LIESL TESTWUIDE

My Mother's Grocery List As Created By Shouting Into Her New Smartphone

 

Every week my 70+ year-old mother learns how to do something new on her smartphone. She's figured out how to add several emojis in her texts to the grandkids. She can play Solitaire any time, any place. And, she can check her AOL email account whenever she wants. Most recently however, she has realized that she can text me her grocery list without ever having to type a single letter. It's really quite simple. Or is it?

 

My Mother's Grocery List As Created By Shouting Into Her Smartphone Using the Voice-Activated Text Messaging App:

 

Apples

Bananas

Bananas

Dammit how do you

Cantaloupe please choose ripe one this time

Three pairs

One pound ham

I already got that

Honey

No not honey not honey

Oh this damn

Small amount of lettuce now wait a sec

Four cans stewed tomatoes

Tied

Raisin Brand the new kind we like

Eight blueberry yogurts don’t try to change us

Mint jelly

Creamer just plain for bridge club check expiration data

Check expiration date

Applesauce but a small jar there are only two of us you know

Oooooiiizzzr

Tuna in bag I I white called Apalone

One case watcher

Two bottles French dressing

Pack teal sauce

Brad

Schneiders cheddar pretzel bitches

Box of wine the good kind

Toilet paper for my bathroom Pat’s bathroom and the powder room and maybe downstairs don't know

Get comet

I already told you that’s not a weed

Bleach

Six eggs do not get a dozen we just throw them away

Frank’s sauerkraut be sure no caraway seeds bad for the diverticulitis

 

 

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The Five Words No One Wants to Hear. Ever.

As Big Ben and I walked along the river's boardwalk recently, I caught a glimpse of a little girl waving and pointing in our direction. She had just come out of the ice cream parlor and gripped her overflowing waffle cone tightly with both hands. Smart girl. 

"Hey!" she shouted between licks of her Blue Moon. Not the flavor I would have picked, but since she was about six years-old, I cut her some slack.

"Hey" I waved as I approached. I didn't recognize her, but little kids often get a kick out of Big Ben. Her blue lips were moving as if she was talking to me, so I stopped and pulled out my earbuds. 

"Hey lady," she said, "you look like your dog."

I froze. 

She turned to her mom, giggled, and then a little louder said, "Mama, she looks like her dog, doesn't she? Doesn't she?"

The smattering of mid-day ice cream-eaters turned and stared.

I looked left and then right, but most unfortunately, I was the only person present with a dog. 

Dumbfounded, I managed to say "I look like my dog? Really?"

 

Dear reader, I must note that I was wearing earth tones.

The little girl continued, "Yeah, you've got that white streak in the part of your hair. You know, where it's a different color from the rest of your hair. And it's all dark and stuff around your eyes."

Seriously? No mention of the earth tones?

"And you both have those big white arms. And--"

I looked at Ben's arms. I looked at mine. He wasn't wearing nail polish. Hardly the same. 

I wanted to get out of there. I wanted to run, but Big Ben and I don't really do that running thing.

The girl's mother laughed nervously, "Honey, stop."

"See Mom? They both have big cheeks, too. See their big cheeks?"

The mom put her hand on her hip. She looked like she was about to mean business. But--

"And BOTH of their big cheeks droop. They droop, Mom! They drooooooop!"

Big Ben's tail wagged as the devil-child spit sticky, blue venom on his snout.

Embarrassed, the mother pulled her child along and said nervously, "Oh dear, out of the mouths of babes..." 

"Babe" is not the term I had in mind. 

In any event, it was a life-changing moment.

After that day I knew exactly what to do in light of the fact we end up looking like our dogs.

Dear reader, you may think I went on a diet or brought home Jenny Craig.

Screw that.

I got a new dog.  

Meet sleek-cheeked Olive, 30 pounds soaking wet. 

  

 

It's December 26. Hit the Road, Elves on Shelves.

For the last month I've casually tried to kill our Elf on the Shelf with no avail. Turns out I landed the elf with the longest shelf life. But lo and behold, it's December 26 and the party's over for this little a**hole.

I bought the elf in an effort to create a new holiday tradition for my boys following my divorce. We opened the box, unpacked the elf and read the enclosed book. The story goes that each night while the boys are sleeping, the elf heads back to the North Pole and returns before morning. When the kids wake up, they must search the house to find the elf in its new hiding spot. 

After the first night with our elf, I walked in the kitchen, noticed she was sitting in her original spot, and realized, damn, I forgot to move her before I went to bed. The kids were already awake happily eating cereal. They seemed to have forgotten, too. This new tradition was off to a rocky start.

The second night, I forgot to move the elf again and felt pangs of guilt. As I approached the elf in the morning, her beady little eyes glared. I could see she would not be ignored.  I vowed to do better on day three. 

I'd heard many friends share stories about posing their elves. One had placed it alongside a Barbie on the kitchen island. She arranged the two as if they were drinking maple syrup out of straws. Others made elaborate scenes involving M & Ms, Cheerios and cotton balls. On a daily basis I lose my car keys or forget why I walked into a room, but at a minimum, I thought I could handle changing the elf's location each night.

The third night I spaced and completely forgot about the irritating elf. When I came into the kitchen, the next morning, it was obvious the feeling was mutual. 

 

This was too much pressure and I didn't like the elf's hostility. I decided to deep six that chemically-imbalanced shelf elf. In hindsight, I probably should have donated it to a starving family or something, but I tossed that skinny little bitch right in the trash and went about my day.  

Early the next morning and still half asleep, I came through the kitchen to let out the dog. As I turned the corner, my heart skipped a beat. The elf was back and dangling from the light fixture. My innocent attempt to create a new tradition had morphed into a deranged Edgar Allen Poe Christmas special.

I cut the psycho elf down and tossed it back in the trash.

On Saturday, I awoke to a blood curdling scream. My youngest, having an early morning pee, discovered the little bitch elf floating face down in the toilet. 

 

Sunday my oldest found her in the fridge.  She had stabbed herself with a pickle fork. 

Having a late night snack Monday, my middle son found her with her head in the oven.  

Enough was enough.  I bound and gagged the little elf-devil, drove to the Kwikie Mart and tossed it in the dumpster. Done. Finito. Buh-bye, freak show.

The next morning, as we backed out of the garage, I heard a crunch under the back tire. Sure enough, as I glanced up the drive, I spotted my tormentor, smiling and giving me the finger. 

Well, it's December 26th and I'm bringing out the big guns: peanut butter and Big Ben, our St. Bernard. That elf has quite a journey ahead of her. 

 

The Real Witches of Kohler

By Lisa Luigs Morrissett

 

You never know who might be inspired by the simple act of embracing the power of play.

Earlier last month, a friend posted a link on Facebook about a group of women in Hamilton, Montana, who gathered for what they called “The Witches Bike Brigade.” The picture of these women dressed up, smiling, laughing, and clearly having the time of their lives, was purely irresistible. I was compelled to re-post, if only for a little giggle before scrolling along to watch the next cat video.

I was completely surprised by the overwhelmingly enthusiastic reaction from friends that WE MUST DO THIS!

It got me thinking that yes, actually, we must do this.

Why do kids get to have all the fun on Halloween? I confess, I'm desperate for any excuse to play with my friends, but I had no idea other grown women felt the same way. I’m more than a little jealous my daughter gets to spend most every day hanging out with her friends. Who moved my fun? It was time to assume the role I’d been born to play: Mischief Maven.

As Halloween drew closer, the weather looked less and less cooperative. What started as a large coven began to shrink faster than a cheap hot-washed-and-dried cotton t-shirt. Each of us hemmed and hawed: to ride or not to ride? Waiting until literally the last possible second, I decided screw it, I’m doing it and hoped like hell someone else would show.

Lo and behold, 10 other brave souls decided the same thing.

Outfits ranged from a $1 Goodwill hat to a full-on gorgeous witch ensemble complete with a corseted, sweeping black coat. The intrepid group included a down-to-earth vice-president of a large corporation, a chatty spinning class master who could’ve ridden all night, a proper English lady with a wicked sense of humor, a coffee-slugging pet sitter, a salt-of-the-earth equestrienne, a compassionate accountant who collected food pantry items from us, a hilariously outgoing swim coach, and several delightful women new to the village. We came from different walks of life, but shared the common thread of not letting a little rain ruin an outlandish parade.

As it had been a few months since I’d last ridden my broomstick, I was a bit shaky in the saddle. The rain didn’t help, but at least it wasn’t snowing (always a possibility in this neck of the Midwest Coast).

There were a few factors we hadn’t anticipated, the most obvious being the effect of aerodynamic lift on an oversized witch hat. Even though we had one hand strangling the handlebars and the other hand firmly attached to the black 747s perched atop our heads, many successful hat liftoffs ensued. Ride 100 feet, hat flies off, everyone stop, pick up soggy hat, try to gain momentum, ride 100 feet, hat flies off…

The wannabe badass gang of biker moms looked more like first-time stick shift drivers. 

After several false starts, we found our rhythm, and decided our first “witch bombing” should be the driveway of The American Club. We spied people taking pictures of us from the restaurant while a valet attendant tried very hard to avoid eye contact, most likely fearing he would turn into a pillar of salt. Some things you just can’t ignore. Or unsee. Like a band of middle-aged witches on bikes in the front of a five-star resort. We were laughing so hard at our own absurdity we could hardly stay upright.

With no logged flight plan, we roamed the village like an unpredictable flock of screeching magpies. “Oooh – let’s go here! Oooh – next we go there! Don’t forget my house!” Trying to get ahead and set up for a good group shot, our resident reporter/photographer admonished us. “You ladies are hard to stalk!”

As kids collected their FDA-approved serotonin-covered heroin-like nugget bombs, we wobbled along, accidentally terrorizing several small children, delighting some older ones, and successfully amusing the surprised adults who no doubt wished they were riding with us. 

