Author: ME

Jewish Singles Need Lovin’, Too

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , ,

I can’t do anything on a normal scale. If I’m going to do anything, usually anything that is painful or mildly criminal, I’m going to throw myself completely into it face first and usually end up injured in some way.

This week, I received a garbled voicemail from some federal whatever unit of the federal whatever department OF MY BANK. There’s no better feeling than standing in your classroom holding a cell phone that you can’t talk on and seeing the voice-to-speech message that says something or other about your bank account. I had to wait two hours to figure out what happened.

I got in touch with the lovely young man from the federal something-or-other who informed me that there were fraudulent charges on my bank account. My first panic-stricken thought was, “No, those charges for three dildos and 16 pounds of asparagus are legitimate. They’re medicinal.” He asked me to verify my identity by giving him my social security number, which I COMPLETELY REFUSED TO DO BECAUSE I’M NOT STUPID.

“Ma’am, I’m calling you from your own bank. I already have your social security number. I’m just making sure you’re the real person I should be talking to. Seriously, I’m looking at every bit of personal private information you could possibly have.”

I, however, work in a jail and I’m not about to speak my blood type, let alone my social security number. We finally met in the middle. He would say the first letter or number of my address, and I would say the second, and then he would say the third, then I would say the fourth, etc. Why yes, as a matter of fact, it was my plan, why do you ask?

And it turns out there was actually one very serious fraudulent charge on my account: to J-Date, for $1.

I suddenly felt really, really bad for a lonely Jewish man who was staying up late looking for love and trying to get his overbearing mom off his back. He probably just transposed two numbers when he was typing in the info, probably from the sheer giddiness of meeting the girl of his Hebrew dreams on the internet. And besides, who steals your credit card info and charges $1 to it? If I managed to figure out how to get someone’s financial information, I’d be drunk at the beach before the payment finished processing.

I asked the very weirded-out man from the federal whatever if we could just let that charge go. He was very confused, and the more I tried to explain it to him, the more confused he got. I don’t think he’s very good at his job.

I’ve had a number of male Jewish friends over the years tell me they wore fake wedding rings just to go grab some milk at the grocery store to avoid being swarmed. My logic is, if this poor man is having to resort to meeting girls via a Jewish dating service then he either a) lives in a part of the country with zero other Jewish people or b) he’s just utterly hopeless at meeting people.

So I was all for letting the charge stand, and setting a limit of like fifty bucks. This poor man needs lovin’ and I shudder to think what will happen if J-Date rejects him because his credit card was invalid. Sadly, the bank said it doesn’t work that way, even after I strongly hinted that I could not conduct my personal financial business with an institution that was so obviously anti-Semitic. And anti-dating.

You can’t see the girls’ moms off camera telling them to stand up straighter and smile more.

List of Victims: Alphabetical or Chronological?

ME Overly simple thoughts , ,

I’m in a murderous mood today. I know, you’re already wondering what member of society has a) done something heinous to me and b) is gonna die in ways that it will take the cops weeks just to figure out who it is, let alone who killed him. Sadly, I don’t have a victim in mind, I’m just being a bitch right now.

I really have had a rough week, this already being Tuesday and all, but it’s not one of those funks that you can just throw wine and barbeque sandwiches at until it goes away. It’s one of those life-is-so-unfair-I-just-wanna-die kind of funks.

And that’s what’s making it so frustrating. If there was an actual real live about-to-be-dead person who had hurt me in some way, I’d know how to handle it. Trust me, cutting the brake lines is for amateurs. But I can’t even exact revenge on someone because my grumblies is just from the general blah of life. How do you get back at life?

Since plotting revenge is always very therapeutic, I’ve started a list of ways I will hurt the next person who wrongs me. Of course, I have them categorized by how awful the offense was, how intentional it was, how far the reach of the actual crime extended, and so on. It’s quite a masterpiece. And it’s making me feel better already.

Feel free to buy me this for Christmas because it’s awesome and I like to be really organized and because it will make me not kill someone. Just don’t get your fingerprints on it in case the cops ever nab it as evidence.

Lorca’s Week In Review (Sports Edition)

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Well, that settles it. My offspring were slow runners in the family’s first-ever attempt at organized cross country running, my college football team barely got through in OVERTIME in a game that should never have made it to overtime, and I’m pretty sure people still think ping pong is an Olympic sport. I give up.

I rounded out the week by breaking a computer that I didn’t think was even more breakable, finishing the writing of my latest book (woohoo!), and drinking celebratory wine that was imported all the way from Birmingham for the occasion. Fortunately, I remembered to dye my hair BEFORE the wine this time.

