embarrassment ensues

True Story. This only happened a matter of minutes ago, so I'm going to furiously type, as to accurately recall the series of events.

Took Gabe into see his pediatrician for his 4 year old wellness check this morning. After the physical examination, the doctor (who has no sense of humor or much of a personality whatsoever) hands Gabe a pen and asks him to draw a picture of his mom. I guess this exercise somehow measures his development...whatever. Anyway, Gabe says, "ummm, this pen is actually too heavy for me" and hands the pen back to him. The doctor reassures him that the pen isn't too heavy and could he please just draw the picture. Gabe sighs and gets started. He draws my eyes, my nose, my lips, my hair and my toe nails. Then he says to me, "What else should I draw, mommy"? I tell him to draw whatever he wants. To which he immediately replies, "Then I'm going to draw your big pee pee and your boobies". I turned 3 shades of red and buried my head in my lap. I peek up at the doctor, expecting him to be giggling. Oh no. No smile, no smirk...nothing. He was scribbling something in Gabe's file, probably indicating that my son is a perv.

The doctor then goes on and on asking me more questions about their diet, their tv exposure, etc... He asks how many glasses of milk I give them a day. I tell him one at breakfast and one at dinner. Ben pipes in, "NOOO, Uh-Uh....nooooo, remember at the restaurant last night you let us get Sprite"???? So, I kicked him. Then doc asks how much television/computer time my kids get. I said, "well, let's see, I let them watch tv while I'm making breakfast and again at night when they're winding down". Ben bursts out laughing and says, "we watch waaaaaay more tv than that"!!!!! If looks could kill, there would be a chalk line around Ben on the floor in the doctor's office. He pulled this crap with me last year during their physicals. I even warned them this morning NOT to act up. Doctor Personality yells at me some more about the importance of bike helmets. I nod. Ben throws me under the bus again. "Mom...Mom....uh-uh, Gabe DOES NOT wear a helmet...Mom, mom....."!!! Yeah, because GABE CAN'T RIDE A BIKE---which would clearly explain why Gabe doesn't wear a bike helmet. So, I find myself stuttering and sputtering to this doctor, like I'm on trial or something.

So, on the way home, I called my husband to tell him how beastly our children were, but then hung up because I figured he'd probably make a disgusting sexual reference with regard to my "big pee pee". I ended up circling my neighborhood because I was/am worried that the authorities have been notified. What if I get questioned by CPS because my kids are making dirty references to my pee pee? Great. That's all I need is a sex offender sign posted in my yard. As if I don't already have a glowing reputation in the neighborhood. Why do my children hate me so?

Off to do my kegels. What, with my big pee pee and all....

~Leslie

Grow a pair, Leslie!

I'm so wishy washy. It's the absolute least favorable attribute of mine. I'm so easily influenced, I could be the poster child for peer pressure in an after school special. Here's how I envision the script rolling:

Friend: Here, try some drugs, Leslie
Me: No thank you. I'm morally opposed to drugs.
Friend: Just try it.
Me: Ok. Don't mind if I do.

It's just that simple. No backbone. No spine. No chutzpah. This has been a problem of mine from childhood to present day. I'm not sure where or what it stems from. Clearly, if you've read even one blog entry, you'll note that I have no problem speaking my mind, so why the eagerness to follow someone else's lead? Good old fashioned insecurities, I guess. I let everyone else become my guide. For whatever reason, I question my own judgement and most often I'll substitute others' opinions for my own. My inner dialogue might sound like this, "well, obviously my opinion doesn't count so I'd better listen to this homeless person's". Apparently I think so little of myself that I'm constantly in search of others' affirmation and encouragement.

As a child, on through early adulthood, my sister was the gauge that I'd use to measure my own values. If she'd decided that 'red' was out, you can bet the next day, I'd be schlepping every red thing from my house and down to the curb. If she'd awaken one day, only to realize that poison ivy was the next big thing, better believe I'd be rolling in it by lunchtime. Gawd, I'm pathetic....just seeing this written annoys me. I annoy myself. Once I finally moved 2 hours away from her and our relationship dwindled down to nothing, only then was I able to shake the influential hold she had over me. I slowly began relying on my own judgement. Not to say that I don't slip back into it from time to time.

Motherhood is another facet of my life that leaves me questioning myself. When my kids were little, I always let someone else dictate when to introduce new things and when to taketh away. I was so afraid of someone saying, "can you believe Leslie still lets her kids fill-in-the-blank". Insecurity is a real bitch! When Gabe was 2, I still had him in a high chair because.....well, for no other reason than it was easier for me if he was contained while he ate. That is, until my friend, Kristi came over and mentioned that he was old enough to be sitting at the table with the rest of the family. Picture me hauling the high chair down to the basement at 1 AM. Because naturally, who better to assess my 2 yr old's needs than someone who has never seen him eat. Fast forward to the next day, Gabe is sitting in a booster chair at our kitchen table, flinging bananas on the floor, feeding our dog, crawling onto the table, crawling under the table, etc. Damn you, Kristi. Damn you, I say! But, that's so typical of me. I wish I was strong enough to say, "um, yeah..no".

This [said] flaw of mine could really come in handy, let's say, at a sleep over. "Leslie, you should totally steal your mom's vodka, shimmey down the fire escape, steal your mom's car, pick up our boyfriends and bring them back here. Oh---and by the way, you should cut your hair first. We hear mullets are making a big come back". Me: do you really think so? Oh, I was popular, alright. Have I ever mentioned that I was suspended for mooning a school bus during gym class? You think I came up with that brilliant idea on my own?

Even today, I have a very strong tendency to listen to everyone else's opinions instead of my own inner voice.

Me: This Christmas tree sweater is so ugly!
Friend: No, it looks great on you.
Me: You're right. I never thought of it like that. I love my Christmas tree sweater.

Note to reader: Now that this is out in the open, kindly refrain from talking me into bad haircuts or triple dog dares. God knows I'll do it. Well, that's not all together true. No one (and I mean no one) would ever be able to talk me into home schooling or scrap booking. Even I draw the line somewhere.

A born follower,
Leslie

Girl's Best Friend

Frankly, I'm tired of talking about my kids. They've hogged far too much time on my blog as it is. I mean, I know they're funny and all, but enough's enough. It just occurred to me that I've never mentioned my most prized possession. (this is the part where I'm supposed to say 'besides my kids, of course'). Luna is my 9 yr old Yellow Lab and I love her ever so, ever so much. I wouldn't go as far as to say that she's the best dog in the world. Or even the brightest dog (not being real bright seems to be a trend in our family....hmm). But, the love I have for her is borderline ridiculous.

Below are bullet points, which highlight just how much I love her:

• I will drag my kids out of my bed because they toss and turn and fidget while they sleep (like their father). While on the other hand, I'll hang off the side of the bed, sacrificing my own comfort to ensure Luna's .

• I won't yell at Luna when she eats the kids' toys. Sometimes I encourage it because I think she looks darling when she chews on a toy.

• I don't let my kids give Luna a treat---only me---because I want her to love me the best.

• Gabe doesn't get in trouble for hitting Ben but he gets put in the naughty chair and sometimes gets a spanking if he so much as sticks his tongue out at Luna.

• I feed Luna long before I feed the rest of the family.

• If she has an accident in the house, I worry that she's sick, instead of scolding her.

• If she does get in trouble, I immediately forgive her because she looks so pathetic with her ears back.

• If I've been gone for a while, I'll hug the kids and what not, but I'll make a big stink out of greeting Luna. My mother in law has actually pointed out that I might show favoritism toward Luna. (umm...might?)

