Successor....is that that right word for someone that is to take over for you, once you're gone? If so, than I'd like to discuss my impending successor.
By now, everyone knows that the longevity in my family BLOWS! We all pretty much drop dead in our mid 50's, early 60's. Considering what I had done to my body in my teens & 20's, I'd say I'm lucky to be alive at the ripe old age of 35. I've made futile attempts over the past 5 or so years to counter act any damage that I've done. But, really, it's like putting a band aid on a healed amputation. What's done is done. Liver=shot. Lungs=deflated. Heart=hardened.
So, with that said, the only natural (not to mention totally selfless) thing to do is to search for my successor. For my husband and children, mind you. I've blogged before about my morbid obsession with my death & my funeral. So, whoever my successor may be, she has to be an extension of me, so to speak. I don't expect her to skin my corpse in the back of a van and wear me like a skin-dress, but I do expect her to step into my shoes and live the life that I was intended to live. If that entails changing her name to Leslie and photoshopping herself into all of my photo albums, than so be it.
After (surprisingly) little deliberation, I've chosen my replacement. I've spent more time shopping for carpet than I did for my husband's next wife. But, she was under my nose the entire time! I've discussed it with Jason. He's cool with it. Plus, he thinks I've chosen a pretty cool chick for him. (does he have a boomin', late wife, or what?).
Look thru my archived blogs and find one from Summer '08 entitled, "God, Lindsey, I thought I killed Her". Jason's new wife is to be....(drum roll)....Lindsey's (linda's) daughter, Laura. Laura went to high school with Jason. She's almost like my cousin in the sense that our families are really close. Her mom is like a cool aunt (or a loving mother) to me and I've tried to finagle a way into their tight knit family for YEARS! This is perfect. I can live vicariously through my widowed (and devastated) husband.
Sure, it'll take some time for him to get over me. But, eventually he'll have needs & desires. At first, she'll just be there to fill the void in his life. Then, slowly but surely, she'll win him over. I'll always be the love of his life, but his grief will dissipate and he'll be open to taking another wife. He'll keep a life size portrait of me over their marital bed...out of respect, and all. Laura won't mind a bit. After all, she'd be lucky to be sleeping with him. I'm making a mental note (as I type) to write her a letter and warn her of his quirky habits, favorite recipes and shirt size. God help her if he doesn't get his apnea under control by the time she starts shacking up in my bed. I should also consider bringing her around my boys a bit more often. I want the transition from "Aunt Laura" to "Mommy Laura" to go as smoothly as possible. I only hope she's fertile. I had my tubes tied, cauterized, incinerated and thrown into a trash compactor right after Gabe was born. Laura might just be Jason's last chance to have a daughter. They'll totally name the baby, "Leslie". Except, she won't be nearly as pretty as my kids, bless her heart.
I've made a point in the past 6 mos. to introduce Laura to a lot of my girlfriends. As a matter of fact, Laura was featured in my HILARIOUS blog entitled, "Lafter" where she spent the night with a good friend and me and we prank called Jason all night. Anyway, the point is, my friends (the bitches) already think she's super cool. So, she's already a shoo in. If the bitches don't like Jason's new woman, the new woman is O-U-T, out. The bitches have my back. I'll haunt the bitches if they let Jason get with a skank!
As I'm composing this very blog, my husband is at a party which I'm supposed to be attending, except I am home with a flu-ish 7 yr old. I called him a minute ago and Laura got on the phone. Apparently she's in attendance as well. Hmm. I realized I looked like a stalker wife, so I quickly told Laura to go make nice with her future husband and I hung up. There's a pool at that party. She's probably in a bikini. As I was trying to "sell" Jason on the idea of marrying Laura, I kept driving home the fact that she makes a lot of money, has a killer body and loves to drink. In hindsight, that might have been what we call in the business, an 'over-sell'. Now, I'm not so sure I want him to marry a hot, rich party-girl. The comparison between she and I will be blinding. For, I do NOT make a lot of money (or any at all), I do not have a killer body (2 healthy boys conceived & delivered). I am not a party girl either!! I'm the girl that slams 3 drinks in an hour then pulls her magical disappearing act and puts herself to bed.
Ok. Wait. Back up. That bastard had better either stay single, or find himself a fat, hairy Greek woman who can cook like Rachel Ray. Ima 'bout to go bust Laura's ass. Step off Bitch-izzle. Jason's MINE! If I can't have the Mexican, ain't no one gonna have the Mexican.
But, she can however, deliver the eulogy at my funeral. Laura, I have it in a word document titled, "Leslie's Eulogy". xoxoxox Love ya like a sista, but cha can't have m' man!!!
~LB
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The Chronicals of Kalamazoo's upper crust
Usually the intent behind most of my blogs is to vent about something that has annoyed me. This entry is different. This is just a li'l story (a compilation of stories, really) that I've been dying to tell for years. I've never gone public about it, until now. Like Beyonce's body guard, or Madonna's nanny, I was sworn to secrecy. I think the statute of limitations on my gag order has expired. Either that, or no one gives a hoot anymore. Plus, I live like 45 miles from that town now, so.....
Ok, here goes. During my college years, I worked for a professional nanny agency and made BANK doing so. I was the owner's most favorite nanny, mainly because I didn't have visible piercings. I wasn't assigned to just one family, I was assigned on an 'as needed basis' to doctors, lawyers, CEO's, a former Olympic swimmer, orthodontists, college professors & your basic trust fund families. I had a few regular gigs and dozens of odd-ball requests.
There was the traveling business man who requested that I shack up in his Radisson suite with his asthmatic son while he did 'bizna$$' in Kalamazoo. I won't lie, I felt a bit like a prostitute during that particular stint. Except for the sex part, of course.
There was the time a visiting wedding party hired me to attend a reception and keep all the rug rats occupied while their parents got tanked. They basically locked us in a room above the reception with no windows, no ventilation and a 9 inch television & VCR. Sure, the room was equipped with miniature plastic chairs, a few broken crayons and scrap paper. I think at one point a server might have come up to bring us warm water and left over bread sticks. All in all, I felt like I was in some sort of torture chamber. I contemplated hiring Elie Weisel to write a book about my experience. It was very traumatic. Each time the door opened, I half expected a guard to appear with a hose or something. Long story short, I got outta there around midnight and the groom tipped me $50, for my troubles. I would have been happy with a complimentary cocktail. Looking back, I'm sure I helped myself to the open bar before departing. A traveler, if you will.
There was the couple who was engaged to be married and she had a son from a previous relationship. 'She', being a stripper. She met her fiance while working, of course. He was one of the ugliest men I'd ever known; short, fat, a rocking mullet, crooked teeth, high pitched voice, a lisp, the worst! However, he did have some of the deepest pockets I'd ever known. His grandfather basically invented corrugated cardboard. She was my age (21) and he might have even been a year younger than me. On one hand, it was a bit of a pisser working for someone who was my age and lived in a 10,000 square foot house. On the other hand, it paid fairly well, they gave me a Jeep Cherokee to drive while hauling their kid around town. They would take off on extravagant vacations and leave me home with full access to....everything.
The last straw was when it was time for their wedding. They loaded me up and all 4 of us drove to Indianapolis, IN for 4 days of wedding bullshit. I had to accompany her to dress fittings, bridal luncheons, rehearsals, pre-wedding bash, wedding and finally the reception. By the time the wedding rolled around, I was so sick of everyone fawning over the bride, who I secretly knew was a who-er. The groom just sat in his $1,000/a night hotel suite and snorted everything but the kitchen sink while I acted as his bride's personal whipping post. One night, I was in my room and I had my dress hanging up in the closet and my shoes were in the closet. She came into my room (wasted) to fill me in on the next day's events. She eyed my dress & shoes and slurred, "you bitch, you can't look better than me on at my wedding day", and pushed me. She was trying to be playful, so I playfully pushed her back and said, "bitch, I look better than you every day". In hind sight, this might have been what kicked off the demise of my employment. But, I digress.
So, the wedding day arrives and we all get to the church with little drama. I always love a bride who stands outside her limo and smokes cigarettes and drinks beer through a funnel. Good times. Since her son was busy with the wedding party, I was demoted from nanny to bride's assistant. I was instructed to stand at the front of the church and hand out programs, which turned out to be the best seat in the house because I got to see all of their friends arrive with glassy eyes and bloody noses. We get seated. The procession begins. Finally, the church doors fling open and out walks the bride in all her virginal glory. During their vows I snickered and made gagging gestures to the other guests who I befriended along the way. I may have even snorted when the minister made a comment about the bride servicing her husband.
Fast forward to the reception. I'll admit it.... I took full advantage of the top shelf, open bar. It was a simple misunderstanding, really. I thought, since her son was sitting next to her at the head table, I would have the night off. I got ripped. After dinner, the band started and I hit the dance floor. I was shaking my junk all over the place and putting on a show for the videographers. You know that portion of the wedding when the videographers take guests aside and interview them about the lovely couple? Yeah. My better judgement took a back seat at that particular moment and I announced (on camera) that the bride was a "lap-dancing-whore". In my defense, I figured I was golden because the edited tape wouldn't be done until long after the honeymoon, which I'd planned to quit the second they'd returned from their honeymoon. It was a fine arrangement. I did quit, the night they returned from Hawaii, but I've always thought about that video tape. Oh, how I wished I could have seen the couple's reaction to my well wishes!
And finally, I'll end on a high note. The last family that I'll exploit was a dandy!!! They lived in an old bed & breakfast converted into a home. Other than the 400 antique Tiffany lamps placed in every corner of the house, it was a great set-up. I actually loved the house itself, it was the decor that made me crazy. Pastels, dolls, floral print, etc. etc. But, it had every imaginable amenity. A pool. A hot tub. An attic that was decorated to look just like the cabin of a ship, a mother-in-law suite over the garage when they stored "Grammy" until her last days. I'm sure Grammy rotted up there for weeks before someone noticed her MIA. There was the carriage house (for guests). A room exclusively dedicated to her jewelry. Oh, and there was the porn....
For starters, the couple was into the 'lifestyle'. If you're not familiar with that euphemism, it means they were swingers. I put a movie in the vcr one night and the 'movie' portrayed a random couple sitting on a couch. They were talking as if they were interviewing for a job, except, the job was to sleep with their interviewers. They were like, "Hi Dan & Terri....we're Ron & Sally. We like blonds who are slender and into S&M". Immediately, I knew it wasn't Lion King that I had stumbled upon. I'm smart that way. Naturally, I called the chick who owned the nanny agency and we went crazy! This was NOT our first experience with freaks--but it was our first go-round with sex fiends--fascinating! I also made a point to call each and every friend of mine who also worked for the agency, who also babysat for this family. We had our suspicions, but this was too much! As time went on, the wife got more and more open about her lifestyle. There was the life-size nude portrait of her over the bed. (don't forget, Grammy lived with them) There were the nude photo albums that she'd had professionally created for her husband. And now they were bring other couples into the mix. At the time I thought she was a cheap slut. Now, I just think she was a really, really good wife. Notice, SHE had a pool, a closet full of diamonds and a 14,000 square foot house. Hmmm... if I were smart, I'd get right on that train.
Anyway, the kicker came when I promised to put in Aladdin for their 3 yr old and out of the VCR came, "Edward Penis Hands". I was dying! After the boy went to sleep, I totally watched it. It was the husband sitting on the edge of the bathtub and he was pulling his wife's hair and speaking to her in a very domineering manner. I was so turned off.
Meanwhile, 2 hours later, the couple came home. He, a local orthodontist. She, a blond (abeit very weathered) bombshell. She was tanked. He was polite & mild mannered. She signed my time card and filled it out for 3 hours later than it was (thanks, don't mind if I do)! On one hand, I wanted to high-tail it out of there before they made the moves on me. On the other hand, I grew very offended that they never made the moves on me.
And the moral of the story is..... Don't give your nanny's anything to blog about!!!
I'm off to hide my diamonds & porn!!!
~LB
Ok, here goes. During my college years, I worked for a professional nanny agency and made BANK doing so. I was the owner's most favorite nanny, mainly because I didn't have visible piercings. I wasn't assigned to just one family, I was assigned on an 'as needed basis' to doctors, lawyers, CEO's, a former Olympic swimmer, orthodontists, college professors & your basic trust fund families. I had a few regular gigs and dozens of odd-ball requests.
There was the traveling business man who requested that I shack up in his Radisson suite with his asthmatic son while he did 'bizna$$' in Kalamazoo. I won't lie, I felt a bit like a prostitute during that particular stint. Except for the sex part, of course.
There was the time a visiting wedding party hired me to attend a reception and keep all the rug rats occupied while their parents got tanked. They basically locked us in a room above the reception with no windows, no ventilation and a 9 inch television & VCR. Sure, the room was equipped with miniature plastic chairs, a few broken crayons and scrap paper. I think at one point a server might have come up to bring us warm water and left over bread sticks. All in all, I felt like I was in some sort of torture chamber. I contemplated hiring Elie Weisel to write a book about my experience. It was very traumatic. Each time the door opened, I half expected a guard to appear with a hose or something. Long story short, I got outta there around midnight and the groom tipped me $50, for my troubles. I would have been happy with a complimentary cocktail. Looking back, I'm sure I helped myself to the open bar before departing. A traveler, if you will.
