sticks and stones

Sticks & Stones

So, my dear sister is celebrating her 5th wedding anniversary this weekend. She tells me that a traditional anniversary gift for year number 5 is "wood". Of course, I cackled at the thought of "wood". She rolled her eyes and sighed at my immaturity, then tells me about some wooden thing that she bought for him. I tuned her out because I was too busy thinking of all the 'wood' references she could make.

So, when she's done telling me about the fabulous wooden gift she'd found for her husband, a docking station or a totem pole, or what have you, I ask her what he's going to get for her. "What else" she tells me, "wood". Ha ha ha.. To which I reply, "sounds like you got the short end of the stick".

I shall reference my short- end- of- the- stick joke every day until it gets old. Which it won't. It was....the perfect one-liner.

(picture me taking a theatrical bow).

Mimi the Meanie

I wanted to share a very recent exchange between my son, my husband and myself. My oldest, Ben; 6 1/2 is laying in bed one night, I'm in there putting clothes away, chatting him up before bed. For no particular reason I say to him, "Benny, when you grow up, get married and have babies, I want your kids to call me Mimi, ok"? He isn't too fazed by this request, so he agrees. My husband, Jason overhears this conversation....much like Cindy Brady, he's always evesdropping. Anyway, he hears us and wanders into the bedroom, "What....what's that, you want to be called, Meanie when you're a grandma, ok--no problem, Meanie". No, no, I said MIMI, I want to be called MIMI. 'Alright Meanie if you say so', he tells me.

Ben is cracking up at the idea of his kids hating me. As if hating me himself wasn't enough, he had to pass down the hatred gene, like a treasured jewel. This goes on and on for what seems to be an unusually long amount of time. It's as if they'd rehearsed this whole dialogue and scenario. Jason continues talking in baby talk, "what's that, little baby? Meanie won't let you sit on the couch or touch anything? What now? Meanie won't let you play games or have any fun? Well, we'll just see about that...Papa will make everything alright. Yes, that's right, little baby, you love your papa, not that old, stinkin' Meanie, right"? I'm listening to my son hyperventilate with laughter at my husband's predictions. See what I have to deal with? Like I need this aggrevation. Just say the word boys, and I'll bounce. Peace out.

So, in short, I thought you'd get a kick out of the abuse and torture that I endure each and everyday. I'll admit, the whole conversation was pretty amusing. But, what was different about today's abuse, was that they were plotting to turn my grandchildren against me....who aren't even born yet. It's one thing that they make my life a living hell now, but to scheme against me as an old woman???? That's an entirely different ball of wax. They're just killing me slowly, that's what they're doing. What's next? Cutting my break lines? Ha ha, that would be funny, seeing mommy skitting all over Northland drive. Hee hee.

~Sleeping with one eye open.

all things Christmas that make me go hmmm.

In addition to all the biblical wonderment that the holidays bring, there are also several seasonal influences that are of special interest to me.



For example: The song, Baby it's Cold Outside. I've always referred to it as the Date Rape Song. The lyrics go as follows, "my mother will be pacing the floor...well, maybe just a half a drink more" and "the neighbors will think....say, what's in this drink". My God, the poor girl is trying desperately to get a way from this man and he has the death grip on her and won't let her go. "No, stay, shhhhh, just drink this..." . I can't believe the FCC allows this on the radio. Frankly, I think Eminem has less suggestive lyrics than this freak.



Also. About those inflatable lawn ornaments. Can't you just hang white lights like everyone else? I have on good authority that those things are fairly expensive. Why would anyone in their right mind spend upwards of $100 on anything so useless and ugly? Take that money and throw it out a window in hopes that a bum will find it and treat him or herself to a nice dinner. That would be more useful than buying a 25 foot blow up Santa Sleigh. Not to mention what it costs to keep the thing inflated. Don't get me started. Don't even get me started.

I know I've blogged several times about Christmas letters, so you know my stance on that. Albeit, they're highly entertaining, but they're so obnoxious. This year, I had a li'l fun with m'self as I'm known to do from time to time. During a photo shoot with my family, a girlfriend of mine passed by and spontaneously popped in for a picture. I naturally took advantage of the situation and I composed a Christmas letter that very night, detailing our family's highlights from that year. Our big announcement was that my husband had taken a 2nd wife (of course, I included the picture). My new sister wife would teach me to sew those denim jumpers I'd adorn for so many years and I wrote how we'd prayed together as a family that my hair would grow to an unthinkable length, in order to accompany my 4 foot braid. Don't think for one minute that I'm not sending it out as my Christmas card of '08. As it turns out, that particular friend happens to be pretty hot, so I had a good time victimizing myself as the harried first wife, while she took over the more (ahem) intimate wifely duties. I'm funny like that. You've got to look obnoxiousness in the face and laugh at it!!

Typically, Christmas in my house looks like this: Tree adorn with cranberry & gold decorations. An ever-present smell of spice wafting throughout the house. Dimly lit rooms with little white lights hung on anything that will stand still. Many of my home's decorations consist of outdoorsy things; twigs & berries, garland, gold pinecones and the like. But, I'm bored with it all. This year, I've decided to go all Whitney Houston on Christmas.

We're talking white Christmas trees with bright blue balls. (he he, I said blue balls). Jason, the chir'en and I posing robotically around the tree, wearing only white from head to toe and dripping in more gold than Liberace. White residue left upon our upper lips. (allegedly) Instead of the homey and classic Christmas that I'm used to, my new theme is going to be "new-money-ghetto". And if any of you watched Real Housewives of Atlanta on Bravo this season, you all know what I'm talking about. Justin single handedly brought sexy back and Leslie is officially bringing new-money-ghetto back. As if it was ever out.

Happy Kwaanza to you and yours.

Why I avoid sobriety during the holidays.

Thanksgiving 2008 has come and gone. Thank God. This has been a particularly tough one on me. I don't do well with chaos or confusion. I don't handle abrupt changes or drama with acceptance. I'm not good with other people's children or messes. I'm not down with spills or accidents. So, based on the past 3 sentences, you can plainly see where this is going.



I've always prided myself on making my home a very welcoming one. The best compliment you can give me is to tell me that my house is cozy and that you feel at home here. That's the whole point of my decor, kick up your feet and wrap this chenille throw around your shoulders and let's get down to gossiping. But, there comes a time when I want to throw everyone out my front door, not unlike the cat in the Flintstones.



Here is a handy li'l tip sheet that should get you through the holidays (or rather, should keep me from killing you during the holidays):



Don't Be Late. It's so rude. If your hostess tells you to be somewhere at a certain time, then by God, be there around that time. Don't make her stand there, with her thumb up her ass (unless that's what she's into) waiting. Because unbeknown to you, there are a few things going on. She has likely locked her kids in the basement as to not mess up the house, so the sooner you get there, the sooner the children can come out. Also, there is most likely cooking & baking going on and the longer you delay, the more dried out and overdone the food is going to be. Lastly, she's probably very well-liked and chances are, she has somewhere else to go, once you've left. Be considerate, don't be late.


Don't Be Early. Also very rude. And quite presumptuous as well....you assume you know her well enough to see her without makeup? You don't. All you're doing is making the process harder for her. Knowing what a fabulous hostess she is, a lot goes into the presentation of a party.


Bring What You Say You're Going To Bring, regarding the dish to pass. The hostess plans her menu around what you told her you were going to bring. Don't tell her you're going to bring 2 bottles of wine and then just bring one. Don't tell her you're going to bring a baguette and then bring a loaf of wheat--it's hardly the same. And for God's sake, don't ask for a doggy bag. Unless the hostess insists that you bring home whatever you've brought, don't pack it up and bring it home with you. Ugh..so gauche. Lastly, if you're family consists of 2 adults and 5 kids, don't bring chips & dip and call it good. Perhaps, bring things for your kids to munch on so that you're hostess doesn't have to scrounge through her pantry trying to find Carter and Spencer something to eat during her party. I'm just saying.



Help out. Meaning, when you're done eating, take your plate to the kitchen and hey, here's a thought, maybe put it in the dishwasher. Go that extra mile and rinse it off first. Leaving it for the hostess to clear while you lay on the couch and watch tv isn't helping. You brought 6 kids with you....help them out too, by wiping their hands off so they don't run around leaving greasy hand prints all over everything.


Don't ask, just do. "Do you want me to empty the garbage". No, no, just continue piling things onto it. Eventually, it will topple over and then I'll have something else to do. JUST DO IT.

