Betty Take the Wheel . . .
A few days ago I posted about how my sister, Melissa, told me men shouldn't show their bicuspids when smiling with their shirts off in a photo. And how wore out I was from laughing about it. (Ok it's one of those things you really had to hear her say.) Well today I'm sitting in a meeting and I checked my Blackberry to make sure there wasn't an email message from the office that they had set it on fire and I should come get my purse (because they've come close to doing that before). I saw a new text. I thought to myself, don't look at that text message, you're in a meeting. And I typically wouldn't look at it. But for some reason today I did. It was a message from Melissa:
"Bicuspids."
I almost lost it in the meeting. So at lunch, as I was walking to the car with Kasey and Krystal I told them about it. And I asked them to excuse me because I had to make a call and it wasn't going to be pretty. I got Melissa's voicemail, which I promptly cussed out, ending with a promise for my foot to connect to her backside. But since she had the nerve to call me back immediately, I was able to curse her out "in person", with my peanut gallery in the front of the car talking about how I'm always threatening somebody.
Do I do that? Let me interrupt myself to say I'm not always threatening somebody. But for future reference, if I'm not threatening you, I'm guess I'm just not into you.
Anyway, the story gets cute. As I'm cussing Melissa out and pulling my special condensed can of whoop a$$ out of my purse to unleash long distance from Ohio to Texas, she's trying to explain why she did it. She says she'd driving down the street after dropping off the crumbsnachers and she thinks about the bicuspids and hears my mama laughing. She knows my mom is laughing and she's in the car with her. And if you ever heard my mama laugh, you would know without a doubt it was definitely her laughing. So she told my mom to take the wheel and steer the car while she sent me the text. That's not really texting while driving is it? Anyway - I call it divine intervention - because what I didn't tell Melissa, was that up until that point I was so irritated in this meeting with what I was hearing, but after her text all that irritation kind of washed away. That's what sisters and mommies are for right? Love you sis :)
Did you hear about the 21-year-old who posed as a 14-year-old and played youth football in Florida? Are you nuckin' futs (thanks Blue)? He had written his own scouting report and everything. And the rat bastard was on probation for burglary. Do you know what I would do to him if he got close to my kid? That's right, spork time. I'd pull out the titanium sporks for the occasion. Geez. First hanging chads, now this.
Congratulations to the Cincinnati Reds, who were six up on the St. Louis Cardinals when I wrote this. That's awesome! If they hold onto that lead, it means that this weekend when they go play the Cards at away, they can go ahead and lose all three games and still be three up, because that's probably what's going to happen. I'm just saying . . . the Reds can't beat the Cards and the Cards can't beat anybody else. Your words Katy. Not mine. You're so smart.
Did you hear about the 69 car pile up in Arizona this weekend? (Insert joke here _________________.)
Excuse me while I write a letter to one of my favorite people:
Dear Lewis:
Today I hear that Lorenzo Favre is already getting ankle injections. What's the eff is up with that? I'll never understand how you could like such a Nancy Boy. I'm starting to question your better judgement. I mean, who gets injections in their ankles? I bet he wears anklets too doesn't he? Rat faced bastard.
Your sister.
Tonight I'm doing laundry. I just put 18, countem' 18 dresses in the wash. My name is Leslie, and I have a dress addiction problem. There are still even more dresses in the closet that are clean. I know that's crazy but I have a reason. Dresses are so kind. They're so forgiving. They're so flowy and so girly.
They hide fat.
Sometimes.
Tomorrow is a very important person's first day on The Hill. It should be interesting. I suppose I'll have to be good tomorrow. That's going to be hard, and a lot of people are going to be disappointed I think.
But I'd like to welcome him. Welcome to the land where it's okay to wear leggings even though size 36 is not your bra size, but instead your dress size. Welcome to a place where it's okay to come to campus dressed like a two-bit hooker. We invite you to join us in a world where hair is bipolarized on the same head: black and blond, pink and black, straight and taco meat.
And that's just our employees.
Okay I'm kidding. Sort of . . . have you seen Kelly?
Gotta go.
Love,
Leslie
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
My Rant for the Day (8/30/10)
"You want me to do what?" ~ Me to Roomate on Friday, August 27, 2010
Maria is who you've heard me refer to as my "Big Sissy Roomate." And Maria almost got her a$$ handed to her this weekend.
As you know, last week I was sick. So I would come home and pretty much go right to bed and wasn't really sociable. I also didn't want to get anyone sick. On Friday I felt a lot better, so Maria and I talked and caught each other up on our respective weeks (from Hell). On Saturday we had a cookout to go to (my brother from another mother's house) and were discussing what we were going to bring. And that's when it happened.
Maria asked me to pick up some effin' Monkey Bread when I visited Findlay Market Saturday morning.
I spun around ready to eff her up. Frightened her a little bit. You see, Maria's parents are in town visiting and there's a lot of Spanish flying around the house. I sorta feel like an exchange student. And I may not feel well and I may be very tired, but you can bet I've got my ear to the door listening for that magical word. You know what word I'm talking about. Starts with N. OK DON'T SAY IT, DAMN! Anyway, I'm told it's universal. And I haven't heard it yet, but now you want me to buy some what?
I asked her what in the ham sammich was Monkey Bread. And she gave me some line about it being sweet bread. I asked if it had banana's in it or something and she said no. And then I asked her why do they call it Monkey Bread. And she said she didn't know. So that's when I schooled the teacher.
I told her, "You can't take Monkey Bread to a black person's house. And you don't even know why they call it that. Why are you running around buying Monkey Bread and forcing black folks to eat it?"
She didn't understand what the problem was. Do you? Look it up if you don't. Anyway, to prove a point, I tell her I'll go ahead and get it.
The next morning myself, Kasey, her auntie and Uma (and son) split up after dance class and walk around the market asking everyone who sells this offending ball of yeast. When we all get together we all say in unison:
"Nay-Nay sells it."
I'm sure hoping Nay-Nay is black. Because if she isn't, she's in trouble and so is Maria. But Nay-Nay and her old man were black. We found them and bought the bread. Black people, can you imagine how goofy it feels to ask someone where you can pick up some Monkey Bread?
Fast forward to that night. Maria and I get to my brother's house and walk into the yard. Leslie what did you bring? Well I brought buffalo chicken dip from Findlay Market. Maria what did you bring? I brought Monkey Bread.
Marquitashua jumps up, "You can't bring Monkey Bread to a black person's house!"
I looked at Maria and said I told you so. Keith (my brother) comes out of the house. What did you bring Maria? Maria brought Monkey Bread. You can't bring Monkey Bread to a black person's house says Keith. How'd you like it if I snatched that sombrero off your head and started dancing around it? (She was wearing a straw hat.)
Later that night after most of the guests had left, the whole Monkey Bread thing comes up again. The Blackberrys come out and folks start going on line trying to figure out why it's called that. The best we could figure is that the action of pulling the bread apart resembles how monkeys eat.
But of course Leslie found something a little different on her Blackberry. Because these things only happen to Leslie. On Wikipedia she finds an entry. And we ALL know Wikipedia is true. And according to the gospel of Wikipedia there's another name for Monkey Bread.
African Coffee Cake.
I think Jody may have had a slight stroke.
Maria better sleep with one eye open. Tonight I'll be sharpening my sporks.
Speaking of which -
Best quote on my Facebook news feed today: "Why are there still forks and spoons? I mean, the spork must have been invented at least 10 or 15 years ago." That's from Mustafa (The Old Spice Man). We were meant to be. He gets me.
By the way you can thank Kelly that you even heard the Monkey Bread rant tonight. See there wasn't going to be one today. I'm tired, swamped, and having dizzy spells. Probably just stressed out. I'm going out of town again at the end of this week so I'm thinking about everything I need to do by then at home and at work. So I really didn't feel like writing it tonight. But it's because of people like Samad, who don't care how I'm feeling and just want to be entertained . . . that show me everyday why I rant so much.
Just kidding Kelly.
(No I'm not.)
That's all I got kids. Have a good night.
Love,
Leslie
Maria is who you've heard me refer to as my "Big Sissy Roomate." And Maria almost got her a$$ handed to her this weekend.
As you know, last week I was sick. So I would come home and pretty much go right to bed and wasn't really sociable. I also didn't want to get anyone sick. On Friday I felt a lot better, so Maria and I talked and caught each other up on our respective weeks (from Hell). On Saturday we had a cookout to go to (my brother from another mother's house) and were discussing what we were going to bring. And that's when it happened.
Maria asked me to pick up some effin' Monkey Bread when I visited Findlay Market Saturday morning.
I spun around ready to eff her up. Frightened her a little bit. You see, Maria's parents are in town visiting and there's a lot of Spanish flying around the house. I sorta feel like an exchange student. And I may not feel well and I may be very tired, but you can bet I've got my ear to the door listening for that magical word. You know what word I'm talking about. Starts with N. OK DON'T SAY IT, DAMN! Anyway, I'm told it's universal. And I haven't heard it yet, but now you want me to buy some what?
I asked her what in the ham sammich was Monkey Bread. And she gave me some line about it being sweet bread. I asked if it had banana's in it or something and she said no. And then I asked her why do they call it Monkey Bread. And she said she didn't know. So that's when I schooled the teacher.
I told her, "You can't take Monkey Bread to a black person's house. And you don't even know why they call it that. Why are you running around buying Monkey Bread and forcing black folks to eat it?"
She didn't understand what the problem was. Do you? Look it up if you don't. Anyway, to prove a point, I tell her I'll go ahead and get it.
The next morning myself, Kasey, her auntie and Uma (and son) split up after dance class and walk around the market asking everyone who sells this offending ball of yeast. When we all get together we all say in unison:
"Nay-Nay sells it."
I'm sure hoping Nay-Nay is black. Because if she isn't, she's in trouble and so is Maria. But Nay-Nay and her old man were black. We found them and bought the bread. Black people, can you imagine how goofy it feels to ask someone where you can pick up some Monkey Bread?
Fast forward to that night. Maria and I get to my brother's house and walk into the yard. Leslie what did you bring? Well I brought buffalo chicken dip from Findlay Market. Maria what did you bring? I brought Monkey Bread.
Marquitashua jumps up, "You can't bring Monkey Bread to a black person's house!"
I looked at Maria and said I told you so. Keith (my brother) comes out of the house. What did you bring Maria? Maria brought Monkey Bread. You can't bring Monkey Bread to a black person's house says Keith. How'd you like it if I snatched that sombrero off your head and started dancing around it? (She was wearing a straw hat.)
Later that night after most of the guests had left, the whole Monkey Bread thing comes up again. The Blackberrys come out and folks start going on line trying to figure out why it's called that. The best we could figure is that the action of pulling the bread apart resembles how monkeys eat.
But of course Leslie found something a little different on her Blackberry. Because these things only happen to Leslie. On Wikipedia she finds an entry. And we ALL know Wikipedia is true. And according to the gospel of Wikipedia there's another name for Monkey Bread.
African Coffee Cake.
I think Jody may have had a slight stroke.
Maria better sleep with one eye open. Tonight I'll be sharpening my sporks.
Speaking of which -
Best quote on my Facebook news feed today: "Why are there still forks and spoons? I mean, the spork must have been invented at least 10 or 15 years ago." That's from Mustafa (The Old Spice Man). We were meant to be. He gets me.
By the way you can thank Kelly that you even heard the Monkey Bread rant tonight. See there wasn't going to be one today. I'm tired, swamped, and having dizzy spells. Probably just stressed out. I'm going out of town again at the end of this week so I'm thinking about everything I need to do by then at home and at work. So I really didn't feel like writing it tonight. But it's because of people like Samad, who don't care how I'm feeling and just want to be entertained . . . that show me everyday why I rant so much.
Just kidding Kelly.
(No I'm not.)
That's all I got kids. Have a good night.
Love,
Leslie
My Rant for the Day (8/27/10)
“I’m madder than a dog in a hubcap factory.” ~ Eddie Murphy, Distinguished Gentlemen 1992
I can’t tell you who. Or what. Or where. Or why. I can however tell you when.
Today.
Today, someone made me so mad that I actually had a dizzy spell.
And this someone didn’t just piss only me off. Have you ever been standing in a crowd and someone says something so stupid it nearly causes a riot? It would be like, I don’t know, Rush Limbaugh walking into a NAACP meeting and saying “Eff all black people.”
That might piss you off a skosh.
So this someone says something incredibly stupid, incredibly condescending, incredibly unproductive, in fact this person is themselves incredibly unliked so you should expect it of them. And when it happened I literally felt my blood pressure skyrocket. At least that would explain the dizzy spell. I shivered. I closed my eyes and heard maniacal laughter. For a minute I thought it was coming from me. I opened my eyes again and realized it was coming from someone else – who was equally as pissed.
You know that crazy, “I’m gonna kill you laugh”? Yeah, that one. That’s what I heard. I’d previously only heard it in movies. I think it kind of scared the offender too.
But I opened my eyes and realized the person wasn’t dead yet. So I just stared at them. Hard. But they wouldn’t look at me. And eventually this person walked out of the room I was in.
And when they did I jumped up. And I yelled, “I can’t stand that stupid mutha*#@$*r!” And I started pacing back and forth. I screamed a bunch of other things too. There aren’t enough special characters on my keyboard to cover it. But it was funny.
I have a message for this person. I think you are the most bat faced, cotton mouthed, snaggle toothed, cross eyed, two faced, a$$ kissing, pea brained, three toed, demented maggot loving, toe sucking, crap eating, teletubby fondling, dandruff licking, anatomically incorrect, rat bastard I have ever met. Eff you. Eff your whole creation. One day it’s gonna be me and you. I can’t wait. Spork Time.
I’m good now.
And no it’s not Bret Favre. But close.
My friend Katy had the nerve today to request something go in the rant. I don’t know who in the ham sandwich she thinks she is. But ok Katy. I was going to leave this one alone. But did y’all hear that Cincinnati made national news this week? Umm hmm.
It happened when an Elmwood Place police officer stopped a car because the tint was too dark. Inside he found Colandra Hamilton who lives downtown. Ms. Hamilton was driving while masturbating with a sex toy, a charge also known as “driving with inappropriate alertness.” Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? Are you serious? And have you seen this lady? The sex toy had to have been a crack pipe. Happy, Katy?
This one is for Katy too. An avid Cincinnati Red's fan. I’m not thrilled with Brandon Phillips right now. Out of the Reds lineup because he hurt his little wrist. Ain’t that about a bitch? You know what Brandon? All that money you make, and alllll that shiggety you been talking lately, and alllllllllllllllll that lack of backing that shiggety up, you better shake it off and get to hittin’ something. Punk.
Score two for the men. This week two of your counterparts released songs about how effed up we woman are. The first one is called “F--- You” by Cee-lo. For any man who was ever wronged by some gold-digging heifa to you I simply say, sing that song you bitch. You finally have an anthem. The second song is by Eric Benet – who for the most part I can’t stand. I heard this on the radio yesterday; it’s called “Sometimes I Cry.” I better not catch any of y’all singing this one. Chump. Halle Berry is somewhere laughing hysterically. And I’m not a big fan of hers either.
Kelly saw my post yesterday about my bracelet and she called me to sort of take credit for finding it. Someone found it where I thought I lost it on Monday. Then they took it all the way to her office in a different building on a different floor (dumba$$) even though lost and found was right down the hall from where I lost it. Then they gave it to someone else in her office who gave it to Kelly. Then Kelly said she’d give it to Campus Police but she didn’t right away (Heifa). Then she saw almost the exact same bracelet on a friend of mine who is like a big sister to me (and is also African American) and racist that Kelly is, she assumed it was some type of club where black women in the college are running around with pink bracelets. She gave mine to security anyway, I had reported it lost, and the nice police lady called me and told me to come get it. Kelly’s a chump bag.
Seriously y’all, Kelly isn’t racist. Most of her friends are black.
No really, most of her friends are not black.
Ok, for real this time, most of her friends are NOT black and even though that’s the case she is NOT a racist. She does however need Jesus. Or somebody. Love you Kelly.
I’m going to pay for that one somehow.
Have a great weekend y’all.
Love,
Leslie
I can’t tell you who. Or what. Or where. Or why. I can however tell you when.
Today.
Today, someone made me so mad that I actually had a dizzy spell.
And this someone didn’t just piss only me off. Have you ever been standing in a crowd and someone says something so stupid it nearly causes a riot? It would be like, I don’t know, Rush Limbaugh walking into a NAACP meeting and saying “Eff all black people.”
That might piss you off a skosh.
So this someone says something incredibly stupid, incredibly condescending, incredibly unproductive, in fact this person is themselves incredibly unliked so you should expect it of them. And when it happened I literally felt my blood pressure skyrocket. At least that would explain the dizzy spell. I shivered. I closed my eyes and heard maniacal laughter. For a minute I thought it was coming from me. I opened my eyes again and realized it was coming from someone else – who was equally as pissed.
You know that crazy, “I’m gonna kill you laugh”? Yeah, that one. That’s what I heard. I’d previously only heard it in movies. I think it kind of scared the offender too.
But I opened my eyes and realized the person wasn’t dead yet. So I just stared at them. Hard. But they wouldn’t look at me. And eventually this person walked out of the room I was in.
And when they did I jumped up. And I yelled, “I can’t stand that stupid mutha*#@$*r!” And I started pacing back and forth. I screamed a bunch of other things too. There aren’t enough special characters on my keyboard to cover it. But it was funny.
I have a message for this person. I think you are the most bat faced, cotton mouthed, snaggle toothed, cross eyed, two faced, a$$ kissing, pea brained, three toed, demented maggot loving, toe sucking, crap eating, teletubby fondling, dandruff licking, anatomically incorrect, rat bastard I have ever met. Eff you. Eff your whole creation. One day it’s gonna be me and you. I can’t wait. Spork Time.