There was the couple who was engaged to be married and she had a son from a previous relationship. 'She', being a stripper. She met her fiance while working, of course. He was one of the ugliest men I'd ever known; short, fat, a rocking mullet, crooked teeth, high pitched voice, a lisp, the worst! However, he did have some of the deepest pockets I'd ever known. His grandfather basically invented corrugated cardboard. She was my age (21) and he might have even been a year younger than me. On one hand, it was a bit of a pisser working for someone who was my age and lived in a 10,000 square foot house. On the other hand, it paid fairly well, they gave me a Jeep Cherokee to drive while hauling their kid around town. They would take off on extravagant vacations and leave me home with full access to....everything.
The last straw was when it was time for their wedding. They loaded me up and all 4 of us drove to Indianapolis, IN for 4 days of wedding bullshit. I had to accompany her to dress fittings, bridal luncheons, rehearsals, pre-wedding bash, wedding and finally the reception. By the time the wedding rolled around, I was so sick of everyone fawning over the bride, who I secretly knew was a who-er. The groom just sat in his $1,000/a night hotel suite and snorted everything but the kitchen sink while I acted as his bride's personal whipping post. One night, I was in my room and I had my dress hanging up in the closet and my shoes were in the closet. She came into my room (wasted) to fill me in on the next day's events. She eyed my dress & shoes and slurred, "you bitch, you can't look better than me on at my wedding day", and pushed me. She was trying to be playful, so I playfully pushed her back and said, "bitch, I look better than you every day". In hind sight, this might have been what kicked off the demise of my employment. But, I digress.
So, the wedding day arrives and we all get to the church with little drama. I always love a bride who stands outside her limo and smokes cigarettes and drinks beer through a funnel. Good times. Since her son was busy with the wedding party, I was demoted from nanny to bride's assistant. I was instructed to stand at the front of the church and hand out programs, which turned out to be the best seat in the house because I got to see all of their friends arrive with glassy eyes and bloody noses. We get seated. The procession begins. Finally, the church doors fling open and out walks the bride in all her virginal glory. During their vows I snickered and made gagging gestures to the other guests who I befriended along the way. I may have even snorted when the minister made a comment about the bride servicing her husband.
Fast forward to the reception. I'll admit it.... I took full advantage of the top shelf, open bar. It was a simple misunderstanding, really. I thought, since her son was sitting next to her at the head table, I would have the night off. I got ripped. After dinner, the band started and I hit the dance floor. I was shaking my junk all over the place and putting on a show for the videographers. You know that portion of the wedding when the videographers take guests aside and interview them about the lovely couple? Yeah. My better judgement took a back seat at that particular moment and I announced (on camera) that the bride was a "lap-dancing-whore". In my defense, I figured I was golden because the edited tape wouldn't be done until long after the honeymoon, which I'd planned to quit the second they'd returned from their honeymoon. It was a fine arrangement. I did quit, the night they returned from Hawaii, but I've always thought about that video tape. Oh, how I wished I could have seen the couple's reaction to my well wishes!
And finally, I'll end on a high note. The last family that I'll exploit was a dandy!!! They lived in an old bed & breakfast converted into a home. Other than the 400 antique Tiffany lamps placed in every corner of the house, it was a great set-up. I actually loved the house itself, it was the decor that made me crazy. Pastels, dolls, floral print, etc. etc. But, it had every imaginable amenity. A pool. A hot tub. An attic that was decorated to look just like the cabin of a ship, a mother-in-law suite over the garage when they stored "Grammy" until her last days. I'm sure Grammy rotted up there for weeks before someone noticed her MIA. There was the carriage house (for guests). A room exclusively dedicated to her jewelry. Oh, and there was the porn....
For starters, the couple was into the 'lifestyle'. If you're not familiar with that euphemism, it means they were swingers. I put a movie in the vcr one night and the 'movie' portrayed a random couple sitting on a couch. They were talking as if they were interviewing for a job, except, the job was to sleep with their interviewers. They were like, "Hi Dan & Terri....we're Ron & Sally. We like blonds who are slender and into S&M". Immediately, I knew it wasn't Lion King that I had stumbled upon. I'm smart that way. Naturally, I called the chick who owned the nanny agency and we went crazy! This was NOT our first experience with freaks--but it was our first go-round with sex fiends--fascinating! I also made a point to call each and every friend of mine who also worked for the agency, who also babysat for this family. We had our suspicions, but this was too much! As time went on, the wife got more and more open about her lifestyle. There was the life-size nude portrait of her over the bed. (don't forget, Grammy lived with them) There were the nude photo albums that she'd had professionally created for her husband. And now they were bring other couples into the mix. At the time I thought she was a cheap slut. Now, I just think she was a really, really good wife. Notice, SHE had a pool, a closet full of diamonds and a 14,000 square foot house. Hmmm... if I were smart, I'd get right on that train.
Anyway, the kicker came when I promised to put in Aladdin for their 3 yr old and out of the VCR came, "Edward Penis Hands". I was dying! After the boy went to sleep, I totally watched it. It was the husband sitting on the edge of the bathtub and he was pulling his wife's hair and speaking to her in a very domineering manner. I was so turned off.
Meanwhile, 2 hours later, the couple came home. He, a local orthodontist. She, a blond (abeit very weathered) bombshell. She was tanked. He was polite & mild mannered. She signed my time card and filled it out for 3 hours later than it was (thanks, don't mind if I do)! On one hand, I wanted to high-tail it out of there before they made the moves on me. On the other hand, I grew very offended that they never made the moves on me.
And the moral of the story is..... Don't give your nanny's anything to blog about!!!
I'm off to hide my diamonds & porn!!!
~LB
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Shut Up Leslie!!!
SHUT UP, LESLIE!!!!
You've gotta take me with a grain of salt. I have no idea what that means, but it seems fitting. Those of you who actually know me, know that I have no filter between my brain and mouth. (Please read blog entitled: Stupid things I say). I say what I mean and I mean what I say. Sometimes, however, the intent of what I say is simply misconstrued, let's say.
I don't usually mean for the things that I say to end up coming out the way that they do. I didn't mean to point out that someone's dress resembled a shower curtain. I didn't mean to tell my neighbor that I rather claw my eyes out with spoons than go furniture shopping with her. And last night at bunko, I certainly didn't mean to blurt out that I will refuse to allow my children to join D.A.R.E. (When my friend insisted that it was part of their curriculum and they needed it to graduate). I didn't mean to get up on my hind legs and rant that I'd write a letter to dismiss them from the program. My reasoning behind this lament was that I don't need the peanut gallery (ie. my children) piping up from the back seat when I drive them around town drunk off my ass.
Obviously, I was completely kidding. I could never, would never and will never drink with my children. Unless it's just to and from the liquor store. I'M KIDDING, settle down. Anyway, I made a bad joke about it because, well....that's what I do. I make bad jokes. I'm inappropriate, I'm crass, I often cross the line. It's what I do. I didn't get a reputation for being a quick -witted hoot, just for sitting with my hands placed politely in my lap. No siree. I'm edgy. ...(long pause), yeah, edgy.
You can either love me or hate me. Fortunately for me, most people enjoy my 'rants'. If they don't, oh well. At least I can laugh about it in the morning. Or at the very least, call Melissa to re-hash it. She shares my dark, inappropriate sense of humor so I mostly amuse her. But, if she thinks I've crossed the line, chances are I've got some follow-up phone calls to make. As Jason would say, "You've got some sssplainin' to do, Lucy". She's my moral compass. Granted, a slightly eschewed compass, but my compass, nevertheless. That Melissa.
And you don't know the half of it. The examples that I've mentioned have only occurred within my social circle. Imagine the horror that I must bring to my husband and his family. And on a regular basis, mind you. In case you're just tuning in....my in-laws are Baptists. Good Christians. Church going, law abiding citizens. Decent humans. No drinking, no swearing (whaaat?) no taking the Lord's name in vain, no hats during prayer, type people. Now...picture me. See my point? I love 'em. Lawd knows I loves 'em. But really? Where my husband finds the strawnth to take me out into public with him, I'll never know. And he forgives me too! I can usually keep in under lock & key at family reunions and holidays...but whew---invite me to a wedding? Forget about it.
First of all, I guar-an-tee I will be strategically placed as far away from the head table as humanly possible. Second, I guar-an-tee I will, at some point, request that the Dj play, "Erotic City" by Prince and lastly, you can bet your sweet ass that if the reception is at a fancy joint and the ladies room has one of those cute little 'amenities' basket on the counter with mouthwash, a sewing kit and some (ahem) feminine-products-starting with -the-letter-T, in it....Then, I can GUAR-AN-TEE I will pass them out to people at the reception while saying, "Cigarette? Cigar? Cigarette? Cigar?". Trust me, I've done it! This I promise you! Just ask my sister in law! I even have the photo to prove it. (Note the smeared mascara under my eyes) Proving my point ONCE AGAIN, that you can dress me up, but you can't take me out. Well, you can, but not without scrutiny.
So, I say, make a splash. Have some fun! Laugh until your mascara smears!!!
~Leslie
Monday, June 8, 2009
Walmart (sigh)
I hate Walmart. No, I mean I HATE that place. I live about 25 minutes from the nearest Walmart and I haven't been there in probably 2 years. Yesterday was Sunday and I was browsing the Sunday paper and all it's flyers, World Market, Target, what have you. I guess I got wrapped up in Walmart's sunny, colorful ad. It showed good looking children splashing in a pool. It showed a lovely mother pouring lemonade out of a bright orange pitcher. I saw thick, cotton beach towels and the cutest brown & gold bikini I'd ever seen (for less than $80 anyway). I'll admit, I got carried away and I committed my own cardinal sin. The ad caused me to experience temporary insanity and I forget everything I'd learned over the years...and I did it. I went to Walmart.
Ever been to Walmart on a random Monday afternoon? You would have thought they were giving away houses. My God, the mob scene. The minute I'd entered through the doors, I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. It had all come back to me. The wholesome images from the ad washed away and I was reminded of why I avoid that store like the plague.
I spent the shortest amount of time possible in the store, but the people in there move soooo slowly, that it's difficult to manuever quickly through the aisles. I needed maybe 5-7 things (I made a bee-line for checkout after I'd gotten 2). I was on a mission to find a stainless water bottle. Apparently re-using plastic ones is a big no-no. Who knew? Something about running plastic through the dishwasher causes cancer or something, I don't know. Nevermind that my son has been drinking out of recycled plastic water bottles for the better part of 3 years...so, whatev, I went to recify the situation at Walmart. No luck. Of course. What I did find, however was the following:
All so I could save a buck???? Never again. Ever. I'd rather buy toilet paper at Barney's than to go through that again. It's equivalent to the people watching at a State Fair. (shudder).
Ever been to Walmart on a random Monday afternoon? You would have thought they were giving away houses. My God, the mob scene. The minute I'd entered through the doors, I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. It had all come back to me. The wholesome images from the ad washed away and I was reminded of why I avoid that store like the plague.
I spent the shortest amount of time possible in the store, but the people in there move soooo slowly, that it's difficult to manuever quickly through the aisles. I needed maybe 5-7 things (I made a bee-line for checkout after I'd gotten 2). I was on a mission to find a stainless water bottle. Apparently re-using plastic ones is a big no-no. Who knew? Something about running plastic through the dishwasher causes cancer or something, I don't know. Nevermind that my son has been drinking out of recycled plastic water bottles for the better part of 3 years...so, whatev, I went to recify the situation at Walmart. No luck. Of course. What I did find, however was the following:
- child abuse
- vast tobacco usage
- many piercings
- teenage mothers with no less than 15 Tony's Pizza boxes in her cart
- tattoos
- gang members
- obesity
- a fight in the parking lot
- soda in baby bottles
- m&m's qualifying as 'lunch'
- an African American baby with air Jordans that cost more than a couch-- I'm sure-- yet his gangsta father paid in food stamps
- a mother picked up her baby's pacifier off the floor then handed it back to the baby
- a Hispanic family loading up on fireworks while telling their children they couldn't get cereal
- the coupon nazi in front of me at the check out
- and finally, the seemingly homeless woman who parked next to my car and stood there smoking her cigarette and refused to move while I was trying to buckle in my 4 year old
All so I could save a buck???? Never again. Ever. I'd rather buy toilet paper at Barney's than to go through that again. It's equivalent to the people watching at a State Fair. (shudder).
Thursday, May 28, 2009
what television gets away with
So many times over the past year or so, I've been completely blown away by what is acceptable for tv now. OK, before I continue, I just have to say--I'm NOT AT ALL offended! While I'm usually amused by vulgarity, I am amazed at what's becoming the norm. We're so desensitized to sex, foul language, drug references (all of which I proudly display on this blog). My defense is that my blog readers know what they're getting into when they read this. I ain't "fronting", as the kids would say. I OWN my obscenities, dog! But, when an 80 year old woman is innocently scrolling through her cable channels and she sees a commercial for KY Intensify, which boasts optimum clitoral stimulation, I picture the poor thing dropping dead of a heart attack. KY has also recently put out a commercial for their mini-vibrator. This is an absolute fact. WTF? Does anyone else think that's kinda weird? I felt like I was watching a commercial for cigarettes or rape or something.
What does this say about 2009? In the 50's they wouldn't even allow Lucy & Ricky to sleep in the same bed. I regularly hear "douche bag" said on tv. That's a new one. Love it. Last night on Real Housewives of New Jersey, Danielle said, "I've got a pu$$y". This is primetime, people! This isn't Cinemax, mind you. My jaw dropped when I heard that!!! So what can't we say on tv, these days? F--K and C-NT, apparently. Because, you know, that crosses the line. But, Pu$$y and Douche Bag, however, are sweeping the nation.