• I dress Luna up and take pictures of her I have an entire photo album dedicated to Luna

• I used to stand outside with her, holding an umbrella above her, if it was raining. (I've since stopped this act of kindness, but the point it, that I used to)

• I think it's charming the way she cuts me off on the stairs. I feel like she's racing me down the steps and I always let her win. I'd probably trip the boys if they tried to cut me off like that.

• I'm considering having her stuffed after she's gone.

• If I could bottle her smell, I would.

• The soft fur behind her ears is the closest thing to Heaven that I'll probably ever come.

• One time, Jason was grilling steaks and she helped herself to one, right off the plate. She walked in front of us, laid down and ate it. She was like, "what"? And I was like, "nothing". I admired her chutzpah.

• I've sat on the floor to make room for her on the couch. Well, actually....that was only true with our old furniture. She's not allowed on the new furniture (but secretly, I pretend not to notice if I see her up there). I want her to be comfortable for Gad's sake.

• I'd consider cloning her.

• She's often who I'm most happy to see at the end of the day.

• When she smiles, I could just about melt.

• As I type this, her head is on my lap.

• I change her bandanna almost every day. She has her birthday bandanna, several Christmas, Halloween & Valentines ones. Right now she's wearing a Hawaiian one. She even has a Harley Davidson one for when she's feeling like a bad ass and a Rockford Rams one that she wears during football season. She's fancy.

• She likes to hump the heads of other dogs. If the other dog growls, I get mad at that dog for rejecting my dog.

• I don't like people who don't like my dog. I'm aware that she's not well behaved and that she's very in-your-face. She has this way of finding the only non-dog-lover in the group and then she just kinda leans on them and puts her head on their shoulder until they'll acknowledge her. It's precious. Most people think she's obnoxious. Yeah, well....she is my dog, after all.

• And lastly (well not lastly, but this particular bullet point presentation could go on for days) She definitely has OCD tendencies. She circles the kitchen table twice before she goes outside and other various oddities. I find them endearing.

I wonder if my up-bringing has anything to do with my unusual love for her. My mom used to put her dog's blanket in the dryer before he went to bed (so that it would be warm for him). Then she'd wrap him in it, rock him for a few minutes, pull down the shades and put him to bed in his crate. What a freak. My sister Sharon has the world's most hilarious Pug named, Denny. Or, 'Dennis' when he's in big trouble. He had an upper respiratory infection some time ago and he was put on some kind of medication. I'm not sure what was in those pills, but needless to say, the only way Sharon could get him to do anything, is if she'd bribe him, "denny, want your pills"???? That damn dog would stare at the kitchen counter, where she'd kept the meds, for hours....until Sharon would give him one. Yep. He's definitely one of ours.

Dogs rule!

the untitled blog

Ha!! I roped you in with my clever blog title. What I really wanted to name it was, " 8 Ways to a Happy Marriage". But, I worried that the lame title would deter readers from tuning in. I could hear you all groaning, "ohhh, she thinks she's an expert now, does she?" But, I'm telling you, this is fool proof. I have a few fancy maneuvers that will get you what you want and will keep your spouse happy.


I know what some of you are thinking, 'But Leslie, what if I'm not married??? ' Then, count your blessings that you don't have to put up with all this B.S.!!! Go out and do something nice for yourself and don't ask anyone's permission to do so!!!



Now then, moving on. For your convenience, I've composed a bullet point presentation.

• Upping the Ante: This first move has to do with getting yourself out of trouble. Let's say you took your husband's car out one night and accidentally rammed into a grocery cart going 30 miles an hour. Here's what you do. Walk in the door, all upset and remorseful. Feign tears. Muster up the strength to tell your husband what happened, but make it sound waaaay worse than it is. Like such, "Jason, I'm so sorry....it's going to probably cost hundreds and hundreds of dollars to repair it---I mean, the car is absolutely mangled, I'm surprised I could drive it home". He goes out to assess the damages and sees that it's just a nasty scratch. And voila!!! He's pleasantly surprised that it's not nearly as bad as you lead him to believe. Problem diffused. Then, as the icing on the cake, you say, "-sniff, sniff--I was sure you were going to kill me". Then you walk away and take a bow for your stellar performance. Works every time. And ladies, if you've ever read my blog, you know that I can get myself into some seriously disastrous situations. I've mastered this technique.

• Rubbing Compound: Go to a hardware store and buy yourself some rubbing compound. I'll just leave it at that.

• One-Two-Switcheroo: This one can also be referred to as "Upping the Ante" but instead of damage control, you're excusing an unauthorized purchase.

For example;

Husband: Leslie, are those new shoes....I thought I told you NO SHOPPING this weekend.

Me: I know, I'm so sorry, but they were on sale and I couldn't help it.

Husband: How ON-SALE were they?

Me: Um...like...$125.

Husband: $125....SERIOUSLY??

Me: ha ha, just kidding, they were only $25.

Husband: Oh, ok then.

Me: (smirk). I'm telling you gals, work this technique into your repertoire and you'll have a new wardrobe by Summer's end.

• Pay up: Now, I'm not proud of this one. But, it works. Pay up works like this; Each time you buy something new for yourself, you have to...ahem...pay for it. If you catch my drift. If I buy a new outfit or a new pair of shoes, Jason will often say, "rules are rules"....and I have to cough up the appropriate payment. But there's a clause. I have to be wearing the said article while paying for it. Another version to "Pay Up" is if you buy something particularly sexy and you tell him that you bought it for him to enjoy. This doesn't typically work if you bought yourself a cardigan sweater or a mu mu.

• Big, Strong Man: This one comes in handy when you present him with a honey-do list. Jason loathes when I write out a list of chores for him, so I've switched up my technique a little. Instead of saying, "can you fix this, paint that and build me this", I now say, "Honey, I tried to paint the hallway and you know how sloppy I am, I just can't get it to look as good as you do...will you show me how you do it?" He falls for it every time! Every. Damn. Time! Obviously, I have no intentions of being 'shown' how to paint. He'll lose his patience with me and he'll wind up doing the whole thing himself. It's win win. He feels like a big, strong man and I get my hallway painted, hassle free! I know some of you feminists are annoyed that I'm using the old, 'I'm just a meek girl" trick. To which I say, "yeah, so?" It works, doesn't it?

• Worth Your While: This one is so easy, it's a crime. When you're trying to talk your husband into anything....(a vacation, having your mother stay the summer with you, new carpet...) you simply put your hand on his thigh and say, "I'll make it worth your while". Easy sleazy! Yes ladies, men are just that simple.

• Stroke the Ego: This one works when your man gets pissed at all the money you spend on yourself (highlights, mani/pedi, botox, etc.) Let's say he notices a $200 bill from the salon. You simply bring on the tears and say, "Sorry, not all of us can be as naturally good looking as you...some of us have to work on it a little". Wait for it....wait for it..... situation diffused. His ego is pumped up, you look hot. (win win).

• Plant the Seed: This one works like a gem when you want your spouse to want you. Let's say he hasn't been paying much attention to you. Let's say you've been working out like crazy and he's hardly noticed. You know how when a 3 yr old has no interest in a toy until someone else wants to play with it? It's exactly like that. Here's how it works, it can be as simple as, "Oh my Gawd...this guy at the pool was totally checking me out today...his bulging muscles were grossing me out". And thus, the seed is planted. He's caught on that another man was checking out his wife ---but the trick is NOT to flaunt it, but to simply mention it, like an after thought. Like, "oh nothing....just another day, another man stalking me...oh the hassle". He'll suddenly look at you in a new light and if he were a dog, he'd want to pee on you---to mark his territory and all.