I may have crossed the fine line of decorum when we rode by the house of our sweet yoga-teaching GMO vigilante, taunting her with shrieks of, “We want high fructose corn syrup with red dye #2 and we want it NOW!” Not sure if she’ll ever forgive me, but maybe she’ll leave me alone when I wax lyrical about the health benefits of candy corn pumpkins.

As word spread through the village that witches were on the loose, with each stop we became more famous. Well, as famous as one can be in a town of 2,000. But hey, once a fame ho, always a fame ho.

One dad asked if men were allowed to ride next year.

A well-seasoned triathlete dubbed us the “Witch Peloton.” I might have to incorporate a yellow jersey into my outfit next year.

One stop included wassail from friends who own a pediatric dentistry practice. I may or may not have made fun of them for passing out toothbrushes in a lame attempt to pretend they were “protecting” kids’ teeth, but knowing full well that "Halloween” is French for “job security.”

Hard to believe only one of us crashed. Blame it on the wa-wa-wa-wa-wassail…

One by one, the soggy witches waved goodbye and drifted home, no doubt with cold hands, tender rears, shredded vocal cords, sore abs from hours of laughter, and fun tanks overflowing.

In her poem “The Summer Day,” the magnificent Mary Oliver poses the question: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

I’ll continue to ask my friends if they can come out to play, then put on my witch hat and ride.

Photo credits: Mary Struck/ Kohler Village Community Newspaper

 

Lisa Luigs Morrissett is a card-carrying hockey mom still trying to figure out what to be when she grows up. She secretly hates Christmas and is addicted to classic R & B and cheesecake. Lisa's fondest wish is to play golf with Justin Timberlake, and unfortunately knows from experience that tequila does indeed make one's clothes come off. 

 

Parents: Start Laboring Now for a Seemingly Labor-less Labor Day

Labor Day weekend, the last glimpse of summer, is right around the corner. For control freaks like me, Labor Day weekend actually requires a great deal of labor to appear labor-less for the broods we love. It's an iconic American holiday marking the end of summer, so there’s serious pressure to have the most family fun EVER. I’m talking idyllic, Norman-Rockwell-painting-fun. Kennedy-Camelot-football-tossing-fun. Corn-on-the-cob-lobster-salad-and-peach-pie-buffets-appearing-out-of-thin-air-fun. You get the picture.

This very minute, tightly-wired moms are maneuvering grocery carts at dangerously high speeds and ticking items off their iPhone list faster than the average man could read it. Coolers, koozies and kites are loaded for their final summer outing, while school shoes and soccer cleats rest quietly in the corner 'til Tuesday.

Concerned not enough fun is planned for the weekend, or worried too many Uno cards are missing from the deck, anxious parents scurry to purchase last minute Mad Libs and Bananagrams for the road trips, and insanely fork out cash for that unsightly PVC pipe game involving nunchuck golf balls.

True perfectionists desperately Google Martha Stewart articles regarding not only how to pack the perfect picnic, but how to embellish it as well, because nothing says family fun like a blingy, decoupaged, origami picnic basket.

On a previous Labor Day getaway to Chicago as a single parent, I left nothing to chance. I created a detailed itinerary to maximize fun for my three sons: the John Hancock Building, Shedd Aquarium, Navy Pier, Chicago-style pizza, Nike on Michigan Avenue, a steakhouse, shopping at 900 Michigan and tickets to Mary Poppins.

Sure, my boys thought some initial sights were interesting, but beyond the bullet-proof divider in an old taxi, they weren’t wowed. I began to think they were a tough crowd to please. However, just when I thought the trip was a fail, they began to show enthusiasm for the magic of the city.

On the quaint carriage ride back to our hotel after Mary Poppins, the boys oohed and ahhed over the horse’s steamy dump. Ten minutes before, Mary Poppins had flown over our heads in a twinkling starlit theater. I mean, she seriously flew, umbrella in hand, and all. The boys gave flying Mary Poppins a raised eyebrow and nod. Splattered horse shit on a city street received a standing ovation, an obnoxious “Yeah, baby” and a “We love you, Chicago!”

In the Nike store I lost all three. Filled with panic, I hoped I’d see them, around each corner, arms heavy with merchandise. Instead, I spotted my boys two stories up, riding the escalators. “Hey-“ I shouted, “if you guys aren’t gonna try on any shoes, let’s move on to the next thing on my list.” Only to hear in response, “Mom! Escalators! We’re on an escalator! This is awesome! Can we ride a little longer?” I quietly mumbled, "Yeah, we don't git to the city often" and covered my “Appalachia is for Families” t-shirt. 

At the top of the John Hancock Tower, my youngest son announced, “You guys GOTTA check out the urinals in this bathroom. Come on!” They admired the Chicago skyline for three minutes and the public restrooms for ten.

The pricey steakhouse did impress. “Mom, you picked a great place. The restroom is awesome. Huge peppermints are floating in the urinals. Did you know you can even pay a guy to watch you pee here? Seriously. They have combs you can keep.” Yes, well, along with the free matches, that’s why the guidebook recommended it, boys.

To parents who want to provide a memorable Labor Day weekend for your children, I wish you well. After you vacuum the minivan, drop the dog at the kennel, and hunt down one damn DVD that isn’t scratched to death, you might want to toss out your laminated itinerary, bedazzle your noise-reducing headphones and prepare for Plan B. 

In the meantime, I’ll be at home charting our next family vacation: the Public Restroom Tour of America. 

 

 

Liesl Testwuide, publisher of the website Hairpin Turns Ahead, uses humor and humility to write about navigating life’s twists, turns, and inevitable changes.  A divorced mom of three, she has come to accept that even though her white-picket-fence life blew up in her face, it was the best thing to happen to her.  Follow Liesl on Facebook, Pinterest,and Twitter.

Despite My Dance Moves, I'm an Official Mover and Shaker

Last Fall I received a phone call from Kym Leibham at Lakeland College. She asked if I'd be part of the 2015 cast for Lakeland's annual benefit, Movers & Shakers. I said "yes" without blinking for a few reasons.

First, it's impossible to say "no" to Kym Leibham. If you know her, you understand. That girl gets shit done. More importantly, I felt I owed her. If it wasn't for Kym's help back in 1980 at St. Clement's School, I never would have been a cheerleader, earned a passing grade on my science fair project, or learned The Hustle. In other words, she saved me from dorkdom. Well, sorta, unless you've seen me do The Hustle.

Kym knew I had participated in Ann Imig's live literature show, Listen to Your Mother at Madison's Barrymore Theater in 2013, and she wanted me to do basically the same thing: read a piece of my literature live to an audience. Except in this case, it wasn't exactly the same thing. 

When I performed in Madison, aside from the 15 dedicated family and friends who spent five hours of their day in the car to see me perform, the rest of the audience was filled with about 500 strangers. In Madison, if I tripped walking to the microphone, only 15 people would ever remind me of it. If a button popped off my too-tight dress, only 15 people would avert their eyes uncomfortably at future family functions. If I was so nervous that my head popped off and my body exploded spewing green gunk and partially-digested Hostess Ding Dongs, only 15 people would likely send me their dry cleaning bills. 

But at the Lakeland College event, I'd actually know many audience members. If I bombed, I had to see those people in the frozen pizza section at Festival Foods, at the dentist, or at Walgreen's picking up toilet paper. I imagined people might say, There's that chick who thought she was funny, but totally wasn't. Oh look, she's buying toilet paper. She must poop, too.

That's how my brain works, folks. I go from "everything's fine" to "they'll find me near the underpass, surrounded by hobos" in merely two negative thoughts.

Festival Foods graciously sponsored my act for the event and Nhia Yang, from Lakeland College put together a promo video to encourage people to vote. Did I fail to mention this was a competition? Anyway, I rallied my peeps, and and we took Festival by storm on a Monday morning. On the night of the event, the promo was shown to the audience as my introduction. In the video, I'm sporting old-lady hair, appear to weigh a quadrillion pounds, and talk so fast you can barry unnersand annig I say, but at least it's not an Activia ad, so I got that goin' for me.

  

The piece I chose to read was about what I know -- raising three boys. Unfortunately my
oldest son could not attend the actual event, but thanks to modern technology, he was able to make an appearance by filming a short message that was played on the big screens before I entered the stage. It felt so good to hear his voice.

I was the seventh performer of ten and that's a long time to wait. However, I was not nearly as nervous as I had expected. I probably should have been. I wrote the introduction/disclaimer section of the piece (you'll see it in a sec.) 15 minutes before I went on stage. (For those of us with A.D.D., that's considered planning ahead.)

As I stood backstage, about to make myself vulnerable to my community through sharing my art, my words, my stab at comedy, I experienced an amazing moment. If you've ever been about to put it all on the line or bare your heart and soul, perhaps you've experienced the same feelings.

In those brief moments in the dark before the curtain opened, I wasn't worried about my hair. I wasn't worried about tripping. I wasn't worried about the crowd not liking my work. Instead, I took a minute and savored my decade of sobriety, my courage to start a new writing career later in life, my strength to start over alone, and my ability to keep a sense of humor no matter what comes my way.

It became clear that it didn't matter how well I read, if I had lipstick on my teeth, if my heel broke, or if I had a wardrobe malfunction. I knew the folks in the audience had my back because when I actually slow down enough to realize it, I have the best support system in the world. I mean, lots of folks are really pulling for me on a daily basis. I know this because they tell me and I feel it. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

So here goes. Some parts of my reading are hokey, recycled, funny, mushy, new, corny, cheesy, introspective, immature, inspirational, heart-felt and silly. But then again, so am I.

Thanks for watching. By the way, I was the winner of the event due in large part to the generosity of donors who voted for me. Thank you for your support!  XO 

 

 

 

During my reading, photos appear on large screens in the theater. They are not visible on this video clip. In the event you notice me turn and look up, it's because I'm looking at a photo on the screen. 

Another Potluck? I Hate You, Pinterest.

Walking out the door at 5:00 p.m., my nine-year old son announced, "Mom, we can't forget to bring the potted luck." 

"The potted luck? What? Like bamboo stalks, Honey?" I asked.

"I dunno," he said. "Maybe it wasn't potted luck. Maybe we're each supposed to bring some pot to pass."

