No fairsies!

This can't be happening!!! 

I eat right. I don't smoke or drink. I get plenty of sleep. I meditate. I exercise regularly...

SO WHY IS MY ASS ON FIRE!!!!!!!!

I have what my orthopedist calls radiculitis, also known as sciatica, also known as holy-mother-of-Christ-someone-please-remove-the-white-hot-vice-grip-from-my-hiny!

It's worse than child birth.

YES IT IS! 

At least child birth was reasonable. You know what to expect. Small space/big object/ouch. It makes perfect sense. You're pregnant. Baby's gotta come out. And there's only one way.

But sciatica makes no sense. It just decides to slice through your booty one day without warning.

And although you can get an epidural for sciatica like you can for childbirth, when you have sciatica, you have to wait at least...4 DAYS...

Ahhhhhhh!!!!!!!

First, you have to schedule an office visit with your doc, then get an MRI, then meet with your doc again, then go in for the shot. And that's if all parties above can squeeze you in sequentially one day after the other. For me, there's a weekend involved...

Kill me now.

I'd rather have a baby 4 days in a row, than endure this deep, sickening glute fire for what feels like an eternity.

I tried to work today. No dice. I tried to write this blog post from every weird body angle possible. Wasn't happening. And because I was able to shower and put on a cute dress before MY OWN BUTT ATTACKED ME, I decided to just put my makeup on, although I'd be going nowhere.

Then my friend Becca called with a number for an acupuncturist and I described the scene, "I'm in a sundress and full makeup, which is slightly smeared from crying over the pain, and I'm slumped sideways on my couch. One leg up on a pillow, the other on the floor, hair mussed from writhing in torture. I look like I've been date-raped and haven't gotten around to calling the police yet."

She stayed on the phone with me a little longer than she initially intended.  

I felt better after we hung up because she understood. Becca had her own version of back BS a few years ago. She walked bent forward for months, like those cute old ladies at church who look like they're searching for something on the floor...forever. 

But they're elderly! Becca and I are in our forties and really healthy. What gives??? All I know is my clean living isn't helping right now and I'm PISSED! 

I honestly thought when I felt my first twinge of pain a few days ago, it was because I had eaten a pint of Phish Food the night before. I literally said to my sister, "I did this to myself. I couldn't put down the ice cream. Sugar causes inflammation. F*uck Ben and f*ck Jerry." After three days off sugar, it's worse.

I'm not going back to my old ways, but I'm discouraged and feel like throwing a tantrum, which, in my condition, would send me to the hospital.

My dad brought me a pair of crutches a couple hours ago and I was able to stand for the first time all day without pain. After he left I stood for thirty minutes in the same spot in my living room in silence, staring at a painting my friend Steph made. I was grateful for the relief, grateful for my dad, and grateful for friends who give you free art.

I have some fresh hell ahead of me this week, so I'll just have to be patient. Not sure what I'll be able to do tomorrow, but I think I'll try penning an apology letter to a couple of guys in Vermont who make frozen treats.

Peace ow-t : (

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

Thanks, crazy parents, for making me look awesome!

I have been called an overprotective mom on more than one occasion, mostly by my kids (even the 28 year old!)

But today I learned there are parents out there who are WAY more overprotective than I. And they are of the bat-shit crazy variety. Yay!

In comparison to these nut jobs, I look like I smoke weed while my babies run across the street helmetless, with scissors, after dark, playing Halo, eating processed carbs, with adult strangers they met on Facebook.  

Check out today's article from CNN.com about a college senior (SENIOR!) who took her parents to court for stalking her:
http://www.cnn.com/2013/07/02/living/cnn-parents-helicopter-parenting-job-search/index.html?hpt=hp_c3

Here's a highlight...

"In 2012, University of Cincinnati senior Aubrey Ireland filed and won a civil stalking order against her parents after unannounced visits and cyber-monitoring, among other complaints.

"It's just been really embarrassing and upsetting to have my parents come to my university when I'm a grown adult and just basically slander my name and follow me around," Ireland said in a court hearing.

