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.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
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
Friday, February 20, 2009
Why I'm banned from the YMCA
After a rigorous Legs, Gluts & Abs class, or as us girls call it, "LGA", I stopped by the kid zone to pick up my kids. The worker lady immediately stops me, which is weird, because they rarely acknowledge me. She points to my 3 year old and says, "Ummmmm". I said, "Oh God".
Here's how the rest of the conversation went:
YMCA lady: Yeah. He, uh, pulled down his pants in front of about 30 kids and put legos on his penis.
Me: And?
YMCA lady: that's it.
Me: Did you throw it away?
YMCA lady: No.
Me: He's not right.
Gabe: I'm not right.
Then we left.
And everyone knows the YMCA frowns on legos on penis'!!! This is why I think I'm banned from the YMCA.
Here's how the rest of the conversation went:
YMCA lady: Yeah. He, uh, pulled down his pants in front of about 30 kids and put legos on his penis.
Me: And?
YMCA lady: that's it.
Me: Did you throw it away?
YMCA lady: No.
Me: He's not right.
Gabe: I'm not right.
Then we left.
And everyone knows the YMCA frowns on legos on penis'!!! This is why I think I'm banned from the YMCA.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
paper white lillies
Has anyone ever received Paper White Lillies as a gift? If so, the person that gave them to you hates you. How apropos that my son would give them to me.
I had the pleasure of volunteering in my son's first grade class during their Valentine's Day Party. I walked passed the boys bathroom to get to my son's classroom and this overwhelming stench came over me. I assumed there was an incident in the bathroom and reported my findings to my son's teacher. "No" she tells me, "the stench is coming from the classroom next door----the students grew paper white lillies and they just bloomed".
"Oh, ok", I told her as I circled my index finger to my head. As if I don't know the difference between the smell of raw sewage and the smell of blooming flowers. I may not be a first grade teacher, but I'm a pretty sharp cookie.
Two days ago my son brings me home a surprise from his classroom. It is his very own paper white lilly. It was ever-so, ever-so, lovely. I ooooh and aaaahhhed over it and placed it behind my kitchen sink.
The next morning I came downstairs and assumed someone had shat in my sink. The stank in my kitchen was so foul. I almost threw up. Damn you, Mrs. Volkers, damn you. So, I emailed my son's first grade teacher and asked if this was some sort of conspiracy. Was this retribution for all the times we parents send sugary snacks to school. She concurred and told me to enjoy my paper white lillies. Then she added, "do you think it was a coincidence that I sent them home just before they bloomed". Bless her heart.
Paper white lillies, my ass. More like pooper lillies!
I had the pleasure of volunteering in my son's first grade class during their Valentine's Day Party. I walked passed the boys bathroom to get to my son's classroom and this overwhelming stench came over me. I assumed there was an incident in the bathroom and reported my findings to my son's teacher. "No" she tells me, "the stench is coming from the classroom next door----the students grew paper white lillies and they just bloomed".
"Oh, ok", I told her as I circled my index finger to my head. As if I don't know the difference between the smell of raw sewage and the smell of blooming flowers. I may not be a first grade teacher, but I'm a pretty sharp cookie.
Two days ago my son brings me home a surprise from his classroom. It is his very own paper white lilly. It was ever-so, ever-so, lovely. I ooooh and aaaahhhed over it and placed it behind my kitchen sink.
The next morning I came downstairs and assumed someone had shat in my sink. The stank in my kitchen was so foul. I almost threw up. Damn you, Mrs. Volkers, damn you. So, I emailed my son's first grade teacher and asked if this was some sort of conspiracy. Was this retribution for all the times we parents send sugary snacks to school. She concurred and told me to enjoy my paper white lillies. Then she added, "do you think it was a coincidence that I sent them home just before they bloomed". Bless her heart.
Paper white lillies, my ass. More like pooper lillies!
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Another embarrassment as it pertains to my son
When I started this blog, I swore up and down that it wasn't going to be a mommy site. That goes against every fiber of my being. I am 'mommy' 24/7 and didn't want that to spill into this. I wanted one, little, tiny shred of something to call my own.
As it turns out, I simply cannot turn off the mommy thing. Hell, the kids give me more material than anybody. The little bastards, God love 'em.
Ben celebrated the 100th day of school yesterday. In honor of this special occasion, they each brought in 100 items; cottonballs, cheerios, and the like. Ben had to fill out a questionaire with regard to the number 100. If you've read any of my blogs, you'll know that Ben's specialty is questionaires and one of these days, his Q&A's are surely going to land mommy in jail! One of the questions was, "If you had $100, what would you buy". Here's what my son wrote:
1. A Madlin (a mandolin)
2. math boks (math work books)
3. Fud (food)
4. A plant
What in the Sam Hill must his first grade teacher think of our family, I ask you? The child is given $100 bucks and he wants more math homework (apparently), a plant (clearly because we don't have any in our home because I kill them all), food (you know, because I apparently never buy any) and a fiddle. What in the world does he want with a fiddle? It's like we're living in the hills of West Virginia. ....Asking for food & and a fiddle for pity's sake. Why didn't he just ask for a pair of shoes and get it overwith?
You'll be happy to know I went grocery shopping today and I purchased not one, but two age-appropriate math workbooks for him. As for the plant & the mandolin, I'll plead the 5th on that one!
Good day!
As it turns out, I simply cannot turn off the mommy thing. Hell, the kids give me more material than anybody. The little bastards, God love 'em.
Ben celebrated the 100th day of school yesterday. In honor of this special occasion, they each brought in 100 items; cottonballs, cheerios, and the like. Ben had to fill out a questionaire with regard to the number 100. If you've read any of my blogs, you'll know that Ben's specialty is questionaires and one of these days, his Q&A's are surely going to land mommy in jail! One of the questions was, "If you had $100, what would you buy". Here's what my son wrote:
1. A Madlin (a mandolin)
2. math boks (math work books)
3. Fud (food)
4. A plant
What in the Sam Hill must his first grade teacher think of our family, I ask you? The child is given $100 bucks and he wants more math homework (apparently), a plant (clearly because we don't have any in our home because I kill them all), food (you know, because I apparently never buy any) and a fiddle. What in the world does he want with a fiddle? It's like we're living in the hills of West Virginia. ....Asking for food & and a fiddle for pity's sake. Why didn't he just ask for a pair of shoes and get it overwith?
You'll be happy to know I went grocery shopping today and I purchased not one, but two age-appropriate math workbooks for him. As for the plant & the mandolin, I'll plead the 5th on that one!
Good day!
Sunday, January 25, 2009
who's got my back?
Now, this is still in negotiations, but there is a vague possibility that Jason will be outsourcing a new wife from overseas. Or importing her from Mexico. Either way.
Evidently, I'm on thin ice. He made some remark about my being a 'money pit'. I said, "ohhhhh yeaaaaah. I'm soooo expensive to keep....poor Jason.....being ran into the poor house because his wife is sooooooo frivolous". Then, I suggested he go ahead and trade me in for a newer, more efficient and economical model.
'Go right ahead', I threatened. He wavered and waffled over the idea, alright. I reminded him that sure, at the end of the month, there might be a few more dollars in the bank, but what good would that do him when he'd obviously be crying in his beer every night? She wouldn't be as cool as me, I'll tell you that much. You think some mail-order bride would allow him to play poker every Friday night and "jam" on his guitar in the basement every night? You think new wife would put up with his maddening habit of insisting the toilet paper be put on the holder backwards? Hay-ell no, she'd throw his ass out--FO SHOW!
You know... she'd probably make him see foreign films with him, or worse....chick flicks. She would probably think the Olive Garden was fine dining and would make him take her there. Yeah, ya know what I did this weekend? I offered to see "Notorious" (story of rapper Biggie Smalls) with him and I even ate at a Mexican Restaurant with him, knowing full right and well that I hate Mexican food. I'm that kind of wife. I'm so low maintenance it's ridiculous.
You want to sit in front of the tv and not talk? I'm cool with that! Turns out, I'm not a big fan of chit chat. You just want to go to sleep after whoopie and not cuddle---sweeeeet---good night! You want to forego dinner and just have snacks while we watch the Office? I'm your girl! I hate shopping at the mall (I'd rather save myself the time and just order everything online), it takes me 30 minutes to get ready, I love sleep, I love music, I love beer, I have a raunchy sense of humor, I'm not morally opposed to illegal substances, I tell dick jokes, I'm a man with a uterus is really what it boils down to, and he's really going to complain about my foiled highlights and my excessive fondness for black shirts with ruffles, of which I have dozens.
So this, I assure him. She won't be liked by the neighbors. She won't be liked by our friends. She won't be accepted at Bunco. She'll surely receive a chilly welcome at the family reunion. Face it, you're better off keeping me. In the long run, it might cost you, but I'm priceless.
I ask you, who's got my back? If Jason shows up to euchre, the corner bar, Christmas, a bar-b-que, etc., with a new bride, please tell me you won't like her better than me. Remind him of how good my chili is and how I actually enjoy mowing the lawn, won't you? I'm a keeper, I tell you. One weekend with one-legged Svetlana and he'll be begging for me to come home.
Wanna be rich? Shoulda married a hippie who sews her own clothes and grows her own food. Want a fun life with many laughs, a (mostly) clean house, a drinking buddy, a fashion consultant, a personal shopper, a goofy pal? Stick with me! I always tell Jason, "you make the living and I'll make the living worthwhile".
Evidently, I'm on thin ice. He made some remark about my being a 'money pit'. I said, "ohhhhh yeaaaaah. I'm soooo expensive to keep....poor Jason.....being ran into the poor house because his wife is sooooooo frivolous". Then, I suggested he go ahead and trade me in for a newer, more efficient and economical model.
'Go right ahead', I threatened. He wavered and waffled over the idea, alright. I reminded him that sure, at the end of the month, there might be a few more dollars in the bank, but what good would that do him when he'd obviously be crying in his beer every night? She wouldn't be as cool as me, I'll tell you that much. You think some mail-order bride would allow him to play poker every Friday night and "jam" on his guitar in the basement every night? You think new wife would put up with his maddening habit of insisting the toilet paper be put on the holder backwards? Hay-ell no, she'd throw his ass out--FO SHOW!
You know... she'd probably make him see foreign films with him, or worse....chick flicks. She would probably think the Olive Garden was fine dining and would make him take her there. Yeah, ya know what I did this weekend? I offered to see "Notorious" (story of rapper Biggie Smalls) with him and I even ate at a Mexican Restaurant with him, knowing full right and well that I hate Mexican food. I'm that kind of wife. I'm so low maintenance it's ridiculous.
You want to sit in front of the tv and not talk? I'm cool with that! Turns out, I'm not a big fan of chit chat. You just want to go to sleep after whoopie and not cuddle---sweeeeet---good night! You want to forego dinner and just have snacks while we watch the Office? I'm your girl! I hate shopping at the mall (I'd rather save myself the time and just order everything online), it takes me 30 minutes to get ready, I love sleep, I love music, I love beer, I have a raunchy sense of humor, I'm not morally opposed to illegal substances, I tell dick jokes, I'm a man with a uterus is really what it boils down to, and he's really going to complain about my foiled highlights and my excessive fondness for black shirts with ruffles, of which I have dozens.
So this, I assure him. She won't be liked by the neighbors. She won't be liked by our friends. She won't be accepted at Bunco. She'll surely receive a chilly welcome at the family reunion. Face it, you're better off keeping me. In the long run, it might cost you, but I'm priceless.
I ask you, who's got my back? If Jason shows up to euchre, the corner bar, Christmas, a bar-b-que, etc., with a new bride, please tell me you won't like her better than me. Remind him of how good my chili is and how I actually enjoy mowing the lawn, won't you? I'm a keeper, I tell you. One weekend with one-legged Svetlana and he'll be begging for me to come home.
