulb! How 'bout if I combine ammonia and bleach and am found passed out on the bathroom floor wearing rubber gloves?! Clutching a toilet brush? Then I'd be some sort of cleaning martyr. That would be $%&ing AWESOME. Problem solved. I'll report back if I have any synapses still snapping after my little stint as "Chemical Mol-lie". God, I'm good. 

The Bigger They Are, The Harder They Fall

When my brother calls and says, "Call me back.....I've got a funny story" you can be sure it really IS a funny story. The yarn, however, is not usually about HIM. Oh, but in this case it was. A little background: Lacrosse is pretty big here in Colorado, and the season is starting up. My youngest nephew has decided he'd like to play and is entering his first season. So in preparation, it seems that my brother was out in his backyard tossing the ball around with my nephews. At some point in time, the boys lost interest and decided to otherwise occupy themselves. They have their Auntie Mollie's gnat-like attention span, apparently. Or maybe they're just boys. My brother, not to be daunted by lack of participation decides that he will simply play catch solo by launching the lacrosse ball at the fence. At some point, and this explains EVERYTHING about not just my brother but me, Tim decides that he's going to "see how hard" he can whip the ball at said fence. Because why wouldn't you? Why NOT push things to the very limit and let the chips fall where they may? We both seem to be missing the gene that causes one to exercise caution. It's just not in the mix. So he whips it. I'm not sure if I mentioned this but my brother is a pretty big guy. Not fat in the least but very tall and athletic. There's a bit of power behind the shot. Turns out "how hard" is pretty hard indeed. And a lacrosse ball is an EXTREMELY hard thing. I've been hit by one launched by a little kid and it hurts like a son of a bitch. The ball hits a metal fence post. It comes back, hits Tim squarely between the eyes, both lenses pop out of his sunglasses and what remains is smashed into his face. He is knocked to the ground. All 6'4" or so of him. A neighbor kid, who had appeared at some point, says to my nephews, "I think something's wrong with your dad". Understatement of the year. Something is wrong with their dad alright. And their aunt. Tim has an extremely impressive black eye, which would be all well and good if he were a hockey player. He is not. He is a builder. A builder that has to meet with potential homebuyers next week, which should be just in time for his eye to turn that lovely sickly yellow color that only a seven-day old black eye can muster. I hope he's coming up with a good story. I'm not really sure the truth says, "I am a person you should trust with your money. And a lacrosse stick." Errrr..........

Incoming!

I am willing to accept that the phenomena I am about to discuss is strictly limited to me. As has been established, cleaning is not exactly my forte. I'm more of your creative sort (read: license to not be bothered with such mundane pursuits as cleaning.....I'm busy creating, man!) and therefore don't always notice the cobwebs in my corners. That's what my mother is for. In my mother's absence, I allow nature to take its course with such things. Until company is coming. And guess what? Company is coming. When you have guests arriving imminently, it's like you slip on "guest goggles". The shit dripping down the side of your refrigerator that hadn't really bothered you is now really gross. And your ten-year old's toilet? Gadzooks! The dog hair on every upholstered surface that has been accepted as a matter of course is now simply nasty. So now, panic has set in. My brother-in-law, the aforementioned "Uncle Skippy" will be arriving on Friday. I'm not sure whether to calmly set about the task at hand or start running around screaming so that I will be declared crazy and therefore will not have been expected to do anything at all except sit in the corner drooling with a jug of wine. While choice number two sounds vastly more appealing, I believe I'm going to have to woman-up and choose door number one, Monty. Damn it. If I appear to be blogging more than usual, it's simple avoidance. Fine. I guess I'll tackle that pile of laundry over there first. Unless I become distracted by a moment of creative genius. Gears are turning......must come up with something quickly.........