hypocricy

Nothing, I mean nothing bothers me more than hypocrisy. I'll cut a bitch over hypocrisy.

In my book, there are two kinds of hypocrisy: DO AS I SAY, NOT AS I DO: This kind of hypocrisy occurs when the [said] offender gets on his or her soapbox to proclaim their convictions with such gusto, but then has the nerve break their own rules. And then, to make it worse, they dismiss their actions with a quick & dismissive, "oh, well that's different". Ooooh, them are fighting words. I don't care who or what you are, just own it! Don't pretend to be a saint and judge everyone else, then sleep with half the town. Ya know?

Like this person, for example....she gets up on her hind legs and rants about cancer awareness and makes everyone else feel like shit for not doing as much work as she has on the issue, then has the audacity to blow cigarette smoke in all of our (non-smoking) faces. Or the person who lies, cheats and is basically a cunning, calculating, con-artist, but then berates someone for not sending a birthday card. (hypothetical, of course).

Moving on... WHAT'S GOOD FOR THE GOOSE ISN'T NECESSARILY WHAT'S GOOD FOR THE GANDER: The husband is FAMOUS for this one and it is often what causes me to envision taking a shovel to his kneecaps. This offense comes in all shapes and sizes in our household. I should preface this paragraph with a bit of background on the matter. He likes to pick on me. Not in a controlling, Lifetime Movie kind-of-way, but in a petty, joking kind-of-way. The man loves to point out my mistakes. This is where I've adopted the nickname "Luuu-cyy". Get it? My big Cuban husband (ok, he's mexican) and his ditzy white wife. He'll gripe at me for spending money on things that we'll genuinely need, then he'll shamelessly buy a Harley Davidson, riding lawn mower, snow blower, every single article of clothing that Harley has ever made, goes out to lunch every single day, buys the kids ridiculous gifts just for simply being adorable, and every other unnecessary trinket or tool that's ever been brought into this house that's only purpose is to make life a tad more convenient for him. Then I'll be like, "babe, I gotta run to Target and get a new mop" he'll be all, "WHAAAAT??? That's crazy, just use a toothbrush". Ok, I'm exaggerating, but you get the point. But it doesn't always have to do with money. It can come down to parenting, diet, chores, in-laws, etc... Hypocrisy in any form is a real touchy subject with me. As you can plainly see.

Anyway---in addition to my funny stories, I'll often use my blog to vent about issues that rattle me. Call it passive aggressive--whatev. It makes me feel better.

Stay tuned for my next blog about 'insecurities'. :-) Except you have to pronounce it
"in-seh-kurr-i-tee" Like Bon Qui Qui (my favorite You Tube video---if you haven't seen it....you MUST).

M'WAH xo

the 2nd christmas letter

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the REAL Christmas letter

What if our Christmas letters weren't the G-rated, glossy image of our families that we so badly want the world to believe? What if we just put it out there and weren't ashamed of our realities? I wish I had the kahunas to compose a REAL Christmas letter. I'd like to imagine that it would go a little something like this:

Dear Friends & Family,

Is it December already? Whew, seems like just yesterday when we hosted that golf outing to help raise money for Tom's bail. The year goes by fast when you're living conjugal visit to conjugal visit. We never did come up with his bail, but we sure had fun golfing that day.

In hindsight, it would have been smarter to put an honest person in charge of collecting the cash, instead of Tom's cousin who'd recently done hard time up in county. But, you live and learn!

This year, our little Becky graduated from beauty school. She's turned out to be a real bitch, just like her older sister. Which comes in handy when looking for a husband--not. We keep telling her that she's looking in all the wrong places, but she insists that the Mobile Gas Station on 44th street has the biggest dipsticks in town. Whatever that means.

Carl jr. is still in the 4th grade. We figure at this rate, he'll be able to drive himself to school by 5th grade. Sweet mother of Mary, the boy ain't right. Least no one picks on him. Him being 8 years older than everyone else puts him at an advantage. Knowing OUR family, we'll take all the advantages we can get!

We finally laid to rest our sweet Mee-Maw. Dang thing lived to be nearly 93. Well, we didn't so much 'lay her to rest' as forget to feed her for quite some time. We figured we'd keep her death a li'l secret....that is, until her social security ran out. We was livin' high on the hog for a while. White Castle every night... But that's all a passing fancy since our dog, Brutus dug her up and the nosy neighbor kid told his parents. Well, one thing lead to another and next thing you know, we've got the po-po knocking on our front door. There went that cash cow! Ah, it was fun while it lasted.

But, it's not all bad. Tom's parole hearing went off without a hitch. His release is set for 2034 and that's not so far if you think about it. Figure, he's probably learning some mad skillz in prison, more so than he'd learn out on the streets.

If anyone is wondering what to buy us for Christmas this year, don't get all crazy. You know we don't like hand outs. But Carl jr. needs a new mattress (he chewed his old one) and I could really use a carton or two of cigarettes. Maybe a bottle of booze (any booze will do) and a puffy paint kitty sweatshirt. That'd be real nice.

Merry Christmas!!!!

Ha ha ha.... I'm just kidding. That would never happen. This is more like how my Christmas letter would read, should I ever have the stones to write one:

Dear Friends & Family,

This year sucked. Jason works non-stop and I'm stuck here between these four walls for days on end. Jason tells me to find a hobby, but I'd rather just complain about being bored.

Ben continues to do well. He is a great student and a well liked kid. We don't think he's ours. Upon Jason's promotion earlier this year, Ben asked if he could join the local country club. We reminded him that we aren't "country club" people. To which, he replied, "WELL, I AM"!!!! He is well aware of the fact that he is way too good for our family. We think there's a grubby kid out there somewhere that belongs to us. But, we keep that under wraps because we believe Ben will be our meal ticket someday.

Gabe...... Um. Let's see. What can I write about Gabe that won't land me in jail? He's got the most darling eyelashes you've ever seen. He has a very healthy appetite, despite looking manorexic. His hobbies include eating non-edible things and that about sums up Gabe.

Me? Oh, don't worry about me. No, no, it's allllllll about the kids. It's children first in this family. Oh, I'm sorry, do you NOT speak sarcasm? No? Well, if you're going to live in my world, you really ought to learn the language.

The most remarkable thing to happen this year is that I finally conceded to the fact that I can't cook. I've suspected it all along, but the truth came out when I cleverly substituted baking powder for baking soda. Disaster ensued.

I've also upped my game where it pertains to hiding money from Jason. This year, I've graduated from hiding cash in the freezer, to actually taking out an additional bank account under my alias. Shhhh.

The high point of my year was my court appointed, community services. I'll just leave it at that.

The low point of 2009 was that nasty pregnancy scare back in March. Whew!!! Not enough vodka to smooth over that whoopsie.

You're probably thinking, "Leslie, How. Do. You. Do. It? You seem to have it all and you're just so selfless". Yes, well....it's the least I can do, for being allowed to live this lap of luxury. (help me)

Just another day in paradise!

Happy Freaking Holidays.

etiquette lessons required

So, I'm told that my husband has been invited to dinner at his boss' house. I guess my presence is expected as well. Who knew? Not me, as I tend to avoid these types of affairs. You've been reading this blog long enough to know that I'm not exactly house broken yet. Just for kicks, go into my early archives and read, "Stupid Things I've Said". Not to be confused with "Stupid things my husband's said".



Only the upper level management has been invited, which really only amounts to maybe 4 men (and their wives). I have been to 2 other company events----one was a Christmas party and my behavior was hardly noticed because I was lost in a sea of 300 other drunks. The second function was a company picnic and I busied myself with my kids, so I was somewhat able to keep my nose clean that day.



