Author: ME

Lorca’s Week in Review (Of a sucky week)

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Last week sucked koala butt. I got bitten by a spider, my kid broke her leg and got braces in the same day, a dear woman I know passed away, and school starts back today. With the exception of the friend (who lost a ten-year battle with cancer, so even there, it’s bitter sweet because she’s not hurting anymore), the other items on the list are all tied for the silver medal in the Suckfest Olympics.

I’ve figured out my new multi-drazillion dollar business: professional homeschooling. I’m pretty much okay with wherever my kids go to school and who their teachers are, but it would be awesome if I could get up and get ready for work, then have someone else come in and wake my kids up and teach them stuff. Heck, they can even send them to the school up the road, if they wanted to. It’s not like I’d ever know the difference. Just don’t make me get them there at the same time that my body is supposed to be at my job. The hard part of being a working mom isn’t the work, people, it’s getting three human beings out the door without one of us getting arrested for indecent exposure. Someone work on this, please.

And you thought your job was tough…

Luckily, there’s all kinds of neat things going on that kind of balance out the hard parts. I reviewed a new book and it wasn’t the worst trashy romance book ever. I’ve read some doozies. This one actually dragged out the whole schmexy part, to the point that you wondered if the cowboy was ever actually going to get down to business with the cute, educated, titled divorcee-turned-cattle-drive-cook from England who ran off to America when she found out her husband the Duke was gay. Yeah.

On my autism blog, I explain why it’s really important to have the right clothes for school. Sometimes it’s so you can fit in. Sometimes it’s so you don’t wet your pants in the fourth grade. Think it through.

On these other blogs I read, all kinds of stuff happened:

The Weird Al Experience

Dude, Grow A Pair. Don’t Let Your Woman Pluck Your Nose Hair.

This description of the worst first date in the history of dating.

And I added a whole new board for teachers on Pinterest, even though the Funny board is…well…funnier.

Funny

Less Funny

The Rest of Us Don’t Stand a Chance

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Okay, I lost forty-three brain cells just doing the research for this post. Supposedly, there’s a scandal afoot in which one of the stars of the Twilight franchise cheated on the other star of the Twilight franchise, whom she’s secretly been dating. For now, we’ll ignore the rumors that he’s so far in the closet, he can see Narnia.

She allegedly cheated with the married director of her last film, thus proving that men are pigs and starlets still sleep their way to a starring role.

Here’s where I finally started caring about this whole story: the director is married to a supermodel. Oops, no wait, still don’t care. Okay, yes I do.

If he will cheat on a woman who is paid lots of money to literally stand still and look pretty, I don’t stand a chance. Yes, I realize that my husband is a lumber salesman, not a famous movie director. But I need to admit to you that no, I’m no supermodel. I barely muster the energy for makeup most days, let alone take the time and energy to resemble anything close to gorgeous.

So basically, if we are to learn anything from this tabloid tale of love gone car-crashingly wrong, it’s that there’s no point in even trying. If I were, in fact, a supermodel and my skin was literally insured against damage, and if I used $800-a-jar beauty products on my genetically-predisposed-to-stunningness face, I would still lose my husband and the father of my kids to something shinier when he got bored. Why try?

Oh yeah, I remember now. Because I didn’t pick my husband because he sparkles. (Literally, dear readers…two of the parties in this sad tale met on the set of yet a different movie where she played a brain-dead teenager who falls down a lot even though she does not have epilepsy and he played a vampire who can’t go out in the sun because it makes him glittery-looking.) Perhaps if we all agree to stop basing our relationships on how cute we’re gonna look standing next to each other at a movie premiere, they would last a little longer.

I tried to play out this whole saga by superimposing it on my own life. It didn’t go well.

ME: Honey, are you gonna cheat on me with a co-worker?

HUSBAND: (blank stare, pause in mid-chew)

ME: Okay, I realize all six of your co-workers have a combined total of nineteen teeth and they all have beer guts and they aren’t the greatest at personal hygiene…

HUSBAND: …and they’re all men.

ME: Stranger things have happened. Just answer the question, pretending that your boss hired a woman tomorrow.