This is all common sense, people. It's not like I'm writing a manual of how I want my house detailed (you wouldn't do it right, anyway). It's just basic etiquette. So that entails my list of being a stellar guest.


And just for good measure, I'd like to add a darling, little anecdote with regard to my in-laws and their holiday traditions (I don't ALWAYS host. Sometimes the cute, little, Mexicans do it). This is something that's been going on, under the radar, for as long as I've been with my husband (13 yrs). It's never been brought up until now. I find it necessary to address it. With my in-laws, it's all about the dish-to-pass. Mexicans are all about tradition, so if you bring something that everyone likes, it will be expected at each holiday. I have to admit, I reek of pride when my mother-in-law requests that I make a particular dish. I'll get downright smug about it. I will, too. When I first got in with the family, I tried impressing them with some fancy dish or another and if it flopped, I wouldn't know about it until the next year, when they'd demote me to pop....or worse, rolls. Oh, sure, they'd all tell me it was delicious, but the truth would come out the following year when I'd obnoxiously ask if anyone wanted my chocolate truffle. "oh, Leslie, why go to all that trouble....just bring a dozen rolls". So, I'd be right back at the bottom again and it would take years to build my reputation back up again. You think I'm kidding? Oh, I've paid my dues. It starts with rolls, then pop, then salad, then you finally move up to the main dishes. If a new family member marries into the family and right off the bat, she is assigned a casserole..I know something is up and you can expect a throw-down at that point. I won't stand for nepotism...not in this family. No, there's a hierarchy with the dish-to-pass. Usually pop & rolls are reserved for the college students and/or girlfriends, then the salad goes to the new wives and then maybe, just maybe you'll be able to break through that glass ceiling into casseroles.

Hope this finds all my loyal readers surviving the wretched holiday season. I find that humor, mixed with copius amounts of sedatives help to get me by.

:-)

Pushing the Christmas Card Envelope

OK. I'm taking a huge risk on this one. Well, not really. What do I have to lose, besides friends?

Anyway, I'm going to go off on a little tangent about Jesus. He is the reason for this upcoming blessed season, afterall. I will start by saying that I am a believer. I'm not doubting Him or his existance or anything of the sort. I just want clarity on a few issues that have raised some questions for me over the years. That's all. Breathe, breathe... it'll be alright. Shhhh.


First of all. What if there was DNA testing back then? Wouldn't that have been something? We could have taken Mary to a clinic, swabbed her mouth, done the same for Joseph and within 5-7 business days, we could have an answer to the age old addage with regard the virgin birth. I'm not saying Mary wasn't a virgin, mind you, I'm just saying that story wouldn't hold up in court today, I'll tell you that. It is possible, just possible that Joseph was the father of Jesus? Wasn't he her husband? We wouldn't love little Jesus any less had Joe been his biological father, would we? Well, in Joseph's defense, he was there for the birth, so at least he showed some support. He didn't stand there and pout that Jesus looked nothing like him, did he? No, he accepted the little guy just as He was. Wasn't Joe the least bit skeptical? He probably kept his feelings all bottled up inside (that's how they handled emotions back then). But alone, in his shed at night, he probably thought to himself, "Naw, Naw, dat baby ain't EVEN mine. He don't look nothin' like me, Mary's a ho, dawg".

Which brings me to my next question. Who was responsible for raising baby Jesus? Times were tough back then. Diapers and formula didn't grow on trees, you know. I mean, seas parted and water turned into wine, but I know for a fact that diapers didn't grow on trees. Did Joseph help raise Jesus or did God drop by once in a while to help out? I am not trying to be disrespectful, I am just trying to grasp the magnitude of this. In my defense, I am not schooled on the subject of religi0n. I was raised in a pretty much non-practicing Jewish home. We didn't keep kosher, we attended Shul on Passover and Yom Kippur, and I lit the Chanukah candles while saying the prayer. That about sums up my religious education, so don't judge.

Second, did Jesus grow up knowing that God was his father? How do you come to terms with that? Can you imagine? We thought Jenna and Barbara Bush had it rough.

Lastly, why and when did using the Lord's name in vain become synonomous with angry expressions? The poor guy was just minding his own business, curing disease and leading his peeps. He wasn't hurting anyone, when all of a sudden, fast forward a million years and we're spouting off his name whenever we accidentally scald our hands, get cut off in traffic or learn that our spouse lost $1500 at a poker table. Allegedly.

Well, that sums up my nativity questions for the day. I usually don't encourage opinions or comments that differ from my own, but in this instance, I welcome them. School me. Enlighten me. Save me.

Happy Holidays, to you and yours.
LB

My daily rant

It's so that I don't even want to leave my house anymore. The outside world is filled with people who simply cannot function in society.


#1. Old people. For the love of God. Just go into the bank. Don't think you're crafty enough to use the ATM, because you're not. No matter how simple the instructions are, you won't be able to take out your $20 or deposit your $5 check in a timely fashion. I guarantee the time will run out before you complete the task. I must have sat behind a Cadillac DeVille for 15 minutes yesterday. Two old people inside. I swear you could see the tongue of the man in the driver's seat. It was all waggling around while he tried to figure out the crazy computer money thing. Finally, when he realized that he'd need to balance his entire checkbook before withdrawing his $$, he stuck his chicken wing out the window and pointed for me to go to the next one. Five seconds later, I had completed my withdrawal and I was pulling away from the drive thru. Suddenly Old Man River guns it and speeds out of his drive thru just to exit the bank before me. What the F.?

#2 Old people. Same as #1, except with regard to the self-checkout at the grocery store. I saw Maude scan those f-ing bananas for 5 minutes before realizing that she'd have to enter the produce code. Entering the 4-digit code took another 10 minutes. (Cut to her laying dead in a pool of blood and my walking sideways, whistling).


#3 People who let their children do things that other people do to save time. I'll give examples. Pushing elevator buttons (do you mind? Mackenzie really loves to push the buttons). Oh no, I don't mind at all. I have no where special to be. After all, it's only a medical center and there's 22 floors in this place and I've been starring at my watch, sighing for the past 5 minutes while Mackenzie pushes every single button. SOCIAL CUES PEOPLE...CATCH ON! Before I receive comments on how I'm evil and have no patience for children, don't bother. I have no patience for children. I even have a few of them. But, the difference is, when we're in public, I take social cues from other people and act accordingly. If it seems like my son is bothering the women behind us in line by ramming my cart against her ankles, than I'll usually ask him to stop. It's very simple. This also goes for parents who let their kids check out their own library books at the self-scan kiosk. Obviously people who visit the kiosk are people who are in a bit of a hurry. It never fails that a mother and her child will inevitably beat me to the checkout counter with 3,000 books and mom will take that very opportunity to give McGregor his first lesson on scanning books. 4 hours later, I'll leave the library with my copy of "Manslaughter for dummies".

#4 When I have the entire movie theater to myself and a 6 foot tall amazon sits squarely in front of me. I will glare at the back of their heads so hard, I can barely concentrate on the movie.

#5 When I hold the door for someone and they walk right through without acknowledging me. Ohhhhhh, I want so badly to run through the door, grab them by the back of the shirt and throw them back through the door, then slam the door in their face. Then shrug my shoulders, tilt my head and give my best, "oops" face.

Ok. If I don't stop here, I'll have an aneurysm. Basically, everyone irritates me. Bye.

Another "Lu-UUUU-Cyyy" moment

This just came to me! In '01, I worked for an Event Production company in Detroit. The building had an attached garage/warehouse where we housed our sound equipment, camera equipment and other props. It also became home to one of the owner's motorcycles. This particular owner was on yet another wacky family vacation when the warehouse crew announced a major 'clean out'. A mass email went out to all the employees to get their belongings out of the garage, to avoid damage. The company was also 'home' to a special, li'l guy, who was approximately 45 years old, but had the mentality of a 7 year old, God bless 'em. He was a precious asset to the team. He tried to be helpful and whatnot, per the dynamics of his vocational placement specialist. But, looking back, I doubt he did much more than empty wastebaskets. Anyway, since the owner was out of town at Cedar Point. Or sledding. Or RV-ing. Or snowmobiling, who on earth was going to move his big, monster of a bike? Who, I ask? Who? Our special li'l helper had threatened repeatedly that he was going to move it. He also frequently threatened to touch my boobies, but I rarely took him seriously. There was something about his determination that day that made me think twice about ignoring him.