Wanna be rich? Shoulda married a hippie who sews her own clothes and grows her own food. Want a fun life with many laughs, a (mostly) clean house, a drinking buddy, a fashion consultant, a personal shopper, a goofy pal? Stick with me! I always tell Jason, "you make the living and I'll make the living worthwhile".
Friday, January 23, 2009
wetsy betsy
So, I've been hitting the gym lately. More than usual. I don't know why---partially because the weather sucks and there's nothing else to do. Partially because I needed to. Partially because it's an opportunity for me to be away from my 3 year old for 60-90 consecutive minutes.
So, I peeked in the studio one day and witnessed a cardio kickboxing class. It looked like a blast and I made a mental note to get the schedule and then try to work this class into my exercise repertoire. Now, I fancy myself to be quite athletic. I am a tough cookie, plus I used to kickbox back when I lived in the Detroit area. I was pretty good at it too! I figured the class to be kickboxing with some aerobics mixed in. The latter part scerred me. Although I consider myself to be somewhat athletic, I am not however, coordinated. I've been known to leave every step aerobics class and regular aerobics class that I've ever attended. I can't do it, I tell you. But, kickboxing? Now kickboxing, I can do!
I had begged a friend/work out buddy to do the class with me. Now, she actually had the foresight not to join me. She knew her limitations and thus, skipped out. Which is what I should have done. Instead, I showed up to class like I owned the place. Hopping from one foot to the other...tipping my head from side to side, like I'm about to get into a fight or something. The class continues to fill. And fill. And fill. Now, I'm squashed right smack in the middle of the class with no room for error because I've got skinny bitches to my left & right. All of a sudden an 85 lb blur of blond & boobs comes barreling into the room, cranks the sound system and starts screaming for us to do all these crazy moves. I felt like an I Love Lucy episode. Lucy, showing up to the Copacabana with a large head dress on, trying to fit in with all the other dancers. That was me. The instructor never paused, not even for a second. She was either jumping, kicking, punching or shuffling, the entire time. It was a 45 minute class and we were only 90 seconds into it. I was dying. Keep in mind, I work out. Fairly often. You'd have thought I was an 800 lb asthma patient, the way I was dragging myself around the studio. I felt like the Elephant Man. "I am not an animal, I am a HUMAN BEING". Everyone else knew what they were doing. They were KEE-YAHing and shuffling in time with the music. I looked like a Clydesdale. By the time I'd figure out what the hell the instructor was doing, she'd already be onto the next move. Daaahhhrr!!
The final straw came when we had to do this fancy li'l kick where you hop on one foot and then kick with the other. If any of you read an earlier blog of mine titled, "other benefits of child birth" you'll know that when I get on a trampoline, I totally pee my pants. Yes, well, apparently the same is true when I drink a pot of coffee, hop on one foot and then kick with the other. Totally peed on myself. God bless me for trying, I couldn't do it anymore. I gave it my all....and then I peed. So, I snuck out (backwards) with my tail between my legs, horrified to see a group of 60 year old women toward the back of the room. That felt like a kick in the crotch in and of itself. So, I go into the bathroom and once my heart rate started to come down a tad, I started dry heaving. Dry heaving. OK, I am SO NOT A THROWER UPPER!!! Maybe a few times during a pregnancy and once on my 21st birthday, but that's about it. Dry heaving in the bathroom at the Y. after a Kickboxing class.
So, 2 minutes later, I'm in my car. It's 15 minutes after the start of the class. I call my friend. This is the message I left her. "Hi Melissa. It's 9:45. You might recall that I was going to attend the 9:30 cardio kickboxing class. Yeah. About that. Um. I peed my pants and then almost threw up. So, in hindsight, perhaps it's best that you didn't join me today---guess I should go home and do my kegel exercises now, what with my incontinence and all.... BYE".
Toodle. Ooo.
So, I peeked in the studio one day and witnessed a cardio kickboxing class. It looked like a blast and I made a mental note to get the schedule and then try to work this class into my exercise repertoire. Now, I fancy myself to be quite athletic. I am a tough cookie, plus I used to kickbox back when I lived in the Detroit area. I was pretty good at it too! I figured the class to be kickboxing with some aerobics mixed in. The latter part scerred me. Although I consider myself to be somewhat athletic, I am not however, coordinated. I've been known to leave every step aerobics class and regular aerobics class that I've ever attended. I can't do it, I tell you. But, kickboxing? Now kickboxing, I can do!
I had begged a friend/work out buddy to do the class with me. Now, she actually had the foresight not to join me. She knew her limitations and thus, skipped out. Which is what I should have done. Instead, I showed up to class like I owned the place. Hopping from one foot to the other...tipping my head from side to side, like I'm about to get into a fight or something. The class continues to fill. And fill. And fill. Now, I'm squashed right smack in the middle of the class with no room for error because I've got skinny bitches to my left & right. All of a sudden an 85 lb blur of blond & boobs comes barreling into the room, cranks the sound system and starts screaming for us to do all these crazy moves. I felt like an I Love Lucy episode. Lucy, showing up to the Copacabana with a large head dress on, trying to fit in with all the other dancers. That was me. The instructor never paused, not even for a second. She was either jumping, kicking, punching or shuffling, the entire time. It was a 45 minute class and we were only 90 seconds into it. I was dying. Keep in mind, I work out. Fairly often. You'd have thought I was an 800 lb asthma patient, the way I was dragging myself around the studio. I felt like the Elephant Man. "I am not an animal, I am a HUMAN BEING". Everyone else knew what they were doing. They were KEE-YAHing and shuffling in time with the music. I looked like a Clydesdale. By the time I'd figure out what the hell the instructor was doing, she'd already be onto the next move. Daaahhhrr!!
The final straw came when we had to do this fancy li'l kick where you hop on one foot and then kick with the other. If any of you read an earlier blog of mine titled, "other benefits of child birth" you'll know that when I get on a trampoline, I totally pee my pants. Yes, well, apparently the same is true when I drink a pot of coffee, hop on one foot and then kick with the other. Totally peed on myself. God bless me for trying, I couldn't do it anymore. I gave it my all....and then I peed. So, I snuck out (backwards) with my tail between my legs, horrified to see a group of 60 year old women toward the back of the room. That felt like a kick in the crotch in and of itself. So, I go into the bathroom and once my heart rate started to come down a tad, I started dry heaving. Dry heaving. OK, I am SO NOT A THROWER UPPER!!! Maybe a few times during a pregnancy and once on my 21st birthday, but that's about it. Dry heaving in the bathroom at the Y. after a Kickboxing class.
So, 2 minutes later, I'm in my car. It's 15 minutes after the start of the class. I call my friend. This is the message I left her. "Hi Melissa. It's 9:45. You might recall that I was going to attend the 9:30 cardio kickboxing class. Yeah. About that. Um. I peed my pants and then almost threw up. So, in hindsight, perhaps it's best that you didn't join me today---guess I should go home and do my kegel exercises now, what with my incontinence and all.... BYE".
Toodle. Ooo.
Friday, January 16, 2009
again...my son manages to horrify me
I firmly believe that my son was placed on earth and into my arms for the sole purpose of humiliating me. I'm referring to my older son, Ben. And here's the weird thing of it all...he's my good boy. For others, he is so well behaved, a rule follower, a type A personality, a typical first-born-pleaser. So, why does he turn my golden, brown locks grey?
I take pride in how my children dress, I do. I'm not ashamed of that either. I make effort to make sure their clothes are clean, pressed and well put together. (exceptions are made on gym day and during school breaks). An example of how my son tortures me is when I show up to school to help out in the classroom and his nose is crusted with boogers, his sweater is hanging off of his arms, his laces are untied and the tongues of his shoes are loosely dangling from the tops of his shoes. I was furious. This is not how I sent him to school. I wouldn't even talk to him until he went and cleaned his nose.
Another example is how each day, I make a beautiful lunch for my precious child. A sandwich, a fruit, a snack, a yogurt or pudding, and maybe a small piece of candy if I'm feeling extra nice that morning. So, I'm out in the hall reading with his classmates and I know that the rest of the class is having snack time. This is where the students can get a snack out of their lunch box and if they don't have a snack, they lay out their paper towel and that's a signal to the rest of the class that he/she doesn't have a snack that day and the students then take pity on this poor child whose mother doesn't love him/her and they share their snacks with this unfortunate child. It's my son's turn to read with me, so he comes out in the hall and greets me with a hug. I asked him what he chose out of his lunch box that day to have as his snack. "Nuthin. I just put out my napkin and all the other kids give me their snacks". My face drops, my smile disappears, my eyes narrow in on him. He turned and made a bee-line for the door. According to his teacher, this is a regular habit of his. Now, everyone thinks I'm the grubby mom that doesn't pack a snack. Like I need this aggrevation.
Lastly, (well, not lastly because God knows he horrifies me each and every day but for all intents and purposes...lastly) A while back, my son was paired up with a 5th grade "buddy" and they were assigned to interview each other. Oh, I saw the Q&A, alright. My son's answers went something like this:
What's your favorite color: black and blue (you know, like bruises)
What's your favorite smell: smoke (he meant chimney or bonfire smoke, but still....what would you assume he meant?)
What's your favorite song: Welcome to the Jungle by GNR and Gold Digger by Kanye West. (choice tunes for a 6 yr old, wouldn't you agree?)
I was half expecting him to talk about his turn on's & turn off's or his favorite martini garnishes. Really? I was like, "Do you want mommy to go to jail"?
....not to be confused with the time he told our pediatrician that he drinks pop "ALL THE TIME" (btw, I NEVER let him drink pop). And also not to be confused with the time he told his entire preschool class how to make a peanut butter & jelly sandwich by telling them they "don't even think about making a mess" and "you should probably pray before you eat, even though my mom never does". Nice!
If given the opportunity that child would throw me under a bus--not even a question! He never passes up a chance to prove me wrong or embarrass me. Those who know him probably wouldn't believe any of this. Oh no, they think he's such a sweet, smiley, charming, child. Let me tell you, he's part little boy, part pure evil and he's mine, all mine. Through and through, he is my son. The other one (the dumb one) belongs to his father. Ben is mine.
I take pride in how my children dress, I do. I'm not ashamed of that either. I make effort to make sure their clothes are clean, pressed and well put together. (exceptions are made on gym day and during school breaks). An example of how my son tortures me is when I show up to school to help out in the classroom and his nose is crusted with boogers, his sweater is hanging off of his arms, his laces are untied and the tongues of his shoes are loosely dangling from the tops of his shoes. I was furious. This is not how I sent him to school. I wouldn't even talk to him until he went and cleaned his nose.
Another example is how each day, I make a beautiful lunch for my precious child. A sandwich, a fruit, a snack, a yogurt or pudding, and maybe a small piece of candy if I'm feeling extra nice that morning. So, I'm out in the hall reading with his classmates and I know that the rest of the class is having snack time. This is where the students can get a snack out of their lunch box and if they don't have a snack, they lay out their paper towel and that's a signal to the rest of the class that he/she doesn't have a snack that day and the students then take pity on this poor child whose mother doesn't love him/her and they share their snacks with this unfortunate child. It's my son's turn to read with me, so he comes out in the hall and greets me with a hug. I asked him what he chose out of his lunch box that day to have as his snack. "Nuthin. I just put out my napkin and all the other kids give me their snacks". My face drops, my smile disappears, my eyes narrow in on him. He turned and made a bee-line for the door. According to his teacher, this is a regular habit of his. Now, everyone thinks I'm the grubby mom that doesn't pack a snack. Like I need this aggrevation.
