more for Les

“It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring.  He went to bed and bumped his head and couldn’t get up in the morning.”

Either he got totally wasted last night or he has a severe concussion…either way, I’m pretty sure that’s not a message we should be sending to our children. 

Just sayin.

We all have bouts of mental illness now and again.  My favorite happens to be Obsessive Compulsive Disorder mixed with a little run-of-the-mill neurosis.  Whether it’s alphabetizing every DVD we own or rearranging the medicine cabinet for the 3rd time this month, I like to have everything in it’s place, like items placed together. When it’s impractical to alphabetize, I place things in size order. 

That’s where my french fry conundrum comes in.  When it comes to fries, I prefer mushy ones because they retain most of the natural potato flavor.  Steak fries are my favorite, crinkle fries are a close second.  The fatter the fry, the better.  So you can imagine that fast food french fries are not my first choice.  They’re skinny, they’re hard, and they’re almost always over-salted.  If I wanted a hot potato chip, that’s what I’d be having, but when I want french fries, I want them to have some quality of the best food in all the land (mashed potatoes) somewhere in there.

When my hubby and I split fries at the number one fast food joint in the U.S. (um, Golden Arches…), he takes the over-cooked, pointy-ended, slightly browned ones, and I take the floppy, mushy, golden ones. 

However, I must admit, my french fried freakishness goes a step further:  When fries are that thin, I prefer to eat two or three at a time.  The catch is, they all have to be the same length. 

Seriously, why do these things matter to me? 

I’ve always loved old cars.  They have more charisma than new ones, ya know?  An old pony car hot-rod has hips and curves like you’d never find on a modern sports car.  A 1942 Ford Pickup Truck is my absolute dream car.  I’m drooling a little just thinking about it.  Ask my husband, if we pass one on the street, I tend to flirt with them. 

How you doin?

Old cars truly were things of beauty on the outside (even if the insides were angular and uncomfortable).  With their shining chrome-plated-everything and their ahOOOga horns and their hood ornaments boldly leading the charge.   

Once an elite status symbol, the hood ornament has been traded out for aerodynamics.  Back in the day, your car’s hood ornament said a lot about you as a person.  A Jaguar’s hood ornament says you’re a fierce go-getter.  The Mercedes says you’re sleek and smooth.  Even the ole Oldsmobile hood ornament said you were a bit square.  But no hood ornament spoke quite as loudly as the Spirit of Ecstacy (that’s really her name) hood ornament of the incomparable Rolls-Royce. 

Leaning in anticipation towards the future, letting the wind whip through her chrome-plated hair, the Spirit of Ecstacy was just that.  She boldly declared that you were the richest, most important…most free driver on the long and winding road.  She flirtatiously winks at every other driver she passes and says “hey there handsome, goin my way?” 

Heck yes you are. 

What is it about women that makes us want to pretend to be dainty health nuts every time we assemble en masse? 

Earlier this week I volunteered to help set up for the spring Women’s Luncheon at church (in case you’re curious, a Women’s Luncheon is the same exact thing as a Ladies’ Luncheon – except for some reason, people think it sounds younger…it doesn’t).  After tying hundreds of cute little bows around bags of the daintiest cookies (Lacey’s, yes, even the name of the cookie is dainty). I’ve ever seen, I discovered that that was dessert.  Not just a sercy, but honest to goodness dessert.  Then I discovered that the entire meal for this luncheon was a salad and the cookies.  That’s not a meal!  That’s an appetizer! 

But it was no shock to me.  Every women’s luncheon I’ve EVER attended served similar fare.  What is that about?  Why is it when women get together they spazz out and turn to The Girly Side.  They suddenly become more concerned with center pieces and the way things are plated than people actually receiving adequate sustenance.  The Girly Side is the same state of mind that caused someone to invent doilies.  And mussy-tussies.  And coursages. 

With all due respect, I say YUCK!  One of these days, I’m going to host a Ladies Luncheon where the table toppers are those peg games you find at Cracker Barrel and pictures of people making ridiculous faces. 

And no one will have to run through a drive through to kill the hunger pangs after my Ladies Luncheon…because at my luncheon, we’re having steak and potatoes. 

When’s the last time you spoke to an octagenarian?  They know more words than you do.  Really.  This doesn’t mean they could squash your SAT Vocab score, it means that some words that were part of everyday language 60, 70, 80 years ago just aren’t around anymore.  They’re lost language.  Forgotten phrases.  Vanished verbage. 

