Epic posting fail

Yeah, I know. I was supposed to blog every day for a week and I made it three days.

But Celia let me off the hook to write eight research papers, (and because I gave her a cute top), so suck it for now and we'll talk soon.

Love,

Lynda

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

You can totally park there

I usually cruise to the co-op for lunch. I have a pretty nerdy diet and it's one of the only places I can eat.

But a couple days ago, someone came between my co-op and me...and it wasn't cool.

I park in an unmonitored lot in Lowertown, St. Paul.  One of those put-the-money-in-the-envelope kind of places. I've been in my current office since last October and so far, no parking lot problems. Until one rainy day this week.

THUNDERCLAP

As I approached the lot to high tail it to hippie heaven, I was dreaming of the lemon oregano chicken thingy listed on my co-op's website that day.

It was kinda cold out, and wet, and I wasn't really dressed for the weather, so I was booking to my car, when...

SCREECH!

I wasn't hit. That was the sound my brain made when I realized some selfish B had just ruined my lunch plans.

There she was. Well, SHE wasn't, but her busted, green Saab was...in a NON PARKING SPOT...blocking my car. 

Oh, hell no.

Not only was I hangry, but I was freezing and irritated too, so what would that be? Frangitated?

It wasn't pretty.

Naturally, I decided to get into my car and try to wiggle out anyway. Her car was parked lengthwise behind mine - forming a "T". Getting out was futile and I knew it, but I half wanted to ram her car so I just started jerking my steering wheel the tiniest bit to the left, and the right, getting nowhere. Then I'd get out, reassess, and do it again.

I looked like an idiot and imagined an office full of people watching me from above laughing their asses off because I was basically impersonating John Cleese from Fawlty Towers. (Google the episode where he beats the shiz out of his car with a twig. Bawling funny.)  

Finally, I gave up trying to move MY car and decided it was time to move HERS. My brain had gone into criminal mode by then inspiring the unscrupulous idea to simply open her car door, put her selfish little B Saab into neutral, and rooooooll it out into the street.   

LOCKED.

$#@!

I finally ran out of ideas and gave up (to the dismay of the imaginary crowd above) and began mean-marching up Wacouta to 7th Street to a restaurant I had heard through the grapevine might be halfway decent. But I was SURE it sucked.

As I pissy footed my way there, I called the phone number on the parking lot moneybox and ratted out the Saab slut. (What? I'm sure she's a slut. She makes bad choices and slut is the number one bad choice for girls. And this wasn't a parked-outside-the-lines thing. This was I'll-park-wherever-I-want-because-my-happiness-is-all-that-matters-which-is-why-tonight-I'm-going-to-make-out-with-my-sister's-boyfriend. Yeah. THAT girl.)

The parking lot employee who answered the phone was very apologetic. She took the B's license plate number, and my tone with grace...and said, "I think I know who that is. I'll call her and tell her to move." (That's how I learned the person who drove the Saab was a slut...or girl. Whatever.) 

So I'm swear-walking my way toward 7th, underdressed for the cold and drizzle, and pretty much bullshit by the time I reach the sure-to-be-horrible restaurant, and open the door...

Remember when Dorothy stepped out of her crumpled house and into Oz and everything was calm and warm and in technicolor? Well, that, my friends, was The Buttered Tin.

It was cozy, it smelled fantastic, somehow the sun was shining...INSIDE THE RESTAURANT...and the best part? The food...was...amazey mazey mazeballs.

I texted my friend, Steph Hansen, who is a way bigger food geek than I am, a photo of the hash I was inhaling. Sausage and Brussels and Yams, oh my! It was the most incredibly porny goodness my palate has ever had the pleasure to pulverize. (That was an annoying amount of alliteration but those words are the truth so I simply can't change them. Sorry.) Honestly. I had my way with that hash. It's a good thing I brought it back to my office and ate it in private.

So out of nowhere, I have a new fave spot. I can't wait to go back. I'm picturing fun client lunches, a place to take my kids, meet my besties, or snuggle up on a rainy Sunday morning.

The possibilities are endless!(Thanks, Saab slut.)

What I'm getting at, everyone, is you just never know how things are going to turn out. You might think you're having a bad day, bad month, bad decade even (I had one of those), but if you accept your fate, or even just reluctantly move in another direction, the blessings will show up. 