"She's an only child who was catered to all her life by loving parents," Julie Ireland, Aubrey's mom, fired back in court. "We're not bothering her. We're not a problem."

Ahhhhhh!

Can't you just picture mom "Julie"? Sensible brown bob, eyes a little wider than the normal awake-state, khakis, sweater set, comfortable shoes she's used to stomp every ounce of life out of her husband's spirit so he'll brokenly follow her into hell.

Oh, Jules, I need to send you a thank you note. Because of your narcissistic spazzery, I am now the Sharon Osbourne of St. Paul.

Okay, gotta go make a gluten and dairy free dinner...I mean, pot brownies.

Peace.

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

 

I'M AN A**HOLE

My friends and I have been talking a lot about being judgmental lately. One of my friends was accused of being judgmental by her therapist and you would think he told her she had Rickets. She can't stand the moniker and asks me every five minutes, "Was that judmental?"
She's asking me because, apparently, I would know. I have been anointed with, and proudly accept, the label of being judgmental among my group of friends.

I'm fine with it because I don't really think I'm judgmental. I think I'm observant. To me, judgmental is when you make assumptions without enough information. I don't do that. I watch, listen, evaluate, then size someone up. (And I'm usually right). If that's judgmental, then that's me. The reality of it is, you're probably thinking it. I'm just owning that I'm thinking it. I prefer the latter. 

See, I usually get called judgmental when I'm speaking the truth. Not like, "You are a stinky bitch." But more like, "I don't feel sorry for him when he can't afford his rent. He chose to be a musician and walked away from a full ride scholarship, even though his single mom was broke." 

Is that judgmental?

If you answered yes, you are a stinky bitch.

If you answered no, you are my people.

Look, those of us who tell it like we see it (when appropriate - not like calling someone ugly at their funeral), are a rare breed around these parts. Most Minnesotans will politely kiss your butt and hate your guts at the same time. That's lying. It's not polite. It's sinister, actually. And you're the same people who will let us walk around with spinach in our teeth and toilet paper on our shoe, because YOU don't want to be the one to give US bad news, even though that news would be helpful. You are protecting yourself, instead of assisting others. Which is mean...and, yes, the fact that I called you mean is judgmental. Deal with it.

YOU: Fine.

ME:  Fine!

YOU: FINE!

ME : FINE!!!! (You have spinach in your teeth. You're welcome.)

You know I'm right. And you'd admit it if you were brave enough to be honest. But it's easier just to sit there and quietly think what I'm thinking so no one can label you like they label me.

That's cool. I'll take the heat. And I'll hold my head high.

Until I'm wrong.

Like I was the other day...

I was walking along the Nicolett Mall during the lunch rush. To my left was an older, disheveled woman holding a sign that read "Homeless, please help." In front of me were three thugs in full regalia -  pants on the ground, fake swagger, laughing about nothing, worrying about nothing, and up to no good. Oh, and somehow they rustled up three very expensive coffee drinks (malts) from Starbucks, which I judged them harshly for drinking, as it clashed with the "I'm a bad ass" vibe they were attempting to pull off, but also because I was sure they stole them.

Suddenly, they see the homeless woman and start to whisper to each other. I panic. Ready to spring into action and come to her defense when they inevitably say something nasty or even throw their girly drinks in her face. Just then, the middle one approaches her and...HANDS OVER HIS TREAT...then rejoins his friends. 

Say what, now?

They resume their conversation as if nothing happened, she eagerly sucks down the Frappucino, and I slow to a stop, stunned. 

A lump forms in my throat and my eyes well up with tears. I start moving forward again and even feel compelled to give the "thug" a pat on the back as I pass him, but I don't. I'm too ashamed for what I thought and how incredibly wrong I was. 

Man, did I learn a lesson that day.

Stop judging?

Hell no. 

I've just added myself to the list of those I judge. As I stood there frozen on the Nicolett Mall, I thought, "I'm an asshole." And, as usual, I was right.

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

DON'T PLAY WITH YOUR KIDS!

Unless you are prepared to be seriously injured.

Okay it's not that serious. It just hurts like a mother f*ck@r.