I, myself, shall move the motorcycle. How hard can it possibly be? I'm freakishly strong for my size. You simply pull the bike off it's kick stand and walk it away, right? Apparently not. I pulled it off the kickstand just fine. It was the 'simply walking away' that had me in a pickle. Being that the bike was approximately 400 tons and the diameter of the handle bars was longer than my actual arm span, basic mathematics would tell you that it simply can't be done. Suffice it to say, I don't know basic mathematics.

In my mind, it was an easy task. But, you can imagine what happened and 3 seconds later the 2-wheeled beast was laying on her side with a shattered mirror & cracked turn signal light. "Hmmm...didn't see that coming", I said when the entire warehouse turned around and looked at me. Heh heh... (cut to me walking sideways, whistling). My special friend felt it was necessary to point, scream and jump up and down on his mangled, little legs. I had half a mind to call his vocational placement specialist that day and make up an alleged boobie- touching incident.

I could go on for another paragraph telling you how I had to spend twice my paycheck on replacing the parts before the boss got back. Or how I wrote him a (hilarious) apology limerick. But, at the end of the day, it's the actual problem that's entertaining to read. Not the resolution.

...and in close, here is the apology limerick from 8 years ago. Just as funny now as it was then. What I find so incredibly humorous about this is that I felt it was appropriate to leave a poem like this. For my boss.

My Apology Poem
By
Leslie B.

There once was a cool chick named Les
She always got into a mess
Though she tried to help out
It just didn't work out
So let's get this off her big chest.

Though you told me not to touch the bike
I thought I was strong like a dyke
I lost all control
The bike started to roll
I feel so bad, please don’t dislike. [me]

I skinned my hand and scraped my hip.
All for your bike, I took a dip.
What broke in flight
Was your turn signal light
I was crying. I couldn't get a grip.

I thought I could do it
I don't mean to boast.
Oh where was John Webb* when I needed him most?

TONE-e, if you weren't at the 'Point', riding the rides
Your bike wouldn't have fallen on one of its sides.
It couldn't have been worse than when Scott crashed the van
And we still love him, 'cause he is the man.

So remember this as you think of me

No matter what, you still love me.......Leslieeeeee!!!!

The End

*(John Webb was/is the warehouse manager)

LU-UUUUCCYYYYY...you cannot be in the show!

My tolerant husband has been calling me Lucy for years. I can't imagine why, it's not like I get myself into that many silly situations.


Sure, there have been a handful of disasters along the way, but we've been together for 13 years. There's bound to be a debacle here or there.



Take the time I was going to get rich selling gold coins. I was working full time as a consultant for Bath & Body Works. Between the constant sweet smells wafting through my sinuses each day, not to mention keeping mall hours, I desperately needed a change. A co-worker of mine revealed a secret, secret get-rich-scheme that would be sweeping the nation. Selling gold coins. It was a sure thing and frankly, it would be foolish not to invest in it. Jason laughed in my face and put the kibosh on that idea immediately. It's been held over my head for the past decade and seems to come in handy when humiliating me becomes necessary.


Moving right along to the time I fell through a wall. We'd bought our first home in 2000. It was a modest, little, starter home (read: dump). In our minds, we'd gone hog wild on fixing the place up. We were anxious for the closing date so we could get started on making it ours. We'd finally taken possession and went immediately to Lowe's to purchase gallons upon gallons of paint, trim and all the other bells and whistles it takes to give a house a quick makeover. We'd made our purchases and as we pulled up into our new driveway, as first time owners, we noticed that our new house was pink. Hmm, that's weird, I didn't notice that when we first looked at it. We also didn't notice that our new love shack needed much more than a few coats of paint. I walked through each room with new eyes. Buyers remorse, I guess you could call it. Amid all of the out dated fixtures throughout the home, I became totally fixated on a ceiling fan located in what would be the guest room. It was made of a dark, ugly wood and it had brass hardware on it. I was horrified that that monstrosity would be what my guests would have to look at before drifting off to sleep. As I stood there staring at it, I imagined that a few swipes of a paint brush should nicely fix the problem (I'd never picked up a paint brush in my life). Jason reported that he was going to go back to Lowe's for something and before my wheels began to spin, Jason said, "DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING, LUCY". He had barely started his engine before I was dragging a stool into the guest room. I'd hopped up on the stool and imagined that all I had to do was dip a paint brush in white paint and voila, new fan. Within seconds, I'd lost my balance, fallen off the stool and because my main concern was spilling paint and not breaking my fall, I fell backwards into a wall. A brand new, just paid for, wall. My shoulders came crashing through the wall and right through the drywall. Of course Jason forgot his wallet and came back to retrieve it. He found me. Inside the wall. And he'll never let me live it down. What? Like you've never fallen through a wall.




What about when I had a parent educator coming to my house for her monthly visit with my son. The whole house was somewhat clean but for the dishes. I didn't have time to empty the dishwasher and then load the breakfast dishes in it. So, like any red blooded house-wife, I shoved the breakfast dishes into the oven, to be taken care of as soon as she leaves. Good plan, eh? Fast forward 8 hours, it's dinner time. I preheat the oven to 400 degrees in preparation for the lasagna I'd planned to make. Suddenly the house smelled like a chemical factory. Plastic dishes don't bode well at 400 degrees. All the kids plastic Darth Vader plates and animal shaped cutlery, melted beyond recognition. I considered keeping this little disaster to myself, but I was still trying to pry plates off of the oven rack when jason got home from work. Shut up.



Let's not ignore the time I bought Aqua Dots for all the neighborhood kids and then CNN reported that they contained GHB.


Not to take away from the time my earring back got stuck on the lining of my motorcycle helmet. Jason took me for a Sunday afternoon ride and as we were dismounting the bike, I tried pulling the helmet off when, OUCH! When I pulled one way, it about ripped my ear in half. When I pulled the opposite way, the back of the earring dug into my skull. It was a lose/lose situation. After 10 minutes of us trying to free me, a crowd began to accumulate around me. I couldn't see them because the helmet had fallen forward and was covering my eyes. Jason says to me, "ok, don't panic, but there's about 10 guys standing behind you. Laughing". Again, we were in Lowe's parking lot. What is it with us and Lowe's? Our Lowe's happens to share a parking lot with our local Fire Department. Jason offers, "want me to go ask for the Jaws of Life". At this point I'm partially laughing, but mostly crying. I didn't see any possible solution. I'd either puncture my skull with an earring or else I'd rip it. Neither sounded like much fun. Long story short, Jason finally rescued me, but not before passerbys were stopping, laughing out loud and pointing at me. So, picture me, walking through Lowe's, fire engine-red ear, mascara running down my face and worst of all, helmet-hair! We peed our pants laughing the whole way home. I said to him, "you're going to bring this up every chance you get, aren't you"? "Absolutely".



Oh. Then there was the time Jason and I were on vacation and our room had a jacuzzi tub the size of my front yard. To make up for the large space, I accommodated by pouring in half a bottle of body wash. I watched as the bubbles began to take over the bathroom. I finally turned the water off and stepped in the tub. I sat down in about 2 inches of water and 4 feet of bubbles. I felt defeated, disappointed and cold. Jason walked in, laughed at me and walked out shaking his head and mumbling something about, "Lu-uuuuucy".



And the time I was innocuously doing my hair before work one Sunday morning. I had the cord of my flat iron wrapped around itself, you know how we do. In order to untangle it, I whipped the cord this way and that until eventually the metal part of the plugger-inner hit me smack in the eye and I, in turn, gashed my cornea. At the time, I didn't realize the damage was that severe. I figured my eye would stop watering at some point and I'd be as good as new. In the meantime, I'd reached for a wash cloth inside my shower, but inadvertently grabbed a razor instead. I sliced my finger open. It was then that I'd admit defeat and call Jason for help. He came upstairs, my eye was completely stuck shut, watering like a faucet and my finger most likely needed stitches. "I leave you alone for one minute, Lu-uuuucy...", he offers. He helps me and whatnot, but I proceed to get ready for work with my winkie-one-eye and because it's watering so bad, I can't put any eye-makeup on. Do you know how ridiculous it looks to wear eye makeup on one eye, but not the other? I should have called my boss and told her I wasn't going to make it in (I 'worked' -ha-ha-at my friend's boutique) but she was attending her father's funeral that day and obviously I wasn't going to bother her over a mere cornea gashing.



If anyone reading this has ever had a 'cornea abrasion' you know that it's the most extreme & excruciating pain you could ever imagine. It's a very intense sting in the eye. The only thing that felt good, was to rub it, but by rubbing it, I was further tearing the tissue.



