Author: ME

I Have Somehow Failed In My Quest To Purchase Sweatpants In A Timely Fashion

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

I had it all planned out, and it was an awesome plan. I was going to spend the entire winter break off from school doing absolutely jack shit. And I was going to wear nothing but over-sized T-shirts and sweatpants for the entire nine days. Here’s where my plan fell apart: first, all of my T-shirts are from marathons I ran several years ago, so when you go from being a bad-ass marathon runner to a writer who literally sits on her ass for as many as eleven hours a day, those oversized T-shirts start to resemble the tank top that Hooters waitresses wear. Second, I forgot to buy sweatpants.

I know, you would think that someone like me would already own a full wardrobe of sweat-clothes in various coordinating colors, but alas, there’s a reason that I have none. Because my husband is a jerk.

He strictly forbids anything even resembling sweatpants to cross the threshold of our house, and I mean even jersey-weight fabrics are not allowed. Even on the kids. Even when the school requires them to wear this sweatsuit thing with the school logo on the chest for PE class. No. No sweatpants. Their little stick legs can turn blue in the cold of the winter gym classes, or as he so sagely instructed, they would keep warm if they exercised harder.

I haven’t completely figured out his aversion to sweatpants, except that even I’m willing to admit they are the romance equivalent of the chastity belt. Once you throw on sweatpants, it’s a slippery slope to the day you’re no longer dying your roots or bathing. But that is what makes them awesome. You get the feeling of wearing your pajamas all day, with the smug satisfaction of knowing a) you did actually get dressed and b) you are still classy-looking enough to go to Walmart if you run out of milk.

But sexy faux pas be darned, I was going to enjoy my vacation swaddled in fleecy goodness, by golly! Except I didn’t remember my plan until day six, at which time I looked around and realized that I don’t own any. I raced to Walmart (we were also out of milk) and grabbed a pair, mildly surprised to see that they now sell them in the automotive section, and got home with them, ready to put them on before my husband knew what hit him.

And they sucked. Besides leaving lint all over the eyelet edging around my underwear, someone apparently thought there was an elastic shortage because these resemble very chunky yoga pants with flowy bellbottom ankles, letting cold air ride up my calves. When I sat down, they rode up slightly like a normal pair of pants would, exposing my legs to the elements and exposing the world to the fact that I also didn’t plan to shave during this vacation, all due to the lack of circulation-cutting ankle elastics.

Sadly, my husband saw me in the pants and nearly choked on the mouthful of food he had just bitten. He leaned in, peered at the fabric, and rubbed it between two fingers as though appraising the quality of fine silk. He looked back at me and narrowed his eyes.

“So. That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” he demanded. I nodded defiantly, prepared to defend my choice of lounge wear to the death.

He put down the plate of food he was holding, glared at me for only a moment, then proceeded to remove his jeans, reveling in walking around the house in just his nasty-looking underwear in the most unhygienic rendition of “two can play that game” ever. So we basically both looked like trailer trash, but I was warm. Win.

Thinking About the Coming Year

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

See? You read that title and thought, “Wow, this is gonna be some profound, deep shit that Lorca is thinking about.” Nope. Not a chance.

I learned a long time ago that I can’t handle the pressure of New Year’s resolutions. Sometime around week two when my resolve begins to falter, it all just falls apart and then I feel horribly guilty. And guilt is not a feeling I like. So I don’t make resolutions. I make “mild goals” instead, because a goal sounds like something you really just HOPE gets to happen. People make goals and miss them all the time, and then we still lift those people up for even trying in the first place. Look at the Olympics…all of those highly-trained athletes got sent to some foreign country on my dime and they come home empty-handed, but we let them return because their GOAL is to come back next Olympics and try again. If they had actually made RESOLUTIONS to win a gold medal, their training plans would involve WALKING back to America. Because they only made a GOAL to get a medal, we still do John Tesh montages of their lives.

So I have some GOALS for next year, but even just by saying they’re only goals, I’m already admitting to you up front that it might not happen.

First, I have a goal of only eating food stuffs whose name does not end with the word “product.” The rest of you suckers might be making resolutions to eat healthy. I’m making a goal to stop shoving “Sliced American Cheese Product” into my face.

Next, some people might be at this very minute resolving to get fit. I’m making a goal to make my clothes fit. That might involve buying bigger clothes. Either way, I just won.