But these new developments have me in a quandary. Me nervous. So many things can go wrong. So many variables. What do I wear? Do I bring a hostess gift? Will it be catered or will I have to roll up my sleeves and help with dishes? Shall I except a drink if offered? That's silly, of course I will. What if I snort? What if it's boring and I yawn? What if they talk about businessy stuff all night? What if I hate what they serve?

All these worries could be dismissed if I were a normal person. But, I'm not. I blurt out indescretions. I don't have a filter between my brain and my mouth. I get nervous during awkward silences and that's usually when things go terribly, terribly wrong. What's worse, is I drink too much when I'm nervous. And why am I so nervous----it's not like I'm meeting my boyfriend's parents. Well, my husband has about as much faith in me as my mother did during my teen years. The pressure, the pressure. I'm scerred.

the holy trinity

Soooo, I'm in the car with the boy last night (the 7 yr old boy). He confidently tells me that he only needs three friends. So, I'm thinking 'what a noble statement that is for a little boy'. I ask, "who would be your 3 friends"? I'm imagining the litany of friends that he's likely to rattle off.


He responds, "myself, God & Jesus".

uh-HUH. Alrighty then. Great answer. That should put him on the fast track to popularity! I guess that gets me off the hook from planning a big birthday bash for him next year.

That's all. Carry on, then.

twitter

Follow my twat on twitter now! leslie bosscher or leslieb73

For crying out loud, how self-absorbed can one person possibly be? In my day we just had diaries with gay little locks on them that your crazy sister could open with a toothpick and then blackmail you for 3 years about what was written in it. Just saying...

My weekend with my 85 year old stepfather

Oh. My. Gawd. For a brief re-cap, I recommend that you go back to archived blogs and read the one entitled, "Helen's homecoming" to get the full effect of what I went thru last weekend.

I haven't seen my step dad, Jack in 4 years. He didn't stay with me then, he just blew into town for a few hours, then drove back to my sister's house, 2 hours away to stay with her. Because that particular sister is a crazed lunatic, he chose to stay with me this time.

I was so excited. I hadn't seen him in ages. I went grocery shopping and bought all of his favorite things. I was anxious for his visit because I wanted to see him, but also because I looked forward to being close to him because he reminds me of my mom. I was so hoping that his stay would bring on a 'presence' from my mother. I thought, if ever she'd decide to 'visit' me, now would be the time. As it turns out, she has waayyy better things to do than 'visit' me while her widowed husband was here. She was all, "hell, I put up with his crap for 18 years, you can deal with it for a weekend. Peace out".

I should probably preface the following paragraph by stating that Jack, again, is 85 years old and basically doesn't give a hoot what anyone thinks about him. I find that to be partially embarrassing, yet partially endearing. I admire his chutzpah. I can't wait until I'm old enough to be able to say whatever the hell I feel like saying without enduring the consequences. Anyway, I should also mention that Jack gets very fixated on certain topics. He's a bit of a "one-upper". If you have a cold, he has meningitis. You get the idea. Whatev. He's earned the right. He's 85 for Christ's sake. So, I've learned that there's certain topics that you can NOT mention. Unless you want to die a slow death.
1. cars
2. music
3. health
4. abortion
5. religion

If you should happen to own a car with a fancy name, be it a Porsche, BMW, Mercedes, Saab, Cadillac, Lincoln, etc. etc... He'll tell you for no less than 3 hours why his (taurus, malibu, sonata) is superior. Trust me on this one.

He believes any music made after the big bang era is worthless. Don't even go there.

If you've ever suffered from any sort of disorder or disease, he's already had it---and worse. So don't bother

If you should ever bring up your stand on abortion (pro life) he'll immediately ask you how many unwanted babies you're going to adopt. It's the same schtick every time. He is very pro-woman & very pro-choice and he is very vocal about that fact. Gotta love it. However, he lives in the deep South and one of these days he's going to bark up the wrong tree with regard to his stand on being pro-choice. I can't believe he hasn't been shot yet.

Religion. Oh, where do I begin? OK, Jack is a non-practicing Jew. He believes that anyone who remotely practices religion has been brainwashed. You cannot dispute this with him. I've learned. This is why I keep him away from my in-laws. And my husband. And my children. And the general public.

OK, so are you getting the general jist of things here? He gets very fixated on certain topics and you can't sway him. Very sensitive topics, I might add. You cannot differ in opinion from him, or he'll talk you to death trying to convince you otherwise. I used to goat him as a teenager. Now, I don't have the strength. So, after a few hours with him, I just started treated him like one of my children and I tuned him out. God love him.

Here are some of jack's famous expressions (I've known Jack since 1985 and trust me, these sayings have been incorporated into each and every conversations he's ever had):

Dig you later----his goofy way of saying, "see you later".

I told you I loved you, now get the hell out---his endearing way of saying "good-bye"

You're so good to me since the baby---he says this whenever someone serves him food. We still don't get it.

I said it and I'm glad--he always says this after he burps.

Says each his own---his wacky way of saying, 'to each his own'.

Dah Doo Day---he says this when he doesn't know what else to say.

She had freckles on her but, I loved her----another filler, for when he doesn't know what else to say.

I'm changing my image---he says this whenever he shaves or grows out his facial hair

You're still in the Guess Jeans fad---he freaks if he thinks I'm wearing a certain brand or label. He insists I only wear labels to uphold an image of myself. For the record, I haven't worn Guess jeans since roughly 1986. He almost had a seizure when he saw my son wearing a Polo shirt. I might have done that on purpose.

"Ya motha had great legs"---he loves to reminisce about my mom's legs. I think it's the only part of her he misses.

It only hurts when I laugh---I haven't figured out when or why he says this, but he says it a lot!

You can bet your ass he said each and every one of these expressions within the first hour of his arrival. He was just so darn excited to have an excuse to use them. Nothing ever changes with that man. For starters, how many of you know an 85 year old that simply gets in the car and decides to drive from S. Carolina to Michigan, just for kicks? He has XM radio in his car, he works it like a donkey, too! He emails, he uses GPS. The dude is cool. (a bit redundant and predictable, but cool). I swear, he'll outlive all of us. We don't really think he's human. We think he has a laundry list of expressions, like a robot and he just uses them interchangeably.

Anyhoot---now go read "Helen's Homecoming"....just for kicks. She's an oldie, so you'll have to go back quite a bit into the archives.

Ima bounce.
LB

random thoughts & observations

I've realized I've developed tourette's in my old age. So, instead of blogging about a broad topic, I'm just going to randomly spout off about things that are on my mind. Hence, random thoughts and observations.

Rumor Willis. Is that the most tragic looking girl, or what? Her mother is Demi Moore and her father is Bruce Willis and she looks like..... a jalapeno. Seriously. Her face is the shape of a chili pepper of sorts. I can't put my finger on what makes her so incredibly homely. Is it her misaligned jaw or her bulbous chin? I've yet to win a beauty contest, so I really can't point fingers, but damn....her mother is the pinnacle of beauty and she looks like something out of a Picasso painting. It's just unfortunate, is what it is. Bless her heart.

Also, along those same lines, let's talk about Sam Bernstein and the entire Bernstein clan. I'll recap for any of you who don't know who Sam Bernstein is. He is the malpractice/slip & fall/personal injury attorney guru. He spends a gazillion dollars every year on advertising. When he was just Sam Bernstein, he had made an impressive name for himself---he should have left it at that. But, his three children decided to become lawyers and go into the family biz. You have never, and I mean never, seen such unattractive children....all belonging to one man. My God. There's two sons and a daughter. Each one more homely than the next. One of the boys is totally cross eyed and has a terrible lisp. Unfortunate, indeed! Sam, himself isn't exactly good looking, but he's not God-awful, either. Whatever genes he and his wife share.....clearly don't mix well. Do me a favor....google them. Just for kicks.

Do Asians joke that all Whites look alike?