I hate the commercials that allow the masses into a woman's personal life. I still believe that a woman's personal matters should be kept under wraps. (As you'll plainly read about in any of my blogs pertaining to child birth and everything else that embarrasses me from the waist down). Ok, so what's with that commercial from Schtick? Don't quote me, but I believe it's Schtick Intuition with a bikini trimmer on one end. We get it, ok? It's for trimming up your bush. We don't need the visuals that accompany it. A woman walks confidently out of a boutique and as she passes, the topiary plant magically changes it's formation to the shape of the woman's (supposed) bush. Hot chick walks by, the tree instantly contorts to a triangle, rectangle, rhombus, what have you. I don't get it. Ever, ever in your lifetime would you see a commercial about a man's bush? Never! So, why do us girls have to be exploited? And reduced to being compared to that of an evergreen? Arg. (to be said like a pirate)
My girlfriend, who has known me for almost 20 years, knows that I'm a freak about girly, private parts talk. Anyway, she, her husband and I were having drinks one night on her deck and she was saying that they'd seen a commercial the night before that would probably have put me in a coma, had I been present. I inquire. Allegedly, it was a commercial for a feminine (gulp) itching product. Already, I'd begun panting and turning white. If she and I were alone while she was giving me the play by play, I probably would have listened, but because her husband was sitting with us, I had to start breathing in a bag (chagrin). She goes onto report that the commercial asked the question, "does your feminine itching feel like this"? and then evidently it showed a picture of a burning bush. Then it asked, "Do you have odor?" and then showed a picture of a trout in a garbage can. I didn't even let her finish. The coroner was already at her home. There was already a chalk outline of my body on her patio. I can't begin to tell you the horror. You know, I haven't been back, to her home, come to think of it. I'm sure I'll never be able to look her husband in the eye now. I hate for men to think our cha-cha's are scary burning bush that smells like dead fish. Who the hell is selling these ads? And to whom are they selling them? I don't know about you gals, but I'd rather the boys think of us as pretty, little flowers, not angry, smelly horticulture.
Anyway, my point being...well, I don't really have one. But, yo, that shit's f'ed up, dawg.
LB
What does this say about 2009? In the 50's they wouldn't even allow Lucy & Ricky to sleep in the same bed. I regularly hear "douche bag" said on tv. That's a new one. Love it. Last night on Real Housewives of New Jersey, Danielle said, "I've got a pu$$y". This is primetime, people! This isn't Cinemax, mind you. My jaw dropped when I heard that!!! So what can't we say on tv, these days? F--K and C-NT, apparently. Because, you know, that crosses the line. But, Pu$$y and Douche Bag, however, are sweeping the nation.
I hate the commercials that allow the masses into a woman's personal life. I still believe that a woman's personal matters should be kept under wraps. (As you'll plainly read about in any of my blogs pertaining to child birth and everything else that embarrasses me from the waist down). Ok, so what's with that commercial from Schtick? Don't quote me, but I believe it's Schtick Intuition with a bikini trimmer on one end. We get it, ok? It's for trimming up your bush. We don't need the visuals that accompany it. A woman walks confidently out of a boutique and as she passes, the topiary plant magically changes it's formation to the shape of the woman's (supposed) bush. Hot chick walks by, the tree instantly contorts to a triangle, rectangle, rhombus, what have you. I don't get it. Ever, ever in your lifetime would you see a commercial about a man's bush? Never! So, why do us girls have to be exploited? And reduced to being compared to that of an evergreen? Arg. (to be said like a pirate)
My girlfriend, who has known me for almost 20 years, knows that I'm a freak about girly, private parts talk. Anyway, she, her husband and I were having drinks one night on her deck and she was saying that they'd seen a commercial the night before that would probably have put me in a coma, had I been present. I inquire. Allegedly, it was a commercial for a feminine (gulp) itching product. Already, I'd begun panting and turning white. If she and I were alone while she was giving me the play by play, I probably would have listened, but because her husband was sitting with us, I had to start breathing in a bag (chagrin). She goes onto report that the commercial asked the question, "does your feminine itching feel like this"? and then evidently it showed a picture of a burning bush. Then it asked, "Do you have odor?" and then showed a picture of a trout in a garbage can. I didn't even let her finish. The coroner was already at her home. There was already a chalk outline of my body on her patio. I can't begin to tell you the horror. You know, I haven't been back, to her home, come to think of it. I'm sure I'll never be able to look her husband in the eye now. I hate for men to think our cha-cha's are scary burning bush that smells like dead fish. Who the hell is selling these ads? And to whom are they selling them? I don't know about you gals, but I'd rather the boys think of us as pretty, little flowers, not angry, smelly horticulture.
Anyway, my point being...well, I don't really have one. But, yo, that shit's f'ed up, dawg.
LB
the dreaded summer
Hello Gorgeous Readers. I have NOT abandoned my blog. I've been dreadfully busy and unfortunately, lesliedishes has fallen to the wayside. In short, my house was torn apart for about 5 weeks during a not-so-extreme home make over. Then, I've been writing scripts up the wazoo for the upcoming webisodes. Not to mention the day to day rederick of homelife. Which brings me to today's blog.
Ugh. My son is counting down until the last day of school. I, for one, am holding onto the '08-'09 school year for dear life. Picture me sitting in my closet, wearing nothing but a white t-shirt, rocking back and forth, turning my lamp on, off, on, off..... I practically hyperventilate thinking of 3 mos. of this. "This" being screaming, fighting, tattling, breaking, endless snacks, endless requests, endless questions and hours and hours of unfiltered dialogue. You know what I mean. I laid in bed this morning listening to 15 STRAIGHT minutes of why my son believes it takes George Lucas soooooo long to make 'one stinkin' Star Wars movie". Because there's no filter between the boys' brains and mouths, it makes for a very, very long day. Can you imagine saying each and every thought that pops into your head? As I'm typing this, the boys are sensing that the focus isn't on them, so they're dancing around my chair screaming, "I'm cuckoo for cocoa puffs". For the record, I do not allow such cereals into my home. Someone who was left alone with the boys for ONE NIGHT decided to treat them to a chocolatey breakfast and then forgot to hide the evidence when I returned home. So, just like any other heroine addict worth his weight, my kids are now full blown junkies. I've since removed the incriminating evidence, but the desire and the crave will always be there. Sure, they're attending their bi-weekly meetings, but still. While they're no where near completing the 12 step recovery process, they have begun to "Let go and let God", so that's a start.
I digress. As I was saying... I'm DREADING the impending Summer. I always do. I loathe the heat and the incessant guilty need to be outside. I'd rather be in the air conditioning than outside sweating my a$$ off. I don't like being hot. I don't worship the sun. I don't like having to schlep sunscreen everywhere I go. I don't like that every night is bath night. I don't like the kids' sense of entitlement when the ice cream man drives through the neighborhood, playing that annoying rendition of Popeye the Sailorman. I don't like that it doesn't get dark until 10 (how do you explain that to your kids, whose bedtime is 8) and finally, I don't like sand. Oh wait, I don't camping or outdoorsy stuff either.
So, as it stands, I've managed to sign my 7 year old up for pretty much every possible thing you could sign him up for. Football clinic, Vacation Bible School (he hates it), Jurassic camp, Witchcraft camp, Pipe bomb camp...I don't care at this point. Sign 'em up! If it occupies him for several hours a day, I'm happy. Don't think I've overlooked the 4 year old. I've tried, oh, I've tried to pawn him off onto any takers. No one wants him. I begged the Vacation Bible School to take him and they said they would, but only for mothers who volunteer all day, everyday.
F--K. THAT! I'll keep him home with me. I'm all about church and God and the wonderful messages that VBS teaches, but I certainly don't care to Rah Rah Rah about it to 300 elementary school kids!!! I'd rather shoot myself in the face.
So that about wraps up what's new and fascinating in my life. If you see a gal out on the lake, in a boat, wearing pig tails and a straw cowboy hat, looking as if she's contemplating throwing herself into the propeller, then wave, IT'S ME!!!!
Summer's coming. Can't you feel the air getting thinner???
LB
Ugh. My son is counting down until the last day of school. I, for one, am holding onto the '08-'09 school year for dear life. Picture me sitting in my closet, wearing nothing but a white t-shirt, rocking back and forth, turning my lamp on, off, on, off..... I practically hyperventilate thinking of 3 mos. of this. "This" being screaming, fighting, tattling, breaking, endless snacks, endless requests, endless questions and hours and hours of unfiltered dialogue. You know what I mean. I laid in bed this morning listening to 15 STRAIGHT minutes of why my son believes it takes George Lucas soooooo long to make 'one stinkin' Star Wars movie". Because there's no filter between the boys' brains and mouths, it makes for a very, very long day. Can you imagine saying each and every thought that pops into your head? As I'm typing this, the boys are sensing that the focus isn't on them, so they're dancing around my chair screaming, "I'm cuckoo for cocoa puffs". For the record, I do not allow such cereals into my home. Someone who was left alone with the boys for ONE NIGHT decided to treat them to a chocolatey breakfast and then forgot to hide the evidence when I returned home. So, just like any other heroine addict worth his weight, my kids are now full blown junkies. I've since removed the incriminating evidence, but the desire and the crave will always be there. Sure, they're attending their bi-weekly meetings, but still. While they're no where near completing the 12 step recovery process, they have begun to "Let go and let God", so that's a start.
I digress. As I was saying... I'm DREADING the impending Summer. I always do. I loathe the heat and the incessant guilty need to be outside. I'd rather be in the air conditioning than outside sweating my a$$ off. I don't like being hot. I don't worship the sun. I don't like having to schlep sunscreen everywhere I go. I don't like that every night is bath night. I don't like the kids' sense of entitlement when the ice cream man drives through the neighborhood, playing that annoying rendition of Popeye the Sailorman. I don't like that it doesn't get dark until 10 (how do you explain that to your kids, whose bedtime is 8) and finally, I don't like sand. Oh wait, I don't camping or outdoorsy stuff either.
So, as it stands, I've managed to sign my 7 year old up for pretty much every possible thing you could sign him up for. Football clinic, Vacation Bible School (he hates it), Jurassic camp, Witchcraft camp, Pipe bomb camp...I don't care at this point. Sign 'em up! If it occupies him for several hours a day, I'm happy. Don't think I've overlooked the 4 year old. I've tried, oh, I've tried to pawn him off onto any takers. No one wants him. I begged the Vacation Bible School to take him and they said they would, but only for mothers who volunteer all day, everyday.
F--K. THAT! I'll keep him home with me. I'm all about church and God and the wonderful messages that VBS teaches, but I certainly don't care to Rah Rah Rah about it to 300 elementary school kids!!! I'd rather shoot myself in the face.
So that about wraps up what's new and fascinating in my life. If you see a gal out on the lake, in a boat, wearing pig tails and a straw cowboy hat, looking as if she's contemplating throwing herself into the propeller, then wave, IT'S ME!!!!
Summer's coming. Can't you feel the air getting thinner???
LB
Friday, May 8, 2009
Stoopid Girl
....And speaking of my intolerance for stupidity, I was getting a massage a few weeks ago (full release...whaaat?) Anyway, I had previously made a subsequent appt. for my husband to get one the following Friday, but he had informed me that it was the Tiger's opening day and that in no way would he be available to get a massage (but would be available, however to play golf, get drunk with the neighbors, play ladder golf with the neighbors and bet the neighbor's son that he wouldn't wear my dog's shock collar around his neck while crossing the property line). But I digress.
Anyhoot, so as I'm checking out, I say to the receptionist:
Leslie: My husband has an appt. at 6 PM next Friday, but it's opening day and he has flat out refused a massage. Can I just keep his appt.?
Receptionist: Sure, I'll pencil you in. But he really should reschedule, he'd love it.
Leslie: He will....any day but opening day.
Receptionist: What's it opening day for?
Leslie: Tigers
Receptionist: Oh My Gosh---YOUR HUSBAND HUNTS TIGERS????
Leslie: (Starred blankly at her) That would be the Detroit Tigers...you know, baseball?
Receptionist: (lays her head down on the desk in humiliation)
Leslie (leaves the spa, laughing all the way to the car, then proceeds to tell every single person whom I've come into contact with what this idiot said to me).
This has been the source of laughter for us this entire week. Thank you dumb, spa, receptionist lady.
Anyhoot, so as I'm checking out, I say to the receptionist:
Leslie: My husband has an appt. at 6 PM next Friday, but it's opening day and he has flat out refused a massage. Can I just keep his appt.?
Receptionist: Sure, I'll pencil you in. But he really should reschedule, he'd love it.
Leslie: He will....any day but opening day.
Receptionist: What's it opening day for?
Leslie: Tigers
Receptionist: Oh My Gosh---YOUR HUSBAND HUNTS TIGERS????
Leslie: (Starred blankly at her) That would be the Detroit Tigers...you know, baseball?
Receptionist: (lays her head down on the desk in humiliation)
Leslie (leaves the spa, laughing all the way to the car, then proceeds to tell every single person whom I've come into contact with what this idiot said to me).
This has been the source of laughter for us this entire week. Thank you dumb, spa, receptionist lady.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
idiots....God bless 'em
Just for kicks, take a gander at the day in the life of me. This made it's way to YouTube on the Detroit Tiger's Opening Day. This is my husband and his neanderthal friends (also known as our neighbors). He had an 8 AM tee-time and many, many beers had been drank between that tee-time and the filming of this video. Oh yeah, he watched the home opener sometime in there too.
To clear up any confusion, yes, he's wearing a dog's shock collar. Yes, his friend's convinced him to turn up the juice on the collar. Yes, that's my 3 year old's tricycle. Yes, he was a perfectly willing participant.