My goals for 2013 include not bouncing any checks (but it still might happen), making a home-cooked meal every night for my family (but it might not happen), and to color my roots every time they need it (it’s not really looking good for that goal, either). I plan to write a lot more (that’s actually probably the most attainable of the goals) and drink a lot less (the ink wasn’t even dry on that goal before I decided that one was stupid).

My final gift to you from 2012 is permission to abandon any and all thoughts of improving yourself next year. You’re fine just the way you are. Sure, you might not have won any Olympic medals, but you’d be in good company with expensively created athletes like Lolo Jones, who is now trying her hand at bobsledding. She gave up on her goal of being a hurdler because it turns out that hurdling is really, really hard. So the moral of the story is why try?

My Husband Bought Me Bedsheets for Christmas. And I Let Him Live.

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

Every major gift-giving holiday, it’s the same thing.

HIM: What do you want for your birthday/anniversary/Christmas/Groundhog’s Day present?

ME: I dunno. I need a new office chair.

HIM: That’s not a present.

ME: But it’s what I want.

HIM: And you can have one. But you need a present.

ME: I need a new cell phone.

HIM: What’s wrong with your cell phone?

ME: It doesn’t play the whole ring tone ever since it fell in a beer.

HIM: Why did it fall in…never mind. Go get a cell phone. That’s not a gift either.

ME: The new version of Microsoft Word?

HIM: That’s. Not. A. Gift.

ME: Well, what’s a gift? Isn’t it just something I want that I don’t have to go buy for myself?

HIM: No. It’s something cool and neat and that doesn’t replace something you own that you broke.

ME: Well, there goes you getting plastic surgery on your nose for Christmas.

HIM: (exasperated sigh, followed by The Look)

ME: Isn’t part of it being a gift also the fact that someone else thought of you and picked it out for you, based solely on how well they know and love you?

HIM: Good luck with that. There is no one alive who can figure you out that well.

ME: That’s part of my charm.

HIM: Never mind, I’ll just go walk around the mall until I see something that won’t get me killed.

Unfortunately, he saw bedsheets. Again. This marks the third major holiday that he’s bought me bedsheets as a gift. Here’s the problem with bedsheets: they’re AWESOME. He always buys these super-expensive luxury sheets with, like, 900,000 thread count, and then he complains about how it’s not a good gift. He goes so far as to say things like, “Stand over here in the light so I can see the look of crushing disappointment on your face when you open it.”

I, for one, think they’re great. They are the only gift that I will use every single day, without fail. Unless I pass out somewhere, in which case I’ve probably had so much to drink that I’ll still use the sheets when I’m in bed recovering from the hangover. The problem is he will comment on what a stupid present they were EVERY TIME HE SEES THEM, which will also be every single day. I bet he wouldn’t feel that way if he’d bought me an office chair.

Dysfunctional Family Christmas Math

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Anyone who has read this blog at least twice (or even once, if it was a long post or if it involved making puppets out of fresh roadkill), knows there’s a whole lot of weird taking place. As my holiday gift to you, I want to give you a sneak peek into how the weird happened in the first place. Trust me, it will make me feel better about yourself because you will never again read one of my bizarre stories and worry that something similar could happen to you.

I am writing this from an Army cot in my parents’ living room. My head is actually under their piano. We celebrate Christmas several days prior to actual Christmas because there are a butt-load of atheists in the family and we don’t observe on the actual day out of respect for their beliefs. Wait, their lack of beliefs. Whatever.

It turns out that about 53% of the family consider themselves to be somewhere on the “I’m not a Christian” spectrum, so they are fairly confused about why we’re exchanging gifts and cooking a turkey. Add to that the fact that the remaining 46% who consider themselves to be “believers” actually believe in a wide variety of different things, so there’s some argument as to whether or not Mary stayed a virgin for the rest of her life and if the wise men actually showed up at the manger. (For the record, I’m one of the 18% of us who are Catholic, so trust me…she kept her legs together and the wise men showed up about two years later.)

To keep the festivities interesting, 24% of the people in attendance cannot eat any gluten products or consume any dairy products and 3% of the family members don’t eat root vegetables, so the meal takes a downturn whenever it comes to deciding how to prepare the smashed ‘taters. There is also an ongoing rage-filled argument about how coffee should taste, with an unfortunate majority (77%) insisting that it be so black and thick that it could be used to attach the shingles to the roof.