Family Guy. Ok, I spent 5 or more years poo pooing that show because I was certain that nothing good would come from an adult cartoon. I couldn't have been more wrong. I love that show, beyond words can express. I realized that people (myself included) who claim they don't like the Family Guy, are simply too stupid to get the Family Guy. It's brilliant. The references are what make it so absolutely hilarious. Feel free to leave me comments about your favorite Family Guy episodes.
Well Owe-Right.

Giggity, giggity. Giggity-goo.
~Leslie

pretty sure I wouldn't like my kids if I'd just met them on the streets.

Gasp) Oh. NO. She. Di-int. Oh yes I did. What? It's true. I'm not 100% positive that I would take an immediate liking to the boys if I just met them. I mean, they're cute and all... but I'm not one to gush over children, just for being cute. Unless they're babies, then I'll just about burst an ovary. I'm silly over babies...silly. Which is why I got my tubes tied immediately after giving birth to my second. I'm a baby-lover. Just not a 'kid-lover', per se. The baby part, I would gladly do, 100 times over. But, once they turn one, I have little use for them. And then I'd have to abandon them. It was best to nip that in the bud when I had the chance. Thank you Dr. Van Slooten.

OK, so why I wouldn't be madly in love with my kids if I met them on the street. Well, for one thing, they're really, really whiny. Another thing is that they ask for stuff..constantly. You can't be anywhere with them without being hit up for something; candy, a hammer, a donut, paint thinner (we're at Lowe's a lot). Another thing is that their ubiquitous interrupting gets in the way of my A.D.D. Ever try writing out a grocery list while listening to, "mom mom mom mom mom mom mom mom mom mom"? It's torturous.

And yet another reason I'd err on the side of dislike upon meeting my kids, they're quite selfish if you want to know the truth. I'm told that it's just the nature of a child to be selfish, but I say, "F-that". Very self-centered, those two. The whole world revolves around them, you know. Never mind that you have a migraine, woman--I NEED BATTERIES FOR MY WII REMOTE AND I NEED THEM NOW. Um, mom, I'm not as concerned with your asthma attack am I am with the fact that you're hyperventilating while iCarly is on. Oh, the police are here to take you away? Yeah, can you make sure you've warmed up my dinner before they do? Thanks, hon". I'm absolutely positive this is how the inner dialogue goes in my 7 year old's head. Except, not so much in his head, but out loud.

And furthermore, my kids are brutally honest. They'll straight up tell me I'm hideous, on a regular basis. Well, the 4 year old thinks I'm beautiful...(but then again, he thinks Santa comes at Halloween, so there you go). I was playing I-spy with the 7 yr old on Sunday. He says, "I spy some thing white". I offer, "my laptop? my pajama bottoms? my teeth?" No, I'll give you a hint, he says. It's the biggest thing in this room, he tells me. I try to make him laugh so I say, "my thighs? They're big & white". He thinks about it and says, "well, on second thought---it's the 2nd biggest thing in the room. It's the ceiling". Bastard. (I will admit though, I admired his quick wit. I just love a smart ass).

So, let me ask you, would YOU befriend someone who was whiny, greedy, selfish and critical? I didn't think so. They really are darling once you get to know them. It wasn't always like that. It was pure love at first sight [when they were born]. But, then they began to talk and it all went downhill from there. I think that's why God makes them so stinking irresistible when they're born. (if they were born assholes, there'd be a lot unclaimed babies at the hospital) I don't think it will be like this for long either. Knowing what a sarcastic prick Ben can be----just imagine what he'll grow into!!! Oh, I can hardly wait!!! (I'm being totally serious--who doesn't love that guy)? Judging by what they're like at this age, I'm totally confident that we'll all be thick as thieves when they're older. Once they start making their own money, and when they don't feel the need to speak every-single-thought that filters through their brain, I think the boys and I will get along just fine.
:-)

Rockie the Ram

So my son brought home Rockie the Ram from his preschool. It's the Rockford Ram mascot stuffed animal. Rockie visits the home of the preschoolers and the moms document Rockie's adventures in...guess what.....a scrap book.

You might be thinking, but Leslie, you've already blogged about this when your older son brought home Koko last year (see: adventures with Koko). No, this is an entirely different story all together. Koko was a freak.

I love how Rockie travels from house to house while the Swine flu is in full swing. You know I lysoled the hell out of Rockie before allowing him to enter my home. So, for the first 24 hours of Rockie's stay with us, he remained in the backseat of my car. Oops, sorry Rockie!

I went out to get him today, just to see if there might be any work on my part, where it pertains to Rockie. That's when I opened the backpack and saw the scrap book. I thumbed through it, oh yes. It's a scrap book, alright. Printed out pictures of happy families, schlepping Rockie all over Hell's half acre. Rocky at the museum. Rocky at the Grand Canyon. Rocky in Bangkok. Rocky in the Red Light District. Each mother (I assume it's the mother) took the time to articulate Rocky's journey, through a photo diary. Jeezus. Who's got time for this? Who, I ask?

Cripes. Oh, and here's the kicker. Guess how long each family gets to keep Rocky? 2 days. That's it. So, you tell me, how in the Sam Hill did you get from Michigan to the Grand Canyon, back again and have time to scrap book about it in 2 freaking days? Only in Rockford. Only in Rockford would you find such overzealous mothers. Oh, you'd have thought these mothers all worked as editor in chief at Vanity Fair the way these pages were laid out. Ridiculous, I tell you.

Allow me to give you a run down of how Rocky's adventures were captured at my house. First, after being severely neglected for 24 hours, Rocky got to go to the grocery store with us. See Rocky picking out bananas. Then, Rocky went to pay our association dues. See Rocky at the Bella Vista offices? Then Rocky was once again forgotten and left in my purse. Guess what I did that night? It was Thursday and as many of you mommys know, Thurs. is usually girls' night out. I had a writer's meeting for the tv show that I write for and afterward, I met some girls for a cocktail. When I reached into my purse to grab my celly, I saw little Rocky staring up at me. So, Rocky sat atop the table and listened to 4 girls chat about life, sex, those damn kids, lazy husbands and stretch marks. Rocky's innocuous smile was turned into a surprised "O" face. We embarrassed him. We didn't mean to, but girl talk is girl talk. Rocky and I paid our bill and went home. I realized that Rocky was due back at preschool the next morning, so I quick printed out pix of Rocky and I getting our drink on (along with the other wondrous trips we'd taken that day) and slapped them into the book. I detailed the events with a bic pen. This, coupled with my last entry (about the cookie recipe) should get us kicked out of preschool, for sure!

You know what? If I had access to a jail, how hilarious would it be if I'd taken Rocky to jail and then journaled that we were visiting my baby daddy? Oh, if only I had more time and resources. I could have taken Rocky to get mug shots. Rocky and I go clubbing. Rocky brings home an escort.... The possibilities are endless.

Domestic in Disguise

My 4 year old's preschool teacher sent home a folder with an empty recipe card inside. The instructions were to write out our favorite family cookie recipe.


Um, hi. Have we met? Cookie recipe? Oh, that's simple enough. You simply buy bake & break cookies. You break them off, put them onto cookie sheets and bake them. (Hence the "break & bake" part) Voila. Dessert!

So, because I crack myself up, I wrote these very words on a note and placed that inside the folder. I added, "but for the sake of this 'project', I'll play along. See attached". On the recipe card, I wrote out Candy Spelling's recipe for her 'thumbprint cookies'. Yes, that Candy Spelling. What? We're practically related. Therefore it counts as a 'family recipe'.

Ok. So I'm not part of the Spelling tribe, but I don't have any family recipes of my own. Don't judge. See, in our family, my mother was such a gal-about-the-kitchen that she didn't follow recipes. She just added a little of this and a little of that and every so often she'd flick off the 2 inch ash hanging off the end of her cigarette into the sink. 30 minutes later, glorious blueberry muffins. Me? Not so much.