HUSBAND: Does she get to have teeth?

ME: You’re stalling.

HUSBAND: You’re damn skippy I’m stalling! I can’t figure out where this one is going. I’m pleading the fifth.

ME: So you admit there’s something that you don’t want to incriminate yourself with? OMG! My marriage is falling apart!

HUSBAND: Trust me. I have you. There’s no way in hell I’m bringing another female into my life. If she was a fraction of your level of crazy, one of you would knife me in my sleep.

ME: Awwww, I love you too!

Yes, this is the scorned supermodel. I’m toast.

You’d Think They’d Want to Know If I’m Pregnant Before They Kill The Guy

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Okay, so that title is actual words that I accidentally spoke out loud at a completely inappropriate time. In the gas station. Really, really out loud. Here’s what happened:

I made this “without thinking” kind of decision way back in college. When most people do something reckless in college without thinking it through all the way, somebody becomes a baby mamma. Luckily, I’m such a nerd that when I did something in college without thinking, it was donating blood on the blood mobile. And the afterthought was to say, “Sure, go ahead, register me on the bone marrow registry list.”

Twenty-mumble-mumble years later, I got the call. I’m a match for a man who needs my bone marrow. My current line of reasoning is pity for the poor man who receives my bone marrow, but then I also start to think, “Suck it, cancer patient, you are about to be filled to the brim with the sideshow carnival that is my bone marrow.”

Right off the bat, the worst news was that I have to stop drinking until the donation. It was a close call, because that man was ALMOST gonna die. Oh stop, you know I don’t love cheap merlot more than a fellow human being. I gave up the drinking. Then I found out that if I got pregnant, I couldn’t donate. Let me tell you that I’ve thought it through completely and the death of another human being might not be the absolute worst thing to come out of this scenario if I were pregnant. More to the point, if I were pregnant, there would be a dead man lying around, and trust me, it wouldn’t be the cancer patient.

Luckily, I have enough self-control to stop drinking and I’m not pregnant. The process by which doctors will suck the squish out of my bones is a go.

Then I learned that they have to kill off all his bone marrow before he can get any of mine, and they’re going to start that on Friday. And on the following Tuesday, I have to go pee on something and prove I’m not pregnant. Something weird occurred to me as I was talking to my mom about this whole thing:

“Wouldn’t you think they’d want to make sure I’m not pregnant before the start killing the guy?” I asked. Unfortunately, I have no filter, and I was standing in line in the gas station when I said those words all together. No, I wasn’t buying wine. I already said I had self-control.

Let’s just say, when you spit all those words out one right after another, people stare. It was really weird. They don’t even pretend that they’re not staring. They just look and look and look. I also learned there’s really no good way to explain why you just said all that, so I blurted out, “I really hope they catch the guy who did it,” and bolted from the gas station.

Lorca’s Week In Review

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Maybe it won’t be that kind of week.

Well, I’m pretty sure the Olympics are over. I always quit watching after all the cool sports are done, but I noticed this year they snuck badminton in between different gymnastics events, just to get people to watch. Apparently there was actual a badminton scandal and protests were filed, but yet no one filed a protest that some committee thinks badminton is a sport. It’s kind of mean how they get all the great stuff out of the way, then they fill the days with things like the 6-mile swim and judo, then they come back for one last punch in the gut with an awesome marathon. Because watching an event for a little over two hours isn’t at all boring.

Now that the Olympics are over and Google can get that flame thing off its homepage, it’s time to focus on really important things like sending my kids back to school. Yes, this is the countdown, as tomorrow marks one week until school starts back for both kids and I have to say, they are every bit as sad about it as I am. On the bright side, it means we get to spend this week cramming in as much leftover fun as possible, like a deranged Finneas & Ferb on speed.

In better news, I talked about back to school on my Autism blog, too, but it’s not as funny as picturing my kids puking as I made them ride a roller coaster forty-three times in a row, just to get it all in there before next Monday.

When I’m pretending to be both a grown-up and a college graduate, I reviewed a pretty neat book about a platypus who’s wanted for arson, murder, and treason.