Lastly, (well, not lastly because God knows he horrifies me each and every day but for all intents and purposes...lastly) A while back, my son was paired up with a 5th grade "buddy" and they were assigned to interview each other. Oh, I saw the Q&A, alright. My son's answers went something like this:
What's your favorite color: black and blue (you know, like bruises)
What's your favorite smell: smoke (he meant chimney or bonfire smoke, but still....what would you assume he meant?)
What's your favorite song: Welcome to the Jungle by GNR and Gold Digger by Kanye West. (choice tunes for a 6 yr old, wouldn't you agree?)
I was half expecting him to talk about his turn on's & turn off's or his favorite martini garnishes. Really? I was like, "Do you want mommy to go to jail"?
....not to be confused with the time he told our pediatrician that he drinks pop "ALL THE TIME" (btw, I NEVER let him drink pop). And also not to be confused with the time he told his entire preschool class how to make a peanut butter & jelly sandwich by telling them they "don't even think about making a mess" and "you should probably pray before you eat, even though my mom never does". Nice!
If given the opportunity that child would throw me under a bus--not even a question! He never passes up a chance to prove me wrong or embarrass me. Those who know him probably wouldn't believe any of this. Oh no, they think he's such a sweet, smiley, charming, child. Let me tell you, he's part little boy, part pure evil and he's mine, all mine. Through and through, he is my son. The other one (the dumb one) belongs to his father. Ben is mine.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Bunco Changes
Many of my loyal readers are aware of my monthly bunco (drunko) group. It's my li'l drunken retreat where 12 or 20 of my neighbors get together, eat, drink, laugh, catch up and technically we're supposed to play bunco but that rarely happens.
Along with the changing economy, we felt that after 3 strong years, bunco needed to change as well. As the song goes, 'when it's time to change, you've got to rearrange, who you are and what you want to be'. We're not resistant to change. Oh. No. We're. Not. With new challenges in her life, our former bunco chairperson stepped down and handed her official bunco reigns over to a fellow member. Why she chose a bafoon like her, I'll never know. I think I'd have done a hella tight job managing bunco, but that's just me. So, begrudgingly, I accept my new chairperson with open arms and gritted teeth. I immediately contacted her and told her of my new and brilliant ideas of which kept me awake for the past 3 years. I felt that it would be beneficial to start each bunco with the National Anthem. I also felt that a monthly newsletter would be helpful, to keep us in each other's loop and whatnot. I thought it would be super fly if we dimmed the lights and blared The Eye of the Tiger by Survivor after each round, to amp us up for the next round. All of my ideas were (of course) dismissed and truth be told, I think she was jealous of my mad bunco skillz. I wasn't at all surprised to show up to the first bunco after she took over to find no table snacks (I guess she was too busy planning her lame bunco to bring the one thing she was committed to bring). I'll admit, I got a little smug about it. I subtly pointed out her oversight, but I made my point known.
But that's not all. No, my bitterness runs deeper than a few missing table munchies. In our group, girls come and girls go. You know what they say, 'if you can't run with the big dogs, stay on the porch'. But, no worries, we always have a waiting list and we'll replace you so fast your head will spin. Everyone who's anyone wishes they were in the Bella Vista Bunco group, but only few can hang. I just realized that the name of my neighborhood sounds a bit like a trailer park. Now, I ask you...would a trailer park host such well thought out bunco parties? No, they'd probably just decide to meet at lot # 14 for a fist full of white bread and a hunk of Velveeta and call it a party. But I digress.
So, another girl decided to not renew her membership this year after her 4th baby....whatever...I showed up to bunco in labor, but hey, that's just me... So, naturally we needed to find a 12th, which is never a problem because I can easily be bribed. An email goes out, bada boom, bada bang, Kristie is our newest member. What? No vote? No discussion? Who does this new chairperson think she is? Yes, Kristie has been a faithful sub since day one and she shows up uninvited every month, but--- really? She's technically not even in Bella Vista, she's in the neighboring subdivision for crying out loud. I'm not sure we want her corrupting our group. Plus, who knows if she's got what it takes. But, for the sake of keeping peace, I let it go.
It's Kristie's first night and the chairperson's first night after her induction (you know, the one where she forgot the table munchies). So, for all intents and purposes, it's a big night for everyone. When our newest member arrived, we all turned off the lights, locked the door and hid from her. It was 19 degrees outside...hee hee. "Gotta pay your dues" we all chanted from inside the house. Finally, after her baby toe turned black, we let her in. The room was dark. We made a circle around her and held hands. Someone lit a candle and we passed it from one girl to another. During this ceremony, we made Kristie take all of her clothes off. We all took turns asking her trivial questions about ourselves and our families (to see if she'd been paying attention all these years). For every wrong answer we'd spray her with the hose from the kitchen sink. I really got her good when I asked her my son's social security number. Finally, we'd had our fun with Kristie and frankly, all the attention being put on her was getting on my nerves. We let her get dressed but then locked her in a closet and insisted this is always what we do to the new girl. She must have let herself out sometime after we'd all gone home because I swear I saw her driving her kids to school today. Oh well, all in good fun. Snaps to a great new year!
In Bunco Love,
Leslie
Along with the changing economy, we felt that after 3 strong years, bunco needed to change as well. As the song goes, 'when it's time to change, you've got to rearrange, who you are and what you want to be'. We're not resistant to change. Oh. No. We're. Not. With new challenges in her life, our former bunco chairperson stepped down and handed her official bunco reigns over to a fellow member. Why she chose a bafoon like her, I'll never know. I think I'd have done a hella tight job managing bunco, but that's just me. So, begrudgingly, I accept my new chairperson with open arms and gritted teeth. I immediately contacted her and told her of my new and brilliant ideas of which kept me awake for the past 3 years. I felt that it would be beneficial to start each bunco with the National Anthem. I also felt that a monthly newsletter would be helpful, to keep us in each other's loop and whatnot. I thought it would be super fly if we dimmed the lights and blared The Eye of the Tiger by Survivor after each round, to amp us up for the next round. All of my ideas were (of course) dismissed and truth be told, I think she was jealous of my mad bunco skillz. I wasn't at all surprised to show up to the first bunco after she took over to find no table snacks (I guess she was too busy planning her lame bunco to bring the one thing she was committed to bring). I'll admit, I got a little smug about it. I subtly pointed out her oversight, but I made my point known.
But that's not all. No, my bitterness runs deeper than a few missing table munchies. In our group, girls come and girls go. You know what they say, 'if you can't run with the big dogs, stay on the porch'. But, no worries, we always have a waiting list and we'll replace you so fast your head will spin. Everyone who's anyone wishes they were in the Bella Vista Bunco group, but only few can hang. I just realized that the name of my neighborhood sounds a bit like a trailer park. Now, I ask you...would a trailer park host such well thought out bunco parties? No, they'd probably just decide to meet at lot # 14 for a fist full of white bread and a hunk of Velveeta and call it a party. But I digress.
So, another girl decided to not renew her membership this year after her 4th baby....whatever...I showed up to bunco in labor, but hey, that's just me... So, naturally we needed to find a 12th, which is never a problem because I can easily be bribed. An email goes out, bada boom, bada bang, Kristie is our newest member. What? No vote? No discussion? Who does this new chairperson think she is? Yes, Kristie has been a faithful sub since day one and she shows up uninvited every month, but--- really? She's technically not even in Bella Vista, she's in the neighboring subdivision for crying out loud. I'm not sure we want her corrupting our group. Plus, who knows if she's got what it takes. But, for the sake of keeping peace, I let it go.
It's Kristie's first night and the chairperson's first night after her induction (you know, the one where she forgot the table munchies). So, for all intents and purposes, it's a big night for everyone. When our newest member arrived, we all turned off the lights, locked the door and hid from her. It was 19 degrees outside...hee hee. "Gotta pay your dues" we all chanted from inside the house. Finally, after her baby toe turned black, we let her in. The room was dark. We made a circle around her and held hands. Someone lit a candle and we passed it from one girl to another. During this ceremony, we made Kristie take all of her clothes off. We all took turns asking her trivial questions about ourselves and our families (to see if she'd been paying attention all these years). For every wrong answer we'd spray her with the hose from the kitchen sink. I really got her good when I asked her my son's social security number. Finally, we'd had our fun with Kristie and frankly, all the attention being put on her was getting on my nerves. We let her get dressed but then locked her in a closet and insisted this is always what we do to the new girl. She must have let herself out sometime after we'd all gone home because I swear I saw her driving her kids to school today. Oh well, all in good fun. Snaps to a great new year!
In Bunco Love,
Leslie
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
An interview with me!
We get these pointless emails where you have to answer 20 questions about yourself. I like reading other people's answers because it might inform me of something that I never had the courage to ask. Like, "oh, it says here that Holly is wearing white socks and jeans....see, I wondered what she wore while sitting at the computer. Mystery solved"! I'm going to make up my own list of questions...because I want the world to know such trivial things about myself. It's just all so terribly fascinating!
What diseases & disorders do you currently have:
Hyper & Hypo Thyroidism (depending on how often I remember to take my meds).
Adult Attention Deficit Disorder (can't walk from here to there without remembering why I'm walking there, I blurt out inappropriate comments at inappropriate times and other fun symptoms).
Anxiety (an unexpected visit from a family member will send me into a full blown attack, as will a lost sock)
Depression (I'd explain, but why bother? No one cares anyway)
Fibromyalsia (this is self diagnosed, mind you)
I don't know what you call this one, but I swear I get sick each and every time I travel. My husband thinks it's psychosomatic, but he's just trying out his big syllable words.
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (my entire world could be crumbling around me and I wouldn't do one single thing about it, until I found my "to-do" list).
Do you dust and then vacuum or vacuum and then dust:
Wow (Leslie), that's an interesting question! Well, up until a few years ago, I always dusted then vacuumed, but I've learned that vacuuming just musters up more dust and so I've reversed my order. p.s. I also dust with baby wipes. How fancy am I, I. Ask. You?
What brand of laundry detergent do you use:
I was a loyal purchaser of Tide w/ bleach alternative, then I switched to Gain because it smelled better. Now, I just go around smelling my friends' clothes, ask them what they use and then switch to that. I just realized that what I just typed might be the most pathetic statement I've ever written.
If you could invent any gadget, what would it be:
A 'pause' button for the children. I could press pause, go grocery shopping, come back, put the groceries away, make myself a nice lunch, call a friend or two, give myself a manicure, read a book, take a nap, unpause the children. Voila!
If you could look like any celebrity, who would it be:
Victoria Beckham, hands down.
If your husband allowed you one night "off" from the marriage, who would you pursue:
Aaron Eckhart (pant, pant). Either that, or I'd opt for a night out with Chelsea Handler, Wanda Sykes and Kathy Griffin .
Would you mind sharing with us, your work out regime:
Oh sure. I mix up cardio & toning. For example one day I might run laps at the gym and then do some work on the yoga ball afterward. Maybe do some side planks, just for kicks. Then, the next day why, I could get all crazy and do an entire Legs, Gluts & Abs class. I'm silly that way. Truth be told, I enjoy the gym because it's only time I get to watch tv uninterrupted. I've been known to stay on the elliptical machine for and hour & a 1/2 while watching back to back Maury. I had to know who the baby daddy was.
OK, Leslie, our time is just about up. Let me leave you with this final question. Is there anything you would like your loyal readers to know?
Yes, if you're reading this and you aren't already listed as a 'follower to this blog', for GAD'S sake, register yourself!
(fake laughter)....ok, Leslie, thanks again for your time.
Sure, Leslie. The pleasure was all mine.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
crazy me!
I get very involved with being me. It's just so .... exhausting and complicated. There are so many idiosyncrasies that make me the habitual, obsessive, neurotic and negative creature that I am. While a funeral could send me into a laughing fit, the most insignificant occurrence will reduce me to tears. I don't get it. Here are more example of things that even I don't get about myself.