I’m good now.
And no it’s not Bret Favre. But close.
My friend Katy had the nerve today to request something go in the rant. I don’t know who in the ham sandwich she thinks she is. But ok Katy. I was going to leave this one alone. But did y’all hear that Cincinnati made national news this week? Umm hmm.
It happened when an Elmwood Place police officer stopped a car because the tint was too dark. Inside he found Colandra Hamilton who lives downtown. Ms. Hamilton was driving while masturbating with a sex toy, a charge also known as “driving with inappropriate alertness.” Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? Are you serious? And have you seen this lady? The sex toy had to have been a crack pipe. Happy, Katy?
This one is for Katy too. An avid Cincinnati Red's fan. I’m not thrilled with Brandon Phillips right now. Out of the Reds lineup because he hurt his little wrist. Ain’t that about a bitch? You know what Brandon? All that money you make, and alllll that shiggety you been talking lately, and alllllllllllllllll that lack of backing that shiggety up, you better shake it off and get to hittin’ something. Punk.
Score two for the men. This week two of your counterparts released songs about how effed up we woman are. The first one is called “F--- You” by Cee-lo. For any man who was ever wronged by some gold-digging heifa to you I simply say, sing that song you bitch. You finally have an anthem. The second song is by Eric Benet – who for the most part I can’t stand. I heard this on the radio yesterday; it’s called “Sometimes I Cry.” I better not catch any of y’all singing this one. Chump. Halle Berry is somewhere laughing hysterically. And I’m not a big fan of hers either.
Kelly saw my post yesterday about my bracelet and she called me to sort of take credit for finding it. Someone found it where I thought I lost it on Monday. Then they took it all the way to her office in a different building on a different floor (dumba$$) even though lost and found was right down the hall from where I lost it. Then they gave it to someone else in her office who gave it to Kelly. Then Kelly said she’d give it to Campus Police but she didn’t right away (Heifa). Then she saw almost the exact same bracelet on a friend of mine who is like a big sister to me (and is also African American) and racist that Kelly is, she assumed it was some type of club where black women in the college are running around with pink bracelets. She gave mine to security anyway, I had reported it lost, and the nice police lady called me and told me to come get it. Kelly’s a chump bag.
Seriously y’all, Kelly isn’t racist. Most of her friends are black.
No really, most of her friends are not black.
Ok, for real this time, most of her friends are NOT black and even though that’s the case she is NOT a racist. She does however need Jesus. Or somebody. Love you Kelly.
I’m going to pay for that one somehow.
Have a great weekend y’all.
Love,
Leslie
My Rant for the Day (8/26/10)
If you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything.
A lot of you have this as your signature on your email. And y'all know you don't stand for anything. Cut it out. I don't see any of y'all marching anywhere. What's up with that? There's a lot of stuff I don't stand for. For example (I hear a lot of people going "uh oh here we go" - what's up with that?):
I don't stand for students who see you walking toward them, stand in the doorway facing you as you are getting ready to walk through the door, and wait for you to do so, so they don't have to open their side of the door. This is an epidemic on the hill . Two problems with this. The first should be the most obvious, this ain't England. We whooped their a$$es a few years ago and gained our independence. So walk through the correct side of the door. The second problem is the absolute laziness of it all. By the time you wait for me to get to the door and then walk through you could have opened the door on your side and been halfway down the hall. I'm speed challenged.There are a few ways I combat this problem. I walk up to the door and stop, I don't exit, and I stare at the student. They usually get a stupid look on their faces and open the door on their side. I walk through the door, but I don't leave enough room for them to squeeze by me. That one has gotten me called a few names - like "Rude". Seriously? The last way I handle it is to just tell the student to go through the other door. They're not usually expecting that. And it's most effective when I'm wearing my Cincinnati State sweater.
The next thing I don't stand for is bad behavior on the highway. For example. I'm not typically a speeder. So 90% of the time I stay out of the left lane. So if I'm in the slow lane AND I happen to be driving ten over the speed limit, why are you tailgating me? I don't get it. Get your a$$ in the left lane and leave me alone. Do sporks penetrate tires?
I don't stand for lactose. I'm lactose intolerant. I simply won't have it. I won't deal with it. I refuse.
I also don't stand for people who pop their gum. Go to the dentist. Get that fixed.
I'm sure that's not what your signature line on your emails meant. But whatev.
True story. Dig if you will the picture. You are a track announcer at a New Jersey horse race. As the horses wind into the final stretch the two horses in the lead happen to be named: "My Wife Knows Everything" and "The Wife Doesn't Know". This could get ugly couldn't it? Well it did apparently this weekend. Here was the call:
"Into the final furlong, my wife knows everything. The wife doesn't know. They are one and two. Of course they are. My wife knows everything in front. To the outside, the wife doesn't know. My wife knows everything. My wife doesn't know. My wife knows everything, more than the wife doesn't know."
No I'm not sure who won the race. I'm a little dizzy. The announcer's name is Larry Collmus. I hear he's working it all out in therapy. Only in New Jersey.
Chad Ochocino has tweeted his apology to Roger Goodell for his stupid behavior tweeting on the sidelines of last Friday's game:
@nflcommish Dad again I apologize 2 you for my tweet,as my father I understand you've to discipline,can we try timeout next time please :)
Dumb. A$$. Can I also get an apology from Brett Favre? For everything?
Today somebody popped popcorn in the office just as one of our staffers was walking through the door. He yelled out, "Hey I smell popcorn, what time does the movie start?" Someone else in the office (who shall remain nameless but some of you know I affectionately refer to him as my uncle) replied, "Just pull a chair up to Patrice's desk. That will be entertainment enough."
Now you tell me. Did I deserve that one?
Shut up.
The Old Spice Guy (Isaiah Mustafa) won an Emmy. Did you hear about this? I saw pictures of him wearing a suit today. It didn't look right - him wearing clothes and everything. Add him to my list of men who are allowed to pose for photos with no clothes on. Congratulations Isaiah.
I'll end today by letting you know about two things that actually made me really happy today. First, I met with my dietitian. I didn't get in as much trouble as I thought I would. She gave me a menu to start following so I'm excited about that. Second, I lost my pink bracelet at work the other day. I figured it was a done deal and I wouldn't get it back. I called our campus police department today and someone had actually turned it in. I almost cried. I LOVE this bracelet.
See people - no matter how much you rant, complain and harass folks, God is still good.
:)
Smell you later!
Love,
Leslie
A lot of you have this as your signature on your email. And y'all know you don't stand for anything. Cut it out. I don't see any of y'all marching anywhere. What's up with that? There's a lot of stuff I don't stand for. For example (I hear a lot of people going "uh oh here we go" - what's up with that?):
I don't stand for students who see you walking toward them, stand in the doorway facing you as you are getting ready to walk through the door, and wait for you to do so, so they don't have to open their side of the door. This is an epidemic on the hill . Two problems with this. The first should be the most obvious, this ain't England. We whooped their a$$es a few years ago and gained our independence. So walk through the correct side of the door. The second problem is the absolute laziness of it all. By the time you wait for me to get to the door and then walk through you could have opened the door on your side and been halfway down the hall. I'm speed challenged.There are a few ways I combat this problem. I walk up to the door and stop, I don't exit, and I stare at the student. They usually get a stupid look on their faces and open the door on their side. I walk through the door, but I don't leave enough room for them to squeeze by me. That one has gotten me called a few names - like "Rude". Seriously? The last way I handle it is to just tell the student to go through the other door. They're not usually expecting that. And it's most effective when I'm wearing my Cincinnati State sweater.
The next thing I don't stand for is bad behavior on the highway. For example. I'm not typically a speeder. So 90% of the time I stay out of the left lane. So if I'm in the slow lane AND I happen to be driving ten over the speed limit, why are you tailgating me? I don't get it. Get your a$$ in the left lane and leave me alone. Do sporks penetrate tires?
I don't stand for lactose. I'm lactose intolerant. I simply won't have it. I won't deal with it. I refuse.
I also don't stand for people who pop their gum. Go to the dentist. Get that fixed.
I'm sure that's not what your signature line on your emails meant. But whatev.
True story. Dig if you will the picture. You are a track announcer at a New Jersey horse race. As the horses wind into the final stretch the two horses in the lead happen to be named: "My Wife Knows Everything" and "The Wife Doesn't Know". This could get ugly couldn't it? Well it did apparently this weekend. Here was the call:
"Into the final furlong, my wife knows everything. The wife doesn't know. They are one and two. Of course they are. My wife knows everything in front. To the outside, the wife doesn't know. My wife knows everything. My wife doesn't know. My wife knows everything, more than the wife doesn't know."
No I'm not sure who won the race. I'm a little dizzy. The announcer's name is Larry Collmus. I hear he's working it all out in therapy. Only in New Jersey.
Chad Ochocino has tweeted his apology to Roger Goodell for his stupid behavior tweeting on the sidelines of last Friday's game:
@nflcommish Dad again I apologize 2 you for my tweet,as my father I understand you've to discipline,can we try timeout next time please :)
Dumb. A$$. Can I also get an apology from Brett Favre? For everything?
Today somebody popped popcorn in the office just as one of our staffers was walking through the door. He yelled out, "Hey I smell popcorn, what time does the movie start?" Someone else in the office (who shall remain nameless but some of you know I affectionately refer to him as my uncle) replied, "Just pull a chair up to Patrice's desk. That will be entertainment enough."
Now you tell me. Did I deserve that one?
Shut up.
The Old Spice Guy (Isaiah Mustafa) won an Emmy. Did you hear about this? I saw pictures of him wearing a suit today. It didn't look right - him wearing clothes and everything. Add him to my list of men who are allowed to pose for photos with no clothes on. Congratulations Isaiah.
I'll end today by letting you know about two things that actually made me really happy today. First, I met with my dietitian. I didn't get in as much trouble as I thought I would. She gave me a menu to start following so I'm excited about that. Second, I lost my pink bracelet at work the other day. I figured it was a done deal and I wouldn't get it back. I called our campus police department today and someone had actually turned it in. I almost cried. I LOVE this bracelet.
See people - no matter how much you rant, complain and harass folks, God is still good.
:)
Smell you later!
Love,
Leslie
My Rant for the Day 8/25/10
Be vewy, vewy quiet. I'm hunting candy bars, strong drugs and SUV's.
The devil is in full effect. I'll tell you why.
Y'all know my doctor put me on a mission for better health right? Well today I found out my 5:30 water aerobics class got moved from Tuesday's and Thursday's to Monday's and Wednesday's. I can't take it on those days because of my boot camp and networking class so my option is take it during the day either at 11 a.m. or noon. Right now I'm thinking that's not happening. I don't want to hear students and staff screaming "RIGHT ON" at me and throwing up a fist as I walk to my office after the class if my hair gets wet and all afro-bushed up.
This urks me about our instructors. Who the eff told this heifa to move the day and time on this class? Eff her. Now I have to find another activity for at least Thursday so I can keep my Tuesday - Saturday routine in tact. As of right now it's Tuesday - Volleyball, Wednesday - Bootcamp, Thursday - Open because of some freak-faced instructor, Friday - Bootcamp, Saturday - Dance Class, Sunday and Monday - Rest.
I'm also tired of eating right. This morning I ate a boiled egg and yogurt (doc's orders). At lunch I got derailed a skosh - I think my boss sensed I was getting ready to pass the hell out (I haven't felt well all week - sinus infection/cold and dizzy spells). He asked about lunch and I refused because I wanted to get some stuff done. He vetoed that and dragged me to the slop house (our cafeteria). Lunch was yummy. I think I'm still on target for the day kind of. I had a sammich. But now I'm thinking about dinner . . . and I'm thinking about going to Norwood Kroger. Why? Not for dinner. I have that at home. But I know for a FACT that there is a woman sitting in the parking lot selling candy bars (allegedly) for her kids out of her truck. Actually I don't care who she's selling them for. I don't care if there's a pimp standing at the Wendy's monitoring her as long as he stays out of my way. I'm just thinking about buying one . . . or six. Somebody stop me. And I'm meeting with my dietician tomorrow. She's gonna grill me like a cheeseburger. Ummmmmm. Cheeseburgers.
On a serious note real quick - Annette, Shelley and Yolanda - I'm still praying for you ladies. You know why. Let me know if you need anything. Love you.
One of my besties, Frances, has informed me she would like to buy another car. So I'm going car shopping with her. Earlier this year, as some of you know, I abandoned my quest to get another car and got several issues on mine fixed. I keep thinking about how much my mama loved my little car for some reason (probably because it's little like she was) and so I just flat out refuse to get rid of it now though I probably should. But I did tell myself I was going to start looking at used small SUV's before this winter (and still keep my car). When I mentioned that to my "not by blood but more of a brother than my biological" brother Keith earlier this year, I thought he was going to kill me. He spun around, his pecs got huge, his shirt popped off, his skin turned green, his nails grew, his eyes turned red and he yelled, "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU NEED A SUV FOR?" I think I may have went on myself a little. But he'll be somewhere effin' up an Iraqi this fall, so I think I'm gonna sneak and do it. Y'all don't tell him ok?
Being sick sucks. I don't even know how I got it. Maybe I got it from someone at church. That's a good reason not to go back isn't it? I thought maybe I got it sitting in front of Frances' air conditioner Sunday. But when I got to work Monday, everybody had it. Damn near everybody at Cincinnati State is running around with the Ebola virus.
I have to tell you, it's been cool being told every 20 minutes how awful I look. I have no color. I don't look like I'm having a good day. I can't understand what you're saying because you're nasally. I didn't sound like that yesterday. Blah, blah, blah well y'all suck too. And as soon as I feel up to it, I'm sporking everybody. For now, it's really strong drugs for me. I'm gonna go ask that lady in the Kroger parking lot what kind of drugs she has up under her candy box. I know she got something . . .
Thank you Brian for the cool spork shirt picture. It's below so everyone can see it. I think I may order one.
And a big fat "Are You Trying To Give Me A Coronary?" to my friend Christopher for leaving this tidbit in my FB Inbox:
"Dear Brett Favre- Interviewing 101..don't chomp gum while being interviewed on national TV. You sound like Brittney B*#ch!"
Chris, I think he should try chewing tobacco instead of gum. Maybe it would make him more manly, right? I say he needs help with that. On second thought, let's face it, Lorenzo will always be a punk faced biznatch. I know you know that Chris. So thank you.
Gotta go to the Norwood Kroger kids. Crack don't smoke itself.
Love,
Leslie
The devil is in full effect. I'll tell you why.
Y'all know my doctor put me on a mission for better health right? Well today I found out my 5:30 water aerobics class got moved from Tuesday's and Thursday's to Monday's and Wednesday's. I can't take it on those days because of my boot camp and networking class so my option is take it during the day either at 11 a.m. or noon. Right now I'm thinking that's not happening. I don't want to hear students and staff screaming "RIGHT ON" at me and throwing up a fist as I walk to my office after the class if my hair gets wet and all afro-bushed up.
This urks me about our instructors. Who the eff told this heifa to move the day and time on this class? Eff her. Now I have to find another activity for at least Thursday so I can keep my Tuesday - Saturday routine in tact. As of right now it's Tuesday - Volleyball, Wednesday - Bootcamp, Thursday - Open because of some freak-faced instructor, Friday - Bootcamp, Saturday - Dance Class, Sunday and Monday - Rest.
I'm also tired of eating right. This morning I ate a boiled egg and yogurt (doc's orders). At lunch I got derailed a skosh - I think my boss sensed I was getting ready to pass the hell out (I haven't felt well all week - sinus infection/cold and dizzy spells). He asked about lunch and I refused because I wanted to get some stuff done. He vetoed that and dragged me to the slop house (our cafeteria). Lunch was yummy. I think I'm still on target for the day kind of. I had a sammich. But now I'm thinking about dinner . . . and I'm thinking about going to Norwood Kroger. Why? Not for dinner. I have that at home. But I know for a FACT that there is a woman sitting in the parking lot selling candy bars (allegedly) for her kids out of her truck. Actually I don't care who she's selling them for. I don't care if there's a pimp standing at the Wendy's monitoring her as long as he stays out of my way. I'm just thinking about buying one . . . or six. Somebody stop me. And I'm meeting with my dietician tomorrow. She's gonna grill me like a cheeseburger. Ummmmmm. Cheeseburgers.
On a serious note real quick - Annette, Shelley and Yolanda - I'm still praying for you ladies. You know why. Let me know if you need anything. Love you.
One of my besties, Frances, has informed me she would like to buy another car. So I'm going car shopping with her. Earlier this year, as some of you know, I abandoned my quest to get another car and got several issues on mine fixed. I keep thinking about how much my mama loved my little car for some reason (probably because it's little like she was) and so I just flat out refuse to get rid of it now though I probably should. But I did tell myself I was going to start looking at used small SUV's before this winter (and still keep my car). When I mentioned that to my "not by blood but more of a brother than my biological" brother Keith earlier this year, I thought he was going to kill me. He spun around, his pecs got huge, his shirt popped off, his skin turned green, his nails grew, his eyes turned red and he yelled, "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU NEED A SUV FOR?" I think I may have went on myself a little. But he'll be somewhere effin' up an Iraqi this fall, so I think I'm gonna sneak and do it. Y'all don't tell him ok?
Being sick sucks. I don't even know how I got it. Maybe I got it from someone at church. That's a good reason not to go back isn't it? I thought maybe I got it sitting in front of Frances' air conditioner Sunday. But when I got to work Monday, everybody had it. Damn near everybody at Cincinnati State is running around with the Ebola virus.