Shut up. Why do you think they invented cookie dough to purchase? For busy girls, such as myself.

Candy, will you be my mom? I figure, Tori's out of your life, so you've got room for me. Right? Plus, I make wayyyy cuter grandbabies than she does. Think of me as a clean slate. I'll let you take me to your plastic surgeon and let him do to me whatever you see fit. I promise not to touch your dolls or write a book about you. You could make my kids their Halloween costumes, since I'm not so good in the sewing department either, as it turns out. We could plan themed parties together. And, my taste isn't nearly as expensive as your ungrateful daughter's is. I won't have the audacity to complain when you buy me my first BMW. I'll be the best daughter you never had. Holla!

~ Your Daughter
Leslie Spelling
(nice ring to it, don't you think)

kate gosselin

Kate. Oh. Kate. I hear ya, honey. I hear ya. Could your ex be more of a douche bag? Now, with that said, you should know that I never side with women during split ups. Ever. I don't know why, I think it's a flaw on my part, but it's true. I always feel like the woman is usually the cause of the break up, no matter what the situation is. I know, I know....you're all throwing banana peels at the computer screen. I can't explain my theories, I just think for the most part, women are whiny, bitchy nags and guys are ..... guys.



Anyway, so this is all new for me. I'm siding with the wife. Their whole...situation reminds me of like when a couple is dating for a year or so during high school or college and when they break up, the guy is like, "Oh yeah? Oh yeah?....I don't have to listen to you, I don't have to do what you say. Lookie me, lookie me---I can go out with whomever I like". Oh, okay, Jon----you're quite the man. Ugh. And when did a balding Asian man become all the rage? Puh-lease. He just learned how to smoke 2 weeks ago. He thinks he's the poster boy for Ed Hardy (Oh, and FYI....I've just been to Vegas and every other toothless wonder was wearing an Ed Hardy shirt. The fad is over, people).



I know how I would feel if Jason and I broke up and I had to stay home with my kids while he gallivanted around NYC, took lavish vacations with sluts and lived in a $5,000/month apartment. Oooohhh, I'd be pissssssed! Jon's all reliving his 20's and whatnot. Waaa Waaa Waaa. No one held a gun to his head and forced him to marry and procreate 8 times in 5 years. (pssst...actually I DO think that there was a gun to his head. Shhhhh)



Nevertheless, I think he's a loser and I'd love nothing more if we'd all stop following his every move. It's just feeding into his ego.



I will put the kibosh on this blog with this one last little tid bit. I had a dream two nights ago that Jason died and I had no other choice but to move in with kate. I'm here to say---she is not easy to live with. We were both crying over dinner one night [over our current situations] and then she yelled at me for getting mascara on her linen napkins. How funny that in my dream I had absolutely no other option, but to move in with Kate Gosselin. That is one scorned woman. ....And what's up with continuing to wear that hideous, marquis wedding ring? He gone, girrrrl. That boy is gone. Take off that pitiful excuse for a diamond and get on with your bad self. (just take your criticism & controlling tendencies down a notch) You be awight.



And while I'm on the subject of TLC, have you noticed that Michelle Duggar and her homely daughter in law have updated their looks (a tad)? They still wear denim jumpers and their hair is still hopelessly long, but at least their bangs are tamed and that's a big start. I think she read m' blog. Thanks, Shell!

This blog brought to you by TLC....and Dolly Madison.

LB

Vegas kicked my ass.

Highs and Lows of Vegas, baby. Vegas.

Jason and I embarked on a much, much needed vacation, to celebrate our 10th anniversary. We took a li'l trip to Vegas, baby. Vegas. We started our trek at the ultra swanky Motor City casino (hotel) in Detroit (only because we had such an early flight out in the morning). Maybe that was mistake number one. Our hotel room was off the hook, total high roller room. However, we only used it for about 5 hours before flying out. :-( We're talking a bathroom that I've only dreamt of. $200 Egyptian cotton robes with matching slippers. A 4 foot deep bath tub, etc. etc.. For whatever reason, we decided to go get ourselves a cocktail before hitting the sack.



We wound up in a bar that had a black light as part of it's ambiance. Cool, huh? Yeah, if you're 18 years old and have no signs of aging or sun damage. The black light revealed my husband's(who has perfect skin) every freckle, flaw and line. I could ONLY IMAGINE what my face must have looked like. What a terrible idea for decor, especially in a bar/nightclub. Whose brilliant idea was that. "Hi, I'm Suzy, see my pores? They look like hubcaps, don't they? And what about how you can plainly see every sunburn I've ever had? Not to mention dandruff?" Yeah. Cool.



Next morning. Airport. We're in line, waiting to go thru security and I turned around to look at the homely chick standing behind me. She mistook that as an invitation to talk endlessly to us (by us, I mean my husband because at 5:30 A.M., I am NOT one for small talk, so I simply turned my back to her). She asked countless questions and offered up information about herself that we had absolutely no interest in whatsoever. My husband, God bless 'em, he's so polite, he was just humoring the poor troll. Standing less than 6 inches from both of them, I texted him. His Blackberry suddenly rings, he reads it and laughs. I wrote, "STOP ENCOURAGING IT TO TALK TO US". He laughs out loud and I put my phone away. It couldn't have been more obvious that the text was about her. It didn't deter her though. She kept right on chatting. So annoying. I may have mentioned that I'm not a people person. Then she turns to the people behind us, "you have a stroller and a car seat, but no baby? Where's your baby? Oh, you're adopting from Korea? What's her name? How long did it take you to get her? What else did you buy for her? What if the adoption didn't go thru, can you return this stuff?" Jesus. I prayed that she wasn't on my flight. She'd wouldn't have made it to Vegas alive, I'll tell you that much.



Ok so we finally get thru security and we realize that we have 3 minutes to get to the other side of the terminal. We start booking through the place like O.J. To my right, I notice a heavier set, woman, mid-40's, somewhat stylish, gaudy-Italian looking woman. She's merging toward us and here's how she greets us, (no exaggeration) "are you trying to catch the flight to vegas? Jesus Christ, what a day. Sonofabitch, what a fucking day. I already checked in, those fuckers can wait for my fat ass, I ain't running. They can wait". I'm dying. Obviously, I've just found my new best friend. I love it when people you don't know feel that comfortable swearing in your presence. At 5:30 A.M., no less. Love her. She did, in fact, make it to her flight. In case you were worried.

We board. We take our seats. I don't get to sit with Jason, which doesn't bother me much because he's not easy to sit next to on an airplane (what, with the heavy breathing and twitching). I took an aisle seat, popped a xanax and 4 hours and 14 minutes later, we were in Vegas, baby. Vegas.

First of all, I was amazed at the diversity that is Las Vegas. All walks of life, I tell you. We first hit breakfast, checked in and then hit the strip! We shopped until our legs fell off. Fascinating, I know. Hold your horses, I'll get to the good part.

