Saturday, October 23, 2010

Superstar!

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?

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.




Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Oh, it may look innocent

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.


Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.


Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Just to be clear

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

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.


Monday, October 11, 2010

How do you get women to watch football?

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.

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.






Saturday, October 9, 2010

This weather is bullsh*t.

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.

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.


Thursday, October 7, 2010

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

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.

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.




Friday, October 1, 2010

Is your yard wearing a banana clip?

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.)

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc.