These two ladies are happy because:
a) they’re together
b) they’re about to devour that Chocolate_Chocolate Cake
c) they smell really really really good.
d) all of the above
My girl, Yallison is awesome in her own right, but way awesomer this time because she’s gone into the business with a pal of making the perfect perfume oils. I’d make this plug anyway because Yallison is a precious friend. But seriously, y’all, I’ve got SIX of these perfumes and they are perfect. Please consider shopping in her online store for gifts this holiday season. Once you try them, I promise, you’ll come back for more. Just click here. Or here. Or right here.
First of all, they are a great price at $8 a piece. And they last for forever. I’ve been wearing Lime in the Coconut all summer, and I still have half a bottle. But my new seasonal favorites are Vanilla Sandalwood and Smile _ which may or may not be synonymous with “Happy”. remember “Happy”? Secondly, they are brilliantly made so that you can carry them around in your purse, your gym bag, or just leave them at home. (I’ve dropped mine twice and it didn’t break either time.)
I love these roll on oils because they are even more Leslie Proof. By that I mean, my community thanks me. Ever get on an elevator and your nose is violated not by the silent fart, but by the over perfumed gal? Yeah, that’s usually me. Forgive us, we know not what we do. Well, we know, but look, we’re getting ready for work or whatever, and we feel frumpy, or we’re having a bad hair day. So, we overcompensate with perfume. Because, by God, atleast we’ll smell good. These rollerballs protect the community’s noses from me, as you can’t just spray the whole bottle on. You are welcome fellow crowds.
As I’m sure you’ve already checked, they make lip balms as well. Yallison made a couple for Lucy. I keep trying to snag one from her. But she hoards them, because they are that good. This may be the year that Lucy’s lips don’t chap and crack, because she will not go anywhere without her Yallison lip balm.
They’ll make great stocking stuffers, or just because gifts. So, please check it out. And tell them Mom on the Rocks sent you.
That’s how I roll _ haha, get it? Roller balls!?
Song of the day: My Favorite Things on For The Kids Too! album

Here’s a turkey at the cabin we stayed in this summer. I kind of thought it was odd that they put him up in the rafters. But then again, from this angle, kind looks like we could just push him over on to the table for dinner. Maybe that’s what the decorator was going for.
I’ve been toying with the idea of going back to work. Logically, it sounds like a good idea. Now that Ricardo works from home, I’m okay with working outside the home. I still think it’s important to have a parent here when they come home from school, all the way up until high school.
I really hadn’t considered it until I got an email from a student. As much as I bitch about my students and their lame excuses, nothing communicates to me more than when I hear from them after the class is over. And this one speaks absolute volumes to me on so many levels:
“I applied for this job. I don’t qualify, but I know you do. You should go for it.” And the ego inflated, and all was well.
The job was a very high position in Communications for a very large company here in town, and well, international as well. I don’t think I qualified, but the idea nagged at me enough that I applied.
Clearly as a writer, and a teacher, and a mom, I’m well versed in rejection. And so, he never called me back…again.
The idea of working outside the home still nags me at times. Then I remember my commute to the couch in my living room, working while singing along to my well_crafted playlists and snuggled with my dog and my blanket. I remember how petrified I am to drive when it snows (6 months out of the year), and I remember how much I love to go for a jog, or a walk to stretch out my legs in the middle of the “work” day.
And then I remember, I have everything all right here.
So, here’s to considering new possibilities, and embracing the ones right in front of you.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the day: Thanksgiving song by Adam Sandler