We stop back in our casino (MGM) and decide to gamble a bit before cleaning up for dinner. That's precisely when disaster ensued. A 'little bit' of gambling turned into a big mess of ugly. Jason lost everything but his pants at the Craps table. I got bored waiting for him, so I hit the slots. Mind you, I really do hate gambling. I feel it's more useful to actually take the money and throw it out our 26th floor window, but I digress. But, I begin to change my mind when I spent $100 to win $200. (Later, I realize that this is only a $100 win. Shut up) During my cycle of being up & down, I took full advantage of the free cocktails (mistake number 2). I stumbled around to find my husband, asked for our room key because I wanted to change out of my now-smoke infested clothing. I wandered aimlessly until I found the elevators. I didn't, however, notice that there were different elevators for different floors. Imagine my confusion, frustration and sheer panic when I realized each and every elevator only went to the 20th floor while I so desperately was trying to get to the 26th floor. Finally, almost in tears I say to the fellow-riders, "Why won't these fuggin things take me to the 26th floor?" The kind gentleman simply pointed me in the direction of the elevators that went from the 21st to 29th floor. Ahhhhh, now that makes better sense! I followed a lovely couple into my elevator (completely oblivious to the fact that I had my own agenda). I got off at their floor (22) and continued following them until they got to their room. You can imagine the concerned look on the wife's face as I stood behind them while they were entering their room. LIGHT BULB! It hit me like a ton of bricks that I had my own room!!! (this is the part where I said disaster ensued) I wandered back to the elevator and rode up to my floor (26). I'm proud of myself for remembering this. However, I'm not as proud of myself when I realize that I have absolutely NO IDEA which room is mine. It never occurred to me to look. I guess I just assumed I'd recognize it when I saw it. I won't tell you exactly how long it took me to narrow down which room was mine. I might have passed out by the Coke machine a time or two, but eventually I found it. (SHARON, this is the part where I could barely text you that I was having a blast). I forgot why I even wanted to go back to my room in the first place. I was a practically a tour guide at the MGM by now, so I stumbled around until I found Jason who was down even further than he was the last time I saw him. We decided at that point to get dressed for dinner and make our way out of the casino.

But wait, we--guess what--went shopping again. I was strolling around the Venetian like we owned the place. Who do I bump into while shopping at Barney's? None other than Kim, big-fat Kourtney and Kris Kardashian and their entire entourage. (Yes, I have the pix to prove it) The paparazzi standing outside the entrance should have tipped me off, but I assumed they were there for me. They were all wearing black leggings, long shirts, sunglasses and tall, riding boots. Where did I go right after I saw them? Off to buy black leggings and new sunglasses, of course. (I already had the tall boots). Jason is following behind them saying (yelling) "WHAT ARE THEY EVEN FAMOUS FOR ANYWAY??? SO THEIR DAD WAS AN ATTORNEY AND THEIR STEP-DAD IS BRUCE JENNER, WHO CARES.....WHY ARE THEY SO IMPORTANT, I DON'T GET IT". I'm dying.

Oh yeah. We went into Madame Tussuad's too. Of course we couldn't just take pictures of the wax celebrity figures like normal people. No, we had to be disgusting. Jason was spanking Jessica Simpson and going down on Jenna Jamison. I flipped off Madonna. It was great. I'd post these pictures, but my ultra-conservative husband has forbid me from doing so.

Lastly--this part isn't so much funny as much as my rant. We went to see George Lopez (you are aware that my husband is 100% Mexican, right)? I wanted to see Dane Cook, but unfortunately, he was in my hometown at the very same we were in Vegas (Grrr). So, we settled on Jorge Lopez. I went from finding him mildly amusing to downright hating him. What a douche bag. The Mexican gestapo was there to ensure that we weren't taking pictures of him. I took a pic of Jason & I before the show even started and within 2 seconds, his croonies were on me with their flash light, "You better put your camera away before Mr. Lopez comes out" Yeah. I got it. The waivers that we had to sign, plus the 200 mega-screens telling us to put away our phones & camera tipped me off. So, before the show even starts, they turn on the flat screens and we are forced to watch a 30 minute promo for his new late night show that's coming out. I didn't say anything, but I was thinking that his self promotion was a bit obnoxious. OK, so he comes out and all the Mexicans go mental, screaming, yelling Mexican slurs, etc. I expected that. Like I said, my husband & his family are 100% Hispanic. After a while, George gets really annoyed with his (paying) audience and says, "Settle down, let me work, quit yelling, be quiet, relax". Just basically being very condescending and a tad rude to his (paying) audience, if you ask me. I was put off by him. So after plugging his new show, oh, 300 times and talking about how he came from nothing (yeah, we got it. you've mentioned that a dozen times now) he starts talking about how he's taking Late Night to a whole new level. What level would that be? You invite guests onto your show, you interview them. Wow. Riveting. He keeps ranting about how he's the first Latino to be thaaaat successful and aren't we all amazed by his wealth? Then he made a comment about how if his late night show takes off, he won't have to come back to 'this place' (meaning he won't have to do stand up anymore). Wow. Really? Did you just really insult your audience? I was totally shocked.

Finally, he's back on the same topic of coming from nothing and how his grandpa wouldn't go to his baseball games when he was little (waa waa waa) and some dumb drunk girl from the audience yells, "'cause you SUCKED". That did it. George was pissed! He stopped, looked at her and said, "I suck? (long dramatic pause) Because I'm pretty sure I didn't PAY to come see YOU. And I'm pretty fucking sure YOU don't have a Late Night show!!!!" Now, for those of you who may not have heard....I DO HAVE A LATE NIGHT SHOW, on not one, but two channels, airing in 2 weeks. So, you can imagine how Jason had to practically sit on me to prevent me from getting up on my hind legs and announcing this to Jorge. I'm all, "Ummmm...I don't like to toot my own horn, buuuuttt....). Jason was pleading with me not to make my big announcement, when I became totally distracted by the drunk girl, as the Mexican gestapo came and immediately removed her from the audience (jesus, just for yelling 'cuz you sucked'? Settle the f. down, Jorge). He then just transformed into a total dick. He said, "There's only 3 Latinos that have made it big in this industry. 1. Desi Arnez 2. Freddie Prinze and (he gestured himself) and walked off stage, shaking his head.

There was an awkward air about the crowd. It was very weird. I'd never been to a show like that before. Very full of himself, very arrogant, very self-promoting. I, for one, will NOT be tuning into his Late Night show. Besides, it airs on my birthday and I have better things to do. Screw him. His audience is his bread and butter and he acted so disrespectful toward us, like he was doing us such a big favor. Mexicans! When I make it big, I'm going to be licking the ground that my fans walk on!

Other than seeing the sights and shopping until our bank was basically calling us andvising us to go home, there isn't much else to tell. I won't be going back to Lost Wages anytime soon. I'm not on speaking terms with MGM at this present time. We had a ball, but Sin City did, in fact, kick our ass.

tough times!

My husband has been insisting that I get a J-O-B for about 4 years now. I've only recently felt the need for a J-O-B since my television show was picked up (it costs money to look this good). So, I humored the old boy and finally decided to throw him a bone. Plus, the holidays are upon us...it just made sense.

So, I applied to do floor moves at Bath & Body Works. To clarify, 'floor moves' does not involve clear heels or a stripper pole. It entails me going into BBW on Sunday evenings (when the store is closed, hence NO CUSTOMERS) to tear down the current floor displays, following a diagram and putting up a new one. What? Organizing something, UNinterrupted AND getting PAID for it? You're shitting me? Where do I sign up?

So, they called me in for an interview yesterday. An interview? Um, have I mentioned that I was the Shop Director at a BBW right after I graduated from college? This is not meant to impress you, this is just pertinent to the story. But, I smugly agree to the 'interview' anyway. I'll play along, I think to myself.

So, I arrive and apparently they've decided to do group interviews---so I'm sitting on a metal folding chair with 3 other applicants. 1 teenage mother and two older women. The manager greets us and apologizes for her bad breath. We all agree that it's not as offensive as she insists it is. She starts by asking a series of predetermined questions.

Question #1. If you were to receive shipment (long, dramatic pause) which item would you put out on the floor first?

No one answers. I sheepishly raise my hand, although I'm secretly nervous that I'll look like a brown noser. I answer, "Um, I'm just spit balling here, but I'd probably put out the item that we needed the most, first". She nods slowly at me, touches her nose, then points at me. I understand that I've answered correctly. Then, I get up on my hind legs and go for the jugular. I add, "I'd prioritize". The old gal next to me jumps on board, "PRIORITIZE, I was just about to say PRIORITIZE". I rolled my eyes.