On my friends’ blogs, here is some of the really funky stuff that happened:

I peed when I read a nurse’s rant about men and their trouser snakes.

Talking to your plants is good. Reading them erotica…not so good.

This man swears it’s his dog who is on drugs, but I’ve been reading his stuff for a while and let me tell you, the pooch didn’t fall far from the tree.

Here’s some of the fun stuff I put on Pinterest when I was supposed to be working or feeding the dog.

Have a great week!

I Have All the Symptoms of Olympic Withdrawal

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The closest I ever got to participating in the Olympics was this one year…no, I don’t really have a good anecdote about world-class caliber sports training. I was just never that good at any sports, and quite frankly, I have a touch of a lazy streak. If I were in the Olympics and everybody was walking around before the start getting all “in the zone,” I would be the one person thinking, “Geez, that pool looks cold. I bet it’s cold. Can I jump in and get used to the water first?”

But I enjoy watching other people suffer to see if they’re better at something than everyone else on the planet.

I am a freak for the Olympics. I love the opening ceremonies, no matter how ludicrous, and even the ridiculous penis-shaped mascots warm my heart. I love that Granada won its first EVER medal this year, or how, despite the fall of Communism, the Russian gymnasts still have that look on their faces like someone’s going to execute their parents if they don’t stick the landing. It’s all amazing to me.

So I’m going to be suffering through Olympic-sized withdrawals over the next few weeks. The scratching at my skin, the tremors, the hallucinations, it’s all just symptoms of me missing NBC’s round-the-clock live streaming of every sport, and I admit that I’m using the term “sport” loosely. Looking at you, badminton.

I Can’t Make That Penis Go Away

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So I’m lying there on a blanket on the grass, soaking up as much skin-cell rotting sunshine as I could, and having one of those awesome moments with my almost-teenaged daughter. It was the kind of moment that advertising executives forever ruined, because all I could think was, “Any minute now my daughter is going to sit up and ask me what to do if she doesn’t feel so fresh.”

Even though she’s too cool for everything at this age, my daughter was more than willing to play “What Does That Cloud Look Like?” We had some giggles, and I have to admit that some of her clouds actually looked like the thing she said they did. Go you.

Until the wind shifted. Leaves were blown around and we squinted our eyes to keep the dust out. When the gust was over, there was a problem with our clouds. There was a giant penis-shaped cloud that had plopped itself right over our blanket. Apparently, it was Jewish. And a porn star.

I didn’t have my camera with me to take a picture of it, so I hired a sketch artist to illustrate what happened. The artist sucked a little bit.

DAUGHTER: Um…

ME: Yeah…

DAUGHTER: This game is dumb.

ME: No, it’s not. It’s still fun. It’s just been photobombed by something inappropriate.

DAUGHTER: We can’t just stay here looking at it! People are gonna think we’re weirdos!

ME: We’re lying on the ground behind the Walmart and the penis cloud is what makes us weirdos?

DAUGHTER: Aack! Don’t say that word!

ME: What word? Walmart?

DAUGHTER: NO! (the p-word)

ME: Penis?

DAUGHTER: SHHHHHH!

ME: penispenispenispenispenispenispe…

DAUGHTER: Stop!

ME: Fine. WalmartWalmartWalmartWalmart…

DAUGHTER: Mo-ummm! (two syllables. I’m in trouble.) Can’t you do something about that perverted cloud?

ME: Um…like what?

DAUGHTER: I don’t know! Make it go away!

ME: Wow. That’s really flattering, but I don’t control the weather. Just close your eyes until the wind shifts.

DAUGHTER: NO! Then people will look at me and think I’m asleep and this cloud is the thought balloon over my head and I’m dreaming about that thing!

I was seriously proud of her for being afraid that her dreams actually appear outside her head as a thought balloon while she’s asleep. It means she thinks cartoons are real. And if she’s that young, I probably shouldn’t let her sunbathe under a giant penis. We packed it up and headed to the car, but not before I could ask, “Don’t those clouds over there look like two giant boobs?”

“MOM!”

 

Lorca’s Week In Review

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This is me when I figured out that I go back to work tomorrow.