"What is this? Eco Club awards night? You need a couple bootleg tapes, too?"

"Mom, duh, it's Chess Club banquet."

I stared at him intently and I could see the wheels turning in his head. He scratched his head, shrugged his shoulders and said, "I thought we're supposed to bring pot or a pot of luck or something. Didn't you read the note I gave you this morning?"

"You mean that crumpled piece of paper you handed me when I was in the shower?"

"YES! That note. That's the one!"

"I was naked under a spigot, Babe. It's not where I do my best reading." 

"No worries! I found it hanging over your towel rack," he shouted as he ran back from my bathroom. "It's dry but pretty schmeary. I think it says: Please bring a potluck dish to pass. Whew! No bamboo or pot. Just a potluck dish, Mom. That's all we need." 

"Just a potluck dish?" I asked quietly. 

"Just a potluck dish." I said a little louder.

"You're telling me we need a potluck dish, now? At five o'clock?" 

"Mom, technically I tried to tell you this morning, but--"

"Honey, do you even know what a potluck is? It's a passive-aggressive mom contest. However, no one will ever admit it's actually a contest. But don't be fooled, because those witches get real and it's totally a contest. Moms freak out trying to outdo other moms by bringing their prettiest or healthiest Pinterest concoction. We're talking tri-colored macaroni salad molded in the shape of Mount Rushmore. 79-bean chili in 47-grain bread bowls. Creepy watermelon sculptures. Mrs. What's-her-face will bring heart-shaped sashimi. There'll be 9-layer Jell-O dessert parfaits, roasted chickpea edible necklaces, and sheet cakes airbrushed with mother/daughter Glamor Shots. And we've got nothin'."

"Can't we just bring a bag of chips?"

"Chips? We couldn't bring chips unless they were made out of recycled lentils or kale harvested by orphans. Geezus, Mrs. Waterson is likely hitching up her trailer this very moment to transport her Victoria Falls replica chocolate fountain. No. We can't just bring chips. What would people say?"

"Mom, I've got an epic idea: KFC. Let's bring a bucket of KFC drumsticks. We'll blow their minds with fried chicken. You'll become a potluck supper legend. The other mothers will talk about it for years."

"I bet they will, Honey. I bet they will."

 

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I'm Performing Live to Benefit Lakeland College and Area Youth

I'm excited to announce I'll be performing May 16, 2015 at the Lakeland College Movers & Shakers Gala. This year's gala will feature three stages to accommodate an exciting and diverse group of area performers including a solo pianist, live bands, speed painting, dance crews, drum line, a comedy singing duo and me. 

What type of exciting performance can you expect from me? Hold on to your hats, because this is gonna blow you away. I'm not going to juggle. I won't be throwing hatchets. I'm not going to consume Thin Mints until I burst. 

I'm going to stand in one place and read out loud. Yep, I can read stuff. So take that. 

Sounds easy enough, right? But in reality, and just because I feel the need to quote Run DMC, it's not that easy. Actually, "It's Tricky."

I hope the heel on my shoe won't break like it did at my grandma's funeral and force me to do that funny tip-toe-my-heel-broke-walk.

I hope I won't leave a roller in my hair like I did during an interview with the San Francisco School of Design while explaining I'm a detail-oriented person.

 

I hope Kanye West doesn't come bounding onto the stage and steal the mic away. 

And I hope there are the appropriate number of fans blowing to give me Beyonce hair.

However most of all, during my reading, I hope the audience will spew their wine across the table, have tears streaming down their faces, and leak a little pee as a result of their laughter.

I've chosen my favorite humor piece, fine-tuned it to death and even added a couple visual aids which the audience will see from two giant screens. 

Here's a two minute sneak peek. Although this still shot does not give off a humor vibe, this is funny. Trust me:

 

 

Festival Foods will sponsor my Live Literature performance. In fact, Festival Foods has paired with Lakeland College and will award a $5,000 scholarship to a student from my alma mater, Sheboygan North High School. If the student decides to attend Lakeland College, he or she will receive $10,000. The scholarship winner will be announced that evening. 

Proceeds from this year's gala will benefit Lakeland College and Sheboygan County high school student scholarships. 

If you live in the area and want to support local education, visit the Movers & Shakers Gala website for more details about tickets.

Did I mention the event is also a contest? For $20, you can buy a vote (or many, many votes) for me and my self-esteem. Well, actually you'd be donating money toward the scholarship of a North High student and Lakeland College. But my self-esteem could use a boost with a big win.

You can purchase votes online right now or at the gala. In other words, with just a few clicks on your device, you can help raise money for education, feed my ego and you don't even have to put on pants. We all win!

A Good Dog Is Better Than A Bad Date

It's a bad sign when I'm on a date and I miss my dog.  If I look forward to drooly, droopy jowls, rather than Mr. Comb-over's kiss, it's time to call a cab. Don't get me wrong, I love men. It's just that in a lot of cases, I love my dog more.

This wasn't always the situation. I was a confirmed cat person for years. However, heading for divorce and in need of some serious extra credit to get into Catholic Heaven, I promised my sons they could have a dog. After researching breeds with the shortest life span, 6-8 years max. (I had no intention of living with another mistake for 15 years), they decided on a St. Bernard. In January 2009, we brought home Big Ben.

We went through the typical puppy years. He ate pencils, rolling pins, and a table or two. He broke through the same screen door weekly. In six months he gained 106 pounds. He learned to jump out the car window. I chased him through intersections, a golf course, school parking lots, tennis courts, and soccer camp. He became so strong, instead of walking the dog, the boys quickly learned to body surf. Realizing he was too big for the boys to handle, by default, Big Ben became my dog. 

After nine months I'd had enough. I was depressed about the state of my marriage, the kids sensed the tension, and drool was everywhere. It hung from lamp shades, chandeliers, drapery rods and most often, unknowingly, from the back of my head. At one time I owned 17 lint rollers. I called rescue shelters to take him. But each shelter encouraged me to work with him to properly bond. Eventually he obeyed a couple commands: sit and... Well, ok, maybe he just obeyed one command. But when the boys went back to school that fall, Big Ben and I clicked and became inseparable. 

Sure, he has annoying habits, like drinking out of toilets, snoring louder than a freight train, producing poop larger than sandcastles, and consuming nine cups of food plus five hot dogs a day. He hides his treats all over the house, like a squirrel preparing for winter.  I find string cheese under drapes, hot dogs in sofa cushions, and once I found a three-day-old piece of pizza behind my pillow.

But he loves me. Unconditionally.

He lets me talk for hours, never interrupts, and five minutes later, still gets excited at the sound of my voice. He sticks to his word. He never says he's going to clean the garage and then doesn't do it.  He never commits to cutting the lawn and then watches a ball game instead. And he certainly knows when to keep his mouth shut. If my jeans are a little tight or dinner is a bit late, he never voices his disdain. We don't argue about politics, religion, or who drank the last Diet Coke.

My divorce required so much change. The kids needed my attention to help work through their anger and anxiety. Not being part of a couple, the dynamics of many friendships changed. Saying goodbye to a beloved home was heartbreaking, and the fear of the unknown seemed to hover over our heads the entire first year. However, one thing never changed. My dog was always by my side. No matter my marital status, my mood, my bank account, my home, my tears, my laughter, my disastrous dates, and the many nights home alone when the boys are with their dad, Big Ben has been next to me.

I don't believe it's a coincidence my boys chose a St. Bernard. St. Bernards are said to instinctively anticipate avalanches and storms. They rescue people who are lost or stuck. Big Ben walked into a doozy when he came to our house. And he rescued me. He continues to remind me that loneliness is a choice. A full life takes many shapes and forms. The Joneses have theirs, and I have mine. The sky is the limit with a companion that provides unconditional love. 

Enjoy the video. And by the way, Big Ben insisted I remind all readers that the camera adds at least 10 pounds.  After viewing it, he said probably more like 15! 

 

To Manscape Or Not To Manscape? Deep Thoughts From A Middle-Aged (Single) Mom

When a man I recently dated asked to borrow my hairspray, I knew the relationship was doomed. Not cool, buddy, not cool at all. Piece of advice, guys: if you wear hairspray, you might want to take that secret with you to your grave.   

I'm old school. I have a crush on Louis C.K., for Christ's sake. My divorce and recent single status have not rid me of my traditional views on gender. When there's a bug to kill, dog food to carry, or bike chain to fix, it's a job for one of my sons. I'm not saying I can't do those things... except fix a bike chain. I totally can't fix a bike chain. But some jobs are better left to the men. If you fix the pilot light, and bring home the bacon, I'll fry it up in a pan. Deal? 

I like men to look, act, and smell like traditional men. Imagine my surprise then, upon re-entering the dating world at 40ish, only to discover that men's grooming trends are almost as insane as women's. (Read my post on crazy female beauty trends.)

Let's Not Share a Bathroom, Okay?

I know you metro-sexuals like to get pampered with manicures, facials, and waxings, but as a woman, I'd prefer the salon be a man - free zone. When my face is blotchy from an eyebrow wax, and my hair is covered in goop and foil, I don't want to make small talk and watch you read Cosmo. It's too much like sharing a bathroom. Women have secrets. Men shouldn't witness the weave or the false eyelash application. You're just supposed to admire the final product. Go back to your barber shops, guys. Granted, you can't read Cosmo there, but enjoy the peanuts and ESPN. 

Where the F*ck Has all the Male Body Hair Gone?

Extreme manscaping is trending high. Men of all ages are opting to remove the lower level's shag carpet in order to highlight the room's hard wood. Some believe: if there's no underbrush, the tree looks taller. As a result, the aptly named "Bro-zilian" wax for men is becoming quite popular. For the DIYers and men who prefer razors, Gilette offers an entire video tutorial: Manscaping! Shaving Tips. Men across the nation are watching Youtube while simultaneously shaving their balls. Certainly all south lawn maintenance should be based on personal preference. However, keep in mind that no woman has ever said, "I can't wait to sit on that cactus." Ever.