Next Question: Have any of you had a job where you've either had to organize something? Again, no one answers. I throw caution to the wind and offer up that I've, in fact, been a manager at BBW, about 14 years ago. "OOoohh, that's riiiiiight" she says. She starts asking questions like, "Do you remember so & so?" and "what was the most popular scent back then"? So, for a few minutes, I regaled them with tales of BBW back in the day. I could totally tell that everyone else was jealous of my experiences and worldliness.

Question number 3: What was your most rewarding job. I decide that I am NOT going to raise my hand for this one. Let someone else step up to the plate. Teenage mother says that being a stay at home mother has been her most rewarding job. More than Dairy Queen, I wonder. Finally I got a silly hair up my ass. I looked directly at the manager, crossed both my eyes and in my silly voice I said, "Being the shop director at BBW was my most rewarding job". She said, "really"? and I said, "no". OK, I was obviously being completely sarcastic and I was hoping for a few chuckles, but not a one. All you heard was crickets. Embarrassment ensued!

Finally: She goes thru our applications and reminds this person to sign here, and that person forgot her social security number, Leslie--yours was perfect.....(I nodded to the rest of the applicants, letting them know that I am superior to them). Oh, Suzy, (her name wasn't suzy) you forgot to include some references. Suzy starts to panic a bit. "oh, well...I haven't worked in 6 years" That's ok, suzy...we just need references in case we're ever audited. It can just be a company you used to work for. "well, I...I haven't been in touch with anyone for years, I'd feel strange asking for a reference". Suzy, they can't say good, bad or otherwise, all they can do is tell us that you worked there. "I'd be hard pressed to come up with some names".

At this point, we're all starring at this freak who insists on being difficult. Manager: Suzy, could you list a friend or neighbor. "No, we don't live in a neighborhood. Could I ask my mother"? Manager: No. Frankly, I'm surprised she didn't put her houseplant down. Instead of just saying, I'll get back to you with some references, she made this big production of out not having any. It's not that difficult. I could rattle off 20 without batting an eyelash. She's freakier than we thought. So, we all start offering to help. We're all, "Your kids' teachers??? Your veterinarian???? Your hairdresser????" And she's all, "I home school my kids!!! I don't have any pets!!!! I cut my own hair with kitchen shears!!!!!" It was getting ridiculous and I teetered between feeling sorry for her and blogging about her. Clearly, I made the better choice.

Anyhoot. I have no idea if I got the job. I'm over here waiting with baited breath to find out. It was grueling, but I think I nailed it! Of course, my sarcasm may not have been well received and I may have blown it. Either way, I don't really care. At least I interviewed. That should keep Jason happy for a while. Until he gets the AMEX bill.....

LB (which I've just recently discovered is not only my initials, but also the abbreviation for pounds. Fitting!)

Intervention

Disclaimer: I'm probably not going to make a lot of friends with this blog. Ah well.


With that said.. Have any of you seen the show on A&E called Intervention? First of all, love it. Second, I might want to mention that I've struck up a deal with my friend, Laura (as in, My Successor). The deal is, if I should walk into a room and happened to find Jeff VanVonderveen or Candy Finnigan sitting there, she is to distract the room while I slip out, never to be seen or heard from again. I'd do the same for her. A friend will orchestrate an intervention for you. A GOOD friend will help you escape one.

Anyway, I recently saw an episode where an African American woman had a bit of trouble holding her booze. I take that back, she had no trouble with it whatsoever---in fact, she did a remarkable job holding her booze. It was her family that had a problem with it. Damned if she didn't chug back a gallon of vodka a day. I was impressed by her strength, her stamina and her determination. Do you know much training I'd have to do to be at her level??? But, I liked her. She had moxie. Fiesty li'l thing, too. And quite a beauty, I might add. That is, if she could find the time to brush her hair or put her clothes on right side in. But, who had time for all that? What, with all the drinking.

But, I digress. Why I'm mentioning this is because I get absolutely giddy when a reality show such as Intervention or Bridezilla features a black woman. Here's where I'm going to lose friends. You may think it's because I'm racist or because I like to make fun of blacks. Absolutely not true. I love them. Maybe too much. I love to watch them. I love their chutzpah, I love how they say what they mean and mean what they say. Me loves me a strong, black woman! My favorite show of all times is Real Housewives of Atlanta on Bravo for crying out loud. I even write 'black' sketches on my show all the time. I wonder if my African American cast/crew have a problem with that. Well, fuck 'em if they have a problem with it, I'll tell you that much! I'm honoring them. I'm paying homage to them! Sometimes I wish I was one of them. Like when they ask me if I'm thirsty and I say, "Naw, I'm straight".

OK, so back to Intervention. This woman, you know, the booze hound? Yeah, well she fancied herself a caterer by trade. That is, she catered special events. Um..can I just tell you what she defined as "catered"? In one scene, she was half in the bag and she was trying to prepare for an event the next day. Holding her cigarette, with a 2 inch ash hanging from the tip, she took a can opener out of her drawer, opened an industrial sized can of peaches and tossed them into a bowl. .....And voila! Fresh fruit salad, served! I was dying. Then she went on a drunken rant about how she's such a good cook (all the while she was stirring the peaches with a spoon with a cig hanging out of her mouth). Mmmm, mmmmm, mmmmm---"ain't no one cook like me", she said.

That's it. Nothing more, nothing less. I just wanted to share this fun li'l observation with you.

Ima bounce. Pice.
(that's 'black' for I'm going to be getting on my way now. May you find peace in all that you do)

RaNdOm AtTaCkS

These are just some random (hateful) thoughts that kept me up last night. If only I could use my powers for good instead of evil.....

I hate it when people say they're going to leave and then they continue milling around. It drives me nuts....it's like, "leave already". My husband does this all the time. He'll announce that he's going next door to play cards with the tards and then he'll sit down on the couch. Or pace around the kitchen. Not that I necessarily want him to leave per se, I just want him to stick with the plan. I can't be bothered by his indecisiveness.

I hate when people get overly and unjustifiably excited about something. Like, it's just family reunion. Settle down. And then I look like the crazy person for not being excited. Or like when you extend the slightest bit of friendliness and the other person basically begins to infiltrate your life, inch by inch. Like, they send you an email before you even get home from whatever you were just doing with them. Stalker. In other words, there's a fine line between me just being nice to you and me having any interest in getting to know you. Trust me. You'll know if I want to become your friend.

I absolutely hate it when people ask questions that they already know the answers to, just for the sake of mindless chit chat. "Isn't Kiefer Sutherland in that movie"? You know that he is. Why are you asking? My words are precious, don't make me waste them on answering obvious questions. I absolutely loathe idle banter. It's painful.

I hate when people compliment themselves. It's so gauche. It immediately makes me think they are less attractive, less intelligent, less entertaining, less talented than they really are.

I hate when people hover over me. Oh. My. Gawd. Nothing, I mean, nothing sends me into a tizzy quite like when I'm hovered over.

With regard to the previous attack, if you are eating or drinking while you're hovering over me, you could risk losing an eye. I have this weird thing about hearing people eat & drink. It's like nails on a chalk board to me. The smacking of lips, slurping, saliva sounds, gulping noises....I have hives just thinking about it.

This all boils down to the obvious fact that I am not a people person. Ah well. You can't be brilliant and friendly. Well, you could...but then you'd risk being ugly. God would never make someone brilliant, friendly and pretty. Two out of the three, maybe. But definitely not all three.

Very well.

Biggest loser in Rockford, MI

This just in. I was driving to the Y this morning, rolling along my merry way when a black Saturn Vue pulled out in front of me and then insisted on riding the breaks in a 4o MPH zone. You know how I just love that. Anyway, what caught my eye, had me reeling....REELING.

OK, this D. Bag had a bumper sticker that said, "I love my wife". I'll just say it. WTF??? How beaten of a man must you be for you to boast such a remark? I mean really.

