Author: ME

So THAT’S Where I Left That

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

There are certain times of the day that it’s just not okay to mess with me. And by okay, I really mean “safe.” Dangerous things happen to people who wake me up from a rare nap to ask me if we have any aluminum foil. I usually respond by pointing out that I keep all of the foil products next to my bullets and that I dare them to reach for it.

So when I recently returned at nine pm from a four-day trip to London that only involved about sixteen total hours of sleep, I should have thought to put out a sign for my family that warned them away from sudden movements, loud noises, and dumb-assed questions. Unfortunately, it was my oldest child (the one who knows she’s smart and cute and talented but yet somehow still believes that all of that will be enough to save her from being eaten by her mother) who descended upon me with more than I could intelligently handle.

CHILD: I’ve lost something really important. Have you seen it?

ME: If it isn’t in my suitcase or my carry on bag, I haven’t seen it.

CHILD: I really need it.

ME: When did you lose it?

CHILD: Yesterday.

ME: I was in another country yesterday. I’m sure I didn’t take it.

CHILD: It’s really, REALLY important that I find it.

ME: How about you start by telling me what it is?

CHILD: I can’t.

ME: Huh?

CHILD: I can’t tell you. You’ll get mad.

ME: Oh. Well. That’s a whole other issue. It’s a good thing that you’re being all cryptic and toying with me in my sleep deprived state. It’s really good that I didn’t see the thing, because THAT would make me mad. Not all this other stuff you’re doing right now, but actually FINDING the thing would be what threw me over the edge.

CHILD: See? I told you! You’ll get mad!

ME: We haven’t found it yet. You told me I’d get mad if I saw it. So technically, I can’t get mad yet, right?

CHILD: I dunno. I guess so.

ME: Why don’t we just cut this short while I’m not quite mad. Tell me what you’ve lost.

CHILD: Well, fine. You just have to promise not to get mad.

ME: If there’s one solid truth that you can count on in life, it is that I will NEVER make you that promise.

CHILD: I lost my suicide prevention card.

ME: (blank stare…sip of wine)

CHILD: They gave us these cards in school to keep in our backpacks and they have a phone number we can call if we’re thinking about committing suicide, only I lost my card.

ME: And you thought I would be mad because you lost it?

CHILD: No, I just didn’t want you to find the card lying around somewhere and get worried.

ME: Um…(sip)

CHILD: Oh wait, I remember. It’s in my lunchbox. Never mind.

ME: Um…okay.

Admittedly, that was probably the easiest game of Mommy Lost-and-Found that I’ve ever played, and it was actually over something that she didn’t need for school the next day. Victory is mine.

Well, I Do Declare!

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , ,

Guess which occupation is the unfunniest on the whole planet, the working people with the single worst sense of humor about their work? Customs and Border Patrol officers. They don’t laugh at anything. Ever.

I recently went to London on business. It’s important to point out that “on business” part, because it means that not only did I get to go to London and you didn’t, I got to go to London and you didn’t and I didn’t have to pay for it. That last part is the real killer. I was incredibly busy with the “on business” part, which is just common sense because if I wasn’t going to be busy while traveling on business, I would be forced to call it “going to London on slack-assedness.” Even though I was very busy, I did get to see a couple of famous landmarks and eat a couple of really good meals. It was great. The most important thing I learned in London is that I now have to refer to things as “fabulous.” Everything is fabulous in London.

When it was time to come home, I boarded a fabulous plane with my fabulous suitcase full of fabulous souvenirs and eventually landed in our fabulous airport where a less-than-fabulous security agent directed us all to the Customs section. My first mistake was telling the security agent that I didn’t need to go to Customs because I’m an American. Apparently, that does not help you to not have to stand in line with the rest of the tired and poor huddled masses standing in line at the Border. (NOTE: I would like to point out the this particular US border is in Atlanta, so it’s basically five hundred miles inland of our actual geographical border…and we can’t figure out why people are getting in illegally?) I stood in line with everyone else.

Agent: Documents, please.

ME: Here you go!

Agent: Do you have anything to declare?

ME: What?

Agent: Do. You. Have. Anything. To. Declare? (See, right off the bat we weren’t going to get along because he thought I didn’t speak English but he was holding my US passport. Yup.)

ME: Um, declare? Like, make a declaration?

Agent: I guess so.

ME: Um, racism is wrong and we should totally allow gay people to get married?

Agent: No, I mean did you buy anything in the UK and bring it back here?

ME: Well, sure.

Agent: Is it livestock?

ME: What?

Agent: Did you buy livestock?

