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