I have to tell you, it's been cool being told every 20 minutes how awful I look. I have no color. I don't look like I'm having a good day. I can't understand what you're saying because you're nasally. I didn't sound like that yesterday. Blah, blah, blah well y'all suck too. And as soon as I feel up to it, I'm sporking everybody. For now, it's really strong drugs for me. I'm gonna go ask that lady in the Kroger parking lot what kind of drugs she has up under her candy box. I know she got something . . .
Thank you Brian for the cool spork shirt picture. It's below so everyone can see it. I think I may order one.
And a big fat "Are You Trying To Give Me A Coronary?" to my friend Christopher for leaving this tidbit in my FB Inbox:
"Dear Brett Favre- Interviewing 101..don't chomp gum while being interviewed on national TV. You sound like Brittney B*#ch!"
Chris, I think he should try chewing tobacco instead of gum. Maybe it would make him more manly, right? I say he needs help with that. On second thought, let's face it, Lorenzo will always be a punk faced biznatch. I know you know that Chris. So thank you.
Gotta go to the Norwood Kroger kids. Crack don't smoke itself.
Love,
Leslie
My Rant for the Day 8/24/10
Bicuspids - The premolar teeth or transitional teeth located between the canine and molar teeth.
I bet you think I can't use this word in a sentence but I can and I so I think I will. Here goes: "My sister, Melissa, says that any man who takes a picture nekked smilling so hard that his bicuspids are showing may be suspect."
I have been laughing, hard, real hard, every since she told me this last night.
Hysterically. All day today.
I can't share with you who inspired her little rant last night. But if he happens to find out about this - just remember we always go for the funny. It's nothing personal. And it's nobody tagged in this note so stop looking.
And that leads me to another question. Men, why do y'all do that? What makes a man think that posing nekked for a photo (or at least nekked from the tummy up) and then posting it online is sexy? It's not. It's goofy. I don't care how built you are. And it's arrogant. Most women will tell you this: if your name is not Malik Yoba, or Idris Elba, or you are not some professional male athlete with milk on your top lip (excluding you Lorenzo F. as in eff you), it ain't cute. It just looks creepy. So knock it off. But if you insist on doing it, don't smile so hard we can see your bicuspids. (See I did it again . . .)
It's very similar to men who say they want a woman who is a lady in public but a freak in the bedroom. We'd like you to save your pecs and nips for a showing at a more appropo time thank ya very much. By the way - because I know some of my male FB friends are freaks, let me warn you: this is not an invite for any of you to show me anything. I'll spork you.
At one point while writing this I was coming to you live from the Welcome Center at Cincinnati State. I don't work in this area of the college but Kasey does. And I couldn't be her. Right now she has a lady in front of her who has probably been talking her ear off for the better part of fifteen minutes. About nothing. Well really I don't know because I put my headphones on. But anyway it's not like Kasey doesn't have anything else to do but sit here and listen to her. I used to work a frontline job like this in the Registrar's Office here. If I had to do it for five more minutes, I'd hang myself. Kasey, you are a saint - sort of. I know you're going to talk about that lady like a dog when she walks away. Ok I'll talk about the lady and you'll just laugh. I'm not a saint though.
So the season hasn't even started yet and Chad Ochocinco has already racked up a fine. $25K for tweeting during Friday's game. I have him on my FB News Feed and I saw one of the "tweets" Friday night while I was listening to it on the radio and I said to myself, "Self? How is he doing that during the g-damn game he's playing in right the eff now?" Nimrod. Here we go already. He's like the little brother you never wanted. As much as you might love him, sometimes you just want to punch him right in those gold a$$ teeth.
Kasey shushed me y'all. That's one dead little black duck tomorrow. Just lay down on the ground Kasey because you're dead.
Today a friend and I smooved over a misunderstanding. It was awesome. You know who you are. Love ya child.
Hamilton lost to Georgia in the Little League World Series today. It sucks. Georgia blanked them 6-0. Bastards. I mean that too, the south and all . . . Seriously, they were supposed to play yesterday but got rained out. Before they could get rained out though the umpire took a ball to the throat. I've always wanted to do that to someone. I'm jealous of the kid who got the honor. The Ump probably had it coming. Okay I'm just kidding here folks. A little. Anyway - Hamilton plays tomorrow against Hawaii in an elimination game. If they lose it will prove what we've known all along. Hamilton ain't shiggety. Yeah I said it. Hold on y'all, give me a twently second head start . . .
Am I the only one who hates Jennifer Hudson's version of "And I Am Telling You"?
Today an adorable young lady got in the elevator with me and my boss. She asked me how to get to the "Get There Session", which is an information session for prospective students. So I told her. She then told us she was going to try the college thing out. My boss then asked her where was she coming from. I was expecting her to tell us the name of her high school. Instead she said, "home". And looked at my boss like he was nuts.
Oy vey - it's going to be a tough year.
Love,
Leslie
I bet you think I can't use this word in a sentence but I can and I so I think I will. Here goes: "My sister, Melissa, says that any man who takes a picture nekked smilling so hard that his bicuspids are showing may be suspect."
I have been laughing, hard, real hard, every since she told me this last night.
Hysterically. All day today.
I can't share with you who inspired her little rant last night. But if he happens to find out about this - just remember we always go for the funny. It's nothing personal. And it's nobody tagged in this note so stop looking.
And that leads me to another question. Men, why do y'all do that? What makes a man think that posing nekked for a photo (or at least nekked from the tummy up) and then posting it online is sexy? It's not. It's goofy. I don't care how built you are. And it's arrogant. Most women will tell you this: if your name is not Malik Yoba, or Idris Elba, or you are not some professional male athlete with milk on your top lip (excluding you Lorenzo F. as in eff you), it ain't cute. It just looks creepy. So knock it off. But if you insist on doing it, don't smile so hard we can see your bicuspids. (See I did it again . . .)
It's very similar to men who say they want a woman who is a lady in public but a freak in the bedroom. We'd like you to save your pecs and nips for a showing at a more appropo time thank ya very much. By the way - because I know some of my male FB friends are freaks, let me warn you: this is not an invite for any of you to show me anything. I'll spork you.
At one point while writing this I was coming to you live from the Welcome Center at Cincinnati State. I don't work in this area of the college but Kasey does. And I couldn't be her. Right now she has a lady in front of her who has probably been talking her ear off for the better part of fifteen minutes. About nothing. Well really I don't know because I put my headphones on. But anyway it's not like Kasey doesn't have anything else to do but sit here and listen to her. I used to work a frontline job like this in the Registrar's Office here. If I had to do it for five more minutes, I'd hang myself. Kasey, you are a saint - sort of. I know you're going to talk about that lady like a dog when she walks away. Ok I'll talk about the lady and you'll just laugh. I'm not a saint though.
So the season hasn't even started yet and Chad Ochocinco has already racked up a fine. $25K for tweeting during Friday's game. I have him on my FB News Feed and I saw one of the "tweets" Friday night while I was listening to it on the radio and I said to myself, "Self? How is he doing that during the g-damn game he's playing in right the eff now?" Nimrod. Here we go already. He's like the little brother you never wanted. As much as you might love him, sometimes you just want to punch him right in those gold a$$ teeth.
Kasey shushed me y'all. That's one dead little black duck tomorrow. Just lay down on the ground Kasey because you're dead.
Today a friend and I smooved over a misunderstanding. It was awesome. You know who you are. Love ya child.
Hamilton lost to Georgia in the Little League World Series today. It sucks. Georgia blanked them 6-0. Bastards. I mean that too, the south and all . . . Seriously, they were supposed to play yesterday but got rained out. Before they could get rained out though the umpire took a ball to the throat. I've always wanted to do that to someone. I'm jealous of the kid who got the honor. The Ump probably had it coming. Okay I'm just kidding here folks. A little. Anyway - Hamilton plays tomorrow against Hawaii in an elimination game. If they lose it will prove what we've known all along. Hamilton ain't shiggety. Yeah I said it. Hold on y'all, give me a twently second head start . . .
Am I the only one who hates Jennifer Hudson's version of "And I Am Telling You"?
Today an adorable young lady got in the elevator with me and my boss. She asked me how to get to the "Get There Session", which is an information session for prospective students. So I told her. She then told us she was going to try the college thing out. My boss then asked her where was she coming from. I was expecting her to tell us the name of her high school. Instead she said, "home". And looked at my boss like he was nuts.
Oy vey - it's going to be a tough year.
Love,
Leslie
My Rant for the Day (8/23/10)
Me and you,
your momma and your cousin too
Rollin down the strip on vogues
Comin up slammin Cadillac doz
Elevators - Outkast (1996)
So me and Katy continued my rant about elevator etiquette last week. She brought up how she can't stand it when you get to your floor, the doors open, and some eager beaver jumps on the elevator before you can get off. Seriously? Is that really necessary you effin' over-acheiver? It's just so freakin' dumb is all. And would you believe while we were having this conversation on an elevator a student did exactly that. Cut it out.
Friday I saw a black man speeding up I-71 in a old red mercedes convertible wearing a Spongebob Squarepants hat with the bib turned to the back. Do you know how many things are wrong with that sentence?
I went to get a footicure this weekend. There is this annoying nail tech in the salon. I mean she is annoying as hell and I'm going to tell you why. First of all, she is out of place, she's a big amazon white woman. HUGE. That's okay I guess because big amazon white women need jobs too and all big amazon white women are not annoying. But this one is annoying as hell because she takes on the persona of whoever she is talking to. In other words, when she is talking to one of the vietemese techs (which includes everyone but her) she speaks to them with real choppy dialect. Example: "Where you been? I look for you but you no come for long time." But then when she talks to me (which thank goodness she doesn't do often) she get's "homegirl" on me. Like "Guuuuurlllll, you ain't been here in a minute." I promise you if I could, I'd eff her up. But I know I'd get my wig split. Like I said, she's huge. And I know my limitations.
Never use anyone else's cell phone. Why? I'm glad you asked. Today I went in the restroom and noticed a woman come in talking on her cell phone without an earpiece. The conversation never stopped. I don't know how you handle your business and carry on a conversation with someone on the phone without touching something. I know, I know, "Gee thanks Leslie for the visual." You're welcome kids.
And why we're talking about nasty stuff y'all do in the bathroom, I think if you walk out of the stall and attempt to exit the restroom without visiting the sink you should be tazed. I saw a lady do that today. And another thing, I don't want to hear you moaning or singing from the stall. You're doing too much. Do men have these problems?
Brian thought it would be real cute to call me last night to inform me that Lorenzo Favre and crew were taking the field. I didn't even realize they were playing and on tv no less. I had a tough decision, continue to watch Big Brother and let my IQ drop slowly, or rage myself into a coma by watching Lorenzo and the Lunatics while listening to Al Michaels and Chris Collinsworth go on and on about him like they're turned on or something.
My IQ is slightly lower today but my rage (believe it or not) is in check.
The Vikings lost last night (who cares it's pre-season) 15-10 at the hands of the 49ners. And Lewis (Ward), here's the quote from your favorite player: "I didn't fumble a snap, completed a pass. That's a win for me." We know Lorenzo, it's all about you. Dumba$$. I think my IQ just dropped again. I feel dizzy. And Brian, I WILL hang up on you next time. Just try it.
Dear Mr. Woodson, today I saw several people wearing leggin's. You can stop begging for your job back. You're still fired. (If you don't get that you'll need to go back a few rants - but Woodson knows what the hell I'm talking about.)
Since I went nuts last week about hair touching, several of you who have daily access to me (poor things) inquired about touching my hair today. The answer is "I am not a petting zoo." (Right Jody?) And I will spork you if you try it.
Here's a shamless plug. If you like my hair, go visit my stylist - Ms. Leona. Her shop is Personalities by Leona. It's on Ludlow in Clifton across from IGA. Her number is 513-751-5100. She's the best.
Hand somebody your sunglasses if you feel yourself being overtaken by the spirit during the church service. Yesterday I watched a lady (who by the way had a boot cast on her foot) stomp her sunglasses into an unrecognizable pile of shards while gettin' her happy on. What do you do? You can't stop someone in the spirit to tell them they are obliterating their possibly expensive eyewear. Afterwards the woman sitting behind her attempted to pick them up and hand them to her. I know my mind should have been somewhere else, but I couldn't help it - I chuckled.
Add it to the reasons I may be going down below.
Love,
Leslie
your momma and your cousin too
Rollin down the strip on vogues
Comin up slammin Cadillac doz
Elevators - Outkast (1996)
So me and Katy continued my rant about elevator etiquette last week. She brought up how she can't stand it when you get to your floor, the doors open, and some eager beaver jumps on the elevator before you can get off. Seriously? Is that really necessary you effin' over-acheiver? It's just so freakin' dumb is all. And would you believe while we were having this conversation on an elevator a student did exactly that. Cut it out.
Friday I saw a black man speeding up I-71 in a old red mercedes convertible wearing a Spongebob Squarepants hat with the bib turned to the back. Do you know how many things are wrong with that sentence?
I went to get a footicure this weekend. There is this annoying nail tech in the salon. I mean she is annoying as hell and I'm going to tell you why. First of all, she is out of place, she's a big amazon white woman. HUGE. That's okay I guess because big amazon white women need jobs too and all big amazon white women are not annoying. But this one is annoying as hell because she takes on the persona of whoever she is talking to. In other words, when she is talking to one of the vietemese techs (which includes everyone but her) she speaks to them with real choppy dialect. Example: "Where you been? I look for you but you no come for long time." But then when she talks to me (which thank goodness she doesn't do often) she get's "homegirl" on me. Like "Guuuuurlllll, you ain't been here in a minute." I promise you if I could, I'd eff her up. But I know I'd get my wig split. Like I said, she's huge. And I know my limitations.
Never use anyone else's cell phone. Why? I'm glad you asked. Today I went in the restroom and noticed a woman come in talking on her cell phone without an earpiece. The conversation never stopped. I don't know how you handle your business and carry on a conversation with someone on the phone without touching something. I know, I know, "Gee thanks Leslie for the visual." You're welcome kids.
And why we're talking about nasty stuff y'all do in the bathroom, I think if you walk out of the stall and attempt to exit the restroom without visiting the sink you should be tazed. I saw a lady do that today. And another thing, I don't want to hear you moaning or singing from the stall. You're doing too much. Do men have these problems?
Brian thought it would be real cute to call me last night to inform me that Lorenzo Favre and crew were taking the field. I didn't even realize they were playing and on tv no less. I had a tough decision, continue to watch Big Brother and let my IQ drop slowly, or rage myself into a coma by watching Lorenzo and the Lunatics while listening to Al Michaels and Chris Collinsworth go on and on about him like they're turned on or something.
My IQ is slightly lower today but my rage (believe it or not) is in check.
The Vikings lost last night (who cares it's pre-season) 15-10 at the hands of the 49ners. And Lewis (Ward), here's the quote from your favorite player: "I didn't fumble a snap, completed a pass. That's a win for me." We know Lorenzo, it's all about you. Dumba$$. I think my IQ just dropped again. I feel dizzy. And Brian, I WILL hang up on you next time. Just try it.
Dear Mr. Woodson, today I saw several people wearing leggin's. You can stop begging for your job back. You're still fired. (If you don't get that you'll need to go back a few rants - but Woodson knows what the hell I'm talking about.)
Since I went nuts last week about hair touching, several of you who have daily access to me (poor things) inquired about touching my hair today. The answer is "I am not a petting zoo." (Right Jody?) And I will spork you if you try it.
Here's a shamless plug. If you like my hair, go visit my stylist - Ms. Leona. Her shop is Personalities by Leona. It's on Ludlow in Clifton across from IGA. Her number is 513-751-5100. She's the best.
Hand somebody your sunglasses if you feel yourself being overtaken by the spirit during the church service. Yesterday I watched a lady (who by the way had a boot cast on her foot) stomp her sunglasses into an unrecognizable pile of shards while gettin' her happy on. What do you do? You can't stop someone in the spirit to tell them they are obliterating their possibly expensive eyewear. Afterwards the woman sitting behind her attempted to pick them up and hand them to her. I know my mind should have been somewhere else, but I couldn't help it - I chuckled.
Add it to the reasons I may be going down below.
Love,
Leslie
My Rant for the Day #2 (8/19/10)
Whatchu think this is?
Just because I get into an elevator and push a button for my floor does not mean I'm the elevator button pusher. Why do people do this? You are first in the elevator and push the button to your destination and people get on behind you and just yell out their floor. Not only do I not expect this of other people when I get in an elevator and push my own freakin' button but I purposely move away from the buttons to send you a message that it's not my job to get you to your destination. What in the ham sandwich does you yelling out "two" have to do with me? Are you telling me your IQ or something? I don't get it. Maybe "two" is my IQ or something. I mean I know I'm not always too bright. So when a student did that to me this morning on the elevator (didn't even say "two please") I just stared at him . . . till he pushed the button his damned self. WHAT?
Another disturbing trend has emerged among our students, or it has been around for a while and I just didn't know it. What's this thing where the girls are wearing their blue jean shorts so short that the insides of the pockets are extending below the bottom of the shorts? Are they buying them like this? The girl I saw wearing them this morning looked like she rode the short bus to campus . . . wearing a helmet. Cut it out.
Today I was sitting in the office, on a serious phone call, minding my own G-damn business, when an advisor walked in and started talking to me. I did mention I was one the phone right? Strike one. So I ignored her. Then she went to the person who sits behind me and told her what she needed. That's fine. But on her way out, I heard her say, "I can't help it, I have to touch it." And the next thing I knew, her hands were in my hair and she starts playing in it like I'm one of those effin' Barbie doll heads we used to play with back in the day. Those, ladies and gentlemen, were strikes two and three. Had I not been on the phone I think I might have lost my job today. I was so creeped out. Look folks, I appreciate the complients about my hair. I mean I REALLY do because it's a pain to keep up with and I appreciate any compliments that come my way especially lately. But to me, hair touching is intimate - which means, if you are not my dude, my main squeeze, my significant other and all that good stuff, don't touch it without asking first. And since I don't have one of those right now, that means keep your musty a$$ hands out of my hair. It pisses me off to the highest of pisstivity. You are all up in my personal space and that's not cool. Luckily she stopped and walked out of the office before I could get off the phone.
Unfortunately, my boss was the next person to approach me and on top of that it was about something I forgot to do, and he caught my wrath as a result. I'm sorry dude. Seriously. Please kick my a$$ tomorrow morning. Hard enough so that I may leave early please.
Lunch today was hilarious. Thank you Danni for allowing me to share your birthday celebration with you. And thank you Kasey for inviting me. We went to Dewey's. Chill out y'all, I had the salad. I ordered a calzone but only ate about 1/3 and gave the rest to a co-worker when I got back to the office. I shouldn't have ordered it because I didn't really want it. I hope that's progress. Anyway - I love to harass Kasey - she's like the little sister I never wanted. She's so cute and uppity and it cracks me up. She made sure to inform the waiter that she was taking Danni out for her birthday to which I told the waiter "and she wants to be recognized for it I guess that's why she's announcing it" to which the waiter responded "it's okay, we're building a shrine for her in the back." I thought I was going to fall out of the booth. That's good stuff.
On the way back to work however, Kasey and Danni had a conversation about what it means when a man (or anyone for that matter) has a long pinky nail when all the other nails are short (we saw a man in a truck next to us with longer fingernails than most normal people would want to see on a man). Once the drug hypothesis was established, these nuts actually went on to debate whether the pinky finger is the easiest to snort cocaine with. The debate included demonstrations (without the cocaine of course). And all the while I'm just sitting quietly in the car (Kasey was driving) wondering why this conversation is taking place. Ladies, you still didn't give me a good enough reason.
Get well soon Krystal. I miss you.
Those Old Navy store mannequins are scary. That's all I have on that. I've been wanting to get that off my chest for a while.
I know you did not email me and ask me to meet you at Norwood Kroger today. You know who you are. Some folk think they read a rant and get all clever. I've decided that when I DO see you I WILL spork you. I have to. That's the rules. Chump. You know I ain't going to Norwood again without a fight.
So Roger Clemens is in trouble again - this time with the gub-ment on federal perjury charges. If they couldn't get a president out of office for lying to Congress does anybody really think anything will happen to Clemens? I don't. But what would be a good use of the gub-ment's time, would be figuring out how to ban Brett Favre from football forever so my blood pressure would stop going up every evening around 8 or 9 when I sit my a$$ down to write this rant.
Oh well. Who the hell cares what I want right?
Love,
Leslie
Just because I get into an elevator and push a button for my floor does not mean I'm the elevator button pusher. Why do people do this? You are first in the elevator and push the button to your destination and people get on behind you and just yell out their floor. Not only do I not expect this of other people when I get in an elevator and push my own freakin' button but I purposely move away from the buttons to send you a message that it's not my job to get you to your destination. What in the ham sandwich does you yelling out "two" have to do with me? Are you telling me your IQ or something? I don't get it. Maybe "two" is my IQ or something. I mean I know I'm not always too bright. So when a student did that to me this morning on the elevator (didn't even say "two please") I just stared at him . . . till he pushed the button his damned self. WHAT?
Another disturbing trend has emerged among our students, or it has been around for a while and I just didn't know it. What's this thing where the girls are wearing their blue jean shorts so short that the insides of the pockets are extending below the bottom of the shorts? Are they buying them like this? The girl I saw wearing them this morning looked like she rode the short bus to campus . . . wearing a helmet. Cut it out.
Today I was sitting in the office, on a serious phone call, minding my own G-damn business, when an advisor walked in and started talking to me. I did mention I was one the phone right? Strike one. So I ignored her. Then she went to the person who sits behind me and told her what she needed. That's fine. But on her way out, I heard her say, "I can't help it, I have to touch it." And the next thing I knew, her hands were in my hair and she starts playing in it like I'm one of those effin' Barbie doll heads we used to play with back in the day. Those, ladies and gentlemen, were strikes two and three. Had I not been on the phone I think I might have lost my job today. I was so creeped out. Look folks, I appreciate the complients about my hair. I mean I REALLY do because it's a pain to keep up with and I appreciate any compliments that come my way especially lately. But to me, hair touching is intimate - which means, if you are not my dude, my main squeeze, my significant other and all that good stuff, don't touch it without asking first. And since I don't have one of those right now, that means keep your musty a$$ hands out of my hair. It pisses me off to the highest of pisstivity. You are all up in my personal space and that's not cool. Luckily she stopped and walked out of the office before I could get off the phone.
Unfortunately, my boss was the next person to approach me and on top of that it was about something I forgot to do, and he caught my wrath as a result. I'm sorry dude. Seriously. Please kick my a$$ tomorrow morning. Hard enough so that I may leave early please.
Lunch today was hilarious. Thank you Danni for allowing me to share your birthday celebration with you. And thank you Kasey for inviting me. We went to Dewey's. Chill out y'all, I had the salad. I ordered a calzone but only ate about 1/3 and gave the rest to a co-worker when I got back to the office. I shouldn't have ordered it because I didn't really want it. I hope that's progress. Anyway - I love to harass Kasey - she's like the little sister I never wanted. She's so cute and uppity and it cracks me up. She made sure to inform the waiter that she was taking Danni out for her birthday to which I told the waiter "and she wants to be recognized for it I guess that's why she's announcing it" to which the waiter responded "it's okay, we're building a shrine for her in the back." I thought I was going to fall out of the booth. That's good stuff.
On the way back to work however, Kasey and Danni had a conversation about what it means when a man (or anyone for that matter) has a long pinky nail when all the other nails are short (we saw a man in a truck next to us with longer fingernails than most normal people would want to see on a man). Once the drug hypothesis was established, these nuts actually went on to debate whether the pinky finger is the easiest to snort cocaine with. The debate included demonstrations (without the cocaine of course). And all the while I'm just sitting quietly in the car (Kasey was driving) wondering why this conversation is taking place. Ladies, you still didn't give me a good enough reason.
Get well soon Krystal. I miss you.
Those Old Navy store mannequins are scary. That's all I have on that. I've been wanting to get that off my chest for a while.
I know you did not email me and ask me to meet you at Norwood Kroger today. You know who you are. Some folk think they read a rant and get all clever. I've decided that when I DO see you I WILL spork you. I have to. That's the rules. Chump. You know I ain't going to Norwood again without a fight.
So Roger Clemens is in trouble again - this time with the gub-ment on federal perjury charges. If they couldn't get a president out of office for lying to Congress does anybody really think anything will happen to Clemens? I don't. But what would be a good use of the gub-ment's time, would be figuring out how to ban Brett Favre from football forever so my blood pressure would stop going up every evening around 8 or 9 when I sit my a$$ down to write this rant.
Oh well. Who the hell cares what I want right?
Love,
Leslie
My Rant for the Day (8/11/2010)
Ranting is Power.
Tonight I had dinner with two very close friends. One of whom I discovered I have power over. Big ups to Krystal and Becky. You guys remember Krystal don't you? She was last week's hypocrite of the week. And now that I've already called her out once, she's scurred I'magonna do it again. Tread lightly Kris. Tread lightly.
Ranting is Useless.
One of you did not read my rant last night, because if you had you would not have worn that to work today. You know who you are. We talked about this. I won't call you out. But I love you. ;-)
At dinner tonight we, and by we I mean I, noticed an employee of the SPCA who was paying for her food. She was wearing leggings. But there was a twist. She had jeans on over them. So how did I notice she had leggings on? Because her jeans were cut up in the back so we could see them. She was on the Lane Bryant plan. It wasn't cute. I just will never understand this nonsense. It's here that I have to call out my friend Woodson. Why am I calling you out Woodson? Because you promised me. You freakin' proooooomised me that you would spread the word about leggings. And now I know you just are not doing it. You're fired.
You know now that I think of it, I'll bet that's why Krystal is concerned. I did snap that photo right in the restaurant. But I'm sure I'm on someone's rant anyway, so we're even.
Have you heard of Steven Slater? Mr. Slater is the Jet-Blue flight attendant who last week absolutely went off. It's was awesome! Here's the story real quick. Slater gives instructions to stay seated while plane is landing. Passenger 57 decides to stand up and get his/her bags down anyway. Slater tells 57 to be seated. 57 continues pulling out the bag, hits the Slater in the head in the process. Slater asks for apology. 57 tells him where to go. Slater then gets on the PA system on the plane, says muthaeff you, yo mama, yo, daddy, yo brothers and sisters and everyone else within the sound of his voice cuz after 28 years doing this shiggety he's out (I'm paraphrasing). He grabs some beers, sets off the emergency exit slide on the plane, exits stage left. He takes the airport train to his car, goes home and is having hot lovin' relations with his partner (I heard that part from someone else, I don't know how true it is) when the police burst into his house and find him. Now he's under arrest, facing seven years in jail. Folks are saying all kinds of things caused him to snap, like caring for his ill parents; he cared for his father until his death and was still caring for his mother.
How about he snapped because he was tired of taking care of a bunch of stupid a$$, rude, spoiled, dump-trunk faced, snaggletoothed, crooked eye, nappy headed, cheap, whoremungering, raggedy, musty, funky, retarded, chromosome missing, ungrateful passengers for damn near 30 years! How 'bout that? I'm gonna go ahead and guess that has a whole lot to do with it. And how many years does the passenger get who set it all off in the first place? Isn't it against the G-damn law to hit a muthaeffer in the head on a plane? How about you go to work everyday knowing YOU COULD DIE for some impatient son of a basket weaving bulldog to hit you in the head with their luggage? REALLY? As far as I'm concerned, Slater is Batman. He really is. Anyway, there is a movement on Facebook you can join to support him. It's called Free Steven Slater. Look it up and join. I already have.
The stress and news reports were just too much and so Fantasia just wanted to lay down and take a nap. That's what her camp is saying. That's why she swallowed those pills yesterday. Jawn Murray made some good points about why it couldn't have been a suicide attempt on The Tom Joyner Morning Show this morning (even though the police say that's what they are calling it). (1) She has a nine year-old daughter. (2) She was brought up in the church. And when you're brought up in the church you're taught that when you kill yourself you're not leaving enough time to repent for the killing, so it basically an express ticket to Hell. Like I said, good points but I don't know that when you're ready to end it you're thinking clearly enough to reason all that out. And I don't know that anyone with a singing contract hooking up with a married T-Mobile employee is necessarily a good idea either (I'm just sayin'). Now the wife can sue for 9 million in damages for her marriage getting busted up. That's the law in North Carolina. You know I'm going there next month, I'ma be a little more careful than that.
Anyway, come on girl, you're Fantasia for goodness sake! Shake it off. Verizon is supposed to have a better network anyway.
Okay, that was wrong. Pray for Fantasia y'all. Seriously. And maybe me too.
I'm headed for the hills of Lansing, West Virginia with 11 friends. If we manage to get through the weekend without either getting mauled by a bear, drowned in the river or arrested for being "colored" and unable to produce the President's birth certificate or our immigration papers (or being the friends of those who can't), we'll be back on Sunday. Wish us a safe journey. If there's no internet access, eff Brett Favre and have a great weekend!
Love,
Leslie
Tonight I had dinner with two very close friends. One of whom I discovered I have power over. Big ups to Krystal and Becky. You guys remember Krystal don't you? She was last week's hypocrite of the week. And now that I've already called her out once, she's scurred I'magonna do it again. Tread lightly Kris. Tread lightly.
Ranting is Useless.
One of you did not read my rant last night, because if you had you would not have worn that to work today. You know who you are. We talked about this. I won't call you out. But I love you. ;-)
At dinner tonight we, and by we I mean I, noticed an employee of the SPCA who was paying for her food. She was wearing leggings. But there was a twist. She had jeans on over them. So how did I notice she had leggings on? Because her jeans were cut up in the back so we could see them. She was on the Lane Bryant plan. It wasn't cute. I just will never understand this nonsense. It's here that I have to call out my friend Woodson. Why am I calling you out Woodson? Because you promised me. You freakin' proooooomised me that you would spread the word about leggings. And now I know you just are not doing it. You're fired.
You know now that I think of it, I'll bet that's why Krystal is concerned. I did snap that photo right in the restaurant. But I'm sure I'm on someone's rant anyway, so we're even.
Have you heard of Steven Slater? Mr. Slater is the Jet-Blue flight attendant who last week absolutely went off. It's was awesome! Here's the story real quick. Slater gives instructions to stay seated while plane is landing. Passenger 57 decides to stand up and get his/her bags down anyway. Slater tells 57 to be seated. 57 continues pulling out the bag, hits the Slater in the head in the process. Slater asks for apology. 57 tells him where to go. Slater then gets on the PA system on the plane, says muthaeff you, yo mama, yo, daddy, yo brothers and sisters and everyone else within the sound of his voice cuz after 28 years doing this shiggety he's out (I'm paraphrasing). He grabs some beers, sets off the emergency exit slide on the plane, exits stage left. He takes the airport train to his car, goes home and is having hot lovin' relations with his partner (I heard that part from someone else, I don't know how true it is) when the police burst into his house and find him. Now he's under arrest, facing seven years in jail. Folks are saying all kinds of things caused him to snap, like caring for his ill parents; he cared for his father until his death and was still caring for his mother.
How about he snapped because he was tired of taking care of a bunch of stupid a$$, rude, spoiled, dump-trunk faced, snaggletoothed, crooked eye, nappy headed, cheap, whoremungering, raggedy, musty, funky, retarded, chromosome missing, ungrateful passengers for damn near 30 years! How 'bout that? I'm gonna go ahead and guess that has a whole lot to do with it. And how many years does the passenger get who set it all off in the first place? Isn't it against the G-damn law to hit a muthaeffer in the head on a plane? How about you go to work everyday knowing YOU COULD DIE for some impatient son of a basket weaving bulldog to hit you in the head with their luggage? REALLY? As far as I'm concerned, Slater is Batman. He really is. Anyway, there is a movement on Facebook you can join to support him. It's called Free Steven Slater. Look it up and join. I already have.
The stress and news reports were just too much and so Fantasia just wanted to lay down and take a nap. That's what her camp is saying. That's why she swallowed those pills yesterday. Jawn Murray made some good points about why it couldn't have been a suicide attempt on The Tom Joyner Morning Show this morning (even though the police say that's what they are calling it). (1) She has a nine year-old daughter. (2) She was brought up in the church. And when you're brought up in the church you're taught that when you kill yourself you're not leaving enough time to repent for the killing, so it basically an express ticket to Hell. Like I said, good points but I don't know that when you're ready to end it you're thinking clearly enough to reason all that out. And I don't know that anyone with a singing contract hooking up with a married T-Mobile employee is necessarily a good idea either (I'm just sayin'). Now the wife can sue for 9 million in damages for her marriage getting busted up. That's the law in North Carolina. You know I'm going there next month, I'ma be a little more careful than that.
Anyway, come on girl, you're Fantasia for goodness sake! Shake it off. Verizon is supposed to have a better network anyway.
Okay, that was wrong. Pray for Fantasia y'all. Seriously. And maybe me too.
I'm headed for the hills of Lansing, West Virginia with 11 friends. If we manage to get through the weekend without either getting mauled by a bear, drowned in the river or arrested for being "colored" and unable to produce the President's birth certificate or our immigration papers (or being the friends of those who can't), we'll be back on Sunday. Wish us a safe journey. If there's no internet access, eff Brett Favre and have a great weekend!
Love,
Leslie
Monday, January 17, 2011
My Rant for the Day #1 (8/19/2010)
"I am in mis-er-y
There ain't nobody who can comfort me
Oh yeah . . ."
Maroon Five sure got it right. I am hurtin' and am in some definite misery. In case you hadn't heard, Leslie went to freakin' boot camp today. It's free where I work.
See let me explain something to you.Where I work, this institution of higher learning has one of the best culinary programs in the nation. And the bastards in the culinary program let the devil use them to make cakes and bring them to your office to try out. Then they run a deli/baker and a restaurant that once you keep hitting because they are so cheap and so good, you end up gaining more than 30 pounds in three years. Ain't that a bitch?
So then you get a bunch of unions together who tell our HR dept, "Hey, we fat. Pay for us to be healthy." The next thing you know there's some dude down in the fitness center barking orders at you and you end up upside down jumping rope on a treadmill with a pair of weights up your a$$. That my friends, is the devil's work. And it's where I am. But it's all good right? I'm not sure, but I think my legs are going to fall off tonight.
Laura Schlessinger is a n-word. I forgot to say that yesterday. And if you don't know why I said that, you better ask somebody.
Did you know that Godon Ramsay (Hell's Kitchen) once burned his balls on a stove while he was yelling at a student?
We've been riding one of our friends, Amy, to get unlimited text message for a while now. Well now she's got it, and she's texted me everday to tell me she's got it, but just to be the ignoranomous that I can be at times, I've ignored all her texts. It's what I do.
Did you hear someone found Jesus today? Yeah, he was playing quarterback on the Minneosota Vikings practice field today. At least that's what you would have thought.
Do I have to say it again?
Sure I do.
So here goes.
EFF BRETT FAVRE.
Love,
Leslie
There ain't nobody who can comfort me
Oh yeah . . ."
Maroon Five sure got it right. I am hurtin' and am in some definite misery. In case you hadn't heard, Leslie went to freakin' boot camp today. It's free where I work.
See let me explain something to you.Where I work, this institution of higher learning has one of the best culinary programs in the nation. And the bastards in the culinary program let the devil use them to make cakes and bring them to your office to try out. Then they run a deli/baker and a restaurant that once you keep hitting because they are so cheap and so good, you end up gaining more than 30 pounds in three years. Ain't that a bitch?
So then you get a bunch of unions together who tell our HR dept, "Hey, we fat. Pay for us to be healthy." The next thing you know there's some dude down in the fitness center barking orders at you and you end up upside down jumping rope on a treadmill with a pair of weights up your a$$. That my friends, is the devil's work. And it's where I am. But it's all good right? I'm not sure, but I think my legs are going to fall off tonight.
Laura Schlessinger is a n-word. I forgot to say that yesterday. And if you don't know why I said that, you better ask somebody.
Did you know that Godon Ramsay (Hell's Kitchen) once burned his balls on a stove while he was yelling at a student?
We've been riding one of our friends, Amy, to get unlimited text message for a while now. Well now she's got it, and she's texted me everday to tell me she's got it, but just to be the ignoranomous that I can be at times, I've ignored all her texts. It's what I do.
Did you hear someone found Jesus today? Yeah, he was playing quarterback on the Minneosota Vikings practice field today. At least that's what you would have thought.
Do I have to say it again?
Sure I do.
So here goes.
EFF BRETT FAVRE.
Love,
Leslie
My Rant for the Day (8/17/2010)
Tell your kids. If they need to do a societal experiment, they should go Krogering in Norwood. It has the best of everything.
Let me first say that I haven't shopped in Kroger for several months now. As a company, I despise Kroger, even though my brother Keith, who I love to death, is a marketing research analyst there and shopping there helps his bonuses. But with the new orders to lose weight from my doctor and the lack of my own kitchen until I move, I've been eating Healthy Choices, Lean Cusines and Weight Watchers for lunch. Kroger has the best sale on those. Healthy Choice and Weight watchers are on sale for $1.92 and $1.88 respectively this week so there you go. All the yuppies and buppies have already blown up the Oakley Kroger (yeah Hyde Park people I said Oakley, you can't beat me anyway) so after checking up on my friend after work tonight I decided to shop at the sparkling new Norwood Kroger.
I have to say, the only thing I despise more than Kroger and Hyde Park is Norwood. I'm still having trouble accepting that Rookwood may actually be in Norwood and not Cincinnati. The idea of giving Norwood my money makes me sick. My friend had a car accident in Norwood a few years ago that wasn't her fault and they sent her the bill for the cleanup. Having said all that, I built my bridge and moseyed on into Norwood Kroger tonight.
Do rich people get food stamps? They must. Because in the parking lot I see BMW and Mercedes SUVs. And the Kroger itself is beau-ti-ful I must admit. But on the inside of Kroger I see two toned hair, straight hair weaves with taco meat roots, tight underwear underneath tighter sweat pants, men with no shirts, just a whole lot of mess. And don't get me wrong, if I had food stamps, you couldn't tell me my name is Leslie. But damn? What in the hell is going on here? The BMW-Mercedes people must be spraying themselves for bedbugs in the parking lot. Those you could pick out looked real uncomfy. I just thought it was real funny. I'll definitely be back for more.
The best part of Kroger was my parking space. My car is very small and can fit in the space even when your stupd a$$ parks across the line. Today I was sitting in my car talking to a friend on the phone when this nimrod came back to his car and realized what he had done and that he almost couldn't get back into his car as a result. He turned and looked and was surprised that I was sitting in my car staring at him. He turned back around, took a deep breath and squeezed his stupid a$$ into his car. I couldn't believe I actually got to witness it. Watch how you park people.
I'd like to give a shout out to Katy Blanton - who was in an even worse mood today than I was yesterday. I didn't think that was possible. Katy, I wanted to put my foot in your a$$ today but I was wearing sandals. Next time though. Luyu.
Look here black women. All women really, but black women I'm really talking to you here. If one more of you sports a pair of red, yellow, green, polka dot, whatever underwear with white pants . . . I mean really???? You have to be told not to do this? You want us to see your underwear? You didn't look at your a$$ before you left the house. And when you are brown-skinned and darker . . . oh my goodness it's ten times worse. You have to be kidding me. I'm tazing the next one of you who does it. I'm not playing.
Andy Kennedy (former UC Basketball "Coach") told me to tell you that if you get arrested for punching and cursing out a cab driver while a valet watches and you plead guilty to charges surrounding the incident, don't turn around and sue the cab driver for defammation of character. It won't fly. You'll look like a dumb a$$, and you'll be the one paying out money in the end. What a marooon.
LaBrett is in Minnesota. Some freak ESPN analyst was on the radio tonight talking about how excited WE all are about the impending announcement that surely he's going to play again. WE are so used to having a familiar name. WE can't wait to see the Vikings put the smack down on the dirty New Orleans Saints. Whose WE? Does he have a mouse in his pocket? Eff that. I'm ready for LaBrett to staring collecting his social security checks and that's about it.
I'm done.
Love,
Leslie
Let me first say that I haven't shopped in Kroger for several months now. As a company, I despise Kroger, even though my brother Keith, who I love to death, is a marketing research analyst there and shopping there helps his bonuses. But with the new orders to lose weight from my doctor and the lack of my own kitchen until I move, I've been eating Healthy Choices, Lean Cusines and Weight Watchers for lunch. Kroger has the best sale on those. Healthy Choice and Weight watchers are on sale for $1.92 and $1.88 respectively this week so there you go. All the yuppies and buppies have already blown up the Oakley Kroger (yeah Hyde Park people I said Oakley, you can't beat me anyway) so after checking up on my friend after work tonight I decided to shop at the sparkling new Norwood Kroger.
I have to say, the only thing I despise more than Kroger and Hyde Park is Norwood. I'm still having trouble accepting that Rookwood may actually be in Norwood and not Cincinnati. The idea of giving Norwood my money makes me sick. My friend had a car accident in Norwood a few years ago that wasn't her fault and they sent her the bill for the cleanup. Having said all that, I built my bridge and moseyed on into Norwood Kroger tonight.
Do rich people get food stamps? They must. Because in the parking lot I see BMW and Mercedes SUVs. And the Kroger itself is beau-ti-ful I must admit. But on the inside of Kroger I see two toned hair, straight hair weaves with taco meat roots, tight underwear underneath tighter sweat pants, men with no shirts, just a whole lot of mess. And don't get me wrong, if I had food stamps, you couldn't tell me my name is Leslie. But damn? What in the hell is going on here? The BMW-Mercedes people must be spraying themselves for bedbugs in the parking lot. Those you could pick out looked real uncomfy. I just thought it was real funny. I'll definitely be back for more.
The best part of Kroger was my parking space. My car is very small and can fit in the space even when your stupd a$$ parks across the line. Today I was sitting in my car talking to a friend on the phone when this nimrod came back to his car and realized what he had done and that he almost couldn't get back into his car as a result. He turned and looked and was surprised that I was sitting in my car staring at him. He turned back around, took a deep breath and squeezed his stupid a$$ into his car. I couldn't believe I actually got to witness it. Watch how you park people.
I'd like to give a shout out to Katy Blanton - who was in an even worse mood today than I was yesterday. I didn't think that was possible. Katy, I wanted to put my foot in your a$$ today but I was wearing sandals. Next time though. Luyu.
Look here black women. All women really, but black women I'm really talking to you here. If one more of you sports a pair of red, yellow, green, polka dot, whatever underwear with white pants . . . I mean really???? You have to be told not to do this? You want us to see your underwear? You didn't look at your a$$ before you left the house. And when you are brown-skinned and darker . . . oh my goodness it's ten times worse. You have to be kidding me. I'm tazing the next one of you who does it. I'm not playing.
Andy Kennedy (former UC Basketball "Coach") told me to tell you that if you get arrested for punching and cursing out a cab driver while a valet watches and you plead guilty to charges surrounding the incident, don't turn around and sue the cab driver for defammation of character. It won't fly. You'll look like a dumb a$$, and you'll be the one paying out money in the end. What a marooon.
LaBrett is in Minnesota. Some freak ESPN analyst was on the radio tonight talking about how excited WE all are about the impending announcement that surely he's going to play again. WE are so used to having a familiar name. WE can't wait to see the Vikings put the smack down on the dirty New Orleans Saints. Whose WE? Does he have a mouse in his pocket? Eff that. I'm ready for LaBrett to staring collecting his social security checks and that's about it.
I'm done.
Love,
Leslie
My Rant for the Day (8/16/2010)
The Rant is back and it's angrier than ever.
Don't you just hate when you're in a bad mood and people want to keep talking to you anyway? Even when you warn them? They want to joke and try to make you laugh when they should just leave you alone so you can get try to get over it. They don't seem to get that that the longer they try to make it their life's mission to bring you out of your funk the higher they are escalating on your list of people you'd like to taze. And I love it when they ask if they did something to make you unhappy. Well you hadn't previously, but . . . Anyway, thanks to my fellow co-workers on our contract negotiations team and my friends who had the misfortune of running into me today and catching my "wrath". Y'all the best. And I'm sorry . . . to some of y'all . . . hmpf.
I want to send a huge thank you to one of my closest compadres in the universe, Jody. Jody planned our vacation in Whoville and aside from getting chased by a bat on Friday the 13th (story to come later) we had a great time. Jody, I know I already told you this but you are awesome. Thanks for making me go. I always need you in my life. Love ya kid.
Enough of that mushy stuff.
So CPS goes back to school this week. And I'm wondering what fresh hell the kids will unleash on my big-sissy-roomie Maria who teaches at the Row. They take her kindness for weakness but I know better. One time I put a pineapple upside down cake in the refrigerator overnight. I don't even want to think about the hell she rained down on me the next morning. ******SHUDDERING****** Let's move on.
Some observations from the sports world. First of all, how stupid is Franciso Rodriguez (K-Rod)? If you haven't heard, this is the New York Mets pitcher who put the smackdown on his girlfriend's father (who is his children's grandfather). He was arrested for assault and then suspended for two games. When he returned from suspension and pitched the Mets discovered he had hurt his hand so badly from the fight that he needs surgery. Yeah, he forgot to mention that little tidbit. So now the Mets are pissed, his season is done and his contract, if the Mets can pull it off, is headed for Voidland. I'm guessing the girlfriend might want to void him too after all this. Ya know K-Rod, I'm not a big fan of my dad, so I'm not sure I would leave you if you attempted to separate his head from his shoulders.
Yeah. I'd leave you. Nimrod.
I'm also wondering what the eff is wrong with the Reds Joey Votto? I mean, how do you just get booted twice in the first inning two different games? I was reading this weekend that our media wasn't quite sure what he was saying to get put out. But I'm told by a friend today who is a rabid, I mean avid Reds fan, that the way you get put out is to tell the catcher or ump or both to go eff himself. That'll piss off an ump won't it? But you gotta admit, that boy is talented. And funny.
While on vacation, someone in the cabin said the words "Brett Favre". I blacked out when it happened so I don't remember who said it or why. I don't know if it was someone who sees the rant or not. I just remember waking up screaming.
Speaking of vacation again, did you see my confederate flag and "People of West Virginia" photos? Please make sure to look if you haven't. It's awesome. On the confederate flag stuff, we were busy just snapping pics left and right when one of my friends mentioned something about a gun in the guy's booth. So we backed the eff off. There's also a picture of me holding a shirt encouraging you to try another white meat in your diets. I want you to know that all my friends who went to the Whoville State Fair that day including myself bought that shirt. We all have it in different colors. We're awesome that way.
I have to admit that the folks in West Virigina were very nice. Even to those of color who were on the trip. One day me and Marquitashua went out by ourselves and there were several times when folks spoke to us first, you know, "Good Morning" and that kind of thing. That doesn't even happen here. We only had one instance of wanting to fight a hillbilly chick. Other than that it was all good. I also have to admit we probably took a picture of every black person (and one Hispanic) person we saw. We were amazed.
Don't you hate it when people keep talking about their vacations? I always tell people if I wanted to know about your trip I would have went myself. So aside from the bat story, which I will post when I have the energy, I'm done. Thanks for all the love I got when I returned though - I couldn't rant while I was away since there was no wifi.
Until tomorrow.
Love,
Leslie
Don't you just hate when you're in a bad mood and people want to keep talking to you anyway? Even when you warn them? They want to joke and try to make you laugh when they should just leave you alone so you can get try to get over it. They don't seem to get that that the longer they try to make it their life's mission to bring you out of your funk the higher they are escalating on your list of people you'd like to taze. And I love it when they ask if they did something to make you unhappy. Well you hadn't previously, but . . . Anyway, thanks to my fellow co-workers on our contract negotiations team and my friends who had the misfortune of running into me today and catching my "wrath". Y'all the best. And I'm sorry . . . to some of y'all . . . hmpf.
I want to send a huge thank you to one of my closest compadres in the universe, Jody. Jody planned our vacation in Whoville and aside from getting chased by a bat on Friday the 13th (story to come later) we had a great time. Jody, I know I already told you this but you are awesome. Thanks for making me go. I always need you in my life. Love ya kid.
Enough of that mushy stuff.
So CPS goes back to school this week. And I'm wondering what fresh hell the kids will unleash on my big-sissy-roomie Maria who teaches at the Row. They take her kindness for weakness but I know better. One time I put a pineapple upside down cake in the refrigerator overnight. I don't even want to think about the hell she rained down on me the next morning. ******SHUDDERING****** Let's move on.
Some observations from the sports world. First of all, how stupid is Franciso Rodriguez (K-Rod)? If you haven't heard, this is the New York Mets pitcher who put the smackdown on his girlfriend's father (who is his children's grandfather). He was arrested for assault and then suspended for two games. When he returned from suspension and pitched the Mets discovered he had hurt his hand so badly from the fight that he needs surgery. Yeah, he forgot to mention that little tidbit. So now the Mets are pissed, his season is done and his contract, if the Mets can pull it off, is headed for Voidland. I'm guessing the girlfriend might want to void him too after all this. Ya know K-Rod, I'm not a big fan of my dad, so I'm not sure I would leave you if you attempted to separate his head from his shoulders.
Yeah. I'd leave you. Nimrod.
I'm also wondering what the eff is wrong with the Reds Joey Votto? I mean, how do you just get booted twice in the first inning two different games? I was reading this weekend that our media wasn't quite sure what he was saying to get put out. But I'm told by a friend today who is a rabid, I mean avid Reds fan, that the way you get put out is to tell the catcher or ump or both to go eff himself. That'll piss off an ump won't it? But you gotta admit, that boy is talented. And funny.
While on vacation, someone in the cabin said the words "Brett Favre". I blacked out when it happened so I don't remember who said it or why. I don't know if it was someone who sees the rant or not. I just remember waking up screaming.
Speaking of vacation again, did you see my confederate flag and "People of West Virginia" photos? Please make sure to look if you haven't. It's awesome. On the confederate flag stuff, we were busy just snapping pics left and right when one of my friends mentioned something about a gun in the guy's booth. So we backed the eff off. There's also a picture of me holding a shirt encouraging you to try another white meat in your diets. I want you to know that all my friends who went to the Whoville State Fair that day including myself bought that shirt. We all have it in different colors. We're awesome that way.
I have to admit that the folks in West Virigina were very nice. Even to those of color who were on the trip. One day me and Marquitashua went out by ourselves and there were several times when folks spoke to us first, you know, "Good Morning" and that kind of thing. That doesn't even happen here. We only had one instance of wanting to fight a hillbilly chick. Other than that it was all good. I also have to admit we probably took a picture of every black person (and one Hispanic) person we saw. We were amazed.
Don't you hate it when people keep talking about their vacations? I always tell people if I wanted to know about your trip I would have went myself. So aside from the bat story, which I will post when I have the energy, I'm done. Thanks for all the love I got when I returned though - I couldn't rant while I was away since there was no wifi.
Until tomorrow.
Love,
Leslie
My Rant for the Day (8/10/10)
Would You Like Honey With Your Biscuit?
Use it in a sentence? Ok. The following famous people are (or were) sidepieces: Alicia Keys, Gabrielle Union, any blonde who comes within a 2 mile radius of Tiger Woods, LeAnn Rhimes and Djimon "Give Us Free!" Hounsou.The latest reported sidepiece is Fantasia. Look it up if you hadn't heard (read "sextape"). And to celebrate the news, or according to her manager, after reading about herself in the news, she OD'd on her meds today (Google it). Here's hoping for a speedy recovery, Tasia! I guess even being a sidepiece is stressful. I'm just sayin' . . . "When I think about yoooooooou . . . .", for some reason I can't get that song out of my head. (Ok: Note to some of you: that's a line in her latest song. You just ruined the joke for everyone else. Thanks.)
Ok, so last night I went to the Reds game. I think my employer may have jinxed their bats (it was our night at the game), I'm not sure. Or it could have been the totally politically incorrectness of my group, for example, my brother Keith who told my friend Amy (who is Jewish - you'll find out why that's important in a few more keystrokes) that her stressing over getting her .25 change back from the Lemon Chill vendor (they are $4.75 and she paid with a $5) was the equivalent of him pulling out a huge piece of watermelon, sitting it on his lap and eating it right there in the ball park, rind and all. I warned you people (pun not intended) not to sit in my section.
I almost fought this stupid head at the game last night. He was wearing a Brett Favre jersey. I'm serious. Eff that. Unacceptable. Ain't no place for that at Great American Ballpark. All my life I have to fight. It's like people want to see me lose it. I really wanted to stab him in his gizzards with a spork, but I didn't have one at the time, so I pulled out my "guy whose wearing a Brett Favre jersey at the Reds Game" voodoo doll and stuck a ton of pins in its gonads. By this weekend I promise you he'll feel like he's got Herpes Simplex 10. Woosa.
Question ladies: You do know that bra straps are not part of the outfit right? I mean DANG-IT! If I see one more set of bra straps with a halter top at the college I may just stuff the guilty party in a locker (by the way someone threatened to stuff me in a locker last week but I digress). I've seen bra straps with strapless dresses and tops. Bra straps with cami shirts. Bra straps with bra straps. It's insane. What makes a woman put on a regular bra, and I don't mean a Victoria's Secret bra either, I'm talking plain old Playtex, and then put on either a halter top or strapless top and look in the mirror and go, "Damn, I look good today!" What makes you do that? A bong or something? That's not cute.
One more thing, does anyone have a banjo or overalls I could borrow? I have a feeling I may need them to fit in in West Virigina this week. Maybe I can borrow them from Favre. I hear he has both.
Nite nite.
Love,
Leslie
Sidepiece: A woman or man, whose boyfriend or girlfriend, is either married to or in a relationship with someone else.
Use it in a sentence? Ok. The following famous people are (or were) sidepieces: Alicia Keys, Gabrielle Union, any blonde who comes within a 2 mile radius of Tiger Woods, LeAnn Rhimes and Djimon "Give Us Free!" Hounsou.The latest reported sidepiece is Fantasia. Look it up if you hadn't heard (read "sextape"). And to celebrate the news, or according to her manager, after reading about herself in the news, she OD'd on her meds today (Google it). Here's hoping for a speedy recovery, Tasia! I guess even being a sidepiece is stressful. I'm just sayin' . . . "When I think about yoooooooou . . . .", for some reason I can't get that song out of my head. (Ok: Note to some of you: that's a line in her latest song. You just ruined the joke for everyone else. Thanks.)
Ok, so last night I went to the Reds game. I think my employer may have jinxed their bats (it was our night at the game), I'm not sure. Or it could have been the totally politically incorrectness of my group, for example, my brother Keith who told my friend Amy (who is Jewish - you'll find out why that's important in a few more keystrokes) that her stressing over getting her .25 change back from the Lemon Chill vendor (they are $4.75 and she paid with a $5) was the equivalent of him pulling out a huge piece of watermelon, sitting it on his lap and eating it right there in the ball park, rind and all. I warned you people (pun not intended) not to sit in my section.
I almost fought this stupid head at the game last night. He was wearing a Brett Favre jersey. I'm serious. Eff that. Unacceptable. Ain't no place for that at Great American Ballpark. All my life I have to fight. It's like people want to see me lose it. I really wanted to stab him in his gizzards with a spork, but I didn't have one at the time, so I pulled out my "guy whose wearing a Brett Favre jersey at the Reds Game" voodoo doll and stuck a ton of pins in its gonads. By this weekend I promise you he'll feel like he's got Herpes Simplex 10. Woosa.
Question ladies: You do know that bra straps are not part of the outfit right? I mean DANG-IT! If I see one more set of bra straps with a halter top at the college I may just stuff the guilty party in a locker (by the way someone threatened to stuff me in a locker last week but I digress). I've seen bra straps with strapless dresses and tops. Bra straps with cami shirts. Bra straps with bra straps. It's insane. What makes a woman put on a regular bra, and I don't mean a Victoria's Secret bra either, I'm talking plain old Playtex, and then put on either a halter top or strapless top and look in the mirror and go, "Damn, I look good today!" What makes you do that? A bong or something? That's not cute.
One more thing, does anyone have a banjo or overalls I could borrow? I have a feeling I may need them to fit in in West Virigina this week. Maybe I can borrow them from Favre. I hear he has both.
Nite nite.
Love,
Leslie
My Rant for the Day (8/9/10)
Rod. Todd. This is God.
Remember that line from The Simpsons? Well I had a moment like that yesterday at church. Let me very briefly give you some background. Some of you already know this but I’m questioning whether I am going to stay at my church or go on the hunt for a new one. As a result I haven’t attended my church regularly. And since I haven’t attended regularly, I’ve missed some events, announcements, and so on that I wish I hadn’t have. Because of that, and some other things that happened recently, I felt I should get my behind up there.
I typically go to the 7:45 service, but I hung out so late Saturday that I overslept Sunday. So I was forced to attend, as my mother would call it, “the drunkards mass”, at 10:45. I can’t stand this service because the congregation is a lot different, louder, ruder, more inappropriately dressed – like they headed right over from Shakers or something. And I know this should not be my focus but I’m human and sometimes you can’t help but notice – like the lady on the Lane Bryant Plan who wore the totally see through yellow blouse with matching yellow bra on Easter – no cami or undershirt or tank or nothing – just bra. I know what you’re thinking, at least it matched.
Anyway, I pull into the parking lot and see all the heathens going in. Annoyed as hell (pun intended) I turned my car off and said out loud, “I do not want to go in there.” My next thought was I wonder how long I have to wait before I can turn the car on and speed out of the parking lot without hitting anyone. Then suddenly P. Ann Everson Price (radio personality on MOJO 100.3 who I typically listen to Sunday Morning and am listening to at this point) says, “Get out of the car and go into the building.”
The service was nice.
Going backwards on my weekend, Saturday after dance class (shout out to Robert White) and Findlay Market I went to the hair salon. I go to Personalities by Leona in Clifton, which is on Ludlow across from Semesters and IGA. Ms. Leona was almost done with my hair when across the street we saw what appeared to be a Wildebeest. A wildebeest is a woman with a real bad hair weave wearing a too short, too tight, yeast-infection-causing jumper that she is too old and too swollen to be wearing. I bet you thought a wildebeest was something else didn’t you?
She got out of the car and turned her back to us, drawing a loud collective gasp from everyone in the salon. It was like watching a train wreck happen – you know you should look away, maybe even yell at the car to get the hell off the tracks, but the entertainment value is too high and you just can’t. And what was even crazier was it wasn’t like someone inside said “look at that!” You couldn’t help but look at it. She went into one of the shops across the street and then IGA. And she was too cheap to put money in the meter; she left her hazards flashing the whole time, although she could have been too preoccupied pulling her jumper out of her a$$ to notice she left the flashers on I guess. Anyway, while she was gallivanting up and down Ludlow, a voice in my head, possibly the devil, most likely NOT Jesus, said “Leslie, take a picture of her.” Remember it’s Saturday and church from the previous week (had I gone) would have worn off by now so I did it. The pics are below but they don’t do it justice. You just had to be there . . .
Tonight I’m going to my first Reds game of the year (which is why my rant is early today). I unabashedly admit I am NOT a Reds fan the way I am a Bengals fan. Meaning, I have been putting up with Mike Brown and his bullshiggety for years and I’ve still always been a die-hard Bengals fan. Where the Reds are concerned, I am fair-weather all the way baby! But at least I can admit it. I mean up until this year, the only thing a Reds game (or any baseball game for that matter) has been good for is a nap. Baseball games are good to sleep by. Anyway, I said if the Reds were in contention at the All Star Break I would start attending. Combine that with it’s Cincinnati State Day at the ballpark, and me and six of my closest friends are headed to the game. If you happen to be there, don’t sit in our section. I’m just saying I wouldn’t advise it.
By the way, just in case any of you big headed bamas were thinking of robbing our home while we’re gone, the house won’t be empty so bring it. If you don’t know why I’m saying that, then Google “Woman robbed by Facebook friend”. I promise you I will kick sparks off the musty a$$ of anyone who tries it.
Go Reds! Eff the Cardinals. Eff Brett LaFav-re too. Y’all ain’t see that coming?
Love,
Leslie
Remember that line from The Simpsons? Well I had a moment like that yesterday at church. Let me very briefly give you some background. Some of you already know this but I’m questioning whether I am going to stay at my church or go on the hunt for a new one. As a result I haven’t attended my church regularly. And since I haven’t attended regularly, I’ve missed some events, announcements, and so on that I wish I hadn’t have. Because of that, and some other things that happened recently, I felt I should get my behind up there.
I typically go to the 7:45 service, but I hung out so late Saturday that I overslept Sunday. So I was forced to attend, as my mother would call it, “the drunkards mass”, at 10:45. I can’t stand this service because the congregation is a lot different, louder, ruder, more inappropriately dressed – like they headed right over from Shakers or something. And I know this should not be my focus but I’m human and sometimes you can’t help but notice – like the lady on the Lane Bryant Plan who wore the totally see through yellow blouse with matching yellow bra on Easter – no cami or undershirt or tank or nothing – just bra. I know what you’re thinking, at least it matched.
Anyway, I pull into the parking lot and see all the heathens going in. Annoyed as hell (pun intended) I turned my car off and said out loud, “I do not want to go in there.” My next thought was I wonder how long I have to wait before I can turn the car on and speed out of the parking lot without hitting anyone. Then suddenly P. Ann Everson Price (radio personality on MOJO 100.3 who I typically listen to Sunday Morning and am listening to at this point) says, “Get out of the car and go into the building.”
The service was nice.
Going backwards on my weekend, Saturday after dance class (shout out to Robert White) and Findlay Market I went to the hair salon. I go to Personalities by Leona in Clifton, which is on Ludlow across from Semesters and IGA. Ms. Leona was almost done with my hair when across the street we saw what appeared to be a Wildebeest. A wildebeest is a woman with a real bad hair weave wearing a too short, too tight, yeast-infection-causing jumper that she is too old and too swollen to be wearing. I bet you thought a wildebeest was something else didn’t you?
She got out of the car and turned her back to us, drawing a loud collective gasp from everyone in the salon. It was like watching a train wreck happen – you know you should look away, maybe even yell at the car to get the hell off the tracks, but the entertainment value is too high and you just can’t. And what was even crazier was it wasn’t like someone inside said “look at that!” You couldn’t help but look at it. She went into one of the shops across the street and then IGA. And she was too cheap to put money in the meter; she left her hazards flashing the whole time, although she could have been too preoccupied pulling her jumper out of her a$$ to notice she left the flashers on I guess. Anyway, while she was gallivanting up and down Ludlow, a voice in my head, possibly the devil, most likely NOT Jesus, said “Leslie, take a picture of her.” Remember it’s Saturday and church from the previous week (had I gone) would have worn off by now so I did it. The pics are below but they don’t do it justice. You just had to be there . . .
Tonight I’m going to my first Reds game of the year (which is why my rant is early today). I unabashedly admit I am NOT a Reds fan the way I am a Bengals fan. Meaning, I have been putting up with Mike Brown and his bullshiggety for years and I’ve still always been a die-hard Bengals fan. Where the Reds are concerned, I am fair-weather all the way baby! But at least I can admit it. I mean up until this year, the only thing a Reds game (or any baseball game for that matter) has been good for is a nap. Baseball games are good to sleep by. Anyway, I said if the Reds were in contention at the All Star Break I would start attending. Combine that with it’s Cincinnati State Day at the ballpark, and me and six of my closest friends are headed to the game. If you happen to be there, don’t sit in our section. I’m just saying I wouldn’t advise it.
By the way, just in case any of you big headed bamas were thinking of robbing our home while we’re gone, the house won’t be empty so bring it. If you don’t know why I’m saying that, then Google “Woman robbed by Facebook friend”. I promise you I will kick sparks off the musty a$$ of anyone who tries it.
Go Reds! Eff the Cardinals. Eff Brett LaFav-re too. Y’all ain’t see that coming?
Love,
Leslie
My Rant for the Day (8/6/2010)
Big ups to Krystal one of my closest friends and the hypocrite of the week. Why? I'm glad you asked. Over the last two weeks I put on my facebook page that I bought a dress for $10 in Michigan, $8 at Macy's and a few days later I bought another dress for $3 at the Goodwill. That's a total of $21. Stop counting and put your shoes back on. Anyway, Kris gave me hell for buying all three dresses; she said I'm supposed to be saving for a trip we want to take. And at first I thought, "Eff you running Krystal." Then I thought, she's right. I'll stop even if the dress is only $3.
Then it happened. And knowing Krystal, I should have known better. Who sashayed past me at work yesterday in a cute yellow dress? Uh huh, Krystal. I'm going on and on to her about how cute her dress is and where did she get it. She tells me she bought it recently and it was 80% off. SERIOUSLY? This goofball doesn't even get it. So I ask you Krystal, because I know you're reading this because I told you I was calling you out today though I can't believe you didn't know why: DO YOU WANT TO BE THE POT OR THE KETTLE?
I forgot to share this story yesterday. This one goes out to Kristina who hates all things uppity. And who can blame her for that? Anyway, yesterday after I left the doctor to go to work, I stopped at the Kenwood McDonalds. Can I just say that I don't get why Kenwood doesn't have it together logistically with this McDonalds.?. At 12 noon cars are stacked on to Montgomery Road because of the way the drive-thru is set up. So to keep from getting rammed on Montgomery Road, I go inside. Anyway, that's not my rant. Inside I promise you is Stay-at-home Mom Jurassic Park. Seems like they all have wet hair from the pool and each mom is at least eight kids deep. There's happy meals all over the damn place. But hell, I'm not happy; I think they should have their own freakin' McDonalds and leave the rest of us who have to work for a living alone. But that's not my rant either.
Here's my rant. In front of me is a swim mom. She's holding up the line for some reason. The cashier, a pleasant young lady, is just staring at her. Finally I hear the lady say something about something being in her car and she'll be right back. Then she runs out of the restaurant. Huh? I'm next in line, yet something tells me not to move. So I don't. Then the cashier looks at me pitifully. And I look at her sympathetically. Then I look to my left and I see about five happy meals stacked on the counter. But I still don't get it. Then a sharply dressed gentlemen behind the counter, probably the owner, asks her what's going on. The young lady tells him that all the swim mom's credit cards have been declined and she went out to the car to get another one.So he rolls his eyes and keeps trying to contain all the other wet hair dinosaurs (look that up, it has to be a species).
Minutes go by and swim hair mom doesn't come back. The line is now to the door. And frustrated, the owner tells her to go to the empty register and start ringing us up. So she does. More minutes go by and I'm out the door, but swim hair never returned - at least not while I was there. I'm wondering if she came back, but I think I know the answer to that. Not to revel in someone else's embarr-a$$ed-ment. But hey - at least I made Kristina giggle today.
I discovered I've been spelling the Energizer Bunny's name wrong all week. It's Favre, not Farve. Who gives a shiggety right? You all didn't, not enough to correct me. Not even you Mr. "leave Brett Favre alone" Ward. Anyway, Yahoo says this is the latest: he says, "I talked to them. They know." Meaning the Vikings already know if this punk a$$ed punk is going to play or not. Rat-faced bastard.
The rant goes silent on weekends I've decided. I'm going to dance tomorrow morning then to the salon. Then church and who knows what else Sunday. I hope you have a great weekend!
Love you guys!
Leslie
Then it happened. And knowing Krystal, I should have known better. Who sashayed past me at work yesterday in a cute yellow dress? Uh huh, Krystal. I'm going on and on to her about how cute her dress is and where did she get it. She tells me she bought it recently and it was 80% off. SERIOUSLY? This goofball doesn't even get it. So I ask you Krystal, because I know you're reading this because I told you I was calling you out today though I can't believe you didn't know why: DO YOU WANT TO BE THE POT OR THE KETTLE?
I forgot to share this story yesterday. This one goes out to Kristina who hates all things uppity. And who can blame her for that? Anyway, yesterday after I left the doctor to go to work, I stopped at the Kenwood McDonalds. Can I just say that I don't get why Kenwood doesn't have it together logistically with this McDonalds.?. At 12 noon cars are stacked on to Montgomery Road because of the way the drive-thru is set up. So to keep from getting rammed on Montgomery Road, I go inside. Anyway, that's not my rant. Inside I promise you is Stay-at-home Mom Jurassic Park. Seems like they all have wet hair from the pool and each mom is at least eight kids deep. There's happy meals all over the damn place. But hell, I'm not happy; I think they should have their own freakin' McDonalds and leave the rest of us who have to work for a living alone. But that's not my rant either.
Here's my rant. In front of me is a swim mom. She's holding up the line for some reason. The cashier, a pleasant young lady, is just staring at her. Finally I hear the lady say something about something being in her car and she'll be right back. Then she runs out of the restaurant. Huh? I'm next in line, yet something tells me not to move. So I don't. Then the cashier looks at me pitifully. And I look at her sympathetically. Then I look to my left and I see about five happy meals stacked on the counter. But I still don't get it. Then a sharply dressed gentlemen behind the counter, probably the owner, asks her what's going on. The young lady tells him that all the swim mom's credit cards have been declined and she went out to the car to get another one.So he rolls his eyes and keeps trying to contain all the other wet hair dinosaurs (look that up, it has to be a species).
Minutes go by and swim hair mom doesn't come back. The line is now to the door. And frustrated, the owner tells her to go to the empty register and start ringing us up. So she does. More minutes go by and I'm out the door, but swim hair never returned - at least not while I was there. I'm wondering if she came back, but I think I know the answer to that. Not to revel in someone else's embarr-a$$ed-ment. But hey - at least I made Kristina giggle today.
I discovered I've been spelling the Energizer Bunny's name wrong all week. It's Favre, not Farve. Who gives a shiggety right? You all didn't, not enough to correct me. Not even you Mr. "leave Brett Favre alone" Ward. Anyway, Yahoo says this is the latest: he says, "I talked to them. They know." Meaning the Vikings already know if this punk a$$ed punk is going to play or not. Rat-faced bastard.
The rant goes silent on weekends I've decided. I'm going to dance tomorrow morning then to the salon. Then church and who knows what else Sunday. I hope you have a great weekend!
Love you guys!
Leslie
My Rant for the Day 8/4/2010
And so the madness begins . . .
Will he or won’t he? Should he or shouldn’t he? Should the media even be following it as hard as they are? If you don’t know, I’m talking about Brett Farve. Yesterday the report was that he wasn’t going back to the Vikings. Today he’s supposedly saying he never said that. ESPN radio pointed out today that we’ve been going through this with him for the last seven, count em’, SEVEN seasons. As far as I’m concerned he can kiss my a$$ seven times, because I’m tired of it (for those of you who need clarification, it's not my a$$ I'm tired of, it's Farve).
