In Which Another Company Sends Me Free Stuff

They never listen. Even when I say there are a galactically high percentage of posts on my blog about killing my husband, eating random non-USDA animals, or how to put together an awesome outfit for when an asteroid hits the planet, people keep seeing my blog and thinking, “Hey, you have a blog! Would you like to try out our product?”

Let me be the first to say, I love free stuff. I will try out your product no matter what it does, even if it’s a marinade kit for making jerky out of your own family members. But I don’t think the person making the offer has always thought through the ramifications of sending me stuff and giving me free rein to tell the world what I think of it. Like the time Vicks sent me a thermometer and I became convinced it was a tiny vibrator, and therefore had to convince others that it looked like a tiny vibrator… through this blog.

What’s really great is when I’m offered free products but they’re things that I would never otherwise use and so I have to put on my imagination hat and pretend that people who really do care about these things might like them or dislike them. Case in point: the box of beauty products that showed up at my house.

Now, when most people think of beauty products, they’re thinking of frou-frou things like eyebrow dye or face creams that contain microscopic shards of actual diamonds to make your face glow. No, for me, beauty products involve anything with two steps, a flowery smell, or a tiny jar. And I’m positively allergic to them (not really, I’m just allergic to the thought of using them).

But the fine folks at Somaluxe sent me some stuff to try, and I have to admit that not all of it sucked. Let’s get the sucky stuff out of the way first:

One product called Lip Rescue actually had me excited for a minute. Not only is it NOT in a jar small enough to hold exactly one baby tooth (a typical problem with lip products… there’s never enough of it, and you lose it when you drop it down in the pocket of your cargo shorts), I love any product that tells you right there in the name that this is going to pull you back from the brink like some kind of search party, lowering themselves in a human chain off the cliff face to get to you. Basically, my personal concept of beauty needs “rescuing” at all times, so it’s like it was made for me.

Unfortunately, I’ve figured out that this product is unadulterated, pharmaceutical-grade cocoa butter. It took me a minute to figure out what that horrible smell was that seemed to be following me from room to room, and by the time I realized it was the Lip Rescue I’d just tried, it was too late to make it go away. It smelled and tasted like I’d just done body shots off a Hawaiian Tropic bikini model.

I never did get to try the Redness Repair because a) I’m not red and b) I already got burned by the Lip Rescue aroma, there was no way I was putting anything that smelled like this on my body and walking around with it. Remember, I’m weird… you might actually enjoy smelling like an entire bouquet of wildflowers, but I just keep thinking I’ve left a household chemical lying around with the top off.

The Skin & Nail treatment also seemed like it was made for me, and not just because I own both skin and nails. It smells like Play Doh, and who wouldn’t love to walk around making other people think you’d just spent a solid hour playing with Play Doh? It’s like a constant “in your face” to the rest of your co-workers: “Oh, you were filing last year’s taxes and writing up the report for the shareholders? Yeah, I’ve been playing with the Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop and cutting the little people’s Play Doh hair with plastic scissors.”

Now, before you think I’m just cracking on this company, some of the products were fun. The shampoo and conditioner are lime flavored and coconut flavored, respectively. The only drawback there is that I shouldn’t have any products in my hands at 5am that make me think I need some rum. Nine AM is gonna be ugly if I latch onto that thought and run with it.

(WAIT! BRAIN FART! I TAKE IT BACK! As I’m sitting here typing this, I kept having to stop because I got bitten by bugs last night all over my feet. I tried the Redness Repair on my bug bites, and it seems to be working. It could be placebo effect brought on by the fact that I have yet to say anything really supportive of these products–like beauty product survivor guilt–but I don’t think placebo effect is supposed to make your skin tingle. I’ll keep you posted.)

Finally, the last product is actually pretty awesome, even for a best-face-forward underachiever like me. It’s a mud mask type deal made by Citrus Clear, but it does incredible things to blackheads. It’s so great at its job, in fact, that I sneak up on family members who don’t want to wear mud mask and swipe it on their noses, promising them that it’s life changing. So far, I’ve managed to nab my husband and both kids with it, but I have plans to get the UPS lady the next time she’s unloading something heavy in our driveway. Despite my family’s initial protests, there’s a suspiciously high amount of the product missing, which leads me to believe I’ve managed to convert them through skin care Stockholm Syndrome. They’ve figured out that they can just shut up and use the product, or I can leap over the banister like a cosmetics ninja and attack them with it.