Your happiness could be right around the corner...or 3 blocks north, slight left.

Peace

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

Girl and phone reunited without incident

It was the scariest hour of my life.

The year was 1986. I was a 19 year old, single mom of a sweet, little toddler.

We stopped at the mall on a below zero day to exchange a stroller.

Because I was spinning a million plates at the time…school, work, parenting, and making sure my bangs stuck straight up in the air all day, like so…

…my brain wasn't constantly firing on all cylinders. 

So, when I pulled the stroller out of the trunk of my car, I slammed it shut before realizing I locked the car -with the keys - and my daughter - in(freaking)side!

INSERT SLOW MOTION "NOOOOOOOO!" HERE.

I ran to the window to make sure she was okay. 

Of course she was. She had no idea what the hell just happened. 

I smiled and waved like, "Hi, cutie. It's all good. Your idiot mom didn't just lock you in a running car, where the heat is blasting, while you're wearing a snowsuit."

She smiled back like, "Awesome." 

I wanted to die, so I did what any teen mom would do. I burst into tears...and started accosting strangers in the parking lot.

(I was not about to leave my baby and go into that mall for help. My daughter grew up in the era where child abductions were all the rage - Jacob Wetterling, Adam Walsh...then Jessica McClure fell into that well and I just about had to be institutionalized.)

But this is where it got interesting…

NO ONE WOULD HELP ME!

"Excuse me, m'am," I pleaded. "I accidentally locked my daughter in the car, and…" 

She totally ignored me.

"Um, hi, sir, my daughter is locked in the car, and I was wondering if you could maybe call the police for me in the mall?" He snarled and said, "I should call the police on you."

Yeah...so far, not looking good.

Ooh! Here comes a girl my age! She'll understand! "Hey, um, could you do me a favor?" I ask, as if there is NO CHANCE she'll say no. She stares blankly at me and says, "How much?" I stare back, confused and ask, "What?" "How much muh-ney." She repeats like I'm stoo-pid. "Oh." I reply. (Absolutely on my last nerve by now. ) "Let's see. I happen to have a purse full of you-better-run-you-assy-b*tch-or-I-will-cut-you." 

EXHALE

Not my best moment.

This went on and on. I probably begged ten people until I broke down, stunned, staring at my now fussy baby who had grown tired of the stupid game of peek-a-boo I was trying to distract her with between cursing at mall-goers.

I put my head against the car window, not able to hide my tears anymore, when I heard a voice.

"You okay?"

INSERT CHOIR OF ANGELS

It was an off-duty police officer and his four year old son. I told him what I did and he said, "If you hold his hand…tight…I'll go get a hanger and get her out. Deal?"

"Deal!"

He saved the day, my sanity and I learned a cute little ditty from his kid that I later taught my daughter.

CUE THE SONG ABOUT RAINDROPS BEING LEMON DROPS AND GUM DROPS THEN ABRUPT RECORD SCRATCH

That was then, and this is now….

Unlike the 80s, today we have priorities.

Babies are disposable, but if you lose a cell phone…HOLY MOTHER OF CHRIST, CALL THE NAVY SEALS!

I left my swank new office last fall in a hurry, and, in my haste dropped my dear, irreplaceable iphone somewhere between my desk, the walk to my car, the parking lot, my driveway, and my walk up the steps to my house.

I realized my blunder upon returning home. It started as a "doi" moment as I wondered where my phone was buried inside my briefcase, which progressed into a slightly-freaked-out moment when I realized my phone may not BE in my briefcase, followed by an I-must-have-left-it-in-the-car moment (since I clearly leave stuff in cars), then acceptance of my fate, and a quick near-death experience upon realizing it was LOST-OST-OST...

Now, on any other day, this would have been a 20 minute inconvenience. I have the "find my iphone" software, which is the technology equivalent of surgically implanting a computer chip into your kid's arm, but the phone doesn't feel it…although you will kiss your phone as much as your kids when reunited. 

So, I locate the phone, (it was in my office) go back to my office, only to remember the elevator is under maintenance, the stairwell is locked, and my key card is not programmed for after-hours access.

WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS???????!!!!!!!!!!

Thankfully, because it was a phone and not a child, I got LOTS of sympathy...and intervention.