By the time I finally got to the ER, five hours later, they rushed me right into the room and reported it was among the worst tear they'd seen. Enter: Vicodin. Hello, friend!!!! I popped two at the ER and by the time I got home, I was drooling and asking my mother in law if she liked my pretty shirt. One thing I learned from this experience is that I'm very sweet & chatty on vicodin. Jason kept putting me to bed and I'd follow him downstairs professing my love for him. He'd walk me back upstairs..."Goooooo Niiiiight Luu-uucyyyy". Buenos noches un ojo.



I was going to include a story of mine that included hot, bikini wax, pants around my ankles and a mysterious knock at my door. But, I'm not so sure I'm comfortable disclosing such personal information about myself. Just yet. So, my better judgement (which I rarely listen to) is telling me to stop here. That is, unless Jason gets a hold of my password and logs on to tell his own versions.

MWAHHH!

Dr. Rey-Diculous & Hate-ly Rey

It's Monday and I have nothing terribly important to report, so I'll just get up on my hind legs and bitch about the 2 most obnoxious people on television Dr. Robert Rey and his wench of a wife, Haley.

Where else on earth could a slender, pretty man get away with wearing fuscia, silk handkerchiefs & pink ruffle shirts under his pinstriped suit? Where? Me thinks he wears eyeliner too. Where else could a doctor literally man-handle his female patients and get away with it. Trust me, if he weren't on TV and wasn't that good looking, he'd have so many law suits against him. Have you ever seen the show, for pity sake, he rubs his patients. Rubs them. Caresses their shoulders, arms, thighs. Tells them they're sexy and gorgeous and uses every single adjective that a woman would want to hear before getting bent over. Even his slimy voice makes me squirm--he 'baby talks' for crying out loud. "....and she was beeeaauuuu-tifulllll before, but I've made her breasts soooooo pretty---I gave her a nice, pink areolas and because I'm her doctor I can give them a nice, little squeeeeeeeeze".

Oh, what about how he gets after his numchuks (sp?) before his surgeries? Ok, doc, we get it...you're into martial arts. Anything to take our attention off of your blatant homosexuality, right? Just come out of the closet already. I'd feel much better about the silly clothes if he were gay.

Moving onto Haley. I loathe her. From her yellow hair & black roots, to her sunk in eyes and fat lips, right down to her legs that are so skinny, you could drive a truck through her thighs. The woman is emaciated. She claims, "I just forget to eat sometimes. I'm a mother of 2 and my husband is a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon". Yeah, sometimes I forget to eat too, like when I'm sleeping, for example. Her pouting gives me a rash. "Hmmmpht, Robert is never here and he works too much and I'm all alone in this 10,000 square foot palatial mansion with nothing but time on my hands to complain about my sad, pitiful life". "My house is only worth 7 Million, but I want a 9 million dollar house, because my husband is always at work and I'll hold my breath and forget to eat if i don't get it. Mark my words, she'll be divorced and remarried before 2010 and her next husband will be much, much older and not nearly as attractive as Robert (so she won't have to compete, see?). And he'll be a katrillionaire who will be perfectly happy spoiling his little spinner. And then she'll write a book about the travesties of being married to Robert and she'll laugh her way to the bank, while waiting for her husband to die.

That's all. I'm going to check out their message boards to see if anyone feels the same way I do.

homemade costumes and life's other failures

Homemade Costumes and Life's Other Failures

I'll just say it. It stinks being friends with such talented, domestic ladies. So, once a year, my ego goes down the drain because I can't produce a decent Halloween costume for my son. I refuse to buy the store bought ones because they're paper thin and look cheap, so I insist on making my own. In December, my 6 year old tells me he wants to be Mario (from Mario Brothers) for Halloween. I thought, 'what a perfectly precious and totally original idea'. That is, until I find out that half his class is being Mario. So, I begged and bribed him to change his mind, but his mind was made up. He was to be Mario.

I first began my search at Halloween U.S.A. Amid their 9,000 costumes, there was no Mario to be found. So, my next stop was to Target or Walmart to try and find blue sweats with a matching shirt. I would simply cut off the sleeves & collar and voila...he'd have overalls. Well, because I refuse to allow my boys to wear "sweatsuits" I failed to realize that they don't make those anymore (rightfully so). So, the salesperson says, "you'd be better off just making the costume". I was intrigued. Make it you say? Like with an actual sewing machine? Hmm. Go on, I'm listening. So, she starts by telling me to grab a pattern for a basic pajama bottom. Whoa, whoa, slow down there, you're talking all crazy, I say. Talk to me like I'm a 4 year old, I tell her. So, bless her heart, she walks me through step by step and assures me there's nothing in the world easier than sewing pajama bottoms. I felt confident. That was weeks ago and I placed all the material, patterns and whatnots up in my hall closet and each time I opened that closet, there it was. Starring at me.

I finally tackled it yesterday and whipped it out in less than an hour. I was so proud of myself. I called my son over to try it on. I should have known it was going to be a disaster when I had to roll his pant leg on like they were nylons. The "overalls" were so tight on this poor child, he could barely walk. My husband calls from the other room, "did you leave enough room for him to wear jeans underneath---it's going to be cold, you know". Right. The boy moved one inch and the shoulder strap ripped. Don't move, I tell him. So, he's shuffling around our kitchen, he's walking like a mermaid, he can't move his arms and my husband is shaking his head in disgust. "He can't wear that to school" he tells me. I offer, "well, it's not a wedding dress, it's just a Halloween costume for heaven's sake". I rolled the costume off of his tiny, little body, where it is still hanging up in my hall closet. I'm considering home schooling at this point, as to avoid my poor baby having to parade around his elementary school in that horrendous excuse for a costume. Next year he's being a ghost.

ashes and options

You know, it's really very sad and sick, but I seem to be enjoying my mother so much more since her passing than I did when she was alive. Not to say that I prefer her gone, I am just enjoying her more, that's all. I'd been grieving her loss for so long, but now I think of her like an old friend with whom I'd lost touch. You tend to remember all the good times and forgot why you lost touch in the first place. Exactly like that.

With that said, I think enough time has passed and I've let go of the bitterness that surrounded our relationship and the feelings of abandonment that accompanied her death. I completely embrace her for who and what she was. I only wish I'd done that while she were still alive. You live and you learn. I find her old quirky habits hilarious now, whereas before they drove me to drink. As previously mentioned in blog entitled, "Helen's Homecoming", you'll know that I now have possession of her ashes. So, in theory she is here with me. Watching...always watching.

I came across an ad on the world wide web. This particular company claims to produce a certified, high-quality diamond created from the carbon of your loved one as a memorial to their unique life. My first thought was, "WELL, I'LL BE DAMNED...I'VE FOUND A USE FOR HER"! The comment may have been cold, but my intents were purely driven by love. I mean, really, what am I supposed to do with this box of pulverized bone? Wouldn't a diamond be more useful and let's face it, prettier?

But then, I thought about it. You know I can get to thinking. The cynic in me came out and, well, how do we know this diamond was magically created by mom's ashes? What, are you going to argue with the jeweler? "No, definitely no...mom's eyes were much greener than this"! And furthermore, what do you say when a jealous friend comments on your fancy, new gem? "Oh, this old thing? Thanks. I was created from grandpa's ashes. No, really, it was. IT WAS! WHAAAT"??? Come on. We all know darn right and well the jeweler takes the cremains, flushes it down the toilet and then sells you a marked up diamond. I just hate when my intelligence is insulted.

And it's often insulted. Like coupons & ads. Jason falls for it every time! "Les, Quiznos is offering $5 subs, OR 2/$10. What a bargain"! I heard a commercial for a pizza deal on T.V. last night. The commercial stated 3 pizzas with 3 toppings for $7 /each. This didn't make any sense to me. I am certainly not a pizza connoisseur, nor do I pay particular attention to "pizza deals", but I was busying myself in the kitchen (wow, that's odd) and I overheard this commercial in the background. Something about it stuck in my craw. Ok, so 3 pizza's for $7/each. How about 4 pizzas? $7/each. 5? $7/each. Here's what I'll do, because I can tell you know your pizza, I'll give you 10 pizzas for $7/each. Well, you'd be stupid to pass up a deal like that! Give me a break! All day with this nonsense. You know they're targeting drunk men when they run deals like that. No woman would ever fall for that. We all know salesmen think us gals are soooo stupid, but when it comes to the green but, bitches be crazy. *Messing with my money is like messing with my emotions, and you know this! My money, fool--*nachos!