~Enjoy
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKaKLGFGMro
To clear up any confusion, yes, he's wearing a dog's shock collar. Yes, his friend's convinced him to turn up the juice on the collar. Yes, that's my 3 year old's tricycle. Yes, he was a perfectly willing participant.
~Enjoy
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKaKLGFGMro
Sunday, April 26, 2009
The Man-Child
If I've said it once, I've said it a million times, MEN ARE BIG BABIES. There is a clip on You Tube called, "The Man Cold". I highly recommend it. My God, my husband literally limps when he has a head cold.
Anyway, I'm not going to get into that whole song and dance today. This is my new gripe. OK, my husband, Jason, is the worst bed buddy. I mean that in the literal sense, not figuratively. He is. Hands down. Thee. WORST. PERSON. TO SLEEP. WITH!
Here's Jason's sleepy-time routine:
Kick legs
sigh every 2 minutes
clear his throat every 25 seconds
kick legs
roll over
sigh
snores
breath through his mouth
choke on his dry throat
.....this will go on for hours and hours.... It's maddening. So, finally, he's going to a sleep clinic this week (HOORAY)!! He had to fill out tons of paper work before his appt. and the instructions said to have his sleep partner answer some of the questions, pertaining to his sleep habits. That would be me. I was happy to put my 2 cents in, as I'm often prone to do. Here's how that conversation went down.
Jason: When's my birthday
Me: Feb. 4th
Jason: Was I born in 73 or 74?
Me: 74....seriously?
Jason: Have I ever been hospitalized?
Me: Don't you think you'd remember if you'd been hospitalized?
Jason: Did I snore as a child?
Me: (sigh) We didn't know each other as children.
Jason: Do I snore now?
Me: (I just stare blankly at him)
Jason: I'll take that as a yes
Jason: Do I drink frequently, moderately or rarely?
Me: frequently
Jason: Does my drinking ever bother my partner
Me: Yes
Jason: I'm not putting that down
Me: THEN DON'T ASK ME!!!!
Jason: 'K, Do I ever fall asleep after lunch
Me: I wouldn't know. We rarely have lunch together.
Jason: Well, that one weekend, remember I laid down with Gabe and took a nap?
Me: Pretty sure that's not what they mean
Jason: What's post nasal drip?
Me: a runny nose....My God, what part of 'nasal drip' escaped you?
Jason: What does 'wakefulness' mean?
Me: Um. When you're awake
Jason: Are you sure it doesn't mean 'unable to sleep'
Me: yes
Jason: what if it does?
Me: That would be insomnia. See Wake-Ful-Ness simply means being awake. (roll eyes)
Jason: Oh.
Jason: Do I ever fall asleep after a meal without alcohol consumption?
Me: I don't know, I've never seen you eat a meal without consuming alcohol along with it.
Jason: I'm not putting that down
Me: Then I'll call the clinic myself and give them my version. Who are they gonna believe? The drunken husband or his wife?
Jason: Good night.
Good Lord, it's like he's 5. I love the man, I do. But, he's a Man-child. It's times like this when I'd like to put a pillow over of his face.
I'd also like to point out two other instances when he resorts to his man-child self.
Anyway, I'm not going to get into that whole song and dance today. This is my new gripe. OK, my husband, Jason, is the worst bed buddy. I mean that in the literal sense, not figuratively. He is. Hands down. Thee. WORST. PERSON. TO SLEEP. WITH!
Here's Jason's sleepy-time routine:
Kick legs
sigh every 2 minutes
clear his throat every 25 seconds
kick legs
roll over
sigh
snores
breath through his mouth
choke on his dry throat
.....this will go on for hours and hours.... It's maddening. So, finally, he's going to a sleep clinic this week (HOORAY)!! He had to fill out tons of paper work before his appt. and the instructions said to have his sleep partner answer some of the questions, pertaining to his sleep habits. That would be me. I was happy to put my 2 cents in, as I'm often prone to do. Here's how that conversation went down.
Jason: When's my birthday
Me: Feb. 4th
Jason: Was I born in 73 or 74?
Me: 74....seriously?
Jason: Have I ever been hospitalized?
Me: Don't you think you'd remember if you'd been hospitalized?
Jason: Did I snore as a child?
Me: (sigh) We didn't know each other as children.
Jason: Do I snore now?
Me: (I just stare blankly at him)
Jason: I'll take that as a yes
Jason: Do I drink frequently, moderately or rarely?
Me: frequently
Jason: Does my drinking ever bother my partner
Me: Yes
Jason: I'm not putting that down
Me: THEN DON'T ASK ME!!!!
Jason: 'K, Do I ever fall asleep after lunch
Me: I wouldn't know. We rarely have lunch together.
Jason: Well, that one weekend, remember I laid down with Gabe and took a nap?
Me: Pretty sure that's not what they mean
Jason: What's post nasal drip?
Me: a runny nose....My God, what part of 'nasal drip' escaped you?
Jason: What does 'wakefulness' mean?
Me: Um. When you're awake
Jason: Are you sure it doesn't mean 'unable to sleep'
Me: yes
Jason: what if it does?
Me: That would be insomnia. See Wake-Ful-Ness simply means being awake. (roll eyes)
Jason: Oh.
Jason: Do I ever fall asleep after a meal without alcohol consumption?
Me: I don't know, I've never seen you eat a meal without consuming alcohol along with it.
Jason: I'm not putting that down
Me: Then I'll call the clinic myself and give them my version. Who are they gonna believe? The drunken husband or his wife?
Jason: Good night.
Good Lord, it's like he's 5. I love the man, I do. But, he's a Man-child. It's times like this when I'd like to put a pillow over of his face.
I'd also like to point out two other instances when he resorts to his man-child self.
- When I'm cooking. He hovers over me....."Ewwwwe---what's that? I don't like that. Ughhhh...Leslie, what's thaaaaat...you know I don't like balsamic vinegar, it smells like feet. Ohhhh, I don't think I like onions, do I? Oh, I'm not going to like this. Can I just have 2 bites and if I don't like it can I have something else?"
- When we're shopping for new school clothes for him. (They're really for work, but school clothes sounds cuter). I pull out arm loads of clothes for him to try on for me. He shuffles around the store getting distracted by shiny objects. He begrudgingly tries on the clothes. He comes out of the dressing room to show me his ensemble. He shoves his hands in his pockets, slouches his shoulders, acts stiff and uncomfortable, he squirms and tells me it's too tight. We leave everything in the dressing room, go get him a Shamrock shake and attempt another shopping spree in 6 months.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Peeps I Hate: Vol. II
Here's the portion of the show where I vehemently spew my strong dislike for certain people. I'm fairly certain I'll have Volume 3 composed in my head by the time I post this. I'm always on the lookout for new peeps to add to my list. Pretty much, if I'm out in public, I'll inevitably find someone to add to my infamous list. I'm not overly critical, I'm just hyper-aware of common courtesy and basic sociology.
1. I firmly believe that people who don't use proper grammar should be arrested.
2. I hate the person at the check out counter who acts annoyed that I'm needing to be rung up. I was at a store yesterday buying my husband some golf shirts. (he doesn't really golf much, but God bless 'em for wanting to look the part). So, I got to the counter, plopped my merchandise in front of her and said, 'hello'. She couldn't possibly bother to look at me. She was waaayyy to busy sorting dollar bills and ignoring me. Finally she looks up and give me the most exasperated "hi" she could possibly manage. It literally pained her to acknowledge me. I'm looking around like, "I'm sorry, am I at your house right now...or am I at the store in which you are EMPLOYED?" After she's finished organizing all of her pens so that they are facing North, she finally gets to my purchase. Why, thank you, kind lady. Thank you for taking the time out of your obviously verrrrry busy day to ring me up. I have no tolerance for this because, well, we're all aware of the rate of unemployment right now. I feel that if you are lucky enough to have a paycheck, no matter how big or small, you should be grateful and that you should do your job with pride because if you don't, guess what? There's probably 200 people who will.
3. I hate the person whom I will refer to as the "coupon Nazi". I'm not embarrassed to admit that if I have a coupon for something that I regularly buy, I'm not afraid to use it. I'm not above saving a few bucks. Not in this economy. Crumbs make a cake, I always say. Every little bit helps. My husband, Jason might argue with this statement. He'd prefer that I not buy it at all, rather than come home and reveal my gorgeous new shoes that I bought at 20% off. He likes to say, "quit saving me money, you're breaking me". Then, I will pat him on the head and prance off in my pretty, new shoes. Ok, but-uh-back to the lecture at hand. The Coupon Nazi. Ooooh, how I hate this person. I shake my fist at her. I'll paint a picture, as I'm known to do. I'm in line. I'm unloading hundreds of dollars worth of groceries at the store where I spend at least $1,000 a month. I'm not a crazy coupon lady or anything, but surely I enjoy saving a few bones here and there. I have 2 little boys who are usually horrendous in the grocery store and often risk being abandoned at the courtesy counter. So, suffice it to say, I'm pretty spent by the time I get to paying for my items. So, the cashier is finally done bagging my groceries and I hand her my coupons. She goes through them with a fine tooth comb, like her life depends on whether she's going to give me the discount. Like she gets a bonus at the end of the day for denying a $.50 off coupon. "Nope, this one expired an hour ago. Nope, this one says you had to buy two. Sorry, this one says you have to be blond"...... I usually lose my patience at this point and yank my measly coupons out of her fat hands. Ooooh, she makes me so mad.
4. Parents who allow their children to act like assholes without reprimanding them. I'll just leave it at that.
5. People who show up to an event with their 4 or 5 kids and bring a 2 liter of pop to pass. Wow. Thanks for your contribution. Between the first liter and the 2nd liter, we should be all set. I can see where an appetizer or a dessert would have seemed excessive.
6. Stage Mothers. Why are pageant mothers always so fat and ugly? Well, the answer apparently lies within the question. They're most likely living vicariously through their children. And what's up with the whorish looking toddlers? Creepy! They always have their disgusting trailer trashy mother in the audience performing the routine right along with them. I hate to be crass, but we all know what happened to poor little JonBenet and then later, to Patsy. That situation alone would have steered me clear from the world of pageantry.
7. People who think Red Lobster & Olive Garden are fine dining.
8. People who give bad massages. I regularly get massages, what with my scoliosis and all... nevertheless, I pay to have therapeutic massages and when the masseuse meets me in the lobby and shakes my hand with a limp handshake, I know I'm in for at least an hour of hell. I always start out by telling her that I want a deep tissue massage and not to be afraid to hurt me. That statement alone should suffice, but no.... because sure as shit, 15 minutes later, she's rubbing my skin in tiny little circles, while I'm face-down and seething. I will often interrupt the massage and politely tell her that I'd like more pressure. They always agree and whisper, "ok". But damned if her mutant hands work any harder. There's nothing worse than a bad massage. Nothing, I tell you! Nothing! What part of "HURT ME" escaped you? When my neck & shoulders ache the way mine do, a light rub down is about as effective as a band-aid on an amputation. I don't like anything done lightly. I'm a physical person, hence my request for a deep tissue massage. I don't like being hugged lightly (don't give me that pat-pat crap). I don't like being peck kissed (lean me back and lay one on me). I don't like any sort of unnecessary nudging. Just roll up your sleeves and dig your thumbs in, like I'm paying you to do. One time, I had a massage where the masseuse had a trache. You know...the hole in her throat. I kid you not. She had to stop the massage every few minutes to wipe off the trache, where her saliva was accumulating. Between the fear of spit dripping on the back of my head, coupled with her robot voice, that might have been the most tense massage I'd ever had.
9. People who use Facebook as a platform to brag about themselves. This is a new observation of mine that keeps me up at night. I fantasize about composing scathing emails to these people. Of course, I feel it's my personal obligation to put them in their place and knock them down a peg or two. There's this chick on facebook who updates her status several times a day (lame). Her more recent status read, "my husband came home early and found me cleaning....he said, "doesn't the cleaning lady come on Friday" and I said 'honey, I clean EVERY DAY'.....men!!!" First of all, what a trite, tired and overall STUPID thing to write on a status. We all know men are unobservant and semi-retarded--this isn't new. But mostly, you just KNOW she was trying to angle in any opportunity to let the world know that she has a cleaning lady. What a tool. Rather than being impressed that you have a cleaning lady (uh, and by the way, ...who doesn't), I'm annoyed that you feel you have to let us know you have one---because you made a point to mention it, I immediately doubt you even have one. You probably have your elderly grandmother come over and tidy up once a week and you call it your "cleaning lady". Oh, you're soooooooo damned fancy!!!! Grrrrr!!! Well, I'm off to count my money in my Range Rover, while wearing a Chanel suit.
10. I can't think of another one because #9 has me so flustered.
1. I firmly believe that people who don't use proper grammar should be arrested.
2. I hate the person at the check out counter who acts annoyed that I'm needing to be rung up. I was at a store yesterday buying my husband some golf shirts. (he doesn't really golf much, but God bless 'em for wanting to look the part). So, I got to the counter, plopped my merchandise in front of her and said, 'hello'. She couldn't possibly bother to look at me. She was waaayyy to busy sorting dollar bills and ignoring me. Finally she looks up and give me the most exasperated "hi" she could possibly manage. It literally pained her to acknowledge me. I'm looking around like, "I'm sorry, am I at your house right now...or am I at the store in which you are EMPLOYED?" After she's finished organizing all of her pens so that they are facing North, she finally gets to my purchase. Why, thank you, kind lady. Thank you for taking the time out of your obviously verrrrry busy day to ring me up. I have no tolerance for this because, well, we're all aware of the rate of unemployment right now. I feel that if you are lucky enough to have a paycheck, no matter how big or small, you should be grateful and that you should do your job with pride because if you don't, guess what? There's probably 200 people who will.
