Lynda Crotty's Blah, Blah, Blog

Where the hell have I been!

2012-01-10T14:29:00.000-08:00

Oh, nowhere.

Just at school.

GETTING AN "A"!

Yes, it's an "A-" but it's still in the "A" family, so suck it, haters.

And suck it, high school guidance counselor who said I shouldn't even bother with college. (Maybe because I had a crappy academic record there too, and maybe because I was pregnant, and maybe because you caught me skinny dipping after hours at Hillcrest Country Club. But, hey, you were moonlighting as a security guard there, so now who should be ashamed? Yeah, still me.)

Anyway.

Suck it, voice-in-my-head that said I wasn't bright enough to do well in school at 18 or 45. Clearly you were wrong. I give you an "F" for FAILING to see my potential. How do YOU like it voice-in-my-head?

And finally, suck it most of all to my GPA that is still a scathingly low 1.8 something even though I just got an "A". ("A-"). Shut up, voice-in-my-head!

I'm gonna keep going to college to get more knowledge while the rest of you go to Jupiter to get more stupider.

Sorry, that wasn't very nice. The "A" has changed me. My academic elitism shan't last long. (I say "shan't" now because I'm very intelligent.)

Alright, I'm going back into my school cave for Astronomy next so I bid you 'good morrow' (that's Shakespeare). He was a writer. From the 1500's. Romeo and Juliet? Oh, never mind. It's really difficult to have conversations outside the quad now.

LATE! (That's how college kids say goodbye.)

It's exhausting having to explain everything.

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

Back To School!

2011-08-11T07:51:00.000-07:00

Watch out U of M. She's baaaaaack. 

That's right. This fall I will be joining the other "returning students" (a.k.a.  kids who totally blew it back in the day and are now trying to claw their way back to finish their degree.) at my alma mater, The University Of Minnesota.

"But, Lynda. I can't believe you don't have your Bachelors degree. You have a flourishing career in advertising."

Yeah, that has nothing to do with being bright.

All you have to do to be a copywriter is watch a crapload of TV as a kid, be super insecure - making you very competitive, grow up in a "unique" family that inspires you to use humor as a coping skill, then have a baby at 18, which propels you into adulthood prematurely but eqips you with an indefatigable drive to provide. Easy peasy.

So why finish? And why now?

It's always nagged at me that I didn't finish. (Remember the insecurity piece?) Plus, I'm a senior (college, not citizen) for Christ's sake and every time I fill out some credit card form or loan application or something at the DMV and it asks about "degrees earned" giving you the choice of either "high school diploma" or "bachelors degree" and nothing in between, instead of drawing the middle finger over that section like I usually do, I can circle "bachelors degree". (No, I can't just circle it. I didn't actually earn it yet and I'm not going to lie. I may manipulate people into buying stuff they don't need for a living but I'm not a liar. Jeez.)

Okay, so there's a bigger reason I want to go back to school. I not only want to finish my degree but I want to earn a Masters. 

What? 

I KNOW! I'll be 60 by the time I finish. But I don't care. 

Ultimately, I want to write books about nutrition. (In case you haven't noticed, I kind of geek out on that stuff. ) But unlike advertising, some careers require accreditation. 

So one day, instead of shaming people into eating better as a layperson, I'll be shaming them as a Functional Diagnostic Nutritionist. Booya!

And since I'm so friggin' healthy, I'm gonna live to be 117, so I'd better damn well have something to do with my life...in addition to advertising, because I will always love advertising and do it forever.(That last part was for my clients.)

Anyway, my actual point in blogging about this is to tell you how hilarious it has been to get back into the mix, because colleges are designed for late teens and early twenty-somethings, not well-worn adult types. 

When I was registering for an e-mail account at the U, the password secret-question-suggestions were as follows:

First car

Best friend

High school mascot

Sure, I can remember all these things, (my former drinking habit only ruined my short-term memory), but they aren't exactly relevant to my current life.

I recommended to my adviser that the secret-question-suggestions for returning students be tailored more appropriately to their lives, like so:

First spouse

Best friend with breast cancer

High school reunion hookup

She reminded me I was on academic probation. 

The next day I got a packet in the mail addressed to "The parents of Lynda Crotty" encouraging them to purchase season tickets for Gopher sports on my behalf because, according to the brochure, "students who support their team, take their degree more seriously."

So THAT was my problem the last time?

I thought it was because I had a toddler to feed and I couldn't keep up with school and five jobs as an aerobics instructor. (Yep. Aerobics. Shut up.)

So I called my damn parents and I said, "Listen, you buy me those tickets or the next time you get hip surgery, I will not be changing your wound dressing. You've been warned."

I haven't seen the tickets yet.

If I blow it this time, I'll just have one more reason to hate myself...and them.

But a little more self-loathing will only strengthen my career in advertising.

Go Gophers!

Sucks to be him

2011-08-08T13:51:00.000-07:00

I read this story about a month ago but I couldn't let it go un-blogged-about. 

So there's this bear in Tennessee, right? And a couple of months ago he was dumpster diving for food when he got his head stuck in a plastic jar. 

At first, I'm sure the bear was like "Doi. I just shoved my head inside a jar." Then he was probably all, "Holy crap, I can't get this thing off." Then he was likely thinking, "Rachel is gonna kill me!" (Rachel would be the bear in the photo waiting for her food that is NEVER coming.) Then he probably felt some fear, followed by panic, followed by despair, and ultimately, acceptance.

Because this poor bear went for THREE WEEKS with a stupid plastic jar on his head, in the sweltering heat, not eating but drinking by dipping the jar into water, filling it to the point of drowning, then consuming the water fast enough to breathe again. 

The poor dear self-water-boarded for almost a month just to survive! (Rachel must be one, sweet roll in the cave.) 

So three weeks, a hundred and seventeen civilian sightings and seventy five pounds later, a wildlife officer spotted and darted him. 

They pried the jar off, pumped him full of fluids, got him up on his feet and sent him back into the wild. (Hopefully with some photos to prove to Rachel that his unlikely story was indeed the truth.)

The End

(Not so fast) 

Did you seriously think I was going to let you get away without a passionate monologue on the evils of processed food?

What does this have to do with processed food?

Simple.

The only "food" that comes in those ginormous plastic jars are Red Vines, Cheese Puffs or Giant Pickles (that, frankly, Rachel was probably using for anything but eating while her poor, jar-headed beau was out of town.) 

Because when it comes to junk food, even wild animals only eat it when they're desperate, but we humans go to the gas station and stock our cupboards with it.

Why??????

It has become our nature. We don't even think about it. And if someone points it out, we snarl. (Like you're doing right now.) It's okay. I get it. It's not easy to make the shift to real food, but it's possible and I hope you will consider it.

I also hope that until you do, if you should buy any products that come in a big plastic jar, bottle, bucket or are tethered together with those plastic rings, you will cut the plastic to bits before recycling it. That alone could have saved this poor bear from three weeks of torture. Just like eliminating processed foods from your diet can save you from a lifetime of health problems. 

Okay, fine. I'm done. 

But the next time you go camping, if a deer kicks the crap out of you because it has a Mountain Dew bottle stuck up it's butt, don't come crying to me.

That's my way of saying, "I care."

Here's the article on the bear:
http://www.timesfreepress.com/news/2011/jul/21/tennessee-black-bear-saved-jar-stuck-its-head/

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

Hey you, don't be snootie, stick a camera up your bootie!

2011-07-06T13:24:00.000-07:00

No, no, no. That's not what I mean.

Let your doctor do it.

YOU should never stick anything up your butt. No matter how far you are from home, how drunk you are, or how cute he is.

Are we clear? Okay.

So I just read an article on CNN.com about how the incidence of Colon Cancer is on the decline BECAUSE Colonoscopies are on the rise.

Yay! 

However, Colon Cancer is still the second most common cancer in both men and women in the U.S. and results in about 50,000 deaths per year.

Boo!

Why? Because not everyone at risk is getting tested. 

Why? Because, as you may or may not have heard, Colonoscopies are actual, literal pains in the ass.

Not only is the procedure uncomfortable but the prep is too. But, as a wise doctor quoted in the CNN article notes, "So is dying young from a preventable disease."

What is young? Oh, forties (if you have a family history) or fifties-and-up if you don't.

So, what can you do?

Get screened, dude!

It's not that bad. (I had it done in my twenties for IBS junk.) Yeah, it sucked, but it wasn't as painful as giving birth. And back in the day, I had hangovers that made me want to kill myself. This was nothing compared to those.

So, have I sold you?

Good.

Bootie bravery rules!

Here is the CNN.com article. (Please read then get-er-dun!)

http://thechart.blogs.cnn.com/2011/07/05/colon-cancer-screening-saves-lives-but-more-need-to-do-it/

Is it football season yet?

2011-06-01T14:08:00.000-07:00

Hello, gorgeous.

This is our new quarterback, Minnesota.

Hiiiiiiii...

Even the Vikings know that when you're going through a rough patch, it helps to go buy something pretty.

His name is Christian Ponder.

He's 23.

He's from Texas. Or maybe Arizona. Who cares.

When he was in Kindergarten, his teacher told his parents he was so shy that she was worried he would get beat up. 

Awwww.

Can he get any cuter?

He just did!

Well, I don't know jack about the gridiron, but I will be buying my first set of season tickets and I will be front and center come September...or is it August...can't it be June?

Maybe I'll just go drive really close to Winter Park, and "get a flat tire"... "in daisy dukes and a bikini top".

Gross. I'm 44.

Fine.

I'm totally getting a poster...and I'm making out with it...and I don't care what you say Tom Brady poster. It's over.

Skoll Vikings...(Sung like Marilyn Monroe sang Happy Birthday to JFK).

I'm so glad the world didn't end.

2011-05-25T06:51:00.000-07:00

Because next months is chock-full of awesomeness.

1.) Jury duty.

2.) Annual exam. 

3.) My tabs expire on my car.

4.) My AFTRA and SAG dues need to be renewed.(And I haven't booked a SAG job in like 8 years.)

5.) Numbers 3 and 4 mean less Banana Republic shopping, AND it's two of my friends' birthdays, AND father's day AND daddy's birthday. (I don't care for some of the people on that list but I need to cough up anyway.)

6.) I still haven't found the perfect nude shoe for summer.

7.) I hate summer.

8.) Hockey season is only 133 days away.

9.) I'm short. (I'm always irked about that, but the above list just adds to the pain.)

10.) Every garden center is out of basil.

11.) No, purple basil isn't the same. 

12.) I'm not bikini-age-appropriate but thinner than ever. #@$!

13.) Annual exam. (Yes, I listed it twice. I have a HUGE crush on my OBGYN, making it extra awkward.) 

Of course, there are many things to be excited about, happy about, and grateful for...but they aren't funny.

Okay, June. Bring it. 

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

This makes me happy to be alive.

2011-05-19T13:28:00.000-07:00

I heard about this book on MPR last night and had to check my settings to make sure I was actually listening to MPR.

Yep.

Because the on-air guy said there was a new bedtime book called Go the F**k to Sleep.

Awwww.

(Not for kids, of course.)

It BLEEPED him on the F**k part but I knew what he said because I've thought it a million times.

This author is a genius. (And I haven't even read the book.) But the idea alone kills me. And the guy on the air read a passage from the book that was even more explative-riddled than the title. All woven into very traditional, bedtimey prose. Brilliant.

And whether or not you want to admit it, you have thought this as you tuck your darlings in at night. The day is done. You're done. Your eyebrows need tweezing. Top Chef is on and it's time to chill for a full 30 minutes before you pass out from exhaustion.

This book tells you, you're not alone. Because no matter how much you love your kids, (And no one loves their kids more than I do. Do not. Do not.) it's work to be a parent (A good one, anyway.) and "me time" is an essential component of good parenting.

So get the book, kiss your babies goodnight, and if they want another glass of water, well, sucks to be them.

Mommy out.

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

Pirates In Super Huge Trouble

2011-05-05T11:01:00.000-07:00

CNN.com reported Tuesday that a couple of real, live pirates were recently sentenced to 439 years of prison each. (Yep, you read that right.) 

Ooh, that judge must have been mad. (Read sing-songy like a street-wise girl making that wobbly-headed gesture.)

Maybe they are animated Disney pirates? How else could they live long enough to serve that sentence? 

Or

Maybe the judge was so miffed he just completely tweaked out and threatened them with something that would never actually happen.

Kinda like when you were in high school and your parents did the old, "YOU'RE GROUNDED FOR A MONTH!" Then two days later they were so sick of your stupid face they called your 21 year old boyfriend to come pick up their 15 year old daughter. (Or some random scenario that never happened to me.)

Anyway, back to the pirates. I can just hear the sentencing:

JUDGE:  So let's see, you guys hijacked a Spanish fishing boat and held 36 sailors hostage for 47 days? What the (BLEEP) is wrong with you? I suppose there was drinking...and girls too...and who was driving the boat, may I ask? Forget it. I don't even want to know. You make me sick. Why, I have half a mind to put you in prison forever. Oh, don't you look at me like that. You wanna be a big shot? Fine. You can just think about what you did in the joint for...for...for...439 years! Yes, I'm serious! And no phone!