Tony Dungy was on the Tom Joyner Morning Show this morning. He’s written another book. You should look it up yourself because I don’t remember what it was called. Anyway, when asked about Terrell Owens and Chad Ochocinco in Cincinnati, he very quickly responded that they won’t last a year together. As Mr. Joyner pointed out, he almost cussed. Anyway, I can agree with that. Then Coach Dungy went on to say he’s praying for Coach Marvin Lewis and he’s picking the Colts (imagine that) to go back to the Superbowl. Eff the Colts. And while I’m at it, eff the Cowboys, the Steelers, the Vikings, the Seahawks (that’s for you Housh – I know you’re not reading this but eff you anyway) and some other teams I can’t stand but am too tired to think of right now. I actually like the Colts by the way. But eff them never-the-less.
Oh and they are picking Pitt to win the Big East this season. Eff “they” and Pitt too.
Did you wish the President a happy birthday today? Well I did. And you know what he did after I signed his little online card? He asked me for money. How did I not see that one coming? Anyway, I signed the card because I forgot to wear my President Obama pin or red, white and blue garb today in support of him. I’m getting old. I can’t remember everything. Though as I think of it, those of you I saw today weren’t supporting the President with your threads either. Chumps.
This morning I was walking down the hall behind a student. He smelled like a skunk. It’s too bad I don’t keep tomato juice in my purse. I would have dumped it on him.
Stop saying “It’s Hot!” like we don’t know it’s hot. It’s Zimbabwe degrees. Yes we know that. You’re gonna file a restraining order on the sun. Heard that one before too. You’re just making it hotter every time you say it (yes that statement has been scientifically proven) so hush up.
Some people called, texted and emailed me today because my relationship status “changed”. Chillax. It didn’t really change folks. I deleted it. In fact, it hasn’t changed. So if you knew what my status was before, it’s still that. I just really wanted a lot of people to call me today :).
I have a co-worker who is annoyingly upbeat in the mornings when she comes in. Says good morning to me each of the first eight times she walks past me every day. Sweet as she can be and I like her but all I’m saying is that for the first hour of the day I just want to body slam her. Today I noticed when she came in she wasn’t as cheerful. Then she got on the phone and started crying. So I got up, gave her my box of tissues and closed her door so she could be alone. When she came out of her office later she told me she learned that a friend she had been trying to get a hold of died this morning. I hugged her and then we went in the back office and talked for a while and I gave her some words of encouragement and prayed with her a little, all the while my heart was breaking again about losing my mom. It’s amazing what you can do even when you think you just don’t have the strength isn’t it? Anyway, I hope I was able to do her some good. And I hope I get my tissues back. They're expensive.
:)
Next week I’m going on my next adventure. Let’s see, so far this year it’s been Sacramento, Louisville and Detroit. Next week it’s somewhere in West Virginia. Twelve of us have rented a cabin and nine of them are going rafting while the rest of us find something else to get into. This group does this kind of thing a lot – rafting and camping. And I’ve been invited just about each time. But I have a strict rule about that and it’s very simple. If I hypothetically could not put a relaxer in my hair at the facilities we’d be staying in, it’s a no for me. And as far as rafting goes, I can’t swim. But if I could, if after the rafting course there’s no beautician, relaxer kit, shampoo bowl, blow dryer and flat iron . . . well I just don’t see it happening. You’ve seen my hair, it’s too much freakin’ work. So when I was asked this time, I said yes after being allowed to help secure the cabin. I’m excited about it. Even if I just sleep and cook the whole time. I won’t be here, and that’s the point. By the way, I wouldn’t really put a relaxer in my hair at the cabin. That’s just silly. I’d at least go into Virginia and find a good salon. Relaxer in a cabin, I mean really. Anyway, those of you who keep saying I’m cranky and need anger management yet you keep coming around me anyway because you really want to hear what I’m going to say or see what I’m going to do next, or you keep hopping on my Facebook page to see what I'm "screaming" about this time, hopefully I will get enough rest while I’m away and come back happier - not that I'm unhappy now. But anything for you people. In the meantime, have some cheese with that wine.
And for those of you who have seen me wearing the brace on my hand and wrist, tomorrow I go to the doctor to start the process of finding out what’s going on. So keep me in your prayers. I know I don’t deserve it. Do it anyway. I’ll keep you posted.
Thanks for reading. It's always an honor to have your support and feedback.
Love,
Leslie
Will he or won’t he? Should he or shouldn’t he? Should the media even be following it as hard as they are? If you don’t know, I’m talking about Brett Farve. Yesterday the report was that he wasn’t going back to the Vikings. Today he’s supposedly saying he never said that. ESPN radio pointed out today that we’ve been going through this with him for the last seven, count em’, SEVEN seasons. As far as I’m concerned he can kiss my a$$ seven times, because I’m tired of it (for those of you who need clarification, it's not my a$$ I'm tired of, it's Farve).
Tony Dungy was on the Tom Joyner Morning Show this morning. He’s written another book. You should look it up yourself because I don’t remember what it was called. Anyway, when asked about Terrell Owens and Chad Ochocinco in Cincinnati, he very quickly responded that they won’t last a year together. As Mr. Joyner pointed out, he almost cussed. Anyway, I can agree with that. Then Coach Dungy went on to say he’s praying for Coach Marvin Lewis and he’s picking the Colts (imagine that) to go back to the Superbowl. Eff the Colts. And while I’m at it, eff the Cowboys, the Steelers, the Vikings, the Seahawks (that’s for you Housh – I know you’re not reading this but eff you anyway) and some other teams I can’t stand but am too tired to think of right now. I actually like the Colts by the way. But eff them never-the-less.
Oh and they are picking Pitt to win the Big East this season. Eff “they” and Pitt too.
Did you wish the President a happy birthday today? Well I did. And you know what he did after I signed his little online card? He asked me for money. How did I not see that one coming? Anyway, I signed the card because I forgot to wear my President Obama pin or red, white and blue garb today in support of him. I’m getting old. I can’t remember everything. Though as I think of it, those of you I saw today weren’t supporting the President with your threads either. Chumps.
This morning I was walking down the hall behind a student. He smelled like a skunk. It’s too bad I don’t keep tomato juice in my purse. I would have dumped it on him.
Stop saying “It’s Hot!” like we don’t know it’s hot. It’s Zimbabwe degrees. Yes we know that. You’re gonna file a restraining order on the sun. Heard that one before too. You’re just making it hotter every time you say it (yes that statement has been scientifically proven) so hush up.
Some people called, texted and emailed me today because my relationship status “changed”. Chillax. It didn’t really change folks. I deleted it. In fact, it hasn’t changed. So if you knew what my status was before, it’s still that. I just really wanted a lot of people to call me today :).
I have a co-worker who is annoyingly upbeat in the mornings when she comes in. Says good morning to me each of the first eight times she walks past me every day. Sweet as she can be and I like her but all I’m saying is that for the first hour of the day I just want to body slam her. Today I noticed when she came in she wasn’t as cheerful. Then she got on the phone and started crying. So I got up, gave her my box of tissues and closed her door so she could be alone. When she came out of her office later she told me she learned that a friend she had been trying to get a hold of died this morning. I hugged her and then we went in the back office and talked for a while and I gave her some words of encouragement and prayed with her a little, all the while my heart was breaking again about losing my mom. It’s amazing what you can do even when you think you just don’t have the strength isn’t it? Anyway, I hope I was able to do her some good. And I hope I get my tissues back. They're expensive.
:)
Next week I’m going on my next adventure. Let’s see, so far this year it’s been Sacramento, Louisville and Detroit. Next week it’s somewhere in West Virginia. Twelve of us have rented a cabin and nine of them are going rafting while the rest of us find something else to get into. This group does this kind of thing a lot – rafting and camping. And I’ve been invited just about each time. But I have a strict rule about that and it’s very simple. If I hypothetically could not put a relaxer in my hair at the facilities we’d be staying in, it’s a no for me. And as far as rafting goes, I can’t swim. But if I could, if after the rafting course there’s no beautician, relaxer kit, shampoo bowl, blow dryer and flat iron . . . well I just don’t see it happening. You’ve seen my hair, it’s too much freakin’ work. So when I was asked this time, I said yes after being allowed to help secure the cabin. I’m excited about it. Even if I just sleep and cook the whole time. I won’t be here, and that’s the point. By the way, I wouldn’t really put a relaxer in my hair at the cabin. That’s just silly. I’d at least go into Virginia and find a good salon. Relaxer in a cabin, I mean really. Anyway, those of you who keep saying I’m cranky and need anger management yet you keep coming around me anyway because you really want to hear what I’m going to say or see what I’m going to do next, or you keep hopping on my Facebook page to see what I'm "screaming" about this time, hopefully I will get enough rest while I’m away and come back happier - not that I'm unhappy now. But anything for you people. In the meantime, have some cheese with that wine.
And for those of you who have seen me wearing the brace on my hand and wrist, tomorrow I go to the doctor to start the process of finding out what’s going on. So keep me in your prayers. I know I don’t deserve it. Do it anyway. I’ll keep you posted.
Thanks for reading. It's always an honor to have your support and feedback.
Love,
Leslie
Eff You Mary Phelps Jacob (Orginially Posted to Facebook on 7/24/2010)
More from my misadventures:
I left the house this particular morning to go to the hair salon and run errands while Maria (Big-Sister-Roommate) left to go walk her dogs with her best friend. She had mentioned going to an immigration reform rally (Maria is Latina) earlier in the week but didn’t say much more so I forgot about it.
Fellas, you have to excuse me for a few keystrokes while I talk to the ladies, although you will probably find this conversation to be very interesting.
Ladies, no matter how big or small you are, sometimes you have to be free. You know what I’m talking about. No? Okay I’m talking about your cachungas. They come in all shapes or sizes ‘A’ through ‘God –Knows-What’. I’ve heard there’s even a ‘KKK’ size. Really. And no matter what size you are, again, sometimes you have to be free. Some of you are a nice single or double letter size, some of you have ventured into “three-letter-land” and may be flirting with letters like ‘F’,’G’ and ‘H’. Some of you need back surgery and some of you only need a bra when you cough. It doesn’t matter. Freedom is real and it’s deep. Sometimes they need to stick out or hang down – sometimes very low but freely. I’m talking when your headlights come on your shoes light up. I’m talking you trip over them when you walk and you’re okay with that. I’m told by a male friend that men don’t care about this by the way. I don’t think I believe that; I think he was dropped on his head once as child and then again as an adult but I digress. I think I’ve made my point.
Well I gotta tell you – I’m in that triple letter range, and some of my cachunga holders have ventured above that depending on the manufacturer. They’re pretty large and in charge. And wearing that bra all the time does not please me.
Okay now I’m addressing all of you.
On this fateful day, the first thing I did when I got home about 1 p.m. that day was rip this offending piece of bondage off of me – but for some reason I kept the rest of my clothes on. Then beat from the week before, still reeling about my mom’s death, just mentally & physically drained, I plopped down in a living room chair and turned on the TV. I remember looking at the clock. It was about 1:30 and I started thinking about what I was going to do for the rest of the day. I also remember thinking Maria had better get home soon or she would be late for the rally. Then I remember drifting off.
The rally was supposed to begin at 3 p.m. At about 2:45 the door flew open and absolute chaos erupted. The dogs flew in and started to jump on me. The cats performed a perfect 6-point scatter drill. And Maria ran past me and up the stairs yelling that she was going to be late for the rally and did I want to go.
Decision time, and apparently it needed to be made superfast. My sleep-induced, blurry fog hazed thought process was: I can stay home and let these effin’ animals crawl all over me while I’m feeling sorry for myself, or I can go rally behind some people who have bigger problems than me. I decided to go to the rally. But the problem now is Maria is tearing back down the steps yelling am I going because we gotta leave and pick up a student (Maria teaches at the Row). I yell that I’ve decided to go and I jump up and run around trying to get ready. Boy it’s a good thing I’m already dressed I think to my too smart for my own good self. I run in my room and change my purse to something I can just wear cross body, grab my keys and run out of the house – Maria is already in the car. We have less than five minutes to get from Silverton to Hartwell – and by the way, if we didn’t have to pick up this student, my money would be on Maria to make it.
So we’re sailing down Galbraith. I’ve got my head leaned back on the headrest and we’re listening to the radio. I’m feeling relaxed. Too relaxed. If you haven’t already figured it out, I left a step off back there when I was describing to you how I got ready to leave the house. But now I’ve realized it – and it’s decision time again. Do I tell her or keep it to myself? If I tell her, I’m pretty sure I’ll be reliving this moment at her leisure for the next 40 years. If I don’t tell her, and she figures it out (which since we’re both strictly dickly she won’t be looking but just in case), I’m pretty sure I’ll be reliving this moment at her leisure for the next 40 years. Add to that the fact we are going to pick up a female student who could possibly figure it out and I’m sure to relive this moment for AT LEAST the next 40 years.
Remember this kids: there are consequences and repercussions for your actions. When you screw up, you should always out yourself I believe. That way you have some control over those consequences and repercussions. I decide to tell Maria myself:
Me: “Sooooo, Maria?”
Maria: “Yah?”
Me: “I’m not wearing a bra.”
Maria: (Shrieking like a Howler Monkey) “WHAT?!”
Me: “I forgot to put in on.”
Maria: “As big as those things are you forgot?”
OK I know what you’re thinking. She looks. But here’s why. In December I gave Maria hell about her cup size once she informed me what size she thought she was. Having worked at Lane Bryant in the past and being forced to learn how to size women, I know that most women are not wearing the correct size. So long story short, Maria bought an evening gown for a gala she was going to, decided to buy a new bra for the dress, and got her face broke once she discovered what size she really wears. And you know me, I texted all our friends about it who wanted to know what planet she thought she was living on, and I laughed and gave her hell about it for days. I even started calling her ‘D’ which is the size she was – no longer. Karma’s a bitch. Believe that Shugas. Now back to the car ride.
Maria: “Well do you want to go back and get it?”
Me: “No. I’ll just keep my arms crossed and try not to think about it.” (Right.)
So we pick up the student and make it to the rally. It’s chilly out but it was at the point where you could go with a sweatshirt or sweater. I had on a zip-up hoodie. Matter-of-fact I think it’s in one of my photos. It’s a green color with ruffles on it. Ruffles, just what I need. Attention to my cachungas. And remember I’m wearing my purse cross-body, so instead of it resting between Pluck 1 and 2, it’s smashing them. Maria keeps insisting I look fine. She’s a damn liar, but a good Big-Sister-Roomie.
So I made it though the rally by going to the back of the room and sitting on the floor with the students and keeping my arms crossed most of the event. That gets tiring by the way. And if you’ve ever been to one of these events, the chant you hear most often is “Si Se Puede!” which roughly translated Spanish to English is “Yes We Can!” Though as they are chanting I’m thinking, “We must, we must, we must increase our bust!” from “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret?” most women my age read as little girls. I’ll pay for that too. We made it home without incident, and within the next few weeks I went out and bought one of those cachunga holders you allegedly can’t tell you’re wearing just in case.
By the way, Mary Phelps Jacob, whose in the title of this story, happens to be the dump truck faced hooker who invented the bra in the first place. I put all of this on her. If she made it to Heaven when she died, I hope my mother is up there body slamming her right now – although from what I’ve heard they probably don’t allow that up there. And knowing my mother, she probably thinks all of this is funny.
Oh well. Eff you Mary.
Love,
Leslie
I left the house this particular morning to go to the hair salon and run errands while Maria (Big-Sister-Roommate) left to go walk her dogs with her best friend. She had mentioned going to an immigration reform rally (Maria is Latina) earlier in the week but didn’t say much more so I forgot about it.
Fellas, you have to excuse me for a few keystrokes while I talk to the ladies, although you will probably find this conversation to be very interesting.
Ladies, no matter how big or small you are, sometimes you have to be free. You know what I’m talking about. No? Okay I’m talking about your cachungas. They come in all shapes or sizes ‘A’ through ‘God –Knows-What’. I’ve heard there’s even a ‘KKK’ size. Really. And no matter what size you are, again, sometimes you have to be free. Some of you are a nice single or double letter size, some of you have ventured into “three-letter-land” and may be flirting with letters like ‘F’,’G’ and ‘H’. Some of you need back surgery and some of you only need a bra when you cough. It doesn’t matter. Freedom is real and it’s deep. Sometimes they need to stick out or hang down – sometimes very low but freely. I’m talking when your headlights come on your shoes light up. I’m talking you trip over them when you walk and you’re okay with that. I’m told by a male friend that men don’t care about this by the way. I don’t think I believe that; I think he was dropped on his head once as child and then again as an adult but I digress. I think I’ve made my point.
Well I gotta tell you – I’m in that triple letter range, and some of my cachunga holders have ventured above that depending on the manufacturer. They’re pretty large and in charge. And wearing that bra all the time does not please me.
Okay now I’m addressing all of you.
On this fateful day, the first thing I did when I got home about 1 p.m. that day was rip this offending piece of bondage off of me – but for some reason I kept the rest of my clothes on. Then beat from the week before, still reeling about my mom’s death, just mentally & physically drained, I plopped down in a living room chair and turned on the TV. I remember looking at the clock. It was about 1:30 and I started thinking about what I was going to do for the rest of the day. I also remember thinking Maria had better get home soon or she would be late for the rally. Then I remember drifting off.
The rally was supposed to begin at 3 p.m. At about 2:45 the door flew open and absolute chaos erupted. The dogs flew in and started to jump on me. The cats performed a perfect 6-point scatter drill. And Maria ran past me and up the stairs yelling that she was going to be late for the rally and did I want to go.