3. I hate the person whom I will refer to as the "coupon Nazi". I'm not embarrassed to admit that if I have a coupon for something that I regularly buy, I'm not afraid to use it. I'm not above saving a few bucks. Not in this economy. Crumbs make a cake, I always say. Every little bit helps. My husband, Jason might argue with this statement. He'd prefer that I not buy it at all, rather than come home and reveal my gorgeous new shoes that I bought at 20% off. He likes to say, "quit saving me money, you're breaking me". Then, I will pat him on the head and prance off in my pretty, new shoes. Ok, but-uh-back to the lecture at hand. The Coupon Nazi. Ooooh, how I hate this person. I shake my fist at her. I'll paint a picture, as I'm known to do. I'm in line. I'm unloading hundreds of dollars worth of groceries at the store where I spend at least $1,000 a month. I'm not a crazy coupon lady or anything, but surely I enjoy saving a few bones here and there. I have 2 little boys who are usually horrendous in the grocery store and often risk being abandoned at the courtesy counter. So, suffice it to say, I'm pretty spent by the time I get to paying for my items. So, the cashier is finally done bagging my groceries and I hand her my coupons. She goes through them with a fine tooth comb, like her life depends on whether she's going to give me the discount. Like she gets a bonus at the end of the day for denying a $.50 off coupon. "Nope, this one expired an hour ago. Nope, this one says you had to buy two. Sorry, this one says you have to be blond"...... I usually lose my patience at this point and yank my measly coupons out of her fat hands. Ooooh, she makes me so mad.
4. Parents who allow their children to act like assholes without reprimanding them. I'll just leave it at that.
5. People who show up to an event with their 4 or 5 kids and bring a 2 liter of pop to pass. Wow. Thanks for your contribution. Between the first liter and the 2nd liter, we should be all set. I can see where an appetizer or a dessert would have seemed excessive.
6. Stage Mothers. Why are pageant mothers always so fat and ugly? Well, the answer apparently lies within the question. They're most likely living vicariously through their children. And what's up with the whorish looking toddlers? Creepy! They always have their disgusting trailer trashy mother in the audience performing the routine right along with them. I hate to be crass, but we all know what happened to poor little JonBenet and then later, to Patsy. That situation alone would have steered me clear from the world of pageantry.
7. People who think Red Lobster & Olive Garden are fine dining.
8. People who give bad massages. I regularly get massages, what with my scoliosis and all... nevertheless, I pay to have therapeutic massages and when the masseuse meets me in the lobby and shakes my hand with a limp handshake, I know I'm in for at least an hour of hell. I always start out by telling her that I want a deep tissue massage and not to be afraid to hurt me. That statement alone should suffice, but no.... because sure as shit, 15 minutes later, she's rubbing my skin in tiny little circles, while I'm face-down and seething. I will often interrupt the massage and politely tell her that I'd like more pressure. They always agree and whisper, "ok". But damned if her mutant hands work any harder. There's nothing worse than a bad massage. Nothing, I tell you! Nothing! What part of "HURT ME" escaped you? When my neck & shoulders ache the way mine do, a light rub down is about as effective as a band-aid on an amputation. I don't like anything done lightly. I'm a physical person, hence my request for a deep tissue massage. I don't like being hugged lightly (don't give me that pat-pat crap). I don't like being peck kissed (lean me back and lay one on me). I don't like any sort of unnecessary nudging. Just roll up your sleeves and dig your thumbs in, like I'm paying you to do. One time, I had a massage where the masseuse had a trache. You know...the hole in her throat. I kid you not. She had to stop the massage every few minutes to wipe off the trache, where her saliva was accumulating. Between the fear of spit dripping on the back of my head, coupled with her robot voice, that might have been the most tense massage I'd ever had.
9. People who use Facebook as a platform to brag about themselves. This is a new observation of mine that keeps me up at night. I fantasize about composing scathing emails to these people. Of course, I feel it's my personal obligation to put them in their place and knock them down a peg or two. There's this chick on facebook who updates her status several times a day (lame). Her more recent status read, "my husband came home early and found me cleaning....he said, "doesn't the cleaning lady come on Friday" and I said 'honey, I clean EVERY DAY'.....men!!!" First of all, what a trite, tired and overall STUPID thing to write on a status. We all know men are unobservant and semi-retarded--this isn't new. But mostly, you just KNOW she was trying to angle in any opportunity to let the world know that she has a cleaning lady. What a tool. Rather than being impressed that you have a cleaning lady (uh, and by the way, ...who doesn't), I'm annoyed that you feel you have to let us know you have one---because you made a point to mention it, I immediately doubt you even have one. You probably have your elderly grandmother come over and tidy up once a week and you call it your "cleaning lady". Oh, you're soooooooo damned fancy!!!! Grrrrr!!! Well, I'm off to count my money in my Range Rover, while wearing a Chanel suit.
10. I can't think of another one because #9 has me so flustered.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Comedy show
Well, I plug my blog on Facebook, so now I'm going to plug a certain comedy show on my blog. Some of you may already know, but in Fall '08, I began writing scripts for a comedy sketch show in Grand Rapids, MI.
Some of my filthy and inappropriate work can be found at the following links. You will be dazzled by some of the talent here in Grand Rapids. The actors that I work with are spectacular. I'm proud to be affliated with such gifted individuals.
I love being behind the scenes.... I had no idea what went into a TV show. A lot, as it turns out. So tune in. You just might see an upcoming sketch which stars yours truly.
www.vimeo.com/4116430
www.vimeo.com/4124546
Some of my filthy and inappropriate work can be found at the following links. You will be dazzled by some of the talent here in Grand Rapids. The actors that I work with are spectacular. I'm proud to be affliated with such gifted individuals.
I love being behind the scenes.... I had no idea what went into a TV show. A lot, as it turns out. So tune in. You just might see an upcoming sketch which stars yours truly.
www.vimeo.com/4116430
www.vimeo.com/4124546
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
FACEBOOKING
Facebook is so interesting. It is the epitome of fantasy becoming reality. Simply put, it's manipulated life. You create, manage and only reveal what you want revealed. Brilliant. No wonder it's so addicting. It can make the loneliest people feel popular, the ugliest people feel pretty, the saddest people seem happy, the most peculiar people seem normal, etc.
I recently posted a picture of my boys and me. An old friend wrote to me that "I looked happy". I wondered how he came to that conclusion. Why? Because I'm smiling in a picture with my kids? Wow. What a super sleuth he was! A real Sherlock Holmes. Then I got to thinking (you know.....) how funny would it be if I only posted sad pictures of myself.
Picture #1. me, crying
Picture #2 Jason & me sitting at the kitchen table doing bills, clutching our unpaid bills in despair
Picture #3. me, laying in bed with the flu
Picture #4. me, standing sadly in front of a full length mirror, in my undies, while Jason looks on, disgusted.
Picture #5. me, at the mailbox, reading another rejection letter
Picture #6. me, starring sadly out the window at my children playing while I sit, crumpled in a wheelchair.
How frigging funny is that? As an experiment, I think I might tackle this challenge. I'm going to attempt to have the most pathetic facebook profile ever. My status will read like this, "Leslie is having to face another hopeless day" or "Leslie is getting ready for bed. With any luck, I'll be spared from having to endure tomorrow". I'll start my own acronyms. Instead of LOL, I'll type SMW (slitting my wrists). I'll have to write on my own wall because clearly, I won't have any friends. I'll post inspirational messages to myself. "Leslie, despite what your mother tells you, you are good enough".
This is why FB is so great. You can reinvent yourself to be whoever you want to be. The bottom line is that we're all so very narcissistic. We think people actually care what we're thinking, what our view are or how we scored on a "which muppet are you" quiz. We'll only post pictures that we feel flatter us. Oh, how I loathe my girlfriends who post terrible pictures of me without my consent...because, I'm vain....I'll admit it.
Or---I'll derail here for a minute. What about the people who update their status' every 1/2 hour? Susie is awake and ready to start her day. (wow. riveting.) Susie is staring at 14 loads of laundry that need to be put away. (here's a thought Susie, tear yourself away from the computer and do your laundry). Susie is excited for a new episode of Lost (Susie, you're a loser). Susie hopes her husband remembers to bring home milk (Or, perhaps, Susie, you could have gotten off your lazy ass and gotten it yourself). Susie is counting the days until her trip to Spain (....really? And I can't wait for Susie to stop referring to herself in 3rd person). Susie is...are you??? (Susie, you are just too darn clever--too. darn. clever.) Susie is making chicken enchiladas for dinner...yummmmm (Susie, I swear, I will chain you to a pipe in the basement...)
I recently posted a picture of my boys and me. An old friend wrote to me that "I looked happy". I wondered how he came to that conclusion. Why? Because I'm smiling in a picture with my kids? Wow. What a super sleuth he was! A real Sherlock Holmes. Then I got to thinking (you know.....) how funny would it be if I only posted sad pictures of myself.
Picture #1. me, crying
Picture #2 Jason & me sitting at the kitchen table doing bills, clutching our unpaid bills in despair
Picture #3. me, laying in bed with the flu
Picture #4. me, standing sadly in front of a full length mirror, in my undies, while Jason looks on, disgusted.
Picture #5. me, at the mailbox, reading another rejection letter
Picture #6. me, starring sadly out the window at my children playing while I sit, crumpled in a wheelchair.
How frigging funny is that? As an experiment, I think I might tackle this challenge. I'm going to attempt to have the most pathetic facebook profile ever. My status will read like this, "Leslie is having to face another hopeless day" or "Leslie is getting ready for bed. With any luck, I'll be spared from having to endure tomorrow". I'll start my own acronyms. Instead of LOL, I'll type SMW (slitting my wrists). I'll have to write on my own wall because clearly, I won't have any friends. I'll post inspirational messages to myself. "Leslie, despite what your mother tells you, you are good enough".
This is why FB is so great. You can reinvent yourself to be whoever you want to be. The bottom line is that we're all so very narcissistic. We think people actually care what we're thinking, what our view are or how we scored on a "which muppet are you" quiz. We'll only post pictures that we feel flatter us. Oh, how I loathe my girlfriends who post terrible pictures of me without my consent...because, I'm vain....I'll admit it.
Or---I'll derail here for a minute. What about the people who update their status' every 1/2 hour? Susie is awake and ready to start her day. (wow. riveting.) Susie is staring at 14 loads of laundry that need to be put away. (here's a thought Susie, tear yourself away from the computer and do your laundry). Susie is excited for a new episode of Lost (Susie, you're a loser). Susie hopes her husband remembers to bring home milk (Or, perhaps, Susie, you could have gotten off your lazy ass and gotten it yourself). Susie is counting the days until her trip to Spain (....really? And I can't wait for Susie to stop referring to herself in 3rd person). Susie is...are you??? (Susie, you are just too darn clever--too. darn. clever.) Susie is making chicken enchiladas for dinner...yummmmm (Susie, I swear, I will chain you to a pipe in the basement...)
Monday, March 30, 2009
family pictures
I'm sure you all have a family that does this, or you know a family that does this. But, you all know the family that takes the same exact picture, year after year. Same people, same occasion, same pose...the only thing that changes is the date.
In my family, growing up, it was of the thanksgiving dinner. Not pictures of the people invited to the thanksgiving dinner, but the meal itself. It wasn't only Thanksgiving, sometimes it was Mother's Day or a Passover Seder. At any rate, we didn't have a particularly pleasant upbringing or much in the way of happiness, but my mother could put on a spread (hence, no pix of the family, just of the food). So, she'd iron the linen tablecloth. She'd polish the silver, she'd lay out the china gravy boats, the little silver s/p shakers and it's matching sugar bowl. She'd place fresh fruit into individual, crystal goblets. She would coordinate the olives/pickles/gardenia onto the Wedgewood relish plate. The meal would be glistening through the 3 beveled bay windows. On rare occasion, my dad would be in the picture, usually glaring at the camera, all three kids forcing smiles, or down right crying. Anyway, that's a day in the life of our family photo album.
Now, in Jason's family, it's a tad different. Not quite as dysfunctional, mind you, but equally as noteworthy. One particular set of grandparents is in their 90's, so suffice it to say, there's a lot of photos. Not fun, candid or particularly interesting photos. Just the same 8 or 12 people standing around and forcing smiles. Once in a while a second photo will be taken so that the photographer has the chance to be in the photo. But, other than that, the pictures rarely vary.
There's the infamous birthday photo. This involves the birthday boy or girl sitting at the table, in front of the birthday cake and cards are methodically placed in front of the guest of honor. The others gather around the said person and if they were feeling especially celebratory that day, perhaps they'll pull a bouquet of balloons into the shot. I'll reiterate. These people are in their 90's. They have 2 children, 7 grandchildren and 13 great-grandchildren. That's a lot of birthdays. And a lot of photos. The only way you can differentiate between the decades of the photos, is by the attire. Otherwise, everything remains the same. Grandma gets shorter and shorter in every picture. Her hair gets more and more pink. The kids eventually grow into their buck teeth. Bad perms tend to soften. But, all in all the situational pose remains the same.