However... 

Turns out the maximum they'll serve is 30 years. (Maximum, so like 2 years.)

Told ya'. 

And I bet they will totally get to go to prom. 

Check out the story here. 

http://www.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/europe/05/03/spain.pirates.convicted/index.html

Is your doctor a ding dong?

2011-05-04T15:22:00.000-07:00

Like my brother says, "They can't all graduate at the top of their class."

Word.

Am I just jealous of doctors because I want to be a doctor? Yes, but that's beside the point.

And I should clarify:

I am not jealous of ALL doctors. I like the smart, cool  forward-thinking kind. The big-picture doctors who ask questions and  light up when you give them an answer because they're fascinated by science, not by themselves. I love doctors who dig for new information because they sense there is more to learn as opposed to the doctors who blindly regurgitate the stuff they were fed in medical school.

Speaking of regurgitating, let me introduce you to a couple of the doctors I don't care for...the ding dongs to which I referred in the title of this post.

Dr.'s Jamie Kaufman and Jordan Stern, authors of Dropping Acid: The Reflux Diet Cookbook and Cure.

I just saw a feature on their work at Health.com entitled 13 Foods That Reduce Acid Reflux.

http://www.health.com/health/gallery/0,,20440834,00.html 

It gave me heartburn.

Now unless I missed the full title of the feature and it's actually called "13 Foods That Reduce Acid Reflux OR Make You Pee Out Of Your A$$", they're ding dongs.

I better go double-check real quick.

I'm back. They're ding dongs.

See, after suffering with acid reflux for years, I know which foods to avoid, but I'm not sure Dr.'s Kaufman and Stern do. If I ate some of the 13 things they recommend to avoid reflux, it would be a very unlucky 13 indeed.

For example, things like Oatmeal and Couscous (first and last on their list) would make me quite an unwelcome dinner companion. Because, like many who are prone to acid reflux, I am gluten-intolerant, making things like Oats and Wheat (contained in Oatmeal and Couscous) big no-nos.

But Lynda, not everyone is gluten intolerant.

Really? The protein in our wheat supply is 50% bigger than it was in the 1950's, (we messed with nature)making it difficult for everyone to digest, not just those with Celiac disease, not just those with wheat allergies and not just those with gluten-intolerance. Everyone. So if you're experiencing reflux, gluten is a likely culprit.

But if it's not bad enough that the Dr.'s Doi tout some of the very things that cause reflux, they also pull on their leg warmers, krimp their hair and get all 80's by dragging around the low fat craze and recommending things like stripping the skin off chicken and avoiding "high fat" salad dressings. But there is no warning to watch out for those dressings containing wheat or MSG or processed oils. (Some of the stuff that causes negative GI reactions.) And although they recommend broccoli, which is great, they neglect to recommend cooking the broccoli, which helps those with sensitive systems digest it.

Admittedly, I didn't read the book, just the Health.com feature, and maybe they touch on food intolerance in Dropping Acid, but if I were a doctor, which I'm not (MLEH...that's me sticking my tongue out.) I would make sure my footnotes were everywhere my work was published, because one of the good things doctors learn in medical school is "first do no harm."

I wish the reflux docs had regurgitated that.

Unfortunately, for those who of you who have reflux, I think the only way to avoid harm with this book, is to use it as a step stool to reach a better book.

Seriously?

2011-04-20T11:35:00.000-07:00

Kids keep getting boozed at America's chain restaurants:

-A 15 month old got a Margarita at an Applebees.

-A 2 year old got Sangria at an Olive Garden.

-A 4 year old got a "Mudslide" at a Chili's.

What up?

I'll tell you what. No one knows how to drink properly anymore.

What ever happened to a nice shot of whiskey? A stiff martini? A Scotch on the rocks? There's no way to accidentally serve a toddler one of those.

Not only is the way we drink messing with our kids, it's disrespectful. 

Do you think that after our forefathers went to all the trouble of forging a new nation, they got together at an Outback for Daiquiris? I don't think so.

It was Cognac by the fire and you know it. 

They knew how to drink like men. And so should we. (Yes, even if we're women. Wha.)

But the way most Americans drink is way more Ghetto than Gettysburg. (And I don't mean ghetto in the Elvis song kind of way, I mean it in the low-classy-pain-in-the-assy way - which has nothing to do with geography, race or economics.)

It's more like Britney Spears, barreling out of a Starbucks, weave exposed, last night's makeup smeared down to her filthy blouse and a sundae (disguised as coffee) in her busted-manicured hand.

That's not coffee! And where are your kids?

Probably at a Red Lobster sucking down Pina Coladas.

Oi.

Come on, America, class it up. Steer clear of the chains, make dinner at home, crack open a lovely bottle of wine and model for your kids how to drink (and eat) like civilized people. 

It's safer, healthier and would make our founding fathers proud...and as Franklin might say, "If you don't have to make a trip to the ER after dinner, it will save you some Benjamins."

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

I love the Sports section?

2011-04-19T06:00:00.000-07:00

Okay so lately I've been noticing that the first section I select from the morning paper is...

The Sports section! 

I know. It's crazy. I'm all girl.(I checked.) There is nothing down there that is undescended or scratch-worthy, and certainly nothing that could get me into trouble if I were alone in a movie theater. Honest to Pete. (Or Peter).

So what gives? 

I'll tell you what. It's the mom in me. The protector. The one whose radar goes off when someone gets hurt, then wants to rush in, fix the boo-boo and hand over a cookie. (Gluten free, of course.) 

When I pick up the sports section, I'm not looking for scores or standings or information that will help me choose a fantasy roster. I'm wondering things like: 

How is that new Twins second baseman doing?(Yeah, I know the Twins have a new second baseman.) But I didn't until he broke his femur. Now I know exactly who he is, what he looks like, and that he is the most upstanding gentleman in pro sports. (He apologized to his coach for breaking his leg!) If I had his mom's address, I'd send her a note. I even call him 'Elvis' because of his hair. I have a nickname for the Twins second baseman!

Say what now? 

I also want to get to the bottom of Joe Mauer's infection. Are we sure that's what we're dealing with? (Notice how "we" includes me?) Did we leave no stone unturned? Has he been exposed to any freaky allergens on those grody airplanes he's always flying on? What is his medical history? Does he know a naturopathic doctor? I do. And I want him to see her. I'm not kidding. This stuff nags at me!

And don't even get me started on Percy Harvin. I know why he has migraines, and if he would just come and stay with mama (me) for a couple of months - it's maternal, so back off - I could fix him right up. I don't want him taking all those unhealthy meds that are just going to cause more problems, hide the clues to the real problems and make the poor dear sicker. As far as I know, he is still suffering with those awful headaches and it makes me crazy. I mean it really bothers me. I can't tell you much about his game, or his background or even his position...Receiver? But I know he gets owies on his wittle head and I want to help.

So, I guess what I really love isn't so much the Sports section, as the people in the Sports section who need their mommy. Their self-anointed, non-birth, health-obsessed mommy.

Maybe you think that's weird?

Maybe you should take some vitamin D, eat leafy greens and get more sleep?

Mommy's gonna go read the paper.

Who's the prettiest president?

2011-04-06T15:55:00.000-07:00

Oh yeah. I know what's important. And I also know what wins. The "it factor". Even when it comes to the president.

It's no secret we've become a nation of celebrity worshipers, even when we create the celebrities ourselves.  (Hi, Snookie, Hi, all boy bands, Hi, Jerry Seinfeld's wife's cookbook.)

What up?

Maybe our over-sharing, hyper-stimulated, instant-gratification-addicted society has caused us to burn through all the people with actual talent and left us wanting more. And like a bunch of sad Giapettos, we are trying to turn Pinnochios into real boys left and right.

Regardless of his credentials, that goes for our Commander-In-Chief too.

These days, it's not enough for the leader of the free world to be strong, skilled, brave and level headed. He needs a little something extra. Like Certs...with Retsin. 

Gimmicks rule. Especially during elections.

Some evidence:

In 1992 Bill Clinton, a guy no one really knew, put down his one-hitter, picked up his "ax" and showed the country what was really important in a president by playing an Elvis song on his sex-a-phone on Arsenio Hall. Even in my twenties, I was thinking,  "There's a talent portion to this program? What the hell is he doing?" Duh. Winning. The country swooned...even the guys. (Yes you did.) Then he acted like a frat boy and was impeached.

Next.

George Dub-ya.

Awwww, who's a wittle pwesident? Do you wanna be a politician when you grow up or a cowboy, Georgie? Both? Oh, you're so ambitious! Okay. Here's a ten gallon hat and a grudge. Giddyup! 

Is it any wonder that the golden child was always one press-conference-question away from covering his ears and yelling, "Stop talking to me you poopy heads. I can't hear you!" No problem.

Next.

Oprah's pick for president. Barack Obamaaaaaaaaaaaaah. (Please read like Mya Rudolph playing Oprah on SNL or like Oprah.)

An Oprah endorsement? Instant "it factor". And it doesn't hurt that the endorsee is the face of America's melting pot, and that most women throw their panties at the TV every time he's on. (What? He's dreamy.) 

Next.

Next? Why, what could be next? 

Doesn't the incumbent have a lock on 2012?

Well, I don't know. Has he learned to yodel the Star Spangled Banner or grow little Uncle Sam shaped potatoes in his organic garden? 

(SEXY MUSIC REVS UP)

Hey, do you hear that? Isn't that the stripper music from Gilligan's Island that plays every time Ginger shows up? It is! But that isn't Tina Louise, it's, it's....

Sarah Palin AND Michelle Bachman!!!!

Ohhhhhhhh, they're so pretty.

AVERT YOUR EYES!

But they're pretty. How can that be bad? They probably smell good too.

RUN AWAY!

But they're MILF's, GILFS, even, in power suits, and one of them wears glasses so she must be smart.

IT'S A MIRAGE. THEY'LL EAT YOUR FACE OFF!

Don't be silly. The short one has Angela Basset arms. She's strong AND pretty. I can't decide which one I like best. I pick both.

YOU CANT DO THAT!

We make exceptions for pretty people. Co-presidents seems nice and inclusive and all fairsey squarsey. 

BUT THEY DON'T EVEN LIKE THAT IDEA. LOOK THEY'RE WRESTLING!

Mud wrestling. Wow. That's hot. Heeey, maybe that should be their campaign slogan... delivered by Paris Hilton...and we could combine their names like Brangelina! 

Squee! Let's try it. 

Paris, take one:

PARIS: "Pal-man, that's hot."
SOME OFFICIAL SOUNDING DUDE: Sarah Palin and Michelle Bachman. The hot ticket. 
  
(GRUNGE VERSION OF HAIL TO THE CHIEF)

And scene.
 

Think it can't happen? Maybe we should ask Jesse Ventura. If we can turn The Jersey Shore off long enough to send him a tweet.

The preceding in no way represents my political leanings because I don't have any. As my friend Steph says, I'm a walking contradiction. Don't let my composting OR my God loving inform your opinion of where I stand politically. I don't stand anywhere. I mostly just run around playing tag. 

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

Oh my F-ing G!

2011-03-23T07:49:00.000-07:00

It's snowing again. It's freezing again. It's winter again.

The first day of spring was two days ago.

God clearly hates us.

What did we do?

We're Minnesotans. We're harmless. We go to bed early and take our vitamins. "Minnesota Nice" wouldn't exist without us!

WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN US, LORD????????????

I don't want much. I just want to un-clench my butt cheeks and wear the cute bomber jacket I got last fall that I could only wear for five minutes because winter wouldn't wait it's turn! And now winter is overstaying it's welcome like the narcissistic ass that it is, and I'm gonna blow a nut!

We have to do something. We're smart people. Winter is taking advantage of us and we don't have to put up with it anymore. It's very co-dependent, you guys and we live in the rehab capitol of the world. Folks come from all over to heal in Minnesota.

Let's show them why!

The twelve steps work here too.

Off we go:

1.) Admitted we were powerless over winter and that our lives had become unmanageable.
2.) Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. (For me, it's my bomber jacket. You guys can put your own thing here).
3.) Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him. (It's not really God's fault that winter won't leave. That was my cold butt cheeks talking...and the cunning and baffling evil that is winter.)
4.) Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. (For instance, I let my roots grow too long. I think I was punishing myself because I thought I deserved it after being in an unhealthy relationship with winter.)
5.) Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. (See step 4...I kind of multi-tasked there.)
6.) Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character. (Decided I could do something about my roots if I wanted to.)
7.) Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings. (I made an appointment for an all-over color with foils. Just take my lead here, people.)
8.) Made a list of all the people we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all. (Maybe you offended a bunch of strangers by going to Target in sweat pants...your winter-weight pair :@, maybe you stopped shoveling that elderly lady's walk, maybe you stopped sitting next to the other hockey moms at the last few games because you got tired of pretending you had anything in common with them and it started to feel like high school fakeness, and once again, you were the bitch - or something.)
9.) Made direct amends to such people whenever possible except when to do so would injure them or others. (Yeah, do what you can here. Hockey moms are exempt. YES, I'M MAKING THE RULES!)
10.) Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it. (I haven't even stepped out of the house yet and I already have to make an amend for what I wrote in 8.)
11.) Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood him, praying only for the knowledge of his will for us and the power to carry that out. (Just checked in and God's will for me today is to shop online for the perfect spring boots. Yay!)
12.) Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to others (done) and practice these principals in all our affairs.

