Great New Quick Fix Meal Idea!

Where have you been all my life!???!!

CHEESEBURGER-IN-A-CAN!!! I LOVE YOU!!!!

Yes, the bun,cheese and the condiments are included.

Too busy to grill up a hearty cheeseburger meal for the family, or even swing by the local fast food joint to pick up something pre-made? No worries, mi amigo. Convenience and portability have reached new all-time highs thanks to the ingenuity and culinary prowess of out German compadres. Yes, the same folks who brought us the trusted taste treats of sauerkraut, leberwurst (liver sausage) and schwarzsauer (blood soup), have managed to take the perfection of their homeland creation the Hamburg Steak, top it with cheese and a bunch of other savory accoutrements, and wait-the fun doesn’t just stop there- OH NO! Those crazy yodelin’ lederhosen-heads went off and figured out how to keep the great taste of a cheeseburger alive forever, or at least 5-7 years with the current average shelf-life expectancy. How? By cramming that sucker into a tin can, that’s how! Now you can take a whole bushel of cheeseburgers with you wherever you go! Toss ‘em in your backpack! Keep ‘em in the trunk of your car and have em ready the next time you break down, have a flat, or need to feed that young chinese boy you just abducted before you rape, torture and mutilate him. Of course you want your victims to have a delicious and nutritious last meal! If you’re lucky, you just might taste a hint of that cheeseburger yourself when you sit down to eat him. Yum! Double Deelite!

Cheeseburger-In-A-Can also makes a great gift! I use it as a stocking stuffer. Alex just loves it.

Cheeseburger-In-A-Can is quick and easy to prepare! Simply pop open the can and steam it using a double-boiler method. No double boiler? No worries, just try sticking it in the bathroom sink and let it warm up while you take a shower, or hold your iron up over the top of it and keep pressing the steam button. In about 30-45 minutes, your tasty cheeseburger should be at least lukewarm enough to keep yourself from gagging it up while you cram it down your maw. Now, how exactly do I know it’s ready you ask?  You’ll know Cheeseburger-In-A-Can is at it’s peak flavor profile when it looks like this:

Note the patty will be a uniform shade of greenish-grey. All Cheeseburgers-In-A-Can are precooked to a temperature of 165 degrees to ensure the prevention of nasty food-bourne illnesses. No sorry, no medium rare special orders here! Cheeseburger-In-A-Can wants you taste healthy goodness in every chewy, slimy bite, not the taste of bacterium and parasites! Yuk-O!

Don’t try to microwave Cheeseburger-In-A-Can, it just doesn’t work as well. Instead of a soggy glop of yeasty gump, your bun will magically petrify into a tooth-crushing magnesium-limeshale crust which is just murder on those fillings in your molars.

Cheeseburger-In-A-Can unfortunately is not readily available in stores, but you can order it pretty easily on line. The cost and the wait are well worth it. I’ve enjoyed Cheeseburger-In-A-Can so much I’ve ordered their new side dishes Taters-In-A-Can and Chicken Caesar-In-A-Jar. MMMnnnn! I can’t wait!

Mom!

You know, it figures it would have started right at the exact moment I just happened to hit puberty. The universe has its way of jacking with me like that. It gets a real big kick out of fucking with me, likes to tell me I’m an “easy target”. Yeah, I guess I always have been kinda gullible like that.

What the fuck am I talking about, you ask? And what is this nefarious “it” I’m pissing on about,and what does it have to do with that magical, yet subtly perturbing rite of passage that occurs when a girl takes her first wobbly steps down the golden path of her burgeoning womanhood? And, I don’t mean a bat mitzvah-that’s crazy, I’m not even Jewish. You know what I’m talking about.

That “it” is HER. HER!! Yeah, that her, as in the very famous lady in the picture you’re staring right at, who just happens to bear a name that is just too ridiculously similar to mine? You know who I’m talking about. That Miss Queen Of Media herself (no wait, that’s Perez!)…I mean, you know, Queen Of Pop, Queen of the World, Queen Of Sheba, Queen Of Shame, Queen Fucking Bee..whatever. Fucking queen of everything, MADONNA.