ME: And then put it in this little suitcase?

Agent: Are you transporting more than $10,000 worth of money or monetary instruments?

ME: Do I look like I’ve ever seen ten grand all at once?

Agent: Did you come in contact with any biological or chemical agents that could be used as weapons?

ME: What the hell do you think I do for a living?

Agent: Are you aware that you have not answered a single question? And why is it that you did not write your passport number on your declaration form?

ME: Because those little numbers are tiny.

Agent: You still have to write them on your form or it isn’t valid.

ME: You’re HOLDING the passport AND the form. And that won’t work…why?

Agent: You’re going to need to follow this agent. No, don’t bring your suitcase.

A man in a hazmat suit (okay, those suits are not flattering…it could have been a woman) retrieved my suitcase while I sat in a little cubicle around the corner. They searched my luggage like I had the map to Amelia Earhart’s body, then came back to me with an ugly accusing stare.

Agent: What are these?

ME: Those are cookies. It says so right there.

Agent: Did you know these are illegal in the US?

ME: Because they’re crack flavored?

Agent: Because they make false claims.

ME: I bought the LYING cookies???

Agent: They claim to be “digestive” and the US does not allow false health claims to enter the country.

ME: My cookies have to tell the truth but Congress doesn’t?

Agent: This is contraband. There is a fine for bringing contraband through customs.

I tried to do the math and all I could come up with were each cookie now cost me about $1400, according to the fine. Luckily, I’m a first-time cookie offender so they just threw them in the trash where they were immediately pounced upon by the sniffer dogs (which did not help my crack flavored joke at all) and let me go after a serious warning about taking this whole process a lot more seriously. I kept listening for the word fabulous, but that’s apparently a UK thing.

Have You Met Chris Hansen?

ME Overly simple thoughts ,

My husband and I had the best marriage-bonding activity ever. We would make a date to watch our favorite show once a week after the kids were in bed. We’d have popcorn and drinks, and sit on the couch eager to watch another episode of To Catch A Predator. I would like to point out that I watched the show to see them get these scumbag child molesters off the street. My husband, however, would watch with one revenge-addled drool-worthy thought: he wanted to watch the cops hit the guy with the taser if he tried to run. My husband would actually come home from work yelling in excitement if the show’s commercials for the upcoming episode even hinted that the guy might go down that night. It was awesome.

But there was one thing about the show that always puzzled me. Didn’t ANYONE watch the show? Am I the only one hurting for Chris Hansen, since apparently NO ONE in America knows who he is? Wouldn’t you at least think all these pedophile hangout sites and chat rooms would have his picture up there, flashing a warning to look out for this guy? EVERY episode he had to introduce himself and explain why he was standing in this kitchen with the perp, and the predators still sat there in the kitchen looking dumbfounded that some man was talking to them. There have even been episodes that feature a repeater, a man who has already been caught and confronted by poor Chris Hansen, only to have the perp have zero clue who he is.

The best part of each segment had to be when Chris Hansen would read back the printouts of the predator’s chats with the decoy. If I had to picture Ozzy Osbourne giving a poetry reading of Emily Dickinson’s work, I don’t think it could have been more awkward. Listening to a news anchor reading back vivid descriptions of sex acts and penis length without once cracking a smile means that man deserves whatever award is higher up than an Emmy. But there Chris Hansen would stand, holding the printout and reading from it, and the guys still would have no clue who he was.

Chris Hansen: “It says right here, ‘Yeah, girl, I’m gonna do you good. Do you like it doggy style?'”

Perp: “Uh, are you her dad? Cuz she said you wouldn’t be home.”

Chris Hansen: “I’ve already told you, I’m Chris Hansen from Dateline NBC and we’re doing a show on sexual predators.”

Perp: “Soooooo, you’re on TV?”

Chris Hansen: “I just told you, I’m Chris Hansen.”

Perp: “Were you on Dancing with the Stars?”

Chris Hansen: “No, I’m on a news show. It’s very popular. It’s won a lot of awards. My picture is on the side of city buses. Listen, just listen to my voice for a second. No, close your eyes and just listen…’I’m Chris Hansen, and on tonight’s episode blah blah blah.’ Surely you’ve heard of me?”

Perp: “Yeah, I remember now. But you used to have black hair. And a mustache.”

Chris Hansen: “NO! That’s Jon Stossel! I’m CHRIS HANSEN!”

Luckily, if our government ever needs a super spy or a secret agent, they can just send Chris Hansen and his highly forgettable face.