Watch out, winter, we're detaching with love!

Okay, good luck everybody. And if you get the urge to shove that ice-scraper where it doesn't belong, call your sponsor. (That would be me...so comment to your sponsor.)

Peace.

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

What the hell just happened?

2011-03-21T15:34:00.000-07:00

I freaked my son out yesterday... kinda like this kid.

There were no donkeys involved. I did the freaking out all by myself, and completely by accident.

Kind of.

We were at the local park taking his and his brother's go-kart out for a spin. While one would whiz around, the other would walk with me and we'd chat about life...hockey, gum, how stupid Justin Bieber is, hockey...

So while my youngest was taking a turn on the go-kart, my oldest got a sudden case of the hiccups. Which is when his clever mom decided to take the opportunity, mid-sentence, to do the old BOO! trick.

But instead of making his hiccups go away, it made his right foot slam down onto my left foot so hard that I saw stars. 

It went like this:

HICCUP

BOO!

AH!

OW! WHAT'D YOU DO THAT FOR?

I DON'T KNOW. GUESS IT WAS MY INSTINCT WHEN YOU SCARED THE CRAP OUT OF ME.

 He's a logical guy for 10 years old. 

And the boo trick bites.

Next time I'll go with bitters and a lime. 

(My son's reaction to my hiccup "remedy" reminded me of this classic video of the guy who pretends to electrocute himself, then gets a banana in the face, which I found by Googling "guy pretends to electrocute self, gets banana in face". You can Google anything. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=do7InNH9wx4)

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

The pack is back!

2011-03-14T15:01:00.000-07:00

Psyche, Greenbay fans. I'm not talking about your beloved "Pack".

I'm talking about the "Fanny Pack". Which you may be excited about too...although you're probably still sporting the original model. (Oh, snap.)

But this season's fanny pack (stage left) is not your 80's nylon version, or some crap your mom would get at a travel show. (No, mom. I never used that pleather thing from the Ramada Inn. I even tried to give it to a homeless guy once, but he didn't want it either.)

The NEW fanny pack, however, is the biz-est!

I will totally rock this look. (Not the nips under a sheer top. I've had 3 kids.) But I will definitely wear an actual, awesome purse on a belt.

That thing is darling AND practical...just like me!

And it's the answer to my purse-prayers.

See, my back has been killing me lately and I'm sure it's from lugging around this messenger bag that I love. But I've gotten so uncomfortable that yesterday I wished some cool solution would reveal itself...and voila! (No, that voodoo from The Secret doesn't work, but the Gods of Fashion and Function do...overnight!)

Thank you, Fanny Pack Fairies!!!

Okay, everyone. You'd better go get yours before I buy all the cute ones.

Otherwise, my mom has an attic-full of hot pink packs from Princess Cruise Lines.

Mint.

In all seriousness

2011-03-14T15:00:00.000-07:00

Thought this was lovely:
http://abcnews.go.com/gma/your3words/video/your-three-words-prayers-for japan13131474&tab=9482931&section=1206828

What reeks?

2011-03-08T14:20:00.001-08:00

No, not Sidney Crosby...but I'lll bet his hockey bag does.

So do my sons' hockey bags.

So does the truck I haul them around in.

Here's how I knows:

I went to get my oil changed today at my favey fave mechanic shop up the street.

The guys there are salt-of-the-earth. Total grease monkeys with big hearts and filthy hands.

I adore them.

They take really good care of me and I trust them implicitly. So when they tell me my truck smells like ass, I believe them. The thing is, they told me by not telling me. That's how bad it was.

Here's how I learned the truth:

They changed my oil and when they were through, they pulled the truck up to the front door of the service station like the brute-gentlemen they are : ) But when I got in, the window was open. Not a big deal except that it was freezing outside. I was like "Hm. That's weird." So I shut the window and BAM!

The stench hit me like the butt end of a stick to the olafactories.

HURL!

I never park my truck in my garage so my boys' hockey gear can't really thaw out unless I drag it into the house for an overnight drying and prayer vigil for my basement's recovery.

But both their seasons ended this weekend and I haven't taken their equipment out of my truck since. I guess that toasty hour in the mechanics garage was all those evil spores needed to wake up and insult even the most masculine of senses. (And these guys go around smelling like Slim Jim's and dirt all day long. If it was too much for them, it was bad.)

Mind you, my oldest son's bag is filled with only one season of hockey heinousness, but my youngest son's bag is filled with goalie equipment that has been handed down from season to season, kid to kid, and like my brother astutely remarked, "Eew it's like an all-body-bowling-shoe!" Yeah. Hand-me-down ass is even worse than regular ass.

I was so embarrassed I wanted to die. But I was also feeling slightly faint because of my own retching and convulsing. So I unwisely drove home instead of apologizing to the shop guys, who I'm sure have forgotten how cute my dimples are, and will now only see cartoon stink squiggles every time they look at me.

: (

I'm glad it's almost baseball season.

Is it just me?

2011-03-03T11:34:00.000-08:00

Or if Benicio Del Toro and Nick Nolte's mug shot had a baby, would it be Muammar Gaddafi?

James Franco is cooler than you

2011-03-01T08:00:00.000-08:00

I mean, clearly.

Look at that James Dean-meets-I'm-sitting-on-a-tac smolder.

Dreamy.

But what I really love about James Franco is that he totally blew off Hollywood the other night.

He was supposed to host the Oscars with Anne Hathaway...and he did, but he didn't enjoy one second of it.

Mind you, I don't think it's cool for someone to take a job and then phone it in...from Bongville (sounds like he was kinda stoney), but the fact that he is sooooo over LA makes me giddy.

And why is he over LA? Oh, nothin'. He's just a student at Yale.

BAM! Cooler than everyone in stupid Hollywood.

And cooler than everyone on the planet for that matter because he could absolutely be in-with-the-in-crowd but he chooses not to be because he has a huge brain and can see that those robots drool.

He even ditched his own Oscar party because it was a school night.

Yes!

What would he have to talk about with those lemmings, anyway? They would think 'cold fusion' was the name of a band. And in an effort to remain cutting edge, they would scramble to buy the t-shirt online...or make their assistant do it, and when the assistant failed because the band and their t-shirt didn't exist, the assistant would be fired, even though they had four kids and a wooden leg.

Nice.

Not James Franco. He probably doesn't have an assistant. He probably doesn't even have a day planner. He probably just keeps everything tucked away in the microfiche of his huge, hot brain.

Yes, it could all be an act and I'm falling for it, but I don't care. At least he has the smarts to ACT like LA sucks it.

Good enough for me.

Cooler than me...or I...and you too.

Bye

Turd is the wurd

2011-02-25T10:41:00.000-08:00

So I'm reading the latest on Charlie Sheen this morning and although I don't have anything to say about his slam on AA or his ability to convince his ex-wives to join his porn star possee, or his imaginary HBO show, I do have something to say about his silver tongue.

While regaling the Alex Jones radio show audience with a cracked-out rant a couple of days ago, he used a word that we must bring back to American slang.

Turd.

It's just so awesome!

It diffuses, entertains, cajoles and even calms in a way no other word can.

Watch.

"Honey, is that a turd in your salad?"

Hahahahaha!!!!

Fine. Maybe it's just me.

So Charlie was blathering on about his greatness and wealth and "healing" like so...

“I’m not fair game. I’m not a soft target. It’s over. There’s a new sheriff in town. And he has an army of assassins.”
"I’m sorry man, I got magic and I’ve got poetry in my fingertips, you know, most of the time, and this includes naps. I’m an F-18, bro."
“The only thing I’m addicted to right now is winning.”
“If you’re a part of my family, I will love you violently.”

Um. Okay.

But then, after all that crazy, freaky verbal gymnastics, he responds to a question about the creator of Two And A Half Men by saying:

"He's a turd."

A turd? It's so fourth grade. So silly. So harmless. And the smartest thing he said all day. (Not in reference to the creator of the show. I don't know him and I'm sure he's lovely.) But that one little word brought him from nuts to normal (and back again) in one second.

And I think we should use the word far more often.

Check it out:

"With all due respect, Mr. President. I think you're being a turd."
"In closing, your honor, I would like to say that if you find the defendant "guilty" you are a turd."
"And he's safe at home plate! The Twins win the World Series. Man, that Yankees catcher must feel like a real turd."

Okay, it clearly doesn't take much to entertain me.

But it takes A LOT to entertain Charlie Sheen. (Not booze or drugs, though.) Noooo. He's cured.

And he is also a turd.

Here is one of the eleventy million links to his turdness: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1360488/Charlie-Sheen-rant-Two-And-A-Half-Men-halted-bizarre-radio-outburst.html#ixzz1F04teLQO

This needs to stop now

2011-02-22T14:04:00.001-08:00

Or I'm going to commit redrum.

Winter finally got to me this morning.

I had my day all laid out and was on track to keep everything moving in a positive direction when...

(INSERT LOUD EXPLETIVE HERE)

...As I walked outside to start my car, I came face-to-face with a huge, dense pile of bullsh*t at the end of my driveway, compliments of a snow plow.

After being in the kitchen for two hours, preparing a healthy breakfast and packing a healthy lunch for my boys before driving them to school (it takes time when you're anti Cheetos and Toaster Strudel.) the only way I could get through the snow pile was by attack...with swear-shoveling. (Something my dad taught me. )

You plunge the shovel into the pile and curse the crap out of it. Like so:

You son of a @#$!-ing, mother @#$!-ing, @$#!

You angrily insert the shovel and throw with equal enthusiasm during the @#$! parts. It really works. Especially when each shovel-full feels like an ACME anvil is buried inside.

It was brutal and I had to be quick because I didn't want to make my boys late, so the added anxiety made me cry too. Pretty.

I wasn't prepared to be outdoors at the time. (Just doing the daily start-the-car run) I was in my jammie pants, a tiny hoodie and Ugg boots, but no hat or gloves. My rage kept me warm, though.

And I managed to remove just enough @#$! snow to ram my truck through it in reverse.

The boys got to school on time, although they had to endure my Dennis Hopper hushed intensity the whole way, and they respectfully (or wisely) behaved like perfect gentlemen.

Later I made an appointment to get a massage (and I'm not a massage person. I don't like strangers touching me while whispering-EEEW) but after shoveling 6 times in the last 48 hours, I felt like I had been carrying a piano around over my head for two days. (I hadn't been. So it must have been the shoveling.)

The massage didn't help.

I'm still sore but now I'm creeped out and I smell like Ylang Ylang. Awesome.

I'm gonna go take a shower to wash off the feeling of violation and Spring better be here when I get out if it knows what's good for it.

How was your Tuesday?

HEALTHY Fast-Food Breakfast?

2011-02-19T12:44:00.001-08:00

Even Paleo Dude knows that "healthy fast-food" is a whole lot of hooey. And he's just a STOOPID caveman.

Or is he?????????

If our little caveman read CNN.com's latest article entitled "America's Healthiest Fast-Food Breakfasts", (http://www.cnn.com/2011/HEALTH/02/18/fast.food.breakfast.health/index.html) it would be very clear to him that modern man put the moron in that oxymoron.

But before I launch into my nutrition-geek rant, let me say this:

I know this stuff is well intended.
I know people are trying.
I know people are suffering and desperate for answers.
I know that some health professionals are curious and some are studious.

The curious treat people. The studious treat symptoms.

The studious collaborated on this article.

And the article starts out with this quote: "The key to finding a healthy breakfast, says Christine Gerbstadt, MD, RD, spokeswoman for the American Dietetic Association, is finding a good-for-you mix of complex carbs (like whole grains), protein, and healthy fats to keep you satisfied."

Kinda sorta.

(Before I continue, let me point out that I am a layperson arguing with a doctor, which either means I'm nuts or she might want to check out some research by curious health professionals.)

Anyway, to her point, we do need a good-for-you mix, but hers isn't it. First of all, the order should be re-ordered. Proteins and Healthy Fats first, then Carbohydrates...and those that come from "whole grains" can be largely misinterpreted. For instance, A whole grain muffin is typically loaded with sugar, transfats and hydrogenated oils. All of which are unhealthy and cancel out any of the health benefits of the grains, which may have at one point been whole. And, ideally, we should get our carbohydrates from vegetables. (Yes, most vegetables are carbohydrates.)

Furthermore, we can live without grains entirely. We never needed them in the first place. Didn't have them for a long time, actually.

Yet guys like Paleo Dude were able to populate the earth for centuries...without diabetes, heart disease or Fibromyalgia.

What's more. Grains make us fat...fat doesn't. (WHAT!)

And if the grains are the processed and refined kind, like white flour, (what the bulk of the American diet is comprised of) well, that contributes to the growing population of growing individuals who have chronically high blood sugar, high blood pressure, high LDL (bad cholesterol), low HDL (good cholesterol), high triglycerides, low moods, compromised immune systems, a propensity for pills and a great chance for being a contestant on shows like The Biggest Loser, which is the biggest bummer.