Small things. I don't get this at all, but I have a strong penchant for small (miniature) things. Keep your phallic jokes to yourself. Doll houses, miniature play houses, complete with kitchens and tiny cafe curtains will make me foam at the mouth. Travel size toiletries....oh, I could spend hours looking at them, holding them. As 1953 as this sounds, I could lose myself in an old classic dollhouse, with doll furniture and teeny rugs and itsy bitsy cans in the cupboards. Oh, don't EVEN get me started on Recreational Vehicles. Anyone who knows me for more than 10 minutes, knows that I'm cuckoo about RV's. I'll go to the shows, I'll browse each and every RV. I'll imagine where my belongings would fit into each teeny tiny space. I'd give it all up to live in an RV, I swear. The swivel captains chairs and the make-shift dining room table alone are enough to put me into cardiac arrest. That's all I'll say about this issue.
Shamu. Killer whale, Orka, whatever you want to call it....but immediately upon her big entrance, I'll start bawling so fast, your head will spin. I don't know why there's a direct correlation between the mammal and my tear ducts. This, I cannot explain. I've also been known to cry when my 6 year old hammers out Metallica's 'One' on Guitar Heroes too. Don't judge.
Planning my own funeral. This has been going on for years. The obsession with my own death. I'm willing to bet that experts would call this narcissistic. Maybe. But, it IS my funeral. Why shouldn't it be all about me? I've got the venue, the music, the caterer, the photo slide show, my outfit, my eulogies and my head stone all perfectly detailed in this big ol' head of mine. I've only just begun telling my husband some of these details...what, with being 35 and all. It could be touch and go for sometime yet. Can't be too prepared, I always say.
There are a few things in life that simply embarrass me. Take driving for example. Not how I do it, but the act itself. Whenever I pull up next to someone in my car, like if I'm meeting them or something, I feel incredibly masculine. And masculinity makes me very, very uncomfortable. I drive a typical SUV. But, in my head, it may as well be an 18 wheeler. That's what I feel like when I'm driving in other people's presence. Isn't that silly?
When I was younger, I wouldn't eat in public. True that. Lunch in the school cafeteria was my most dreaded part of the day. Standing there, either waiting for food, or sitting at a table eating out of a bag made me so anxious that I simply never ate. I'd go visit my boyfriend at his college and I'd go for several days....wouldn't eat a morsel the entire time. Yeah, I was a real hoot by the 2nd day. I didn't have an eating disorder, or anything like that, I just felt that eating should be done in private. To this day, I still refuse to eat at a buffet. It still mortifies me to stand somewhere, shoveling food onto my plate.
My knees go weak whenever someone talks about their....(cycle). I am horrified for them. Trust me, I have A LOT of girlfriends and it comes up way too often. I'll just look away and ignore them....anything just shy of putting my fingers in my ears and humming. Believe me, I was this close to banning my husband at the birth of his children. I was disgusted at myself...and it was MY BABY! Girly parts embarrass me. I told you....complicated and exhausting!
On that, HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!!
Small things. I don't get this at all, but I have a strong penchant for small (miniature) things. Keep your phallic jokes to yourself. Doll houses, miniature play houses, complete with kitchens and tiny cafe curtains will make me foam at the mouth. Travel size toiletries....oh, I could spend hours looking at them, holding them. As 1953 as this sounds, I could lose myself in an old classic dollhouse, with doll furniture and teeny rugs and itsy bitsy cans in the cupboards. Oh, don't EVEN get me started on Recreational Vehicles. Anyone who knows me for more than 10 minutes, knows that I'm cuckoo about RV's. I'll go to the shows, I'll browse each and every RV. I'll imagine where my belongings would fit into each teeny tiny space. I'd give it all up to live in an RV, I swear. The swivel captains chairs and the make-shift dining room table alone are enough to put me into cardiac arrest. That's all I'll say about this issue.
Shamu. Killer whale, Orka, whatever you want to call it....but immediately upon her big entrance, I'll start bawling so fast, your head will spin. I don't know why there's a direct correlation between the mammal and my tear ducts. This, I cannot explain. I've also been known to cry when my 6 year old hammers out Metallica's 'One' on Guitar Heroes too. Don't judge.
Planning my own funeral. This has been going on for years. The obsession with my own death. I'm willing to bet that experts would call this narcissistic. Maybe. But, it IS my funeral. Why shouldn't it be all about me? I've got the venue, the music, the caterer, the photo slide show, my outfit, my eulogies and my head stone all perfectly detailed in this big ol' head of mine. I've only just begun telling my husband some of these details...what, with being 35 and all. It could be touch and go for sometime yet. Can't be too prepared, I always say.
There are a few things in life that simply embarrass me. Take driving for example. Not how I do it, but the act itself. Whenever I pull up next to someone in my car, like if I'm meeting them or something, I feel incredibly masculine. And masculinity makes me very, very uncomfortable. I drive a typical SUV. But, in my head, it may as well be an 18 wheeler. That's what I feel like when I'm driving in other people's presence. Isn't that silly?
When I was younger, I wouldn't eat in public. True that. Lunch in the school cafeteria was my most dreaded part of the day. Standing there, either waiting for food, or sitting at a table eating out of a bag made me so anxious that I simply never ate. I'd go visit my boyfriend at his college and I'd go for several days....wouldn't eat a morsel the entire time. Yeah, I was a real hoot by the 2nd day. I didn't have an eating disorder, or anything like that, I just felt that eating should be done in private. To this day, I still refuse to eat at a buffet. It still mortifies me to stand somewhere, shoveling food onto my plate.
My knees go weak whenever someone talks about their....(cycle). I am horrified for them. Trust me, I have A LOT of girlfriends and it comes up way too often. I'll just look away and ignore them....anything just shy of putting my fingers in my ears and humming. Believe me, I was this close to banning my husband at the birth of his children. I was disgusted at myself...and it was MY BABY! Girly parts embarrass me. I told you....complicated and exhausting!
On that, HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!!
Sunday, December 21, 2008
sticks and stones
Sticks & Stones
So, my dear sister is celebrating her 5th wedding anniversary this weekend. She tells me that a traditional anniversary gift for year number 5 is "wood". Of course, I cackled at the thought of "wood". She rolled her eyes and sighed at my immaturity, then tells me about some wooden thing that she bought for him. I tuned her out because I was too busy thinking of all the 'wood' references she could make.
So, when she's done telling me about the fabulous wooden gift she'd found for her husband, a docking station or a totem pole, or what have you, I ask her what he's going to get for her. "What else" she tells me, "wood". Ha ha ha.. To which I reply, "sounds like you got the short end of the stick".
I shall reference my short- end- of- the- stick joke every day until it gets old. Which it won't. It was....the perfect one-liner.
(picture me taking a theatrical bow).
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Mimi the Meanie
I wanted to share a very recent exchange between my son, my husband and myself. My oldest, Ben; 6 1/2 is laying in bed one night, I'm in there putting clothes away, chatting him up before bed. For no particular reason I say to him, "Benny, when you grow up, get married and have babies, I want your kids to call me Mimi, ok"? He isn't too fazed by this request, so he agrees. My husband, Jason overhears this conversation....much like Cindy Brady, he's always evesdropping. Anyway, he hears us and wanders into the bedroom, "What....what's that, you want to be called, Meanie when you're a grandma, ok--no problem, Meanie". No, no, I said MIMI, I want to be called MIMI. 'Alright Meanie if you say so', he tells me.
Ben is cracking up at the idea of his kids hating me. As if hating me himself wasn't enough, he had to pass down the hatred gene, like a treasured jewel. This goes on and on for what seems to be an unusually long amount of time. It's as if they'd rehearsed this whole dialogue and scenario. Jason continues talking in baby talk, "what's that, little baby? Meanie won't let you sit on the couch or touch anything? What now? Meanie won't let you play games or have any fun? Well, we'll just see about that...Papa will make everything alright. Yes, that's right, little baby, you love your papa, not that old, stinkin' Meanie, right"? I'm listening to my son hyperventilate with laughter at my husband's predictions. See what I have to deal with? Like I need this aggrevation. Just say the word boys, and I'll bounce. Peace out.
So, in short, I thought you'd get a kick out of the abuse and torture that I endure each and everyday. I'll admit, the whole conversation was pretty amusing. But, what was different about today's abuse, was that they were plotting to turn my grandchildren against me....who aren't even born yet. It's one thing that they make my life a living hell now, but to scheme against me as an old woman???? That's an entirely different ball of wax. They're just killing me slowly, that's what they're doing. What's next? Cutting my break lines? Ha ha, that would be funny, seeing mommy skitting all over Northland drive. Hee hee.
~Sleeping with one eye open.
Ben is cracking up at the idea of his kids hating me. As if hating me himself wasn't enough, he had to pass down the hatred gene, like a treasured jewel. This goes on and on for what seems to be an unusually long amount of time. It's as if they'd rehearsed this whole dialogue and scenario. Jason continues talking in baby talk, "what's that, little baby? Meanie won't let you sit on the couch or touch anything? What now? Meanie won't let you play games or have any fun? Well, we'll just see about that...Papa will make everything alright. Yes, that's right, little baby, you love your papa, not that old, stinkin' Meanie, right"? I'm listening to my son hyperventilate with laughter at my husband's predictions. See what I have to deal with? Like I need this aggrevation. Just say the word boys, and I'll bounce. Peace out.
So, in short, I thought you'd get a kick out of the abuse and torture that I endure each and everyday. I'll admit, the whole conversation was pretty amusing. But, what was different about today's abuse, was that they were plotting to turn my grandchildren against me....who aren't even born yet. It's one thing that they make my life a living hell now, but to scheme against me as an old woman???? That's an entirely different ball of wax. They're just killing me slowly, that's what they're doing. What's next? Cutting my break lines? Ha ha, that would be funny, seeing mommy skitting all over Northland drive. Hee hee.
~Sleeping with one eye open.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
all things Christmas that make me go hmmm.
In addition to all the biblical wonderment that the holidays bring, there are also several seasonal influences that are of special interest to me.
For example: The song, Baby it's Cold Outside. I've always referred to it as the Date Rape Song. The lyrics go as follows, "my mother will be pacing the floor...well, maybe just a half a drink more" and "the neighbors will think....say, what's in this drink". My God, the poor girl is trying desperately to get a way from this man and he has the death grip on her and won't let her go. "No, stay, shhhhh, just drink this..." . I can't believe the FCC allows this on the radio. Frankly, I think Eminem has less suggestive lyrics than this freak.
Also. About those inflatable lawn ornaments. Can't you just hang white lights like everyone else? I have on good authority that those things are fairly expensive. Why would anyone in their right mind spend upwards of $100 on anything so useless and ugly? Take that money and throw it out a window in hopes that a bum will find it and treat him or herself to a nice dinner. That would be more useful than buying a 25 foot blow up Santa Sleigh. Not to mention what it costs to keep the thing inflated. Don't get me started. Don't even get me started.
I know I've blogged several times about Christmas letters, so you know my stance on that. Albeit, they're highly entertaining, but they're so obnoxious. This year, I had a li'l fun with m'self as I'm known to do from time to time. During a photo shoot with my family, a girlfriend of mine passed by and spontaneously popped in for a picture. I naturally took advantage of the situation and I composed a Christmas letter that very night, detailing our family's highlights from that year. Our big announcement was that my husband had taken a 2nd wife (of course, I included the picture). My new sister wife would teach me to sew those denim jumpers I'd adorn for so many years and I wrote how we'd prayed together as a family that my hair would grow to an unthinkable length, in order to accompany my 4 foot braid. Don't think for one minute that I'm not sending it out as my Christmas card of '08. As it turns out, that particular friend happens to be pretty hot, so I had a good time victimizing myself as the harried first wife, while she took over the more (ahem) intimate wifely duties. I'm funny like that. You've got to look obnoxiousness in the face and laugh at it!!