Here’s where it gets sticky: Santa Claus, or no Santa Claus. We’ll happily respect each others’ religious and dietary beliefs, but the fists are gonna fly when it comes to believing in Santa or not. We are also pretty much evenly divided on the issue, but the 2% majority the pro-Santa crowd holds means that there will be no disparaging remarks about the kids’ Christmas hero.

DISCLAIMER: I’m really, REALLY bad at math, so these figures are completely made up but they feel very, very real. I hope it provides a very calculated look at some of the hurdles that we can manage to overcome, even if it’s only once a year. Trust me, if this crowd can try to get along, world peace is gonna be a breeze.

Going Ham. Well, More Like Going Pork Chop.

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I teach a very special group of young people, and as a result I have come to develop a very colorful street jargon. It’s hilarious (even to my students) when a middle-aged, gray-haired English-teacher-slash-author starts discussing the hundreds of varieties of marijuana and their potencies, can accurately list the necessary ingredients to go about producing crystal meth via the Shake and Bake method, or can tell you how many years you’re gonna get for a standard B&E if a firearm was involved.

I have one absolute favoritest street term, though, and it’s mostly because it’s a full-body thing. It involves making an angry face and jerking your arms in front of your torso very quickly while taking a step forward with one foot. You do all of those theatrics while simultaneously announcing, “I’m gonna go ham on you.” You can amend the statement to include “on yo ass” if the situation warrants.

Obviously, being gone ham on is not something that you want to happen to you, ever. I also have to admit that I’ve never actually witnessed a full-on hamming, although I do watch people threaten to ham someone on a daily basis.

Sadly, I’m insanely jealous that going on ham on someone is not a threat that I can use because it just reduces my pork victim to tears of laughter. Trust me, I’ve tried it. Many times. NO ONE was impressed with my angry threat, not even my twelve-year-old, and I even did the jerky arm stompy thing while saying it. Maybe my angry face needs work.

I’ve had to resort to the concept of going pork chop on people instead. It involves actually following through with the hamming, instead of just running your mouth about it, and the jerky posturing thing has now been replaced by a swift punch to the throat with the flat edge of your open hand, hence the “chop” part. Now, in response to hearing someone announce that he is about to “go ham,” I can reply with my threat to “pork chop” him. I had the opportunity to try this out this week, and I’m happy to report that there was no laughter. Lots and lots of confusion and a modicum of lack of air for a few minutes, but no laughter.

Going To See The Picture Show

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I snuck my daughter out of school yesterday to see Life of Pi. Spoiler Alert: the tiger doesn’t eat him. I was very disappointed by that because it is not at all biologically accurate. Bengal tigers are one of two animals on the planet that actually hunt humans (the other one is the polar bear…think of that next time you’re donating money because a polar bear is clinging to a tiny shard of ice in the ocean), meaning they will skip their natural food source and go for the people if they get the chance. They like our chewy centers, apparently.

So even though the National Geographic people protested the lack of zoological accuracy and the tiger didn’t eat him, the movie was really good, despite the fact that my daughter and I can’t agree on the ending. It was very confusing, mostly because we were high on $12 worth of popcorn and root beer. We will skip over the fact that the one bag of popcorn and one soda that we shared cost $2 less than the two tickets to get in. I think it’s how they make their money. They certainly weren’t making money on the attendance because at three o’clock in the afternoon, there were only four of us sitting in the dark cheering for the tiger. I usually don’t like walking into a dark movie theater in the middle of the afternoon with only a couple of people in there, because it usually means I’ve accidentally walked into a porn theater again and chances are good somebody has his hand down his pants, like Pee Wee Herman.

The best part about going to the movies (especially with lots of popcorn and no one else in the theater to have to put up with) is seeing the commercials for all the other movies they can tempt you into watching. They only do that so you’ll come back and buy more popcorn, which would make me mad but I think it’s precisely how advertising is supposed to work. It’s just doing its job.

Now for the worst part about going to the movies: it makes me feel really old. It’s too cold, it’s too loud, it’s too expensive, these lousy kids with their stupid cell phones…blah blah (old coot) blah. I feel like I should be shaking my fist and demanding a refund on the nickel I paid to see the talkies. It doesn’t help at all that nowadays almost all movie theaters are connected to giant shopping malls, so you have to put up with the throngs of people who like to hang out in a mall just to get in the front door, mostly people whose pants are hanging around their knees and their hats are on sideways. And that’s the parents.