(BRAIN FART THE SECOND! The Redness Repair actually really worked on the bug bites. I still feel them and they’re kind of annoying, but I no longer want to dig at them with a cheese grater. I’m putting this jar in the camping stuff right now!)



Midget Problems

You might think the title of this post would mean something like having problems that are really small, or don’t amount to anything. No, it actually refers to the curse I inflicted on another human being, completely by accident. I really didn’t mean to and it wasn’t some Greek tragedy promise I’d worked out with the universe, or anything like that (I mean, come on, if I had the power to change the course of history with a single wish, do you think I’d waste it on a mere mortal when I could have used it to gain majority control of Nestle corporation?!).

I accidentally made my kid a midget.

Don’t get all politically correct douche canoe on me. If my kid was actually a medical midget, would I be using that word? No, if my kid did have a genetically issued diagnosis of dwarfism in some form, I’d throat punch people for calling her names. Midget, however, doesn’t seem to bother me as a word or a diagnosis but that could be because I’m not related to any. Since it’s not a diagnosis and she’s not actually horrifically undersized, midget fits. As in, when this happens:

Or when she’s given a principle role in a stage production and meets her partner at the first choreography rehearsal and the director keeps eyeballing them and asking, “How is she with stilts?” (There’s a whole other reason why she’s awesome on stilts, but that was a different play.)

I don’t love being in a position of having no one else to blame. Besides being a little midgety myself, I failed to marry a man who was tall enough to reach that useless cabinet that idiot contractors put above the refrigerator for some reason. Of course, I also failed to marry a man with a last name that would sound good hyphenated with mine or who had a trust fund, so offspring height really wasn’t high on my list of priorities at the time. Sorry kiddo, for doing this to you, but when they need actors for the Lollipop Guild, you’re in.

Wildlife: You Can’t Shoot It, You Can’t Have Sex with It


Everyone is so up in arms over the senseless death of Cecil the Lion, and with good reason. It was really a jackass move to lure him out and take off his GPS collar so a rich American guy could shoot him. You know what else was a jackass move? Posting a picture of it on Facebook. Nobody wants to see that: animal lovers will be calling for YOUR head on a wall, and hunters will just be pissed that you’ve got $50K plus travel expenses to blow on trophy hunting.

But this post is really about a more appalling event that occurred in recent weeks. Yes, more appalling than shooting a protected lion. I’d read an interesting article a weirder-than-boiled-shit article about a man who lived near my parents’ neck of the woods, a man who’d been cheating on his wife… with his wife’s dog.

Yes, it appears that this man, jealous of the love and attention that his wife gave to her Shih Tzu, decided to get back at her (the wife) by defiling the dog…repeatedly. Yes, this man apparently began to have a sexual relationship with the dog on the sly. The wife, who saw a change in the husband’s demeanor and suspected he was having an affair, set up a camera in the house only to discover that it was her beloved dog and not a trampy woman who lived in their trailer park.

Now, at the risk of providing too much visual, when this man began secretly boinking the dog, you’d have to assume there was no obvious trauma that would prompt the wife to take her adored pet to the doctor. So what does that tell us? It tells us that this man got back at his wife by putting his member in a dog that’s smaller than most gym bags, and that it didn’t damage the dog. Who’d he think he was getting back at since the world now knows his penis fits… never mind.

I couldn’t wait to share this news item with my parents, and I’ll readily admit I had intended to use more than a little “bwahahahahahaha!” during this phone call. But as I was dialing their number in my car, the radio broke into the song with an important alert. Yes, the DJ interrupted a song to give us the following emergency bulletin:

“Folks (yes, he said folks), we interrupt this broadcast to update everyone on the bear situation. The bear is still hanging around downtown near the courthouse, but I’ve been asked to remind our listeners once again that you can’t shoot it. I repeat, it is against the law to shoot a bear, even if he’s on the sidewalk in front of the Tastee Freeze. The authorities are trying to tranquilize him, so don’t shoot him.”

