Author: ME

Holinesser Than Thou: My Ability to Offend Everyone

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , , ,

Look! There were nuns at Woodstock!

I’m not sure where my whole life went horribly wrong, but somehow I ended up living in Alabama and it was absolutely not on purpose. The craziest thing—aside from the wide variety of road kill (seriously, National Geographic should do a special)—is that my husband has so many family members, nay, kinfolks, that I still haven’t met them all in the seventeen years that we’ve been together.

At the last family reunion-slash-bridal-shower-slash-swap-meet we attended, I got to meet the Holiness side of the family. Those of you from this part of the country automatically knew what I was talking about, but those of you newcomers are picturing a papal procession. No, holiness is a catch-all term here in the South for anyone who looks like the Duggar family…long hair, no make-up, requisite denim skirt. I don’t have a clue what the men are supposed to be hatefully stereotyped with, I think they’re supposed to blend in with society so they can covertly spread their message to the masses. I could be wrong on that last part.

(IMPORTANT NOTE: I happen to know some very lovely, intelligent people who fall into the above category and since they read my blog I would like to take this opportunity to point out how non-weird and non-irritating they are. Thanks for reading, y’all! But these holiness relatives were not those people.)

These technicality relatives like to hide out at their compound so they don’t get corrupted by the backsliders they happen to be genetically linked to. They mean us. In my case, they’re not even genetically mine, they’re only legally linked to me, so they were fair game for the picnic that is my sense of humor.

THEM: And where do you go to church?

US (I mean, me): Why?

THEM: We would just like to know where you worship. (They can use the royal “we,” why can’t I?)

US: Worship? Worship what?

THEM: (sharp collective intake of breath)

US: I’m completely kidding! I knew what you meant. But why do you need to know where I worship while we’re in line for more potato salad?

THEM: We were just wondering if you’re our kind of people.

US: It’s a little late to worry about that. I’m already having sex with your cousin.

THEM: That’s not polite to talk about in a church.

US: We’re in the church gym, doesn’t that give me some wiggle room?

THEM: You must not go to church.

US: Fine. I’m Catholic.

THEM: (blank stare until finally one of the junior members of the gaggle spoke up) What’s that?

US: Oh, it’s this crazy offshoot religion where we have to dress a certain way and live away from society.

THEM: (pause, narrowing of the eyes) Like those Amish folks?

US: Yeah. Totally like those other people and not anyone we actually know.

THEM: But what do those Catholics actually believe?

US: Well, ya know. Stuff. Human sacrifice, baby eating, things like that. It’s kind of like Satanism.

THEM: (whispers behind hands) Isn’t Rick Santorum a Catholic?

US: WHY do people have to keep bringing that up?

THEM: Don’t y’all believe that abortion is a sin?

US: So is running a stop sign. Look it up.

THEM: Don’t y’all believe that the gays are gonna burn?

US: Don’t y’all believe in arranged child marriage and obliterating all references to evolution?

THEM: Pleasure to meet you.

Why do people always walk away from me backwards? Do I leave them feeling like they really shouldn’t give me a clean shot at their spines? Good…

Gonna Get Me Some Tractor Lovin’

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , ,

Several years ago, after my husband and I read an article with some very scary statistics on the breakup of marriage and what causes it, we thought it might be a good idea to spice up our relationship by getting involved with S&M and bondage and safe words and stuff like that. Since I’m kind of a chicken about dealing with scary-looking people on the internet, we decided to do all our ball gag shopping with a sweet little company called Healthy and Active. They sell sex toys for old people and, while we’re not actually old, we are more likely to win a fight in an alley if Mickey Rooney was the one wielding the lead pipe.

The safe word is, "Mylanta."

Be warned: they are only nice looking in their pictures on the internet. Those geriatric sons of bitches will sell you a vibrator then sell your personal information. I now get spam from The Scooter Store and CraftMatic Adjustable Beds. My husband’s email account gets spam from BlackPeopleMeet.com, and even though we’re not racists we have met all the people we intend to.

All the spam I get from a lovely company called SeniorPeopleMeet.com (ewwww) has now morphed into spam from what is apparently their sister site: FarmersOnly.com. You can’t get an email from FarmersOnly and NOT click on it, so I had the pleasure of browsing through the dating profiles of all 23 lonely people in America’s Heartland.