There's a bar in the lobby of my office building so I wandered in there to see if I could use something called a "land line" (ask someone old what that is) to send an S.O.S. to the office manager to LET ME THE "F" IN! I called. She wasn't there. Seemingly, nobody was.

The manager of the bar dropped everything he was doing to brainstorm with me about how "we" were going to retrieve my phone...even if it meant breaking into my office, while the bartender insisted he pour me a shot, gratis. He was terribly disappointed when I said, "No, thank you." He simply wanted to feel useful in this dire situation that he was now, also, fully invested in. 

???

I was eventually able to reach the office manager on her cell phone who carefully shouted the phone number at me of the one person she suspected might be up in the office working late. Her tone was crisp and aggressive like she was helping me dismantle a bomb. "LYNDA...CAN...YOU...HEAR...ME? HER NAME IS JAN...AND HER NUMBER IS 5...5...5...2...6...1...5...4...4...4...!" DID...YOU...GET...THAT?

"Yes, thank you." I replied, trying not to crack up...or call her Rambo.

Jan was up there. And she happily walked down, then back up, four flights of stairs to reconnect me with my phone, and today we are good friends because of the traumatic experience we shared...like in "nam".

So, let this be a lesson to you, people. Keep a decoy cell phone in your car at all times, that way, if you ever lock your child inside, someone will give a crap.

Peace.

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

I saw Gretzky in the girl's room

It's no secret I detest hockey season. My boys know it, their coaches know it, the guy at the car wash who has to de-funk my Subaru once a week knows it. And God for sure knows it because every time my kids' hockey calendar lists another 9-freakin-PM practice on a school night, I yell, "Jesus Christ!" But he gets me, so we're cool.

Well, THIS hockey season was different. Not in terms of my hate (through the roof) but this hockey season gave me a gift. One that is blessing me in spades. 

INSERT DREAMLIKE HARP MUSIC TO TAKE US BACK IN TIME

I was at the Anoka arena softly crying in the women's restroom because I had to waste another weekend watching my goalie (through my hands) be pummeled by kids who had already reached puberty (he hasn't) making them bigger, their shots stronger, and, consequently, my baby's Adam's apple more vulnerable to shattering. 

As I was exiting the lavvy, I noticed some inspirational quotes on the wall. And they were framed with sections of hockey sticks.(Cute! I have no aesthetic creativity, so junk like that impresses me.) I was reading the quotes when one just jumped out and smacked me in the face. It was by Wayne Gretzky and it read, "You miss 100% of the shots you don't take." 

I just about fainted I loved it so hard. Apparently it's a really popular quote. How the heck, in all my years as a hockey mom, did I miss it? Well, who gives a rip? I took a picture of it so I wouldn't forget it...and that night something really cool happened. 

I was checking e-mails before bed and saw that someone I follow on Twitter, tweeted the SAME QUOTE. And this someone happened to be a business coach. And I happened to be on the hunt for a business coach. Yep. In the last year, in an effort to try and figure out how to incorporate some of my new interests into my career, I have been Tony Robbins-ing, Wayne Dyer-ing, and Marie Forleo-ing my ass off (and because I eat real, whole food, it's the same ass I had in high school, B.T. DUBS) but that's another post, or another facet to my business, which my amazing new business coach is helping me craft.

Her name is Celia Siegel (Hey, girl, hey.) And she is complete and total awesome sauce. 

Not only do we have a ton in common: We started in the ad biz around the same time, married around the same time, had kids around the same time, divorced around the same time, gluten intolerance showed up around the same time...(Man, I hope you're okay with my 14 followers knowing we both had IBS, Celia.) We even drive the same, damn car.

Done and done, right?

So, I was having my weekly meeting with Celia the other day and whining about how the action steps phase of my new venture are freaking me out. "I hate being embarrassed.", "I'm afraid people will laugh at me or think I'm stupid.", "My current professor hates my writing style." "Yes, she has a rep on campus for being a stick-in-the-mud, but if I want to write for the masses, maybe I should tone it down?"

RECORD SCRATCH

That's when Celia dropped some brain bombs on me that set me straight.

1.) "You can't be authentic if you want to be liked." 

2.) "The more you let people NOT like you, the more the people who like you will LOVE you."

3.) "FIND YOUR TRIBE."

I told her to tweet that shit out. Brills, right?