Decision time, and apparently it needed to be made superfast. My sleep-induced, blurry fog hazed thought process was: I can stay home and let these effin’ animals crawl all over me while I’m feeling sorry for myself, or I can go rally behind some people who have bigger problems than me. I decided to go to the rally. But the problem now is Maria is tearing back down the steps yelling am I going because we gotta leave and pick up a student (Maria teaches at the Row). I yell that I’ve decided to go and I jump up and run around trying to get ready. Boy it’s a good thing I’m already dressed I think to my too smart for my own good self. I run in my room and change my purse to something I can just wear cross body, grab my keys and run out of the house – Maria is already in the car. We have less than five minutes to get from Silverton to Hartwell – and by the way, if we didn’t have to pick up this student, my money would be on Maria to make it.
So we’re sailing down Galbraith. I’ve got my head leaned back on the headrest and we’re listening to the radio. I’m feeling relaxed. Too relaxed. If you haven’t already figured it out, I left a step off back there when I was describing to you how I got ready to leave the house. But now I’ve realized it – and it’s decision time again. Do I tell her or keep it to myself? If I tell her, I’m pretty sure I’ll be reliving this moment at her leisure for the next 40 years. If I don’t tell her, and she figures it out (which since we’re both strictly dickly she won’t be looking but just in case), I’m pretty sure I’ll be reliving this moment at her leisure for the next 40 years. Add to that the fact we are going to pick up a female student who could possibly figure it out and I’m sure to relive this moment for AT LEAST the next 40 years.
Remember this kids: there are consequences and repercussions for your actions. When you screw up, you should always out yourself I believe. That way you have some control over those consequences and repercussions. I decide to tell Maria myself:
Me: “Sooooo, Maria?”
Maria: “Yah?”
Me: “I’m not wearing a bra.”
Maria: (Shrieking like a Howler Monkey) “WHAT?!”
Me: “I forgot to put in on.”
Maria: “As big as those things are you forgot?”
OK I know what you’re thinking. She looks. But here’s why. In December I gave Maria hell about her cup size once she informed me what size she thought she was. Having worked at Lane Bryant in the past and being forced to learn how to size women, I know that most women are not wearing the correct size. So long story short, Maria bought an evening gown for a gala she was going to, decided to buy a new bra for the dress, and got her face broke once she discovered what size she really wears. And you know me, I texted all our friends about it who wanted to know what planet she thought she was living on, and I laughed and gave her hell about it for days. I even started calling her ‘D’ which is the size she was – no longer. Karma’s a bitch. Believe that Shugas. Now back to the car ride.
Maria: “Well do you want to go back and get it?”
Me: “No. I’ll just keep my arms crossed and try not to think about it.” (Right.)
So we pick up the student and make it to the rally. It’s chilly out but it was at the point where you could go with a sweatshirt or sweater. I had on a zip-up hoodie. Matter-of-fact I think it’s in one of my photos. It’s a green color with ruffles on it. Ruffles, just what I need. Attention to my cachungas. And remember I’m wearing my purse cross-body, so instead of it resting between Pluck 1 and 2, it’s smashing them. Maria keeps insisting I look fine. She’s a damn liar, but a good Big-Sister-Roomie.
So I made it though the rally by going to the back of the room and sitting on the floor with the students and keeping my arms crossed most of the event. That gets tiring by the way. And if you’ve ever been to one of these events, the chant you hear most often is “Si Se Puede!” which roughly translated Spanish to English is “Yes We Can!” Though as they are chanting I’m thinking, “We must, we must, we must increase our bust!” from “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret?” most women my age read as little girls. I’ll pay for that too. We made it home without incident, and within the next few weeks I went out and bought one of those cachunga holders you allegedly can’t tell you’re wearing just in case.
By the way, Mary Phelps Jacob, whose in the title of this story, happens to be the dump truck faced hooker who invented the bra in the first place. I put all of this on her. If she made it to Heaven when she died, I hope my mother is up there body slamming her right now – although from what I’ve heard they probably don’t allow that up there. And knowing my mother, she probably thinks all of this is funny.
Oh well. Eff you Mary.
Love,
Leslie
This is my Confession . . . (Originally posted to Facebook on 7/6/2010)
I’ve made the mistake of finally opening up and telling this story to some of you within the last few months. You all whined “You should put that on Facebook!” So here it goes. I can only hope my story telling abilities make Huey proud.
In elementary school I (along with Alicia Barishman (my very first BFF), Myrna Sanders, Weslea Snyder, Danny Tuggle, and Carl Wells) attended Linwood Fundamental Academy in the East End (it’s closed now). Linwood was split into two fractions for each grade level: the so-called smart kids, and the so-called almost as smart kids. Yours truly made it through K through 6 in the so-called smart group (note – Alicia, Myrna and I were usually 1-2-3 in our class somehow and were close – but even they don’t know this story). We were the privileged elite. We had stars on our bellies, ate grey poupon on our hot dogs, snacked on only the best paste and slept on waterbeds after being fed grapes by the pre-schoolers down the street at nap time while the other kids slept on mats. Ok, that’s all a slight exaggeration, but you get what I’m saying.
Anyway, the so-called smart kids went through Linwood with these teachers: In kindergarten we had Mrs. Weinstein. Knowing what I know now I’d say that Mrs. Weinstein was hotter than a fur coat in Zimbabwe. Hotter than a preacher’s knee even. She was a brickhouse. She didn’t wear a bra. Boys – you’d do her. First grade brought Mrs. Wuest, who looked like a pretty Quaker Oats man, if that’s possible. The “smartest kids” got to massage her back while the rest of the class played seven up. Dumb asses. The second grade was Mrs. Lackey, who always got on me about eating my dessert first (thinking back I should have listened to her – what you’re about to read might not have happened). The third grade was Mrs. Moyer, a nice, nice, nice, older woman. I LOVED Mrs. Moyer. Then it was downhill from there.
The fourth grade brought us Dottie Cook. Mrs. Cook was a mean looking son of a biscuit eating bulldog. She was tall. She had short hair. Had I known what the term “Butch” meant then I’m sure I would have stereotyped her right into a commitment ceremony with Ellen DeGeneres, although that would have been statutory r- whatever ANYWAY she had that so-called look. She made us learn Japanese. Why do that to a fourth grader? I see no value in that – the last time I went to Benihana the chef’s name was Mike and he spoke English better than I do. She effin’ scared me like no teacher ever had. My sadistic mother, however, loved her.
Several of the teachers at Linwood traumatized us with incentives for high grades starting at the fourth grade level. In the fifth grade it was a trip to Mrs. Buquo’s house in Pleasant Ridge for a cookout. In the sixth grade it was an ice-cream social after school with Mrs. Shanks (God rest her soul). Mrs. Cook started the madness off in the fourth grade with a swim party at a hotel in Kentucky (I don’t remember which one – I don’t swim – swimming ruins relaxers - it was traumatizing ok?)
Being that this was my first competition to kick some 4th grade ass, the stress was a little too much to handle. Thus it was in the fourth grade that I first began to gain weight – in my stomach. Wait for it.
In the early 80’s there wasn’t much said about weight. No one really explained it to us. Stress eating. WTF? I didn’t understand weight. You’ll see shortly I also didn’t understand a lot of shit. Now let’s concentrate on my sadistic Mommie – who as I write this has probably gathered her friends and family with her in heaven as I reminisce, and are laughing hysterically at me right now.
For those of you who don’t know, I grew up in Winton Hills. When my mom moved there in 1963, it was a much happier and nice place to live. People WANTED to live there. Pan to 1983-1984, things aren’t horrible yet, but they are getting there. The young girls in the neighborhood are starting to sex it up and some are running their mouths about it. And even worse, they are starting to get pregnant. My mom walked me to the bus stop every day. After I got on my bus, she would get on hers and go to work. One morning we walked past a white car with fogged up windows. The car was as my Bishop would say “rockin’ and shakin’ and shakin’ and rockin’”. Stealing a look inside I could see it was the neighborhood garden tool who at this point had already given birth a couple of times. I won’t say her name because I know at least one of you knows her.
My mom, at this point madder than a dog in a hubcap factory, chose this moment to teach me about the birds and the bees. It went just like this: “IF YOU ARE OLD ENOUGH TO HAVE A BABY, YOU ARE OLD ENOUGH TO GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” I was eight. Maybe nine. How old are you in the fourth grade? Don’t remember much after “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Even worse, I don’t really understand what’s going on in the car at this point and what that has to do with having a baby and getting put out. Y’all thought my mom was nice didn’t you? Silly rabbits.
Unfortunately, at some point in the year there was also a sixth grader at my school who got pregnant. My mom (who volunteered at my school) only told me that she couldn’t tell me what happened, but that she would be having a baby soon and don’t stare at her when her stomach grows.
Let’s get back to Demon Cook, I mean Dottie Cook, my fourth grade teacher. Teaching me Japanese. Making me write it. Math is hard. Reading and writing sucks. I can’t talk to my mom about it because she loves Mrs. Cook. So I start to talk to my plate. We talked a lot. I talked to ribs and barbecue sauces. I talked to fried fish on Fridays. I even talked to steak and fries at times. (For those of you cursing my mother – there were always vegetables involved – we had a very healthy cat – I didn’t say I ate them.) So my stomach started growing. And so you have a naive (read dumb ass) fourth grader, afraid of her teacher, afraid of an angry, crazy mother, doesn’t get the birds and the bees things. All I know is that other girl’s stomach is starting growing too and she had a baby. Every time some hoodrat in my hood’s stomach grows, she has a baby. So of course – I must be having a baby too. Shit, I’m pregnant in the 4th grade. It sucks to be me.
What the hell do I do now? I’m all washed up at nine. What do you do with a baby? I mean I have an idea – I have some baby dolls at home. But my mom won’t even let me have a Baby Alive. She says they draw roaches. Oh my God – babies draw roaches! I can’t have a baby. My mom is gonna punch me right in the throat. She hates roaches. How did this happen? When did this happen? How do I hide it? Where am I gonna live after she kicks me out of the house? I’m afraid of my aunts too so I can’t live with them. WTF? What do I effin’ do. I’m gonna end up like that garden tool in the white car. Wow I didn’t even make it to twelve like she did . . .
I promise you, the rest of the fourth grade was a blur. I was constantly afraid. I never told ANYONE about my little bundle of terror that wasn’t really on the way. I waited for my mom to confront me but it never happened. I waited for the other kids in my neighborhood to tease me but that didn’t happen either. I didn’t even know how the baby was supposed to get out of my belly. Eventually it just went away. (It came back later in life by the way - still no baby though). I think I stayed blacked out for much of that year. You’ll be happy to know, however, I did make that swim party. I probably didn’t get in the water though.
I’m happy that I was able to share that story with my mom before she passed away last year. Those of you who knew her can probably guess what her reaction was. I’ll tell you what, it wasn’t, “Oh sweetie, you should have come to me. We would have talked” so much as it was uncontrollable maniacal laughter at my expense and more praise for Mrs. Cook. And by the way, we never, ever, reeeally had THAT talk.
Thanks mom.
In elementary school I (along with Alicia Barishman (my very first BFF), Myrna Sanders, Weslea Snyder, Danny Tuggle, and Carl Wells) attended Linwood Fundamental Academy in the East End (it’s closed now). Linwood was split into two fractions for each grade level: the so-called smart kids, and the so-called almost as smart kids. Yours truly made it through K through 6 in the so-called smart group (note – Alicia, Myrna and I were usually 1-2-3 in our class somehow and were close – but even they don’t know this story). We were the privileged elite. We had stars on our bellies, ate grey poupon on our hot dogs, snacked on only the best paste and slept on waterbeds after being fed grapes by the pre-schoolers down the street at nap time while the other kids slept on mats. Ok, that’s all a slight exaggeration, but you get what I’m saying.
Anyway, the so-called smart kids went through Linwood with these teachers: In kindergarten we had Mrs. Weinstein. Knowing what I know now I’d say that Mrs. Weinstein was hotter than a fur coat in Zimbabwe. Hotter than a preacher’s knee even. She was a brickhouse. She didn’t wear a bra. Boys – you’d do her. First grade brought Mrs. Wuest, who looked like a pretty Quaker Oats man, if that’s possible. The “smartest kids” got to massage her back while the rest of the class played seven up. Dumb asses. The second grade was Mrs. Lackey, who always got on me about eating my dessert first (thinking back I should have listened to her – what you’re about to read might not have happened). The third grade was Mrs. Moyer, a nice, nice, nice, older woman. I LOVED Mrs. Moyer. Then it was downhill from there.
The fourth grade brought us Dottie Cook. Mrs. Cook was a mean looking son of a biscuit eating bulldog. She was tall. She had short hair. Had I known what the term “Butch” meant then I’m sure I would have stereotyped her right into a commitment ceremony with Ellen DeGeneres, although that would have been statutory r- whatever ANYWAY she had that so-called look. She made us learn Japanese. Why do that to a fourth grader? I see no value in that – the last time I went to Benihana the chef’s name was Mike and he spoke English better than I do. She effin’ scared me like no teacher ever had. My sadistic mother, however, loved her.
Several of the teachers at Linwood traumatized us with incentives for high grades starting at the fourth grade level. In the fifth grade it was a trip to Mrs. Buquo’s house in Pleasant Ridge for a cookout. In the sixth grade it was an ice-cream social after school with Mrs. Shanks (God rest her soul). Mrs. Cook started the madness off in the fourth grade with a swim party at a hotel in Kentucky (I don’t remember which one – I don’t swim – swimming ruins relaxers - it was traumatizing ok?)
Being that this was my first competition to kick some 4th grade ass, the stress was a little too much to handle. Thus it was in the fourth grade that I first began to gain weight – in my stomach. Wait for it.
In the early 80’s there wasn’t much said about weight. No one really explained it to us. Stress eating. WTF? I didn’t understand weight. You’ll see shortly I also didn’t understand a lot of shit. Now let’s concentrate on my sadistic Mommie – who as I write this has probably gathered her friends and family with her in heaven as I reminisce, and are laughing hysterically at me right now.
For those of you who don’t know, I grew up in Winton Hills. When my mom moved there in 1963, it was a much happier and nice place to live. People WANTED to live there. Pan to 1983-1984, things aren’t horrible yet, but they are getting there. The young girls in the neighborhood are starting to sex it up and some are running their mouths about it. And even worse, they are starting to get pregnant. My mom walked me to the bus stop every day. After I got on my bus, she would get on hers and go to work. One morning we walked past a white car with fogged up windows. The car was as my Bishop would say “rockin’ and shakin’ and shakin’ and rockin’”. Stealing a look inside I could see it was the neighborhood garden tool who at this point had already given birth a couple of times. I won’t say her name because I know at least one of you knows her.
My mom, at this point madder than a dog in a hubcap factory, chose this moment to teach me about the birds and the bees. It went just like this: “IF YOU ARE OLD ENOUGH TO HAVE A BABY, YOU ARE OLD ENOUGH TO GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” I was eight. Maybe nine. How old are you in the fourth grade? Don’t remember much after “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Even worse, I don’t really understand what’s going on in the car at this point and what that has to do with having a baby and getting put out. Y’all thought my mom was nice didn’t you? Silly rabbits.
Unfortunately, at some point in the year there was also a sixth grader at my school who got pregnant. My mom (who volunteered at my school) only told me that she couldn’t tell me what happened, but that she would be having a baby soon and don’t stare at her when her stomach grows.
Let’s get back to Demon Cook, I mean Dottie Cook, my fourth grade teacher. Teaching me Japanese. Making me write it. Math is hard. Reading and writing sucks. I can’t talk to my mom about it because she loves Mrs. Cook. So I start to talk to my plate. We talked a lot. I talked to ribs and barbecue sauces. I talked to fried fish on Fridays. I even talked to steak and fries at times. (For those of you cursing my mother – there were always vegetables involved – we had a very healthy cat – I didn’t say I ate them.) So my stomach started growing. And so you have a naive (read dumb ass) fourth grader, afraid of her teacher, afraid of an angry, crazy mother, doesn’t get the birds and the bees things. All I know is that other girl’s stomach is starting growing too and she had a baby. Every time some hoodrat in my hood’s stomach grows, she has a baby. So of course – I must be having a baby too. Shit, I’m pregnant in the 4th grade. It sucks to be me.
What the hell do I do now? I’m all washed up at nine. What do you do with a baby? I mean I have an idea – I have some baby dolls at home. But my mom won’t even let me have a Baby Alive. She says they draw roaches. Oh my God – babies draw roaches! I can’t have a baby. My mom is gonna punch me right in the throat. She hates roaches. How did this happen? When did this happen? How do I hide it? Where am I gonna live after she kicks me out of the house? I’m afraid of my aunts too so I can’t live with them. WTF? What do I effin’ do. I’m gonna end up like that garden tool in the white car. Wow I didn’t even make it to twelve like she did . . .
I promise you, the rest of the fourth grade was a blur. I was constantly afraid. I never told ANYONE about my little bundle of terror that wasn’t really on the way. I waited for my mom to confront me but it never happened. I waited for the other kids in my neighborhood to tease me but that didn’t happen either. I didn’t even know how the baby was supposed to get out of my belly. Eventually it just went away. (It came back later in life by the way - still no baby though). I think I stayed blacked out for much of that year. You’ll be happy to know, however, I did make that swim party. I probably didn’t get in the water though.
I’m happy that I was able to share that story with my mom before she passed away last year. Those of you who knew her can probably guess what her reaction was. I’ll tell you what, it wasn’t, “Oh sweetie, you should have come to me. We would have talked” so much as it was uncontrollable maniacal laughter at my expense and more praise for Mrs. Cook. And by the way, we never, ever, reeeally had THAT talk.
Thanks mom.
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