*The infamous line from movie "Friday", which Jason and I reference weekly.
*Ebonics form of "not yours"

tots & poisonous dots

A revised Saturday Night Live skit

Do you remember that SNL from the 80's in which Jane Curtin plays a talk show host who interviews the owner of a toy company and they're looking at hot new toys for the Christmas season? The toy store owner (whom I believe is played by Bill Murray) proudly displays his ever-popular "Bag of Rusty Nails" which promises hours of fun and entertainment. Or the box filled with shards of glass and finally, the teddy bear with real razor blades for paws. It was a classic.

Unbeknown to me, I'd become a spokesperson for an incredibly dangerous toy. You may recall Aqua Dots. They swept the nation for most of 2007. My children went ape shit over them so, I figured they'd be perfect gifts for the 8,000 birthday parties my boys got invited to. They were relatively inexpensive. They kept my children contained & entertained and lastly they encouraged creativity. Eureka! I've found it. The perfect gift. For months, I was receiving phone calls and notes, telling me how much Suzy and Scotty were enjoying their Aqua Dots. I took full credit for my stellar gift giving. It was like a little pat on my back.

Until. Until my husband called me one morning and asked if our kids still played with Aqua Dots. I looked over at my son who was intensely working on his aqua dots masterpiece. I inquired about my husband's sudden interest in our aqua dots. He made a few comments about my being totally unconnected to the real world (the one that exists outside my kitchen) and while I was wondering when the last time I watched the news or read a paper, he tells me that all over Newsweek, CNN and every radio station were reports of GHB being found in Aqua Dots. For those of you who didn't experiment in college, GHB is a fancy acronym for the date-rape drug. Apparently children were swallowing the aqua dots (which bore an uncanny resemblance for little candy juju bees) and were winding up in a coma or worse, dead. I grabbed the beloved aqua dots away from my child and threw them in the garbage. It was shortly after that that the phone calls started.

Caller 1: Yeah. Leslie. Can you please give me a call. I am watching the Today show and there is something going on with these Aqua Dots, can you just let me know where you bought them?

Caller 2: Leslie, I can only assume that Ben plans to date rape Annie. What the hell is up with these aqua dots?

Caller 3: Well, it's official. The Chinese have it out for us. Call me....that is, if you're not too busy whipping up a Chlorophyll IV kit for Riley's birthday party next week.

WTF???? I imagine a dozen or so China men sitting around a board room table. "Let's see....hmmmm, what on earth can we use to make these little beads stick together? Oh, I've got it....that chemical that American teenagers use to get frigid girls in bed"!!!

It goes without saying, we've been invited to less parties this year. A shame too, because I've got the most darling plastic bag, just waiting to be given to a special birthday boy or girl. Everyone knows what fun a plastic bag can be. There's no telling where the fun will end when a child gets his hands on a plastic bag. I may have gone too far just then. It happens.

Donkeys & Elephants

Who's sick of all the political mumbo jumbo? It's shoved down my throat every time I log onto my computer, each time I turn on the T.V. and it's in every newspaper & magazine that I've read. It's maddening. It's boring and most of all, it's excessive.



OK, it's the end of Oct. I'm fairly certain we know who we're going to vote for. Like any debate is going to sway us one way or the other. Unless one of the candidates comes forward and announces that he likes to participate in live donkey shows, I'm quite confident each presidential candidate has said his piece. (and yes, it's piece, not peace, like I thought it was up until a few months ago when I was corrected--so HA, don't go thinking you're smarter than me).



With that said, let's talk about the lawn signs. People, I'm taking a huge risk in saying this, but, it's tacky. It is. Why are you so insistent upon making your vote known? Just because you post a McCain sign in your yard, do you really think that will influence your neighbors to actually vote for McCain? "Hey, honey...you know, the Cline's are voting for McCain. I think we should do the same. Alrighty, than it's settled". How narrow minded is that. By pushing your beliefs onto others, you're really just letting everyone know where you stand. But, here's the thing. No one cares. All it does is create tension because no matter which way you vote, you're bound to piss someone off. Keep it to yourself. To me, it's like posting religious signs in your yard. "METHODIST'S LIVE HERE" or "WE BREAK FOR BAPTISTS". It's simply not necessary. It's no one's business but your own.


I'll even take this a step further. Stealing the opposing candidates signs. Really? Really, you're that much against the running mate that you'll waste energy and commit vandalism in spite of him? "I know...if I steal this sign, my neighbors won't be reminded that there's another running mate and our guy will WIN"!!! That's so... childish.

Lastly, my first grader came home from school yesterday and said, "Mom, my class wants the other guy to win and so I do too". Seriously? First graders are talking about it... er, more like regurgitating what their parents have been discussing. It's sick. And we wonder why our country is full of arrogant, racist, narrow minded, ignorant fools.

A new low

A New Low

Riddle me this. Exactly why did I spend 40K on a college education? What did I get out of it besides bitchin' memories and a thread bare liver?

My first grader came home with math homework and I was sitting at the kitchen table going over it with him. How many pennies make a nickel? Easy enough. Draw the hands on the clock so they read 1 o'clock. Got it! What appears on the back of a penny? (silence, rapid blinking)

I stare the bronze coin and decide that my son should know the answer. What do you think the answer is, sweetie? "I think it's George Washington's house", my son tells me. I considered it, but wasn't convinced, so I call my husband at work.

I always know when there's people in his office because he talks to me in his "professional" voice. As in, "Yes, yes, I concur. I trust you'll make the right decision for us. Let's revisit this at a later date. Me: Jason, do you want a fucking pizza for dinner or don't you?

Anyway, there's obviously peeps in his office because he's talking to me like that. I said, "hi, I know you're busy, but what's on the other side of the penny"? His answer waivers and so he asks his 25 year old assistant. The assistant says "the Lincoln Memorial, duh". I told him that that's what I thought, but I just wanted to be sure. Jason puts me on speaker phone and says, "but we arrived at the correct answer first, so we win" I channeled my inner 10 year old and told him (and whoever else was in his office), "ooooooh you're soooooo smaaaaart......how did I get so lucky to have married such an Einstein.....you got me, you win. Now the score is 300 million to 2". That shut him up. You've got to knock him off his pedestal from time to time.

So, fast forward and I'm at bunco later that night. For those of you who don't follow this blog, bunco is my monthly girls' outing in which we roll dice and drink. But, not so much roll dice. I like to call it 'drunko'. Anywhoot, I'm at bunco and I'm telling some other first grade mommy friends about my penny debacle that afternoon. They all just starred at me. "All the answers are all written at the top of the page", they tell me. Wow. Now I really feel like a dumb ass.

If I'm having trouble with first grade homework, I can't even imagine what the subsequent years are going to bring. As if my self esteem weren't shaky enough.

You know you're a desperate housewife when.....

You know you're a desperate housewife when.....you think Anthony Wiggle is hot. Not to mention Captain Feather Sword. Sure, he has one eye patched and the other looks like it's got a goiter behind it, but aside from the pink & purple feathers, there lies a real man. What, with the omnipresent 5 o'clock shadow, a body that won't quit, oh yeah.

And while I'm critiquing the Wiggles, I'll just come out and say it. What the f. is wrong with Greg's mouth? I've tried to imitate it and I can't. It's as if a string has been tied to the left side of his bottom lip and is being pulled downward. Like a stroke victim, if you will.

Also Johnny from Johnny and the Sprites? Yes, he lives in a tree house. And yes, his only friends are furry, little, muppets. And yes, I realize he's as gay as the day is long, but I can't help but to see him in a different light when he's singing about "feelings". I'll give ya a feeling, Johnny!

addendum to stupid thing's I've said.

I see London, I see France

I can't believe I actually forgot this one. It's a doozy. Add this to my long list of STUPID things I've said. Last year, my neighbor and her daughter were going to London for an educational vaca of sorts. It was to be a bonding experience for the two.

So, it's the weekend before they're to leave and mother & daughter are out on a bike ride. They stop by my driveway because I'm outside doing yard work. Mother reminds me that they're leaving for London in a few days. So, I don't have much to say on the issue and often when I'm at a loss for words, I just babble incoherently. I say the first thing that comes to mind. "Do you speak French"? Mother & Daughter look at each other, then back at me. "No". So, I say, "Oh well. Have fun"!! I walk up my driveway into the garage where my husband is standing. He puts his arm around my shoulder and says to me, "You ARE aware they speak English in London, right"? NOoooooooooooooooo!!! I avoided her for the rest of the Summer. Even now when I see that particular neighbor, I'll often play possum and just go limp, as to avoid the possibility of that being brought up in conversation. Oh, the humiliation!!!