Guys, you must waych this two minute video on how NOT to manscape from the hilarious TV show Starved:

 

On a subsequent date with Hairspray Hal, I discovered his torso was completely free of hair, even shaved his armpits. My upper lip held more hair than his whole body. He wasn't a runner. He wasn't a swimmer. He wasn't a professional wrestler on steroids, or a giant Ken doll. He was just a Midwestern, middle-aged, hairless man by choice on the constant brink of becoming a cactus.

I like male armpit hair. Don't use that as my epitaph, but it's true. Male chest hair, leg hair, and arm hair is attractive. Women love men for all the reasons they're different from us. It's a pheromone thing, too. Hair amplifies the effect of pheromones. I just went all science on you there, but unless you can get by on your good looks alone, you might
want some of that natural chemistry on your side. Tom Selleck, Sean Connery, Steve Martin - - all hairy and sexy dudes. Yes, Louis C.K., you, too.

However, there are those men who opt to eradicate their bod-tannical gardens of dense forestation. For those men, the Mangroomer, a do-it-yourself, electric back shaver, is very popular. According to Mangroomer.com, "You only get one chance to make a first impression." That is true, but how many hours can a man spend each day preparing for first impressions of his backside? The old triple S (shit, shower, and shave, ladies) may take an entire day if your man shaves his south lawn, back porch, front walk, Garden of Eden, garden globes, and boxwood hedge.

Then he still has to trim his eyebrows, nose hairs, brush his teeth, and put on hairspray. I'd need to get in the bathroom at 4 a.m. before the floor resembled backstage at the Westminster Dog Show. And what would he look like after 5:00 pm? How big would that shadow be? Please stop man-scaping. Your obelisk is huge, okay? We want the bathroom back.

Do You Iron Your Balls or Send Them Out?

The Beauty Park Medical Spa in California has a new procedure for men to tighten the tackle. The Male Laser Lift uses a Pixel laser on the scrotum to even out skin tone, remove hair, erase wrinkles, and tighten external skin. According to their website, this non-invasive treatment is like a facial for your package. The end result is a much more
youthful look. Put the Male Laser Lift on your bucket list, guys. Right after sky diving, qualifying for the Senior PGA tour, and eating haggis, go ahead and get your jewels polished. 

Let's cut the  Let's be honest:

I hate to break it to you men, but waxing the brows, perfectly filed nails, manscaping that hanging brain, and ball tucks may be all in pain vain. Skip the 'scaping. A warm smile, an offer to carry the groceries, the ability to make a woman laugh, and a regular trip to the barber, may actually take you quite a bit farther. 

 

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You may also like these related posts:

Take Note Ladies: 30 Dating Red Flags (updated)

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Middle Child: You're the Good Stuff

My middle child was on a rant. "No one likes the middle, Mom. No one ever calls the middle seat, especially on the Scrambler. No one wants a middle piece of cake. They want side pieces, the ones with all the frosting. Even you said you don't like the middle, because it's where the gray hair grows outta your head."

Then he said, "And come on, the middle finger is the bad one, right? There's no way that's a coincidence. As a middle child, I'm doomed to a life of medium-ness."

And before I could stop myself, the words just sorta slipped out: "Honey, I think you mean you're doomed to a life of mediocrity."

"Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot. I feel so much better now that I know a fancy word to describe my middle child miserableness."

"Oh, honey, I think you mean middle child misery."

It's true. He'd had a tough week. His older brother, home on a school break, had received a lot of positive attention. In addition, he'd been dragged along to watch his younger brother play multiple hockey games. And due to conflicts, I'd missed both of his recent indoor soccer games. And I might have forgotten to pick him up from the Y, but it only happened once.

He stared at me with such serious eyes, practically drowning in his brother's hand-me-downs. So this little diddy... this one's for my middle child. I bet your middle child will like it, too.

You're The Good Stuff
by Liesl Testwuide, mother of one amazing middle child

You're my 7th inning stretch, my afternoon nap, my five golden rings, the button in my belly.

You're the cherry in my chocolate, the soda in my straw, and the hook in my book.

You're the free space on my BINGO card.

The firefly in my jar.

The funny bone in my arm, and my dream before that alarm.

You're the gooey in my s'more, the "ch" in my a-ch-oo, and the "u" in my hug.

You're my balmy summer night and my porridge that's ju-u-u-u-st right.

You're the warmth in my year, the smile between my ears, and the salt in happy tears.

You're the middle: the glue who makes us giggle.

You, my middle child, are the good stuff.

 

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10 Reasons the Gym Denied My New Year's Resolution Application

I had good intentions for my New Year's resolution. Really good intentions. As a single mom, four years post-divorce, it's time to get back on the proverbial horse. Call it a horse, a rooster or whatever you choose, but it's time for me to get on something.

I decided to get back in shape to avoid being alone for the next decade, so I filled out the membership paperwork at a fancy, schmancy fitness club and awaited their response. In the meantime, I was so serious about this resolution, I shopped online and almost bought a 17-hook-and-eye sports bra made of steel. Turns out I'm not only off the hook; there likely won't be any eyes on me, either. The following arrived in the mail today:

A Boy's Life: Talk About The Pits!

When I noticed the incoming call from our elementary school, I knew I had to take it. 

But I never have the guts to answer on the first ring when school calls. I immediately have to take several deep breaths and then mentally run through worst case scenarios. 

"Your son has #4 pencils. We require they each have at least one #2." That wouldn't be bad. I could have some fun with that.

"Your child shouted, 'Beast-mode' at the top of his lungs, ran to the boys' bathroom and announced 'Evacuation imminent' while a family touring the school was in the hall. For safety reasons, ma'am, kids must walk in our hallways."  I could handle that, too. It probably happens in everyone's house. Well, almost everyone's.

"Your child thought his math compass measured circumference and therefore shoved it-- Well, Ms. Testwuide, maybe you should come to the office so we can discuss this." Probably happens all the time. Or, at least a couple times. For sure once.

In the movie, We Bought a Zoo, based on the true story of Benjamin Mee, the main character tells his son, "You know, sometimes all you need is 20 seconds of insane courage, just literally 20 seconds of embarrassing bravery, and I promise you, something great will come of it."  

I remember getting a little teary at that point in the movie. I was moved by the father/son inspirational discussion. However, in real life, it's total bullshit. Mr. Mee may have bought a zoo, but he never met our principal. 20 seconds of courage would never be enough. 

I ducked out of the New Parents' Tea at my oldest son's boarding school to take the call.

When my ringer sounded, "Oh, it's nothing," I mouthed to the three women having a conversation next to me, but not with me, about monogram fonts. I continued, basically telling no one, "I'm sure it's nothing...probably just my decorator," and I chuckled at my own snarky joke as I stepped away from the ladies on the terrace for some privacy.

"Hello, this is Liesl." 

"Yes, hello. I hope I'm not catching you at an awkward time, Liesl. I know you're out of town, but we're having a problem here at school. It's kind of embarrassing, but your son is terribly stinky."

"Excuse me? I've got a bad connection. I'm in the Berkshires. Kinky? As in...well, as in kinky?" The other mothers suddenly noticed me and strained their necks my direction. "Did you say my son is terribly kinky?" I repeated.

I hadn't been prepared for that one. My future worse case scenario repertoire was just about to super-size. 

"No, not kinky, Liesl. He's not kinky," she emphasized like I was some freak. "Well, not that I'm aware of anyway. But he's stinky. Really stinky."

"Ohhhh, he's stinky!" I laughed nervously. "WelI, I suppose at this age stinky beats kinky, right?" The principal didn't laugh. I turned toward the eavesdropping, perfectly-coiffed New England mothers, and did one of those nod-smile-I'll-be-just-another-minute moves with my pointer finger.  

"I know you're traveling in Connecticut, Liesl, but you must get your son deoderant before school Monday. He needs it. He needs it baaaaad."

When I came home, I explained that at this age, bodies go through changes. Boys need to use products. I bought the deoderant, the shower gel, the hair gel, the mouthwash, the you-name-it-I-bought-it-hygiene-product, but honestly, they don't get much use. My boys think maple syrup is a perfecty good substitute for hair gel, so God only knows what they're putting on their arm pits. 

Truth be told, being smelly is kind of a badge of honor around my house.

"Dude, smell my pits."

"You gotta come in here and smell this."

"No, no, Mom. Keep the windows up, it's totally nasty. Awesome."

"I played soccer in the rain, so I don't need a shower. Water's water."

 

About a week later my son came home and said, 

"Mom, do you know that a lizard can grow another tail if its breaks off?"

"Nope, didn't know that."

"Yeah, it's pretty cool. We learned it in science. It's called asexual regurgitation."

I said, "Honey, I think you mean reproduction. Asexual re-pro-duc-tion."

"Reproduction. Regurgitation. Pretty much the same thing. Whatever."

"Well," I said, "while we're on the subject, do you know what sexual reproduction is?"

He thought for a second and then said, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure it has something to do with poverty."

"Poverty? Really? Where'd you hear that?"

"You know, Mom, poverty:  when you get all hairy, smelly, sleep really late, eat junk food, and then wanna do stuff to have lots of babies."

"Um, I think you mean puberty. Pu-ber-ty. Not poverty."

He quickly changed the subject. Thank God.

"Mom, can I have $15 to go to the movies with some friends? I'm broke."

"Fine," I said, "if pull out those weeds, I'll give you money for the movies. After that, you need to shower because you're really stinky." 

As he walked away, over his shoulder he said, "See, Mom? Pov-er-ty. Pu-ber-ty. Same thing."

 

Why Online Dating After 40 Sucks

Recently I met a single girlfriend for coffee and she bitched, "Jesus, this online dating thing is like having a part-time job.  I can't manage all the emails. I'm mixing up the guys. I have to use descriptive code names to keep them straight: 90 degrees, Firepower, Beard of Love, Jagger Tongue and Hairless Harry. But-"

"What's the 90 degrees stand for?" I interrupted.

"He's got a curved --"

"Really? A right angle? I'd like to see that."