• Feed 'em and F#ck 'em: This concept is simple enough. Shouldn't warrant much of an explanation, I would think. Of course, if you're a bit slow in the head, then I'll elaborate. Keep your man fed. Keep your man satisfied. That's about it. If they're happy in those two departments, the rest should fall into place for you. They really are simple creatures. They require attention, stroking, food & love. That shouldn't be too hard. Tell 'em they're awesome every so often. Walk by and give 'em a hug every so often. Pat them on the back for a job well done, every so often. Is that so hard?

Follow these simple steps and I can all but guarantee you'll have (whatever it is you're after) in no time.

Take that Dr. Laura Schlessinger! Don't even get me started on that broad.

He's all mine.

I'm trying to help my little one get dressed yesterday. Just to pass the time, I sing him a song and try to engage him as well.

Me: One, Two, buckle my......

Gabe: Shoe!

Me: Good boy. Three, Four, shut the.....

Gabe: Door!

(now I know he's not the brightest crayon, but I'm somewhat impressed because I've never sung this song to him before)

Me: Five, Six, pick up......

Gabe: This shit!

God, I love that child.

My Successor

Successor....is that that right word for someone that is to take over for you, once you're gone? If so, than I'd like to discuss my impending successor.

By now, everyone knows that the longevity in my family BLOWS! We all pretty much drop dead in our mid 50's, early 60's. Considering what I had done to my body in my teens & 20's, I'd say I'm lucky to be alive at the ripe old age of 35. I've made futile attempts over the past 5 or so years to counter act any damage that I've done. But, really, it's like putting a band aid on a healed amputation. What's done is done. Liver=shot. Lungs=deflated. Heart=hardened.

So, with that said, the only natural (not to mention totally selfless) thing to do is to search for my successor. For my husband and children, mind you. I've blogged before about my morbid obsession with my death & my funeral. So, whoever my successor may be, she has to be an extension of me, so to speak. I don't expect her to skin my corpse in the back of a van and wear me like a skin-dress, but I do expect her to step into my shoes and live the life that I was intended to live. If that entails changing her name to Leslie and photoshopping herself into all of my photo albums, than so be it.

After (surprisingly) little deliberation, I've chosen my replacement. I've spent more time shopping for carpet than I did for my husband's next wife. But, she was under my nose the entire time! I've discussed it with Jason. He's cool with it. Plus, he thinks I've chosen a pretty cool chick for him. (does he have a boomin', late wife, or what?).

Look thru my archived blogs and find one from Summer '08 entitled, "God, Lindsey, I thought I killed Her". Jason's new wife is to be....(drum roll)....Lindsey's (linda's) daughter, Laura. Laura went to high school with Jason. She's almost like my cousin in the sense that our families are really close. Her mom is like a cool aunt (or a loving mother) to me and I've tried to finagle a way into their tight knit family for YEARS! This is perfect. I can live vicariously through my widowed (and devastated) husband.

Sure, it'll take some time for him to get over me. But, eventually he'll have needs & desires. At first, she'll just be there to fill the void in his life. Then, slowly but surely, she'll win him over. I'll always be the love of his life, but his grief will dissipate and he'll be open to taking another wife. He'll keep a life size portrait of me over their marital bed...out of respect, and all. Laura won't mind a bit. After all, she'd be lucky to be sleeping with him. I'm making a mental note (as I type) to write her a letter and warn her of his quirky habits, favorite recipes and shirt size. God help her if he doesn't get his apnea under control by the time she starts shacking up in my bed. I should also consider bringing her around my boys a bit more often. I want the transition from "Aunt Laura" to "Mommy Laura" to go as smoothly as possible. I only hope she's fertile. I had my tubes tied, cauterized, incinerated and thrown into a trash compactor right after Gabe was born. Laura might just be Jason's last chance to have a daughter. They'll totally name the baby, "Leslie". Except, she won't be nearly as pretty as my kids, bless her heart.

I've made a point in the past 6 mos. to introduce Laura to a lot of my girlfriends. As a matter of fact, Laura was featured in my HILARIOUS blog entitled, "Lafter" where she spent the night with a good friend and me and we prank called Jason all night. Anyway, the point is, my friends (the bitches) already think she's super cool. So, she's already a shoo in. If the bitches don't like Jason's new woman, the new woman is O-U-T, out. The bitches have my back. I'll haunt the bitches if they let Jason get with a skank!

As I'm composing this very blog, my husband is at a party which I'm supposed to be attending, except I am home with a flu-ish 7 yr old. I called him a minute ago and Laura got on the phone. Apparently she's in attendance as well. Hmm. I realized I looked like a stalker wife, so I quickly told Laura to go make nice with her future husband and I hung up. There's a pool at that party. She's probably in a bikini. As I was trying to "sell" Jason on the idea of marrying Laura, I kept driving home the fact that she makes a lot of money, has a killer body and loves to drink. In hindsight, that might have been what we call in the business, an 'over-sell'. Now, I'm not so sure I want him to marry a hot, rich party-girl. The comparison between she and I will be blinding. For, I do NOT make a lot of money (or any at all), I do not have a killer body (2 healthy boys conceived & delivered). I am not a party girl either!! I'm the girl that slams 3 drinks in an hour then pulls her magical disappearing act and puts herself to bed.

Ok. Wait. Back up. That bastard had better either stay single, or find himself a fat, hairy Greek woman who can cook like Rachel Ray. Ima 'bout to go bust Laura's ass. Step off Bitch-izzle. Jason's MINE! If I can't have the Mexican, ain't no one gonna have the Mexican.

But, she can however, deliver the eulogy at my funeral. Laura, I have it in a word document titled, "Leslie's Eulogy". xoxoxox Love ya like a sista, but cha can't have m' man!!!

~LB

The Chronicals of Kalamazoo's upper crust

Usually the intent behind most of my blogs is to vent about something that has annoyed me. This entry is different. This is just a li'l story (a compilation of stories, really) that I've been dying to tell for years. I've never gone public about it, until now. Like Beyonce's body guard, or Madonna's nanny, I was sworn to secrecy. I think the statute of limitations on my gag order has expired. Either that, or no one gives a hoot anymore. Plus, I live like 45 miles from that town now, so.....



Ok, here goes. During my college years, I worked for a professional nanny agency and made BANK doing so. I was the owner's most favorite nanny, mainly because I didn't have visible piercings. I wasn't assigned to just one family, I was assigned on an 'as needed basis' to doctors, lawyers, CEO's, a former Olympic swimmer, orthodontists, college professors & your basic trust fund families. I had a few regular gigs and dozens of odd-ball requests.



There was the traveling business man who requested that I shack up in his Radisson suite with his asthmatic son while he did 'bizna$$' in Kalamazoo. I won't lie, I felt a bit like a prostitute during that particular stint. Except for the sex part, of course.



There was the time a visiting wedding party hired me to attend a reception and keep all the rug rats occupied while their parents got tanked. They basically locked us in a room above the reception with no windows, no ventilation and a 9 inch television & VCR. Sure, the room was equipped with miniature plastic chairs, a few broken crayons and scrap paper. I think at one point a server might have come up to bring us warm water and left over bread sticks. All in all, I felt like I was in some sort of torture chamber. I contemplated hiring Elie Weisel to write a book about my experience. It was very traumatic. Each time the door opened, I half expected a guard to appear with a hose or something. Long story short, I got outta there around midnight and the groom tipped me $50, for my troubles. I would have been happy with a complimentary cocktail. Looking back, I'm sure I helped myself to the open bar before departing. A traveler, if you will.