When’s the last time you got scolded for dilly-dallying?  Lollygagging?  Have you eaten anything recently that had a more-ish taste?  Do you do anything willy-nilly? When’s the last time something gave you the heebie-jeebies?  Why don’t we call men dapper anymore (well, I still call Trey dapper)?  Are you nifty?  Spiffy?  Or are you a rag-a-muffin?  Are you a fuddy-duddy? Have you ever found something to be cattywampus or wonky? The last time you drank too much hooch, were you ossified or spifflicated?  Have you every said “that’s swell“  or been to a swanky joint? Are you highfalutin?  Cause I am. 

It makes me sad that some of these words and phrases that my grandmother uses on a regular basis will be all but erased from society before my children and grandchildren can learn them. 

What’s your favorite grandma-ism?  Mine’s got some whoppers.

I write for the simple love of writing.  The joy of telling a story to an audience.  To get stuff out of my system.  And also, because I think I’m pretty good at it.  If you disagree, well, I’m okay not ever knowing that.

Recently, a dear friend of mine guest wrote a blog.  I didn’t know such things were done.  Upon reading all the comments to her hilarious blog post, I realized that this blog had FAR more readers than my measley blog…and they’re crazy devoted.  While I love all of my devoted readers (that’d be you, dears), I’m pretty sure I know all of you personally. 

This begs the question:  how does one turn her blog into something total strangers stumble upon and fall in love with? 

SO!  In light of this new puzzle that’s plaguing my noggin, I’m giving you some homework:  share the link to my blog (www.moreforleslie.com) with a friend (or twenty) who (preferably) I’ve never met (pretty please with a cherry on top).   And in return, I promise to post much more often. 

Deal?  Deal!

Rufus is a very peculiar cat.  He wants you to love him, but only on his terms.  He only likes to be petted when he asks for it and he never likes to be picked up.  He’s also a walking spasm.  These are the things you need to know before I tell this story.

This morning, I was sitting at the desk, checking email, and Rufus wanted my attention.  He circled my feet for a while, wandered around under the desk for a bit, getting frustrated that I didn’t stop typing to pet him.  Then he had a grand idea.  Rufus jumped up on the black leather chair that sits to the left of the desk.  He climbed up on the back of it and lay down, pawing at the corner of the desk and at whatever papers he could reach.  I stopped typing and rubbed his fuzzy head affectionately and he seemed quite content to remain on the back of the black leather chair for a while.

That black leather chair is angled in the corner that is made between the desk and the dvd shelf.  Which means that there’s a small triangle of vacant space hiding behind it. 

After some time, one of the other cats hopped up and startled Rufus.  I heard a rustling noise.  Assuming it was the cats pawing at each other, I looked to my left to find Rufus in extreme duress.

His heavy hind quarters had fallen behind the black leather chair, leaving his poor de-clawed front paws scraping frantically to keep him from falling into The Abyss.  His eyes popped in sheer terror.  I scrambled from my chair to try to save him, but it was too late.  Rufus slipped down, down, down into the black hole.  Down into the never-ending unknown.  Down 36 inches.

I won’t say I’m a bad cat mommy.  But I will say that I laughed so hard I cried. 

Rufus doesn’t seem to want any more of my attention today.

I’m constantly meeting new people.  That’s what happens when you move to a new city.  You meet new people.  Trey and I have several friends “our own age” that we spend time with here.  Except “our own age” means 23.  What?  Either I’m a horrible age  guesser or I have no idea how old I actually am. 

My friend Kelli said it best: 

“I feel like I’m stuck in a time warp where everyone else ages and I stay the same.”

I’ve always looked younger than I am.  When I was 21 I was still getting carded to go to rated R movies without an adult.  Now that I’m 30, I still get carded for beer…but only when I’m not wearing makeup.  Don’t get me wrong, I love looking like a kid.  I know I’ll love it even more when I’m 60.  Part of it is because I have (in the words of my super-young-looking Mom) young genes.  Part of it is because I started a pretty involved skin care regimen when I was 9. 

Why?  Because for a brief shining moment in time, I was a child model. 

Are you done laughing yet?  Let me explain.  When dance lessons and piano lessons and gymnastic lessons got old, I asked mom if I could take modeling lessons.  As a step toward acting I guess.  I learned how to walk a runway.  I learned how to deliver lines in front of a camera.  And I learned how to take really good care of my skin.  This is probably the reason I started using anti-wrinkle cream at the ripe old age of 23.  Which is how old my new friends are. 