Do you have ANY idea what this woman has done to my life? Beginning at about age 13, she latched on to my psyche like a bloodsucking lamprey and has been gnawing her way through the corpulent bowels of my ego ever since. I mean, you remember when Madonna first exploded on the scene, and began herTerminator- esque quest for her Holy Grail of Complete and Total World Domination? Yeah, it was crazy, right? She was every where, you couldn’t escape her- radio, MTV, (or, Friday Night Videos for lame-o’s like me whose parents refused to get cable), the TV, magazines, album covers, posters, cds and cassettes flying all over the place…bad movies…Madonna t-shirts, bandannas, pins, notebooks,mugs, hats, underwear, outerwear, decorative tea cozys,vibrators…you name it, her face, name, ass, something-was on it. (Ok, I’m making up the vibrator part…but you know, now that I think of it…I wonder why there are no Madonna vibrators, dildos, scented massage oils…you think there would be, it’s a natural market…oh, wait,I’m getting a message here… what’s that? An anal plug? Really???? Ok, so, what you’re telling me is there was a limited edition anal plug Madonna was endorsing somewhere around 1987? Huh, interesting. I was not aware of that. Now, that little nugget should come in handy next trivia night!)

The point is that the 80’s were complete Madonna Mania for everyone, everywhere. Now, just stop for a second and put yourself in the shoes of someone whose name is almost just fucking like hers. It was hell, that’s what it was, pure and utter hell. The moment Borderline became a hit and the world fell under that damn strumpet’s spell, was the moment I ceased to be LeDonna…and morphed into LeDonna, The Ultimate Madonna Wannabe.

I didn’t even WANT to be like Madonna, really…ok, you got me. I suppose there was a certain moment when I would look upon her ever-increasing status as an entertainment, fashion and sex icon with perhaps a faint whisper of envy. And not that I particularly ever wanted to be any such thing myself…you know, beautiful, famous, wealthy, desired by the masses…oh, good heavens, no! Not me. No no no no no no.

Around the Sean Penn had dumped Madonna and she started showing up to awards shows with Micheal Jackson, I threw up my hands in defeat. Obviously, she was a creative force to be reckoned with, and much like that blasted ingrown toenail I’d been battling with since my freshman year that refused to heal-she certainly wasn’t about to give up and just go away, and in fact, was growing larger and more noticeable each and every day. I had to accept that Madonna had become a permanent cross-stitch in the fabric of my life.

It probably wouldn’t have bothered me so much that she had started this fashion phenomenon and all the hip girls were dressing like her and looking cute if I hadn’t been so damn fat. Those ripped tees,mesh tanks and black rubber bracelets that looked so cute on all the skinny girls-if you put that same outfit on me, I looked like something fished up out of the Hudson River. Now I’ll just throw on a dead body and maybe one of those plastic 6-pack holders…alright! Let’s go! I’m into the groove!

Everytime my name was mentioned, I would hear someone-somewhere-”Madonna”? As if, where?  Here?! No, dipshit. Madonna is no where in the vicinity, today’s not your lucky day, you didn’t win the lottery or anything. It’s just me. LE-D0N-NA.

When I’m introduced to someone, 9 times out of ten, they will look at me quizically and say,“Madonna?!”, like I’m fucking with them somehow, playing some silly name game. “You’re not Madonna!” is one I get a lot. “I’m NOT?” I’d shoot back in astonishment. “Good God, you’re absolutely right. What was I thinking? There I go again, just assuming the identity of some random celebrity as my own…damn shrink was supposed to adjust my medication. I’m so sorry, this won’t happen again”.

Then I would be forced to clarify. “No, It’s LeDonna, kinda like Madonna, but with an ‘L’ instead of ‘M’…and ‘e’ instead of ‘a’, but it still sounds the same! Oh, and I get a big D, not a little one like hers”.

“So it’s like two names?” gggggggggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

I always dreaded the start of each new school year, because it was inevitable at least half the teachers would totally bungle my name, they could never tell if it was “Lee” or “Donna” or “Lee-Donna”,none of which were correct.

“So is your first name ‘Lee’, or is it ‘Donna’, and your middle name’s Lee?”

Yeah, Miss Lady with The Master’s Degree. My first name is Donna, middle name is Le, and my last name is Lee. That makes perfect sense. Donna Le Lee. Donna Le Lee, that’s me! You know, my mother was crazy, and yes, a touch redneck,but she wasn’t so out of her freaking mental galaxy that she would dream up a name as stoopid as “Donna Le Lee”. If she had, I surely would not be standing before right now, because I would have already committed suicide the moment I realized I was actually supposed to spend the rest of my days with a name that sounds like I’m a back-up dancer for Don Ho.