This is real. I really need you to understand how really real it is. There is apparently a drought in the farm belt, and it’s a sex drought. There’s not enough human husbandry going on. The farmers are in danger of becoming extinct.

Do you know why farmers are having to resort to using their own personal American Gothic dating site? Because being a farmer sucks almost as bad as being a farm wife. Could YOU live on a plot of land that is inhabited by animals who have to have their breasts fondled twice a day, at 3am and 3pm? Have YOU ever cooked for forty field hands during the harvest? Have YOU ever pulled a plow when the mule came down with the worst case of rot foot the barber has ever seen?

I’m not into a lot of the kinky stuff these farmers are into, like cross dressing (it involves having to wear overalls) or bestiality (I’m supposed to shove my hand up where?). I also don’t enjoy long moonlit walks through the pasture in my hip boots to avoid the steaming piles of cow poo. But the future of our country really does rely on the farmers who feed us, so if you know anyone who is good with animals and doesn’t mind making her own sausage, sign her up for a free account. A lot of farmers will thank you.

Gnash Your Teeth in a Jealous Rage!

ME Overly simple thoughts , ,

Admit it, you’re jealous of the glory that is me. What? You’re not jealous of me, you say? You will be when you take a look at this:

I’m getting one for my mom because she’ll think it’s only mildly disturbingly quirky. I’m getting one for my mother-in-law because she’ll actually believe me when I tell her it’s the detached head from the voodoo doll I made of her.  Mwahahaha…

If you want your own quirky detached head, go look at mysweetnovember.com. The zombie Elvis cameo is truly awe-inspiring. I really wish this was a paid advertisement for those people, but sadly, no.

In related news, this necklace tickled my funny bone (get it?) because I’m weird like that. Here is further evidence of my bizarre sense of humor, so check out the stuff I pinned on my Pinterest board. The baby in the tux gets me every damn time.

I’m 266 Years Old in Dog Years

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

I was afraid of ending up like this dog when I'm old, but then I remembered that I know how to say, "Kill me now."

I had the nerdiest 21st birthday party in the history of partying, and there was even alcohol involved. My dad and I went to a bar the evening before I actually turned 21, just so they would have to wash off the giant “NO” stamp on my hand at midnight. It’s not a birthday party without party games, so we played, “Shit You Still Can’t Do Even Though You Just Turned 21.” He came up with, “You can’t rent a car until you’re 25,” and I fired back with, “I can’t be President for fourteen more years.”

At midnight, I ordered my own drink for the first time. I had a bucket of strawberry daiquiri with a straw and we ate at Taco Bell the next day. I was livin’ the dream.

But now that I’m waaaaay older than 21 and I can both rent a car AND be President (even though I still can’t join AARP or receive Medicare), I’m kind of stuck in middle-aged limbo. I’m old enough to know better than to do something but not so old that I a) don’t go ahead and do it anyway without thinking it through or b) really not care if you find out I did it. It sucks here in the middle.

On a lighter note, I learned yesterday about a concept known as Donating Your Birthday. On the surface, it does sound a lot like agreeing to die. I was a little alarmed when I got the message asking me to do this, so my first thought was, “What the fuck, dude? What did I ever do to you?” Luckily, I finished reading the whole thing this time.

No, you pledge to donate your birthday (I promise they don’t come kill you, I even double checked the Terms & Agreements) so whenever your birthday rolls around, instead of gifts or spending money by going out drinking or buying yourself that chain saw you’ve always wanted but really don’t need, you give the money from your I-need-a-chainsaw fund to charity. I pledged my birthday to charity:water (I don’t know why it’s lower case, either, but they make drinking water happens in places where there isn’t any).

My next step is going to be to donate all my Dinnertimes to charity but I haven’t picked the lucky winner-charity yet. In this version, instead of cooking dinner, we eat Saltines with peanut butter out of the jar and I give the money I was going to spend on making Beef Wellington to someone deserving. Everyone wins!

Please, Please, PLEASE Can I Be A Drug Dealer?

ME Overly simple thoughts , ,

Stop it, she's not actually doing lines of coke. That's ground up birth control pills, about $600 worth on the street.