There was the couple who was engaged to be married and she had a son from a previous relationship. 'She', being a stripper. She met her fiance while working, of course. He was one of the ugliest men I'd ever known; short, fat, a rocking mullet, crooked teeth, high pitched voice, a lisp, the worst! However, he did have some of the deepest pockets I'd ever known. His grandfather basically invented corrugated cardboard. She was my age (21) and he might have even been a year younger than me. On one hand, it was a bit of a pisser working for someone who was my age and lived in a 10,000 square foot house. On the other hand, it paid fairly well, they gave me a Jeep Cherokee to drive while hauling their kid around town. They would take off on extravagant vacations and leave me home with full access to....everything.

The last straw was when it was time for their wedding. They loaded me up and all 4 of us drove to Indianapolis, IN for 4 days of wedding bullshit. I had to accompany her to dress fittings, bridal luncheons, rehearsals, pre-wedding bash, wedding and finally the reception. By the time the wedding rolled around, I was so sick of everyone fawning over the bride, who I secretly knew was a who-er. The groom just sat in his $1,000/a night hotel suite and snorted everything but the kitchen sink while I acted as his bride's personal whipping post. One night, I was in my room and I had my dress hanging up in the closet and my shoes were in the closet. She came into my room (wasted) to fill me in on the next day's events. She eyed my dress & shoes and slurred, "you bitch, you can't look better than me on at my wedding day", and pushed me. She was trying to be playful, so I playfully pushed her back and said, "bitch, I look better than you every day". In hind sight, this might have been what kicked off the demise of my employment. But, I digress.



So, the wedding day arrives and we all get to the church with little drama. I always love a bride who stands outside her limo and smokes cigarettes and drinks beer through a funnel. Good times. Since her son was busy with the wedding party, I was demoted from nanny to bride's assistant. I was instructed to stand at the front of the church and hand out programs, which turned out to be the best seat in the house because I got to see all of their friends arrive with glassy eyes and bloody noses. We get seated. The procession begins. Finally, the church doors fling open and out walks the bride in all her virginal glory. During their vows I snickered and made gagging gestures to the other guests who I befriended along the way. I may have even snorted when the minister made a comment about the bride servicing her husband.



Fast forward to the reception. I'll admit it.... I took full advantage of the top shelf, open bar. It was a simple misunderstanding, really. I thought, since her son was sitting next to her at the head table, I would have the night off. I got ripped. After dinner, the band started and I hit the dance floor. I was shaking my junk all over the place and putting on a show for the videographers. You know that portion of the wedding when the videographers take guests aside and interview them about the lovely couple? Yeah. My better judgement took a back seat at that particular moment and I announced (on camera) that the bride was a "lap-dancing-whore". In my defense, I figured I was golden because the edited tape wouldn't be done until long after the honeymoon, which I'd planned to quit the second they'd returned from their honeymoon. It was a fine arrangement. I did quit, the night they returned from Hawaii, but I've always thought about that video tape. Oh, how I wished I could have seen the couple's reaction to my well wishes!

And finally, I'll end on a high note. The last family that I'll exploit was a dandy!!! They lived in an old bed & breakfast converted into a home. Other than the 400 antique Tiffany lamps placed in every corner of the house, it was a great set-up. I actually loved the house itself, it was the decor that made me crazy. Pastels, dolls, floral print, etc. etc. But, it had every imaginable amenity. A pool. A hot tub. An attic that was decorated to look just like the cabin of a ship, a mother-in-law suite over the garage when they stored "Grammy" until her last days. I'm sure Grammy rotted up there for weeks before someone noticed her MIA. There was the carriage house (for guests). A room exclusively dedicated to her jewelry. Oh, and there was the porn....

For starters, the couple was into the 'lifestyle'. If you're not familiar with that euphemism, it means they were swingers. I put a movie in the vcr one night and the 'movie' portrayed a random couple sitting on a couch. They were talking as if they were interviewing for a job, except, the job was to sleep with their interviewers. They were like, "Hi Dan & Terri....we're Ron & Sally. We like blonds who are slender and into S&M". Immediately, I knew it wasn't Lion King that I had stumbled upon. I'm smart that way. Naturally, I called the chick who owned the nanny agency and we went crazy! This was NOT our first experience with freaks--but it was our first go-round with sex fiends--fascinating! I also made a point to call each and every friend of mine who also worked for the agency, who also babysat for this family. We had our suspicions, but this was too much! As time went on, the wife got more and more open about her lifestyle. There was the life-size nude portrait of her over the bed. (don't forget, Grammy lived with them) There were the nude photo albums that she'd had professionally created for her husband. And now they were bring other couples into the mix. At the time I thought she was a cheap slut. Now, I just think she was a really, really good wife. Notice, SHE had a pool, a closet full of diamonds and a 14,000 square foot house. Hmmm... if I were smart, I'd get right on that train.

Anyway, the kicker came when I promised to put in Aladdin for their 3 yr old and out of the VCR came, "Edward Penis Hands". I was dying! After the boy went to sleep, I totally watched it. It was the husband sitting on the edge of the bathtub and he was pulling his wife's hair and speaking to her in a very domineering manner. I was so turned off.

Meanwhile, 2 hours later, the couple came home. He, a local orthodontist. She, a blond (abeit very weathered) bombshell. She was tanked. He was polite & mild mannered. She signed my time card and filled it out for 3 hours later than it was (thanks, don't mind if I do)! On one hand, I wanted to high-tail it out of there before they made the moves on me. On the other hand, I grew very offended that they never made the moves on me.

And the moral of the story is..... Don't give your nanny's anything to blog about!!!

I'm off to hide my diamonds & porn!!!

~LB

Shut Up Leslie!!!

SHUT UP, LESLIE!!!!

You've gotta take me with a grain of salt. I have no idea what that means, but it seems fitting. Those of you who actually know me, know that I have no filter between my brain and mouth. (Please read blog entitled: Stupid things I say). I say what I mean and I mean what I say. Sometimes, however, the intent of what I say is simply misconstrued, let's say.

I don't usually mean for the things that I say to end up coming out the way that they do. I didn't mean to point out that someone's dress resembled a shower curtain. I didn't mean to tell my neighbor that I rather claw my eyes out with spoons than go furniture shopping with her. And last night at bunko, I certainly didn't mean to blurt out that I will refuse to allow my children to join D.A.R.E. (When my friend insisted that it was part of their curriculum and they needed it to graduate). I didn't mean to get up on my hind legs and rant that I'd write a letter to dismiss them from the program. My reasoning behind this lament was that I don't need the peanut gallery (ie. my children) piping up from the back seat when I drive them around town drunk off my ass.

Obviously, I was completely kidding. I could never, would never and will never drink with my children. Unless it's just to and from the liquor store. I'M KIDDING, settle down. Anyway, I made a bad joke about it because, well....that's what I do. I make bad jokes. I'm inappropriate, I'm crass, I often cross the line. It's what I do. I didn't get a reputation for being a quick -witted hoot, just for sitting with my hands placed politely in my lap. No siree. I'm edgy. ...(long pause), yeah, edgy.