Are you looking out, or looking in? Do I need to talk you off the ledge, or you just doing maintenance work, or simply taking in the view? Are you cold? Tired? Motivated? Inspired? Happy?
I just had two compelling, comforting, and important conversations today. They were separate issues. Both were on intensely personal levels. Some days, it seems to me, coffee talk is important. Other times, those moments of coordinating when both parties can find a moment to hash out some serious shit out _ because we’re moms, and there’s school and work, and schedules _ well, they’re precious moments. Most days, though, we don’t have time for small talk. All we have time for is BIG talk.
By the second phone conversation, I was asking all kinds of direct questions. Some might call it nosey. But I just call it “information Leslie needs to know so as not to derive her own conclusions.” Thankfully, both pals know that my intent is sincere. I found myself pulling back from the interrogation in process, and apologizing,
“Sometimes, I just need to know where you’re at.”
The thing is, there was a time, we didn’t know where Carrie was at and by the time we did, it was too late to save her, too late to hear her voice again, and too late to be nosey. We didn’t want to upset her with demands for details. She kept quiet too long. And perhaps my tip toeing was misconstrued for simply not caring. So now, I ask the questions. I take a little more time to make the calls more often and interrogate my pals. If the scheduling conflict is too much, I force noseyness via email or some type of instant messaging system. I pretty much force a more consistent friendship with them.
In continuance with that conversation I was talking to pal about a particular sitcom moment of a miscommunication in marriage. Something happened at husband’s work. But husband didn’t get around to telling wife about it for a week or so.
Kinda went down like this:
“Uh, hunny, I’m looking at our bank account _ you need to go talk to your office payroll peeps. They over paid you.”
“Oh yeah, that. I meant to tell you, I’ve been promoted.”
The earlier stupid me would have suggested husband was hiding something, like extra money in the bank account. However, I know husband, and I know wife. And now I know where they’re at because I asked the nosey questions. So, then a new question arose, “Can you get a promotion and forget to tell your wife for a week?”
Yep.
Hey, look. I know this life _ there’s schedules, orchestra practice, volunteer basketball coaching, dishes, laundry, a few meetings to travel for, breakfast, lunch, dinner, dance class and rehearsals, facebook and twitter updates, grocery hunting, crazy pets barfing, peeing and pooping all over the house. When the pet’s not expelling foulness, they’re eating homework, cotton balls, and your kid’s favorite shoe/stuffed animal/lego. On top of all that, you’ve got to remember to shower, and brush your teeth which at some points, tends to be optional, let’s be real.
The very rarity that you and your spouse go to bed or wake up at the same time is discounted by tag teaming. “I’ll go get milk at the store, you make lunches for school today.” Meanwhile the kids are all “Look at me, Mom!” and light sabers interrupt just about any logical thought you could possibly have, let alone articulate to your spouse.
Ricardo and I both work from home for goodness sake. And to a lesser degree, we get distracted, we forget to just talk. It happens. So, thank you friend, for the friendly reminder in letting me know where you’re at, that I should also know where Ricardo‘s at. It’s always a good check.
Yes it is possible, plausible and happening at this very moment in the best of relationships that you can go weeks without mentioning important things that happened at the office last week. Now that I think on it, I’m fairly certain we make a better effort to have sex than we do to just talk to each other. And by “we” I mean the collective universe, ofcourse.
Here’s to acknowledging to make sure you know where you’re at and where your loved ones are at. Most importantly here’s a friendly reminder to know where your spouse is at, you know that one person you promised in a big frilly white wedding dress that you would love and take care of _ in sickness AND in health. Take some time and just talk. Let them know where you’re at. Or maybe, just maybe, where you’re going.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: Shake It Out by Florence + The Machine

I apologize in advance, as this post is scattered and possibly inaccurate, like my thoughts. I know this blog is about all the very funny things that happen in my life of motherdom. I realize that although I have a degree in Journalism, it’s been awhile since I’ve used it and this in no way is any kind of journalistic reporting on my part. When something hits the media and kind of sticks on me for a while, I usually vent on facebook about it and then go on my merry way. Sometimes, every now and then, I wait for the story to leave my flighty brain and I carry on into my own little happy bubble of life. But the story sticks. I wait, it sticks. I do not claim to know all of the details of this story, but what I do know sticks. And I gotta get my two_cents worth out.
As Nebraska football goes, we’re attached to this story of Penn State and unrightfully revered Joe Paterno and that piece of shit, Jerry Sandusky. Nebraska plays Penn State tomorrow. The lead story in our local news is those travelling to the game are taking precautions due to the stupid student riots _ angry not over all these nasty details of molesting boys or defaming the name of Penn State. Not over the fact their precious coach is morally inept. No, they are angry their precious JoePa has been fired. Their actions on the streets are the very reason why kids don’t speak up sooner. And so, the lead story of our local news is that Nebraska fans are taking precautions _ they’ll still wear their Nebraska red, ofcourse. But their precautions are that they are not going to pack their corn hats. ARE YOU SHITTING ME?
I read an in_your_face, and descriptive article that really sums it up for me on the Daily Beast. Please click and read it. Although it’s a hard read, the very nature of description that people over look is, in it’s own right, refreshing journalism in a very dark hour of news. It’s a very good point, that instead of saying, “Sandusky was in a shower with a 10 year_old boy.” As most news goes. What we really should say is “Sandusky was in a shower MOLESTING a 10 year old boy.” To say “with” kind of makes us all guilty of understating the severe injustice of it all, don’t you think?
Is molesting boys so common, that when a 28 year_old man stumbles on a retired coach in a shower molesting a 10 year old boy, that the grad assistant simply walks away. Is this a gender issue? Is this so common among men, that fellow men turn a blind eye?
If the same guy stumbled on some punks beating the shit out of a homeless person on the street, wouldn’t he break it up? Or would he go tell his daddy?
That McQueary quietly tip toed away from saving that boy makes me sick. That he thought to tell his dad, who then suggested he report it to Paterno also makes me sick. What the shit kind of advisement is that? And why does a 28_year_old adult need to ask what to do? But that 10 years later, he’s now an Assistant Coach for the very football program he apparently protected. Well, is it me, or do ya think he might have been kept on staff in an effort to keep his mouth shut? Even creepier, the guy is banned from a game, for protection. The adult. Who walked away. Later describing in detail the sounds and sights he saw. You know, the ones he walked away from protecting a kid.
Perhaps the kid saw the same video my kids did _ Safe Side Super Chick and discussions of Stranger Danger when he was a little kid. But now he’s 10 years old. And perhaps our conversation with our kids should grow up and change as well.
So, now, lets consider the boy who was molested in the shower. All that therapy, all that he worked through, we can’t even possibly fathom. Read this account from someone who was molested.