Why stop there? Why wouldn't he just get a sticker that says, "my balls are in my wife's sewing basket". Poor bastard!!!

That's all. Carry on then.

LB

score one for the scrapbooker

You're going to love this. If you've read my blog-- ever, then you'll know that I'm the anti christ of scrap booking. I firmly believe that it's an underworld cult, full of freaky people who, for some crazy reason, feel the need to endlessly snap pictures and then glue those pictures, along with silly stickers & captions onto expensive paper. I say 'nay' to the scrapbooking. Nay, I say.

OK, with that said, I'll drive home the fact, once again, that I'm openly and vehemently opposed to scrap booking. We clear?

Moving on. Unfortunately, my husband's 95 year old grand father passed away a few weeks back. God love 'em, the man was a saint, he really was. He lead a very active and full filling life. He was an amazing gymnast, he went to high school with and remained life long friends with President Gerald Ford, he'd visited the White House, he was board member of a YMCA camp for over 70 years and in addition to all of these impressive things, he was also just a great man. If anyone deserved to have a scrap book made in their honor, it was him.

For his 90th birthday, the wife of his oldest grandson made him a beautiful scrap book, proudly displaying all of his life's accomplishments, passions and precious moments.

Since his death, some pictures from his gymnastics hey-day surfaced and it was suggested that we add these shots to the scrap book. But wait, it can't possibly be as easy as you think. Oh. No. It. Isn't.

The lovely woman who made the scrap book was in a quandary. She lives in Chicago and the book lives with his widow, in West Michigan. What to do, what to do. I'm watching this whole exchange unfold in front of my eyes and the way my husband describes it, my eyes started doing that kooky cartoon trance thing that they do when my wheels are spinning. Now, mind you, I'd been hitting the beers that afternoon. We'd hosted a beach day/volleyball game/boat rides all in Grandpa's honor because it's what he would have loved, so of course, we had to sip a few beers. OK, so I'm a bit buzzed, I'll just put it out there. So, I hear the woman fretting over the pending status of the scrap book page. I see the words come out of my mouth and I can't stop them, "Why don't you just let me whip up a page...how hard can it be"? The whole room stifled, the music stopped, the conversation ceased and everyone turned and looked at me. So I back tracked, "Um, I mean, I'm no scrap booker or anything, but I just..". The original scrap booker said, "Well, I am a scrap booker, so I could show you... if you wanted...." Then her husband interjects, "she is. she's really good at it". In case I was doubting her scrap booking abilities. So, the minutes on the clock began to tick, pages on the calendar were being torn off, one by one and I find myself in the midst of a 20 minute instructional. She actually told me not to cut the heads off one of the pictures. "Really? No? S0 don't cut the heads off, you say?" What seemed like a funny little prank to pull on myself, turned into a nightmare. So the instructional continued as I walked out to my car. As I was buckling my seatbelt, I was still being shown how to use the sticky back tape. Thank goodness too, because if she hadn't shown me, why, I'd have made a real mess of the situation. As it turns out, sticky back tape is sticky on both sides. Who knew? Well, I guess the people at the sticky back tape factory figured there's dummies like me who wouldn't be able to handle the tricky sticky back tape, so thankfully they put a 1-800 number on the back of the plastic tab, on the back of the sticky back tape. So, I called them up (nice people) and they got me all situated.

Another tid bit about my one and only scrap booking experience is that the folks at the scrap book store suck. They were pompous, rude and I felt that they were judging me. I asked for help and the woman just peered down her glasses at me. Novice scrapbooker, she thought. Well, I decided I didn't need her help, so I simply picked out a few tasteful papers and proceeded to check out. 'What about the stickers and embellishments' she asked. I told her I was going with the 'less is more' school of thought with this particular task. She just starred at me and then said, "It's your scrap book". 'What a twat', I thought.

So, I went home and tackled my project. Just as I was about to make the first cut, I began shaking. You'd have thought I was performing a hand transplant on my kitchen table the way I was measuring, nervously sketching my design, tongue stuck to the corner of my lips... I literally started sweating. And as everyone knows, Jews don't sweat. I finally finished and I have to admit. It's not bad. I am willing to bet that if a stranger were casually flipping through the scrap book, they wouldn't say, "now, that's funny. these two pages right here, something's not right. it's as if someone who'd never scrap booked before decided to add these two pages to a perfectly good book'. No, I'm pretty sure it would go unnoticed.

Now, don't get all crazy. I'm not going to start scrap booking or anything. But, you bet your ass that whenever someone picks up Grandpa's scrap book, I'm totally going to run over, flip it to my pages and point out that I was responsible for the beauty and art that is pages 15 & 16. :-)

Scrap on.

Raising boys

Raising Boys

Have I ever mentioned that when my husband called my mother at 4:30 A.M. to tell her that our first-born son was born she said, "Don't worry. You can try for a girl next time"? Yeah, well...that's how Helen rolled. In my family, girls were definitely the preferred sex. My mother also used to say that motherhood didn't count if you only had boys. Well, I'm here to set the record straight.

Not only does it absolutely count, but it takes a certain kind of person to raise boys. You have to be strong, thick skinned, deaf, strict, independent, creative, peaceful and rational. I was none of these things before giving birth to two of the most needy boys ever conceived.

I will outline for you the reasons why these particular characteristics are imperative to bringing up boys.

Strong: Because your strength will come in handy when your son greets you by jumping from the top of the staircase, onto your back (while you're at the bottom of the staircase bending over to pick up a laundry basket).

Thick Skinned: Because your sons will inevitably remind you of your problem areas. In other words, my sons like to sing, "Mommy's got a big ol' butt, oh yeah". Which sucks, because out of all my body parts, my butt is the one that I actually like. It's one of those pow pow Kim Kardashian butts. But that's neither here nor there and barely worth mentioning because other than our internal organs roughly being in the same place, that's pretty much my only similarity to Kim Kardashian.

Deaf: If you weren't already deaf, guaranteed you'll be deaf by the time your son is 3. Don't rush right out and get a hearing aid. Welcome your new handicap. Haven't you ever heard the phrase, "Silence is bliss"? Trust me. Boys don't talk. They scream, shout, yell and love to smash things together just for the simple pleasure of hearing the crash. They are really nothing more than noise with dirt all over them.

Strict: You've got to be firm or they will walk all over you. If you give them an inch, they'll take a mile. Stick to your guns or they will rally together and conquer you, your soul & spirit.

Independent: In case you haven't gotten a sense of who I am by now, I'll break it down. I am a mom, first and foremost. But, after 7 PM when the boys are snug snug in their beds and if it should happen to be a girl's night out, I check my mommy hat at the door! I can turn it on and off like a light switch. It's GOOD for your boys to see you as a separate entity. They NEED to see that there are many different facets of their mothers. All in one day, I can go from school volunteer, to filthy blog writer, to beer swilling lush to a dirty little wife. My kids are only aware of the first and third versions of me....the others are kept under wraps.

Do yourself a favor and step out of mommy-mode once in a while and I'll tell you why it's important. Soon enough, your baby boys are going to grow up to be married men. If you coddle your sons and cater to their every whim from sun up to sun down.....your future daughter in law will hate you. Do her a favor and teach your son how to survive independently, because if you don't....you will probably have your 40 year old divorced son living in your basement. That way, when his wife wants to hit Chicago for a weekend get away with her girlfriends, your pathetic son won't be standing in the doorway with his dick in his hand. Show me a man who tries to make a can of soup in the oven and I'll show you a co-dependent mother. Ladies, we aren't doing our sons any favors by spoon feeding them into adulthood. Be kind to your future daughters in law. Cut the umbilical cords and teach the boys how to fend for themselves.