You can either love me or hate me. Fortunately for me, most people enjoy my 'rants'. If they don't, oh well. At least I can laugh about it in the morning. Or at the very least, call Melissa to re-hash it. She shares my dark, inappropriate sense of humor so I mostly amuse her. But, if she thinks I've crossed the line, chances are I've got some follow-up phone calls to make. As Jason would say, "You've got some sssplainin' to do, Lucy". She's my moral compass. Granted, a slightly eschewed compass, but my compass, nevertheless. That Melissa.

And you don't know the half of it. The examples that I've mentioned have only occurred within my social circle. Imagine the horror that I must bring to my husband and his family. And on a regular basis, mind you. In case you're just tuning in....my in-laws are Baptists. Good Christians. Church going, law abiding citizens. Decent humans. No drinking, no swearing (whaaat?) no taking the Lord's name in vain, no hats during prayer, type people. Now...picture me. See my point? I love 'em. Lawd knows I loves 'em. But really? Where my husband finds the strawnth to take me out into public with him, I'll never know. And he forgives me too! I can usually keep in under lock & key at family reunions and holidays...but whew---invite me to a wedding? Forget about it.

First of all, I guar-an-tee I will be strategically placed as far away from the head table as humanly possible. Second, I guar-an-tee I will, at some point, request that the Dj play, "Erotic City" by Prince and lastly, you can bet your sweet ass that if the reception is at a fancy joint and the ladies room has one of those cute little 'amenities' basket on the counter with mouthwash, a sewing kit and some (ahem) feminine-products-starting with -the-letter-T, in it....Then, I can GUAR-AN-TEE I will pass them out to people at the reception while saying, "Cigarette? Cigar? Cigarette? Cigar?". Trust me, I've done it! This I promise you! Just ask my sister in law! I even have the photo to prove it. (Note the smeared mascara under my eyes) Proving my point ONCE AGAIN, that you can dress me up, but you can't take me out. Well, you can, but not without scrutiny.

So, I say, make a splash. Have some fun! Laugh until your mascara smears!!!

~Leslie

Walmart (sigh)

I hate Walmart. No, I mean I HATE that place. I live about 25 minutes from the nearest Walmart and I haven't been there in probably 2 years. Yesterday was Sunday and I was browsing the Sunday paper and all it's flyers, World Market, Target, what have you. I guess I got wrapped up in Walmart's sunny, colorful ad. It showed good looking children splashing in a pool. It showed a lovely mother pouring lemonade out of a bright orange pitcher. I saw thick, cotton beach towels and the cutest brown & gold bikini I'd ever seen (for less than $80 anyway). I'll admit, I got carried away and I committed my own cardinal sin. The ad caused me to experience temporary insanity and I forget everything I'd learned over the years...and I did it. I went to Walmart.



Ever been to Walmart on a random Monday afternoon? You would have thought they were giving away houses. My God, the mob scene. The minute I'd entered through the doors, I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. It had all come back to me. The wholesome images from the ad washed away and I was reminded of why I avoid that store like the plague.



I spent the shortest amount of time possible in the store, but the people in there move soooo slowly, that it's difficult to manuever quickly through the aisles. I needed maybe 5-7 things (I made a bee-line for checkout after I'd gotten 2). I was on a mission to find a stainless water bottle. Apparently re-using plastic ones is a big no-no. Who knew? Something about running plastic through the dishwasher causes cancer or something, I don't know. Nevermind that my son has been drinking out of recycled plastic water bottles for the better part of 3 years...so, whatev, I went to recify the situation at Walmart. No luck. Of course. What I did find, however was the following:

• child abuse
• vast tobacco usage
• many piercings
• teenage mothers with no less than 15 Tony's Pizza boxes in her cart
• tattoos
• gang members
• obesity
• a fight in the parking lot
• soda in baby bottles
• m&m's qualifying as 'lunch'
• an African American baby with air Jordans that cost more than a couch-- I'm sure-- yet his gangsta father paid in food stamps
• a mother picked up her baby's pacifier off the floor then handed it back to the baby
• a Hispanic family loading up on fireworks while telling their children they couldn't get cereal
• the coupon nazi in front of me at the check out
• and finally, the seemingly homeless woman who parked next to my car and stood there smoking her cigarette and refused to move while I was trying to buckle in my 4 year old

All so I could save a buck???? Never again. Ever. I'd rather buy toilet paper at Barney's than to go through that again. It's equivalent to the people watching at a State Fair. (shudder).

what television gets away with

So many times over the past year or so, I've been completely blown away by what is acceptable for tv now. OK, before I continue, I just have to say--I'm NOT AT ALL offended! While I'm usually amused by vulgarity, I am amazed at what's becoming the norm. We're so desensitized to sex, foul language, drug references (all of which I proudly display on this blog). My defense is that my blog readers know what they're getting into when they read this. I ain't "fronting", as the kids would say. I OWN my obscenities, dog! But, when an 80 year old woman is innocently scrolling through her cable channels and she sees a commercial for KY Intensify, which boasts optimum clitoral stimulation, I picture the poor thing dropping dead of a heart attack. KY has also recently put out a commercial for their mini-vibrator. This is an absolute fact. WTF? Does anyone else think that's kinda weird? I felt like I was watching a commercial for cigarettes or rape or something.



What does this say about 2009? In the 50's they wouldn't even allow Lucy & Ricky to sleep in the same bed. I regularly hear "douche bag" said on tv. That's a new one. Love it. Last night on Real Housewives of New Jersey, Danielle said, "I've got a pu$$y". This is primetime, people! This isn't Cinemax, mind you. My jaw dropped when I heard that!!! So what can't we say on tv, these days? F--K and C-NT, apparently. Because, you know, that crosses the line. But, Pu$$y and Douche Bag, however, are sweeping the nation.

I hate the commercials that allow the masses into a woman's personal life. I still believe that a woman's personal matters should be kept under wraps. (As you'll plainly read about in any of my blogs pertaining to child birth and everything else that embarrasses me from the waist down). Ok, so what's with that commercial from Schtick? Don't quote me, but I believe it's Schtick Intuition with a bikini trimmer on one end. We get it, ok? It's for trimming up your bush. We don't need the visuals that accompany it. A woman walks confidently out of a boutique and as she passes, the topiary plant magically changes it's formation to the shape of the woman's (supposed) bush. Hot chick walks by, the tree instantly contorts to a triangle, rectangle, rhombus, what have you. I don't get it. Ever, ever in your lifetime would you see a commercial about a man's bush? Never! So, why do us girls have to be exploited? And reduced to being compared to that of an evergreen? Arg. (to be said like a pirate)

My girlfriend, who has known me for almost 20 years, knows that I'm a freak about girly, private parts talk. Anyway, she, her husband and I were having drinks one night on her deck and she was saying that they'd seen a commercial the night before that would probably have put me in a coma, had I been present. I inquire. Allegedly, it was a commercial for a feminine (gulp) itching product. Already, I'd begun panting and turning white. If she and I were alone while she was giving me the play by play, I probably would have listened, but because her husband was sitting with us, I had to start breathing in a bag (chagrin). She goes onto report that the commercial asked the question, "does your feminine itching feel like this"? and then evidently it showed a picture of a burning bush. Then it asked, "Do you have odor?" and then showed a picture of a trout in a garbage can. I didn't even let her finish. The coroner was already at her home. There was already a chalk outline of my body on her patio. I can't begin to tell you the horror. You know, I haven't been back, to her home, come to think of it. I'm sure I'll never be able to look her husband in the eye now. I hate for men to think our cha-cha's are scary burning bush that smells like dead fish. Who the hell is selling these ads? And to whom are they selling them? I don't know about you gals, but I'd rather the boys think of us as pretty, little flowers, not angry, smelly horticulture.