So how do we become the biggest winners?

Easy!

Cook.
Read lables.
Buy local.

And be among the curious, who see the restaurants on the "Healthy Fast-Food Breakfast" list (Panera, Dunkin Donuts, Subway, IHOP, McDonalds, Denny's, Au Bon Pain, Jamba Juice, Starbucks and Cosi) and become even more curious.

Then remember these simple principals:

As Paleo Dude might say:

"Meat good. No meat bad."
"Fat Good. Lowfat bad."
"Vegetables good. Flour bad."

But since the article only defines the kinds of carbohydrates we should eat (usually sugar and bad fat in disguise ) and not what kind of protein and fat we should eat, allow me.

First, the protein: Make it grass-fed, cage-free, or wild-caught. Those proteins are all loaded with good fats like Omega 3's, that come from cows who walked around in the sun and got lots of Vitamin D and healthy enzymes from the soil (yes, even modern soil). They didn't get lots of hormones and antibiotics and they didn't sit around inside crowded pens, defecating all over each other...and eating...duh-duh-duh GRAINS! It also comes from free-range chicken (skin on!) cage-free chicken eggs (yolks a must!) wild-caught salmon, sardines, etc...

And the fat? Same sources. The stuff that comes from grass-fed cows (butter, cream, whole milk, not skim. Sorry, First Lady, Obama. I know you mean well, but kids need lots of good, healthy fats for their growing brains and bodies and skim milk is just a leftover trend from the 80's that is almost as bad as mall bangs, except mall bangs won't contribute to our ever-declining health. Skim milk will.) More of the good stuff: olive oil, avocados, fish oil...(from fish) nuts, seeds and even LARD...animal, not Crisco.

And if you think this is going to stop your heart, I hope you will stop thinking that and start trying something new, because the low fat/high carb diet is killing us.

So go get your labs done, try a diet with the above principals, then get your labs done again in six months and see what happens. Not just to your numbers but to your body and your overall feeling of well being.

Or don't believe me and believe the CNN article. (Cringe.)

But remember this: Your body stores fat until the carbs are gone. It won't burn fat before carbs. And given the ratio of carb-to-fat in these breakfasts, "IHOP" you will see that the math is not in your favor.

If you'd like some resources from curious health professionals, see my post "How's that diet workin' for ya'?" From 2-9-11.

Dude, get a purse.

2011-02-18T11:00:00.000-08:00

Guys, if you would be too humiliated to carry a leather bag, is hauling stuff around inside your anal cavity really a less embarrassing alternative?

Neil Lansig of Sarasota Florida thinks so. After his Drug Court hearing last week, he was sentenced to some jail time. Then, during a routine strip search, SURPRISE, deputies found an actual butt load of stuff in his butt.

And the items were:

-17 pills

-6 matches

-one cigarette

-one flint (?)

-lip balm

-a receipt

-a syringe

-a condom

-a CVS coupon (I love that one)

I guess the contents make sense for a guy with his lifestyle, but can't you get most of that junk in the joint?

Not sure, but what I do know is that it reinforces my stance on NOT SHARING LIP BALM. You clearly never know where it has been.

And how did Neil intend to redeem that coupon? I know when I'm in line at the drug store and I can't find something in my purse, I get really stressed out and apologetic. "Sorry." I'll say to the people behind me. "I really have to clean this thing out." Would Neil say the same thing as he dug around in his dugout?

Is that why some guys wear their pants slung so low? Booty-purse-access?

Will Louis Vuitton capitalize on this trendsetter's idea and create a line of tiny clutches?

Perhaps.

In the meantime, I'd suggest that purse-shy guys use a briefcase, a lunchbox, heck, even a Target bag will do. Because if you're trying to avoid ridicule by hiding stuff in your hole, I'm afraid you'll get it in the end.

To read more visit http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/41607150/ns/us_news-weird_news/

It's National Visit-The-Elderly-Day!

2011-02-17T06:21:00.001-08:00

It's not, really, but wouldn't that be nice?

Not just nice for the elderly, but for us too. Everyone needs a sage in their life. Someone who has been there and done that before there were washing machines and TV's and Hot Pockets. No one can put things in perspective like someone in their 80's or 90's.

I ran out of grandmas a couple of years ago so now I borrow my boys' great grandma on their dad's side. Grandma Rose. I visited her yesterday. She's awesome. Over 90 and smokes like a chimney. (Which I don't recommend. She has genetic momentum* and you don't.)

She's also hilarious and sassy and very honest. These are all traits that seem to propel a person into longevity. My grandma, Nan lived to be 100 and she used to say brutally honest things like, "Oh, Lynda. You're so nice and flat-chested." Or "You have a nice Roman nose." Or "Your sisters are so quiet and you're so peculiar. Isn't that nice?" I think she figured if she threw the word "nice" in, it wouldn't contribute to my self-loathing, even though people of her generation didn't bother with concepts like self-loathing because they were too busy trying to save ration tickets to buy meat for a family of nine.

See? Perspective.

Grandma Rose was telling me yesterday about her first husband who was a gorgeous, armed forces pilot. He died in a crash when she was in her thirties, leaving her to fend for herself and her five children. And she did. And her children are amazing adults. You can't accomplish that if you're not hilarious, sassy and honest.

Then we talked about all sorts of stuff like kids, families, relationships, gossip, addiction, Erma Bombeck, bingo and cremation versus burial, of course. But that's her reality, which I realized has never been much different than mine (work, kids, love, loss, and then the inevitable).

The one glaring difference was that I had to go and she had to stay...and sit...for hours. And even though she has daily visitors, that's a lot of space to fill.

Some people have to fill even more. Do you know any of them? Maybe you could pay them a visit today. Start with a phone call if you're nervous. The elderly are usually really loud and not adept on the phone, which is super cute and will probably make you smile. And they will smile because you made a connection.

So go ahead. Grab an extra latte and spend an hour with someone who would never pay ten bucks for coffee. (You must have a tiny brain in your nice, big head.)

Happy National-Visit-The-Elderly-Day!

*"Genetic momentum" is a concept I learned about from Dr. Cate Shanahan who wrote the book Deep Nutrition. She is not elderly but is a sage.

Who gives a crap?

2011-02-15T15:31:00.000-08:00

There's a new Smartphone! With images in 3-D! You can play games and watch videos and even movies on your phone in 3 freakin' diddly D!!!!!!

Um. Don't care.

I even avoid this stuff in theaters. When something comes flying at me, I jerk back and start swatting. It's like the technology version of a gnat. No thanks.

But boy are people psyched about the new LG Optimus 3D-D-D-D-D-D...! (I added the extra D's for drama.)

I just read a CNN article that opens like this:

"What's better than receiving a text message? How about a text in 3D?"

Hmmm...

Well, CNN writer, Mark Millan, I can think of lots of things that are better than a text message. There's ice cream, new jeans or making out with John Leguizamo to name a few.

And is a text like, "Way to drink all the milk a**hole. Get some on your way home." really more special with an added dimension?

Maybe.

I guess new technology is good for the sake of science and whatnot, but do we really need another reason to ignore our kids and crash our cars?

Look, I don't want to rain on anyone's parade. I'd just ask those of you who are into this stuff to geek-out responsibly. And maybe look up from your device now and again because there's lots of cool stuff in the real 3-D world too.

You can check out the CNN article here:

http://www.cnn.com/2011/TECH/mobile/02/15/lg.optimus.3d/index.html?hpt=C2

How's that diet working for ya'?

2011-02-09T11:58:00.000-08:00

Now is typically the time of year when all of the best laid diet plans go straight into the toilet.

The thing is, the plan may have been the problem.

You had good intentions. You had a vision. You were SO ready to lose weight that you signed up for Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers, Richard Simmons...(is he even alive?) or you just went cold turkey.

And you did well...or pretty well...but eventually you took a sharp turn into a Burger King Drive Thru and had your way with Whopper or seven.

Not surprising. Not unusual. Not a bad thing, to be honest. (Not the drive thru part but the getting-off-that-"diet" part.)

Don't I want you to lose weight? (Sure. If you need to.) Don't I want you to feel better about yourself. (Of course.) Don't I want you to be healthy. (Yes.)

And that is exactly why I want you to take cover, because here comes a smart bomb.

Any diet that has you eating anything but real food (plants, animals and healthy fats) will not work well and will likely make you fatter, sicker and sadder.

Furthermore:

Anything that says "diet" on the label is probably not healthy.

Anything that says "low fat" will very likely make you fat.

Any diet plan that has you eating processed carbohydrates or too many complex carbohydrates (other than vegetables) is setting you up for failure.

Anything with artificial sweeteners will create anything but artificial problems.

Has the smoke cleared? Are you okay? Do you believe any of that? I hope so.

Why should you believe me? Am I a doctor, a nutritionist, a scientist? No, no and no.

I'm just a regular chick who learned all of the above the hard way and now I gorge myself on real food and the real research of the real doctors, nutritionists and scientists who know what they are talking about.

You should too. What do you have to lose?

Before you answer that, consult with your butt.

Now your thighs, your cankles and your gut.

And more importantly, consult with your heart, your brain and your actual gut. The one on the inside, where all disease (including obesity) starts.

Then, chew on some knowledge instead of that Lean Cuisine and see what happens.

May I offer you some literary snacks by nutrition brainiacs?

Deep Nutrition: Why Your Genes Need Traditional Food

(By MD Catherine Shanahan and Luke Shanahan)

Why We Get Fat

(By Gary Taubes)

Sugars and Flours: How They Make Us Sick, Crazy and Fat And What To Do About It

(By Joan Ifland)

Podcasts at Nutritional Weight and Wellness

(http://dishingupnutrition.podbean.com/)

Podcasts at Underground Wellness

(http://undergroundwellness.com/radio/)

Eat like a farmer, look like a supermodel!

Peace.

Holy Hilarious, Hosers!

2011-01-19T15:25:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I told my brother that my youngest hockey player decided he wants to be a goalie.

$#@!%$

(That means I wasn't happy about it.)

My son's only at the Mite level but he's doing well and seems content. Why does he want to be the goalie?

Goalie is the position they have to draw straws for at this age. All the kids switch off playing goalie because most of them hate it and suck at it.

Not my son. He had one pretty good game and he loved it.

WHY????????

Yes, I want him to be happy but hockey is competitive in Minnesota. If he loses 2 months of ice time, he'll fall behind and may be stuck in that stinkin' net forever!

Plus it's nerve wracking when the game rides on your kid. It's not even fun to watch. I pee a little every time the opposing team even comes close to him. I start praying out loud and biting my nails and grabbing the sleeve of the poor, unsuspecting stranger who had the misfortune to sit next to me. It's awful.

But that's not the worst part. See, I've known a lot of goalies in my life. (Shutup.) They're nuts! And eventually, alcoholic.

Why is my baby drawn to that place? What does this mean?????

Well, my brother calmed me down about all that, then told me to watch this video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hdf4GeT4ELA

It's about a Canadian hockey goalie who has loftier aspirations than most. It's also FRIGGIN' HYSTERICAL. And a sense of humor is the dreamiest quality ever. (Yes, I know it's fictional. Yes, I know that the guy in the video is an actor, but he's also a real hockey player [I Googled him] AND he's a real, hilarious hockey player at that. Quite the combo. If he went to my high school, I'd have way more kids in their twenties besides the one.

Anyway.

If my little goalie turns out to be smart and cool and funny like Clark The Canadian Hockey Goalie, I'm okay with that.

Go watch it, hosers. Then give me a "shote".

My Princess Is A Smarty Pants!

2011-01-06T09:08:00.000-08:00

This is my daughter. (No. Not actually. If Reese Witherspoon were my daughter I wouldn't be writing ads about taco chips and, tampons and adjustable beds for a living. I'd be doing yoga all day and whatever the hell else I wanted.)

Anyway.

My daughter is the epitome of Elle Woods. Cute. Sweet. Pink. Big-purse-small-dog kinda girl.

And what she also has in common with Elle is...

WAIT FOR IT

...straight A's this semester! Booya!

It's great. I'm really excited for her. Super proud of her. Feel compelled to brag about her.

But mostly, I'm perplexed.

How did this happen?

She's MY kid. The product of an albiet intelligent woman but one who never, ever, ever has seen an A in her life. (Okay maybe on my bra, and in that case it's double A. SIGH.)

And what's more, all three of my kids are good students. Maybe it's their dads'? (Two dads for three kids and I even married one, so stop judging.)

Yeah. It has to be the dad genes. Because even at 44, as I take Spanish classes on my very own, with the ability to advance at my own pace...even then I flunk myself. And while the other intentional learners are earnestly trying to assess how to conjugate a verb in the present perfect tense, I earnestly imagine how awesome it would be to insert a whoopee cushion onto the teacher's chair.

What gives????

Who cares.

My princess is a smarty pants. I'm proud of her and I want one of those braggy mom bumper stickers. You know "My child is on the honor roll."

Only, my "child" is 26 and has gone back to school after an extended hiatus. What does that bumper sticker look like?