Please note the important news item there: it’s not to update us on the bear situation, since bears wander into town all the time in these parts. It’s to remind us that bear hunting is illegal. Yes, we’re so gun-crazy and animal-shooty that we’ll take down an animal just for walking in front of us. And the cops said don’t, during a Niki Minaj song.

I was so disappointed that I now had no moral high ground leg to stand on that I had to hang up the phone and not laugh at my parents for living near a dog molester. I relayed the sad situation of my thwarted scoffing to my oldest offspring, who said, “Theirs is still worse. We may have had to be told not to shoot a bear, but at least we didn’t have to be told not to have sex with it!”

FYI, that's my size eleven boot next to a bear track. They're a thing here.
FYI, that’s my size eleven boot next to a bear track. They’re a thing here.

Don’t Let Anything Stand in your Way…Not Even Common Sense

I love handicapped people. I promise, I really do. So I really hope no one thinks this post is making fun of handicapped people because it’s totally about making fun of stupid people. There is a quite-likely possibility that the stupidity on display in this picture is what made this man handicapped, but it is not my place to judge, at least not out loud.

Yes, take a look at this photo and soak it all in. I almost didn’t have time to get my camera out and get this picture before he went roaring through the intersection, but the gods of internet humor were smiling on me that day.

I know what you’re thinking: “What’s the big deal, Lorca? So what, a dad is driving a motorcycle with his kid on the back. Stop being a hater!” And I could almost let it slide that you’d think that way. So let’s take a look at this a little more closely, remembering that this scene played out at a stoplight in front of my car. This wasn’t a case of, “OMG, look what’s happening in the background of the picture I was taking of something totally unrelated.” This shit happened in front of my face. In slow motion, even.

This, my dear friends, is a picture of a one-armed man riding a motorcycle (which is still all well and good, yay for handicapableness) with his child TIED TO HIM WITH A BELT because the kid is asleep. Oh, and it’s not the kid’s helmet. The kid didn’t actually have one while the dad was using his own belt (at the stop light, no less) to tie his son in place.

Now, you might be thinking, how in the world did a one-armed man hold that bike up and get his kid strapped to him for the ride home? With help… FROM THE KID’S MOM. She helped strap the kid in place from the safety of her own bike, and finally thought to take off her helmet to give it to Junior. I know exactly where this intersection is and it’s not possible that these people don’t live at least a mile away, if not way, way more.

Dad has a helmet (and one arm). Mom has a helmet. Kid has no helmet as he clings to Dad’s stump for support. And when he fell asleep, Mom slapped a helmet on him while strapping him to Dad’s torso, which if history is any indication will be sliced in two momentarily.

Now, you all know (and love) the fact that I’m hateful and judgmental. It’s why you read this blog. But I’m here to say that this kid probably isn’t going to make it to the next intersection, let alone to college. There’s an award in his future, all right… a Darwin award. And it’s sad. Sad that the kid probably doesn’t have the best future ahead of him, but really said that most people think I’m a bad mother for letting my kids eat canned pasta and drink from the garden hose when it’s hot outside. Priorities, people… get you some.

Crime Doesn’t Pay But It Sure Makes Me Laugh

I live in a fairly small town. That means other than the occasional single-wide trailer blowing up from meth heads who failed even the most basic of chemistry classes, there isn’t much to report here in terms of crime. Let’s face it, there’s a reason Barney Fife carried that one bullet in a hip pouch.

In order to understand our crime problems, you have to first understand that THIS SHIT made the front page of the paper. Front page news, folks. Of a paper that only gets delivered once a week. And it comes in the mail since hiring delivery drivers isn’t in the budget.


Thank the lord they cleared up the misunderstanding. For a minute there I thought Lori was into all kinds of animals, but it’s good to know she’s now working on limiting herself to dogs.