UPDATE: Poor Chris Hansen is so forgettable that I spelled his name wrong every single time I write it in this post, and had to go back and change them all. I almost didn’t do it and was just going to say down here something like, “My bad , y’all, he spells it with an E at the end and not an O, sorry Chris,” but then I thought about it and realized that I would be just as guilty as all those perps. For not remembering him, I mean, not for the sex with kids thing. Because that’s horrible.

PLEASE actually watch what they do to poor Chris Hansen in this video:

Seriously? WHAT Were You Looking For?

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , , ,

I am ever so fond of every single person who reads this blog, whether they are die-hard fans who read anything I spew here or they are lowly internet people who accidentally found my blog at 2am while trying to complete their sixth graders’ homework projects. Either way, I’m glad you stopped by.

But I am going to have to start taking issue with the WAYS people find my blog. This website gives me all kinds of fancy tools that let me learn a lot of information that might otherwise be useless to someone whose technological know-how doesn’t extend past the wine bottle opener. And I am very sad that the website showed me the keywords that people typed in on the internet that brought them to this blog:

Really? REALLY? SCARY BABIES and DEAD PEOPLE? C’mon, Internet people, work with me here!

There Goes My Plan to Open a Llama Brothel

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

As always, I’m a day late to the picnic, meaning that just when I latch onto a great idea, somebody beat me to it. In this case, it’s the government of Germany.

Just when I was CERTAIN that I could make a fortune by raising farm animals with the express purpose of renting them out to weirdos for sex parties, Germany had to go and ban zoophilia farms. I’ll be right back, I have to go throw up before finishing this blog post.

Okay, I’m back. Apparently, there are underground animal love farms (well, okay, the farms are not actually under the ground) where tourists can do some heavy petting. For money. I’m sorry, nope, I’ll be right back again.

Okay, I’m back. Here’s the absolutely golden best part of this story: animal love advocates are angry that the government is shutting them down. Wait, I think…no, I’m good.

I seriously need a bumber sticker for whichever advocacy group thinks you should be allowed to have sex with a llama. Because I’m totally going to stick it on my friend’s car. I figure it will take weeks of honking and ugly stares from the other motorists before he thinks to go check and see if there’s something wrong with his bumper. And when he goes back there, yes, there will be something horribly wrong with his bumper.

Even better, this sparked the creation of the anti-advocating-sex-with-animals-group, so now there’s an organized group of people who protest the animal love people. It is SERIOUSLY called “Veterinarians Against Zoophilia.” I’m sorry, I’m gonna need one of those bumper stickers, too.

The absolute worst part of this whole story is it was brought to you by the Huffington Post. Be sure to check out the slide show of mug shots of people who’ve been arrested for having pictures of animal porn on their computers. I’m gonna go throw up again.

Dude, really, she’s totally giving you the look. You should go get her number.

I Wrote Another Book, If You’re Keeping Track

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , ,

It’s not like I need a ticker tape parade or even a NASCAR-style champagne shower, but when I announce to my family that I have finished writing ANOTHER book, it would be nice if they would at least look up and make eye contact. Instead, my husband said, “That’s nice,” while flipping channels. My daughter at least showed a spark of interest when she asked me how many people die in this one.

Yes, NaNoWriMo is over for another year. My winner’s T-shirt is ordered, my certificate suitable-for-framing is waited to be framed. And for those of you who conspire with my daughter, only one person died in this one.

When I complained about the total lack of adoration I received over my announcement, my husband had the nerve to say, “Well, it’s not like you haven’t written, like, five other books, right?” That wouldn’t sting so much if not for the fact that I’ve written eight. But hey, anything after the first three is apparently just showing off. Looking at you, Stephen King.

So now, it’s off to edit, find proofreaders, find real editors who work for pay instead of iTunes gift cards, and prepare for book number nine. I’ll be sure not to wake them when I finish next time.

See? This is what victory looks like. Sort of. Yes, I know it’s rather small, but so was the victory celebration.

Here’s What I Really Need This Thanksgiving

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , ,

See? You thought this was going to be a thought-provoking, touching post about the true meaning of life. Sheesh, it’s like you don’t even know me. No, I really just need that hat to make my Thanksgiving really sparkle.

Seriously, though, I need that hat. Make it happen. And work on world peace while you’re at it. Oh, and fixing the economy so we aren’t in the number two spot for industrialized nations with the most children living in poverty. That too. Oh, and stop the overbreeding of stray animals and the killing of wolves somewhere up north, and the prosecution of minor drug offenders in our nation’s already overcrowded penal system (that was penal, not penile). And could we let gay people finally get married so they can argue over whose in-law’s they have to celebrate with, just like the rest of us? Thank you. All of that would make my already thankful heart just melt from the sheer weight of gratitude thrust upon it.