Occupations I'd have considered if it weren't for these pesky kids.

Occupations I'd have considered if it weren't for these pesky kids.

1. A Psychic--the benefits of my being psychic are exponential. For starters, I could find lost items. Also, I could save money on caller id and GPS. Not to mention how popular I'd be. Peeps would be lining up to be my friend. The obvious downside of being psychic is their wardrobe. It's too bohemian and wizard-freaky for me. I could be an urban psychic. Yes, an Urban Psychic.

2. A Private Investigator. I don't like to toot my own horn (even though I do) but I'd make a killer P.I. Anyone who's got the 411 on police lingo knows that detectives are also referred to as, "Dicks". That alone would be worth the ugly uniforms and sexual harassment. When I was a wee lass, I wanted so badly to be Jodi Foster in Silence of the Lambs. I actually had aspirations to join the FBI. --Apparently, they're selective about who they bring onto the force and whatnot. What, with my spotty past and all, I decided let that dream go up in smoke. But, nevertheless, I think I'd put Nancy Drew to shame with my super sleuthiness.

3. A bartender in a really cool club. How fun would that be? Literally getting paid to Par-Tay. Men would be fawning all over me, screaming my name, throwing money at me, dying for my attention. It would be like being a stripper, minus all the whorish stuff.

4. Paris Hilton. So that we're clear, she gets paid--a lot of money-- to show up to clubs, drinks, shakes her ass a little, makes out with random people and then goes home. Yep, where do I apply? I have a ton of experience in all of these capacities...I should be a shoo in.

5. Food critic. I don't really think this warrants an explanation.

6. Brangelina's nanny. Just 'cause.

7. Pharmacist. Mary, Joseph and all the Saints. Imagine the accessibility. I'd sleep so happily and peacefully at night, in my little white coat, on a pillow filled with pills. Blue ones, yellow ones, white ones, uppers, downers, anti-anxiety, anti-depressants.... I'd feel like a kid in a candy store. I wonder how strict they are on "ethics" in pharmacist schools.

That's it. I really have no other aspirations. I wasn't much of a go-getter to begin with. I'm proud of myself for even getting up this morning.

the preppy criminal

This is a short, but true, little story. Despite my past blog entitled, "Leslieisms or Lies", all of my stories are true.

On my way to the YMCA yesterday morning, I noticed a group of people on the side of the road, picking up trash. They all donned their fancy, mesh orange vests. I could only assume they were sentenced to community service...why else would they be wearing orange vests on the side of the road, while willingly collecting trash? For Heaven's sake.

So I'm watching them while sitting at a stop light and I notice one woman who stood out a bit from the rest. For one thing, she was older, perhaps in her 50's. She was very attractive, her hair was perfectly coiffed, her capris were pressed and the collar on her white tennis shirt was turned up. I think she may have even been wearing earrings. Here's the thing. As God as my witness, the woman tied her orange vest around her shoulders. I literally laughed out loud. Who did she think she was? Of course, being in the booming business of blogging, I immediately thought of a million captions for this poor woman, who was just going about her day.

* I'm much better than everyone here. Look, I have my collar up.

* There! This looks much nicer, don't you think so, officer?

* No one will suspect I'm a hardened criminal. Look at me, I have my collar up for pete's sake!

*If Martha can fashion a cashmere sweater set out of an orange jumpsuit, then By God, I can too!

*Shhhh, I'm creating the illusion that I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart, not because the judge sentenced me to 60 hours of community service for bribing a police officer with oral sex.

*You can take me land but you can't take me freeeeedom!

*You can take the girl out of Greenwich Village but you can't take Greenwich out of the girl.

* Does my orange mesh vest go with this trash poker?

* I might be picking up trash, but damned if I'm going to dress like it!

Every one of these thoughts ran through my head before the light turned green. I had to race home immediately to write it all down. I should totally work for David Letterman. See, it just goes to show you that there's humor everywhere you look. Even at a stop light. :-)

chicka chicka bow bow

I live in a neighborhood with approximately 1100 homes. For the most part, my "circle of friends" live right here in the neighborhood. Often I go for bike rides or long walks during the day, like when my kids are at school or what have you. I can't help but ride by a lot of my friends homes, it's not like I'm stalking them for Pete's sake. But, how immature am I that EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. I see both the husband's and wife's car in the driveway at the same time, I say to myself, "chicka chicka bow bow". How gay. What, am I 12? Not to mention that a lot of my girlfriend's husbands have home offices, so why my mind immediately goes to sordid thoughts is beyond me. GROW UP!!!!! Like everyone is having nooners day in, day out.... right! Not likely. I also do the chicka chicka bow bow thing when I'm on the phone with a girlfriend during the day and her husband comes home unexpectedly, "--Oh, Mark just got home"....and then, me "Ohhhhhh....chicka chicka bow bow, someone-came-home-for-a-nooner", I'll sing. I've said it once, I'll say it again. I embarrass myself. I'm not sure how I have any friends, I can barely stand myself. Well, that's not entirely true. Sometimes I totally crack myself up.

Helepillar

If you haven't read my story "Gang Wars", stop reading this blog, go back and read it. This blog is a sequel to Gang Wars.





Now then, this tale picks up where Gang Wars left off (which is pretty much what a sequel does). You may remember a tiny little caterpillar riding into my home on my Cable Guy's boot. Well, that was 10 days ago and that stinking thing is still here. I left it in a small Tupperware container and I give him water and a fresh leaf every day.





At first it was cute. Mom catches a caterpillar. Mom shows her boys the caterpillar. Boys couldn't possibly be less interested. Mom grows resentful of the caterpillar and it's neediness. Oldest story in the book.




After 10 days, I'm all, "LEAVE ALREADY...YOU HAVEN'T HAD A LID ON YOUR BOWL FOR TEN DAYS....IT'S NOT THAT HARD TO FIGURE OUT...YOU HAVE 300 FEET, MOVE IT"!




But no. The caterpillar remains. It has the longest hair I have ever seen on a caterpillar. It's like a fraggle rock muppet. It's got this crazy, long, wispy hair. So, the first 5 days, it didn't move. It ate like a champ, but it never moved. I decided it was depressed. My sister's theory was that it's hair was too long to walk. I like that theory all right, but because it's MY caterpillar, chances are, it's depressed. Mental illness runs in the family, after all. So, it doesn't move. It just sits and eats all day long. Then it hit me. It's my mother. She's come back in the form of a caterpillar. She always told us that when she died, she'd come back as a butterfly so she could fly around and look over us. There are even butterflies on her box (ashes..get your mind out of the gutter). So, all of these clues are all leading me to believe that it's Helen. She's come to look after me. That's why she won't leave. It's as obvious as the nose on my face. (If you've seen my face, you'd know how blatantly obvious it is)




So, I went to show my youngest the caterpillar one day, you know, to introduce him to his Grammy. And it was gone. GONE! I was somewhat devastated, but if I knew Helen like I think I did, it was most likely on it's way to Walmart. Now, everyone knows the chances of finding a caterpillar on the way to Walmart is nearly impossible, so I accepted his departure and embraced his freedom.




When my older son got home from school that day, I showed him the empty bowl and explained that our caterpillar was gone. Well, who was sitting back on his leaf, but the caterpillar. It was a miracle, if ever I've seen one. It found it's way back home, all by itself, it did. He knew where his bread got buttered. Who's your mommy? Well, technically, he was actually my mommy, but since I was taking care of it, I would be the mommy. It's funny how you switch roles once your parents grow old. Or die. The child becomes the parent and so forth.

Once I came to realize that caterpillar was here to stay and is as much a part of this family as anyone, I've grown to like the little guy. I like to watch him walk the perimeter of his bowl. Bless his heart, he's dumber than a box of rocks, he just walks around and around and around the lip of the bowl, never once attempting to step one foot (or 300 feet) outside of his comfort zone. I've made quite a home for him. He'd be crazy to leave. At first his constant needs bothered me. The cleaning of the bowl, the agonizing, the pulling of the leaves every morning, the fresh water...Oy. But really, having one extra "thing" to take care of isn't such a big deal. I already do everything for everyone all day long, so what's a little more? (that's the Jewish mother (martyr) in me)




I think mom/caterpillar really likes it here. As you know, my mother's remains are here with me. If you don't know this, please read blog entitled, "Helen's Homecoming". Her ashes may be up on my built-in bookshelves, but her soul is right here on my kitchen counter. She's really thinking outside the "box" these days. Good thing too, because she was getting to be a real "square". OMG, I am cracking myself up right now.