And please, let’s not even get started on my middle name.

“Alright, what’s your middle initial?”

“K.”

“What does that stand for?”

“Kay.”

“No, what does it stand for?”

“Kay.”

“No, I mean, what does the “K” stand for? “

“Kay!”

“Honey, are you speaking spanish, is that it, are you trying to say ‘what’? I didn’t mean “que” as in “que-so”,I meant, what does the letter ‘K’ stand for in your name?”

“IT STANDS FOR KAY. K-A-Y, MOTHERFUCKING KAY! AS IN MARY ‘KAY’, RHYMES WITH GAY, KAY!!!! Do you understand me now?”

“Oh, yes, I see, Kay! LeDonna Kay Lee. My, isn’t that just the prettiest name!”

You four-eyed fat fuck of a liar. You don’t have to patronize. I know my name sucks.

Actually, I have made peace and grown to like my name. I think it sounds kinda cool, kinda like a movie star. LeDonna Lee. Which is awesome, because one day, I will be. I haven’t given up dreams of entertainment glory. As long as there are webcams and pornos, I still have hope.

I sure do love to help. :)

I’ve decided to start volunteering recently, and happily, one of the opportunities that has come up is providing support to victims of domestic violence. It’s great, because this is absolutely one of the A #1 causes I am passionate about, so I’m excited to have a chance to get in there and do whatever I can to make a difference in these women’s lives. I’ve found that it can be a bit of a challenge finding a good volunteering gig, the really good jobs seem to already be taken. For instance, I went to Nordstrom and asked if they needed any help with advertising, for I would be happy to model any of their 1000’s of high-quality and fashion forward garments all around the downtown area. Oddly enough, the answer was a No!

Then I headed over to Gordon Biersch and volunteered my superior beer-tasting talents absolutely FREE OF CHARGE! just to be a good citizen and help them out in their QA department. I mean heck, it has to be tough for an outfit like themselves to consistently produce a great-tasting product, and I’m sure it would be helpful to have some folk on hand to serve as sort of a “frontline of defense” and save some poor elistist schmo from overpaying for a brew that might possibly even be just a skosh not up to snuff?

I was floored when I was politely shown the door and asked to never return. I even inquired about tasting opportunities with any of the new brews that were still in the development stage. I’d be happy to give those guys my opinion on how they taste! Plus, I’m sure I’d have some helpful feedback for them, after all, I have spent a lot of years swilling a LOT (and I do mean ALOT) of beers, and trust me, I know good beer when I taste it.

Again, the answer was NO! What is the deal with these people? Maybe I have something stuck in my teeth. And what was up with the arm-twisting thing the security guy was doing as he was escorting me out the door?? Dude just about ripped my arm off my shoulder. Man, what a jackass, that really hurt.

Oh, I guess it’s for my own good anyways. I don’t need to start drinking again. It was kinda early, anyways, I think it was like 8:00 in the morning. Now if it were 10? Maybe a different story. Ok, ok, I gotta focus now.

So yeah, the plan is for myself to provide encouragement and solutions by phone to callers who are seeking help to extract themselves from some sort of potentially dangerous situation. So I guess I’ll start out by being a good listener, assess the situation, then give them resource information and any helpful tips or perhaps some encouragement or advice. Which is great, because that is exactly what I am best at.

You know, one of the most valuable lessons I have learned in my journeys down this wide and rambling road we call life, is that every cloud really DOES have a silver lining. It’s true. Attitude is everything, and when it comes to life, it’s up to you to decide whether you’re going to put a positive or a negative spin on any given situation. And domestic violence is no exception.

I know there are a lot of “standardized ” wisdoms in the world of counseling victims of domestic violence, things such as “Yeah, if he hit you with a hammer,you should get that checked out”, and “Um, yes, sweetie, I think the part where your “partner” shot your mother and set the dog on fire, may indeed be a red flag”. Those sorts of things are kind of no-brainers, and honestly, I think I’m gonna feel a little weird stating the obvious to some of these women. In fact, most of them I’m sure have heard the same meaningless line of tripe crisis lines always tell callers anyway…they got the standard “run for your life” shpeel the last time Earl beat the living tarfeathers off their behinds. I’m thinking these women would really benefit if I could possibly bring something different to the table. So, I’ve been working on some fresh new twists on looking at the subject of domestic violence, and I think they’re really mighty encouraging. Take a look and let me what you think:

1) Yes, having been punched, choked, and grabbed from behind I’m sure was frightening and is horrible! But hey, it’s not gonna seem so weird or scary the next time someone tries to mug you!