MY 26 YEAR OLD GOT STRAIGHT A'S LAST SEMESTER AT THE U OF M, BITCHES!

No. Too wordy.

How about:

MY ADULT IS SMARTER THAN YOURS!

Nah. Too competitive.

Maybe:

MY KID DIDN'T REPEAT THE CYCLE OF ILLEGITIMACY AND ALCOHOLISM. IN YOUR FACE!

I know. Oversharing.

Jeez. Headlines are my life. You'd think I'd be better at this.

Well, feel free to make some suggestions.

And remember...

Be Cool. Stay in Skool!

Born Again Christian Says What?

2011-01-04T16:43:00.000-08:00

So all those birds mysteriously fall from the sky to their deaths in Arkansas and who does Anderson Cooper decide to interview about it?

Kirk Cameron, of course.

???????????

Even Kirk was like, "Um, what am I doing here? You guys should call a vet. I don't know shit about this." (But he didn't swear because he's a polite guy who loves God, which makes him even cuter than he already is. Dreamsicle.)

But since he was in bunch of self-made Christian films about the End of Days, they nabbed him for the inside scoop...naturally.

Did you see the interview? Maybe you thought it was a dream. Maybe you went to work today and said, "Dude, I had the weirdest dream last night that Anderson Cooper interviewed Mike Seaver about that gnarly bird thing in Arkansas. Yeah, dude, the dreamboat from Growing Pains. I know. I need to stop sniffing glue."

Well, it's true. Check it out here:

here: http://videogum.com/260032/anderson-cooper-talks-to-kirk-cameron-about-all-those-birds-and-fish-that-died-obviously/tv/local-news/

I guess Urkel was busy.

The coolest chick I know

2011-01-02T06:31:00.000-08:00

Okay so I've never actually met her, but Anne Frank has made an impression on me like no one else.

I've always been fascinated by World War II. Maybe because I was fortunate enough to have been taught about it by a German woman who was smuggled from East Berlin to West as a baby. (And that woman, Hannah Stolen, from The Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary school in Maplewood, MN is the next coolest chick I know.)

So today I read that Miep Gies died sometime in 2010. He is one of the last surviving members of the small group of people who helped hide the Franks and their annex-mates during the Nazi occupation of Holland. According to the St. Paul Pioneer Press "When the family was betrayed, Gies preserved the writings left behind by one of the children. It was the diary of Anne Frank."

Thank you, Miep and thank you, Anne. Because this quote from "Kitty" in particular is one that has made an indelible mark on my brain:

"Despite everything, I believe people are really good at heart."

I remember almost fainting when I read that in 7th grade. And the next thing I remember was making Anne Frank my imaginary "bestie" for life.

I'm not big on New Year's Resolutions but I decided this morning that these are the words by which I will try and live every day of 2011...and hopefully the rest of my life.

You see, I don't care for people that much. And the older I get, the more judgemental and impatient I become. These are not nice qualities and they really don't work that well.

People like it when they think you like them, so I think I'll try. It will have to start as an act, but I am big on fake-it-'til-you-make-it so I'll start there.

I'll start with the dummies, I mean people who still think in 2011 that it's really cool to have a cell phone and use it anywhere they please in public.

Next I'll think of Anne when some A-munch retail employee gives me a chipper, "Sure don't." when I ask if they carry a certain product. And when they subsequently stare blankly at me and don't offer a suggestion about where I might find said product, I will leave instead of saying "You 'sure don't'? That's enormously helpful. You should totally keep working here. You're really good at this."

And when those in my life who eat entitlement for breakfast, apathy for lunch and a big bowl of "You take care of it, Lynda." for dinner, show me that they can shove their head even further up their a**, instead of imaging how fun it would be to drop a firecracker down their pants, I will think of Anne and wonder how in the hell she wrote such lovely, inspiring, and incredibly mature words during such a terrifying experience.

Ugh. I better go. I have a lot of work to do.

Happy New Year!

Too busy to blog!

2010-12-16T05:38:00.000-08:00

I don't really have six arms and I would never part my hair in the middle but this is my life right now.

Two of my kid's have birthdays in December, then there's Jesus's birthday (Is that how you punctuate Jesus to show ownership? Or is it Jesuses? And Jesus kind of has ownership over everything, right? Oh, Christ, I don't know.) Plus four of my clients need ads RIGHT NOW!

It's a crazy month, but I really miss blogging.

I hate to disappoint all three of you who read my stuff so I thought I'd give you a literary appetizer featuring subjects of blog posts to come:

1.) It doesn't suck that much being a hockey mom

2.) What's up with the dude who performed CPR on that other dude then stole his wife's purse?

3.) We should totally fix the Dome. (and other shitty business decisions.)

That's just a handful of lively and riveting topics to chew on. (I also have something about "Openly Facebooking and irritated-that-you-showed-up receptionists", but I need to calm down about that one or it will just be a string of expletives.

Happy Holidays!

Eeew! Eeew! Eeew!

2010-12-08T10:08:00.000-08:00

I'm so tweaked over this story about the photography professor who had a camera surgically implanted in his head (giving him a third eye), that I can barely write this post.

But I must.

The camera will broadcast an online stream of the images it captures through a museum in Qatar. I can't imagine it will be any more interesting than someone's home movies. He's just holding the camera with a different body part. But it's a new twist on technology and it's online, so it must be fascinating, right?

My friend Steph and I were just talking about how all this electronic media has sucked people in to the point that they seem almost hypnotized and aren't even aware of what they are doing half the time.

And we're ready to SWACK! a friend's Blackberry out of their hand if they compulsively start a texting conversation with someone else while they are in our company.

I heard on the radio the other day (a radio is an old fashioned device that people enjoyed mostly during World War II) that there was a woman driving on the freeway with a cell phone in one hand, a sandwich in the other and a seven year old in the front seat...unbelted! Maybe she needed the kid up there to steer? I honestly wonder if her unconscious need to hold her cell phone was what set off that cavalcade of bad decisions.

I'm all about multi-tasking but multi-media tasking is just becoming brain-sucky, rude and scary.

Do you check e-mail while you're on the phone? (I've been known to.) Do you text friends who are in the next room...or closer? (Yes you do. I've seen you.) Do you search online for random facts about random people, places and things even though you're supposed to be working, cleaning, making dinner, hanging out with your kids? (I think we'd all say yes to something on that list.)

Well feel better about yourself because this guy takes multi-media tasking to a whole new level.

http://www.kitguru.net/channel/generaltech/jules/guy-with-camera-implanted-in-head-says-its-uncomfortable/

The camera is apparently implanted "transdermally". (BARF, SNOT, BARF). But there are metal posts exposed to reinforce the very visible camera. (HURL, FAINT, GET UP AND FAINT AGAIN) But this guy will only be multi-media tasking for another year because that is how long he has been commissioned by the museum to keep the camera in.

Oh and if you think his version of multi-media tasking is uncouth, he doesn't care. He maintains that if people want to take him off their guest list because of the camera, he doesn't want to be their guest anyway. So there.

Alright, freakshow.

Don't call me...or text me...or e-mail me...

"Put me down, Josh."

2010-12-06T04:46:00.000-08:00

It's good when teenagers have dreams. They are more likely to succeed if they have a vision for their future. And less likely to do drugs or be truant or get pregnant.

But when your dream is to become a diary farmer by stealing livestock, you may want to consult with a life coach and workshop some other ideas.

I read a story this weekend (http://www.twincities.com/ci_16778358) about a couple of ambitious teens from central Minnesota who wanted to get a jump start on their careers. They intended to start their own dairy farm, but since they were low on capital, they decided to steal a few calves from their neighbors. 17 calves to be exact, from 3 different counties. See? Ambitious.

I can't even picture this. There are lots of weird sounds and smells that emanate from a teenagers room, but those of the bovine variety have to be pretty obvious. Weren't their parent's suspicious? What did they say? "Josh. Clean you room. It smells like shit in there." And just leave it at that?

Okay so maybe they didn't hide 17 calves in their bedrooms but where did they put them? How did they hide them for so long? And who wants to be a dairy farmer that badly anyway?

Why couldn't they have just smoked some weed, crashed a few cars and blown their SAT's like we did when we were young?

Kids these days.

I'm no feminist

2010-12-04T07:44:00.000-08:00

I prefer when women are a little more subtle about their fierceness.

I understand that I owe feminism a lot.

These days women get to be smart and confident and independent and they don't have to apologize for it. Oh, and we can vote.

I'm not making light of any of the above, I just want to point out that I think there may be a downside to feminism...like everything...and this morning I saw it.

Male feminism.

See, it snowed here last night. A lot. And this morning I had to get out there and shovel. No problem. I'm healthy and strong and able-bodied. It's a lot of work, but I do it a dozen times every winter. It's just part of living in the upper midwest.

But while I was shoveling, this guy showed up to pick up a package from me.

A big package.

And just before he arrived, I quickly shoveled a narrow path up my front steps so that the guy could easily retrieve the package, which was right inside my front door. I did't want to take the package outside because it would have gotten all snowy. So I left it just inside my door, shoveled the path, done.

Not so much.

This guy gets to my house to pick up the package and while I'm knee deep in my driveway, he asks me where the package is. (Logical question. That was the purpose of his visit.) But there was no nod to what I was in the midst of. No, "Hey, you got another shovel?" Not even an attempt to step out of the plowed street and toward my house. Nothing that would show any kind of awareness that I'm the girl and he's the guy.

Or is he?

So I tell the "guy" that the package is just inside my front door and gesture toward it like, "Kinda busy. Help yourself." But instead of going to retrieve it himself, he asks one of my two boys who are helping me shovel, (he knows them well), to get the package for him!

Feminist.

I didn't know he made the request until I saw my son darting up my steps. So being more practical than bright, I yelled to my son to wait until I shoveled a wider path on my steps, so that as he dragged the package down, it didn't get soaked in snow.

What I should have said was. "Wait, kids. Let the "guy" do it. We're shoveling." But I'm someone who over-functions, so instead of thinking, I just sprang into action. Doi.

By now I was angry, but because I didn't want to express my anger in front of my kids, I just guided my son down the steps with the package and toward the "guy" who streeeeeeeetched toward it from the plowed street like it was an icky bug, grabbed it with his soft hands and put it in his trunk. Bleh.

Now this may not seem like a big deal to some people, but this stuff drives me nuts. And I see more of this blurred-gender-behavior every day.

I was talking to this awesome girl who cuts my hair about it last week. A tatooed knock-out. Part pin up girl, part graffitied building. She runs a business, owns a home, and talks like a truck driver. I love her. And I think she summed up male feminism best. "We did it." She barked. She went on to explain that after years of asking our men to show their emotions, be gentle, nurturing and let us take the reigns, that, well, they did. And now we get all bent out of shape when they don't hold doors, pay the tab or sit in the driver's seat.

Maybe.

But I know two stay-at-home-dad's (a modern job that some don't see as "manly") well, those two guys would have grabbed that shovel out of my hand so fast, I would have looked like the girl in the photo attached to this post. (The photo that has little relevance to this story. I just googled "girl shoveling" and there she was. It cracked me up. Pun intended. What do you think that day was like for her?)

PHONE RING

GIRL: Hello?

GUY: Hey Nancy, we're gonna go get some sushi. Wanna come?

PAUSE

GIRL: Darn. I can't. I have this modeling shoot...I mean, I'm going to do some charity work...for my church...yeah...but you guys have fun.

Tangent. Sorry.

So my two stay-at-home-dad friends are ALL GUY. Lots of my gay, male friends are ALL GUY.

Why aren't they feminists?

Why isn't my neighbor, who sprinted toward me with his snow-blower after the feminist left and shouted "Outta my way, kid!" and cleaned my driveway lickety split, then moved down the block before I even knew he was gone?

I don't know, but that last gesture restored my faith in humanity...or man-ity.

So if we can't blame male feminism on feminism, what is to blame? Bad genes? Fried food? Romantic comedies?

Beats me.

Maybe it's been around forever, and maybe these days the non-chivalrous, non-gentlemanly, non-guy-guys feel like they can just be who they are and they don't have to apologize for it...just like us girls.

Great.

Awwwwww

2010-12-02T08:16:00.000-08:00

Isn't he precious?

Don't you just want to snuggle him?

According to an e-mail I just got from Amazon.com., this little cutie, the Imaginext Big Foot - The Monster, is one of the hot toys this holiday season

WTF?

This thing is terrifying.

And it's HUGE.

Check it out here.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00388DKXA/ref=gs_htljspf_rd_p=1282846702&pf_rd_s=center-10&pf_rd_t=7601&pf_rd_i=home&pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_r=0JB00YY8WTYGMBQ6EZQJ

And say a prayer for the brave little boy in the photo whose parents must have made him model with The Monster, even though he was probably shizzing himself.

Merry Christmas?

He's baaaaaack.

2010-12-01T06:26:00.001-08:00

Tiger Woods is back on the scene.

Too soon?

Depends on who you ask.

If you ask his client The Chevron World Challenge... aka Tiger Woods (since that stop on the PGA tour was established by Tiger), the answer would be, "No."