And those last two words are the reason I'm writing this post. 

You see, I have a foul mouth. Evidenced by several of my posts, and by the many uncomfortable moments in mixed company, (that likely included someone's grandmother), where I could have chosen another word, but didn't.

However, the three people in this world I do NOT swear in front of are my kids. And they are not allowed to swear in front of me. (Just ask my 27 year old daughter...but she's not allowed to swear because she has a voice like Mini Mouse, which makes swearing sound ridiculous.)

BUT when your 11 year old son, who is freakishly strong, hurls a baseball in your direction, that just misses your glove, then nails your foot, and in an instant it feels like you are giving birth through your big toe, you apparently forget your swearing rule.

Instead you freeze, stop breathing and after you assure your darling child, who didn't mean to hurt you, that you are okay and it wasn't his fault, you succumb to the pain and become Joe Pesci from Goodfellows.

"Jesus Mother F-ing Christ!", you say in the early stages of toe labor. (You see, the nail of the toe acts like tourniquet. More blood is rushing to the area than can be released. Much like the baby-versus-vagina scenario.)

"Holy F-ing Sh*t Balls!", you scream with the next toe contraction. Then you quite ungracefully hop to the nearest picnic table because the park where you have just been injured is 40 minutes from home, your other son's baseball game just started and you aren't going anywhere for at least 2 hours. You need a place to prop your deleterious digit above your heart so you can get through this without an epidural.  

Finally, as you reach the active stage of toe birth and the DARK BLUE nail is crowning, you rip off a string of expletives that goes something like, "F-ing Mother of God Damn Christ. Why the F does this F-ing Sh*t hurt so much? Get me a C-Sucking gun!"

Suddenly, the triage team of your body's defense system retreats, things start to calm down, and as you open your eyes while still lying face-up on the bench portion of the picnic table, you can faintly see all the heavenly bodies you just verbally assaulted with their arms crossed, one foot tapping, leering down at you like you have just ruined your chances of ever getting in.

Then you look at your child who has gone from 11-41 in five minutes because of your bad behavior. His face is bright red. Not because he is scared or sad, but because he is so delighted that you have broken, nay, shattered your swearing rule so egregiously, that he thinks he can say whatever he wants in front of you for the rest of his life.

Then you both start laughing your asses off.

It's one of those moments the two of us will remember fondly forever.

Yeah, not exactly a Hallmark movie, but it's ours, so F-off.

Love,

Lynda

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

 

No more moon!

(That's not me, BTW.)

Unlike my Astronomy classmates, I'm not on summer vacation. I'm busy working and mooning people in Minnesota, instead of on the coast.

But I did it! I did it! I got through Astronomy and I didn't die!!!!

I thought I might. I really sucked at it at first. So much that I almost dropped the class after one fateful day in February.

(INSERT DREAM-LIKE HARP MUSIC HERE TO TAKE US BACK IN TIME)

I was sitting in my lab group with two kids whose combined ages still made them younger than me. They were whizzing through the mathy stuff (which is not my forte) and after a fun-filled week of taking on one too many boring writing gigs, (and having to say no to a super fun joke-writing gig) losing my cell phone, eradicating lice from my household, and trying to help my 5th grader with his math (in Spanish) and failing, I decided I didn't know shit about shit, I was huge screw up and I should just chuck it all and go work at Super America. 

I didn't.

What I did do was start crying, right there, in front of my teenage lab partners on the fourth floor of the Physics building at the U of M. And because the Physics building is as old as dirt, there isn't a public restroom for a middle-aged freak show having a meltdown to go cry in. Which I learned after racing around both the fourth AND third floors in a desperate search for some privacy. I wound up bawling in a stall on the second floor, next to some other teenagers who were probably really good at math too. Assholes.

So, there I was. Devastated. Humiliated. And noticing how the graffiti in the bathroom stalls of higher learning institutions says stuff like "You are beautiful."instead of "Rachel is a whore." Interesting. Anyway. I had a decision to make. Either march back up there and show those brats who's boss, or write something more appropriately inappropriate on that bathroom stall wall.