Anyway, my point being...well, I don't really have one. But, yo, that shit's f'ed up, dawg.

LB

the dreaded summer

Hello Gorgeous Readers. I have NOT abandoned my blog. I've been dreadfully busy and unfortunately, lesliedishes has fallen to the wayside. In short, my house was torn apart for about 5 weeks during a not-so-extreme home make over. Then, I've been writing scripts up the wazoo for the upcoming webisodes. Not to mention the day to day rederick of homelife. Which brings me to today's blog.

Ugh. My son is counting down until the last day of school. I, for one, am holding onto the '08-'09 school year for dear life. Picture me sitting in my closet, wearing nothing but a white t-shirt, rocking back and forth, turning my lamp on, off, on, off..... I practically hyperventilate thinking of 3 mos. of this. "This" being screaming, fighting, tattling, breaking, endless snacks, endless requests, endless questions and hours and hours of unfiltered dialogue. You know what I mean. I laid in bed this morning listening to 15 STRAIGHT minutes of why my son believes it takes George Lucas soooooo long to make 'one stinkin' Star Wars movie". Because there's no filter between the boys' brains and mouths, it makes for a very, very long day. Can you imagine saying each and every thought that pops into your head? As I'm typing this, the boys are sensing that the focus isn't on them, so they're dancing around my chair screaming, "I'm cuckoo for cocoa puffs". For the record, I do not allow such cereals into my home. Someone who was left alone with the boys for ONE NIGHT decided to treat them to a chocolatey breakfast and then forgot to hide the evidence when I returned home. So, just like any other heroine addict worth his weight, my kids are now full blown junkies. I've since removed the incriminating evidence, but the desire and the crave will always be there. Sure, they're attending their bi-weekly meetings, but still. While they're no where near completing the 12 step recovery process, they have begun to "Let go and let God", so that's a start.

I digress. As I was saying... I'm DREADING the impending Summer. I always do. I loathe the heat and the incessant guilty need to be outside. I'd rather be in the air conditioning than outside sweating my a$$ off. I don't like being hot. I don't worship the sun. I don't like having to schlep sunscreen everywhere I go. I don't like that every night is bath night. I don't like the kids' sense of entitlement when the ice cream man drives through the neighborhood, playing that annoying rendition of Popeye the Sailorman. I don't like that it doesn't get dark until 10 (how do you explain that to your kids, whose bedtime is 8) and finally, I don't like sand. Oh wait, I don't camping or outdoorsy stuff either.

So, as it stands, I've managed to sign my 7 year old up for pretty much every possible thing you could sign him up for. Football clinic, Vacation Bible School (he hates it), Jurassic camp, Witchcraft camp, Pipe bomb camp...I don't care at this point. Sign 'em up! If it occupies him for several hours a day, I'm happy. Don't think I've overlooked the 4 year old. I've tried, oh, I've tried to pawn him off onto any takers. No one wants him. I begged the Vacation Bible School to take him and they said they would, but only for mothers who volunteer all day, everyday.
F--K. THAT! I'll keep him home with me. I'm all about church and God and the wonderful messages that VBS teaches, but I certainly don't care to Rah Rah Rah about it to 300 elementary school kids!!! I'd rather shoot myself in the face.

So that about wraps up what's new and fascinating in my life. If you see a gal out on the lake, in a boat, wearing pig tails and a straw cowboy hat, looking as if she's contemplating throwing herself into the propeller, then wave, IT'S ME!!!!

Summer's coming. Can't you feel the air getting thinner???

LB

Stoopid Girl

....And speaking of my intolerance for stupidity, I was getting a massage a few weeks ago (full release...whaaat?) Anyway, I had previously made a subsequent appt. for my husband to get one the following Friday, but he had informed me that it was the Tiger's opening day and that in no way would he be available to get a massage (but would be available, however to play golf, get drunk with the neighbors, play ladder golf with the neighbors and bet the neighbor's son that he wouldn't wear my dog's shock collar around his neck while crossing the property line). But I digress.

Anyhoot, so as I'm checking out, I say to the receptionist:

Leslie: My husband has an appt. at 6 PM next Friday, but it's opening day and he has flat out refused a massage. Can I just keep his appt.?

Receptionist: Sure, I'll pencil you in. But he really should reschedule, he'd love it.

Leslie: He will....any day but opening day.

Receptionist: What's it opening day for?

Leslie: Tigers

Receptionist: Oh My Gosh---YOUR HUSBAND HUNTS TIGERS????

Leslie: (Starred blankly at her) That would be the Detroit Tigers...you know, baseball?

Receptionist: (lays her head down on the desk in humiliation)

Leslie (leaves the spa, laughing all the way to the car, then proceeds to tell every single person whom I've come into contact with what this idiot said to me).

This has been the source of laughter for us this entire week. Thank you dumb, spa, receptionist lady.

idiots....God bless 'em

Just for kicks, take a gander at the day in the life of me. This made it's way to YouTube on the Detroit Tiger's Opening Day. This is my husband and his neanderthal friends (also known as our neighbors). He had an 8 AM tee-time and many, many beers had been drank between that tee-time and the filming of this video. Oh yeah, he watched the home opener sometime in there too.

To clear up any confusion, yes, he's wearing a dog's shock collar. Yes, his friend's convinced him to turn up the juice on the collar. Yes, that's my 3 year old's tricycle. Yes, he was a perfectly willing participant.

~Enjoy

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKaKLGFGMro

The Man-Child

If I've said it once, I've said it a million times, MEN ARE BIG BABIES. There is a clip on You Tube called, "The Man Cold". I highly recommend it. My God, my husband literally limps when he has a head cold.

Anyway, I'm not going to get into that whole song and dance today. This is my new gripe. OK, my husband, Jason, is the worst bed buddy. I mean that in the literal sense, not figuratively. He is. Hands down. Thee. WORST. PERSON. TO SLEEP. WITH!

Here's Jason's sleepy-time routine:

Kick legs
sigh every 2 minutes
clear his throat every 25 seconds
kick legs
roll over
sigh
snores
breath through his mouth
choke on his dry throat

.....this will go on for hours and hours.... It's maddening. So, finally, he's going to a sleep clinic this week (HOORAY)!! He had to fill out tons of paper work before his appt. and the instructions said to have his sleep partner answer some of the questions, pertaining to his sleep habits. That would be me. I was happy to put my 2 cents in, as I'm often prone to do. Here's how that conversation went down.

Jason: When's my birthday

Me: Feb. 4th

Jason: Was I born in 73 or 74?

Me: 74....seriously?

Jason: Have I ever been hospitalized?

Me: Don't you think you'd remember if you'd been hospitalized?

Jason: Did I snore as a child?

Me: (sigh) We didn't know each other as children.

Jason: Do I snore now?

Me: (I just stare blankly at him)

Jason: I'll take that as a yes

Jason: Do I drink frequently, moderately or rarely?

Me: frequently

Jason: Does my drinking ever bother my partner

Me: Yes

Jason: I'm not putting that down

Me: THEN DON'T ASK ME!!!!

Jason: 'K, Do I ever fall asleep after lunch

Me: I wouldn't know. We rarely have lunch together.

Jason: Well, that one weekend, remember I laid down with Gabe and took a nap?

Me: Pretty sure that's not what they mean

Jason: What's post nasal drip?

Me: a runny nose....My God, what part of 'nasal drip' escaped you?

Jason: What does 'wakefulness' mean?