Typically, Christmas in my house looks like this: Tree adorn with cranberry & gold decorations. An ever-present smell of spice wafting throughout the house. Dimly lit rooms with little white lights hung on anything that will stand still. Many of my home's decorations consist of outdoorsy things; twigs & berries, garland, gold pinecones and the like. But, I'm bored with it all. This year, I've decided to go all Whitney Houston on Christmas.
We're talking white Christmas trees with bright blue balls. (he he, I said blue balls). Jason, the chir'en and I posing robotically around the tree, wearing only white from head to toe and dripping in more gold than Liberace. White residue left upon our upper lips. (allegedly) Instead of the homey and classic Christmas that I'm used to, my new theme is going to be "new-money-ghetto". And if any of you watched Real Housewives of Atlanta on Bravo this season, you all know what I'm talking about. Justin single handedly brought sexy back and Leslie is officially bringing new-money-ghetto back. As if it was ever out.
Happy Kwaanza to you and yours.
For example: The song, Baby it's Cold Outside. I've always referred to it as the Date Rape Song. The lyrics go as follows, "my mother will be pacing the floor...well, maybe just a half a drink more" and "the neighbors will think....say, what's in this drink". My God, the poor girl is trying desperately to get a way from this man and he has the death grip on her and won't let her go. "No, stay, shhhhh, just drink this..." . I can't believe the FCC allows this on the radio. Frankly, I think Eminem has less suggestive lyrics than this freak.
Also. About those inflatable lawn ornaments. Can't you just hang white lights like everyone else? I have on good authority that those things are fairly expensive. Why would anyone in their right mind spend upwards of $100 on anything so useless and ugly? Take that money and throw it out a window in hopes that a bum will find it and treat him or herself to a nice dinner. That would be more useful than buying a 25 foot blow up Santa Sleigh. Not to mention what it costs to keep the thing inflated. Don't get me started. Don't even get me started.
I know I've blogged several times about Christmas letters, so you know my stance on that. Albeit, they're highly entertaining, but they're so obnoxious. This year, I had a li'l fun with m'self as I'm known to do from time to time. During a photo shoot with my family, a girlfriend of mine passed by and spontaneously popped in for a picture. I naturally took advantage of the situation and I composed a Christmas letter that very night, detailing our family's highlights from that year. Our big announcement was that my husband had taken a 2nd wife (of course, I included the picture). My new sister wife would teach me to sew those denim jumpers I'd adorn for so many years and I wrote how we'd prayed together as a family that my hair would grow to an unthinkable length, in order to accompany my 4 foot braid. Don't think for one minute that I'm not sending it out as my Christmas card of '08. As it turns out, that particular friend happens to be pretty hot, so I had a good time victimizing myself as the harried first wife, while she took over the more (ahem) intimate wifely duties. I'm funny like that. You've got to look obnoxiousness in the face and laugh at it!!
Typically, Christmas in my house looks like this: Tree adorn with cranberry & gold decorations. An ever-present smell of spice wafting throughout the house. Dimly lit rooms with little white lights hung on anything that will stand still. Many of my home's decorations consist of outdoorsy things; twigs & berries, garland, gold pinecones and the like. But, I'm bored with it all. This year, I've decided to go all Whitney Houston on Christmas.
We're talking white Christmas trees with bright blue balls. (he he, I said blue balls). Jason, the chir'en and I posing robotically around the tree, wearing only white from head to toe and dripping in more gold than Liberace. White residue left upon our upper lips. (allegedly) Instead of the homey and classic Christmas that I'm used to, my new theme is going to be "new-money-ghetto". And if any of you watched Real Housewives of Atlanta on Bravo this season, you all know what I'm talking about. Justin single handedly brought sexy back and Leslie is officially bringing new-money-ghetto back. As if it was ever out.
Happy Kwaanza to you and yours.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Why I avoid sobriety during the holidays.
Thanksgiving 2008 has come and gone. Thank God. This has been a particularly tough one on me. I don't do well with chaos or confusion. I don't handle abrupt changes or drama with acceptance. I'm not good with other people's children or messes. I'm not down with spills or accidents. So, based on the past 3 sentences, you can plainly see where this is going.
I've always prided myself on making my home a very welcoming one. The best compliment you can give me is to tell me that my house is cozy and that you feel at home here. That's the whole point of my decor, kick up your feet and wrap this chenille throw around your shoulders and let's get down to gossiping. But, there comes a time when I want to throw everyone out my front door, not unlike the cat in the Flintstones.
Here is a handy li'l tip sheet that should get you through the holidays (or rather, should keep me from killing you during the holidays):
Don't Be Late. It's so rude. If your hostess tells you to be somewhere at a certain time, then by God, be there around that time. Don't make her stand there, with her thumb up her ass (unless that's what she's into) waiting. Because unbeknown to you, there are a few things going on. She has likely locked her kids in the basement as to not mess up the house, so the sooner you get there, the sooner the children can come out. Also, there is most likely cooking & baking going on and the longer you delay, the more dried out and overdone the food is going to be. Lastly, she's probably very well-liked and chances are, she has somewhere else to go, once you've left. Be considerate, don't be late.
Don't Be Early. Also very rude. And quite presumptuous as well....you assume you know her well enough to see her without makeup? You don't. All you're doing is making the process harder for her. Knowing what a fabulous hostess she is, a lot goes into the presentation of a party.
Bring What You Say You're Going To Bring, regarding the dish to pass. The hostess plans her menu around what you told her you were going to bring. Don't tell her you're going to bring 2 bottles of wine and then just bring one. Don't tell her you're going to bring a baguette and then bring a loaf of wheat--it's hardly the same. And for God's sake, don't ask for a doggy bag. Unless the hostess insists that you bring home whatever you've brought, don't pack it up and bring it home with you. Ugh..so gauche. Lastly, if you're family consists of 2 adults and 5 kids, don't bring chips & dip and call it good. Perhaps, bring things for your kids to munch on so that you're hostess doesn't have to scrounge through her pantry trying to find Carter and Spencer something to eat during her party. I'm just saying.
Help out. Meaning, when you're done eating, take your plate to the kitchen and hey, here's a thought, maybe put it in the dishwasher. Go that extra mile and rinse it off first. Leaving it for the hostess to clear while you lay on the couch and watch tv isn't helping. You brought 6 kids with you....help them out too, by wiping their hands off so they don't run around leaving greasy hand prints all over everything.
Don't ask, just do. "Do you want me to empty the garbage". No, no, just continue piling things onto it. Eventually, it will topple over and then I'll have something else to do. JUST DO IT.
This is all common sense, people. It's not like I'm writing a manual of how I want my house detailed (you wouldn't do it right, anyway). It's just basic etiquette. So that entails my list of being a stellar guest.
And just for good measure, I'd like to add a darling, little anecdote with regard to my in-laws and their holiday traditions (I don't ALWAYS host. Sometimes the cute, little, Mexicans do it). This is something that's been going on, under the radar, for as long as I've been with my husband (13 yrs). It's never been brought up until now. I find it necessary to address it. With my in-laws, it's all about the dish-to-pass. Mexicans are all about tradition, so if you bring something that everyone likes, it will be expected at each holiday. I have to admit, I reek of pride when my mother-in-law requests that I make a particular dish. I'll get downright smug about it. I will, too. When I first got in with the family, I tried impressing them with some fancy dish or another and if it flopped, I wouldn't know about it until the next year, when they'd demote me to pop....or worse, rolls. Oh, sure, they'd all tell me it was delicious, but the truth would come out the following year when I'd obnoxiously ask if anyone wanted my chocolate truffle. "oh, Leslie, why go to all that trouble....just bring a dozen rolls". So, I'd be right back at the bottom again and it would take years to build my reputation back up again. You think I'm kidding? Oh, I've paid my dues. It starts with rolls, then pop, then salad, then you finally move up to the main dishes. If a new family member marries into the family and right off the bat, she is assigned a casserole..I know something is up and you can expect a throw-down at that point. I won't stand for nepotism...not in this family. No, there's a hierarchy with the dish-to-pass. Usually pop & rolls are reserved for the college students and/or girlfriends, then the salad goes to the new wives and then maybe, just maybe you'll be able to break through that glass ceiling into casseroles.
:-)
I've always prided myself on making my home a very welcoming one. The best compliment you can give me is to tell me that my house is cozy and that you feel at home here. That's the whole point of my decor, kick up your feet and wrap this chenille throw around your shoulders and let's get down to gossiping. But, there comes a time when I want to throw everyone out my front door, not unlike the cat in the Flintstones.
Here is a handy li'l tip sheet that should get you through the holidays (or rather, should keep me from killing you during the holidays):
Don't Be Late. It's so rude. If your hostess tells you to be somewhere at a certain time, then by God, be there around that time. Don't make her stand there, with her thumb up her ass (unless that's what she's into) waiting. Because unbeknown to you, there are a few things going on. She has likely locked her kids in the basement as to not mess up the house, so the sooner you get there, the sooner the children can come out. Also, there is most likely cooking & baking going on and the longer you delay, the more dried out and overdone the food is going to be. Lastly, she's probably very well-liked and chances are, she has somewhere else to go, once you've left. Be considerate, don't be late.
Don't Be Early. Also very rude. And quite presumptuous as well....you assume you know her well enough to see her without makeup? You don't. All you're doing is making the process harder for her. Knowing what a fabulous hostess she is, a lot goes into the presentation of a party.
Bring What You Say You're Going To Bring, regarding the dish to pass. The hostess plans her menu around what you told her you were going to bring. Don't tell her you're going to bring 2 bottles of wine and then just bring one. Don't tell her you're going to bring a baguette and then bring a loaf of wheat--it's hardly the same. And for God's sake, don't ask for a doggy bag. Unless the hostess insists that you bring home whatever you've brought, don't pack it up and bring it home with you. Ugh..so gauche. Lastly, if you're family consists of 2 adults and 5 kids, don't bring chips & dip and call it good. Perhaps, bring things for your kids to munch on so that you're hostess doesn't have to scrounge through her pantry trying to find Carter and Spencer something to eat during her party. I'm just saying.
Help out. Meaning, when you're done eating, take your plate to the kitchen and hey, here's a thought, maybe put it in the dishwasher. Go that extra mile and rinse it off first. Leaving it for the hostess to clear while you lay on the couch and watch tv isn't helping. You brought 6 kids with you....help them out too, by wiping their hands off so they don't run around leaving greasy hand prints all over everything.
Don't ask, just do. "Do you want me to empty the garbage". No, no, just continue piling things onto it. Eventually, it will topple over and then I'll have something else to do. JUST DO IT.
This is all common sense, people. It's not like I'm writing a manual of how I want my house detailed (you wouldn't do it right, anyway). It's just basic etiquette. So that entails my list of being a stellar guest.
And just for good measure, I'd like to add a darling, little anecdote with regard to my in-laws and their holiday traditions (I don't ALWAYS host. Sometimes the cute, little, Mexicans do it). This is something that's been going on, under the radar, for as long as I've been with my husband (13 yrs). It's never been brought up until now. I find it necessary to address it. With my in-laws, it's all about the dish-to-pass. Mexicans are all about tradition, so if you bring something that everyone likes, it will be expected at each holiday. I have to admit, I reek of pride when my mother-in-law requests that I make a particular dish. I'll get downright smug about it. I will, too. When I first got in with the family, I tried impressing them with some fancy dish or another and if it flopped, I wouldn't know about it until the next year, when they'd demote me to pop....or worse, rolls. Oh, sure, they'd all tell me it was delicious, but the truth would come out the following year when I'd obnoxiously ask if anyone wanted my chocolate truffle. "oh, Leslie, why go to all that trouble....just bring a dozen rolls". So, I'd be right back at the bottom again and it would take years to build my reputation back up again. You think I'm kidding? Oh, I've paid my dues. It starts with rolls, then pop, then salad, then you finally move up to the main dishes. If a new family member marries into the family and right off the bat, she is assigned a casserole..I know something is up and you can expect a throw-down at that point. I won't stand for nepotism...not in this family. No, there's a hierarchy with the dish-to-pass. Usually pop & rolls are reserved for the college students and/or girlfriends, then the salad goes to the new wives and then maybe, just maybe you'll be able to break through that glass ceiling into casseroles.