Yes folks, this man does love to grill. I’m not sure how that made the news, but if you don’t plan to report on things like your own governor removing the fake Confederate flag from the courthouse or the SCOTUS decision concerning gay marriage, then this shit becomes really, really important. Please also note that the intrepid reporter uncovered even more dirt on this man: not only does he like to grill, he coaches Little League.

But here’s where the crime report gets really seedy. Please bear in mind that these were actual 911 calls, and that our brothers in blue put themselves out there to respond.

Shit just got real, y'all. That shoe was damaged in the scuffle.
Shit just got real, y’all. That shoe was damaged in the scuffle.
SIX PILLS, PEOPLE! There were SIX of them bad boys! They later turned out to be Excedrin, but so what?
SIX PILLS, PEOPLE! There were SIX of them bad boys! They later turned out to be Excedrin, but so what?
NOOOOOO! Not the phone cord! I mean, "Hands up, not my phone cord! Hands up, not my phone cord!"
NOOOOOO! Not the phone cord! I mean, “Hands up, not my phone cord! Hands up, not my phone cord!”
Dammit, if I had a dollar for every time somebody stole a $50 mower, I could buy... a $50 mower. You throw in the fact that the officers who responded then went on to find a stolen bicycle on the scene, and it's just a crime wave, I tell you what.
Dammit, if I had a dollar for every time somebody stole a $50 mower, I could buy… a $50 mower. You throw in the fact that the officers who responded then went on to find a stolen bicycle on the scene, and it’s just a crime wave, I tell you what.

For the rest of the country who’s veritably wallowing in news like the riots in Tunisia and the fact that Putin wasn’t invited to the G8 summit for being an asshole, I give you what it’s really like to live in a town with its head shoved in the sand. Or up its ass. Take your pick.

On Getting the Duck Outta Here

There’s a really great story hidden inside every embarrassing tragedy. I’m sure of it. Hell, I’m living proof of it.

My friend had a fundraiser last month known affectionately in our part of the world as a Duck Derby. Stop it. I know what you’re thinking, and no, even we’re not redneck enough to race live ducks. Basically, you find a body of moving water and you dump a bunch of rubber duckies in it. You’ve numbered the ducks ahead of time, and the person whose duck crosses the finish line first (thanks to high levels of rain, swift currents, and more than a few water snakes) wins the prize.

It’s basically gambling…on rubber ducks and Mother Nature.

Fortunately, I got to skip this clam bake recently by having something better to do. I don’t remember what it was, but I seem to recall wine and pretending to clean out the linen closet might have been involved. Apparently, a good time was had by all, and no ducks were harmed in the derbying of these things.

(Interesting note: I’ve only had two glasses of wine, but I’ve already mistyped “ducks” as “dicks” four times in this blog post. Make of that what you will.)

This week, I took another friend kayaking at the creek in a neighboring county and happened to see a sign advertising the other friend’s duck derby. We stopped the car, jumped out, and rescued her sign in case she decides this year’s fun wasn’t nearly enough plastic duck in her life and opts to do it again. Farther up the creek, lo and behold, another sign. We rescued that one as well.

Then later that night, it’s entirely possible this happened:


No. As a matter of fact, they weren’t her signs. I literally stopped along a roadway and stole someone’s signs. Twice. I felt so guilty (the wine made me weepy about the whole thing) that I started investigating online and discovered to my absolute horror that I had not only stolen someone’s signs, I’d stolen an environmental protection organization’s signs advertising a fund raiser that was earmarked for cleaning up the very creek the duckies would swim to financial gain and freedom on.

(Another interesting note: I can’t envision a duck derby without thinking of that episode of WKRP where they didn’t know domesticated turkeys can’t fly.)

After a tearful, incoherent apology voicemail on that charity’s phone at ten o’clock last night, I snuck off to replace the stolen signs. After this happened, of course:

Because if you’re going to steal a sign with a rubber duck on it, you need to go all gangsta on it and threaten it like a jacked up cross between Anonymous and the Unibomber, just in case you ever need to extort money from this charity. Okay, that’s a lie, but it was still funny considering I was already a wanted criminal.