I cringed as she complained about being overwhelmed with dates.  That hasn't been my experience. There's no line of single men wrapped around my cyberblock.  "Yeah...I don't know," I confessed,  "I think it's time for me to throw in the towel on the whole online dating thing and go back to wearing comfy undies."

"Don't do that. You need to get out. Be seen. Have fun. You can't spend every Friday and Saturday night in your bathrobe reading."  

"I'm all for having fun, but the online thing never works for me. I had a short run with some old widowers but I felt like a poacher.  One weirdo insisted I send him a selfie on the scale to verify I have curves, not rolls. Another psycho said he was divorced when he wasn't.  I might just buy sweatsuits, eat chocolate, and get a couple cats," I said.

"Lemme see your profile," she insisted.

I thought it was pretty decent since I'm a writer. I sounded smart, creative and kinda funny. But after careful examination, I realized it read more like an ad for a rescue dog: friendly, outgoing, dependable, loyal... Sounds like code for: please take me home, pant, pant... I'm desperate...pant, pant.  The only thing missing: great at licking balls. 

My friend was adamant, "Men are looking for a sexy, confident woman, not a lonely pup from the pound. Simply bedazzle your profile. Add stuff like: former gymnast, culinary whiz specializing in aphrodisiacs, and financially independent Victoria's Secret hoarder."

"Yeah, but that's bull shit. I'm not all those things," I said.  

"Right," she said, "but who cares? You only need to sound interesting. You don't actually need to be interesting."

"Oh God," she moaned, continuing to read my profile. "Epic fail here. You can't mention you've got three boys."

"But I have three boys--"

"Well, you don't need to brag about it. Kids are a turn off. The mother-thing is a drag."   

"The mother-thing? Most men have their own children."

"News flash: divorced 45-year-old men don't want to date 45-year-old moms. They want women in their 20s and 30s. Younger women -- even if they have six kids. In fact, 50-60-year-old men want women in their 20s and 30s, too. I suppose some older men might settle for a 45-year-old."

"Settle? Jesus, don't hold back."

"Yeah, well, this is the shit people don't tell you when you get divorced."  

"You see," she continued, "for the most part, men 55 - 65, the ones who might have an interest in you, have grown children. They don't wanna carry your lawn chair to soccer games, spend Saturdays at swim meets or help with homework on school nights.  They did that shit with their first wives. You need to appear flexible, carefree, and able to travel on a whim. They won't invite you to the BVI or whisk you off to Vail if you've got three kids. They want a playmate, not a second family to raise." 

"So, let me get this straight," I said. "I should fake that I don't have kids... in order to date men who have kids ... who I'll eventually have to stop dating because I have kids."

My friend bit her lip and tapped her fingernail on the table.  "Yeah," she said, "basically you're fucked. Good thing you have a dog."

 

Mother's Day Gift Guide for Passive-Aggressive Daughters**

If you're like a lot of daughters, it's all your mother's fault.

It doesn't really matter what "it" is.  "It's" still her fault.

If you're too fat, it's your mother's fault.

She probably insisted you were a member of  The Clean Plate Club. 

If you hate exercise, it's your mother's fault.

She scarred you for life with her 1980's aerobics outfits. Women today have huge therapy bills from witnessing their size 0 mothers grapevine in spandex thongs worn OVER spandex capris. The flashbacks of T-shirts with shoulder pads, braided sweatbands, and black, high-top Reeboks caused serious damage to our psyches.

If you've had issues with men, it's your mom's fault.

She may have chaperoned your school dances... and actually danced.

If you have body image issues, it's definitely your mom's fault.

Your poor self-image likely stems from the time she made you go back to your room and put on "something more flattering" while your friends waited in the car.

Whatever your issues, one thing is for sure, your mother is to blame. And rather than reignite the argument of the century, your duty as a daughter is to just get her a gift this holiday. Therefore, put a little FUN in dysFUNctional this Mother's Day, and get her the perfect gift that says:

 "I love you, Mom, but in a pretty f*cked up sort of way."

At Hairpin Turns Ahead, we had our personal shoppers hunt down Mother's Day gifts for wacky moms responsible for ruining daughters' lives across the country. Here's what they found: 

1. Experts claim the most powerful sense is our smell. Imagine your mother enveloped in the scent of your feet every waking hour. The idea is soothing, isn't it? By giving your mom a set of feet candles, you won't need to visit her, she'll feel your presence daily.

 

Waiter: Please, Just Give it a Rest

 

Recently my old college roommate, Ann, and I made plans to catch up over dinner.  I hadn’t seen her in years and she was finally going to be in town. I was starving for adult conversation after long days spent fielding unending questions from my kids.

“Mom, what’s for dinner?”

“Mom, where’s my catcher’s mitt?”

“Mom, do I have to wear pants just because you’re hosting book club?”

With three sons, I am constantly up to bat, and their pitches come from all directions. However, after years of training, I’ve become a seasoned vet at quick answers.

“You get three hots and a cot. Don’t push it.”

“It’s in the basement, top shelf, next to the pilgrim hat piñata.“

“Yes. Pants are mandatory. That’s my final answer.”

Show Me Your Smokin' Hot Legs, Colonel

Walking out the door at 5:00 p.m., my nine-year old son announced, "Mom, we can't forget to bring the potted luck." 

"The potted luck? What? Like bamboo stalks, Honey?" I asked.

"I dunno," he said. "Maybe it wasn't potted luck. Maybe we're each supposed to bring some pot to pass."

"What is this? Eco Club awards night? You need a couple bootleg tapes, too?"

"Mom, duh, it's the Chess Club banquet."

I stared at him intently and I could see the wheels turning in his head. He scratched his head, shrugged his shoulders and said, "I'm confused. I thought we're supposed to bring pot or a pot of luck or something. Didn't you read the note I gave you this morning?"

"You mean that crumpled piece of paper you handed me when I was in the shower?"

"YES! That note. That's the one!"

"I was naked under a spigot, Babe. It's not where I do my best reading."

Hey, Scott Hamilton: Check Out These Moves

 

 

Our announcers, Dick Button and Scott Hamilton.*

Scott Hamilton: Well, folks, coming up next in the grocery shop event is seasoned veteran Liesl Testwuide. Testwuide comes from a long line of grocery shoppers, so we're in for a treat. I spoke with her earlier today, and although she's generally pleased with the course, she admitted the candy aisle and Hostess

A rare glimpse of Testwuide's pre-shop routine.

section can be dangerous and may give her some trouble. Her strategy is to stay focused and stick to her list. Dick, Testwuide's shopping list is long, but one thing's for sure: what she lacks in freezer space, she's able to make up in consumption. 

Dick Button: Thanks, Scott. Testwuide is entering the store now. She's removed her sunglasses and started her pre-shop routine: examining carts for wobbly wheels, checking herself out in the security camera monitor, and stretching to loosen up.

I must say, Scott, Testwuide looks more focused than I've seen her in the past. Her signature pre-shop coffee- Sudafed-Mountain Dew-protein shake could be kicking in. Nevertheless, it's surprising, since she's not known to shop well under pressure. Who doesn't

Let The Games Begin!

I waited four years to experience a special moment like last night.

No, I didn't have sex. 

I watched the 2014 Winter Olympic Games with my three sons. Popcorn, fireplace, pillows, perfect. Together we sat in awe of the huge air from the snowboarders, the pounding knees of the mogul skiers and the showy costumes worn by men's figure skaters. We leaned in at the jumps, winced at the falls, and cheered for the Americans. During the ads, we had animated conversation:

"I bet there are no lines in Russia to buy that sparkly pantsuit."

"How do they land so softly?"

"What's a Pussy Riot?"

No Holds Barred

I believe a bit of reflection is helpful at the beginning of a new year.

Looking back at 2013, I wish I'd said and done some things differently. At 45, I still seem too concerned about people liking me. As a result, I don't say what's actually
on my mind. Instead, I blather some polite words and move on. Later, I kick myself for not saying what I really wanted to.

In 2014, I've resolved to be more direct and authentic in my relationships. In my head I've replayed some conversations that bugged me from last year. As a practice exercise for 2014, I've reimagined what I might say with my new bold approach if given a second chance. Take a look, see what you think: 

 

Grade 3 Room Mother:  "Liesl, would you be willing to chair the annual wrapping paper sale? I know it's close to Christmas and all, but it's really not totally time-

Christmas Card from Liesl at Hairpin Turns Ahead

From the Very Messy, Can-Barely-Find-Sh*t, Yet Amazingly Functional Desk of 

Liesl M. Testwuide

 

Season's Greetings! Merry Christmas! Happy End-of-2013! And Best Wishes for the Starve-Yourself-'til-Summer Season!

 

.............HaRk.............ThE............HeRaLd..............AnGeLs..............SiNg............

 

 I hope this letter finds you peaceful and well! I wanted to take a moment from the year-end hustle and bustle to warmly wish you a safe and festive holiday season. And, because we don't see enough of each other, I thought I'd recap some 2013 personal highlights for which I have deep gratitude.

 

............GlOrY...............tO...............tHe...............NeWbOrN..............kInG..............

 

2013 was my second year as a single woman. Now that the kids are settled, I decided to start taking care of myself. Looking toward the future, I've focused on my health. It's true I didn't lose the 25 pounds I gained over the course of my

My Psycho Elf On the Shelf

Last week, a woman in at the grocery store was blabbering on about her family’s Elf on the Shelf. Consumed by guilt, I ducked into the pain relief aisle. All week I'd tried to kill our Elf on the Shelf. 

I purchased the elf in an effort to create a new holiday tradition for my boys after my divorce. We unpacked the elf and read the book. The story goes that each night while kids are sleeping, the elf heads back to the North Pole and returns before morning. Each day when the kids awake, they must search the house to find the elf in its new hiding spot.

On the first morning with the elf, I walked in the kitchen and realized she was sitting in the same spot as the day before. Damn, I forgot to move her before I went to bed. The kids were eating cereal and didn't ask about the elf. They seemed to have forgotten, too. This effort to create idyllic childhood memories was off to a rocky start.