Hope this finds all my loyal readers surviving the wretched holiday season. I find that humor, mixed with copius amounts of sedatives help to get me by.
:-)
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Pushing the Christmas Card Envelope
OK. I'm taking a huge risk on this one. Well, not really. What do I have to lose, besides friends?
Anyway, I'm going to go off on a little tangent about Jesus. He is the reason for this upcoming blessed season, afterall. I will start by saying that I am a believer. I'm not doubting Him or his existance or anything of the sort. I just want clarity on a few issues that have raised some questions for me over the years. That's all. Breathe, breathe... it'll be alright. Shhhh.
First of all. What if there was DNA testing back then? Wouldn't that have been something? We could have taken Mary to a clinic, swabbed her mouth, done the same for Joseph and within 5-7 business days, we could have an answer to the age old addage with regard the virgin birth. I'm not saying Mary wasn't a virgin, mind you, I'm just saying that story wouldn't hold up in court today, I'll tell you that. It is possible, just possible that Joseph was the father of Jesus? Wasn't he her husband? We wouldn't love little Jesus any less had Joe been his biological father, would we? Well, in Joseph's defense, he was there for the birth, so at least he showed some support. He didn't stand there and pout that Jesus looked nothing like him, did he? No, he accepted the little guy just as He was. Wasn't Joe the least bit skeptical? He probably kept his feelings all bottled up inside (that's how they handled emotions back then). But alone, in his shed at night, he probably thought to himself, "Naw, Naw, dat baby ain't EVEN mine. He don't look nothin' like me, Mary's a ho, dawg".
Which brings me to my next question. Who was responsible for raising baby Jesus? Times were tough back then. Diapers and formula didn't grow on trees, you know. I mean, seas parted and water turned into wine, but I know for a fact that diapers didn't grow on trees. Did Joseph help raise Jesus or did God drop by once in a while to help out? I am not trying to be disrespectful, I am just trying to grasp the magnitude of this. In my defense, I am not schooled on the subject of religi0n. I was raised in a pretty much non-practicing Jewish home. We didn't keep kosher, we attended Shul on Passover and Yom Kippur, and I lit the Chanukah candles while saying the prayer. That about sums up my religious education, so don't judge.
Second, did Jesus grow up knowing that God was his father? How do you come to terms with that? Can you imagine? We thought Jenna and Barbara Bush had it rough.
Lastly, why and when did using the Lord's name in vain become synonomous with angry expressions? The poor guy was just minding his own business, curing disease and leading his peeps. He wasn't hurting anyone, when all of a sudden, fast forward a million years and we're spouting off his name whenever we accidentally scald our hands, get cut off in traffic or learn that our spouse lost $1500 at a poker table. Allegedly.
Well, that sums up my nativity questions for the day. I usually don't encourage opinions or comments that differ from my own, but in this instance, I welcome them. School me. Enlighten me. Save me.
Happy Holidays, to you and yours.
LB
Anyway, I'm going to go off on a little tangent about Jesus. He is the reason for this upcoming blessed season, afterall. I will start by saying that I am a believer. I'm not doubting Him or his existance or anything of the sort. I just want clarity on a few issues that have raised some questions for me over the years. That's all. Breathe, breathe... it'll be alright. Shhhh.
First of all. What if there was DNA testing back then? Wouldn't that have been something? We could have taken Mary to a clinic, swabbed her mouth, done the same for Joseph and within 5-7 business days, we could have an answer to the age old addage with regard the virgin birth. I'm not saying Mary wasn't a virgin, mind you, I'm just saying that story wouldn't hold up in court today, I'll tell you that. It is possible, just possible that Joseph was the father of Jesus? Wasn't he her husband? We wouldn't love little Jesus any less had Joe been his biological father, would we? Well, in Joseph's defense, he was there for the birth, so at least he showed some support. He didn't stand there and pout that Jesus looked nothing like him, did he? No, he accepted the little guy just as He was. Wasn't Joe the least bit skeptical? He probably kept his feelings all bottled up inside (that's how they handled emotions back then). But alone, in his shed at night, he probably thought to himself, "Naw, Naw, dat baby ain't EVEN mine. He don't look nothin' like me, Mary's a ho, dawg".
Which brings me to my next question. Who was responsible for raising baby Jesus? Times were tough back then. Diapers and formula didn't grow on trees, you know. I mean, seas parted and water turned into wine, but I know for a fact that diapers didn't grow on trees. Did Joseph help raise Jesus or did God drop by once in a while to help out? I am not trying to be disrespectful, I am just trying to grasp the magnitude of this. In my defense, I am not schooled on the subject of religi0n. I was raised in a pretty much non-practicing Jewish home. We didn't keep kosher, we attended Shul on Passover and Yom Kippur, and I lit the Chanukah candles while saying the prayer. That about sums up my religious education, so don't judge.
Second, did Jesus grow up knowing that God was his father? How do you come to terms with that? Can you imagine? We thought Jenna and Barbara Bush had it rough.
Lastly, why and when did using the Lord's name in vain become synonomous with angry expressions? The poor guy was just minding his own business, curing disease and leading his peeps. He wasn't hurting anyone, when all of a sudden, fast forward a million years and we're spouting off his name whenever we accidentally scald our hands, get cut off in traffic or learn that our spouse lost $1500 at a poker table. Allegedly.
Well, that sums up my nativity questions for the day. I usually don't encourage opinions or comments that differ from my own, but in this instance, I welcome them. School me. Enlighten me. Save me.
Happy Holidays, to you and yours.
LB
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
My daily rant
It's so that I don't even want to leave my house anymore. The outside world is filled with people who simply cannot function in society.
#1. Old people. For the love of God. Just go into the bank. Don't think you're crafty enough to use the ATM, because you're not. No matter how simple the instructions are, you won't be able to take out your $20 or deposit your $5 check in a timely fashion. I guarantee the time will run out before you complete the task. I must have sat behind a Cadillac DeVille for 15 minutes yesterday. Two old people inside. I swear you could see the tongue of the man in the driver's seat. It was all waggling around while he tried to figure out the crazy computer money thing. Finally, when he realized that he'd need to balance his entire checkbook before withdrawing his $$, he stuck his chicken wing out the window and pointed for me to go to the next one. Five seconds later, I had completed my withdrawal and I was pulling away from the drive thru. Suddenly Old Man River guns it and speeds out of his drive thru just to exit the bank before me. What the F.?
#2 Old people. Same as #1, except with regard to the self-checkout at the grocery store. I saw Maude scan those f-ing bananas for 5 minutes before realizing that she'd have to enter the produce code. Entering the 4-digit code took another 10 minutes. (Cut to her laying dead in a pool of blood and my walking sideways, whistling).
#3 People who let their children do things that other people do to save time. I'll give examples. Pushing elevator buttons (do you mind? Mackenzie really loves to push the buttons). Oh no, I don't mind at all. I have no where special to be. After all, it's only a medical center and there's 22 floors in this place and I've been starring at my watch, sighing for the past 5 minutes while Mackenzie pushes every single button. SOCIAL CUES PEOPLE...CATCH ON! Before I receive comments on how I'm evil and have no patience for children, don't bother. I have no patience for children. I even have a few of them. But, the difference is, when we're in public, I take social cues from other people and act accordingly. If it seems like my son is bothering the women behind us in line by ramming my cart against her ankles, than I'll usually ask him to stop. It's very simple. This also goes for parents who let their kids check out their own library books at the self-scan kiosk. Obviously people who visit the kiosk are people who are in a bit of a hurry. It never fails that a mother and her child will inevitably beat me to the checkout counter with 3,000 books and mom will take that very opportunity to give McGregor his first lesson on scanning books. 4 hours later, I'll leave the library with my copy of "Manslaughter for dummies".
#1. Old people. For the love of God. Just go into the bank. Don't think you're crafty enough to use the ATM, because you're not. No matter how simple the instructions are, you won't be able to take out your $20 or deposit your $5 check in a timely fashion. I guarantee the time will run out before you complete the task. I must have sat behind a Cadillac DeVille for 15 minutes yesterday. Two old people inside. I swear you could see the tongue of the man in the driver's seat. It was all waggling around while he tried to figure out the crazy computer money thing. Finally, when he realized that he'd need to balance his entire checkbook before withdrawing his $$, he stuck his chicken wing out the window and pointed for me to go to the next one. Five seconds later, I had completed my withdrawal and I was pulling away from the drive thru. Suddenly Old Man River guns it and speeds out of his drive thru just to exit the bank before me. What the F.?
#2 Old people. Same as #1, except with regard to the self-checkout at the grocery store. I saw Maude scan those f-ing bananas for 5 minutes before realizing that she'd have to enter the produce code. Entering the 4-digit code took another 10 minutes. (Cut to her laying dead in a pool of blood and my walking sideways, whistling).
#3 People who let their children do things that other people do to save time. I'll give examples. Pushing elevator buttons (do you mind? Mackenzie really loves to push the buttons). Oh no, I don't mind at all. I have no where special to be. After all, it's only a medical center and there's 22 floors in this place and I've been starring at my watch, sighing for the past 5 minutes while Mackenzie pushes every single button. SOCIAL CUES PEOPLE...CATCH ON! Before I receive comments on how I'm evil and have no patience for children, don't bother. I have no patience for children. I even have a few of them. But, the difference is, when we're in public, I take social cues from other people and act accordingly. If it seems like my son is bothering the women behind us in line by ramming my cart against her ankles, than I'll usually ask him to stop. It's very simple. This also goes for parents who let their kids check out their own library books at the self-scan kiosk. Obviously people who visit the kiosk are people who are in a bit of a hurry. It never fails that a mother and her child will inevitably beat me to the checkout counter with 3,000 books and mom will take that very opportunity to give McGregor his first lesson on scanning books. 4 hours later, I'll leave the library with my copy of "Manslaughter for dummies".
#4 When I have the entire movie theater to myself and a 6 foot tall amazon sits squarely in front of me. I will glare at the back of their heads so hard, I can barely concentrate on the movie.
#5 When I hold the door for someone and they walk right through without acknowledging me. Ohhhhhh, I want so badly to run through the door, grab them by the back of the shirt and throw them back through the door, then slam the door in their face. Then shrug my shoulders, tilt my head and give my best, "oops" face.
Ok. If I don't stop here, I'll have an aneurysm. Basically, everyone irritates me. Bye.
Another "Lu-UUUU-Cyyy" moment
This just came to me! In '01, I worked for an Event Production company in Detroit. The building had an attached garage/warehouse where we housed our sound equipment, camera equipment and other props. It also became home to one of the owner's motorcycles. This particular owner was on yet another wacky family vacation when the warehouse crew announced a major 'clean out'. A mass email went out to all the employees to get their belongings out of the garage, to avoid damage. The company was also 'home' to a special, li'l guy, who was approximately 45 years old, but had the mentality of a 7 year old, God bless 'em. He was a precious asset to the team. He tried to be helpful and whatnot, per the dynamics of his vocational placement specialist. But, looking back, I doubt he did much more than empty wastebaskets. Anyway, since the owner was out of town at Cedar Point. Or sledding. Or RV-ing. Or snowmobiling, who on earth was going to move his big, monster of a bike? Who, I ask? Who? Our special li'l helper had threatened repeatedly that he was going to move it. He also frequently threatened to touch my boobies, but I rarely took him seriously. There was something about his determination that day that made me think twice about ignoring him.