After 10 months of being on the market, Trey and I decided it was time to do something about our little House For Sale.  We’ve asked all our friends and family to stop what they’re doing on Friday, February 3rd, 2012 at Noon EST/11am CST and pray for the sale of our house. 

Buy our house please :)

Below is the request we sent out to everyone we knew (and had email addresses for) who would earnestly pray for the sale of our house.  Please join us. 

 ***

Dear Family & Friends,   We can’t believe we’ve been in San Antonio for almost 10 months!  Sometimes it feels like we’ve been here forever, sometimes it feels like we just left Spartanburg yesterday.  Either way, we’ve been amazed by the many ways God has reassured us that we’re definitely where He wants us to be.    As many of you know, being here for 10 months also means that our house in Spartanburg, SC has been on the market for 10 months.  Anyone who’s ever tried to sell a home surely knows how this feels.  That’s where you come in.   We humbly ask that you join us in prayer for the sale of our house.  On Friday, February 3rd at noon EST (or 11am for you TX folks), we ask that you please take a minute out of your busy day to ask God to send a buyer to our little house at 907 WO Ezell Blvd in Spartanburg.  It doesn’t have to be long, but it does have to be in earnest.  Go ahead and type it in your phone or write it on your calendar as a reminder :) You can use the prayer at the end of this message or say a prayer of your own.   We truly believe that God has great plans for us.  As we start a new chapter here (the construction on our new house is moving so quickly!), we would feel greatly at peace knowing that the burden of another mortgage is lifted.  Thank you so much for all your thoughts and prayers, they really do mean the world to us.    Love & God Bless, Leslie and Trey

  Dear Lord, please expedite the sale of Trey & Leslie’s home in SC and send them a buyer very soon. But above all, Your will be done.  Amen.  

“Ahhhh… election year.  That magical year when friendships suffer because people love their soapboxes too much! Count me out, please.”  ~Claire A.

When I was younger, I remember my parents being very guarded about their political affiliation.  To this day, I can’t tell you for sure whether Mom & Dad are Democrats or Republicans (though I have my suspicions).  On Election Day every year, when asked who he voted for, my father politely explained that that was private and quite frankly, none of my business.  Even though I was far too young to vote, my parents kept their politics private and personal. 

Since I turned 18 and got my coveted Voter Registration Card, I have found that for every political statement I have ever made in my life (no matter which side I was in favor of – believe it or not, I’ve been on both), someone was there to argue with me.  Without fail, every time, someone found it pertinent to knock my poor little statement to the ground and step on it…and they expected me to do the same.  And quite frankly, I’ve had enough. 

I don’t like confrontation.  I never have.  Election season makes me tense.  All the mud-slinging and name-calling makes me want to cower cornered in the fetal position and sing Why Can’t We Be Friends. 

I really do hate confrontation.  So much so that even a heated debate will push me to tears.  I truly believe that bad-mouthing the competition will eventually ruin politics as we know it.  America is the melting pot.  Of course everyone wants something different from their leaders.  There’s no way to come to a peacable understanding when all anyone does is complain about something someone else did/almost did/is doing/didn’t do. 

Dear Candidate Running for Every Political Office Ever:  I don’t want to hear what your opponent did.  I don’t want to hear what you think about your opponent or what you think I should think about your opponent.  All I want to hear from any person running for any office is what they intend to do, how they intend to do it, and why I should believe them.  That’s it. 

Dear Friend Who Feels The Need to Flaunt Their Political Affiliation:  I’m glad you like the candidate you like.  I’m sure they’re glad to have your support.  But if you want to talk politics with me, don’t shoot down every other candidate.  That’s no better than the mud-slinging that all the candidates are doing in the first place.  Just simply tell me why you like who you like and don’t bad-mouth anyone else.  That’s quite enough for me. 

Vote for the candidate of your choice.  If you’re undecided, DO SOME RESEARCH!  On all the candidates…not just one party.  And by all means, register to vote.  But do it once you’ve weighed all the options.  And do it joyfully.  Not everyone in the world has that right, so don’t ruin it by bashing the candidates you don’t support. 

I’d honestly love to hear who you support and why.  Leave comments.  Leave links to that candidate’s website.  But if there’s so much as one complaint or comparison to any other candidate (incumbent or no), your post gets deleted.  Cause I don’t want that negative mess on my blog.  Capiche?