If you ask his fans, they might say, "Not soon enough."

If you ask me? I'd say something like, "@!#$% yes, it's too soon!"

He's probably still picking rear-window-glass-shards out of his hair. The night of the golf club wielding incident or "one-car accident" was little over a year ago.

Dude. Chilax. No one has forgotten about you...and that's kind of the problem.

If I were Tiger Woods (Well, I'd get a lot of tail) but I'd also keep my head down and shutup until I ate enough crow to re-emerge. And I would do that very slowly and gracefully.

But, nooooooooooo.

T-dawg decided that not only was it time to turn his spotlight back on, but he did it with one of his favorite forms of communication: electronic media.

Tiger opened a Twitter account and started tweeting this week.

And because I believe his rehabilitation period is not over and he has prematurely re-engaged with the public, I also believe that anything he says or does will be steeped in his addictions and ego. In other words, he's full of it.

Therefore, I have taken the liberty of interpreting an exerpt of his tweets borrowed from a page on BBC Sports. See below:

KEY:

Q: = Tiger's Twitter fans

A: = Tiger

L: = Lynda's interpretation

Q: Hey -- What's the best pre-round meal and "in the bag" snacks/food? Thnx.
A: During round I eat peanut & banana sandwich & almonds

L: I like variety. Asian, American, French chicks... Wait. What was the question? Um, "in the bag" is cool. As long as they take a cab home.

Q: Yo tiger, what are your 2011 goals on the PGA tour?

A: As Al Davis said "Just win baby"

L: As Al Davis said...ooh, do you think he's related to Geena Davis? Hey, Geena. I'm single. Call me.

Q: I'm a retired Special Ops Guy like your dad. I got divorced and it was tough as hell. I have faith in you!

A: Thanks brother

L: What's your ex-wife's phone number?

Q: What's your favourite course and why?
A: St. Andrews

L: Inter

Q: If you could play any other sport, what would it be?
A: Basketball

L: Basketball. (I actually believe this one.)

Q: What part of your game are looking forward to in 2011?
A: EVERYTHING

L: The part where everyone is hypnotized by my talent so I can do whatever I want, no matter who it hurts, and all will be forgotten. I love that part. Call me.

Honestly, I hope none of the above is how Tiger feels. I hope he'll be okay. But this very public splash has Britney Spears and Michael Jackson written all over it. "Hey, Tiger. Get back out there! Manage your public image! Make us some money!"

Can he say, "No. It's too soon. I need to take my insides out and examine them and heal." Can he say. "Listen. I have kids. I need to be okay for them, not you." Sure. But most of his life has been spent pleasing other people. He's their product and they need their product to sell.

I just don't think this is the way to do it. And I hope he figures that out and puts his foot down.

I hope he really does, as he mentioned at his press conference after his skeletons were revealed, reconnect with his Buddhist roots. I think it can save him. It's a beautiful way to live. Modest and introspective. Quiet and kind. Responsible and respectful. What I'm seeing is none of those things.

And what the public is seeing is another celebrity behaving badly and being adored. What am I supposed to say to my boys when we're watching ESPN and they ask me "What did Tiger do?" "What did Brett Favre do?" "What did (insert the next name here) do?"

I guess I could say. "He made a mistake, honey." And leave it at that. But kids persist. They want details. Especially about the athletes they idolize. And when they inevitably learn those details in school or in the locker room and subsequently see their idol mugging for the camera, endorsing a cool product or being accompanied to an award show by a gorgeous girl, it sends a message that troubles me.

Is it Tiger's job to raise my kids? No. Is it Tiger's job to act in a way that I respect? No.

It would just be nice if once, a celebrity whose dirty laundry has been aired in public would not just apologize...because they all do, but take that dirty laundry and publicly wash it, iron it, fold it, and tuck it tidily away.

I know. It's about as likely as a hole-in-one.

What's your Wii face?

2010-11-28T09:57:00.000-08:00

This is mine.

My boys taught me how to "break tackle" on Madden's Football '09 today and it was a blast!

I'm super competitive so I really got into it.

It wasn't until I wouldn't give up the controller and my poor boys, who were kind enough to patiently show me the ropes, began to beg me to surrender the device, that my gridiron trance was broken.

That's when I felt my face...contorted into what can only be described as one part I-ate-a-bad-clam and another part someone-kicked-me-in-the-nads (which, contrary to popular belief, I do not have.)

So, what's your Wii face?

Pretty girl

2010-11-24T15:19:00.000-08:00

I had a meeting with a new client a couple of days ago.

I like to be nice and early for the new ones so I gave myself an hour for a twenty minute trip.

Consequently, I had some extra time on the back end, so I stopped at a Barnes and Noble to grab a latte for myself and picked up some baked goods for my client for sucking up purposes.

Then I proceeded to apply my makeup in the parking lot. (In an effort to hit the road sooner rather than later, I saved the makeup application part of my morning routine for my car.)

That's when I saw it.

In the bright morning sun of my rear view mirror waved a looooooong chin hair. Black. Thick. Unacceptable!

Where the hell did this come from?

How could I have missed it?

It was huge!

It grew out of nowhere like Tim Allen's facial hair in the Santa Clause. Remember? He opens the medicine cabinet clean shaven, then closes it to find a full beard.

Freaker!

It had to come out. I couldn't meet my client as the bearded lady. But I had no tweezer so I called my clever friend Stephanie to ask for some emergency beauty advice.

"Wrap it around your pinky and pull." She giggled. The chin hair wasn't long enough for that but the suggestion made me laugh my ass off.

I did try pulling, but no matter how much I tugged at various speeds and no matter how taught I held my chin, it wouldn't budge.

Finally I decided to pinch it between my fingernails to mimic the grip of a tweezing implement. Yank!

Oh, for the love of God.

That just made it curl! Like a ribbon does when you're wrapping a present and you run it between your thumb and a pair of scissors.

Scissors!

I didn't have any in my car. I had nothing to extract my upside-down-Charlie-Brown.

Now what???

It was time to head to my meeting. I thought about walking in, head down, as if I were a shy person, but they had already visited my website so they'd know that was a lie.

Then I thought about asking the receptionist for a lighter (they're all smokers) so I could singe the damn thing before I saw the people I wanted to impress.

Too risky. I'd rather walk in with a goatee than some Freddy Krueger carnage on my face.

So I just decided to pretend it wasn't there.

They didn't say anything. I didn't say anything. They were able to eat their scones and muffins without retching so I think my tiny pigtail escaped unnoticed.

Either way, I am revising my emergency road kit.

Screw the blankets and water and gluten free granola bars. I'm replacing them with a magnifying mirror, wax strips and a daily affirmation booklet. (Because when shit starts growing where it's not supposed to, girlfriend needs to remind herself that she is still smart and talented and strong.)

So what if I'm ever stranded in a Minnesota blizzard and because I've swapped out life- sustaining supplies for beauty-sustaining supplies, I begin to suffer from hypothermia? Easy trade. The handsome doctor who treats me will think, "What a pretty girl."

Did this happen to you today?

2010-11-17T16:06:00.000-08:00

You activated your browser and instead of the usual homepage you had all four Beatles at their sexiest staring at you?

Ah!

I was like. "Oh. Um. Hi, you guys. Haha. I wasn't prepared for this. So, you're finally on iTunes, huh? That's cool. Um. Hang on a sec."

Then I tore out of the room and looked at myself in the mirror because the Beatles were in my kitchen!!! I wanted to look decent. I didn't. So I kind of snuck back up to the computer while crouching and slowly tuuuuuuuuurned it away from me so they couldn't see me until I put my makeup on.

No lie.

You did it too. Or something like it. Admit it.

Paul would admit it. John wouldn't, but let's not go there.

I have George's hair.

Ringo is Tito.

Bye.

Oh, hell no.

2010-11-16T10:47:00.000-08:00

When my daughter was a toddler, I started noticing a troubling trend among parents and teachers and just about anyone involved in the collective raising of American children.

Fairness.

Now mind you, I was a young mom. A way-too-young mom. But what I lacked in years, I think I made up for in instincts. And my instincts told me that this fairness thing was going way too far and would probably end up doing our kids a great disservice.

This isn't political, by the way. It's maternal.

If you tell your kids the game ended in a tie when it didn't, that they are talented in an area where they are not, or that all that matters is their feelings, you are being anything but fair. You are lying. And when they find out, they will find out the hard way. They will put themselves in a humiliating, uncomfortable or even unsafe situation and they will fail. Is failure bad? No. But the kids who were raised on fairness will not know what to do with failure. And that is bad.

I know this isn't some big revelation. I know lots of people have hashed out the fairness trend of yore. And there are varying opinions on the topic. I'm not interested in debating it. I just wanted to share an example of how I recently saw it played out.

Oi.

So I am sitting at my youngest son's piano recital. It was held at his music school. A really good music school in a really bad neighborhood, housed in a ramshackle building that would hold AA meetings if it weren't filled with pianos, drum sets, mic stands and amps. (Not the point but I want to paint a picture.) The teachers are mainly classic jazz types. Masters. Afficionados. Purists. If I didn't feel like I had to dart from my car and into the school while ducking and covering my son's head, it would be one of my favorite places to be. Until last Sunday.

The crowd had assembled for the recital and the programs were being handed out. I scanned mine to see where my son was in the lineup. Oh, good. Right in the middle. Not too soon, not at the end. Perfect. The program lists the students by their name, then their instrument, then the song they will perform. I review the list a little more to get a feel for the show, when I see it.

Jan Doe. Vocal. "At Last"

Oh, hell no.

Fairness!

See, Jan Doe is a kid. (Not her actual name, BTW.) A bookish, awkward, scrawny kid. Nothing wrong with that. She seems very responsible and bright. I'd trust her with anything. Like dog walking or babysitting or tutoring. But I would not trust her with a HUUUUUUGE song like "At Last". It's like serving a baby a steak. Too much! Too soon! But no one told poor Jane, "No. You are not ready. You are 14, not 30. You are a sheltered little cracker. Not a bad ass sister. And you are certainly not Etta James. Etta James killed "At Last". Etta James owned "At Last". Etta James lived "At Last". You are not ready and you may never be." But the fairness bug must have crawled into that cool school sometime during the late '80's and gotten ahold of an unsuspecting teacher. And now sweet Jane was about to go sour in front of her friends and family and lots of stangers.

"At Last" should be sung soulfully, semi-tipsy, while draped over a piano, while tingling in your special place, while being Etta James.

14 year old Jane Doe is not Etta James and has no business doing any of the above. And the only soul she possesses at her age is in her pink Sketchers.

I woud have thought that her music teacher would have learned that lesson at the summer recital when poor Jane sang "Can't Help Lovin' That Man of Mine" (poorly) with her arms stiff by her sides, leaning forward, like she was preparing to be shot from a cannon.

It was horrible! Not because she was a complete flop but because everyone in the room but her knew it.

"At Last" isn't just tough for a rookie. It's tough for the pros. Ella Fitzgerald did an over-articulated version. (Ella Fitzgerald!) Celine Dion did a lovely enough version but she's, well, Canadian. Christina Aguilera, who has a powerful voice and actual soul did a version during her Dirty phase and selfishly chewed on the song like a ravenous lion tearing into a wounded gazelle. Beyonce, dear, reverent Beyonce basically apologized in advance for daring to sing the song, then did a beautiful job. But no one even came close to Etta James.

So sure, Jane. You go ahead. Why don't you try "Lady Marmalade" and the "Star Spangled Banner" while you're at it? You can do anything, Jane. It's a tie. You're all tied!

What crap.

So the recital is underway, Jane's number is up. My son had already finished an age-and -experience-appropriate version of "Christmas Time Is Here" on the piano, which I was on edge during but nothing compared to the fear I felt for Jane. Nerdy little Jane about to sing a big, sexy song.

The emcee takes the stage and announces her name. Next Jane Doe will sing "At Last". I panic. I clench my butt cheeks. I try to send her all my good karma and pray she'll do a decent job. Then I hear a whisper from stage-right. The teacher pauses. Turns in the direction of the voice and says, "Oh. Okay." Turns back to the audience and says, "Jane will not be performing today."

My relief was audible.

I made up a story in my head that Jane saw the tear run down my cheek after her last performance and saw it for what it was. I was not moved by her incredible talent but moved by the incredible stupidity of her teacher.

Then Jane had a lightbulb moment and checked into the Reality Hotel for an extended stay. A place where people would be honest with her, help her, teach her, not throw her to the wolves. A place where she could rehearse her music according to her ability so she could actually learn something. She'd try really hard and she'd suck at first. And they'd tell her so, but encourage her to push through.

Then she'd get better, then life would happen and she'd suck again. Then she'd decide she wanted to be a bio-chemist, but she'd sing at church, and maybe she'd suck there too...or not. Maybe she'd be the best singer that church ever had. Maybe she'd be the best singing bio-chemist ever born. Maybe she would end up being an actual singer. A good singer. As good as Etta James. But she'd get there with a lot of hard work and a lot of failure. She wouldn't get there by just assuming the role of Etta James because some numbskull told her to go straight there.

Then the numbskull would get hit by a bus.