I made the mistake of choosing “public school teacher” and “author” as career paths without marrying a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon first. That basically means I’m doomed to a lifetime of driving a nine-year-old minivan and vacationing in places whose historic landmarks date all the way back to 1985. But never fear, I am ever the intrepid opportunist and I have found a whole new source of income.

I’m going to be a drug dealer.

I’m really, really scared of people who look like thugs and I’m the biggest chicken when it comes to doing something I was told not to do and then getting in trouble for it, plus I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to crack and I almost flunked chemistry so I probably shouldn’t try to cook meth. Fortunately, I got the bestest idea EVER from our own government and now I’m going to be So. Fucking. Rich.

I’m going to stock up on birth control pills and sell them on the black market when our government finally finishes those last few inches and gets its collective head the rest of the way up its ass.

Yes, like any good carpetbagger, I’m going to make my fortune off the backs of the people who are about to be royally screwed over by the government. I will conduct business in bus station bathroom stalls where I pop out and sell illegal Depo-Provera shots. I’ll be that person who says, “Psst,” in a loud whisper then beckons you over to the trunk of my car (mini-van…sigh) by jerking my head at you and asking you if you wanna taste. Of Lo-Ovral.

And just like all those mail order Canadian Viagra websites, I’m gonna make a fortune. I’ll be the person that you all know when you tell each other you “know a guy.” And you will pay me whatever I ask because I can get the good stuff, the really high quality pharmaceutical grade stuff that will actually keep you from getting pregnant. Not only that, even when you’re done paying me you’ll never really be done paying me because then I will OWN you for buying drugs from me. I can make you be my bitch because you’re addicted to only having two kids.

Wait. This stopped being funny about a paragraph-and-a-half ago. Because it’s gonna happen. But at least I’m gonna get in on the ground floor.

There’s Not Enough Vaseline in My Life. Or Heroin.

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , ,

I really, really am a good mom. I swear. But I have this one crazy neurosis: when the kiddies are sick (which is almost never), I have to go buy a new thermometer to take their temperature. It’s not that I can’t find ours or that we don’t own one. It’s even worse than that.

I can never remember which one was the rectal thermometer.

I swear we have about eight thermometers in the first aid kit. Yes, I have a first aid kit. What, you thought I’m such a freak that I wouldn’t have one box where all the band-aids and bite sticks go? Jerk.

I’ve even tried writing “Ass” on the rectal thermometer because you would think that would kind of stand out, but it wears off over time and then I’m just not sure which one was which. So every time they are even the littlest bit warm I run to the store and buy a new one before taking my kids’ temperatures, on account of you never know. (note: When my husband is sick I play ass-thermometer-roulette by just reaching in and grabbing one. It makes me giggle, until the next time he kisses me and then I throw up in my mouth because I remember that he might have used a tainted thermometer (pun intended).)

Husband-of-Mine tried to be helpful by telling me to remember which thermometer had been stabbed down in the jar of Vaseline that we keep under the bathroom sink. First, ewww. Second, he had a point. Third, I might have skipped that Vaseline lubing-up step when they were babies. Don’t be stupid, I used KY jelly instead of Vaseline because KY claims that its product is superior for all kinds of inserting of things…just let your mind wander on that one. In my defense, it’s been YEARS since I’ve had to determine a person’s level of illness by cramming something up his or her butt.

All of that over-thinking made me realize that I don’t think I’ve ever used Vaseline for anything. Ever. What’s it even for? I do remember getting jars and jars of it as baby shower gifts, but I also kind of remember throwing them away when we moved because I’d never opened them and they had turned black. I’m not sure what you’re supposed to do to a baby that involves petroleum jelly, other than maybe basting them with it before you cook them over a spit. Kidding. No, I’m not.

As for the usual colds and sicknesses, other than lubing up a rectal thermometer I don’t think Vaseline really comes into play as a remedy. My husband does do this weird swirl-it-on-a-Qtip-and-wipe-inside-his-nostrils with it when he’s extra snotty, but that’s not something that has ever appealed to me. I’ve never been sick enough to think that slathering in Vaseline would cure me. Nyquil, yes. Heroin, maybe. Crack, definitely. But not Vaseline.