Me: Um. When you're awake

Jason: Are you sure it doesn't mean 'unable to sleep'

Me: yes

Jason: what if it does?

Me: That would be insomnia. See Wake-Ful-Ness simply means being awake. (roll eyes)

Jason: Oh.

Jason: Do I ever fall asleep after a meal without alcohol consumption?

Me: I don't know, I've never seen you eat a meal without consuming alcohol along with it.

Jason: I'm not putting that down

Me: Then I'll call the clinic myself and give them my version. Who are they gonna believe? The drunken husband or his wife?

Jason: Good night.

Good Lord, it's like he's 5. I love the man, I do. But, he's a Man-child. It's times like this when I'd like to put a pillow over of his face.

I'd also like to point out two other instances when he resorts to his man-child self.

• When I'm cooking. He hovers over me....."Ewwwwe---what's that? I don't like that. Ughhhh...Leslie, what's thaaaaat...you know I don't like balsamic vinegar, it smells like feet. Ohhhh, I don't think I like onions, do I? Oh, I'm not going to like this. Can I just have 2 bites and if I don't like it can I have something else?"

• When we're shopping for new school clothes for him. (They're really for work, but school clothes sounds cuter). I pull out arm loads of clothes for him to try on for me. He shuffles around the store getting distracted by shiny objects. He begrudgingly tries on the clothes. He comes out of the dressing room to show me his ensemble. He shoves his hands in his pockets, slouches his shoulders, acts stiff and uncomfortable, he squirms and tells me it's too tight. We leave everything in the dressing room, go get him a Shamrock shake and attempt another shopping spree in 6 months.

Peeps I Hate: Vol. II

Here's the portion of the show where I vehemently spew my strong dislike for certain people. I'm fairly certain I'll have Volume 3 composed in my head by the time I post this. I'm always on the lookout for new peeps to add to my list. Pretty much, if I'm out in public, I'll inevitably find someone to add to my infamous list. I'm not overly critical, I'm just hyper-aware of common courtesy and basic sociology.

1. I firmly believe that people who don't use proper grammar should be arrested.

2. I hate the person at the check out counter who acts annoyed that I'm needing to be rung up. I was at a store yesterday buying my husband some golf shirts. (he doesn't really golf much, but God bless 'em for wanting to look the part). So, I got to the counter, plopped my merchandise in front of her and said, 'hello'. She couldn't possibly bother to look at me. She was waaayyy to busy sorting dollar bills and ignoring me. Finally she looks up and give me the most exasperated "hi" she could possibly manage. It literally pained her to acknowledge me. I'm looking around like, "I'm sorry, am I at your house right now...or am I at the store in which you are EMPLOYED?" After she's finished organizing all of her pens so that they are facing North, she finally gets to my purchase. Why, thank you, kind lady. Thank you for taking the time out of your obviously verrrrry busy day to ring me up. I have no tolerance for this because, well, we're all aware of the rate of unemployment right now. I feel that if you are lucky enough to have a paycheck, no matter how big or small, you should be grateful and that you should do your job with pride because if you don't, guess what? There's probably 200 people who will.

3. I hate the person whom I will refer to as the "coupon Nazi". I'm not embarrassed to admit that if I have a coupon for something that I regularly buy, I'm not afraid to use it. I'm not above saving a few bucks. Not in this economy. Crumbs make a cake, I always say. Every little bit helps. My husband, Jason might argue with this statement. He'd prefer that I not buy it at all, rather than come home and reveal my gorgeous new shoes that I bought at 20% off. He likes to say, "quit saving me money, you're breaking me". Then, I will pat him on the head and prance off in my pretty, new shoes. Ok, but-uh-back to the lecture at hand. The Coupon Nazi. Ooooh, how I hate this person. I shake my fist at her. I'll paint a picture, as I'm known to do. I'm in line. I'm unloading hundreds of dollars worth of groceries at the store where I spend at least $1,000 a month. I'm not a crazy coupon lady or anything, but surely I enjoy saving a few bones here and there. I have 2 little boys who are usually horrendous in the grocery store and often risk being abandoned at the courtesy counter. So, suffice it to say, I'm pretty spent by the time I get to paying for my items. So, the cashier is finally done bagging my groceries and I hand her my coupons. She goes through them with a fine tooth comb, like her life depends on whether she's going to give me the discount. Like she gets a bonus at the end of the day for denying a $.50 off coupon. "Nope, this one expired an hour ago. Nope, this one says you had to buy two. Sorry, this one says you have to be blond"...... I usually lose my patience at this point and yank my measly coupons out of her fat hands. Ooooh, she makes me so mad.

4. Parents who allow their children to act like assholes without reprimanding them. I'll just leave it at that.

5. People who show up to an event with their 4 or 5 kids and bring a 2 liter of pop to pass. Wow. Thanks for your contribution. Between the first liter and the 2nd liter, we should be all set. I can see where an appetizer or a dessert would have seemed excessive.

6. Stage Mothers. Why are pageant mothers always so fat and ugly? Well, the answer apparently lies within the question. They're most likely living vicariously through their children. And what's up with the whorish looking toddlers? Creepy! They always have their disgusting trailer trashy mother in the audience performing the routine right along with them. I hate to be crass, but we all know what happened to poor little JonBenet and then later, to Patsy. That situation alone would have steered me clear from the world of pageantry.

7. People who think Red Lobster & Olive Garden are fine dining.

8. People who give bad massages. I regularly get massages, what with my scoliosis and all... nevertheless, I pay to have therapeutic massages and when the masseuse meets me in the lobby and shakes my hand with a limp handshake, I know I'm in for at least an hour of hell. I always start out by telling her that I want a deep tissue massage and not to be afraid to hurt me. That statement alone should suffice, but no.... because sure as shit, 15 minutes later, she's rubbing my skin in tiny little circles, while I'm face-down and seething. I will often interrupt the massage and politely tell her that I'd like more pressure. They always agree and whisper, "ok". But damned if her mutant hands work any harder. There's nothing worse than a bad massage. Nothing, I tell you! Nothing! What part of "HURT ME" escaped you? When my neck & shoulders ache the way mine do, a light rub down is about as effective as a band-aid on an amputation. I don't like anything done lightly. I'm a physical person, hence my request for a deep tissue massage. I don't like being hugged lightly (don't give me that pat-pat crap). I don't like being peck kissed (lean me back and lay one on me). I don't like any sort of unnecessary nudging. Just roll up your sleeves and dig your thumbs in, like I'm paying you to do. One time, I had a massage where the masseuse had a trache. You know...the hole in her throat. I kid you not. She had to stop the massage every few minutes to wipe off the trache, where her saliva was accumulating. Between the fear of spit dripping on the back of my head, coupled with her robot voice, that might have been the most tense massage I'd ever had.

9. People who use Facebook as a platform to brag about themselves. This is a new observation of mine that keeps me up at night. I fantasize about composing scathing emails to these people. Of course, I feel it's my personal obligation to put them in their place and knock them down a peg or two. There's this chick on facebook who updates her status several times a day (lame). Her more recent status read, "my husband came home early and found me cleaning....he said, "doesn't the cleaning lady come on Friday" and I said 'honey, I clean EVERY DAY'.....men!!!" First of all, what a trite, tired and overall STUPID thing to write on a status. We all know men are unobservant and semi-retarded--this isn't new. But mostly, you just KNOW she was trying to angle in any opportunity to let the world know that she has a cleaning lady. What a tool. Rather than being impressed that you have a cleaning lady (uh, and by the way, ...who doesn't), I'm annoyed that you feel you have to let us know you have one---because you made a point to mention it, I immediately doubt you even have one. You probably have your elderly grandmother come over and tidy up once a week and you call it your "cleaning lady". Oh, you're soooooooo damned fancy!!!! Grrrrr!!! Well, I'm off to count my money in my Range Rover, while wearing a Chanel suit.