So, ta-ta for now. Mom/Caterpillar and I are going homecoming dress shopping.


xo

Gang Wars

First, let me first start by telling you that I'm living among the gang world. Not Bloods or Crips, mind you see. No, these gangs go by the street names, "Cable" & "Satellite". They're a vicious bunch.

It all started when we left Charter (our local cable company) a few years back because my husband thought it would be cool to have a satellite dish. Well, as a result we had to get "jumped" out of our contract, but nevertheless, we made the switch, knives and all. Not 2 weeks into having the satellite, problems occurred. We figured it was a fluke, had it repaired, and so forth. Then another repair. Then another repair. Then another repair. We started realizing that each time the wind blew (literally) it blew our satellite out of whack. And that ain't whack, yo. So finally another tech comes to visit and he asks me if I ever see Charter vans around here. Well, there ARE 1100 homes in this neighborhood, don't you think it's a little arrogant to assume everyone has Dish? So, I tell him that yes, from time to time I'll notice a Charter vehicle or two. He nods his head all knowingly and he decides he can trust me, so he lets me in on a little secret.

Allegedly, Charter has been known to "cut" the satellite lines, as, you know, a prank. "Yeah, they don't much like us, those Charter guys", he tells me. "Started a few years ago, when we moved our offices over near their headquarters. Even now, I'll wave to them if I pass them on the road (it would only be ethical, after all), but now ( he shakes his head for effect) , they won't even wave back". I'm staring at this guy like I'm waiting for his story to continue, but I guess that's the end. So, I say, "...they. don't. wave . back?" Nope, he sighs all dramatically. Whatever. I shoo him off to fix our satellite, I can't be bothered with such ugliness. Then, I got to imagining. You know how I like to imagine things. So, I'm envisioning Charter vs. Dish in my front yard, except they're all circling around my big Oak tree, bouncing and snapping their fingers...."when you're a Jet, you're a Jet..." I had a chuckle over that, my imagery.

So, fast forward 2 long years and we have successfully made the switch back to Charter because, well, Charter is dope, yo, what with the Charter on Demand and whatnot. So I had a window between 8 A.M. and Noon. Coke bottle glasses with red hair shows up at 12:30. He drove me nuts the moment he arrived. First of all he was late, so after noon, I assumed he wasn't coming and I went about my day. My 3 yr old peed his pants, I went upstairs to find him new undies & shorts, in the meantime, he's downstairs naked from the waist down, the doorbell rings, he, of course, answers the door (naked) even though I don't allow my kids to answer the door. None the less, my 85 lb Lab bursts through the door, my son is telling him to come in, but the guy doesn't want to considering he's naked. And 3. So, I hear all the ruckus and I come running down the stairs. To my horror, I find my naked son in the foyer and an empty beer bottle on the floor by his feet.

Now, I swear to you this is true. My older son was performing a magic trick of sorts the night before for Aunt Sarah and it required a bottle and a ring. He asked if he could borrow a beer bottle, I told him to rinse one out from the recycle bin and he could use it. It seemed innocuous enough. When he put away the magic kit, he put the beer bottle away with it. So that's where that came from. But I digress.

So, coke bottle glasses with red hair is staring at the naked child, the beer bottle and me. Not to mention my house was tore apart. It's not easy keeping it tidy when you're confined to your home with a 3 yr old from 8-12. I was mortified. I was fairly certain he was using his Nextel to phone in a report to CPS. Well, long story short, he was here for over 5 hours and exactly nothing got done. He asked me question after question about "burying lines" and "tapping into wires" and all this jibberish. I didn't know why he was asking MY advice, seeing as though I hired HIM. He was a real putz, this guy. After 5 hours I was slumped on the couch with my chin in my hand asking him how to use this intricate, fancy new system and he tells me, I swear to you this is true, "I don't really know, this is only the 2nd one I've ever installed".

But that's not where this story ends. It ends with a hairy little caterpillar that came into my home and into my heart that day. He must have gotten a ride in on Coke bottle's boot, bless his heart. I will continue on with my trials and tribulations with this caterpillar in a subsequent blog. For, my hands are cramping.

Oprah's Picks (although, not so much Oprah's)

Because my opinion counts and all; I'd like to draft a list of my top 3 picks


Leslie's 3 favorite songs


1. Time by Pink Floyd

2. Into the Mystic by Van Morrison

3. Erotic City by Prince (I ALWAYS request this song at weddings and then shortly afterward, I'm usually asked to leave).

(a close 4th, 5th & 6th would obviously be, Night Moves by Bob Seger, Southern Cross by CSNY and OPP by Naughty by Nature) Naturally.





Leslie's 3 favorite holidays


1. Thanksgiving. I love Turkey day because it represents all the cozy things that Christmas means to me, except the ridiculous gift-giving and hustle & bustle.


2. Memorial Day. Ahhhh, the start of Summer. The promise of a long drunken weekend that typically revolves around water, boats, sun & fun.


3. My Birthday. Call me ego-centric, but it's true, it's my most favorite day of the year. It's the one day that it's truly all about me (and not just in my imagination, like all the other days).



Leslie's 3 favorite possessions (friends & family excluded)


1. My dog, Luna
2. A book mark that my sister gave me. A long fish wire with fancy beads at either end.
3. my new Antik Denim jean


(close 4th would be my vacuum, ohhhh, I love her so)





Leslie's 3 favorite ways to spend spare time


1. reading a good book in Jason's hammock

2. go to a movie

3. Shopping downtown Rockford





Leslie's 3 favorite must-see t.v. shows


1. The Office
2. Californication
3. Intervention (I'm preparing for my own inevitable intervention....it's bound to happen sooner or later)





Leslie's 3 favorite places to be


1. Barnes & Noble
2. The Rossi's House (see blog entitled "My God Lindsey, I thought I killed her)
3. Home (queer, I know, but I'm a home-body, for shiz)





Leslie's 3 favorite ways to spend a perfect day


1. Shopping/mani/pedi

2. Going for a boat ride with Jason & the boys

3. Having a bunch of friends over after the kids go to bed. (bonfire)





Leslie's 3 favorite things to wear


1. Nothing. (They didn't call me the "drafty dreamer" in college for nothing)

2. Velour yoga pants & long sleeve t.

3. A. tube top & white pants (tube tops rock it 'old school' because they are super sexy PLUS you can let it all hang out underneath...bonus)



Leslie's 3 favorite stress relievers


1. Pain killers
2. Alcohol
3. Mowing the lawn




Leslie's 3 favorite cocktails



1. Beer (reminiscent of sipping warm, almost empty MGD cans that were left by my dad and his friends)

2. Grey Goose & 7 up with a splash of cranberry juice (I'm fancy that way)

3. Bloody Mary. (Specifically, Peper Stoli, Clamato Juice or V8, A1 sauce, celery salt, pepper, Worcestershire Sauce, 1 pickle, 1 stalk of celery, 2 green olives with pimento) It's like a salad...but with charisma! Perfect for when you haven't had dinner, nor are you interested in eating solid foods. It's the epitome of killing two birds with one stone.



Leslie's 3 favorite baby names (of which my husband shattered my dreams and nixed everyone of them)

Boy

1. Brock

2. Brooks

3. Tate

Girl

1. Grier

2. ....You know, come to think of it, we've never gotten this far because I never really wanted a daughter.

3.



Leslie's 3 favorite "desert island" items
1. my sunglasses (because you never know when the paparazzi will be following you)
2. headbands or ponytail holders (because the last thing you want is hair in your face)
3. chapstick or lip gloss (because you never know when you'll need glossy lips)

....And lastly, Leslie's 3 favorite daydreams
1. Calling all my friends after we've won the lotto and telling them all they never have to work again

2. Being a bestselling author with a tour bus and book signing appearances and fans and expensive shoes.

3. Being old, living on the lake, having beach parties with our old friends. The boys come home from college to visit us and their friends think we're cool parents and try to take our beer. We catch them and tell them to buy their own damn beer. They laugh and we end up giving them our beer because after all, they're our children and what kind of parents would we be if we didn't give beer to our children. Then they bring girlfriends home and we sabotage their relationships because no one is good enough for our boys. Then it all comes full circle when our sons marry the daughters of our closest friends after years of trying to set them up and we officially become family. Except tension ensues during holidays because we bicker over who's house the children will visit first. Or, in this case, who's house they'll visit last because everyone knows whoever gets visited first ends up getting hosed because the guests will inevitably leave early to get to the final destination. The second tier stop is always the best. Everyone who's anyone knows that.