Grandpa just celebrated his 95th birthday last week, in the hospital. We all went to see him, complete with balloons, cards, sweet treats, etc. The nurse was nice enough to take the time to take a picture. Try this on in your mind's eye. He was battling pneumonia, so we all had to wear masks. Grandpa was looking very small and frail in his hospital bed. We're all gathered over him wearing our necessary masks, the balloons were getting tangled in the IV's. My 7 yr old yells, "we don't even have to smile, we can just fake it". So true. No forced smiles this year. Meanwhile, the nurse begins to count off, "One.....Two..." Grandma stops her, "just a minute, hon, I just want to get his cards in the picture". Now, Grandma is as slow as snails and is perfectly content taking her dear sweet time knowing full right and well that the nurse has a busy schedule of which to attain. But, no, once again, Grandma methodically begins to place Grandpa's birthday cards all over his chest, practically suffocating him with them. Slowly spreading them out and trying to position them so they can be seen in the picture. My son says, "it's not like you'd even be able to read the cards in the picture". (God bless him). For the record, if we weren't at the hospital, we'd have been at the Bistro on 44th street, which Jason has dubbed, God's Waiting Room. And instead of spreading the cards all over poor Grandpa's chest, we'd have passed them around the table so everyone could read them. What's that all about? Oh, I see Aunt Dot sent a lavender card this year. And Cousin Rita sent a cartoon one....isn't it funny, the different tastes? And so it goes.... This is every year. It's all about the birthday cards.
I hope I'm never old. Old people and their habitual ways bother me. My dad passed away at 52 and my mother at 60, so the chances of growing old are slim to none and slim just left to get a mani/pedi.
In my family, growing up, it was of the thanksgiving dinner. Not pictures of the people invited to the thanksgiving dinner, but the meal itself. It wasn't only Thanksgiving, sometimes it was Mother's Day or a Passover Seder. At any rate, we didn't have a particularly pleasant upbringing or much in the way of happiness, but my mother could put on a spread (hence, no pix of the family, just of the food). So, she'd iron the linen tablecloth. She'd polish the silver, she'd lay out the china gravy boats, the little silver s/p shakers and it's matching sugar bowl. She'd place fresh fruit into individual, crystal goblets. She would coordinate the olives/pickles/gardenia onto the Wedgewood relish plate. The meal would be glistening through the 3 beveled bay windows. On rare occasion, my dad would be in the picture, usually glaring at the camera, all three kids forcing smiles, or down right crying. Anyway, that's a day in the life of our family photo album.
Now, in Jason's family, it's a tad different. Not quite as dysfunctional, mind you, but equally as noteworthy. One particular set of grandparents is in their 90's, so suffice it to say, there's a lot of photos. Not fun, candid or particularly interesting photos. Just the same 8 or 12 people standing around and forcing smiles. Once in a while a second photo will be taken so that the photographer has the chance to be in the photo. But, other than that, the pictures rarely vary.
There's the infamous birthday photo. This involves the birthday boy or girl sitting at the table, in front of the birthday cake and cards are methodically placed in front of the guest of honor. The others gather around the said person and if they were feeling especially celebratory that day, perhaps they'll pull a bouquet of balloons into the shot. I'll reiterate. These people are in their 90's. They have 2 children, 7 grandchildren and 13 great-grandchildren. That's a lot of birthdays. And a lot of photos. The only way you can differentiate between the decades of the photos, is by the attire. Otherwise, everything remains the same. Grandma gets shorter and shorter in every picture. Her hair gets more and more pink. The kids eventually grow into their buck teeth. Bad perms tend to soften. But, all in all the situational pose remains the same.
Grandpa just celebrated his 95th birthday last week, in the hospital. We all went to see him, complete with balloons, cards, sweet treats, etc. The nurse was nice enough to take the time to take a picture. Try this on in your mind's eye. He was battling pneumonia, so we all had to wear masks. Grandpa was looking very small and frail in his hospital bed. We're all gathered over him wearing our necessary masks, the balloons were getting tangled in the IV's. My 7 yr old yells, "we don't even have to smile, we can just fake it". So true. No forced smiles this year. Meanwhile, the nurse begins to count off, "One.....Two..." Grandma stops her, "just a minute, hon, I just want to get his cards in the picture". Now, Grandma is as slow as snails and is perfectly content taking her dear sweet time knowing full right and well that the nurse has a busy schedule of which to attain. But, no, once again, Grandma methodically begins to place Grandpa's birthday cards all over his chest, practically suffocating him with them. Slowly spreading them out and trying to position them so they can be seen in the picture. My son says, "it's not like you'd even be able to read the cards in the picture". (God bless him). For the record, if we weren't at the hospital, we'd have been at the Bistro on 44th street, which Jason has dubbed, God's Waiting Room. And instead of spreading the cards all over poor Grandpa's chest, we'd have passed them around the table so everyone could read them. What's that all about? Oh, I see Aunt Dot sent a lavender card this year. And Cousin Rita sent a cartoon one....isn't it funny, the different tastes? And so it goes.... This is every year. It's all about the birthday cards.
I hope I'm never old. Old people and their habitual ways bother me. My dad passed away at 52 and my mother at 60, so the chances of growing old are slim to none and slim just left to get a mani/pedi.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Bunco By-Laws!!!!
Many readers also belong to a monthly bunco group. What up, my snake-eye-sistas! This has inspired me to write a handy manual. Kindly refer to this manual and reference it whenever possible. We shall call it, The Bunco By-Laws. Verrrrry official.
1. If you're scheduled to bring beer/wine, than for Gad's sake SHOW UP. Or at least send some beers along with your sub. Hell, I didn't join a bunco group for the chex mix, Ladies!
2. Go easy on the bell. No one likes the obnoxious bell ringer. Ding ding ding to get started. Ding ding ding to change tables. Ding ding ding to announce that you're the first to arrive at 21. (or 18, or whatever the hell you're trying to get to). I've been playing for 4 years and I still have no idea what number you're trying to get to. Anyway, settle down on the bell. It's just gloating.
3. Leave kid talk and/or school talk at the door. Unless your kid told his teacher to go f--k herself. In which case, tell us all about it.
4. What happens at bunco stays at bunco. Oh, how well-acquainted I am with the "morning afters". It starts with a phone call so that we girls can properly perform a post mortem on the night before. And it ends there. We don't discuss it further. We don't discuss it on facebook and we certainly DON'T TELL OUR HUSBANDS!!! I was at a party once when a friend's husband came up to me and referenced my brazilian. I was aghast. Which is when the what-happens-at-bunco-stays-at-bunco policy was first instated.
5. NO KIDS. I don't care if you are desperate for subs, you don't invite your children to play. Unless of course, they drink and swear. I don't like to censor myself when I drink. I wasn't born with that particular skill set. Usually what comes out of my mouth after my 2nd drink is barely suitable for ladies, let alone children. I can't be held accountable.
6. If there's a theme, then by God, adhere to it. Would it kill you to go to Good Will and spend $5 on an ugly hat or dress? It's all for fun, don't get your boy shorts in a wad over it. Lighten up. Don't even get me started on Easter Bonnet Bunco.
7. Don't force it. If we don't want to play, but we DO show up each month to drink and chat, then let it be. Don't force the game on us, just go with the flow! If we called a spade a spade and actually called what it is (a monthly drunken debacle) then no one would show up. So, let's all remain pure to our intentions, that is, to "play bunco". It's like playing along with an imaginitive child. You wouldn't say to your 3 year old, "Suzy, now you know damn right and well that your baby doll isn't real. Why, she's nothing more than latex and yarn. Look, I can rip her head off and she doesn't even feel it". No, you play along. Shhhh, just go to sleep crazy lady.
8. Feel free to create committees within bunco, for purely selfish reasons. For example, I created a fake "membership" committee and told people that if they didn't step it up, I'd be taking their membership to the "review board". Of course, there is no review board. I instill fear, which is the whole point. I still throw out the possibility of putting someone on probation, just for getting on my nerves. You can do this so that you can weed out the riff raff from your group. Or, keep the riff raff and weed out the boring members. Or, black ball everyone and simply keep the weed.
That's as far as I've gotten. I can't think of anymore Bunco contingencies. If you have any that you'd like to share, by all means, post a comment and pass it along!
In Bunco Love, Leslie
1. If you're scheduled to bring beer/wine, than for Gad's sake SHOW UP. Or at least send some beers along with your sub. Hell, I didn't join a bunco group for the chex mix, Ladies!
2. Go easy on the bell. No one likes the obnoxious bell ringer. Ding ding ding to get started. Ding ding ding to change tables. Ding ding ding to announce that you're the first to arrive at 21. (or 18, or whatever the hell you're trying to get to). I've been playing for 4 years and I still have no idea what number you're trying to get to. Anyway, settle down on the bell. It's just gloating.
3. Leave kid talk and/or school talk at the door. Unless your kid told his teacher to go f--k herself. In which case, tell us all about it.
4. What happens at bunco stays at bunco. Oh, how well-acquainted I am with the "morning afters". It starts with a phone call so that we girls can properly perform a post mortem on the night before. And it ends there. We don't discuss it further. We don't discuss it on facebook and we certainly DON'T TELL OUR HUSBANDS!!! I was at a party once when a friend's husband came up to me and referenced my brazilian. I was aghast. Which is when the what-happens-at-bunco-stays-at-bunco policy was first instated.
5. NO KIDS. I don't care if you are desperate for subs, you don't invite your children to play. Unless of course, they drink and swear. I don't like to censor myself when I drink. I wasn't born with that particular skill set. Usually what comes out of my mouth after my 2nd drink is barely suitable for ladies, let alone children. I can't be held accountable.
6. If there's a theme, then by God, adhere to it. Would it kill you to go to Good Will and spend $5 on an ugly hat or dress? It's all for fun, don't get your boy shorts in a wad over it. Lighten up. Don't even get me started on Easter Bonnet Bunco.
7. Don't force it. If we don't want to play, but we DO show up each month to drink and chat, then let it be. Don't force the game on us, just go with the flow! If we called a spade a spade and actually called what it is (a monthly drunken debacle) then no one would show up. So, let's all remain pure to our intentions, that is, to "play bunco". It's like playing along with an imaginitive child. You wouldn't say to your 3 year old, "Suzy, now you know damn right and well that your baby doll isn't real. Why, she's nothing more than latex and yarn. Look, I can rip her head off and she doesn't even feel it". No, you play along. Shhhh, just go to sleep crazy lady.
8. Feel free to create committees within bunco, for purely selfish reasons. For example, I created a fake "membership" committee and told people that if they didn't step it up, I'd be taking their membership to the "review board". Of course, there is no review board. I instill fear, which is the whole point. I still throw out the possibility of putting someone on probation, just for getting on my nerves. You can do this so that you can weed out the riff raff from your group. Or, keep the riff raff and weed out the boring members. Or, black ball everyone and simply keep the weed.
That's as far as I've gotten. I can't think of anymore Bunco contingencies. If you have any that you'd like to share, by all means, post a comment and pass it along!
In Bunco Love, Leslie
Friday, March 20, 2009
Leslie's most favorite expressions & come backs!
The following is a compilation of some of my most famous expressions & come backs.
As it pertains to sex after child birth:
It was like throwing a hot dog down a hallway.
As it pertains to people I don't care for:
My husband: Would it kill you to be nice to (insert name)
Me: Why risk it?
As it pertains to my husband suggesting I get a job
But, when would I watch tv?
As it pertains to my husband threatening to kick me out
What....And give alllll this up? (spreading my hands out and referencing the laundry & dishes)
As it pertains to being bored out of my mind at a party/wedding/baby shower
Frankly, I'm having the time of my life (to be said with an expressionless face)
As it pertains to someone thanking me for a kind gesture
It was the most I could do.
As it pertains my 4 years spent at Western Michigan University
I don't know. I can barely remember graduating.
As it pertains to gossiping
If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit next to me.
As it pertains to someone having buck teeth
She could eat corn on the cob through a fence, I'm telling you, she could.
Someone commenting/asking how long Jason and I have been married 10 years. We we've been happy for 6. (I say this, smile and walk away--it's a riot)
Someone mentioning how beautiful the bride is
I know, she's hardly even showing (again, I smile and walk away. I've gotten into a wee bit of trouble over this one)
As it pertains to receiving an atrocious gift
You shouldn't have. No really.
As it pertains to someone trying to impress me
Wow. That's fascinating. That is, unless I just confused fascinating with bored shitless.
As it pertains to someone asking my 3 year old what his name is
Don't ask him difficult questions, you're just confusing him. He's not bright.
As it pertains to someone announcing their pregnancy
Oh Gawwwd. (usually I'll wrinkle my nose in disgust) Why would you do THAT???
As it pertains to someone telling they're about to start planning a family
Run for your life. It's too late for me, but you can save yourself!!!
As it pertains to punishing my kids
Just you wait until your real father finds out about this.
As it pertains to the ubiquitous question of how many children I have
Three. One of each.
For when I ask my server if I can get the rest of my meal wrapped up or boxed. This is perfect for when I've eaten everything on the plate except for a piece of parsely. It kills. Everytime! But the trick is to say it in a very non-chalant way.
As it pertains to someone (I don't much care for) insisting we ' simply must get together sometime'.
Come on now, let's not get carried away.
As it pertains to my doctor asking me if I need a refill....on anything.
Don't be ridiculous. You know better.
Believe it or not, I actually get away with 99% of these smart ass comments.
As it pertains to sex after child birth:
It was like throwing a hot dog down a hallway.
As it pertains to people I don't care for:
My husband: Would it kill you to be nice to (insert name)
Me: Why risk it?
As it pertains to my husband suggesting I get a job
But, when would I watch tv?