Fine. Too mean. The numbskull would get a bad paper cut.

It's only fair.

Wanna make your kids cry?

2010-11-04T15:57:00.000-07:00

In a good way.

Show them this:

http://www.dikkers.com/player.php?xmlLoc=xml/atr01.xml&auto=true

It's a cartoon created by one of the originators of The Onion. And it is incredible. Don't let the fact that the writer/animator helped create one of the nation's most irreverent (and hilarious) publications scare you. The cartoon is totally G-rated. And it is lovely, poignant, sweet and sobering all at once.

I would highly recommend watching it with your kiddies. They may get sad, they may even cry (in a good way!) and they will definitely want a hug.

If not, they have no soul and you've got bigger problems.

Enjoy!

"Heavens to Mergatroyd!"

2010-11-02T17:07:00.000-07:00

When you are a parent, you tend to modify your pre-parent behavior...unless you are Britney Spears or Charlie Sheen.

MOST OF US...

...try and self-edit as we go along in an effort to raise children who don't turn out like Britney Spears or Charlie Sheen. (Hey, do you think they should they date? I think they should date.)

Okay, gross.

So the other day I was feeling really frustrated after having a keyboard-banging e-mail fight with someone who shall remain nameless...no, I'm not talking about you, you self absorbed $#@! And stop reading my blog!

Sorry.

Anyway.

I was making myself a civilized cup of tea and trying to decompress, and because my kids were in earshot, instead of ripping off a string of expletives, I exhaled big and said, "Heavens To Mergatroyd!"

???

Then I immediately busted out laughing at what a dork I am. And shortly after that, started wondering about the genesis of the phrase.

Really? Yeah. I'm a nerd. I like to get to the bottom of things. The word "why" is my favorite, besides "ass-hat" which I just heard today. More on that another time, though.

So I charged back to my computer and looked up "Heavens To Mergatroyd" and was reminded that it was made famous by a character in the Quick Draw McGraw cartoons named Snagglepuss. That's him "stage left". Remember him? I loved those cartoons. And I especially loved reenacting "El Cabong!"by whapping my little brother over the head with whatever guitar-like apparatus was close at hand. Like a toaster. (Good times.)

Okay so next I learned that Snagglepuss actually borrowed the term "Heavens To Mergatroyd" from the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz (played by actor Bert Lahr) who borrowed the term from himself from a character he played in the film Meet The People, whose creators borrowed it from a Gilbert and Sullivan play called Ruddigore. But wait there's more!

I guess there were like a a dozen characters named Mergatroyd (laaaaazy) in Ruddigore. So one theory is that the term was first uttered during the time the play was being written. Where did the name Mergatroyd come from, you ask? I know you didn't. And be glad you didn't because this is where it gets boring. It has something to do with English aristocracy and the district where some constable was blah, blah, blah. See? Boring.

So I made up my own theory. I think that one of the writers of Ruddigore was mad at the other writers for naming so many characters Mergatroyd that she exclaimed "Heavens To Betsy!", which the lazy writers thought was a cool phrase, but because they were lazy (and probably baked), they couldn't remember the phrase "Heavens To Betsy!", so they just stuck another stupid Mergatroyd on the end. Ta da!

Who cares anymore.

Regardless of all these useless forensics, I think "Heavens To Mergatroyd" is a great way to express exasperation in a kid-friendly way. It definitely allowed me to vent and it made me laugh to boot. So I wanted to pass it along to those of you like-minded parents who also want to police yourselves in front of your kids in an effort to avoid raising Sheens...or lazy writers:

My peeps wanted to get in on the game too, so below is a short list of G-rated submissions from friends and family:

-Jackapple (as in "What a Jackapple!")

-Cheddar (as in "Cheddar! I stubbed my toe.")

-Sara Jessica Parker (more authentic if you're gay but my gay friends are cool with me using it)

-Son of a... (then you don't finish like Chris Farley used to. It's kind of swearing but works nicely for those in transition.)

-Barnacles (From Spongebob. There are so many from Spongebob.)

and finally

-Co** Su**ing Mother Fu**ing Son Of A Whore. (If you're my dad and don't buy into this not swearing bullsh*t :) No wonder I had a baby at 18.

Oh and my friend Steph added "Fudge" which is super old and widely used. (Although she's one of the brightest people I know, when it comes to popular culture, she's the girl in the bubble.) She also doesn't read my blog enough, which will be obvious by the amount of time it takes her to yell at me for what I just wrote.

Hope that helped!

Send me your favorite non-swear words or phrases.

Peace out, Mother Fu**ers!

Superstar!

2010-10-23T20:12:00.001-07:00

Okay, this may not be your idea of an amazing feat but it's my K2.

So I have this creepy closet in my basement. A closet that, unbeknownst to me, is actually something called a "well room." Well room's are typically in homes built before the 50's. They hold a well that has been capped off because it no longer serves it's original purpose, which I think was to provide water for the home. I don't know exactly. I can't find squat about it online. All I know is this:

DON'T USE YOUR WELL ROOM FOR STORAGE!

It's not a regular closet. It's not a closet at all. It's a room that serves no purpose. It gets freezing in the winter (especially if you live in Minnesota) and then when the weather warms up, the condensation from the chill causes wetness and also grossness. (Scientifically speaking.) Wetness makes things moldy if they are made of natural materials like paper or cotton or leather or whatever.

My daughter put some boxes filled with books and photos and stuff in there. Someone stuck a toddler bed and a dog kennel in there too. The guy who sold us the house stuck a butt load of paint cans and huge buckets of spackle or some shiz in there. And there was a huge metal shelf in there too.

I put nothing in there.

I never went anywhere near that skanky closet. I only know what was in there now because last week I finally opened the closet door after 10 years in this house. (Insert girly scream here.) Oh, I might dress like a tomboy and talk like a truck driver and have thighs that could snap your neck but when it comes to drippy closets full of moldy weirdness and spiders, I'm all girl. Pink and dainty and a huge fraidy cat.

Until today.

I had to clean the thing out because I'm having the carpeting cleaned in my basement next week and the mold detection dude's I called to "take care" of my mold problem told me I didn't really have a mold problem, just moldy stuff that I should get out of there before it got worse and definitely before I had the carpeting cleaned. Something I didn't need to pay them to do (yay!) because I could do it myself (frig!)

I walked around for three days opening and closing that closet door super fast to try and get acquainted with the job. I made retching noises off and on for a couple days which gave way to out-loud-pouting and at last one big exclamation of FINE! I stomped into Ace Hardware with a bratty teenage chip on my shoulder and told the nice sales guy what I needed like he was my mean stepdad who was making me clean the closet or he'd put his cigarette out on my arm. I bought a face mask, some cleaning supplies and a tarp...and also a razor blade in case I decided to end it all.

Then I went home and did seven other things to avoid going into the basement and by the time it was dark, I was ready. I went into that damn closet like Russell Crowe in Gladiator. Slashing, shoving, throwing, sweating, screaming, cursing. And just 2 hours later, the bit*h was spic and freakin' span. It sucked but not that bad (Although I did see a centipede skeleton at one point. No lie.) I am so relieved to have this behind me and so proud of myself that I just had to tell the world...or the handful of people who read my blog.

So that's what I did with my Saturday. What did you wussies do?

Oh, it may look innocent

2010-10-20T13:44:00.000-07:00

But for someone like me, it's forbidden fruit.

See I'm on a gluten free diet and have been for about nine months now. For the most part, it's working out great. I've given up things like bread and pasta and crackers and in return I am migraine and tummy-trouble-free. And if you would have had the misfortune to spend any time in my head or stomach before then, you would know I got the better end of the deal.

But this weekend my strength was tested something fierce.

I was hanging out in this darling little town called Lanesboro, Minnesota. My smart and hilarious friends and I drove down together and had a blast the whole way. Our other friend Molly was playing at the VFW that night so we got to see her show and it was awesome. The next day we grabbed some coffee and headed out for a jaunty walk on a crisp fall morning, taking in more of Lanesboro's insanely cute landscape. And on our way back to our precious B&B we walked into the local breakfast hang called the Pastry Shoppe to enjoy a highly recommended breakfast. That's when all hell broke loose.

Now you would think that a girl who can't eat wheat would steer clear of a place called the Pastry Shoppe like someone with Polish calves would avoid capri pants, which I do. But unlike the legs my mom gave me, I'm okay with my gluten-divorce, so why would some harmless little restaurant in a tiny, unassuming town be anything to worry about? Why indeed.

I walked through the door of the Pastry Shoppe and in an instant was smacked in the face by a sight I'll never forget. Just miliseconds before my arrival, some evil baker had placed a fresh-out-of-the-oven pan full of the most alluring sweet rolls I have ever laid eyes on into the bakery case. I swooned. It felt like I had just run into an old boyfriend who was totally over me and looking fine.

These were not just any sweet rolls. These were voluptuous sweet rolls, with a delicate amount of icing that served as a delicious adhesive for the heaving bosom of uber blueberries piled on top. Caligula on a cookie sheet is what they were.

I panicked. I blushed. Then the sweet rolls made a move. They nudged one of those Rubenesque berries atop the now melting icing, causing it to slowly slide off the side of a roll. The room stopped. That music from "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly" started playing. I was Clint Eastwood and the sweet roll was Lee Van Cleef. The camera panned to me, then the blueberry, then back to me, catching a small bead of sweat sneaking down my temple.

I swallowed hard and then I heard it. The sound of a large plane hurling toward earth. My jaw dropped open just as the bowling-ball-sized blueberry hit the cookie sheet with the splash of a tsunami. The juice from the bluberberry exploded upward and I fell to my knees, raising my fists to the heavens and screamed "WHYYYYYYYYY?"

Just then, a waitress walked by with huge hammer-shaped earrings. I tore one off and slammed it into the glass, throwing myself on top of the entire pan of sweet rolls, inhaling them in one gulp like they do with hams on Tom and Jerry cartoons.

Next thing I know, my friend Becca was tapping me on the shoulder, telling me our table was ready and I realized it was all just a moment in my subconscious.

Or was it? I'm back to being okay with not eating wheat. I suppose it's normal to crave what you're missing now and again. But is it normal that ever since that morning, I want a cigarette after passing through the bakery section of the supermarket? Especially since I don't smoke? Beats me.

All I know is if you are ever anywhere near southern Minnesota, you should definitely make a trip to the Pastry Shoppe. And remember, what happens in Lanesboro, stays in Lanesboro.

Just to be clear

2010-10-19T12:47:00.000-07:00

Women over 40 who act like women under 40, do not represent women over 40.

Case in point. The douche to the left. She's one of those Real Housewives. Although she is neither real nor a wife. She is also not a singer but she recorded this song called Tardy for the Party and the lyrics inspired this post.

(The song is a couple years old, like her prescription for bifocals she refuses to fill, but since I don't really follow the lives of the wives, I just heard the lyrics for the first time.)

So the song starts out with her, a grown woman and mother, talking about (or, "singing" about) going to a club and staying out all night:

"Party all night and we won't go to sleep.

We own the club. We own the life and I am not leaving 'till I see daylight."

Say what now? Why the hell would you "party all night"? Don't you have to get up and take your kids to school or dance class or just make breakfast? And if you don't leave the club until you see daylight at your age, the morning sun will expose you for the botox injecting, wig wearing fraud that you are. Unless doing the Cabbage Patch all night didn't give you away already.

The next part:

"I'll be feelin' good by nine. After my third glass of wine.

On the dance floor lookin' fine. All the boys tryin' to get in line."

So by nine she'll have had her third glass of wine? At her age that doesn't make her feel "good" as much as "tired" so she's a big, hairy liar. She's also setting herself up for a little something called estrogen dominance. You see, alcohol increases estrogen production in women of a certain age, and high levels of estrogen increases the risk of cancer. Three drinks PER WEEK is the recommended limit. So consider yourself told, Party Granny.

And when she says "boys" she actually means boys because the club guys could be her sons, or her students, or her daughters' boyfriends. Eew. It's just so many kinds of wrong I can barely go on...but I will.

Then comes the super disgusting part of the song that made me cover my mouth so I wouldn't hurl.

"Headed back to VIP. So tight that I can't breathe.

I look good in this heat. Sweat drippin' all over me."

Blerhlfrgaglabul!!!!! That's how I spell the barfing noise. Sweat dripping all over a twenty-something or even some thirty-somethings can prove to be an aphrodisiac. Sweat on this chic (Blerhlfrgaglabul!) Well, that's just nasty. Besides, she not sweating because she's "kickin' it on the dance floor" she sweating because she's exhausted and drank too much Red Bull to chase down her St. John's Wort because she's depressed that she's not the age she is acting.

Stop the madness!

Here's the thing, pretendy pants. I'll bet you are smart and interesting and even talented on the inside. Why do you have to wear this macabre caricature on the outside? So your dad ignored you. So your high school boyfriend cheated on you. So your mom was a narcissist. So you were ugly, fat, short, stinky, wore glasses, headgear, had a wooden leg in grade school. We all did!

Now is your chance to fix things. Not try and re-live them. So cut your hair, take an art class, go to bed at a reasonable hour and raise your kids in a way that won't perpetuate this sad state of affairs.