Basically, anyone who is not a teacher is not going to feel the least bit sorry for me. But since I teach in the prison, we only get the month of July off in the summer. Yeah, I know. Cry me a handful. I still get way more time off than most people. But it doesn’t make me happy about going back to work tomorrow.

Since I was vacationing on borrowed time, I spent this last week traveling and getting kicked out of some of the nicer museums and attractions in this part of the country. If I wasn’t supposed to make fun of the inmates at the aquarium, why did you put them on display in giant tanks and let me walk through staring at them?

In less evicting news, I reviewed some real books for my real job and let me tell you, I hate mysteries but even I got sucked into a book coming out at the end of the month called Trickster’s Point by William Kent Krueger. On the other hand, I was left thoroughly confused by Seating Arrangements by Maggie Shipstead because I couldn’t figure out who we were supposed to like.

On my autism blog, I explain all about how I’m really confused by people who shout mean things about autism awareness through their bumper stickers, and I posted a really fun video of Carrie bouncing on my yoga ball (this is the same yoga ball she popped with her butt about a week after I took the video).

On some of the blogs I read, I found out that one lady has a rooster that’s living on borrowed time and this one other blogger thinks way too highly of lobsters. I also read one brilliant post just because how do you not click on the title, “Aren’t You Paid Not To Be Dumb?”

And finally, here’s all the hilarious stuff I found on Pinterest this week when I was supposed to be writing, but since I put the link to the funny Pinterest stuff on this blog on Sunday, then it’s practically research. I should get paid for it. There’s also this one recipe I found on Pinterest, and even though I shun recipes as a general rule because they involve cooking something, it’s for a cold remedy that this lady swears by. I’ll have to post it, but it involved honey, cider vinegar, cayenne, and ginger. I don’t remember the measurements, but just start adding it together until you feel better.

YOLOs of the Future

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UPDATE: From the comments section, I discovered this morning that the great readers of my blog are really, really smart, because almost no one knew what YOLO stands for. It’s sad, but this post somehow actually makes MORE sense if you do know, so it stands for “You Only Live Once.” I’m sorry for having to tell you that.

For those of you who don’t spend enough time on the internet to know, there’s this concept called YOLO. I was really disappointed to find out it has nothing to do with low-fat frozen yogurt. It sounds like it should. And as much as people use the term YOLO, that yogurt should taste awesome.

Sadly for us dessert fans, YOLO is not only not a yogurt, it’s this asinine slogan that young people with zero responsibilities and zero self-respect use to justify doing stupid stuff, like meth. Or sex with a stranger in the JC Penney fitting rooms. Or meth. People have taken to tossing out the phrase YOLO like it’s the answer to everything, like there are hermits freezing in mountaintop caves in the Himalayas right this very minute just hoping for some lost soul to come ask them what the meaning of life is so they can shrug their shoulders and say, “YOLO.”

You wanna YOLO, my barely post-pubescent philosopher? Try the military. Try only living once by going to college, getting a degree, and curing something that rages uncontrollably throughout the worst regions of Africa. How about you YOLO your ass off by taking a bullet for a pregnant woman in a gas station robbery?

I do have some insight into what your future self would like you to know about YOLO: gonorrhea is permanent. (I’m really insanely proud that I had to spell check “gonorrhea” because I just don’t use the word often enough to know how to spell it right the first time.) After your 18th birthday, most arrest records are permanent, too. So are paternity test results. Keep that in mind.

Oh my gosh, she’s holding the pee end of that stick. How’s that for YOLO?

Lorca’s Week in Review

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This past week was kind of like a hangover wedged between two binge drinking events. We went to the beach for one week and then we’re going on some day trips next week, so this past week was where we kind of just lolled around the house stuffing ourselves on Cheetos and watching reruns of Psych on Netflix.

Of course, the Olympics started, and nothing says summer time like watching men’s swimming because they’re all wearing those outfits from Magic Mike. Awesomeness, just add water. And to go along with the 2012 Live-From-London fun, here is a great infographic on how to maintain a good drunk all the way to the Closing Ceremonies.