As it pertains to my husband threatening to kick me out
What....And give alllll this up? (spreading my hands out and referencing the laundry & dishes)
As it pertains to being bored out of my mind at a party/wedding/baby shower
Frankly, I'm having the time of my life (to be said with an expressionless face)
As it pertains to someone thanking me for a kind gesture
It was the most I could do.
As it pertains my 4 years spent at Western Michigan University
I don't know. I can barely remember graduating.
As it pertains to gossiping
If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit next to me.
As it pertains to someone having buck teeth
She could eat corn on the cob through a fence, I'm telling you, she could.
Someone commenting/asking how long Jason and I have been married 10 years. We we've been happy for 6. (I say this, smile and walk away--it's a riot)
Someone mentioning how beautiful the bride is
I know, she's hardly even showing (again, I smile and walk away. I've gotten into a wee bit of trouble over this one)
As it pertains to receiving an atrocious gift
You shouldn't have. No really.
As it pertains to someone trying to impress me
Wow. That's fascinating. That is, unless I just confused fascinating with bored shitless.
As it pertains to someone asking my 3 year old what his name is
Don't ask him difficult questions, you're just confusing him. He's not bright.
As it pertains to someone announcing their pregnancy
Oh Gawwwd. (usually I'll wrinkle my nose in disgust) Why would you do THAT???
As it pertains to someone telling they're about to start planning a family
Run for your life. It's too late for me, but you can save yourself!!!
As it pertains to punishing my kids
Just you wait until your real father finds out about this.
As it pertains to the ubiquitous question of how many children I have
Three. One of each.
For when I ask my server if I can get the rest of my meal wrapped up or boxed. This is perfect for when I've eaten everything on the plate except for a piece of parsely. It kills. Everytime! But the trick is to say it in a very non-chalant way.
As it pertains to someone (I don't much care for) insisting we ' simply must get together sometime'.
Come on now, let's not get carried away.
As it pertains to my doctor asking me if I need a refill....on anything.
Don't be ridiculous. You know better.
As it pertains to my chiropractor telling me that my hips are uneven. Then, I guess I should change my name to Eileen, huh? (I have used this at least 25 times and surprisingly, it never elicits the laughter that I would expect--whatever, it's hilarious)
Believe it or not, I actually get away with 99% of these smart ass comments.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Leslie the Do-Gooder!!
You might be familiar with a now well-known woman in Arkansas who just gave birth to her 18th child. Michelle Duggar and her husband Jim-Bob (I know. Don't get me started) have a show on TLC called, 18 Children & Counting. It started out a few years back and was originally called 15 children and Counting, but....well, Michelle can't seem to keep her pants on....hence, the name change.
OK, I can get past the 18 children (although just watching them gives me a rash). I can get past their home schooling and simply ways (I can't really get past the home school, but let's just pretend for the sake of argument that I can). I can even look beyond the fact that they insist on naming their children "J" names; Josiah, Jeremiah, Jediah, Johanna, Jemima, etc. However, I draw the line at mom's wardrobe and overall appearance.
For all intents and purposes, all 18 of her children are gorgeous. Mathematically, you'd assume at least a handful would have gotten the ugly gene, but no, they are a surprisingly good-looking family. Especially the daughters! Their long permed hair and matching denim skirts, I can do without, but that's nothing that a quick trip to Target can't fix. (they don't have Neiman Marcus in Arkansas). I'm not knocking their child rearing tactics. I don't know if the Duggars medicate their children before taping, but they are 18 of the most articulate, polite, well mannered, well behaved, outgoing, kind & considerate group of individuals I've ever seen. They're obviously doing something right, in that regard.
But back to the lecture at hand. Michelle....oh, Michelle. Do you even own a mirror? Who told you that 4 foot long, frizzy mullet looked good? Bless your heart. In her defense, the woman has been pregnant for approximately 16 years. It's hard to put effort forth when you're pregnant and taking care of little ones, but for Christ's sake, you've got a mullet.
So, here's what I propose. Since this is a TLC show that we're talking about here, I see no reason why we can't ambush her with a sneak-attack make over? It can be What Not To Wear meets 18 Children and Counting. I'm putting together a petition to get Michelle Duggar a new look.
Step One: Cut the hair
That should do it. I'm confident the rest will fall into place after that. (oh...and she probably needs to have her vag reconstructed). Eventually, I'd like to tackle her clothes, but honestly, I've hardly noticed them because I've been so preoccupied with her hair. She's not an unattractive woman. Once you look past her ubiquitious belly, nude nylons & navy flats. I'm almost certain that she could even be lovely once introduced to cosmetics & hair product. We don't want her looking too good....I mean the poor woman has 18 kids as it is. If want to stand a fighting chance at this, Jim-Bob is gonna have to keep his mouse in his house for a while .
You heard it here first. I'm on an altruistic crusade to make over Michelle Duggar. Hop on the campaign trail with me! Who's in???
OK, I can get past the 18 children (although just watching them gives me a rash). I can get past their home schooling and simply ways (I can't really get past the home school, but let's just pretend for the sake of argument that I can). I can even look beyond the fact that they insist on naming their children "J" names; Josiah, Jeremiah, Jediah, Johanna, Jemima, etc. However, I draw the line at mom's wardrobe and overall appearance.
For all intents and purposes, all 18 of her children are gorgeous. Mathematically, you'd assume at least a handful would have gotten the ugly gene, but no, they are a surprisingly good-looking family. Especially the daughters! Their long permed hair and matching denim skirts, I can do without, but that's nothing that a quick trip to Target can't fix. (they don't have Neiman Marcus in Arkansas). I'm not knocking their child rearing tactics. I don't know if the Duggars medicate their children before taping, but they are 18 of the most articulate, polite, well mannered, well behaved, outgoing, kind & considerate group of individuals I've ever seen. They're obviously doing something right, in that regard.
But back to the lecture at hand. Michelle....oh, Michelle. Do you even own a mirror? Who told you that 4 foot long, frizzy mullet looked good? Bless your heart. In her defense, the woman has been pregnant for approximately 16 years. It's hard to put effort forth when you're pregnant and taking care of little ones, but for Christ's sake, you've got a mullet.
So, here's what I propose. Since this is a TLC show that we're talking about here, I see no reason why we can't ambush her with a sneak-attack make over? It can be What Not To Wear meets 18 Children and Counting. I'm putting together a petition to get Michelle Duggar a new look.
Step One: Cut the hair
That should do it. I'm confident the rest will fall into place after that. (oh...and she probably needs to have her vag reconstructed). Eventually, I'd like to tackle her clothes, but honestly, I've hardly noticed them because I've been so preoccupied with her hair. She's not an unattractive woman. Once you look past her ubiquitious belly, nude nylons & navy flats. I'm almost certain that she could even be lovely once introduced to cosmetics & hair product. We don't want her looking too good....I mean the poor woman has 18 kids as it is. If want to stand a fighting chance at this, Jim-Bob is gonna have to keep his mouse in his house for a while .
You heard it here first. I'm on an altruistic crusade to make over Michelle Duggar. Hop on the campaign trail with me! Who's in???
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
bring back the 50's.
During a recent visit to my family doctor, he and I discussed putting me on an anti-anxiety medication. "Me"? I asked (totally faking ignorance). People, I was born anxious. I've needed to be properly placed on an anti-anxiety medication since 1978.
Needless to say, I accepted. I was asking the all right questions, does it have side effects, will it cause me to drool, will my children be safe in my care, things like that. He absolutely assured me that if I took the prescribed dosage, it would be as safe as a kitten. Seeing as though I'm incredibly stingy with my pharmaceuticals, I didn't see as this would be a problem. I told him that I'd seen my fair share of Vh1's Celebrity rehab to know how it all goes down. I watch Intervention. I ain't fronting.
So as he (he, being Dr. Feelgood) and I calculate over my many prescriptions, I disclose to him that I just feel inadequate in handling my life. I admit that I really have no right to complain, I have a great life, I don't have to work, my kids are healthy. Then there's my husband---he's in charge of multi-million dollar structural projects all over Grand Rapids and I'm stressed??? He tells me something that really hit home with me. He said, "Listen, this isn't 1952---stay at home moms are not ladies of luxury anymore--you're a Rockford mom and you're expected to be perfect". I swear he said this to me, "Between the school functions and the friggin' play dates and constantly keeping up appearances, I don't know you all do it". Obviously, I love this man. He's such an advocate of women! He gets it!! Hip hip! He gets it, for the love of all things great and small, the man gets it!!!!!
So after I patted him on the ass and winked at him. I high tailed it out of his office to fill my new Rx. No wonder they call it 'mommy's little helper'. Ok, so a while later I got to thinking (and you all know how I can get to thinking) about what he'd said---about it not being 1952. While I was not born or raised in the 50's, I do happen to read a lot. Here's what I know about being a housewife in the 50's. The women & children usually looked perfect. The homes were always spic & span. The children were minded and when the husband came home from work, the children were spit shined and dinner was bubbling in the oven. How'd they manage? They didn't even have the modern conveniences that we do now. So, what gives? I'll tell you what. THEY GOT TANKED ALL DAY LONG!!!! Yes, yes, yes. They invited their little sewing/knitting/book club gossiping lady friends over, sent the kids down to the "rec room" and they got tore up from the floor up. Hammered! Why do you think they were so amorous when their husbands got home from work. "Hello darling, how was your day, here's a Manhattan, why don't you take a load off in this EZ chair while I juggle your balls for a while". Ahh, the good old days.
Needless to say, I accepted. I was asking the all right questions, does it have side effects, will it cause me to drool, will my children be safe in my care, things like that. He absolutely assured me that if I took the prescribed dosage, it would be as safe as a kitten. Seeing as though I'm incredibly stingy with my pharmaceuticals, I didn't see as this would be a problem. I told him that I'd seen my fair share of Vh1's Celebrity rehab to know how it all goes down. I watch Intervention. I ain't fronting.
So as he (he, being Dr. Feelgood) and I calculate over my many prescriptions, I disclose to him that I just feel inadequate in handling my life. I admit that I really have no right to complain, I have a great life, I don't have to work, my kids are healthy. Then there's my husband---he's in charge of multi-million dollar structural projects all over Grand Rapids and I'm stressed??? He tells me something that really hit home with me. He said, "Listen, this isn't 1952---stay at home moms are not ladies of luxury anymore--you're a Rockford mom and you're expected to be perfect". I swear he said this to me, "Between the school functions and the friggin' play dates and constantly keeping up appearances, I don't know you all do it". Obviously, I love this man. He's such an advocate of women! He gets it!! Hip hip! He gets it, for the love of all things great and small, the man gets it!!!!!
So after I patted him on the ass and winked at him. I high tailed it out of his office to fill my new Rx. No wonder they call it 'mommy's little helper'. Ok, so a while later I got to thinking (and you all know how I can get to thinking) about what he'd said---about it not being 1952. While I was not born or raised in the 50's, I do happen to read a lot. Here's what I know about being a housewife in the 50's. The women & children usually looked perfect. The homes were always spic & span. The children were minded and when the husband came home from work, the children were spit shined and dinner was bubbling in the oven. How'd they manage? They didn't even have the modern conveniences that we do now. So, what gives? I'll tell you what. THEY GOT TANKED ALL DAY LONG!!!! Yes, yes, yes. They invited their little sewing/knitting/book club gossiping lady friends over, sent the kids down to the "rec room" and they got tore up from the floor up. Hammered! Why do you think they were so amorous when their husbands got home from work. "Hello darling, how was your day, here's a Manhattan, why don't you take a load off in this EZ chair while I juggle your balls for a while". Ahh, the good old days.
We'd get damn near arrested if we got plowed in the presence of our children every day. Every other day, perhaps, but NOT every day. Plus, I don't know about you, but I'm a sloppy drinker. You can bet your ass I wouldn't be standing at the door with an ironed apron while the casserole bakes in the oven. No, if I were drinking all day, this is what my husband would come home to:
The boys would be choking each other within an inch of their lives, one of them would for sure be naked, the tv would be blaring, I'd be sitting on my front porch, wearing my ripped pajama bottoms and only half my hair would still be in the pony tail that I wore to bed the night before. I'd have phone tucked carelessly under my chin talking to God knows who, probably someone I drunk dialed and now I won't let my poor victim get off the phone and the children would be eating bugles & saltines out of the box for dinner. No, no, no---this won't do!
Not to mention, kids today are involved in soooo many activities, it would be downright foolish to hit the bottle all day long, then drive them to gymnastics or whatever. In the 50's, they didn't have such options as Spanish, Dance, Soccer, etc. etc. etc. It was school, cub scouts, home. Plus, those freaking kids walked everywhere. And they were happy to do so. Not our beastly children. We drive them all over hell's half acre, as to not tire their precious legs.
So, Dr. Feelgood is onto something. No, it certainly IS NOT 1952! I say, bring back the 50's! Let's get back to basics people! Wouldn't we be so much happier if our husbands left the office at 5:00 and came home to drunken, horny wives? The kids would be happier because mom wouldn't be busting their balls all day. The husbands would be happier because....who doesn't love a drunken, horny wife? And us gals would be happier too...because we'd be...well, wasted.
But, for now, we have to rely on Rx to smooth out the rough edges. Less calories, too, I guess. Ah well. Maybe it's for the best that I didn't turn out to be a 1950's housewife. On my drunkest, horniest day, I still can't envision me greeting my husband at the door with a Manhattan and a hand job. He can make his own damn drink.
~Happy to be a Rockford housewife in 2009!
Saturday, March 7, 2009
thank you!
Thank you, thank you, thank you, to all my new followers! I promise not to leave you hanging! I have had one heck of a week. I went on a bender last weekend and then my husband & children took off for 24 HOURS......so, you just KNOW I have tons to report!