Leslieisms.....or as my husband calls them, "lies"

I'm compiling a list of my more infamous "leslieisms" ....or as my husband calls them, "lies". By nature I'm really not a liar. I'm neither deceitful nor wiley--I swear. It's comforting to know that I'm actually a terrible liar. But from time to time I find myself in a pickle and I have to try and weasel my way out. As pathetic as some of the stories may be, I still give futile attempts at recovery. Some even work!



I'll start with earlier lies...er, Leslieisms and work my way up to adulthood.



Teen Years:

Had a huge bash at my house. My parents were in NY for the weekend. I told a few people, they told a few people and so on and so forth. It's the oldest story in the book. Next thing I know, I was face down on my family room floor being awoken by the police. Quite a hostess I was, even then. The police asked where my parents were, I told them Meijers. On my fridge was a very large note that read, "LES, HERE'S THE NUMBER WHERE WE'LL BE STAYING IN NYC. STAY OUT OF TROUBLE!!". So, those tricky cops put two and two together and figured out that I wasn't being so truthful. Fast forward to Sunday night, when the 'rents arrived home. There I sat, looking so pitiful on my couch (the house had never been so clean). I cried and cried about how all the senior girls spread rumors about a party and they just showed up and being a meek little sophomore, what was I supposed to do? In fact, I'd even considered calling the police myself, because wasn't it you who told me to always call the police if I were in trouble? It was awful, I'm so glad you're home. Boy, did I learn my lesson. Well, they reluctantly bought it. I did the obligatory time, one month's grounding and then all was to be forgiven. That is, until I got my film developed. Like a donkey, I made a collage of all my party photos and placed it on the back of my bedroom door. I figured, why the heck would she ever be in my room with the door closed? Well, that logic lasted for about, oh, um, 14 hours. Pictures of me doing keg stands and beer bongs cluttered my door. Images of virginal me sitting (laying) on every guy's lap trying to weasel my way into a picture. There was actually a photo of me, standing at the "bar" playing bartender in my mother's apron with one of her Virginia Slims hanging out of my mouth. I must have thought that was the epitome of sophistication! Needless to say, my month's grounding was elevated to hard time, where I remained grounded for the rest of my Sophomore year. I was mad at myself, really.

Another dandy was when I snuck out of the house to (what else) drink beer with my pals. When I got home, I hid the rest of the beer under my chimney. You may recall that beer was somewhat hard to come by as a teen, so when there was leftovers, we hoarded it. I made such a ruckus that my 75 year old step father came out to ask what was up. I slurred, "shhhhhhh, it's mom's mother's day present, I'm hiding it". He gave me the okie-doke sign and winked at me, like he was down with the hi jinx and whatnot. Flash forward 3 weeks and of course, the only mother's day present for my mother was a drunken 16 year old passed out in her bed with her clothes on backwards and leaves in her hair.



During my aforementioned grounding, I missed a few key holidays, but darned if I was going to miss New Year's Eve '89. I told my mother that I was babysitting. My friend picked me up in his '85 Camero and he was wearing a blue helmet on his head. He always wore that helmet when he drove, I still don't know why, but, heck if it didn't crack me up every time I saw him. Anyway, I went to a party of a girl that was in our class. Her parents were extremely wealthy but we couldn't stand her. We only went because her parents were gone. I may or may not have ashed in her permed & frosted hair a few times and when she'd turn around, I'd just smile wildly and wave at her. It was a fine friendship, really. I even got ballsy (which 38 beers will tend to do) and I called my parents to wish them a Happy New Year!!! More like, "hic.....Appy Hue Near, mom. Shooooot no, they're not home yet....it'll prolly be anudder few hours...what, oh, all dat noises....Dick Clark's Rockin' Nuyeers, a'course....bye"!!! Got away with it, hook, line and sinker. Cue to Leslie, rubbing my knuckles on my chest after huffing on them.



Tried to leave a different house party in order to make curfew. The hostess had a circular driveway and I was blocked in by about 400 cars. There was a rock garden in the middle of the circle, which normally would be an obstacle, but not for me, why I just drove right over it. The next day, my 75 year old step father screams, "Jesus Cheeerist, Les, what the hell did you hit?" Hm? What's that, a dent, you say? You know, come to think of it, there were a lot of plow trucks out last night, I wonder if one of them hit me. So, he and my mother took my car to the police station the next day, filed a report and allegedly the police told them that the damage was in fact, consistent with that of a plow truck. Cue to Leslie taking a bow.



College Years



Every TIME, I mean EVERY TIME I got drunk, I told people that my boyfriend beat me. I realize now that domestic abuse is no laughing matter, but it was big fun back in the early 90's. I loved the attention, but really I just wanted to break up with him and frankly, I was sick of my friends liking him better than me.



Out ran the cops on WMU's campus in my Ford Tempo. Finally pulled over and told the police that he was scaring me, that's why I wouldn't stop.



Got a speeding ticket after doing the walk of shame. Make that the drive of shame. I fought the ticket and told the judge that I was speeding because there was a bee in my car and I was highly allergic to bees. Never mind that the ticket was issued in February, but by the time my court date was set, it was June. Bada Boom Bada Bing, ta-ta ticket!



Because college was such a blur and I really don't even recall graduating, these are really all of the lies, er..Leslieisms that stick out in my mind. Now, onto adulthood.



Present day

I've used the old, "I'm going to be late, I got stuck behind a funeral procession....ugh, you know how that can be" at least a million times. It's a dandy!



I know this one sounds plain ridiculous, but it's true. I told my employer that I couldn't go to work because my cat ate a poisonous bug and I had to keep an eye on him. (True lie, honest)!



I told a different employer that I sprained my ankle. Then, I rented crutches from Walgreens to cover my tracks. I'm too sneaky for m'self!

I signed a contract with a martial arts gym. After weeks and weeks of hellish kick boxing, I had to get out of it. I plotted and schemed, but nothing was going to get Master Kim to let me out of the contract. Finally, I had a friend in Chicago write me up a fake lease on fake letter head with a fake offer letter from a fake company. I'm now realizing that for all that trouble, I, myself could have drafted up all of these fake documents. It seemed more authentic to have an out of town friend do it, though. The post mark, you see....always check the city's postmark. I'd make a hella criminal, don't you think? Master Kim finally let me off, but I think he simply grew tired of my pestering. Had I put as much energy and effort into kick boxing as I did to getting out of kickboxing, I'd be a bad ass by now.

I told everyone at my sister's 2nd wedding (where I didn't know a soul) that she was approximately 14 years older than she really was. Actually, that's not altogether true. Sometimes I reduced her age by 14 years too, it just depended on who I was talking to. But, I was very consistent with a 14 year difference. Considering she had small children at the time, it made the story ever-so interesting. I loved watching the look on her new in-laws faces as they tried to process this new information. I said other things that night too, like, "pssst, I don't think the bride is showing yet, do you? She looks marvelous, even in her condition"... and things like that. Some of the other stories from that night escape me, but the point is, I'm a HOOT when I'm taken to a fancy schmancy affair where I don't know anyone. Like at my step father's 65th birthday party when I snuck wine coolers, then told his guests that I was his bastard child. A HOOT, I tell you. When attempting this stunt, it's best to walk away right after the whammie. It leaves the listener confused. Best not to stick around and answer questions.



Lies I've told my children

These are actual lies and not "Leslieisms". There's a big difference.

1. They were made from love. (or drunken make-up sex...whichever)
2. Black holes will appear on their tongues if they lie.
3. They can't drink beer because it's too spicy (I also tell them this with regard to anything that I don't want to share with them, oreos, etc..)
4. I'll come back upstairs in 5 minutes. Just close your eyes and wait for me.
5. Oops, did I accidentally skip a page?
6. That there's jewelry in my mother's box (uh, no, that'd be Grammy's ashes).
7. Skateboards aren't allowed until you're 10. It's the law.
8. If you don't eat healthy food, I'll have to call Dr. Macedo and he'll have to give you a vitamin shot.
9. Daddy and I went alllllll the way to Las Vegas, just to get you this pokemon card. Aren't we the bestest parents ever? Of course we didn't buy it at the gas station downtown, silly!
10. We're not fighting, we're just talking about a movie we saw last night (I use the movie line for any conversation my son overhears that he shouldn't overhear).

~TRULY yours,
Leslie