You are welcome to join us, the other 40-somethings on this side anytime. It's a far-less-humiliating side. And it is the real "real" side. Over here, we’re supportive, not snarky. (Okay I was definitely not nice above but that was tough love. A splash of cold water, if you will.) We express ourselves honestly over here, which may be an adjustment at first but you’ll learn to appreciate it.

But wait, there's more!

We’ll share recipes and go to yoga with you. We’ll never grab your man’s ass or break plans for a better offer and we will always tell you quietly if you have spinach in your teeth. (You don't have to eat spinach on this side but it is encouraged.)

Sooooooo? You warming up to the idea?

Good! You can find us just about anywhere. We’re the calm ladies in the J Crew jeans with mid length layers (or sometimes a daring, blunt bang.) We’re often out having coffee with friends, shopping at natural food co-ops or volunteering at the school library.

Aw. Don’t cry. It's not that bad. In fact, we've heard we’re a blast. Just ask our kids. They’re around us all the time, not in rehab or jail.

Oh, now look what you’ve done. Those crocodile tears smeared your Mac mascara all over your mineral makeup and made you look like Tammy Faye. Aha! You know who that is. Further proof that you are our age and need rehabilitation.

Take your time. No pressure. We're here for you. Just send us a text when you’re ready…but not while you’re driving, okay?

Love,

Your well-adjusted sisters

How do you get women to watch football?

2010-10-11T11:40:00.000-07:00

Make it about relationships.

Yes, I'm being sexist. And if you haven't met me, that's how I roll.

That said. I'm one of those girls. A fair weather fan. Or in this case, a stormy weather fan.

Because pro football has just been turned into a very special episode of Dynasty (Gridiron and Grossness) and I've got control of the remote tonight. Booya!

To be clear, I do like sports. I like to watch my kids play sports. I can even get roped into an occasional game on any given Sunday. But typically, I'm not a big pro sports fan. Once I mistakenly asked a guy how "mystery" football was going. Trust me. I like getting laughed at, but I like to get laughed at for being funny, not stupid.

Whatever. So the latest scuttlebutt is that Brett Favre is a playa'. Word is he left solicitous voicemails for some massage therapist and one for a model and he even sent a lewd text to some woman featuring his "packer". I guess the textee was grossed out, which is neither here nor there, but I have to say I like her for being grossed out. How many self-loathing girls do you know who would be completely flattered by that? "Oh my God. A famous person just sent me a picture of his member. That is so sweet." Yuck. It's not sweet. It's barfy and nice self esteem. Not the point but integral to the story.

I guess all Brett's bad judgement happened years ago while he was playing for The Jets. Maybe his wife found out about it then, maybe she didn't. Maybe it's true, maybe it's not. (Uh-huh.)

What I do know is I am TOTALLY watching the game tonight. Why? I am oddly compelled. What the heck do I think I'm going to see? It's not like his wife is going to walk out onto the field, slap him, then do a pirouette while flipping him and all his fans the bird. (But wouldn't that be awesome!) It's not like he'll break down in the middle of a play and publicly apologize to his family and anyone else offended by his enormous ego and silly, silly boy stunts.

But maybe I will see an empty seat where his wife usually sits. Maybe I will see him with an I-am-too-stupid-to-live look on his face. Maybe, just maybe those other women will show up holding signs that read "Pig" and "Seriously. Don't Call Me!" and "You airbrushed." Maybe I'll see the Jets (They're playing the Jets!) give him an ankle injury to match the one he got from the Saints. Okay, I don't want him to get physically hurt, I just want him to suffer emotionally. Then I want him to show some remorse and we can all move on.

Insert the song "Stupid Girl" here.

Then I want to take his wife out for lunch and maybe do a little shopping. Which is weird because I always thought she looked kind of crabby but now I think she's awesome and he sucks.

So call me, Mrs. Favre, and bring his credit card.

Oh and go Vikes.

This weather is bullsh*t.

2010-10-09T08:41:00.000-07:00

My friend Steph says that sometimes I remind her of a crabby old man trapped in a tiny girl's body. Well, I think this would be one of those times. But I just talked to her and she totally agrees with me on this one. WTF is up with this summer weather?

It's fall. I want to wear cords. I want to make chili. And I especially want people to stop being so flippin' Barney-and-Friends-happy over what a "beautiful day" it is. It's October! 85 and sunny is not beautiful. It's wrong. It's creepy. It's the Truman Show.

And I should know. I lived in LA for three years. Three looooooooong years. Southern California was always like this in the fall. And I always felt like a bug under a magnifying glass. Each September I would angrily travel to some fake apple orchard or buy some excuse for a pumpkin at some excuse for a Fall Festival. Then I'd head out to search high and low for bratwurst at Ralphs or Vons. No one knew about stinkin' bratwurst in stinkin' LA. No one cared about apples or pumpkins or reality.

And apparently, no one in Minnesota does either. It seems perpetual-summer-disease (PSD) has spread to the midwest. And the worst part? I think I brought it. Like that dude flight attendant who brought AIDS to the US from Haiti. (90's reference.)

Well if I did bring PSD to MN, I'm sorry. Because fall rocks. It's the prettiest, most inspiring, most awesome season of all. If the seasons were the Jacksons, fall would be Michael. Plus, fall is essential to balance our circadian rhythym. (I totally just made that up, but I bet I'm kinda right.) I know for sure that fall is when we sleep more, eat more and make more babies. And who doesn't like sleeping, eating or babies? I'll tell you who. Los Angelinos. Eeeeeeeeeew.

Come on, Minnesota! We can fight this! PSD is only a state of mind. Fall is out there if you want it. Put on a sweater. Yes, you'll overheat but you'll probably lose some weight. You'll be porkin' out in a couple weeks anyway, so it'll give you some wiggle room in your hunting jumpsuit. Go to a football game. Any football game. Tailgate. Drink beer and carve pumpkins...but not at the same time. (I learned that the hard way.) Get a butt load of apples and make apple pies and tarts and soups and just anything with apples...and bratwurst. And if someone tells you it's a "beautiful day" kick them. Hard. In the shins. Or higher if you're limber. I'm sick of this crap. It's fall, damnit!

The crabby old man has spoken.

Chill. I don't want your stinkin' nut.

2010-10-07T09:14:00.000-07:00

What is it with squirrels this time of year? They are so damn territorial. And they are NOT nice about it.

I understand they have work to do. Winter is coming. They've procrastinated. (Just because you didn't see them kickin' back with a Zima this summer, doesn't mean they weren't doing it.) What else would explain all the panic?

I understand procrastinating. I do it all the time. I just don't make it someone else's problem. (Okay there was that time in eight grade where I rushed into class late and demanded my friend Karen surrender her blue eyeliner so I could color in a map of European countries. But I thanked her and bought her a new eyeliner. )

When a squirrel scares the living crap out of me when I'm out for a walk, minding my own business and NOT threatening to take it's precious, stupid acorn, it does not apologize. It does not politely pardon itself for scrambling in front of me. And it should. I have birthed three children. When I get scared, there are consequences!

And all this for what, squirrel? Your nut? I don't want it! We humans have grocery stores, farmers's markets, bars where the nuts are free and plentiful (and yes, probably made with cotton seed oil, which is not healthy and those bowls are also teaming with germs ) but still! I DON'T WANT YOUR NUT. You're like those women with fugly boyfriends who shoot us that dirty look like, "Back off, lady!" Yeah. No problem. He's wearing a turtleneck...tucked into belted jeans. He's all yours.

My friend Molly actually witnessed a girl being attacked by a squirrel from her balcony once. She coincidentally met her a few weeks later and was like, "Are you that chick who was accosted by the squirrel?" And she was like, "Yeah." And Molly goes, "What up?" and the girl goes, "I was feeding it and it snapped." Nice, squirrels. She was feeding one of you and that's the thanks she got? You proud of yourselves?

Squirrels, I think it's time you take a good, hard, look at yourselves and maybe get a Google calendar so you can manage your time better. You've hit bottom and we have cars. Snap.

Is your yard wearing a banana clip?

2010-10-01T11:12:00.000-07:00

This is a banana clip. The go-to hair accessory of the 80's.

We wore them to impress, to dress up an otherwise "not mint" hair day, and of course, to mercilessly compete with other girls and their banana clips.

Then one day we all realized that banana clips meant we were just giving up...phoning in our look that day. So we tossed them out, gave them to people we didn't like, or used them as tiny bear traps.

OR DID WE?????

I would like to submit that if you have decorated your front yard with some $5.99 mum you got at a gas station (and God forbid, left it in the plastic pot!) your yard is wearing a banana clip.

Don't get me wrong. I love mums. They herald fall, the best season ever, and make you feel like you're in New England, or even better, in a scene from "Scent of A Woman" (And if you haven't seen it, fall is a great time to do that...with the exception of any other time.)

Aaaaaaaaanyway, plain, old, busted mums are just plain old giving up. If you just toss them out on your front step without any thought, they are as 80's as a banana clip.

But unlike the banana clip, they can still have some relevance. If you get a big, gorgeous mum in one of those apple crates or mix them in with some decorative grasses, pansies, flowering cabbage...they can sit at the cool table again. (And you can't get any of the cool-table-stuff at a gas station or supermarket or superstore...especially if you want it to look good and live. You have to go to a garden center like Gerten's or something.)

Below are decorative pots that would happily welcome a mum or two.

Oooooooooh. Right?

I think you know what to do.

(This post was not brought to you by Gerten's, even though they have been a client of mine and I would recommend getting all of your gardening supplies and tools and even gifts there. I also

bought an apple there once and it was super crunchy.)

Is this bad?

2010-09-28T19:59:00.000-07:00

Looks like I need a new washing machine.

I thought about going to Sears because it seems like a cute 1950's thing to do. Then I thought about Warner's Stellian since it's a local place. Then I thought about Craig's List to check out some sweet prices. Then I thought about some creepy weirdo who meant something else by "washing machine" and I decided to get a rusty washboard instead.

If I have a meeting with you before I figure this out, you might want to get a scented candle.

No. That's not really my washing machine. That's the washing machine that my washing machine beat up.

Broccoli Worm Update

2010-09-28T08:15:00.000-07:00

So, if you read my popular first post (evidenced by the number of followers I have - look to the left) I found a huge-normous worm in my broccoli on Sunday. Here's what happened next:

I brought my broccoli back to Whole Foods yesterday and calmly told the girl at the Customer Service counter about the worm. She shuddered and then I did too and as we were doing the girly-skeezed out-worm dance, the Produce guy came up and asked what the fuss was about. We both told him about the worm and he looked at us like we were the biggest wha-wha babies he'd ever met.

Then he said that worms in broccoli were totally normal and all I had to do was submerge the broccoli in water, drowning the worms, which would then float to the surface and I could happily eat my worm-free broccoli. (Faint. Hurl. Faint again.) Is it just me or do intentionally drowned broccoli worms bug you more than regular broccoli worms?

Anyway, I'm gonna do it because I'd rather eat worms than pesticide. That's not true, I'd rather not eat either but worms are the lesser of those two evils for me. It's like that joke boys used to tell girls in grade school. "Would you rather slide down a razor blade or kiss a rabbit between the ears?" Of course the girls said, "Kiss a rabbit between the ears." And then the boy would promptly pull his pockets inside out of his pants. Get it? I haven't kissed a rabbit since.

I digress. The moral? Whole Foods is still awesome. Worms are gross. (But normal.) Broccoli is good. Don't kiss rabbits.

My first post!

2010-09-26T20:14:00.001-07:00

Why is this my first post?

A.) Because I'm terrified of blogging. B.) Because I finally found something blog-worthy. C.) Because I don't feel like tidying up the house, so I'm using this as an excuse to avoid it.

But CHECK THIS OUT! That thing to the left. That worm (or larvae of a white butterfly...I looked it up.) was in my broccoli tonight! I swear. I made some awesome chili and from-scratch corn muffins today, (holla') and in lieu of a salad, I simply rinsed some fresh broccoli and added it to the table (along with some yummy organic dip.)

Well, out of nowhere my youngest son screams, "Worm!" I was ready to scold him because he and his brother are forever trying to get out of eating what I perceive to be a delicious dinner when I realized THERE WAS A FRIGGIN' GREEN WORM IN MY FRIGGIN' BROCCOLI!!!

We all started screaming and flailing and soon the worm was too. I took the little intruder outside (because my friend Steph would kill me if I killed it.) Then decided it was a fluke, just the one worm, and we'd all just need to shutup and finish dinner. That's when I found the worm's brother on my kitchen floor, just beneath my cutting board where the rest of the broccoli sat.

I gasped, but didn't tell the kids. I just tweaked my way back to the table and shamed them for being such babies. Tomorrow I'm going to tweak my way to Whole Foods, where I purchased said broccoli, and shame them for freaking me out.

Yes, if you know me, you know that I am a huge hypocrite because I'm all up in everyone's grill about organic this and broccoli that, but that was 2010 BTFW. (Before The F-ing Worm.) I may just go back to Twinkies. Yeah. I said it.

Thanks for reading my first blog. Don't eat your vegetables.