I watched the interview of the mother speaking up in all of this. The mother who has spoken up did everything right. She listened for clues. She asked her son. When he wouldn’t talk, she called the school, told them to talk to the kid. The school, by the way, listened, tended to, alerted the police, and did it all right as well. Still, her son was a victim. And that scares the shit out of me.
Ten years later, the victim who was molested in the shower finds out that someone saw him being molested, and walked away. Making McQueary the equivalent monster as Sandusky. So many have failed these kids.
And that’s why no one speaks up. That’s why it goes on.
As parents, we do our best to tell our kids no one should touch them. And if anyone does, the kids should tell us. The more I think about helping my kids. And the more I think about what I’ve told them. The more I think that the very vagueness of our conversations isn’t enough. I need to arm them with more.
And so, I’m going to try my best, for the victims of this particular and malicious cover up, and for my kids, to talk to my kids. Yes, there is the potential to scare my kids. Better me and my words, than someone else’s actions.
How do you (or will you) talk to your kids?

I had a lot of cake pictures to choose from on this one. I really really really love cake and my friends. And I love that my friends know how much I love cake.
Over a year ago, I was having a conversation with a friend who’s mom was dying. We were discussing the stupid things people say when someone dies. And I said, “Why can’t they just say, ‘I’m sorry for your loss, I baked you a cake.” So, I was telling my cake making goddess of a friend about it who makes this chocolate_chocolate cake that admittedly makes me moan. And when Farley died, she showed up on my front door. With the cake.
A good friend will offer condolences. A great friend will make you a cake when your dog dies. Your favorite flavor that says, “I’m sorry for your loss. I baked you a cake.” She’ll remember and do all that for you.
The same friend will be on notice when your mutual friend’s dog is on hospice care. She will make the cake within 12 hours while working, mothering, and part_timing a cake biz. When you get there to pick up the cake, she’ll refuse your money, citing, “She’s my friend too.”
Then she’ll know that you’re not sticking around to eat the cake, so she’ll make you a spare cupcake. And then hand you the extra frosting conspicuously stored in a sour cream container so as not to attract children’s attention.
I took the frosting, even though I’m desperately trying to not eat so bad while I nurse this stupid pinky toe. But it’s homemade dark chocolate frosting. And I HATE to be rude and all. And we headed to JulzHOLLA‘s. They had to put their maniacal and yet, sweet dog down. The first and only ruined and spoiled of their children _ Chloe. Chloe was brilliantly deviant and loyal.
I deduced that I should eat the cupcake while we headed to JulzHOLLA‘s house. I mean, where else am I going to put it? God forbid it topple over. So, I did it justice and tore into it. It’s. So. Delicious. It’s like a firework display of cake and chocolate goodness. No one makes a chocolate_chocolate cake like this. NO. ONE.
“Mom, why are you moaning? And why are you driving so slow?”
“I’m twyong tuh eat thif cufcake. It soooo gooood.”
“Can we have some?”
“No.”
“Well, could you drive faster and stop moaning?”
“Yef.”
“Mom, what’s in that container she gave you?”
“Nuffing.”
“Is it extra frosting again?”
“Yef.”
So, remember next time you’re consoling a friend or loved one, that hugs and prayers are always good. But best offered with chocolate.
God bless our first kids _ our dog. We’ll miss you Chloe. Say hi to Farley for us.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: Friends by Flight of the Conchords
Chloe _ this one’s for you: Crazy by Aerosmith