It has to be a really good movie to lure me out of the comfort of my compound and force me to interact with society. The next title on my to-see list is the Les Miserables that comes out on Christmas, but I don’t know if I can brave the shopping mall at that time of year just to see Anne Hathaway shave her head. Maybe if she was going to get eaten by a tiger…

 

It’s Time To Take A Stand…Against Those Little Shopping Cart Corrals

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

See? I know what you were thinking. You were hoping against hope that today might finally be the day when I go all Michael Moore on you and you can think,”Lorca finally stopped being such a weirdo and started to take a serious look at the state of the country.” Well, I am. Not being weird, I mean. So there. Pffffft. I’m taking a stand against shopping cart corrals.

This is too a serious issue, just ask all the people who obliviously go about their business, doing a little shopping, not hurting a soul, only to get into their cars and slam ass-first into the little robot that zooms around the parking lot, scooping up all the shopping carts.

See? I know what you’re thinking again. NOW you’re thinking, “Well, there’s no way Lorca is going to write a serious post about anything, especially now that she’s hallucinating about robots zipping around a parking lot.” Well, joke’s on you, buster, I happen to know those little robots are real because I backed my car into one! So there! Pfffft again!

(NOTE: I get it that you might be inclined to think I’ve been drinking since I claim to have run over a robot while doing my grocery shopping, but I swear it happened.)

(NOTE PART II: I’m not sure I’m really making my case here with all the spitting at you going on, and I really apologize for the spitting, but I’ve just learned how you would type the noise that spitting makes and I’m having too much fun to quit. See? PFFFT! I can’t help myself.)

I really did back into the shopping cart scooper robot, and the thing about that stupid robot is we wouldn’t even need it if people would just take their carts back to the store. But THIS has got to be the worst case of shopping cart corral abuse I’ve come across:

0802_09_z+2008_smart_forTwo+top_three_quarter_view

The only real abuse going on is from me. I know that guy, and I punched him in the head for parking his car in there. Has anyone else taken issue with the fact that he not only wedged his car in there, but that he actually had room to get the doors open? It’s like this guy now has an Ironman suit around his car, protecting it from people who back over robots. That is unacceptably unfair. His car gets to sit in its own little shark cage while the rest of us take our chances with being dinged and smashed. I, for one, am going to go spit on his car, now that I know how.

Charlie Brown’s Tree Had Nothing on My Christmas Twig

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A long, long time ago, there was a cute family who lived rent-free in an adorable but gusty old shack. There were mice and bugs and in a rain storm the windows would all fog up and this one time when they weren’t home the shower head fell off and water spewed all over the floor for several hours, but otherwise, they were all happy in the shack. The mom got to stay home with the kids, which made the brown and green shag carpet and fake wood paneling all worth it.

One year, the cute shack family lovingly put up their pathetic Christmas tree. It was a hand-me-down artificial tree that had already lost most of its plastic fake pine needles. It was so gross-looking that you could actually see the metal pole-trunk, so it basically looked like a giant piece of crap sculpture made out of plumbing supplies that had been sprayed with adhesive and rolled across some Astroturf. But that just made the cute family go extra nuts with the ornaments in order to cover up the butt-ugliness of the fake tree.

Sadly, the tree met an early demise when the toddler shoved the tree over a few days before Christmas. This was actually a good thing, because the previous year, the toddler had pulled the tree over on herself, so by pushing it over it meant that she was actually pretty smart and learned not to be underneath it anymore. Unfortunately, the decrepit nasty tree snapped in half and the family had no more tree.

The mom raced to Walmart and was horrified to discover just exactly how proud the retailers are of plastic Christmas trees. Those things were not cheap! Well, $59 was considered not cheap by this mom, considering that there were two kids in diapers, one income, and water to clean up off the bathroom floor. But it was Christmas, so she used the credit card and bought the skinniest tree they had.

Once she got it home, a Christmas miracle occurred! The tree was a good bit skinnier than the previous tree, you know, the one that was already overstuffed with homemade ornaments in an effort to cover the ugliness. Once the family redecorated the tree–the new one–it was so full of ornaments that it was gorgeous! You couldn’t see the fake pine needles or the green plastic wires on the lights! It was lovely.