10. I can't think of another one because #9 has me so flustered.

Comedy show

Well, I plug my blog on Facebook, so now I'm going to plug a certain comedy show on my blog. Some of you may already know, but in Fall '08, I began writing scripts for a comedy sketch show in Grand Rapids, MI.

Some of my filthy and inappropriate work can be found at the following links. You will be dazzled by some of the talent here in Grand Rapids. The actors that I work with are spectacular. I'm proud to be affliated with such gifted individuals.

I love being behind the scenes.... I had no idea what went into a TV show. A lot, as it turns out. So tune in. You just might see an upcoming sketch which stars yours truly.

www.vimeo.com/4116430
www.vimeo.com/4124546

FACEBOOKING

Facebook is so interesting. It is the epitome of fantasy becoming reality. Simply put, it's manipulated life. You create, manage and only reveal what you want revealed. Brilliant. No wonder it's so addicting. It can make the loneliest people feel popular, the ugliest people feel pretty, the saddest people seem happy, the most peculiar people seem normal, etc.

I recently posted a picture of my boys and me. An old friend wrote to me that "I looked happy". I wondered how he came to that conclusion. Why? Because I'm smiling in a picture with my kids? Wow. What a super sleuth he was! A real Sherlock Holmes. Then I got to thinking (you know.....) how funny would it be if I only posted sad pictures of myself.

Picture #1. me, crying

Picture #2 Jason & me sitting at the kitchen table doing bills, clutching our unpaid bills in despair

Picture #3. me, laying in bed with the flu

Picture #4. me, standing sadly in front of a full length mirror, in my undies, while Jason looks on, disgusted.

Picture #5. me, at the mailbox, reading another rejection letter

Picture #6. me, starring sadly out the window at my children playing while I sit, crumpled in a wheelchair.

How frigging funny is that? As an experiment, I think I might tackle this challenge. I'm going to attempt to have the most pathetic facebook profile ever. My status will read like this, "Leslie is having to face another hopeless day" or "Leslie is getting ready for bed. With any luck, I'll be spared from having to endure tomorrow". I'll start my own acronyms. Instead of LOL, I'll type SMW (slitting my wrists). I'll have to write on my own wall because clearly, I won't have any friends. I'll post inspirational messages to myself. "Leslie, despite what your mother tells you, you are good enough".

This is why FB is so great. You can reinvent yourself to be whoever you want to be. The bottom line is that we're all so very narcissistic. We think people actually care what we're thinking, what our view are or how we scored on a "which muppet are you" quiz. We'll only post pictures that we feel flatter us. Oh, how I loathe my girlfriends who post terrible pictures of me without my consent...because, I'm vain....I'll admit it.

Or---I'll derail here for a minute. What about the people who update their status' every 1/2 hour? Susie is awake and ready to start her day. (wow. riveting.) Susie is staring at 14 loads of laundry that need to be put away. (here's a thought Susie, tear yourself away from the computer and do your laundry). Susie is excited for a new episode of Lost (Susie, you're a loser). Susie hopes her husband remembers to bring home milk (Or, perhaps, Susie, you could have gotten off your lazy ass and gotten it yourself). Susie is counting the days until her trip to Spain (....really? And I can't wait for Susie to stop referring to herself in 3rd person). Susie is...are you??? (Susie, you are just too darn clever--too. darn. clever.) Susie is making chicken enchiladas for dinner...yummmmm (Susie, I swear, I will chain you to a pipe in the basement...)

family pictures

I'm sure you all have a family that does this, or you know a family that does this. But, you all know the family that takes the same exact picture, year after year. Same people, same occasion, same pose...the only thing that changes is the date.



In my family, growing up, it was of the thanksgiving dinner. Not pictures of the people invited to the thanksgiving dinner, but the meal itself. It wasn't only Thanksgiving, sometimes it was Mother's Day or a Passover Seder. At any rate, we didn't have a particularly pleasant upbringing or much in the way of happiness, but my mother could put on a spread (hence, no pix of the family, just of the food). So, she'd iron the linen tablecloth. She'd polish the silver, she'd lay out the china gravy boats, the little silver s/p shakers and it's matching sugar bowl. She'd place fresh fruit into individual, crystal goblets. She would coordinate the olives/pickles/gardenia onto the Wedgewood relish plate. The meal would be glistening through the 3 beveled bay windows. On rare occasion, my dad would be in the picture, usually glaring at the camera, all three kids forcing smiles, or down right crying. Anyway, that's a day in the life of our family photo album.



Now, in Jason's family, it's a tad different. Not quite as dysfunctional, mind you, but equally as noteworthy. One particular set of grandparents is in their 90's, so suffice it to say, there's a lot of photos. Not fun, candid or particularly interesting photos. Just the same 8 or 12 people standing around and forcing smiles. Once in a while a second photo will be taken so that the photographer has the chance to be in the photo. But, other than that, the pictures rarely vary.

There's the infamous birthday photo. This involves the birthday boy or girl sitting at the table, in front of the birthday cake and cards are methodically placed in front of the guest of honor. The others gather around the said person and if they were feeling especially celebratory that day, perhaps they'll pull a bouquet of balloons into the shot. I'll reiterate. These people are in their 90's. They have 2 children, 7 grandchildren and 13 great-grandchildren. That's a lot of birthdays. And a lot of photos. The only way you can differentiate between the decades of the photos, is by the attire. Otherwise, everything remains the same. Grandma gets shorter and shorter in every picture. Her hair gets more and more pink. The kids eventually grow into their buck teeth. Bad perms tend to soften. But, all in all the situational pose remains the same.

Grandpa just celebrated his 95th birthday last week, in the hospital. We all went to see him, complete with balloons, cards, sweet treats, etc. The nurse was nice enough to take the time to take a picture. Try this on in your mind's eye. He was battling pneumonia, so we all had to wear masks. Grandpa was looking very small and frail in his hospital bed. We're all gathered over him wearing our necessary masks, the balloons were getting tangled in the IV's. My 7 yr old yells, "we don't even have to smile, we can just fake it". So true. No forced smiles this year. Meanwhile, the nurse begins to count off, "One.....Two..." Grandma stops her, "just a minute, hon, I just want to get his cards in the picture". Now, Grandma is as slow as snails and is perfectly content taking her dear sweet time knowing full right and well that the nurse has a busy schedule of which to attain. But, no, once again, Grandma methodically begins to place Grandpa's birthday cards all over his chest, practically suffocating him with them. Slowly spreading them out and trying to position them so they can be seen in the picture. My son says, "it's not like you'd even be able to read the cards in the picture". (God bless him). For the record, if we weren't at the hospital, we'd have been at the Bistro on 44th street, which Jason has dubbed, God's Waiting Room. And instead of spreading the cards all over poor Grandpa's chest, we'd have passed them around the table so everyone could read them. What's that all about? Oh, I see Aunt Dot sent a lavender card this year. And Cousin Rita sent a cartoon one....isn't it funny, the different tastes? And so it goes.... This is every year. It's all about the birthday cards.

I hope I'm never old. Old people and their habitual ways bother me. My dad passed away at 52 and my mother at 60, so the chances of growing old are slim to none and slim just left to get a mani/pedi.