I still found time to Pin funny stuff, and here’s the proof. This video is probably the funniest thing I’ve seen in years, even if I am going to burn in hell for laughing at it.

And no, angry commenters, it’s not a funny video because he’s scared or because he’s overweight, it’s funny because his aunt’s the only person in his life willing to say to the kid, “Get your butt up on that ride! NOW!”

I reviewed another grown-up-like book for my day job, and it was another one of those books that pulls you in from the very beginning. Cascade was worth every penny and every minute.

In unrelated news, I figured out today that it is almost October, which means two things: Halloween and NaBloWriMo. Only one of those things is sexy, and I’ll let you use your imagination to figure out which one it is. Have a great week!

Sometimes You Have to Kiss a Few Frogs

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Once upon a time, there was a gorgeous blogger who was just so eff-ing tired. She happened to be a princess. No, wait, a queen. Yeah, she’s a queen. A really good-looking one, one whose boobs were still perky and whose gray roots didn’t show all the time. She was awesome.

Her life was pretty tough. She had these two beautiful princess kids who were slow and untalented, but they usually sat there looking pretty and saying really nice things, so nobody minded that much.

One day, a real bitch came along and cast a spell on the queen and her whole castle. Everybody in the castle became really good at extracurricular activities. It got so bad, that at one point one of the little princesses actually had cross country practice, band practice, piano lesson, and baton lesson ALL IN THE SAME DAY.

The queen became tired. She wished she could be a frog so nobody made her drive them anywhere because it’s illegal for frogs to drive a car in forty-three states. And because she was the best queen who ever lived, her wish got granted. The End.

Don’t panic. I wasn’t really turned into a frog. That’s the frog head I made for my daughter’s Halloween costume last year during the entire month of October when I should have been sleeping, but instead realized that just laying there for four hours a night really wasn’t all that productive and was kind of self-indulgent. It still fits.

It’s a Terrible Disease with No Known Cure

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

I despise clothes shopping. It’s weird, because I have really strong memories of loving clothes shopping when I was a preteen and I also really remember my mom hating clothes shopping back then. I wonder if her hatred of shopping and my hatred of shopping are linked by the coincidental introduction of a twelve-year-old into the mix.

ME (stupid, stupid me): What about this shirt?

12YROLD: I can’t even say what’s wrong with that one.

ME (angry stupid me): Well, I can say what’s wrong with the one you’re wearing…it’s about to be on fire.

12YROLD: Ugh! Whatever.

ME (switching gears): How about these jeans?

12YROLD: They look stupid.

ME (at least I’m not the only stupid one around here, I’ve now been joined by the pants): What’s wrong with them?

12YROLD: They’re too long. I won’t be able to wear them.

ME (stupid sigh): You haven’t even tried them on, how do you know they’re too long?

12YROLD: Everything’s always too long. You know, because of my condition.

ME (back to stupid): What condition?

12YROLD: Mo-o-o-om, my condition, you know. (looks around and whispers) I have elfilepsy.

ME (nope, still stupid): What the hell are you talking about?

12YROLD: I have elfilepsy! I’ve always had it! I have to take medication and everything, and so nothing fits right.

ME (stupid laughing): oh my god did you just call it elfilepsy??? Bwahahahahaha!

12YROLD: MOM! Stop laughing! It’s very serious and I can’t believe you’re laughing at me!

ME (stupid snorting): I can’t help it! Wait, now I can’t breathe! Really, I can’t breathe! Okay, no wait, come back, I’m not laughing anymore.

12YROLD: I always knew you were mean but I can’t believe you would laugh at me for this.

ME (this will never stop being funny): I’m not laughing at you for having elfilepsy, I’m laughing at you for pronouncing it elfilepsy! And for thinking it’s a disease that makes you short!

12YROLD: What are you talking about???

ME (trying to sound not stupid while dispensing medical advice): It’s pronounced epilepsy, and it doesn’t make you short. It makes you kind of shake uncontrollably and wet your pants.

12YROLD: Oh. So how long have you had it?

ME (she’s so stupid): Watch it, missy! Anyway, really, it doesn’t make you short. And wait just a second…we’re the same height! Why would you think you have elfilepsy if you’re as tall as I am?

12YROLD: Like I said…how long have you had it?

NOTE: It’s amazing how much you can learn to love shopping after that conversation takes place. Sadly, I did actually shake uncontrollably and pee a little bit every time I remembered her telling me she had elfilepsy.