However, I'm riddled with a wicked hangover. Will update soon.
ciao!
However, I'm riddled with a wicked hangover. Will update soon.
ciao!
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Grow up!!!!
I'm so immature, sometimes I can barely stand myself. Well, that's not true, I actually adore myself. I do...I crack myself up---but let's just call a spade a spade. I have the maturity level of a 13 year old boy.
So, I'm here with my 3 year old, watching quality television, that being Tom & Jerry. It's the one where Jerry has his french cousin visiting him. Together, they are on a quest to find Tom. The french mouse is whispering in his precious, little, french accent, "pooo-seee.... pooo-seee....pooo-see cat--where have you been". I'm dying. At 35 years old, I'm still howling at the pussy reference on a fricking cartoon. I'm not right.
Not to be confused with last night's ridiculousness. My (almost) 7 year old brings home little books every night from school. Each book is of an appropriate age level and the point is for the child to practice reading with an adult every night---any old adult will do. Last night's book title was, "The Hole in Harry's Pocket". The cover portrayed a small, black boy with his hands shoved way down in his pocket and Harry was giving us his best "O" face. Obviously, I was dying. My son sees the cover and God bless 'em, he says, "look, it's like Harry's saying, 'ohhhh, look, I found my wiener way down in my pants'". I love that child. In his defense, he was right. That's exactly what the caption should have read. I think the people who write these so-called reading books are sick.
Tina's special pearl
Tommy's hides his weasel
Mr. Johnson's big Johnson
Mr. Johnson likes to hang out at the park, sharing his big bag of candy
Kitt Kittredge gets a monthly visitor
For the love of God. I'm not the sick one, I didn't write the damn books! Throw a lemon in my general direction, I'll most likely suck on a wedge, then do a lemon drop shot. Dangle a dirty innuendo in my face, I'll dangle a filthy response back in yours.
Ta ta for now.
So, I'm here with my 3 year old, watching quality television, that being Tom & Jerry. It's the one where Jerry has his french cousin visiting him. Together, they are on a quest to find Tom. The french mouse is whispering in his precious, little, french accent, "pooo-seee.... pooo-seee....pooo-see cat--where have you been". I'm dying. At 35 years old, I'm still howling at the pussy reference on a fricking cartoon. I'm not right.
Not to be confused with last night's ridiculousness. My (almost) 7 year old brings home little books every night from school. Each book is of an appropriate age level and the point is for the child to practice reading with an adult every night---any old adult will do. Last night's book title was, "The Hole in Harry's Pocket". The cover portrayed a small, black boy with his hands shoved way down in his pocket and Harry was giving us his best "O" face. Obviously, I was dying. My son sees the cover and God bless 'em, he says, "look, it's like Harry's saying, 'ohhhh, look, I found my wiener way down in my pants'". I love that child. In his defense, he was right. That's exactly what the caption should have read. I think the people who write these so-called reading books are sick.
Tina's special pearl
Tommy's hides his weasel
Mr. Johnson's big Johnson
Mr. Johnson likes to hang out at the park, sharing his big bag of candy
Kitt Kittredge gets a monthly visitor
For the love of God. I'm not the sick one, I didn't write the damn books! Throw a lemon in my general direction, I'll most likely suck on a wedge, then do a lemon drop shot. Dangle a dirty innuendo in my face, I'll dangle a filthy response back in yours.
Ta ta for now.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
LAFTER
Can you honestly remember laughing about something until you either cried, peed your pants, or couldn't speak? Honestly?
One of those silly email questionnaires came my way again and the ubiquitous question of 'when was the last time you laughed' came up. Without thinking, I assumed it was that day. Later that evening, I got to thinking about it. You know how I can get to thinking.... I wondered about a time when I laughed so hard that I cried. I mean, I laugh everyday. Not all-out belly laugh, but an occasional chuckle here and there. But I'm talking about those ridiculous, bend over and hold on to your crotch spells of laughter. Since I'm not terribly easy to amuse, only a few instances came to mind. I'll share.
I have to digress a bit for you get the whole picture. Last Summer I had to have radio active iodine treatment done on my freaky over-active thyroid. The dr. said the only drawback was that I couldn't be around my kids for a few days. Come again? You know on the Grinch when his frown gets pulled into an evil grin? That's what I looked like. I called two of my gal pals and whipped up a li'l party in no time flat. I had the foresight to plan my "treatment" the same weekend as my husband's annual family reunion. Now, with that said, I've been going to these things for 14 years and if you've ever had the pleasure of meeting me, I'm sure I've angled the family reunion into our conversation somehow. It's such a spectacle that there aren't enough words to describe what it entails. Basically, an entire day (8 AM-5 PM) of sitting out in the sweltering heat. There are a lot of games, prayers, hymns, etc. I adore these people, I do. It's just not really my scene is all. I'm not much of an outdoorsy girl as it is. Add heat, dirt & church to the mix and I start to wilt. So, you can imagine my eagerness to plan the "treatment" during this beloved weekend.
Fast forward 6 hours. I'm drunk as a skunk with my two pals in my kitchen. I made them all wear our "Jesus is Love" t-shirts which were our party gifts from the past 14 years of family reunions. We thought it would be a wise decision to get out my husband's yearbook and then leave him messages about various classmates. For example: (mind you, I could barely get the words out without breaking out into a hyena-type laughter, so my messages were barely audible, but still....) "Hi, Jason? This is Leslie (I love how I have to clear up any confusion about his wife's voice). Yeah. I'm just at home..... Hanging out..... Laura, Sarah & I met some old friends of yours. We're just here with Mike Spicozza.....yeah...(screaming laughter in the background)....and Joe Van Wyk. We're just listening to music (I can barely catch my breath between each sentence). Yeah, we met them at the bar. So, they're all here with me now. Ok, bye" and this went on for about 2 hours. Me, leaving ridiculous messages like this one, each one included different & random names of classmates---none of which my husband would ever want sitting in his home while he's not there, mind you. OMG, we laughed so hard. It's one of those times that I look back on and literally laugh out loud every time I think of that night. Oh the fun...
Another time that I look back on and LOL (even though I absolutely HATE when people over-use LOL and/or 'chillaxin'---as it makes me want to put a fondue skewer in your eye). Sadly enough, it was at my mother's funeral. I know, that makes me really, really sick, doesn't it? Well, for some random reason, her neighbor gave the eulogy. My sisters, step dad and I are all sitting in the front row, listening to this synopsis of my mother's life. Since she lived in a retirement community in North Carolina and none of us had lived with her in over 10 years, we really weren't a part of her day to day life, so it was interesting hearing about this person we only knew as "mom". Her neighbor was a very articulate woman and spoke with such inflexion in her voice. She was entertaining. I almost forgot we were listening to a story about my mother...at her funeral. Anyway, she told a 20 minute story about my mother's hats. "That Helen, you know she had over a dozen hats..and no two were alike..." It was borderline fascinating. Then she started talking about how my mom could dance. "And ohhhhhh could Helen dance. She danced in the kitchennnnn, she danced in the garagggge, she danced at our senior daaaances....oh, she just loved to dance...and daaaaance....and daaaaance...." My sister and I were dying. Dying. It started with a smirk. Then I know exactly what's coming. I try to control my retarded smile (I mean, what kind of person smiles at her mother's funeral?) Then my shoulders start shaking uncontrollably while I try to stifle a laugh). Then I catch my sister's face and all hell breaks loose. Ahh, good times.
Then there was the time my sister and I were invited to attend my mother's friend's wedding. She got married for the first time in her 50's. We were already ill at ease attending this wedding that we knew my mother would have loved to have attended. But as we're walking into the church, we see that the "get away" car was a chevy cavalier. My sister looks at me and says, "I can't do this". So, we go in, take our seats, pray that it's not a full mass and wait patiently for the bride to appear. In front of us sits an older gentleman who has his arm placed along the back of the pew. On his left hand, he has a nub for an index finger. No nail, no knuckle, just a nub. Normally, that sort of thing wouldn't have bothered me. But, that it was right under my nose, waggling it's absurdity in my face, coupled with the fact that we'd had a few cocktails before the blessed event, just about sent me into a tizzy. We starred at that damn nub for the entire ceremony. I couldn't even tell you if the bride wore white. We were absolutely crying. Tears, rolling down our faces, shoulders shaking, digging our fingernails into our own legs, etc. Oh, we looked like quite a sight as we pranced through the receiving line. We got the hell out of there and skipped the reception. It was for the best.
Those are just a glimpse of some of the most hilarious moments in my past decade
One of those silly email questionnaires came my way again and the ubiquitous question of 'when was the last time you laughed' came up. Without thinking, I assumed it was that day. Later that evening, I got to thinking about it. You know how I can get to thinking.... I wondered about a time when I laughed so hard that I cried. I mean, I laugh everyday. Not all-out belly laugh, but an occasional chuckle here and there. But I'm talking about those ridiculous, bend over and hold on to your crotch spells of laughter. Since I'm not terribly easy to amuse, only a few instances came to mind. I'll share.
I have to digress a bit for you get the whole picture. Last Summer I had to have radio active iodine treatment done on my freaky over-active thyroid. The dr. said the only drawback was that I couldn't be around my kids for a few days. Come again? You know on the Grinch when his frown gets pulled into an evil grin? That's what I looked like. I called two of my gal pals and whipped up a li'l party in no time flat. I had the foresight to plan my "treatment" the same weekend as my husband's annual family reunion. Now, with that said, I've been going to these things for 14 years and if you've ever had the pleasure of meeting me, I'm sure I've angled the family reunion into our conversation somehow. It's such a spectacle that there aren't enough words to describe what it entails. Basically, an entire day (8 AM-5 PM) of sitting out in the sweltering heat. There are a lot of games, prayers, hymns, etc. I adore these people, I do. It's just not really my scene is all. I'm not much of an outdoorsy girl as it is. Add heat, dirt & church to the mix and I start to wilt. So, you can imagine my eagerness to plan the "treatment" during this beloved weekend.
Fast forward 6 hours. I'm drunk as a skunk with my two pals in my kitchen. I made them all wear our "Jesus is Love" t-shirts which were our party gifts from the past 14 years of family reunions. We thought it would be a wise decision to get out my husband's yearbook and then leave him messages about various classmates. For example: (mind you, I could barely get the words out without breaking out into a hyena-type laughter, so my messages were barely audible, but still....) "Hi, Jason? This is Leslie (I love how I have to clear up any confusion about his wife's voice). Yeah. I'm just at home..... Hanging out..... Laura, Sarah & I met some old friends of yours. We're just here with Mike Spicozza.....yeah...(screaming laughter in the background)....and Joe Van Wyk. We're just listening to music (I can barely catch my breath between each sentence). Yeah, we met them at the bar. So, they're all here with me now. Ok, bye" and this went on for about 2 hours. Me, leaving ridiculous messages like this one, each one included different & random names of classmates---none of which my husband would ever want sitting in his home while he's not there, mind you. OMG, we laughed so hard. It's one of those times that I look back on and literally laugh out loud every time I think of that night. Oh the fun...
Another time that I look back on and LOL (even though I absolutely HATE when people over-use LOL and/or 'chillaxin'---as it makes me want to put a fondue skewer in your eye). Sadly enough, it was at my mother's funeral. I know, that makes me really, really sick, doesn't it? Well, for some random reason, her neighbor gave the eulogy. My sisters, step dad and I are all sitting in the front row, listening to this synopsis of my mother's life. Since she lived in a retirement community in North Carolina and none of us had lived with her in over 10 years, we really weren't a part of her day to day life, so it was interesting hearing about this person we only knew as "mom". Her neighbor was a very articulate woman and spoke with such inflexion in her voice. She was entertaining. I almost forgot we were listening to a story about my mother...at her funeral. Anyway, she told a 20 minute story about my mother's hats. "That Helen, you know she had over a dozen hats..and no two were alike..." It was borderline fascinating. Then she started talking about how my mom could dance. "And ohhhhhh could Helen dance. She danced in the kitchennnnn, she danced in the garagggge, she danced at our senior daaaances....oh, she just loved to dance...and daaaaance....and daaaaance...." My sister and I were dying. Dying. It started with a smirk. Then I know exactly what's coming. I try to control my retarded smile (I mean, what kind of person smiles at her mother's funeral?) Then my shoulders start shaking uncontrollably while I try to stifle a laugh). Then I catch my sister's face and all hell breaks loose. Ahh, good times.
Then there was the time my sister and I were invited to attend my mother's friend's wedding. She got married for the first time in her 50's. We were already ill at ease attending this wedding that we knew my mother would have loved to have attended. But as we're walking into the church, we see that the "get away" car was a chevy cavalier. My sister looks at me and says, "I can't do this". So, we go in, take our seats, pray that it's not a full mass and wait patiently for the bride to appear. In front of us sits an older gentleman who has his arm placed along the back of the pew. On his left hand, he has a nub for an index finger. No nail, no knuckle, just a nub. Normally, that sort of thing wouldn't have bothered me. But, that it was right under my nose, waggling it's absurdity in my face, coupled with the fact that we'd had a few cocktails before the blessed event, just about sent me into a tizzy. We starred at that damn nub for the entire ceremony. I couldn't even tell you if the bride wore white. We were absolutely crying. Tears, rolling down our faces, shoulders shaking, digging our fingernails into our own legs, etc. Oh, we looked like quite a sight as we pranced through the receiving line. We got the hell out of there and skipped the reception. It was for the best.
Those are just a glimpse of some of the most hilarious moments in my past decade
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