I, myself, shall move the motorcycle. How hard can it possibly be? I'm freakishly strong for my size. You simply pull the bike off it's kick stand and walk it away, right? Apparently not. I pulled it off the kickstand just fine. It was the 'simply walking away' that had me in a pickle. Being that the bike was approximately 400 tons and the diameter of the handle bars was longer than my actual arm span, basic mathematics would tell you that it simply can't be done. Suffice it to say, I don't know basic mathematics.
In my mind, it was an easy task. But, you can imagine what happened and 3 seconds later the 2-wheeled beast was laying on her side with a shattered mirror & cracked turn signal light. "Hmmm...didn't see that coming", I said when the entire warehouse turned around and looked at me. Heh heh... (cut to me walking sideways, whistling). My special friend felt it was necessary to point, scream and jump up and down on his mangled, little legs. I had half a mind to call his vocational placement specialist that day and make up an alleged boobie- touching incident.
I could go on for another paragraph telling you how I had to spend twice my paycheck on replacing the parts before the boss got back. Or how I wrote him a (hilarious) apology limerick. But, at the end of the day, it's the actual problem that's entertaining to read. Not the resolution.
...and in close, here is the apology limerick from 8 years ago. Just as funny now as it was then. What I find so incredibly humorous about this is that I felt it was appropriate to leave a poem like this. For my boss.
I, myself, shall move the motorcycle. How hard can it possibly be? I'm freakishly strong for my size. You simply pull the bike off it's kick stand and walk it away, right? Apparently not. I pulled it off the kickstand just fine. It was the 'simply walking away' that had me in a pickle. Being that the bike was approximately 400 tons and the diameter of the handle bars was longer than my actual arm span, basic mathematics would tell you that it simply can't be done. Suffice it to say, I don't know basic mathematics.
In my mind, it was an easy task. But, you can imagine what happened and 3 seconds later the 2-wheeled beast was laying on her side with a shattered mirror & cracked turn signal light. "Hmmm...didn't see that coming", I said when the entire warehouse turned around and looked at me. Heh heh... (cut to me walking sideways, whistling). My special friend felt it was necessary to point, scream and jump up and down on his mangled, little legs. I had half a mind to call his vocational placement specialist that day and make up an alleged boobie- touching incident.
I could go on for another paragraph telling you how I had to spend twice my paycheck on replacing the parts before the boss got back. Or how I wrote him a (hilarious) apology limerick. But, at the end of the day, it's the actual problem that's entertaining to read. Not the resolution.
...and in close, here is the apology limerick from 8 years ago. Just as funny now as it was then. What I find so incredibly humorous about this is that I felt it was appropriate to leave a poem like this. For my boss.
My Apology Poem
By
Leslie B.
There once was a cool chick named Les
She always got into a mess
Though she tried to help out
It just didn't work out
So let's get this off her big chest.
Though you told me not to touch the bike
I thought I was strong like a dyke
I lost all control
The bike started to roll
I feel so bad, please don’t dislike. [me]
I skinned my hand and scraped my hip.
All for your bike, I took a dip.
What broke in flight
Was your turn signal light
I was crying. I couldn't get a grip.
I thought I could do it
I don't mean to boast.
Oh where was John Webb* when I needed him most?
TONE-e, if you weren't at the 'Point', riding the rides
Your bike wouldn't have fallen on one of its sides.
It couldn't have been worse than when Scott crashed the van
And we still love him, 'cause he is the man.
By
Leslie B.
There once was a cool chick named Les
She always got into a mess
Though she tried to help out
It just didn't work out
So let's get this off her big chest.
Though you told me not to touch the bike
I thought I was strong like a dyke
I lost all control
The bike started to roll
I feel so bad, please don’t dislike. [me]
I skinned my hand and scraped my hip.
All for your bike, I took a dip.
What broke in flight
Was your turn signal light
I was crying. I couldn't get a grip.
I thought I could do it
I don't mean to boast.
Oh where was John Webb* when I needed him most?
TONE-e, if you weren't at the 'Point', riding the rides
Your bike wouldn't have fallen on one of its sides.
It couldn't have been worse than when Scott crashed the van
And we still love him, 'cause he is the man.
So remember this as you think of me
No matter what, you still love me.......Leslieeeeee!!!!
The End
The End
*(John Webb was/is the warehouse manager)
Friday, November 7, 2008
LU-UUUUCCYYYYY...you cannot be in the show!
My tolerant husband has been calling me Lucy for years. I can't imagine why, it's not like I get myself into that many silly situations.
Sure, there have been a handful of disasters along the way, but we've been together for 13 years. There's bound to be a debacle here or there.
Take the time I was going to get rich selling gold coins. I was working full time as a consultant for Bath & Body Works. Between the constant sweet smells wafting through my sinuses each day, not to mention keeping mall hours, I desperately needed a change. A co-worker of mine revealed a secret, secret get-rich-scheme that would be sweeping the nation. Selling gold coins. It was a sure thing and frankly, it would be foolish not to invest in it. Jason laughed in my face and put the kibosh on that idea immediately. It's been held over my head for the past decade and seems to come in handy when humiliating me becomes necessary.
Moving right along to the time I fell through a wall. We'd bought our first home in 2000. It was a modest, little, starter home (read: dump). In our minds, we'd gone hog wild on fixing the place up. We were anxious for the closing date so we could get started on making it ours. We'd finally taken possession and went immediately to Lowe's to purchase gallons upon gallons of paint, trim and all the other bells and whistles it takes to give a house a quick makeover. We'd made our purchases and as we pulled up into our new driveway, as first time owners, we noticed that our new house was pink. Hmm, that's weird, I didn't notice that when we first looked at it. We also didn't notice that our new love shack needed much more than a few coats of paint. I walked through each room with new eyes. Buyers remorse, I guess you could call it. Amid all of the out dated fixtures throughout the home, I became totally fixated on a ceiling fan located in what would be the guest room. It was made of a dark, ugly wood and it had brass hardware on it. I was horrified that that monstrosity would be what my guests would have to look at before drifting off to sleep. As I stood there staring at it, I imagined that a few swipes of a paint brush should nicely fix the problem (I'd never picked up a paint brush in my life). Jason reported that he was going to go back to Lowe's for something and before my wheels began to spin, Jason said, "DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING, LUCY". He had barely started his engine before I was dragging a stool into the guest room. I'd hopped up on the stool and imagined that all I had to do was dip a paint brush in white paint and voila, new fan. Within seconds, I'd lost my balance, fallen off the stool and because my main concern was spilling paint and not breaking my fall, I fell backwards into a wall. A brand new, just paid for, wall. My shoulders came crashing through the wall and right through the drywall. Of course Jason forgot his wallet and came back to retrieve it. He found me. Inside the wall. And he'll never let me live it down. What? Like you've never fallen through a wall.
What about when I had a parent educator coming to my house for her monthly visit with my son. The whole house was somewhat clean but for the dishes. I didn't have time to empty the dishwasher and then load the breakfast dishes in it. So, like any red blooded house-wife, I shoved the breakfast dishes into the oven, to be taken care of as soon as she leaves. Good plan, eh? Fast forward 8 hours, it's dinner time. I preheat the oven to 400 degrees in preparation for the lasagna I'd planned to make. Suddenly the house smelled like a chemical factory. Plastic dishes don't bode well at 400 degrees. All the kids plastic Darth Vader plates and animal shaped cutlery, melted beyond recognition. I considered keeping this little disaster to myself, but I was still trying to pry plates off of the oven rack when jason got home from work. Shut up.
Let's not ignore the time I bought Aqua Dots for all the neighborhood kids and then CNN reported that they contained GHB.
Not to take away from the time my earring back got stuck on the lining of my motorcycle helmet. Jason took me for a Sunday afternoon ride and as we were dismounting the bike, I tried pulling the helmet off when, OUCH! When I pulled one way, it about ripped my ear in half. When I pulled the opposite way, the back of the earring dug into my skull. It was a lose/lose situation. After 10 minutes of us trying to free me, a crowd began to accumulate around me. I couldn't see them because the helmet had fallen forward and was covering my eyes. Jason says to me, "ok, don't panic, but there's about 10 guys standing behind you. Laughing". Again, we were in Lowe's parking lot. What is it with us and Lowe's? Our Lowe's happens to share a parking lot with our local Fire Department. Jason offers, "want me to go ask for the Jaws of Life". At this point I'm partially laughing, but mostly crying. I didn't see any possible solution. I'd either puncture my skull with an earring or else I'd rip it. Neither sounded like much fun. Long story short, Jason finally rescued me, but not before passerbys were stopping, laughing out loud and pointing at me. So, picture me, walking through Lowe's, fire engine-red ear, mascara running down my face and worst of all, helmet-hair! We peed our pants laughing the whole way home. I said to him, "you're going to bring this up every chance you get, aren't you"? "Absolutely".
Oh. Then there was the time Jason and I were on vacation and our room had a jacuzzi tub the size of my front yard. To make up for the large space, I accommodated by pouring in half a bottle of body wash. I watched as the bubbles began to take over the bathroom. I finally turned the water off and stepped in the tub. I sat down in about 2 inches of water and 4 feet of bubbles. I felt defeated, disappointed and cold. Jason walked in, laughed at me and walked out shaking his head and mumbling something about, "Lu-uuuuucy".
And the time I was innocuously doing my hair before work one Sunday morning. I had the cord of my flat iron wrapped around itself, you know how we do. In order to untangle it, I whipped the cord this way and that until eventually the metal part of the plugger-inner hit me smack in the eye and I, in turn, gashed my cornea. At the time, I didn't realize the damage was that severe. I figured my eye would stop watering at some point and I'd be as good as new. In the meantime, I'd reached for a wash cloth inside my shower, but inadvertently grabbed a razor instead. I sliced my finger open. It was then that I'd admit defeat and call Jason for help. He came upstairs, my eye was completely stuck shut, watering like a faucet and my finger most likely needed stitches. "I leave you alone for one minute, Lu-uuuucy...", he offers. He helps me and whatnot, but I proceed to get ready for work with my winkie-one-eye and because it's watering so bad, I can't put any eye-makeup on. Do you know how ridiculous it looks to wear eye makeup on one eye, but not the other? I should have called my boss and told her I wasn't going to make it in (I 'worked' -ha-ha-at my friend's boutique) but she was attending her father's funeral that day and obviously I wasn't going to bother her over a mere cornea gashing.
If anyone reading this has ever had a 'cornea abrasion' you know that it's the most extreme & excruciating pain you could ever imagine. It's a very intense sting in the eye. The only thing that felt good, was to rub it, but by rubbing it, I was further tearing the tissue.
By the time I finally got to the ER, five hours later, they rushed me right into the room and reported it was among the worst tear they'd seen. Enter: Vicodin. Hello, friend!!!! I popped two at the ER and by the time I got home, I was drooling and asking my mother in law if she liked my pretty shirt. One thing I learned from this experience is that I'm very sweet & chatty on vicodin. Jason kept putting me to bed and I'd follow him downstairs professing my love for him. He'd walk me back upstairs..."Goooooo Niiiiight Luu-uucyyyy". Buenos noches un ojo.
I was going to include a story of mine that included hot, bikini wax, pants around my ankles and a mysterious knock at my door. But, I'm not so sure I'm comfortable disclosing such personal information about myself. Just yet. So, my better judgement (which I rarely listen to) is telling me to stop here. That is, unless Jason gets a hold of my password and logs on to tell his own versions.