2)Try to make dodging punches and bullets a bit more like a game. Try to imagine that you’re just acting out a real life game of Grand Theft Auto, or something else along those lines.

3)Try to make the most out of each trip to the courthouse when you’re filing your Order Of Protection paperwork. They’re a lot of really hot Family Law Attorneys down there, and if you’re on your game, you might just land yourself a sugardaddy. Stay away from the cops though. They’ve got the anger management issues, too.

4) Hey, you get priority placement for social services!

5) You know, you get great free samples of shampoo and stuff at those domestic violence shelters. Be smart and scoop up all the love you can!

6) If he’s stalking you, try looking at it as “Hide N’ Go Seek”. You know, think “Stratego”, make it a challenge! Oooh…where’s he gonna be next? Is he gonna be – here?? Noooo, ok…maybe he’s HERE hiding out in the bushes. Or will he find me HERE and be waiting for me behind the door with a butcher knife? See! Gives it a slightly more frothy, fun, frivolous feel, like “Where’s Waldo?”

7) You know girl, “bruise” is the new “black”. You didn’t hear about that? Guuuurrl, you better go on and work it NOW!

I’m totally stoked. It feels so good to be giving back and helping others. I’m sure if I keep coming up with more of these freshfaced words of hope and encouragement, I’ll be the hotline’s favorite counselor in no time. Maybe I could parlay this into like a full-time gig. Yeah, I think I may have just found my calling. Wait! I just came up with another one, listen to this:

“Don’t be sad about that shirt he just ripped right off you. See, use these shreds of fabric to make dandy fashion hair bows. Or, you can use them as bondage restraints to really put some extra sizzle into your make-up sex!” Good God, at times, my genius…

My First Manic Episode!

AWWWWWWWW!! Just look at the cute little baby nobody cares about! COOCHIE COO!!!

Aaaah, such sweet innocence. Those were the days. Those were the days.

Yes, party peoples, please turn your eyes just slightly above and just over to your left so that you can fix them upon our Exhibit A right here. Yeah, right there. Perfect. If we’re all on the same page here…and I think we all are… I just want to make sure, ok? Just want to ensure we’re all checking out the same babe.

Yeah, that babe. She sure is cute, huh? Well, check it out, because that sweet little package of goo-goo-goo-goodness just happens to be me. Yes, me. See? Told you I was a babe from the day I was born. Now you have the picture as proof.

I was so sweet and tender, Martha Stewart would have paid some serious cizzash money to get her hands on me…for soup. You did know that’s what that big ass kettle she’s stirring in the intro for “From Martha’s Kitchen” is for, right? No, there are no damn potatoes in that thing! Those are babies boiling in there!

My biological mother surely would have sold me to her, because if I remember correctly, Mama told me they paid about $500 in green stamps from the old Piggly Wiggly and a lifetime supply of Pall Mall Lights 100s. I’m sure Martha would have given her a much better deal. Martha would at least throw a nice set of her cookware and some sheets to sweeten things up.

You know, I remember that day this picture was taken. I remember I was all grins right there because I could see somebody headed my way. Hooray! Someone might actually pay attention to me today! I hope they want to stay and play. Or perhaps pick me up and hug me or kiss me. Hugs and kisses sure feel good, I know, because I got one from the neighbor boy next door last week. I don’t know why I always hear mama calling that poor boy a pervert, he always seems real sweet to me. But I guess I have to appreciate whatever stimulation I can get, cause mama is usually to busy with her stories to entertain me.

It looks like she’s got something in her hands. Maybe it’s a present or a toy for me! Yay! Maybe it’s a holiday! At least on holidays Mama and daddy stop and talk to me.

Oh, wait, oops..uh…oh, it’s just mama throwing in my crib some more crossword puzzles and her old Reader’s Digests she’s all done with. She usually does that to make sure I have something to keep me occupied while she’s watching her soaps. Mama takes her stories verrrrrrrrrrrrry seriously, and I had to learn the hard what happens to bad girls who interrupt them.