The Smallest Little Penis in the World

ME Overly simple thoughts , , , ,

Congrats. These are the sexy women who want to meet you online.

That got your attention, you pervert. I see what you did there. You saw “penis” and clicked on it. The government is coming after you now. Actually, I seem to have the smallest penis in the world. I’m also really, really fat and I’m bald. According to all the spam I get in my inbox, those three things are the most pressing issues in my life. The entire internet thinks I need hair, diet pills, and a penis stretcher to increase my manhood.

Since I’m not fat and I’m not bald and I’m pretty sure I never had a penis (and if I did, the doctors removed it when I was born to keep me from being a hermaphrodite), I can only assume that all these companies who send me this email don’t actually know me.

Why can’t I ever get junk email that I can actually use? Where are all the spammers that want to sell me a really hunky mail-order foreign man to do light housework and perform sexual favors, all for the price of room and board and an illegal green card? Where is the flood of emails that send me reminder notes about school science projects so I don’t have to find a wadded up Xeroxed paper in the bottom of my kid’s backpack that says she has to have painted the solar system on little Styrofoam balls by tomorrow?

My real concern is all the emails I get from people being held hostage in other countries. I could be wrong about this but if my email inbox is any indication, there are about 43,000 people being held RIGHT NOW against their will in a closet in Indonesia but they all somehow remembered to bring their laptops into the closet with them so they could email me for help and they all happen to have my email address in their computers. Luckily, IF I help pay the ransom to get them out of the closet, all 43,000 of them are the children of rich people and their parents are going to pay me triple the ransom amount. Ditto all those bankers in Taiwan who know a dead customer and are willing to share the guy’s money with me if I help them get it out of the country. And ditto those children of deposed Nigerian royalty.

Of course, with all the money I’m going to get from these people when their wire transfers finally come through, I’ll finally have enough to get that penis stretcher I’ve been needing.

A Tutorial in Camel Math

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,
I don't think this poor man understood how the deal was supposed to go down.
I don’t think this poor man understood how the deal was supposed to go down.

To quell my rage at the current state of women-bashing from some politicians, I decided my time would be better spent looking up stuff on the internet rather than browsing in the gun store and giggling over all the really shiny bullets. I thought I might feel better about how women are being treated in this country if I looked at how much things actually seriously suck for women in some other cultures. Kind of like how you don’t really feel super fat anymore if you hang out with sumo wrestlers.

So I was shocked—shocked, I say!—to discover that in some parts of the world brides are still purchased by their would-be husbands. Wait, that wasn’t the shocking part. I was shocked that in some parts of the world where you can still purchase your wife, you still have to pay for her in camels.

Yes, camels. Well, not actual camels, this is 2012. But since camels are the only unit of currency still accepted for purchasing another real-live human being, the price in cash is still factored using the Camel Exchange Rate.

This is where camel math comes in handy. Okay, it’s only camel algebra in parts of the world where camels are useful. Here, for example, having a camel around would just be a serious pain in the ass. I would have to guess that where I live you’d have to buy your bride using the Possum Exchange Rate. The Camel Exchange Rate dictates how much money a camel is worth depending on its age, its gender, how many camel babies it can have, how many original teeth it still has, etc. You know, important camelly things.

In those parts of the world where this still applies, you get together with the bride’s family and your family and you come to an agreement on how many camels the bride is worth. Then, you convert that number into actual usable money based on the price per camel. Or you could kick it old school and actually show up with a few camels and let the bride’s father take those camels down to the bank and swap ‘em for cash. Kind of like those check cashing places. Only with camels. But here is exactly why camel math will never work in this country.

ME: Honey, I need you to answer a question without really thinking it through. If you were going to guess how many camels you could get in exchange for me, how many would it be?

HIM: (blank stare)

ME: C’mon, you’re over thinking it. How many camels am I worth? What’s the first camel number that comes to mind?

HIM: (more staring)

ME: Hurry up, already! You’re reading too much into it! Just tell me how many camels you could get for me!

HIM: (retreating to the garage without turning his back on me)

ME: You’re gonna be sorry when I make you pay with a whole lot of camels! You’re gonna get robbed on the camel rate because you’re not being a savvy shopper!