MWAHHH!
Sure, there have been a handful of disasters along the way, but we've been together for 13 years. There's bound to be a debacle here or there.
Take the time I was going to get rich selling gold coins. I was working full time as a consultant for Bath & Body Works. Between the constant sweet smells wafting through my sinuses each day, not to mention keeping mall hours, I desperately needed a change. A co-worker of mine revealed a secret, secret get-rich-scheme that would be sweeping the nation. Selling gold coins. It was a sure thing and frankly, it would be foolish not to invest in it. Jason laughed in my face and put the kibosh on that idea immediately. It's been held over my head for the past decade and seems to come in handy when humiliating me becomes necessary.
Moving right along to the time I fell through a wall. We'd bought our first home in 2000. It was a modest, little, starter home (read: dump). In our minds, we'd gone hog wild on fixing the place up. We were anxious for the closing date so we could get started on making it ours. We'd finally taken possession and went immediately to Lowe's to purchase gallons upon gallons of paint, trim and all the other bells and whistles it takes to give a house a quick makeover. We'd made our purchases and as we pulled up into our new driveway, as first time owners, we noticed that our new house was pink. Hmm, that's weird, I didn't notice that when we first looked at it. We also didn't notice that our new love shack needed much more than a few coats of paint. I walked through each room with new eyes. Buyers remorse, I guess you could call it. Amid all of the out dated fixtures throughout the home, I became totally fixated on a ceiling fan located in what would be the guest room. It was made of a dark, ugly wood and it had brass hardware on it. I was horrified that that monstrosity would be what my guests would have to look at before drifting off to sleep. As I stood there staring at it, I imagined that a few swipes of a paint brush should nicely fix the problem (I'd never picked up a paint brush in my life). Jason reported that he was going to go back to Lowe's for something and before my wheels began to spin, Jason said, "DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING, LUCY". He had barely started his engine before I was dragging a stool into the guest room. I'd hopped up on the stool and imagined that all I had to do was dip a paint brush in white paint and voila, new fan. Within seconds, I'd lost my balance, fallen off the stool and because my main concern was spilling paint and not breaking my fall, I fell backwards into a wall. A brand new, just paid for, wall. My shoulders came crashing through the wall and right through the drywall. Of course Jason forgot his wallet and came back to retrieve it. He found me. Inside the wall. And he'll never let me live it down. What? Like you've never fallen through a wall.
What about when I had a parent educator coming to my house for her monthly visit with my son. The whole house was somewhat clean but for the dishes. I didn't have time to empty the dishwasher and then load the breakfast dishes in it. So, like any red blooded house-wife, I shoved the breakfast dishes into the oven, to be taken care of as soon as she leaves. Good plan, eh? Fast forward 8 hours, it's dinner time. I preheat the oven to 400 degrees in preparation for the lasagna I'd planned to make. Suddenly the house smelled like a chemical factory. Plastic dishes don't bode well at 400 degrees. All the kids plastic Darth Vader plates and animal shaped cutlery, melted beyond recognition. I considered keeping this little disaster to myself, but I was still trying to pry plates off of the oven rack when jason got home from work. Shut up.
Let's not ignore the time I bought Aqua Dots for all the neighborhood kids and then CNN reported that they contained GHB.
Not to take away from the time my earring back got stuck on the lining of my motorcycle helmet. Jason took me for a Sunday afternoon ride and as we were dismounting the bike, I tried pulling the helmet off when, OUCH! When I pulled one way, it about ripped my ear in half. When I pulled the opposite way, the back of the earring dug into my skull. It was a lose/lose situation. After 10 minutes of us trying to free me, a crowd began to accumulate around me. I couldn't see them because the helmet had fallen forward and was covering my eyes. Jason says to me, "ok, don't panic, but there's about 10 guys standing behind you. Laughing". Again, we were in Lowe's parking lot. What is it with us and Lowe's? Our Lowe's happens to share a parking lot with our local Fire Department. Jason offers, "want me to go ask for the Jaws of Life". At this point I'm partially laughing, but mostly crying. I didn't see any possible solution. I'd either puncture my skull with an earring or else I'd rip it. Neither sounded like much fun. Long story short, Jason finally rescued me, but not before passerbys were stopping, laughing out loud and pointing at me. So, picture me, walking through Lowe's, fire engine-red ear, mascara running down my face and worst of all, helmet-hair! We peed our pants laughing the whole way home. I said to him, "you're going to bring this up every chance you get, aren't you"? "Absolutely".
Oh. Then there was the time Jason and I were on vacation and our room had a jacuzzi tub the size of my front yard. To make up for the large space, I accommodated by pouring in half a bottle of body wash. I watched as the bubbles began to take over the bathroom. I finally turned the water off and stepped in the tub. I sat down in about 2 inches of water and 4 feet of bubbles. I felt defeated, disappointed and cold. Jason walked in, laughed at me and walked out shaking his head and mumbling something about, "Lu-uuuuucy".
And the time I was innocuously doing my hair before work one Sunday morning. I had the cord of my flat iron wrapped around itself, you know how we do. In order to untangle it, I whipped the cord this way and that until eventually the metal part of the plugger-inner hit me smack in the eye and I, in turn, gashed my cornea. At the time, I didn't realize the damage was that severe. I figured my eye would stop watering at some point and I'd be as good as new. In the meantime, I'd reached for a wash cloth inside my shower, but inadvertently grabbed a razor instead. I sliced my finger open. It was then that I'd admit defeat and call Jason for help. He came upstairs, my eye was completely stuck shut, watering like a faucet and my finger most likely needed stitches. "I leave you alone for one minute, Lu-uuuucy...", he offers. He helps me and whatnot, but I proceed to get ready for work with my winkie-one-eye and because it's watering so bad, I can't put any eye-makeup on. Do you know how ridiculous it looks to wear eye makeup on one eye, but not the other? I should have called my boss and told her I wasn't going to make it in (I 'worked' -ha-ha-at my friend's boutique) but she was attending her father's funeral that day and obviously I wasn't going to bother her over a mere cornea gashing.
If anyone reading this has ever had a 'cornea abrasion' you know that it's the most extreme & excruciating pain you could ever imagine. It's a very intense sting in the eye. The only thing that felt good, was to rub it, but by rubbing it, I was further tearing the tissue.
By the time I finally got to the ER, five hours later, they rushed me right into the room and reported it was among the worst tear they'd seen. Enter: Vicodin. Hello, friend!!!! I popped two at the ER and by the time I got home, I was drooling and asking my mother in law if she liked my pretty shirt. One thing I learned from this experience is that I'm very sweet & chatty on vicodin. Jason kept putting me to bed and I'd follow him downstairs professing my love for him. He'd walk me back upstairs..."Goooooo Niiiiight Luu-uucyyyy". Buenos noches un ojo.
I was going to include a story of mine that included hot, bikini wax, pants around my ankles and a mysterious knock at my door. But, I'm not so sure I'm comfortable disclosing such personal information about myself. Just yet. So, my better judgement (which I rarely listen to) is telling me to stop here. That is, unless Jason gets a hold of my password and logs on to tell his own versions.
MWAHHH!
Monday, November 3, 2008
Dr. Rey-Diculous & Hate-ly Rey
It's Monday and I have nothing terribly important to report, so I'll just get up on my hind legs and bitch about the 2 most obnoxious people on television Dr. Robert Rey and his wench of a wife, Haley.
Where else on earth could a slender, pretty man get away with wearing fuscia, silk handkerchiefs & pink ruffle shirts under his pinstriped suit? Where? Me thinks he wears eyeliner too. Where else could a doctor literally man-handle his female patients and get away with it. Trust me, if he weren't on TV and wasn't that good looking, he'd have so many law suits against him. Have you ever seen the show, for pity sake, he rubs his patients. Rubs them. Caresses their shoulders, arms, thighs. Tells them they're sexy and gorgeous and uses every single adjective that a woman would want to hear before getting bent over. Even his slimy voice makes me squirm--he 'baby talks' for crying out loud. "....and she was beeeaauuuu-tifulllll before, but I've made her breasts soooooo pretty---I gave her a nice, pink areolas and because I'm her doctor I can give them a nice, little squeeeeeeeeze".
Oh, what about how he gets after his numchuks (sp?) before his surgeries? Ok, doc, we get it...you're into martial arts. Anything to take our attention off of your blatant homosexuality, right? Just come out of the closet already. I'd feel much better about the silly clothes if he were gay.
Moving onto Haley. I loathe her. From her yellow hair & black roots, to her sunk in eyes and fat lips, right down to her legs that are so skinny, you could drive a truck through her thighs. The woman is emaciated. She claims, "I just forget to eat sometimes. I'm a mother of 2 and my husband is a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon". Yeah, sometimes I forget to eat too, like when I'm sleeping, for example. Her pouting gives me a rash. "Hmmmpht, Robert is never here and he works too much and I'm all alone in this 10,000 square foot palatial mansion with nothing but time on my hands to complain about my sad, pitiful life". "My house is only worth 7 Million, but I want a 9 million dollar house, because my husband is always at work and I'll hold my breath and forget to eat if i don't get it. Mark my words, she'll be divorced and remarried before 2010 and her next husband will be much, much older and not nearly as attractive as Robert (so she won't have to compete, see?). And he'll be a katrillionaire who will be perfectly happy spoiling his little spinner. And then she'll write a book about the travesties of being married to Robert and she'll laugh her way to the bank, while waiting for her husband to die.
That's all. I'm going to check out their message boards to see if anyone feels the same way I do.
Where else on earth could a slender, pretty man get away with wearing fuscia, silk handkerchiefs & pink ruffle shirts under his pinstriped suit? Where? Me thinks he wears eyeliner too. Where else could a doctor literally man-handle his female patients and get away with it. Trust me, if he weren't on TV and wasn't that good looking, he'd have so many law suits against him. Have you ever seen the show, for pity sake, he rubs his patients. Rubs them. Caresses their shoulders, arms, thighs. Tells them they're sexy and gorgeous and uses every single adjective that a woman would want to hear before getting bent over. Even his slimy voice makes me squirm--he 'baby talks' for crying out loud. "....and she was beeeaauuuu-tifulllll before, but I've made her breasts soooooo pretty---I gave her a nice, pink areolas and because I'm her doctor I can give them a nice, little squeeeeeeeeze".
Oh, what about how he gets after his numchuks (sp?) before his surgeries? Ok, doc, we get it...you're into martial arts. Anything to take our attention off of your blatant homosexuality, right? Just come out of the closet already. I'd feel much better about the silly clothes if he were gay.
Moving onto Haley. I loathe her. From her yellow hair & black roots, to her sunk in eyes and fat lips, right down to her legs that are so skinny, you could drive a truck through her thighs. The woman is emaciated. She claims, "I just forget to eat sometimes. I'm a mother of 2 and my husband is a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon". Yeah, sometimes I forget to eat too, like when I'm sleeping, for example. Her pouting gives me a rash. "Hmmmpht, Robert is never here and he works too much and I'm all alone in this 10,000 square foot palatial mansion with nothing but time on my hands to complain about my sad, pitiful life". "My house is only worth 7 Million, but I want a 9 million dollar house, because my husband is always at work and I'll hold my breath and forget to eat if i don't get it. Mark my words, she'll be divorced and remarried before 2010 and her next husband will be much, much older and not nearly as attractive as Robert (so she won't have to compete, see?). And he'll be a katrillionaire who will be perfectly happy spoiling his little spinner. And then she'll write a book about the travesties of being married to Robert and she'll laugh her way to the bank, while waiting for her husband to die.
That's all. I'm going to check out their message boards to see if anyone feels the same way I do.
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