Like the other day, I wet my diaper right in the middle of AS THE WORLD TURNS. I knew it was really bad timing, but I just couldn’t help it. Well, Mama got really mad at me because she missed the part where Dr. Bob Hughes put Sandy into the Oakdale sanitarium after she got burned by the fire. I’m guessing it was so important to her because Mama spent a little bit of time in the sanitarium herself, but that was before I was born. She probably wanted to see if the place still looked the same.

So, to teach me my lesson that I needed to learn to wait until I saw either the Tidy Bowl Man or Mr. Clean before I could pee (oh, and if I saw the ChuckWagon, I was good ,too),
I had to spend some quiet time alone in Mr. Albert’s sock drawer. It really wasn’t so bad, it was the one with all the dress socks, and those are really nice and smooth, {Editors Note: “Mr. Albert” is Mama’s “pet name” for LeDonna’s daddy. P.S. He’s Chinese!

So yeah, I was pretty cute back then, wasn’t I? Yeah well, that didn’t last long. See, since I was adopted, I wasn’t able to breastfeed, so I had to drink formula from out of a can. The problem was, I guess I had some kind of a “milk allergy”,and my parents had one hell of a hard time finding a formula that I could actually digest. Finally, she decided that she was just going to start making her own formula for me at home for scratch. And wouldn’t you know, it turns out pureed twinkies with some non-dairy creamer and just a touch of Ovaltine was just what the doctor ordered. Never had a problem eating since. One small side effect-I did octuple my birthweight within the first year and looked a little bit like Verne Troyer as The Michelin Man, but hey! I was fed.

One of my mother’s favorite things to do was dress me up. She loved it so much, she made sure I was dressed to the nines each and every day of my infancy. My mother had always been a bit of a fashionista , and she had a keen sense of style she had honed during her formative years at one of Caddo County’s most prestigious orphanages, The Ursaline Orphanage in Shreveport. {Editor’s Note: “Orphanages” are a lot like “Boarding Schools”, just with 2 key points of distinction. #1) all the kids are poor and #2) the children’s parents are most likely dead, and even if they aren’t, they’re not coming back for the kids EVER, in contrast to those parents of boarding school students , who will be happily picking up said child at the end of the academic year while on their way to dumping them off at summer camp.}

Mama always made sure I had lots of clothes, and I had all of the finest leisure suits and patent leather shoes that could be found at Weiner’s and Montgomery Wards. Mama was even so ahead of her time, visionary that she was, she had herself a personal shopper. Ms. Weebos at Sears used to call Mama all the time and let her know when fashion favorites such as my Florida Orange Winnie-the-Pooh polypropylene jumpsuit or sassy Captain Kangaroo/Mr. Green Jeans reversible modacrylic 2-piece pantsuit sets were in stock.

Mama even used to take me shopping at the big Neiman Marcus store down at the Galleria, but she stopped because one time I was being bad and I fell out of her arms while we were riding on the escalator. Lucky for me, daddy was able to swoop down and rescue me after I’d only fallen 4 or 5 steps. I wasn’t heard too badly though, and as the story goes, I was still just a laughin’ and a grinnin’, even as daddy was having kind of a hard time prying my pinky finger out from between the plates at the bottom of the steps. It hurt a little, but it wasn’t too bad. Nothing that a good rubdown with Daddy’s homemade Chinese whiskey medicine wouldn’t heal up real nice.

One of my Mama’s favorite stories to tell me is that she used to love to dress me up like some of her favorite TV stars. Sometimes it would be a leather jacket and sunglasses, and I’d get to be Kojak. Other times, it would be a welvet suit with a ruffled jabot…so I guess I was Yul Brenner doing a guest spot on the Partridge Family? I’m pretty sure I had a Barnaby Jones look too, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was.

My Top 3 guesses as to what I must have been thinking in that picture?
1) I guess I better savor this one last gasp of happiness, cause from here on out, my life sure is gonna SUCK!
2) The man who is holding me claims to be my father, yet suspiciously looks just like the Grinch. What’s up with that?
3) Ok, guys..who put the lampshade on my head? C’mon now…yeah, that’s funny, but c’mon, it itches, couldja get it off? Oh c’mon now! Gosh, you guys suck.. (pout)