He didn’t want to talk after that and it’s not like he had a whole lot to say during that conversation anyway. He was probably just blown away by my generous offer of camels since all he’s ever dealt with so far is possums.

Apparently, There’s More Than One Ant in the World

ME Overly simple thoughts , ,

Most people who work from home get some kind of office. I got a belfry. This office has no heat or air conditioning and only has electricity because I paid a guy who wouldn’t tell me his real name to run a thick wire from the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling down to ground level. It looked safe. That’s why I plugged a whole bunch of power strips into it and attached a forty-year-old space heater to it. Just to make sure it all goes up in smoke at the same time, I also leave a candle burning on my desk at all times, right next to a stack of oily newspapers. The whole office is dark and smelly and looks a lot like a place you would go to buy meth.

All of the safety precautions I’ve taken haven’t done anything to prevent unwanted visitors from barging into my office while I’m trying to work. No, I don’t mean my family. They can read, so they know full well what the warning sign on the door means. Hint: it clearly states that the doorknob is also attached to the light socket with electric cable.

The unwanted visitor I’ve been contending with is a good-sized carpenter ant. In my dictionary, good-sized means he’s big enough that I have to name him but still small enough that it wouldn’t make an icky crunchy noise if I accidentally-on-purpose stepped on him. I call him Herb.

I was actually a little impressed with my new office mate since he just runs around without talking and doesn’t leave stuff lying around. Already that means he’s a better roomie than anyone else I currently live with. I even developed something close to fondness for Herb because I was really amazed that every time I sat down to get to work, there he was. He just quietly runs up and down the wall for fun, like he’s waiting for me to come in there to say hi.

Then I dropped my pencil. I had to crawl on the floor to get it and that’s when I figured out that Herb is a big fat liar and has probably stolen several identities. There’s no Herb. There’s about four thousand Herbs. It’s not one cute little ant with a name and a jacket that I made for him out of a tiny piece of lint. It’s a whole swarm of them and they’re crawling all over the Cheeto that dropped behind my desk all by itself. I feel completely violated. I trusted Herb, I believed in him, I even wrote a song for him. And he’s just a bug like the rest of them. Fortunately, I had one socket left on the power strip so I bought a bug zapper. Those things are safe.

Raping and Pillaging Are Not Résumé Skills

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

Actual conversation with my autistic child that sucked five minutes of my life out of my body and ate a small piece of my soul.

DAUGHTER: I want to be a Viking when I grow up.

ME: That’s…um… really, really cool!

DAUGHTER: I have to wear a helmet.

ME: Well of course you do! What kind of Viking goes around hitting her head on stuff and getting knocked out because she forgot her helmet? Sheesh!

DAUGHTER: And I have to sing sea shanties.

ME: I think that’s a pirate. You would have to be a pirate to do that.

DAUGHTER: I will sing Viking songs instead.

ME: There you go. Good old fashioned “It’s great to be a Viking” songs.

DAUGHTER: And I need a boat with lots of rowers.

ME: Me too, pumpkin.

DAUGHTER: And I have to kill your whole village and take all your sheep.

ME: Huh?

DAUGHTER: The streets will flow with the blood of our victims.

ME: I’m sorry, what?

DAUGHTER: That’s what Vikings have to say.

ME: No, no, Vikings can say things like, “Here, we have extra sheep in our village that we’re not using, why don’t you take some of ours?”

DAUGHTER: No. The Vikings have to say, “You have to give me all your crops.”

ME: Or…OR…you could be the other kind of Vikings. The ones who got tired of pillaging and therefore immigrated to Minnesota. They still get to wear the helmet, but they pay their taxes instead of stealing sheep. They also go to college and become accountants and stuff like that.

DAUGHTER: Do they still carry their swords and wear their helmets?

ME: Only on casual Fridays.

DAUGHTER: Do they get to steal anything?

ME: It depends on what kind of accountant they are.

DAUGHTER: Do people cower in fear when hordes of Minnesota Vikings come into their cities and villages?

ME: (God forgive me) All the time! They even have these giant arenas where the Vikings take on the weaker underlings just for fun and crowds of people spend a whole Sunday afternoon just to watch.

DAUGHTER: Okay.

I now rue the day I convinced my daughter she couldn’t be a mouse when she grows up.