From the People Who Brought You an Earth Centered Solar System...

My children go to a Catholic school.  I am Catholic my husband is not, but this is the route we decided to take.  I love the school, I love the staff, but there are some volunteers that have to go.

A group of moms run a lunch time activity group.  They are all jazzed about their "Christ centered" activities. Whatever.  My daughter goes to it sometimes, my son would rather run a cheese grater over his head than give up his lunch recess to colour pictures of Jesus.

The other day while I am driving my daughter to one her activites she is telling me about that day's Jumpin' For Jesus group.  They were talking about Noah and the Ark.  They were told that animals that used to exsist (I need to warn you before you read any further, if you are drinking or eating you may want to make sure you mouth  is empty and your airway is clear) like dinosaurs and unicorns don't exsist now becuase they didn't get on the ark.

No, I am not shitting you here. Dinosaurs and unicorns, missed the boat.

I was more than a little relieved when I looked at my daughter and she said, "Yeah, didn't dinosaurs just die? And unicorns? Mom, do you think the Jumpin' for Jesus moms really think unicorns are real?"

If she comes home this week with a disc of the earth we will totally be looking at new schools.

A Big Ole Bitchfest

Okay, so here is the deal-ee-o.

If you receive an invitation to an event, and it tells you to call or email a certain person to get your ticket, don't decide to just go off the board and take your fucking order anywhere you want and expect the reservation fairies to bring it the the right people.

Also, if you are a volunteer at an organization and friends of yours want to come to an event, don't call the  person ( in a paid position with said organization) in charge of taking the reservations and say "Bob and Susan want to come" and the assume that said (newly hired) reservation person will know who the fuck Bob and Susan are and what the hell they want to eat.  AND that even though you called in for good old Bob and Susan they are not sitting at your table.

Thirdly, when Bob and Susan get around to sending their cheque in and the cheques have Mr. & Mrs. Smith on them, do NOT call the reservation taking person and be all snarky about how Susan uses the last name Jones.  Then Susan should get her own fucking cheques or perhaps tell Bob she has no desire to Mrs. Smith.

I have spend all weekend in front of the fan that the shit was hitting.

There are a few ways of being upset when you discover a fuck up at your job.  There is the " Omigod, I can't believe I did that ( or forgot to do that, as the case may be) I am soooo going to get fired for this" kind of upset, then there is the "Every time I have to work with Arnie things get MESSED-UP...ggggrrr" kind of pissed off.

Me?

I am experiencing the " I'm sorry, can I just show you my drivers license, because it seems that I am Josie Totes and not in fact the Amazing Fucking Kreskin and can not read your fucking mind and I can not in fact pull addresses and names and menus out the fucking air." kind of upset.

I have a meeting coming up.  Either things are going to get straightened out, or I am going to have a whole lot more blogging time on my hands.

I'll keep you posted.

It's taken so long to set this thing up

that I've run out of time to write an inaugural post. Well, suffice to say this blog isn't actually about laundry, although both of us seem to spend an inordinate amount of time "stuck at Base Camp One of Mount Rushmore" (that Josie Totes is a funny, funny girl), and I do have a strange fascination with bluing, but, no, it won't be about laundry.

I don't know what it will be about, but it won't be that.

Patty