Years went by and the family did much better for itself. The kids stopped peeing on themselves throughout the day, giving the mom time to start doing a little writing on the side, and the family moved into its dream house. The ugly skinny tree was replaced by a big tree that looked like a florist’s display window. But the family never forgot its roots that were laid down in the shack back when they used to celebrate payday by adding meat to the Hamburger Helper.

The family kept the skinny tree and they still put it up every year in the den. The beautiful florist’s tree stands in the front window and gets the fancy red bows and the matching gold ornaments. But the skinny tree gets all of the wonderful ornaments that the family collected over the years, like the paper chains the children made in kindergarten, the hand print Santas and cotton ball snowmen, and the souvenir ornaments from the family’s trip to Rock City. The skinny tree gets the important ornaments, because it helps the family remember what Christmas was like when they pretty much had nothing but each other.

And it’s my favorite tree.

Yes, Virginia, There IS An App For That

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Our local radio station has a December feature during the morning show called “Grinch of the Day.” They report on horrible stories of Christmas-cheer-gone-wrong and name the culprit to be the Grinch. Of the day. Duh. That’s why they call it that.

I am mildly proud of myself for never having been named the Grinch. I am neither confirming nor denying whether or not I deserve the title, I’m just saying that I’m happy that I’ve never been honored as the Grinch because it would mean that I had been caught doing something very un-Christmasy. Like popping my neighbor’s stupid, stupid inflatable Santa Claus. Or swapping out the Baby Jesus doll at this one church’s nativity scene with a Teletubby doll.

I have to admit that the most un-Christmasy thing I’ve done so far this year is to not decorate the house for the holidays. At all. I did go so far as to get the Christmas decorations out of storage and block the front door with them, but that’s just because that’s where I stacked everything. I plan to just leave all the boxes there and scatter our gifts around them. My kids aren’t dumb, they know what a tree looks like. I don’t have to SHOW them.

But my daughter nearly threw me over the Grinchy edge with her Christmas wish list. First of all, my kids have never made wish lists. We’ve had fleeting random conversations about their interests, and those would result in me picking out the most awesome gifts ever. This year, though, my daughter felt the need to spell it all out for me so I wouldn’t mess it up.

With a Power Point.

My offspring made me a Power Point presentation of what she wants for Christmas. Funny, I didn’t see “coal” anywhere on the slides.

Miss Me Jeans-1 PDF

I Need Chin Hair And A Sweat Rag To Complete The Look

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , ,

I’m pretty sure I’ve hit early menopause. I have absolutely no medical basis for that opinion AT ALL, but it’s fun to tell myself. However, all of the people around me who have endured actual menopause are a) laughing at me, b) assuring me that it is NOT menopause because I’m still speaking coherently, or c) telling me to be careful what I wish for. Here are my symptoms:

1) I’ve become a total bitch. Wait, that one’s not new, I just felt like I should point it out before I go any further. That symptom actually began sometime around 1987.

2) I can’t stay awake past 7:00pm without a case of Red Bull and an attendant who electrocutes me periodically.

3) Global warming be damned, there is no freakin’ way the rest of society is as hot as I am. I don’t mean good lookin’, I mean engulfed in flames under their skin. If this was all global warming-related, scientists would have fixed it by now.

4) I’m going bald in some places and sprouting odd hairs in others. Use your imagination.

5) I’ve developed weird cravings for hot tea and jalapenos and pickled broccoli. Have you ever tried pickling broccoli? It doesn’t work. There’s a weird threshold for how long broccoli can endure vinegar and heat, and if you miss the cutoff point, you have a bowl of pre-v0mited soup on your hands.

That’s it, those are my symptoms. Now, I have a degree in biology and I also have two kids so I know right away that half of you jumped to thinking, “Lorca’s pregnant!” I am not pregnant. Shut up, I already said I’m not pregnant! It’s menopause! Or a drinking problem! I don’t know which! (sorry, I warned you I wasn’t being very nice about this)

On the plus side, there are benefits to entering menopause and coming out the other side. First, it would justify the gray hair I’ve had for the past fifteen years. It would also explain the pools of sweat that mysteriously appear around me at odd times. I could finally stop buying feminine supplies in bulk, like I’m expecting Noah and the ark to pull around any minute and my hoarded stash of Always is the only thing that will hold back the flood waters.

Time for a poll!

Think carefully about your answers. Anyone who thinks I’m pregnant gets to appear on the Jerry Springer show with me when I accuse him or her of being the father. Lookin’ at you, Zorgron.