ANOTHER NOTE: Also sadly, she does actually have elfilepsy. I mean, epilepsy. I’m also really kind of embarrassed that she didn’t know what it was. We should probably eat dinner at the dining room table as a family a lot more.

EXTRA ANOTHER NOTE: Don’t bother leaving ugly comments about what a bad mom I am, because I’ll just delete them. In all seriousness, she has the really mild kind of elfilepsy that is completely controlled by her medication, so it’s really not that bad that I never told her about it and that I kept shoving pills in her all these years and she never bothered to ask why I was drugging her. I just thought we were good. It’s a short people thing.

Lorca’s Week in Review (The Cheap and Easy Video Kind)

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , , , ,

This week was a total wash. I caught a cold from an inmate and I barely had the energy to complete rudimentary personal hygiene tasks, let alone blog about the weirdness in my life. So here is a great video of my oldest daughter’s brilliantest idea ever: attempting a cartwheel in the hallway leading to my office. Basically, this one video kept me from having to think of anything profound to say here.

In more mature news, I reviewed a great book called No Easy Day. It was written by a member of SEAL Team Six who was there when Bin Laden was taken down. Probably the most interesting thing about it was it was completely void of any gung-ho, kill-me-a-towel-head mentality. It was honest and intense, but it carried a humility that I didn’t really expect from a military book.

On my autism blog, I told a really convoluted story about refusing to help my autistic child carry something heavy. I promise I had a good reason. (hint: it was a drum set headed for my bedroom)

On my YA blog, I explained how writers need coffee to make the whole thing work, and how editors need tea to keep them from killing us writers.

In funnier stuff, it’s amazing how I didn’t have energy to cook dinner but I managed to find the strength to waste a lot of time on Pinterest. Here you go. You’re welcome.

In other crazy blog news, all this crap happened:

My mother once said to me, be careful what you wish for. You just might get it. I don’t think she had any idea it could be so bad.

Dung—A Comfort Food

The Super Spud Trilogy (yup, potatoes, and yup, three books about them)

Have a great week!

I Don’t Have to Be Good EVER Again

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

That’s it. That’s all they took on day two. My bone marrow is so awesome that they don’t need more than that to save a guy. I should get a cookie-shaped medal. Made out of cookie.

Okay, so all of my greatness from the past week is over and I’m home recovering from my superiority over the rest of the human race. I’m bruised and cranky but I’m STILL basking in the feeling of smuggery over literally everyone else.

For those of you just stopping by, I donated bone marrow to a total stranger and let me tell you, it was not quite the picnic it sounds like. You might be misled into thinking it’s all free T-shirts and being fed cookies by the staff while you slowly drip into a tiny ziploc baggie, but it’s actually full of Viking-sized needles that look a lot like screwdrivers. There was a ton of pain, but I do have to admit that none of it was just because the nurses thought it would be funny to wiggle the needles around while fishing for a different vein.

I’m pretty sure I did more than my fair share of whining during the entire process, but it was mostly because it was day seven of No-Wine-Gate and we had already gone to DefCon Get-Me-A-Fucking-Drink. You can’t take away my merlot AND poke me. It’s just not right.

Now that it’s over and my super venom is at this very moment being injected into someone else, I am taking all kinds of liberties with the rest of society. I got to get on the airplane first, just because I limped up to the flight attendant and told her, “I’m really sore from donating bone marrow. Is there any way I can go ahead and get in my seat so that no one bumps my limbs?” The off-property parking people brought my car to the door of the shuttle bus because I told them, “I just donated bone marrow, and I mean, like, a lot of it, and probably more than the legal amount they were allowed to take because my guy was REALLY sick, and my legs hurt.”

I was planning to use this bone marrow excuse with the cashier at Walmart today, but I’m afraid I’d have to explain what bone marrow is and why you need it, so I’m just going to tell her that I’m a recovering heroin addict and I might go nuts if I have to stand there too long. She would probably be more familiar with that scenario.

Basically, I’m giving myself a time limit on how long I get to milk this, but since I got home last night and my husband decided to go watch high school football with his brother instead of coming to see his wife who’s been gone for three days DONATING BONE MARROW (and because he doesn’t read this blog…I’ve warned him that he really should start checking it out), I’m going to tell him it takes three more days to regain full use of my limbs and another six weeks to recover from the weakness from having my bone marrow sucked out. I don’t plan on cooking, wiping, or mopping anything for the foreseeable future.