If you don’t have booze at your house, here is some fun stuff I Pinned instead:

HAHAHAHAHAHA!

On a really serious note, I wrote a blog post for my Autism blog about people judging me for how I raise my kids. My firm stance on the issue is the only people who can judge me for my parenting style would be the actual judge who signs the court order having Child Welfare take them from the home.

Lastly, I read a grown-up book this week AND a publisher let me take a stab at editing a manuscript. Or as I like to call it, eat a man’s soul. Look for that book to come out in November, but I’ve already got a sick feeling the author won’t be thanking me in the acknowledgements.

My Aunt Gertie Is a Ho

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I received a coupon in the mail today for 20% off any service from Gertie’s Escort Service. I’ll sit here while you let that sink in.

I live in a very small town and I only know one Gertie. She’s my aunt. My very, very old aunt. And apparently, she’s a ho who owns an escort service. She also apparently is having a special on “one way, front-side only.” I shudder to think what that might be. (NOTE: Microsoft Word thinks I’m spelling “ho” correctly, but they might think I mean like ho-cubed, or something.)

I had to check this out. I called my mom. And yes, my Aunt Gertie owns an escort service. And yes, dear old Gertie is offering 20% off any service, one coupon per customer please, plus a ten dollar discount to anyone who refers a new customer. I threw up in my mouth.

“But honey, you’ve known about Gertie’s business. Your Uncle Dougie inherited it from his dad,” Mom explained, like that just clears it all up. “Don’t you remember? You used to hang out there after school when you were little and I was at work.”

There’s really not much to add to a conversation when your mom tells you that you used to go play at the whorehouse after school when you were little, but it does kind of explain why no one showed up for your eighth birthday party. I vehemently denied any knowledge of having a relative who inherited a used escort service.

“Of course you remember. You almost worked there that summer between ninth and tenth grade,” my now-dysfunctional mother added.

“Holy hell! I did WHAT???”

“Yes, you were going to work there, but then you didn’t pass your driver’s license exam so you couldn’t go out on appointments. Your older sister had to work there one more year instead, remember? She was so irritated with you for failing that test.”

(Let me understand this, because it’s not even making sense in my head. I failed my driver’s license test and my sister had to keep working at the whorehouse, and she was only IRRITATED with me?)

“My sister worked for AUNT GERTIE???”

“Of course. We could never have afforded her college without that money she made in the summers. She started out just answering the phone and booking the appointments and stuff, but one day a client called whose escort didn’t show up. Apparently, they’d double booked someone. Your sister just grabbed the spare keys and went to the appointment, and the client was so thrilled with her ability to make it right and do a good job that Gertie started letting her have her own appointments.”

This is the part where I was getting woozy and little black floaters inside my eyeballs started clouding my vision. I was speechless.

“Sweetie, did your phone cut out again? You really should switch to Verizon.”

“Mom, I’m having trouble with all this. First Gertie, then my sister. I just need a minute. I’ll call you tomorrow.”  I hung up. I wanted to go lie down but I also wanted to drink something strong, and I wasn’t able to do both of those things at once. I opted for the drink and a noisy phone call to my sister, the once-upon-a-time retired part-time ho.

“Oh my gosh, have you been drinking?” she asked as soon as I got my question out of my mouth. It would have been really awesome if she hadn’t been right.

“Well, did you work in the whorehouse or not?” I whined, much to her amusement. It took a few minutes for her screams of laughter to die down to a breathy giggle before she could explain it all.

Apparently, an escort service is not only a pretty term for hookering, it’s also what they call that little pickup truck with the flashing lights and yellow flags that drives in front of a Wide Load rig. My aunt isn’t the saddest little madam ever and my sister officially didn’t turn tricks through medical school. I also now never got to play at that whorehouse after school and no, I didn’t get to work for my aunt. I do still have that coupon around here somewhere if anyone needs it, though.

This is not a ho, it's an escort. There's a huge difference. Of course, there's almost always a huge difference between a ho and an escort.
This is not a ho, it’s an escort. There’s a huge difference. Of course, there’s almost always a huge difference between a ho and an escort.