Now get me my hat. And have a great Thanksgiving.

How Much Do You Love Your Job?

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , ,

I have a very dear friend who shall remain nameless, mostly because I don’t want her to read this post about how great she is and start thinking selfish thoughts like, “Oh hell yeah, Lorca thinks I rock. She’ll totally babysit my children any time I ask her to.” The dear friend made one fatal mistake several years ago: she decided to go to college and major in how to be poor.

More accurately, she became a social worker, which is just another way of guaranteeing you will never own your very own personal Faberge egg. Then, my wonderful friend got an even better idea. Apparently, you can become mildly less poor as a social worker if you spend thousands of dollars to get a Master’s degree in how to be poor.

INTERESTING NOTE ON WHY I’M NOT JUST BEING A JUDGMENTAL BITCH RIGHT NOW: I, too, have a degree in how to help society. I went to college and then got a Master’s degree in education, and let me tell you, teachers are the country club set compared to social workers.

My poor friend (poor as in life is poopy, not poor as in she has no Faberge egg because she’s a social worker) had to write this really profound paper for her first graduate level poor person class and the paper was entitled, “Why I Want To Be A Social Worker.” I swear to you, that was the real live topic of this paper in grad school. Unfortunately, it was such a stupid topic that my dear friend had a lot of trouble writing it, mostly because she couldn’t think of anything profound to say about her career path AND because it had to be cited in APA style.

“How about, ‘I want to be a social worker because I’m tired of NOT living under the highway overpass’?” I suggested helpfully.

“Maybe, ‘I want to be a social worker because all the other majors were full’?” she suggested.

“Or, ‘I’m Hindu and I was a total shit head in a previous life’?” I countered.

“I could go with, ‘I have way too much free time to watch reruns of Psych, and this should cut into my pointless me time’?”

Eventually we did realize that the amount of time we spent making fun of her paper was more time than it would have taken to actually write the paper, and that’s discounting how much time was spent mixing drinks during this conversation. Now that all the joking is out of the way, I will openly say that the world is a much better place because of people like my friend who have agreed to be poor forever. We should all totally chip in and buy her that Faberge egg.

This Pole Dancing Championship Post Wrote Itself

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

Sometimes, it’s tough to be a writer, especially one who has to be funny and biting and still spell everything correctly. Other times, the piece just writes itself. Like this one.

There is a Pole Dancing World Championship. I REALLY wish it had something to do with the national dance of Poland, but no, it has everything to do with being the best in the whole world at working the stripper pole. I do have to fully admit that this year’s competition was both fierce and very artistic in a “this is how Cirque du Soleil would look if it was naked and you could pay them in singles and maybe get a lap dance when it’s over and oh yeah, there’s a drink special tonight” kind of way. I also openly admit that I constantly mock pole dancing because I am insanely jealous that I do not look as good as they do whilst hanging upside down on a ball-bearinged fireman’s pole wearing a bikini. Take fireman’s pole however you wish. I just did, and it made me giggle.

Here is the it’s-easy-to-be-a-writer-today part: I actually found the video of this year’s world champion performance. I love how the video credits take pains to point out that this is the Women’s Pole Dancing Champion…like there’s a Men’s Pole Dancing Champion? But look further down the picture at the other video headlines.

Yes, on the same YouTube page as a gaggle of pole dancers, there is a headline about “Girl Survives with Half a Brain.” What search engine fail made thoroughbred stripper poling go hand in hand with having half a brain, you ask? The one that exists in a state of perfection, I tell ya.

P.S. Because I’m a giver who really knows her readers, here is the video of the world champion stripper pole contest. You’re welcome.

This Is My New Best Friend, But She Doesn’t Know It Yet

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , ,

I have a new best friend and we are going to do absolutely everything together. She doesn’t know it yet. Don’t tell her, I’d like it to be a surprise when I show up at her apartment with take-out waffles and the rope that I’ll need to tie her up with when she freaks out because I’ve let myself in during the night. Just watch.

Yup, that is a real, live government-issue sign language interpreter, but I’ve never seen ANYONE who takes her job that seriously. And I plan to party with that woman. In the non-sexual way, despite what I just said about waffles and rope.

It is also vitally important that you click this link and watch what happens when sign language interpreting goes horribly, herpes-like wrong:

Don’t freak out when it tells you that you can’t watch it. It’s lying to you. You just have to click the little button that says YouTube in the bottom right-hand corner of it. Liar.