Creative: You have to be creative and imaginative to be the mother to boys. They aren't as smart as girls, God bless 'em, but creativity is a skill you'll have to hone when figuring out how to remove a 3 year old's head out from in between the spindles. Or figuring out the best way to go about removing a jar of vaseline from your son's hair. Or, how to distract them while getting stitches in their chin for the 3rd time in 2 years. Or how to retrieve a bouncy ball from the furnace. Or deciding whether to call poison control when your son eats bird poop from off a trampoline. Or who to blame when both boys are bleeding and both are lying through their teeth. Yes, it's creativity you'll turn to when policing, er.. mothering boys

Peaceful: I'm just kidding. You won't get a single moment's peace while your boys are still living with you. Ha ha. Oh, I'm such a prankster!

Rational: You don't even really have to be rational. You just have to seem rational so that the authorities aren't notified. If you scream at your boys until your eyes are blood shot, someone's bound to notice. Sunglasses are another great way to appear rational. You have no idea how many times a day my children come to me to solve some great dilemma. I can't walk passed them without one of them whining about needing something. My time, my attention, my vote, my empathy, my compassion, etc...

So, let's say I'm laying in the hammock reading In Style. Let's say the children see that my focus isn't on them and they immediately begin to harass me. "Mom, see who can hold their breath longer, Gabe or Me. Mom, Gabe cheated. I know he cheated. Mom, he so cheated. Mom, I know Gabe breathed through his nose. Mom, he's lying. Mom, can you look at his tongue and tell me if he's lying? Mom? Mom? Mom, did you hear me, Gabe is cheating. I held my breath longer. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom...." Now, normally that would drive anyone to edge, but with my sunglasses on, I just continue reading my magazine while my head is turned in their general direction--so they only think I'm watching them.

My rule of thumb is that I always side with smarter one. The dumb one doesn't even know what he's accused of and the smart one is satisfied that he's been validated. Situation diffused. Win/Win.

And there you have it. The How-To Raise Boys according to LeslieDishes. You are so a mother-of-boys if you have ever sat in a corner, rocking back and forth counting the minutes until relief arrives (ie. your husband, a friend, the police). Also, if you're ever on trial, the judge will immediately grant you a pardon if he/she is aware that you're the mother of boys, I'm told. The Betty Ford clinic waives their fees, as it turns out, if you're the mother to boys. (mothers of boys tend to get their drinky drink on) Sitting at the kitchen table in your pajamas, after noon, sobbing, is a perfectly normal way for a mother of boys to spend her day.

Being a mother to boys also renders you helpless with regard to your body. It's nothing for my boys to honk my boobs or 'pants' me while I'm emptying the dishwasher. It's like living with miniature versions of their father. Running up to me, sticking their butts in my face and tooting is another favorite pasttime of my boys. Arm farts is yet another good one. Talk of weiners is still alive and well. I've taken to calling my husband's unit his weiner, purely by habit. And finally, if you ever see a woman running (sprinting) to jump in the back of a police car, you'll know she's the mother of sons. My kids have cried to me that they're going to call the police because I'm so mean. I beg them to. "Go ahead!!!!", I say. "I'll go....willingly!!! Hell, jail would be better than the abuse I endure from you damn kids". ......And that's when you know, you're the mother of boys.

~Leslie, 2009

Mother to Ben: age 7 1/2 and Gabe: age 4.

correction!

Correction.....the show that I'm the head writer for is NOT going to appear on the CW. We were misinformed. It is actually ION television. ION boasts popular shows such as, Criminal Minds, Boston Legal, Ghost Whisperer and of course, "YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME AMERICA"!!!!

It'll debut on Friday, Sept. 25 at 10:30 P.M., in the Grand Rapids/Kalamazoo/Muskegon, Michigan area and then will advance to other areas each month. Detroit and surrounding areas in October. If you have Charter or Comcast, you should be able to get it....eventually. You can also go to www.iontelevision.com and type in your zip code to see if you get it.

Thanks for watching and for your support!!! I'll stop plugging my show now and will get back to my rotten blogs!

~Leslie

I'm pretty much famous now

This isn't so much a blog, but a big announcement. For anyone just tuning into LeslieDishes, I have been writing scripts for a local (Grand Rapids, MI) comedy sketch show since Sept. '08. It was a fun, little hobby and whatnot. I enjoyed it, but didn't really expect that it would go anywhere.

I just found out that as of Sept. 25th, my show will be aired on the CW (channel 43 in grand rapids) on Friday nights at 10:30. Holy crap. Not only do I have to lose about 15 lbs, but now I have to step it up a notch and start writing REALLY funny stuff. Not just the weird stuff that was only funny to me, like old ladies falling down. I only hope they don't shoot it in High-Def. Umm...hello crow's feet. Anyway, catch it on the CW if you can. (If you're not in-the-know, the CW boasts shows such as One Tree Hill, 90210 and Gossip Girl). The show is called "You've Got To Be Kidding Me America".

Check it out on the web at www.yougot2be.com
and/or find me on facebook leslie davidson bosscher.

~Dahhhhling, Tina Fey better step off. There's a new sheriff in town.

Why I'm always late

A 10 minute glimpse into my life (and probably every other housewife's life)




It's 7:50 A.M. I must leave the house in 10 minutes. Sweet! All I have to do is grab my keys, find my sunglasses, get the boys in the car and I'm out-da-doe.




Oh, but wait. Jason was the last one to drive my car, so now I have to hunt aimlessly around the house trying to find which obscure place my husband has decided to set me keys (in the past, he's been known to set them down on top of the car, on top of the refrigerator, in the pocket of his coat which left for work an hour ago, in HIS car--the list goes on and on) so, hunting for my keys is no easy feat. Cool, they were just in his jeans pocket, which were conveniently left on the floor for me. As I'm bending down to pick up his jeans, I notice a pee smell. I pick up Gabe's jammies which were discarded at my feet moments earlier. Great. Now I have to go check to see if he wet the bed. Of course he did, why else would his jammies smell like pee? Now I have to strip the bed, throw the sheets in the washer, quickly undress Gabe to wipe him down with a washcloth and re-dress him. Ok, time to go--2 minutes left. Just let me wash my hands and I'm off. Realize that there's no paper towel on the roll. Replace it. As I'm putting the roll onto it's holder, I knock over a spoon which held scant amounts of coffee grinds (or is it grounds?). As you well know, a scant amount of coffee grounds spilled onto your kitchen floor, actually looks like a mountain of coffee grounds. Isn't it funny how it spreads like wildfire? Pull out more paper towel and wipe it up. Well, for Heaven's sake, you can't just leave it there. That takes longer than you anticipate because...well, coffee grounds are a bitch to clean up. You go to toss it into the garbage. The garbage is spilling over. You quickly yank up the garbage to empty it. More coffee grounds spill onto the floor. F--K it, clean it up later. Grab keys. Walk out the door. Take the garbage to the bin outside and realize that it's garbage day. Throw everything into the bin and haul it down to the curb. Notice that the mail truck is 3 houses away from your own and you have a birthday card sitting on the kitchen table that NEEDS to go out today or else you'll hear allll about how you forgot so & so's birthday. Run like a mad man back into the house and grab the envelope, run down and personally hand it to the mail lady. Run back up to the car. Find Ben shoeless while Gabe wears my gold flip flops. Decide that shoes are optional and dismiss the whole shoe situation. Realize that Luna (dog) is outside. Try to get her into the house with little success. Trick her by asking if she 'wants to go bye-bye in the car'. When she reluctantly tries to get into the car, grab her collar and drag her back into the house. Get in the car. Press the garage door closer. Ben's bike is in it's way. Get out. Move the bike. Return to the car, reverse down driveway. Run over the garbage bin. Get out, pick up all the garbage that toppled over. Throw it back in the bid. Close the bin. Get in the car and......I'm off!!!! Only 39 minutes behind schedule. Not too shabby.


Whew!!!