The second morning, I woke up with pangs of guilt. I forgot to move the elf again. As I approached the elf, her beady, little eyes glared at me. They seemed to say, I will not be ignored. I was creeped out. I made sure Fluffy, our pet bunny was ok, and vowed to do better on day three.

The woman at Walgreens said she’d arranged their elf on the kitchen island alongside Barbie and posed the two as if they were drinking maple syrup out of straws. The cynical bitch in me scoffed, thinking, what a waste of time, as others, waiting for their prescriptions, giggled at her story.

 

Our elf came to the wrong shelf if she expected to enjoy 6:30 am two-fer-ones with Barbie. A headless Lego Darth Vader might stroll in, but Barbie doesn't visit these parts. Besides, I don’t even own syrup. Waffles are a to-go food in my house. 

On the elf's third night, Louis C.K. was on the Daily Show, so while that dashing sugar plum danced in my head, I completely forgot the elf...again. When I walked into the kitchen the next morning, her eyes twinkled, she grinned from ear to ear and she gesticulated a "Fa-la-luck You!" 

Realizing the whole elf thing was a bust, I decided to deep six that chemically-imbalanced twit. I needed less drama during the holidays, not more. I probably should have donated it to a starving coyote or something, but instead I simply tossed that skinny little bitch in the trash and went about my day.

The next morning, still half asleep, I came through the kitchen to let out the dog. Turning the corner, my heart skipped a beat as I found the elf hanging from the kitchen light fixture. I cut that psycho down, stuck a steak knife in both her eyes, and tossed her back in the trash. 

On Saturday, I awoke to a blood-curdling scream. Having an early morning pee, my youngest discovered the elf floating face down in the toilet. Unable to simply flush it, I fished that still-smiling-pee-soaked elf out of the toilet and put her back in the trash.

 

 

On Sunday my oldest found her in the fridge. She had stabbed herself with a pickle fork.

 

 

Having a late night snack Monday, my middle son found her with her head in the oven.

 

Enough was enough. On Tuesday, I bound and gagged that fucking elf-devil, drove to the Kwikie Mart and tossed her in the dumpster. Done. Finito. Freak show's over, folks. I felt relieved and finally got a decent night's sleep.

 

As we backed out of the garage the following morning, I heard a crunch under the back tire. As I glanced up the drive, sure enough, I spotted my tormentor, flat as a pancake in the snow. In what apeared to be slow motion, I saw her crushed little body still muster the strength to raise her arm and give me the finger. There was only one thing left to try.

I covered her in peanut butter and let the dog go to town.

But I know that bitch will be back. 

The Elf on the Shelf seems to be a non-perishable item.

 

 

Dear Santa, Let Me Explain

All I Want For Christmas is Louis CK from Liesl Testwuide on Vimeo.

 

From the Very Messy, Can-Barely-Find-Sh*t, Yet Amazingly Functional Desk of 

Liesl M. Testwuide

 

Dear Santa,

2013 was rougher than I expected. Unfortunately, despite honest efforts, my behavior was not stellar this past year. In fact, in some instances, it was downright naughty (not the good naughty, either, you cheeky devil, Santa.) 

• I ripped the DO NOT REMOVE UNDER PENALTY OF LAW tag off three pillows from Bed, Bath and Beyond.

• Despite authoring a blog about accepting life's changes, I wrote 17 nasty Tweets about Carrie Underwood and the new Sound of Music.

• I ate half of my kids' Halloween candy. I threw the other half in the garbage so I wouldn't eat it. Dubya still guilts me with: "Mom, starving children in Africa could've eaten that candy." To which I relpy, "Not if their moms are anything like

#selfiesrule

From the Very Messy, Can-Barely-Find-Sh*t, Yet Amazingly Functional Desk of 

Liesl M. Testwuide

Dear Instagram #antiselfiemovement members,

In September, Digital Trends, an online technology magazine, covered the formation of your selfie-hater group, and your goal to end to the growing trend of selfies (photos taken by oneself of oneself and uploaded to social media sites).

 

Stop. Please just stop. Is the teeny-tiny bubble of the world you live within so ideal, you're unable to think of actual social issues to care about? Why focus on slandering the selfie? If you're going to be frivolous, why not create an #anticouponistamovement? Or maybe a #nomorekidsingrocerystoresleague? The shopper ahead of you in line who sorts through an 8-inch stack of coupons with her booger-faced kids after your serene aerial yoga class must make you more insane than selfies!

Seriously, #antiselfiemovement members, despite your disdain for people posting selfies, according to a September BBC News article, selfies are not a passing fad. In fact, a simple search of  “#me” on Instagram, the popular social media site for posting photos, reveals 149,057,815 results!  Selfies have become so embedded in our culture, that just last month, the Oxford Dictionary formalized the word selfie into its database of acceptable English words. Let me guess, you mudslingers don't play Words With Friends, either? Hmf!

I understand that you selfie bashers feel posting photos of oneself may signal an

It's the Blogger Idol Pageant Live!

(This post was written for Week #4 of Blogger Idol 2013. Contestants were paired and the challenge was to write an interview. My partner was Kristen Hansen Brakeman and we really enjoyed our collaboration experience.)

 

Ladies and gentlemen, I’m your host, Heather Reese, blogger from My Husband Ate All My Ice Cream. We’re live at the 2013 Blogger Idol Pageant and relieved the horror of the swimsuit competition is behind us! Let's move ahead as we're only weeks away from crowning the next Blogger Idol! 

We know our contestants can write. This next segment will reveal just how fast two of our finalists, Kristen Hansen Brakeman and Liesl Testwuide, can think on their feet. Our judges have been given questions to ask each finalist and they'll be scored on their answers. 

 Let’s begin with a question for Kristen from our first judge, Mother Freakin’ Princess (MFP).

Judge #1: Kristen, I'm a modern day princess who enjoys mountain biking and cooking, so naturally I want to know, what do you think about the recent government shutdown?

 

Liesl and Kristen backstage at the pageant. Although nervous, they enjoyed a laugh after former contestant, Don of all Trades, shared a filthy joke.

Kristen: Oh, totally great question! I'm such a big fan, MFP, because I love pink just like you! I believe the government shutdown is totes important! In fact, it’s just like my platform, “Books for Convicts.”  I believe that if we give convicts books, then they could read books and then they’ll know so much more, and then

I believe they could read books to sick children, the elderly and the homeless, and that is why I believe feeding the hungry during the government shutdown is so important!  And so is, “Books for Convicts!” Thank you!

Okay, uh, next question.

Judge #2: My question is for Liesl from Hairpin Turns Ahead. My blog is called I Need a Playdate. Besides a blogger, I’m a parent, teacher and have held a myriad of jobs, from pizza delivery person, to sex toy consultant. Therefore, I’m interested to learn your views on U.S. child labor laws.

Liesl: I’m not knowledged in child labor laws. I had my first child at 33. I’m 50% definitely sure I’m likely against child labor laws. For instinct, if a 13 year-old asks for a urinal- - I mean an epic urinal, during labor, it

Cream-Filled Bandit Arrested

(This post placed third in Week #2 of Blogger Idol 2013. The challenge for Week #2 was to write about a fictional crime we committed in the form of a news story.)

 

MADISON, WI - A Sheboygan woman charged with 27 counts of burglary is expected in court later today to plead guilty to a string of robberies at Hostess snack cake warehouses.

 

Testwuide shortly after coming out of her food coma.

Police arrested 46-year-old Liesl Testwuide Friday evening at the Sheboygan Hostess Brand Distribution Center. Perplexed by repeated break-ins at Hostess facilities throughout the state, law enforcement officials created a special task force to apprehend the crumby culprit. On Friday, police implemented Operation Sweet Snatch, which resulted in Testwuide's arrest, and finally put an end to the Ho-Ho heists.

According to authorities, Testwuide was found sleeping in the fetal position on the floor of the Hostess warehouse, surrounded by crumpled white wrappers and half-eaten Ding Dongs. Medical professionals called to the scene pronounced Testwuide to be in a deep food coma, yet predicted her condition would improve after ingesting a glass of white milk and locating her dignity. She was cuffed and taken into custody.

Sources say a custom lock pick set, made from unused health club key cards was found at Testwuide's side and is being tested at the lab for fingerprints. Police believe Testwuide used the key card lock picks to gain access to over 15 Hostess warehouses and remove countless pounds of spongey, cream-filled snack cakes.

I'm Not a Loser. I'm Not a Loser. I'm Not a Loser. I'm...

Like my fellow American writer, J. D. Salinger, I turn down most media requests for interviews. Dwelling on my immense success and popularity seems counter-productive. However, since auditioning for Blogger Idol 2103, the paparazzi hounds me everywhere I go. I'm still recovering from an incident with a photographer in the 15 Items or Less lane at the Piggly Wiggly.

However, most recently, Molly B., a regular contributor to The Second Grade Girls' Gazette, asked meto sit down for an interview. Since she'd also receive 10 extra credit points in Spelling class, I agreed. And, to be perfectly honest, I didn't want to get on her bad side. Everyone knows Molly B. throws the best birthday party every year. 

Ex-Mother-In-Law Christmas Gifts, Part I

The clock is ticking. Only 98 days of shopping are left before Christmas. It's never too early to start shopping for your ex-mother-in-law. During my marriage, my mother-in-law was hands down the toughest person on my list to satisfy. I'd spend hours hunting down the perfect gift which would eventually be received with a tip of the head, shrug of the shoulders and a "Meh."

Top 10 Reasons I Should Be America's 2013 Blogger Idol

I haven't been this nervous since the last time I had to pee in a cup. My hands were shaking then, and my hands are shaking now. There's something humbling about both putting yourself on the line for an audition, and slowly walking down a hallway with a cup of your warm piss. Competing emotions seem to emerge: feeling grateful for those cheering me on to succeed, and being scared sh*tless I'll fail because I suck ass.