The derby signs are back in place, I’ve made a generous donation to the environmental charity to make up for my wrongdoing, and now I’m spreading the word. Go to this link, adopt a duck, and help clean up the creek. If you actually win the derby, I’ll send you pictures of me stealing your/my new kayak.

I’ve Never Been a Professional Hooker…

My husband got me a massage for Christmas. There, I said it. He actually paid for two massages, and the first one went so horrifically awkward that I still haven’t used the second one. It wasn’t an entire fiasco, but it was certainly not the most comfortable I’ve ever been.

Right off the bat, I remember driving to the appointment at this frou-frou medical spa, thinking to myself, “I’m about to take off all my clothes and let a stranger touch me without making eye contact. Kind of like the gynecologist.” And seriously, at the risk of sounding ungrateful about my present, that is kind of how much I was looking forward to it as evidenced by the fact that I got it for Christmas (because apparently my husband thinks the new spare tire I wanted for my camper “isn’t a gift”) and hadn’t used it by April. I’m not big on strangers touching me while I’m not wearing my delicates.

I checked in at the spa and realized I was the only person there–patron or employee–who hadn’t had anything freshly botoxed. These people were so polished and buffed they were shiny. The attendant showed me to the locker room where the towels and robes were stored, then pointed me to the shower.

Let’s get one thing straight: there are times when it’s appropriate to take off all your clothes and shower with strangers around. A) You’ve just finished a grueling CrossFit class and your muscles are screaming for cool water, B) you work in a nuclear power plant and you’ve just been exposed to dangerous levels of radiation, C) you’ve been hiking in the wilderness for four days and your body odor is scaring away bears, and D) no, there is no D. Those three reasons are all I can think of that justify standing in a communal shower with strangers.

I skipped the shower, since I’d read online before my appointment that showering is considered polite and I’d therefore just stepped out of my own (private) shower before getting dressed and getting in the car.

Then there’s the robes. I’m on the bigger end of the big girl scale, but even I can unabashedly say that I’m by far not the biggest girl on the block. I’m pretty sure I still field dress under 110lbs. But these robes were made for people who wrestle in the peewee weight class. After three attempts, I found one that actually met in the middle, let alone crossed over and belted. Since I wasn’t sure about all the rules here for hygiene (and since they were kind of hung up on the need for a shower), I threw all the ones I’d tried on in the laundry bin. It looked like I’d gone rampantly down the row of lockers and stolen all the robes, then hidden them inside my robe. Sadly, I couldn’t have hidden a box of Tic Tacs inside my robe.

The actual massage part wasn’t horrific because it turns out the licensed massage therapist has a niece on my kid’s cheer squad, so we’d at least seen each other before. We spent the hour dogging the other cheer moms. It was kind of funny in a shallow, bitchy way once I got over the desire to scream, “I need an adult!”

When I made it back to the locker room, THAT’S when I felt like a shower might be in order. I’d just spent an hour with a mostly-stranger’s hands on my body. I referred back to my rule about three acceptable times to shower with strangers and decided to shower back at home with only my children barging in to watch. I got dressed, dropped robe number six in the laundry bin, and went to check out.

Since this was all on a gift certificate (because I didn’t get that spare tire), all I had to do at the register was leave a tip for the massage therapist. I’d also been told to expect that, and yes, it was clearly printed on the gift certificate as well. I handed over my credit card since I don’t believe in cash (because I suck at math, not because of a conspiracy theory involving the pyramid and George Washington’s eye, or anything) and was shocked to discover that my 20% gratuity came to twenty bucks. Even I can do the math there…I just paid a stranger $100 for the privilege of taking my clothes off and letting her touch me for an hour.

Now, I’ve never been a professional hooker, but I think that just happened in reverse. They should have paid me for this. I didn’t even shower, but I did wear the outfit they left for me to put on and then strip when they told me to so someone could spend sixty minutes of my life groping me in a semi-dark room with music playing. I read 50 Shades of Grey, and I’m telling you, that scene is in there word for fucking word. Sadly, when I got home and my husband wanted to hear all about it, I was then stiffed the $19.99 a minute phone sex workers get paid for this. I’m starting to see why hookers need unions (and no, that’s not a pimp joke), because us freelancers are just left hanging.