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.