Too busy to blog!

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!

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.

Eeew! Eeew! Eeew!

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...

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.

"Put me down, Josh."

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.

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.

I'm no feminist

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.

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.

Awwwwww

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?

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.

He's baaaaaack.

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.

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.

What's your Wii face?

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?

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.

Pretty girl

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."

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.

Did this happen to you today?

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.

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.

Oh, hell no.

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.

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.

Wanna make your kids cry?

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!

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.

"Heavens to Mergatroyd!"

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!

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.