In all total seriousness, donating bone marrow is awesome. Of course it hurts, but so does cancer. It was an incredible inconvenience that cost me a lot of time and some sick leave, but so is cancer. It did crazy things to my body, but so does cancer. Go get registered to donate by checking out NMDP.org and you’ll have your own excuse to jump in line at Starbucks.

They’re Coming for My Kneecaps

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If you remember, several months ago (probably while drinking) I pledged my birthday to charity. Basically, instead of getting presents from anyone, I was to request that those sweet people give the amount of money they would have spent on me (probably on bottles of wine) and give it to a worthy cause. The charity was this really nice group of people who brings clean drinking water to places where you can probably still catch the plague.

And that charity has come to collect. I just got a really politely worded death threat telling me that if I don’t pay up, they will stop giving people clean water. Or maybe they’re going to force me to drink some of the water that they remove from these villages. I wasn’t really clear on how this works.

Anyway, jokes on them, I simply don’t know that many people who would buy me a present in the first place, so there’s only like three people’s worth of money to send them. Instead of having to do math, I’m just going to donate this month’s book sales to charity:water. That’s really their name, and no, I don’t know why they are boycotting capitalization. That’s gonna cost them one dollar, right there.

So happy birthday to me, villagers get water, somebody get me some wine.

Lorca’s Week in Review: Highly Medicated Edition

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Amen, Jesus.

Yes, I’m on drugs. Shut up with your sarcasm, these drugs are a new development and no, I haven’t been on drugs all along. I’m taking the injections to make my bone marrow extra super-powery so I can donate next week. Aside from the stinging pain in my butt and the ability to feel my own brain, I haven’t noticed any side effects other than I now list to one side when I walk. The headache and back pain are not only normal, but they’re an awesome excuse to not cook dinner, walk the dog, or clean anything. Best of all, I’m now telling people that the extra thirty pounds I’m carrying are the result of swelling from the medication. I realize it’s not medically possible to gain that much weight since the first dose yesterday, but nobody else needs to know that.

All of the needles and drugs are to get me all set for the donation, and I have to say the scariest part of the trip is going to Tampa. Apparently there’s a hurricane-a-comin’, but even that isn’t really a deal breaker for me. There’s also a Republican-National-Convention-a-comin’, and officials have ordered an evacuation of the city. Let that sink in: the Republicans try to throw a “look at me” fundraising party, and a hurricane is set to wipe it out. Sign. From. GOD.

When I’m not too exhausted from faking an illness or badmouthing the Republicans, I was busy all week doing real grown up stuff. I have a whole new website for my students called WritersOnTheInside.com, and I’d love for you to take a look and tell your friends.

I reviewed a great book for my writing job, and I have to say, Pushing The Limits was a five-star look at life for some screwed up teenagers.

My autism blog took a nap over the weekend while I finish the manuscript for my second autism book, available soon in print and e-reader. There’s only so much autism I can think about at one time.

I pinned a whole bunch of funny crap on Pinterest, but it turned out to be mostly stuff that laughs at the bad grammar habits of others.

On these blogs I read, all kinds of crazy took place:

This one guy with inappropriate footwear learned a life lesson from a fat woman on a bicycle.

I found out about a science fiction/fantasy online book club and I think they might card me at the door if I try to get in.

A harsh look at the reality of sucky musicals.

Wish me luck as I head into the land of “No Birth Control for Women” and “Gays Are Gonna Burn But Us Money-Grubbing Adulterers Are Gonna Be Just Fine.” Have a great week!

I Take Great Pride in My Level of Sphincter Control

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , ,

I really never thought that my ability to not have to fart at inappropriate times would bring me joy, but I have to say, I must be like a ninja-level non-farter. I can say with all honesty I have never a) accidentally farted anywhere out of place, and therefore b) never been unable to contain the contaminant until I found myself in an appropriate venue for ejection.

There’s really nothing wrong with my plumbing, and I swear I eat plenty of fiber. But unlike the students I teach, I am able to hold back. Of course, the students I teach are boys and they are being fed a steady diet of cheap carbs and Dorito powder, so it’s a wonder their clothes don’t blow up like inflated space suits at any given moment of the day.

Luckily, the rest of society is very taken with the concept of farting, so my students won’t feel shunned or ridiculed. I even found this lovely book on no bestseller list anywhere:

I refuse to believe the author’s last name is actually Smeldit. Of course, it’s just not a childhood reading experience without the complete set of Walter the Farting Dog books, a lovely series about a dog who constantly saves the day with his vile buttiferous odors.

Since society is actually clamoring for more reading material about farts, I feel like I might be in a misunderstood and discriminated against minority of people who just don’t feel the need to share. There goes my ninja status.