I chose the former. I took the rickety elevator up those two flights of stairs back to Astrolab (because my f-ing back was killing me after playing goalie in a knee hockey game with my boys the night before). I bet those little math twats never have to do stuff like THAT. I put my reading glasses on to cover my red eyes, smiled and said, "Sorry. Cramps." Which grossed them out more than made them feel sorry for me, but I wouldn't actually know because this generation is a bunch of friggin' mutes. They don't speak. They don't even make eye contact. It's weird. (But that's another post.) Regardless. We got through the rest of the lab.

And I got a tutor.

He was an opinionated dude who hated God and had a penchant for tangents, (which is how I knew he hated God...and everyone else, but I was paying him so he pretend-liked me). He knew his Astronomy, though and helped me a crapload. It was just the thing to pry me out of my self-loathing slump and get my confidence back to it's fighting weight. 

That's when I started kicking ass.

You wanna know what a comet is made of? BAM!

How about why the the moon is out during the day? BAM!

Is it time to have your mind blown by the enigma that is black holes and dark matter? BAM! BAM! BAM! 

(I'm saying "BAM" because I don't actually know, but I faked it pretty damn well, bitches!)

Kidding. Some of it sunk in and most importantly, I really, really enjoyed the material. Like REALLY enjoyed it. I'm sad it's over. 

What? Who? 

I know.

Learning is fun!

And that's the moral, people.

Don't give up.

Get help.

Get your groove back.

This shit ain't that hard.

It's just logic and junk, and if a knuckle head like me (I) can do it, so can you.

To infinity and beyond!!!!!


Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

I'm a little rusty

It's been forever since I blogged. I need to blog more. I want to blog more. But between work and school and hockey and hockey and hockey, it's tough to find the time. 

So I thought I'd just start with something easy to get back into the swing of things. Like Lndsey Lohan's appearance on SNL last night. (There are things I'm way more excited to blog about like the Paleo Summit created by Sean Croxton of Underground Wellness, but, oh, man, see, half of you just logged off - not everybody likes the healthy junk, so I'm creating a totally new blog to neglect about that stuff. Yay! I'll keep you posted.)

Anyway, Lindsey Lohan on SNL. So I only watched the monologue and one skit because I don't stay up past 9:30 p.m. which means I actually watched those two clips online this morning. But I got the idea. She looked great, besides the stripper hair (or her mom's hair) and the monologue was funny. 

The monologue premise was that SNL was giving Lindsey a chance to comeback and prove that she's changed and is capable and can be trusted, then various cast members came out to "chat" but actually patted her down, checked her pupils, and an alarm went off when she moved off her mark...stuff like that. She did a great job with the self effacing humor and feigned innocence. It was cute. 

BUT...

Apparently that was all the brain space Lindsey had available for memorizing lines or tapping into her craft, because the skit about the Scared Straight program was a hot mess. Correction. Keenan was a riot. It should be an ongoing skit based on his performance (and maybe it is, as I say, I keep granny hours). 

Linsdey, however...complete spaz attack. She flubbed the few lines they gave her during the Scared Straight skit, even when she was blatantly reading them while having a face-to-not-face dialogue with Andy Sandberg. He said his lines perfectly, then, while TOTALLY READING A CUE CARD BEHIND HIS HEAD Lindsey, playing a Scared Straight drill sergeant, said her lines which went something like, "Listen kid, I'm gonna something-something and if you don't listen there's gonna be some-bullshit-I'm-supposed- to-say-next, which I can't friggin' remember, because I can't remember how to tie my own damn shoes or read for that matter. I'm gonna kill my parents and then my agent for making me do this so damn soon. Where's the coke?!!!"

It was brutal. I turned it off before it was over. 

You can watch it here, though.

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/showtracker/2012/03/lindsay-lohan-on-saturday-night-live-fans-rip-hosting-job-.html

That's it. Hopefully my comeback wasn't as bad as Lindsey's.

Next post: Either "I'm perimenopausal!" or "The day I cried in Astronomy lab."

Until then...

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

Where the hell have I been!

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