At a time like this, who better to turn to for words of encouragement, but the golfer, John Daly? He's been up, he's been down, and he wears his

Bring Back the Armpit Hair... and Other Male Grooming Tips from a Middle-Aged Mom

 

When a man I recently dated asked to borrow my hairspray, I knew the relationship was doomed. Not cool, buddy, not cool at all. Piece of advice, guys: if you wear hairspray, you might want to take that secret with you to your grave.   

I'm old school. I have a crush on Louis C.K., for Christ's sake. My divorce and recent single status have not rid me of my traditional views on gender. When there's a bug to kill, dog food to carry, or bike chain to fix, it's a job for one of my sons. I'm not saying I can't do those things... except fix a bike chain. I totally can't fix a bike chain. But some jobs are better left to the men. If you bring home the bacon and fix the pilot light, I'll fry it up in a pan. Deal? 

I like men to look, act, and smell like traditional men. Imagine my surprise then, upon re-entering the dating world at 40ish, only to discover that men's grooming trends are almost as insane as women's. (Read my post on crazy female beauty trends.)

Let's Not Share a Bathroom, Okay?

I know you metrosexuals like to get pampered with manicures, facials, and waxings, but as a woman, I'd prefer the salon be a man - free zone. When my face is blotchy from an eyebrow wax, and my hair is covered in goop and foil, I don't want to make small talk and watch you read Cosmo. It's too much like sharing a bathroom. Women have secrets. Men shouldn't witness the weave or the false eyelash application. You're just supposed to admire the final product. Go back to your barber shops, guys. Granted, you can't read Cosmo there, but enjoy the peanuts and ESPN. 

Where the F*ck Has all the Male Body Hair Gone?

Our Labor Day Vacation: Public Restroom Tour of America

www.9gag.com

The last push of summer, Labor Day weekend, has sadly arrived. For control freak parents like me, Labor Day requires a great deal of labor to appear labor-less for the brood you love.  Marking the end of summer, it's an iconic American holiday, so there's serious pressure to have the most family fun EVER. I’m talking Norman-Rockwell-painting family fun. Kennedy-Camelot-football-tossing-fun. You get the picture.

Today, tightly wired moms are maneuvering grocery carts at dangerously high speeds, ticking items off their iPhone lists faster than the average man can read it. Washers and dryers are working overtime, duffle bags are being packed, and school supplies are sitting patiently in the corner until Tuesday. 

Concerned not enough fun is planned for the weekend, or worried too many Uno cards are missing from the deck, anxious parents are scurrying to purchase last minute kites, Bananagrams, and forking out cash for that odd PVC pipe game involving golf ball numchucks.

True perfectionists are desperately googling Martha Stewart articles regarding not only how to pack the perfect picnic basket, but also how to embellish it… because

Note to Father Time: Can You Hear Me Now?

Letters From Camp

The following piece, Letters from Camp, was featured on the Today Show, Chelsea Lately, MSN, the Huffington Post, London's Daily Mail, Perez Hilton, E!, and many more websites. Enjoy! It has been shared on the internet via various websites well over two million times.

There's some good stuff here. Stick around. Subscribe to get the latest posts! Thanks for visiting!

Last year my eight year-old son went to summer camp. It was the first time he had been away from home for more than a night. An hour after he left, I missed him.  By the time I went to bed, I found myself wandering into his bedroom, just to feel close to him. As the days passed, I wrote to him daily. Each hour dragged as I'd wait for the mailman, hoping and praying for just one letter from him. By that point I missed him so much, I began to imagine what he might write to me. I fantasized I'd receive a letter something like this:

Dear Mom,

Thank you so much for letting me go to camp. I have learned so many cool things, like how to take a fish off the hook, tie sailing knots, and even how to groom a horse. Thanks for packing the sun screen. I've been out on the lake a lot, so it has really come in handy. You sure think of everything! Since it's been so hot, I've been drinking tons of water! See? I really listen to all your good advice.

The other boys here are really smart and nice. I'm making some lifelong friends I will cherish forever. We've had fun learning camp songs, playing cards, and catching frogs in our free time. During quiet time, I read the book you sent along. What a great selection! And just because you're my mom, I made a special gift for you in arts and crafts!

I'm trying a lot of new foods, just like you suggested. You were right, the oatmeal at breakfast really isn't bad when I add raisins. And don't worry, Mom, I've been using all the manners you've taught me over the years.

We are camping under the stars tonight. I am hoping to see some fireflies.

I love you,

W

xxoo

P.S. Tell my brothers I miss them!

 

Yesterday I received a letter from him! It's just slightly different from what I imagined:

 

 


This year I'm sending an enitre book of stamps with him. Can't wait to see what he writes!

Videos Released: Drum Roll, Please!

 

Sure, my boys get a bit embarrassed having a writer as their mom, but I think they secretly like creating great material for me. Trust me, they keep it comin'. And when I recently did a live reading of my favorite piece, "I've Got Something In My Pocket" about boys and their underwear, in Ann Imig's 2013 Listen To Your Mother production in

10 Diet Weapons Of Mass Distraction

All right, it's summer, damn it.  All you skinny folks are happy, sporting your tank tops, teeny-tiny-tacky dresses and bikini bottoms made of string and paper clips. Unable to wear an itsy-bitsy-teenie-weenie anything, even when I was 12, I tend to side with my St. Bernard during this season: bring on the snow, the cold, and the need for layers. I miss my black tights, boots, and turtlenecks. In spring, I tried (well, kinda) to shed some

Notes From The Road

Earlier this week, I set out on a road trip with my sons.  Our destination:  Kansas City for the 2013 VisionWalk. Since I rarely do things the simple way, we traveled en route St. Louis and southern Missouri. Here are some musings from the road.

Favorite t-shirt spotted:  Ain't Nuttin' Like Kentucky

Just in case you were lookin' fer Jerky Heaven, we found it: 

Fill 'er Up and Hit the Road*

Although I consider myself an expert in many areas of parenting, like how to maximize the longevity of boxer shorts, using a double dose of cough syrup for any ailment, and how to clean kids' fingernails with the tip of a paperclip while driving to school, I feel I have exceptional authority on long-distance travel with boys. As summer has finally arrived and many families will load up the SUVs for a trip, I thought I'd share some of my road-tested tips which will keep the adults sane and the kids happy on your journey.

 There is no doubt satellite radio, a cooler on wheels, a DVD player with headphones, and a couple audio-books are all good bets to make a family road trip more comfortable. But the stakes are just a bit higher when traveling with boys in a small, confined space for hours while simultaneously operating a large motor vehicle on

The Commencement Speech I Wasn't Asked To Deliver

 

Take Note, Ladies: 30 Dating Red Flags (updated)

You may be thinking, relationship advice from a divorcée? What would she know about getting it right?  Excellent point, I got nothin'. But trust me, I do know a lot about getting it wrong.

Over the past couple years, I've been on my fair share of dates. Nope, I didn't meet Mr. Right or even Mr. Right Now. In fact, the whole experience has led me to take a step back and embrace my current single status. As a result, I've decided to take a break from searching for virtual love in the online dating world.

As I enjoy my freedom and go back to wearing comfy underwear, I thought I'd share a bit of the dating wisdom I've gathered. Granted, no one is perfect, and we can't live our lives dictated by lists, but red flags are real, ladies. And they are red for a reason. Trust me, I've been learning the hard way. Consider yourself duly warned. 

 Caution: 30 Red Flags for Dating 

 

1. Your date brings his CPAP machine on the first date.

2. Your date travels with his own air freshner.

3. Your dates tries to pay for your movie in Blackjack chips.

4. Your date's dinner order begins with, "I'll have a boneless..."

5. Your date drinks white wine spritzers and keeps saying, "Hey, gurl..."

6. Your date believes three minutes is a long time.

7. Your date keeps Visine in his breast pocket, his glove compartment, and his desk at work. Dude, what's the big deal?

8. Your date's divorce will be finalized soon. Seriously, real soon. 

9. Your date has Velcro closures on his shoes. Come on. If he can't take the time to tie his shoes, there's no way he's into foreplay. 

10. Your date begins the majority of his sentences with "Well, technically..."

11. On a first date in a crowded bar, he holds your hand and says, "Now this really feels like intimacy."

12. Your date says, "Let's meet somewhere else for coffee. I'm not supposed to be so close to a school."

13. You have to ride in the back seat because the passenger door of your date's fine ride is held together with duct tape. 

14. Your date uses jazz hands any time, any place.

15. You open the door, greet your date and he says "Do I look great or what?"

16. To get you in the mood, your date turns on Kenny G and plays "air" saxophone.  

17. Your date wears more jewelry than you.  Earth to Jersey Shore: we've got a Situation.

18. Your date has never taken you on an actual date. Cooking dinner for him repeatedly is not an actual date.

19. Your date claims all his ex-wives and four cats are psycho bitches.

20. Your cat takes a shit on your date's shoe. Hey- cats know stuff.

21. Your date's only friends are online strangers with whom he plays GrandTheft Auto.

22. Your date's favorite answer to your questions is "It's complicated."

23. Your date's retirement plan is to sell his pristine Star Wars action figures which are still in their boxes and line the shelves of his apartment.

24. Your date looks over his shoulder and in a whisper asks if you're interested in making some money on the side. He knows a guy who knows a guy.

25. Your date walks you home and says, "So if anyone asks, can you just cover for me and say we were together all night?"

26. Your date mentions his prized collection of (pick any one) Beanie Babies, clowns, stuffed animals, yarn, teaspoons, scabs, Cracker Jack prizes, or snakes.

27. Your date wears a rubber wristband that says "I love boobies."

28. Your date has a "Honk If You're Horny" bumper sticker.

29. Your date thinks you resemble Steven Tyler.

30. Your date thinks he resembles Steven Tyler.

 

 

 

 

Mama's Fizzled Fo' Shizzle

 

Yesterday at school, I overheard teachers complaining that students seem to have checked out even though there are still two weeks of school left.  I ducked out of the conversation quietly. I'm not a student,  but this wannabe-cool-school-mom definitely has the end of the year fizzle fo' shizzle.