Then she told me, as an exercise, I had to blog every day for a week.

MINOR TANTRUM

"But, Celia, I'm busy. Plus I haven't blogged in over a year. Nobody even goes to my site anymore. I've neglected it and it's totally played out. Can't I wait until I get my new site up?"

CRICKETS

Fine. Here's my first pass.

And no pretending - not that I ever was - but I thought about it for a hot second. I'll be me and do what I do best. As the Clifton Strengths Finder says, "Work with the skills you HAVE, instead of trying to be good at everything." Which means knowing what you're good at and what you're not.

THINGS I'M GOOD AT: Writing, cooking (unless you ask my kids), praying.

THINGS I SUCK AT: Math, being tall, staying up late.

So, I'm gonna do me...and kill it...yep.

QUICK SIGN OF THE CROSS 

Thanks, Celia.

And Wayne.

Dangle, Snipe, and Celly, bitches...

Peace

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

The evolution of the fart

I learned a new word this weekend. Beef. And if you think that word is reserved for just burgers and steaks, then you don't know any kids.

I know some kids, and "beef" happens to be their latest and greatest word for one of the most hilarious bodily functions around. The fart.

I was in Roseau last Saturday, at a hockey tournament, sitting in a super crappy diner between games, when one of our players approached the parent table to exclaim, "Dad, Tommy beefed on my hat!" I asked what "beefed" meant, and was delighted to hear that it was a sweet, new word for fart. 

I remember a time when fart was the only word for fart. It was in the dictionary. I looked it up in Mrs. Smith's 4th grade class while she went outside for a smoke (also known as a "fag", back in the day, but that's another post.)   

The definition read, "A small explosion between the legs." which made me beef, I laughed so hard. 

I've always thought farts were funny. In fact, my first boss in advertising admonished me for it after it made it's way into one of my radio scripts. "We all think farts are funny, honey. Then we turn 12." Well, apparently, that's not true…at least for the group of awesome, fellow stunted-adolescents I was traveling with. 

We laughed about it for days.

So for them, and others like them, I give you a list of other words I've found that mean "fart" through the ages - from 5th century Britain to beef.

Legend has it (okay, Wikipedia) that "fart" is one of the oldest words in the English language, emerging first as ferten, feortan or fatten. (I'm already laughing.) 

You won't believe what happens next!

In other languages it starts with "p". Greek - Perdomai, Latin - Pedere, Sanskrit (Sanskrit? Like yoga Sanskrit? Well, people definitely beef in yoga.) - Pardate, Italian - Fare un Peto (Of course they make it sound romantic.) French - Peter (Sorry all Peters.), Russian - Perdet, and Polish - Pierd, which means, "break wind loudly". But we know in the states, that "pierds" can be silent but deadly. And since my kids are part Arab, I happen to know that fuss (sounds like "puss") is how you beef in the middle east.

Are you appalled, disgusted, outraged? Well, I will have you know, goody two shoes, that even the best and brightest dig beef. Chaucer, Jonathan Swift and even Ben friggin' Franklin wrote about farts. The latter, a whole essay that he requested be studied. Hahahaha! Oh, I love him even more than I did before.

INSERT DRAMATICALLY SAD MUSIC HERE

Fart fell on hard times somewhere in the 1920's when Thomas Wolfe and Earnest Hemingway had to cut it (intentional pause) from their work. 

HAPPY, TURN-THE-CORNER MUSIC 

But it exploded (yep) back on the scene somewhere in the 80's, with such classics as Walter The Farting Dog and The Gas We Pass.

Today, fart has many monikers. Just look at this sampling from the Urban Dictionary:

Air bagel 
Anal volcano 
Blow mud 
Bottom burp 
Cheek flapper 
Crowd splitter 
Drop ass 
Fog slicer 
Ghost turd 
Gravy pants 
Heinus anus 
Jockey burner 
Kill the canary 
Painting the elevator 
Quack 
Shit vapor 
Sphincter song 
Stink Burger 
Tail wind  
The gluteal tuba 
Under burp 

And if that's not enough, just google it. There are many other words, books, blogs and even whole websites dedicated to the funk in our trunk. (That's mine. Just pulled it outta my…y'know.) 

Peace

Copyright © Lynda Crotty Radio, Inc

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