We decided to make some table top versions of our tree. (You want one? Email me at momontherocks @ momontherocks dot com)So, in order to do that, we had to set up the tree for a template reference. Yeah, our tree has been up since mid_October. I was too lazy to take it down and put it back in the basement. Surely it provoked the following conversation.
Lucy just asked me to confirm Santa Clause. Well, Max asked first. And we told him what was up. We also told him that he could talk to Lucy about it, but not really to anyone else.
So, once again, in the minivan, when Lucy has a chance, she confirms with her very natural inquisition,
“Max is lying , right Mom?”
“What do you think, Sweets?”
Silence. Oh, touche Baby A, touche. Silence is not your best game, and yet, you play it.
“Baby, Santa was a real mortal dude. He became a legend when he went and helped out a family by placing money in the stockings that were hanging in front of the fire at night. Sound familiar?”
“Yes, so Max WAS lying!?” I’m not too sure she’s more eager to hang on to the whole Santa gig or to prove her brother wrong. Either would be complete elation for the rest of the year.
“Well, Lucy. See, Santa was a man. A mortal. And when he did that gig, it was a very long time ago. So, he died.”
“SANTA DIED!?”
“Well, yes. He was human. I think he lived in the 1600′s. So, you know, we all die eventually.”
She sat and thought on that.
Well, now who can’t stand the silence? Me. So, I humored the void and filled it,
“When I was a kid, I was about your age when I figured it all out. And it made me sad to know that the magic of Santa wasn’t really real. But then I realized my parents had been doing all of that for me _ THEY were keeping the magic going. And that’s kind of cool, right?”
Big smile from my girl, but still silently letting it all sink in.
“And his name was Saint Nicholas because he was made into a saint after he died. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes.” She’s a first communion drop out _ so, she’s well versed on Sainthood.
“It means he did something really good, and so, the Church acknowledged it and sainted him. And so, the cool thing about him, and the whole being a saint thing is, it worked _ his actions while he was living are passed on for hundreds and hundreds of years. We give gifts anonymously. We pass it on.”
“So, Santa IS real! He lives in our hearts. And we keep his life important by giving gifts and helping others.”
Holy Santa, yes! Wow.
“Yes, Sweety, we do. We keep the magic alive. And in order to do that, you can’t really talk about it to other kids. You know what I mean?”
“Well, if anyone asks me, I’m telling them I believe in Santa. Because I do. What he did was really cool and that everyone passed it on makes him even cooler.”
Again: Holy Santa! Seriously y’all.
And then we Lucy discussed the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and Leprechauns. Lucy explained that Leprechauns probably don’t exist. But the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny do. She deduced that they tap us on the hand and wake us up to put the Easter Basket or Money for the Tooth out.
I’m still in awe of the Santa conversation. So, I opt to just let her go with that about the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny for now. I get a little giggle from the idea of Lucy being a mom and still believing the Tooth fairy is real and will wake her up in the night with a wad of cash to place under her child’s pillow. When THAT doesn’t happen…
That’s how I roll
Song of the Day: Back Door Santa

Here’s what happened _ some media giant calls up Chris Jenner and says all this:
“We need something bigger than Kims ass and tits or that sex tape that you ‘leaked’ to start her ‘career’. Something different and fresh to hype up in the media. We’ll get every network to lead on the news with it _ we’ll cram it down everyone’s throat. We’ll annoy the shit out of everyone to the point they’ll have to watch your stupid show and buy their stupid boutique clothes. But what could we do to exploit your family even further? I know _ we’ll pay her to get married! Shit yes! This will be epic _ by my calculations we can pay your whoring franchise 18 million and she just has to sell it, have a wedding and be married for long enough for us to sell our made up and prefabricated news and magazines. Yeah, I know its a complete mockery of the institution of marriage that us homophobes horde and keep to ourselves. Oooh _ any chance one of y’all might turn up gay? No, not Bruce_ he doesn’t count. Anyways we need to find an unlikely candidate _ someone that’s gonna have some time on his hands _ probably an nba guy. I hear they’re going to strike and even if they don’t _ none of them really try hard until the playoffs anyways. Someone dumb enough to do it but smart enough to sell it. Someone who resembles a neanderthal. Ok_ who’s it gonna be? Oh, it really doesn’t matter. Just make sure none of the other Kardashians approve, but they still show up and we’ll pay all them off too. And let’s put Kim in a disappointing headdress and gown on the big day. Like we’ll hype it up and then she’ll look lame anyways. Oh, and let’s just go ahead and draw up a contract and say we’ll sell story after story after story after story on this one…I think we can make it last for probably 72 days. And then when we’ve milked the stories on her wedding and the marriage and all that, we’ll either get her pregnant, or she’ll dump him. O_M_G huge idea! What if she dumps him and then turns up pregnant on top of it all. Let’s get her knocked up. Deal?”
Yeah, I think I’m pretty close to the truth here.
Song of the Day: You Could Make A Killing by Aimee Mann