I've had it with third grade math story problems.  My child and I fight over who has to read them aloud. Neither of us can do it without loudly lamenting: "Are they serious?" followed by a David Letterman toss of a pencil. Then we get to waste time looking for the pencil, looking for the sharpener, and of course sharpening the hell out of that pencil 'til it could easily blind the inventor of story problems. We've both had it with Jane. We don't care how much money Jane had when she walked into the store, how many combs Jane bought, or how much each comb costs. We think Jane should grow some dreadlocks and spend her money on candy.

Highlight Reel of Motherhood 2012/2013

It's been quite a year as a mom.  I could get all mushy, but that's really not my style.  I could discuss how much I've learned or lament how fast time flies.  I could talk about how many lunches I've packed, loads of laundry I've done, or Band-Aids I've affixed. But those things happen every year.

Instead, I've created a highlight reel of favorite quotes from my children to celebrate my mom experience over the last twelve months. I wasn't born with a great deal of patience, so thank goodness the most important things I've learned I need to be a good

Men, Let Me Help With Mother's Day

Mother's Day is around the corner. May 12th, to be exact.  Enter the occasion in your phone and set an alert.  After you've confirmed your children are creating homemade cards and bringing a bean or marigold plant home from school, you need to get shopping. Not to fear, men, I'm here to help with some insider information about Mother's Day, women, and gift giving. 

Crucial point, husbands, do not tell your wives: "You're not my mother. I don't need to get you something for Mother's Day." This is serious dog house smack talk. If you say this, be prepared to hear about it every

Booty Beauty

The first time around, dating was a lot easier.  Not just because I was fresh out of college, single guys were everywhere, and I consumed copious amounts of alcohol, but I had my youth.  Gravity hadn't set in.  It was the 90's. All I needed to look fly for a date was a Wonderbra, my Rachel from Friends haircut, a spritz of CK One and a schrunchie on my wrist.  

At 45, it's not as easy to get a guy to like me from scratch. I've had three babies. Have a few scars - ok, I admit, not from anything cool; and, although I prefer to be comfortable, I'm single, so I always have to opt for flattering. I'm the only mom at a soccer game wearing Spanx under her jeans and shoes with a heel ("...a little height, honey, it lengthens your legs." Thanks, Mom).  

Happily married women have no idea how easy they have it. They don't need to follow the trends. They have their regular man. They can go native on the south lawn, wear flannel, and regardless of the hue of their anus, they're still going to get some action from their husbands. Not so, for single chicas returning to the dating scene. We need to focus and be on trend.

And I have to say, the trends are insane. Thanks, Kim Kardashian, thanks a lot. 

Ode to Melting Snow

 

Oh melting snow, how you betray me!

My secrets are no longer safe with you.

My blue-bagged weekly shoppers,

a crushed cereal box, encrusted with tire tracks,

and Halloween wrappers taunt me in the sun.

My loins ache for your smooth blanket, hiding the earth's imperfections, 

like Spanx on my ass. 

Some Things Should Never Change. Ever.

 

From the Very Messy, Can-Barely-Find-Sh*t, Yet Amazingly Functional Desk of 

Liesl M. Testwuide

 

Mr. John Verscootenhagen, Manager, E-Z Shop Grocery

2759 Cornucopia Lane 

Peshtigo, WI  59032

 

Dear John:

I'm leaving you. It's over. The loyal and mutually satisfying relationship we have enjoyed for years must come to an end. I no longer feel I can give you my love and loyalty.  

What the hell happened? I go on vacation for a week and you rearrange the entire store? Is this some kind of sick joke? What were you thinking? A big holiday is right around the corner, just for fun, let's mess with our loyal customers' heads and move 39,000 items to completely new locations?

Abdomenia: Civil War Rages

This just in, folks...breaking news from the ever-expanding region of Abdomenia.  

Located between the C-Cup Crevasse and the practically abandoned Southern Channel, Abdomenia, is well-known for its repeated attempts to tighten its borders before the swim suit season. If Abdomenia is able to condense its area, experts have

Practical Uses for Your Livestrong Wristbands

I never thought I was good enough to wear the yellow Livestrong wristbands made famous by American cyclist, Lance Armstrong.  The bands seemed to represent a physical and philanthropic standard I would never achieve. They were too highfalutin for me. I’m a single mom who schleps mac n’ cheese, drinks too much Diet Coke and believes wearing Dr. Scholl’s sandals counts as exercise.  Truth be told, wristbands with a practical message like  “Floss,” “Flush,” or “Friday = Garbage Day” make more sense for this never-go-out-in-public-wearing-bike-shorts gal.

In an interview with Oprah Winfrey, Lance Armstrong finally admitted what the world has strongly suspected for years:  he’s no American hero. 

He’s a cheater,

a fraud,

a liar

and a bully. 

Armstrong is a narcissistic thug, who preyed on the good will of sick people, intimidated teammates, threatened naysayers with lawsuits, and bribed those who kept his secrets.

My Rolling Stone Interview and World Premiere Christmas Video for Louis C.K.

I'm in love.  I admit it's an unusual relationship. We've never been on a date. We've never kissed.  He's never called me.  In fact, he doesn't even know I exist, but I can feel it's love from the queasiness in my stomach.  Maybe that's the Christmas tin of Chex Mix I just inhaled...but I think it's love. 

The truth is, I've been in love with comedian Louis C.K. for quite some time. I wouldn't say it was a factor in my divorce, but my feelings for him have been strong for a while. Even though he has no idea I'm alive, I think we'd make a great couple. We're both divorced (see? it's totally destiny.)  We both eat pizza. We both like ice cream.  And we both swear a lot.  It's a solid foundation. 

2012 Christmas Card to All

From the Very Messy, Can-Barely-Find-Sh*t, Yet Amazingly Functional Desk of

Liesl M. Testwuide

 

December 13, 2012

Dear family, Hairpin Turns Ahead readers, Facebook friends, Twitter followers and the 9 other friends I actually talk to in person:

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! I hope this letter finds you well.  By that I mean, showered, dressed, and not having spent the last 3 days in a Cheeto-stained bathrobe in your bed watching Lifetime television. If you have, that's ok. Do what you need to do. But this holiday season, I'm surprisingly feelin' it, baby, so I decided to send you a formal Christmas card!

In 2012 the boys and I focused on efficiency and adapting to change. In an effort to keep our St. Bernard's breath from constantly smelling like piss, the boys and I got matching "Flush" tattoos on our left forearms. So far, so good.  Big Ben is enjoying a constant supply of fresh toilet water. The matching tats were cool and made me feel young until I noticed the chunky part of my 45 year old arm covers the F. Thus my tattoo appears to read "lush."  It's not so far off, so I'm ok with it.  It only raises eyebrows outside my 12-step

My Christmas Letter To Santa

 

From the Very Messy, Can-Barely-Find-Sh*t, Yet Amazingly Functional Desk of

Liesl M. Testwuide

 

Dear Santa,

I’ve always wondered if you consider a person’s good intentions in your behavior evaluations; because this year, my intentions have been stellar.  2011 was a tough year and I was pretty bitter. But this year, I'm happy to report that I really intended to do a lot of good stuff.

I almost hosted a first-day-of-school-coffee at my home.  I planned to make a meal for my cousin who had a baby.  I wanted to call my old college roommate to see how she was doing after her move.  I thought about helping out at my sons’ Cub Scout meetings. I had hoped to meet my neighbors at the block party.  I thought about paying the balance on my divorce attorney’s bill.  I bought a Hallmark “Get Well” card for a friend who had surgery months ago.  It’s still on my desk, so you might spot it when you come down the chimney.  So, as you can see, Santa, I’ve really stepped up my efforts when it comes to having good intentions in 2012.

 As a result, I thought I’d write you a letter and include my Christmas list. I figured maybe you’d be generous with me since we have a lot in common.  We both struggle with some issues. I mean I totally can relate to the weight problem, the low-self-esteem you mask with that white beard, you might have a bit of a Napoleon complex since you surround yourself with little people. And we all know a veiny, red nose is a sure sign you’re tippin' back a few too many. So here goes:

 

Item #1: I need a new neck.  Seriously, I don’t know what happened.

 

Item #2: A burial plot.  Santa, if you’ve been reading my blog, you                 know as a single woman I’m concerned about my final resting                 place.

 

Item #3:  If you’ve got any clout with the online dating service to                 which I subscribe, I’d like some matches with actual                 potential. I can’t take one more message in my inbox that                 reads: “Liesl, our records indicate we have found the ideal                 match for you. Joe F., 59, from Ishpeming, MI, is divorced,                 speaks English,is coincidently right-handed and has a penis.” C'mon, Santa, baby, help me.

 

Item #4: Decorative fruit for the bowl on my kitchen table since               someone (who will remain nameless) put bite marks in all the               plastic pears.

 

Item #5: A pair of black leather pants. Besides a Cheesehead, leather                 pants are the one classic wardrobe piece I do not own. By                 day, perfect for attending YMCA swim meets and by night,                 casually elegant for the all-you-can-eat pizza buffet.

 

Item #6: If you’ve got any pull at the DMV, I could use a few points                 put back on my driver’s license. It’s Wisconsin for Christ's sake! I was speeding soberly.

 

Item #7: Cartons of cigarettes for my boys. Likely not a popular                 request these days. But the growing has to stop. Drastic                 measures are needed. I simply can’t afford to constantly buy                 them new shoes, in addition to all the new shoes I need.

 

Item #8: A date with comedian Louis C.K. He hasn’t filed the                 restraining order against me yet, so you still have time to                 pull this one off.

 

Item #9: New grips for my golf clubs.  As if.  Just checkin’ to see if                 the schnapps hasn’t knocked you out yet, Santa.

 

Item #10: A lifetime supply of AAA batteries. I’m not going to get                 into it. Trust me, they’ll be put to good use.

Well, Santa, thank you in advance for considering any items on my list.  I hope all my good intentions this year will pay off!  I intend to leave some cookies out for you!  

 All my best,

Liesl